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ROCKET TEAMS UP (ON YOU). | EVERY ROCKET HCs nav | fanfiction | headcanons & imagines

thank you, @chowdragun, for this not-a-prompt, and for your patience! i turned this over for a long time, wondering: what could draw all these rockets together? they’ve all got their own goals and interests and motivations — why would they ever reach out across timelines and universes to work together, especially when some of them don’t really play well with others?

the answer, of course, is you.

if you were in danger — trapped somewhere, or needing to be saved, or whatever — of course these rockets could put aside their differences for a little while to make sure you were retrieved, then kept safe and happy. and if they happened to grow on each other in the meantime, then it probably wouldn’t be hard to convince them that you’d be happier if they stuck around. together.

then — who knows? they might turn their newfound cooperative skills into a different kind of teamwork…

NSFW (MDNI) with gn reader below the cut.

ROCKET TEAMS UP (ON YOU). | EVERY ROCKET HCs

WARNINGS: orgies! voyeurism/exhibitionism, overstimulation, double and triple penetration, double and triple stuffing, mentions of gunplay and biting, somno, choking, plugging, oral, use of toys, directing, bondage, abandonment. universe-killer being himself.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

#every rocket #rocket raccoon fanfiction #rocket raccoon x reader #guardians of the galaxy #rocket raccoon #gotg video game #marvel rivals #eidos rocket #gotg fanfiction #gotg rocket #rocket raccoon x you #rfh headcanons #universe killer rocket #mcu rocket #comics rocket #skottie young rocket #ewing rocker #rivals rocket

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ROCKET FALLS FOR YOU. | EVERY ROCKET HCs nav | fanfiction | headcanons & imagines

for @adimn-adam ~ i know, i know. this has taken literally like six months, but here we are. it's a long one, but i hope it satisfies.

here's the thing: while every rocket is not the same, they are all — at their core — still rocket, reskinned with different experiences and contexts. so when you ask, “what would it take for every rocket to fall for someone?” the answer, in its most foundational form, is time + trust.

but we can still play around with that. NSFW-lite with gn reader below the cut my loves.

ROCKET FALLS FOR YOU. | EVERY ROCKET HCs

WARNINGS: moderate spice, crude terms. some angst, references to rocket’s extensive sexual history, brief allusions to substance use and abuse, brief mentions of roleplay. reminder: universe-killer rocket is his own warning. collaring, biting, tracing/tracking, some minor oral surgery of dubious consent, implied begging, low-key exhibitionism, and a whiff of something that could be read as stockholm syndrome.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

#rocket raccoon #rocket raccoon x reader #guardians of the galaxy #gotg video game #marvel rivals #every rocket #eidos rocket #gotg fanfiction #gotg rocket #rocket raccoon fanfiction #rocket raccoon x you #rfh headcanons #universe killer rocket #mcu rocket #comics rocket #skottie young rocket #ewing rocker #rivals rocket

ROCKET WITH A CLINGY PARTNER. | EVERY ROCKET HCs nav | fanfiction | headcanons & imagines

for nonnie ♡ i'm so behind on these and this felt like such a project, but i truly hope that at least one of these is what you're looking for, babe.

separation anxiety can look different from person to person, situation to situation. so i've played with some different kinds of presentation here, varying from low-key "clinginess" to clinical attachment concerns, from panic attacks to irritability.

and god knows rocket has attachment issues of his own.

NSFW-lite (VERY lite - really more like low-grade steam) with gn reader below the cut my loves.

ROCKET WITH A CLINGY PARTNER. | EVERY ROCKET HCs

WARNINGS: enabling behavior. mcu rocket is a little mean. eidos rocket fantasizes about you (brief reference to masturbation). skottie young rocket being a slut as usual. reminder, as always: universe-killer rocket is his own warning. stockholm syndrome, forced isolation, manipulation.

CLINGER: it’s too bad that you’re smitten with rocket from the moment you meet him, because of course, this guy’s too full of self-loathing to realize it. unfortunately, like a duckling, you imprint on him right away. something about his crankiness makes you trust him immediately, as if it’s an indicator of his authenticity. and being in the far reaches of outer space is fucking scary for a freshfaced terran like you, unused to being out in the stars. so you pretend nonchalance while you wander into the cockpit when he’s there, and the commons bay when he’s there, and the engine room when he’s there… it’s equally too bad that rocket’s not a frickin’ idiot. he notices right away — how you flicker at the edges of his presence like a moonmoth to a bowlight— and it’s fuckin’ annoying. early on, in a fitful moment of defensiveness, he sneers at you with all sorts of poison in his voice. clingy much? it's pretty much the only thing he's said to you since you've showed up. humiliation heats your cheeks, but it doesn’t make you stop. for fuck’s sake — why are you always watching him like that? d’you think he’s gonna steal something? (spoiler alert. he is gonna steal something. or at least, he’s gonna try. but having your eyes on him around the clock has stopped him from swiping a number of little treasures over the last few cycles, and his resentment grows each time.) with each passing rotation, his tension ratchets higher and higher, and he hates how certain he is that your big, manipulative eyes are picking apart everything about him: his flinches, his scars, his aches. his criminal intentions. eventually — as per frickin’ usual — he cracks under the strain. furious, venomous words ricochet from his lungs and spit out his mouth, like bullets and ion blasts. get the fuck away from me, he seethes, you nosy fuckin’ parasite. and you do. rocket feels bad about it later: ears flat, tail tucked, moping and sulking even though he knows he’s got no right to be so miserable about his own frickin’s behavior. he feels even worse when gamora scolds him for it — reminding him that you’ve got no-one out here. lots of people got no-one, he snaps back, as if it doesn’t make his already-crumpled-up heart shrivel and pinch further in his chest. at least the rest of us manage to keep from being so damn annoying about it. rocket, gamora deadpans, that sweet kid is probably the only person on this ship who doesn’t think you’re annoying. she shakes her head, like he’s the idiot. they just want to be around you. he freezes at that. scoffs. gamora’s usually a decent judge of character, but in this case, she’s gotta be wrong. rocket’s pretty sure that the only person who’s wanted to be around him since halfworld is groot senior. everyone else is just there due to obligation or familiarity, as far as he can tell. and you’ve got no obligation, and even less familiarity.

CLINGEE: still, though—he starts watching you. really watching you, trying to tamp down on his preconceived notions. you’re — well. you’re a little clingy with everyone, aren’t you? like a lost little puppy. worried every time they leave; eager to see them back. trying to discreetly check them over for injuries, always looking uncertain of your own welcome. you’re so concerned, so caring. it’s still annoying, of course — on principle — but it’s increasingly hard for him to dredge up any hostility about it. he tells himself that you need to toughen up. that nobody out here is gonna be as stable and dependable as you apparently need. that you gotta get some calluses to survive in space. but he can’t bring himself to say as much. not out loud. he figures he’s done enough damage to your soft, fragile feelings. and besides, it’s not like he doesn’t notice that you never follow any of the others the way you used to follow him. only now, the memory of you chasing him around doesn’t feel like such a sour, suspicious thing. now, he wishes he’d enjoyed it more. because the truth is, you’re kind of cute about it. a little self-conscious. a little needy. in retrospect, it could’ve been nice — someone wanting him around that much. someone worrying and fretting over his absences, hoping to be consoled with kisses when he returns. it gets harder and harder to sneer at you every rotation, and even the gruffness in his voice starts to feel more like velvet than sawblades. it’s not till he’s waiting in the cockpit, tracking your ship as you go on your first-ever solo mission — plucking a bald spot into his tail and planning regular transmission check-ins every rotation — that he realizes what’s happened. And it’s all stupidly thanks to pete: strolling in, all nonchalant — like you aren’t a few hundred lightyears away, all by your lonesome, and not due back on the benatar for another five-and-a-half-rotations. rocket’s already promised himself that when you get back, he’ll be nice. so nice. hell, he might even frickin’ apologize for being such a dickhead. he’ll let you hang around as much as you want: camp out with him in the cockpit, hand him tools in the mechanical room. sleep in his frickin’ bunk. if you want. fuck. it’ll be fine, pete says, interrupting rocket’s thoughts with a roll of his eyes. he tells rocket how smart you are, how clever, how resourceful — as if rocket didn’t know all that. there’s nothing to worry about, dude— i just want ‘em home, rocket snaps. another handful of fur floats to the cockpit floor, and pete rolls his eyes again, smirking. geez, rocket. clingy much?

CLINGER: he’s not sure how the flark you won him over. ever since he’d made the mistake of telling you he thought he was gonna die — just a little hazing for the newbie, nothing serious; not till you'd started bawling your d’ast eyes out, looking like he’d broken your soft little humie heart — he’s found it hard to take his eyes off you. you’re cute. like, real cute. and even if he’s a scummy son-of-a-chog who really should leave you alone, he can’t help but wanna keep you close. and apparently the feeling’s flarkin’ mutual, because you seem to be around all the time these days. he’d bet a hundred-k credits that you’d follow him right into his bunk if he let you, never mind the fact that he figures you’re just a little too innocent for most of the games he likes to play there. it’s the first time he goes on a solo mission that he realizes just how attached you’ve gotten. your brow’s all pinched and twisted, and you look a little waxy, skin damp like you’ve got a fever or chills or both. just not feeling my best today, you tell groot when he asks, then mumble something about headaches and nausea. you’re scrubbing your knuckles over your sternum like you’ve got heartburn. his ears twitch. every once in a while your heart does a double-beat, hiccuping like the false start in a sprint, and your breathing gets reedy and shallow. what the fuck? you worried about me, sweet thing? he’d meant it to sound condescending and smug, but the words come out crackled with concern. he’s developed a begrudging sort of affection for you. maybe even a rather filthy fixation that he’d absolutely act on if he hadn’t sworn off biologicals. not to mention that watching pete and gamora fumble around like a pair of flarkwits is enough to put anyone off the idea of dating in-house. you flinch when he asks, though. just… come back, you’d ordered through bloodless, pinched lips. normally he’d balk under someone thinkin’ they could tell him what to do, but it strikes something in him: what you’d said. the way you’d said it. he knows what it’s like to be afraid of losing people. so instead of getting snippy, he just squints up at you with caramel-rum eyes and finds — for once in his d'ast life — some krutackin' patience. hey, i got some stuff in my bunk that needs to be kept watch over, rocket tells you slowly. the words are cautious, even if the impulse isn't. but then, he’s always been a creature of impulse. do me a favor, sweet thing — sleep in there while i’m gone? you can have the hammock. might be a tight squeeze, but— okay, you say quickly, like he’s just offered you way more than a substandard bed. his eyes narrow further. f’you hear any weird beeping, get quill, he instructs, knowing that you won’t hear anything of the sort. or, well, if you do, it won’t matter anyway, because half the sector’ll already be condensing into a manufactured black hole from that black-market gravity-bomb he’s been messing around with for the last quarter. no — needing you to keep an eye on his scut is just a pretty fiction for both of you. an excuse — to comfort you, of course. and maybe to get you into his bed without him having to worry about flarking things up.

CLINGEE: he imagines it a few times. that is, a few times for each and every rotation that he’s away. he kinda likes picturing you, climbing clumsily into his hanging bed. snuggling up to his pillow. waking in a loose sleepy tangle of limbs. maybe once or twice, he even indulges in the thought of you playing with yourself there, just 'cause you can’t help but miss him oh-so-very-much — even though he’s never once let himself touch you like that before. so far, anyway. when rocket finally returns to the milano a cycle-and-a-half later, you’re waiting at the airlock before his pod even docks. your eyes look starved for him. and it’s… gratifying. flark. not even groot has ever looked so thrilled by his return. throughout the rest of the rotation, you stick so close to him that he can feel you brushing against his fur everytime you breathe. funny — a quarter or two ago, he woulda found it as annoying as flark. now he leans in. maybe he should go more often, he thinks — if this is the sweet homecoming he gets when he returns. you, clinging to him like honey. the sleepshift destroys that idea, though. he hadn’t thought about what it would be like to come home to a bed you’d slept in. never again, he thinks, fisting a handful of the blanket still drenched in your scent. he drags the fragrance into his lungs, practic’ly salivating while he grips his aching dick and strokes it along the curve. fuck morals and ethics and the stickiness of workplace-relationships. and fuck you, for getting your flarkin’ pheromones or whatever all over his d’ast hammock — never mind he’s the chog who told you to sleep there. he forces himself to let go of his cock and his quilt, fumbling himself back into his pants and raking an angry claw through his beard, tousling the fur on top of his head. never again, he snarls on repeat under his breath, starting for the hatch of his bunk — heading toward you like the gravity-bomb’s been set off after all, and you’re the walking talking singularity. yeah, fuck you. he’s never letting you sleep in his bunk without him again. short term, the only solution is to drag you back here tonight. longterm? he’ll just have to take you with him.

CLINGER: it takes a minute for universe-killer rocket to figure out you’ve got a little separation anxiety — and the microsecond that he does, he pounces. how can he help himself? this rocket has learned to take every scrap he wants. he’s so darkly delighted to find that you have such an easily-exploitable weakness, and he’s thrilled to figure out how he can manipulate it to please himself. in this case, pleasing himself mostly means breaking you down into a cute, dependent little humie pet: willing to give him the information only you know, or complete the tasks only you can complete. and equally willing to beg for his collar around your throat or his bite on your skin. so he gets to work, with all the power of that intuitive genius that seems to come so easily to him. eventually he settles on a calculated cocktail of instability and stockholm syndrome, which seems to do the job nicely. in no time, you’re doing everything in your power to convince him to keep you by his side. once, you even going so far as to offer to let him leash you if he’ll take you with him. he gives in that time. for his own entertainment. and you are entertaining. for fuck’s sake, at some point, you start picking your cuticles raw every time he leaves you locked in his captain’s quarters for an hour or two, till he threatens to keep you electrocuffed to the bed if you don’t stop. no-one spills your pretty red blood but me, he teases, his unholy prosthetic eye all aglow. not even you. later, when the hellspawn fleet has overtaken a new star system and knowhere is blotting out some poor planet’s sun, the universe-killer is called to descend to the world below on account of some disagreement between his crew. It’s a minor matter — one they should be able to figure out on their own — but they’re terrified enough to ask for his input, and he’s always pleased with the power that comes from giving it. and when he returns to the skull, smug and satisfied — why, you’re practic'ly frickin' weepy. he loves that about you. loves how you look up at him with those big wet eyes and trembly-tear-glossed lips, the slightly-swollen tip of your nose from scrubbing at it while you’d sniffled in his absence. it’s fucking intoxicating, in a way he hasn’t been able to manufacture with chemical substances. what’s left of his biological nervous system crackles with static; the mech-engineered nerves feel like they’re sparking, hot little lances of pain. yeah, he loves it. loves you. whatever. loves the way that you hiccup when your eyes finally fall on him, the tension rippling out of your shoulders in relief only to come rolling back in when you remember that he’s a fuckin’ monster. loves the way you start warbling again, tripping over your words when you try to convince him that you’re so grateful for his return. it isn’t till the next time he’s called away that he figures it out. he’s amused, at first — like he always is — at the way you beg him not to leave, promising him you’ll be good, pleading with him to take you with him. amused, and pleased, and more turned on than he has time for right now. mockingly — not expecting a real answer — he asks what has you so needy for a universe-killer’s company. you don’t want to tell him. universe-killer rocket has a laugh that curdles your insides: sarcastic, taunting, gleeful. you fully expect it to be wielded in your direction if you admit why you need him to stay, to keep you with him. it’s a laugh that slices through you, that always seems to show you in no uncertain terms jyst how vulnerable you really are, and you’ve no desire to have it turned toward you once more. but — you’ve also been under his thumb too long to disobey. so, hiccuping and hyperventilating around mouthfuls of tears — you tell him anyway.

CLINGEE: he’ll never forget the way his heart drops, sickening and gutted and hollow, certain you’ve been traumatized or wounded — maybe even mortally. he all but lunges at you, gripping his prickling claws into your upper arms, hauling you upright so he can check you over. you look unharmed— for all that your breath is hitching and hiccupy. your fingers plunge into his fur and curl, anchoring yourself to him like you’re daring doom’s chronoverses to try and tear you away again. his nose flares, but he can’t pick up the scent of any blood; his ears prick, but your heart sounds mostly normal, if far too fast. he asks what’s wrong, what happened, if you’re okay; you try to respond — at least, he thinks you do — but all your words are a wreckage of broken gasps. later, he’ll stay up for rotations on end. he’d previously been working on some better weapons — some tech that could maybe help stabilize some of the secondary chronoverses, too. but after today, he’ll redirect his time and energy into making something that can keep you two together. because what happens if you get pulled somewhere without him? and you panic like this, where there’s no-one good enough to take care of you? to protect you and look out for you? no. wherever you go — whenever you go — he goes too. that’s just how it’s gotta be. but for now — in this moment — he has to deal with the gasping, wrenching, gutting agony of your anxiety attack. too bad he’s no good at it. injuries he can handle — but as much as he’d love to console you right now, he’s trash at this emotional stuff. so he tries to get up, to go find someone who might actually know how to be comforting. but your fingers knot in his, big teary eyes begging wordlessly: stay. he’s never really thought of himself as a pushover before, but here he is: wrapped around you, petting you, holding you tight. trying to help you slow your breathing. muttering into your skin: yeah, yeah. okay. i’m here, sweetheart. i’ll stay.

CLINGER: this rocket is the rocket that takes the healthiest approach to your separation anxiety. not because he’s got any emotional intelligence, mind you. just chalk it up to his .976 optimum intuitive grasp. or his infamous, innate skill for strategy. or something. it’s a bumpy start, though. as a rule, rocket doesn’t bother trying to learn new crewmates’ names. the original guardians can barely stand to stick together for more than a quarter at a time — most of the new ones don’t last half that long. and stronger earthers than you — kitty, ben — have ended up tucking tail and going home to their backwater mudball far sooner than rocket would have liked. so combine that with his own reluctance to develop relationships — not to mention pete tryin’ to flarkin’ strongarm rocket into showing you around the ship — and he’s got a healthy dose of resentment already brewing by the time he realizes you’ve, like, bonded to him or something. …sucks to be you, he thinks. you’ve gone an developed some sort of attachment issue to the one grizmod on the ship who’d rather be alone. he manages to stoically ignore you at first. and to your credit, you don’t kick up a fuss about it. you simply find your own grizz to do, lingering in his periphery like an annoyingly-endearing shadow. you never seem to demand his attention — nothing more than a nod, a shy smile, the occasional offer of coffee. it isn’t till the guardians undergo one of their annual krutackin’ break-ups that he realizes how much trouble you’re in. the truth is that all the guardians — with the exception of you and groot — are prone to throwing temper tantrums when they don’t get their way. and yeah, that includes rocket himself — and he knows it, though he’ll never admit it out loud. In the middle of this particular fight, gamora storms off in the only working escape pod, and drax demands to be let off at the next spaceport, and frankly — rocket yells — pete better be plannin’ on hitching a ride there too, because rocket’s put in too many hours working on this gorgeous ship to give it up for a manipulative brat like flarkin’ star-lord. and nobody — not even groot — notices how hard you’re trying to bend over backward, to get them to talk, to try to make a little peace between them all. later, rocket remembers it. your teary eyes, the way you’d practically started hyperventilating when gamora had left — you pupils dilating in panic. he remembers it. he thinks about it. he can’t stop turning it over in his head. halfway through the sleepshift he gives up on rest and makes his way back to the cockpit, intent on flying them that much closer to a place where they can split up — trying to figure out what the flark he’s gonna do with you. give you to pete, till the next time they get back together? it’s the smart decision, but it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. pete’s a little safer than rocket. less likely to take risks, maybe. less prickly, certainly. though k’ythri only knows what will happen if the grizmod gets it into his head to seduce you — which is another thought that puts rocket’s sharp incisors on edge. all these tangled thoughts are the reason why rocket’s so distracted that he doesn’t even notice you in the copilot’s seat until he’s almost sitting down next to you. it makes him jump, and he never flarkin’ jumps. for sharra’s sake, he almost yelps. what the krutack are you doin’ here? you blink up at him with bleary eyes and salt on your cheeks. a divot’s carved between your eyes, and your lips tremble and purse. sorry, you croak, your voice all throaty and hoarse like you’ve been sobbing. something stupid wrenches in his chest. he scrubs at his manufactured sternum uselessly, so distracted — again — that he almost misses it when you tell him you’re leaving.

CLINGEE: wait, rocket says impulsively, as you begin shuffling yourself out of the seat. just — just flarkin’ hold on. he pinches the bridge of his nose. look. are you… all right? you stare at him blankly. you look like the saddest krutackin’ thing in the universe. yeah, you whisper after a moment. i’m fine. i just have a headache. you turn, and he finds himself calling out again. wait. uh — you know where the headache meds are? he ends up getting them for you. meds. a cup of water. he gruffly encourages you to sit. and he asks. what’s goin’ on? why are you so worked up? it’s nothing to freak out about, he tells you. splitting up is something the guardians do with more regularity than breaking the law or saving the galaxy. they all just need some time to cool off. they’ll be back. they always are. your pretty eyes start leaking again as he talks, and he kinda wants to strangle himself. he’s even tempted to try it. but instead, he does what he does best. he strategizes. before you know it, he’s steadying you. distracting you. not well, but enough that your tears come slower. less often. and once he’s sure you’re asleep, he’s sending a transmission to gamora. i don’t care how pissed you are, he snaps into the holorecording. you don’t walk off again like that without talking to the new kid first. and you need to comm ‘em first thing in the wakeshift. every first wakeshift for as long as you’re gone. regular, steady contact. you understand? a growl. you owe me, gams. drax and pete wake up right as gamora happens to comm him back. rocket’s grateful you’re still sleeping — worn out, he assumes, by yesterday’s distress. listen, he says. he has to grimace around the sour taste of his pride as he swallows it down. for you. listen. i still hate you all. lie. but i’ve hated you before, and we still managed to pull ourselves together to save the universe or whatever. this is — this is just as important. of course, everyone agrees. soon, they’ve got a whole scheme worked out. regular solo-missions for the foreseeable future, one at a time, starting out with contracts that will only require a few hours apart and gradually growing longer. plans for each guardian to talk with you about goodbye rituals and keeping in contact with you during their absences. increasing independence. it’s a flexible plan — responsive to your needs, while balancing the expectations of their good paying customers. flexible, but steady. reliable. stable. probably more stable than anything they’ve ever tried to do before. which means, rocket thinks with a sigh, that they’re bound to flark it up. but for you, they’re willing to try. together. and so is he.

#every rocket #rocket raccoon #rocket raccoon x reader #guardians of the galaxy #gotg video game #marvel rivals #eidos rocket #gotg fanfiction #gotg rocket #rocket raccoon fanfiction #rocket raccoon x you #rfh headcanons #universe killer rocket #mcu rocket #comics rocket #skottie young rocket #ewing rocker #rivals rocket

I thought of a potentially cute scenario. Imagine if you're painting your nails but then you run out of nails. You see rocket on the couch, either taking a light nap or doing something on his datapad. You get the idea to sneakily try to paint his nails so you scoot over as if you just wanted to be closer. Then right as you’re about to start he speaks. He either says something like "if you think you're being sneaky... you're not." Or "if you're gonna do that, you better use pink." Idk there's so many possibilities 🤣.

Do with this as you will, it just popped into my head randomly 🤣

bby i hope you like this. i loved writing it. it does have a pinch of pining involved and ends on a lil cliffhanger but holy shit it was fun to daydream about. thank you and i hope you enjoy~

electric blue.

maybe you usually just paint your nails in a protective, nourishing clear gloss, or a neat crescent-moon french-tip. maybe you like to go solid black for the drama. maybe, once a cycle, between missions, you clean off your nails and do your little manicure and paint them a vivid new rainbow-color.

it's a weird terran quirk, rocket decides. he's seen people with all sorts of colors of nails and claws and talons before, but he's never seen anyone waste so much time painting ‘em. pete tells him it's common on terra. people even go to fancy dens where experts clean and shape and paint tiny images on humie nails. file ‘em, buff ‘em, dazzle ‘em with plastic gems — sometimes even craft whole new synthetic claws out of somethin’ called acrylic, for no good reason other than aestheticals.

yeah. weird.

and it frickin’ smells bad, too.

#rocket raccoon #guardians of the galaxy #rocket raccoon x you #rocket raccoon fanfiction #rocket raccoon x reader #gn reader #rfh asks #rfh headcanons #nonnie

Hi so this is a bit random, but for a while now I've been kinda curious about how you think MCU Rocket would react to losing his partner during the snap for the five years and alternatively what their relationship would be like when they return or how things would develop if they were never snapped to begin with.

i love a random ask (aren't they all random, kinda??) and also bless you for your patience nonnie ♡♡♡ you're so sweet. kinda hard to tell from this ask if “rocket's partner” is you or someone else, but i'm going to assume it's the former, if that's all right?? buckle in because I’ve tackled both of your proposed possibilities here and it gets lengthy. and angsty. do you enjoy angst, nonnie? i can only assume you do, since you asked this fucken question lol. so walk with me, lovely. ♡♡♡

(sidenote ~ if you’re craving snap-based relationships, If Only For Tonight by @shylyobscene is required reading. it is glorious and unparalleled.)

for clarity’s sake, let's start with a sort of ground-zero, which is — what happens in the main timeline?

the mcu canon is conflicted, with some sources saying nebs and rocket are skittering around the galaxy together taking oddjobs and bounties and saving people, and others saying they're pretty much stuck on terra, running earthside errands and letting the avengers use the benatar (but honestly, this second option feels like sacrilege to me).

#why's my shit always so goddamn long #rocket raccoon #rocket raccoon x reader #guardians of the galaxy #gotg fanfiction #gotg rocket #infinity war #rocket raccoon x you #the snap #endgame #rfh headcanons #rfh asks #nonnie

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i think a lot about how rocket does, in fact, end up building great machines that fly, and him and his friends do go flying together into the forever and beautiful sky. but he’s not content with only the aero-rigs, or even the benatar and the bowie — no. he ends up turning knowhere itself into a ship. and why? because at some point, he’s realized that he has more friends than just the guardians.

and they won’t all fit anywhere else.

yeah, rocket just wakes up one day, looks out at this enormous mining colony, and is like — welp, not sure you morons can take care of yourselves, so i guess i’m takin’ you with me.

and that’s that.

so yeah, i think about knowhere a lot as a flying machine.

but i also think about the fact that exitar is a city.

ages ago, when rocket was still young and green and soft, he’d sat on his maker’s knee and gazed out at the gleaming spires and skyscrapers of an empty metropolis, and he’d learned the shapes of hope and tomorrow silhouetted against the endless blue. he’d sprawled in his cage with his brother and sisters, and they’d daydreamed about a future in which they’d leave the labs behind, and make a place for themselves in the new world. together.

so now, ages later, rocket takes the city of exitar — famed for its corruption and filth and flippant violence — and transforms it into a haven. not alone, of course — he’s got too many friends for that these days; can barely get a frickin’ microsecond of piece, honestly. but with neb’s help — and eventually mantis’s, and pete’s, and drax’s — the city becomes something of a safe harbor.

for his friends, yes. for his fellow guardians, of course.

but also for repentant former enemies.

and for fleeing, frightened animals.

and for refugee children with no-one to look out for them.

and for anyone who’s ever looked out at a distant, dazzling city, and hoped they would find a home.

#i think about knowhere a lot #rfh headcanons #does this count as a headcanon?#or just as a reflection on existing canon?#rocket raccoon #guardians of the galaxy #knowhere #mcu

rocket making you wear thigh holsters for the double-barrel blasters he custom-made you. he says it’s ’cause that’s where you draw the quickest, but really it’s ’cause he thinks they look hot

and maybe ‘cause he wants something to drag you back by when he’s got you on all fours

i’m sorry i am the way i am

#rocket raccoon #rfh headcanons #rocket raccoon x you #rocket raccoon x reader #gotg rocket

what if we introduced Rocket to geometric puzzles? Obviously they'd be a peice of cake for him but I keep imagining him watching us doing them over our shoulder.

babes rocket does not give a single fuck about your geometric puzzles. when you pulled out that first one - which was admittedly one of the simpler versions - he took one look at it and immediately saw how all the pieces fit together in his head. even the more complex ones only take him about five minutes: just long enough to run his fingers over the edges of twenty-five tangled pieces and then lay them out, snapping the interlocked right angles together like click-click-click.

what he does give a fuck about is convincing you that he is interested. he particularly likes when you're sitting on the floor, hunched over the coffee table with a couch cushion under your ass and a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, and a cup of caffeine sitting beside the pieces you've managed to match together in all the wrong patterns. more than giving a fuck, he loves it: drinking his own hot coffee on a sunday morning, lounging languidly against your side like he doesn't have a frickin' care in the world - feeling your warmth sinking through his fur like syrup. he casually rests his chin on your shoulder as often as he thinks he can get away with it: whiskers tickling the side of your throat, breath stroking over your cheek. he'd swear you end up trying every damn configuration of pieces - and there are thousands of 'em - but he doesn't care. if anything, it's endearing.

so he keeps feeding you little hints in a husky whisper - half of 'em wrong - just to keep you here a little longer, letting him croon lazily into your ear.

sorry i usually try to keep ask-responses a little more platonic than this just 'cause i never know what each individual's uhhh personal relationship with rocket is, but i've been bad at it lately (really feeling the low-key romance lately i guess) and this just felt.... so cozy i had to write it this way. i hope that's okay (╥﹏╥) ♡♡

recent #rfh headcanons nav | fanfiction | headcanons & imagines m.list

#rocket raccoon #rocket raccoon x you #rocket raccoon x reader #rocket raccoon fanfiction #nonnie #rocket gotg #rfh headcanons #rfh asks

ROCKET TEAMS UP (ON YOU). | EVERY ROCKET HCs nav | fanfiction | headcanons & imagines

the answer, of course, is you.

then — who knows? they might turn their newfound cooperative skills into a different kind of teamwork…

NSFW (MDNI) with gn reader below the cut.

ROCKET TEAMS UP (ON YOU). | EVERY ROCKET HCs

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ROCKET FALLS FOR YOU. | EVERY ROCKET HCs nav | fanfiction | headcanons & imagines

for @adimn-adam ~ i know, i know. this has taken literally like six months, but here we are. it's a long one, but i hope it satisfies.

but we can still play around with that. NSFW-lite with gn reader below the cut my loves.

ROCKET FALLS FOR YOU. | EVERY ROCKET HCs

ROCKET WITH A CLINGY PARTNER. | EVERY ROCKET HCs nav | fanfiction | headcanons & imagines

for nonnie ♡ i'm so behind on these and this felt like such a project, but i truly hope that at least one of these is what you're looking for, babe.

and god knows rocket has attachment issues of his own.

NSFW-lite (VERY lite - really more like low-grade steam) with gn reader below the cut my loves.

ROCKET WITH A CLINGY PARTNER. | EVERY ROCKET HCs

Do with this as you will, it just popped into my head randomly 🤣

bby i hope you like this. i loved writing it. it does have a pinch of pining involved and ends on a lil cliffhanger but holy shit it was fun to daydream about. thank you and i hope you enjoy~

electric blue.

yeah. weird.

and it frickin’ smells bad, too.

#rocket raccoon #guardians of the galaxy #rocket raccoon x you #rocket raccoon fanfiction #rocket raccoon x reader #gn reader #rfh asks #rfh headcanons #nonnie

(sidenote ~ if you’re craving snap-based relationships, If Only For Tonight by @shylyobscene is required reading. it is glorious and unparalleled.)

for clarity’s sake, let's start with a sort of ground-zero, which is — what happens in the main timeline?

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and they won’t all fit anywhere else.

yeah, rocket just wakes up one day, looks out at this enormous mining colony, and is like — welp, not sure you morons can take care of yourselves, so i guess i’m takin’ you with me.

and that’s that.

so yeah, i think about knowhere a lot as a flying machine.

but i also think about the fact that exitar is a city.

for his friends, yes. for his fellow guardians, of course.

but also for repentant former enemies.

and for fleeing, frightened animals.

and for refugee children with no-one to look out for them.

and for anyone who’s ever looked out at a distant, dazzling city, and hoped they would find a home.

#i think about knowhere a lot #rfh headcanons #does this count as a headcanon?#or just as a reflection on existing canon?#rocket raccoon #guardians of the galaxy #knowhere #mcu

and maybe ‘cause he wants something to drag you back by when he’s got you on all fours

i’m sorry i am the way i am

#rocket raccoon #rfh headcanons #rocket raccoon x you #rocket raccoon x reader #gotg rocket

what if we introduced Rocket to geometric puzzles? Obviously they'd be a peice of cake for him but I keep imagining him watching us doing them over our shoulder.

so he keeps feeding you little hints in a husky whisper - half of 'em wrong - just to keep you here a little longer, letting him croon lazily into your ear.

recent #rfh headcanons nav | fanfiction | headcanons & imagines m.list

#rocket raccoon #rocket raccoon x you #rocket raccoon x reader #rocket raccoon fanfiction #nonnie #rocket gotg #rfh headcanons #rfh asks

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