And I Am Emotionally Wrecked… These Babies Got Me In The Feels.

Absolutely his look.

Rocket Raccoon in this and his dad glasses

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

I don't care as long as you read, people. Reading off a shampoo bottle is still reading!

My mother says that fanfiction doesn’t count as reading because “it isn’t nearly as good as the stuff that’s published. You’re not going to find something online that will win a Booker Prize.” Please reblog if you count fan fiction as reading, or if the fanfiction you’ve read is equally as good as published novels. I want to see the figures.

A lovelier and more poignant beginning and ending I haven’t read. I cried and smiled at the same time.

the raccoon, the witch, & the roadtrip.✮ part seven. you've arrived at your destination.

the raccoon, the witch, & the roadtrip masterlist prev | main masterlist

angst, comfort, friendship, & fluff for @hibatasblog rocket & wanda | part 7/7 | word count: 3006.

rocket and wanda complete the most important mission in the galaxy.

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

Needless to say, Rocket hadn’t slept that night. He thinks he might never sleep again. The witch had said what she’d said and he’d promptly spun on his heel and said Welp, time for me to get to bed, and parked himself on the sofa at the foot of the mattress. He’d stayed there all night, staring up wide-eyed at the ceiling, each hand clutched into a pocket: the key-plate in his right palm, and the zune tucked into his left. Both memorized so well by his fingertips that he could take them apart and put them back together, blindfolded in the dark — both grafted onto the skin of his hands so lovingly that the ghosts of their shapes stay with him always, whether he’s awake or sleeping.

It hadn’t been his finest captain-moment. He can admit that to himself. Wanda had just told him something all…vulnerable an’ shit, and he’d been a jackass. 

He’s been trying to get better about stuff like that. Not that Rocket would recommend himself as an ideal person to talk about feelings with, but he’s been trying. Kraglin’s surprisingly softhearted and Rocket’s had to get used to offering some awkward emotional first-aid every once in a while, even if he is frickin’ useless at it. And both himself and Nebula get drunk enough that sometimes they end up saying things they’d never say sober. 

But the witch had said what she’d said, and every strand of Rocket’s fur had stood up in its follicle, prickling with awareness and an instinctive fear. He’d kept track of his sire’s whereabouts, more or less, since his own escape from HalfWorld. At least, he’d listened for the gossip. But he hadn’t considered where else the bastard might’ve had labs back when Rocket himself was still just a kid, still just a scrawny degenerate escapee on the run, living on the streets of Contraxia and Conjunction and anywhere else he could lay low.

He hadn’t considered the High Evolutionary might’ve ever come to Terra. That even this backwater mudball might not be safe. 

So Rocket had tossed and turned all night and stared sullenly out at the landscape all morning, drinking the rest-stop coffee Wanda had silently brought him in some kind of terrible cup she called styrofoam. Now he watches her sideways through slanted crimson eyes, calculating. The lab she’d walked into willingly, with the infinity stone — that had been some bad decision-making on her part. But the other — the place in the mountains, when she’d just been a little humie gargoyle? The one where Herbert E Wyndham had probably gripped her jaw with his palm and wrapped his spindly fingers around the back of her skull like he was measuring it, ready to crack it open and feast on what was inside? Unlikely she’d ever had any sort of choice in that.

And besides. Who’s Rocket to judge, really? It’s not like he hasn’t made a bad decision or two since being raised in the High Shitbag’s lab.

“Sorry,” he grunts at last, into the weird plastic lid on the styrofoam cup. The coffee smells bitter and acrid, and it tastes worse. Not like the stuff that comes outta Nat’s Nespresso, or even the shit they’d had at the little diners sprinkled throughout their route across this stupid continent. 

Her eyelids flicker. “I’m not sure what you’re apologizing for,” she says at last, dryly, gaze still locked on the mountains and trees ahead of them. 

Some kind of weird sound shuffles up from under his ribs: something between a scoff and a reluctant groan. He pinches the bridge of his nose, right between his eyes, and scrunches his body down into the stack of books and the chair cushion under his ass. His tailtip flicks out his discomfort in dots and dashes. He’d always been on the outside — since Halfworld. He’d had his little family — his precious family — in the cages. And then he’d been alone, apart, and separate. No thing like me ‘cept me.

What did the galaxy ever do for you? he’d asked Pete, shrill on the side of a blown-apart skull, still reeling from the tidal wave of purple death. The High Evolutionary’s afterimage had seemed burned into his retinas, glowing the same color as the power stone’s blast. Why would you want to save it? 

Because I'm one of the idiots who lives in it! 

No thing like me ‘cept me, he thinks again. But he’d found his second family, his second precious family — of morons. And he’d found Nebs, almost as singular as himself in the ways she’d been remade. 

And now there’s Wanda. Maybe something like a sister, if he dares to think that way again. 

“Don’t give yourself a migraine,” the witch says sardonically with a sideways flick of her own dark-star, volcanic gaze. He cuts a glare at her from behind the squeeze of his fingers, and makes sure she sees it. 

“Can’t give myself what I already frickin’ got,” he mutters, and there’s a soft breath of a chuckle from her corner of the Terran vehicle. He sighs again. “I dunno. Shoulda said somethin’ last night. Not good at that shit. But what you said…” He hesitates. Clears his throat. Swallows. “Reminded me of some things I’d rather not think about.”

She arches a dark-cherry brow skeptically. “You met an evil, purple-clad mad scientist with no face, too?” 

He cringes, and does what he does best: evades. “More or less.” 

I'm one of the idiots who lives in it! 

Rocket had been lucky to find his idiots. A little pocket of belonging in the glittering junkyard of the galaxy. He drops the hand that’s been pinching his brow and tilts a curious look at Wanda now: open. Thoughtful.

Ain’t no thing like me ‘cept me — except the witch reminds him of himself: his whole first family lost, and then with nothing and no-one to his name. Not till he’d found himself in a pit-prison with a robot and a flora colossus, promising to take care of Groot. Rocket himself doesn’t need any taking-care-of, of course.

…but Wanda seems like she maybe needs a Groot.

And then her own pack of idiots, ‘cause the frickin’ Avengers sure ain’t it.

He clears his throat again, and flips the zune in his hand nervously. His eyes dampen and he looks out the window at the flashing scenery. Terran vehicles are so slow, but sometimes — like this — there’s so much to see that they still feel fast. “I think we got more stuff in common than I realized, is all,” he admits at last, and turns back to narrow his eyes on the witch until she finally glances over, her eyes shifting from the road to his face.

“What?” Wanda asks.

“Meant what I said the other day,” he says at last. The words are slow and measured. Deliberate. For once, he doesn’t leave space to hide behind any sarcasm or jokes. “You should think about comin’ and hanging out with the cool kids in space.”

“Turn here,” Rocket says, consulting the map he’s made on his datapad and pointing at a sidestreet. His clawed hands grip the cylinders that hold the screen open, and the zune is tucked safely between his knees. Then he points. “Now here.” It’s been a maze of streets for the last hour or so, and he wishes Terran travel weren’t so damn two-dimensional. If he’d had the Benatar, he could’ve just dropped down right on top of the place.

“Can you tell me what we’re doing yet?” the witch asks dryly. “How am I supposed to help you if I don’t know—”

“Here, turn here,” he interrupts urgently, and Wanda taps the brakes and lurches to an undignified stop. Her red-dark eyes slash to him, confused, and then furious. Somebody honks, and she mutters something under her breath in a language that his translator identifies as Terran-Sokovian but can’t interpret. She drifts the car across the bikelane and against the curb. 

“I said turn,” Rocket mumbles sulkily. 

“Microsoft?” she growls. The sound is incredulous, but not condemning. Not yet. “Danvers has you completing a mission at the Microsoft campus?”

Rocket grimaces, then offers up what he hopes is a charming smile, even though he knows he’s a toothy little goblin without an ounce of charisma in his scarred-up, metal-riddled body. He can feel his ears trying to flatten plaintively, against his will. It’s not like he’s suddenly developed a conscience or anything, but… 

“Uh. Hm. About that—“

Wanda throws the car into park. A biker swerves around her and gives her the finger, a gesture Rocket recognizes from having seen it delivered almost-daily by Pete. The witch ignores it though, crossing her arms over her chest and turning in her seat to glower at Rocket.

“What kind of evil lurks at the heart of the Microsoft campus?” she drawls sarcastically, but he sees an escape hatch and his ears prick forward.

“Actually—”

“If this is another one of your rants about how fucked-up Terran capitalism is, save it,” she cuts in flatly, and he blinks and tries to remember if he’s heard her swear before. “We all know.”

He gives her a look he just knows can only be interpreted as a pout, and tries to cover it up with a scowl. “Not well enough to change anything, though. F’you people would just adopt the Intergalactic Accords—”

“Enough,” she says sharply, and for a second she’s so like Gamora that it brings a sheen of tears into his eyes and a lump like an infinity stone into his throat. “Rocket. Were you serious about me coming to space?”

He blinks again at the shift in subject. Verbal whiplash. He hadn’t thought she’d even been considering it — not really. Someone should let her know that come hang out with the cool kids really means come hang out with the losers — the people who lose things. But all that comes out of his mouth is, 

“I was.”

He cringes. There’d been more sincerity in those two words than he’s entirely comfortable with.

“Then start telling me the truth,” she grows, her voice low and ominous. Each word is clipped and demanding — unyielding. Unwilling to be dissuaded. Rocket grimaces, lips curling back from his teeth, and coughs a little, trying to scratch out some words.

“Okay,” he mutters at last. “Okay. So, maybe Danvers didn’t send me on a mission.”

Wanda groans and rolls her face into her palms. “You lied to Natasha?”

Not, you lied to me, which Rocket decides is a good sign. Or maybe he’s just fundamentally optimistical after all. The captain of the Guardians of the Galaxy lifts one shoulder in a cautious shrug. “I lie to most everybody at some point.”

Wanda makes a sound that might have been a laugh, if it hadn’t been so choked in frustration.

“In my frickin’ defense, I did need to come out here an’ see this place,” he adds quickly. “And Nebs really is busy workin’ on making Knowhere into a place for refugees with Kraglin and Cosmo. Just got in a transport of displaced Xandarans and everything.” He winces. “Not that those three morons are very good at refugee-work. But like Pete used to say, it’s the thought that costs—”

“—that counts,” Wanda snaps. She lifts her head from her palms and glowers. “And you needed to see this place for what.” It’s delivered so tonelessly that his translator almost doesn’t pick up on it being a question. “So help me, if you tell me this is some…. bizarre space-alien tourist-type shit while everyone else is back in New York doing very important things—”

He grapples. He’s such an impulsive frickin’ creature and he never thinks things through. He’s had days to scheme up what to tell her and now here they are, and he’s been caught empty-handed. “Look, I was just hoping for some ideas to improve my tech—”

“Your tech is better than anything on this planet,” she almost-snarls. “And you know it—”

“What not to do, then—”

“Stop lying.”

He hates the way the words claw and crawl up his ribs, scrabbling scabbed little gremlins with gawky unhinged limbs, like bony monsters climbing in his throat. He tries to cage them with his teeth, but they pry open his jaws and tumble out anyway, sticky and keening and malformed.

“I read they made the zune here.”

The words hit the console between the two of them and lay there, pathetic and dripping over the armrests, into the cupholders. Another biker swerves past the car and somewhere, someone honks. Rocket clenches his jaw and looks away, glaring at the decimated dashboard and the upgraded sound system that looks like a wreck. The datapad snaps shut and he grips the two cylinders in one fist, crossing his arms and trying to pull up every defense he’s still got in his arsenal—

Wanda breathes out, and he can feel it when she deflates against the car door. 

“You could’ve told me that,” she says quietly.

He snickers darkly. “Would you have come? Drove me out here from New York, and left all the other Avengers doing their very important things?” The words are a sneer.

The witch sighs, and he winces in spite of his commitment to pretending to be unbothered. “I don’t know,” she admits. “Maybe not at first, but honestly, there wasn’t much keeping me in New York anyway. And — look at me, Rocket.” 

He doesn’t want to. Sure, maybe he’s acting too sullen to be considered much of a captain right now, but there’s comfort in sullenness and he’s decided he kinda hates being the captain if it means he has to give up Pete and the others to do it. But Wanda waits, and eventually, he deflates too, and turns his firestorm eyes to hers.

But hers aren’t glowing right now — not like when she’s mad, anyway. 

Huh. 

He’d always thought her irises were dark around the fire, but he suddenly realizes they’re actually a kind of tawny hazel: clear, and soft, and sad. 

And honest.

“You could’ve told me back in Chicago,” she says, so gently it hurts. “In Pennsylvania, even. I would’ve said we should keep going. I would’ve wanted you to be here.”

His mouth feels suddenly dry, and every nerve is scraped raw and wounded. He tosses the closed datapad into the backseat and palms the zune from where it’s still gripped between his knees. “It’s stupid,” he admits. “Sen’imentalistic—”

“I think it’s a really good idea,” she interrupts, and her voice is a quiet hum. “I at least—” She hesitates, and he hears her throat working. “Thanos took the part of Vis that made him Vis, and someone—” She stumbles. “I never saw his body after Wakanda. I don’t know who did it, but someone took that away from me, too. And I think not having any little part of him made losing it all so much harder.” She closes her eyes, and Rocket feels his ears flatten further when the corner of her mouth trembles. “I know — with the Snap, I know it was like that for you too. If there’s something you can do that makes you feel closer to — to Pete, then you should do it.” Her eyes open and meet his again, and hold them. “We should do it. Together.”

Rocket feels himself swallow. The witch doesn't remind him of Gamora right now. Instead, her voice and all the words in it sound like they're coming from Lylla. He looks away — out the front, and then out the copilot-side window. Passenger-side, he corrects himself mentally. Tears clutter up on his lower lashes, silvering everything in his line of sight. “What about your very-important Avengers things?”

There’s a sound in the back of her throat that he can’t identify: something cynical, and amused, and sad.

“I’ve never really been much of an Avenger,” she admits softly. “Besides. At this point, I’m beginning to feel like this is the most-important thing we could be doing right now.”

The silver runs over his lower lids and into his fur. He sighs, and scrubs the back of his paw over the end of his nose, and slants his head toward her. When he speaks, he can’t keep the words from sounding strangled.  “There’s, like, tours or some shit here. At this Microsoft-place.” He tries to wrangle out a cocky smirk, but he knows it falls lopsided on his mouth. “Real tourist-type shit.”

Wanda huffs out a low, forlorn little laugh. “I have a feeling you’re going to be disappointed,” she tells him. “This company has nothing on your inventions, so don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He shrugs, and something in him eases. He allows himself a single sniffle while the tight knot of ice in the back of his throat starts to melt at the edges. “If it’s all crap, I can still enjoy myself by makin’ fun of it,” he reasons, and she snorts softly. Those eyes of hers are warm with affection.

“Even though they made the zune?" she teases gently.

He opens his palms in mock-helplessness. “Even a broke multicalendar is right once a circumrotation.”

She smiles and shakes her head, and turns in her seat to wrap her palms around the steering wheel. “You’re going to have to teach me what all these phrases mean, if I’m coming out to space with you,” she tells him lightly, and shifts into drive.

His ears tilt forward, and he grins — small, but real, this time. There’s a little flare of gleeful triumph at the base of his skull. His legs swing in front of his seat without his conscious permission, and he turns the zune over in his palm, fingers tracing the well-known ridges and rounded corners without taking his eyes off Wanda’s profile, and the sun glancing all gold-and-green off her hazel irises. 

Yeah. Maybe she could be something like a sister, after all. 

“We can start on the way back to New York,” he promises.”You’ll have the best guide in the galaxy, sweetheart.”

“Okay, okay,” the witch utters sardonically, one eyebrow raised. She glides the Terran vehicle carefully back out into the street. “Guide me to a parking spot first, Captain.”

that's it. that's the fanfic. clearly i’ve never been to the microsoft campus before so i was relying a hundred percent on maps and streetview and reddit and the campus website lol. thank you thank you for suspending your disbelief, and for all your kindness ♡ i hope you enjoyed this LENGTHY fuckin headcanon of mine, all inspired by the magical @hibatasblog, the gorgeous rocket raccoon, and the incompetence of the endgame creators lol. my gratitude to them forever. ˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

the raccoon, the witch, & the roadtrip masterlist prev | main masterlist this will eventually be posted on ao3, probably as a one-shot.

Rocket in any romantic relationship he gets into. (He’s the one being carried.)

You know you have a problem when you see the gang everywhere. Tell me you don’t see this too.

Bear= Drax

Fox= Gamora

Raccoon= Rocket

Bunny= Peter

Squirrel= Mantis

Bluejay= Nebula

I feel called out.

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

A little linguistics, a little flirting, so why is my heart hurting?

cicatrix .⋆☁︎:･꧂

chapter fifteen. soufrise. [new 6/28] ❤︎

18+ only | rocket x f!oc | 15/30+ | wip | word count: pending. masterlist, notes, & moodboard | chapter fifteen. soufrise. ART: pearl's character design | pearl & rocket's bunk

pearl teaches rocket to speak groot. see below for warnings & notes.

“I am Groot,” Groot says to her as he sits on the flightdeck floor, just a few feet from where she’s perched in her chair. He’s enchanted by Rocket’s sludgy coffee, stirring his mugful with one thick barkish finger, and then popping the digit in his mouth. “He’s usually awake first,” she admits, eyes sliding over to the bunk she’d crawled out of a half-hour ago. It’s the first time she’s woken before Rocket — not counting the night she’d sneaked down to the nook behind the bulwark while he’d been sleeping. He’s usually so attuned to his surroundings that he jolts awake as soon as she stirs.  “I am Groot?” She flashes a glance over at her Taluhnisan friend just in time to see the faint mischief in his otherwise-soulful eyes. Her cheeks flush hot.  “I didn’t know Taluhnisans had such good hearing,” she says, trying to sound as peevish as Rocket does — but she’s sure the words just come out vaguely wilted instead. 

read more on ao3 | masterlist, notes, & moodboard

not my favorite chapter, so i hope it held your interest. thank you for bearing with me! especially since this is such a long trek. i'm really happy with how the next three are turning out though, so hopefully they make up for this one. you deserve the best.

WARNINGS for this chapter: would it even be a rocket fanfic without a lil post-orgasm angst?

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

Last Tag Line

RULE: Show the last lines you just wrote, and tag how many people you'd like! Thank you to mcsquared789

Warning Spoilers for Chapter 13 of Entanglement: The Prettiest Star

“What’s this? I’ve never seen this tape before,” Petra asked as she opened the blank box and pulled out the tape. There was no inscription on the label, only a small drawing of a cartoon rocket flying across an oversized five-pointed star. Petra ran her thumb across the little sketch on the label. “I get that the rocket is you, but what about the star?” she queried, teeth nibbling on her lower lip

“Well, you’re my Lady Star, ain’t you?” The epithet didn’t sound silly the way he said it, with a little bit of a possessive growl in the way he shaped the ‘r’ at the end.

Petra felt a wobbly smile grow on her lips and she had an overwhelming urge to press the cassette against her chest or against her lips. “Yeah,” she whispered, trying to keep her feelings from rising up and escaping out of her, bubbling up and out into the painted wonderland of the sky. “I’m definitely your Lady Star; however, I still think the nickname is a bit lame. Star-Lord would be so much cooler.”

“I told ya before, Pet. There’s no way in hell I’m ever calling you Star-Lord,” Rocket laughed as he pulled a curl in good fun.

“Aw, come on. Give it a try,” she giggled back as she popped the cassette into the Walkman and adjusted her headphones. “C'est moi, le grand Star-Lord, le hors-la-loi légendaire, seigneur des étoiles.*”

“Legendary outlaw? Lord of the stars? Baby-girl, you gotta earn that sort of title. It doesn’t just land in your lap. Also, isn’t that the wrong gender and everything?” Rocket teased as he took out his data pad to study.

“I dunno. It’s just that Star-Lord sounds so much cooler than ‘Lady Star.’ No one's gonna take Lady Star seriously,” Petra fretted

“No one should ever take you too seriously, ya goof. I brought you out here on a date, so listen to some pretty music and look at the stars. You gonna play that mixtape I made you or not?”

“Y- yeah,” she nodded and pressed play and the music bloomed to life in their ears.