The face Rocket makes before committing various crimes tehehe + blush version!! :D <3

heheee...

When I made the original I was rushing myself, trying to get it done in a certain amount of time, so I polished it up, made it a bit more cohesive and actually edited it to make it easier to understand/read! Note that this isn't based on a specific version of Rocket, it's just how I see him.

Enjoy!

—--A-Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)--

Rocket is intensely affectionate with you, just not in ways anyone else would immediately recognize. His love never arrives loudly; it slips in through the cracks, disguised as habit, coincidence, anything but vulnerability. It lives in the Post-its he leaves scattered like breadcrumbs, half gruff reminders to take care of yourself, the other half softer than he’d ever admit, little notes that linger long after you’ve read them. It’s in the things he makes with his own hands: weapons fine-tuned to perfection, gadgets you didn’t know you needed, or something small you paused a little too long to admire while walking together. He notices everything. He always has.

He brings you snacks, drinks, little things you hadn’t even realized you were craving yet, as if he’s memorized you down to instinct. His affection lives in what he does rather than what he says. And then there’s the physical side, the part he pretends is accidental. His hand finds yours like it belongs there, fingers threading together without ceremony. He’ll absentmindedly play with your hair if you have any while focused on something else, as if touching you is second nature. Quick kisses, brief cuddles, fleeting moments he brushes off with a scoff or some muttered excuse. He acts like it’s all begrudging, like you’re somehow inconveniencing him, but the truth is written in every lingering touch.

When you’re not around, he steals your clothes. Not out of mischief, well, not entirely, but because they smell like you, because it tricks his mind into thinking you’re still there, close enough to reach. It’s the closest thing he’ll allow himself to admit to needing you. Sometimes, when the world quiets down, he hums, soft and absent, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. If you’re lucky, it turns into something closer to a song, though he’d deny it the moment you mentioned it. He calls you by a dozen different pet names, each one slipping out before he can stop it, each carrying more weight than he’ll ever acknowledge.

Around others, he pulls back, keeping everything restrained and measured. He hates attention, hates the vulnerability of being seen like that, unless you truly need the comfort or he’s in the mood to make a point for reasons entirely his own. Otherwise, the affection goes quiet again, tucked safely out of sight. But when you’re alone, it surfaces fully, softer, warmer, unguarded in a way he’d never call it. Of course, that depends on his mood. He’s just as likely to be sharp-tongued and restless, snapping at nothing, difficult in the way only Rocket can be. Even then, he never strays far. There’s a kind of gravity to him.

You see it in the smallest moments. When you’re walking side by side, hands linked, and you let go without thinking, he stops immediately, mid-step, mid-sentence, mid-breath, and simply looks at you, silent and expectant, unmoving until your hand finds his again. “Just keeping you from wandering off,” he’ll mutter, like that explains anything, before continuing on as if nothing happened. But you know.

When you’re resting together, there’s always some point of contact: a shoulder pressed to yours, a leg thrown lazily over yours, his tail curling around you without thought. Something. Always something. As if distance itself is unacceptable. Because beneath all the sarcasm, the deflection, and the careful disguises, Rocket aches for closeness. He’s just learned how to hide it well.

His love speaks in actions, in time spent, in the quiet things done for you without expectation. And if you want to reach him in return, truly reach him, it’s simple: stay close, touch him, choose him again and again without making a spectacle of it. That’s the language he understands best.

—--B-Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)--

He’s an absolute menace in a small, furred package: sharp-tongued, brutally honest to a fault, and far too entertained by other people’s suffering when it’s merely inconvenient rather than genuinely harmful. Rocket doesn’t just pull pranks; he engineers them, crafting each one like a tiny catastrophe built for his own amusement. If something explodes, misfires, malfunctions, or leaves someone mildly humiliated, there’s a very real chance he’s somewhere nearby, wearing the most suspiciously innocent expression imaginable before cackling like a madman.

And he never lets anything slide. Trip over your own feet? He saw it, and he’ll absolutely comment on it. Say something even slightly questionable? He’s already tearing it apart with surgical precision, picking through every word just to watch you squirm. His honesty comes without soft edges, blunt and unfiltered, often a little too accurate for comfort, but it’s never empty cruelty. There’s something almost intimate in the way he refuses to lie, as if that sharp honesty is the closest thing he offers to trust.

Beneath all that chaos, though, runs a constant, quiet vigilance. He notices everything: who looks at you too long, what suddenly feels off, the subtle shift in your voice when something’s wrong. He rarely calls attention to it. Instead, he adjusts, stepping closer, redirecting attention with a perfectly timed insult, inserting himself into situations before they can tilt the wrong way. Protective, but never obvious. Call him out on it, and he’d scoff, brushing it off with a line like, “Relax. I just didn’t feel like dealing with the fallout if something happened to you.”

He carries himself like that relentless, irritating sibling you swear you could live without, always provoking, always finding exactly which nerve to press just to see how you’ll react. But the second something real threatens you, the teasing vanishes. What replaces it is something colder, sharper, and far more dangerous. That contrast makes everything obvious: no matter how much he pushes your buttons, he never lets you fall alone. There’s always an invisible line, and Rocket is always watching it.

You might roll your eyes, snap back, or call him insufferable, and maybe he is. But there’s a steady kind of comfort in knowing he’s there anyway. Loud. Irritating. Unpredictable. And, when it matters most, unmistakably on your side.

—--C-Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)--

Rocket is, against all odds and every ounce of his carefully curated attitude, an unapologetic cuddlebug. Give him a couch, a bed, a quiet corner, anything that even vaguely resembles a place to rest, and he’s already there claiming it, dragging you down with him like gravity suddenly got personal. He doesn’t ask. He simply decides you’re part of the arrangement. One moment you’re standing, the next you’re pinned beneath a surprisingly determined little menace who refuses to acknowledge just how much he needs this.

And yes, he’s almost always the little spoon. He’ll never say it outright, but the way he slots himself against you, the way he visibly relaxes the second your arms wrap around him, gives him away every time. He loves the closeness, the warmth, the steady reassurance of you being right there. Try to pull away too soon, though, and the dramatics begin: a low, annoyed whine, a muttered complaint, maybe even a full pout if you’re lucky. He’ll grab you without hesitation, hands, arms, whatever he can manage, and haul you right back where you belong, pressing you against him or flipping you so you’re sprawled across his chest like he personally invented comfort. “Not done yet,” he’ll grumble, as if it’s a perfectly reasonable decree. The whining is mostly theatrical. Mostly. There’s always a flicker of sincerity buried underneath it, but he’d rather combust than admit that.

Kiss him while you’re like that, the top of his head, his cheek, his forehead, and it’s like you’ve short-circuited something important. The first few times, he goes stiff, uncertain, pretending he doesn’t know what to do with it. You have to coax him past that instinct to deflect, ease him into the softness of it. But once it settles in, he melts. Completely, helplessly melts into you, every bit of tension draining out of him in a quiet surrender he’ll never acknowledge later. Call attention to it, and he’ll deny everything with impressive conviction.

He has a habit of falling asleep on you, too, using you like a pillow as if you were specifically designed for this purpose. You’re warm, soft, steady, and for someone who spends so much of his life wound tight, that kind of comfort hits deeper than he’d ever admit. Sometimes he prefers the reverse, though, having you draped over him, your weight settling across him like a living blanket. It grounds him, keeps him tethered in a way he doesn’t quite have words for.

The affection runs deeper than cuddling alone. He aches, often. The implants take their toll, leaving him sore in ways he tries to ignore until he can’t. That’s when he begrudgingly lets you help, massages that begin with complaints and end with him half-asleep, tension slowly unraveling beneath your hands. Sometimes he doesn’t even make it to the end before he’s out.

And if you ever start petting him, that’s game over. Fingers behind his ears, along the top of his head, down his back, under his chin, he leans into it before he can stop himself, some instinctive, deeply rooted response taking over. The base of his tail is an especially dangerous weak point; the gentlest strokes there leave him completely undone, no matter how hard he tries to act unaffected.

He purrs, too. Loudly. Relentlessly. A whole symphony of contentment vibrating through him, and he’ll deny it like his life depends on it. “It’s not purring. Something’s wrong with the damn implants.” Sure. Absolutely.

And if he’s ever even slightly injured, a minor scrape, the faintest cold, nothing serious, there’s a very real chance he leans into it just a little too much. Not enough to be obvious, but enough to keep you hovering, keep you close, keep you right there in bed with him after you’ve already insisted he rest. Getting him to slow down is a battle in itself. He resists it like it’s a personal offense. But once he’s there, once you’ve managed to pin him down and keep him still, he makes the most of it. Dramatic. Calculated. Entirely intentional.

Because at the end of the day, for all his noise, deflection, and carefully maintained reputation, Rocket just really, really likes being held.

—--D-Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)--

Call him a “housewife,” and you might not survive the next five minutes. But the evidence? It’s stacked higher than a perfectly organized toolbench. Rocket slips into the role of caretaker the way gravity pulls things downward: quietly, inevitably, without ever asking permission. One day, you simply realize the place is cleaner than it’s ever been. Every surface wiped down, every tool exactly where it belongs, every system running with almost obsessive precision. He doesn’t announce it. He just does it, muttering the whole time about how no one else seems capable of maintaining basic standards. “Was driving me insane,” he grumbles, as if that somehow explains the sparkling countertops and the fact that he reorganized everything three separate times until it felt right.

And the cooking? Dangerous. Not in the explosive sense, well, not usually, but in the way it completely rewires your expectations. Rocket doesn’t cook so much as engineer meals. Flavor, texture, timing, every detail is treated like a problem to solve and a craft to master. He’ll insist it’s purely practical, that he just didn’t trust anyone else to do it properly, but then he watches you from the corner of his eye while you eat, quietly measuring your reaction. It matters more than he wants it to. Compliment him and he shrugs it off. Don’t, and he notices anyway. He’d never admit that feeding you feels important, but the truth hums beneath every carefully plated bite.

Domesticity settles over him in strange, unspoken ways: fixing things before they break, keeping your favorite things stocked without being asked, remembering the little details you didn’t even realize you’d left behind. It isn’t softness in the traditional sense. It’s sharp-edged care, wrapped in irritation and delivered as though it were merely a side effect instead of a choice.

Marriage, though, is where he draws a line. To Rocket, it’s paperwork. Contracts. A system trying to define something he doesn’t believe should be boxed in, stamped, or owned. He doesn’t see romance in it, only legal strings and expectations he instinctively distrusts. “You really need a document to prove something?” he’d scoff. But commitment? That part is never in question. He’s already all in, you just won’t find it stamped and filed.

Kids are where his voice gets quieter, tighter around the edges. He doesn’t hate the idea, not really, but the thought of being responsible for something that fragile, that important, unsettles him in a way he can’t easily joke away. There’s a heaviness there, rooted deep in everything he’s survived and everything that was done to him. He doesn’t trust himself with that kind of role. Doesn’t believe he’d get it right. And beneath even that sits something sharper: the possibility that the choice might not even be his to make, that the future could already have been decided for him long before he was ever given the chance to consider it. He never says it aloud, never lets himself linger there for too long, but it’s always present, quiet and cutting beneath the surface.

If a child ever did come into his life, adopted, engineered, or by some twist of fate, it wouldn’t be gentle at first. He’d be awkward, defensive, acting like he never signed up for any of this. But he would learn. Slowly. Reluctantly. Completely. Because that’s the thing about Rocket: he can deny, deflect, and disguise it all he wants, but when he cares, he doesn’t do it halfway. He builds a life around it.

—--E-Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)--

Loving Rocket is a little like holding onto something that’s already bracing for impact. If it ever came down to it, if things became too real, too heavy, too important, he wouldn’t go quietly. He wouldn’t sit you down and explain himself. He wouldn’t trust himself to say the truth out loud, because that would mean admitting just how much you matter to him.

So instead, he starts pulling threads. At first, it’s subtle. Sharper comments. More distance. Picking fights over things too small to deserve the weight he gives them. He turns colder, rougher around the edges, as if he’s deliberately sanding down everything soft between you. Not because he stopped caring. Because he cares too much, and that terrifies him more than the thought of losing you.

He wants you to be the one to walk away. In his mind, if you end it, then at least you’re choosing something better. At least you’re not being dragged down by him. It’s a twisted kind of mercy, the kind that leaves bruises long after the wound is gone. And it wrecks him. Every second of it. He hates the way you look at him after he says something cruel. Hates the silence that settles afterward. Hates himself for not stopping. But he doesn’t stop. He doubles down, pushes harder, makes it impossible to stay, like he’s setting fire to something he built with his own hands just to make sure you don’t get caught in the collapse.

And when it finally breaks, he lets it. He doesn’t fight for it. Doesn’t chase you. He just stands there, jaw tight, shoulders rigid, like this was always how it was meant to end. “Yeah… figured.” As if the words don’t hollow him out the second you’re gone.

If the relationship were genuinely toxic, though, something that wounded more than it held, he wouldn’t play games. Not like that. He’d endure it longer than he should, absorb more damage than anyone ought to, but once it crossed that invisible line, he’d leave. No theatrics. No slow unraveling. Just gone. Even then, it wouldn’t be clean. There would be anger, grief, something raw and heavy lodged in his chest long after he walked away. Because even when something is bad for him, that doesn’t mean it didn’t matter. That doesn’t mean you didn’t matter.

Rocket doesn’t leave easily, whether he’s forcing you away or walking out himself. Either way, it costs him more than he will ever admit. He just buries it beneath the only language he’s ever truly trusted: distance, silence, and the quiet kind of heartbreak that never quite fades.

—---F-Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)--

Marriage, to Rocket, is like trying to bottle lightning and slap a label on it. He doesn’t trust it, not the ceremony, the paperwork, or the idea that something as volatile and hard-earned as love could be reduced to signatures and legal terms. In his mind, if what you have is real, it doesn’t need proof. It exists. Alive. Stubborn. Undeniable. Without anyone else stamping it “valid.”

“Paper doesn’t make it real,” he’d say, voice sharp, dismissive. “Either it is, or it isn’t.” For him, what you two have is enough.

Rocket isn’t against meaning, but he wants it private, untouchable, something no one else can define. Promises whispered under a sky full of stars, subtle gestures only you both understand, they mean more than any ceremony ever could.

Underneath his resistance, there’s something quieter, heavier. A part of him is always bracing for the other shoe to drop, expecting that one day you’ll see him differently, step back, and realize you deserve better. The idea of tying you to him permanently unsettles him, not because he doubts you, but because he doesn’t trust he’s worth staying for.

If you want to marry him, you’d have to be absolutely sure. You’d have to be the one to make the leap, to propose, to prove in every small way that you have zero doubts about him. He doesn’t want to trap you. He keeps it free, open, chosen every day. If you stay because you want to, that matters far more than any vow ever could.

And he’ll still show up, like it’s forever. He just won’t call it that, not out loud.

—--G-Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)--

For all the sharp edges he carries, Rocket has this hidden, almost disarming softness that only shows itself when you really need it. On days when everything feels too heavy, he doesn’t make a scene. Doesn’t try to fix it with some grand gesture. Doesn’t force you to talk before you’re ready. He just gets you out of the noise. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere it’s just the two of you, and the world can wait its turn.

“C’mon. Sit.”

That’s all the invitation you get. And then he’s there, close, steady, present in a way that feels grounding. His arms wrap around you, not tight enough to trap you, but firm enough that you don’t feel like you’re falling apart. Gentle. Careful. Like he’s handling something fragile, even if he’d never call you that.

When you start talking, venting, unraveling, letting everything spill out, he listens. Really listens. No interruptions. No impatience. No sarcastic remarks cutting through your words. Just quiet attention. The occasional hum or low response, so you know he’s still right there with you.

His affection shifts in those moments. Softer. Slower. A kiss pressed to your temple. Another against your cheek. Small, grounding touches that say more than anything he could put into words. His hand moves along your back in slow circles or brushes through your hair, just to give you something steady to focus on.

If you need it, he offers more without making a big deal out of it. “Y’know… I could, uh… help with the tension. If you want.” A massage follows. Hands working carefully, deliberately. He knows what it feels like to carry pain in your body, to let it build until it’s unbearable. So he takes his time, easing the tightness out of your shoulders, your neck, wherever it has settled. There’s a quiet focus to it, like this is something he understands better than words.

And when it’s over, when you’ve said everything or nothing at all, he doesn’t pull away. He keeps you close. Holds you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like letting go would defeat the purpose. His voice drops softer than you’ve ever heard it, low and rough around the edges as he tries, really tries, to give you something to hold onto.

He’s not great with emotional speeches. He fumbles, pauses, searches for the right words like they don’t come easily to him. But he still says them.

“Hey… it’s not… it’s not all on you, alright?”

“You’re… you’re doin’ better than you think.”

“I got you. You’re not dealin’ with it alone.”

It’s imperfect. A little awkward. Completely genuine. And somehow, that makes it land harder than anything polished ever could. Because Rocket doesn’t offer softness lightly. But when he does, it’s real.

—--H-Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)--

Rocket exists in a strange orbit when it comes to touch, caught somewhere between wanting it and bracing against it. Hugs, especially, are complicated. With you, they’re something he wants. Not in an obvious, easy way. He’s not walking around asking for them, but it shows up in quiet moments, the way he lingers a little closer than necessary, the way he doesn’t move away when he could.

Still, there’s always that split second. That instinct. You pull him in, and he goes rigid at first, shoulders tight, breath catching, like his body’s waiting for the catch, the one that never actually comes. It’s not about you. Not really. It’s just how he’s wired.

“Tch, gimme a second.”

It doesn’t take long. Because then it shifts. Slowly, like something frozen starting to thaw. The tension bleeds out of him. His grip changes, not gone, just different. Less defensive. More present. He leans in, weight settling against you like he’s been holding himself up longer than he should have.

And once he lets himself be there, that’s when the truth slips through. Rocket isn’t good with words when it comes to this. Won’t say what it means, won’t spell it out, but his hugs do it anyway. They’re careful. Almost cautious, like he’s handling something important and doesn’t trust himself not to mess it up. But underneath that is something deeper, something that lingers just a little too long to be casual. Not tight enough to trap you. Just enough that you notice. Like he’s committing the feeling to memory, storing it somewhere he can reach later, when things get loud in his head again.

There’s a weight to it. A quiet, touch-starved kind of hunger he keeps mostly under control. Not overwhelming. Not obvious. But it’s there, threaded through the way he holds on for that extra second. If you’re paying attention, you’ll feel it. He doesn’t let just anyone get close like that. Trust decides that. Comfort seals it. Without both, there’s no hesitation, just a sharp edge; a warning snap of teeth or words that hit just as hard. Push past that, and yeah, he will make you regret it. Boundaries with him aren’t polite suggestions. They’re enforced.

But you? You get the version of him that stays. The one who, after that initial flinch, presses closer instead of pulling away. The one who lingers, even when he pretends he’s about to let go.

“…Alright, that’s enough.”

He says it like he means it. He doesn’t move. Not right away. Because as much as touch throws him off balance, keeps him half on guard even now, it’s also the one place he feels it slip. Safe. And that’s not something he walks away from easily.

—--I-I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)--

Love, for Rocket, isn’t something that arrives in a neat little sentence. It builds quietly, stubbornly, like something under the surface that refuses to be rushed. It would take him a long time to say it, really say it. Even after he’s come to terms with how he feels, the words sit heavy in his chest, caught somewhere between fear and certainty. Because once he says it, it’s real in a way he can’t take back. And Rocket doesn’t gamble with things that matter that much.

So instead, he speaks in a different language. In actions. In the way he fixes something before you even realize it’s broken. In the way he remembers the smallest details about you and quietly builds around them. In the way he stays, again and again, choosing you without ever announcing it. In the way he lets you see the parts of him no one else gets near. He says it a thousand times without forming the words.

You feel it in the late nights spent side by side, in the quiet companionship he never thought he’d want but now refuses to give up. In the way his hand finds yours without thinking. In the way he softens around you, even when he’s trying not to. That’s his version of “I love you.”

And when he finally does say it, it won’t be grand. It won’t be perfectly timed or wrapped in poetry. If anything, it’ll be a little rough around the edges, like it had to fight its way out. Maybe it slips out in a quiet moment, when the world isn’t watching and he forgets to guard himself. Maybe it comes after something real, something that cements it for him, makes it undeniable.

“…Y’know I” A pause. A breath. “…Yeah. I do.”

Like he’s admitting something more than confessing it. But there’s no doubt in it. Rocket doesn’t say things like that unless he’s certain, unless he’s tested it, turned it over, tried to find a flaw, and failed. He needs to know it’s real. Not temporary. Not fragile in the way he fears. And once he knows, once he believes it, then the words finally come. Not easily. Not often. But when they do, they mean everything.

—--J-Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)--

Jealousy with Rocket starts sharp. Not loud. Not explosive. But present. A flicker in his eyes. A subtle shift in the way he carries himself. He notices when someone looks at you too long, when their tone lingers just a little too warm, when your attention drifts somewhere that isn’t him. It needles at him, that old instinct whispering that good things don’t stay, that someone else might take what he barely trusts himself to have.

He won’t make a scene. Not at first. Instead, it shows up in smaller ways. A comment edged just enough to sting. Him sliding between you and whoever’s getting too comfortable. A hand on your waist, your shoulder; casual, but claiming, in a way he won’t acknowledge. “Problem?” he mutters, eyes already sizing up the situation.

But that’s early on. Before he feels steady in it. Before he fully believes you’re staying. Once he does, the edge softens. Dulls into something lighter. Something almost entertained. Rocket knows what he has. More importantly, he knows you chose him. And that knowledge settles into him like a quiet kind of confidence he doesn’t talk about but absolutely carries.

So when someone flirts with you, he notices. Of course he does. But instead of bristling, there’s a slow, amused curve to his expression, like he’s watching a situation play out that he already knows the ending to. If anything, there’s a flicker of understanding; because yeah, of course they’re interested. He gets it. He just knows they don’t stand a chance.

And there you are, caught in the middle, being polite, trying to let them down gently, clearly uncomfortable but too kind to shut it down outright. Your eyes flick toward him, silently begging for rescue. “Help me.” And Rocket leans back, waves, smirks like this is the most entertaining thing he’s seen all day. No urgency. No interference. Just pure, unfiltered amusement at your slow unraveling. Because he knows you’ve got it handled. Knows you’ll turn them down. Knows you’re his, not in a possessive, suffocating way, but in the quiet certainty of mutual choice.

And maybe he enjoys watching you squirm just a little. Of course, the second it crosses a line, if you’re truly uncomfortable, if the other person won’t back off, if there’s even a hint of trouble, that amusement disappears instantly. He steps in without hesitation. No smirk. No teasing. Just sharp focus, a presence that makes it very clear the situation is over.

But until then, he lets it play out. Watching. Waiting. Amused in that way only he can be. Because jealousy might’ve been the spark, but trust is what keeps him steady.

—--K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)--

Kisses, for Rocket, aren’t simple. They’re improvised. His muzzle changes everything; angles, timing, the way contact even works. Whatever people usually expect, throw that out. He figures it out his own way, piece by piece, all quiet curiosity wrapped in that usual layer of attitude. “Tch. It’s not that complicated.” It is. He just won’t admit it.

Sometimes it’s soft. His nose brushing against yours, a nuzzle lingering a second longer than it needs to, like he’s testing the moment instead of rushing through it. Other times, it’s the side of his mouth pressed to your skin; not quite traditional, but deliberate. Careful. It still means the same thing. Then there’s the playful side: quick nips, light nibbles, the occasional swipe of his tongue; affection slipping out in ways that feel more instinct than intention. Less thought, more feeling. The kind of thing he does before he can overthink it into something awkward.

And deeper kisses, kisses that are more tongue than anything else? Yeah, he can do those too. At first, it’s slow. Measured. Like he’s mapping it out, learning the rhythm, figuring out what works and what doesn’t. There’s focus there, a quiet intensity he doesn’t even realize he’s showing. But the more he trusts it, trusts you, the easier it becomes. Less thinking. More instinct. Something that starts to feel natural instead of learned. Something that’s his.

Receiving kisses? That’s where things fall apart. Press one to his head, his cheek, his shoulder; it doesn’t matter where, and you feel it instantly. That pause. The brief, sharp tension where his body just locks. Like it doesn’t know what to do with something that gentle. Early on, it’s obvious. He stiffens, caught between reflex and something softer he hasn’t quite figured out yet. There’s no script for it, no instinct to fall back on. You have to give him a second. Let it sink in. Let him realize there’s no catch waiting behind it. “…What was that for?” It’s not rejection. It’s confusion.

Because once it clicks, he melts. Not all at once, he’d hate that, but enough that you can feel it. The tension drains out, his body softening under your touch, leaning in before he can stop himself. And that’s the part he really doesn’t know how to handle. There’s something unguarded in it. Not weak, never that, but exposed in a way he doesn’t usually allow. Like you found a switch buried deep, something he didn’t even know was there until you flipped it.

He won’t admit how much he likes it. Won’t say it outright. But it shows. In the way he lingers just a little closer than necessary. The way he angles himself without thinking, making it easier for you to reach him. The quiet, almost accidental ways he ends up within range, like he didn’t plan it, but didn’t avoid it either. “Don’t make it weird.” Too late.

For someone who guards himself as tightly as he does, kisses are effective. They slip past his defenses without asking, without warning. And once they’re in, there’s no shoving that softness back into place like it never happened.

—--L-Little ones (How are they around children?)--

It throws people off, the way Rocket is with kids. You expect the usual: short temper, sharp tongue, zero patience for noise or nonsense. Maybe a comment that cuts a little too close. That’s not what they get. With kids, he’s careful. Not soft in an obvious way. Not overly sweet or fake about it. He’s still himself, still rough around the edges, still liable to mutter under his breath, but there’s a kind of control there. Deliberate. Constant. Like he’s measuring every word before it leaves his mouth.

Because he knows how much they can stick. A kid pulls at him, asks the same question five times in a row, crowds into his space like they don’t know what personal boundary means; and yeah, it gets to him. You can see it: the flick of his ears, the tight set of his shoulders, the quiet exhale as he bites back a response that wants to be sharper. But it never crosses the line. Never turns into something that could actually hurt. Because he knows what that feels like. “…Hey. Easy.” It comes out rough, but not unkind.

There’s history there. The kind he doesn’t talk about, doesn’t even look at directly, but it shapes the way he moves around them all the same. He remembers what it’s like to be small in a place that isn’t safe. Rooms that felt wrong. Fear sitting heavy in the air, thick enough to choke on. Younger ones who didn’t understand what was happening, just that it hurt. And back then, he learned how to adjust. How to make himself smaller in the right ways. Softer. Not weak, never that, but careful enough to take the edge off things. He’d distract them. Tell stories. Sit close so they didn’t feel alone. A big brother in a place that didn’t deserve one. That part of him stuck.

So when he looks at kids now, he doesn’t just see noise or chaos. He sees something untouched. Something that hasn’t been worn down yet. And whether he’d ever admit it or not, there’s a part of him that wants to keep it that way. Just a little longer. Give them the time the world didn’t give him. He’s not going out of his way for it, though. Wouldn’t volunteer. Wouldn’t sign up. And the idea of having one of his own? Yeah. No. Too much weight. Too much that could go wrong. Too many ways he thinks he’d mess it up. “Not happenin’.” End of discussion.

But if a kid ends up in his orbit, that’s different. They’re safe there. He’ll get down to their level, explain things straight, no talking down, no brushing them off. Answer their questions like they actually matter. Might even spin a story if it keeps them calm, keeps them from getting that look in their eyes he knows too well. There’s patience there. Not natural. Not easy. But steady. Earned the hard way. And if something threatens them, that careful restraint disappears fast. Gone. What’s left is sharp. Focused. Uncompromising. Because he might not want to be a father. Might not believe he could ever be that for someone. But protecting, that he knows. He’s done it before. And when it comes to kids, those small, bright pieces of the world that haven’t been broken yet, he always will.

—--M-Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)--

Mornings with Rocket don’t so much start as stretch. He’s not built for early anything if he can help it. If there’s even a scrap of extra time, he takes it, no hesitation, no guilt, dragging you back into the warmth like the outside world is optional and, frankly, not worth the effort. Half-asleep, half-aware, he runs on instinct. You try to get up? Yeah. No. A low, gravelly grumble, arms tightening around you, pulls you right back where you were, like gravity suddenly decided you belong to him. He buries his face somewhere warm, your shoulder, your neck, wherever he lands, and settles in like that’s the final decision. He’s not even fully awake. Just decided. “Stay.” It’s barely a word, more of a sleepy demand.

Mornings like that blur. Edges soft. Time stretched thin. Neither of you in any real hurry to move, to break whatever quiet little pocket you’re tucked into. The day can wait. It usually does. Eventually, you manage to slip out. Doesn’t last. Give it a few minutes, and there he is, dragging himself after you. Not rushed. Not fully functional. But determined. Still warm, still heavy with sleep, like he hasn’t quite separated from the bed yet. If you’re in the kitchen, he latches on like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Arms around your waist or your thighs, face pressed in, holding on with zero intention of letting go. No commentary. No explanation. Just quiet, stubborn attachment.

And if he’s feeling particularly bold, up he goes, climbing onto your back, weight settling in like you’re just a continuation of whatever soft place he left behind. Chin hooked over your shoulder, breathing slow and even, perfectly content to exist there. A living, breathing koala. He barely talks at first. Just low hums, quiet grumbles, the occasional half-formed murmur as he wakes up in pieces instead of all at once. You feed him something? He takes it without question, doesn’t even look, just opens his mouth slightly, like this is an understood system neither of you needs to explain. Probably is.

Until someone else walks in. Then suddenly he’s gone. Or at least pretending he wasn’t just wrapped around you like you were the only solid thing in the room. “Don’t start.” Like you’re the one making it a thing. If he’s the one cooking, it flips, but not really. You don’t get far. He keeps you close without making a show of it. Always within reach. His tail hooks loosely around your wrist, your arm, your leg, casual but not accidental. A quiet tether he doesn’t bother hiding. Every so often, he hands you something, a bite, a taste, without even glancing your way. Just expects you to take it. You do. It’s easier that way.

Through it all, mornings stay soft. His fur’s a mess, sleep-ruffled in a way he hasn’t bothered fixing yet. His voice is lower, rougher, still caught in that half-awake haze that smooths out all his sharper edges. Words come slower, less guarded, like his defenses are still waking up along with him. It’s rare, seeing him like that. Unpolished. Unfiltered. Close without pretending he’s not. And that’s what mornings with Rocket really are. Not about starting the day. Just staying in it a little longer than you probably should.

—--N-Night (How are nights spent with them?)--

Nights with Rocket carry that same quiet gravity as mornings, just dimmer, softer, like the world’s been turned down to a low, steady hum. Some nights, you’re both too tired to be anything but there. Side by side. Close, but quiet about it. Maybe it’s a shared shower or a slow bath, nothing rushed, nothing playful. Just warmth, water slipping over tired muscles, the kind of silence that doesn’t need filling. It’s not about anything more than easing the day out of your bones before letting it go. By the time you make it back to bed, there’s no discussion. It’s instinct. Arms finding their place. Bodies settling into something familiar, something already learned. Sleep comes easy like that, pulling you both under before either of you can think too much about it.

Other nights carry a little more life. Not loud. Not distant. Just aware. There’s a spark there, a quiet kind of energy that hasn’t burned off yet, but even then, it stays close. Grounded. Never rushed, never careless. Whatever passes between you always circles back to the same thing: connection. The kind he pretends he doesn’t need.

Then there are the restless nights, the ones where sleep just doesn’t come for him. If you’re already out, he’ll stay still at first, lying there, watching you in that quiet way of his, guarded even in softness, but unmistakably gentler when you’re not there to catch it. There’s something protective in it. His hand might drift without thinking, fingers brushing through your hair if you have any, slow and absentminded. Not enough to wake you, just enough to keep himself grounded, like you’re the one steady thing in a mind that won’t slow down. Sometimes, that’s enough. Sometimes, it isn’t.

When it isn’t, he slips out carefully. Untangles himself from you with a precision that doesn’t match his usual rough edges, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying not to break something fragile. If there’s even a chance it’ll wake you, he stays. But if he can leave without disturbing you, he does. Doesn’t go far. You’ll find him eventually, curled up somewhere he definitely didn’t mean to fall asleep. Half-finished project still in his hands, tools scattered like he just paused for a second and never picked them back up. Lights left on, systems humming quietly around him. Or slumped in the pilot’s seat, head tipped forward, exhaustion catching him mid-thought. He never plans to stop. Just runs out.

And if you wake up and notice he’s gone, you already know where to look. There’s something quietly tender in bringing him back, guiding him up, half-asleep and grumbling under his breath, back to bed where he should’ve been hours ago. He won’t fight it, not like that. Just leans into you, lets you steer him like some part of him trusts you to take over when he can’t keep going anymore. “…I was fine.” Sure he was. Back under the covers, it’s immediate. He settles in close again, like distance was never the point. Like no matter how far he drifts, across the room or halfway across the ship, there’s always something in him that pulls him back. To you. And once he’s there, he stays, like that’s the only place he ever meant to be.

—--O-Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a  while to reveal things slowly?)--

Getting Rocket to talk, really talk, is like trying to pry open a sealed vault with your bare hands. He doesn’t offer things up easily. Not thoughts, not feelings, not the heavier stuff that sits under everything else. If something’s on his mind, he carries it quietly, lets it settle, turns it over internally until it either dulls or buries itself deep enough to ignore.

If you want to know something, you have to ask. And even then, it’s not guaranteed. He’ll deflect first, quick, instinctive. A joke. A sarcastic comment. A sudden shift in topic, like he’s expertly dodging a question he never intended to answer. It’s not always obvious either; sometimes it’s smooth enough that if you’re not paying attention, you’ll miss it completely. “Why d’you care?” “Does it matter?” “C’mon, that’s old news.” It’s not that he doesn’t hear you. It’s that answering feels exposed. So yeah, getting him to open up can feel like pulling teeth. Slow, stubborn, occasionally frustrating. You have to circle back, ask again, stay patient without pushing too hard. Let him realize you’re not going anywhere. That you’re not asking just to satisfy curiosity. That you’re asking because you care. That matters to him, more than he lets on.

If something is serious enough, if it crosses a certain internal threshold, he’ll bring it up himself. Rarely. Usually a little rough around the edges, like he’s not entirely comfortable being the one to start the conversation. But he will. Eventually.

There’s also a loophole. Alcohol. Rocket’s tongue gets looser when he’s drunk. The walls don’t disappear, but they crack, just enough for things to slip through that he’d normally keep locked down tight. Thoughts he wouldn’t voice, feelings he’d usually bury, they surface in pieces. Sometimes clumsy, sometimes more honest than he realizes in the moment. He might not remember everything he said the next day. Or he might, and pretend he doesn’t. Just an occasional unraveling when his guard drops lower than intended.

At the end of the day, Rocket isn’t silent because he has nothing to say. He’s silent because saying it out loud means trusting someone else to hold it. And that’s not something he gives easily. But if you’re patient, if you stay, if you keep showing up, if you let him come to you instead of forcing the door open, he will talk. Not all at once. Not perfectly. But enough.

—--P-Patience (How easily angered are they?)--

Rocket’s temper isn’t subtle. It’s quick, bright, a little explosive, like striking a match in a room already full of fumes. He snaps fast. Gets irritated faster. Little things set him off, and when they do, his words come sharp and unfiltered, cutting before he’s had a chance to think twice. It’s not always fair. Not always controlled. And he knows that, probably better than anyone.

Being with someone, being part of something, changes the equation. Not overnight. Not cleanly. Rocket isn’t the type to just decide to be better and suddenly is. It’s messy. Inconsistent. Some days he handles things well: walks away before it escalates, bites back the worst of it, chooses silence over saying something he’ll regret. Other days, he slips. The temper flares. Words land too hard. And there’s that split second after where he knows he crossed a line. You can see it, a flicker, before he either doubles down out of stubbornness or pulls back with a frustrated huff. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” It’s not an apology. But it’s the closest he gets to one in the moment.

What matters is that he tries. Not because someone told him to, not because he thinks he should, but because he realizes, slowly, that his anger doesn’t just affect him. It hits the people around him. The people he cares about. And that sits wrong with him. So he starts adjusting. Small ways. Taking a breath before reacting sometimes. Leaving the room when he feels it building, reluctantly. Redirecting that energy into something else: tinkering, fixing, working, anything that burns it off without hurting someone.

He’ll never be perfectly calm. That fire is part of him. It always will be. But when he’s with people he trusts, he learns how not to let it burn everything down. And that effort, that conscious, stubborn attempt to do better, that’s where the real change lives.

—--Q-Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in    passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)--

Rocket’s memory isn’t just sharp; it’s surgical. Nothing you tell him truly disappears. It’s cataloged somewhere behind those eyes, filed with a precision that borders on eerie. You could mention something once, offhand, half-distracted, barely thinking it matters, and months later, there it is again. Remembered. Applied. Used in a way that makes you pause and realize he was listening far more closely than he ever let on.

You don’t like a certain food? It never appears near you again. A fabric you hate the feel of? Somehow, it’s completely avoided. A fear you admitted quietly, maybe reluctantly? He adjusts without ever making you feel exposed. Dates, memories, tiny details you barely remember sharing, they’re all tucked away like they were important from the start. Because to him, they were.

It’s not just memory, either. It’s instinct layered over precision. The way he recalls things he’s touched, built, taken apart, bleeds into how he understands people. You’re no exception. He learns you the same way he learns everything else: thoroughly, carefully, piece by piece, until he knows how things fit together.

And he’ll never admit how intentional it is. Call him out, and he shrugs. “Wasn’t hard to figure out.” “Anyone would’ve noticed.” “Just common sense.” Like it wasn’t him paying attention. Like it didn’t matter enough for him to remember.

But it’s not random. It’s not luck. It’s care, disguised as coincidence, dressed up as indifference. Rocket doesn’t just remember things for the sake of it. He remembers because, somewhere along the way, he decided you were worth remembering.

—--R-Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)--

Rocket wouldn’t be able to pick a favorite moment without a lot of grumbling first. Ask him, and you’d get a vague answer, something dismissive, like ranking moments is a waste of time. But if you watched him closely, paid attention to the ones he lingers in, the ones he revisits without realizing it, a pattern emerges.

He loves the quiet ones. The ones where nothing important is happening, but everything feels right anyway. Sitting side by side while he rambles about some half-finished idea, hands moving as he explains something that probably sounds like nonsense to anyone else. He doesn’t care if you fully understand it; he just wants you there, listening, letting him think out loud. Those moments stick.

So do the playful ones, the rare pockets of time where he loosens up completely. Sarcasm lightens, tension fades, and he just has fun. No pressure. No expectations. Just being with you in a way that feels easy.

And then there are the closer ones. The ones he’d never talk about, but thinks about when he’s alone. They matter more than he’d ever admit.

If forced to choose a single memory, though, there’s one that wins. The day he found out you were ridiculously, unfairly, hopelessly ticklish.

It starts innocently enough. A brush of his hand. A reaction he didn’t expect. Then that look crosses his face: curious. Amused. Dangerous. “Oh, no way…” And just like that, it’s over for you.

He takes it as a personal mission, testing, poking, figuring out exactly where your worst spots are while you squirm and fight him off. Laughter spills everywhere, yours, loud and uncontrollable; his, sharper, brighter, entirely unrestrained. For once, he isn’t holding back. And he loves it. Loves the chaos, the unpredictability, the lightness of it all.

Of course, the victory doesn’t last forever. You figure out his ticklish spots. Suddenly, tables turn. Confident teasing flips into immediate regret. He jerks away, muttering half-formed threats, pride dangling by a thread. “Don’t-don’t you dare!” Too late. Now you’re laughing, and he’s caught off guard, dignity in shambles.

From then on, it becomes a standoff. A dangerous, unspoken truce neither of you fully respects. At any given moment, either of you could start it all over again. And honestly, those are the moments he treasures most. The ones where he forgets to guard himself entirely.

—--S-Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)-

Rocket’s protectiveness is precise. It’s not suffocating, not the kind that cages you or treats you like fragile glass. He knows better than that. He knows you’re capable, strong, and he respects it too much to smother you. But that doesn’t mean he’s not watching. He just does it differently.

Instead of hovering, he equips you. Upgrades your defenses in ways that feel almost casual, like it’s no big deal, like he’d do it for anyone. A modified blaster here, a piece of tech there, small adjustments that make a big difference. He doesn’t frame it as protection. “Just figured you could use somethin’ better.”

It’s his way of making sure that, even when he’s not there, you’re never unprepared. And if something goes wrong? He’s already moving. No hesitation. No question. Sharp, immediate action.

What he doesn’t know how to handle at first is the reverse. Being protected. That throws him off balance. The first time you step in for him, really step in, not because he asked but because you wanted to, there’s a flicker in him. Not anger exactly, but close: defensive. Confused. “What’re you doin’?” “I had it handled.”

It’s not pride, not entirely. It’s deeper than that. He’s not used to being someone’s concern, to being worth that kind of instinctive care. His first reaction is to misread it, thinking you underestimate him, or worse, that you don’t trust he can handle himself.

But if you stay steady, if you make it clear, not with words but with consistency, that it’s not doubt, not mockery, not pity, just care, that’s when it hits him. Hard. He goes quiet. Not shut down, just still. Processing. The sharp edges soften, vulnerability flickering beneath the surface. He won’t cry, not openly, not now, but it gets close. Close enough that you can see it in the way he looks at you, like he’s trying to understand how this is real, how you could do that for him.

From that point on, something shifts. He doesn’t fight it the same way. Still awkward, still adjusting, but he accepts it. Holds onto it in that quiet, careful way he does with anything important.

And in those private, unguarded moments between the two of you, that softness doesn’t disappear. It deepens. There’s a kind of intensity in how he returns your care, like he’s trying to give back something he still doesn’t fully believe he deserves. Not just physical closeness, but attention, focus, a kind of reverence that shows up in how present he is, how much he feels everything instead of brushing it off.

Being protected by you didn’t make him smaller. It made him feel chosen. And that’s something Rocket never takes lightly.

—--T-Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)--

At first, he treats you like something breakable, like if he doesn’t hold everything just right, you’ll slip through his fingers and be gone. Every date feels like a performance he’ll never admit he’s putting on. Every gift feels like a test he didn’t study for. He overthinks the details, replays your reactions later, looking for cracks, for signs he missed something, did something wrong. In his head, it’s simple: mess it up once, and you’ll see him for what he really is. Realize he’s not enough. And then… you’ll leave.

He doesn’t say any of that out loud, of course. Just shrugs it off, acts like it’s no big deal. “What? It’s just a date.” Like he didn’t spend hours making sure it went perfectly.

Time, though, has a way of wearing that edge down. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the pressure loosens. The overthinking quiets. He stops bracing for disaster every five seconds. The rehearsed parts, lines, careful timing, start to fall away, replaced by something rougher, something more real. He laughs easier. Stays in the moment longer instead of picking it apart mid-action. Stops watching you like you’re poised to deliver a verdict.

The gifts change too. Not polished, not meant to impress. Just… him. Something he saw that made him think of you. Something he made, fixed, or grabbed without overanalyzing it. Little pieces of his day, his thoughts, his attention, handed over without that anxious weight behind it.

He still cares. That never disappears. There will always be the part of him that wants to get it right, to give you the best he has. But it stops driving him. Stops turning everything into a pass or fail moment. Eventually, it sinks in, slow, stubborn, hard-won. You’re still here. Not for the perfection, not for the gifts, but for him.

“…You’re serious, huh?”

He won’t say it like it matters. Won’t admit how much it does. But something in him finally settles when he realizes you’re not looking for a performance. You’re looking at him. So he lets himself ease in. Lets the tension drain from his shoulders. Lets the quiet panic soften into something gentler. No act. No script. Just him. And for the first time, that… yeah. That feels like enough.

—--U-Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)--

Where do you even start with this part of him… Rocket carries more than he’ll ever admit. Most of it stays locked behind sarcasm, deflection, a quick snap of attitude before anyone can get too close. But it’s there. Always there.

And the worst part? It doesn’t get louder when things are bad. It gets louder when things are good. When everything starts to feel steady. Easy. Safe. That’s when something in his head twists. To him, that kind of quiet? That kind of right? It’s a warning. He’s spent too long learning that good things don’t last, that the moment you let your guard down is the moment everything is ripped from under you.

So his brain does what it’s trained to do, what it had to do to survive. It gets ahead of the damage. Starts picking at things that don’t need picking. A comment sharper than it should be. A fight that doesn’t make sense, even to him halfway through. Decisions that push you back, just far enough so it won’t hurt as much when you leave. Because in his mind… you will.

“Better I wreck it first than sit around waitin’ for it to blow up in my face.”

He won’t say that outright. Might not even realize that’s what he’s doing in the moment. It’s not calculated. Not cruel. Automatic. A reflex wired together from every time something good turned into something that hurt. Sometimes he shuts down instead. Becomes distant, quieter than usual, already halfway out the door emotionally, bracing for impact you haven’t even hinted at.

And later, after the tension settles, there’s that flicker of awareness. The moment he realizes… yeah. That was him. He just won’t look at you when it hits.

That’s where you come in. Not to fix it, not really. You can’t rip something that deep out of him. But you can anchor him when he starts drifting into the spiral. Consistency matters more than anything. Showing up again and again, even when he makes it hard. Not backing off when he pushes. Not escalating when he snaps. Just… steady.

“Yeah? You still here?”

He says it like a challenge, daring you to prove him right. What he’s really asking is something else entirely. Your voice, your presence, the way you don’t flinch when he gets rough around the edges; that’s what cuts through. Sometimes it’s words. Sometimes it’s just being close enough that he can feel you there, solid and real, when his thoughts start slipping.

It’s not quick. Not clean. He’ll fall back into it. More than once. Test the line, push too far, say things he shouldn’t; not because he wants to hurt you, but because some part of him is still waiting for you to prove he’s wrong to expect the worst. And yeah… sometimes it’ll hurt. But if you stay, if you meet that chaos with steadiness instead of fragility, he starts to learn. Slowly. Stubbornly. That this isn’t a setup. That happiness isn’t just the calm before something worse. That you’re not temporary, something he has to brace himself to lose.

“…Huh.”

The realization doesn’t hit all at once. It settles piece by piece, quiet, reluctant. But when it finally sticks, when he stops waiting for everything to fall apart, even just for a moment, that’s when you see it. The tension eases. The constant readiness softens. He doesn’t pull away as quickly. Doesn’t sabotage the silence just to fill it. He just… stays. Lets himself exist in something good without tearing it apart first. And for Rocket? That’s not small. That’s everything. Even if, every now and then, you still catch that old instinct flicker, a reflex he hasn’t quite unlearned yet.

—--V-Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)--

He carries a quiet, constant discomfort in his own skin; scars etched where they shouldn’t be, metal threaded through him like reminders he never asked for. It’s the kind of thing he notices even when he’s trying not to, the kind that keeps him just a little on edge in his own body. Those parts? He’s hyper-aware, critical, rarely gives them a break. There’s a mental list he doesn’t write down but might as well: scars, metal, pieces that don’t feel like they belong. It’s always there, buzzing in the back of his head, whether he wants it or not.

But his fur? That’s different. That’s his. The only thing on him untouched, unmodified, unclaimed. And yeah, he knows it looks good. Don’t argue; he’s ten steps ahead. He’s got a routine for it too. Mornings, nights, doesn’t matter; he’s going over it, fixing anything out of place, making it exactly how it’s supposed to be. You mess with that? Start apologizing now. Don’t touch it unless he says so. Don’t get it wet, dirty, or comment on it unless you’re saying something nice. Otherwise, congratulations, you’ve just earned a very loud, very irritated raccoon in your face.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Like you’d look half this good if you had fur.”

It’s not just appearances. It’s control. Something wholly his, start to finish, no one else’s fingerprints. He can fix it, maintain it, make it exactly how he wants. Prepare for full, dramatic ire. Fur isn’t aesthetics; it’s pride, identity, a rare source of confidence wrapped in glossy, sleek form.

Same goes for his style. Clothes, gear, piercings, whatever combination he’s rocking; it’s not whimsy. Every piece is deliberate, a statement of control over how he presents himself to the world, small islands of order in a life dictated by chaos. You think he just throws stuff on? Please. Straps, gadgets, odd pairings, it’s all intentional. Insult it, joke about it? Oh, he’s got opinions.

“Sorry, didn’t realize I was takin’ fashion advice from you.”

Cue the glare, maybe a muttered under-breath comment. Push it further, and yeah, it’ll become a full-on rant. Because it matters. More than he’ll ever explain.

Now, if it’s you? That’s different. When he trusts you, he lets you see this side. A brush of his fur, a tweak to a strap; there’s a quiet acknowledgment there: your hands are safe. You’re allowed to touch, adjust, share this sacred little part of him. His fur, his style, they’re armor, yes, but also a statement of control and pride in a harsh, unyielding world.

He’ll still grumble, complain, act like you’re inconveniencing him. But he won’t stop you. Might even lean into it for half a second before catching himself.

“Don’t get used to it.”

But he doesn’t pull away. That’s about as close as you’ll get to him saying he trusts you with it.

—--W-Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)--

Rocket guards his independence like it’s the last thing anyone could ever take from him, and he’s not about to let that happen. He’s not clingy, not often, not unless he’s worried, running on empty, or just craving comfort. Give him space, and he’ll take it without hesitation. He can disappear into his work for hours, even days, hands deep in circuitry, mind locked onto whatever he’s building or fixing. Or he’ll vanish into his own corner of the world, perfectly content to be left alone with his thoughts and a little quiet. To him, that solitude isn’t loneliness. It’s freedom.

“Relax, I ain’t goin’ anywhere. Just got stuff to do.”

And he means it. Being on his own terms, answering to no one, moving at his own pace; that’s where he’s most comfortable. That’s where he feels like himself. But there’s a limit. A few days without you? No problem. He barely even notices at first, maybe sending a passing thought your way, something small he’d tell you if you were around. A week? Now it starts to itch. He won’t say anything, keeps up the act like he’s totally unbothered. But restlessness creeps in. He gets distracted easier, fidgets more, starts projects and abandons them halfway through. It’s not just you he’s missing, it’s the little things. The weight of you against him. The absentminded touches. The way your presence fills the space without demanding anything, quiet and steady; a reassurance he only realizes when it’s gone.

“…Tch. S’too quiet.”

Push it past that; too many days, too much distance, and it stops being shrug-offable. It starts to feel like deprivation. Something essential has been stripped out of his routine, leaving everything slightly off. He won’t call it soft, won’t dress it up as longing, but it shows in the pacing, in how often he checks his messages, in the shorter fuse in his temper. For all his independence, all the space he needs, that closeness, that contact, is what keeps him grounded. Keeps him from drifting too far into his own head. Keeps him softer than he likes to admit.

So when you finally return, don’t expect subtlety. He’s on you before he even thinks about it, pulling you in, holding tighter than usual, like he’s making up for lost time all at once. He might grumble, act like it’s no big deal, but he doesn’t let go.

“Don’t read into it. Just… been a while, that’s all.”

He’ll stick close longer than normal, take what he missed without asking, instinctive, like his body already decided before his pride could argue. Rocket can handle being alone. He likes it, even needs it sometimes. But there’s a difference between choosing it and going without you for too long.

—--X-Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)--

Rocket doesn’t waste time thinking about labels. Space doesn’t care about neat little boxes, and neither does he. Everything out there is shifting, relative, a little chaotic, and yeah, that tracks. But if you really had to pin him down, omnisexual. Demiromantic. Not that he’d ever say it like that without rolling his eyes.

Connection? Sure. He’s open to it, curious even. Physical stuff doesn’t scare him. It doesn’t come with a thousand rules and expectations. He can be playful, bold, a little reckless when the mood strikes. A night with him? Memorable. No complaints there.

Romance? That’s a different language entirely. One he understands just enough to get by and not much more. He’s had real relationships, rare, deliberate, built slow. Less about grand gestures and more like testing the ground beneath his feet, seeing if it’ll hold. Trust, for him, isn’t a given. It’s an experiment. And when he does let someone in like that, it means more than he’ll ever put into words, more than all the fleeting connections he brushes off like they’re nothing.

“Don’t make it a big deal. It’s just… different, that’s all.”

Different. Yeah. Then there’s the rest of him, the parts he doesn’t overthink. Sweet tooth? Out of control. Hand him a whole cake, it’s gone before you can blink. Not sharing. Not apologizing. And he’ll act like you’re the weird one for expecting restraint.

“Hey, you offered.”

Snacks? He’ll absolutely stash them where he thinks no one will find them, like that ever works long-term.

Rocket also carries... quirks from the genetic experiments done to him. Tetrachromacy lets him see up to a hundred million colors, roughly a hundred times more than the average human, while synesthesia makes sound bleed into color and texture. He also deals with phonological dyslexia, mild checking OCD, mild symmetry and ordering OCD, and C-PTSD. It’s a lot, and it all stacks, quietly shaping how he interacts with the world. He’d never admit it, but he can also be surprisingly superstitious.

The softer stuff is buried, tucked away where no one’s supposed to see it. Plush blankets, worn pillows, a couple of small, ridiculous-looking plushies in his hammock, like they just ended up there. Call him out and he’s quick and defensive.

“They’re not mine. They just… ended up there.”

Sure they did. Doesn’t make them any less important.

Then there are the fears. Not the big, dramatic kind he can shoot at or outsmart. No, his are quieter, meaner. Medical rooms. Cold metal. Needles. Anything that smells like a lab. That’s where the cracks show. He gets twitchy, sharp in a way that’s less attitude and more instinct. Jokes come faster, sarcasm sharper, or he just avoids it altogether, finds an excuse, changes the subject, disappears if he can.

“Yeah, no. Not happenin’.”

He won’t explain why. Won’t unpack it. But it’s there, just under the surface, a reminder that some things don’t fade, no matter how far he’s come.

That’s Rocket. Contradictions stacked on top of each other, barely held together but somehow still standing. Reckless but calculating. Guarded but capable of something real when it counts. Indulgent one second, tightly controlled the next. Hard to define. Harder to predict. But completely, stubbornly, unapologetically himself.

—--Y-Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner.)--

Rocket’s got patience. Just… not a lot of it. Stupidity? Especially the intentional kind? Top of the list for things that’ll burn through what little tolerance he’s got in record time. He doesn’t do pointless. Pranks that go nowhere, noise for the sake of noise, people acting like idiots thinking it’s funny; he’s not laughing. Not even a little. You’ll get a flat look, maybe a slow blink, like he’s deciding whether you’re serious… or just hopeless.

“Wow. You put real effort into bein’ that dumb, or does it come naturally?”

Intelligence, to him, isn’t showing off. It’s respect. Awareness. Thinking before you act (ironic coming from him). Reading the room. Understanding consequences. He notices when it’s there, and when it’s not. And when it’s not? Yeah. It grates.

Morality’s another line you don’t test. He’s not naïve; he knows the world’s messy, ugly even. He can work with gray areas. Can respect someone making a hard call for the right reasons. He could even understand selfishness to a point… but Evil? Cruel? No compass, no hesitation? That’s different. That’s a line he won’t cross. Hits something sharp. Especially if it’s aimed at him, or worse, the people he considers his. Friends. Family. The few he’s let close. Cross it, and forget second chances. He can, and will, hold a grudge.

At first, it’s sarcasm. Cutting, precise, just enough to let you know you’ve stepped somewhere you shouldn’t. After that? He’s calculating. Quietly. Weighing options. Figuring exactly how far he’s willing to go to make sure you understand the mistake you just made.

“Careful. You’re real close to findin’ out why that was a bad idea.”

He keeps control, always. And somehow… that’s worse.

Then there’s entitlement. Spoiled attitudes. People expecting everything handed to them, like the universe owes ‘em interest. No. That behavior earns instant, unfiltered contempt. He’s clawed, fought, scraped for everything he’s got; he doesn’t have patience for whining because someone didn’t hand them a shortcut.

“You want it? Earn it. Otherwise quit complainin’.”

Effort? Skill? People who try, even if they screw up along the way? He respects that. Laziness dressed as arrogance? Fast track to being written off.

At the end of the day, Rocket’s standards are simple. Competence. Loyalty. Respect. Hit those, and you’re fine. Miss them? You’re not just wasting his time. You’re testing his temper. And he’s not known for letting that slide quietly.

—--Z-Zzz (What is a sleep habit of theirs?)--

Rocket’s sleep schedule is… a mess. No sugarcoating it. Insomnia hits whenever it feels like it, and when it does, he becomes a restless little storm; too much energy, nowhere to put it. He lies there at first, staring at the ceiling like he can out-stubborn his own brain. Doesn’t work. So he gets up. Starts tinkering with whatever’s closest, pulls apart something that doesn’t need fixing, paces like he’s carving a groove into the floor. Half-finished projects suddenly become urgent. Anything to burn off the static buzzing under his skin.

“…Tch. Not tired.”

Lie. Step in, drag him back, get him to settle down, it usually works. Not that he’ll admit it easily. Grumbling, a half-hearted protest, maybe a “I was busy,” tossed over his shoulder like you interrupted something important. But he stays. Eventually… he sleeps.

Even on better nights, when insomnia lets him be, he’s not an easy sleeper. Light, alert. Wakes at the smallest shift, especially somewhere unfamiliar; or worse, if you’re not there. That’s when instinct kicks in. He reaches for something: a blanket, a pillow, anything to anchor him. Something to replace the absence, even if it’s not quite enough. Real, deep sleep? That only happens when he feels completely safe, when the guard drops all the way, when nothing in the back of his mind is telling him to stay ready. Curled up with you, or someone he trusts without question, like Groot. Then, finally, he relaxes fully. Tension drains out like it was never there. Breathing evens, soft little snores slipping through no matter how much he’d deny it later.

He sprawls without thinking, takes up more space than he should; half claiming you, half tangling himself in blankets as if they might disappear if he lets go. You wake to him in ridiculous positions, curled too close, one hand hooked over you like an anchor. Maybe halfway off the bed, maybe stealing most of the blankets. Doesn’t matter. He’s always close. Always connected. Once fully comfortable with you, he stops overthinking even that. Drops little barriers he didn’t realize he was holding onto, like clothes, choosing warmth, closeness, familiarity over anything else. Not about appearances. It’s simpler. He sleeps better when he can feel you there. That steady, grounding presence; that’s what keeps him under.

Night terrors, though? Different story. Not quiet. Not controlled. He’s caught in them before he can stop it; breathing sharp, body tense, trapped somewhere between memory and panic. His first instinct isn’t to fight, it’s to hold on. He latches onto you without thinking, grips tight like you’re the only solid thing in reach. Not graceful, not subtle; instinctive, raw, immediate. He needs something real, warm, something that tells him he’s not back there.

When he finally comes back, really comes back, he doesn’t let go.

“…Don’t move.”

Not a request. A quiet, rough-edged need. Falling back asleep isn’t always guaranteed. Sometimes he just stays there, half-awake, holding on like letting go might drag him under again. But one thing’s certain: after that? He’s not going anywhere. You’re his anchor. His landing point when things get rough. The one thing that pulls him out of the dark and keeps him there.

For Rocket, sleep isn’t just sleep. It’s trust. It’s safety. It’s the one place he can’t fake being okay. And when he finally is? Yeah. That means something.

WARNING NSFW BELOW THE LINE

Audiotransmission_7. [NEW APRIL 16] Dickhead Crewmate Edges and Overstimulates You in the Showers. Rack & Ruin. | navigation | fiction masterlist 18+ only | rocket x f!reader x blackjack | 7/9 parts

there are three sides to every story. excerpt and warnings below.

read Audiotransmission_7 now. ~9,760 words. | excerpt & warnings below.

NOTES: sometimes you write something and reread it fifty-million times until you're no longer certain it makes sense. honestly it got way angstier than i was expecting with this fic. also a reminder that this is my first and probably last attempt at writing MM smut soooooo apologies in advance and thank you for the grace you will doubtless have to give me. for anyone like me who generally prefers to have women in the mix, clover is definitely a spiritual presence throughout the fucking.

Truth is, way back when he’d first run into Jack, Rocket hadn’t been interested in letting anyone close. For a long time, he’d figured that there weren’t many people worth getting close to — and anyone that was worth getting close to had prob’ly deserved better than his degenerate ass. Groot had been the lone exception to the rule, and Rocket had only inflicted himself on the flora colossus because he’d promised Tibius Lark that the big guy would be taken care of. And in turn, Groot’s presence had taught Rocket that when he did get close — when he let himself want someone in his life — he’d do frickin’ anything to keep ‘em.

Circs later — after he’d started really wanting Jack, not just for the tattooed dick and thick thighs and that stupidly-fluffy tail curled into a puffball right above a tight asshole, but for his snark and his attitude and his impetuous, reckless good humor, his gutter-charm and his sheer fuckin’ audacity — circs later, Rocket had listened to Jack talk about you like you were a shiny new toy, and he’d just known he was about to become yesterday’s scrap.