#meme thing

Based on this

tagged by @marxism-ex-solium and @sextuspompey to post 6 non-selfie pictures 👍

books catalogued by an owl / gus plotting a cardboard box ambush / mt etna flank craters / sticking my hand in a vent on etna to reverse raynauds #lifehack / illustration of a victorian cloak that can be inflated into a boat / earring charm i superglued back together this morning

uhh yeah they're playing balatro

and yeah i have balatro headcannons

reference under cut

thank you my beloved @mellaithwen for the tag!! 💗 this fic is taking wayyy longer than planned but it's nearly there so let's all manifest me finishing by wednesday 🙏

“Eight years?” Scott exclaims, but then he thinks about it and, well: “I fucking knew it.” Now, Hollander balks – eyes wide and face pale – and Rozanov glares at him in a way that’s probably only a degree or two below murderous. “How did you- um, why did you-” It’s only Shane’s stuttering that makes him play back what he said in his head. He’s had that fear before, the worry that he was being too obvious somehow. “No, hey,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender. “You weren’t obvious or anything. I just meant- well.” He huffs a laugh, hoping it might lighten the mood. “Your first All Star weekend? I was convinced I heard Roz give you his room number.” There’s a beat of silence and then- “I fucking told you,” Shane snaps indignantly, whirling on Rozanov who’s currently staring at the sky like he’s asking God for patience. After heaving a frankly dramatic long-suffering sigh, he scowls at Scott. “I cannot believe you have just cockblocked me at All Star weekend for the second time, Hunter.”