Rocket: Just Leave Me To Do My Dark Bidding On The Internet!

So excited!😆

a brief birdie excerpt~

[anticipated june 2025] - nothing 18+ below the cut. this time.

“We just want to help,” Dey continues. “With… with Rocket, we can do that. We can get you somewhere safe.”

“Or you could let me go,” you growl.

“And where would you go?” Rael interjects now.

“To the Stakar Clan,” you say immediately. 

Dey lets out a dismayed sound and Nova Prime scoffs, rising abruptly from her seat to pace the room. “You’d go to Ravagers rather than let us help you? The Ravagers are ruthless, lawless—”

“They have one law,” you snarl. “And it’s the only one I fucking care about.”

“We’re trying to protect you,” Rael snaps.

“You’re trying to put a pin in this so you can come back to it when it suits you. All you’re offering is a nicer cage—”

“I’d suggest taking the nicer cage,” Rocket suggests casually, and your eyes cut to him — glittering with fury. He bites a sharp grin for you.

The alternative is being locked up with me for a dozen cycles, birdie, and I don’t think you’re ready for that.

“Enough,” Rael hisses, with more outrage that Rocket’s ever seen from her. He looks up nonchalantly, ears flicking. “Need I remind you that you are in Nova Corps custody?”

“Is this even legal?” you retort, eyes narrowed into slits. Well, you don’t back down from a fight — Rocket’s willing to give you that.

“There are legal warrants for your arrest,” Rael retorts, her voice brisk and tight. “So you’ll be in protective custody until you’re safely relocated. And for right now, that protective custody happens to be under this… former… Guardian of the Galaxy.”

Your eyes snap toward his again, and he gives you a lazy salute and a nasty grin. 

“Don’t worry, birdie,” he coos, “I’m frickin’ good at what I do. Who knows? You might even like being underneath me.”

birdie. (an evasive maneuvers expansion)

18+ only MDNI | f!reader x rocket | 8-12 chapters | word count: pending.

xandar is saved. the power stone rests safely in the hands of the nova corps, and our favorite heroes-for-hire get their records expunged before going their separate ways. unfortunately, one furry little motherfucker just can't seem to keep his claws out of trouble. in a rare gesture of good will, the nova corp give him a get-outta-jail-free card (not that he needs one):

all he has to do is escort a bratty little princess safely and discreetly to her new home, halfway across the universe.

should be a piece of cake. what's the difference between a bodyguard and a bounty-hunter, anyway?

CONTEXT/WARNINGS: mcu-based canon-divergent post-vol1. grief, angst, betrayal, and the agony of falling in love. slightly darker than my usual fare - true enemies-to-lovers (still a happy ending, though!). slower-burn than i had originally thought (though we do start off pretty steamy). bondage (duh), lots of dirty talk and dom/sub fixations, probably some gunplay and use of toys. almost entirely from rocket's perspective so far. reader has hair long enough to get in her eyes. more warnings to come.

silver stardust and silver bar dividers by @bernardsbendystrawsblack | black rose divider by @/firefly-graphics | heart-handcuff & ivy dividers by @/strangergraphics | silver glitter divider and support/mdni banners by @/saradika-graphics | moodboard by me!

Rocket: [Referring to Blackjack] He’s selling us out!!!

[Rocket starts strangling Blackjack but is pulled off by Lylla]

Lylla: Rocket Stop!!! There has to be a reasonable explanation! At least give him a chance.

Blackjack: Thank you Lylla… I’m selling out.

[Lylla starts strangling Blackjack and Rocket crosses his arms and smiles smugly]

Or have him fuck the shit out of me… I’m not picky.

Gamora and her little tree.

Please know you are important, lovable, and irreplaceable.

US Helplines:

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Samaritans (for any problem): 08457909090 e-mail jo@samaritans.org

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Frank (information and advice on drugs): 0800776600

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(Source)

OMFG… Ya’ll, I died. This is the sex pollen Rocket story we need in our lives!

you are cordially invited ★⋆.࿐࿔˚⋆˙‧₊ to the fifty-second bicentennial masquerade exhibit on exitar: a night of haunting & hedonism (hosted by the tivan group)

kinktober 2024 | navigation | fanfiction masterlist 18+ only | no use of y/n | f!reader | 2 parts | word count: pending. read book three ★࿐࿔ you are cordially invited now ★⋆.࿐࿔˚⋆˙‧₊

you'd do anything for enough money to care for your ailing mother — including agreeing to a night working for the collector. too bad you weren't more prepared to be part of the entertainment.

CONTEXT: au based loosely on mcu vibes. resourceful reader is also a bit of a nihilist (expression of apathy toward life/death). caretaker reader/discussion of ill parent/parent death. the collector & his friends are creepy bastards (seriously i did the elders real dirty in this one). sub reader / dom rocket. HEA of course. warning for a no-smut first chapter, too much lore, + unhinged plant-science.

★⋆.࿐࿔˚⋆˙‧₊ part one | tricks | thursday, october 31. you try to stay under the radar at your new temp job: one night in a gutted skull, serving devious eldritch monsters in masks. your only ally? a rather ominous wolf. (... well, "ally" might be a generous term...)

KINKS/WARNINGS: no smut (yet), very mild spice (slow-burn i guess?). warning for too much lore + unhinged plant-science.

★⋆.࿐࿔˚⋆˙‧₊ part two | treats | tuesday, november 5. caught in a maze of glass coffins and hunting for escape, you and your wolf stumble across some particularly lascivious pumpkins, resulting in something more-or-less akin to — well, possession.

KINKS/WARNINGS: wolf/bunny play, exhibitionism, voyeurism, sex pollen, noncon/dubcon*, public sex, edging & overstim, dacryphilia, begging, praise/degradation, light humiliation, come-eating, too many orgasms, biting/marking, aftercare. *neither rocket nor reader are necessarily the "aggressor" in this scenario, but have both been forced to ingest an aphrodisiac by a third party.

★⋆.࿐࿔˚⋆˙‧₊ excerpt below.

When you look down, you can see that all the tiny purple crystals and amethyst-prisms on your corset are flecked with orange now, too — microscopic tiny shreds of gold leaf clinging to your bodice. “What is it?” you ask, and some of it falls into your mouth. Strawberry pixy stix, you think, and your tongue darts out before you can stop it.  “Fuckin’—“ He shoots a glare at someone over your shoulder. “Little gift from the Erotist, I’d guess. Or the Gardener.” Something warm blooms in your belly — an answer to the hollow ache of want, a solution if you could just grasp it — and you try to wipe away the pollen cluttering up your lashes and lips like sugary sequins.  The Gardener chuckles. “I’m afraid neither of us can take credit for this one, my dear boy. The Virgin’s Calabash is a creation of the Epicure.” The woman in the onyx-studded violet veil to his right nods her acceptance of this fact, all fake-modesty.  “Legend says it was from the lusty wet-dreams of a thousand touch-deprived virgins,” the Erotist snickers.  “That is not true,” the Epicure utters from behind her veil, tossing back a sheet of darksilver hair and sniffing disdainfully. You try to scrape the sweetness off your tongue with your teeth. It tastes good — but anything made by an Elder can’t be, as far as you’re concerned. “How bad is it if I ingest it?” you murmur to Rocket, and his eyes flare up at you. “Bad. Don’t.” Shimmering pollen clings to his whiskers and studs his fur like drops of sunstone and citrine. “What we got on us is bad enough. What we breathed in — worse.” You shift uneasily. The cool, crisp air of the chamber suddenly feels soothing on your skin. “What—“ “Another myth says that their nectar was used to dose the high priests and priestesses of the Indigarr Sky Lords over a chiliad ago. It caused such a disruption in the governing temples that the order was completely overthrown by invading forces, which ended up occupying Indigarr for nearly six centenaries afterward.” “That one is true,” the Epicure says with a curve of her eyes that seems to indicate a sly smile.  It’s hard to focus, though, as something like a blush blooms on your skin and lingers. You stagger to your feet, trying to brush the gold from your layers of tulle. Your eyes dart to the swing of Rocket’s tail. If he hadn’t made it so clear that he had no interest in you — which you can’t really hold against him, given the circumstances — you might have complimented him on it. The fur is so thick — shiny and soft. You wonder what it would feel like if he let you stroke it. What it might feel like, skimming softly against your skin. You squeeze your eyes shut tight. It’s a weird thought to have — not that you wouldn’t have thought it on a better day. But right now, you need to focus on getting him out of here — not on how luxuriously ticklish his fur might feel on your clit— “Let’s go, then,” you murmur. Your throat feels tight, and something on your belly flutters. “Let’s get out of here—“ “Don’t gotta tell me twice,” he mutters. “I could already be through here if I wasn’t babysitting you—“ Your lips are tingling, and the wave of heat you’d felt a moment ago suddenly intensifies. Is it an allergic reaction, you wonder? Or a normal result of the pollen? You wave a hand at yourself, trying to fan off some of the pollen, trying to cool the rush of warmth in your throat. 

read book three now ★⋆.࿐࿔ kinktober 2024 | navigation | fanfiction masterlist

purple support/mdni banners by @/cafekitsune gold rose & masquerade dividers by @/sweetmelodygraphics

Fucking adorable.

New silly Rocket comic!!! :)

Set before Vol 3– it continues my headcannon of Nebula and Rocket attending the reputation tour in 2017 :P

This one was actually written by my twin brother, and illustrated by me!!

Enjoy heheeee!😄🫶

Such amazing character development here.

the raccoon, the witch, & the roadtrip.✮part five. montana.

the raccoon, the witch, & the roadtrip masterlist prev | next [est june 18] | main masterlist

angst, comfort, friendship, & fluff for @hibatasblog rocket & wanda | part 5/7 | word count: 1975.

what makes a person a monster?

During a watch party for Avengers: Endgame on Twitter, Markus revealed the idea to team Wanda with the Guardian of the Galaxy captain actually made it into several versions of the film's script. "We had whole drafts with Wanda on a road trip with Rocket," Markus wrote, "but after the Vision plot in Infinity War, nothing we came up with was anything but wheel spinning for her character." CBR

Wanda hadn’t felt much like talking since they’d left the bar. She can’t possibly describe the lurch in her lungs when she’d woken alone in the room, and found Rocket—

gone.

She peels it apart when they get in the car: silent, lost in her thoughts. Rocket doesn’t turn on his music right away, and when she casts a sideways glance at him, he looks vaguely uncomfortable: shifting in his seat, clenching and unclenching his fists. He looks like he wants to be taking something apart, inventing something new — anything to take his mind off whatever’s eating him inside. 

After the scene in the bar, when the bartender had poured Rocket’s drink so shakily that the mouth of the bottle had clanked against the glass tumbler, Wanda had sat beside her companion quietly. The bartender had wisely left the bottle behind, and then had gotten to work with the rest of the wide-eyed, ashen hotel staff to clean up the glass that had been broken in the altercation. She’d watched her furry colleague bemusedly as he sulked over his liquor, and had tried to tell herself that she had only been concerned because Rocket had been missing, and she’d known that someone walking around looking like a sentient raccoon could only get in trouble, no matter how well-intentioned and well-behaved he’d been attempting to be.

She had tried to tell herself it was just concern for a missing hero in a cruel world.

But her reaction had been too visceral to keep herself convinced. As she’d unfolded the truth of herself, wincing, she’d had to acknowledge that the way fear had suddenly ripped through her belly had been all too similar to the ache she’d felt when she’d lost Pietro: screaming hollowly at the root of her lungs, at the vagus nerve laced against her heart. A shrieking void in the center of a fiery cyclone. It had been an agony of terror: to think her new, small, sarcastic friend had been taken from her like everyone else.

When she’d seen him — safe, but on the verge of becoming a victim of his own temper — she’d wrapped her power around him as carefully as she knew how. And when she’d realized what was happening, her own temper had surged: some strange combination of fire and ice. 

She’s so tired of people being treated as less-than, of lives being overlooked. 

Especially the lives she loves. 

Rocket still doesn’t speak. They make their way through a number of national forests before he even hesitantly reaches out to fuss with the music again. She says nothing as something mellow spills from the speakers, but she can feel her shoulders ease. It takes another hour before his feet are kicking again, and he’s humming something low and husking along with the lyrics. 

“Uh, hey,” he says at last, his voice rasping as the sun begins to cast a melting-gold crust over the edge of the trees ahead of them, light hitting the western crest of the world and sprawling upward in sprays of topaz and rose and aquamarine. “Thanks for — I dunno. Sorry for fucking up at the last place. And thanks for, uh, stepping in.” He shifts next to her, one shoulder hitching uncomfortably. She watches from her periphery as his lip curls in a clenched-jaw grimace, like he’s tasted something sour. 

She weighs that quietly. 

“I was as angry as you were, once I understood what was happening,” she admits.

The wince lingering in the corner of his mouth and eyelids softens. “Saw that,” he acknowledges after a long minute, spooled with the crooning tones of whomever’s singing from the zune now. “Don’t know — I think only Nebs has ever, uh. Stuck up for me like that.” His voice sounds parched and cracked and starved, like he’s not certain what he’s trying to say. Like maybe the words feel disloyal, somehow, to his absent friends. Something answering cracks open in her ribs. She knows he loved the rest of the Guardians — Pete, he’d mentioned, referring to the owner of the zune. Gamora, whom Wanda has gathered had been sacrificed to Thanos’ goals, just like Vis. But it hurts her to think that Rocket’s little adopted family wouldn’t have been just as offended on his behalf as she had been. Or maybe they would have been, and he just doesn’t realize it. Either way, it hurts. It hurts to think that he believes no-one would have been moved to intercede, to demand respect on his behalf, or to offer comfort.

Pietro would have devastated anyone whom he’d perceived as treating her as inferior. And in his own gentle, wise way, Vis would have fought for her as well. 

At least he has Nebula, now, she thinks, and a space inside her loosens. She hasn’t spoken with the awkward blue cyborg — not anymore than she’s spoken to anyone else on the team, preferring to stay off to the side, needing to observe. But knowing that Rocket feels like “Nebs” would step in for him allows some of the tension in her neck and shoulders to ease.

“You — you got a lot of power,” Rocket says tentatively. “As much as Danvers, maybe.”

She feels herself go watchful and wary again. The silence is heavy in the little car, even smothering the faint music trailing from the speakers. 

“Or more,” she admits at last, quietly.

He acknowledges her addition with a mild grunt and a nod.

“Ya know, the Guardians of the Galaxy numbers are lookin’ pretty slim these days,” he says musingly. “F’you ever wanna get off this planet. Could find a spot for you, prob’ly.” He slants her a taunting grin. “Pretty sure we’re more fun than the Avengers. Less stuffy and judgy, too.”

She can’t help the delicate snort that scrapes up the back of her throat, edged with laughter. And here she’d been worried that he was scared of her. Instead, twice in two days, now, he’s made her laugh.

Regular laughter seems like such a distant memory. It is a distant memory, and a frail one. She’d had it before the Stark industries mortar shell, and then again in her time with Vis — but certainly not since. 

Other than that first time she’d seen him bickering with Nebula on the compound lawn.

“Not that every part of this planet sucks,” Rocket admits grudgingly from beside her. The last flickers of sun-gold ricochet off the distant line of tree and mountain, settling into a rosy-lavender and hydrangea-blue. “This section’s kinda nice, if you’re into that sort of thing. Reminds me of specifical parts a’ Berhert or Foresteria.”

She considers the Montana terrain. “Are you into that sort of thing?”

He smirks. “Not enough places to get into trouble for me,” he says with a sideways toss of his head. “No gambling. Or booze.” He pauses to waggle his brows at her, so exaggerated that she can see the gesture even in her periphery. “Or tail.”

This time, when she laughs, it hasn’t crawled up her spine: it’s as bright as it had been the other day, so merry in the air that it’s utterly foreign to her ears.

“You are ridiculous,” she tells him, but he only gifts her a shit-eating grin.

“What about you?” he asks. “You ever think about runnin’ away from Terra? Come hang out with the cool kids in the stars?”

She snorts again and glances sideways at him in the melting velvet shadows. How does the space inside Natasha’s car, with its ruined dashboard and sound system, feel so much easier than anywhere she’s ever been in the past five years? How does it feel so much easier than anywhere she’s ever been at all, unless it was with Vis?

“Not exactly,” she says quietly.

“Not exactly?”

She hesitates and chews the inside of her lip at the corner of her mouth. 

“I think about making a place for myself,” she admits after a handful of quiet breaths. The song on the zune blurs into something new. “A place where… where things are the way they’re supposed to be.”

The quiet expands. Doubles.

“Whaddaya mean?” her companion asks at last. There’s tension in his voice, but it’s surprisingly quiet. As soft as she imagines his fur.

She hesitates. “I could — I think I could do it. Make a place — like in the old TV shows. Somewhere perfect, where people can be happy. Where I can be happy.”

The silence drawls through the music, and she can feel Rocket’s anxiety. She’d been silly to think he might be scared of her before, because now she can feel it — crackling and tense. But… it’s also careful. Testing. Cautious. She knows if she’d said something like this to any one of the Avengers, they’d probably try to lock her up immediately. They don’t understand her magic, and they don’t understand her. And they certainly don’t understand her pain. 

After all, they’ve always been able to look away.

And while she can tell that Rocket doesn’t like what she’s shared — the dangerous little truth she’s laid out between their armrests — somehow, she doesn’t feel judged.

“I get that,” he says at last, his voice grudging and slow. “Wanting that. Me myself, I never had the — I never had the power to sort of…  reshape the galaxy into what I wanted.” He pauses, and she can feel him gathering his thoughts in the dusk like the fireflies that used to litter the Sokovian summer grasses. When he speaks again, his voice has grown as dark as the world outside their car: grim and solemn and hard. “But I definitely been one a’ the poor morons who got caught up in someone else’s idea of perfect, and I can promise — you try to tie other people up like that, and you’re only gonna become somebody’s nightmare.”

She takes her eyes off the road, even though she shouldn’t — not here, in the dusk and the trees and the mountains. Her eyes find his in the shadows: glowing red to glowing red. She flicks her gaze over him: the broad shoulders that should be sloped inward, the opposable thumbs where there should only be dexterous fingers, the hard-packed muscle where she would expect a soft layer of fat. She’d decided that maybe he was an alien — and perhaps that’s true — but now she realizes there’s more to it than just that. 

Someone’s shaped him into this.

Who was your nightmare? she thinks, and remembers Ultron again. Trying to reshape the world. It’s not the first time in the last five years that her fantasies of recreating a small slice of the world have given her pause — but it is the first time that the uneasiness has outweighed the solace. 

Then she thinks of the labs. Of Hydra, yes — and the other one. The one she still isn’t sure if she remembered or dreamed up.

Rocket clears his throat, as if he knows she’s wondering what happened to make him the way he is. 

“Take that asshole Thanos,” he mutters at last, and there’s a darkness to his tone that matches her own midnight vortex of thoughts when it comes to the Mad Titan. “So frickin’ committed to what he thought would make the universe better, that he killed half of it and broke everybody else.” Her companion scowls and mutters something in a language she doesn’t understand, but it doesn’t matter, because his words have already opened up a pit in her belly: pinching and frightened.

“I wouldn’t be killing anyone,” she says, and she’s surprised by the stubbornness in her voice. It makes her flinch, and that cramp in her belly tightens apprehensively — but she goes on anyway. Trying to convince herself, she realizes, even as she speaks. “I’d give them perfect lives. I’d make them be happy.”

He lifts his head and even though her eyes are back on the road, she feels his heavy, quiet, steady stare. 

“Can’t make anybody be anything, witch.” He clears his throat, and his eyes release her. “Not without making yourself a frickin’  monster.”

sometimes i fuck around with comics-canon and throw it into my mcu fanfics so uh be ready for that with the next chapter. we're gettin weird

the raccoon, the witch, & the roadtrip masterlist prev | next [est june 18] | main masterlist

Holy shit guys, she back!

la gaudière.⋆☁︎:･꧂ preview

[anticipated 2/27] ✩

18+ only | rocket x f!oc | 26/40+ | wip | wordcount: pending. masterlist, notes, & moodboard | navigation ART: pearl’s character design | pearl & rocket’s bunk | heartspur scene | chapter one. nemotia. art by @/frostedwitch| rocket & pearl snuggle | adorable pearl x rocket selfie by @/starriidreams | sexy, evocative waterlily pearl x rocket painting by @/hibatasblog ♡

bby i'm back!

so excited to be posting for cicatrix .⋆☁︎ :･꧂again. a little more slowly, but still. ugh i missed these babies. thanks for your patience!! ♡♡

someone steals from the collector. warnings below.

Rocket would’ve liked to think that when his life finally flashed before his eyes, it would’ve been a too-brief catalogue of the good moments: playing tag with L06 and A95, laughing from the vents with the Captain on the Eclector, the first hug he’d ever gotten — from Lylla — and all the uncountable, ineffably sweet moments he’d had with pearl over the past few cycles. 

Not that he would have minded another glimpse of her glorious tits, of course, or the way she’d looked when she’d come on his dick — but somehow, even those moments aren’t his favorites with her. Teaching her how to shoot, though — telling her stories in the runabout, or staying curled up with her under the flight controls — those were the real golden moments. Watching her stand up to the Sovereign, or tell him he was being a jerk, or scamper around with all that joy when she’d seen the abilisks.  Hell, watching her stand tall on that gambling table with a feral f’saki in her arms, surveying the havoc she’d just created like some avenging, drunken, pouty blue-haired goddess — if he could see that one more time before he died, he wouldn’t even care if there was an afterlife, good or bad. Instead, what happens when Rocket finds himself catapulted halfway down the street is that he’s struck by all the times he’s been an absolute ass, accidentally or on purpose. He’d known she’d misunderstood when he’d said he regretted things between them, but he hadn’t bothered to set it right. And he’d known she would misinterpret his reasons for going to the Brass Camellia, but he’d frickin’ said it anyway. He was finally gonna die — something he’d both run from and wanted since the moment he’d watched his brother and sister burn — and pearl was gonna think — pearl was gonna think— I just need to think, and I can’t with you looking at me like I’m some kind of monster.  He isn’t ever gonna get to take her to see a damn Acanti migration.

His body bounces — it’s a miracle it doesn’t hurt more, with all that metal weighing him down — and he sits up slowly, trying to shake the calcium-dust from the fur of his ringing ears. There’s a slice on the side of his nose, he thinks. His ribs ache but his breath doesn’t rattle, and he should take a second to inventory his body — make sure he’s got his fingers and toes, that he hasn’t broken his tail, figure out where the singed-fur-smell is coming from — but as soon as he realizes he’s frickin’ alive, he hits all fours and sprints toward the husk of the museum.  Start there, he thinks. Start close to ground zero and work your way out. Find pearl. Drax if you can.  Then get starside before shit hits the fan. Rocket has been through enough prison breaks to know that nothing generates rebellion like seeing the center of power demolished, and he suspects a mining colony full of forced laborers won’t be much different. Either the Collector’ll crack down or some other power will step into the void, and Rocket doesn’t want himself or his pearl on the ground when it happens.  His eyes search for the lilac-blue banner of her hair like it’s a song he’s trying to remember. Everything is dim and burnt and broken and maybe he wouldn’t be able to make out the vibrancy of her curls through the dust and dark and shadows anyway, but he tries. He takes in a chestful of air through his nose, hunting for waterlilies and something clean on the air — only to immediately double over when the insides of his lungs are painted with bone-dust and cinders. Something inside him pinches and aches.  “Pearl!” he tries to yell, caution and anonymity forgotten, but his voice cracks and withers in the haze of grime.  What if she’s dead? What if she’s gone like Lylla, like 06 and 95?  And you never fuckin’ made it right? He swallows and breathes deep and tries again, calling up the lowest, most carrying voice he can from the carved-out hollow of his ribs.  “Kitten!”

from chapter twenty-seven. la gaudière. ✩ ‬ cicatrix masterlist.⋆☁︎:･꧂ navigation | fiction masterlist

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.

WARNINGS for this chapter: headwounds and near-death experiences. regret and angst. woundcare. some comfort. this chapter uses descriptive imagery that may be reminiscent of residential and urban environments impacted by bombings, warfare, or natural disasters like earthquakes.

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

banners & rose dividers by @/saradika-graphics pearl dividers by @/thecutestgrotto