#Oxygen Crisis

[poondragoon]

Begging you to tell us also about when oxygen nearly sterilized the planet. You have a hypnotic writing style

Stop, please! I'm married!

Hokay, so, a fucktillion years ago (well, between 4 and 2.5 billion years, but at a certain point of imponderability all those big numbers look the same, so let's stick with the funny one, yeah?) nothing alive on earth had ever heard of "free elemental oxygen". They metabolized food anaerobically - by fermentation or CrP hydrolysis or maybe even simple glycolysis, as was the style at the time. The specifics are a bit conjectural, since microbial membrane proteins don't fossilize terribly well, but we have enough anaerobes kicking around to get an idea of what our ancestors probably had to work with.

Not this kind of fermentation, but it gives you an idea of what's up. Thanks, Wikimedia Commons!

Now, breaking food down into energy is one thing, but what about getting it in the first place? Well, the best way is to borrow some energy from the environment and use it to "cook" simple chemicals into more complex ones you can break back down. Basically translating environmental energy you can't use into a form which you can. The earliest way to do this was probably a form of chemosynthesis.

I won't bore you with the details, but this early chemosynthesis would have been...weird. The important part is that the process probably took hydrogen sulfide and carbon dioxide, broke them apart, and recombined the Choice Bits into sugar. Unfortunately, that process would have needed the Weird Earth Chemicals (energy source) and the stupid-high temperatures belching out of hydrothermal vents in order to work, and even then it was slow as hell! There was room for improvement

At some point, some plucky little microbe went "hey, if I use light to excite a pigment, I can use the electrons shot off that pigment to blast hydrogen sulfide and carbon dioxide apart instead of waiting on Weird Hot Slow Earth Chemicals!" This was huge. The fundamental principle was still basically the same: 12H2S + 6CO2 -> C6H12O6 + 12S + 6H20, but it was faster and easier than ever! Plus it made the earth purple!

There's a joke about Prince in here, I just know it. Thanks, Wikimedia Commons!

But, as is the running theme...we can do better.

Around 2.5 billion years ago, a tiny, subtle mutation arose. A minute riff on the existing form of photosynthesis played out in the genome of one lineage of microbe or another. One that was terribly advantageous: instead of using hydrogen sulfide - which needs to come from marine volcanoes or other microbes' waste - as a hydrogen source, these guys could use water. You know, the stuff that's everywhere. It was H U G E. These new cyanobacteria (so-called because instead of being purple, they're...well...cyan) rapidly began to dominate the marine microbial ecosystem.

However, this nifty new metabolism had a little problem: the byproduct of mashing water and carbon dioxide into sugar was oxygen.

If you've ever seen that post about how "oxygen is secretly killing us", know that it's not a joke. Oxygen is so horrifically electronegative that it freely oxidizes (hence the name) just about anything with an even remotely positive charge. If you're alive, uncontrolled oxidation is very very bad. And in a geological eyeblink, global oxygen levels went from this:

To THIS:

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

This may not look like much, but if you've ever spritzed a little Barkeeper's Friend into a 100-gallon fishtank by accident while cleaning up the marine biology classroom you're interning for, you know just how dangerous a little of something can be (and yes, I still feel absolutely terrible, don't @ me). It's hard to quantify because...you know...bacteria don't fossilize too good...but based on isotopic analysis of Archaean sedimentary rock and paleontological technomagic, it's estimated that the oxygenation of the atmosphere killed off some 80% of Earth's microbial biomass. It was that bad.

POV: you're in the Archaean and about to do a war crime.

Eventually , the descendants of the oxygen-tolerant microbes evolved the ability to harness oxygen's horrific destructive power to help them metabolize food more efficiently. WAY more efficiently. Instead of making sugar from water and CO2 and fermenting it to alcohol, they could use oxygen to break that sugar back down into water and CO2. That's an absolutely ridiculous amount of energy. Life on earth sped the FUCK UP. Everything started living, eating, reproducing, and dying at a more rapid pace than ever, but untold microbial biodiversity was lost forever.

If you take one thing away from this post or my Methanosarcina addition to the Lystrosaurus post, let it be this: If you're an organism on earth who enjoys being not-extinct, DON'T FUCK WITH THE ATMOSPHERE.

[jim-the-simpleton]

We Are The Descendants Of The Amoeba You Couldn't Kill In The Great Oxidation Event

[prismaticpichu]

Fandom’s biggest questions: is Sephiroth being controlled by Jenova? Is Aerith going to die in Rebirth? Is Vincent… is Vincent Sephiroth’s father….?

Pichu’s biggest question:

WHY ARE THESE BLATANTLY PURPLE APPLES CALLED BANORA WHITES???? WHO DECIDED THIS???? YOU’RE TELLING ME THIS MINUSCULE SPLOTCH OF PALENESS AT THE BOTTOM IS ENOUGH TO DICTATE THEIR NAMES??? WHY MUST THE WORLD CONFOUND ME SO!

THESE APPLES REALLY ARE DUMB. HMPH.

[butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway]

Sorry to my inbox, I know I have messages to respond to, unfortunately my state is currently under water and I have family and friends and neighbors I'm trying to locate and help atm. If you see me on here it's not because I'm here, it's because I'm trying to get five fucking minutes where my head isn't just airraid sirens

Much love to all, we are all just doing our best to survive ❤️💚

[head-post]

Australia fails to meet climate target by 2030

According to Oxford Economics, Australia’s carbon dioxide emissions are not declining fast enough to meet its climate target by 2030, as renewable energy adoption is taking longer than originally expected, Bloomberg notes.

In its analysis on 18 March, Oxford stated that Australia might not meet the target in a couple of years, while the country aimed to achieve emissions levels of 43% lower than 2005 rates by 2030. Kristian Kolding, head of consulting for Oxford Economics Australia, claimed:

“The roll-out of renewable energy is taking longer than expected. But more worrying is the fact that we don’t currently see a path to meaningfully decarbonising hard-to-abate industrial sectors and electrifying the vehicle fleet will take decades.”

In 2023, the world experienced the hottest year on record, exacerbating the need for countries to meet their emissions targets to decelerate climate change. Australia, one of the world’s largest per capita emitters, has legislated its commitment to achieve zero emissions by 2050.

Read more HERE

[quiet-art-kid]

Little rant about the little mermaid (not Disney, just in general)

In the original fairytale part of the conflict was that humans, while having short lives, had souls that could live forever. Mermaids however lived a very long time but when they died that was it. Obviously this scares the little mermaid, but conveniently if she gets a human to love her and marry her, she gets part of their soul and gets to live on. I was a very existential child and I still am. I am VERY disappointed that no adaptations, as far as I can tell, have dived into this part.

[arolesbianism]

If you see me talking abt build plans that won't actually work keep your mouth shut I'm trying to fuck around and find out by myself over here

[madigoround]

I’m literally just venting below to get it out of my head feel free to ignore

[nardacci-does-art]

I only had 10 panels but here's some more fun exciting delightful articles about how republicans think public schools should make kids say christian prayers & teach students that slavery had no longterm affect on black communities, how trump makes fun of disabled people, & just a big categorized list of both republican & democrats' stances on various issues. Oh right the republicans are also lying & saying that the democrats gave all of FEMA's money to illegal immigrants even tho they're the ones who voted against FEMA funding. Not to mention that one time trump refused to fund California's wildfire relief until he was told there's people there who vote for him. Did all the anti-voters just conveniently forget how fucking bad it was when he was president last time.

Either you vote Harris-Wals or you let a bunch of hateful bigots run the US again. Stop using the horrible plight of the Palestinians to justify your voter apathy. It's really hard to help other people when you're fighting to survive. Put on your own oxygen mask first.

Any anti-voter morons will be blocked.

Articles referenced in screenshots under the cut:

https://www.nbcnews.com/politics/donald-trump/trump-israel-gaza-finish-problem-rcna141905

https://www.reuters.com/world/us/project-2025-what-is-it-who-is-behind-it-how-is-it-connected-trump-2024-07-12/

https://www.newsweek.com/hate-crimes-under-trump-surged-nearly-20-percent-says-fbi-report-1547870

https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2020/climate/trump-environment-rollbacks-list.html

https://www.cnbc.com/2022/06/24/roe-v-wade-overturned-by-supreme-court-ending-federal-abortion-rights.html

https://www.huffpost.com/entry/donald-trump-anti-immigrant-rant-rally-response_n_66de9a43e4b01b464f3dee5e

https://abcnews.go.com/Health/trumps-chinese-virus-tweet-helped-lead-rise-racist/story?id=76530148

https://thehill.com/homenews/campaign/4892401-trump-proposes-sanctuary-cities-legislation/

https://ballotpedia.org/2024_presidential_candidates_on_transgender_healthcare

https://www.piie.com/publications/working-papers/2024/international-economic-implications-second-trump-presidency

https://apnews.com/article/gaza-israel-refugee-crisis-gop-ban-terrorism-85afcf677743b8f8c82fe814ffe61161

https://www.washingtonpost.com/business/2023/11/11/unrwa-gaza-humanitarian-aid-congress/

[probablyasocialecologist]

The submersible’s disappearance has arguably been the biggest news story of the last 24 hours. That’s understandable in some ways. For one thing, it’s a mystery: No one knows where it is or what state its passengers are in. There is, moreover, a race against time, as the sub has enough oxygen to make it until early Thursday, according to the Coast Guard—if, that is, the passengers are even still alive. There is both the possibility of an improbably happy ending or of unspeakable tragedy—another element of a compelling news story. And then there’s everything about the janky sub and its rich passengers, who have risked their lives on what is essentially a novelty expedition. Without knowing their fate, it has the feeling of something out of a Ruben Östlund film: These people are so wealthy they can take dangerous chances in a vessel the size of a Honda Odyssey, just for thrills.  Coverage of the missing submersible unintentionally illustrates something even more tragic, however. On June 14, what was likely the second-deadliest refugee and migrant shipwreck on record occurred when a boat carrying as many as 800 migrants sank off the Greek coast. Greek authorities had tracked the vessel and early signs suggest the country’s coast guard was slow to act despite numerous warning signs. This is a huge news story, one that hits at both Europe’s ongoing refugee crisis and the callousness with which many European nations treat migrants who are desperately trying to reach their shores. Yet it has received scant attention in the American media—and the missing submersible story has dwarfed what coverage there has been. 

[wilwheaton]

It’s been speculated that Musk’s rampage won’t last forever. People who suck up more oxygen/headlines than Trump tend to have a short shelf life in his inner circle. But the President is apparently too busy weaving imperialistic visions in front of the White House press pool to notice, at least for the moment, that his new buddy has stolen the spotlight. And in the meantime the havoc that Musk is wreaking has evolved into a constitutional crisis. Sen. Susan Collins (R-ME) — one of the three who voted against Hegseth’s nomination last month and one of two Senate Republicans who sometimes has a backbone — said as much in remarks to reporters on Wednesday. “There’s no doubt that the president appears to have empowered Elon Musk far beyond what I think is appropriate,” she said. “I think a lot of it is going to end up in court.”

Do Not Worry, One Republican Is Concerned About Elon’s Rampage

[kerink]

i want to talk about this idea the fandom has that curly didn't do anything to help anya. the fact of the matter is, curly didn't do anything to help anya on screen.

when we first join the conversation, anya's already told curly about the assault and is just updating him on her pregnancy status. we're never privy to what that first conversation looked like, what anya said or how curly responded or what decisions were made about it. but given that anya confided in him twice more about the situation (that she was pregnant and later that she had told jimmy), i have to assume his response to the initial assault disclosure was sufficient enough in her eyes that she knew she could continue confiding in him.

this exchange reads to me like "what to do about the assault" has been an on-going conversation between them, but curly has limited options to help her. but if he could figure out something to do, he'd do it.

let's look at the options available:

report it to HR. i don't think this option is very viable for a few reasons:

first, pony express doesn't seem to care about its employees. there aren't locks on their bedroom doors, there's only enough food and oxygen to get them from port to port with no emergency allotment, there are more crew than cryopods, they're not allowed to sleep for more than 5 hours a night, etc. i don't think they would have done anything to support her even if they had reported it.

HR may even blame anya for the assault, they may say that it happened because of something she did or did not do. it's her responsibility to take, not theirs.

second:

(thank you to @mudstoneabyss for pointing this one out to me)

curly needs this money because he's considering changing careers, which is likely to result in a pay cut or some amount of time job-hunting without income. swansea has a family back home he needs to provide for. it's daisuke's first year on the job and what a piss-poor welcome a pay cut would be, and he's an intern so the pay cut may be all or most of his salary. jimmy is living in poverty. anya has no savings.

it's entirely possible anya asked curly not to file an HR complaint not only because it would make her financial situation worse, but because she doesn't want to ask him, swansea, and daisuke to literally pay for jimmy's actions.

third:

even if curly did file an HR report he may have been told to do nothing. it's a long trip and they need all hands on deck to make the delivery on time! productivity over employee welfare. it's his job to keep the peace but keep jimmy working.

given how much stress curly's shown to be under, it can be assumed being captain is an extremely taxing job with a lot of both assigned duties and off-book duties. it may not actually be feasible to run the ship without a co-pilot.

maybe all he could do was talk to him.

2. go to the police. are there even police in space? i have to assume so because the alternative poses way too many questions. so there's space police. curly and anya call them and they come to the tulpar and dock on the ship and do an investigation and what happens to that limited food and air supply? the late delivery fee?

i'm a psychologist and my first psychology job was working as a crisis counselor for my county. my primary job was to sit with rape survivors as they had their rape kits done and support them as they made their reports to the police. this may not be true everywhere or across the board or in this dystopia but in my experience the police won't take a rape case seriously, or will have limited options to prosecute, or maybe won't even take the case at all without a rape kit.

so curly and anya call the police. they're going to have to file with HR too, to let the company know what's going on. and now anya has to pay for an HR complaint, a late delivery, and a rape kit.

is she going to get this paycheck at all?

3. curly acts on his own accord. this is the one that makes the least amount of sense to me, personally.

if curly just beats the shit out of jimmy then what? now jimmy's mad and embarrassed and takes it out on anya. we're going to confront him and risk making her suffering worse?

curly can't lock jimmy in his quarters for the duration of the trip not only because, as i said, maybe having a co-pilot is necessary for the ship to operate, but there are not locks on the doors.

curly can't lock him in the cargo hold because a) pony express would probably be beyond pissed off about that and who knows if the crew's pay would get docked or curly would get fired or if dragonbreath would sue them all for property damage and contamination. b) how do we get food and water to him? let him go to the bathroom? we open the doors and he busts out and who knows how violent he'll be then.

curly isn't going to kill him because a) that's one of his oldest friends, and i don't care what he's done or how angry curly is or how badly he wants to help anya, i really don't think it's realistic to think he'd be able to separate the anger from the love enough to end his life. b) it's cold-blooded, premeditated murder. it'd be one thing if curly caught jimmy in the act and killed him in defense of anya, he could maybe get away with that. but after the event is over? curly's going to jail for that, possibly for the rest of his life. if you worked at the post office and a coworker told you your best friend since childhood raped her are you clocking out and going to his house and killing him? it's not reasonable. i'm also just really floored how often i've seen this option brought up on the "prison reform abolish the police no matter how bad you are you still deserve human rights" website.

i also don't think it's reasonable, realistic, or kind to ask curly to act on his own accord without consulting anya. for curly to go against her wishes or act without her consent, that's further taking agency away from her. that's another man deciding what happens in her life. even if curly wanted to beat jimmy up or lock him away or kill him, maybe anya asked him not to.

so i ask, what was curly supposed to do? what did he and anya explore as options? what did anya ask him to do? we don't know and we'll never know. and that was intentional on wrong organ's part.

i don't say any of this to discount or discredit conversations or explorations or analyses about the role The Boys Club, toxic masculinity, and bro culture play into the plot, themes, narrative, or personal take-away players have. i fully 100% agree with, support, and endorse those narrative because despite everything i just said above, it's also true that curly is partially responsible.

it's true that he was irresponsible and an enabler for helping jimmy cheat on his psych exam, but there's no evidence at all that he's a conspirator to sexual assault and abuse, that he was going to cover for jimmy in a court of law. all he said was they would figure it out, and that could mean a whole lot of things.

i think curly has some percentage of the blame for what happened on the tulpar, i just don't think that percentage is as large of a number as a lot of people seem to believe. i'm not asking that we forgive or apologize or absolve curly, what i am asking is that we try to look at the situation with more nuance and empathy and good faith.

i don't think curly was a bad man or a bro who was ignoring anya and covering for jimmy's actions. but i also don't think he did enough to help her. he was never good at seeing the small details amongst the larger picture. he couldn't see jimmy for the dead pixel he was.

i think curly was sleep deprived, possibly under-fed, definitely overworked, and juggling too many balls with not enough options. i think he made the wrong choice, but i think he thought it was the lesser of the evils.

[mariasont]

HEAR ME OUT!

post prison Spencer and shy!reader bonding over being total nerds. Books, shows... you name it

Bookstore Physics - S.R

summary: spencer suggests you should compare moral biases more often. you think he's making a philosophical point. he thinks he just asked you on a date

pairings: post!prison spencer reid x shy!medialiaison!reader

warnings: fluff, second hand embarrassment im sure, philosophical debates that are probably wrong bc i had to google and i know hardly knowing about mr kant, existential crisis but make it romantic, post prison reid, shy reader, prolonged eye contact

wc: 1.6k

a/n: thanks for requesting my lovely! happy superbowl to those who celebrate! go birds!

You were so close. Just one more inch, and your fingertips would finally graze the spine of the book that had been taunting you from its impossibly high perch. 

Rising to your tiptoes, you reached with all the reckless confidence of someone who had severely underestimated basic physics. The shelf wobbled under your grip, your shoes squeaking against the polished floor, and in that split second, you were faced with a terrifying possibility that you were about to take out the entire bookshelf, along with your dignity.

Something grabbed ahold of you, steadying you before you could faceplant directly into a pile of literary fiction. 

You went completely rigid. Because that wasn't just something. That was a Spencer Reid hand, long fingers, warm palm, and a freakishly strong grip for a man who treated physical exertion like a concept rather than a practice.

"Oh. Hi, Dr. Reid," you blurted, the words tumbling out clumsy and unpolished, as if your tongue had forgotten how to function. You winced instantly. "What are you doing here?"

Spencer didn't answer right away. His grip on your arm slackened, but he didn't step away, didn't even give you an inch of space, like he had no intention of letting you breathe properly.

Oh, that's fine. Air is overrated anyway.

"What am I doing here?" he repeated as if he were genuinely considering the question, but you knew better.

His expression hovered somewhere between pity and uncontained glee, the corners of his mouth twitching. 

Your lips parted, but your mind refused to cooperate, stuck on an endless loop of oh my god, did you actually just say that?

To Spencer Reid. The same Spencer who had, on multiple occasions, resorted to scribbling entire paragraphs on the back of receipts and once, when truly desperate, his own wrist. Spencer, who physically flinched at the sound of a cracked spine and once spent seventeen uninterrupted minutes explaining the significance of marginalia. Spencer who read like breathing and talked about prose like it was something alive.

And you, a person allegedly with working cognitive abilities, had just asked him what he was doing in a bookstore.

You opened your mouth, whether to correct yourself or just inhale enough oxygen to function again, you weren't sure, but before you could, Spencer, with precisely zero struggle, reached up and plucked the book from the shelf like it had been placed there specifically for him. 

"You should've asked for help," he murmured, and oh, that was definitely amusement in his voice.

"I-I had it under control."

One brow arched, unimpressed.

"Sure you did," he mused, lips twitching like they couldn’t quite decide whether to commit to a smirk. "Although, considering that 20% of bookstore-related injuries stem from ill-advised attempts at reaching high shelves, you were probably just one statistic away from a minor concussion."

You narrowed your eyes. "That's not—there's no way that's a real statistic."

Spencer barely reacted, flipping open the book with the same casual disinterest of someone checking the sky for clouds, except this wasn't a change in barometric pressure, and you were positive your entire nervous system had just gone into meltdown mode.

Your face burned, heat creeping up your spine and flooding through you veins at an alarming speed, and—oh, no—you had officially run out of places to look that weren't him.

And he (unfortunately) made such an easy focal point.

His shirt was rumpled like he'd spent the whole day forgetting to sit properly and a barely-there ink smudge kissed the edge of his palm, the kind only noticeable if you were close. His hair was at war with itself, some strands curling forward rebelliously against the collar of his cardigan, others falling forward, brushing the edge of his cheek.

He didn't glance up as he murmured, "Philosophy?"

The words barely had time to settle before your brain supplied an immediate translation: he was about to analyze you.

You could practically hear the gears turning, the internal mechanisms of his brain whirring at a speed that actually did defy physics. If you concentrated hard enough, you might've been able to hear the faint whir of neurons firing, piecing together a framework of analysis that was surely seconds away from being spoken into existence. He was surely already forming a hypothesis, already constructing some impossibly insightful revelation about what this particular title said about you, your worldview, your subconscious motivations.

"Well—yeah, that one," you said quickly, the words tripping over each other. “I mean, it’s not real philosophy—well, obviously, it is, but not in the way you would define foundational philosophy, but it still presents some really interesting moral dilemmas, and the writing is surprisingly digestible considering the subject matter is so—”

You clamped your mouth shut so fast it was a wonder your teeth didn’t rattle.

What were you even saying?

"Um—yeah. Philosophy. Or... something like that."

Spencer's lips twitched, and then, in a move so profoundly unsettling, he smiled.

Not just any smile, either. A real one. The kind that didn't just curve his mouth but softened him entirely, the corners tugging upward, a barely there dimple surfacing at his cheek. 

It hit you like a perfectly aimed dart—sharp, direct, and entirely crushing. Something fluttered wildly in your chest, light enough to feel stupid, but heavy enough to be a problem.

Then, still smiling, he tilted his head, leaning in just enough to invade your space, his voice dipping like he was handing you something fragile.

"I didn't take you for the existentialist type."

Your first instinct is to argue, to insist that you're far too well-rounded, too multifaceted, too impossible to be pinned down by a single school of thought. But before you can even begin to string words together, Spencer tilts his head just a little more, his eyes sweeping over you in a way that feels dangerously close to that same expression of analyzing once again.

And suddenly, you need to redirect this conversation, desperately, urgently, before your body betrays you, before you start visibly sweating or keel over like a fainting goat. Neither feels like an optimal outcome.

"I—I mean... I could say the same about you."

His lips quirk. "Interesting. And why's that?"

"I don't know. I always assumed you'd be more of a rationalist? Like, Descartes' methodical doubt feels like something you'd respect, and even Kant's categorical imperative, although that's more deontological ethics than strict rationalism, kind of aligns with the way you view morality and decision-making, and—"

You stop. Blink.

Oh no. You’re heavily invested in this man’s philosophical alignment.

You purse your lips, clearing your throat like that’ll erase the absurd level of thought you’ve just admitted to having.

"I mean, I'm probably way off."

Spencer flips the book closed, considering.

"I supposed you could argue I lean toward rationalism," he allows. "But morality is messy. Kant insists on universal law, and let's be real, most people abandon objectivity the second emotions get involved."

He glances at you then, a shift so small it shouldn't feel significant, but somehow, it does.

“For instance, we all make exceptions. We justify things we probably shouldn’t. Sometimes we prioritize people in ways that defy reason.”

His lips twitch. 

"Hypothetically speaking, of course."

“Well, yeah,” you say, caught up in the current of the conversation before you even realize you’ve been swept away. “People make emotional calculations constantly. Even when they claim objectivity, their decisions are shaped by personal attachments.”

The thought unspools too easily, words tumbling forward, carried by momentum.

“And it’s not just morality—it’s cognition in general. Have you read Jonathan Haidt’s work on moral intuitionism? He argues that people make moral judgments first based on instinct, and then rationalize them after the fact.”

You glance up, expecting a rapid-fire counterargument, some impossibly well-structured debate. But Spencer is just watching you.

"So what about you?" he asks suddenly. "Would you say you make exceptions?"

You pause.

"I mean… yeah? I guess I do. Everyone does, right? If someone I care about does something morally questionable, I’d probably be more inclined to defend them than if it were a stranger. I mean, that’s just human nature."

Then shrug. 

"But that doesn’t mean I’m being hypocritical," you add quickly, as if you just realized how that sounded. "I think there’s a difference between conscious favoritism and subconscious moral bias. It’s not like I have a specific person I’d automatically justify no matter what."

Spencer exhales. "I think you're more consistent than you realize."

You blink at him. "What do you mean?"

He shrugs, lifting the book in his hands, fingers drumming idly against the cover. “You try so hard to rationalize your emotions. But I think, if it came down to it, you’d make an exception for someone. Just one.”

Your stomach knots, and it's humiliating how obvious you must be. You can feel your pulse everywhere, in your throat, your wrists, your temples, like your entire body is broadcasting, Hey, Spencer Reid is making you malfunction because he somehow sees right through you, somebody send help.

“I—well, I mean—”

“Relax, it’s just a theory.”

But something about the way he says it makes you not relax at all. And before you can scramble for some kind of coherent response, he nods toward your book.

“You should get that one,” he says lightly, handing you back the book. “I’d love to hear your take on it next time.”

You freeze. Next time?

Oh. Oh no. The words settle over you like an ill-timed realization, and your brain is running the math like you're about to file a report on your own social incompetence. Next time implies... a prior time, a recurring time, a pattern of times. Next time implies he assumes there will be a next time. 

And you assume that he assumes that you are the kind of person who could logically expect another bookstore trip with Spencer Reid as if that's just a thing that happens in your life. Which is absurd.

Your fingers tighten around the book, like holding onto an overpriced paperback will somehow restore balance to your rapidly deteriorating world. Your pulse is a problem and your ability to think critically is a casualty. 

You scramble for something, anything, to say, but before your brain can reboot, Spencer is already moving. 

Then just as he disappears into the next aisle, he tosses one final parting shot of his shoulder—

"See you soon, then."

taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[samiraaymaan]

🙏💔💔😭😭😭Urgent please help me A woman with asthma who recently gave birth to a new baby by cesarean section needs your help.💔😭😭😭

Today I was in Al-Aqsa Hospital suffering from a crisis of oxygen deficiency and anemia due to the destruction of my tent and its exposure to bombing and burning. I need your donation and help urgently, please.

My pregnancy is very weak. I have no money in my account. Please, I am a single woman. My children and I were also ordered by the army to leave our place because of the bombing. Please save my children and I. My situation is very catastrophic. I have no money, no food, and no milk for my child. Our lives

Our situation is very catastrophic. Your donation will save our lives. Help me buy a tent and buy my medicine so I can continue living. Save my life and my children’s. Your donation of $10 will save our lives.

[crookedteethed]

ᡣ𐭩 the good girl . • ° 　 .　 *　:.　the engagement (2)

synopsis -- when a drunken kiss leads to rejection, Rafe's possessive nature takes a darker turn. Between mounting debts, your engagement to his rival, and a trip to Morocco looming, Rafe manipulates his way into getting what he wants - you, isolated and far from home.

warnings -- 18+- mdni, cursing, mentions of murder, dark!rafe, stalker!rafe, stalking, unwanted touch, angst/hurt, rafe's daddy issues. mention of suicide (not literal)

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | word count: 3.5k

The fluorescent lights of Roots' private bathroom cast harsh shadows across Rafe's tear-streaked face. Your palm cradled his cheek, feeling the slight tremor in his jaw, the expensive cologne mixing with the lingering scent of vodka. This was Rafe Cameron stripped bare – no arrogance, no power plays, just raw vulnerability that made your heart ache, all to your belief.

"Because you're the only person in my life who sees me. Really sees me." he whispered, his cerulean eyes locked on yours, pupils blown wide with something more dangerous than just desire.

Time suspended itself in that sterile bathroom, reality shrinking to a single point: your thumb gentle against his tear-stained cheek, his hand finding your wrist – not to dominate, for once, but to steady his shaking world.

Then Rafe lunged forward, capturing your lips with a hunger that bordered on violent. The deep red lipstick he'd been watching all day smeared between your mouths like fresh blood. He kissed you as if he was starving, as if you held all the oxygen in the room, as if you were simultaneously his salvation and his damnation.

Just as his tongue sought to deepen the kiss, survival instinct kicked in. Your hand flew up, connecting with his cheek in a sharp crack that echoed off the bathroom walls.

"MR. CAMERON, THIS isn't appropriate!" The words tore from your throat, your voice bouncing off cold tile. "I don't know what you thought this is, but no, I'm not that type of girl--I'm your secretary." The last word tasted bitter on your tongue, like a reminder of all the boundaries you'd both just shattered.

His cerulean eyes darkened dangerously as you fled, watching your retreat with the focused intensity of a predator marking its prey. One hand touched the red mark blooming on his cheek – the same shade as your lipstick now smeared across his mouth like evidence of a crime.

Alone in the bathroom, Rafe's embarrassment quickly morphed into something darker. No witnesses meant no proof – just his word against yours if you decided to talk. The thought made him laugh bitterly as he lined up another hit of cocaine on the porcelain sink. He'd learned long ago that money could make most problems disappear, and he was nothing if not generous with his money.

The bartender's eyes widened at the size of the tip Rafe dropped on his way out – because even in crisis, a Cameron never forgot their image. But his practiced smile faltered when he spotted you in the waiting limo, pressed as far into the corner as physically possible, like a trapped animal seeking escape.

Rafe slid into the opposite corner, the leather seat creaking under his weight. The space between you felt electric with unspoken threats and possibilities. This was it, he thought – the final straw. Tomorrow he'd have to have that dreaded conversation with Ward about finding yet another secretary. And worse, by sundown he'd be on the first flight to Morocco – his father's favorite form of punishment disguised as business opportunity. Cameron Boy banished to the desert again, all because he couldn't keep his hands off his secretary.

But as he watched you from the corner of his eye, noticed how your breath hitched every time he shifted, how your fingers nervously played with your skirt hem, Rafe realized something that made his blood run hot: you weren't disgusted by the kiss. You were afraid – not of him, but of how much you'd wanted it too.

Maybe he wouldn't need to call Ward after all. Maybe his good girl just needed a firmer hand to guide her toward what they both wanted.

"I'm engaged." The words burst from your lips like a shield, shattering the charged silence in the limo. You watch as Rafe's expression transforms – his previous predatory calculation morphing into something far more dangerous, far more unhinged.

"Well," you continue, words tumbling out faster as his cerulean eyes darken with each syllable. "I've been engaged for the past year, we're saving up for a ring, but he's already proposed. We're looking at houses too—" You're rambling now, knowing you should stop but unable to halt the nervous flood of words. "I'm getting off topic, but what I mean is—I'm taken. I'm sorry if I gave you any wrong impressions…"

Your voice trails into nothing as Rafe's gaze pins you to the leather seat. The look in his eyes screams danger, screams shut up, screams of violence barely contained beneath his expensive suit. The air in the limo grows thick with unspoken threats.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, though you're not sure why you're apologizing. Maybe for the slap that's still branded red across his tanned cheek. But then again, you wouldn't have had to mark him if he hadn't tried to claim what wasn't his to take.

Rafe's knuckles bleach white against his knee as his jaw works silently, grinding thoughts you're terrified to imagine. Your engagement revelation hangs in the air like smoke – not the shield you'd hoped for, but kindling for something darker stirring behind his cerulean eyes. To him, your engagement isn't a wall; it's a challenge. Another obstacle to destroy.

His fingers drum against his thigh in a rhythm that sounds like a death march. When he finally speaks, his voice comes out soft, gentle even – and that's what terrifies you most. A gentle Rafe Cameron is a deadly Rafe Cameron.

"Well, I sure hope I'm invited to the wedding?" The question slides from his lips alongside a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. Then comes the laugh – a sound that erupts from deep in his chest, too loud, too sharp, too wrong. It fills the limo like poisoned honey.

You force yourself to laugh along, the sound brittle and false, counting the seconds until this ride through hell finally ends. But the way Rafe's eyes glitter in the passing streetlights tells you this isn't an ending at all – it's a beginning.

That night, Rafe sat in his home office, the blue light of his laptop screen illuminating his tormented expression as he attempted to craft an apology email. The words poured out, a mixture of manufactured remorse and raw truth: how inappropriate his actions had been, how the alcohol had loosened his careful control, how he couldn't stop replaying that kiss in his mind.

But with each sentence he typed, the apology transformed into something darker, more possessive. Professional phrases dissolved into dangerous confessions – how he'd been watching you for months, memorizing every detail, dreaming of claiming what he saw as his. The kiss had only intensified his obsession, giving him a taste of what he'd been denying himself.

Mid-paragraph, clarity struck like lightning. An email would be evidence – permanent proof of his transgression. One forward from you to HR, to Ward, to the board, and everything would unravel. The Cameron empire had weathered many storms, but a harassment scandal involving the youngest son and his secretary? That would be harder to bury.

Rafe deleted the draft, watching the cursor blink accusingly on the empty screen. No, he wouldn't apologize. Instead, he'd show you exactly why crossing lines with Rafe Cameron was both the best and worst decision of your life.

Instead of empty apologies, Rafe decided to speak in the language he knew best: money.

With practiced ease, he logged into the payroll system using his father's credentials – a trick he'd learned years ago for situations that required discrete handling. An extra $2,000 added to your next paycheck would look innocent enough:

"Performance Bonus - Approved by W. Cameron."

A satisfied smirk played across his lips as he authorized the payment. He could already picture your face when you opened the check this Friday – that delicate mix of surprise and pleasure he'd come to crave. Would you understand the message behind it? That everything had a price, even forgiveness?

But as the night wore on, Rafe's thoughts began their familiar spiral. His fingers drummed against his desk as his mind filled with questions about you. What were you doing right now, at this exact moment? Were you home? Alone? Had you told your "fiancé" about the kiss? Were you touching your lips, remembering the taste of him like he couldn't stop remembering the taste of you?

He pulled up your employee file, eyes tracing over your address for the hundredth time. The logical part of his brain knew driving past your apartment at 2 AM would be crossing yet another line, but then again – hadn't he already crossed the biggest one in that bathroom? His car keys felt heavy in his pocket as his OCD thoughts circled like hungry wolves: check on her, make sure she's safe, make sure she's alone, make sure she's still his.

Rafe navigated the familiar streets with practiced precision, taking the curved bend that led to your apartment complex. He knew this route by heart now – the figure-eight loop that ended where The Cut began, a middle-class neighborhood that he deemed barely acceptable for someone who belonged to him.

He'd planned this carefully, dressed head-to-toe in black like a predator preparing for the hunt. Instead of his usual gleaming Mercedes, he'd chosen his older BMW – a car he despised for its squealing brakes and dated interior, but perfect for remaining anonymous. No one would expect Rafe Cameron, heir to the development empire, to be caught dead in last decade's model, which made it the perfect vehicle for nights like these.

The parking garage across from your complex offered the perfect vantage point. He eased into a space on the third level, ignoring the protesting squeal of those damned brakes. From here, he could see directly into your living room window, where a soft light still burned despite the late hour.

Rafe's fingers drummed against the steering wheel, a rhythm matching his racing pulse. How many nights had he watched your shadows dance across those curtains? The count blurred in his mind, each evening melting into the next. But tonight felt different. That kiss in the bathroom had changed everything – had turned his careful observation into raw hunger. Watching from afar no longer satisfied the growing obsession that consumed his thoughts.

His breath hitched sharply as you emerged from the distant hallway, wrapped only in a white towel that made his vision blur at the edges. The sight of you, casual and unguarded in your private space, sent a dangerous thrill through his body.

Then he saw it – you were talking, gesturing with a toothbrush in your mouth, clearly addressing someone just out of view. In all his previous surveillance – only twice from this particular spot, he reminded himself – he'd never caught a glimpse of this mysterious fiancé you'd mentioned. The thought of finally seeing his rival, the man who dared claim what Rafe considered his, made his blood simmer with anticipation and rage.

His cerulean eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, focused entirely on your apartment window. Tonight might finally reveal the face of the man he needed to remove from your life.

Then the moment Rafe had been waiting for arrived with all the subtlety of a knife to the gut. Rising from behind the low couch, partially obscured by the jungle of decorative plants crowding your window, stood a figure Rafe knew all too well. His worst suspicions crystallized into a reality far more infuriating than he'd imagined.

Pope fucking Hayward.

What was it with these Pogues like Hayward – always trying to claim what they couldn't afford? No ring, no house, just empty promises to girls who deserved better. To his girl. The thought made Rafe's blood boil. A Cameron would have already crowned you in diamonds, marked you with luxury. Not these pathetic Pouges from a man playing at success.

Rafe's hands clenched the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, a string of violent curses hissing through his teeth. Of all the men in Charleston, you were engaged to Pope Hayward – his childhood rival, his professional thorn, and now, apparently, the thief who'd dared to stake a claim on what belonged to Rafe.

The pieces clicked into place with sickening clarity: those whispered conversations in meetings, Hayward's constant proximity to you, that smug smile he wore whenever Rafe watched you two interact. For a year, right under his nose, Pope had been marking his territory.

A dark laugh bubbled up from Rafe's chest, edged with something dangerous. This wasn't just about desire anymore – this was about revenge. Pope Hayward had just made the biggest mistake of his life, and Rafe would make sure he learned exactly what it meant to take something from a Cameron.

"I want Hayward gone." Rafe's voice cut through the pretentious lunch crowd at Charleston's finest bistro. You were safely tucked away at the office, working on his Cut property reports – exactly where he needed you while he handled this particular conversation.

The Italian sub in front of him bore the brunt of his aggression as he stabbed it with his knife, imagining a different target entirely. Ward Cameron watched his son's violence toward the innocent sandwich with growing concern.

"Are you kidding me, Rafe?" Ward's laugh held all the warmth of a shark's smile. "Pope Hayward is the smartest asset we've got. The deals he's closed for R&P alone—"

"I don't give a fuck about his deals," Rafe snarled, his cerulean eyes flashing with that familiar Cameron rage – the kind that had built their empire and destroyed countless lives along the way.

Ward set down his wine glass, studying his son with calculated precision. "This tantrum wouldn't have anything to do with your pretty new secretary, would it?" He leaned forward, voice dropping. "The one I caught you staring at during yesterday's meeting. The one who happens to be engaged to Pope."

"You knew?" Rafe said. "I thought work relationships weren't permitted."

"Pope works for R\&P, not for us," Ward replied simply, his tone suggesting Rafe was being deliberately obtuse. "Different company, different rules. Though I'm sure if he did work here, he'd manage to maintain professional boundaries better than some."

Rafe's knuckles whitened around his knife. The restaurant's ambient noise faded away, leaving only the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

"He works for our collaborators, son. I can't touch him without raising questions we don't want asked. Without damaging relationships we can't afford to lose." Ward's tone carried a warning. "Let it go."

Rafe pushed his plate away, appetite destroyed by the taste of his father's refusal. Fine. If Ward wouldn't handle this through official channels, there were other ways to solve the Pope Hayward problem. More permanent ways.

His mind drifted to the Morocco trip – to deep waters and convenient accidents, to bodies that never resurface and questions that never get answered. His lips curved into a smile that made Ward's blood run cold.

"You're right, Dad," Rafe said, his voice eerily calm. "I'll let it go."

But they both knew that was a lie. A Cameron never lets go of what they consider theirs.

Rafe's mind wandered to darker possibilities as Ward droned on about Morocco. How easy it would be to eliminate the Pope Hayward problem permanently. One push down the right stairwell, one "accident" at a construction site – problems had a way of solving themselves when you had Cameron resources.

You'd grieve, of course. But Rafe would be there, watching, waiting. He'd comfort you with gentle touches and understanding smiles, show you what real power felt like, what real wealth could offer. Soon enough, "Pope who?" would become your mantra as you fell deeper into Rafe's world.

But reality crashed through his murderous fantasy like ice water. The mounting debt to Barry and his other creditors was already a noose around his neck – adding a homicide investigation would be suicide. Besides, Pope's disappearance would raise too many questions, bring too much attention. Rafe Cameron might be unhinged, but he wasn't stupid.

As if the universe was mocking his thoughts, Ward cleared his throat and said those dreaded words: "I spoke with Dennis Rutherford the other day." His father stirred his soup with deliberate slowness, steam rising like a warning sign.

"Great." Rafe rolled his eyes, launching his napkin into the air with theatrical disdain. Just what he needed – another reminder of his mounting debts while plotting the removal of his rival.

The napkin floated down like a surrender flag, but surrender wasn't in Rafe's vocabulary.( Not when it came to you, anyway).

"Rafe," Ward's voice dropped to that familiar tone of paternal disappointment, the one that made his son's blood boil. "When will you realize that all of 'your' men were first my men? Every contact, every connection you think you own – I built those relationships decades ago." He paused to take another spoonful of soup, letting the words sink in like poison. "I went to prep school with these people, built this empire alongside them while you were still learning to walk."

Ward's eyes hardened as he set down his spoon with precise control. "Rutherford called me yesterday. Not you – me. Do you know how that feels? To have your son's creditor reach out because he doesn't trust said son to make good on his debts?" His laugh was bitter, cutting. "A quarter million in loans, Rafe. What am I supposed to do with that?"

The restaurant seemed to shrink around them as Ward leaned forward, voice barely above a whisper. "Sometimes I lie awake at night, wondering where I went wrong with you. Sarah and Wheezie turned out perfect, but you…" He shook his head. "Maybe I gave you too much. Maybe I didn't give you enough. But watching you spiral like this – the drugs, the debts, this obsession with your secretaries – I have to ask myself: what did I do wrong in raising you?"

The worst part wasn't the words themselves – Rafe had grown numb to his father's disappointment years ago. No, it was the way Ward maintained that perfect Cameron smile throughout his entire diatribe, nodding pleasantly to passing socialites while he gutted his son. Ever the performer, keeping up appearances for the Charleston elite who dined around them, pretending they were just another father and son enjoying an expensive lunch.

The casual cruelty of it all made Rafe's stomach turn. How Ward could slice him to pieces with that benevolent patriarch smile plastered across his face, how he could destroy his son while shaking hands with the banker two tables over. But it was that throwaway line – "Sarah turned out perfect" – that confirmed what Rafe had always known: Ward Cameron didn't just disapprove of his son's choices. He hated the very man Rafe had become.

The comparison to Sarah twisted like a knife. Perfect Sarah. Golden Sarah. The daughter who could do no wrong, even in her absence. While Rafe sat here, drowning in debt and obsession, wearing his father's contempt like a brand.

Ward's smile never faltered as he took another sip of wine, but his eyes held all the warmth of a shark's. The message was clear: Rafe would never be the son Ward wanted – but by God, he'd keep up appearances while reminding him of that fact.

"Listen, Rafe," Ward's voice dripped with false sympathy, that shark smile still firmly in place. "I'll cut you some slack. After all, it must be…" he paused, savoring the cruelty of his next words, "…absolutely exhausting being as incompetent as you are sometimes.

He dabbed his mouth with his napkin, every movement calculated for their audience of lunching socialites. "So I'm going to make you an offer. You handle the Morocco situation – properly, no mistakes, no distractions involving pretty secretaries – and I'll personally clear your $250,000 debt. Hell, I'll even throw in a bonus." His eyes glittered with dark amusement. "Consider it hazard pay for finally doing something right."

The offer hung between them like a noose, and they both knew it. Ward wasn't offering salvation – he was buying compliance, demanding submission. The money came with strings, each one designed to puppet his son exactly where he wanted him: away from Charleston, away from you, and firmly under his control.

But Rafe couldn't stomach the thought of leaving you behind. Not with Pope Hayward circling what belonged to him, planning to put a ring on the finger Rafe had already marked as his territory. Every second away would be another moment for Pope to play house with his property.

A plan crystallized in his mind, dark and perfect.

"You have yourself a deal, father," Rafe purred, his cerulean eyes glinting with something that made Ward's smile falter for the first time. "On one condition – my secretary comes with me. To keep me focused, you understand. To ensure everything goes… according to plan."

Ward studied his son's expression, finally recognizing the dangerous Cameron obsession he himself had passed down. In that moment, he realized his mistake – he hadn't just given Rafe an escape route from his debts. He'd handed his unhinged son the perfect opportunity to isolate his prey.

Morocco suddenly seemed very far away, and very, very dark.

a/n: thanks for making it to the end of this chapter!! as always all likes comments, and reblog keeps me motivated! 💕🫶🏾

Taglist -

@trapistani @alexxavicry @rafestoothbrush @ttrinity @jjmaybankmylovee @slut4rafey @Itristessedureratoujours @hittmeandtellmeyouremine @yoongling @lilithblackkk @yootvi @alyisdead @littlelamy @skel-skell

[amoreva]

Hiii can u do a Luke or Clarisse (either one) x child of Dionysus! Reader and like they sneak off to make out or SMT AND DIONYSUS catches them AND GIVES THEM THE TALK and it’s funny and embarrassing for them

(Thank you if you do make this!!)

THE TALK

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pairing: luke castellan x daughter of dionysus!reader

summary: your father gives you the talk, after he catches luke and you sneaking around

warnings: innuendo?, making out, dionysus dramatics

a/n: let’s pretend ep 8 of pjo didn’t happen. ngl brainrotting to luke and swan lake op 20 act 1

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Dionysus paced around in front of the two of you. His Hawaiian shirt catching wind. Luke was trying (and failing) to hide the grin. It was quite amusing to see a God worry about something like this.

Dionysus was muttering something to himself. You caught wind of your father talking about “Chiron” and “the talk” and he was so confused on where to start.

You grimaced just knowing this wouldn’t end well. “Dad, please…” You helplessly plead not to even start this conversation.

“No, no! I must.” Dionysus spoke and put his hands up in discontent. He leaned against his little desk in the Big House.

“Do you know how betrayed I feel!?”

Luke smiled as he helped you down the steps of Cabin 12. A stupid lovey-dovey grin on both of your faces as you interlaced hands and ran across camp. It was as if you were normal mortal teenagers rather than half-bloods.

You trek through the forest used for the Capture the Flag, running along the river which lead to the lake. Every so often, Luke stopped to steal a kiss from you. You two had not seen each other all day because of counselor duties.

“Luke—!” You giggled after he stole yet another kiss.

“You’ve deprived me of affection, love.” Luke joked and held your hands. He walked backwards into a clearing. You reached the lake. It was usually used for canoeing, swimming and Capture the Flag (as well as romantic rendezvous). “How was I supposed to sleep without seeing you?”

Luke took of the jacket he was wearing so you could sit without getting sand on your pajamas. The waves of the lake seeped into the sand by your feet. Luke and you sharing portions of his jacket so you both won’t get dirty.

“I did retire to my cabin without giving you a good night kiss.” You joked your hand came to rest on Luke’s cheek.

“What a terrible girlfriend.” Luke hummed and lips in to kiss your lips. You breathed through your nose. Fireworks exploded in your stomach as you and Luke kissed, pushing each back ever so slightly, but not letting go.

Your other hand went to cup his face fully. Sweet nothings heard here and there as he pulled back for air just to dive back in.

You can’t help but lose yourself in him.

It’s always him.

You can’t help it. When he looks like that, treats you like this and has a reputation of that— you can’ help it.

“Luke…”

“Mm…”

“Hi!” Mr. D shined a flashlight on both of you. His hand on his hip. Luke and you break apart and block the shiny light from your eyes. “So…you both get bathroom duty for…three months—”

Before Mr. D could even dish out punishment, he gasps. He gasps so dramatically you think he sucked all the oxygen from the world.

“I know.” Your dad stated firmly. His flare for dramatics makes you want to roll your eyes. “I know that is not my daughter kissing a boy.”

“Betrayed?”

You exclaim. Your face contorting into disbelief and surprise. You leg stopped bouncing as you stare at your father.

“Yes. Betrayed that my own—” Dionysus feigns his tears. A hand over his heart as if he is going to a parental crisis. “My own daughter!” His voice shaky.

“With all due respect Mr. D—” Luke spoke up.

“I’m not talking to you!” Dionysus exclaimed and crouched to his knees in front of you.

He turns on the fake waterworks. “You’re growing up! Which means…you’ll be discovering things that make you—”

Luke and you cringe. “Dad!” You cried out, disgusted with what he was trying to imply. Mr. D’s act drops. He stood up and leaned on his table. “Look, you two are young and Chiron was telling me to man up and have like a sex talk—”

“Dad!” You stood up, grabbing Luke’s hand. You storm out of there, listening to your father yell phrases like “be safe when you’re with him!” or “That’s four–no five months on bathroom duty!”

You face was as red as the strawberries growing in the field. Luke laughed quietly at your embarrassment, though he himself was embarrassed.

“Hey. You heard your father. Be safe with me.” Luke teased and grabbed your waist. He turned you around to face him.

“Luke—please, that was already embarrassing enough.” You spoke flustered.

“So…” Luke dragged out with a small smile. He leaned in towards your face, lips centimeter away from yours. “Next time. We won’t get caught. Can’t suffer another talk again, can we?”

Luke pressed a chaste kiss to your lips.

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