mcu rocket

TEAMS UP:

this rocket is the most lone-wolf of the group (unless you count the universe-killer, which we don’t). he can barely stand one of himself on a good day — now he’s gotta work with six of ‘im?  worse still, each of the other rockets has some kind of characteristic or habit that either confirms his worst suspicions of himself, or shows him how much better he could be if he wasn’t such a piece of work. he leaves the other rockets to their various devices: the rocket with the beard and the rocket with the piercings immediately start fucking around with the weapons on the workbench, while the rocket in the bespoke suit glowers suspiciously at the smirking cyborg — who looks like he’s probably murdered whole planets with that laser-red eye. meanwhile, the hyperactive little shit with the fingerless gloves and plumey tail sprawls upside down on the couch with his ears brushing the floor, flipping through the dirty magazine pete had left onboard the last time he visited from terra.  (the crinkled booklet had fallen out of star-lord’s purse right on the cockpit floor. rocket had lifted it by one corner before he’d realized what it was, then dropped it like it was fuckin’ contaminated — which it probably was — and tried not to hurl. the fuck is wrong with you?! he’d demanded, his voice pitched higher than usual as he’d glared at his humie friend. watch your porn on a fuckin’ holo, like a normal pre-vert! it’s nostalgic! pete had squawked, snatching the sticky thing off the floor before rolling it up and stuffing it back in his bag, muttering something about rites of passage and the eighties. you got issues, quill, rocket had informed him flatly before stalking off to bleach his frickin’ hands.) the point is, mcu rocket isn’t lining up to make friends. as with everyone else in his life, the relationships grow slowly. haltingly. begrudgingly. eventually, he finds himself watching each of their backs, focused more on covering them during firefights over actually making any kills of his own. while all the rockets share similar skillsets, he’s the one most inclined toward shipbuilding and flight maneuvers — he’s the one that finds the open sky calls to him the most — and that means he’s the one herding his fellow-rockets back onboard after a crisis. he’s the one pushing the jump-points, cackling as he evades hull-destroying blasts and asteroids, and — well, he’s the one making sure to keep the others out of danger. he’s the one protecting them and giving them a home — all while muttering curses under his breath, and hoping the cruel universe doesn’t take one of ‘em and break his stupid fuckin’ heart.

ON YOU:

so... what happens when this hodgepodge team of inter-universal misfits finally gets you back, safe and sound underneath their collective claws? and what’s a lone-wolf rocket to do? at first — nothing at all. this rocket is probably the slowest to hit on you once they get you back. he watches as the others shoot their shots. they’re all frickin’ annoying, frankly. …but endearing too. which is to say that he’s playing the voyeur for a long time: watching with lava-hot, molten-ruby eyes as the others smirk at you, fawn over you, tease you and taunt you. touch you. each and every flirtation knots his belly and stiffens his dick, till he finds himself stealing moments with you whenever he can: luring you away from the others so he can murmur double entendres in your ear that are just this side of filthy. he never does it in front of the others — never lets his claws linger behind your knee or up the back of your thighs, not when the other rockets are around — but he takes whatever chance he can get when he’s got you alone. when things finally go down — on you, so to speak — rocket continues watching long past the time when most of the others have joined in. you can feel his stare like a physical touch, leaving shiny scorch-marks on your skin in their wake. eventually, he decides he doesn’t mind watching, either. he leans against the open hatch of the cargo bay that has been turned into a giant bunk, and he’s the picture of insolent laziness — if only you weren’t so skilled at reading his tells. but even through teary lashes and dazed eyes, you can read the tense curl of his claws over the edge of his pockets — the flick of his tail, the alert angle of his ears as he tries to soak up every murmur and moan you make. truth is, his abdomen is so tight that his claws cut into his palms through the armored-fabric of his pockets, and he’s got one canine dug so deep into his tongue he can taste blood. there’s power in this, too, though: in waiting. in watching you choke and drown in pleasure — in watching so many of his other-selves make you wriggle and writhe and whine and cry, again and again and again and again.  in knowing that once you’re finally done — once you feel like you can’t possibly survive another brush of even the lightest, most delicate fingers — he’s going to shuffle you away into the shadows of his own bunk, sloppy and mewing, and make you come all over again. just for him.

eidos rocket

TEAMS UP:

this rocket is nowhere near the isolationist that mcu rocket is. don’t get me wrong; he’s still skeptical. but in general, he’s always been more receptive to his fellow non-biologicals, and it doesn’t take more than a microsecond for him to figure all these other chogs prob’ly got backstories similar to his own. he’s curious: what’re they like? do they know how to appreciate a good explosion? are their peter quills as annoying as his?  the answers are correspondingly: 

they’re all handsome bastards (though none as handsome as himself, of course),

they all love to blow shit up (but he’s definitely the best at it, which means he’ll serve as the team’s chief bomb technician), and 

of course not. no other pete could be as flarkin’ obnoxious as his pete.

always sarcastic but — for once — pretty damn satisfied, this rocket settles pretty immediately and comfortably into the idea of a team-up. his relationship with his own guardians or gardeners or whatever may be pretty fraught, just ‘cause they all got weird baggage — but eidos rocket was bioengineered to be part of a unit. no, a legion, really. and this group reminds him a lot of his old fellow supersoldiers — even if they’re invariably more mouthy.  the dude with the piercings is solid, eidos rocket thinks. that guy’s got a love of firearms which seems equal to his own love of explosives. he’s pretty sure that together, they’re gonna develop the most terrible, beautiful armory in the known flarkin’ universe and beyond. conversely, the rocket in the suit is a little full of himself, but maybe he deserves to be ‘cause he always seems to know his shit. and the short rocket — the little guy with the duct tape and the anxiety disorder — reminds eidos rocket most of his old siblings in the labs. occasionally, he finds himself wondering if he could calm the little guy down with one of his old tall-tales of the hero of halfworld.  the point is, even if this rocket won’t say it out loud — even if he just continues to be his usual leering, sarcastic self on the surface — this is the team he’s been waiting for. he feels it in his duranium-plated bones. he feels it in all his ports and servos and implants. so despite the fact that he’s the bomb tech, he’s determined not to do what he usually does with — anything.  he ain’t gonna blow it up. 

ON YOU:

yeah, eidos rocket is a real teamplayer. which is to say, he’s the one who makes the most of having a whole arsenal of his other selves hangin’ around to make you feel good. one of his favorite positions is sprawled lazily on his back with his hands behind his head while you ride him. it’s the best flarkin’ view in the house, as far as he’s concerned, and he loves makin’ you do all the work. especially if you brace yourself with one humie hand on his chest, and the other pulling pleadingly at his beard.  and when there’s another rocket there to fill your mouth, and another toying with your nipples — well, it’s his new favorite kind of group-project. he’d never realized he had such a fetish for stuffing a partner so full before, but he loves to see you on top of him, glutted with cum, leaking from every overstuffed hole.  c’mon, sweetheart, he’ll croon as the rocket with the fingerless gloves slides thick, nimble digits into you — right beside eidos rocket’s own crooked cock. i’ve seen you stretched out on that cranky mech-rocket's cannon before.  so you can definitely take a second dick in this pretty hole of yours.  prob’ly even a third.

cartoon rocket

TEAMS UP:

maybe you could guess this, or maybe you wouldn’t — but cartoon rocket is the glue of the group.  or perhaps the duct tape. look. yes, he’s obnoxious and shrill. and yes, he wears his anxiety right on his chest like a flarkin’ target. but something about him seems to remind all the other rockets of themselves at their most vulnerable. and while they each find it some level of annoying — well, except for skottie-young-rocket, who’s simply entertained by it all — there’s always been a part of each rocket that is drawn to vulnerability.  even when it’s a reflection of themselves.  it doesn’t hurt that cartoon rocket is also the one who patches everybody up after every mission — usually cussing the whole time. it’s flark this and flark that, and hold still while i laser-stitch this d’ast wound, ya krutackin’ moron. he’s even repaired some of the universe-killer’s prosthetics from time to time, when the giant jackass couldn’t easily reach the short-circuited tech himself.  really, it’s no wonder that this guy is holding the whole crew of misfits together on their journey to find you. because — just like each rocket has always been drawn to vulnerability —  each rocket is also a little soft for someone who takes care of him. 

ON YOU:

this rocket doesn’t engage in a whole lot of the x-rated activities, but he is the resident aftercare-specialist and chief cuddler. he’s always there when you need him, muttering under his breath about clumsy flarkin’ idiots while he kneads salve into your bruises or bandages up your bites, then lets you wrap your arms around his waist and snuggle into his flank while he massages your wrists or your temples. he strokes your brow with a gentleness that always seems at odds with his gruff, annoyed mumbles, and when he squeezes you back, it’s just as tight as your own embrace. he sleeps with you as often as you let him (which is all the time): curled around you, letting you treat him like a plushy stuffed toy whenever you want — and treating you like one even more often, mumbling fervent prayers and unintelligible gratitudes into your neck.  but as much as cartoon rocket might be the medic on board — or as close to one as this crew gets — he’s got no patience for any perceived carelessness the others show toward you. he’s constantly lecturing eidos rocket about praising you more, and snarling at skottie-young rocket to be more attentive to your well-being. he’s had a number of remarkably quiet conversations with both rivals rocket and mcu rocket, both of whom have discreetly sought him out to ask how to make sure they take care of you a little better.  once, you even stumble across him cussing out universe-killer rocket, as if he’s got no fear for his own life. luckily, you’re good at caring too, and you manage to scoop him up into a cuddle and cart him away before the universe-killer does anything more than arch a dangerous brow.  and cartoon rocket, for his part, is too smitten to try to fight you off when you wrap your arms around him and bundle him away with a few well-placed smooches between his ears. 

universe-killer rocket

TEAMS UP:

the important thing to remember is that universe-killer rocket is always primarily looking out for his own interests. the parts of him that you might recognize as fundamentally rocket are buried deep, and he’s ultimately unreliable, greedy, and manipulative.  but if it just so happens that his goals align with those of the other rockets — as it does in this mission to find and secure you, if only for his own ends — then he can pretend to play nice for a while.  even so, he’s a grinning, condescending, dangerous bastard, and they all know it — though they only seem to respond with varying degrees of wariness and mockery. still, he makes an excellent tank for the team when he wants to: damn-near indestructible thanks to his vibra-duranium armor and prosthetics, with at least one limb capable of turning into a laser cannon that blows up a lot more than a few measly moons. as much of an asshole as he is, universe-killer rocket also recognizes the benefits of having a clan (not to mention that secretly, some nearly-unrecognizable part of himself misses his own hellspawn crew). so he’s plucked up a couple of the more-runty versions of himself in a few difficult situations, deftly removing them from the paths of incoming ion blasts and plasma shots. blocked one or two of ‘em from grav-shrapnel and thermal bloom.   of course, he doesn’t hesitate to point out that they owe him for the favors. not that he needs anything from them, mind you.  he just likes to remind them that they’re in his fuckin’ debt. 

ON YOU:

it’s a narrow miracle that this rocket doesn’t grab you, kill the rest of the rockets, and sweep you off into deep space to be his pet. after all, that had been his original plan. but you'd seemed so charmed by the other rockets — so smitten and sweetened by them. he’d almost done it anyway. more than once, he’d been tempted — by the very happiness they seemed to bring into your eyes.  nothing has the right to make you that happy unless it’s by his permission.  fortunately for both them and you, something has always stayed his hand at the very last microsecond — some instinctive knowledge that if he kills these fuckers, he’ll never get the parts of you he wants most. still, he’s a predictably jealous owner. transparent about it, too. he’ll take over any scene he’s a part of, brushing aside his counterparts as he pushes your few boundaries relentlessly — at least, until one of the other rockets snarls a warning.  it’s not that they intimidate him — not even close. but despite his inclinations, universe-killer rocket  is too cunning to kick his favored humie’s tamed companions out of bed.  instead, he pretends to back off: baring his teeth at them in a toothy, dangerous grin — snickering at their concerns, raising his palms in the kind of exaggerated surrender that none of them mistakes for authentic. no — they already know he’s gonna use you later, pretty much however he wants: playing with you while you sleep, scooping the other rockets’ spend out of you in a mockery of gentleness — at least till he fucks you awake. by the time you open your eyes, you’ll already be screaming and creaming, weeping with his mechanical hand wrapped ‘round your throat and at least one brutal orgasm tearing its way out of your dreams. then he’ll plug you up after he fills you with cum, stoppering your sweet little hole so none of his more pathetic counterparts can get inside.  and notably, you let him — in fact, you almost seem to crave it — which is probably the only reason the other rockets haven’t tried to slaughter him yet.  he chuckles at the thought, thumbing the bitemark he carved into your asscheek, right overtop the hickey left behind by one of the others.  yeah, you’re still his little humie pet.  so it doesn’t bother him too much to let you keep a few pets of your own.

rivals rocket

TEAMS UP:

like his eidos counterpart, rivals rocket knows how to appreciate being part of a crew. he works surprisingly-well with others, and it doesn’t take long to settle into his role with the rest of the group. after all, he’s the most highly-adaptive of the rockets, ready to switch things up whenever the situation calls for it. on the surface, he might be the firearms-specialist of the crew, but he makes more than a simple artillery: his tech not only deals damage but also generates armor, shields, and medical-grade bio-repair energy.  point is, he’s a guy of diverse talents. especially when it comes to the tech he can create with his own two hands.  he’s also the guy who makes everything into a competition — in a fun way, of course. he keeps a holoprojection running in the commons bay: who’s got the most KOs? the most final hits? the most assists? who can drink the most cans of blubber ale before he passes out? who can dismantle and reassemble a laser-rifle the fastest? hit the most targets dead-center, all in a row?  the competitions are surprisingly good-natured, and they keep the rest of the crew’s spirits up while they search for you — especially when he begins floating ideas of all the ways they can compete once you’re back in their grasp. who can make you smile the most? who can earn the most kisses? who can make you come the hardest?

ON YOU:

that competitive energy doesn’t wane, my friend. not even a little. and while the scoreboard has this rocket at the top of the list in a few different areas, the one he’s proudest of pertains to his oral technique. when it comes to using his mouth, he’s the one who can make you come the quickest and hardest — and the one who can keep you on edge the longest. it’s just that he’s fuckin’ addicted to the way you taste — which means it’s been a delight to learn exactly the way you liked to be licked and sucked and nibbled on, and to make sure his numbers keep going up, up, up, up. that glossy-cool stud in his tongue doesn’t hurt, either. nor the way he lets you boss him around, with your fingers wrapped around his ears or fisted in the flop of fur atop his head. sure, he likes being in control, but he's just as happy to serve you with his tongue and teeth, baby. of course, as the most diverse technician on board, rivals rocket doesn’t limit himself to just using his mouth. and while he appreciates having a whole arsenal of teammates to take care of you and wear you out — why not enhance things further? he’s been itching to make some new toys, after all — toys which don’t focus on blowing things up or armoring his teammates for once. toys which are… purely recreational. and if they happen to be best-suited for use on you, none of his counterparts are complaining.

comics rocket (ewing, et al.)

TEAMS UP:

it’s true that all rockets are instinctive tacticians. however, it’s also true that they’re also all absolute chaos muppets. and while this rocket is included in those numbers, he’s probably the best-suited to wrangle the rest of them.  meet your resident strategist. in any other situation, he might not care about the fact that he’s clearly meant to be the so-called leader of a pack of frutackin’ losers. he’d leave ‘em to their own devices and keep his eyes on the prize. but in this case, the prize is you — and as much as he hates to admit it, his highly-refined intuition is telling him that the best way to secure you is by workin’ with the rest of these grizmods. so he sucks it up, and focuses on isolating each rocket’s particular strengths and weaknesses, leveraging them into a more-or-less seamless unit.  he’s pretty sure he can tolerate ‘em as long as he’s the one calling the shots. at first, he just tries to shove them in the general direction of opportunity and hopes that they’ll make the most of it. after all, he’s not generally great at manipulation, but he also knows that not one of these fuckers is good at accepting direction, himself included. it seems to work well enough for a while: mcu rocket gravitates toward the cockpit, and eidos rocket toward the bombs. cartoon rocket is fussing around in the infirmary when he’s not duct-taping random imagined vulnerabilities in the ship’s hull. even skottie-young-rocket seems to have found something to occupy his attention.  but after the first few skirmishes they come across — everyone doing their own thing, getting in each others’ way — he realizes they need more than twelve percent of a plan before they head into their next battle.  so he starts strategizing according to their strengths, and when he tells them he’s got something in mind — well, he’s a little surprised that they’re willing to listen. not without plenty of snide flarkin’ commentary, of course. he wouldn’t expect anything else. he sneers and snarks back, giving as good as he gets. but in the end, he’s still the one calling the shots — and they let him. in fact — he realizes later — the squabbles and resistance were probably just for show. if they’ve all fallen into some sort of natural role, maybe his is as the de facto captain in a crew full of captains. or at least, it will be unless they decide he sucks at his job. that seems highly unlikely, though, seeing how they gloat and grin after their next successful firefight. every role he’d picked for them had seemed not only perfectly-suited, but satisfying. hell, even universe-killer rocket had seemed to get some sorta sick glee out of his job being their tank. okay, maybe comics rocket shouldn’t judge. all the rockets are equally sick in their own special ways.  including himself. 

ON YOU:

speaking of sick— look, true to form, this rocket likes being in control of pretty much everything around him. so it’s only natural that he rolls that director position right into the bedroom — or in this case, one of the cargo bays, which they’ve collectively transformed into a giant bunk.  that was his doing, by the way. making sure you had a big enough space to roll around and sleep with all of ‘em, including himself.  strategy in action. he’s also the one who’d insisted that they at least try to wine-and-dine you. most of his counterparts tend to stockpile their cash, and as a pack of well-known heroes-for-hire — well, mostly heroes — there are always opportunities to earn more money.  which means there are plenty of credits available to take you to luxury beach-planets and fancy restaurants. to really show you that they can give you the finer things just as often as they give you divebars and engine grease and near-death-experiences.  look, he’s a flarkin’ pragmatist, okay? and he doesn’t hate having access to top-shelf liquor himself every once in a while.  all that’s just window-dressing, though. his need for control runs deep.  he. calls. the shots.  not every time, of course — but often enough. he rationalizes that it’s simply because he knows — knows exactly which rocket is best with his mouth, and which cock you prefer to suck on for comfort versus which one you like best when it’s fucking your throat. he knows which toys should be applied where and when and at what pressure and speed, and he knows which voice saying which words are going to wind you up worse. he knows exactly who should fuck your ass depending on the mood you’re in, and how hard you need your nipples pinched, and the best way to remind you of which eyes are watching you get railed. he knows how many hands you need on you in any given moment, and which part of your body is most desperate for a tickle from one of the tails. he knows when you should be allowed to come — if at all — and when you should be pushed to orgasm till you pass out. the other rockets heckle him for it, of course. that pierced guy refers to him as the dictator on a regular basis, while his skottie-young counterpart cackles and calls him daddy every chance he gets. mcu rocket rolls his eyes and mutters something about frickin’ fascists every time comics rocket sprawls lazily in the old captain’s chair installed in the corner of your cargo-bay-bunk: thighs wide, eyes half-hooded as he smirks— but not one of them tries to usurp him.  because he’s always, always right. 

comics rocket (skottie young)

TEAMS UP:

you might expect that universe-killer rocket is the reckless berserker of the crew, but you’d be wrong. say hello to skottie young rocket: cackling while he blows through walls and hulls with nothing but a twenty-barrel homebrew plasma-cannon and a maniacal grin.  your confusion is understandable, of course. you probably think of berserkers as fighting from a place of fury, while this rocket’s recklessness and wanton destruction stem solely from his love for all things that go blam. of all the rockets, he’s the most likely to get caught up in bomb-lust: distracted by the scent of fire and fuel, blowing shit up just to see what happens. don’t forget: this is the guy who became a fucking despot just to fuck with his best friend’s birthday plans. he’s goddamn demonic, and everybody in the new crew knows it. relatedly, this rocket is the least likely to stick to a script — always opting for whatever seems like it might be the most fun in the moment. his counterparts have basically given up on him at this point. these days, before a fight, the rocket in the bespoke suit (daddy, as this rocket likes to call him, solely mostly to get under his skin) only sighs and tells him that he’s in charge of creating a distraction before leaving him to sort out his next stroke of creative genius on his own.  and sure, sometimes that distraction ends up killing all the bad guys in a single swoop — but it often nearly takes a rocket out too. plus — thrice now — they’ve lost a payload as a result of skottie young rocket’s  impulsivity: accidentally jettisoning a tanker full of creds into a black hole on one occasion, and then setting two separate lux-crystal payouts on fire.  of course, he’s always real sad about it afterward: ears downturned, a miserable hangdog expression on his face, shiny crimson eyes wide and forlorn. tail tucked between his legs in grief. don’t worry, though. while other rockets will be furious for hours or even rotations — and annoyed for even longer — skottie young rocket has usually moved on to the next thing in under two minutes.  too many other things to hyperfixate on, you know? rather than dwelling on his failures, he’ll spend days buried in the ship’s hull whenever mcu rocket lets him, or hours building some new gun that has all the other rockets staring at it in disbelief till someone mutters fuckin’ cartoon logic and they give up trying to figure it out. plus, there's money to daydream about. and booze. and heists. and fancy ships. and artillery. and wrestling. even so, this mission — to get you back — has held his attention longer than anything else he can think of. ever.

ON YOU:

if there’s one thing that this guy — the most unpredictable rocket — can actually be consistent on, it’s that he’s an unhinged brat. and yeah, that energy carries right into the bedroom.  he’s constantly teasing you, making fun of you — pinching you while purring degradations in your ear in a way that makes your toes curl — only to turn around with a wink and demand some punishment of his own. you wanna tie him up, tug on his tail, tell him what a filthy guy he is? hell, he’s game. it’s not like he couldn’t get outta any restraints you put on him in two seconds flat, anyway.  it’s also worth noting that this rocket is almost as interested in his other selves as he is in you. handsome fuckers, the whole lot of ‘em. and as the rocket who has been the most aware of his singular condition and aloneness in the universe, he’s more than a little curious. he’s making suggestive comments to other rockets every chance he gets — copping feels whenever the whim takes him. it’s hard not to when there are so many guys sharing a bunk, after all.  and to his — and your — pleasant surprise, a few of the other rockets are open to more than just tolerating  his advances. after all, eidos rocket is always up for a good, self-indulgent time. rivals rocket, too.  and could there be anything more self-indulgent than sex with, well, himself? besides, it’s not like it’s cheating if they’re all other versions of themselves, right? not when they’re all here for you in the first place. and not when you seem sooo into it. of course, both his interest in his other selves and his extreme brattiness are only manifestations of that larger, more overwhelming baseline personality trait we associated with skottie young rocket from earlier: his unpredictability.  this rocket loves you. and he treats you like it most nights: murmuring his reverent adorations, showering you with light touches and affection. letting you do whatever you want to him. unfortunately, he’ll also tie you up and abandon you the very next morning: restraining you, dragging you behind a bulwark in an abandoned corridor where he's ever-so-thoughtfully left some soft pillows to keep you comfy, and then stuffing a vibrating dildo inside you — smirking while he strides away with his hands in his pockets and a whistle on his lips. he’ll leave you alone to suffer for god-knows-how-long before finally hinting to another rocket that he’s left them a pretty little fucktoy somewhere. but don’t worry. while you might be dazed and drooling and terrified that he forgot about you, he’d never.   you’re on his mind constantly:  his favorite little hyperfixation.