#geiger counter watch

[bestpickme]

5 Best Geiger Counters of 2023

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

i have never felt this uniquely insane about a character <3 i cant get a read on him

[beatriceportinari]

one kind thing i will say abt columbo, it was making me less uneasy in the background of my folding

[crusader-kings]

LET ME SEE IF I UNDERSTAND THIS. THERES AN UPCOMING POST APOCALYPTIC ZOMBIE GAME SET IN MEDIEVAL ERA AND NONE OF YOU TOLD ME?????

[throwing-roses-into-the-abyss]

.

[penroseparticle]

So funny watching reply guys talking about Elon on twitter "Oh everyone is out to get Elon right now" yes because he's easy to get! And he does it in public! People keep painting tunnels on the wall and we all watch him run into them at full speed.

You could roll a golden apple on the floor in front of him labelled "The smartest" and even if the thing was so obviously radioactive it's clicking like a fucking Geiger counter, he would have that shit crammed in his mouth in actual seconds because he has literally infinite hubris and in my opinion the world's most obscene public humiliation kink

[annwrites]

what happened to you?

— pairing: soldier boy x fem!reader

— type: one-shot

— summary: wishing to make amends, ben ends up on your front porch, only to discover he's too late.

— word count: 3,073

— a/n: i have never watched the boys, so i apologize if any of this is inaccurate, or if i've mischaracterized soldier boy. i gathered what i know/implemented in this fic from tribute vids on yt & reading his fandom wiki.

You were his greatest regret.

But not for the reasons you might think. Or, rather, might’ve thought.

As he stands in front of a familiar porch that he hasn’t seen since the mid-forties, listening to wind-chimes softly tinkling in the breeze, and birds chirping in the apple tree out front, he doesn’t feel the sense of calm he’d expected—hoped for. Instead… He’s sure if a Geiger meter were nearby, it’d be playing a symphony.

He takes one measured step up, onto the front porch, and then another, and another, until he’s standing before the front door—his shoes resting over a mat which welcomes him—with a raised fist that wavers.

Perhaps he’s not welcome here.

He shouldn’t be. Not after how he’d left before.

How could he have left like that?

How could he have expected you to react any differently?

You’d been right. He was, and will forever now be, ‘just an empty suit’.

Finally, he knocks, heart hammering away in his chest, knowing he needs to get himself under control. And quickly.

Slowly, the door opens, the storm screen being pushed outward by an elderly man—fine lines crease his tan, weathered face, his silver hair carefully combed to the side, and he dons a light blue button-up, with beige slacks.

His brows furrow. “Can I help you?”

“I… I’m looking for someone. She lived here a long time ago. Do you happen to know a woman by the name of Y/N?”

The man studies him for a moment. “You mean to say you knew my mother, young man?”

Young man… If only.

“You’re…her son.”

He nods. “I am.”

“Is she here, then? Or, do you have her address so I can—”

“She died. Thirteen years ago.”

His world stops spinning.

He had known that there would be a likely chance. A more than likely chance that this was how it would turn out. But he’d needed to come. Had needed to try.

And he was too late.

He swallows thickly. “I—I don’t know if you know who I am—”

The man looks him over once more, then nods. “I know who you are. I used to watch you on our television set. Well, when I could sneak a peak in, that is.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Thinking of it—thought they said you died yourself? Over in Africa or something, wasn’t it?”

Ben shakes his head. “It’s a long story.”

Chris turns his body sideways then, making a beckoning motion with his hand. “Would you like to come inside, Benjamin?”

His heart stutters, and he just stares.

This had been your home. He doesn’t know that he should…

“Would she have wanted that?” He asks doubtfully.

The man sighs. “To tell you the truth, I think she’d have let you in, just the same as me. You came back after all this time, didn’t you? Must count for something. To make amends, maybe. Never did tell us the full story. Either way, it’s my house now, and I say you’re allowed.”

He steps over the threshold.

Ben sits at the dining table that’s next to the kitchen, just on the other side of a high marble counter, flipping through pages of an old photo album—full of memories.

Of you. Your family. Your life.

Meanwhile, Christopher, your eldest son, makes himself busy in the kitchen preparing a fresh pot of coffee.

“I always wanted one of those action figures of you, you know,” he says.

He rummages around in a cabinet for a moment. “Begged and pleaded for one one Christmas. Momma always told me no. Finally, daddy took and sat me down one night and told me if I asked anymore it’d end with a whoopin’. That he and momma had made it clear you were not welcome in our home in any form. So, I knew it was pretty serious, because he never raised a hand to any of us.”

He waves his hand. “I just thought I’d be able to win her over with puppy-dog eyes like always, but she held firm. After that, I stopped asking. Got a different one instead. Forget what it was now.”

He shrugs, pouring a cup of coffee, and then another, returning to the table.

He sets one down before Ben, who’s seated at the head of the table. He takes the chair to his right, groaning as he sits.

“No fun in getting old,” he says with a wink, but Ben doesn’t smile.

He takes a sip of his coffee. “Guess you wouldn’t know much about it, though. Must be strange sometimes, I reckon.”

Ben flips another page of the album, not bothering with touching his mug. “You have no idea.”

He nods. “Oh, I do. The things these kids get up to nowadays…”

He shakes his head. “No sense anymore. I’m just glad momma passed before it got to the point it’s at now. Not knowing who or what they are—men dressin’ as women and vice versa. Would’ve broken her heart to see.”

He sets his mug down. “She and daddy loved this country. To see it in shambles the way it is—after he fought for it on that beach—”

Ben looks at him. “He was at Normandy?”

Chris nods. “Says you never were. That true?”

Ben is quiet for a moment and then he nods. “It is. I got there two weeks later. It was just propaganda. Just like everything else I ever did.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “A lie.”

Chris shakes his head softly, but doesn’t reply.

Ben smiles at a photo of you sitting on the front porch, smiling softly as you hold your swollen belly between your hands.

Chris glances to it. “That was her and me. Eight children… You believe that? I don’t know how they do it.”

“She always wanted a big family,” Ben replies, turning the page.

“By golly if dad didn’t help give her one. Those two were in love as two people can be. They met in Europe, you know? During the war.”

Ben’s head shoots up. “They did?”

Chris nods. “They’d eventually both been put on the same base. She was a nurse, as you know. And the first time he saw her, he said his heart stopped. Said he turned to the guy next to him, pointed to momma and said ‘that woman is going to be my wife’.”

Ben recalls how he had the exact same reaction when he first met you himself. Being left speechless by the kind look in your beautiful eyes.

No one had ever looked at him like that before. He’d wanted so desperately for them to—for his father to—but they hadn’t. Not until you walked into his life, that is.

Chris grins, shrugging. “Said the fella laughed at him. Said she hardly talked to anyone, so she wasn’t going to be talking to him, neither.”

He looks at Ben. “It was after you disappeared, turns out. But he started comin’ in every day to see her. Flowers in-hand. When he could get a hold of some, that is. When he couldn’t, he’d walk miles off-base when he had a weekend pass and would pick bushels of them so he’d have enough before he got another chance to go out. The guys ribbed him for it, but he didn’t care a lick.”

He takes another sip of his coffee. “Just used to say that after he sets eyes on her, she’d never be lonely again.”

“Sounds like he was telling the truth,” Ben replies quietly.

He clear his throat then. “Did she ever…talk about me?”

Christopher grows serious. “Not if she could help it. If you so much as came on the television set or the radio, she’d just quietly tell us: ‘turn it off’. We asked her why, but she’d just shake her head. It was daddy that took me out in the garage one day—they always had us up to somethin’; momma would have the girls in the house cooking, cleaning, sewing, while daddy would have the boys outside with him—while he worked on our old Coupe, and he told me that you were no hero to them. That the men who fought and died on those beaches and battlefields were. And you weren’t that. Said you were just…how’d he say that, again? Empty suit?”

Ben swallows thickly. “I hope you listened to ‘em. Found better idols.”

“Oh, me and my brothers worshiped the ground our old man walked on. Just thought he was the best thing since sliced bread. Thought he knew and could do every and anything. He was a good man. But he’s gone now, too. Was about a year after momma.”

He stares out the window. “He never was the same after she passed. Used to talk about her like she was still here. Would tell us all the time ‘she’ll be back real soon, just had to run to the store’. I think he just couldn’t accept her being gone. Still gives me chills when I think about his last night with us. He looked right at me—we were just sitting on the porch out there enjoying the evening—and tells me ‘I’m going to see your mother tonight’. We found him the next morning in bed, clutching her robe to his chest.”

He sniffles, clearing his throat. “So we put him next to her. He had two plots picked out before they ever even left us. Headstone was ready to go, other than adding in their dates of death.”

Ben looks at him.

“Me and my siblings take turns visiting on the weekends, bringing flowers and telling them about how boring our lives have gotten, while our grandkids are off to college, and getting married, and having babies of their own.”

He smiles wistfully. “My sister, Elizabeth, her granddaughter is named after momma, actually. She’s twenty now. Going to school to become a doctor.”

He shakes his head with a wistful smile. “A doctor.”

He grins, looking at Ben. “Maybe I’ll get my checkups done for free, huh? Medicare only does so much for an old man with a body that’s falling apart.”

Ben wishes he had that problem. But, instead, he’s practically fucking invincible. The Russians had proved that more times than he could count. If an AK-47 being shoved in his mouth as they held down the trigger hadn’t been enough…what would be?

When Ben turns the next page, he stares down at a photo of you hanging laundry on the line.

You’d just been bringing it inside the last time he saw you.

He’d stepped up proudly onto that porch in full regalia—his new suit—a broad smile on his face, and he’d knocked confidently.

You’d called from inside ‘just a moment!’ and he’d breathed in the scent of warm peach cobbler cooling on the windowsill on the other side of the house.

And then you’d opened the door.

And instead of you throwing yourself into his arms and kissing him, smiling at him, or taking his hand in yours as you tugged him inside and into your bedroom, you’d stepped out with furrowed brows.

“You’re here.”

He’d nodded. “Know I’ve been MIA for awhile, but you’ve probably seen on television, or in magazines—”

“What happened to you?”

He had thought, mistakenly, you’d meant after he disappeared from the Army base. When you woke one morning in bed alone, and when you went looking for him, all you found was a broken heart.

“Long story short, sweetheart,” your stomach had turned at that term of endearment rolling off his tongue. “I volunteered for some government testing and now I’m new and improved. The damn hero of the war!”

You’d wrapped your arms around yourself—he hadn’t seen your engagement ring—as you stared up at him.

That previous look of love that you’d had when you gazed up at him at night while he was inside of you was long gone.

“This isn’t you.”

You’d taken a step forward, reaching a hand up, cupping his cheek. “This isn’t the man I fell in love with.”

He’d soured toward you in an instant. First his father and now…

“What, I’m too much for you now?” He’d sneered. “Too much man for you to handle? Well, that’s fine. Because when it comes to women, I have no shortage of them.”

Your eyes had filled with tears.

“It’s like you’re a completely different person,” you’d whispered.

“And for the better,” he’d snapped back. “But that works out just fine. Me being too much, because now? You wouldn’t be nearly enough for a guy like me.”

You’d choked back a sob, cupping a hand over your mouth, the other remaining wrapped around your middle.

He’d wanted to shove a gun in his mouth.

Because the truth was? The ticker-tape parades, the money, and women, and notoriety meant nothing to him.

After receiving further rejection from his father, he’d gone to you. Wanting you to fix it. To make it all better. Just like you had before.

How could he have ever been delusional enough to think a woman like you would ever accept the parody of himself that he’d become?

“Please leave,” you’d choked out. “And don’t come back. I can’t take seeing you wearing that empty suit again.”

He’d flinched. “Believe me, only time you’ll ever see me again will be in the headlines, honey.”

And then he’d walked away, and as he put one foot in front of the other, all he could hear was your heartbroken sobs behind him.

Finally, Ben shuts the photo album, turning to Christopher. “Were her favorite flowers in the end still tulips?”

Chris’ brows had furrowed. “They were.”

Ben had stood. “Can you tell me what cemetery I can find them at?”

After carefully placing a bouquet of white and pink tulips in the vase mounted atop your side of the headstone, Ben kneels down, gripping the top of it while he looks it over.

On your husband’s side is his name—preceded by his Army rank: corporal—and dates of birth and death, as well as those things he’d been, which had meant the most: beloved son, brother, father, grandfather, and husband. And on yours: beloved daughter, mother, grandmother, and wife.

In the middle are two rings, bound together in stone.

He presses a kiss to the top of your headstone, tears slipping down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m sorry it took me so long to find my way back to you. But I’m here now.”

He sniffles. “Maybe you don’t want me to be.”

He glances to your husband. “Maybe neither of you do. And I’d understand that. I just… I have a lot of things I’d like to say. And I’d like for you both to hear them.”

He sits back, looking at your headstone, his arms wrapped loosely around his bent knees—his hand holding his other wrist. “I went to see your son, Chris. He’s a hell of a kid. Told me stories about the two of you. Told me…”

He shakes his head, glancing away. “I know I broke your heart. I knew it that day. I’d just…hoped maybe you’d forget about me. I wasn’t worth remembering. But I’m sure I was around every goddamn corner you turned. On TV, in the paper, on the news, on store shelves.”

He fucking hates himself for it.

“I never deserved any of it. The only thing I ever really wanted was you. And I threw that chance away. For nothing.”

He laughs without humor. “You want to know what happened to me? In the eighties, the woman I thought I loved…” He shakes his head. “I should’ve known even then it was only ever going to be you.”

He sighs. “She betrayed me. My team did. Handed me off to the Russians. And for three decades they…”

He trails off, then starts again. “The things they did…”

He swallows, shaking his head. “At first I tried to hold onto some misguided hope that she’d come for me. And when I finally resigned myself to the fate of knowing that was never going to happen, I lost myself, instead, in you. You were the only thing I had left to hold onto. I had a whole life with you inside my head…”

He’s quiet for a moment, a small, sad smile playing on his lips as he thinks back on it. “A good life,” he says, nodding.

He runs his hand down his face, wiping away tears. “We had a family. A good marriage. I came back to you and I gave it all up just to have you. And it was the best thing I ever did.”

His shoulders begin to shake. “And then they came and woke me up and tore me away from you. And I realized it had never been real. Not for one goddamn second. I can’t…begin to tell you what that did—has done—to me.”

He looks at your headstone with a watery smile. “But to find out that you got everything you ever wanted? Deserved to have?”

He looks to your husband’s headstone. “Thank you for that. For taking care of our girl. For being the man I never was. I’m just glad she found someone worthy of her. Who deserved her. Because we both know I never did. Thank you for fixing what I broke.”

He looks back to you. “I hope to God you never felt guilty for the things you said to me that day. Because you were the only one willing to. I needed to hear them, even if I didn’t want to. That was your last gift to me: a hard truth. So, thank you.”

He stands, kissing your headstone one last time, his hand fingering a picture in his pocket which Christopher had given him before he’d left—he’d said he’d nearly forgotten he’d had it.

Apparently, the kids had found it in your things after you passed—they’d never told your husband: a photo of you sitting on his lap while he smiled softly at you, you smiling meanwhile at the camera, holding a small American flag in your hand, still in your nurse’s uniform.

At least he’ll have some shred of his humanity to hold onto, with that, in what’s to come. The fact you’d held onto it for all those decades… It’d meant a great deal to him.

“I love you,” he whispers, walking away.

For the final time.

[ink-the-artist]

Hello Kitty Geiger counter watch

[abitofren]

okay but what makes Jennifer's Body so good is the fact that it's genuine. it's satire, but it was satire made by people that like horror. it's satire that still remains genuine and true to the genre.

one scene I've been flipping over and over in my head is Jennifer's death scene because I really feel like that perfectly captured exactly what I mean. there's actual fear and horror and gore in this scene, real tension and dread. you know what's about to happen and you can't stop it.

then, the lead member of the band starts singing none other than *867-5309, Jenny* it feels more than appropriate for the tone the movie has taken so far. it's this absurdist sort of satirical humor that uses comedy like a Geiger counter in relation to horror.

but this time, it feels different. there's something darker under the surface. Jennifer is terrified and tied up, the other band members are uneasy and being controlled by the lead singer. they're out alone in the woods. Jennifer is crying and begging and every other band member makes it obvious that they know they're doing something wrong.

the song is used by the leader as a way to sort of distract the band from their unease. they join in, singing along because it makes them feel better about the fact that their victim is about to be slaughtered.

and at the height of the sing-a-long, the lead member of the band brings down his knife and starts stabbing Jennifer over and over. and over. and over. and everyone except him and Jennifer fall silent, horrified by what they are standing witness to.

and it's absurd. it's ridiculous that they all sang an 80s rock song in the middle of a murder. but it's a double edged blade, the attempt at humor during such a dark moment turning the moment even darker as you realized just how fucked up this all is.

the lead member doesn't stop singing and you feel your blood run cold as you watch a young girl die at the hands of someone who's sickeningly obsessed with power and control. he's gleeful, singing this song as he takes Jennifer's life.

so, yeah. Jennifer's Body is satire. but it's satire that wasn't shallow. its satire that didn't shy away from what it was. it's a spitefully written love letter. but a love letter nonetheless.

[theflamingtrash]

GENLOSS THEORY TIME

what if the main cause of all the occurrences in generation loss was caused by some kind of nuclear disaster?

Just hear me out okay?

Evidence 1:

A lot of the Genloss OST has some kinda clicking noise that sounds a lot like a Geiger counter in the back of it, however it's just the songs that can be associated with hetch/showfall and the portal that was on the starting soon of episode 1 (example below)

Evidence 2:

The door that the genloss twitter posted is described as a "submarine or bunker door", ranboo confirmed it's not a submarine, meaning there's a good chance it's some kind of bunker? Why would there be a bunker in generation zero? Some kind of nuclear incident.

Evidence 2.5:

Adding onto that, there was a fallout shelter sign in the trailer for generation 1 episode 2, and it didn't get any further elaboration for it? It's a really weird thing to focus on with no kind of elaboration in the episode at all

Evidence 3:

The dimension doors in episode 1 of TSE are very apocalyptic like, the first door having that weird mysterious noise with it, the red sky in the second one, hell Ranboo described the third, unused door as "getting nuked"

Evidence 4:

Just think about the name "lostfield" for me with the potential of nuclear apocalypse in mind, what's the easiest way to lose a field (probably a town or city tbh), a nuclear explosion of some kind?

Evidence 5:

Apparently large amounts of radiation breaks down and destroys VHS tapes, increasing the rate of generation loss, which Ranboo has actually previously stated he's researched before (however I don't know where the clip is, sorry)

So, what's my current working theory?

So there's the portals that brought us to generation 1, based on the OST for that part of the stream being called "the holding portal" and in the game on the genloss website the red orb behind the dumpster working like a portal. I think that the founder, trying to make one of these portals in lostfield, messed up at some point, and caused some kind of nuclear incident, aka the Lostfield incident, a bunch of VHS's were in Lostfield and they all went through generation loss. They're the VHS' we're watching

I may discover more evidence in the future for this however for now that's all I can think of, so I'll add more as I think of it, and if you've read to here, thanks for reading, it means a lot that you like to listen to my dumb ramblings :D

[cyberneticfallout]

Chapter Eight: The Yao Guai's Visit

Ch 1 - Ch 2 - Ch 3 - Ch 4 - Ch 5 - Ch 6 - Ch 7 - Ch 8 - Ch 9 - Ch 10 - More Coming Soon

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Fem!Reader Summary: The two of you seek shelter for the night, enjoying a brief moment of domesticity before a glowing yao guai stalks through. Tags: Slow burn (and I mean SLOWWW), angst, eventually more smut, language, canon-typical violence, chem/alcohol use, more tags will be added Posted on AO3: Smoothie and The Ghoul Word Count: 1.7k

The two of you manage to find a ramshackle of a home. Sure, half the roof is missing and there’s a gross amount of radroaches but it feels like a haven compared to the risk of sleeping out in the open. Without wasting time, both of you start working - getting rid of the pests and settling into your newfound shelter.

While he gets a fire going in the more open area of the tiny dwelling, you sit on the floor, rummaging through your bag, contemplating what meal to prepare. You had discovered a few packaged meals like Blamco Mac and Cheese, Cram, and InstaMash from the Super Duper Mart. After a bit of consideration, you decide on Cram mac and cheese for tonight's dinner. You can't help but wonder, though - does he still have his taste buds? It's possible for some ghouls to retain some sense of taste. However, if he's been like this for two centuries, it's highly likely that his taste buds may have deteriorated.

You're grateful that those so-called sheriffs didn't confiscate your weapons or any items from your bag. Although you rarely use the pip-boy nowadays, it's handy for monitoring your health status and checking possibly high radiation levels in new areas. Seeing you fiddle with the device, the Ghoul decides to join you, taking a seat beside you as the fire roars into a steady blaze.

“Keep that on you. It will notify us if there’s any sizable mutants nearby.” He commands.

"Aye, aye captain," you half-heartedly salute him as you secure the pip-boy onto your wrist with a click.

Getting up, you make your way to what remains of the kitchen area and start rummaging for any cookware. After some searching, you find a decently sized pot, fill it with a carton of somewhat purified water from your bag, and position it over the fire. As you begin preparing the meal, The Ghoul silently observes, watching as you cut up the Cram into bite-sized pieces and add the macaroni pasta into the now boiling water. There was something so domestic about the whole thing, a rare moment of nostalgia washes over him, reminding him of a time when such simple comforts were more than just a distant dream.

After some time passes, you manage to create a modest dinner for the two of you. The effort you put into the meal is a bit surprising, but it's a welcome change from the usual scavenged scraps. The scent of the food wafting through the air adds a touch of comfort to the desolate surroundings.

"It’s too bad you can’t smell this," you joke as you hand him a serving with a bent spoon and an intact bowl you found. "I’m hoping you can at least somewhat taste it?"

With a glare, he quickly devours everything in the bowl before setting it down, offering a nod in your direction. He then leans against the nearby wall, the weight of the day's chaos settling between you. The silence that follows is a welcomed break, allowing you both to catch your breath and collect your thoughts. But as the quiet lingers, the unanswered questions from the day's events weigh heavily on your mind.

"What did that guy mean when he said you’re still looking for her?" you ask quietly, taking a bite of food.

"None of your damn business, Smoothie," he retorts, his tone sharp and guarded.

"Is it a wife or somethin'?" you press, unable to shake off your curiosity.

"If you don’t drop the subject, then I will shoot you," he warns, pulling his hat down to cover his eyes. Just as you're about to argue, the geiger counter on your pip-boy starts going off, the sound cutting through the tense atmosphere. The Ghoul looks up at you, alarmed, and rushes to put out the fire. As you stand up and look around for any sign of what could be causing the disturbance, you feel a sudden grip on your arm as he pulls you towards the wall, pressing you against it and covering your mouth with one of his hands.

“Shut the damn thing off,” he whispers urgently to you. You hastily flick through the device and manage to turn off the geiger counter, the sudden silence amplifying the tension in the room.

As you stand frozen against the wall, a hand tightly gripping your waist and another muffling your frightened gasps, he silences you with a shushing motion. The sound of a deep, rumbling growl resonates ominously from the other side of the wall, causing your heart to pound with such intensity that you fear the creature on the other side will hear it.

Desperate for any distraction, your eyes dart towards the nearby window, revealing a glowing yao guai leisurely strolling around the building. His gaze locks onto you, his eyes filled with intensity, as if he can sense the frantic rhythm of your racing pulse beneath your skin. His touch momentarily rubs circle on your waist, but he withdraws abruptly, as though realizing the inappropriateness of the gesture.

Gradually, the footsteps of the yao guai fade into the distance. The Ghoul slowly removes his hand from your mouth, and for a few lingering moments, the two of you simply gaze into each other's eyes. Overwhelmed by a surge of unexpected courage, you reach out and gently caress his cheek, feeling the rough yet surprisingly smooth texture of his scarred skin. Drawing closer, your lips tenderly brush against his.

"You don't want this, sweetheart," he murmurs softly, his words barely grazing your lips.

"And how could you possibly know what I want?" you challenge.

A mischievous smirk dances across his face as he leans in, his breath warm against your skin. "Well, considerin’ you keep referrin’ to me as 'beef jerky,' I'm inclined to believe that most people don't fantasize about dried meat."

"Maybe I do," you assert, the words barely a whisper as you close the gap between you two with a soft kiss. You can sense his hesitation as your part, a subtle tension in his body as he grapples with his own conflicting emotions. In a sudden, bold move, he leans in, capturing your lips with a hunger that takes you by surprise. A low, guttural moan escapes from his mouth, blending with your own as the kiss deepens.

His hand comes up to tug you towards him from the back of your head, intensifying the contact between you. The sensation almost leaves you breathless, eliciting a gasp that mingles with the shared breath between you. You bite his lower lip, a mix of playful teasing and unbridled longing in the gesture. He responds with a deep groan, the sound sending a thrill through you as he presses his hips into yours, the bulge of his arousal evident.

Your heart races as your hands glide down his neck, delicately tracing the contours of his skin. Your touch remains gentle and exploratory as your fingers nimbly unbutton his shirt, slipping beneath the fabric to reach his chest. Tracing the intricate patterns of his skin with care, you relish the intimacy of the moment. He twitches underneath your touch, his bare chest feeling the caress as if for the first time in ages.

Suddenly, he pulls back, his hand gripping your neck and pushing you away forcefully. He stares at you, his grip firm and unyielding. You're left wondering what caused him to snap. Could it have been because you touched his bare skin? You notice his expression shifts from intensity to a hint of vulnerability. His hand slowly releases its grip on your neck, and he takes a step back, creating a distance between you.

Stunned by the sudden denial, you watch as The Ghoul walks away and settles against the opposing wall. With crossed arms and a resigned posture, he leans his head back, uttering a soft “G’night” that hangs in the air like a final farewell to the intense moment you both shared.

Feeling a mix of emotions, you slide down the wall on your side of the room, your breath still heavy and your skin slightly damp with sweat. As you sit there, processing the abrupt end to the passionate encounter, you can't help but feel an anxious pang of rejection. The feeling begins gnawing at you, a heavy ache in your chest that lingers.

The morning sun finds you both silent and tense, caught in the aftermath of the previous night. The air between you is thick, filled with unsaid words and unaddressed feelings. Neither of you managed a good night's sleep, the discomfort of the cold, hard floor only a minor nuisance compared to the war within your minds.

As you both go about packing your things, each movement seems to echo loudly in the silence, punctuating the awkwardness that has settled between you. Neither of you dares to meet the other's gaze, the memory of the stolen kiss lingering in the air like a ghost.

In hindsight, kissing him was a foolish decision. You barely know him, and the little you do know paints him more as an uncompromising brute than a potential romantic interest. Despite the brief moments of camaraderie, he's been a prickly, distant companion for the most part. You find yourself questioning your actions, the taste of regret bitter on your tongue.

“So what’s the plan?” You attempt to lighten the mood, “Seems like we’re not after a head anymore.”

“We’re tracking a woman by the name of Moldaver. That's where the head is goin’,” he responds.

"Flame Mother…" you muse aloud, "I wonder what her deal is."

"I find myself askin’ the same about you," he murmurs almost inaudibly.

With an eye roll, you sling your bag over your shoulder, then give him a nod to signal that you're ready to hit the road. The Ghoul briefly mentions a letter he found on one of the men he shot up in Filly that references Moldaver. He believes that the same man was the son of an old associate of his, and that's where the two of you are headed - a long journey ahead. You take a deep breath, activate your pip-boy, and lock eyes with him. "Let's do this, beef jerky.”

Tag List: @fallout-girl219 @ellabellabunny123 @sunnexaltation @coolrobloxkid28 @cheshirecat484 @capan-deveraux2 @rebelmarylou

[preservationofnormalcy]

Hey, glowing ball of light on my yard. Not normal. No physical presence. Do you guys need to get out here or should I just wait it out?

It's just light energy. Seemingly sunlight. Mostly a nuisance, it's not burning anything. Just a bright ball. I tried to cover it but the tarp just kinda went through it. So yeah. Or of ideas other than "build a box around it".

Hm, sunlight. I’d be careful, sunlight is nothing if not the byproduct of a massive nuclear reaction. I’d keep your distance and watch the grass or plants nearby. If it seems okay, it might be safe enough to go near it. Still be careful. If you’ve got a Geiger counter handy (and everyone should!) test it out.

We’ll send someone out, but in the meantime, you might feel it necessary to, yes, build a box around it. But not just any box. You’re going to want to get copper mesh and construct a faraday cage. It’s actually sold as a pest control tool, but you can use it as an apotropiac in a pinch!

You’d be surprised how often faraday cages work. In this cage you can probably just put a table under it and line a cardboard box in the mesh, then put it over top. Or failing that, put it on your windows.

I need to find the pamphlet I made ages ago. Apotropiacs And You: Protection 101! Jenny, can you —

[ralfmaximus]

Found some extremely spicy Fiestaware at the thrift store. It hit 9000 CPM and was accelerating when I gave up. Normal background radiation is between 18 and 23 CPM.

Also, WE didn't find it. A couple of teen boys were walking past us and I overheard one say, "man I wish I had a geiger counter."

I stopped them, held up my geiger counter and said, "a geiger counter you say?"

They just about fell over. We ran to the table with the suspected radioactive dishes and sure enough, the geiger counter proved them right. Good eye for the radioactives, kid.

They ended up buying a few pieces and we notified the thrift store employees to put it away so nobody would accidentally buy the pretty red plates for daily use.

Meanwhile the grandmom is watching nervously, asking "is that really radiation? is it safe? how do I explain this to my daughter??"

[sweetie-peaches]

No one talks about how fucked up the air of purgatory is, what with all the disasters and radiation, if you took a Geiger counter to that island it might explode

Tubbos hybrid features move more into the realm of horror as purgatory continues. The deadly air of purgatory mutates him, to the point where it’s hard to tell where he started

his shapeshifter genes trying to adapt to the weather and climate but can’t because of its rapid changes, ending up changing him, amplified by his own fear, paranoia, and constantly changing attachments.

I can’t describe it cause I’m shitty at writing body horror, but horns breaking through his head only to fall off, multiple at once, crowding against each other because of his need to feel safe, to protect himself

His skin splits as eyes open, they follow the lightning scars on his face. Old tissue ripped open again as he shifts and mutates to satisfy the need to always be vigil, always alert

Sharpened nails grow under his fingernails, pushing them up and off, tearing away the sensitive flesh underneath them, so he can scratch his way to victory, if it’s even in sight. Even as he tries a diplomatic approach the claws are still there, still gleaming and slick with blood

Boney masses break through the skin of his ankles, what could’ve been the structure of wings, missing their feathers, stained pink with blood, just as quick to fall away

The skin of his lips and mouth tear to make room for sharp teeth that are soft and lack any real bite, gums stringing apart

The of fear on his team mates faces that they try to hide, or the pity, watching his transformations. Hybrid features fall away, or pierce through skin again. There’s always so, so much blood.

Think of the dogs of Chernobyl, changed forever. Mutated but still the same

Think of canaries, changed in odd ways to meet with the demands of human breeding

Tubbo is mutated but still the same, as hybrid features grown and fall away, he’s still the same. He promises he’s still the fucking same.

[therobotmonster]

What do you say to the one who killed Ceasar?

Corruption? Infighting? Communications breakdowns?

That aint' how it happened and that ain't how it is.

Pass me a sarsaparilla and I'll tell you how it happened and how it is.

After stamping westward like the vicious cattle they carried as their symbol, Caesar's Legion found New Vegas their downfall. Their martial prowess and seemingly endless numbers found in that place their nemesis, in the classical sense.

They found the Courier.

They didn't know what they found at first. The initial wound was shocking but not unthinkable. Vulpes Inculta went out to make an example of a local settlement called Nipton and never came back. The scouts that went looking for him found a their staging camp slaughtered. Landmines had been put in their sleeping bags. Their watchman was found in pieces.

Every scrap of clothing and equipment was gone. So it was chalked up to raiders. Patrols increased and the Legion moved on.

The loss of Vulpes Inculta's forces was a tiny cut, but a tiny cut can kill if infection sets in. The slaves at Cottonwood cove escaped, though no one could explain how. The Great Khans turned on Ceasar's Legion, somehow seeing through the Legion's plan for them. The prison break that kept the NCR off-balance just... stopped.

Weeks later, the forces at Cottonwood Cove sickened. By the time they found out their camp was contaminated with nuclear waste they were already dead. Their abhorrence of technology meant they had neither the Geiger counters nor the radaway to save themselves.

Prepared caravaners found Aurelius of Phoenix's wasted corpse, bald, covered in radiation burns, withered to a radioactive husk. He was staring up at one of the locals he'd ordered crucified. On his desk was a note saying "I did this. Signed, the Courier. XXXOOO" right next to a pile of human waste with Aurelius's helmet on it.

Enraged, Edward Sallow, the man calling himself Caesar, sent his assassins after the Courier. A squad of four, his second finest men. Then his finest four men. Then his third finest, and his forth. He'd sent his fifth squad before the one of them, the second batch, was found. They were stripped naked, their sun-baked corpses posed humiliatingly in acts of mock-coitus.

The scouts reported dutifully that the squad leader was found sitting atop his own head. The scouts didn't think their commanders needed to know how far down he was sitting.

Sallow watched the reports come in as this phantom cut through his men not with ruthless efficiency, but what appeared to be intentional ruthless inefficiency. The Courier wandered lazily from Legion outpost to Legion outpost without regard to strategy. The NCR would fight with a plan that could be anticipated. They wanted territory, they wanted resources.

As far as Sallow could tell, the Courier just wanted him to suffer.

Nelson's occupation ended in a hail of molotov cocktails and sniper fire. The plot to destroy the monorail ended on the knuckles of a Brotherhood scribe's power fist. As to Dry Wells, and the massive Legion Reinforcements there?

The mushroom cloud rendered a scouts' report moot.

No one really believed that Sallow was stupid enough to invite the courier to his camp. According to the legend, however, that's what he did, thinking he could sway the Courier to his own side with promises of power and wealth.

The legend goes on that the Courier and a vengeful NCR ranger walked in through the gates as welcome guests, only to murder the forces there to the last man. Sallow died, they say, begging. The Courier butchered him with his honor guard's machete, just like the livestock he chose as his symbol.

Sallow, it seems, had been right about what the Courier wanted.

That's pure myth-making, of course. The idea that an itinerant hero hopped up on chems and a vengeful NCR sniper could kill their way through an entire, alerted camp on their own is absurd, power armor or not. It was an obvious coup by Legate Lannius that he blamed on the Courier. It did him little good, as he ruled the Legion for mere weeks before the second battle of Hoover Dam.

Barely literate raiders in football pads and machetes do not fare well against against Vertibirds and Securitrons, it turns out.

They say that it ended there. With the heads chopped off the proverbial brahmin, the Legion crumbled from a collapse of leadership and operational control, with rival raiders, the NCR, and slave uprisings killing their 'empire' via a thousand cuts. That's the official story.

That's a bigger pile of crap than the one on the Aurelius's desk. The cut that killed the Legion was Nipton and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. The few survivors of the Legion's Hoover Dam forces thought the Courier would stay in their neon kingdom.

They did not.

They marched East, the Courier and their warriors: Arcade Ganon the Doctor of the Apocalypse, Lily the Nightkin who they call Shadow of Death, the Ghoul Gunslinger Raul who never misses, the Sniper Boone who never forgives, Veronica the fallen scribe, and Rose Cassidy? She's just plain ornery. They marched with a squad of twenty Securitrons at their back and an army of silent, deadly ghosts.

They marched through Arizona, severing Pheonix from settlement after settlement, starving the great bull before descending upon it. When Pheonix fell, they didn't stop. I know because that's how I'm free today. I know how Ceasar's Legion died. I saw one of its deaths with my own eyes in my own village.

When each Legion settlement falls, as the red-bull banners burn atop the naked corpses of those legionaries who make the same mistake Vulpes Inculta made so long ago and far away, the captured slavers that call themselves an empire are gathered in a line leading to the Courier's tent.

Each one is brought, in turn, to the Courier. They stand, a growling half-robot dog at their left hand, a laser-wielding eyebot at their right, as the ex-legionary is commanded to kneel. They obey, as the command comes from behind them. There stands Boone, a gun once belonging to Joshua Graham in his right hand.

There's a moment of silence. Just as the first beads of sweat begin to roll down the prisoner's face, the courier pulls up not a machete, nor a gun, but a simple wooden sign.

"Say it." The courier says-

-and listens for the wrong answer.

[markrosewater]

Where can I voice my official preference for Universes Within?

I don't recall seeing any polls or questions in the regular surveys. I try to respond to all of them.

Universes Beyond hurts my brain. I don't want to play Gambit, Gambler Ninja when my opponent's Nuclear Shelter enters and gives me 3 Geiger Counters. Particularly after Frodo has been Tempted by the ring but had to chump block a Tyranid King. Frodo died but was exiled instead by the Flying Saucer's Anti-Grav beam. Jace watched, baffled, as Megatron argued with Dr. Malcolm about the insignificance of human life.

Please help me. Give me a choice or a voice?

Magic is a game where you craft your own deck. There are over 25,000 cards to choose from that aren't Universes Beyond. The idea that every mechanical design has to live on an in-universe concepted card is, both, simply not feasible, and not something the vast majority of Magic players feels is a necessity.