#the decline has been exponential

[bauliya]

as someone who was doing academic/professional research and applying to graduate school last year and is doing professional research and applying to graduate school this year the difference in how inaccessible research has become in just TWELVE MONTHS is STARK and so deeply felt. I am lucky enough to have someone’s institutional IDs but it’s insane how I needed that to write the most basic lit reviews/application materials when I spent the last ~5 years in a broke third world public university with almost no institutional access and managed just fine. the destruction and hobbling of sci-hub, libgen, internet archive, and other open source resources is nothing less than mass epistemic violence against global south students and it’s only going to compound every year as the materials these platforms have access to become increasingly dated.

[elliesgaymachete]

I think Game of Thrones damaged collective expectations for television media and is the reason for the decline of full length low budget seasons.

We all know HBO is high budget cable even before, but Game of Thrones was arguably the first time one of their shows became so massively, globally successful. People who had never consumed fantasy media in their lives were watching Game of Thrones. It became mainstream culture rather than nerd culture so your coworkers weren’t going to make fun of you for liking it. In fact, your coworkers probably watched it too.

Before this the only TV shows that achieved anywhere close to this level of popularity (and even then were not nearly as popular as Game of Thrones) were network shows, usually TV comedies. These were low budget and had full seasons! Things like HIMYM, Big Bang Theory, The Office. You either watched them or knew multiple people who watched them. Sometimes TV dramas also reached this level of popularity—Shondaland shows to name a few. Grey’s Anatomy, Scandal, How to Get Away with Murder. Even if you didn’t watch them, you had heard of them. These were also network shows. Low budgets, 22 episodes. Not to mention network television is FREE so it has the potential to reach a much wider audience than cable.

But Game of Thrones exploded into common popularity. Even people who didn’t watch much television watched Game of Thrones. And you know what they had because it’s an HBO show? Insanely high budgets and 10 episode seasons. They were basically making ten short movies released as TV seasons. There’s nothing inherently wrong with that itself, it worked well for Game of Thrones. The problem is how its affected television production since then. Sure shorter seasons and miniseries have existed before, but it feels like they’ve been in an upward trend ever since Game of Thrones

Every studio with a streaming service wants to create the next mega popular phenomenon like Game of Thrones so they copy the formula. Big budget, shorter seasons. Quality over quantity. But in doing so they neglected the main format television has used for quite a while. Network seasons are fewer and far between with smaller budgets and shorter seasons so they can invest more in the high budget shows. And a few of them were good, but somewhere along the way, they lost sight of the quality part and throw microbudgets at shows for six episode runs and are surprised when no one gets invested after only six episodes when we used to get 22 episodes and since no one’s watching anyway they just cancel it without giving the show a chance to find its legs. If it happens to get a lucky with a second season but there’s not EXPONENTIAL growth in viewership? Cancelled. Why is no one watching tv anymore? Why does no one want to pay for our streaming service that releases maybe one show you like every other year? Why why why they ask when they ruined a perfectly good formula and make things less and less accessible

[blue-devil-of-the-lord]

Voice of an Angel

Kurt Wagner x OFC (Emily Reynolds) Words: 14.5K Warnings: Killing, injuries, bloody stuff , bad cheesy flirting, criticism regarding religion/ God. A/N: Everybody lives, I don't care about canon it jumped out of the window

As Emily pushed open the grand doors, a rush of nostalgia flooded her senses along with that familiar scent that had clung to the building for decades. Despite the years that had passed, she couldn't help but feel a sense of belonging wash over her, accompanied by a subtle smile playing on her lips.

Amidst the bustling corridors, she caught glimpses of students darting about, some offering nods in her direction while others remained absorbed in their own world. Emily understood their indifference; after all, it had been years since she roamed these halls, and she wasn't one to draw attention to herself. Yet, amidst the crowd, there were a few who recognized her, their gazes lingering just a moment longer.

" Emy!" A familiar voice cut through the bustling noise, and Emily's smile widened exponentially as she spotted the figure of her old friend making her way towards her. "Storm." With genuine warmth, she enveloped her friend in a tight embrace, the years melting away in an instant. "God, how long has it been? Three years, four Breaking away from the embrace, Emily kept her hands on Storm's shoulders, the bond of friendship palpable between them. "Add three more, and we're getting closer," she replied with a chuckle.

"I'll never forgive Charles for sending you to Colombia," she muttered, the resentment evident in her tone. Emily's gaze softened. "But you know why I went," Emily replied gently, reaching out to place a reassuring hand on Storm's arm. "There was a surge in mutant appearances. Someone had to lend a hand, and at that moment, I had nothing better to do." A fleeting smile tugged at Storm's lips, despite her lingering frustration. "And I suppose your Spanish is impeccable now," she remarked with a hint of sarcasm.

Emily couldn't resist a playful grin. "You bet. My Spanish has never been sharper, mi amiga." Storm snorted, a mix of exasperation and genuine amusement dancing in her eyes. "I guess you didn't come here just for small talk?" Emily could see a small glimmer of hope in her eyes and was relieved not to have to stifle it. "No, not at all. I've come back home." An honest, broad smile slowly spread across Storm's face. "Does that mean-?"

Emily interrupted with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, waggling her eyebrows for emphasis. "I'm back. And you'll have a hard time shaking me off anytime soon."

Storm burst into laughter, her previous tension melting away as she pulled Emily into another tight embrace. "Come on, we've kept your room untouched. Let's catch up properly."

Emily's heart swelled with warmth at the realization that her friends, her family, had preserved her space, a silent testament to their unwavering belief in her return. Despite the overwhelming urge to accept Storm's invitation and immerse herself in the familiar comfort of her old room, she knew she had to decline.

"I'd love nothing more than that, Storm," she began, her voice tinged with regret as she shook her head gently and placed a comforting hand on her friend's shoulder, "but I'm afraid I'll have to speak with Charles first." A soft sigh escaped Storm's lips, and Emily observed a subtle slump in her friend's posture, but she was met with a small, understanding smile.

"Of course. Come with me," Storm replied, her voice gentle as she gestured for Emily to follow.

Contrary to Emily's expectations, Storm veered away from the typical paths leading to Charles' office or the classrooms, guiding her instead towards the basement. Towards the danger room. Emily's brow furrowed in confusion, but before she could voice her question, Storm sensed her gaze and shot her a knowing look, amusement twinkling in her eyes.

" The professor doesn't partake in the training sessions himself, silly," Storm explained with a chuckle, glancing at Emily from the corner of her eye. "He simply oversees and supervises."

Emily's lips twitched with a mixture of amusement and faux indignation. "Well, excuse me for assuming the great Charles Xavier might don his superhero cape and join in the action," she quipped, though a telltale blush crept up her cheeks. She knew full well the limitations Charles faced with his wheelchair, but the mental image of him engaged in combat training was too absurd not to entertain.

The doors to the monitoring room smoothly slid aside, revealing Charles Xavier seated in front of the console, his presence commanding even from behind the safety glass that separated them from the danger room.

Though his appearance hadn't changed—still bald, still in his wheelchair—his aura of wisdom and compassion remained as strong as ever. Emily's smile widened as Charles turned to greet her, his own expression gentle and welcoming. "Emily. It's good to see you."

" Likewise, Charles," she replied, her voice incredibly soft as she closed the distance between them. With a warmth that transcended mere words, she enveloped him in a heartfelt embrace, which he returned with equal tenderness. In that fleeting moment, tears welled in her eyes.

Charles Xavier had been her guiding light since she was just a frightened ten-year-old, alone and adrift in a world of uncertainty. He had plucked her from the darkness, offering her not just refuge, but a home and a family. To Emily, he had been more than a mentor or a teacher; he had been the father figure she had lost too soon.

As they parted from their embrace, Charles gently took Emily's hands in his own, his gaze lingering on her with a sense of fondness and pride. "You've grown up, my dear," he remarked, his tone reflective."

" I was already grown up when I left," Emily countered with a small smile, meeting his gaze.

Nevertheless, Charles's eyes traced over her features, as if trying to commit every detail to memory—every wrinkle, every freckle—as if seeing her anew. "Still. You've changed," he observed. " Emily's smile softened, touched by his perceptiveness. "And you haven't changed at all," she replied, a fondness coloring her words. Charles chuckled softly, releasing her hands as he turned his wheelchair to face the glass once more.

"Believe me, I've gained a few wrinkles in the last few years," he admitted with a self-deprecating smile, casting a brief glance over his shoulder at Emily. "Come on. The simulation is almost over. We'll have plenty of time to catch up afterward."

Emily stepped closer to Charles, peering through the glass pane into the room below. Familiar faces greeted her sight—Scott, focused as he honed his skills with precision, and Hank, dangling from the ceiling with a mixture of grace and agility. Yet, there were others whose identities eluded her.

"Logan," Charles offered as he followed Emily's gaze to the muscular, dark-haired man below. With each movement, he extended three metal claws from each hand, dispatching his opponents with ruthless efficiency. " He's lent us his aid on occasion when we've needed it," Charles continued, his gaze thoughtful as he observed Logan's relentless onslaught.

"He's a complex individual, and we're not entirely certain if he'll choose to remain. But he's got his heart in the right place. Most of the time."

For a few moments, Emily watched Logan's movements, however, her attention was drawn away when she noticed Storm step closer, her expression filled with concern as she scanned the room below. Who are you looking for?" Emily inquired, turning to face her friend, curiosity piqued by Storm's searching gaze.

"Kurt," Storm replied, her focus still fixed on the activity below. "He's a recent addition, and I wanted to ensure he's adapting well," she explained.

"There you are," Storm's voice broke through Emily's concentration, drawing her attention once more to the swirling black cloud of mist below. Emily furrowed her brow, trying to discern any trace of Kurt within the nebulous veil, but her efforts proved fruitless. Turning back to her friend, Emily found Storm's gaze now fixed on another corner of the room. Following her friend's line of sight, Emily squinted, only to find another ominous cloud—this one tinged with hints of black and blue, hovering over a defeated opponent.

After a few more futile attempts to locate Kurt amidst the obscure mist, Emily turned to Charles.

" That's something new," she remarked, her gaze shifting back and forth between Storm's determined expression and the enigmatic phenomenon in the danger room below.

Charles's laughter filled the room and he shook his head with amusement. "Not quite. Look closely," he urged, gesturing towards a seemingly empty space amidst the projected enemies. Frowning in concentration, Emily scrutinized the area, trying to discern any hidden details.

Before she could formulate a response, the air around the targeted enemy shimmered, and a dense black cloud of mist materialized out of thin air. The opponent staggered, collapsing under the weight of the unseen force, as another cloud of mist emerged, swirling and merging with the first.

" What the-?!" Emily's exclamation was cut short as Charles raised a hand, urging her to remain silent. " Watch carefully," he instructed, his gaze intent on the unfolding spectacle below.

Once more, Charles pointed to a specific spot, and as if in response to him, the black mist reappeared. Emily's eyes widened in realization as she finally saw what Storm and Charles had been observing all along.

Through the dense smoke and the distorted reflection on the glass pane, Emily strained to discern the figure hidden within the swirling mist. Gradually, the outline of a person, presumably a man, emerged, materializing out of thin air to swiftly incapacitate his opponent before vanishing once more.

"Teleporting. He's a teleporter!" Emily exclaimed, her eyes widening with a mixture of awe and excitement. "I've never seen anything like it, and I've dealt with a lot of them. Holy shit." Storm's smirk hinted at a hidden amusement as she cautioned, "Don't say that too loudly. Our dear Kurt is a very devout man."

"I'll be as gracious as ever," Emily replied with a chuckle. Storm's snort of amusement was accompanied by a comforting pat on Emily's shoulder. "Come on, the simulation's as good as over. I'll introduce you. Besides, Scott and Hank will be happy to see you."

Emily glanced at Charles, seeking reassurance, and found it in his nod of approval. With a grateful smile, she briefly touched his shoulder before following Storm out of the room. As they approached the door to the Danger Room, Storm offered her a brief heads-up. "A little heads up," she explained in a low voice, "Logan's often in a bad mood. Always, actually. So don't take it too personally."

"I'll do my best." With that, the doors slid open, revealing the familiar yet unpleasant scent that greeted them. Emily wrinkled her nose in distaste as they stepped inside.

Staying on the sidelines to allow the others a moment to catch their breath, Emily watched as Hank recovered more quickly than the rest, his eyes lighting up with recognition as he spotted them.

"Emily, it's good to see you," Hank greeted her with a broad smile. Knowing his discomfort with physical affection, Emily refrained from offering a hug, instead returning his smile with a nod of acknowledgment. Scott, however, had no such reservations. "You're still alive," he exclaimed with a grin, enveloping her in a tight embrace that squeezed the air from her lungs.

"Scott," Emily croaked softly, teasingly. "You stink and you're wet. Go away, old man." Despite her playful protest, there was a warmth in her voice.

Scott released her from the embrace with a playful scoff. "I'm three months older than you."

" Emily shot back with a smirk, "Judging by your reaction time in training, you'd think you'd have been around when Socrates wasn't even being planned." She could almost envision Scott rolling his eyes behind his glasses, but her attention was drawn away by a low, throaty laugh. Surprised, Emily turned to find Logan, who had lit a cigar and was regarding her with a mixture of amusement and approval, his arms crossed in front of his chest. "I like the little girl," he remarked.

Emily couldn't help but grimace at the nickname. "I'm not little," she retorted, a touch defensively. Logan chuckled and turned away towards the door. "Sweetheart, you're like, a meter fifty. Tops." It wasn't exactly mature to stick out her tongue, but Emily couldn't resist the urge, before turning back to the others.

"Forget Logan," Scott interjected, his expression turning serious as he draped an arm around Emily's shoulder. "The guy's never in a good mood. By his standards, this was just a wedding proposal." Emily grimaced. Sure, Logan was undeniably attractive, but from what she'd already observed, she could tell for sure that he was definitely not her type.

"Please don't." Scott laughed and finally released her from his grasp, prompting a grateful sigh from Emily. She genuinely loved her friend, but he was definitely in dire need of a shower.

As her gaze swept over the faces gathered in the room, something caught her attention, and she furrowed her brow in thought. "Wait, there's someone missing here, isn't there? Where's the cloud guy? What was his name again, Kain?" Emily mused aloud.

A voice behind her, tinged with an unfamiliar accent, responded to her query. "Kurt. Kurt Wagner."

As Emily turned around, her eyes fell upon the figure standing next to Storm—a man who instantly captured her attention. He was undeniably the most attractive man she had ever laid eyes on. Yet, as soon as the thought crossed her mind, she blinked in confusion.

Taller than her, yet slightly shorter than Scott or Hank, he possessed a lean, muscular build that spoke of athleticism. However, it was not the sculpted physique of someone who meticulously trained for aesthetic reasons, but rather the natural result of physical activity. Emily couldn't help but surmise that he might have been involved in acrobatics or gymnastics, given his slender yet defined form.

These physical attributes alone didn't give her pause. It was everything else about him that left her momentarily speechless, caught off guard by the sheer magnetism he exuded.

His skin bore a striking hue of deep indigo blue, adorned with intricate, if unfamiliar, symbols that seemed to dance across his surface in mesmerizing patterns. His blackish-bluish hair cascaded in untamed curls, framing a face that held an otherworldly allure. Emily couldn't help but notice his pointed ears peeking through the tousled locks, a subtle yet unmistakable feature.

As far as she could tell, he had only three fingers and three toes, the latter clad in matching shoes. His smile revealed a set of sharp fangs, adding to the enigmatic charm that surrounded him. A tail, adorned with a spade-like tip, swayed gently behind him. Despite these striking features, it was his golden eyes that held her captive, their intense gaze locking onto hers with a depth that seemed to penetrate to her very soul.

By all conventional standards, he wasn't attractive, but in that moment, Emily knew she had never encountered anyone more compelling, more captivating, than the man before her and she'd be damned if she'd ever meet anyone more attractive.

With a warm smile, Emily extended her hand towards Kurt, which he accepted in a firm yet surprisingly gentle grip. Despite the unfamiliar sensation of his touch, she found his hand pleasantly soft and warm, a stark contrast to his otherworldly appearance. She couldn't help but feel a blush creeping onto her cheeks as she met his gaze.

" Emily Reynolds, it's a real pleasure," she introduced herself, her voice tinged with genuine warmth as she exchanged a handshake with the enigmatic man before her. As she allowed her eyes to roam over him once more, she noticed a slight shift in his demeanor, a subtle fidgeting that betrayed his unease under her scrutiny. Emily couldn't help but feel a surge of amusement at his reaction.

"German, I guess?" she ventured, directing the question towards Kurt. He nodded in affirmation, prompting a knowing smile from Emily. Turning to Storm, she couldn't resist teasing her friend with a playful remark. "You know, if you'd told me you'd picked up such a good-looking bloke, I'd have come up from Colombia a lot sooner," she quipped with a wink.

With a mischievous twinkle in her eye, Emily turned back to Kurt, her smile widening as she addressed him directly. "Am I right, handsome?" she teased, her tone light-hearted yet genuine.

Emily couldn't suppress her delight as she watched Kurt's cheeks darken in embarrassment. He stammered out an apology before vanishing in a puff of smoke, leaving Emily amused by his sudden departure. Turning to the others, who wore expressions ranging from astonishment to amusement, Emily raised an eyebrow defiantly.

"What?" she challenged, crossing her arms defensively across her chest. "He is handsome."

~**~

With a resigned sigh, Emily gently closed the book she had been perusing and carefully returned it to its place on the shelf. It had been three weeks since her return, and while the lessons had been demanding enough, it was another matter altogether that weighed heavily on her mind.

Unintentionally, Kurt had taken up residence in her thoughts. What had begun as fleeting musings about the teleporter had gradually evolved into a persistent presence in her mind. At first, she had dismissed it as a passing curiosity, but as time went on, his image seemed to intrude upon her thoughts more and more frequently, making it increasingly difficult for her to focus on her duties.

Despite his unconventional appearance and the initial awkwardness of their encounter, Emily had come to realize that Kurt was genuinely sweet and honest—a rare find in their line of work. Yet, his unexpected hold on her thoughts only added to her frustrations, complicating her already demanding responsibilities.

As she closed her eyes and leaned against the bookshelf, Emily couldn't help but wonder how she had managed to become so captivated by someone she barely knew. And though she tried to push him from her mind, she couldn't shake the feeling that Kurt had somehow managed to find a permanent place in her thoughts, whether she liked it or not.

With a resigned sigh, Emily acknowledged the unreciprocated nature of her flirtations with Kurt. Each attempt seemed to result in either a shy blush from him or his sudden disappearance, leaving her feeling frustrated and uncertain of where she stood.

Deciding that she wasn't in the mood to read her class's French essays that day, Emily craved a change of scenery. The weather outside was pleasant, and with most of the students still in class, she could seize the opportunity to enjoy some peace and quiet in the garden. Leaving the confines of the classroom behind, Emily made her way to the tranquil garden, where the soft rustle of leaves and the gentle chirping of birds welcomed her.

Ever since she was a little girl, Emily had felt a deep affection for the school grounds—the wide green fields, the tranquil woods, and especially the meticulously tended gardens. Among the lush foliage, there was a particular bench tucked away amidst the fragrant rose hedges—a sanctuary she had often sought out when the pressures of life became overwhelming.

However, as she approached her cherished retreat that day, she discovered that someone else had claimed it before her. Kurt sat there, engrossed in his notepad, seemingly lost in thought.

" Hello, handsome," Emily greeted him with a mixture of surprise and warmth, her heart fluttering as he looked up from his writing to meet her gaze with those captivating golden eyes. It had become a habit for her to address him in such a manner, and to her delight, he had never protested.

"Emily. I wasn't expecting you," Kurt greeted her, his voice soft and filled with genuine surprise. She chuckled lightly and looked down at him gently. Kurt sat cross-legged, dressed in simple attire, a drawing pad resting in his lap and a pencil poised in his hand.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you too much? If so, can I go?" Emily inquired, her concern evident in her tone. He shook his head tentatively, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips, and gestured for her to join him. "Please, sit down," he invited warmly.

Without hesitation, Emily accepted his offer and nestled herself beside him on the bench. "I didn't realize you could paint," she remarked, her curiosity piqued as she observed his sketches. Kurt shrugged modestly, his attention returning to the paper before him. "It's nothing special, though it helps to calm the mind," he explained softly, his fingers deftly moving across the page as he continued to work on his creation.

Emily hummed in agreement, her gaze drifting over the serene surroundings of the garden. "Whenever I was overwhelmed as a pupil, I came here. It was my safe space, so to speak," she reminisced softly.

Kurt's gaze lifted from the paper to meet hers, a playful sparkle entering his eyes.

"Then I really hope my presence doesn't—destroy that security," he quipped, a hint of self-deprecation in his tone.

Emily smiled, understanding the reference to Kurt's past exploits. Storm had filled her in on the incident at the White House, expressing her concerns for Kurt's well-being. But as she looked at him now, his smile reassuring and genuine, she felt a sense of certainty that her friend had nothing to fear. It doesn't. I feel more than safe in your presence, my dear," she assured him sincerely.

A comfortable silence settled between them, punctuated only by the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. After a moment, Emily spoke again, her tone gentle and earnest. "May I have a look at them?" she asked, her curiosity genuine as she gestured towards his sketches.

Kurt blinked, a flicker of hesitation crossing his features as he glanced down at his work. Emily noticed the telltale sign of anxiety in the way his tail wrapped around his leg, but she offered him a reassuring smile. "It's nothing special."

" I don't care about that," Emily replied softly. "I don't have any other friends who are artistic, and I really can't paint myself. The fact that someone can is very fascinating to me." Sensing his uncertainty, she added, "But you don't have to if you don't want to. It's up to you.“

"No, it's fine," Kurt replied tentatively, offering the drawing pad to Emily with a nervous gesture. Almost immediately, he withdrew his hand and began to fidget with the hem of his shirt, his uncertainty palpable.

Emily accepted the pad with care, her fingers tracing over each page as she studied the sketches with genuine interest. After a moment, she turned to Kurt with delight shining in her eyes, her admiration for the talented teleporter growing with each passing moment.

"Kurt, these are fantastic! Really, absolutely beautiful," she exclaimed, her voice filled with genuine admiration and affection.

A tentative smile graced Kurt's lips as he accepted the pad back from her. "Thank you," he murmured softly. With a grin, Emily rose from the bench, a playful glint in her eyes.

"Although I have to say that the artist is still a lot more beautiful," she teased, blowing him a kiss before turning to make her way back to the building.

As she walked, Emily felt a renewed sense of energy coursing through her veins. The encounter with Kurt had lifted her spirits, leaving her eager to tackle the task of reading the French essays with newfound enthusiasm.

~**~

"They look good."

Emily knew better than to cry out. It was the middle of the night and even though it was vacation and the kids who weren't home visiting were on a field trip with most of the teachers, leaving the house more or less empty, it felt wrong to scream out loud just after midnight. Still, she couldn't stop the sound rising in her throat and fumbled with a knife she'd meant to put in the sink.

Cautiously, she turned to find Kurt crouched opposite her on the kitchen island, his form illuminated by the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the window. He was dressed in light clothes, a slight smile playing on his lips as the tip of his tail curled up in a gesture of amusement.

Despite her initial surprise, Emily couldn't help but feel a sense of warmth at the sight of him. She had grown accustomed to his unexpected appearances over the past few weeks, finding comfort in his quiet presence.

"Kurt!" Emily's attempt at sounding stern was overshadowed by the sheer relief evident in her voice as she called out his name. "I’m sorry, meine Liebe. I didn't mean to startle you," he apologized, his smile carrying a hint of mischief despite the apologetic tone.

Emily couldn't help but snort at his apology, though she appreciated the sentiment. Placing the knife on the counter, just out of reach, she chuckled softly. "Why are you still awake at all?"

Kurt tilted his head, shifting from a crouch to a more relaxed cross-legged position on the kitchen island. His tail swung lazily back and forth behind him as he regarded her with playful curiosity. "I could ask you the same thing. Or is it a tradition with you Americans to bake cookies in the middle of the night?"

His gaze flicked towards the oven, where a batch of chocolate cookies was in the midst of baking, before returning to her with a raised eyebrow, teasingly provocative.

Emily couldn't deny that she had observed a change in Kurt over the past few weeks. Gone were the days when he would linger alone in the corners of rooms, withdrawn into the shadows and blushing at every compliment she offered. Instead, he seemed to have grown bolder, spending more time with others, engaging in playful banter and offering pointed responses that often left her at a loss for words.

Admittedly, Emily found herself feeling a twinge of jealousy at times when she witnessed Kurt interacting with other women who seemed captivated by his charm. Yet, she couldn't help but feel genuinely happy for him, recognizing that he deserved to find companionship and connection with others just as much as anyone else.

Yet, she couldn't fault these women for being drawn to Kurt's magnetic personality when she herself found him equally captivating. Despite her occasional bouts of jealousy, she knew that she had no right to judge others when she was just as guilty of harboring feelings for him.

"I needed to let off some steam," Emily explained, her fingers absently wiping flour on her trousers as Kurt's gaze wandered around the kitchen, taking in the sight of dozens of cookies already baked, with more waiting in the oven and a bowl of fresh dough ready to be shaped.

"Lots of steam," she added with a wry smile, reaching for a plate and carefully placing some freshly baked cookies on it before pressing it into Kurt's hand. "Here you go, handsome. I guess this is what you came for."

With a grateful grin and a wag of his tail, he accepted the plate. "Well, I wasn't expecting such fresh delicacies, but yes." Emily watched with a mixture of amusement and satisfaction as Kurt selected one of the cookies, his movements deliberate as he brought it to his nose, taking in its aroma before finally taking a bite.

A few crumbs tumbled to the floor, but she paid them no mind, too captivated by the enraptured expression on Nightcrawler's face as he savored the treat. Now it was Emily's turn to grin, a sense of warmth spreading through her as she witnessed Kurt's enjoyment.

"Good?" Emily inquired, her gaze shifting back to Kurt as he took another bite of the cookie

"Better," he replied instantly, his words slightly muffled by the food in his mouth. Chuckling softly, Emily turned her attention back to her pastry. "Good to know my frustration baking tastes good after all." For a few moments, silence enveloped them, broken only by the sound of Kurt's chewing and Emily's rhythmic chopping of chocolate. Eventually, Kurt broke the quietude with a question.

" May I ask why you're baking in the middle of the night?" With a sigh, Emily pushed the freshly chopped chocolate into the dough and then pressed it into Kurt's somewhat perplexed hand. "School work. Stir, please," she instructed, her voice tinged with weariness but also a hint of determination.

As Kurt stirred the dough, still a little bemused by the late-night baking session, Emily busied herself with removing the trays of fresh cookies from the oven. "You'd think science would be hard to teach, but try teaching Spanish to a class of American kids who almost never have to conjugate or adapt adjectives. Or French. Or God forbid Latin," she explained, a hint of frustration creeping into her voice as she wiped her forehead with the back of her hand.

"Thank you," she added, taking the bowl from him with a grateful smile.

Kurt hummed softly. "The professor said you speak a lot of languages." Emily nodded slightly, her expression thoughtful. "Always came easy to me. A lot easier than biology or chemistry," she admitted with a wry smile.

"How many?"

Emily put the bowl down and leaned back against the kitchen counter, meeting Kurt's gaze with a thoughtful expression. "About ten? English, as my first language, Spanish, French, Hebrew, Latin and Ancient Greek fluently. Arabic, Portuguese and Swahili more or less confidently. Mandarin and Russian..." She paused, tilting her head slightly as she considered.

"Let's put it this way, I wouldn't be completely helpless in a conversation, but I'd prefer to either continue the conversation in English or look for an opportunity to escape after five minutes." Kurt, who had been about to take another bite of a cookie, froze in his tracks, his eyes widening in astonishment as he processed her revelation.

Emily felt a hint of self-consciousness creeping in under his intense scrutiny, and she shifted uncomfortably, about to turn away when Kurt caught himself.

"You're fantastic," Kurt declared, his voice laced with genuine admiration and affection. Emily felt a warmth spread through her cheeks at his words, and she turned away slightly to hide the blush. "Says the guy who can teleport," she replied with a hint of self-deprecation, trying to deflect the attention away from herself.

There was a soft rustle, and when Emily turned back around, she found Kurt standing right behind her, his eyes earnest as he set aside the plate of cookies. "Don't," he murmured, reaching out to brush a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. "Please don't belittle your achievements."

Emily found herself frozen in place, her gaze locked with Kurt's as his fingers continued to stroke her cheek with gentle reassurance. His eyes held such warmth and admiration that it left her feeling both vulnerable and electrified, her heart pounding in her chest as she struggled to form coherent thoughts.

"I was just a curious child. Which Charles encouraged," she finally managed to croak out, her voice barely above a whisper.

Kurt's expression softened even further, his gaze unwavering as he spoke. "And today you are a brilliant woman whose intelligence should not be underestimated," he replied, his words carrying a weight of sincerity that sent a shiver down Emily's spine.

She thought she could feel the tension, but didn't dare do what she wanted to do (grab him by the collar and kiss him senseless).

Instead, Emily chuckled lightly and playfully pushed Kurt aside, placing her hand on his chest as she moved past him to reach the trays of cookies. "Someone sure knows how to make a girl swoon, huh?" she teased, trying to inject a light-hearted tone into the atmosphere.

"Aber nur du zählst*," Kurt muttered softly, prompting Emily to turn back to him with a quizzical expression. "Excuse me? German isn't really my strong suit," she admitted, raising an eyebrow in confusion. Kurt smiled sheepishly, hopping back onto the counter as he evaded her question. "You and the professor get on well. How long have you known him?" he asked, deflecting the conversation away from his previous remark.

Emily knew he was avoiding her question, but she was happy to take the way out as long as it meant he couldn't see her red cheeks or hear her beating heart.

"He raised me," Emily confessed, her voice soft but tinged with deep gratitude as she worked to evenly distribute the cookie dough on the tray. "I lost my family when I was ten. Charles took me in, fostered me and treated me like I was his own flesh and blood. I owe him more than I can ever give back."

She paused for a moment before smiling and putting the tray in the oven and, with that last load done, turning to Kurt. "He's like a father to me, as stereotypical as it may sound." Kurt's tail swayed slightly back and forth as he looked at her.

"I never got to know my parents. Instead, I grew up in the Munich circus," Kurt revealed, his tone tinged with a mix of nostalgia and resignation. "They may not have been related to me, but they gave me a home and accepted me for who I am when no one else did. More or less."

His expression softened. "Just because they aren't your blood doesn't mean any less. Sometimes those who aren't related to us are more important and more family than our real one." Emily cast her gaze down. A constricting feeling spread through her, a familiar feeling that she did her best to suppress.

"Storm told me that you grew up in the circus, but I could never imagine it," Emily admitted, her curiosity piqued. "What was it like, if you don't mind me asking?"

All at once, Kurt's face seemed to light up, his eyes sparkling as his tail started wagging back and forth, a gesture that Emily found incredibly endearing. "It was an indescribable feeling. The adrenaline, the ring, the audience." A dreamy look came over his face. "They didn't know that this -" he pointed to his face "- wasn't make-up, wasn't an act. I was able to teleport and received thunderous applause. It was a real magic trick for them. I was happy. I was free."

Emily couldn't help but hang on every word, captivated by Kurt's recounting of his circus days. The passion and joy in his voice resonated deeply with her, and she couldn't suppress the smile that tugged at her lips. "It sounds wonderful," she remarked sincerely, her heart swelling with happiness for him.

Kurt's eyes met hers and a wide, genuine smile came across his face. "It was."

As the night wore on, the cookies long since cooled, Emily found herself still seated in the kitchen, utterly captivated by Kurt's stories of his time in the circus. Mesmerized, she sat opposite him on the kitchen ledge, her gaze fixed on his lips as he spoke, hanging on to every word with rapt attention.

Kurt's storytelling had a magnetic quality to it, drawing her in completely. His voice, neither too quick nor too slow, held a certain cadence that was soothing yet compelling. With passion, wit, and charm, he painted vivid pictures of his experiences, bringing each memory to life in exquisite detail.

Listening to him, Emily felt as though she were right there beside him, experiencing every exhilarating moment firsthand.

Kurt had a way of speaking that left no room for distraction, his words casting a spell that held her in thrall. Despite the late hour, Emily found herself completely absorbed in his tales, grateful for the opportunity to share in his memories.

"Thanks for keeping me company and venting frustration," she murmured softly after they'd stowed all the cookies together and he'd walked her up to her room. Not teleported, they had walked while he had continued talking, encouraged by her inquiries.

Kurt smiled down at her, his eyes warm with gratitude. "I thank you for listening," he replied, lifting his plate with a cheeky smile. "And for the cookies."

Returning his smile, Emily leaned against her doorframe, feeling a sense of contentment settle over her. "It's been more than a pleasure listening to you. You have a very soothing and pleasant voice, my dear." A pleasant silence descended between them for a few moments before Kurt broke it with a question, his curiosity evident in his expression.

"Can I ask you something?" Emily laughed softly. "I've been pestering you with questions all night, of course you can."

Kurt tilted his head curiously, his golden eyes searching hers. "What are your abilities? I know you have some, the others call you 'Siren'. I haven't figured it out, though." Emily hesitated for a moment, her mind racing with conflicting thoughts, but ultimately she made a decision.

Pushing herself slightly away from the doorframe, she positioned herself directly in front of Kurt. He instinctively moved to back away, but before he could react, she reached out and grabbed the collar of his T-shirt, pulling him closer to her.

With a sudden boldness that surprised even herself, she pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, feeling the unique texture of his indigo-blue skin beneath her lips. In that moment, she didn't care about anything else but the warmth of his presence.

As she pulled back, she met his astonished gaze with a playful wink, her cheeks flushed with a mixture of nerves and excitement. "I'm afraid that's a story for another night, handsome," she teased, pressing another brief kiss to his cheek before releasing him.

"Good night and sweet dreams."

As quickly as she could, Emily scurried into her room and closed the door behind her, leaning against it for support. Her cheeks were burning with embarrassment, and her heart was pounding so loudly she could hear it echoing in her ears.

Where had she gotten the courage to do that? In the silence of her room, she strained to listen for any sound from the hallway, her senses heightened by the rush of adrenaline.

It seemed like an eternity before she finally heard the familiar sound of Kurt's teleportation, the 'BAMF' that signaled his departure.

*Aber nur du zählst ~ But only you matter /count.

~**~

Just in the nick of time, Emily agilely sidestepped, narrowly evading what could have turned her into a human kebab. However, her relief was short-lived as she collided with one of the training props meant to serve as shields. How these would aid her in such a predicament remained a mystery.

“ Practice with swords," she muttered, recalling the advice given earlier, as she retrieved the fallen weapon, now wielding one in each hand. "It can't hurt to broaden your horizons.”

Not so pessimistic, Emily, Charles chimed in, his voice echoing inside her head.

Shut up Charles. She glared up angrily at the pane of glass behind which he was crouching. He seemed unfazed, content to watch from his vantage point as Emily grappled with the swords, feeling increasingly like she was the only one struggling while her training partner flourished.

When Charles had proposed a training session with Kurt, Emily had eagerly accepted. However, her enthusiasm waned when she realized she wouldn't be wielding her usual weapons. Still, being ambidextrous provided a slight advantage against the monstrous creations Hank had concocted this time.

A whirring noise snapped her attention behind, and she swiftly pivoted, just in time to parry an attack from one of the holoimitations. She couldn't help but lament the advancement in technology here, longing for the simplicity of dodging basic projectiles.

"Son of a bitch," she muttered, swiftly dispatching her assailant by severing its head. With grim satisfaction, she observed as the body dissolved into particles of light until it vanished entirely.

Another buzz jolted her into action, but she realized she wouldn't be able to swing her swords in time. Bracing for impact, she was suddenly yanked aside by a firm hand. Startled, she let out a squeal, only to witness her assailant dissolve with a metallic clink and a faint glow.

Turning to face her savior, she found Kurt, his expression etched with concern. "Are you okay? Did it get you?" he asked, scanning her for any sign of injury. She couldn't help but smile faintly, placing a hand on his bicep, which tensed with effort under her touch.

"I'm fine, Kurt. Thank you," she reassured him, gratitude evident in her voice.

For a moment, Kurt simply held her gaze, then nodded with a sheepish smile. "Be careful," he cautioned before vanishing, leaving behind only a dissipating black cloud. Instantly, Emily spun around, peering out from behind the wall, searching until she located him.

And oh, she could curse the training all she wanted, but moments like this made it worth it.

Seeing Kurt in action stirred something within her, a mix of admiration and undeniable attraction. When she had first stepped into the danger room, she had thought her proficiency with two swords was impressive.

That was until Kurt entered, effortlessly wielding one blade in each hand and another clutched in his tail. His presence alone was striking, but watching him in combat … God help her.

She had caught glimpses of his fighting prowess when they first met, though back then he seemed to vanish in the blink of an eye. Now, however, he chose to stay visible, and she couldn't be more grateful.

Kurt moved with a grace and agility that left her breathless. Each strike was calculated, precise, and lethal. Engaging multiple opponents at once, he danced through the air, his swords a blur of motion as he emerged victorious. His movements were a testament to his skill, fluid and elegant, reminiscent of his circus days.

Emily had always admired his flexibility, a reminder of his past as an acrobat, but today she truly appreciated it. His fencing style appeared flawless to her inexperienced eyes, his motions so natural and fluid that she could easily picture him on the trapeze, captivating an audience high above.

EMILY!

Charles' voice reverberated loudly in her mind, but it was too late. A sudden blow to her stomach sent her crashing to the ground with a groan of pain. "Motherfucker," she cursed, reaching out instinctively, only to have someone else intervene and dispatch the assailant before she could react.

Before the body even touched the ground, Kurt was by her side, concern etched on his features as he crouched beside her, his arm supporting her back. "Are you hurt? Emily, what happened? You froze!" His gaze shifted to her forehead, widening in alarm. "You're bleeding."

A wry smile tugged at her lips. "It's not my fault. When you look impossibly gorgeous in combat, you leave me no choice but to freeze and get hit." But Kurt didn't return the smile. "Now's not the time for jokes," he admonished, his worry evident in his voice.

Emily's realization dawned as she found herself clinging tightly to Kurt's neck in panic, desperate not to tumble from his grasp. "Kurt!" she called out, but he remained silent, his hold on her tightening in response. "Hold on, this could get a little uncomfortable," he warned.

In that moment, as they disappeared into the unknown, Emily couldn't help but feel a mix of coldness and strangeness enveloping her. Yet, strangely, it also felt undeniably familiar, like a comforting embrace from Kurt himself.

Later, if asked, Emily would struggle to describe the sensation, but one thing was certain—it felt like home.

“ Whoa," Emily blinked, finding herself suddenly in a hospital room, still cradled in Kurt's arms as he made his way towards one of the beds, calling out for Hank. Gently, he lowered her onto the bed, his concern evident as he brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"Forgive me. I know teleporting is unpleasant, but I wanted to make sure you got fixed up quickly," he explained, his gaze filled with worry. Emily offered him a reassuring smile. "You're cute, handsome," she teased lightly, but before Kurt could respond, Hank entered the room, causing Kurt to step back.

Hank's eyes landed on Emily, his expression a mix of exasperation and concern. "One day, you won't end up in this room covered in blood after a workout," he sighed, shaking his head.

Emily winked at him. "Then it wouldn't be me. Besides, it's not that bad," she quipped, but the seriousness in Hank's gaze silenced her. Without another word, he set to work on treating her injuries, with Kurt never straying far from her side.

~**~

Emily collapsed face-first onto her bed, muffling her frustrated scream into her pillow. Don't get her wrong, she loved her job, but there were days when she felt like jumping out the window after accidentally setting the classroom on fire.

Unfortunately, this entire week seemed to consist of such days. First, she had lost her keys to the classrooms.

Then, the classwork for her French class had mysteriously gone missing, only to be discovered two hours later in the fridge.

As if that wasn't enough, one of the children had managed to kick a ball through her classroom window after class, and she hadn't realized it until the next day when she unlocked the room for her students, only to find everything submerged in water from the overnight thunderstorm, along with her teaching materials.

On top of everything else, there were the usual classroom mishaps. Students conveniently forgot their homework, offering the most implausible excuses imaginable. Then there were the pranks—like the time someone spread liquid glue on a classmate's chair, resulting in an unexpected trip to the infirmary.

Someone had clogged the drains, causing a pipe to burst in the middle of class, and as if that wasn't enough, a child with fire skills accidentally triggered the fire alarm, causing a school-wide evacuation of panicked mutant children.

It was a miracle, really, that no one had been seriously injured or worse.

As if her plate wasn't already overflowing, the situation with Kurt seemed to spiral further out of control with each passing day, reaching a point where even her friends couldn't help but notice and tease her endlessly about it. Charles, ever perceptive, had also picked up on the tension, leading to what was undoubtedly the most awkward conversation of her life.

To top it all off, she had been battling through days of excruciating pain from her period, yet still had to soldier through her lessons and contend with the unpredictable antics of her mutant students. Chasing after kids who couldn't quite control their powers often ended with her accidentally soaring across the room.

The next person who dared to suggest that teaching was an easy job clearly hadn't spent a day managing a classroom full of mutants. If anyone had the audacity to say it to Emily's face, they'd find themselves at the bottom of the ocean in no time.

But it wasn't just the chaos of the school that was driving her to the brink of madness.

As if her burdens weren't heavy enough, the approaching anniversary of her family's death loomed over Emily like a dark cloud. Every year, it brought with it a tidal wave of dread and sorrow that she struggled to bear. Nearly twenty years had passed, and yet the weight of guilt and grief remained as potent as ever, threatening to overwhelm her at any moment.

Despite knowing that she needed time to grieve and reflect, Emily dreaded the thought of taking the day off, especially knowing that Charles disapproved of her withdrawal. With a weary groan, she forced herself to sit up, feeling the weight of exhaustion pressing down on her.

She didn't really feel the urge to get up, but she had no choice. There were essays to correct for four classes, and if she had any hope of finishing them, she needed to start, even if it meant taking it one step at a time.

With heavy steps, Emily made her way to her desk, her weariness palpable. However, her fatigue melted away as she halted in surprise. There, on the tabletop, sat a small, meticulously arranged basket adorned with a delicate pink bow. A smile tugged at her lips as she approached, curiosity piqued. Gently lifting the basket, Emily's smile widened at the sight of sunflowers—her favorite—nestled within.

Alongside them lay a stash of her beloved candies, a box of chocolates, and a tin filled with homemade cookies. But it was the small note that slipped from the tin that captured her attention.

In elegant calligraphy, the note conveyed a simple message, yet its contents stirred something within her, igniting a flutter of anticipation in her chest, making her heart beat faster.

I've noticed that you haven't been feeling very well recently and that you seem very stressed. Hopefully it will help at least a little.

Kurt.

P.S. I can't promise the cookies will be as good as yours, but I tried.

With each word from Kurt's note, Emily felt her heart swell with a mixture of gratitude and affection. She couldn't hold back the tears that flowed freely down her cheeks as she absorbed the sincerity and thoughtfulness behind his gesture.

"Oh, Kurt," she murmured softly, the tin pressed tightly against her chest as if seeking solace in its warmth, whispering a silent thank you to the universe for blessing her with someone as caring and compassionate as Kurt. "You truly are a gem in this world”

~**~

“Hey, you okay?” Scott's voice cut through the drone of the jet engines, filled with a subtle concern that Emily could detect even in the dim cabin. She turned to him, unable to see his eyes, but she knew they held worry. “ Yeah, I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?" Emily's voice was steady, but she could feel the slight tremor in her hands betraying her calm facade.

The jet jolted, and Scott steadied himself against the wall, his presence looming over her.

“It's just... You've been out of action for a while. Are you sure you're ready to jump back in?" Scott's concern was palpable, despite his attempt to mask it.

Emily arched an eyebrow, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of her lips. “ a bit late for second thoughts now, don't you think?" She gestured towards the window where the dark clouds loomed ominously. "Storm said we're landing in ten minutes. Time to roll with the punches.”

It really was too late to turn back. Intelligence reports had sounded the alarm, warning of mutant extremists poised to unleash unprecedented havoc across the eastern seaboard. Their weaponry outstripped even the military's advancements, casting a daunting shadow over the cities they threatened.

Charles hesitated to include her in the response, but Emily had fought for her place, determined to stand alongside her team. Yet, throughout the flight, Scott's gaze remained fixed on her, his concern palpable.

She appreciated his worry, his unwavering friendship, but she couldn't bear the added weight of his scrutiny. She needed to focus, to steel herself for what lay ahead.

Despite her outward strength, inwardly, Emily trembled with nerves. It had been years since her last mission, her time abroad in Colombia marking a lengthy hiatus. No amount of training could fully prepare her for the surge of fear that gripped her now.

Emily recognized the protective brotherly mantle Scott had assumed, a role he’d taken on like a second skin, ready to shield her from harm at any cost. She understood that if she dared to confess her inner turmoil, he'd whisk her away from the danger in an instant. So instead, she mustered a confident facade, rising to her feet and offering him a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

“ Don't worry, big guy. I've got this. Nothing's going to happen to me." Her words were laced with a determination she hoped would quell his concerns. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll go check on the new recruit. You might want to save your worry for him.”

Emily's diversionary tactic wasn't entirely fair to Kurt, who had shown more composure than her that morning. But in the delicate dance of emotions, it seemed to do the trick.

Scott reluctantly relented, allowing her passage with a hint of reluctance in his demeanor.

Kurt sat at the back of the jet, his hands folded in his lap, a picture of serene concentration. As Emily drew closer, she discerned the soft murmur of his prayers, a tranquil ritual amidst the impending storm Approaching him, she observed the snug fit of his uniform, tailored to accommodate his acrobatic talents.

She knew he and Hank had labored tirelessly to enhance the fabric's flexibility, ensuring it matched Kurt's need for unrestrained movement.

Patiently, Emily waited until he completed his devotions, watching as he lowered his hands and opened his eyes. There was no startle, only a warm smile that greeted her, which she mirrored with similar warmth and affection.

“Are things looking so bad for us that you need to pray?” Emily teased gently as she settled down beside Kurt. He chuckled softly, his golden eyes holding hers. "I always pray when I'm nervous about something," he explained, his tone calm and assured. "Before every performance, before every training session, I pray and ask God for his protection and guidance.”

Emily smiled softly, her gaze drifting to where his tail swayed gently. "You're not a believer, are you?" he asked, his voice tinged with curiosity. "No, I'm sorry Kurt. I'm an atheist," she admitted, a hint of apology in her tone. “No, I'm sorry Kurt. I'm an atheist.”

“Why are you apologizing for that?" Kurt's response was gentle, devoid of judgment.

Emily shrugged, her shoulders lifting in a slight gesture of uncertainty. "I know how important your faith is to you, Kurt, and how much it means and helps you, but I can't bring myself to believe. That's something a lot of religious people take personally.” With care, Kurt reached for her hand, his touch warm and comforting.

"Faith is something you can freely choose. So what would be the point of trying to force you to believe?" His words were tender, infused with understanding. "Faith is about voluntary, unconditional love for God and his for you. You can't force it.”

Her heart warmed at his response, a genuine smile spreading across her face. "So I'm not a sinner damned to hell for you just because I don't believe?" she quipped, a playful glint in her eyes.

Kurt met her gaze with unwavering kindness. "Do you hate God and believers?" he countered gently. Emily shook her head immediately. "No, of course not. I admire them. I admire you," she confessed, her tone genuine as she clasped his hand in hers. The connection felt right, comforting in its simplicity.

"The fact that you have such a strong faith, such a strong belief in something that there's no evidence exists, is incredible to me. I see how much it helps you and gives you strength, and there are moments when I truly regret not being able to believe.”

Kurt squeezed her hand gently, his touch reassuring. "You don't have to," he assured her, his voice soft but resolute. "I'm praying for both of us, meine Liebe.”

Her heart skipped a beat at his words, a flutter of emotions swirling within her. Though she may not share his faith, the sincerity in his admission struck a chord deep within her. For a fleeting moment, it felt like the world around them faded, leaving only the connection between them.

Their gaze held, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Emily felt the tension between them, sensing Kurt drawing closer, their proximity almost palpable. But before anything more could transpire, their moment was shattered by Storm's announcement, signaling their imminent descent.

With a gentle touch, Emily cupped Kurt's cheek, her fingers trembling ever so slightly. "Be careful. Please don't die. I don't know how I could live without you," she whispered, her voice laden with a vulnerability she rarely showed.

Kurt nodded slightly, his gaze holding hers with unwavering intensity. Tenderly, he turned his head, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of her hand. The gesture sent a surge of warmth coursing through her, her heart quickening in response.

„You too.“

~**~

“Emily!“

Kurt's voice cut through the chaos, a desperate plea as he lunged forward. He barely managed to reach her in time, his hand wrapping around her arm just as a bullet whizzed past. With a swift movement, he teleported them both out of harm's way, the world blurring momentarily before solidifying again behind the safety of a nearby pillar.

Kurt could feel Emily's tension as she stumbled, and he instinctively wrapped an arm around her waist for support.

Taking cover, they crouched behind the pillar, the cacophony of gunfire and flying debris echoing around them. Kurt could sense Emily's unease, her body tense from the sudden teleportation.

"Kurt, we talked about this," she groaned, her hand pressed against her stomach as she tried to steady herself. “ Sorry," Kurt replied, his smile strained with apology. He lowered himself to her eye level, his expression serious. "There wasn't time for a heads up.”

As Emily steadied herself, Kurt's attention shifted to the chaos unfolding below. Peering down one of the pillars to the platform where the battle raged, he felt a surge of dread. They had been forewarned about the size of the opposing group, but the reality far exceeded their expectations.

The enemy forces swarmed, overwhelming in number, and Kurt couldn't shake the sinking feeling in his gut. With a heavy heart, he watched as Scott found himself dangerously outnumbered. Surrounded on all sides, he fought valiantly, but it was clear that even his formidable abilities wouldn't be enough to ensure his safety.

His gaze shifted back to Emily, noting her recovered composure as she stood by his side, her eyes scanning the tumultuous scene below. Kurt could pinpoint the exact moment she realized Scott was in danger. Her blue eyes widened and she clung to his arm almost painfully.

"Help him," Emily's voice was no more than a whisper as she looked up at Kurt and she so close that he could feel the warmth of her breath, see the faint flutter of her eyelashes against her skin. “Please, Kurt, you can get there faster than I can.”

For a heartbeat, Kurt hesitated, but the urgency in Emily's eyes spurred him into action. With a nod, he vanished from her side, reappearing in an instant behind Scott. “Watch it, Scott.”

Effortlessly, he leaped into the air, executing a spinning kick that connected with one assailant's chin, while his fist met another's face with a resounding impact. His tail snaked out, coiling around the leg of a third opponent, sending them crashing to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

Within moments, Kurt found himself surrounded by a circle of defeated mutants, their groans of pain mingling with the chaos of battle. Scott's grateful nod spurred him into action, but before Kurt could fully savor the moment, his attention was drawn to Logan, buried under a pile of adversaries.

With a wry grin, Kurt imagined the inevitable grumbling from Logan if Scott ended up saving him, but there was no time to dwell on it as a formidable opponent charged towards him.

With reflexes honed by years of combat, Kurt dodged at the last possible moment as the charging figure suddenly split into two. "Wundervoll," he growled softly, a mix of admiration and determination as he shifted into an offensive stance.

To his astonishment, the twin assailants proved to be formidable opponents, matching his speed and agility with surprising grace. Each dodge and counterattack was met with equal ferocity, forcing Kurt to remain on high alert.

He narrowly avoided several strikes, feeling the impact of punches and kicks against his own body. With calculated precision, he danced through the flurry of blows and finally, the towering adversary lay unconscious on the ground, once again whole.

Kurt gasped for breath, his body protesting with each inhale as he felt the sharp pain of broken ribs and the dull throb of a head injury. Despite his desperate need for rest, there was no respite to be found as Emily's panicked voice pierced through the haze of his exhaustion.

“Kurt!” He turned around, slightly disoriented, and saw Emily running towards him. “Move!” Without hesitation, a strange energy surged through him, a primal instinct compelling him to obey her command without question. In the blink of an eye, Kurt found himself teleported away from danger, the world spinning around him until he landed on solid ground once more.

The sudden exertion left him drained, confusion clouding his mind as he struggled to comprehend his own actions. Why had he acted so impulsively, so recklessly? Turning to look back at Emily, his heart plummeted as he took in the sight before him.

Where he had stood just moments ago, Emily now lay motionless on the ground, a small pool of blood seeping from beneath her head.

“No!”

In a flash, he found himself kneeling beside her, his hands gripping her shoulders with urgency. "No, no, no, no, no," he repeated softly, his voice a desperate mantra. With swift determination, Kurt wrapped his arms around her and teleported them away from the chaos, seeking refuge against a nearby wall shielded by stacked crates.

Breathless with fear, he pressed his trembling hand to her neck, relief washing over him as he felt the faint pulse beneath his fingertips, a silent prayer escaping his lips. Only when he withdrew his hand did he notice it smeared with blood. His gaze flickered to her left shoulder, where a bullet had pierced her flesh, its impact sending her crashing into a nearby table.

His eyes brimmed with worry as they returned to Emily's unconscious form. Leaning closer, he gently pressed his forehead against hers, a silent apology echoing in his mind. She had rushed in to protect him, and in that moment, he had obeyed her without hesitation. Now, she bore the consequences of his actions, taking the bullet intended for him.

A surge of primal rage surged through Kurt, igniting something dark within him. His head snapped up, eyes scanning the room with intensity. High above on one of the upper floors, he finally spotted the culprit—a man wielding a sniper rifle, his sights trained on the chaos below. Kurt's lips curled into a feral snarl. The angle was right.

In an instant, he vanished into a swirling cloud of darkness, reappearing behind the sniper.

Before the man could react, Kurt struck, knocking the weapon from his grasp and ensnaring him with his tail, tightening the coil around his neck with ruthless force.

The man struggled fruitlessly, clawing at Kurt's tail in a desperate bid for escape, but it was futile. “How dare you?” Kurt's voice dripped with venom, barely more than a menacing hiss as he advanced, dragging the man closer to the edge.

“How dare you shoot at them? How dare you shoot at her?!”

The man dangled precariously over the precipice, his face contorted with panic and oxygen deprivation, but Kurt showed no mercy.

Kurt tilted his head, an almost sadistic smile on his face. “I hope you've finished saying your last prayer.” Without a moment's pause, he released his grip. The man plummeted with a scream, the impact echoing through the air, silencing him forever. Though the darkness within Kurt lingered, he surveyed the scene below with cold detachment. His eyes found Emily, untouched and safe, a wave of relief washing over him.

"Fear not, my dear," he murmured softly, his gaze shifting to a red-haired woman hurling energy balls at Storm. "No harm will hurt you, not under my watch.”

The next moments of Kurt's life slipped by like fragments of a dream, blurred and hazy. He couldn't recall the precise duration of the battle, whether it spanned minutes or stretched into hours. All that mattered was ensuring that these perpetrators endured the suffering Emily had endured, if not more.

In the end, however, he stood witness as some managed to flee aboard a plane. Despite Storm's valiant efforts, they vanished into the distance beyond her reach. Scott, meanwhile, had realized what had happened to Emily and was kneeling by her side with Kurt. With gentle care, he brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, the weight of responsibility evident in every movement. Kurt didn't need to see his eyes to understand the self-blame that consumed him.

“I should have taken better care of her," Scott whispered, enfolding Emily in his arms. Kurt shook his head solemnly. "No, if blame must be placed, it falls on me. That bullet was meant for me, but she intercepted it.” He buried his face in his hands, grappling with remorse. "I don't understand how it happened. She yelled for me to move, and I... I obeyed without question. I could have stayed, taken the bullet—anything—but I chose to teleport!”

“ You couldn't have done different, Kurt," Scott's voice was unexpectedly gentle, a touch of compassion softening his features as he spoke. "Did she ever tell you why we call her Siren?" Kurt shook his head. "I asked once, but she said it wasn't the time. Should I have pressed her for answers?”

Scott shook his head, his attention shifting to Emily's wound. "No. Even if you had, it wouldn't have changed a thing. Her power... it's her voice. She commands obedience with a word. You, me, anyone—under her control, without hesitation.”

He regarded Kurt with sympathy. "Even the professor struggles against her at times. And if she had chosen to protect you? There's nothing in this world that could have kept you rooted in place.” Kurt was engulfed in a whirlwind of emotions. Relief flooded through him, knowing it wasn't solely his fault for moving. Yet, guilt gnawed at him, a nagging sense that he could have intervened somehow.

Anger and fear pulsed within him, juxtaposed with a tender affection that threatened to overwhelm him as he beheld her motionless form cradled by Scott. Before Kurt could utter a word, Logan approached. Crouching beside them, he addressed Scott with an unexpected calmness, almost gentleness—a side of Logan Kurt wouldn't dare to acknowledge aloud.

"Scott. We've gotta keep going. We can still catch them." The turmoil within Scott was palpable, evident even to Kurt without the need for telepathy. On one hand, the instinct to stay and care for the woman who was like a little sister to him tugged at his heartstrings. On the other, the weight of leadership duty pressed upon him, reminding him of his indispensability to the mission. Kurt knew he himself was not.

“Go, Scott. They need you. I'll take care of her.” Scott looked at him doubtfully and Kurt could only imagine how the man must be feeling right now. “Are you sure?”

Kurt's nod was resolute, his conviction unwavering. "Her wounds seem superficial. I can handle them. And if she doesn't awaken soon, I can get her to a hospital faster than anyone else here.” Even without meeting Scott's gaze, Kurt could sense the turmoil within him, the silent battle waged beneath the visor.

Finally, Scott relented, his surrender evident as he bowed his head. "Okay. But not here. There's a safehouse nearby, rarely used, but it should still be intact." He rose to his feet, swiftly outlining the route to Kurt, while Logan's agitation simmered in the background.

“If her condition doesn't improve, or worsens, you're taking her to the hospital within twenty-four hours at the latest," Scott instructed, his hand finding its place on Kurt's shoulder. "Take care of her, please.” Kurt nodded solemnly. “I'll protect her with my life if I have to.”

A thin smile came to Scott's lips. “I know you will. Thank you.”

~**~

Emily's senses stirred back to life with a cruel jolt of pain. It engulfed her, rendering her momentarily breathless. She attempted to vocalize her distress, but her parched throat yielded no sound, leaving her trapped in silence. Darkness shrouded her, and it took an eternity for her to realize that her eyes were closed.

Tentatively, she tried to shift, only to be met with a searing agony that eclipsed the previous torment. A soft whimper escaped her lips, despite the desert-like dryness of her throat.

Panic clawed at her as she struggled to piece together her surroundings, the events leading to her current state shrouded in darkness. The inability to pry open her eyes amplified her fear, a relentless reminder of her vulnerability. Suddenly, a cascade of footsteps shattered the silence, followed by a gentle voice, its timbre laced with comfort and familiarity.

“Take it easy, Emily. Everything is all right. You're safe. Sleep.”

Though unable to place the voice, its soothing cadence enveloped her, washing away the edges of her anxiety. Surrendering to the reassurance it offered, Emily surrendered to the embrace of sleep, devoid of dreams.

---

The next time Emily woke up, the pain was still there, but duller and less sharp With a determined effort, she coaxed her heavy eyelids open, each fluttering attempt a battle against exhaustion. At last, her vision cleared to reveal a scene of unexpected warmth and coziness.

An open, friendly room stretched out before her. It was small, but comfortably furnished with floral curtains in front of the windows and a fluffy carpet on the wooden floor. She herself was lying in a bed, soft and comfortable, but one she had never seen before, let alone slept in. How the hell had she ended up here?

With a cautious shift, she attempted to rise, only to be met with a searing agony that coursed through her shoulder and down her arm, leaving her gasping in its wake.

As her focus settled on the pristine bandage encasing her wounded shoulder, a flood of memories crashed over her.

*

Emily hurtled down the stairs with a singular purpose driving her forward, her heart pounding in her chest as adrenaline surged through her veins. Relief washed over her as she saw that Kurt and Scott, as well as the others, seemed to be okay. Kurt had just wrestled the mutant who could make copies of himself to the ground and appeared out of breath but mostly unharmed.

As she tried to avert her gaze, however, she noticed something that stood out clearly on the man's blue skin: a small, red, moving dot. Her gaze flew to one of the upper levels, where she spotted the sniper, but her legs had already started moving before she realized what was going on. She was acting on pure instinct and her mind had only one thought.

Not him.

Her muscles strained with exertion as she raced towards Kurt, every fibre of her being focused on one imperative goal: to shield him from harm at any cost. With each passing moment, her strides quickened, propelled by a determination that brooked no opposition.

“Kurt! Move!“ The urgency in Emily's voice reverberated through the chaos, a silent plea that echoed across the room until it reached its intended target. For a fleeting instant, their gazes locked in a shared understanding, the blue of her eyes meeting the golden depths of his before he vanished in a cloud of smoke.

But far too slowly for her taste. Before he could carry out her command, Emily lunged forward, her instincts overriding all rational thought as she propelled herself towards Kurt. In a blur of motion, she collided with him, her outstretched arms shoving him out of harm's way just as he vanished into the safety of the shadows, just barely after loosing physical contact with her.

A bang sounded and a sharp pain shot through her body.

Then - nothing.

*

Emily eased herself back onto the pillow, her breaths coming in shallow gasps as she attempted to process the whirlwind of emotions coursing through her. Had she succeeded? Was Kurt unharmed, safe, alive? Before she could dwell on her thoughts any further, the door creaked open, heralding Kurt's entrance. A book dangled loosely from his grasp, forgotten in the wake of the startling sight before him.

His eyes widened in disbelief, the book slipping from his fingers to clatter to the floor below. Without hesitation, he closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, his arms enveloping her in a tender embrace that caught her off guard.

Relief flooded through her at the warmth of his touch, dispelling the lingering shadows of doubt that had clouded her mind. “Thank God you're awake!”

For a few seconds, Emily was overwhelmed by the warm feeling of his body pressed against hers. The familiar scent of pine, tinged with a hint of sulfur from his teleportation, enveloped her, sending her senses reeling in a dizzying whirl. Before he could withdraw, her instincts took hold, guiding her to pull him closer until she was enveloped in the comforting warmth of his embrace, her face nestled against the curve of his neck.

“You're alive," she whispered, her voice barely more than a breathless murmur and Kurt slowly pulled back, but only far enough for him to look at her. She could discern the delicate flutter of his eyelashes, feel the gentle caress of his breath against her skin.

“Only because of you," he replied, his voice soft and earnest. With a tenderness that bordered on reverence, he brushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead. “You scared me. All of us.”

Emily cast her eyes down. “I'm sorry.” Kurt just shook his head and his hand travelled from her cheek to the back of her neck. “Don't be. You saved my life. You shouldn't apologize for something so selfless.” Despite his comforting words, a wry smile tugged at Emily's lips as she lifted her hand to gently caress his cheek.

“I'm afraid my intentions weren't as selfless as you might hope.”

Kurt's eyes widened in disbelief, his gaze fixed on Emily with an intensity that spoke volumes. The air between them crackled and the tension was almost palpable, but Emily pulled back at the last moment, head bowed, trying to appear as unaffected as possible.

“Where are we? And where is the rest? You can't tell me Scott just left me here without a fight.”

Her attempt at humour succeeded as Kurt chuckled softly and shook his head, backing away slightly. Momentarily she missed his presence, but she did nothing to get it back. “He didn't. However, some mutants have escaped. The others are trying to chase them, but you couldn't come with them in your condition, let alone stay there alone.”

“So you sacrificed yourself to play babysitter?" she teased, a playful glint dancing in her eyes. Kurt's lips curved into a wry smile, his amusement evident. “I wouldn't consider it a sacrifice. But yes," he admitted, his grin growing more mischievous by the second. "Someone had to pray for your health."

Emily couldn't help but snort in response. “I don't think He was listening.”

Kurt reached for her hand. “And yet you're awake," he observed, his tone gentle yet steadfast. Emily had no retort to offer.

“Why don't you believe, Emily?” Kurt's question hung in the air, laden with genuine curiosity. Her heart constricted at the sincerity reflected in his eyes, compelling her to look away. For a few moments she thought about how to phrase her words, but in the end she decided that it would be best to just tell the truth openly.

“How can I believe in a God who allows so much ... bad to happen?" she began, her voice laced with a poignant blend of frustration and anguish. "There's war, disease, poverty, persecution for any ridiculous reason. What kind of God can say He is 'kind' when He turns away when we need Him? What kind of God can say He is all-loving and forgiving when He sends people who have not acted as He wishes to eternal punishment?”

Now it was up to her to take his hand. “I know you believe in Him, but I just can't. Not after everything I've been through. Or you or anyone else in this world," she confessed, her voice tinged with a raw vulnerability that she rarely allowed herself to reveal. Averting her eyes, she allowed herself to sink back into the comfort of the pillow.

“Besides, should He exist after all? I'm afraid of that thought," she admitted. In the periphery of her vision, she caught sight of Kurt's tail swaying gently. “Why would you be afraid?" he pressed gently, his voice laced with genuine concern. Emily hesitated, her thoughts racing.

“Because I almost certainly wouldn't go to heaven," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. Kurt began to protest, but she silenced him with a solemn shake of her head. “I'm not a good person, Kurt. I've done things that are unforgivable, that deserve eternal damnation," she admitted, yet, Kurt's response was swift and unwavering

Kurt just shook his head. “No. I don't think so.”

Emily snorted. She hadn't intended to tell him, but she felt she had reached a point where he deserved to know. She knew the longing that was visible in his eyes, she was pretty sure she looked like that herself when she looked at him. “I take it you've been explained what my mutation is?” she inquired, her tone tinged with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation. Kurt nodded slightly, his expression a blend of curiosity and confusion, uncertain of the direction the conversation had taken.

“I only found out very late that I have this mutation. Of course, I noticed that I was better at persuading people than others, but it never got to the... extreme of being able to command or control someone. Until I was invited to my best friend's tenth birthday party.” As the memories threatened to overwhelm her, Kurt's comforting touch served as an anchor, grounding her in the present moment.

His encouraging gaze spurred her on, a silent reminder that she wasn't alone in her struggle. She knew that she had the option to stop talking, to keep her demons buried deep within, he wouldn’t judge her, but she also understood that this was her moment of reckoning. If she didn't speak now, she might never find the courage to do so again.

“My best friend wanted to celebrate her birthday at an amusement park. She was from a wealthy family, whereas I came from ... a more modest background. So the thought of going to a real theme park made me ecstatic," she confessed, her voice tinged with a bitterness.

“My parents weren't. You have to know, I had a little sister, she was four years younger than me, six at the time and she obviously wasn't invited. My parents thought it was unfair that I could go and she couldn't and wanted to forbid me. We argued, a lot and more intensely than ever before. In the end, it became too much. My parents shouted at me for being stubborn, my sisters cried... It was too much.”

Tears welled up in her eyes and her attempt to stifle the sobs failed. “ Shhhh," Kurt murmured softly, his comforting embrace enveloping her in a cocoon of solace and understanding. With a gentle sweep of his arm, he drew her close, his tail curling protectively around her waist in a silent gesture of solidarity and support. With a gentle touch, he brushed away her tears, offering what little solace he could.

“It - it was just so loud," she whispered, her voice barely more than a fragile thread of sound. Her hands clawed at her own arms, as if seeking to anchor herself. “I just wanted it to stop, wanted it to be quiet. So I shouted back. It wasn't much, just one word, but it was one word too many.”

Tears streamed openly down her cheeks, her pain laid bare for all to see as she leaned into Kurt's comforting embrace, seeking refuge from the relentless onslaught of her memories. With a tender gesture, he held her close, his touch a silent reassurance that she was not alone in her suffering.

“Stop. That was all I said. And they stopped. Both their crying and their hearts.” Emily felt Kurt's grip on her tighten. By now, she was crying openly and unabashedly, her tears flowing freely, yet neither of them cared. “I killed them. My parents. Amy, my sweet little sister. I killed them all.”

Her voice was no more than a whisper, barely audible despite the silence in the room, but Kurt heard her. He always did. “No,” he murmured. With a gentle touch, he lifted her chin, urging her to meet his gaze, his eyes filled with unwavering compassion. “No, do you hear me? You didn't kill them.”

“It was my voice that killed them," she protested, her words a desperate plea for absolution. Yet Kurt remained steadfast in his conviction, refusing to let her drown in the depths of her despair.

“No, Emily. It was an accident, nothing more," he insisted, his voice firm yet laced with tenderness. But Emily's laughter, devoid of any semblance of joy. “Do you think it makes a difference? Dead is dead. My voice was the cause, and whether it was intentional or not, it's my fault.”

She gave him a pained look. “I'm not a saint. I'm nothing but a monster. You can't redeem me, I'm damned for all eternity. I've probably committed one of the greatest sins your god has told you about," she confessed, her voice cracking with anguish.

Emily waited with a breaking heart for him to push her away, to leave her alone, but the opposite was the case. Kurt pulled her closer so that her head was tucked under his chin and he ran his hands over her back as his tail wrapped tighter around her waist.

“Emily.”

That was all he said, just her name, but with such compassion, affection and love that she burst into tears. For how long she cried into the curve of his neck, Emily couldn't say. But when she finally pulled away, tears still shimmering in her eyes, Kurt met her gaze with a tender smile, his hand gently stroking her cheek. “You're not irredeemable. You're not a monster. You are not a murderer. You were a child and it was an accident. A terrible accident, yes, but still an accident.”

Emily's voice faltered, her heart heavy with disbelief as she gazed into Kurt's unwavering eyes.

“How can you still look at me like that?” Her voice broke in between, but she refused to cry again. “How can you still look at me like that, like I'm the best person you've ever met?” A tender smile graced Kurt's lips, his expression suffused with a tenderness that spoke volumes.

Slowly, his tail unwound from her waist, the tip trailing delicately over her cheek in a gesture of gentle reassurance. “It's not really hard, my dear. It's because you are the best person I've ever met.” Emily opened her mouth to protest, to refute his assertion, but he silenced her with a gentle shake of his head.

“I know you might not believe me, but it's the truth. I see the way you treat other people. Your patience with the students, even when they drive you crazy. Your affection for Scott and Storm, no matter how bad-tempered or annoyed they are you always bring a smile to their faces. Even Logan laughed at your jokes.”

He paused for a moment and the tip of his tail travelled slowly from her cheek, over her shoulder to her hip where it nestled close. “I see the way you look at me, like I'm the most precious and valuable thing there is. I notice how you get flirtier and more confident when I play along and I can feel how much you value me.”

With a tender touch, he placed his hand on her collarbone, his touch a gentle caress against her skin. “You're fantastic, wonderful and a completely outstanding person and I'm incredibly grateful that I was able to get to know you. You're not a monster. You are an angel.”

Emily didn't know what she was thinking at that moment. Probably nothing, she was so overwhelmed with emotion, but one thought clearly floated above all others:

She may not have deserved this man, but she wouldn't let him go.

With a surge of determination, she acted on impulse, her injured shoulder protesting but her heart overriding any physical discomfort. Grasping the collar of Kurt's shirt with as much strength as she could muster, she pulled him towards her, closing the distance between them with a suddenness that took them both by surprise and finally - finally! - placed her lips on his.

It wasn't a long or deep kiss, just a quick peck, but it made her body rejoice and butterflies dance in her stomach. Emily's veins. As quickly as she had invaded his space, she pulled back, her gaze meeting Kurt's with a mixture of hope and uncertainty, while his golden eyes shone with something she had never seen before. “Kurt-”

He didn't let her finish, leaning forward and closing the distance between them once more, his lips seeking hers with a newfound urgency. She was surprised for a moment, but quickly regained her composure and closed her eyes.

Emily wrapped her arms around Kurt's neck, drawing him closer despite the protests of her injured shoulder. His hands found purchase on her waist, pulling her closer still, while his tail wrapped around her hips, drawing her into his embrace until she was practically seated on his lap.

Their kisses grew more fervent, fuelled by months of unspoken longing and suppressed desire. Emily's hand tangled in Kurt's hair, pulling him closer as she lost herself in the heady rush of sensation. When his teeth grazed her lower lip, a soft moan escaped her lips, muffled by the fervour of their embrace.

As they broke away, breathless and exhilarated, Emily leaned into Kurt, resting her forehead against his, a smile lingering on her lips. His tail gently drew her closer until their chests met, a comforting warmth spreading between them.

“I really hope for your sake that this isn't a sin,” she whispered, her voice light with playful teasing, “because I won't be able to hold back when I'm around you.” Kurt's chuckle rumbled softly, his eyes filled with affection as he looked at her.

“If this is a sin,” he said, his tone tender, “ would gladly damn myself as long as I get to keep holding you in my arms.” Emily was speechless, overwhelmed by the intensity of her feelings.

Without hesitation, she leaned in again, capturing his lips with hers. In that moment, she didn't care about sin or salvation; all that mattered was the bliss of being with Kurt.

Let them be damned, she thought, for she already felt like she was in heaven.

[reasonsforhope]

"A net-zero power system is closer than we think.

New research, published by RMI, indicates that an exponential surge in renewable energy deployment is outpacing the International Energy Agency’s most ambitious net-zero predictions for 2030. 

That’s right: Surging solar, wind, and battery capacity is now in-line with net-zero scenarios. 

“For the first time, we can, with hand on heart, say that we are potentially on the path to net zero,” Kingsmill Bond, Senior Principal at RMI, said. “We need to make sure that we continue to drive change, but there is a path and we are on it.”

And that’s really good news.

Exponential growth in renewable energy has put the global electricity system at a tipping point. What was once seen as a wildly daunting task — transitioning away from fossil fuels — is now happening at a faster pace every year. 

Based on this new research, conducted in partnership with the Bezos Earth Fund, RMI projects that solar and wind will supply over a third of all global electricity by 2030, up from about 12% today, which would surpass recent calls for a tripling of total renewable energy capacity by the end of the decade. 

Global progress in the renewable energy sector

China and Europe have been leading the way in clean energy generation, but the deployment of renewable energy has also been widely distributed across the Middle East and Africa. 

Research from Systems Change Lab shows that eight countries (Uruguay, Denmark, Lithuania, Namibia, Netherlands, Palestine, Jordan, and Chile) have already grown solar and wind power faster than what is needed to limit global warming to 1.5°C, proving that a swift switch to renewable energy is not only feasible — it’s entirely achievable. 

In order to make that switch, globally, wind and solar need to grow from 12% to 41% by 2030. Denmark, Uruguay, and Lithuania have already achieved that increase in the span of eight years.

Meanwhile, Namibia, the Netherlands, Palestine, Jordan, and Chile have grown solar and wind energy at sufficient rates for five years...

The economic impact of climate progress

Not only is this an exciting and unprecedented development for the health of the environment, but this rapid transition to clean energy includes widespread benefits, like jobs growth, more secure supply chains, and reductions in energy price inflation. 

This progress spans both developing and developed countries, all driven to accelerate renewables for a number of different reasons: adopting smart and effective policies, maintaining political commitments, lowering the costs of renewable energy, and improving energy security. 

And with exponential growth of clean energy means sharp declines in prices. This puts fossil fuels at a higher, uncompetitive cost — both financially and figuratively. 

RMI suggests that solar energy is already the cheapest form of electricity in history — and will likely halve in price by 2030, falling as low as $20/MWh in the coming years. This follows previous trends: solar and battery costs have declined 80% between 2012 and 2022, and offshore wind costs are down 73%."

-via Good Good Good, July 12, 2023

Let me repeat that:

For the first time in history, we are on an actual, provably achievable path to net zero emissions

[asgardian--angels]

I’m a biology student and fuck. Just fuck. Every post I see talks about the world ending and all life coming to an end. I know that’s not the case (I hope) but just…god. Kamala was gonna be shit with the environment but trump seems keen on speed running the time we have to put a dent in this. How do you stay hopeful? What do we have to hope for?

Hi there fellow biologist :)

First let me just say, Kamala Harris most certainly would not have been shit with the environment. She would have done quite a lot to work on climate change (she has not emphasized this at rallies because it was not a priority issue with voters, but her policies were there, and democrats consistently are progressive on environmental policy enough to make corporations angry), and Biden during his presidency has accomplished a heck of a lot to undo Trump's previous weakening of federal environmental protections and strengthen them further. My hope is that they together will continue to try and pass what they can in their remaining months. I hope in my previous posts I was not coming off as too cynical - I'm scared, as we all are, but I have great faith in the passionate and hardworking scientists in this field who have dedicated their entire lives to tirelessly protecting our planet, at all scales. We just need more of them, and that's where you come in.

How do I stay hopeful? Because of people like you, students in the biological sciences who feel strongly enough to take this career path. The next generation of environmental stewards, in a time where scientists are exponentially more knowledgeable about threats to the environment and solutions to them than ever before. Especially now, these fields are shifting from old white guys (no shade to [most of] them) to young women, people of color, and queer people in STEM, who are eager to bring new perspectives and approaches to the field that I think will bolster our resolve and increase our success.

Despite the doom and gloom, we also have made incredible strides forward to improve clean air and water, restore habitat (particularly wetlands, reversing decades-long trends of waterbird declines, as well as reversing raptor declines), ban DDT, track species declines through long-term monitoring by generations of dedicated scientists, train more effective science communicators to engage people of all ages, especially children, with the natural world to forge crucial emotional connections needed to recruit them to conservation causes, and so much more. Here's a big one - MOTUS, the system we now use to track migrating birds on their worldwide journeys, developed just in the past couple decades. Because of it, we now know in incredible detail where individual birds and populations overwinter, the routes they take, and the threats they face at different times of year - thereby being able to much more effectively target our conservation efforts. Shifting baselines work in both directions; it's easy to forget within a generation or two how much we've lost (atlantic cod used to be so abundant they jumped into fishermen's boats, passenger pigeon flocks darkened the skies for hours), but it's also easy for young people to not know how much we've gained - bald eagles used to be so rare it was a spectacle to see one, the rivers just half a century ago would literally catch on fire from the levels of pollutants, and acid rain - remember acid rain? we fixed that!) In my field specifically, we've been rediscovering once-thought-extinct bee species left and right in the past few years, because dedicated young bee researchers have put in renewed effort to search for them when no one else did. Now we know where they are and how to protect them, and some of them aren't even considered rare anymore!

You more likely than not have a professor for some class who's pushing 80. That's because in this field, we never quit. Protecting the environment is our passion, our lives, our heart and soul. It's our calling, and we couldn't think of doing anything more important with the time we have on this earth. Every stride forward we've made only happened because individual scientists, regular people, cared enough to fight for what they believed in. Often it's a slow process, and often we don't truly grasp the scope of what our own work will lead to in the grand scheme of making change. But every species out there that's still persisting is because someone loves it a whole lot. Maybe a lot of people love elephants or big cats, while just one single person loves terrestrial leeches. But heck, it only takes one person to completely change the trajectory of a species and bring widespread public attention to it! I love telling people about bee species they've never heard of, that exist right in their own state. They might go home, google it, and keep an eye out for it next time, or better, plant the flowers it specializes on. I put a call out on iNaturalist for users in my state to search wetlands for a rare wetland bee with only a couple of records in the state - within a couple months, half a dozen more sightings popped up. Just like that. The bee was considered rare, but no one was looking. They had no idea there was anything to look for. Now? Not so rare, maybe - a good sign!

I stay hopeful because I know that the planet needs us, and we need the planet. The people who love nature will never stop fighting to protect it, and every single action does make a difference, whether we know it or not. I could ask myself why I give talks at public libraries where my audience is 10 people at best, even when the drive is 6+ hours. Because one, just one, of those people might be inspired or moved by my words, and choose to take action. For all I know, I've started a domino effect that will cascade into something huge. I worked with and briefly mentored an undergraduate student in bee science a few years ago - he's since gone on to work on a huge project to digitize bee specimens locked away in dusty drawers for decades, bringing to light dozens of species for which we previously had little to no information or images, improving the resources available to other researchers to identify their specimens and thus be able to monitor these rare, specialized desert bees. You can't know the impact you'll have. You just have to do the work, and always give all you can, and love doing it.

Some might think it's too little too late - but that's relative. There's no such thing as the apocalypse. Nature continues on, in whatever form it needs to. In a way, we've decided what our benchmark is; prevent the loss of biodiversity, preserve ecosystem services. But the natural world has already changed, since the moment any human stepped foot onto a new continent or island and brought plants and animals with them. We put value on species, on ecosystems, because we love them. We think they are beautiful, that they have intrinsic or extrinsic value, and that they deserve a continued place in this world. We have lost species, and we will lose a lot more. But isn't preventing even one extinction worth it? We fight tirelessly to manage the spread of invasive species, to restore even little patches of urban habitat, when someone could look at those and say, 'what's that point? that won't make any difference.' But tell that to the species that live there. The planet keeps running because of small, local changes carried out by thousands of people, and a handful of big changes (like policy) undertaken by a few ballsy folks. Neither would work without the other. Every time I get my hands in the dirt and plant a new species in my pollinator garden, it gives me hope. I'm investing in the future. By being here, studying biology, you are too. It all gives me hope.

[paradoxbeta]

WHO IS EOC? i am very curious now!!!

>:) okay SO

tumblr picture formatting is utter garbage and i dont want these to take up too much space so im cramming these drawings into one row (or not if this crapsite breaks on me, because it seems to be REALLY fighting me on this, so if it ends up not making a nice little picture row know that i tried my best). but this is effigy of composure!

he has a couple problems, but the big one is that his superstructure has a terrible parasite situation. the parasites are flat, thin, and able to make it into grooves and pipes the inspectors cant reach. flushing out doesnt do much to dislodge them and they breed faster than they can be killed, so theyve happily made their homes in this sheltered, food-rich haven (to the obvious distress and horror of the host iterator). originally the concept for these parasites were much closer to centipedes and had the placeholder name "synapcipedes," but ive since started leaning more towards an obvious tapeworm motif for them because its gross and i enjoy it morbidly. it also has some pretty cursed implications if you think about it for too long which i have decided are funny/really disgusting/so stupid that they have to stay. i still flipflop between considering them centipedes vs tapeworms though and i dont think thatll ever be rigidly defined. the ambiguity is nice to toy with

on the top 10 list of "things that are not fun" having turbo worms has to be somewhere up there, so eoc has it *rough,* and kind of sort of eventually barrels off into the deep end because of it. his futile attempts to clean his own structure are frustrating enough, and the constant feeling of bugs crawling all over the inside of his body (which only gets progressively worse with time) does no favors either. however, the real big reason why he mentally declines is just because there's a ton of centi-worm things eating like fire through his neurons and other what-have-yous that iterators need to think and function. i think if he only got hit with one of these 3 things then he might have been able to hang onto his sanity, but with the triple combo he doesn't really stand a chance of doing much except stalling his functional death. which is good on him because if i was an iterator and my overseers told me i had a structure infestation, my mental health would have just preemptively swan dived off a bridge before anything even happened

anyhow, exponential parasite population growth meant exponential increase in all this other fun stuff, which means the time from the beginning of the infection to the time eoc is considered officially gone is startlingly short (for iterators, at least). it still took quite the while because losing your marbles is a loonnnng process, but still, yikes. its unfortunate because eoc was a real jokester pre-everything, and a cool guy to talk to. he was one of those people who could come up witty comments for anything like hed been ripped from the script of a sitcom. oh yeah, also, should have mentioned this earlier, but he ends up accidentally amassing a scavenger cult mid-insanity which goes hilariously bad because he's barely aware it's happening. nothing really works out for this poor iterator.

tldr: eoc gets parasites, they erode his brain, he goes nuts about it, (accidentally amasses a cult,) dies

[justaguyeatingpie]

[p-ranking 6-2, attempt #54] a gabv1el one shot, 1.6k words (~8 mins), see the ao3 version here.

As always, the starry sky houses the moon in the same spot. Tilts it at the same angle, down to the very degree.

As always, the trees draw the same oblong shadows upon the forest floor. Never an inch too thick or too wide, and permanently slanted one way in spite of perspective.

As always, the campfire crackles the same few notes, a bassist in the forest’s melancholic song. It’s grown predictable, the rippling water, the creaking wood. The pitter-patter of wildlife in a freshly empty world liberated in humanity’s absence.

As always, the moment lies in stasis. Unchanged from when he first sat upon this log with his wings slumped low, strung dejectedly to his back with threads of shame, guilt and regret.

Most humorously, his introspection is all that ever changes. When did it grow from silent reflection to the deepest, most relentless rounds of brooding? The fifth time? The fiftieth?

Is he doomed to mope here forever? Arrive freshly wounded from another gratifying defeat, only for the real pain to come from his actions?

Who can wash sins dipped in the thickest tar? Is there a confessional mighty enough for his crimes, mightier than the council who assigned them to begin with?

What is the verdict of a fool puppeteered for eons? A tool for uprooting all supposed evil save from his own, arguably the worst of it all? 

He is a fool. A murderer. A monster. 

Even so, it is not enough to sulk. There are wrongs to right, a pompous head to sever and a tyrannized heaven to set free. And that is just the start of it, his penitence. It will be profound. He will make the greatest amendments for his worst sins. Stop at nothing to rectify the ills brought by his zealous hands, even as his life spills away in pathetic litres. Then, with the very last of his strength, he will pray. Not to God, whose death mirrors his own untethered, declining existence. Rather, to those stirred by his smallest transgressions. The ones just big enough to be felt somewhere, somehow, yet still too miniscule in all he’s done to be brought to memory. 

He will die somewhere quiet, somewhere alone. Dance in a pleasant slumber while his body flakes into ashes, sparks into white flame, or whatever else. A deserved fate, yet one not nearly harsh enough.

The plan is in his grasp, a mere untipped domino away. But time won’t permit him to go much farther from here. It never does.

He has cleaved the councilman’s head enough times to decorate a metaphorical castle wall, each taxidermied mount a broken link between Gabriel himself and God. It is unbearably heavy, his own unsupported body. Yet he drags it to the coliseum regardless, if only to yet again soothe the people with the unlit eyes and agape jaw of an imperious fool.

As always, their applause comes to the most abrupt of stops. As always, just as he’s about to leave and do something about his mounting guilt, the coliseum is gone. The rest of heaven along with it.

Again, the organ. Again, the towering cathedral. Again, the chromatic wash of red on everything from the floor to the ceiling.

He does not need to turn around to know it's there. To see which shadows compromise its boxy frame, and how each dark pane symbolizes its obvious, programmed intentions.

Is he doing something wrong? Is there a grievous error in his plan, one that’s making time loop around in frustrating circles? Are his sins too grave? His repentance too inconceivable for the universe to allow?

And if the universe isn’t at fault, is this the machine’s retribution?

Rusted metal against smooth marble: footsteps. Fast. Impatient. More efficient than they’d been last time and the time before that — exponential. Soon, Gabriel hears that click. That steadfast, deadly sound, universal across the machine’s ever-expanding arsenal.

It’s been too many times to be phased by the device pointed at him. Whatever the machine has in its grasp whirs; a rhythmic, dangerous invitation. Already, Gabriel can taste the coppery sputter on his teeth; feel his chest plate fracture inwards and stab between his ribs; hear that sweet, deafening ring that peaks alongside world-tilting ecstasy. 

He swallows hard, anything to curb the temptation. The machine stares expectantly all the same, its fluorescent iris that same drawing yellow.

He mustn't. He cannot. All fighting the machine has done has cemented him in stasis. Culprit or not, attempting the same thing and expecting any change would be insanity. 

A holier reason: indulgence is gluttony, and gluttony is a sin. Whatever that word means anymore.

The other vice indulgence brushes up against is also a sin, but it can’t be that. Not towards a machine.

“You can descend farther without contest. There’s more for you down there, machine.” he offers, displeased with having to barter Hell’s remaining population around; they are people he’s coming to realize, but the machine will not see reason lest there’s blood involved.

It stares blankly at his shoo-ing hand, unbudging in its confusion. If Gabriel had any easily definable features they’d be twisted in a scowl. “You can understand me, can’t you?”

It nods.

“Then leave. You’ve had your laugh. My defeat,” my tantalizing, thrilling defeat, “—doesn’t satisfy you, hasn’t been.”

Regardless, it does not budge.

“A whole world down there — yours for the taking! Throw that insatiable hunger at those who will reciprocate it, not me!” His hands gesture about in exasperated motions.

Still, that persistent gaze. At its apathy, Gabriel whines.

When Lust’s denizens broke at his feet, stuck between one world of pain and another world of tortuous winds — winds that for so long had felt like the gentlest breeze — did they feel this same helplessness? This sinking, crushing feeling of being trapped in a situation?

Airborne or grounded, he towers over the machine. And yet, he is still so terribly small.

What he does next is humiliating. Blasphemous. 

The machine flinches as he kneels. 

“Please,” a whisper against the plating of its legs. Then, more to himself than anything, “I need to make this right.”

His helmet rests against its midsection, impossibly smooth iron against corroded steel. Its wires vary in size and segments. Gabriel tries to hear the static and blood pumping throughout them. Wonders, sinfully, how hot both can get. Does the machine burn for him, as he does it? Can the entropy of a system equate to ecstasy? 

From this angle and despite the dim lighting, there’s a glare obscuring the machine’s optic. Not like its face is indicative of much anyway, but Gabriel wants to pretend that it’s in thought. 

Airborne or grounded, he towers over the machine. And yet he peers up at it bashfully, like he would to God.

For the first time since he’s met it, the machine chooses mercy. 

He does not realize it at first. He thinks the hand that cups his chin, then lifts him up is a sardonic gesture, a mockery to end all mockeries. Just as he objects to being gently walked to the center of the room — courted, — the machine raises a finger. 

You can decipher meaning without expression or words, he’s learned, so long as you know your subject enough. What the machine means to say is ‘just one more.’

Gabriel’s laugh is a breathy, ugly thing stuck between frustration and anticipation. They’re both in their places now, slot in position like actors in a play. Already, he can feel the unfurling of his being. The white-hot spikes of pain that blear the corners of his vision the same color. What about the machine makes temptation, something he’s resisted for eons, so alluring?

What’s one more?

Ironically, unsheathing Justice and Splendor is an act of surrender. With no lips to speak of, the machine takes a hold of his hand again and leans down. Its optic is warm, like a kiss should be. Then it steps away, the reserves of its gentleness assuredly dry. Gabriel doesn’t know what he likes more; its unthinking and brutal programming, or its occasional, endearing deviancy.

The courtesies are over, the machine takes aim. He’s been missing that muzzle.

There is blood and there is pain. There is divinity and there is parodied humanity. There is Gabriel crying out loud enough to tumble the heavens and quake the Earth. There is the machine and its searing heat sink on the precipice of eruption. There is love.

He towers over the machine, dwarfs it. Outshines it in every possible category. Has more grandeur, glory and honor than it can even begin to compute.

And yet.

The fight is won. The victor, obvious. The machine looms over his limp body, like one would a squashed but still moving bug. All Gabriel can muster are shallow breaths against the cathedral floor, life a mere bullet away.

The machine’s iris jolts from one corner of its optic to the next. It kneels over him, straddles him, a sick curiosity tied to its every move. Gabriel winces, convinced for a moment that even if its promise meant anything, it was overwritten by some vindictive line of code. When the machine puts its revolver to the side, his hacked shoulders go lax.

For a while, he and the machine are all that is. It cups his jaw again, rubs circles onto his helmet, tells him he’s so good and deserving and capable of redemption, then promises to never leave.

When it’s gone, he realizes too late. The stars and trees are back. Far away, he can hear the crackling of fire. He drags himself to it, hopefully for the last time.

u/iheartpancakes42069 on r/ULTRAKILL:

guys i swear this isn't a mod but if you play through 6-2 enough times in a row there's a cutscene??? thankfully it didn't affect my time but holy shit this game has so many easter eggs... is gabv1el canon now?? hakita?????

u/fuckmykappachunguslife_2

Definitely a mod, lol. How much did you pay Gianni for this?

u/fuckmykappachunguslife_2

Wait what the fuck

u/iheartpancakes42069

SEE??

[sparklypepper]

@hungarianmudkip69 recently asked @vaspider about the spread of HIV. The excellent discussion there focused largely on qualitative aspects, notably what was going on socially in the 1970s and 80s, HIV's subtlety and long incubation periods, and exponential growth (along with a great refutation of accidental needle sticks as a dominant vector).

I've got a math and physics background - I have some extremely relevant intuition, but I still prefer being able to find real-world numbers to confirm that I haven't misapplied it. I encourage checking out all the links in this post; there's a lot of great information!

We can't literally go back in time and test everyone for HIV, but it is possible to model and estimate, e.g. this 2021 report from the CDC (US-only).

The second graph of figure #2 is very close to what we discussed:

(MMSC is male-to-male sexual contact and IDU is injection drug use; see the article for other details.)

Again, these are estimates, so we can't take the exact numbers as fact, but let's look at the big picture. HIV likely first arrived in the US around 1970; it first gained public attention in 1981, when the CDC reported cases of what we now call AIDS. At that point, the estimate is an order of magnitude of tens of thousands of HIV infections.

The original asker was interested in the behavior of a "patient zero" (see also "Debunking the Myth of Patient Zero", an excellent video linked in that thread). These numbers help us see how little effect one hypothetical person's behavior could have had on the end result. As long as the virus was transmitted at all, it was going to reach the highest-risk populations eventually, and spread once there, whether it took one hop or ten. It was also essentially impossible to notice the pattern and infer the existence of HIV/AIDS in the US until multiple people in the same community developed AIDS and contracted unusual infections - which most likely means that it's reached that high-risk population, and ten years have passed.

Tens of thousands of infections is simply the result of exponential growth during those ten years; stopping it from becoming an epidemic would've required everyone's behavior to have changed. Different behavior, different transmission, different number of hops early on would more likely have changed how long it took to spread widely enough to become noticeable, not whether it did. (An unfortunately familiar concept, in the year 2023.)

The authors also mention that "trend data comparing subpopulations is likely to be robust for each period examined", so let's look back at those individual lines. Injection drug use (IDU) actually was a fairly significant means of transmission by the 1980s, and by the mid-80s, the spread among gay/bi men (MMSC) was beginning to decline. At the end of the decade, IDU may even have passed MMSC. Simultaneously, transmission was still rising among straight people. It shouldn't be too surprising that straight sex became significant; there are rather a lot of straight people!

The CDC also has us covered for a more current picture, as of 2017-2021 in the US:

This does vary greatly by country. Notably, as of 2022 in England, 49% of new diagnoses were among heterosexuals, compared to 45% among gay/bi men. (Do keep in mind that there are far more straight people, so still, a far higher fraction of gay/bi men were diagnosed.)

I personally find that I get the best understanding when I'm able to combine some direct evidence/data with an understanding of the history and social forces; hopefully this piece helps at least one person out in that way!

[Finally, as a footnote: trans women also exist (hi I'm one) and have historically been at high risk. I am unsure to what extent trans women are omitted versus misgendered in the above data. I wanted to focus on historical estimates over time here, and unfortunately wasn't able to find that for trans women, but this review article links to and summarizes some data from two meta-analyses.]

[preservationofnormalcy]

ITEM FILE #4911

ITEM: “Extranormal Tickle Me ████”

ITEM DESCRIPTION: This item is nearly identical to a mundane version of the toy, save for the addition of a logo and words “Ο ΚΑΛΥΤΕΡΟΣ ΓΟΝΕΑΣ,” archaic Greek for “To the Best Parent” embroidered on the left foot. Analysis of the thread used for the embroidery revealed that it is composed of pure gold with no other trace elements.

ITEM HISTORY: Recovered from the wreckage of the ██████, Kansas Kmart after the Black Friday Riots of 1996, the item is for all intents and purposes a completely mundane example of the toy. However, when placed into a retail setting for more than two days, those viewing the toy are seized with an intense, overwhelming desire to possess it, and are willing to resort to extreme measures, up to and including violence or theft, in order to claim it as their own. The feeling has been noted to be almost exponentially more intense in parents, but even childless individuals experience it, describing the feeling afterwards as a desire to take the item and resell it for an inflated price. The moment the toy is removed from a retail context, all anomalous properties seem to cease.

Similar toys seem to have been at the nexus of incidents in 1998 in █████████, Pennsylvania and 1999 in █████, Utah, where their anomalous properties caused violent fights to erupt over possession of the toy. In exit interviews with Office personnel, all the participants shared a corroborating experience of rage induced by a desire to possess the toy. ███ ██████, one of the individuals arrested after the brawl in Pennsylvania, claimed that "I don't know what came over me; it was just a toy, but, I knew that I couldn't let that [[expletive]] Cynthia have it; my daughter needed it; *I* needed it."

With the rise of online marketplaces and the decline of physical stores and so-called “fad” toys, incidences of similarly anomalous items seems to have ceased.

ADDENDUM 4911 2021: Item file 4911 was archived in 2002. In 2020 it came to the Office's attention that internet auction or marketplace websites were proliferating gaming systems (most notably the Playstation 5) engraved with the same inscription as the previous toys. All users engaged in selling these specific devices had some variation on the username "Golden_Apple". Investigation is ongoing.

[flamemittens]

TOO LATE. I SEND WITHOUT YOUR PERMISSION. FOR THE FLOWER ASK: FERN

Flower Language Prompts from here.

Pairing - Gortash x Fem!Durge. 730 words.

*Now extended and on AO3*

Fern - "In a world of magic, the greatest miracle was you."

She has always surprised him.

Is still surprising him, even after all this time, after all they have been through together. She’s been a particular triumph to discover, to puzzle out, to learn over the years—and a frustration at times too, if he’s honest.

The living weapon he met in those early months, and sought to wield himself, has long since become, in a word, more. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Hells, none of this was. Hands that were only supposed to shake once in agreement, now firmly clasped together, oftentimes sweat-slicked and longing.

She has her more chaotic, unknowable, and frankly odd moments, and he has learnt how to deal with it all. She is silk laid over a serrated blade. However, she has become a kindred spirit in so many ways he was not expecting. A hand-crafted match.

Tonight, she’s here in his chambers once more, perched on one of his knees as she thumbs through a sketchbook on his desk. She had declined his offer of a proper chair when she arrived earlier via the terrace windows as per her custom—for once blessedly clean of the aftermath of her calling—instead opting to sit herself down on him and simply respond- ‘This will do’.

“Very well, you infuriating woman” was his retort, slipping a hand round her hip to steady her. “Here. I have something for you to look at.”

And now, he sips at his whisky as he watches her study the schematics. He offers her no hints, but it does not take long for her to discover the amendment. Her face lights up when she sees it, tapping the page with an elegant index finger. “I see you have solved your potential problem with the exponentially high-power requirement at high velocity. This low friction spherical joint design should take care of that.”

He never doubted her. Still, every time, the feeling of being understood, even appreciated, touches him in a way he does not know how to parse. He’s not even sure he wants to.

“And the fusion of biological ideals with that of the mechanical? This is…this is brilliant, Enver.”

He feels almost foolish at how easily the praise stokes the warmth in his chest nursed by the alcohol. His hand reflexively grips her hip a little tighter, as the other swirls the amber liquid in its glass. An idle thought floats to him—he recalls how she had once told him how much she liked the scent of the whisky on his breath. The taste of it on his tongue.

“Yes” is all he offers.

She stops and considers him for a moment, head canted to the side as if somehow the angle will make things clearer.

“You are in a strange mood tonight. You are quiet. Laconic. What ails you?” she tuts, placing her hand on his forehead in a parody of concern for his temperature.

She then shifts closer, and cards her fingers through his hair, nails lightly raking his scalp. It’s soft, too soft for them. He should stand up, take his leave—but he doesn’t. Instead, he thinks about all the things he wants to say to her; the words sit dangerously, blasphemously, close to the tip of his tongue amongst the whisky. He swallows it all down.

“As you wish” she says after a spell, lips curling upwards in a fleeting smirk. He catches it, as he always does. “Keep your secrets, Lord Gortash.”

She does not push him. She knows not to, for the most part.

Suddenly she sighs, closes the book, and stands up; he briefly mourns the loss of the warmth, and wonders if she will insist on making her departure now. He would not blame her. He is poor company tonight. He opens his mouth to try asking her to stay, but before his brain can supply the words, she turns and settles in his lap, straddling him, hands smoothing down his shirt collar—she’s a familiar, comforting weight even as her orange-gold eyes assess him further. A lesser man would wilt under such scrutiny. But not him. A lesser man—and the world is full of damnably lesser men—would not be able to know her, to value her, to match her—nor be able to coax one final climax from her when she thinks she has given her all. Only he can.

To that end, he reaches up and brushes a lock of hair behind her ear. It’s easier to fall into their usual routine—offering a suggestion, an invitation.

“It’s late. Shall we retire, my dear?”

[aconflagrationofmyown]

Ten Minutes -

A Sarge and lil Mama fic

Summary: Elvis just might get jealous of his children, the stove, the ironing board and anything else that has your attention one hectic morning before he has to go to the Army Base

Warnings: 18+- Pregnant sex, housewife kink, cum dumping, tiny bit of 60’s style degradation, people knowing you’re going back in the house for this?! free use if you squint, dry humping a frozen pea package

Pairings: Army Elvis x wife!reader

Universe: Sarge & lil Mama

Circa 1958

“Lil darlin’, I-I’m sorry but I -not even your pancakes are distraction’ me this mornin.”

You paused, baby spoon of apple sauce half lifted to Ella’s tiny mouth and a wad of sausage stuck in your own cheek, to meet your husband’s glassy eyes. You were startled, not by what he said, but by the fact that since you had last glanced at him he had morphed, his face was now flushed, lips slack and eyes swimming -he looked so close to finishing just sitting here squirming at breakfast that you feel a tingle of shock rip through you at the sight.

Some mornings are nice and intimate, some mornings are rushed but satisfying, few morning are luxurious due to his need to be at the base early, but occasionally there are mornings like this one -where the babies didn’t sleep for you during the night, he didn’t sleep well either and every second of your waking hours this dawn is spent getting him ready for the day and preparing for the horde of relations and fans bound to flood in as soon as he returns this evening. It’s not ideal and you weren’t unaware of his longing looks but after his initial declining of your offer to have you while you changed the babies’ nappies -well, you had assumed he was too tired to want it that much.

But Elvis Presley, for all his raw need and traditional entitlement to your “yittle cunt” was a caring young man, he saw you worked off your feet and the way you were breastfeeding a baby while flipping pancakes and he knew that it was a bad time, all morning it had been a bad time. And he really tried to tell himself he could go one single morning without release. He had broken a pill addiction, he’d sweated it out and gone manic in the nights and still showed up for duty, surely, surely he could leave for once without being buried inside you.

But watching you capably swivel around your duties, swollen belly lush beneath your apron and pair of heels on, breast hanging out of your dress as his clueless child got to suck on those gorgeous nipples of yours, minutes ticking by and his ride to base about to arrive…he had gripped his fork harder and tried not to let it bother him that you seemed fine about being left empty for the morning. He had told you he’d be fine, he ought to have been fine.

But the babies were getting your attention, the stove was getting your attention, hell!- his ironed slacks got your attention but he was left to scarf down pancakes without so much much as a momentary brush of contact. Lack of sleep was making him testy, then testy turned nearly weepy as his deadline drew near.

You looked so soft and nurturing in your little domain that the once small interest his cock took in the proceedings had grown exponentially, watching you lean over the table with your generous bust displayed as you poured him orange juice and flashed him sleepy smiles, asking him about what he had planned for the day -as if he wasn’t struck mute and pussy dumb.

Now the zipper of his slacks was scraping the skin of his retracting

foreskin and he’d take a million sermons from you about the importance of wearing briefs if you would just, -touch him somehow. So he broke, broke down and admitted he couldn’t distract himself enough to prevent him waddling out of here with a flag poll between his legs. So you stared back at him in confusion, trying to decipher his meaning in the half minute allotted you before-

-Just then the sound of a car horn blared outside, his signal to leave, making you both jolt and the friction of it made him whimper, his first thudding against the table causing the babies’ eyes to widen at the sound.

Your eyes scanned from his own glassy ones down beneath the table, to the sizable tent in his khaki pants and you let out a gasp at the way Little Elvis was visibly twitching in fruitless need against his fly, a tiny dark spot forming on the light fabric from his weeping cockhead.

“Oh daddy, you shoulda told me.” you whimpered in sympathy, eyes locking with his burning one’s, apple sauce sliding off the forgotten spoon and down to the table with a splat. “I-it’s time to go, you’ll be late…”

Elvis may be the man of the house, he may have seen to your every want and provision, he may have chosen your haircut and your exercise regimen, but you were commander in chief of mobilizing the troops. If it were not for your punctuality and stern discipline in this regard, the Presley’s would never arrive anywhere within the range of punctuality. He depended on you for this firmness and it was the first true taste of power he gave you in your admittedly imbalanced relationship.

“Oh lord, we gotta get you calmed down!” you wring your hands and his eyes grew wide at your denial of his need and before he could protest, you hopped up from your seat and booked it to the freezer. Pulling out a pack of frozen peas you came back to your astounded man and placed them in his lap, kissing away the hissing cry he let out as the frigid pack landed home on his crotch.

“I’m gonna go out and tell the Major you’ll be in the drive shortly, I’ll buy you time till that little problem calms down, alright?” you were very earnest and grown up right now, kissing his sweaty forehead while holding his chin in your hand and it sunk in for him at that moment that you still craved an escape.

Abashed by the incredulous and almost angry set of his features, you glanced down to his problem and noticed how both his legs bounced beneath his clenched fists, no doubt trying to distract himself but only succeeding at bouncing the veggies against him, adding to the friction.

“Honey,” he said very low and slow, as if trying to impress a fact of life upon, “this ain’t a boo-boo, it ain’t gonna go away like that-“

“I can’t let you be late!” you wailed and his eyes started towards the babies in concern for their witnessing you raise your voice.

“I am not going out there like this-“ he swore, to himself or to you or to the army you didn’t know, but he looked near ready to cry himself, frantic red splashed across his cheeks and throat swallowing thickly.

“I know, I know,” you soothed, glancing towards the door as a more insistent set of blaring came from outside, “just, just try to think about cleaning latrines or diapers or something, Elvis, please! Please, we can’t have you being court martialed over this.”

“It’d be worth it!” he snarls, and you back away from him on instinct, slowly shuffling backwards towards the door to make that obnoxious horn shush, innocent eyes watching as something vicious takes over your husband’s face at your abandonment. As you put a clammy hand on the door handle, signifying your intentions, his lip curls up in cruel derision and you watch horrified as his lithe body undulates off the seat, hips spearing upwards in a calculated pump, the crinkly bag of peas clasped to his crotch. It was obscene and inflammatory and he leers at you cruelly as you fling the front door open, nearly suffocated by the weight of his glare.

“What about the babies?” he hollers after you as you step over the threshold into the early morning sunshine, suddenly outraged and switching tactics at you abandoning your family to stop his commanding officer from walking in on him putting on an unseemly display with a bag of vegetables. -Like you were the villain here.

“They’re strapped into the high chairs, they’ll be fine!” you assure him, trying to keep your voice unaffected by lust and pausing halfway out the door to look back at him, still glowering from his seat at the kitchen table, legs spread wide in the chair, eyes fiery and dark and the front of his pants wet from thawed frost.

Married though you were, your patience taxed though it often was, petulant though he could be, nothing could cloud your appreciation for that sight and the sheer eroticism that glowed from your man when he was revved up. It shimmered around him like an aura of desire and seemed to make his surroundings shrink and tremble from his ravenous energy. You spun away from his hypotonic stare and the suffocating closeness of your little home, shutting the door to block it out before your knees buckled and he got his way.

You swish your way down the short drive to the gate and buzzed it open, allowing the Major and his car to roll on in, a greeting on his tongue and an inquiry as to where his recalcitrant sergeant was.

“He’s coming right out!” you state confidently as he braked near the door, “I’m afraid baby Jesse dumped a bottle in his lap right as you pulled up.” and you laughed gaily as if at a funny memory, and that made the Major laugh too, because you were a pretty woman laughing and it was the polite thing to do.

More polite than unabashedly admiring the way your breasts jiggled from your mirth or how your cheeks seemed flushed and warm, like maybe you’d just been made love to, or embarrassed within an inch of your life. Elvis Presley was a lucky sod and the Major may have envied his younger subordinate but he didn’t dare try anything more than polite chit chat a good four feet apart from you.

It takes all your self possession not to scuff your shoes in a nervous tick as the moments go by and Elvis doesn’t show, his Major eyeing you up and making the most insane small talk all the while, his eyes drifting to the front door.

“Maybe I should go check on him.” you mutter, voice tight in embarrassment and full of nervousness as to what you would find in your kitchen

The Major nods encouragingly and you scamper up the walk and into your house. You haven’t much time to shut the door behind you before you register Elvis’ still sat in his seat and chewing a pancake, it gives you a swooping feeling that whatever is about to occur will be a first in your relationship. You lean back against the door in a slump and take in his cool and powerful demeanor, army jacket still slung over the chairback and tie not fully cinched, and you know for a certainty that somehow you’ve overstepped.

“You scared of me?” he asks, voice low like a rumble and it contrasts with his soft face, such a large voice for so gentle a man. But there is no anger in it, just a demand for truth.

You ponder his question, realising that there were times that you felt anxious around him, a symptom of learning him still while he had studied you for years. But, “No, sir!”, you did not fear him. There was no doubt in your mind that he would never harm you.

“Alright.” he nods, face schooled into neutral pensiveness, “Then dontchu ever run from me again, lil girl. My woman doesn't run from me, am I understood?” he didn’t need to raise his voice to make you, and plenty braver men than you, shudder and nod obediently. “Here’s how this is gonna go,” he eyes the way you clutch your skirt hem in your hands, balling it up nervously and exposing your knees while at it, “you’re gonna go out there and tell the Major I’ll be driving myself. And he’s not to object, you’re to convince him, and then you’re gonna come back inside where you belong and take care of my ‘lil problem’. Ya hearin’ me, mama?”

“I hear ya, daddy.” you whisper, knees knocking briefly just from anticipation and he doesn't fail to notice it, palms the thawed pack over himself while giving you the first genuine grin you’ve seen all morning.

“Go’on now.” he points to the door like you’re a puppy and swallowing thickly around a numb tongue you do as you’re told, you go out again and tell the Major that your husband has suddenly grown an affinity for taking a cab through the German streets to base. That he’ll make up the ten minutes that may put him behind. You offer no excuse, there’s none to give, your flaming face probably says it all. You distract yourself from his scrutiny by the sight of that old busybody neighbor watching your interaction through her binoculars. The Major is concerned that he’s done something to offend and the moments tick by and you grow more and more weary standing in the drive dumbly shrugging off his questions as you feel the babies kicking inside you and your own slick starting to slide down you leg, your well trained kitty already preparing for your husband the second he said he was gonna have you.

The front door swings open causing you both surprise and a very smiley and smarmy Elvis comes to provide reinforcements, just in his pants and shirt, good mornin’ing the Major as you watch his body buzz imperceptibly.

“Where’s the other parts of your uniform, Sergeant Presley?” the Major asks him with amused patience.

“My cover is in the dryer, sir, just ten minutes’all it’ll need.”

“You put a hat in the dryer?”

“Yessir.” he grins whitely, loping his arm around your waist and tugging you closer to him, hand splayed on your lower belly and it’s like he might as well be fingering you, your pussy contracts and jolts so strongly at his touch. “Baby Ella spilled her juice on it.” and he makes a little motion of benevolent exasperation as if to say: babies, who can tame ‘em?

“Mrs. Presley said it was your pants.” the Major wasn’t a stupid man and he liked Elvis well enough to make life a little hard for him.

“Did she now?” your husband exclaimed, “Aww well, no, no uh, it was the hat, alright, she gets a lil fuzzy headed sometimes sir, don’t ya, sweetheart?.”

“Yes Elvis.” you felt like you were spiraling somewhere high in the deep blue yonder with the feel of him pressed against you and his fingertips rubbing suggestive circles on your hipbone.

“Sergeant Presley.” the Major is grave.

“Yessir?”

“Hats are meant to get wet.”

Elvis shuffles behind you a little as he adjusts his grip on your waist and you are certain it is to hide the front of pants. “Yessir, course sir, but, but it’s also ma jacket, sir.”

“Oh no, your jacket!” the Major's face gleams with sympathy, “No soldier should ever have to wear a wet jacket. General Paton said so himself once.”

There is a pause and a eyeing up between the two men over your little head, Elvis now entirely behind you and his chin digging into the top of your scalp as he rests it on your head. You train your eyes at the upstairs window of your neighbors house and the watching figure in it.

“How long will this jacket take to dry?” the Major broke first.

“Fifteen minutes, sir, checked the dial right before I came out.”

“Sure you did.” the Major smiled, “Which means with all this chit chat there’ll only be about five left, am I correct?”

“Ten, sir.”

“Eight.”

Elvis shifts behind you again, “Wearin’ a damp jacket is poor recompense for a fella who bought ya an extra pair of fatigues last month-“ your husband never brought up his own generosity and so to do so suggested he was in dire straits.

“Alright, alright, ten minutes!” the Major throws his hands up and jerks open the car door, seating himself inside, “I’ll be waiting” he adds pointedly as your husband barely manages a salute before shuffling you in front of him back to the door posthaste, hands full of your belly and breast.

“Wave to Mrs. Meyer, lil’, don’t forget your manners, I’ve got my hands full.” Elvis giggles behind you and you wave to her and her binoculars while sticking your tongue out just as he pushes you back over the threshold.

The door clicks behind you both and he sighs at having ten minutes alone with the exaggerated curve of your spine and the feel of your lush bum against his cock -while you survey the mess of apple sauce and sweet potatoes the babies have flung at each other while in your absence, it’s on the walls and maybe the carpet and you’ll have to scrub it before anyone comes over and -and you’re being spun and backed against the entryway wall before you can take another step. He towers over you, hands engulfing your shoulders and thumbs meeting at the base of your throat, and the natural respect he elicits as your husband is magnified by the uniform. The causal dominance that pervades his every action is unbearably strong and you both feel the shudder that rips through you, a slight smirk taking over his face at the effect he has on his little wife.

“Now, we got nine and a half minutes, lil mama,” he nuzzles his nose against yours and his thumbs rub up the column of your throat, “and you best not waste it by making your daddy extract an apology from ya. You better give it willin’ and quick.”

“What’d I do?” you whimper, confused and needy, spreading your legs to accommodate him as he crowds you, trying to trap a meaty thigh between them so you can grind.

“You called poor, achey lil Elvis a problem.” he reminds you, pulling away from you and denying you friction as he undoes the plain army belt from around his elegant waist.

Tears prick your eyes as you realize your good intentions were mistaken for reluctance and you’re quick to gasp out, “I’m so sorry daddy, I didn’t mean it that way, just trying to help!”

He hums as he pulls out his cock, the engorged and vibrant length of it looking particularly lewd sticking out of his drab and pressed uniform, “Don’t need to apologize to daddy, lil mama, I knows what you intended and I appreciate ya,” he murmurs real solem and you wait intently for instructions on how to make this right, “But lil Elvis here needs a kiss for bein’ treated like a damn owie when all he’s ever done to you is fill ya up and rub ya real nice. He gets reeealll weepy and small when you’re mean to him.”

You bend so fast to penitently kiss the goey head of his uncut cock that he has to stumble back a bit to give you room. He cries out as your lips smooch his dripping head and he winds his hand in your hair and yanks you off desperately, pressing you to the wall again and devouring your tacky lips with his own. He pulls away from you panting and wild, looking very boyish again now he’s convinced of your own fever, and without a second thought he grips the front of your dress and rips the fastened placket open, buttons flying everywhere. He groans down at the sight of you in heels with your pantyless cunt exposed, a sign of your obedience to his house rules.

“Turn round now,” his voice is gentle but gone beyond rough as he maneuvers you to lean and face the wall, hands splayed against the dry wall and back arched by instinct, “we ain’t got much time, and while it would serve ya right if I left you clenchin’ round nothin I can’t ever be cruel to the likes of you Mrs Presley, so you best be ready for me.”

“Please, daddy, I’m ready.” you lay your burning cheek against the cool drywall, feeling him flip up the scrap of skirt still left, and you watch out of the corner of your eye as the babies knock the remaining food off their trays.

“Spread those pretty legs, mama.” the toe of his show nudges your instep and you arch and spread further, readying for the burning plunge of his entry.

What you get instead is a resoundingly loud spank against the sopping wet oasis between your legs and it hits just right, pain and pleasure enough for you to shudder and gush through your folds and down your legs to his immense delight.

“Now that’s for being a hypocrite.” he crows and he is suddenly prying something between your stiff fingers and the wall, you realise in a daze it’s his watch. “You count the minutes out to me, alright?” he commands, splaying the hand wet from your cunt across your belly as he does indeed push inside you this time, and it makes you spasm, barely able to hold yourself upright from the feel of him pushing through the fluttering aftershocks of your petite orgasm. The squelch is deafening in the quiet house and it’s all the assurance he needed, his tone cocky as he bottoms out,

“Actin’ like I’m a damn imposition when you’ve got a ‘lil problem’ yourself. And I do mean little, this tiny pussy is a greedy little menace, make no mistake.” he sets a hard and deep pace that is meant to make him burst in under eight minutes, and you take it like he’s taught you to, with deep breaths and moans and a constant irrepressible clenching of your vaginal walls, “Hell, baby, you’re gushin’ so bad I can hardly stay in, why, the Major was liable to smell ya you’re so oiled.”

“I-I-I wanted you!” you wail in protest through the rough smacking of his hips against your butt, “I really did. I-I always do, I-I just d-didn’t want it to reflect badly on you.”

“I know, I know, real sweet of ya.,” he coos in your ear, hot breath tickling your neck as he grunts and huffs from exertion, “But peas baby? Really?”

“I didn’t know-“

“You’d don’t know much of nothin’ but how to take cock.” he chuckles at your answering whine, his large hands wandering ceaselessly over your wobbling curves.

Your legs start to give out from the overstimulation, having hit your peak too soon and now being subjected to a merciless battering of your sweet spot, you mewl out the passing minutes and claw at the wall. Your obvious desperation sends a thrill through him, egging him on through his burning thighs to give you all he’s got before the clock runs out.

“Little problem” he mimics your own voice mockingly in your ear, but it’s huffy as he’s getting worn down too, “little problem. A-a-anything about t-t-this feel little, sweetheart?” he jams himself in deep as you howl, bent at the waist and scratching the paint, head hung between your shoulders as you try to endure the horrifyingly delicious ordeal.

“Elvis, Elvis, Elvis,” you chant, eyes going fuzzy as you stare down at your shoes.

“Almost, honey, almost,” he whines himself, arm coming around your chest and hauling you upright against him, like his own little doll as he mouths at your cheek and ruts up inside you desperately. “Bein’ so good, so good for me, good lil wife like always. Don’t make ‘em like you no more, I got a keeper and, oh Lord Jesus help me I can’t breath, goddamn baby, I -uh, uh uh, huh, uh,”

You throw your arm back and grip his ass, pulling him deep and the drag of him makes you jolt, “C’mon daddy, show me I did good, give me that cream, gonna be raw without it.”

He sounds like he’s choking, burning hand squeezing your bare breast so hard a little milk dribbles out over his knuckles and he bucks up into you deep, so deep and it’s the most blissful feeling being the cause of this complete loss of control on his part as you feel the soothing splatter of his cum paint your walls.

He staggers back into the opposite wall with you still limply impaled, your heels scuffing the floor, and you both pant, his cheek smushed against yours and his hands cradling your full belly. “How’s that now?” he wheezes and you grin at his need to keep the upper hand after the pathetic amount of mewling he just let out, “You all full’n happy now, hmm?”

You nod shyly and take a hand from your belly and guide him down to your dripping foldings and you both hum at the heat coming from the poor abused petals. “Swirl it around daddy,” you remind him, “I’ll get all bruised if you don’t spread it around, ‘member what you taught me?”

“Mhmm, yeah, gotta spread it round, that’s right.” he swirls his exiting spend around your puffy cunt and he gives your little bud one last pat with his broad palm before pulling his cock out fully and picking your boneless body up in his arms.

He lays you on the couch tenderly, eyeing the torn dress falling off your ripe figure, and his heart swells at your sweet acceptance of him, the way you look content and knowing lying there wrecked and oozing. A building little cry from the high chairs snaps him out of his daze, reminding him of the ticking clock and the rest of the world outside of your warm eyes. He bends down and kisses you firmly, a quick but unmistakable show of thanks.

“I’ll get her.” you tell him, making to haul your jellied self off the couch.

“No, no stay, I’ll bring ‘em to ya.” he pushes your shoulder back down softly, trying to wrestle his pant fly closed as he makes his way towards the babies.

“There’s an extra pair of pressed trousers hanging in the laundry room.” you murmur through your tingly haze at the sight of his drenched slacks.

He gives you a grin of his own and shucks off the ruined pants halfway across the kitchen, hobbling with them to the adjoining laundry room, warbling to Ella which predictably makes her hush her crying for a brief moment to watch him pass in infantile astonishment.

“How’m I doin’ mama?” you hear him holler over the sound of the kitchen faucet running, he having stripped the babies of their sweet potato covered onesies and chosen to carry them at arms length to the sink, one by one, and hosing them off there.

“Thirty four seconds, Sarge.”

He appears over the back of the couch, a wet and naked baby in each elbow crook, his shirt sticking to his chest from their dampness, and you laugh at the hopelessness of the Major believing any of your excuses. “Here’s the lil critters.” he plops them on your exposed chest and you clutch them to you as they start to root around for a nipple, never satisfied.

He tugs on his jacket and cinches his tie, smoothing his hair back, hat clutched in his hand and he looks so very presentable striding over to you while you’re here in disarray, covered in children, cum and fabric scraps.

He pauses beside the couch to survey the pile of humans he loves, “Never seen’a prettier sight in all my life.” he whispers earnestly and you know he means it, all teasing gone.

You stretch your hand out to give him his watch back and his fingers linger over yours as he takes, and it thrills you like it’s the first time. “See ya later, soldier.” you whisper against his lips as a car horn blares outside.

[covid-safer-hotties]

Also preserved in our archive

Defund the police blamed for post-covid cognitive decline, apparently lmao. Since when has a citation ever stopped a traffic accident? This is like blaming 2020 "lockdowns" on children still suffering learning losses (e.g. "Not having an exponential increase in test scores for the 20th year in a row) in 2024.

By TJ Martinell

The number of annual traffic fatalities in Washington state has jumped from 528 in 2019 to 810 in 2023, a 51% increase since 2019, according to the Washington Traffic Safety Commission.

The reasons given for the increase vary, ranging from fallout among law enforcement staffing via the defund the police movement in 2020 to increased substance abuse amongst drivers.

Both the WTSC and the Washington State Patrol last year made public statements about the rise in traffic fatalities that made 2023 the deadliest since 1990. At the time of the statements in August 2023, there were 417 traffic fatalities, a little more than half of the annual total.

While deaths by police pursuit in the past have hogged the political spotlight despite being statistically insignificant in comparison, commission staff have described the state’s traffic fatalities as a “safety crisis.”

WTSC Director Shelly Baldwin noted at the WTSC’s Thursday meeting that “our increase is kind of across the board,” but also “Washington is … kind of really an outlier by itself” among the states.

“Motorcycles [fatalities] has reached a high that they've never seen before historically,” she said.

Speculation as to why traffic fatalities increased varied. Mason County District Court Judge George Steele, who represents the District and Municipal Court Judges' Association on the commission, told colleagues that “a lot of pressure on policing started in 2020. Police departments had trouble filling their ranks. In my county … there was a period of time almost every DUI case that came across my bench was responding to an accident. Driver went off the road. sometimes joke with people if we just get rid of ditches, we wouldn't have any more problems. Ditches seem to be catching a lot of drunk drivers.” He added that “there's not enough people out there. I think it's pretty clear that enforcement has suffered during all this time. Lack of people are available to take the jobs, fill the, fill the ranks of what had to and, as a result, in case they're not being enforced, you're going to get more of the behavior. If you don't look at that part of it, you're not to be having a whole lot of success and making inroads into that problem.” WSTC Distracted Driving Program Manager Janine Koffel remarked that “I think a fundamental challenge that we face with speed management is the lack of perception of risk by drivers, perception of risk that they're going to get a ticket. If they're going to get stopped for speeding and that they'll get a ticket, they have a low perception of risk for serious injury or fatal crashes.” She said a statewide survey they conducted found that 78% of drivers admitted driving at 10 miles per hour or more over speed limits within a month’s time. “We need to work cooperatively to determine strategies and messaging that…really pivot the perception of risk in relation to speed risk,” she said. “That's where enforcement plays a critical role. We need citations for everyone, soccer moms, and all.” Another fallout from 2020 has been increased use of substances such as alcohol or cannabis by drivers, according to WTSC External Relations Director Mark McKechnie. At the same time, he said there are a lot of drivers who are able to get a license without going through a driving education course. “If they haven't had that basic education as their foundation on what the rules of the road are and how to drive safely and how to understand those risks from speeding and other behaviors, then it's hard to remind them of something that they may not have learned well in the first place,” he said. He added that “we need more sidewalks and protected bike lanes and we need infrastructure that encourages people to slow down.”

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

Published: Mar 30, 2023

For over a decade, the Gender Affirmative Model has been the standard of care for gender dysphoric youth across the West. Yet, despite its widespread and long-standing use, good evidence to support it remains elusive.  Maybe that’s because there isn’t any.

A new paper reports on results from a survey of 1,655 parents of children who developed gender dysphoria during adolescence or soon after. American Academy of Pediatrics guidelines recommend affirming these kids in their new gender, and supporting them along the path to social, medical (hormonal), and surgical transition.

The results of this survey provide strong support for Dr. Littman’s Rapid-Onset Gender Dysphoria (ROGD) hypothesis, which suggests that gender dysphoria in this group may resolve with time and good psychological and social support, if needed.

Key Findings

Key findings of particular concern are that these children tend to have emotional problems that predate their gender-related issues by nearly four years. Furthermore, children with mental health issues were more likely than those without to have taken steps to transition.  Children who were referred to a gender specialist were also more likely to have taken steps to transition. Parents reported feeling pressured by these specialists to transition their child. And parents reported a decline in their child’s mental health and social functioning after transition.

History of Gender Dysphoria and Standards of Care

About 15 years ago, Western countries began experiencing an exponential rise in adolescents and young adults suddenly developing gender dysphoria and being referred to gender clinics for treatment. Around the same time, a new philosophy on transgenderism began to take root:  Just as there is nothing wrong with being attracted to the same sex, there was nothing wrong with identifying with a gender that did not match your biological sex.  In other words, being transgender is perfectly normal. It is not a mental illness.  If a trans person does have any mental health issues, it can be attributed to the extreme distress of having to live in a body that does not feel right (gender dysphoria), and the stress of living in a judgmental, transphobic world.

Out of this philosophy grew the Affirmative Care Model. This model focused on reassuring (affirming) people that their gender identity was real, normal and natural, and helping them take steps to relieve their gender dysphoria through social, medical (hormonal) and surgical transition. In order to address their social distress from lack of acceptance, much effort is devoted to creating a supportive environment among friends, family, schools and society in general.

Although there was almost no evidence to support it at the time, the Affirmative Care Model quickly became the standard of care in most Western countries.

In 2016, Dr. Littman noticed an anomalous spike in teenage girls suddenly declaring themselves transgender and became concerned.  She conducted a survey of their parents to learn more about this new phenomenon.  Based on what she found, she proposed that a new sub-category of gender dysphoria had emerged, this one sharing more similarities with anorexia and other eating disorders than with the previously recognized types of gender dysphoria.  Dr. Littman described Rapid Onset Gender Dysphoria (ROGD) in her seminal paper published in 2018.

ROGD develops suddenly, during or after puberty in a person who would not have met the criteria for childhood gender dysphoria. Most often, these kids are white, highly intelligent and come from well-educated families. ROGD affects mainly girls, and groups of friends often come out as trans together. The influence of social media is believed to play a role. They often have a prior history of mental health issues, developmental difficulties or have experienced a traumatic or stressful event before developing gender dysphoria. A prior history of self-harm and difficulty fitting in with their peers are also common. Sadly, transitioning is not likely to help these kids with their issues as it does not address the root cause.  In fact, it has a good chance of making things much worse.

The ROGD hypothesis suggests that for these unhappy kids, “gender dysphoria” is a catch-all phrase for any kind of distress, and transition is the cure-all solution

Since the publication of Littman’s paper, the ROGD hypothesis has come under fire from proponents of the affirmative care model.  It’s easy to see why:  The affirmative care model is based on the premise that being transgender is perfectly normal. The ROGD model suggests that this particular kind of gender dysphoria – and the desire to transition – is most definitely not normal. It’s a maladaptive coping mechanism.

Unfortunately, there is little evidence to support either hypothesis.

The World Professional Association for Transgender Health’s newest Standards of Care, published in Oct. 2022 admits, “A key challenge in adolescent transgender care is the quality of evidence evaluating the effectiveness of… gender-affirming medical and surgical treatments.” “The number of studies is still low and there are few outcome studies that follow youth into adulthood.”

Testing the ROGD hypothesis presents its own challenges.  In North America, gender clinics are still using the affirmative model as a standard of care, which views taking steps to transition as medically necessary and thus, would be unwilling to test the ROGD model. Further, ROGD has become such a contentious topic at universities that any academic who broaches the subject risks career suicide. Just ask Dr. Littman and Dr. James Caspian.

Survey Results

Concurring with Dr. Littman’s findings, our survey indicates children who are most likely to develop ROGD are of European descent (78.9%), with above-average intelligence. They are also more likely to be female (75%). Their gender dysphoria develops around the age of 14 for girls, and 16 for boys. This may be partly due to the fact that boys go through puberty later than girls.

Their parents are more likely to be progressive and hold positive views towards LGBTQ+ rights.  Frequently, parents went out of their way to make sure the reader understood this when they told their stories. Many had family and friends in the LGBTQ+ community, and some were members themselves. They just didn’t feel it made sense in their child’s case.

A majority of these kids were dealing with mental health issues (57%) that began around the age of 10, well before they developed gender dysphoria, and 42% of them had received a formal psychological diagnosis.  The most frequently-reported issues were anxiety and depression. Self-harm was also prevalent in girls. Attention deficit disorder, autism, and obsessive-compulsive disorder were reported in numbers higher than the general population.

Very often, these kids had experienced a stressful event before they developed gender dysphoria (72.6%). Some described issues that would be overwhelming even for an adult to deal with, such as the suicide of a close relative, receiving a serious medical diagnosis such as cancer, being sexually assaulted, or being present at a mass shooting. Sometimes, the stress was more mundane, like moving, breaking up with a girl- or boyfriend, or having a good friend turn on them, but the child was having a hard time dealing with it. During the lock downs due to COVID, the strain of isolation was especially hard on these kids.

Parents also reported that their kids were having a lot of trouble fitting in with their peers at an age when being accepted feels like the most important thing in the world. Only about a quarter of parents reported that their child was well liked, and only one third said their kids got along well with other kids.

Parents reported their kids spent an average of 4.5 hours per day on the internet and social media.

When asked whether their child had friends who came out at the same time, 60.9% said their daughters did, compared with only 38.7% of their sons.  The average number of friends who came out were 2.4.

“My daughter used to be so lonely her only friend was her guinea pig. At 11, a girl at school befriended her as did her group of friends. All of a sudden, my daughter said she was bi, then gay, then pan, then poly, then fluid, now trans. Her mental health is deteriorating and the psychiatrists (this is her 6th) seem to push their own agenda and label me transphobic. I KNOW my daughter. When no social group will welcome you and one finally does, you’ll conform to fit in, to not lose the only ‘friends’ you have.”

~Parent of an ROGD Kid

Transition

The majority of the children had socially transitioned at the time parents completed the survey (65.3%), and girls tended to socially transition earlier (age 15) than boys (age 17). In general, parents reported that their children had not started taking puberty blockers or hormones, and surgery was especially rare.

Girls who had friends who socially transitioned were more likely to do so themselves (73.3%), compared with only 39.5% of boys who were more likely to transition if they had a friend who did so.

One very concerning finding was that children with preexisting mental health issues were also more likely to socially transition than those without. This is worrisome, because children with emotional issues may lack the judgment needed to make serious, and sometimes irreversible, decisions about their bodies.

Another troubling finding was that children who received a referral to a gender specialist were more likely to have transitioned. This is especially concerning because 51% of parents who took their kids to a gender specialist also reported that they felt pressured to transition their child.

Effects of Transition on Mental Health and Social Functioning

When asked about the state of their child’s mental health after social transition, they were much more likely to say it had worsened than improved.

Sadly, the change in the quality of the parental relationships also declined, as shown in the table below:

Conclusion

The results of the largest survey to date on gender dysphoric adolescents support Dr. Littman’s ROGD hypothesis. These youth are most likely using “gender dysphoria” to describe general feelings of dysphoria that they have no other name for, and do not understand.  Transitioning will not help them. It can only cause irreversible harm and make things much worse.

Sweden, Norway, Finland, the UK and some States are backing away from the gender affirmative model, citing the lack of evidence and amid the growing number of detransitioners, many of whom are launching lawsuits against the gender specialists who harmed them. (See Ritchie Herron and Keira Bell, Michelle Zacchigna and Chloe Cole.)

Yet here in North America, the United States and Canadian Governments, the American Academy of Pediatrics and most other medical associations, are doubling down on the gender affirmative model.

If they truly want to “do no harm”, then they must follow Sweden’s lead and stop transitioning minors.

==

This should be good news. We have good reason to believe that distress can be resolved by treating the underlying cause, rather than through invasive and irreversible hormones, drugs and surgeries. How can this be a bad thing?

Because it's not about helping distress; if it was, they'd applaud the best treatment that causes the least harm. But it's about using anxious kids as pawns to remake society according to Queer Theory.

[raptorfae53]

Ãrohwan Trapinch, Vibrava and Flygon. (Bug - Dragon)

Far removed from its mainland relatives desert origins, this pokemon line is adapted for a life in the trees, sporting an extra set of arms,clever nimble claws and long prehensile tail,with their wings vestigial and osteoderm-like, rendering these pokemon flightless.

These pokemon sport voracious appetites and have made themselves an enemy of farmers since humans first arrived in Ãrohwa by devouring all manner of crops. With the advancement of technology in the aftermath of the great cataclysm however these pokemon have grown wary, with their numbers declining rapidly as a result of their former victims ire to the point they have been considered extinct a few times in the last century. (Every time a search is put out a few are found,with one particularly sparse search ending after a flygon,relaxing on a particularly brittle branch,fell out of a tree and onto a passing conservationist)

To those with the luck (or lack thereof) to be training an Ãrohwan Flygon, this food based motivation is everything to training one of these pokemon. Like many dragon types training can be long and drawn out, not helped by the self centered attitude most Ãrohwan Flygon have. Having experience with strong pokemon and having said strong pokemon on hand as well as instilling a rewards system for a job well done are known to work exponentially in training this evolutionary line, and if trained well can result in a strong battler and companion,just make sure you keep snacks on hand!

Design inspiration down below:

Flygon is a personal favourite pokemon of mine and it seems the eternal middle child of the 2000s pokemon games dragons. No fancy mega evolution/temporal variant like fellow hoennite (hoennese?) Dragons salamence and altaria and the misfortune of being the same type as garchomp with lesser stats,hence folks gravitating towards it or the plethora of other hoenn or sinnoh dragons (including a trio of actual gods) over it, so I felt it fair to throw the poor guy a bone as well as finally bestow upon it a regional variant with the bug typing people have been confused it didn't have since 2002 (something something antlions).

The main reasoning for said typing is one of its primary inspirations, the coconut rhinoceros beetle.

Native to mainland Asia but introduced to much of the Pacific including Samoa and Tonga where parts of Ãrohwa are based upon. This beetle has been a scourge of these islands crop plantations since it arrived, munching through palm plantations with reckless abandon, free from predators such as shrews and click beetles since the beginning of the 20th century, a voracious creature befitting a dragon.

The other inspiration for this regional form are mekosuchine crocodilians .

You're first reaction to that information was probably what on earth a mekosuchine is?

Simply put mekosuchines were a family of crocodilians found in Australia and the Pacific until as recent as 3000 years ago (with a specimen belonging to the family found in the same St Bathans assemblage as the inspiration for an earlier 'mon koikekkai,hence the inclusion in a NZ based region) that encompassed a wide range of niches both semi aquatic like you'd expect a crocodile to do, and terrestrial, with the genus the family is named for, mekosuchus itself speculated by some to be arboreal:

Anyways I hope you like the first of the regional variants I've thought up for this region because these three won't be the first or last, unlike some (paldea), see you soon with some more art!

[thekimspoblog]

What I thought of each season:

"Better Call Saul" (Slow to ignite, too quickly extinguished)

Season 1: Kind of boring, but laying important groundwork for what comes later.

Season 2: This is where the romance subplot starts to gain momentum, and that's really the main thing I cared about.

Season 3: IMO the writing starts to get a little bit stupid. But that's actually a good thing; bombast is fun.

Season 4: After the Season 3 finale, there has been a subtle but pervasive change in tone. Feels like things are really hitting their stride.

Season 5: Easily my favorite. Had everyone on the edge of their seats how everything was going to end. Expectations are sky-high.

Season 6: Kind of a hot mess. A lot of important themes and ideas were dropped. But ultimately it stuck the landing.

"Westworld" (Exponential Decline)

Season 1: Actual Masterpiece. Every line of dialogue works on like five different levels. Best TV show since "Last Airbender".

Season 2: Just regular ol' very good. Provides resolution to most of what was set up in Season 1, but it is possible for Westworld to have a bad episode.

Season 3: Arguably, this is where it jumped the shark, but I was still having fun. The story was still saying important things.

Season 4: I didn't hate it, but everything just sort of petered out. Vaguely gesturing in the direction of the character arcs I wanted but mostly just wasting my time.

"YOU" (The Art of Cringe)

Season 1: Just a really solid self-contained thriller. The leads actually have chemistry, which just makes the inevitability of the end all the more horrifying.

Season 2: Feels like a tired rehash of Season 1... until it's very suddenly not! How did I not see that twist coming?

Season 3: The writing has really gotten painful by now, in a show where the dialogue was always painful. But at the same time, this is probably the best season, when the big picture is taken into account. The moment everything comes full circle. A character study of a monster we really should be more aware of. For all intents and purposes, this was the end.

Season 4: Absolute garbage. Breaks the rules of its own story. Do not watch it. If you must watch it, skip ahead to Episode 8. Nothing before that matters; it was literally all just a dream.

Season 5: TBA. He can't keep getting away with this!

[ceslatoil]

WIP: The Gilded Cage, Chapter 7

SO to @cthulhu-of-the-night for the artwork! This is a sneak peak at Chapter 7 of my Genderswapped Billford Fic The Gilded Cage! Enjoy!

November 18th, 189X

My Dearest F,

My work continues as always. In the last week I’ve shred my adventures involving the wicked undead, lake dwelling monsters, and the irritating company of judgemental unicorns! Through correspondence with Mr. Armitage back in New Jersey, the recounts of the exploits have exponentially increased the sales of The Fantastical Nature Journal exponentially!

However, as the days grow caldera and the nights long and dark, I’ve found it harder to leave the warmth of my home. Luckily, Bill has offered up a new assignment that I can complete within the comfort of our private library: I am to translate the encrypted lost texts of Circe Mecc! We were able to find the journals within Gravity Falls’ small historical archive. Her alchemical texts are all in a difficult code, but I have been able to decode several passages. It seems that beyond her work on creating a philosopher’s stone, the woman was attempting to use a combination of evolutionary theory and alchemical practices to create artificial life! In a few months, I should be able to discover even more about this fascinating, mysterious figure.

I wish that all of my tasks were so intellectually rewarding. After the death of my spouse’s business associate, Bill has announced intent to throw a New Year’s Eve masquerade ball, supposedly to get everyone’s mind off the tragedy. Personally, it just sounds like an excuse to throw an elaborate dinner and wear silly outfits. Poor Susan, the cook, is quite put out by all the recipes for canapes and elaborate entrees she’s been expected to learn in a few weeks time.

Bill is in high spirits though: she has commissioned a pair of costumes for us both! I’m to be Andromeda, Princess of Aethiopia, and Bill will be the dreaded sea monster, the Cetus.

I’ve attached in this letter an invitation for you. I’ll understand if you decline, the trip is long and it sounds like your mentor has been keeping you busy. However, it just feels strange to not invite my best friend. I hope you are keeping well!

Warm Regards,

R. Cipher