#gotg rocket

Pain and suffering, that's all you could think about. The bedroom was completely dark, the blackout curtains keeping the moonlight out. Your hand resting on your lower abdomen to try and magically make the cramps go away, though obviously it doesn't work.

The slight migraine wouldn't go away, despite taking stuff for it and not having been in a bright room for hours. Instead of seeking out one of the many medically informed people that were all held in the Baxter Building you just continued to lay on your back, staring at the ceiling and wishing your life would end; or that you could rip out your uterus, whichever came first you supposed.

A blinding light of the door opening made you groan and raise your arms to cover your face with. “What the hell man,” you said, voice dry and slightly gravely “at least close the door if you're gonna stay.”

“The flark happened to you.” Your instructions were left ignored by the raccoon standing at your door, hand still on the knob even. The audacity of this rodent.

“Close the door!” You told him even louder than before, to which he complied this time. Begrudgingly, you could hear him scoff and mutter under his breath. With the light finally gone you could go back to resting your hands on your abdomen. The warmth of your hands provided very small comfort, but you'd take it.

Rocket scurried up and sat on your bed, his eyes reflecting no light and yet still you could see them glow like the little critter he was. “I did what you asked, now answer my question” he demanded, taking in the image of your miserable form.

“I'm just on my period, cramps and stuff y'know.” He did not, in fact, ‘know’. Tarrin bodies were weird, he knew, but from the look of it this was a self sabotaging thing- was your body trying to kill you? Jeez, even he wouldn't wish that on Quill.

He scoots closer, little feet claws resting gently on your arm as he gets a look at your face, “Are you going to die?” The question makes you scoff and then laugh. “It certainly feels like it, though it won't. Happens every month, and I haven't died yet” you signed, raising a hand up and resting it on top of his head. He groans and tries moving his head away but that just fuels your desire to pet him more.

With another once over you, he decides to be nice and doesn't pull away more when you start petting him. “Do you…” he hesitates, this really goes against his bad guy persona “do you need anything?” You think about it, hand still on your abdomen pressing harder to try and combat the cramp that just developed.

“I don't suppose you know what a heating pad looks like?” You ask, and he could hear the slight waver in your voice. Your hand on his head returns back to the other one to push against the cramp too, though it doesn't help more. “No.. I don't” he mutters in reply, watching your actions carefully.

“Fuck…” you whispered, “should've gotten one earlier. Maybe I can ask Quill…” your head turns from side to side, glancing around the bed “now where's my phone…”

Rocket was insulted, the way you thought Peter would be more help than him, he'll show you- this plan is definitely to prove he's better than Peter, not because he actually wants to help. From context clues, like the name 'heating pad’ and the way you're holding yourself he can make an assumption on what you need. He doesn't have anything on hand, so he just shrugs off the jacket he was wearing and flops his body on top of your hands.

Surprised by his unexpected contact, you jump slightly, pulling your hands quickly from under him. “What-” you cut yourself off, letting the feeling of his warm fur sink in with the contact if your skin. “Oh, that's nice,” you mutter. Rocket scoffs “‘course it is, way better than Quill could ever do.” He mutters the last part about Quill to himself.

Hands rest on Rocket's back, slowly carding through fur as he rested horizontally on you. It was a peaceful moment, and his warmth provided you something much better than your hands.

“Thanks…” you whispered, hands coming to a stop- still on his back- as the earth spread and let the tired feeling fully wash over you. Finally you could get some sleep.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Don't go mentioning this to anyone, ya hear me?” He bites back, not even moving from his position. Actions spoke louder than words. “Don't want this ruining my reputation, I spent years building it up y'know.” His little rant sadly didn't meet your ears, as you were already fully asleep. Man were you tired.

mcu rocket

FALLING: rocket can see from day one that you’re attractive. he ain’t a frickin’ moron. you’ve got the kind of eyes that would make ‘most anybody melt. not to mention the way you smell like something fresh and warm: sugar and sunlight and a little salt, all at once. a summer sunset over an ocean beach, maybe — on one of those fancy resort-planets he’s never actually been to.  yeah. he ain’t stupid. which is why he also doesn’t let himself dwell on it. if he does, he might start thinking about other things. like how he bets you’d feel perfect under his palms. like how you’d sound if he explored every dimpled inch of you.  unfortunately for everyone involved, this rocket is probably the most resistant to acknowledging soft feelings — either yours or his. in short: you’ve got your work cut out for you, babe. if you’re feeling brave, you can go ahead and try to flirt a little. there’s an eighty percent chance that this particular rocket won’t recognize what you’re doing — and on the twenty that he does, he’ll be convinced you’re making fun of him. once you can finally persuade him that you’re genuine, he’ll assume you just wanna knock jet-boots a few times, ‘till you get the weird temporary fetish for exotic scumbags out of your system.  it’s up to you to be clever, now. and cautious. and kind. a little sly, and a whole-lot patient. Just keep finding your way into his bunk, each time bringing a bouquet of a dozen reassurances that you can both just have fun together, and it doesn’t need to be anything serious.  whisper the words into his fur enough, and maybe you’ll both believe them.

ROCK-BOTTOM, BABY: remember that whole “time + trust” thing? this rocket is going to require all your grace, even when knocking jet-boots turns into can’t sleep without you. maybe especially then.  because while it might feel like this rocket doesn’t trust you, the truth is, he doesn’t trust himself. believing in the high evolutionary did a number on him, and while rocket might be able to build a semi-reliable spacecraft out of a match, some string, and a soda can, he’s not sure he can recognize a person who intends to do harm. which is why he treats everyone like they intend to do harm. it’s a sorta preemptive strike, or whatever. best defense is a good frickin’ offense. blah blah blah, insert some other weird humie idiom he learned from pete here.  so when he realizes he misses you while you’re separated on different missions — well, there’s gonna be some explosions. or implosions. or a little self-sabotage. at first he’ll growl and snarl and try to convince himself that he only misses you for your warm humie body and the sounds you make when he’s wringing orgasms from it: for your blunt teeth and your sea-salt and summer-sugar scent — for your lips, so much fuller and plumper than his. for the novel view of your ass, unobstructed by clothing or tail. he ignores the sickening hollow in his gut that suspects he’s a dirty frickin’ liar, till it cramps so bad that he has to admit he misses you for more than all that. he misses the way you sing along — badly — to quill’s music, and the way your eyes sparkle when you smile, and how your fingers curl and claw through his fur. he misses the way you talk to groot, and your terrible sense of humor, and your awkwardness when you get embarrassed. he misses your presence, and the quiet way you listen to him, your consistency and your patience, and the way you seek out his thoughts like each one is worth more than an anulax battery. hell, he even misses the way you get cranky and scowly and grumpy when he says stupid shit, or when he keeps you up too late in the sleepshift.  which means that by the time you get back, he’s spoiling for a fight. buckle in, babe. this rocket’s  bound to be an a-hole — more than once, probably. but whether your response is to cry, or argue back, or give him the coldest shoulder this side of the galaxy — well. these fights are just gonna make him miss you more than he already did. plus, seeing you hurt because of his insecurities has a way of chewing him up way worse than any punishment you could possibly mete out.  he’s gonna make it up to you, he tells himself. and not with some stupid, grandiose gesture, either — no matter what pete says. you won’t be getting twenty spartaxian roses from this rocket (and if he gives you a fancy new gun, it ain’t in lieu of an apology — it’s just because he wants to make sure you’re safe). he’s not suddenly trying to sweep you off your feet, or shower you in a bunch of sappy nonsense. nah. he’s gonna do the frickin’ work, and fix his own shit. so you don’t have to.

eidos rocket

FALLING: babe, i’m so sorry to say that this rocket barely clocks you at first. it’s not your fault. you’re just another flarkin’ biological on his ship, causing problems and taking up oxygen. he’s too focused on building bombs to be bothered with you — other than to tell you to keep your fingers to yourself if you wanna keep ‘em at all. plus, when it comes to — er, romance — his eye tends to be drawn to flashier lifeforms: dancers in cheap dazzling sequins, babes with a lot of skin or scales or feathers showing. come-hither smiles that can beckon from all the way across a crowded dirty dive-bar in the coldest reaches of the universe. your comparatively-timid attempts at flirtation will likely be returned with eyerolls — if rocket notices them at all.  try not to be too disheartened. this guy gets hit on in every gambling den and darkened alley he comes across. he’s going out on dates every time the milano docks on some greasy space station for more than a rotation or two. he’s disappearing for sleepshifts and coming back midway through breakfast with a sway in his lush plush tail and a smirk painting his mouth. you never had a chance, babe. at least not that way. not yet. look, it might sound cliché, but you’ve gotta just be yourself. at some point, he’ll start glancing at you with more speculation than cynicism in his eyes. And it won’t be because of anything you’ve done, either — not directly. it’s just that groot talks about you. incessantly. and rocket’s used to the flora colossus being overly-affectionate with every d’ast biological he comes across, but he’s not used to the sharp, focused intensity of groot’s fascination when it comes to you. the big guy’s always telling stories: from the time you were struggling to learn how to aim the laser cannon because you weren’t used to adjusting for thermal bloom, to some song you were singing while you helped him prune some of the excess growth on his head, right down to  yesterday when you knocked over the salt at dinner and made fun of yourself.  it’s exposure, rocket tells himself when he finds his eyes following you through the cockpit — when the snarky comments that always seem to slide off your shoulders like silk skew instead into dirty, flirty little remarks. yeah. it’s exposure, and forced proximity. he’s been hearing about you too much, so of course it’s got him curious, and remembering all the times you might’ve said something cute to him back in the early days. he suspects the novelty of your presence will wear off once he gets used to you.  spoiler — it doesn’t.  probably because groot isn’t wrong — you really are so flarkin’ sweet with the big guy. chattering at the flora colossus, listening even when you can’t understand him. holding his hand. watching his back. protecting him in a fight, or standing up for him when quill hatches some stupid plan that would put him at risk.  look, rocket tries to keep an eye on groot, but he can’t be there all the time — and he’s sorta grudgingly grateful that somebody else is looking out for the flora colossus too, because nobody’s as gentle and kind and softhearted as groot is. though maybe you’re pulling up in a close second.

ROCK-BOTTOM, BABY: in the end, what will win this rocket over — well, the rest of the way — isn’t anything you could have prepared or planned for. see, this rocket dreams, even more than any of the others: about the sensory deprivation tanks, about the spinal control units. about rote memory exercises that unspool like an endless purgatory while he sleeps, and the people he loves sacrificing themselves again and again.  the nightmares are nothing new. the universe is a cold flarkin’ place, and — in spite of the abundance of one- and two-night-stands — this poor rocket has gotten used to dealing with it on his own. he’s never really considered any other option. not since tella. and he’s certainly never considered what it might be like to stumble out of his bunk, broad-shouldered and ash-mouthed, shirtless and combing absently through his beard with shaky claws like he’s trying to rake his nightmares out of his fur — not while you’re on board. he’ll be busy being preoccupied with his leftover hell — grateful he wasn’t off-ship in somebody else’s bed when it woke him. he’ll swagger slowly through the corridors of a sleepy milano and into the central bay, forcing himself to focus on fantasies of building a new kind of grenade. he’s prob’ly gonna sit up all night, distracting himself with its creation. at this rate, he’ll have it done before the first wakeshift even hits— —which is about when he stumbles right into you, draped in stars and shadows and insomnia, prettier than any sequined dancer. you, round-eyed and startled, with concern carved into your moonlit brow. your head will tilt. your eyes will squint. your lips will purse, thoughtful and worried, and he’ll know that you’re seeing right through him. he’ll stare back, slack-jawed and horrified, and hoping against hope that you won’t needle him for more information than he’s ready to share. but you won’t. hey, you’ll say instead — the word slow and measured as it filters into the long lingering silence. your bare humie-toes, rounded and clawless, will twitch as you curl yourself onto the couch, making space for him in the shadows — adjusting the blanket so there’s room for him at the other end, if he wants. yeah, sure, there’s a whole cold universe all around you both — but here you are, offering him a little bit of your warmth, with no demand for him to give back anything at all.  wanna sit with me?

cartoon rocket

FALLING: so many rockets have a praise kink, but this guy’s right at the tippy-top of the list, with no krutackin’ shame (and good for him!).  the first time you arch an eyebrow and tell him how impressed you are by his technical brilliance or his latest gun or his cool idea, he gets a weird little flutter behind his mutated breastbone. look, he’d like to say that he knows he’s a d’ast genius, but the truth is, this rocket always feels like he’s playing catch-up to a ship that keeps hurtling through the cosmos, just a little faster than anything he can make. even though he thinks his weapons are powerful, unique works of art, he can’t help but wonder if anyone notices but him.  once he realizes that you notice too, he’s going to try to keep you in hearing-range all the time. with a flimsy sort of nonchalance that you can see right through, he’ll offer up every bit of tech and each new invention for your praise and admiration. and while the number of fresh firearms and bombs will never seem to diminish, strange new attempts will be littered in like confetti — things you’d mentioned once or twice, wistfully, without any intention at all. a lava lamp. a waffle-iron. an icecream-maker.  something like a vcr, after you find that bundle of old terran vhs tapes on that junker planet. (he‘ll later sob through the entire duration of the secret of nimh, but he’ll think the heartache is worth it if you let him curl up against your warm flank and wrap a soothing arm around his shoulders, scritching gently at his ears).  is he falling in love? sure. is he bothered by it? not at all. unlike most rockets, he’s too blissed-out to be properly perturbed.

ROCK-BOTTOM, BABY: picture this (because afterward, rocket often will): you’re caught in some catastrophe or another. a battle, either planetside or in the stars. a leak in the O2-generator, or loss of hull-integrity. something that renders drax’s brawn and gamora’s battle-strategy useless — and flark knows what quill’s rambling about. rocket’s voice has gone shrill as he frantically tries to piece together a solution. after all, he’s the only krutackin’ brain outta the original group. he’s supposed to know how to come in out of the blue with a solution when the rest of these suckers can’t figure it out. but then you speak up: cool. calm. collected. you ask a few questions and rocket can see the shape of your plan forming in his head even as your voice ripples through the air.  it all hinges on him, you say. him and a little bit of his brilliance, his ability to create. in no time, he’s hurling out orders, getting the rest of the idiots in position to make your genius-scheme work, then executing his own role with an exuberant cackle — pleased to play such a major part. the day is saved, because of your quick thinking, your calm, cool clarity — and your ability to see what he is capable of. later that night, when you get the others to toast his genius with stolen bottles of fizzy solberry-juice, all he’ll be able to do is stare at you with big, worshipful eyes. move over, ja kyee lrurt. rocket will always admire her, but there’s only room in his heart for one beautiful, brilliant baldbody at a time.  and ja kyee never called him a genius while scritching his ears.

universe-killer rocket

FALLING: look, my friend. i hate to break it to you, but universe-killer rocket doesn’t fall. oh, he’s fascinated by you. it doesn’t take long for him to get there at all. hell, there’s almost no build-up whatsoever. the first time he watches you persist in the face of cruelty — perhaps at the hands of the universe, or some stranger, or his own hellspawn-crew — he finds a bitterly bemused smirk twisting up one side of his mouth. just what else can you survive? it only takes the two of you crossing paths once or twice before he decides he should just keep you — for however long you can last, anyway. maybe you’re lucky, and you have some tangible skill or advantageous information that could be useful to him. at least that way, you might serve in a role that his hellspawn will treat with some respect. but if you’re just the soft, pretty baldbody who the universe-killer keeps collared for his own amusement—? well, then life will be a lot harder. for a lot longer.  either way, the longer this rocket keeps you — the longer you survive — the more he craves your presence. that resilience of yours — it glistens like gunmetal. like the hull of a silver ship, protecting your fragile human heart from the cold sucking wound of space. maybe you’re the type to become as sharp-edged as he is (you could never be as sharp-edged as he is); maybe you bite back when he’s vicious. maybe survival has made you grim and distant, or soft and pliant. maybe you’ve decided to try and create some kindness in a deeply-unkind cosmos. it doesn’t matter. as long as you keep being somehow, relentlessly you, he’ll want to keep you for his entertainment.  at some point, you’ll come to understand. this rocket is so fascinated by you because there isn’t anything left of him at all. not because of his prosthetics, of course. no — like theseus’ ship, he has replaced every whisper of his naive, gentle youth with a faster and stronger bite, with longer and sharper claws, with bigger and bleaker canons. there isn’t anything of his softer self left, and most days, he takes a sort of fucked-up pleasure in that. but here you are — unbelievably, perplexingly, amusingly whole — and sometimes when he’s high on wundagorish everbloom, he thinks he can stare right into that flawless star-bright core of yours.  you fucking burn him.  but then, this rocket has learned long ago to crave what hurts him — to demand more of it. and more of it. and more.  and when it comes to you, he does. want. more.

ROCK-BOTTOM, BABY: i don’t think this rocket realizes how much he wants more of you, though — not until something happens to threaten his ownership. some idiot crew of sakaaran smugglers and slavers, perhaps — crossing paths with him on a random planet he’s slated for demolition. thinking they can raid his ship without realizing who he is. it’s rare for his crew to be confronted by other spacefarers at all — but for the transgressors to survive long enough to leave? unheard of.  but this time, one of the lucky — or perhaps unlucky — jackasses manages to snatch you as a hostage.  rocket holds up one mechanical claw to his crew, signaling them to fall back as the sakaarans toss you around like a ragdoll. he watches through silent, narrowed eyes while you fight them. but you’re no match for a dedicated crew of slavers, and rocket stares with a faint curl to his lip when they hold you steady and use a hyperlaser to cut off your collar. apparently, sakaarans are smart enough to recognize that there’s probably a tracker embedded in it, but not smart enough to realize that nicking your flawless neck has earned them far worse than a death sentence. when you wince and hiss and a thread of thin smoke rises from the burn, this rocket just smiles with the same deadly amusement as he had when the collar had first closed around your perfect throat. his singular prosthetic eye glows reality-stone-red when the smugglers take off: as bloody and bright as a wartime promise. it doesn’t take long for the hellspawn-crew to get you back. the sakaaran vessel is left a smoldering, collapsing husk of ruin: a smudge against the skies, one of the many ghost-ships that this rocket has left scattered throughout the universe like confetti and shrapnel. any future scavengers will flee the wreckage before they’ve even truly glanced inside — overwhelmed by a lingering dread too thick and heavy for even the most hardened ravager to stomach. when rocket gets you back under his cybernetically-enhanced hands, he doesn’t bother to take you back to the captains’ quarters. he pulls you onto the lowered ledge built into the captain’s seat: a little addition made specially for you, so he can keep you wedged between his thighs when he wants. he tilts your head this way and that: studying the burn on your neck, patting your disheveled hair or tear-salted cheek with a smirk. you shift against the metal plating of his armored prosthetics, inexplicably glad to be back in his reach. he’ll snap his clawed fingers at warpig, who’ll stride forward silently with a delicate laser scalpel-sealer in one hand and jar of oral anesthetic in the other. the captain’s arm will reach around you and pull your spine squarely against his belly; one fist will close with shocking, mocking gentleness on your jaw, forcing your mouth into an embarrassing slippery-wide pout in front of his entire crew. the fingers of his other hand will dip into warpig’s jar of anesthetic and then slide between your lips, stroking over tongue and teeth till he’s coated every soft wet surface. then rocket will nod to his chief medic, and she’ll step forward with the tiny scarlet laser, as glowing-red as rocket’s augmented eye. you’ll flinch, of course — look up over your shoulder to the universe-killer, hoping he’ll give you pity or answers. he never gives you pity.

this time the tracker goes inside you, rocket will explain with a smirk, while your gums grow numb and spit glosses the corner of your mouth, shining silkenly along your chin.  open up, pretty thing, he’ll coo, and his grip on your chin will force your lips wider. the surgery will be quick — painful despite warpig’s surprising delicacy, and the generous overuse of anesthetic cream — but you’re strong, and frankly, you’re just glad to be back home. rocket’s heavy metal claw will weigh down the juncture of your throat and shoulder, stroking soothingly along your skin as warpig finishes up and you rest your tired body and tear-swollen face against cold metal and fur, uncaring of your audience. there now, this rocket will croon indulgently. only one last step, sweetheart. the shallow attempt at consolation will harden into a brittle grin. beg me to bite you. you blink up at him, eyes owlish and bruised. w-what? wanna give you a permanent collar to go with that permanent tracker, he’ll tell you reasonably. wanna make sure everybody in the fuckin’ universe knows you’re mine.  the grin — bright as a diamond-edged sawblade — will grow sharper, and you’ll suddenly feel the purpose beneath the cool metal hand weighing down your throat. and i want you to beg for it, he’ll add, thumb stroking along your carotid as he smiles at you. the hellspawn will watch on, silent, with perhaps a little more deference than they’ve shown you in the past. hazily, you‘ll feel yourself tilt your head, baring throat and shoulder to his teeth as your swollen, spit-glossed lips part to beg for your bite. no, universe-killer rocket doesn’t fall. he drags you down deep, to wherever he’s at.

marvel rivals rocket

FALLING: unlike the other rockets, this guy’s got no qualms with hitting on you from day one. you’re it, babe — for this cycle, anyway. he sees you, he wants you, and he’s gonna keep up with the outrageous come-ons till you’re charmed enough to let him in your bunk.  it’s all drawled snarky flirtations, tipped hats and sly grins, a hundred come-hither winks beneath taunting tosses of hair. he loves how you respond: cheeks warm and nervous at first, but he can tell you’re into it. and he’s absolutely lustdrunk when you get more comfortable and start paying back each and every slightly-smarmy compliment with an eyeroll or a smartass wink — right before flicking his shiny earring in a way that manages to make him want to sputter like a moon-eyed virgin.  this rocket doesn’t really think about it as anything deeper. not at first. he just likes the way you look, the way you smell. the sound of your grumpy g’morning first thing in the rotation, when your voice is all hushed and crushed and sleepy before you pour yourself that first cup of hot caffeine.  eventually — once he wins you over — he’ll be infatuated by the feel of you under his hands, too:  the uniqueness of your fat-to-muscle ratio, the way your humie-lips are so much fuller and more plumped-up than his, the bluntness of your bite. the way — blindfolded — he can run his fingers over tiny patches of your skin and know exactly which part of you it belongs to. that’s that ticklish inner elbow, he’ll say with a leer and his candy-red eyes closed tight. the right one.  he loves games, after all — and sure, he usually cheats at ’em, but he doesn’t need to with this one.  that’s the inside of your left knee. the arch of your right foot. middle of your back, just to the left of your spine, sorta under your shoulderblade. that’s the skin riiiiight under that bouncy left ass-cheek. and that’s your tummy, at the tippy-top of your belly-button.  i keep tellin’ you, sugar, each spot on you feels different.  and i got you memorized. 

ROCK-BOTTOM, BABY: one cycle of no-strings sexual gratification turns into two. three. five. eleven. thirty-two. he expects to get bored but you’re always up to try something new, aren’t you? and not just in the bunk, either. they get a call to a weird new planet, and you’re eager to go. some new heroic oddballs show up, ready to join the fight — and you’re happy to play along, meet new people, figure out ways to complement their skills with your own. he decides he’s gotta go on a hunt across the universe to find out what happened to lylla, and you’re asking how quickly the two of you can head out. sometimes you get all nervy and skittish, but you’re always open to a new adventure, and you’ve always got his six.  which is why he’s gonna make sure that he’s always got yours. 

comics rocket (ewing, rosenberg, et al)

FALLING: like his eidos-counterpart, this rocket probably doesn’t even look at you twice. at first.  you see, he’s also got a type, and it’s got nothing to do with skin color or body size or number of limbs. rocket prefers one-night-stands in general, but if he’s gonna start a relationship, it’s probably gonna be with a hottie who low-key loathes him. not necessarily in a step-on-me sort of way — not that he’s always opposed to that, either — but just in the way where he can vaguely pick up on a little condescension, a little contempt. the likelihood of an eventual betrayal. it sort of automatically puts an expiration date on things, and there’s some security in that. and besides, it’s not like he holds himself in all that high of regard anyway. so when you enter the scene — a fellow crew member who he’ll have to live with for who-knows-how-long, with barely a breath of true derision in your whole body — some part of rocket’s brain just turns off and doesn’t even acknowledge your presence.  quiet persistence is key here. personally, i’m always a fan of bringing this rocket late-night cups of coffee in the cockpit. it’s a lot harder for him to ignore you when you’re the only other person in the room and the rest of the guardians are all asleep in their bunks, and the ship feels dark and dreamy and hallowed. eventually, your one-sided conversations will lull him into a place where he misses your company on the sleepshifts when you don’t show up. flying alone is great and all, but nothing compares to having you rambling quietly about nothing, or snoozing in the copilot’s seat, glossed up in starlight and haloed by galaxies. rocket’s been lucky enough to have a few good friends in his life, and even more lovers. but at some point — when you’re laughingly telling him some story, or listening to him attentively with moons reflected in your eyes, or muffling little yawns and snuffling snores into the duvet you‘ve started hauling into the cockpit with you, rumpled in sleepiness and wearing fuzzy flarkin’ slippers on your hopeless humie feet — at some point, he’ll start to wonder if he can let himself have someone who’s both.

ROCK-BOTTOM, BABY: there’s no lightning-strike moment here. this rocket feels himself losing it one sappy flarkin’ brain cell at a time: whenever you ask him a clever question, or when your lashes fan over your cheeks while you doze, or when one slipper dangles off your frail bare foot. and then — late  one sleepshift — he looks over at you, all vulnerable and trusting and freckled by flakes of starlight. he closes his eyes, and sighs, and pinches the space between his brows. shakes his head, and stares out the viewport, and takes a sip of the coffee you’d made him. yup, he thinks, with a stoic flattening of his brow, and resignation twitching downward in the corner of his mouth. yup, there goes the last little bit of his self-preservation. he’s a fuckin’  goner.

comics rocket (skottie young)

FALLING: looook, babe. real talk: this rocket thought you were cute from the beginning, and he totally wouldn’t mind boning you if it weren’t for his whole self-imposed  “don’t fuck your co-workers” rule (a rule which, he’s noticed, neither pete nor gamora seem similarly hindered by). being cute doesn’t really set you apart though — rocket’s had more bedpartners than he can count, and frankly — in their favor — almost all of ‘em had more money he could steal on his way out.  so he doesn’t imagine you’re gonna be that much of a temptation.  then the crew ends up  on nivlent during their annual wrestling tournament, and groot’s sorta a local legend when it comes to nivlentine wrestling. usually the rest of the crew leave him and his buddy alone when they’re mission-free and planetside. let ‘em do their own thing — which is mostly causing fights, fixing fights, gambling on fights, and making a scene. but you insist on joining them — maybe a little naively, rocket thinks — ‘cause you wanna “support groot in his wrestling matches.” look, rocket’s taken a lot of dates to wrestling shows — the louder and wilder, the better — and they never seem into it. he’s already positively grumpy at the thought of having his enjoyment dimmed by some wet-blanket babe who can’t appreciate a good adrenaline rush and who he’s not even gonna get to rail afterward. but not two seconds into the first match, you’re up on your feet before he is, jumping and whooping, a grin on your face and glitter in your eyes while you cheer for your boy in the ring. it makes rocket’s jaw drop at first. then he scrambles up on his chair next to you and joins his yells with yours, pressing himself shoulder to shoulder with you as you’re squeezed together by the crowd on either side. yeah. you’re by far the rowdiest supporter in the stands, and by the end of the night, rocket can barely see the stage thanks to the hearts blossoming up in his eyes. that’s when he starts paying more attention to you: watching the way you handle your blasters, keeping an eye on you in missions. flirting with purposefully over-the-top outrageousness and a wide shit-eating grin that makes you roll your eyes and laugh: certain that he’s just making fun of you, and taking it all in a stride.  by the time you start attending dungeons-and-dragons nights, he’s basically lost it. not only can you hold your own in a crowd of overzealous nivlentine wrestling fans during a planetwide championship, but you’ve got almost as good an imagination as he does? and you keep putting tony in his place when the bastard deliberately tries to derail rocket’s campaign plans — which is not only hot as hell but also gives rocket an unfamiliar flutter behind his breastbone. for flark’s sake, he doesn’t even mind you teasing him about always being the gm when you keep saying “game master” in that throaty tone of voice.  in spite of the whole “no fucking coworkers” thing, he can’t keep himself from wondering if you’d be interested in trying some other roleplaying games back in his bunk.

ROCK-BOTTOM, BABY: which is all to say that rocket’s already lost in the sauce during a mission that skews sideways. and by “mission” i mean: this guy probably got himself into some kind of trouble — caught by an angry space princess he ran out on, or someone he stole a fuckton of money from, or both. maybe his big mouth started a brawl at a local dive bar just by saying a bunch of glarnack he shouldn’t have. things are looking pretty dire — not that he’d ever lose a fight, but he’s starting to get sort of banged up — when you swoop in out of nowhere and save the day with a well-aimed stunner-blast.  forget hearts. he stares up at you with whole galaxies in his eyes.  “i didn’t expect you to come rushing in to save my tail,” he teases later, with an ice-cold can of blubber ale pressed to one aching swollen eye. you’re using a warm wet cloth to soften and rinse away the blood crusting in his fur, and for as wild as he’s used to things getting in bed, this feels so suddenly intimate that he has to audibly swallow. you snort. “i’ll always come rushing in to save you, tail or not,” you tell him, so simply that for the first time in his entire frutackin’ life, he has no smartass response at all.  look, this rocket has saved a lot of people (usually for the reward money), but he’s always been partial to the rare individual who turns the tables and saves him. gives him more of a buzz than fuel fumes, and more butterflies than asgard’s entire stock of firefly-wine. it’s not even just a kink (it’s a little bit of a kink). it’s just that this rocket is so deeply entrenched in his own perceived aloneness that when such a sweet honey shows up and has his back in a conflict — one that is arguably his own fault — it chips away at his sense of isolation. sure, he’s the only one of his kind, but maybe what he really wants and needs isn’t another person like him after all. maybe it’s a person like you.

references to: Rocket Raccoon & Groot (2016), Vol 2 Issue 4 | Rocket Raccoon: A Chasing Tale Vol 1 Issue 1 | Rocket Raccoon: Storytailer, Issue 7