#Mailings Tab

[bruhstation]

can't it even be more obvious thomas. why are you surprised that a sudrian historical site filled to the brim with armor and weaponry that dates back to the middle ages has old people afflicted with the gold dust working around the castle

[buwheal]

Hey Spamton, how are Pipis created?

[glitch1997]

Finally got around to doing...

This thing!:D

I sorta feel like it's a "requirement" for those with Addison characters lol

And hey, you get to see them as non-humans

My favorite is probably White- and HEY! HEEEY... it's not because of the Spamton brainrot. I just really like the art. Yeah, it's cuz of that. Definitely.

And I know Yellow doesn't actually sell anything in the overworld, but I like to imagine Tabsley would sell game stuff, like consoles, controllers, etc.

[skunkes]

it sounds counterintuitive, but project zomboid genuinely is a good life sim/farming game, and having to fight to create a cozy atmosphere makes it so much more worth it

I actually agree with u on this 99%, i like the art style/grafics, I've seen lots and lots of gameplay i like that theres so much u can do!! Unfortunately i tried playing it once and got so fucking terrified i was just frozen in fear in the building i was in 😭 LMAO. BUT I LOVE IT SO MUCH IN THEORY. I wish i wasnt squared maybe ill try again soon

[upontherisers]

❛ are you wearing my shirt? ❜ for Dora and Rosie . for legal reasons

a/n: this took so long babe my apologizes. cari write established relationship or draw 25 challenge. i'm drawing 25.

It’s hot in the sun, gloriously hot, the kind of hot that seeps right through her bones, the kind that makes her feel like she has dissolved and diffused into the air. The kind that sings her to sleep without any sound, that makes burning feel like a hug, the kind her mother would chase her out of on the grounds of too dark and wrinkles. Sorry, Mama. I’ve always loved the light. The kind of hot that needs no wind, no umbrella, no shade at all – just the clear sky overhead and the laughter of children splashing in the fire hydrant on the street below, shrieking and shouting and ignoring their parents as is their right on such a perfect day. 

The kind of hot that makes her sleepy without ever being tired first and she’s already napped today – Pastor had asked after her absence and Grammy, a quick thinker, had pardoned her granddaughter’s absence. A summer cold, you know how those get. And she has things to do – bring her laundry off the line after forgetting for two days and darn a stocking and do her readings for class tomorrow and review a radio contract offer for the picket – but it’s the kind of hot that absolves her of guilt and the day is about indulgences, isn’t it? She’s sunbathing on her roof, for Pete’s sake.

Besides, Robert’ll wake her up before it gets too late.

She cracks an eye open to look at him seated on the blanket beside her, engrossed in a newspaper. It’s tough to make out the date on the front page as it bends into shadow, but the breeze does her a favor. July 7th, 1943. It’s two weeks old but he’s reading like it’s December 8th, 1941, like he’s going to do something about what he’s seeing. You’re in it now, aren’t you?

“They don’t give you newspapers in Texas?”

His eyes, brilliant blue, as blue as the sky above, meet hers over the headline – 6 JAPANESE WARSHIPS BELIEVED SUNK IN FIGHT, and those crinkles in the corners remind her of the day they met, her confusion over Mildred’s forlorn pining when she learned where Dora had been assigned. Oh, I wanted that desk. And then he walked in and offered a hand and smiled and if she were a different woman – ambitious, romantic, concerned with station, she would’ve gloated. But Dora was new and Robert had only just started and they both needed to see who they’d turn out to be, legal secretary and lawyer.

“They give us Texas papers in Texas.”

“And they don’t have the news?”

He blinks and sets that pesky left brow. “Not the backpages stuff. Nothing about New York.”

“I can send them to you,” she says, “if you want to keep up. They’ll be a week behind but—”

“Do you read ‘em?”

“Yes,” she does, and her panic about welcoming him back into the apartment by daylight is that he’d be able to see the pile stacked on top of the piano, in reach when she’s tucked into the nook of the front window. The ones she managed to fish out of the bottom and shove into the broom closet before he finished giving himself the tour were from March and she doesn’t know when that started, but it surely wasn’t good. Just another thing to add to the list of things he made her look twice at – shoes, streetlights, and newspapers. She could at least get the Great Paper Purge done today. 

The corner of his mouth lifts, the one Mildred swoons over, he snaps the pages upright again. “I’d rather have your summaries. They’re a little more uplifting.”

She’d fret over yet another assignment getting put down in writing if it weren’t for the sun, for the warm stone under the blanket as she rolls onto her stomach, if it weren’t for the reminder that she’s as alive as anything, and she really needed this, didn’t she? She doesn’t know how he knew, but the sun tells her not to get herself into a tizzy over that either, and she slumps into the pillow beneath her chin, checking her watch – 1 o’clock. An hour won’t hurt. She’d pop up at two, take her laundry down, fix her stocking, then bring her books to the roof. Dinner will have to be sorted eventually, but her eyelids are so very heavy and as Robert hums along to Mr. Delaney cranking his car radio all the way up at the end of the block, she feels like she’s floating in water, indistinguishable from the air around her. 

Hell, they can walk to Dean St. and Robert can pay for dinner at Cal’s with his big fancy Air Force salary. She sleeps.

Dora doesn’t snore so much as huff, little bursts of air puffing through her lips with every exhale. It’s sweet, leisurely, and relieving that she doesn’t have to sleep like she’s desperate for it. Shades of the bone-tired woman he had coffee with a week ago still remain – her bleary, addled amazement as her younger sister gleefully announced his arrival at their grandparents’ brownstone, her gentle slump in his passenger’s seat as she quietly watched the city pass by – but she has her light back, the glow that pushes from her as she finds him a file, chats with Mildred and Bob over lunch, sheepishly hops up on stage to play with the Putman house band, and rests here on her building’s roof. 

He abandons his article about illness threats to women factory workers – interesting how the men on the line next to them don’t face the same risk – to watch her for a while. It’s strange that she’s here now, in front of him, after so many months of wanting to see her, of writing down stories that would be easier to tell in person, of picking white and yellow wildflowers on the side of the runway in Tennessee and wishing he could tuck them behind her ear and watch her smile, bright, blinding. He thinks of her more than he knows what to do with. 

Her face is turned toward him, brushed gold by the sun beating down over her round cheek and slight chin, the oval of her pink mouth, the heart of her Cupid’s bow. He’d kissed that beautiful, wide, flat nose, and brushed his thumb indulgently over her soft skin under the cover of night, but the light reveals the best of her. The small of her back, a heart-freckle on her shoulder, the curve of her spine – he wants to touch.

Hesitantly, he traces a knuckle over her shoulder blade and she stirs, but doesn’t wake. One finger, then another, then the rest, then his palm and he listens to her breathing as he rubs her back. It manages to be musical, like everything about her, as it matches the pace of the horns popping in and out of the Crosby tune floating up from the street. With our full crew aboard and our trust in the Lord, comin’ in on a wing and a prayer. He’s never been a fan of Crosby – crooners are killing the art of big band – but he doesn’t sound half bad when Robert can watch Dora’s lashes flutter as she stretches out on the plush, striped wool under them.

What’re you gonna do about that girl, his mother had asked him as he left this morning. 

Jeannie laughed from their dining table. Something stupid.

Something helpful, he insisted. 

Something helpful.

He stops rubbing her back before he really does something stupid – brush away the hair falling into her eyes, feel the freckle on her shoulder with his teeth – and pulls out the note he’d written as she was making them lemonade. Be right back. Standing, he discards his unbuttoned shirt, leaves the note on top, and grabs his edition of the Times before descending the fire escape ladder at the back of the building and slipping into Dora’s apartment. It takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust, but as soon as he regains his bearings, he gets to work.

Kitchen first. There’s not much to do; he sweeps, collects the sugar that had spilled on the counter, discards the empty lemon rinds, and washes the dishes in the sink. He picks up around the living room, scooping fallen petals from the purple flowers in her windowsill, placing stray records back in their sleeves – not without putting Benny Goodman on first, and he’s in the middle of organizing the newspapers on top of the piano when he flips through a May edition on a whim and his eyes catch black ink in the margins, two words hastily scrawled next to a small article. For Robert. The headline circled, $3,629,000 FOR REFUGEES; Jewish Relief Unit Appropriates Funds. 

He remembers this. She’d written him about it along with assurances that the new Jewish families in the neighborhood were adjusting well. Her Yiddish is rudimentary, her German sparse, and her Polish non-existent, but she made sure to greet them all with a smile when passing by on the street or the bus, and she’d joined an antifascist coalition with her grandparents that had seen her speak in front of jeering crowds at borough council meetings and counter protesters at aid rallies. But they don’t bother me, she wrote.

That’s Dora, kind and fierce. She’s going to make a damn fine lawyer. 

There are a few more of her notes as he skims through the papers and leaves them on top of the piano. He tidies the worn cushions in her window sill and it brings him no small amount of peace to picture her reading there with her legs curled under her, basking in the sun during the day and aglow with warm lamplight at night. 

He goes to look for a duster for the piano and gets lost reshuffling her broom closet for half an hour.

This wasn’t the plan. The plan was to pick her up in Harlem, change into their bathing suits here, and spend the afternoon on Coney Island before coming back to Brooklyn and getting ready for an early dinner at Rosetti’s followed by a show on Broadway. The tickets, nervously purchased over the phone yesterday evening while Jeannie cried with silent laughter and picked up as he drove through Manhattan this morning, sit above him next to Dora in the front pocket of his shirt. They can wait there until Germany surrenders for all he cares, as long as she sleeps in peace. There’s no use in running around the city if she can’t wake up with a lighter heart tomorrow. 

He’s not blaming anyone – there’s a war on – but he likes to think that if he were home, he wouldn’t have let her work herself into the ground. Surely someone had noticed the shadows growing under her eyes, her smile fading as the days went. How could they live without it?

And selfishly, he wanted one last look. Dora had circled the numbers in the papers; twelve bombers lost, fifteen, seventeen, twenty. Whatever that meant for him, a homecoming or a gold star in his mother’s window, he wants to remember what he’s fighting for. His older sister’s incessant teasing; the joy in Mrs. Schuman’s voice when he enters her bagel shop – her son Robert, also a lieutenant, didn’t make it off Guadalcanal; and the way Dora’s little brother protests that he doesn’t need her to adjust his hair and his tie before he goes to lunch at his sweetheart’s place but still lets her kiss his cheek on her way out the door. He’s fighting so that Darren doesn’t have to, so that Jews and Poles and the French get to kiss their little brothers’ cheeks, too, out from under the boot of authoritarianism.

A pair of gloves fall from a high shelf and hit him in the forehead. The Benny Goodman record has ended, and he places the gloves in a box marked WINTER before heading back out into the apartment. One of Dora’s shirts snaps in the breeze through the kitchen window. Laundry, right.

Dora rouses gradually, laying with her eyes closed for a few moments before she notices the quiet, no more children laughing or the radio playing. Rolling over, she opens her eyes. The sun is further across the sky than she’d thought it’d be, and she sits up with a start as she checks her watch – 4:30. Shit, shit, shit. She hops to her feet and sees that Robert isn’t beside her, a note left atop his shirt in his neat, even hand. Be right back. She’ll meet him downstairs; she needs to get out of the heat and get to work.

A cool wind blows, making her shiver and she throws Robert’s shirt on, which matches the light blue of her bathing suit, and her stomach does a funny wiggle. They used to show up to the office in the same colors weekly – it’s nice to know that some things don’t change.

The fabric is soft, well-loved, and as she runs her hands down it, her fingers catch on something in the breast pocket. Looking down, she sees two thin strips tucked in the fabric, and fishing them out, she rubs the sleep out of her eyes to read the print.

Broadhurst Theatre. 44th St. Evening - Sunday. E 19.

Robert Rosenthal, you didn’t.

She yanks the blanket from the ground, grabs the lemonade pitcher, and throws on her shoes – interior soles burning after hours baking in the heat – before leaping down the ladder and taking the stairs two at a time. He’s wide-eyed at her sudden entrance, holding one of her work blouses as she pushes through the window, slightly woozy at the green tinge everything takes coming out of the sun. They’re both frozen for a moment.

“Did you buy these?”

“Are you wearing my shirt?”

“I asked first,” she says, holding out the tickets.

There goes that damn dimple as he smiles softly, not helping slow her heart hammering in her chest. “I, uh, I got us a dinner reservation at Rosetti’s, too.” He folds her blouse over a bare forearm and she’s hit with so many thoughts at once – she doesn’t have anything to wear to the theater; he’s not wearing a shirt and she can see the firm muscle of his stomach and the arch of his hip bones; he’s doing her laundry, brassieres included; she still has to do her readings; he’s not wearing a shirt – that she starts to laugh, heaving, side-splitting guffaws. Of course he did.

This is what he does – waltzes into her life, shows her just how good it can be, just how kind the world can get, then leaves and she’s a better, lonelier person for it. Here he is, in her dead parents’ home, doing her laundry because she couldn’t manage, telling her he planned a night for them, that he chose her over a Yankees’ game or a show at Minton’s or simply an evening in with his darling mother, and he’ll be gone in three days, off to be a shield against evil, off to save the world after watching her nearly fall asleep on her feet in a dirty kitchen and still deciding to come back for her.

She laughs until she wheezes, until she’s folded over and her abdomen cramps, until there are tears in her eyes and she doesn’t know if she’s happy or heartbroken. 

“Dora.” He’s in front of her now, smelling of heat and leather and chlorine like he got the Bab-O out from under her sink.

“What have you done?” she asks as she stands and wipes her eyes. And here she was thinking they might get dinner at Cal’s.

His face falls, eyes turning big and sad like a kicked puppy, his dark brows furrow, and it nearly sends her into another fit but she manages to stay upright. “We don’t have to go if—I thought that—”

She shakes her head vigorously and reaches up to hold his cheeks, his stupid, perfect cheeks. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

His smile is so bright that it beats the sun outside and she gets lucky with where her fingertips have landed because those glorious laugh lines find themselves where she can touch them. He turns his head just so and squints as if he’s listening to a good song and steps into her, setting his hands on her hips. 

This is where they kiss in the pictures, and the thought is so laughable that she chuckles aloud before throwing her arms around his shoulders as his slip around her waist. It’s warm, not sunbathing warm, but good all the same.

“Thank you,” she murmurs in his ear. Tears bite at her eyes.

“You deserve it,” he says.

They stay in an embrace until she realizes that she still doesn’t have anything to wear and they have to get all the way to Midtown in traffic. She stands back with a sniff. “I need to borrow a dress from Jeannie.”

[age-of-moonknight]

love ur blog!!! so curious how you keep up with every new moon knight and even just moon knight adjacent comic, do you get notified from somewhere/thing or do you just read all new comics 😂

Thank you for sending in an ask and I'm so glad you enjoy this blog! :D As for how I keep up with comics, 😅 well uuuuuuh

but no, in all seriousness hahaha, I'm not quite the most well-informed comic reader out there, as there are plenty of fans who are far more attuned to upcoming solicits, while I tend to let myself be surprised week to week (perhaps why I was late to Moon Squire's official debut by a several months hahaha). I usually start with the Marvel wiki, though. I poke around in the "Appearances" and "Minor Appearances" sections for the characters I'm interested in to see what issues they show up in, read those issues, and then get an idea of what sort of series they're involved in. I'll also use the more general search function to investigate related characters or non-616 "variants." I'll branch out from there to whatever other fan sources I can dig up to see if I missed anything. Then it's just a weekly thing! I check what issues are dropping each Wednesday, particularly keeping an eye out for the monthly releases of ongoing series I'm tracking (which btw MOON KNIGHT: FIST OF KHONSHU VOL. 2 THIS WEDNESDAY LET'S GOOOOO), but I'll also skim through anything I think might be interesting or looks promising. Then throughout the week I will occasionally refresh those "Appearances" pages on the Marvel wiki to catch any late updates or cameos I completely did not foresee happening. Personally though, I only track that closely for the characters I have read every appearance of and would like to stay caught up on (e.g. Moon Knight, 616!Peter Parker, Kaine, Robbie Reyes, and someday, SOMEDAY I'll get caught up on Man-Thing comics too).

So yeah, my process, if you can call it that, doesn't involve any sort of notifications, I just have,,,,,Many tabs open in a designated "comics" section that I frequently refresh hahaha

[written-in-the-stars135]

chain mail!

this took hours of practice and preparation and but here it is!

[marmalade-draws]

I also LOVE analog horror!!! What’s your fave series? (And why, if you feel like u wanna explain)

Ooooh picking a favorite is so hard!!

Gemini Home Entertainment scratches so many of my itches, from the woodcrawlers to the living planet iris. It's such a shame the creator's computer exploded because the most recent mainline episode is everything I love about cosmic and analog horror

I'm obsessed with Mandela Catalogue's take on mimicry/doppelgängers and with the rewriting of a major religion from the perspective of the devil

I love Vita Carnis for the use of practical effects, it reminds me of the love I have for John Carpenter's The Thing

SPEAKING OF THE THING Greylock's most recent tape has some of the most impressive VFX I've seen in an internet horror series (iykyk)

And most recently I watched the Walten Files and man that one is just tragic as all hell

Out of all of these I would have to say Gemini is my favorite simply because it hits so many of my horror turn ons, but it really is hard to choose just one.

EDIT: I FORGOT POSSIBLY IN MICHIGAN I ADORE THAT SHORT FILM

[tmos-time]

broke: do seadwellers wear seashells

Woke: does Eridan wear seashells

its certainly possible!

[snailsdraw]

HELLO! i have a super soft spot for your darnold doodles! how about darnold and sasha with tommy?

yes >B) wouldn't pass up an opportunity to draw tommy (and also thank you!)

[Start ID: 7 pages of HLVRAI doodles following an interaction between Darnold and Tommy at the Aux Coolant Tank.

Darnold and Bubby are standing along the edge of the coolant tank, figuring out their next move as Gordon speaks to Benrey somewhere beside them: "Ye-apparently this is something we have to do. There's no other exit." Tommy surfaces from the water and swims back to haul himself out of the tank onto the platform next to Darnold while Bubby decides to take a dive. Darnold offers a hand to help Tommy up, but Tommy doesn't see it as he picks himself up. "Darnold, I found-" Tommy begins, clapping his hands excitedly as he looks out over the tank, "I found a good, this is a good place for Sasha. Look!"

Tommy spreads his arms out to the wide expanse of water in the tank before them: "There's so much water in here! It's as wet as the Mississippi in, uh, April. She'll be really happy here!" Darnold, however, looks hesitant: "Mm…I'm not sure…" "It's very safe down there," Tommy reassures him, taking off his propeller cap and tapping the water out of it, "The OSHA guidelines dictate that there's only, there can only be one Ichthyosaur per coolant system, and I've already- I took care of it, so-" "Guh! Oh god, what is that??" Darnold exclaims suddenly, finger pointed towards the tank. A huge shape emerges from the depths, revealing its spiney back and fish-like tail before diving back under.

Tommy pulls out a shark tranquiliser gun - a crossbow armed with a tranquiliser dart - and fires it at the retreating Ichthysosaur before it is fully out of sight. Darnold immediately throws a hand over Sasha's face, the Gubb still in her makeshift sling, to prevent her from seeing it when the hit lands. The curious little Gubb peeks her head out from behind his hand regardless to take a look. "…That's one too many Ichthyosaurs. I don't think they read the manual at all," Tommy says disappointedly, putting his propeller cap back on. He then continues: "It's all okay now, Darnold. We can let her go free, and-" Darnold still looks unconvinced: "I…I dunno. This still doesn't feel like the right place."

Helpfully, Tommy goes: "Oh! But it checks all your boxes, Darnold! The water is, is clean and free of…of dangerous creatures. She'll have a lot of swimming space, and- oh, oh!" Tommy claps his hands together in realisation, smiling, "And the environment's not irradiated, we're in the Auxiliary Tank! Oh! This is-" "Tommy, what-" Darnold cuts in, but he realises he doesn't quite know how go about asking his question. "Yeah?" Tommy asks. "What…happens…" Darnold tries again to phrase his questions. He pets Sasha in an attempt to concentrate. "What would happen if I didn't stick by the manual?" Tommy gives him a questioning look: "The manual?" "I- I know Black Mesa has a strict code on a lot of things…" Darnold says carefully. "The, uh, alien-handling…what leaves the facility, to name a few…"

"You've worked with HR though, haven't you?" Darnold asks, glancing up nervously at Tommy. The taller man looks away, scratching at his jaw. Darnold presses on, hopeful: "So you would know? What happens to…Could…Would it be possible to take Sash-" Tommy's eyes flicker upwards, attention shifted in an instant. He senses something.

"We should go, Darnold," Tommy says. "We're- we don't wanna get left behind." Darnold sighs. It seems his question won't be answered anytime soon. "…you're right," he relents, defeated, "Let's go, Sasha…" Sasha's attention is seemingly fixed on something towards the doorway as Darnold turns and dives into the tank after the rest of the Science Team. Tommy watches him go, lingering behind for a moment.

He looks up to where Sasha had been looking, to the reason he'd evaded Darnold's question. In the doorway is a tall, angular silhouette of a man in a suit, the unnaturally bright light behind him casting his face in shadows, save for an eye that stares sternly back at Tommy.

End ID.]

Previous story parts found here: [Part 1.][Part 2.][Part 3.][Part 4.][Part 5.][Part 6.]

[pumpkingeorge]

Innktober 1; Backpack

[housewifebuck]

who up and inflicting emotional damage on their blorbos in the google docs tonight‼️

[buwheal]

Damn, Spam, did the cake taste that bad? - bad joke. Sorry you're havin' a rough day. We're here if you need to talk, or if you just need a distraction.

[codecicle]

wanted to apologise for possibly being someone who fucked up ur tl with 18+ slime posts (coming to grips with how tagging works on this here webbedsite!) please take my sincerest (anonymous) apologies ur a cool goober 🙏

ay man it's alright!! really!!! i understand most of the 18+ people are coming from websites like twitter or tiktok so they don't quite understand how it functions :-) if you ever need a tutorial or any help with understanding the culture here, shoot me an ask! it's insanely different from other social media and i completely understand its weird to adjust to and navigate. peace and love + have fun with your slimeposting ✌️

[skunkes]

hi i just need you to know that smunker is an amazing name for a sona

Thank yu im in debt to the reddit post i saw that influenced this decision and permanently branded itself into my brain 2 yrs ago

[moth-tea-merchant]

its so mean that the mail limit is 10. I only have 3 slots open bcs I refuse to delete mails that are chistmass wishes or gifts from Mutuals.....oh to be an Anet dev with unlimited mail