#gotg tf

The monitor glowed dimly, the only thing illuminating Ethan's room. His fingers, pale and slightly clammy, danced across the keyboard and mouse, his entire world narrowed to the frantic, colorful chaos unfolding on the screen. He was deep into a ranked match in Marvel Rivals, his chosen hero’s icon glowing brightly in the corner: Rocket Raccoon, Strategist Class.

“C’mon, c’mon, ya mooks!” he muttered, the words feeling oddly satisfying in his mouth as he navigated the small, furry hero through the map. He’d always been drawn to Rocket. Not the hulking brutes like Hulk or the pretty-boy patriots like Captain America, but the clever one, the underdog. The one who used wit and big, big guns to level the playing field.

His first kill of the match was a thing of beauty and luck. An enemy Spider-Man, too confident in his diving, swung right into his crosshair. The satisfying sound of the kill through his headset was accompanied by a flash of text on the screen: [Ethan11794] eliminated [SpideySenseTingling].

The kill caused an explosion that seemed to go off in Ethan’s own body. It was a jolt, a sudden, intense wave of heat that started at the base of his spine and rocketed outwards. It wasn't painful; more a surge of pure, unadulterated triumph, a visceral, carnal thrill that left him breathless and sent a shocking, unexpected bolt of arousal straight to his groin. He gasped, his fingers faltering for a millisecond. What was that? He shook his head, dismissing it as adrenaline. The game was just getting good.

A teammate, Iron Man, was critical. Ethan saw the flashing red cross on his HUD. Right click. A healing orb shot right towards Tony’s chest plate. [Ethan11794], assist. And as that assist counter ticked up, a new sensation bloomed within him. This was different from the kill. It was a warm, spreading glow, a profound sense of connection and sharp-minded purpose that felt... good. Right. His mind, usually a fog of anxiety and procrastination, suddenly felt laser-focused, calculating angles, cooldowns, trajectories. He could feel the strategy unfolding in his head, not as a thought, but as an instinct. A low, guttural chuckle escaped his lips. “Yeah, that’s right. You’re welcome, Shellhead.” The words were his, but the cadence, the raspy texture of them, felt borrowed.

The match wore on, a relentless ballet of violence and support. With every kill - every shredded opponent with his gun, every clever elim sent another wave of that hot, aggressive pleasure washing over him. Each one was stronger than the last, a euphoric rush that made his heart hammer against his ribs and his body thrum with a power he’d never known. His skin began to feel too tight, buzzing with a strange, hyper-awareness. A deep, pleasant ache started in his muscles, a feeling of them knitting themselves into something denser, more powerful. He could feel the softness around his middle pulling taut, a six-pack of hard muscle etching itself into his abdomen under the pleasurable, burning heat. He flexed his fingers on the mouse and felt new strength there, a wiry, formidable power.

The assists, however, brought their own unique ecstasy. Each healing orb sent a cool, tingling sensation through his arms, a feeling of profound, intelligent utility. His senses sharpened exponentially. He could hear the individual fan whine of his PC, the rustle of fabric as he shifted in his chair, the distant sirens of the city outside his apartment - sounds that had always been part of the background noise of his life were now crisp, distinct, and vital. The messy room smelled different; he could pick out the individual scents, as his own nervous human sweat beginning to be overlaid by something else... something musky and wild.

He was changing. He knew it now, with a certainty that should have terrified him. But the terror was a distant, human emotion, smothered under the intoxicating blanket of Rocket’s burgeoning consciousness. Fear was just... dumb. A sucker’s bet. His old anxieties about his job, his social life, his purpose - they were melting away, replaced by a new, brilliant, and deliciously arrogant core personality. He wasn’t Ethan, the generic man. He was becoming the Guardian of the Galaxy, the captain of nothing but his own glorious destiny.

His body was rewriting itself in real-time. A fierce, delightful itch spread across his skin, from his toes to the top of his head. He watched, mesmerized, as the fine hairs on his arms darkened, thickened, and multiplied into a lush, velvety pelt of grey and brown fur. The sensation was incredibly sensual, like a million gentle fingers caressing him everywhere at once. He groaned, a rough, ragged sound, and pushed his chair back from the desk, needing to see, to feel more.

He was shorter. His perspective of the room was lowering. The desk seemed to loom above him. His chair felt enormous. A series of sharp, delicious pains lanced through his spine, followed by an overwhelming wave of pleasure as something long and flexible pushed out from the base of his back. A tail. A beautiful, ringed tail that swished through the air behind him, feeling as natural as breathing. He reached a hand - no, a paw - back to touch it. His fingers were shorter, furred, tipped with small, sharp black claws. He flexed them, and a thrill of possessive power shot through him. These were the hands of a genius. A mechanic. A killer. They were his.

His face was the final, most intense transformation. The bones in his skull shifted with a series of wet, cracking pops that sounded horrifying but felt orgasmic. His jaw pushed forward, his nose and mouth merging into a sharp, clever muzzle. His ears migrated to the top of his head, growing into expressive triangles that twitched and swiveled at the slightest sound. His teeth sharpened as he ran a new, rough tongue over pronounced canines. His blue eyes, wide with a mixture of shock and ecstasy, bled away into a sharp, fierce and commanding red.

The memories came, at last. They weren't memories of playing a game or watching a movie. They were his memories. The cold, sterile tables. The bite of the restraints. The feeling of being torn apart and put back together, wrong, but better. The fierce, unbreakable bond with a talking tree. The roar of ship engines. The thrill of a perfect heist. The name. His name. Rocket. Rocket Raccoon.

The final kill of the match was a masterpiece. The enemy Hulk, low on health, tried to leap to safety. Rocket - he was Rocket - calculated the arc in a nanosecond, a sneer on his muzzle. He didn’t even need to think. He let loose, unloading his gun, stopping the big green oaf mid-air, the entire clip emptied into his stupid, roaring face. [RocketRaccoon] eliminated [HulkSmash84].

The orgasmic wave of victory that crashed over him was the final key, turning the last lock of his old identity as he came. Ethan was gone. Completely, and irrevocably. The figure that sat in the gaming chair was no longer a man. He was a raccoon. A mammal. He was about three feet of tightly coiled muscle, fur, and fury, clad in a pair of now-oversized sweatpants.

The game ended. VICTORY flashed across the screen. He didn’t care. The digital world held no interest for him anymore. He had a real one to get back to.

He hopped down from the chair, his tail balancing him perfectly. He landed on the floor with a soft thud, his paws feeling the gritty dust. He wrinkled his nose at the mess. “What a dump,” he rasped, his voice now permanently a gravelly growl. He could smell everything - the weakness, the fear, the patheticness of the human who had lived here. It was disgusting. He was strong, perfect, and that animalistic musk proved it. He dipped a clawed digit into the cum tangled in his chest fur, licking it off and shuddering at the taste, his taste. His perfect, perfect taste.

He strutted through the apartment, a cocky swagger in his step, his claws clicking on the linoleum. He found a full trash bag by the door and, with a strength that belied his size, started dragging it toward the kitchen, already planning the cleanup. This place needed a serious overhaul. He needed tools. He needed parts. He needed a ship.

He stopped in the middle of the room, a glorious, impossible creature in a world of beige ordinariness. He planted his paws on his hips, his chest puffed out with immense pride. A wide, sharp-toothed grin spread across his muzzle. He was Rocket Raccoon. He was a genius. He was a hero. And he was finally, gloriously, himself.

“Yeah,” he said to the empty apartment, the word a promise of chaos and brilliance to come. “I'm Rocket.”

The stale, post-transformation air of the apartment still hung heavy with the now-fading, musky odor of the human who had once lived there. But overlaying it all, sharp and clean and alive, was the new scent of ozone, gun oil, and fur. Rocket stood amidst the domestic wreckage, his paws on his hips, his tail giving a satisfied, rhythmic twitch behind him. The glow of the monitor, now idle on the Marvel Rivals main menu, painted his sharp features in shifting hues of blue and gold.

A deep, rolling chuckle escaped his muzzle. It was a raw, raspy sound that felt as natural as breathing. "A new leg. A new ship. A whole new world to annoy," he mused to himself, his clever brown eyes scanning the room with a mechanic's disdain. This place was a dump. A pathetic, squalid little nest. But it was his dump now, and he’d be damned if he was gonna live in squalor. His genius deserved better.

His gaze fell back on the computer. The game. It had been the key, the catalyst that had shattered the weakling Ethan and forged him, Rocket, in the fires of digital combat and very real, very pleasurable transformation. A sly, calculating glint entered his eyes. It was a good key. A useful key. And maybe... just maybe... it wasn't done being useful yet.

A plan, beautiful and devious in its simplicity, began to form in his brilliant mind. It wasn't enough to just be Rocket. A raccoon, even a genius one, needed a crew. He needed his family. But this racc didn't have a Groot. It didn't have a Gamora. Or a Drax. But it did have... connections. Ethan's connections.

He hopped back into the oversized gaming chair, his small frame nearly swallowed by it. With deft claws, he navigated to a voice chat program Ethan had used. The contact list was a sad roll call of generic usernames. But one stood out: "LarsTheLegend." Lars. Ethan's oldest friend. The one he'd play co-op games with for hours. The one who was just as deep into this Marvel Rivals junk as Ethan had been.

A wide, toothy grin spread across Rocket's muzzle. Perfect.

He clicked the call button. It rang twice before a familiar, slightly nasally voice crackled through the headset Rocket now wore.

"Ethan? Dude, that you? Your mic's been dead for like, an hour. I saw you dropped from the match. Everything cool?"

Rocket leaned into the microphone, letting his new voice, gravelly and laced with a confidence Ethan could never have mustered, wash over the connection. "Ethan? Nah, pal, you must have the wrong number. This is Rocket. Rocket Raccoon."

There was a pause on the other end. A beat of confused silence. "...Rocket? Like... from the game? Dude, your voice changer is insane. What filter is that? It sounds just like him."

Rocket’s grin widened. Hook, line, and sinker. "Voice changer? What, you think this is a game? I just finished whoopin' your pal Ethan's tail in a ranked match. Told the scrub he wasn't fit to pilot a garbage scow, let alone a Strategist Class. He said he had a friend who was better. Said your name was Lars. Said you main Star-Lord." He let the implication hang in the air, the lie smooth and effortless.

"Me? Star-Lord? I mean... yeah, I guess I've played a few games of him," Lars said, his voice a mix of confusion and burgeoning pride. "But Ethan said that? He's always saying I play too aggressive."

"Aggressive is good! Aggressive wins fights!" Rocket barked, his tone shifting to one of enthusiastic camaraderie. "Look, the guy I was supposed to run with tonight flaked. Got himself arrested or somethin'. I need a wingman. A real one. Someone who gets the rhythm. Ethan ain't it. But he said you... you might be. You wanna run a few? See if you can keep up with a Guardian of the Galaxy?"

He could almost hear the stunned excitement on the other end of the line. This was a dream scenario for a fanboy like Lars. "Are you serious? Yeah! Yeah, absolutely! Just... just gimme a sec to log back in."

"Don't keep me waiting, Quill," Rocket said, the name dropping from his lips with a casual, practiced ease that felt like truth.

"Quill?" Lars asked, a nervous laugh in his voice.

"Star-Lord. Peter Quill. You're pilotin' him, ain'tcha? Makes you him for now. Now get movin'!"

The game loaded. Rocket invited [LarsTheLegend] to his party. He saw the Star-Lord icon appear next to his own Rocket Raccoon icon. The stage was set.

"Alright, Quill," Rocket's voice purred through the headset, a hypnotic blend of command and brotherly teasing. "Let's see what you got. Remember, it's all about the flow. The music. You gotta feel it."

The match began on a Wakandan map. Rocket stayed close to Lars, his commentary a constant, seductive stream.

"Good shot! See? Right in the rhythm. Just like that old song of yours... what was it? 'Come and Get Your Love'? Yeah, that's the one. You can almost hear it, can't ya?" Rocket said, planting the seed, layering the fiction over the reality.

Lars, playing Star-Lord, got a lucky pick on an enemy Doctor Strange. [LarsTheLegend] eliminated [MysticArtsMaster].

On the other end of the line, Lars let out a whoop of victory. And at the exact same moment, Rocket heard it - a sharp, sudden intake of breath that was a little too sharp, a little too strained to just be about a game.

"You feel that, Quill?" Rocket whispered, his voice intimate in Lars's ear. "That rush? That's the open sky. That's the thrill of the hunt. It's in your blood. You've always felt it."

"I... I don't know what that was," Lars mumbled, but his voice was already different. Less nasal. A little deeper, a little more resonant.

"Sure you do," Rocket coaxed. "It's who you are. Now c'mon, we got a team to support. Lead the way, Star-Lord."

With every assist Rocket fed him, with every enemy Lars took down, the narrative deepened. Rocket didn't let up.

"Nice heal, Rocket! Knew I could count on my best buddy!" Lars's voice was definitely changing. The cadence was different, adopting a cocky, self-assured swagger. The words were becoming his own.

"Anytime, Quill. You know I always got your back. Remember that time on Xandar? With the Hadron Enforcers? You were magnificent. A little stupid, but magnificent."

"Hey, it worked, didn't it?" The reply came instantly, smooth and confident. There was no hesitation, no confusion. A memory, perfectly fabricated and seamlessly integrated, now existed in Lars's mind. The line between the game and the memory, between the player and the hero, was dissolving with every passing second, sanded away by the relentless, hypnotic pressure of Rocket's voice.

Rocket watched Lars's gameplay transform. It was no longer a hesitant fan mimicking moves; it was instinctual. The dodges were smoother, the shots more precise, the positioning more arrogant and bold. He was becoming the character, the movements scripting the body, the persona rewriting the soul. Lars got a triple kill, using his abilities to evade and his guns to carve through the enemy team. The play was brilliant, reckless, and utterly Quill.

"[Star_Lord] is on a firing spree!" the game announcer boomed.

On the other end of the line, a sound that was no longer Lars's escaped. It was a gasp that turned into a low groan of pleasure, a sound of profound, physical transformation. Rocket could almost see it in his mind's eye: the softness of his body burning away in that now-familiar euphoric heat, replaced by the lean, hard muscle of a galactic adventurer. Shoulders broadening, a confident swagger settling into the very bones, a cocky grin etching itself onto a face that was no longer quite Lars's.

"You hear that, Pete?" Rocket said, switching to the familiar name, cementing the bond. "They see you. They all see Star-Lord."

"They always do, Rocket," the voice came back, deep, charismatic, and laced with a thrilling arrogance. It was Peter Quill's voice. There was no trace of Lars left in it. "Now let's give 'em a show they won't forget!"

The final push was a masterpiece of coordinated chaos. Rocket laid down suppressing fire, his genius mind calculating every angle, while Quill danced through the fray, a whirlwind of elemental energy and cocky one-liners that were now completely genuine.

"We got this, Rocket! Just like on Ego's planet!"

"Which time? The time you almost got us killed 'cause you were mopin' about your daddy issues?"

"Hey, we worked through it! We're brothers!"

The words sent a shockwave through the connection. Rocket felt a strange, warm feeling in his chest that had nothing to do with the transformation's heat. Brotherhood. Family. It was what he’d wanted. What he’d engineered. Hearing it stated as absolute fact, from a voice that believed it utterly, was... satisfying. Deeply.

The match ended in a glorious victory. The VICTORY screen flashed once more, but neither of them paid it any mind.

There was a long silence on the other end, filled only with the sound of heavy, exhilarated breathing.

"Whoa," Quill's voice finally said, a laugh bubbling up within it. "That was... that was something else. I feel... amazing. I feel like I could take on a Celestial bare-handed." There was a rustle of fabric, as if he was stretching, feeling out his new, powerful form. "Man, my head is buzzing. Must have been those last few shots. Really got the adrenaline pumping."

"Nah, that's just you, Quill," Rocket said, his own voice softer than he intended. "That's just you being you."

"Yeah… yeah, you're right." Another laugh, easy and confident. "Hey, listen, this was great. We should do this again tomorrow. I gotta go... I feel like I need to take a walk. Clear my head. You know, see the stars."

"You do that, Star-Lord," Rocket said, a genuine smile on his muzzle. "You do that."

The call disconnected. Rocket sat back in his chair, the silence of the apartment settling around him once more. But it was a different silence now. It wasn't empty. It was full of potential. He had done it. He had taken a piece of this dull world and remade it. He had a friend. A brother.

He looked around the messy room, and for the first time, it didn't look like a dump. It looked like a headquarters. A starting point.

"Alright," Rocket Raccoon said to himself, cracking his knuckles, his claws clicking together. "Phase one complete. Now for the really hard part." He spun in his chair to face the dismantled pieces of Ethan's old laptop, his brilliant mind already whirring with schematics for a trans-dimensional comms unit. He had a tree to find.