I Too Desire This Hoodie.

What I love about Rocket is the 100% sass on the boy. This line is perfection.

Even in alternate universes, like my Entanglement, he would still say this about Quill. Even and maybe especially, if he was in a romantic relationship with Quill. Just because the lil guy loves someone, doesn’t mean that the constant burns, insults, and grumpiness ever stop.

Never go full Quill

I died from feeling so many feelings.

cicatrix .⋆☁︎:･꧂

chapter eight. keep. [new 5/3] ✩

18+ only | rocket x f!oc | 8/25+ | wip | word count: pending. masterlist, notes, & moodboard | chapter eight. keep.

the monster dreams. pearl makes a den. see below for warnings & notes.

“You said that Arete meant excellence.” She makes another small noise, shifting in her half of the blankets. He hesitates, then tugs at the soft quilts around himself. He should probably throw them off. Act like nothing’s wrong — tell her to get her ass into bed. He could keep himself busy — distract himself with tinkering. His brain is still skittering in his head like a little animal in an electrified cage, but he thinks maybe he can rig up a nonfiring practice-cannon for her, get her set up for some target practice as soon as they get moonside. “Arete is the personification of excellence, yes. She’s the idea of someone… fully realizing the height of their potential. Or — uhm. A thing that perfectly fulfills its intended function.” He doesn’t know why that hurts. His thoughts are still rattling in his skull: ricocheting, rippling with echoes of his memories. Maybe it’s the part where he knows that people and objects are interchangeable for Wyndham. Maybe it’s the ghost of everyone who’s ever called him a thing. Maybe it’s just that he knows he’s infinite lightyears away from any definition of excellence — scrabbly and horrifying and sewn-together and scarred, hiding under his own goddamn flight control console next to a gorgeous fuckin’ girl he’d just mauled a few rotations ago. The Monster manages a pathetic little attempt at a snort. “Well, guess he fucked that up with me.”

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okay, we're reaching the next phase. an agreement has more-or-less been established. hang on with me till chapter eleven or so and we'll start moving into real plot i promise??? (okay don't hold me to that)

WARNINGS for chapter eight: references to canonical medical trauma. as usual, rocket’s a degenerate.

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

Agreed 100%

I live in a country, where straight-up Nazi’s, with torches, marched on a campus founded by Thomas Jefferson, shouting Nazi slogans, wearing MAGA hats, saying “Heil Trump,” and attacked counter-protestors last night/this morning.

So for the record: Fuck white-supremacists. Fuck Nazi’s. Fuck the current administration that emboldens their actions. Fuck the people that voted for them. Black lives matter. Lesbians, Gays, Bisexuals, Transexuals, Asexuals, Nonbinaries, and everything in-between have the right to exist in public spaces. Women have the right to abortions. ISIS is NOT representative of Islam. We need single-payer healthcare in this country. Minimum wage needs to be AT LEAST $15 an hour.

And if you have a problem with any of that? Unfollow my ass.

This take is 100% correct. So is this one…

Rocket: Damn, that cutie could do some serious damage… I’d love to manhandle that piece into battle. Boom. Bam. Murdered you, sweetheart.

Drax: Are you talking about your new ion cannon, Rocket?

Rocket: WTF? No, get your mind outta the gutter, you perv. I’m talking about Petra* and Jack’s new slutty selfies on instagram wearing only their matching thongs. Those asses are legit threats to my equilibrium.

*my version of Peter Quill and Blackjack O’Hare who are in a loving yet deeply horny throuple together.

I 100% believe that Rocket would look at gun and dirty magazines with the same level of excitement.

Pretty much me too. Currently working up a serving of pain for my boy and gal.

Me: they deserve the best. To be happy. To have love and peace!

also me, writing them:

100% agreement. Really, could see most versions of him using the occasional recreational drugs for multiple reasons: pain reduction, nerve calming, fun, just to see the infinite beauty of the stars shimmer a little harder, to forget emotionalistic memories, a general disregard for health/safety, and pure unbridled curiosity.

a brief eidos headcanon

the eidos collection | navigation fanfiction masterlist | collections masterlist

CONTEXT/WARNING: suggestive. mild recreation drug use, intox if you squint? this was noodling around in my brain & i’m trying to figure out if it’s something

like. eidos-rocket for sure smokes.

maybe world-tree-root, or a deep-space varietal of everbloom, or whatever. it takes you a while to figure out that’s why he always smells like campfire and ginger, mixed in with the pepper-cedar of the oil he uses for his fur and the almost-citrus scent of dark-matter engine-fuel

smokes and booze just fold themselves into the fabric of his life, so easily he barely notices. he’s not always got a cigarette clipped between his teeth — works with too many combustibles for that — but he likes to take the edge off when the situation allows.

and it’s not like smoking is his favorite thing. not even close. up till now, if a person had asked what he liked to do in his spare time, he’d say he prefers to blow shit up, work on the milano, and steal from snotty-rich skagheaps and scutbags.

but one random night between missions he manages to convince you to hang out with him at mantlo’s, and he realizes you’ve never smoked everbloom before. deviousness curls the corner of his mouth, and he finds himself flashing a fang before he can stifle the wickedness of his sharp grin. and by the time the night’s over, rocket’s realized he’s got a new favorite pastime after all:

shotgunning you in the dimly-lit backcorners of seedy knowhere bars

support banner by @/adornedwithlight | outer-space divider by @/enchanthings | moodboard by me! ♡

Rocket Secretly Likes Being Petted II

The next time Nebula found Rocket; he was on one of the couches in the Milano Commons--sitting on Peter Quill's lap as the human petted him with gentle hands.

"Is... is he...?" Nebula asked.

"Yeah," Quill answered. "He... he's sorta here, but... not?"

Nebula nodded, having talked to Rocket before about the timer-code that took 'him' semi-offline so he could experience what it was like to be petted - or experience gentle touch altogether - without the baggage of his memories and thoughts getting in the way.

With eyes closed, and body leaning back into the human's chest, the little raccoon was purring wildly - so hard that his body was vibrating - as Peter went over his headfur, scratched him behind the ears, and then moved to stroke and scratch under his chin!

Nebula tried to approach quietly so as not to disturb them--but Rocket heard her anyway and to her shock, his eyes opened and he issued a sort of noise from his throat, some sort of trilling raccoon-call, as if to beckon her over. Deep within the hardened core of Nebula, a small, unaltered Luphomoid Girl-spirit started banging around, jumping up and down.

"Aww..." the Luphomoid Cyborg murmured. No sooner had she sat down on the couch next to Peter, then Rocket was slowly moving back and forth between them, wanting pets from both. Nebula giggled and then she and Quill did so, laughing as Rocket nuzzle-nuzzle-nuzzled and lick-licked his friends.

"Damn... we could so use him to run the Milano--I mean, listen to the sound of that engine he's got!" Quill said a while later, making poor Nebula quietly laugh so hard she nearly choked! "I didn't know raccoons could purr like that!"

Rocket was on Peter's lap again when it happened. Gradually, his purrs faded--only so he could open his mouth and yawn hugely. Then, the little raccoon blinked, closed his eyes, inhaled a slow, deep, breath through his nose and finally exhaled slowly through his mouth. "Rocket? Hey, buddy, you back with us?"

When Rocket nodded, Quill continued, "Can you say something, so we know you're with us, pal?"

Now the raccoon's eyes went misty. "Almost don't wanna," he replied, his words soft and quiet. "Don't wanna make it weird or ruin it. Jus'..." his breath hitched in a sob, "jus' let me have this, Quill, jus'..." As Peter slowly wrapped his arms about Rocket - as the awful and demeaning thoughts and memories started to creep in, telling him he was a man, that this was degrading - poor Rocket suppressed a snarl and ruthlessly crushed it all down, inhaling Quill's scent...

... not realizing that - by allowing the base raccoon to surface - the timer had allowed Rocket to do something he should have, long ago. Imprint-on-Parent. Base-raccoon-Rocket and Cybernetic-AI-Rocket connected and reached an understanding: Peter Quill was now new PARENT/SIRE/ADMIN.

... and then Rocket blinked, and slowly turned to look at Peter Quill in awe, with tear-filled eyes. Peter Quill, his new Father. Peter Quill, the most wonderful person in the world.

The Great Reading...

It was Rocket Strange who greeted Rocket the Grey at the Doors.

"You're late!" the orange-robed, cyan-cloaked son of the Sorcerer Supreme snarked.

Clad in his grey hat and robes, Rocket the Grey took a puff from his pipe then cheekily replied, "A Wizard is never late, Mr. Strange. He arrives precisely when he means to!"

For a moment, the two looked at each other--and then, a little teary-eyed, they embraced! "Err... am I late? They haven't started the Reading, yet, have they?" the Grey Raccoon asked, worriedly.

"Oh, nah," Rocket Strange answered, nuzzling the apprentice of Mithrandir, "but you're the last to come here. So many made it tonight, come on!"

With that, the two opened the Doors and stepped into a titanic Colosseum that was full of... Rockets! Thousands upon thousands of Rockets from all walks of life, albeit they were mostly kind and good; those who were too cruel or were slavering beasts from the darkest of worlds weren't allowed here.

Thousands of Rockets, many accompanied by a Lylla or their Humies, but also many without. Jedi Rockets; Wizard Rockets; a Maori Chief Rocket and his Uplifted Racccoon Tribe; Purely organic or machine Rockets and all in between; a Rocket and Lylla who were ghosts united, a Rocket and Lylla whom were living stars; Time Lord Rocket and Time Lady Lylla; Rocket Knight and with him Kitt, the TransAm in a Berth at his side; Honourable Pirate Lord Rocket, and with him Pirate Queen Lylla; Egyptian Pharoah Amun-Ro-Khet I, his Queen Lylla, and his Terran Attendants; Rocket Raccoon but with him a Peter Quill who was also a raccoon; Native American Shaman Rocket the Medicine Raccoon with his Uplifted Raccoon Village... and on, and on, and on...

High above, upon a throne of metal - clad in orange armour and helm to contain the mighty Power Cosmic - Great Procyon ROCKETUS the Life-Bringer, the Creator of Worlds, banged his Staff upon the stone floor. "CALLING FOR SILENCE!' he boomed. "SILENCE, PLEASE!" When the noise of the great Colosseum hushed, Great Procyon Rocketus continued, softer, "Tonight's Reading is about to Commence, and it concerns one Terran Human we all know by the pseudonym... Raccoon Falls Harder..."

Almost immediately, utterly joyous cheering was heard as the Rocket Collective clapped, stomped their feet, whooped and howled and raccoon-called with sheer joy! The Great Raccoon smiled, let it all continue for a moment--but then, he cracked his Staff upon the ground again, "Silence, silence please!" he commanded, and all complied. "This beloved Terran has written a new work." Reaching for a beautiful, illuminated manuscript scroll, the Great Procyon unrolled it. "It is titled simply, 'Machinery'. Let the Reading now Commence!"

The Colosseum quieted, and - drawing gently upon the Power Cosmic - Great Procyon Rocketus used it to create the eerie, disquieting sound of a mechanical heart, Ka-chunk-hnk. Ka-chunk-hnk. With this as ambience, he started to read aloud from the scroll, his audience listening, enraptured,

"'Rocket scrubs his knuckles against the fur and flesh that have grown over his metal sternum. His ribs strain like creaky bellows, lungs splitting and bruising against the bones...'"

How else is Rocket gonna build his fuck-you disks if he can’t keep his poor dick warm?

cicatrix .⋆☁︎:･꧂

chapter sixteen. craxis. [new 7/12] ❤︎❤︎

18+ only | rocket x f!oc | 16/25+ | wip | word count: pending. masterlist, notes, & moodboard | chapter sixteen. craxis. ART: pearl's character design | pearl & rocket's bunk (1) and (2) |

PLEASE check out this art from chapter one. nemotia. by @frostedwitch ♡♡ it's so gorgeous i could die. i have died, actually. i am typing from beyond the grave

pearl considers the problem of sovereign. see below for warnings & notes.

“Don’t gotta fuck just because you missed me,” he reminds her, though he sounds almost reluctant to admit it. “Shouldn’ta made you sleep alone these past few rotations, but I — uh—“ his voice breaks off and he looks away, using his empty hand to rub the back of his neck. “Just wanted to get to Sovereign quick,” he decides to say at last, though his eyes flicker like he’s hiding a different thought, and again, she could almost think he’s blushing.  It doesn’t look like a happy or excited blush, though. Embarrassed, pearl would guess. Or sad.  “No,” she protests quickly, her hand darting back out to his fur. “I missed you, and I want to. Please, Rocket?” He turns his eyes back to her, and they’re suddenly liquid-dark, pupils blown out into the sunset-red. “You want my dick or my tongue, sweetheart?” It’s a lazy drawl. “M’not gonna make you beg again right now, but you’re gonna have to at least say it.”

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there is more to this chapter than just smut, i swear it. (but mostly it's just smut.)

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: smutty-smut while rocket wears his cute lil goggles. cockwarming. a light foray into subspace. dirty-talk. praise. mentions of gagging and one light spank. dirty-talk. use of “slut”/”whore” (affectionate). aftercare. so much dirty-talk.

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

banners & rose dividers by @/saradika-graphics pearl dividers by @/thecutestgrotto taglist ♡ @evolvingchaoswitch ♡ @glow-autumz ♡ @wren-phoenix ♡ @suicidalshitstick ♡ @pretty-chips

Beautiful and sweet.

the raccoon, the witch, & the roadtrip. part one. prepare for departure.

the raccoon, the witch, & the roadtrip masterlist previous part | next part [est may 21] | main masterlist

angst, comfort, friendship, & fluff for @hibatasblog rocket & wanda | part 1/6 | word count: 1371.

rocket gets a very-important mission from danvers and needs a partner to go with him. enter the witch.

It is a well-documented fact (I know you know) that in the comic books, many of the marvel ladies have a thing for Rocket Raccoon. How could they not? Eyes like red beryls and pyropes, teeth and wit both so sharp they can kill long before the perfectly-aimed gravity-blast. Intuition off the charts, not to mention the things they've heard he can do with that tail...

Alas, this is not the comics. This is the MCU, some time between 2018 and 2023.

And while everything else remains more or less the same, Wanda Maximoff was not turned into ash.

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” Rocket says, rolling his eyes.

Wanda isn’t sure what to call him. He looks like a raccoon, but insists that he isn’t one. Maybe he’s an alien. Maybe he’s something else. Either way, he’s rolling his eyes at Natasha, so hard that his whole head rolls with them.

“Look, I got a very important mission from Danvers, and Nebs is busy right now, working with Kraglin to make Knowhere a more hospitablistic place for Snap refugees. D’you wanna fuck over a bunch of Snap refugees, Nat?”

He crosses his arms and raises a brow up at the new leader-apparent of the Avengers. If Wanda hadn’t felt so — nothing at all, actually — she might have let a smirk curl the corner of her mouth. He’s kind of a brat, and he knows how to get under peoples’ skin. When she’d been a child, she would have found that entertaining. Endearing. She supposes she’d used to have a soft spot for scrappy survivors. Then she’d had to stop having a soft spot for anything but her brother.

Then —

“Goddammit, Rocket. Go to Washington, then. I don’t care. But we still need the Benatar.”

His challenging look turns into a glower. “Fuck off, Nat. What am I supposed to do, then? Drive your frickin’ car?”

Natasha flaps a hand at him distractedly from behind her desk. “Yes, that’s fine, take the car—”

The look he gives her is withering. “I can’t reach the fuckin’ pedals, Nat. So unless you’re giving me permission to take the whole inefficient machine apart an’ put it back together to suit my needs, you’re gonna have to—”

“I can’t spare anyone, Rocket,” the Russian snaps.

“And I can’t be alone right now,” he snaps right back. Wanda’s eyes flick back and forth between them. 

Natasha grits her teeth. “You said this was a mission from Carol?”

“Yes,” he hisses, tapping one booted foot impatiently. 

She closes her eyes and sighs heavily, leaning back in her chair and pressing her fingers into her temples. “Fine,” she says at last, drawing the word out — petulantly, Wanda thinks from a great distance. “Find someone who’s willing to go with you and I’ll tell you if I can spare them.”

Rocket doesn’t hesitate. Without moving anything but his arm, he’s brandishing a single dark claw in Wanda’s direction.

“I’ll take the witch.”

Five years earlier — in the first days after the Snap, before they’d left all their hope on 0259-S with Thanos’ headless body — everyone else had belonged to somebody. Cap and Nat had each other, and Nat had Banner and the arrow-guy. Rhodey had the rich guy who thought he was a genius, and the rich guy had that other redhead. Thor had maybe lost the most, but he had Banner too, and his buddies from Sakaar. The Dora Milaje had their whole sisterhood. Only Danvers might have been on her own — but as far as Rocket had been able to tell, Captain Marvel hadn’t seemed to have a lotta close ties she was mourning.

But Rocket — Rocket had nobody. 

Again.

Nobody except Gamora’s sister, whose name he’d kept forgetting.

Of course, there was the witch. 

Disproportionate number of redheads on this planet, he remembers thinking bemusedly.

He hadn’t been able to remember her name for a while either, but unlike everyone else on Terra, she’d seemed almost as alone as he was. And he hadn’t been able to help but watch her, his eyes slanting sideways to stare at her as she’d sat by herself across the room, hands anchored around upper arms. He couldn't make out the color of her eyes — they’d seemed impossibly dark, with rage or grief or something else, something haunted.  

Except for when they’d smouldered like furious banked fires. 

She’d never said a frickin’ word, either: face blank and beautiful as a statue’s. Her silence had felt more surreal than any other stupid thing he’d encountered in space, which he supposed was probably just because he’s spent the last four years with a family of weirdos who’d never seemed able to shut the fuck up. 

Still. He’d tilted his head when the other avengers had walked past her — watched as they’d seemed almost to forget she was even there. They’d barely talked to her, and once, when they’d been ordering lunch, they’d missed her entirely.

Uh — you didn’t ask the witch what she wants, Rocket had said to Nat awkwardly, and the assassin had blinked and her eyes had hunted the whole room before they’d finally focused on the other woman — like she hadn’t even known where her fellow-Avenger was. 

No. The witch had been an outcast. And Rocket has always known something about outcasts. His whole frickin’ family — both, some small part of his brain had tried to speak up before he could smother it; both families were made of the unwanted — his whole frickin’ family had been outcasts and misfits. It had made some part of Rocket’s heart suddenly stretch in his chest. It had reached with grasping fingers, trying to hang onto something he’d already known he’d lost.

Family.

The next day, Rocket had cleared his throat and told Gamora’s sister that he was gonna go starside to touch base with Kraglin on the Third Quadrant — to see if he still exists, he hadn’t said, but he’d been pretty sure the cyborg had picked it up. 

“You wanna come, Blue?” he’d asked — wincing when his nonchalance had been too thin to be believable. But the Luphomoid had inclined her head, eyes dark and steady. When that had been squared away — surprisingly a hell of a lot easier than he’d thought — he’d  shuffled to his feet, and headed to the bench outside the compound, where the witch had been sitting since sunrise.

He’d stood in her line of vision and stared at the sky too, shifting his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot, tail trying to tuck itself underneath him. It had probably been a full twenty minutes before he’d felt her eyes on him.

“I. Uh. I heard you lost your robot-boyfriend.” The words had been as clumsy as an orloni drunk on fermented Asgardian figs, but he’d been trying.

The witch’s eyes had flared, crimson-bright. “Robot?” she’d repeated dangerously.

Rocket’s ears had flicked back and he’d taken a step away, into the grass: hands extended, palms out.

“Hey, m’not trying to be a dick,” he’d protested. “I think I might be part-robot myself.” He’d stabbed a thumb over his shoulder toward the Benatar, where he could feel  his new blue companion staring holes in his back. “Gamora’s sister’s almost all-robot, too.” 

He could also feel the sister in question rolling her eyes. 

“M’just saying,” he’d muttered at both of them, hunching his shoulders and half-turning to kick a patch of grass. “Some of us are solo now.” He’d gestured at the cyborg again. “Might be good to stick together.” 

“I was used to being solo,” Nebs had pointed out, and Rocket had winced. “You’re the one who got attached.”

His ears had flattened. “Whatever,” he’d growled. “Just thought — whatever.” He’d spun again, kicking more grass, and muttered bitterly under his breath. “So much for trying to be the captain. So much for trying to look out for the damn strays.”

“You’re the stray,” Nebula had replied with a mutinous jut of her chin — and how the fuck had she heard him? That wasn’t standard Luphomoid hearing range. 

Rocket had cursed whatever aural implants Thanos had given her. 

Then the witch had made a strange sound behind him — a little huff of breath.  A disbelieving, agonized little shred of laughter.

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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