Rocket: Makin’ My Way Downtown.

Sexy grooming time.

ᯓ⋆｡°✩ practice

for a nonnie who asks the important questions main masterlist | oneshot masterlist

spice | no use of y/n | gn reader | oneshot | word count: 1,684.

you're not quite as good as rocket when it comes to braiding. luckily, he's a kind and benevolent soul who just wants to give you the chance to improve. or, you accidentally seduce rocket. he intentionally seduces you back. WARNINGS: general suggestiveness, lil bit of pining on your part. eidos-rocket is a bossy little shit and calls you buttercup x2. this is pure lighthearted fun & doesn’t delve into the inner workings of rocket’s trust-issues and angst.

brave nonnie asked, do you have any headcanons for Eidos Rocket with an S/O? and the answer is too many and also why am i like this.

initial ask | the beard | rocket smells like eidos-rocket-headcanons | main masterlist | oneshot masterlist

“Hey.”

You’d looked up, startled that he was talking to you. You’d been curled up on the mustard-yellow sofa, catching up on one of drax’s favorite dramas on a holopad, and you’d been careful not to look up when Rocket had entered the space and plopped down on the couch across from you — the fact that he’d been out here at all, willing to share space with you, had seemed like something of a miracle — and you’d had to fight every instinct to not steal surreptitious glances out of your periphery. He’d been in a suit — broad shoulders and a narrow waist, the plume of his tail as ridiculously thick and fluffy as always — carefully rebraiding his beard.

“How’s this look?”

You’d hesitated, squinting one eye and screwing up the corner of your mouth. “You look good,” you’d admitted, and he’d preened.

“Got a hot date,” he’d informed you smugly, and it had made something in your belly plummet low. It hadn’t even been anything new — Rocket had been going out as long as you’d known him, whenever the Milano had docked somewhere that had allowed for it. Still, the prospect of dealing with him the next day, after he’d thoroughly enjoyed yet another apparently-meaningless one-night-stand? The idea of watching him smirk smugly for hours while he accused everyone else of needing to get laid? It had made your vagus nerve twist miserably. You’d wished you could roll your eyes at yourself without him misinterpreting the look.

You’ve got to get over this stupid crush of yours. 

“Cool,” you’d said aloud, weakly. “Have fun.”

He’d been the one who’d ended up rolling his eyes — still at your expense — and you’d decided to live vicariously through his disdainful expression. "The beard okay?” he’d asked, persistent.

You’d leaned forward, hinging at the waist to see better. It had looked a bit asymmetrical — like one side had been braided a little more tightly than the other — and once you’d begun studying it, you’d been able to see a few threads of glossy fur that had crimped up and escaped between the beads. You’d gestured with your own hands to your chin. 

“It’s not quite as neat as it usually is,” you’d admitted, and to be honest, it had given you a frisson of concern. He’d always been obsessive about his fur: brushing out his tail with quick deft fingers whenever he thought there might be a bit of debris in it, making sure his goggles didn’t damage the soft velvet pile at the base of his ears. Distractedly finger-combing the ruff at his throat and cheeks throughout the day, probably without even realizing it. He’d been particularly meticulous about the goatee — intentional in a way that had immediately endeared him even further to you. He’d always kept the silky-looking beard immaculate, and you can’t remember ever seeing even a hair out of place on it, outside of the occasional firefight — and even that had been rare.

His lip had curled in something between a snarl and a grimace. “Mirror in my room got broken in that last tangle with the Badoon,” he’d admitted. “I’ve been trying to do it without seeing.” He’d begun loosening the little braid, about to make another attempt.

You’d hesitated, then cautiously set aside the holopad. “Let me?”

You’d braced yourself for some loud, derisive comment, already wincing — but he’d been silent. When you’d dared to look across at him, he’d been sizing you up, one eye half-squinted and both of them dark and inscrutable.

“Okaaay,” he’d said slowly. “Yeah, okay.” A scowl and a dismissive wave of one clawed hand. “Don’t flark it up.”

You’d risen cautiously, keeping your eyes on his chin — afraid you’d lose your nerve if you’d looked anywhere else. Without thinking, you’d gently nudged his knees apart with your own, and dropped down between them. The foam pad on the floor had given you a little bit of protection from the duranium plating underneath, but you hadn’t bothered trying to get comfortable. Instead, you’d focused on sliding your hands between his own, gently loosening them from where they’d gone still in his beard. You’d slid the beads aside and placed them carefully in his palm, trying to ignore the heated-leather of his hand brushing your fingertips. Then you’d gently — almost reverently — unlaced the braid. The strands had been so silky and glossy, cool as water flowing over your fingers. This close, you’d been able to smell him: the gingery scent of burnt everbloom, a whiff of iron. Something like cedar and black pepper.

Oh, you’d thought, trying not to pout. He's going to make his date drool. 

You try not to be the jealous sort but, it had seemed so unfair. You’d gotten butterflies just because he’d just been willing to tolerate your presence enough to be in the same room with you. Meanwhile, he’d seemed unmoved by you in any way — vacillating only between a distant acceptance of your occasional accidental displays of affection and admiration, and utter, debilitating annoyance.

Debilitating for you, anyway. 

It hadn’t been that you hadn’t wanted him to go out — not exactly. You’d wanted him to have fun, to be happy, to enjoy people and drinks and whatever. You’d only wished that the prospect of him spending the night with someone else hadn’t made your heart turn over so forlornly in your chest. 

The stupid organ had thought it was an abandoned kitten at a shelter, mewing for a home.

God, you’d thought suddenly. What if he brings his date back to get laid?

You’d released a miserable little sigh without meaning to, your breath fanning gently over the silk of his beard and his mouth. You’d seen his lips part over a brief flash of sharp teeth — then close and tighten — and you’d tried to ignore the knot of misery in your belly while you’d smoothed the strands into three sections, stroking them until they’d been sleek as satin ribbon. Tenderly — careful not to pull — you’d begun to weave the sections together, nice and even. 

You’d braided it all the way to the end, to help the beads slide on more smoothly — a wooden one that looked remarkably like Groot, a red sphere, and two black nuts. You’d plucked them like berries from where he’d set them on the cushion at his side. Tying the tail with the tiny clear elastic had been the most difficult part — you’d been so worried about tugging too hard — and then you’d eased the bottom two nuts down to cover the tie before carefully combing out the ends with your fingers, rumpling the loose strands free of the braid. Leaning back, you’d braced your hands on his thighs and eyed your work critically. 

“It’s not quite as good as it usually is,” you’d admitted, ribs all tight and guilty on your lungs, “but it’s better than what you had just now.”

When you’d glanced up at the rest of his face, your breath had tangled into a gasp. His eyes had been hot and dark, roving over you. The ghost of surprise had still been gleaming in them, but if he’d been stunned when you’d dropped yourself to your knees between his thighs, that shock — along with the tooth-gritting frustration and confusion and conflict that he’d been silently grappling with since the first mission he’d shared with you — had mostly faded in the wake of something infinitely more focused and intent.

After all, an opportunity had fallen — well, not in his lap so much as directly between his thighs — but he’d never been one to check a free ship for a serial number.

“Well,” he’d said, his voice low and drawling, dripping like half-crystallized maple syrup all over your skin, “maybe you just need more practice, buttercup.”

Which is probably how you find yourself a few cycles later, tucked inside Rocket’s bunk, sprawled over his belly in the curve of his hammock: trying to comb through the satiny threads while his claws prickle against the skin of your shoulderblade. 

“Focus,” he says, and snickers when you jolt under the sharp tickle of his claws. He’s leaning back against his other hand and forearm, tilting his chin up while he looks down the sides of his face at you with glinting, teasing eyes.

“You’re distracting me,” you protest, fingers shaking as you try to divide the lengths of silken fur into even sections. Your eyes blur when the leathery pads of his fingers slip delicately under the edge of your tanktop, coasting against your skin. It’s a struggle not to squirm against him — a fight that you must be losing, based on the growing grin in the corner of his mouth.

“You’re distracting me,” he mimics, pitching his voice into something far more whiny than is fair. You scowl. “How are you gonna get better at this if we don’t increase the difficulty-level? C’mon,” he adds, finding that spot next to your spine that always makes you arch when he presses insistently against the muscle, “M’not even using both hands.”

You glower at him, but the look falls apart when he massages his fingers into that spot again. A shudder runs from the nape of your neck to the small of your back — an inhale catching and rattling in your lungs, so sudden you feel it in the back of your throat — and your hips buck against him without your conscious permission. Heat pools in your abdomen and your cheeks, radiant. You wrangle up all your self-control to attempt a glare. 

“Aww,” he jeers. “You’re flarkin’ cute when you pout.”

“Be nice.” You try to sound firm — commanding. “I’m the one with the power, here.”  To make your point, you tug gently on the silk strands woven between your fingers.

But Rocket just grins at you lazily, whiskey-dark eyes hooded and warm. “That’s a laugh.”

His fingers dive deep into that muscle again, making you gasp and crumple against him. He doesn’t seem to mind that you’ve just pulled harder than intended on the lengthy strands of fur at his chin. Then his hand is coasting up the valley of your spine — claws dancing and teasing, leaving threads of fire and chills in their wake. The hot ribbons of desire in your abdomen suddenly feel braided themselves: twisted together and tightening, beaded with arousal.

“Just ‘cause you’re on top doesn’t mean you’re in charge,” he gloats. “And I got it on  good authority that you like it when I’m a little mean.” His hand sweeps up to anchor to the back of your throat: not squeezing, just resting the warm weight of his palm there, fingers collaring the sides of your neck in a way that makes a shiver run the length of your spine again. His grin widens and his eyes grow smoky and heated. 

“Now get back to work, buttercup.”

initial ask | the beard | rocket smells like eidos-rocket-headcanons | main masterlist | oneshot masterlist

banners & dividers by @/saradika-graphics

After getting over the initial shock and heartbreak of this tweet and this reply, it hit me that (and I don't know if this is a cultural thing here in the middle east or an Islamic one)

A child has to be named even if they're stillborn.

For a child to not be named, that means there's no one left to name them. They were killed along with their entire family.

I hoped I was wrong, but I checked the list of victims of Israeli attacks and found this:

Israel has ended 47 Palestinian bloodlines over the course of this genocide (or perhaps more), so you might think that this little detail isn't that important, but I don't think we should get used to cruelty of this proportion, no matter how consistently Israel commits it.

The number of victims isn't just a number. These are people with full lives and hopes and dreams.

It's enough of a disaster that these families were wiped out, but in murdering them, Israel didn't just deprive them of their lives, hopes, and dreams. It deprived them of even the dignity to name their children.

It continues to deprive the remaining Palestinians of their most basic human rights.

What did the Palestinians do to not deserve food or water or electricity?

What did their *newborns* do to not deserve lives or at the very least names?!

This is the most harrowing form of terrorism I can think of. The genocidal Israeli occupation is the most despicable terrorist organization the world has had the displeasure of knowing.

The whole world should be deeply ashamed that it's not only allowing such heinous war crimes to be committed, but in a lot of ways, it's enabling them.

I don't know how anyone can be neutral about this.

Stand with Palestine, stand against the occupation. Against genocide.

ربنا يتقبل الأطفال دول و أمهاتهم و عائلاتهم اللي الاحتلال قتلهم معاهم شهداء، و ينتقم من إسرائيل و أي حد بيمكّنهم أشد انتقام في الدنيا قبل الآخرة.

reminder to:

straighten your back

go pee goddAMN IT STOP HOLDING IT

go take your meds if you need to

drink some water

go get a snack if you havent eaten in a while

maybe wander around the house/stretch a little if you’ve been sat at the computer a while (artists especially: sTRETCH THOSE WRISTS)

reply to that text/message from earlier you’d forgotten about

maybe send a nice lil message to someone having a bad day?

A thirsty raccoon just wants his girl to feel good.

cicatrix .⋆☁︎:･꧂

chapter twelve. ochisia. [new 6/1] ❤︎

18+ only | rocket x f!oc | 12/25+ | wip | word count: pending. masterlist, notes, & moodboard | chapter twelve. ochisia. see pearl's character design here.

rocket decides to make sure pearl doesn't think she can replace him. see below for warnings & notes.

The Monster recoils — flinches so hard he’s pretty sure some of his joints crack. For a split-second, he forgets about being Rocket — forgets about being anything but 89P13, being vermin, being some cobbled-together thing. His claws clench and his teeth ache and everything inside his ribs condenses into a pinpoint-singularity, hollow and sucking, and his skin scrabbles over his bones with tiny nails. He presses his tail in against his inner calf and his ears lay flat. He tries to smooth out the crease in his brow and the fur that has risen on-end, to will himself to be disinterested.   “So,” he says, and he tries to make his voice sound casual but he knows he’s biting out each word letter-by-letter, snapping off the ends with his teeth. “You change your mind about hangin’ out with a monster?”

read more on ao3 | masterlist, notes, & moodboard

just a lil bit of almost-smut. a snack, really.

WARNINGS for this chapter: guided masturbation. mild exhibitionism/voyeurism. praise. light d/s vibes.

a story about scars. two survivors learn about themselves, each other, hope, and the universe. a freakish little monster visits the high evolutionary’s bride on her wedding night. an adventure of intergalactic proportions ensues. aka raccoons make plans; the universe laughs.

fluff ✮ | spice ✩ | some smut ❤︎‬ | much smut ❤︎‬❤︎‬

taglist ♡ @evolvingchaoswitch ♡ @glow-autumz ♡ @wren-phoenix ♡ @suicidalshitstick ♡ @pretty-chips

I love this! It’s so intricate and detailed with all of the story. Favorite part was “engine shit.”

rocket & pearl’s bunk in cicatrix .⋆☁︎ :･꧂ working on an illustration of one of my favorite scenes from chapter thirteen. heartspur.

did i say “fuck perspective”? yes i did but i tried to make up for it by including rocket's laser cannon, railgun, twin barrel blaster, stolen nova cannon (obscured by the bunk-straps), gatling blaster (i tend to call it a rotary autocannon or autoblaster since, like, "gatling" wouldn't really exist in intergalactic parlance?), parts of the hadron enforcer, and another gun i've seen him with but whose name i couldn't identify. and, of course, the modded quadblaster he's working on for pearl. i did not include katie and vicki or the collapsible blaster-rifle, but assume they're in there somewhere. maybe over on the other bunk-turned-workbench.

i sketched the layout of the runabout (below) for my own reference while writing (i clearly know nothing about how spaceships work but hey, this one’s been modified by a sentient raccoon so we can all suspend some disbelief).

let’s assume the hull is a lot thicker and there’s a lower-lower level still (probably accessible from the engine room) that contains some additional shit connecting the engine, fuselage, artillery, etc. honestly this is just so i have a general idea of the environment while writing.

Both sublime and sexy!

Suggestion: Rocket doing a heist but he's the femme fatale in a cocktail dress instead of the besuited mastermind

BRILLIANT suggestion nonnie, A+++ galaxy-brain idea, grateful forever for this ask, may your skin be forever flawless and your bank account forever bottomless. just between you & me tho, rocket’s a little insulted at the implication that he can’t be both simultaneoustically.

to be honest he was really excited when one of the avengers mentioned a “time heist.” when he saw the quantum-uniform design he was like “what the fuck. terrans are so frickin boring”

eat your heart out, otta spice

imma be honest tho if you’re trying to mastermind a heist and this raccoon comes up to you all sultry and seductive and maybe brushing his tail lingeringly along your inner wrist, the heist’s in trouble

rocket fanart masterlist | art masterlist current art queue | main masterlist

raccoon dividers by @/thecutestgrotto fairylight dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Entanglement Chapter 16: You Turn Me On (I’m a Radio) coming out Friday. Hold onto your favorite stuffed animal or pet… it gets a little dark. Trigger warnings will be posted at the end like always.

Preview of Petra Quill from the fic Casino Royale- cue Rocket dying.

He put them in while they slept.

Cosmo: Rocket, where are the others right now?

Rocket: How should I know? D'ya think I put tracking chips on 'em or somethin'?

Cosmo:

Rocket: Yeah, okay, hold on. Lemme go get the tablet.

Cosmo: It is normal. I have one on Kraglin at all times.

Finished kitty. <3 If you want to follow my wips or obtain a psd to check, you can patronizing me Patreon!