genAI companies are now buying up rare and antique books so they can scan them and use them to train their AI. then they're destroying the books afterward.
AI companies are quietly obtaining rare books, ingesting their contents, and then destroying them -- even if they're exceedingly rare.
they've had to face settlements against stealing from current authors, so they'll just go for the old books now. they're also doing this so they have the only copies of rare books.
they're taking water, power, natural resources for their data centers. they steal. they're book burning, essentially. i'm just so angry, i'm at a loss right now.
Uma is a hot topic in Auradon gossip/news, a sea goddess that rose from the ashes of Mal’s childhood ill contempt for the girl. from Shrimpy to Queen; Uma takes Auradon by storm with her handsome first mate at her side.
ROCKET TEAMS UP (ON YOU). | EVERY ROCKET HCs
nav | fanfiction | headcanons & imagines
thank you, @chowdragun, for this not-a-prompt, and for your patience! i turned this over for a long time, wondering: what could draw all these rockets together? they’ve all got their own goals and interests and motivations — why would they ever reach out across timelines and universes to work together, especially when some of them don’t really play well with others?
the answer, of course, is you.
if you were in danger — trapped somewhere, or needing to be saved, or whatever — of course these rockets could put aside their differences for a little while to make sure you were retrieved, then kept safe and happy. and if they happened to grow on each other in the meantime, then it probably wouldn’t be hard to convince them that you’d be happier if they stuck around. together.
then — who knows? they might turn their newfound cooperative skills into a different kind of teamwork…
NSFW (MDNI) with gn reader below the cut.
ROCKET TEAMS UP (ON YOU). | EVERY ROCKET HCs
WARNINGS: orgies! voyeurism/exhibitionism, overstimulation, double and triple penetration, double and triple stuffing, mentions of gunplay and biting, somno, choking, plugging, oral, use of toys, directing, bondage, abandonment. universe-killer being himself.
mcu rocket
TEAMS UP:
this rocket is the most lone-wolf of the group (unless you count the universe-killer, which we don’t). he can barely stand one of himself on a good day — now he’s gotta work with six of ‘im?
worse still, each of the other rockets has some kind of characteristic or habit that either confirms his worst suspicions of himself, or shows him how much better he could be if he wasn’t such a piece of work. he leaves the other rockets to their various devices: the rocket with the beard and the rocket with the piercings immediately start fucking around with the weapons on the workbench, while the rocket in the bespoke suit glowers suspiciously at the smirking cyborg — who looks like he’s probably murdered whole planets with that laser-red eye. meanwhile, the hyperactive little shit with the fingerless gloves and plumey tail sprawls upside down on the couch with his ears brushing the floor, flipping through the dirty magazine pete had left onboard the last time he visited from terra.
(the crinkled booklet had fallen out of star-lord’s purse right on the cockpit floor. rocket had lifted it by one corner before he’d realized what it was, then dropped it like it was fuckin’ contaminated — which it probably was — and tried not to hurl.
the fuck is wrong with you?! he’d demanded, his voice pitched higher than usual as he’d glared at his humie friend. watch your porn on a fuckin’ holo, like a normal pre-vert!
it’s nostalgic! pete had squawked, snatching the sticky thing off the floor before rolling it up and stuffing it back in his bag, muttering something about rites of passage and the eighties.
you got issues, quill, rocket had informed him flatly before stalking off to bleach his frickin’ hands.)
the point is, mcu rocket isn’t lining up to make friends. as with everyone else in his life, the relationships grow slowly. haltingly. begrudgingly. eventually, he finds himself watching each of their backs, focused more on covering them during firefights over actually making any kills of his own. while all the rockets share similar skillsets, he’s the one most inclined toward shipbuilding and flight maneuvers — he’s the one that finds the open sky calls to him the most — and that means he’s the one herding his fellow-rockets back onboard after a crisis. he’s the one pushing the jump-points, cackling as he evades hull-destroying blasts and asteroids, and — well, he’s the one making sure to keep the others out of danger. he’s the one protecting them and giving them a home — all while muttering curses under his breath, and hoping the cruel universe doesn’t take one of ‘em and break his stupid fuckin’ heart.
ON YOU:
so... what happens when this hodgepodge team of inter-universal misfits finally gets you back, safe and sound underneath their collective claws? and what’s a lone-wolf rocket to do? at first — nothing at all. this rocket is probably the slowest to hit on you once they get you back. he watches as the others shoot their shots. they’re all frickin’ annoying, frankly.
…but endearing too.
which is to say that he’s playing the voyeur for a long time: watching with lava-hot, molten-ruby eyes as the others smirk at you, fawn over you, tease you and taunt you. touch you. each and every flirtation knots his belly and stiffens his dick, till he finds himself stealing moments with you whenever he can: luring you away from the others so he can murmur double entendres in your ear that are just this side of filthy. he never does it in front of the others — never lets his claws linger behind your knee or up the back of your thighs, not when the other rockets are around — but he takes whatever chance he can get when he’s got you alone.
when things finally go down — on you, so to speak — rocket continues watching long past the time when most of the others have joined in. you can feel his stare like a physical touch, leaving shiny scorch-marks on your skin in their wake. eventually, he decides he doesn’t mind watching, either. he leans against the open hatch of the cargo bay that has been turned into a giant bunk, and he’s the picture of insolent laziness — if only you weren’t so skilled at reading his tells. but even through teary lashes and dazed eyes, you can read the tense curl of his claws over the edge of his pockets — the flick of his tail, the alert angle of his ears as he tries to soak up every murmur and moan you make.
truth is, his abdomen is so tight that his claws cut into his palms through the armored-fabric of his pockets, and he’s got one canine dug so deep into his tongue he can taste blood. there’s power in this, too, though: in waiting. in watching you choke and drown in pleasure — in watching so many of his other-selves make you wriggle and writhe and whine and cry, again and again and again and again.
in knowing that once you’re finally done — once you feel like you can’t possibly survive another brush of even the lightest, most delicate fingers — he’s going to shuffle you away into the shadows of his own bunk, sloppy and mewing, and make you come all over again.
just for him.
eidos rocket
TEAMS UP:
this rocket is nowhere near the isolationist that mcu rocket is. don’t get me wrong; he’s still skeptical. but in general, he’s always been more receptive to his fellow non-biologicals, and it doesn’t take more than a microsecond for him to figure all these other chogs prob’ly got backstories similar to his own. he’s curious: what’re they like? do they know how to appreciate a good explosion? are their peter quills as annoying as his?
the answers are correspondingly:
they’re all handsome bastards (though none as handsome as himself, of course),
they all love to blow shit up (but he’s definitely the best at it, which means he’ll serve as the team’s chief bomb technician), and
of course not. no other pete could be as flarkin’ obnoxious as his pete.
always sarcastic but — for once — pretty damn satisfied, this rocket settles pretty immediately and comfortably into the idea of a team-up. his relationship with his own guardians or gardeners or whatever may be pretty fraught, just ‘cause they all got weird baggage — but eidos rocket was bioengineered to be part of a unit. no, a legion, really.
and this group reminds him a lot of his old fellow supersoldiers — even if they’re invariably more mouthy.
the dude with the piercings is solid, eidos rocket thinks. that guy’s got a love of firearms which seems equal to his own love of explosives. he’s pretty sure that together, they’re gonna develop the most terrible, beautiful armory in the known flarkin’ universe and beyond. conversely, the rocket in the suit is a little full of himself, but maybe he deserves to be ‘cause he always seems to know his shit. and the short rocket — the little guy with the duct tape and the anxiety disorder — reminds eidos rocket most of his old siblings in the labs. occasionally, he finds himself wondering if he could calm the little guy down with one of his old tall-tales of the hero of halfworld.
the point is, even if this rocket won’t say it out loud — even if he just continues to be his usual leering, sarcastic self on the surface — this is the team he’s been waiting for. he feels it in his duranium-plated bones. he feels it in all his ports and servos and implants.
so despite the fact that he’s the bomb tech, he’s determined not to do what he usually does with — anything.
he ain’t gonna blow it up.
ON YOU:
yeah, eidos rocket is a real teamplayer. which is to say, he’s the one who makes the most of having a whole arsenal of his other selves hangin’ around to make you feel good. one of his favorite positions is sprawled lazily on his back with his hands behind his head while you ride him. it’s the best flarkin’ view in the house, as far as he’s concerned, and he loves makin’ you do all the work. especially if you brace yourself with one humie hand on his chest, and the other pulling pleadingly at his beard.
and when there’s another rocket there to fill your mouth, and another toying with your nipples — well, it’s his new favorite kind of group-project. he’d never realized he had such a fetish for stuffing a partner so full before, but he loves to see you on top of him, glutted with cum, leaking from every overstuffed hole.
c’mon, sweetheart, he’ll croon as the rocket with the fingerless gloves slides thick, nimble digits into you — right beside eidos rocket’s own crooked cock. i’ve seen you stretched out on that cranky mech-rocket's cannon before.
so you can definitely take a second dick in this pretty hole of yours.
prob’ly even a third.
cartoon rocket
TEAMS UP:
maybe you could guess this, or maybe you wouldn’t — but cartoon rocket is the glue of the group.
or perhaps the duct tape.
look. yes, he’s obnoxious and shrill. and yes, he wears his anxiety right on his chest like a flarkin’ target. but something about him seems to remind all the other rockets of themselves at their most vulnerable. and while they each find it some level of annoying — well, except for skottie-young-rocket, who’s simply entertained by it all — there’s always been a part of each rocket that is drawn to vulnerability.
even when it’s a reflection of themselves.
it doesn’t hurt that cartoon rocket is also the one who patches everybody up after every mission — usually cussing the whole time. it’s flark this and flark that, and hold still while i laser-stitch this d’ast wound, ya krutackin’ moron. he’s even repaired some of the universe-killer’s prosthetics from time to time, when the giant jackass couldn’t easily reach the short-circuited tech himself.
really, it’s no wonder that this guy is holding the whole crew of misfits together on their journey to find you. because — just like each rocket has always been drawn to vulnerability —
each rocket is also a little soft for someone who takes care of him.
ON YOU:
this rocket doesn’t engage in a whole lot of the x-rated activities, but he is the resident aftercare-specialist and chief cuddler. he’s always there when you need him, muttering under his breath about clumsy flarkin’ idiots while he kneads salve into your bruises or bandages up your bites, then lets you wrap your arms around his waist and snuggle into his flank while he massages your wrists or your temples. he strokes your brow with a gentleness that always seems at odds with his gruff, annoyed mumbles, and when he squeezes you back, it’s just as tight as your own embrace. he sleeps with you as often as you let him (which is all the time): curled around you, letting you treat him like a plushy stuffed toy whenever you want — and treating you like one even more often, mumbling fervent prayers and unintelligible gratitudes into your neck.
but as much as cartoon rocket might be the medic on board — or as close to one as this crew gets — he’s got no patience for any perceived carelessness the others show toward you. he’s constantly lecturing eidos rocket about praising you more, and snarling at skottie-young rocket to be more attentive to your well-being. he’s had a number of remarkably quiet conversations with both rivals rocket and mcu rocket, both of whom have discreetly sought him out to ask how to make sure they take care of you a little better.
once, you even stumble across him cussing out universe-killer rocket, as if he’s got no fear for his own life. luckily, you’re good at caring too, and you manage to scoop him up into a cuddle and cart him away before the universe-killer does anything more than arch a dangerous brow.
and cartoon rocket, for his part, is too smitten to try to fight you off when you wrap your arms around him and bundle him away with a few well-placed smooches between his ears.
universe-killer rocket
TEAMS UP:
the important thing to remember is that universe-killer rocket is always primarily looking out for his own interests. the parts of him that you might recognize as fundamentally rocket are buried deep, and he’s ultimately unreliable, greedy, and manipulative.
but if it just so happens that his goals align with those of the other rockets — as it does in this mission to find and secure you, if only for his own ends — then he can pretend to play nice for a while.
even so, he’s a grinning, condescending, dangerous bastard, and they all know it — though they only seem to respond with varying degrees of wariness and mockery. still, he makes an excellent tank for the team when he wants to: damn-near indestructible thanks to his vibra-duranium armor and prosthetics, with at least one limb capable of turning into a laser cannon that blows up a lot more than a few measly moons.
as much of an asshole as he is, universe-killer rocket also recognizes the benefits of having a clan (not to mention that secretly, some nearly-unrecognizable part of himself misses his own hellspawn crew). so he’s plucked up a couple of the more-runty versions of himself in a few difficult situations, deftly removing them from the paths of incoming ion blasts and plasma shots. blocked one or two of ‘em from grav-shrapnel and thermal bloom.
of course, he doesn’t hesitate to point out that they owe him for the favors. not that he needs anything from them, mind you.
he just likes to remind them that they’re in his fuckin’ debt.
ON YOU:
it’s a narrow miracle that this rocket doesn’t grab you, kill the rest of the rockets, and sweep you off into deep space to be his pet. after all, that had been his original plan.
but you'd seemed so charmed by the other rockets — so smitten and sweetened by them.
he’d almost done it anyway. more than once, he’d been tempted — by the very happiness they seemed to bring into your eyes.
nothing has the right to make you that happy unless it’s by his permission.
fortunately for both them and you, something has always stayed his hand at the very last microsecond — some instinctive knowledge that if he kills these fuckers, he’ll never get the parts of you he wants most.
still, he’s a predictably jealous owner. transparent about it, too. he’ll take over any scene he’s a part of, brushing aside his counterparts as he pushes your few boundaries relentlessly — at least, until one of the other rockets snarls a warning.
it’s not that they intimidate him — not even close. but despite his inclinations, universe-killer rocket is too cunning to kick his favored humie’s tamed companions out of bed.
instead, he pretends to back off: baring his teeth at them in a toothy, dangerous grin — snickering at their concerns, raising his palms in the kind of exaggerated surrender that none of them mistakes for authentic. no — they already know he’s gonna use you later, pretty much however he wants: playing with you while you sleep, scooping the other rockets’ spend out of you in a mockery of gentleness — at least till he fucks you awake. by the time you open your eyes, you’ll already be screaming and creaming, weeping with his mechanical hand wrapped ‘round your throat and at least one brutal orgasm tearing its way out of your dreams. then he’ll plug you up after he fills you with cum, stoppering your sweet little hole so none of his more pathetic counterparts can get inside.
and notably, you let him — in fact, you almost seem to crave it — which is probably the only reason the other rockets haven’t tried to slaughter him yet.
he chuckles at the thought, thumbing the bitemark he carved into your asscheek, right overtop the hickey left behind by one of the others.
yeah, you’re still his little humie pet.
so it doesn’t bother him too much to let you keep a few pets of your own.
rivals rocket
TEAMS UP:
like his eidos counterpart, rivals rocket knows how to appreciate being part of a crew. he works surprisingly-well with others, and it doesn’t take long to settle into his role with the rest of the group. after all, he’s the most highly-adaptive of the rockets, ready to switch things up whenever the situation calls for it. on the surface, he might be the firearms-specialist of the crew, but he makes more than a simple artillery: his tech not only deals damage but also generates armor, shields, and medical-grade bio-repair energy.
point is, he’s a guy of diverse talents. especially when it comes to the tech he can create with his own two hands.
he’s also the guy who makes everything into a competition — in a fun way, of course. he keeps a holoprojection running in the commons bay: who’s got the most KOs? the most final hits? the most assists? who can drink the most cans of blubber ale before he passes out? who can dismantle and reassemble a laser-rifle the fastest? hit the most targets dead-center, all in a row?
the competitions are surprisingly good-natured, and they keep the rest of the crew’s spirits up while they search for you — especially when he begins floating ideas of all the ways they can compete once you’re back in their grasp.
who can make you smile the most? who can earn the most kisses?
who can make you come the hardest?
ON YOU:
that competitive energy doesn’t wane, my friend. not even a little.
and while the scoreboard has this rocket at the top of the list in a few different areas, the one he’s proudest of pertains to his oral technique. when it comes to using his mouth, he’s the one who can make you come the quickest and hardest — and the one who can keep you on edge the longest. it’s just that he’s fuckin’ addicted to the way you taste — which means it’s been a delight to learn exactly the way you liked to be licked and sucked and nibbled on, and to make sure his numbers keep going up, up, up, up.
that glossy-cool stud in his tongue doesn’t hurt, either. nor the way he lets you boss him around, with your fingers wrapped around his ears or fisted in the flop of fur atop his head. sure, he likes being in control, but he's just as happy to serve you with his tongue and teeth, baby.
of course, as the most diverse technician on board, rivals rocket doesn’t limit himself to just using his mouth. and while he appreciates having a whole arsenal of teammates to take care of you and wear you out — why not enhance things further?
he’s been itching to make some new toys, after all — toys which don’t focus on blowing things up or armoring his teammates for once. toys which are… purely recreational.
and if they happen to be best-suited for use on you, none of his counterparts are complaining.
comics rocket (ewing, et al.)
TEAMS UP:
it’s true that all rockets are instinctive tacticians. however, it’s also true that they’re also all absolute chaos muppets. and while this rocket is included in those numbers, he’s probably the best-suited to wrangle the rest of them.
meet your resident strategist.
in any other situation, he might not care about the fact that he’s clearly meant to be the so-called leader of a pack of frutackin’ losers. he’d leave ‘em to their own devices and keep his eyes on the prize. but in this case, the prize is you — and as much as he hates to admit it, his highly-refined intuition is telling him that the best way to secure you is by workin’ with the rest of these grizmods. so he sucks it up, and focuses on isolating each rocket’s particular strengths and weaknesses, leveraging them into a more-or-less seamless unit.
he’s pretty sure he can tolerate ‘em as long as he’s the one calling the shots.
at first, he just tries to shove them in the general direction of opportunity and hopes that they’ll make the most of it. after all, he’s not generally great at manipulation, but he also knows that not one of these fuckers is good at accepting direction, himself included. it seems to work well enough for a while: mcu rocket gravitates toward the cockpit, and eidos rocket toward the bombs. cartoon rocket is fussing around in the infirmary when he’s not duct-taping random imagined vulnerabilities in the ship’s hull. even skottie-young-rocket seems to have found something to occupy his attention.
but after the first few skirmishes they come across — everyone doing their own thing, getting in each others’ way — he realizes they need more than twelve percent of a plan before they head into their next battle.
so he starts strategizing according to their strengths, and when he tells them he’s got something in mind — well, he’s a little surprised that they’re willing to listen. not without plenty of snide flarkin’ commentary, of course. he wouldn’t expect anything else. he sneers and snarks back, giving as good as he gets.
but in the end, he’s still the one calling the shots — and they let him. in fact — he realizes later — the squabbles and resistance were probably just for show. if they’ve all fallen into some sort of natural role, maybe his is as the de facto captain in a crew full of captains. or at least, it will be unless they decide he sucks at his job.
that seems highly unlikely, though, seeing how they gloat and grin after their next successful firefight. every role he’d picked for them had seemed not only perfectly-suited, but satisfying. hell, even universe-killer rocket had seemed to get some sorta sick glee out of his job being their tank.
okay, maybe comics rocket shouldn’t judge. all the rockets are equally sick in their own special ways.
including himself.
ON YOU:
speaking of sick—
look, true to form, this rocket likes being in control of pretty much everything around him. so it’s only natural that he rolls that director position right into the bedroom — or in this case, one of the cargo bays, which they’ve collectively transformed into a giant bunk.
that was his doing, by the way. making sure you had a big enough space to roll around and sleep with all of ‘em, including himself. strategy in action.
he’s also the one who’d insisted that they at least try to wine-and-dine you. most of his counterparts tend to stockpile their cash, and as a pack of well-known heroes-for-hire — well, mostly heroes — there are always opportunities to earn more money.
which means there are plenty of credits available to take you to luxury beach-planets and fancy restaurants. to really show you that they can give you the finer things just as often as they give you divebars and engine grease and near-death-experiences.
look, he’s a flarkin’ pragmatist, okay? and he doesn’t hate having access to top-shelf liquor himself every once in a while.
all that’s just window-dressing, though. his need for control runs deep.
he. calls. the shots.
not every time, of course — but often enough.
he rationalizes that it’s simply because he knows — knows exactly which rocket is best with his mouth, and which cock you prefer to suck on for comfort versus which one you like best when it’s fucking your throat. he knows which toys should be applied where and when and at what pressure and speed, and he knows which voice saying which words are going to wind you up worse. he knows exactly who should fuck your ass depending on the mood you’re in, and how hard you need your nipples pinched, and the best way to remind you of which eyes are watching you get railed. he knows how many hands you need on you in any given moment, and which part of your body is most desperate for a tickle from one of the tails. he knows when you should be allowed to come — if at all — and when you should be pushed to orgasm till you pass out.
the other rockets heckle him for it, of course. that pierced guy refers to him as the dictator on a regular basis, while his skottie-young counterpart cackles and calls him daddy every chance he gets. mcu rocket rolls his eyes and mutters something about frickin’ fascists every time comics rocket sprawls lazily in the old captain’s chair installed in the corner of your cargo-bay-bunk: thighs wide, eyes half-hooded as he smirks—
but not one of them tries to usurp him.
because he’s always, always right.
comics rocket (skottie young)
TEAMS UP:
you might expect that universe-killer rocket is the reckless berserker of the crew, but you’d be wrong. say hello to skottie young rocket: cackling while he blows through walls and hulls with nothing but a twenty-barrel homebrew plasma-cannon and a maniacal grin.
your confusion is understandable, of course. you probably think of berserkers as fighting from a place of fury, while this rocket’s recklessness and wanton destruction stem solely from his love for all things that go blam.
of all the rockets, he’s the most likely to get caught up in bomb-lust: distracted by the scent of fire and fuel, blowing shit up just to see what happens. don’t forget: this is the guy who became a fucking despot just to fuck with his best friend’s birthday plans. he’s goddamn demonic, and everybody in the new crew knows it.
relatedly, this rocket is the least likely to stick to a script — always opting for whatever seems like it might be the most fun in the moment. his counterparts have basically given up on him at this point. these days, before a fight, the rocket in the bespoke suit (daddy, as this rocket likes to call him, solely mostly to get under his skin) only sighs and tells him that he’s in charge of creating a distraction before leaving him to sort out his next stroke of creative genius on his own.
and sure, sometimes that distraction ends up killing all the bad guys in a single swoop — but it often nearly takes a rocket out too. plus — thrice now — they’ve lost a payload as a result of skottie young rocket’s impulsivity: accidentally jettisoning a tanker full of creds into a black hole on one occasion, and then setting two separate lux-crystal payouts on fire.
of course, he’s always real sad about it afterward: ears downturned, a miserable hangdog expression on his face, shiny crimson eyes wide and forlorn. tail tucked between his legs in grief.
don’t worry, though. while other rockets will be furious for hours or even rotations — and annoyed for even longer — skottie young rocket has usually moved on to the next thing in under two minutes.
too many other things to hyperfixate on, you know?
rather than dwelling on his failures, he’ll spend days buried in the ship’s hull whenever mcu rocket lets him, or hours building some new gun that has all the other rockets staring at it in disbelief till someone mutters fuckin’ cartoon logic and they give up trying to figure it out. plus, there's money to daydream about. and booze. and heists. and fancy ships. and artillery. and wrestling.
even so, this mission — to get you back — has held his attention longer than anything else he can think of.
ever.
ON YOU:
if there’s one thing that this guy — the most unpredictable rocket — can actually be consistent on, it’s that he’s an unhinged brat.
and yeah, that energy carries right into the bedroom.
he’s constantly teasing you, making fun of you — pinching you while purring degradations in your ear in a way that makes your toes curl — only to turn around with a wink and demand some punishment of his own. you wanna tie him up, tug on his tail, tell him what a filthy guy he is? hell, he’s game. it’s not like he couldn’t get outta any restraints you put on him in two seconds flat, anyway.
it’s also worth noting that this rocket is almost as interested in his other selves as he is in you. handsome fuckers, the whole lot of ‘em. and as the rocket who has been the most aware of his singular condition and aloneness in the universe, he’s more than a little curious. he’s making suggestive comments to other rockets every chance he gets — copping feels whenever the whim takes him. it’s hard not to when there are so many guys sharing a bunk, after all.
and to his — and your — pleasant surprise, a few of the other rockets are open to more than just tolerating his advances. after all, eidos rocket is always up for a good, self-indulgent time. rivals rocket, too. and could there be anything more self-indulgent than sex with, well, himself? besides, it’s not like it’s cheating if they’re all other versions of themselves, right? not when they’re all here for you in the first place.
and not when you seem sooo into it.
of course, both his interest in his other selves and his extreme brattiness are only manifestations of that larger, more overwhelming baseline personality trait we associated with skottie young rocket from earlier:
his unpredictability.
this rocket loves you. and he treats you like it most nights: murmuring his reverent adorations, showering you with light touches and affection. letting you do whatever you want to him. unfortunately, he’ll also tie you up and abandon you the very next morning: restraining you, dragging you behind a bulwark in an abandoned corridor where he's ever-so-thoughtfully left some soft pillows to keep you comfy, and then stuffing a vibrating dildo inside you — smirking while he strides away with his hands in his pockets and a whistle on his lips. he’ll leave you alone to suffer for god-knows-how-long before finally hinting to another rocket that he’s left them a pretty little fucktoy somewhere.
but don’t worry. while you might be dazed and drooling and terrified that he forgot about you, he’d never.
you’re on his mind constantly:
his favorite little hyperfixation.
gunmetal glitter divider by @/bernardsbendystraws | animated celestial banner by @/enchanthings | title, support, & mdni banners by me!
Self-indulgent writing gets treated like a crime, but honestly, what are we doing here if not indulging the part of us that wants castles, rivals, soft monsters, dramatic reunions, found family dinners, doomed letters, and emotionally constipated people learning tenderness? Not everything has to be clever in a marketable way. Sometimes the thing you want most is the thing with the most life in it.
The kitchen is running at a slightly different pace today. The frantic, high-energy scrambling has been replaced by a slow, methodical rhythm. The fires are burning low and steady, roasting heavy cuts of meat over fragrant woods, filling the air with a deep, smoky, intoxicating aroma.
Today requires patience. Today, we are serving the Housewarden of Savanaclaw.
Leona Kingscholar is a man who despises unnecessary effort. He hates loud noises, he hates sycophants, and he absolutely loathes the pageantry of a royal birthday. For the second-born prince of the Sunset Savanna, a birthday is not a celebration; it is a blaring, annual reminder of his position as the "spare." It is a day of false pleasantries and exhausting political maneuvering.
To properly celebrate the King of Beasts, one must offer him the rarest commodity in his life: peace. He does not need a grand banquet. He needs a quiet patch of shade, a heavy meal fit for an apex predator, and the company of the one person who doesn't look at him and see a crown he will never wear.
Please, take your seat. I have prepared a slow-cooked, warm serving for him. Settle in, because we are going deep into the savanna.
Serving: The Uncrowned King
The Botanical Garden at Night Raven College was usually a place of quiet study, a lush, climate-controlled sanctuary where students could observe rare magical flora. But in the deepest, most overgrown corner of the Temperate Zone, hidden behind a massive, ancient cluster of weeping ferns and broad-leafed elephant ears, it was simply a hiding spot.
Leona Kingscholar lay flat on his back, stretched out across a wide, flat slab of sun-warmed stone.
His uniform jacket was discarded somewhere in the bushes. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, his golden necklace resting against his collarbone. His lion ears were pinned back, flat against his messy, dark brown hair, and his thick tail gave a slow, agitated flick against the stone.
He was hiding. And he was incredibly, deeply annoyed.
Today was July 27th.
Since the moment the sun had crested the horizon, his phone had been buzzing in his pocket with a relentless, maddening frequency. There had been a localized earthquake of a voice message from his older brother, Farena, booming with obnoxious, overbearing cheerfulness. There had been a chaotic, high-pitched video call from his nephew, Cheka, screaming “Happy Birthday Unca!” so loudly that Leona’s sensitive ears had rung for ten minutes afterward.
And then, there was the Savanaclaw dorm itself.
Ruggie and Jack were currently attempting to organize a "surprise" feast in the main lounge. Leona had smelled the raw meat and heard the frantic whispering before he even opened his eyes this morning. The entire dorm was buzzing with the nervous energy of a hundred beastmen trying to throw a party for a Housewarden who actively despised parties.
He didn't want a party. He didn't want gifts. He just wanted to be left alone.
Every single birthday was the exact same. The royal court of the Sunset Savanna would send lavish, empty gifts—golden trinkets, rare magical artifacts, expensive silks. They were obligations. The courtiers didn't care about Leona; they cared about maintaining a polite relationship with the King’s brother. It was a suffocating, gilded cage of politics. Every smile was a transaction. Every gift was a reminder that he was the secondary option, the backup plan, the shadow cast by Farena's blinding, beloved sun.
Leona let out a long, rumbling growl from the back of his throat, lifting a heavy hand to drape his arm over his eyes, shielding them from the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy.
"Stupid day," Leona muttered to himself, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "Stupid herbivores making a racket over nothing. I should have slept in the Spelldrive stadium."
He tried to force his brain to shut down, willing the familiar, heavy blanket of sleep to pull him under. But his senses were too sharp today. The humidity of the garden felt sticky and oppressive. The buzzing of the magical insects was too loud.
And then, his ears twitched.
Footsteps. Soft, deliberate, and entirely human.
They weren't the heavy, thudding steps of a Savanaclaw beastman, nor were they the clicking, formal strides of someone like Riddle or Azul. These footsteps were familiar. They were the sound of the only person in this entire school who possessed the sheer, absolute audacity to seek him out when he was actively hiding.
Leona didn't move his arm. He didn't open his eyes. He simply waited.
The ferns rustled softly as the branches were pushed aside. The footsteps stopped right at the edge of his sun-warmed stone slab.
"You know," your voice floated through the humid air, carrying a distinct, playful lilt, "if you're going to hide from your entire dormitory, you shouldn't leave your uniform jacket hanging on a branch in plain sight. It’s a dead giveaway."
Leona let out a heavy, long-suffering sigh. He slowly moved his arm, cracking one vibrant, emerald-green eye open to look at you.
You were standing over him, wearing your usual slightly rumpled uniform, though you had rolled the sleeves up to combat the heat of the greenhouse. Slung over your shoulder was a heavy, dark canvas bag, and in your hands, you carried a large, flat wooden box adorned with intricate, burnished metal clasps.
"What do you want, herbivore?" Leona grumbled, closing his eye again and turning his head away slightly. "If Ruggie sent you to drag me back to whatever disaster they’re cooking up in the lounge, you can tell him to shove it. I’m not going."
"Ruggie didn't send me," you replied, setting the heavy wooden box down on the ground before shrugging the canvas bag off your shoulder. "In fact, I distinctly saw Ruggie yelling at a first-year for dropping a crate of steaks, so I slipped out the back. I came here for entirely selfish reasons."
Leona’s ear gave a slight twitch. That caught his attention. He was used to people wanting things from him—favors, money, protection, political influence. But you rarely asked him for anything.
He groaned, pushing himself up onto his elbows, the muscles in his arms shifting under his tanned skin. He looked at you, his gaze sharp and calculating despite his lazy posture.
"Selfish reasons," Leona repeated, a lazy, dangerous smirk touching the corner of his mouth. "Are you finally admitting you just want to bask in my presence? Because I charge an hourly rate for that."
"In your dreams, Kingscholar," you laughed, stepping closer to the stone slab. "Move over."
"I was here first."
"Move, or I'm sitting on you."
Leona scoffed, but he lazily shifted his long legs, making just enough room for you to sit on the edge of the stone. He watched you intently as you opened the canvas bag.
The moment you unzipped the insulated interior, Leona's pupils dilated, his nose twitching instinctively.
The smell was incredible. It wasn't the raw, bloody scent of the Savanaclaw kitchen. It was the deep, rich, complex aroma of meat that had been slow-roasted for hours. It smelled of dark spices, cracked black pepper, smoked sea salt, and a hint of something sweet, like caramelized brown sugar and bourbon.
His stomach let out a loud, demanding rumble. Leona pressed a hand to his abdomen, a faint flush of embarrassment darkening his cheeks, though he masked it instantly with a scowl.
"What is that?" he demanded, his voice dropping an octave, completely dropping the uncaring facade.
"Lunch," you smiled, pulling out two heavy, dark ceramic containers. You popped the seal on the largest one, and a cloud of fragrant, savory steam plumed into the humid air.
Inside was a massive cut of beef brisket. It had been rubbed with a dark, heavy spice blend and slow-cooked until the fat had rendered completely, leaving the meat so tender it was practically falling apart in its own rich, dark juices. Next to it was a side of bone marrow, roasted in the shell with garlic and herbs, alongside a mountain of thick-cut, heavily seasoned wedges of potatoes.
It was a carnivore's absolute dream. It was excessive, heavy, and undeniably luxurious.
"I know you dislike sweet things," you explained, handing him a set of heavy silverware and a thick linen napkin. "And I know the dorm is probably going to try and force a cake on you later. So, I figured I would beat them to the punch. I bribed the ghosts in the kitchen to let me use the slow-roaster overnight."
Leona stared at the container of meat. He looked at the perfectly rendered fat, the dark crust of the spices. Then, he looked up at you.
"You stayed up all night to cook this?" Leona asked, his emerald eyes narrowing in suspicion. The transactional nature of his upbringing reared its ugly head. "Why? What’s the catch?"
"No catch," you said simply, opening your own, much smaller container of food. "It's your birthday. I wanted to feed you. That's it."
Leona stared at you for a long, silent moment. He searched your face, looking for the lie, looking for the hidden motive. He was a prince; he was trained to read micro-expressions, to see the greed hiding behind a smile. But looking at you, all he saw was genuine, unwavering affection.
He let out a soft huff, grabbing the container from your hands. "You're an idiot, you know that? You could have slept."
"And let you starve in a bush? Never," you grinned. "Eat, Leona."
He didn't need to be told twice. Leona picked up the fork and dug in.
The moment the meat hit his tongue, his eyes slipped shut, and a deep, resonant, vibrating purr started up in the very center of his chest. It was a sound he almost never made—a sound of absolute, unconditional comfort. The brisket was phenomenal. It melted in his mouth, the heavy, smoky flavor perfectly balanced by the sharp bite of the black pepper. The bone marrow was rich and buttery, spreading perfectly over the roasted potatoes.
He ate with the focused, quiet intensity of a starving predator. He didn't speak. He simply savored every single bite, entirely consumed by the sheer quality of the meal you had prepared just for him.
You ate your own food quietly, watching him out of the corner of your eye. You loved the way the tension slowly bled out of his shoulders. You loved the way his ears relaxed, pivoting slightly toward you to track your movements. You loved that, for just a moment, he wasn't carrying the weight of his family's expectations.
When he finally finished, the container was completely spotless. He set it down, wiping his mouth with the linen napkin, letting out a long, heavy sigh of satisfaction. He leaned back against the stone, resting on his hands, looking at you with a heavy, hooded gaze.
"Alright," Leona rumbled, the food completely mellowing his mood. "That was... acceptable. Better than the slop they serve in the cafeteria."
"Coming from you, I'll take that as a Michelin-star review," you laughed, packing the empty containers back into the bag.
"Don't let it go to your head," he smirked, though there was no bite to his words. His eyes shifted from the canvas bag to the large, flat wooden box you had set on the ground earlier. He gestured to it with his chin. "So. Are you going to tell me what's in the box, or is it a bomb?"
"It's the other half of your present," you said, pulling the box onto your lap.
Leona’s expression instantly guarded up. The easy, comfortable atmosphere fractured slightly. "I told you, I don't want gifts. I have enough junk from my brother to fill a warehouse. I don't need you wasting your money on me, herbivore."
"I didn't buy this," you corrected gently, resting your hand on the warm wood. "And it isn't gold. I know how much you hate status symbols."
You unlatched the burnished metal clasps and opened the box.
Inside was a board game. But it wasn't a standard, modern game. The board itself was made of a heavy, ancient slab of polished obsidian, inlaid with complex, geometric patterns of silver and crushed lapis lazuli. The playing pieces were carved from bone and dark iron, shaped like abstract, terrifying beasts and strategic fortifications.
Leona sat up perfectly straight. His eyes locked onto the board, completely captivated. The lazy, sleepy lion vanished, replaced by the brilliant, sharp-minded tactician.
"Is this..." Leona breathed, leaning closer, his fingers hovering over the pieces. "Is this a first-edition set of Kingsfall?"
"It is," you smiled, seeing the pure, unadulterated fascination in his eyes. "I found it buried in the deepest archives of the school library. It was completely covered in dust. I asked Professor Trein about it, and he said it hadn't been checked out in over fifty years. I got permission to restore it and borrow it."
Leona carefully picked up one of the iron pieces—a towering, jagged knight. He ran his thumb over the cold metal.
Kingsfall was an incredibly complex, ancient tactical game from the Sunset Savanna. It was notoriously difficult, requiring the players to manage resources, deploy magical terrain traps, and anticipate their opponent's moves ten steps in advance. It was a game that required genuine, raw intellect. It was not a game of luck.
"My father used to have a set like this," Leona murmured, his voice surprisingly soft, lost in a distant memory. "He would play it with his generals. He taught Farena how to play... but Farena was terrible at it. He didn't have the patience. He just wanted to attack everything."
Leona set the piece down on the starting square, his jaw tightening slightly. "When I was eight, I challenged one of the King's top generals to a game. I beat him in fourteen moves."
You watched him, listening intently. "What happened?"
Leona let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "The general was furious. He accused me of cheating. My father told me I shouldn't embarrass the military staff, and he put the board away. They never let me play again. They said a prince should focus on his studies, not 'war games'."
He looked up at you, his green eyes burning with a dark, resentful fire. "They didn't want a second-born son who was smarter than the heir. It made Farena look bad. So, I learned to play dumb. I learned to sleep. It’s easier that way."
Your heart physically ached for him. Beneath the arrogance, beneath the laziness, was a brilliant, capable mind that had been systematically starved of stimulation because his mere existence threatened the status quo.
You didn't offer pity. Leona Kingscholar would tear your throat out if you pitied him.
Instead, you reached into the box, picked up one of the bone pieces, and set it firmly on your side of the board.
"Well," you said, your voice ringing with a calm, unwavering challenge. "Farena isn't here. Your father isn't here. It's just you and me. And I read the rulebook cover to cover last night. I am not a military general, Leona. I'm not going to get mad if you beat me."
You met his gaze, refusing to back down.
"Show me how smart you actually are. Don't hold back."
Leona stared at you. The dark, brooding resentment in his eyes completely shattered, replaced by a sudden, intense thrill. His lips curled into a wide, dangerous, feral grin that showed a flash of his sharp teeth. The apex predator had just been offered a hunt.
"You're going to regret this, herbivore," Leona purred, his voice dripping with arrogance as he began rapidly setting up his pieces with practiced, terrifying precision. "I am going to utterly annihilate you. I hope you like losing."
"Bring it on, kitty cat," you shot back, matching his setup.
The game began.
For the next two hours, the only sounds in the secluded corner of the Botanical Garden were the heavy, satisfying clack of the iron and bone pieces striking the obsidian board, and the quiet, concentrated breathing of the players.
Leona was a revelation.
You had known he was smart, but watching him play Kingsfall was like watching a master artist paint. He didn't just play the board; he played you. He laid traps that looked like vulnerabilities. He sacrificed pieces to draw you into devastating counterattacks. He read your hesitations, capitalized on your defensive strategies, and completely controlled the flow of the game.
He was entirely focused. His posture was rigid, leaning over the board, his eyes darting across the pieces, calculating thousands of permutations in a fraction of a second. His tail swished behind him, not in annoyance, but in deep, stimulated concentration.
He was brilliant. He was beautiful.
You put up a valiant fight. You managed to outflank his infantry twice, and you even successfully caught his knight in a terrain trap, earning a raised eyebrow and a low hum of genuine approval from the Lion. But in the end, it was a slaughter.
With a decisive, echoing crack, Leona moved his iron warlord piece across the board, cornering your final bone king.
"Victory is mine," Leona breathed, his voice vibrating with adrenaline and satisfaction.
He leaned back, stretching his arms over his head, the joints in his shoulders popping loudly. He looked at the board, then at you, and let out a genuine, booming laugh. It wasn't his usual sarcastic scoff. It was the sound of a man who had finally, truly flexed a muscle that had been atrophied for years.
"Thirty-two moves," Leona grinned, his emerald eyes shining. "You lasted thirty-two moves. That’s actually impressive. Most of the Savanaclaw seniors can't last past ten."
"I told you I read the rulebook," you smiled, leaning back on your hands, exhausted but completely thrilled to see him so happy. "You're a genius, Leona. Seriously. The way you used the archers to bottleneck my flank... I didn't even see it coming until it was too late."
The compliment hung in the humid air.
Leona’s smile slowly faded. The adrenaline of the game subsided, leaving a heavy, profound stillness in its wake. He looked at you, his gaze dragging over your flushed face, your messy hair, the way you were looking at him with absolute, unshielded admiration.
You weren't praising him because he was a prince. You weren't sucking up to him to get a better grade or political favor. You had given him the board, you had fought him fairly, and you were praising the mind that his own family had tried to bury.
"You..." Leona started, his voice dropping into a rough, intimate whisper. He reached out, his large, calloused hand gently pushing a few stray pieces out of the way, stopping just inches from your knee. "You are a very dangerous creature, Prefect."
"Me? Dangerous?" you laughed softly, your heart suddenly beginning to hammer against your ribs. "You just massacred my entire army."
"You know what I mean," Leona rumbled, shifting closer. The space between you on the stone slab suddenly felt incredibly small.
He didn't look at the board anymore. He was entirely focused on you. His gaze was heavy, possessive, and stripped of all its usual lazy defenses. He reached out, his large hand coming up to gently cup the side of your neck. His thumb brushed over your pulse point, feeling the frantic, jumping rhythm of your heartbeat.
His hand was incredibly warm, his skin slightly rough.
"Everyone else in this school looks at me and sees a title," Leona murmured, his thumb stroking your skin, sending a violent shiver down your spine despite the heat of the greenhouse. "They see Farena’s little brother. They see a lazy Housewarden. They see a beastman they need to avoid."
He leaned in closer. You could smell the scent of the smoked brisket, mixed with his own natural scent of sandalwood, dry earth, and sun-warmed fur.
"But you don't," he whispered, his emerald eyes locked onto yours, blazing with a terrifying intensity. "You look at me... and you actually see me. You see the things I try to hide. You feed me. You challenge me. You don't ask me for anything. Why?"
"Because you're Leona," you breathed, completely mesmerized by his proximity. You reached up, your smaller hand resting lightly over the hand that was cupping your neck. "You aren't a shadow to me. You are the smartest, strongest, most capable person I know. You are a king, Leona. Crown or no crown."
Leona’s breath hitched.
The words hit him like a physical blow. The absolute, undeniable sincerity in your voice shattered the final, iron-clad vault he had locked his heart inside.
He let out a low, ragged groan, a sound of complete, overwhelming surrender.
He didn't hesitate anymore. Leona shifted his weight, closing the remaining distance between you in a fluid, predatory movement. He tilted your head up and crashed his lips down onto yours.
The kiss was everything Leona Kingscholar was—dominant, possessive, and breathtakingly intense. He didn't ask for permission, he simply took. His free hand slid around your waist, gripping you firmly and pulling you flush against his chest, completely ignoring the heavy wooden game board digging into his thigh.
You gasped into his mouth, your hands instantly flying up to tangle in his thick, dark brown hair. He let out a deep, vibrating purr at the contact, the sound vibrating through his chest and directly into yours. He parted your lips, deepening the kiss, tasting of the rich spices of the meal and the intoxicating, dizzying heat of his absolute devotion.
He kissed you like a starving man who had finally been offered a feast. He poured years of repressed frustration, of loneliness, of being the second choice, into the physical contact. He was claiming you. He was making sure that you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that you belonged to him.
You kissed him back with equal desperation, your fingers scratching lightly against his scalp, right at the base of his lion ears.
Leona shuddered violently. He pulled away slightly, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath ghosting over your collarbone. He was panting, his broad shoulders heaving, his powerful arms wrapped around you like a vice.
"Mine," Leona whispered fiercely against your skin, his voice thick with raw emotion. "You hear me? You're mine. I don't care about the throne. I don't care about the savanna. I am never letting you go. You are my prize."
"I'm yours," you promised softly, wrapping your arms around his neck, holding him as tightly as you could. "I've been yours for a long time, Leona."
He pulled back just enough to look at your face. His emerald eyes were shining, incredibly soft and entirely unguarded. The cynical, angry prince was gone. The man looking at you was profoundly, deeply in love.
He leaned forward, pressing a slow, tender kiss to your forehead, then to the tip of your nose, and finally, a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.
"Best birthday," Leona murmured against your mouth, a beautiful, genuine smile curving his lips. "Best damn birthday of my life."
He pulled away reluctantly, letting out a long, heavy sigh. The adrenaline of the game and the intense emotional release of the confession had finally caught up to him. The heavy meal was doing its work, and the warm, humid air of the greenhouse was pulling at his consciousness.
He shifted, lying back down on the wide stone slab, but this time, he pulled you down with him.
He arranged you perfectly against his side, your head resting on his chest, his arm wrapped securely around your waist to keep you from falling off the stone. He adjusted his position, his thick tail curling protectively around your ankle.
"Sleep," Leona commanded lazily, his eyes already fluttering shut.
"I'm not the one who takes ten naps a day," you teased softly, resting your hand flat against his chest, feeling the strong, steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
"Shut up," he grumbled playfully, his voice dropping into a thick, gravelly purr. "I'm the birthday boy. I make the rules. And the rule is that we are sleeping here until the sun goes down. Let Ruggie panic. Let the dorm burn. I am exactly where I want to be."
You smiled, closing your eyes, completely enveloped in his warmth and his scent.
"Okay," you whispered into the quiet garden. "Happy birthday, Leona."
Leona didn't respond with words. He simply tightened his grip on your waist, pulling you closer, the deep, vibrating purr in his chest lulling you both into the deepest, most peaceful sleep of the year.
Outside the greenhouse, the Savanaclaw dorm was tearing the campus apart looking for their Housewarden. The feast was getting cold. The gifts were piled high.
But inside the sanctuary of the Temperate Zone, the uncrowned king had already found his treasure. And he wasn't going to share it with anyone.
-----
And there we have it. A massive, slow-roasted, heavily spiced serving for the King of Beasts.
Writing this out required a lot of patience, a lot of deep character observation, and quite a bit of culinary preparation! The goal was to give him an experience that validated his intellect and his heart, not just his royal bloodline. I hope this dish hit every single craving and gave Leona the quiet, possessive, fiercely romantic birthday he deserves.
Thank you all for taking the time to read through this serving! The kitchen is always happy to push its limits for our favorite patrons. Please, take your time digesting, stay out of the heat, and I will see you next time!
IWTVL S3 Ep7 Musings - DARVO, the "Mutual Abuse" myth, and The Armends
[x x] Hannah Moscovitch said that Armand "had been done wrong" and "used in all sorts of ways by Louis."
[x] Rolin Jones said that Louis only "rightfully" hurt Armand 5-10%; and that he's 90-95% "partially responsible" for his own predicament (read: torture & abuse) and "owes" something to Armand for having his head up his own arse (read: grieving & PTSD).
[x] Rolin Jones said "the twist" of Armand planning this elaborate years-long revenge was to for "Louis to finally understand the depth of the damage he’s inflicted on Armand, which prompts him to make genuine amends to Armand." "'What am I actually accountable for when I froze this guy out?.... What didn't [Louis] say when he threw him into the wall in Dubai?" Rolin feels "very empathetic towards Armand at that moment."
[x] Rolin Jones said that Louis found out what Armand did (read: sold him out to the coven, directed the play, lied on Lestat to Louis about killing Claudia, driving Louis to suicide, mindwiping him, more lies, Fred Steins, lied on Daniel about forging the real Trial script, etc), and because Louis "never apologized for the 50 years" of Loumand's failmarriage, that's why Armand's a gremlin now.
[x] Rolin Jones confirmed that the plan happened as Armand sat in the debris of the wall Louis shoved him onto (after Daniel exposed his Seismic Lie about "Banishment"). Since there were "two people in that relationship" (despite there not being two people who knew Armand lied about everything....)
[x] Rolin Jones said that Louis is the "most prideful" of the three vamps given Armends, and because he needs humbling Armand "is owed" an apology from Louis in the most brutal way imaginable.
[x] Rolin Jones said that Louis' humbling requires that he "owe[s]...some accountability for why we are here."
[x x] Rolin Jones said that Louis' "growth" requires that Louis finally realize that there is "some part of me, of what i did in my life" that "made" Armand decapitate him & scam him with Regina; Louis clearly had "something to do with that."
[x] Rolin Jones said that Louis actually has "culpability" in how he "ended up here" because of what he "did to this person for 77 years of shutting him out" (after Armand not only sold him out to the coven but also deliberately lied to him about his daughter's death that he has never stopped grieving and told Armand to his face "You'll never make it up to me.").
[x] Rolin Jones said something Louis owes Armand for having "iced out for 77 years," and is "culpable for having brought him to this level of extremity."
[x] Rolin Jones says Louis reminding Armand about the Seismic Lie is just him "playing the victim card."
[x x] Rolin Jones said that the first step towards Louis needing to "work on" himself (read: be humbled) is to apologize to Armand (read: for not loving or forgiving him post-Paris).
[x] Jacob Anderson said that Rolin told him he would "never put anything in the show" that the actors weren't happy with.
[x x] Jacob Anderson said that 3x7 was Louis' smaller way of taking accountability that "the fault" was his for being tportured.
[x] Jacob Anderson said "I don’t know that I agree that Louis would be like, it’s my fault that you chopped off my head."
[x] Jacob Anderson hopes that Louis doesn't believe what he says, that his "withholding is what led to" Louis to deserve Armand torturing him.
[x] Jacob Anderson said he "wholly disagrees" that Louis withholding love & affection from Armand post-Trial "led to this moment"; that it's his fault he was being tortured by Armand
[x x] Jacob Anderson says he doesn't think Louis means all of that; Louis' just under duress & "trying to stay alive."
[x] Jacob Anderson agreed that Louis' willingness to shoulder the blame saved himself and Regina.
[x x x] Jacob Anderson said that abuse is also part of Loumand's relationship, but that it comes from "different angles"--as if it was mutually abusive.
[x] Jacob Anderson said that Louis' confession "is real to a certain extent," but was still "under extreme duress, so there is an element of self-preservation."
What DEEPLY horrifies me about Rolin Jones' rhetoric in S3 is that not ONCE does he ever couch these ruminations of Louis' within the broader context of abuse victims who blame themselves or are gaslit into blaming themselves for being abused.
For all the seriousness with which they want us to treat Lestat's abuse by his mother and how that affects his propensity to shirk accountability for his own cycles of abuse, not ONCE does Rolin or Hannah step back from the vapid Teehee Armand is such a Gremlin aren't you all glad to finally see him acting crazy in our Horror™ show~!? 🤭 to actually have a serious conversation about the ways that he weaponizes Reverse-Victim-Offender to put the onus on the other person: "You drove me to this; you made me do this!"
Not ONCE in S3 does he discuss the complex psyche of survivor's guilt, or abuse survivors, or Stockholm Syndrome. Not ONCE does he acknowledge Louis' self-hared and tendency to internalize the awful things Armand has levied against him, as a way of rationalizing what Armand is even "owed."
Not ONCE does Rolin factor in what those 77 years was even based on, and how Louis would have never spared Armand his wrath in Paris had he known Armand lied about "Banishment."
Not ONCE is Armand's own culpability addressed, knowing even before he and Louis started having sex that Louis was hallucinating DreamStat all over the city and already deep in the throes of mental illness--even admitting to Daniel that he knew DreamStat was there, (albeit not as vividly as Louis saw/felt him), and that he would only be entering a relationship with Louis as a rebound still hung up on his ex.
Not ONCE does Rolin give Louis the grace to acknowledge that although there is no such thing as a perfect victim on this show Louis was always at a far bigger disadvantage because there was so much he didn't know about Armand's machinations--let alone the true history of his dynamic with Lestat (and even Nicki & GabriellA). Which flies in the face of any attempt to dress up Loumand's dynamic as "mutual abuse" (which does not exist); even if one nobly tries to be diplomatic and see things neutrally or try to avoid the Perfect Victim Frying Pan by landing in the Mutual Abuse Fire.
As such, the OBVIOUS biases Hannah & Rolin have towards Armand--and the BLATANT disdain and resentment they have towards Louis who needs to be "humbled"--is loud and clear. And it is truly heartbreaking to see Jacob Anderson visibly struggling to make sense of it all, contradicting himself when left & right; Rolin and Hannah have been VERY consistently doubling down on their own explanations. 🤦♂️
Dishonorable Mentions: Rolin Jones pre-S3 on Armand "Apologists"
I've already shared my thoughts on these post-S2 / pre-S3 quotes, and how problematic they were even then.
[x] Rolin Jones "hoped Armand Apologists would multiply" by the end of S3.
[x] Rolin Jones said that "in our writers' room, we ended up landing a very empathetic place for Armand," based on "how much he has thrown himself at Louis and Louis just couldn't" reciprocate Armand's callous desperation to put Paris behind them in the wake of Louis' crippling grief over his daughter's death (unknowingly by Armand's own hand).
they've been arguing about malgendering on twitter so here's the truth from me, the arbiter of truth (jk but ive been talking about malgendering long before it became a popular buzzword and heres my understanding of it)
malgendering is a form of transphobia wherein a transphobic person uses their victim's correct gender to harass or demean them. it is meant to be the inverse of misgendering, where a transphobe uses the victim's incorrect gender to harass or demean them.
misgendering towards trans women can be as simple as "youre a man." but malgendering is more insidious, like someone saying "you really are a girl" when she makes a mistake in order to insult her intelligence. the phrase "you really are a girl" is positive when removed from the context of the trans woman making a mistake and the transphobe's sarcastic tone that implies shes stupid in an misogynistic way.
if a trans man does something like standing up for himself against an unfair situation or asks for better accommodations/treatment, and a transphobe wants to use that to imply he is selfish and entitled, they might say "trans men really are men" which again, is a true statement on its own. but in the context of the situation, its clear the transphobe is using the stereotypical worst qualities of men to insult and undermine someone's very identity.
malgendering can be any severity of harm, just like misgendering. my mom slipping up in the first months of my transition and accidentally calling me "she", and a bigot shouting "YOURE A WOMAN YOULL NEVER BE A MAN" at me are both examples of misgendering, but one is much worse than the other and its the same with malgendering. being told "trans men are the men of the trans community" as an insult is annoying and rude but not a big deal. however, right now ICE is torturing trans men in concentration camps by forcing them to do pointless and grueling labor. and when they become exhausted, theyre told "I thought you were a man. if youre really a man this should be easy for you" these are both examples of malgendering. one is a microaggression, the other is literal torture.
malgendering happens equally to both trans men and trans women, its not something that is unique to anyone because it is a form of transphobia. the strategy is that if a transphobe tries to make a trans persons life as their true gender so miserable and unsafe, detransitioning seems like the safer and happier option. its psychological torment, moreso than the plain and obvious insult of intentional misgendering. so dont let it happen, call it out when you see it and dont be fooled by transphobes trying to erase the context and be like "what!! what i said was true!"
I think I speak for everyone in this fandom when I say that we need Black writers back in the writer’s room.
The Black writers for seasons 1-2 of IWTV were Ben Philippe, David B Harris, and A. Zell Williams.
These are the men responsible for providing substance and depth to the Black characters in the first two seasons, mainly Louis and Claudia. They knew how to tackle struggle, injustices, history, rage, pain, and the ugly truth of American and European Black history. They didn’t pull punches with the hard stuff and they knew how to work with the soft stuff.
Season 3 tried to create edgy content and humor without these men and absolutely failed at it in every way possible. And they have failed both Louis and Claudia.
The Black jokes about Louis being “Louisiana Fried Chicken”, Louis continuing to be the pimp and needing his White savior that is Lestat, Claudia’s entire monologue about Louis being a literal slave to Lestat in that old Louisiana accent. And not to mention the complete erasure of Lemuel after only a couple episodes.
It’s not working.
If there’s gonna be Black actors on screen, there needs to be Black writers in the writer’s room.
someone needs to go to the comic con later this month and beg rolin jones and mark johnson to rehire the Black writers AND hire more Black writers—especially Black AMERICAN writers; especially Black american WOMEN writers.
…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment
likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post
the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like.
#to recap: AMC is owned by a family that's donated to trump's campaign#AMC censors gay content on The Gay Vampire Show to such an extent that they had to leave a gay hookup out of the script and film it secretl#Black and brown fans did all the heavy lifting when it came to promoting the first 2 seasons but white fans were given the most access#to interviews and screeners#now AMC's marketing director is a hair's breadth from admitting that they barely promoted the show before now because the lead was Black#I am really struggling to still care about this show tags by @1970smullet
I'll be compiling everything Lestat says is a lie in the "Du Lac-Molloy book"--inc. the monologue/rant he made about Louis' "misremembered cobwebs and f*****g bullst" in Big Bad Wolf:
1) Wolverine Blues
2) Claudia's pleated skirt
3) Harlequin, not Lelio
1) The Wolverine Blues
LOUIS ALREADY SAID HE MIGHT'VE BEEN MISTAKEN ABOUT THAT.
And THANK GOD Louis was wrong! 😭🙌 Cuz I'll be darned if AMC Forrest-Gumped a French White ghostwriting music for the godfather of jazz, eff outta here! 🤣
2) Claudia's Pleated Skirt
"A week-old rotten meat shade of chartreuse, not off-white"
I'm fine with Louis misremembering the color. My bigger question is: who's POV was Tuan Pham's projections? 🤔
3) Harlequin, not Lelio
Yeah, we already knew this was Armand's fanfiction.
Now, onto the episode itself.
"Mr. Du Lac's B-movie brute...a mayonnaise villain with sociopathic tendencies."
TOUR BUS
4) Stuttering Stanley
5) 1x6 Train Scene
6) Don Pasquale (1800s)
4) Stuttering Stanley
Daniel repeats this question A LOT, making it the "Did You Eat The Baby????" of the episode.
Lestat deflects with the classic "Was he there???" clapback, as if that's a NO; but if the trailers are any indication, he DID stutter as a child and even got mocked ruthlessly by his brothers for it. And one of the reviewers already spoiled that his stutter lasted from 9 - 29yo.
So it IS true that Lestat stuttered as a child, even though he's tryna make it seem like Louis LIED on him about it, wtf??? Do NOT PMO Lestat. Esp. since WE never saw Louis breathe a word to Daniel about Lestat being a stutterer--as a kid or an adult. That NEVER came up.
So IDKWTF AMC's doing having Daniel ask this out of the blue and pin it on LOUIS; and WTF Lestat's doing tryna deny he stuttered when we already know he did. 🙄
5) 1x6 Train Scene
LOUIS never said Lestat threatened Claudia--CLAUDIA said Lestat did. And she NEVER said Lestat threatened her with RAPE, she said he MOCKED her rape, and threatened to do WORSE than "defile her pocketbook....I'll turn your BONES TO DUST." She said he threatened to KILL her.
Lestat is literally deflecting an accusation by making up a brand new accusation that wasn't even levied against him to begin with! 🤣 OF COURSE the answer to his question is NO--cuz that's NOT what she said! So now Lestat'sgaslighting TF outta Daniel by lying on Claudia lying about him!? 🤦♂️
And the big question the fandom has anyway is whether the train scene happened at all--not about the specific threat. So until her ghost rises from the grave to admit that she lied, I'll take her diary's word for it that Lestat threatened her. (And even if she did lie, I already said IDGAF, cuz Lestat was terrible enough to her b4 and after the train to warrant her wanting him dead. 🤷♂️)
6) Don Pasquale (1800s)
OKAY, THIS is the tea I've been wanting! Cuz it's not just Don Pasquale, it's E V E R Y T H I N G Lestat said he did in the 1800s, that made no sense.
Like I've said before (x x x), this would mean Lestat told the truth during the Trial that he was asleep until 1908, which would mean that he met Marius & drank from Akasha only 2yrs before he met Louis in 1910.
What I find HARD AF to believe is that this means LOUIS lied/misremembered every single time he said Lestat made references to 1800s Paris--both to him AND to Claudia. Again: Lestat's argument is that Louis' lies all make him look like a B-movie monster. But not every 1800 reference made Lestat look like a monster actually. 🤨
The ONLY two totally monstrous portrayals about Lestat in 1800s Paris are when he's torturing the Tenor in 1x2, and mocking Claudia's chess moves in 1x6.
When Lestat tells Louis about Don Pasquale, he planned a romantic date for them (as he steamrolls over Louis crying about wanting children). When he's at the poker table talking about Bon Marche, he's simultaneously flirting with Louis & using the Mind/Time Gift to convince Louis he's not a white racist and wants to help Louis--the main thing that caught Louis' interest in him! When he's bragging about meeting Viktor Hugo, that's from CLAUDIA'S diaries as she overheard her dads chatting.
They BOTH agree that Lestat told them BOTH about his time in Paris. Oh, so they're BOTH lying about him doing the same thing over & over again, decades apart?
Louis said Lestat talked about meeting Don Pasquale TWICE: to HIM, and to the Tenor. We know from the trailers that the Tenor's being revisited in his purpleshirt!hallucination; so I already doubt that will be a reliable ghost talking to Lestat about anything.
So while I can accept Lestat being asleep for 100yrs, I DO NOT accept that he never lied to Louis & Claudia about his time in the 1800s. They are WAY too consistent that he DID tell them he was awake in the 1800s, and most of the timer they say he told them something, it was NOT to make him look like a monster. An romantic show-off at best, and a condescending AF mean ahole at worst.
BATHROOM
7) Shorter Hair
8) Monogrammed Handkerchief
9) Vamp Urination
10) Vamp Sex
7) Shorter Hair
I HATE that AMC is tryna use a PRODUCTION issue as a MEMORY issue. I KNEW they were gonna use Memory is a Monster as a crutch for their abundant writing errors. They know good and effing well that SAM said ROLIN wanted Lestat's hair short, and that SAM insisted on tryna grows it out since he felt Lestat SHOULD have long hair.
Now they're tryna front like Lestat's garbage hair in S1 was Louis' fault for not saying Lestat had super long hair past his shoulders IN 1910 WHEN NO CIVILIZED MAN WOULD BE CAUGHT DEAD WITH HAIR THAT LONG UNLESS HE WAS A PIONEER CATCHING DYSENTERY ON THE OREGON TRAIL, OR UNLESS HE WAS A GAY MAN IN THE PRISON CELLS NEXT TO OSCAR EFFING WILDE!
We're not stupid, Rolin, but either LESTAT is, or y'all think WE are.
8) Monogrammed Handkerchief
The fandom already reached the conclusion YEARS ago that Louis just imagined that as something he's WANT Lestat to have done, and gave the fantasy to DreamStat--same way he had DreamStat eating photographs, DUH. He imagined Lestat as ROMANTIC & SWEET & NICE, the way he was at the very beginning of their courtship; and created DreamStat to give him the companion he was so desperately missing. DUH.
But thank you, Lestat, for confirming that you DO know Louis had a DreamStat in Europe. Too bad he's clearly too effing dense to realize that DreamStat's a giant love confession Louis making. 🤦♂️
And Lestat KNEW he was being incredibly uncharitable to Louis with that one--the NERVE calling Louis "an insane person," when LESTAT is one of the main a-holes who who drove him crazy in the first place! As if Lestat of all people is the paragon of mental stability his daggone self?! 😬 So sure, Lestat wanted that insult struck from the record--but ofc The Auction is selling EVERYTHING of his.
9) Vamp Urination
Lestat uses the reveal that vampires can pee (not often, but for a VERY long time when they do) as a gotcha! that Louis' a liar. But why TF would Louis mention his frikkin piss to ANYONE? 🤨
I think this is demonstrates an important personality distinction between Lestat & Louis. Because we already know Lestat was raised in a effing MEDIEVAL BARN with no home training and no effing CLASS or COUTH. Meanwhile Louis was raised in elite genteel society as a Southern Gentleman. So NO DUH he's not gonna talk about how much he pees or not! 🤢 It's gross!
10) Vamp Sex
This is where I realized that Lestat truly does have stale baguettes for a brain.
TO LOUIS, YES, HE WAS UNHAPPY WITH YOU & ARMAND--"PAIN AND TOXICITY"! SO SEX WITH YOU BECAME TORTURE AS HE DISASSOCIATED AFTER HE CAUGHT YOU STILL CHEATING ON HIM WITH ANTOINETTE; AND SEX WITH ARMAND WAS TRANSACTIONAL TO PROTECT CLAUDIA. JUST HOW DUMB ARE YOU, LESTAT? 🤦♂️🤦♂️🤦♂️
Louis said sex with YYYYYOOOOOOUUUUUUU was HIS rings of Saturn captstone--esp. since HE HATED KILLING, STUPID! For Lestat killing & draining & Little Drinks are his Top 3, and sex is #4, but Louis didn't like ANY of that--he WANTED 🌈 transcendent gay sex 🌈 but his rat diet inevitably made his libido LOW, unlike you, SEX ADDICT. 🙄
And I BEEN said that Loiuis' vodka bottle IS Lestat. Cuz he died an alcoholic, and LESTAT became his addiction--until he started ABSTAINING, and DID go celibate when his depression took over.
JFC, Lestat is making me want to slit his throat my dang self.
Every rewatch I fall in love with how extremely empathetic Louis is. It’s one of, if not his most defining character trait.
Like. He KNOWS people. He’s able to see them and uncover their foundations. When provoked or feeling the need to lash out, his insults can feel especially painful because he knows exactly what to say to hurt that person. He knows to weaponize Lestat’s fear of abandonment. He knows to pick apart and pry into “Alice” to get Daniel to relive her rejection. He knows to call Claudia a burden, turning one of her deepest hidden anxieties against her.
But he also knows exactly what to say to comfort. He knows to console Daniel, who is desperate for identity, by giving him one of success and longevity. He knows to uplift Claudia, who is desperate for companionship, by reassuring her that regardless of past and future hardships, he can at least ensure she will never be alone. He knows the kind of dynamic and which identity will bring Armand, who despises his own power and authority and lost sense of self, the most calm and feel the most secure.
Empathy doesn’t inherently mean kindness or cruelty. It’s simply the ability to place yourself in other people’s shoes and see things from their perspective. To be able to understand how they receive the world and how they may respond to it.
How Louis uses the information he gains varies on many factors, like his own mental state, the circumstances involved, etc., but regardless he is able to see into people and he does it masterfully.
This isn’t to say he gets it right every time. His own insecurities, desires, and a lack of necessary (sometimes purposely falsified) information can discolor his interpretations. But goddamn if he doesn’t more often than not come close, if not hit right on target.
Which is also why he suffocates so much under others’ expectations. He knows what they think of him. Even if their words say differently, he can tell by their actions, by their emotions, simply by observing them, what it is they truly want from him.
So his extremely high level of empathy can be a double edged sword just as much as it can bring mutual comfort. He can tell when he is loved, but he can also tell when he is despised. He can garner exactly what others desire most, while also knowing exactly what they fear most. And he chooses when to use this insight to provide support or to cause harm, whether it’s to others or towards himself.
He’s incredibly empathetic and watching the constantly shifting, elaborate ways he utilizes that feels like pure artistry.
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