#Un Set

[haaaaaaaaaaaave-you-met-ted]

Gnome Token by Dmitry Burmak

[babsi-and-stella]

Anna Karina photographed by André Grassart, 1965.

[evidenceof]

Grace Nixon's letter to Dick Winters, 9 Feb. 1995

Dear Dick, This little card says very little of my deepest appreciation, affection, and gratitude for all you have done for me—for your thoughtfulness to even write Miguel about his grandfather, his great grandfather, etc. touched me greatly. You are and always have been all these years such a true friend in all respects. I do not know anyone whom Lewis respected more than you, Dick Winters. [...]—and again, thank you, Dick Winters. Much love, Grace

Quotes taken from: Dick Winters letter to Deetta Almon (April 20, 1945) | Dick Winters' eulogy for Lewis Nixon, January 1995 | Grace Nixon's letter to Dick Winters (February 9, 1995)

[cuthalions]

Esteban Kukuriczka, Francisco Romero & Rafael Federman as THE STRAUCH COUSINS Adolfo 'Fito' Strauch, Daniel Fernández & Eduardo Strauch in LA SOCIEDAD DE LA NIEVE / SOCIETY OF THE SNOW (2023)

Los primos Strauch se encargan del trabajo más doloroso. El que nadie quiere hacer. Fito es quien elige los cuerpos que los tres cortan a escondidas, apartados de la mirada del resto. Así logran contener la locura de los que comen. The Strauch cousins handle the most painful job. The one no one wants to do. Fito chooses the bodies that the three cut up. Out of sight. Where the rest of us can't see. So that they keep the ones who eat from losing their minds.

[diegeticdivinity]

Tbh the more you play TSP the more you get the inexplicable impression that the office building was created by an entity with a very surface-level understanding of what an office building is supposed to be. The place is basically screaming ‘I am a normal location in a normal world where normal human people do Work and Jobs and am definitely not suspended someplace abstract and outside of time at all!’ at you and expecting you to believe it. What jobs do people do in office buildings? Well, they… they push buttons on keyboards! The meeting room is full of details that tell you exactly nothing about what kind of office building this is (other than the fact that somebody named Chris was, at one point, in the broom closet).

The Stanley Parable office building is in the uncanny valley for places.

[worstloki]

I actually think it would be so funny if Thor adapted to Midgardian clothing and such, wearing t-shirts and jeans and after Asgardians start settling on Earth that's generally what has to happen. But Loki keeps wearing his complicated leathery Asgardian clothing for the apparent sole purpose of jump-scaring any visitors to New Asgard

[bidonicart]

Is this anything

where else to find me

[grilledcheese-aspiration]

Peachy Clean Laundry 🍑✨ a WIP

[thatgoddamngingerundercut]

Marie Claire Korea Suga

[kiingbooooo]

I made Art :3

[clit-licker420]

The only con I could ever see myself going to is some kind of Neathcon but alas there are about 15 people in the failbetter games fan orbit

[moon-floret]

Mercury Has Wares, if you have Coin

Alas, the sell-out was coming, eventually. Turns out I actually do have to participate in the capitalist system.

I have to move soon, and moving costs money that I do not have. If you like what I do and want some of it for yourself, I now have very small, casual commissions open to help with the costs, all on an hdg-centric ko-fi! Now you, too, can have a piece of Mercury Tier Artwork ™️ in your name.

I'll even draw yuri.

Or your OC in a jar! That's its own tier.

Come right up don't be shy! Even if you don't want art, you can toss me a dollar and I'll make sure you're put on the nice list this year :)

...not really I'm not that kind of elf. I'd be very grateful though!

[lalalaugenbrot]

[incorrectsilvercyclopsquotes]

Peter: Okay, well, what about this new linguistic discovery that I made in Chicago?

Scott: *staring intently*

Peter: What the sigma?

Peter: He’s got a level ten rizz.

Peter: No cap.

Scott: Oh! The youths, yeah.

Peter: Gen Alpha. 

Peter: Gen Alphaaaa. 

Scott: *gasps* Is that after Z?

Peter: Yessssss!

[zoennes]

“𝖨’𝗆 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖨 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝗈, 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖾. 𝖬𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎.”

17 DECEMBER, 2018 ✧ ✦ ✧ MAANDAG, 11:37 ✧ ✦ ✧ ZEKER-ALS-DIE-AL-VOL-ZIT-MET-JOU-VERSARY

𝗂𝗍'𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗀'𝗌 𝟨𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖺𝗋𝗒. 𝗒𝖾𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋.

[materassassino]

Green Pastures, Still Waters

This is a little birthday present for @non-un-topo, who is very lovely and deserves to have a wonderful birthday. I hope you like it!

(I did try to draw Nicolò with sheep for you, but I have completely forgotten how to draw, it seems. I'm sorry.)

---

In truth, Nicolò loves Yusuf more than he could ever say. More than his own limbs, his own breath. With every beat of his heart, in time with Yusuf’s. It is a certainty, a steadfast and immovable foundation of his being, by now.

That does not mean, of course, that there is not… friction. They are two very different men, sometimes.

“I tire of this place!”

Yusuf announces it, loudly, to the pasture around them. The sheep are unbothered by this, and continue grazing. They have become completely inured to Yusuf’s histrionics, and he scowls at them, hands on his hips.

“Philistines,” he says, and throws himself on the grass. He then springs up again, yelping, because the grass is sparse and brown, and the ground is baked hard and it is very, very hot. The Sardinian sun is fickle at best and merciless at worst.

Nicolò, much more wisely, has chosen a rock in the shade. He sits with his crook across his lap, chin propped on his hand, and watches Yusuf scoot back into the shade beside him, where the ground is less fiery.

Yusuf draws his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, pouting fiercely. Nicolò lets him stew a moment longer.

“Why do you tire?” he asks.

Yusuf turns to him with a look of complete and utter outrage on his face.

“Why? Why?” he demands, his voice almost shrill with indignation. “Nicolò, what kind of question is that?”

Nicolò thinks it a perfectly legitimate question. He likes this place. He loves the gentle but rugged mountains, the rocks and the cliffs and the stiff, scrubby pines, the scent of the myrtle and the laurel bushes. He loves the olives and figs and carobs. He loves the animals, the mouflons and deer, the lizards and crawling insects, and the birds, from the smallest to the great vultures that soar above. He loves the silence broken only by birdsong and the symphony of grasshoppers and the quiet rustle of the trees. He loves tending the sheep, hearing their bleating, feeding and watering and herding them, and in the spring, helping the ewes give birth, bringing new little lives into this world, soft and white. He loves the sun on his skin and the cool of the shade and the caress of the mountain breeze on his face.

This place, he thinks, is its own sort of paradise.

Yet while he flourishes, Yusuf seems to wither.

“Do you not like it here?” Nicolò asks. Yusuf lets his head fall back with a long-suffering sigh.

“I grow weary, Nicolò,” he says. “I am bored!”

Nicolò blinks. “Bored?” he repeats, surprised. He would have deemed this place perfect for art to bloom, inspiration in every hillside. Yusuf raises a rather condescending eyebrow at him.

“Yes. Bored. It is the same, day after day! The sheep, the mountains, the vast, never-ending blue sky! I miss…” He huffs, folding his arms. “I miss being in a city. I miss gossip and debate and the vibrancy of human life! I miss markets and varied foods and music and festivities! I miss libraries and art! I miss people!”

Nicolò grip on his crook tightens, twisting nervously. In truth, despite the knowledge of Yusuf’s unwavering love, there is always some fear. Little, dark thoughts, ink in water, that Yusuf might one day want more. Want better.

“Do you tire of my company, Yusuf?” he asks, very quietly.

Yusuf whips around, his eyes wide and horrified.

“What? No!” He springs up, crowding close to Nicolò on his rock, and takes his face between his palms. “Never!” He kisses every part of Nicolò’s face, his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, his chin, his lips. “Never, not in a thousand lifetimes!”

He sits back, taking one of Nicolò’s hands. “No, I merely… miss other people. This place is beautiful but so quiet. My thoughts chase themselves, tangle themselves in knots until I can barely think. My head is so loud it aches, sometimes.” He sighs. “We have boundless time, and yet I fear that here there is too much of it.”

Nicolò reaches out, stroking Yusuf’s cheek. “I think I understand.”

What is for Nicolò quiet contemplation, for Yusuf is, after too long, maddening emptiness. They truly are two very different men. He kisses Yusuf’s wrist, the heel of his hand, the pad of his thumb.

“I would say we could leave, but…” He gestures helplessly to the sheep. “We promised.”

Yusuf hums. “We did, we did.”

Nicolò knows Yusuf is a man of his word. They promised the old widow Agnese to mind her flock for the spring and the summer, and Yusuf would never renege on such a thing unless there was, truly, no other choice, but wanderlust flaps desperate wings against the cage of his ribs.

“My desire is frivolous,” Yusuf admits. “I feel quite selfish, now that I think about it.”

“Do not be foolish,” Nicolò chides gently. “You have wishes, and I would see you happy, Yusuf. That is my desire.” He gets to his feet, crook discarded, pulling Yusuf with him. “When the summer ends, we will find a city, a huge, wonderful, loud city, and you will discuss your philosophy and write your poetry and make your art again!”

Yusuf laughs, tugging him closer. “In truth, Nicolò, wherever you take me, I am happy. Forgive my grumbling.”

Nicolò could never paint with words like Yusuf does. He could never voice the beauty he sees in that beloved face, the glory of Yusuf’s bright smile, the melody of his laughter, the softness of his joyful eyes. So he kisses him, attempting to pour all his love, his devotion, the boundless depth and lofty heights of it into where their lips meet. And when Yusuf kisses back with the same passion, perhaps that is proof he can feel it.

They must be very distracted, because all of a sudden Yusuf sqawks into the kiss. The earth disappears from beneath their feet, and Nicolò’s back makes hard, painful contact with the ground. Their teeth smash into each other, cracking, cutting Nicolò’s lip and his tongue, and Yusuf’s entire weight on top of him knocks the wind from his lungs.

Dazed, he stares up at the sky, feeling new teeth grow back in, an itching, sharp ache. It is a deeply unpleasant sensation.

“You beast! Demon of a sheep!” Yusuf cries. He scrambles up to his knees, pointing accusingly.

The sheep – the one Nicolò has called Alfreda, because he cannot help but name them, and name them after saints at that – bleats mockingly back, and turns away, content in her petty vengeance.

“She charged right into me,” Yusuf grumbles, shifting so he can massage his behind. Nicolò laughs at that, wiping away the blood from his mouth.

“Alfreda is very opinionated,” he says, sitting up. “God’s punishment for shirking our duties to mind them, no doubt.”

Yusuf snorts, and sits back on his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him.

“I shall remember her for my entire long life,” he vows. “I shall remember and curse Alfreda the sheep, until death finally comes for me. Do you hear me?!” he yells after her. She takes absolutely no notice, going back to grazing.

Nicolò laughs again, falling to the side into Yusuf’s shoulder, and when the laughter dies away, he stays there. Yusuf holds out his hand, and Nicolò takes it, threading their fingers together, and Nicolò can never cease to marvel at how perfectly they fit, despite looking so very different.