#and putting this on y'all's dash

[headspace-hotel]

USamericans...I recommend you to read this wiki page and then tell every single friend and family member you could possibly influence all about the indescribable atrocities our government is supporting.

The massacre happening to the Palestinian people is so obviously evil that if we can't condemn it, our humanity is beyond saving. Our souls have rotted out of our bodies.

Our leaders, who claim to represent our wishes, are funding and supporting a grisly mass slaughter of innocents. This should be so disturbing and unbearable, that somebody is speaking on our behalf saying "Go ahead, drop more bombs, kill and maim more little kids." Isn't that disgusting? Isn't it the most important thing to unite with one another and demand an immediate stop to this?

[morphestic]

i love rare pairs

[barlowstreet]

Why is no one putting the adorable Lawyer Barbie on my dashboard?

I've seen all the other ones but not the fat Barbie???

[louisferrignojr]

Hii, can you suggest me bucktommy blogs to follow? Thank youu

ooh okay I'm going to recommend bucktommy blogs that aren't multishippers? (so no buddie or buddietommy but might post other rarepairs?)

@beefcakekinard @wikiangela @tommysboyfriend @tommykinardbuckley @half-oz-eddie

@until-i-set-him-free @kinardevans @kinardsboy @jewishbuckley @tommyactually

@autisticbucktommy @breathe-2am @cliophilyra @kiinard @bugboybuck

[vee-lociraptor]

every once in a while one of my mutuals reblogs something that makes me go hm. fascinating. and scribble a note down before going back to whatever i was doing

[violexa]

©

[eighthdoctor]

Maximianus Philophonos Bard 11/Rogue 1

Because we're at the end of the campaign, I wanted to write up a little bit about Max.

Max started as a combo of two A+ tier ideas:

A charisma caster but the charisma is "the most pathetic little man you've ever seen, you can't possibly say no"

A bard who thought being a bard was like being a professional musician and is shocked to find out that it is not, in fact, at all like being a professional musician.

The other thing going into Max is (before naming him, the name is only accidentally a pun) I wanted to abuse the shit out of the bard class. Minmax that fucker. Dating the DM is an excellent method for getting away with this. Turns out a single level in rogue gets you some expertise (2x proficiency bonus to some skills) which you then get MORE of with bard levels, and eventually bard gets you jack of all trades (1/2 proficiency to anything you're not proficient in) meaning that most of his skill checks are something like +5.

So out of universe I needed a guy whose first level was in rogue, remainder in bard, a classic pathetic little wet rat of a man, who is both wildly talented and also just. Completely incapable of using that for malicious OOC purposes otherwise my wife would kill me.

What I wound up with is someone who has crippling anxiety. Max is very nearly too anxious to function in society, gets outsize sympathy for it, and really can only do social interactions in the framework of performances.

See, at about 18 Max went to magical Juilliard to become first violin in the Requiem City Orchestra. After the first semester he realized two things:

Magical Juliliard is not really Juilliard at all, but more like the CIA academy if they also taught music.

He's trans. (Sidebar: He does not actually have a deadname. Maximianus is his stage performance name that he just sort of. Went with. After coming out.)

This is all hideously awkward and embarrassing and he has multiple fullblown panic attacks about the first thing.

Max's family is huge and overbearing and supportive and he doesn't really want to come out to them because it will be a Whole Thing TM and he is so, so, so bad about receiving affection, and he really doesn't want to tell them about the school mixup because then he's wasted their money and they'll never ever ever say anything about it but he's just a drain on their resources and also everyone will be so caring, so sympathetic, poor kid, homecooked meals for months, mom knocking on the door every day to see if he's still crying--

So he goes no-contact. To avoid explaining why he's dropping out of school.

He did accomplish one thing in that semester though, and that was making friends with a tabaxi student named Ihava (Ihava Nayme, because Jo mistakenly didn't give her a name and we promptly engaged her in conversation and also a subplot). Ihava is a budding revolutionary and realized that (a) Max totally has subversive tendencies and (b) the ability to baldfaced lie to cops and make the cops feel bad for you is priceless.

That's how Max got involved in a budding insurgency, and over the following year or so took his first class in rogue. Some theft, but mostly just skulking around, standing watch for others, passing info, etc.

Then he got itchy feet--Requiem isn't tiny but a year trying to avoid contact with any relatives, your luck will run out eventually, and Max is also just. He's not flighty but he does like novelty, and at some point the Violet Guard were gonna figure out that this kid was turning up at a lot of crime scenes. So he dropped a letter to the family (identity crisis etc graduated early etc going off to join the circus don't worry about me), and really just started moving across the country, working as a travelling minstrel.

He very rarely pays full room & board, instead playing for his dinner. He eventually washed up in Suncrest, and met the rest of the party when the tavern down the street [checks notes] exploded.

And this is where he really started taking off, because Max is two very cool things in one package:

He is just a good kid. When asked by a NPC why we were putting so much effort into helping her, his immediate, honest answer was "how could we not?" and he stands by that 11 levels later. He's somehow remained mostly Lawful Good despite some VERY sketchy actions, because at his core he wants to help people, and he wants to do so within a strict code of morals. They're just...sometimes unusual.

He's also got a VERY nasty imagination and will put his spell list to work in deeply creative (and fucked up) ways.

As an example. At level 4, Max got the second level spell Phantasmal Force, which lets you convince one being that Something Exists. This is obviously a spell mostly constrained by the player's creativity.

Also at level 4 Jo dropped us in a dungeon at the bottom of which was a Young Blue Dragon. This was moderately outleveled for the party and we should have fucked off.

Instead Max went "hey is that a male dragon" and the DM said yes, and Max mindfucked the dragon into thinking there was a Young Red (male) Dragon coming into HIS LAIR, and then the dragon spent multiple rounds trying to fight the illusion and we completely killed a dragon without major injury at level 4.

This became Max's Thing: Using his spell slots to wildly outsize effect, through monopolizing a major enemy, convincing NPCs to let us go where we really should not go, utilizing cold iron + animate objects to do serious damage to the Wild Hunt...

He didn't usually do the most damage and he didn't often get the kill shot, but he was doing battlefield control. A lot.

And so then we come to the final arc. Jo wrote up the bit about the Wish spell here. (I need to add that once again we fucked up her plans, because of COURSE the WIZARD would attune to the STAFF OF THREE WISHES, and no. Consensus was to let Max do it because Max is the words person. This worked out very well, see here.)

But just. You have the world's most anxious bard. He didn't even want to be A Bard, he wanted to be a musician. He also has a mindblowingly powerful artifact.

For over a minute, Max had to maintain perfect concentration to save the world. A friend died in that minute. Multiple friends fell unconscious and had to be revived (mostly by Max). Almost everyone in the party temporarily incapacitated themself (see here) to ensure that he passed Concentration saves he should have failed.

There's a massive battle going on entirely around Max. He is the focal point of everything. Everyone he loves is risking literally everything to keep him focused, and he spends most of it in a pocket dimension trying to keep breathing. He's channelling impossible power to try and fix the converging planes and defeat the Summer Queen, and he can only do this by not fighting, by hiding away and curling up tight and thinking very, very hard.

And he does it. He succeeds. We find out tomorrow what that looks like but god damn I am proud of my boy.

[paranormaljones]

If you guys show me that man beaten up and slightly bloodied one more time I'm gonna have to finally watch Slow Horses.

[vargaslovinghours]

Fandom: Johnny the Homicidal Maniac (But really Vargas lol) Rating: Teen and up Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

What, exactly, did Scriabin take from Edgar when they separated?

My first multichapter fic for Vargas! :D Yay!

(Pls read Ch. 1 first - Ch. 2 is also recommended, but as long as you're caught up on the first, you're good to go!)

-----

Side B

What the fuck.

"It's, it's possible that if, maybe whatever happened earlier, whatever caused all that blood and for us to be knocked unconscious-"

What the fuck.

"-and if I suffered a head injury, then maybe-"

No. That's enough.

Scriabin pushed away from the closet door he'd defensively pressed himself up against and put his hands on Edgar's shoulders, which quieted him. He looked at him expectantly, with eyes that Scriabin somehow only just now realized were casually guarded, curious, uncertain in a way that denoted inexperience. That was so messed up, that was completely wrong. Edgar should've been on guard, absolutely, but only because he knew exactly what Scriabin was capable of. He really didn't want to look at him right now if this was what he was going to be seeing instead.

He spun him quickly and pushed him out the door before he could protest. He got one last look at those wide, confused eyes before he slammed the door behind him, bracing it shut with both hands for good measure.

What. The fuck. His head came forward, making a dull thud as his forehead connected with the door. He doesn't remember me? His fingers curled on the door. What does he mean he doesn't remember me?! How could he not know me?! One hand pushed through his hair; his scalp tingled and that was so weird, he felt it and it was so weird- We literally just- He literally just-! As if pulling him screaming into life wasn't bad enough, now he had decided to play some sick prank!

This can't be true. It's just like him to try and make jokes at the worst possible time, he has no tact.

There was a timid knock on the other side of the door. Scriabin jumped as it resonated through his skull, his elbow, pressed to the door with his hand buried in his hair, set his jaw. Then silence.

If he was really trying to get back in, clear things up, say he was only kidding, he'd actually try.

Nothing.

Scriabin's blood was ice as he went over it again. The way he'd said his name. The vacant look in his eyes as he said it, like his mouth knew its shape but none of the meaning. No fear, no realization, nothing that really felt like Edgar, just sound, just noise.

Maybe he really had-

Oh god. His knees gave out, and his arms had no practice at holding him upright, not yet. His hand slid down the door, his other hand guarding his head as his hair fluffed against the grain.

How could he do this

This is all his fault

Stupid, idiotic

He can't do this to me

I can't believe him

I can't believe this

How dare he leave me alone like this

Thoughts spiralling, and all he could do was hold himself down, press his fingers into the back of his neck, force his chest to his knees and maybe he wouldn't immolate under it all. He was shaking, from tension or fear he couldn't tell, his mind too hazardous and loud to cut through it all. He was shaking, dizzy, and if he moved, letting go would surely kill him.

He can't do this to me.

He breathed. And breathed. And swallowed. Eyes closed, heart pounding, sure. Confusion and dismay, whatever. Pain. Fine. So be it.

This isn't like me. A hand untethered from his vice grip in his hair, and he stayed attached to the floor. It connected with the carpet below him and became a new lifeline. He pushed up and away into a limp sit, arms already burning slightly from holding himself up after all that. He shook his head mildly. This isn't who I'm going to be in life. His body, this fear response be damned, he was in control now.

Regroup. Let's- a mental pause, barely a quarter of a second long as he turned the word in his head. Let's pretend it's all true- what does that mean?

He flopped over, leaned upright with his back against the door, heels of his fists pushed down into the carpet to scootch closer. Moving was so awkward still, very unfitting.

He was acting normal. Well, Edgar's baseline for "normal" had changed considerably, so maybe put an asterisk on that. Not that he was ever normal to begin with, but normal-for-Edgar, -ish. That means he has to have some memory.

Scriabin held out a hand, arm slung over his knee, one finger held out. He had recognized his glasses. One. The apartment. Two. Which key to use. Three. He had said Todd's name. Four.

His stuff can be discounted, he's had all that for a while. Back down to one. The kid is a new fixture. Which means he remembers the last couple months at least. He shook his head and brought his hand up to comb through his hair. Well...it's fuzzy for me, so it probably is for him, too. Scriabin remembered everything in as much clarity as the last couple months allowed, there was no way Edgar would know more even if he had all his memories.

Speaking of which, Scriabin could remember everything. He flipped through; the last two months and bringing Todd in, Edgar's parting words to Johnny, his and Devi's conversation - he grit his teeth - and further back, everything along the way, all the way back. False dreams, shared childhoods, everything that was once Edgar's alone, he still remembered it. Nothing was out of place which made it all the more strange!

This is so fucking weird, if I remember everything, then why would he-

He stopped short. His purported purpose had been to replace Edgar. Take him over completely. If he bought into the conceit for a moment, just to play in the space... He was alive now. That was not as intended; it shouldn't even have been possible.

Did he...give me his memories? Like, all the way? Not just to borrow, to shape him, give him legitimacy - he was alive now. His own person. Separate, embodied, and whole. Was this the price of life?

That's stupid. But possible, he couldn't discount. If this - he brought his hands up and looked down at them, watched himself touch his own chest and felt it beneath his coat, shirt, the nerves firing as his slid his fingers up himself - if this was possible, then...

He continued for a moment, curious and reverant, all of him new and privately exciting, to exist and to touch, to feel, smell, see, all of it clear and fresh and penetrated deeply into his mind, as if a layer of film had been lifted from his senses. The moment passed as the memories, unbidden but important, cluttered in around him again.

There were still a lot of questions, and most of them couldn't be answered without Edgar, ugh. If getting anything out of him before had been like pulling teeth, he was very sobered to think about how it might be now. Depending on how much Edgar remembered, maybe he could start piecing things together.

Did he do it on purpose? Did he know this would happen? There's no way he would have been willing to if he had- But he couldn't ask him things like that. Even if he did remember, admitting something like that...

He was just spinning his wheels at this point. Better to gather what he could from the man himself. He looked up, preparing to stand.

Ah-

The room was still in something of a state.

Edgar would be annoying, or at least distracted by trying to pick up the clothes and uncarefully unpacked items strewn about the floor from Scriabin's very successful excavation of his old glasses. The clutter would have to go if he wanted his full attention.

He grumbled as he pushed off the door to pick up the first few things. First day of life and I'm already his maid. Figures. He's always needed me to clean up after him.

Silence.

Somehow it only just hit him. Thinking alone in the late hours, planning things behind Edgar's back, it was nothing new. But a barb unsunk into his mental flesh was left out in the wide emptiness, poised to stab whoever happened upon it next, and he was the only one here.

He felt very small all of a sudden, and he didn't like it at all.

His eyes blankly scanned the room, looking for nothing, until they settled on the toy at Edgar's bedside. His toy.

He dropped the items he'd bundled into his arms and made his way over. He picked up the small simulacrum, turned it over in his hands once, and stared at it.

He wouldn't know this. Not really. He brushed a thumb up and over the little mouth, the contours of its small face. Retroactively, I've never been this at all.

I'm no one to him.

Does this mean we can start over? The thought struck him like lightning, freezing his heart in his chest. He was fixed solid, staring down at the small figure in his hands.

Before he could even think, he'd already thrown it through the open closet door, landing noisily in the box he'd dug through with a clatter. He grabbed up the fallen clothes and items and stuffed them back in the box, burying the toy in mundane detritus, then closed the cardboard flaps and slammed the door of the closet for good measure.

His breath was laboured and he glared, like wishing it gone would make the closet itself disappear.

Answers. He needed answers, more than anything.

He ripped the door open, and there was Edgar who looked up, staring dumbly back at him and carrying the clothes he'd shed earlier over his arm. Something in his mind clicked over, and he didn't think about it.

"Alright," he caught his breath for half a second, "what do you remember?"

Edgar just kept on staring, mouth open, eyes unconfident behind weak glasses. Scriabin huffed irritably, I don't have time for this, and moved towards him, arm outstretched.

"Come on." Edgar gave a small startled sound behind him as he grabbed his collar and dragged him through the doorway. He threw him across the room, not bothering to watch his arc as he closed the door behind him. The bed was that way, he'd be fine.

When he turned back, Edgar had managed to catch himself, though already halfway on the bed. Scriabin stood with his back to the door, feet planted and he crossed his arms. No more speculating around impossibilities, tangible and present as they might be, it was time for a proper interrogation. It was at least preferable to-

Edgar made a face at him and scooted back, offering a seat next to him on the bed. Equal footing briefly flashed through his mind and while he wouldn't consider it ideal, nothing today was really going his way. He sighed, then made his way over and sat across from Edgar, who was eyeing him with a certain degree of caution. At least the feeling was mutual.

"Spill." He re-crossed his arms and leaned towards Edgar. "What do you know?"

Edgar hesitated, apparently thinking, his hands laced and fingers agitatedly if quietly rubbing the backs of his hands.

"I want to verify some things first."

Scriabin snorted dismissively. Where had Edgar's overly-trusting nature gone? A serial killer, well he's an honoured guest, but Scriabin? He didn't even distrust him for the right reasons.

He gestured with an open hand, Go ahead, then tucked his arm back in.

"Todd's last name?"

Pfsh. At least it was proof enough that anything Edgar knew, Scriabin did as well. As expected.

"Casil. His stupid bear's called Shmee in case you forgot that too." Edgar shook his head. No he hadn't? If only he could just check!

"Do you know our phone number?" Obviously he did, so he rattled it off quickly, Edgar nodding in turn. He flipped his hair in time with the last digit, careful to keep his eyes covered. It was a bit of a timid attempt, being the first in this body, which was a minor blessing he supposed.

Edgar mulled over what he'd given him for a moment, then a moment longer, then a moment even longer. His eyes searched absently, gazing down into his own hand, his other on his chin, lightly thumbing his goatee. He was focused on names and numbers, but those were child's play compared to everything, everything Scriabin still wanted to know. It was frustrating on a visceral level, watching him struggle with such simple innocuous nothings while the most important person in his life was sitting right in front of him.

He was supposed to be the most important.

It was frustrating.

"You really don't remember anything, do you?" He didn't hide the sneer as it shaped his voice - odd the way his body just did that now, did things without him actively thinking them into being. Even things like the little waver that made its way in that he pushed back down and under. He was frustrated, angry, tired - any emotionality could be attributed to those, nothing else.

Edgar didn't answer, just kept his gaze locked to his face. That was almost worse. Watching him fumble through things, it wasn't fun, but at least he wasn't trying to pry. He could see him try to look past his bangs, and the fact that he didn't know better...

Scriabin looked away for a moment, then thought better of it. Best defense is a good offense.

He reached for Edgar's face, for those damn scars, ever-present reminders. Edgar shied away, not wanting to be touched suddenly by someone he didn't know. As if Scriabin had ever cared about that.

Well, things were different now. Maybe he didn't really want to touch him anyway. Not yet.

"Do you remember these...?" Instead he framed his face with his hands less than an inch from his skin, and even there he could feel the heat coming off him. Edgar reached for his face, looking away from Scriabin as he touched the angry red marks. He winced minutely, then glanced back at Scriabin, searching him, his expression guarded again. Scriabin could hear his own pulse in his ears.

"...Johnny?"

"Fuck." Fuck! "Of course you'd remember him but not me." God damn it! It wasn't right, it wasn't fair, just because Johnny came first by a hair's breadth, just because he wasn't in Edgar's head, with Edgar's fucked up little obsession with the murderous stick figure- It limited what he could get away with too, if he remembered that far back. Absolutely nothing was going in his favour.

"I'm sorry..." He sounded genuinely remorseful, and it stuck in his throat. Disgusting. "So you know Johnny, too."

"Unfortunately." Scriabin tucked his chin to his chest, arms crossed again in close proximity. This sucks. Edgar just kept rambling, unaware as ever. His excuses held this time at least, one point in his favour, no points for bringing his annoying habits with him despite everything.

"I don't think I've seen him for a couple months now? Everything's awfully..." He gave a vague gesture and Scriabin uncurled slightly. He was giving him room to contribute. He shook his head.

"You haven't."

"Have you?"

He returned to his tight coil of sulking. Not like he was keen to meet up and chat, but he couldn't explain why he hadn't had the opportunity to either.

"I remember he called, too."

"Ugh," barely above breath. Enough about Johnny! Again, Edgar continued obliviously.

"Although I don't really recall what we talked about, not for a while..."

Of course not. I took over for half of those.

He perked a bit, and Edgar focused more on him, patiently setting his hands in his lap.

"You know."

He could play this to his advantage. Give Johnny some well-deserved karmic justice for fucking him over so many times. It was almost better that Edgar didn't know - Scriabin had been trying to get him away from Johnny all this time, and if he really had forgotten everything, not just the moments when Scriabin took over but every moment they had shared, then that meant it coincided almost perfectly with his first meeting with Johnny. Blank spot after blank spot after blank spot, all lined up immediately after getting his face slashed.

He could work with that.

"It's probably trauma." Edgar startled and his hand shot to his temple, lightly touching his hair.

"Like, head trauma?" Scriabing almost laughed. Yeah, probably that too. But that wouldn't help his case.

"No." He leaned in, taking a more intimate, secretive tone. "Think about it. When did things start getting fuzzy?" If he was right on this - which of course he was, but not being able to verify, not being able to see that he was right, it was disconcerting - but if he was, Edgar's memories of Scriabin should start with that first fateful encounter, give or take. A bit of reframing here, a touch of implication there... It probably wasn't even an outright lie; if Edgar's memory were perfect after experiencing everything Johnny had put them through, that would be some kind of twisted miracle.

His only real concern was their "childhood" - how much had Scriabin pulled with him? Would that throw off his story? But that was so far back, there was no way Scriabin or Johnny could be implicated in that. As long as Edgar didn't bring it up before he thought his way around it...

Edgar stayed quiet for a long while. His eyes raced behind closed eyelids, searching, scanning, retracing - Scriabin could almost see the moments where he hesitated, stopped and went back, then starting recollecting again. He wished he could see it for real, watch him unfold himself, touch those memories again, hold up his own in contrast. Even just hear Edgar's thoughts as they went by, feel the emotions he felt. But he couldn't, so he just stared as unblinkingly as this new body would allow, just watched as Edgar went over everything on his own.

He finally opened his eyes, staring back into Scriabin's though he was sure they were still hidden. He felt naked and awkward and Edgar still hadn't said anything. If he could just see like he was supposed to, or if Edgar would just tell him, he wouldn't have to ask. I have to do everything around here.

"It was after you met him, wasn't it?"

"You think it's...mental trauma?" An unspoken 'yes.' Relief flooded him, and he pushed ahead.

"Edgar. He stabbed you." Edgar gripped his shoulder, his eyes closing again and he looked to be in pain. That was a very effective reminder at least. "Do you even know why?" He shook his head and spoke throught half-grit teeth.

"I must have made him mad, but I don't remember-" Of course not, I did that.

"Your mind is trying to protect you." Not. But one of us has to with your inexhaustable deathwish. Scriabin reached out to touch him properly, but Edgar pulled away. He didn't follow, still not yet. Play up the pity. "He messed you up so bad," with a curl in his tone, an I told you so that barely made it to words even privately; how long had he been holding that in? "Surely you must've felt like you wanted, you needed to get away from him, that he wasn't good for you, that you-" He'd told him so many times, some it must have stuck, some of it had to have-

"Then-!" Edgar's eyes shot open, wide and desperate with an edge of disbelief. A strangled gasp escaped him, half-choking him as he tried to speak. "Then why can't I remember you?!"

He almost began rolling off the cuff, but really, he still didn't know for sure. And it definitely wasn't like he could tell the truth even if he wanted to; who, who hadn't lived it, would believe him? Edgar certainly wouldn't, not with his lack of imagination. He had to dress this up, weave a narrative that was plausible, had the perfect mix of truth and falsehood to stand up to scrutiny.

Huh. Ironic.

"I..." No. Some of this was Edgar's fault too. "We...argued."

"Argued?"

"I... Mng." He wanted to aim for some kind of levity, but his throat had tightened on him. He just wanted to tell this stupid inside joke and not have it affect him, not have it mean anything, and here he was getting emotional? He'd say it and fucking mean it. "It's not like I'm in your head, so-" spat out in a rush, there, he'd said it. Haha, isn't that so funny. He swallowed harshly, pushing down everything he felt into his stomach acid. He was in control. He was fine. This didn't shake him. "I can't know for sure," another humourless laugh inside, "but I was against your relationship with Johnny. Maybe you shut me out so you could keep seeing him with no pushback."

It certainly wasn't outside the realm of possibilities of what Edgar would do to avoid taking Scriabin's extremely basic advice about fraternizing with serial killers. How many times had he been ignored up to this point, only to culminate in the ultimate 'I don't know what you're talking about.' Pfeh. I bet he wishes he'd thought of this sooner. It did nothing for his painfully stuttered pulse.

"You know, I've been trying to convince you to stop going back to him for a while, but, well..." He waved his hand at Edgar's hand still death gripped into his shoulder, and Edgar averted his eyes guiltily. At least he showed some remorse. Better than his nigh constant apologia.

He stayed quiet a moment longer, and just before Scriabin made to fill the silence again, Edgar struck him with an intense look.

"What are you to me?" Ugh. Of course. There was not a single good answer for that. Even if he told him everything- no, especially if he told him everything, there was no way Edgar would believe him. But coming up with a convincing lie on the spot, when they were so clearly something to each other - even he needed time to come up with something workable. How could he have ever prepared for a situation like this? It was never meant to happen, so many things were never meant to happen!

He continued at Scriabin's silence. "You know Nny," Ugh! Even his awful nickname. "And Todd. And...me." He couldn't refute it, so he nodded tightly. "Do you live here?"

Technically he had, and technically he hadn't. Still, going forward, it would be easier to let Edgar assume that he did. It wasn't like he had anywhere else to go at the moment anyway.

"Yes."

"Are we..." He searched him, looked him over as much as he could and he wasn't subtle about it. If only Scriabin had his proper glasses, he'd let him look as much he wanted, behold his spectacle! As it was, he just felt self-conscious and it was very unbefitting. "...family?"

The baggage on that. He did not feel like opening that particular can of worms in either of their current states. He turned his head and flipped through any number of halfway decent ways to phrase it until he hit on something Edgar would remember. Better not to contradict for now.

"You told Johnny you have no family when you met."

"That's true..." Edgar blinked, processing. "Wait, did I tell you that?" Scriabin startled. Even after he'd accounted for his memory! Of course he had to pick his story apart now, he never knew when to leave well enough alone.

"When you-" No, he had to be involved. "When we bandaged your face."

Edgar mulled on that for a few seconds, taking on a thoughtful pose. "I only remember being alone."

"You don't remember me at all. What do you want from me?" He huffed.

"No, sorry, you're right."

"Thank you." He was right!

Where had Edgar expected him to be? There was something weird about how he'd said it. He filed the thought away for later.

"So, if you've been living here, where..." Edgar looked around the room, then back to Scriabin. "Where have you been sleeping? Todd's already on the couch..."

Scriabin couldn't help as a smile sprung to his face. If he was going to present him with such a perfect opportunity, well, he'd better take it. He even had the decency to look nervous in response! This was too good.

"Would you believe me if I said right here, in bed?" He again tucked his chin, playfully this time, his hair falling further in his eyes. Even through the dark tangles he could make out Edgar's face immediately bristling with heat.

Ooh. That's such a fetching shade on you, my dear.

"But-! I, I haven't been sleeping on the floor!" He was visibly sweating!

"Correct." His smile grew. This was too easy, and he needed an easy win right about now.

"W-" He leaned forward on his legs, though refused to get any closer. When he spoke it was a harsh whisper. "Why...?"

Scriabin shrugged easily, not bothering to reign in his smile in the least. "I mean, where else, right?" He leaned in since Edgar refused to, and oh. He was blushing all the way up to his scalp. Hilarious. "You certainly didn't seem to mind." He couldn't hold back the slightly musical tone or his eyebrows inclination to move on their own. His body knew what he was getting at, and he could see it only increased Edgar's fluster. All the better.

"Well I do now!" Edgar darted up and away, stumbling in his hasty retreat. "If you'll excuse me!" though he was already practically in the hallway by the time he said it. What a display, and Scriabin's laugh was loud and natural.

Finally, something positive. He'd managed to fumble his way through, not his best work in lying or manipulation, but he'd set some important groundwork. He'd gotten some answers, and he could start to shape some more believable stories around them.

The biggest hurdles were Johnny and Devi. As long as Edgar didn't meet with them too soon - or well, at all would be preferable, but he doubted he could just keep him locked up, as much as the idea appealed to him. There were so many things that were possible now, things that he had the ability to do, given the right circumstances... All of that in due time. For now he had a yarn to spin.

He listened as Edgar fumbled in the hall, the sheer sound of cloth being pulled and folded over an arm barely perceptable. Was he really going to try to sleep on what little was left over? Maybe he'd give up once he realized the pickings were thin and beg Scriabin to let him sleep with him. Hah.

While he was out, Scriabin made his way over to the pajamas drawer. They were all old and soft, even just to his hand. They'd do for now, until he could get his own. It wasn't like he hadn't worn all this before anyway.

By the time he'd finished dressing, his clothes discarded on the opposite side of the bed to where Edgar had set up his little nest, Edgar had finally gotten himself a set of pajamas. He wondered for a moment if he'd dress with Scriabin in the room again, though maybe his intense stare drove him off. Who could say. He patted the bed with a wide grin when he returned and was dutifully ignored. He settled down to the side, and Scriabin laid on his arms to look down at him.

"Ugh, lame."

"I don't-"

"Yeah, whatever." He'd heard it all before. At least he could literally look down on him like this. He folded his hands and leaned just a bit further, looking him over. A desire he hadn't realized he had surfaced in the dark and quiet. "Give me your hand."

"Sorry?" Scriabin held out his hand expectantly.

"I used to hear your heart beat every day." Edgar looked at him incredulously, but Scriabin was unperturbed. "Let me hear it again."

He hesitated but eventually slowly offered his arm. "...Okay."

He pulled his arm up and placed his thumb against his wrist. He felt a strange mismatch - where he'd been expecting one heartbeat, there were two. He covered his surprise, near shock at the realization that of course he had his own body now, by pulling harder on Edgar's arm, directing him up to his ear.

"Wh-"

"Shh." Quietly. He had wanted this, wanted this body, this separation, this freedom for so long, and now... He spoke quietly, his voice betraying nothing. "I'm listening."

Edgar's pulse was erratic, but he hardly paid attention to it. His own fingers on Edgar's skin, warm and pliant, and Edgar's fingers twitching in his hair, he could feel it, he was trying not to touch him- This hesitation was killing him, every jerky movement away not from fear of what Scriabin could do to him, just uncertainty, like he was still a stranger- He pressed him harder to his head, and he could feel goosebumps under his fingers. He wanted to just hold him there until all the memories they'd shared poured back through him, into his blood, into his breath.

Where are you?

But he replied in that same uncertain, guarded tone that indicated he didn't know, not really.

"C...can I have my arm back now?"

He pushed him away. "Fine." Edgar curled his hand protectively against his chest, and he noticed he rubbed it slightly, he probably hadn't even realized.

He mumbled out a harried "Good night," and it was almost enough to make Scriabin smile. Almost. He could still affect him but this wasn't enough, it wasn't right.

He laid his head on the pillow, not bothering to pull his arm up over the side of the bed. If he twitched in the night and touched Edgar, well, that could mean anything. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe he did it on purpose. Plausible deniability was one of his greatest assets.

As it was, he was just tired. Maybe he didn't pull it back because he hated the thought of sleeping alone, pushed out and forgotten, and hated it more that he was even thinking something like that. How pathetic. He didn't need anyone, especially not Edgar.

But he was tired. Not in his right mind.

Does this mean we can start over...?

The thought echoed and died, and he slept.

[dracolizardlars]

The dunmeshi fandom have got to stop shipping solely combinations of characters with enormous lifespan disparities.

[blitzbuckz]

BOTH of yas are the main culprits for bringin all the FOWLS

@starsaught @a-hell-of-a-time

[morphestic]

flowerofbuffoonery -> morphestic

[snackugaki-jestsjapesjokes]

In commemoration of this

Let us remember what Frida can do canonically

gave her the ol' Shikamaru's Kagemane no Jutsu treatment for ninpo which is fitting really since

And what's more ninja than shadow manipulation?

Just y'know, from a 90s weeb standpoint who saw how fucking obsessed U.S media was with ninja in the 80s and 90s, the earlier TMNT could have stood to be MORE ninja. The newer iterations kinda sorta have gotten "more ninja" instead of generic milk chocolate martial arts with a shiny ninja candy coating

[ikram1909]

what lady was right? what am i missing

This lady right here 😭😭 she met Gavi last season and she claimed the baby perfume in her hands is the one Gavi uses.

[valentinoappreciator]

Sinful Habits

Media: Hazbin Hotel

Pairing: Vox x Valentino

Word count: 3.3k

Rating: E for Explicit

Tags / Warnings: Snuff films, rape, blow jobs, AU - 1950s, sexual coercion, mildly dubious consent

Where else to read: AO3 under the title "Sinful Habits", made by TheWeirdDane.

Author's Notes: Okay, so this is an AU of that 1950s VoxVal AU I'm working on. This scene won't be canon in that actual AU. My lovely friend & beta reader ( @hellsgreatestbrainrot ) came up with this little AU which is quite depraved and right up my alley <3 Read the tags / warnings closely, please! Also, I KNOW that TVs wouldn't stream live snuff films lmao. Let's just pretend that this is a secret channel that only the truly sick and twisted people know about <3

And also? Minors, do not interact!

-------------------------

“So, Voxxy, how’s your and wifey’s sex life? Anything interesting happening lately?”

He was sitting with Valentino in his apartment. Angel Dust wasn’t here at the moment; apparently he was working. So, Valentino had invited Vox over for a drink. At first, Vox had protested, albeit weakly and not really that genuinely; there was something so enigmatic about Valentino. It drew him in, like the swirling power a maelstrom had over a God-forsaken ship. 

Vox blinked at him over the rim of his glass. 

“And, pray tell, why should I divulge that to you?”

Valentino laughed loudly and flicked popcorn in his face. Vox scoffed. 

“Oh, come now, live a little! Don’t be so fucking uptight, Voxxy, it’s not a good look on you. No one likes a stick in the mud.”

Vox couldn’t help the corners of his lips twitching slightly. 

“Not quite true, now is it? It got you to me.”

Valentino snorted and rolled his eyes. 

“Okay, I’ll give you that one, but only because you’re so cute. But now, come on, tell me something naughty you and your little wife have been up to!” 

Vox sighed loudly, rolling his eyes as well. He made sure to make it extra dramatic. 

“Fine, you incorrigible, insatiable little shit.”

Valentino whooped and punched holes in the air while Vox got to thinking. The kinkiest thing he and his wife had done? Well, it wasn’t like they were outrageously sexual, or kinky for that matter. 

He scratched the back of his head. Valentino raised an eyebrow. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve got nothing.”

“I do, okay!” Vox snapped. “It just... might take a little while.”

Valentino groaned loudly and rolled onto his back after flicking another popcorn into Vox’s face. It fell into his drink. 

“Do ya want some inspiration?”

“Whatever do you mean by that?”

“I could tell ya what Angel and I get up to.”

“No!” Vox immediately said, blushing fiercely when Valentino raised an eyebrow at him again, despite his almost comical position on the floor. 

“No?” he questioned. 

Vox groaned and set his drink on a nearby table. 

“And why’s that, Voxxy baby?” Valentino purred. “Are you jealous of all the fun, naughty things he and I do on a regular basis?”

Vox blushed harder, wishing he could melt into the floorboards under him. He looked away from Valentino. 

“As if,” he snorted with a supplementary roll of his eyes. “I don’t want to know what kind of heinous, God-affronting sex you two have.”

Deep down, though, he had to admit that he was... curious, at the very least. He was happy with the sex he had with his wife, yet he couldn’t help but feel there was... something lacking. He didn’t know what, and although he was sure that Valentino would be all too happy to help, Vox wasn’t sure he wanted to know. It could be something really complicated; something that would make him wish for simpler times. On the other hand, though... it could be something really simple that they could easily implement in the bedroom. His wife didn’t strike him as a prude; she had been more than happy to accommodate some of his more... interesting requests. 

“Too bad,” Valentino hummed with a shrug of his shoulders, sitting up to take a sip of his drink before laying down again. “I’m sure it would rock your world!”

“I’m sure it would,” Vox said, not without a certain degree of fondness in his voice that he refused to acknowledge. 

Not much time passed before Valentino opened his mouth again. He had that damning smile on his lips; the smile that said he had a good question lined up, ready to shoot. 

“Okay, Voxxy. You don’t seem the kind of guy to be into heinous shit, so lemme ask ya; have you ever heard of snuff films?”

Vox looked down at him, raising an eyebrow. 

“I have not.”

“Do you wanna hear about it?”

“I don’t know, do I?”

“Oh, it’ll be to die for,” Valentino promised and sat up so fast Vox briefly thought he had spilled his drink. 

“What is it?” Vox asked, caution lining his voice. 

“You’ll see. Don’t worry, Voxxy, I only have the best snuff films available.”

He got up from the floor and went to the television, turning the appropriate dials. Vox followed him carefully with his eyes as he flopped back against the couch where Vox sat. When the television finally came to life, the screen was black and white and somewhat static. A few seconds later, however, the picture turned sharp, and revealed some sort of news announcement. 

Vox glanced at Valentino who moved to the television again, turning more dials until the picture became that of... a dungeon of sorts? It sure looked like a dungeon, or perhaps a basement. Albeit, the rocky walls were lined with a wide array of tools. Some looked like the garden variety, others seemed to be fit for a dentist. Other than those, there were hammers and saws and shears, in an assortment of sizes. 

Vox’s stomach sank. His throat tightened. His palms were suddenly clammy. 

What, exactly, was going to happen in this ‘film’? 

In the middle of the dungeon - or basement, or whatever - there was a massive bed, with a headboard made of metal bars. The bed was bathed in a harsh light, shining down on and revealing a bound and naked lady. She was conventionally attractive; not too skinny but not too fat either. Long hair that looked well-kempt. 

Vox swallowed hard. 

Her hands were tied to the metal bars of the headboard with rough-looking ropes, and her ankles fastened with heavy-looking chains to the bottom of the bed. 

She wasn’t moving. Her eyes were closed. She looked... almost peaceful. 

Feeling as if he was being strangled, Vox was about to ask if she was even alive, when he saw her chest rising and falling slowly, steadily. Sleeping, then. 

“Is snuff film some term I’m not familiar with that means boring film?” Vox asked, trying to line his voice with bravery and sarcasm, rather than the all-encompassing dread that was thrumming in his veins. 

Valentino chuckled darkly and bumped their shoulders together. 

“Oh, just you wait,” he purred and leaned back in the couch, looking way too nonchalant. “The good stuff is about to happen.”

From the screen came the sound of a heavy iron door slamming shut, although it wasn’t on-screen. Vox went ramrod straight. Valentino snickered, patting his thigh absently, which made Vox jump. 

“You’ve... seen this one before, then?”

“Plenty of times,” Valentino revealed with a wave of his hand. 

As the door loudly slammed shut, the woman jerked slightly. She tried to tug her arms down from the unnatural position, but was stopped by the ropes. The camera was close enough to catch the fear in her eyes. 

“Hello?” she called out, her voice shaky. She tried pulling her feet up. The sharp clanking of metal resonated in the otherwise empty room. There was... something about that sound that shouldn’t be as... enticing as it was. Vox instantly felt sick to the pit of his stomach. 

“H-Hello?” she tried again, trying to tug herself free, but without success. 

A man entered the frame. He was dressed in a black robe with a black hood that completely covered his face. 

“Val,” Vox whispered and glanced at Valentino, “I don’t like where this is going.”

Valentino waved a hand dismissively. 

“Don’t be a wuss, Voxxy.” 

Vox bristled and scoffed. Valentino sent him a way too smug smile. 

“I’m not a wuss!”

“Then keep on watching.”

Vox swallowed hard, redirecting his attention to the television screen. He was going to prove to Valentino that he wasn’t a coward. No matter what. 

The hooded figure on the screen got closer to the bed. The woman began trembling. She tried harder to get free, but it was futile. The fear in her eyes was very real. It felt... too real, to Vox. Yet, he couldn’t help but keep watching. 

“No! Go away! Get away from me!” she cried out, writhing and squirming on the bed. 

The hooded figure now stood by the foot of the bed, and the camera angle changed, instead filming the scene as if the viewer watched it through the man’s eyes. The viewer had an unobstructed view of the woman’s intimate parts and her legs flailing the slight bit that the chains allowed. 

The bed dipped slightly as the man got onto it, crawling over the woman to get on her eye-level. The camera followed, now focusing on the widening of her eyes, the sweat on her forehead, and her nostrils flaring in fear. 

“No, please,” she whimpered. “Please, don’t--- don’t hurt me!” 

The man was still quiet. He now pulled back a bit, and the camera showed his hand pushing between the woman’s legs. She gasped, then whimpered, and the flailing intensified. The chains clanked loudly, and the headboard’s iron bars creaked. But other than those sounds, and the woman’s pleas, the room was eerily silent. 

Vox was transfixed. He knew where this was headed - he knew of rape. He knew that some people, some truly degenerate people, got off to that. He had never imagined that he, of all people, would watch a film depicting such a heinous act. 

The man pushed two dry fingers into her. Vox felt all air leave his lungs. She was clearly not enjoying it and cried out and writhed on the bed, continuously begging the hooded figure to stop. Without relenting, without showing remorse, he began thrusting his fingers. He didn’t so much as groan; he didn’t make a single sound as he violated the woman. 

Not even when he replaced his fingers with his - quite large - cock did he produce a sound. The woman, however, cried out. Tears streamed down her face, and her entire body was trembling violently. Gradually, her pleas for mercy died out, instead replaced by her hiccuping sobs. 

Vox swallowed heavily. He almost didn’t notice Valentinos hand on his thigh, and only felt a sliver of pleasure when that hand crawled further up his leg. 

“Oh, but Voxxy,” he began, but as if his voice was the reason that Vox needed to end the trance, he shook his head hard. 

“Val, come on. This is enough, I’ve seen enough. Just stop it already.”

He grabbed Valentinos wrist, making him stop his hand’s advances. It was resting just a few fingers’ width from his crotch. 

“But amorcito, I’m helping you. I’m giving you, heh, a hand. There’s no need to be shy about it. Not now. And this,” Valentino forcefully moved his hand to touch Vox’s cock, stroking him through his pants. Vox gasped. “This seems to be agreeing with me, wouldn’t you say so?”

Vox felt sick to his stomach, again. 

“Val, please. We’ve already crossed so many fucking lines by watching this.”

“Exactly. So why stop here?” he purred, but Vox was getting antsy. Valentino must have sensed it, because he quickly and smoothly convinced Vox to keep watching. “How about this, then, baby? You keep watching the film. I won’t do anything. Promise. My hand will just stay right here. You keep watching. Nothing will happen. Promise, yeah, baby?”

Vox licked his lips, eyes going back to the screen. The hooded figure was now pushing hard and fast into the poor woman, whose eyes had closed tightly. Her head was tilted to the side, as if she was making double-sure she wouldn’t see her rapist. 

He hated to admit it - and never would to another living soul, of course - but his cock was achingly hard. Valentino might just be touching him through his pants, but even so, he could feel himself leaking heavy drops of pre-cum. There would no doubt be a big, wet stain on the front of his pants. 

The screaming and crying from the woman continued. Red burn marks from the ropes began appearing on her wrists. Her flailing fluctuated between violent and weak, as if she had accepted her fate. 

The harder she was raped, the more labored Vox’s breathing got. 

This was... this was real. This was real, actual rape of a real, actual woman. Done by a real, actual man. It was sickening, and Vox wanted it to end. No such luck, though. 

“How... how much longer is this movie?” he croaked to Valentino. 

“Another half an hour, baby,” Valentino purred against his cheek, sounding oddly out of breath. 

Vox hadn’t even noticed how close Valentino had gotten. He barely even noticed how his hand was beginning to move - or was it actually his own hips that bucked so hard Valentino might as well have been jerking him off? Regardless, the sliver of pleasure was now a small wave lapping at his heart. 

Then, suddenly, the reassuring heat of Valentino disappeared. Vox realized he had closed his eyes, and opened them in an instant, first fixed on the screen, but then going to Valentino who had slunk to his knees between Vox’s spread legs. 

“Val,” he groaned. His eyes flitted back to the screen. The camera was now closer to the man’s cock hammering into the woman’s cunt. “Val, don’t, this is---” his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “Please, stop.”

“But I’m hardly doing anything,” Valentino purred and stroked Vox’s thighs slowly, from his knees and up to his crotch. “I’m just sitting here. That’s hardly a crime.”

Vox groaned, hating how his cock throbbed. It strained against the front of his pants, and it was starting to get painful. He looked down at Valentino, who looked sinfully enticing. He was all smug smiles and sultry purrs when he spoke again. 

“Eyes on the screen, baby. Okay? Keep watching the film, and I’ll keep on doin’ nothin’.”

Vox shuddered. Closing his eyes for a second, they were pulled wide open when a particularly shrill scream brought his attention back to the screen. He wished he hadn’t. 

The man’s hands were now wrapped tightly around the woman’s throat as he rammed into her, and an intense frisson of delight coursed through him. The small wave of pleasure had become an all-consuming maelstrom that threatened to bring him down. 

“Fuck,” he hissed, leaning his head back a bit before looking at the film once more. Valentino’s hands were slowly sliding up his thighs, but this time, they didn’t back down again. Instead, they seemed to be busying themselves opening his pants. “Val, please,” he hissed, then moaned when his cock sprang free. 

“Don’t worry, baby,” Valentino purred, forcing the pants and underwear down around his thighs, “keep your eyes on the screen. It gets so good, okay? Promise.” 

Vox was half tempted to ask if this wasn’t the good part, but bit his tongue before he could entertain Valentino’s sick and twisted idea of a porno. Instead, he kept watching. 

The man was putting more pressure on the woman’s throat, and arched his back slightly as he slammed harder and faster into her. Her screams soon became muffled and raspy from the choking. 

Then there was a warm wetness on his cock, and Vox almost doubled over from the, frankly, obscene amount of pleasure that surged through him in that moment. He looked down to see that Valentino had taken his cock in his mouth and was now working him with the determination of a skilled and very well paid prostitute. 

“Fuck, Val!” he hissed and immediately lowered a hand to Valentino’s head. Whether to push him away, or... pull him closer, Vox didn’t know, and thus, his hand hovered a few inches above Valentino’s skull. 

Valentino moaned, and that reworked Vox’s moral compass so hard that he decided which it would be. He grabbed the back of Valentino’s head with both hands and pulled him closer. Valentino let out a muffled, but deeply pleased sound while easily swallowing him down. 

His heart beat so fast it felt as though it was trying to escape his ribcage. It made him feel sick, but it made him sicker to watch the film while being throat-deep in Valentino. 

“Val, I-I-I can’t, please, stop,” he panted, even as he began thrusting into Valentino’s mouth, his hands not even allowing him to move away. Valentino’s hands came up to rest on his thighs, letting his nails gently scrape over his flushed skin. 

The hooded figure was now panting. Not loud, and not a lot, but enough that it was audible, even through the woman’s sobs and whimpers and pleas. It was a deep, guttural sound that spoke to something primal within Vox. 

Each thrust in the film, he mirrored by pushing into Valentino, and Valentino, as if he had prepared for this, moaned and whined with the same volume as the woman on the screen. 

“V-Val, your neighbors,” Vox hissed, one eye closing slightly. He felt Valentino wanting to pull back, but for some reason, he couldn’t get himself to let go. 

Heat coursed through him. A tight knot - the tightest he had ever felt it - formed in his lower stomach where it threatened to become so hot and heavy that it would burn his stomach right out of his body. 

This was sick! Sick! Twisted! Depraved! And he was... getting off to it? What had become of him? 

“Please, please please please,” he gasped once he felt the knot become so unbearably tight. He kept ramming into Valentino’s mouth, pushing into his throat. 

The inevitable was coming sooner than he would have liked. 

“Val, please, I’m going t-to come,” he rasped, unable to stop himself from thrusting hard and fast, unable to let go of Valentino’s head, and, maybe most importantly, unable to look away from the screen. 

Valentino’s hands slid to his rear end, squeezing hard, as if urging him to continue. He was moaning and sucking loudly on Vox’s cock, using his tongue to press against the underside of the throbbing, jerking cock in his mouth. 

Vox’s heart was racing. The gears in his head turned at a velocity that rendered them red hot. Yet, despite feeling the thoughts, he couldn’t pluck out a single one. They simply moved too fast. 

“Val, Valentino, please---”

And Valentino rewarded his desperate pleas with a move so impressive and bold that Vox was forced to come on the spot. 

Valentino pushed past his gag reflex, taking Vox so deep that his nose brushed against the coarse hair of his crotch. At the same time, one of his hands cupped his balls, squeezing them gently, as if coaxing him to shoot his load straight down his throat.

“Fuck! Val!” Vox cried out, white-hot pleasure burning through his veins and rendering his brain absolutely useless. The gears finally stopped turning. His heart felt like it had stopped working as well. For a wonderfully long moment, his head was quiet. There was nothing but the pleasant buzzing and the blissful fogginess of a world-class orgasm. 

It all came to an abrupt stop as the hooded figure reached his climax mere seconds later, prompting the woman to gasp as she felt his hot seed shoot inside her. 

Valentino slowly pulled away from Vox, smirking up at him in a way that Vox really did not like. 

“I think it’s safe to say you’re into snuff, baby,” he snickered. Vox groaned and put both hands on his face. 

“I liked you better when you couldn’t talk.”

Valentino laughed, although the sound was a bit grating from the rough treatment. 

“Well, give me a gag, then, and we might have ourselves a deal.”

Vox glared at him through his fingers. 

“Absolutely fucking not.”

Valentino pouted before getting up to sit next to Vox. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes and lit one, putting it between his lips. Having taken a deep drag, he offered it to Vox who looked at the wispy smoke that rose from it. He swallowed hard. 

Why the fuck not? What was a little smoking compared to getting off to snuff films? He had already crossed that unspeakable line, so why not indulge himself in another sinful habit? 

[softichill]

I deeply apologize to anyone who has followed me for a specific fandom. Unfortunately my insanity frequently rotates to something else every 3 weeks or so