#from the makers of ‘worm baby’ comes ‘what age are they anyway’

[ireallyamabear]

ok, elementary season 6 part 2: was I totally wrong about this season? it's really not bad! i think that one awful episode was the only thing i remembered ...

thoughts on eps 7 to 17, only minimal spoilers:

episode 7: Sober Companions

Excellent episode, the dread is real. Michael is a little bit of a caricature of a serial killer, but I think it works. this was of course not one of the usual cases, so it stands out. very good!!

episode 8: Sand trap

back to business as usual. Sherlock is healed etc etc. The case starts out pretty memorable (the body in the concrete) … highlight of the episode is the Gay cameo imo. I swear so many Elementary episode feel like the writer read the top posts on r/all and made a case out of it, here it’s the sand mafia. pretty good!!

episode 9: nobody lives forever

ok, and in this case the writers are predicting what will trend on social media… the whole story about taking blood from young people to stave of aging. The whole case is pretty thin, though, and they have the b-plot with Alfredo (good to see him!) to fill up time. which is much better. there’s a pretty emotional gut punch in the end (no spoilers) which actually made me very sad. all in all, B minus for the case. there have been much better cases in the scientific/research world.

episode 10: The adventure of the Ersatz Sobekneferu

meh. the case was okay i guess… ill spoil this one: i kind of think it’s boring if the first suspect turns out to be the murderer in the end, and everything in between is just window dressing. also…. in the whole episode about art forgery they don’t mention Moriarty once? even though that’s such a big part of her character? and then they do mention her at the end of the episode anyway for that other plot? why not have Sherlock be like… “she’s been on my mind” or something. mhm. glad that Morland is back, though.

episode 11: You've come a long way

pretty good case, again. until … they focused so long on that secretary that it was clear she was the murderer like halfway through the episode. so that was a dud. And then the whole Moriarty storyline… it’s so clear that they couldn’t get Natalie Dormer for these episodes so they just talk about her. And tbh they did such a good job with the Michael storyline in the first part of the season that now this other storyline is almost annoying! they are doing too much.

episode 12: Meet your maker

they made johnny lee miller say “pay pigs” lol this case was really good! very interesting set up, different stages that they made easy to follow, and no obvious rehash of stuff they’ve done before. and the b-plot around Marcus is really nicely tied in. did I mention I love Marcus?

episode 13: Breathe

another front-page-of-reddit case. the construction of the case was a bit flimsy tbh. it’s kind of weird that the guy was gonna kill himself to frame the pharma dude. really? otherwise, no complaints, but kind of forgettable.

episode 14: Through the fog

lockdown because of bomb threats is one of my favourite tropes. very good episode!

episode 15: How to get a Head

okay this was also a very good case??? wild ride, loved the union stuff! was i totally wrong about this season???

episode 16: Uncanny Valley of the dolls

they made lucy liu say “the sex doll could be witness to a murder”. the case is very meh. reminds me of the one with the ai doll… these kind of “future tech” scripts are always so stupid. this is a low point of the season, for sure, second worst episode by far. But every other season has two or three duds, so ...

episode 17: The Worms Crawl In, The Worms Crawl Out (great title)

middling case i would say. there’s a different post about all of these future tech cases of Elementary in here somewhere, but i’m not writing that today. Michael is back baby!!!!! the pacing of the season is a bit off. even at two or three episodes a day it feels like an eternity since that storyline last came up. I wish they’d had some scenes in the in between episodes where Watson and Sherlock work on the case.

[itstimeforstarwars]

Learning to draw the Kryze family and these people do not look related.

[dadsbongos]

late night for a sinner

Movie/Game/Show: The Devil All The Time Dynamic: Arvin Russell/Reader Warnings: religious overtones cuz it’s this movie, described and enacted violence (against teagardin), preston teagardin (and all his sexual assault-y/manipulative bs) Notes: uhm people got married at like 20 in the 50s and i assume arvin is about 20 so no i will not apologize for making you his wife, my country-accent writing is bad(?) idk Summary: Arvin’s a protective man, especially when it comes to those he loves. ~~~

“Somethin’ ‘bout that preacher don’t feel right,” (Y/n) murmured to her husband as they stood outside the doors of the church, “Gives me a shiver right up my spine.”

Arvin nodded along to her words, watching as his grandmother and sister shook hands with Preston Teagardin - fancy name for a guy like him. A guy who gave women chills. He reached into his dress pants pocket and plucked out a cigarette before placing it between his lips, “Watch yourself around him, darlin’.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for Lenora, too,” (Y/n) crossed over the creaky boards of the church's stoop as people began exiting, her hands coming out for the man’s tie, “Did you loosen this durin' the sermon?”

“Too tight,” he let the woman adjust his tie, “You know how I feel ‘bout comin’ to these things.”

“I know, I know - hey, I don’t like comin’ either, but it means a lot to Ms. Emma and Lenora,” pulling back from the tie, (Y/n) placed her hands on Arvin’s shoulders, “‘Sides, someone’s gotta watch for that blasted preacher, and I think we’re the only ones who will.”

Removing the cigarette from between his lips, Arvin leaned over to kiss his wife’s forehead, pulling away to ask, “You take my light outta my pocket when you pressed my pants this morning?”

“Maybe I did,” she shrugged, grinning, “Maybe even I think you shouldn’t be smokin’ outside a church.”

“Maybe,” Arvin nodded, “Maybe.”

Emma and Lenora finally came out of the church and started towards the family’s truck, the two women got into the back with Arvin and (Y/n) getting into the front to finally head home. Lenora leaned forward as her brother started the truck, “You shoulda been in there for the goodbyes.”

“Oh?” turning her head and leaving her cheek pressed to the headrest, (Y/n) quirked a brow at the teenager, “What happened?”

“Reverend Teagardin said he’s interested in meeting you,” Lenora beamed at her sister-in-law.

“Just her?” Arvin pulled out of the church parking lot, “Seatbelt, Lenora.”

“I got it, I got it,” the girl waved off before returning to her previous conversation, “But yeah, just (Y/n). He was talkin’ about putting together a church choir. Thinks (Y/n) would have a pretty voice.”

“She’s got a pretty voice but she ain’t singin’ for no church choir,” Arvin’s brows furrowed, white-knuckling the steering wheel at the mere idea of that damned preacher trying to get close to his wife, “Not in that man’s church choir.”

“Let the girl speak for herself,” Emma cut in, “Thought I raised you better than that.”

Pursing his lips, Arvin turned to (Y/n) for a split second before returning his stare to the road, “Sorry, love.”

“It’s okay, baby,” she looked back to her sister-in-law, “You singin’ in the choir, Lenora?”

“I’d love to try.”

Clenching her jaw, (Y/n) thought over her choices. Leave Lenora to sing in that choir - leave her sweet, naive little sister-in-law in that preacher’s hands for far longer than was typical or wanted… Or, suck it up and sing for the bastard.

“I’ll sing with ya, sweetheart.”

Arvin sighed quietly, glad none of the women in the car heard him over the rumbling of the truck’s old engine. To distract himself, and by proxy the women in the car, he suddenly changed the topic, “This damn old truck. Gonna hafta fix it up or take it in.”

“You’re gonna take it in?” (Y/n) tilted her head.

“Thing’s old; I’ll do as much as I can, darlin', but sometimes there’s only so much I can do. You know that.”

“I’ll need to go with you,” the truck jumbled with the rocky bumps of their home’s pull-in, “Pick up a few things for dinner.”

Lenora felt her heart warm and lips quirk into a smile at her brother and sister-in-law. They weren’t so into the church as her and Grandma, in fact - Lenora’s certain they only played along to please her and Grandma, but watching them was nice. Nothing to play along to, just a simple, pure expression of adoration between the couple. Arvin was never a man known for something as soft and tender as love but (Y/n), since the two were in grade school, was easily able to pull it out of him.

From high school sweethearts into married lovers. It was overjoying to know someone else was looking after Arvin.

“I’ll check up on Mr. Earskell and be right out.”

“No, no, (Y/n),” Emma shook her head, taking the woman’s hand as she was assisted out of the truck, “I’ll handle things. You and Arvin go on and stay out here.”

She didn’t bother fighting against the older woman, she was the matriarch of the family - she was just the rule maker. It was only fair.

“You don’t hafta keep callin’ em Miss and Mister,” Arvin came out and around to the hood of the truck, “They’re part a’ your family now.”

“Feels improper,” (Y/n) rebuffed, standing beside her husband, “I’m just thankful they’re lettin’ me stay here.”

“And why wouldn’t they?” he knew why she felt that way - her own family was insufferable and he could barely stand being around them for a dinner - he couldn’t imagine having to live with them.

“Let’s not open that can of worms today, huh, love?” (Y/n) placed her hands on her hips as she watched her husband look over the truck’s interior and drag over his tools and oil.

“Don’t joke ‘bout that, love,” despite his words, Arvin was smiling slightly, “Poor fishermen work hard to get those worm cans.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” she sarcastically relented, peeking over the man’s shoulder, “Wish I knew anything to help you.”

“I could teach you a thing or two.”

“Maybe not now, baby.”

Which, of course, was code for ‘I’d rather not. Ever.’ but politely.

There was silence between the married couple as Arvin worked until he sighed and planted his hands on each side of the open hood, head hanging low as he murmured, “You’re really goin’ to that choir?”

“We both know I gotta be there for Lenora.”

“I appreciate that, but I’ll still be worried to hell ‘bout you,” he turned to face his wife, restraining himself cupping her cheeks and smearing grime over her, “Both a' you,” then he finally admitted as to why he was so apprehensive, “I’ve been watchin’ him.”

“You what…?!” she whisper-screamed, coming in closer to her husband, “Arvin Eugene Russell, you been what?”

“Watchin’ him,” Arvin almost regrets the admission at the sight of his wife’s shock, “He’s a no-good-sonofabitch, (Y/n). Messin’ around with a young girl behind his wife’s back. She’s good to him, (Y/n), she cooks him dinner and she does her best to keep him happy. He’s no good to her. He’s no good, at all.”

(Y/n)’s brows furrow, “Cheatin’ on his wife?”

“A girl from Lenora’s class. He’s worse than a cheater,” he turned back to the hood of the truck and quickly said, “We’re takin’ it in.”

“Why haven’t you said anything yet?”

“Nobody will ever believe me, (Y/n), you know that. Everybody here loves that damn radio bullshitter.”

Nodding quietly, (Y/n) fisted a hand in her skirt before turning towards the home’s door, “I’ll tell Lenora we’re goin’.”

The topic is ultimately dropped as they leave into town. As they take the truck in for the shop and as they pick out items for dinner that night and even on the walk home. Reverend Preston Teagardin didn’t come up again, neither did his affairs or his disgustingly, sickeningly low age preference for said affairs.

They weren’t the only people in town on watch of their new preacher in town, they were just another young couple walking home.

Even as dinner passed and time for rest came - as they pressed into bed and huddled together in the cold night. Teagardin was temporarily forgotten, pushed to the backs of their minds as they slipped into slumber.

And when Arvin darts up from bed after another nightmare over finding his father’s body that fateful night, (Y/n)’s thoughts are solely on her husband. Bringing him back into the present, where he’s not in the woods finding his father knelt down in front of their makeshift church but instead in bed with his loving wife. With his sister down the hall. His grandmother at the end of the corridor and his great-uncle's own room across from theirs. He’s in a home that isn’t going anywhere - he’s with people who won’t leave him, not any time soon anyway.

It’s not until the next day, after Lenora’s first day back at school for the week had finished and her daily visit to Hellen Hatton-Laferty was over, that Teagardin even peeked back into the couple’s brains.

“If that sonofabitch touches you or Lenora, tell me,” Arvin whispered to his wife, hands holding hers tightly before she went into the church for choir practice, “I’ll make sure ain't got no hands to touch you, or Lenora, or any other unlucky woman.”

“I’ll come right to you, honey,” (Y/n) was quick to confirm for her husband, “Promise.”

“Good,” he cups his wife’s cheeks and pulls her into a tender forehead kiss before going to his sister and giving her a tight hug, “Be the loudest one there, got it?”

Lenora chuckled quietly, patting her brother’s shoulder, “You know I can’t do that.”

“You can.”

Shaking her head, (Y/n) goes up the stairs and pulls one of the double doors open, “You just shouldn’t, ain’t that right, Arvin?”

A teasing shrug and he’s walking off towards the car while Lenora follows her sister-in-law up and into the church.

Teagardin is sitting in one of the pews with his back turned towards the two women.

There’s nobody else in the church despite having been told this was the meeting time. It’s silent. Preston still hasn’t turned to the two.

Lenora is fidgeting beside (Y/n) the longer the man stays quiet. The younger girl nervously bunching the skirt of her dress in her fists. Her brows drawn tight in confusion and lips pressed into a thin line.

(Y/n) steps forward, ignoring the nerves urging her to run and encouraging her knees to buckle underneath the weight of her body, “We’re here, preacher.”

His head lifted, a smile coming over his lips, an unnatural smile - one she’d imagined on the devil when he tricked another soul into his claws. Preston comes to a full stand and approaches the women, “I didn’t expect both of you to come.”

“I wanted to support Lenora.”

“How wonderful.”

~~

“Preacher’s dirty.”

“What?”

(Y/n) sighed, sitting up in bed and looking down at her husband and whispering into the night air, “Teagardin. He’s just as dirty as you said.”

Immediately, Arvin was also sat up, no longer tired and now entirely focused on his wife, “What happened?”

“Tried touchin’ Lenora ‘til I stopped him. Grabbed me. I got us out of there and now Lenora’s tryin' to figure out how to tell Ms. Emma.”

Arvin stood out of bed and pulled on a pair of pants over his boxers, slipping on a shirt and his hat before heading to the bedroom door and slipping out of the room. (Y/n) followed after, eyes wide and brain springing into panic as she watched him tug on his shoes. Hurriedly, the woman put her shoes on as well while Arvin snuck out of the home, her continuing to follow after him.

Once they were in the car, (Y/n) turned to Arvin as he pulled out of the driveway, “What the hell are you doin’? It’s late, you can settle this tomorrow, can't ya?”

“No. It don’t matter if he’s with his wife or at the church, I’m puttin’ that bastard in his place. I hope that woman leaves his ass,” he shook his head, “Rotten fuckin’ bastard.”

“What’re you gonna do?”

The man was silent as he drove towards where he knew the Teagardin residence was. Every few minutes he would take off his cap and run a hand through his matted hair - if he could force himself to do so, he could almost pretend this was a nice drive with his wife. A simple late-night cruise through town with the love of his life, but then he would remember exactly why they were on a late-night cruise. A peek at (Y/n) would remind him, she must be frightened to all hell - it must’ve been awful to be in that church. Be near that rotten man.

And Arvin’s rage was freshly re-lit.

“Is this the right time?” she remembered each time her husband had repeated the phrase from his father, it was usually enough to sway him from acting out at that moment.

“Best time there is. He’s asleep - won’t be expectin’ us.”

(Y/n) settled into her passenger side seat, turning her head to stare out the window, “How’re you gonna get him out?”

Arvin was silent once again, fingers tight against the steering wheel as they pulled up to the bend at the end of the preacher’s street. He got out of the car and stormed towards the Teagardin home with (Y/n) trailing after.

It wasn’t long until Preston came stumbling out of his home with Arvin banging on the front door. Cynthia was out soon after her husband, clinging to the door frame.

“Late night for a sinner, kids,” Preston rubbed at his eyes, “Can this wait ‘til the mornin’?”

“You try touchin’ Lenora?” Arvin was blunt, he didn’t like sugar coating and he didn’t like the people who did it. Turning, he gestured to (Y/n), “Tried touchin’ my (Y/n)?”

Immediately, Preston’s eyes widened, “Now, now, I- I didn’t do nothin’ to those two.”

“Callin’ my wife a liar?”

Cynthia looked between her husband and the younger couple on her lawn, “What’s this about, Preston?”

“You just go inside now, Cynthia!” the preacher called back to his wife, “These two are full of delusions!”

“Arvin, let’s just head home now - you can take care of this tomorrow…”

Shaking his head, Arvin only approached the older man further, “My wife ain’t no liar. And those hands ain’t free of sin.”

“Go inside, Cynthia!” Preston shouted at his wife once again before turning back to the other man, “You won’t say nothing. I will have your lives ruined. Who will the town trust? Me, or two scruffy children who married straight outta high school?” he gives a forced chuckle, shaking his head and pointing at (Y/n) with a shaky hand, “Your wife… she- she… your wife is delusional. She’s crazy.”

Arvin Russell had been fighting nearly his entire life - he learned from his father and he continued on far after his father passed. Preston Teagardin had never been an athletic boy nor had he been confrontational by any means, preferring to hide in the shadows and smile his way out of trouble.

It wasn’t a mystery as to how Arvin managed to land Preston on the hard ground, chest pressing into the dirt and hands tightly wound behind his back in Arvin’s hold.

He didn’t know what he was looking for in the man. He didn’t know what he wanted from the preacher. He couldn’t kill the bastard - he still had a sister and wife to look after when his grandmother and uncle could no longer. Was it admission? Was it a promise to not even look at the women of Knockemstiff? It wasn’t an apology, he knew that - because there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d be giving out forgiveness.

“You take back what you said,” Arvin grunted out, pushing his body harshly into Preston’s back and hoping it’d hurt as much as when boys did it to him on the playground, “You take back what you said about my wife, you hear me?”

“She’s crazy!”

Arvin took a hand into the preacher's hair and smushed his face deep into the dirt, “If I- “ when Teagardin’s whining got too loud, Arvin let his head up before roughly smashing it back into the ground, “Fuckin’ listen when I talk. You listenin’?” he waited for a nod of confirmation before continuing, “If I even hear your name in the same sentence as my wife’s or my sister’s, I’ll bash your fuckin’ brains in, hear me?”

“Arvin!” (Y/n) finally screamed out to her husband, hands landing on one of his arms and pulling, “Arvin, you let him go!”

“He deserves this, (Y/n)!”

“I know, but dammit Arvin, you’re gonna get the sheriff on you, let’s go home!”

Giving one last thunk of Preston’s skull into the ground, Arvin stood and kicked the man’s ribs before nodding at Cynthia with a brief ‘goodnight ma’am’ and returning to the car.

“That was a dumb thing you just did, Arvin Russell,” (Y/n) scolded, rather lightly, as her husband drove.

“I don’t regret a damn thing about it, (Y/n) Russell.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” she reached over and snatched his cap before fixing it over her own head, “I’m proud my husband cares so much.”

“Least I could do for the woman of my dreams.”

[coffeeandcannolis]

Midnight Confessions

A/N: I know I said A Bad Feeling might be my favorite piece I’ve written on this blog, but... this might top it. This one makes my heart hurt in the best way. (I would die for my senator!reader and obi baby.) Set during the early stages of the Clone Wars. 

The first time Obi-Wan told you he loved you, it was an accident.

He’d known for ages - maybe even from the first time he saw you - but he’d never admitted it to himself. Those words, speaking them out loud… it seemed like his commitment, his lifeblood of the Jedi Order would disintegrate in his fingertips if he spoke them into existence. Even though he’d felt them for so long, and his chest ached with the weight of them, Obi-Wan couldn’t do it.

You knew. You knew, because you knew him better than anyone without even trying. Read the truth of him down to his bones and chose him anyway. Never once did you pressure him to say those words, and Maker, he loved you impossibly more for it. Obi-Wan knew he didn’t deserve you, not for one minute.

After agonizing months of meditation and overthinking, when the words did come out, he didn’t think about them at all. It was as easy as breathing; like loving you was.

You stumbled into his chambers late one night - far too late, even the buzz of Coruscant dying down to a dull roar. He was long gone, soft snores rippling out from his deep slumber.

Your presence woke him, though he was still mostly asleep. He held open his arms with his eyes closed until you crawled under the covers and nuzzled into his embrace. You buried your face in the crook between his neck and shoulder, and he only jolted into consciousness when he felt your tears on his bare skin.

You had never cried in front of him before.

“Darling?” Obi-Wan was fully awake now. You were gripping onto him too tight and he guided both of you to sit up against the headboard. You straddled him, clinging to him like a child, and for a moment Obi-Wan remembered how small you were wrapped up in his arms.

“Shhh,” Obi-Wan hushed as he rocked the both of you back and forth. “What’s the matter, love?”

You whimpered, instead clinging tighter and shaking your head into his neck. You wormed your way impossibly closer against him.

“Okay,” Obi-Wan exhaled. With one arm still wrapped tight around you, he brought his other hand up to run through your hair. “Okay.” He took deep, exaggerated breaths that shifted you on his lap with each inhale and exhale. He pressed a kiss to the side of your head. “Can you breathe with me? Just - darling, please… focus on my breaths, alright? In and out, in and out. Good girl.”

Maker knows how long the two of you sat like that, sheets tangled around you, breaths catching in your throat alongside the stream of tears. Eventually Obi-Wan felt your breathing begin to steady, your tense muscles slacken in his arms. You were far too worked up to notice, but he’d reached out with the Force, too, doing his best to calm your frenzied Force signature with his steady, soothing one. He gently pulled your head from his shoulder, cupping your cheeks as he brought you face-to-face. And he waited.

You gripped onto his wrists. Took a deep breath to steady yourself. “I had a nightmare.” Your chin wobbled. “You… something happened to you, and I just -“ You forced out a shaky exhale. “I woke up and you weren’t there, and I couldn’t remember if you were away on a mission or not, and it just - it just felt so real.”

For a moment, Obi-Wan caught a glimpse of how his departures really affected you. Though you put up a strong face with each goodbye, the realization that he most likely left you in tears every time he left made his own eyes burn.

Obi-Wan tugged you closer to kiss your forehead before you could start crying again. “I’m here,” he murmured, kissing his way down your face with each word. “I’m okay, I’m here.” Temples, cheeks. “I’m not going anywhere, okay?” Lips. “I promise.”

You were exhausted, fading fast, and he started to ease the both of you back under the covers.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” you mumbled, voice rough and throat raw from tears. “It was so real, Obi.”

Obi-Wan pressed kiss after kiss to your hairline, using the Force to calm you down once again. He tangled his legs up with yours and tugged another blanket over the both of you. He smiled to himself when he felt your fingers gently trace over the battle scars scattered across his bare chest - ones you knew by heart, could find with your eyes closed.  Even though he was the one comforting you in that moment, Obi-Wan felt safe. He felt home. And his chest hurt thinking of you, waking up from night terrors, not knowing reality from fiction, and needing him like you needed to breathe. He didn’t even know he was speaking out loud until he heard himself - it slipped out before he knew what was happening.

“I love you.”

Your body stilled on top of his. You propped yourself up on his chest and looked up at him with tear-flushed cheeks and wide eyes, lips parted with surprise. You had said those words long ago, understanding the truth of Obi-Wan and never once pressuring him to say it back. You knew he loved you, even if he couldn’t say it - it was the way he acted, not the words themselves, that made it real. And, just when you’d made your peace with it, he managed to surprise you like this. 

“Say it again,” you whispered. Your eyes twinkled, reflecting pure, unadulterated joy back in his own.

Obi-Wan’s lips quirked up in a smile, and he tilted his chin down to kiss you. “I.” Kiss. “Love.” Kiss. “You.”

The Force swelled around the two of you, something warm and flushed and you, and Obi-Wan never looked back. Saying those words didn’t make him any less of a Jedi; they didn’t take anything away from him. If anything, Obi-Wan felt stronger and more connected to the Force than he’d ever been in all his years of training. That night, with you falling asleep on his chest, he felt something shift. For the first time in his life, Obi-Wan wondered if the Jedi Code had it wrong. Because knowing you, holding you, loving you made him the best Jedi he could be: now he had something to fight for.  

[glimmerglanger]

SO ABOUT THAT SUGAR DADDY AU (Oh, Worm?)

Oh, anon, you know how I said I thought it wasn’t my thing? TURNS OUT I WAS WRONG. It is my thing, if it’s involves silly shenanigans and worm research. Many thanks to @lackingfaculties for convincing me of my wrongness. I am recording out conversation re: that sugar daddy au right here, under a read-more for my own future reference and because it makes me so happy.

lackingfaculties: My mind jumps to Anakin as the sugar daddy, and Obi-Wan as a down-on-his luck nematologist or something. Mainly I just laugh at the crazy shit rich!Anakin would get away with.

glimmerglanger i started grinning at nematologist and HAVE NOT STOPPED he needs the money, his work is important! (anakin keeps trying to eat the things he's studying) it's ani getting the money from palps, where is it coming from???

Some sort of extreme sports star? Or in a modern au, a cryptocurrency guy or a youtube titan who builds battle robots or something? What's the most ridiculous way a 22 year old could become fabulously wealthy?

"youtube titan who builds battle robots" is the best thing I've ever heard. Or, oh, those people who build and fly the really fast little planes for redbull? But idk if they make any real money....

Maybe he incorporates some revolutionary computer software in the plane that he patents and licenses? But he makes his $ in a way that Obi-Wan finds inexplicable, and enough $ to substitute for his psychic powers and laser sword

ahaha, obes googles him after they meet and is like.... sounds fake, but ok. He can't really argue, anakin definitely HAS money and is easy with spending it, after all

Would Anakin proposition him the first time they met, like that bad movie with Demi Moore and Robert Redford, and have to convince Obes? Or would Obi-Wan come into this already open to being a sugar baby?

 i feel like maybe obi-wan knew what was up (maybe an app was involved) but anakin attempts the proposition anyway and is so bad at it the whole thing almost falls through? But obes really needs that worm research money, so....

also, i am imagining ani's friends his age teasing him about getting a sugar baby that's so much older and calling him sugar grandpa and then they see him and they're like oh shit oh fuck nvm we get it

Huh... Obes and Bant the ichthyologist get drunk, and after chugging a few bottles of rose make some dubious decisions?

And Obi-Wan has been making people lose their minds over his hotness for the past 21 years IRL, so I completely agree.

I feel one if his friends must actually say the term GILF

 *crying amused tears* they're like what are we going to do, our funding is in the shitter, we desperately need some outside revenue. More drinks are had. No one remembers who actually suggested obi-wan uh.... using his money maker, but there they are

OMG PLEASE THEY MUST

How would Obi-Wan's friends react to this? Would this even be the most ridiculous thing he's ever done? Probably not. Would Quinlan the parapsychologist ask him for sugar babying tips?

 i am laughing about bant having a moment of drunken revelation and suggesting the sugar baby thing and obi-wan going oh no i could never ask you to-- and her being like, no, obes, I'm talking about YOU doing it, for the good of the department

 this is def not most ridiculous thing he's done, some of them knew him when he was a grad student. OMG QUINLAN LIKE LISTEN DOES HE HAVE ANY FRIENDS YOU COULD INTRODUCE ME TO AHAHA

Obviously quinlan meets Aayla through Anakin! She's his lawyer or his agent? Or Anakin introduces Quinlan to Padme, who's a former debutante/current... uh. Radical fashion environmentalist?

Bant masterminds the whole thing! She whips out her phone and takes some tasteful, softcore photos that she uploads to the app

 obi-wan barely remembers the photos and is like aha surely they weren't that revealing and then he checks the app and is like OH FUCK but before he can delete them in embarrassment he realizes that he's got like.... multiple replies... and the department really needs the funds.... and what could it hurt really, to meet this guy who does... something with airplanes....ahaha

 i now need actual fic about professor quinlan and radical fashion activist padme, or, oh what would ventress do, hm...

Padme goes somewhere to organize a protest at not!Zara HQ, with her inner circle who all wear kabuki makeup to elude facial recognition tech. Coincidentally Quinlan is there investigating a potential... uh. Jesus on toast sighting? Something Fox Mulder-y. Asajj is Zara's efficiency consultant? So she chops heads off figuratively in this AU

I mean, Bant is a tasteful woman. No dickpics, but Obes didn't realize just how much butt cleavage was showing? But enough to attract Anakin's attention. Just how did he start browsing this app though?

 i feel like maybe he just has no idea how to start a relationship, he's got that prodigy awkwardness, but he's also lonely or needs a date for something fancy or just is horny and he looks thru pretty sure it'll be a dead end BUT OH THERE ARE OBI-WAN'S ASSETS and he.... cannot select fast enough

That's Anakin all right! And Obi-Wan can tell himself it's just escorting

 obi-wan: I'm def just going with him to this party, that's all. Anakin: plotting how to get him in bed and naked, maybe offering more money would work?

 also, obes hiding in anakin's bathroom, msging bant desperately like: he just bought a microscope i mentioned once and touched my back, bant, what do i do am i a hooker tell the truth

She tells him, think of the worms. Think of their joint research project into worms and fish. Future generations of scientists need their research. You're their only ho[pe], Obi-Wan Kenobi.

ahahhaah, and so he does, at least until the first time they kiss, and then he isn't thinking about worms

Exactly, Anakin is hot and very sweet underneath the ridiculousness. And Obi-Wan's lonely too, his worms can't keep him warm at night

If you end up writing this, please include the word "worm" as often as possible

if i thought i could write good humor i would write this and title it "Oh, Worm?"

[matildainmotion]

Fear: A User’s Guide. Or, what do you do with your fear?

Halloween. This year my son is a vampire, blood capsules ready to burst between his teeth on the doorstep of unsuspecting neighbours. Last year he was Darth Vader. The year before that he was a pumpkin. We still have the pumpkin costume. His little sister is now big enough to wear it. The nights are growing longer and she is growing older. This year is the first that she has grown enough to grow afraid.

Every day as the light fades she tells me, “Mummy, I am getting scared.” “What are you scared of?” I ask her. “Three things,” she says, holding up three fingers, proud of this number and well versed in it because it is her age: “Of Mr Tod [the fox in Beatrix Potter’s books], Old Brown [the owl from the same] and all the other baddies.” So, she has it covered. The fox, the owl and every single other baddy. I look at her with admiration – she is so clear, so sure of herself even as she names her fears, counting them out on her young fingers, that I have one of those moments as a mother of feeling poorly qualified for the job. The memory of being a frightened child myself is too keen for me to be entirely sure that I can pull off the role of the adult in this transaction. Certain stock responses come to me. I count them out on my fingers – there are also three of these: to reassure her, to distract her and to dare her.

I try out all three. “Don’t worry love, you’re totally safe,” I say, as it gets dark, going for tactic number one, reassurance. “Now, let’s get the fire going. Are you going to help me?” – tactic number two, distraction. “I don’t like the dark!” she says again. “Come on out into the dark with me and we can get some more logs – come on!” – tactic number three, confrontation, the ‘Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway’ approach. I am unconvinced by all of these approaches, as is my daughter. “What about the baddies?” she asks. She is right. It is no use to pretend that they are just pretend - they are real enough to her and, remember, she includes ‘all the other baddies’ in her list and there are some within that category that are real enough to me as well. Nor can I simply get her to look away, nor march towards. None of these give due respect to her fear. “Trick or treat?” the ghosts and vampires on the doorstep ask, baddies in their best bad outfits. “Isn’t there another option?” I want to ask. Why do I have to pacify the fearful danger with sweets or come under its spell, its victim? Isn’t there another approach I can offer to my daughter?

When I first became a mother I did what many modern mothers do – I read the baby books. In doing so I was both shocked and amused to come across the notion of ‘self-soothing.’ Apparently, this is a skill which a baby as young as 3 months can acquire, and certainly by the age of 6 months they should be able to learn it and consequently the famous holy grail of ‘sleeping-through-the-night’ can be attained. I am in my mid-forties. I do not sleep through the night – I never have (ask my mother) - and I am still on a quest to learn the enigmatic skill of self-soothing which I should have picked up after half a year of life. As a child I relied heavily on reassurance (tactic number one) to get me through both day and night, reassurance that my mother would not die, that there were no worms in my bed, that no one would murder me or any other family member in our sleep, that I was not a bad person that should be locked away in a tower to prevent my inflicting evil on the world. As a teenager, when asking for reassurance from my mother no longer seemed appropriate, my attempt at self-soothing took the form of a chronic eating disorder.

Anorexia involves a curious mix of all three of the tactics to combat fear that I have outlined above. There is the reassurance: “As long as I can stay this weight or lower, everything will be alright.” The gargantuan act of distraction: the importance of checking the calorie content on the side of the soup packet, and the constant hunger, enables me to forget all the baddies in the world. And finally, at the same time, anorexia requires an act of daring, a kind of squaring up to the ultimate baddy, the thing that we most fear - death. It is a commitment to live with fear full-time, to confront it multiple times a day because food, and the need to eat it, are ready and waiting on every street corner. At its worst you end up looking like a Halloween character, a skeleton or member of the walking dead, though with no treats allowed -their calorie content is too high- only a great big terrible trick against yourself. I stuck by this method of self-soothing long after I was officially ‘better.’ Right through my twenties and much of my thirties, whilst I was busy being a circus aerialist and performer. I would say that a new approach to my fear only began to emerge for me when I was lucky enough to be cast in a show aptly named ‘Panic.’

At the outset of that first show I did with Improbable I climbed to the top of the set and explained to the audience that even though I was an aerialist I was still in fact afraid of heights. However, since I was also afraid of being on the ground, afraid of being here, on earth, alive, taking up a dangerous job was a relief because my ordinary, daily level of fear at last felt appropriate. In this there was a kind of key – a new way to frame my fear as a force, even a skill, that meant I was well-suited to hanging ten metres in the air. Instead of being its victim, crippled by it, fear made me strong enough to climb up a rope, to dangle by my knees. I was not very good at self-soothing, but I was, I realised, very good at being afraid.

Here is one of my favourite quotes of all time from Russell Hoban’s novel, Soon Child: “John was a good shaman because there was nothing that he was afraid to be afraid of.” I felt great joy when I first read that line. In my late thirties and forties I have begun to explore this idea of fear as a kind of super-power, a special gift. I boast that, like Hoban’s shaman, I am ready to be afraid of anything, that I can imagine disaster striking in almost any situation. And as a mother there is a whole new lot of items on my fear-list: the fear of anything happening to me, for my children’s sake, the fear of anything happening to them, and then, under it all as a constant now, is the fear of how the world will be for them as they grow up. But especially given the terrifying facts with which we are faced in relation to climate change and our children’s futures, it feels more important than ever to develop a different relationship to fear.

I read a book recently called Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert. Its subtitle is Creative Living Beyond Fear. I loved it, but I noticed that I did not agree with Gilbert about fear. She presents it as a necessary but very boring and rather annoying companion on any creative voyage, one to be tolerated but one who should never be allowed anywhere near the driving seat. I beg to differ. I am interested in whether fear could in fact be one of my key collaborators.

I know that what I am doing now – being a mother, trying to write – is far more dangerous, difficult and scary than anything I ever did ten metres in the air on my circus rope. I know for sure that fear is an invaluable guide when I am writing – if there is something I am scared to write, I need to head in that direction. This is not quite as simple as tactic number three- the daring act of bravado. I am not suggesting doing the scary thing regardless of the fear, but rather I must regard the fear all the way, have regard for it, because it has power, tremendous power. Fight or flight – both are fear-powered. I think there is an ecological issue at stake here. Rather than seeing fear as toxic, a pollutant, I am wondering whether fear could be a green resource, a form of renewable energy, like wind or sun. I am amazed how rapidly and consistently my fear renews itself, resets me, ready to run again, or stay again, ready to turn towards the present challenge, heart thumping. As we face the environmental crisis, maybe our fear of what is to come could be our best resource in tackling it if only we can learn to hold it and harness it creatively. It makes me think of a Bible story that fascinated me as a child, Jacob and the angel, a wrestling match in the dark with something unknown that seemed like a foe but turned out to be better than a friend. I am exploring whether my relationship to fear could be like this – not a thing to smooth over, hide from or muscle out the way, but rather the creature with which I wrestle and dance through the long dark night, the one whom I embrace as morning comes.

When my daughter expresses her dismay that night is coming on again (“Why does dark have to happen every day?!”) I have been experimenting with a new way to respond to her. “What could you do with your fear?” I ask her. “What would you do if Mr. Tod were at the door now?” She frowns and considers this. “We could set him a trap,” she says at last. At this her brother joins in and soon an elaborate story is unfolding which involves several pots of rancid custard and a misleading sign which will direct Mr Tod to the toilet, where my son will be stationed, ready to flush the fox away when he topples, pushed from behind by my daughter, headfirst down the loo.

I know it is not always this easy. I know not all baddies can be flushed so expediently down the loo and I know well how crippling fear can feel – remember I am 45 years late in learning the skill of self-soothing. But I am keen at least to ask whether there could be creative ways to use our fear, not tricking it, or being tricked, not treating it, but perhaps dancing a foxtrot with it, holding it close and drawing on its power. 

So, here are my Mothers Who Make questions for you, for this month of lengthening nights:

What do you fear? As a mother? As a maker? And how do you use your fear?

What, if anything, could you make from it?