I Also Have Read All This Author's Books About Russia... For Fun... Shit... I'm A Nerd....

Soooo good guys. I died while reading this.

in the dark.

BOOK FOUR ~ ♡ kiss kiss ♡ BANG BANG [NEW 2/25] navigation | fanfiction masterlist

18+ only MDNI | f!reader | no use of y/n | oneshot | 7,173 words. read in the dark now ♡༄.° ✈︎ ₊⭒˚｡⋆ see warnings below.

you've been trying to catch rocket's attention for ages. he needs a little convincing.

Primary Prompt: One person has to bend down in order to kiss their partner, who is standing on their tip-toes to reach their partner’s. (#48)

Supplemental Prompt: Sneaking away to a hidden corner to share a secretive kiss. (#12)

Supplemental Prompt: Tentative kisses given in the dark. (#44)

“Do you know what I want to do when we’re hanging out late in the cockpit alone?” you ask. Your nerves settle: resigned. You’d wanted to protect those moments — to make sure you could still come back to them as friends, even if he ended up turning down your advances. Now, sacrificing them seems like your only recourse. “Do you know what I think about in those moments?” In the dark, his ears flicker and flatten. He’s right: that you don’t have clear vision up here In the dark. You can still only guess what expressions are flickering across his face. “Kissing you,” you breathe against his whiskers. Do his ruby-cabochon eyes widen? It’s impossible to tell. Still, you sway toward him: closer. Your hands rise up — unbidden — to curl around his long, narrow jaw, and guide it up to yours. “Sometimes more.”

read more on ao3 ♡༄.° ✈︎₊⭒˚｡⋆

♡ kiss kiss ♡ BANG BANG | navigation | fanfiction masterlist

CONTEXT/WARNINGS: mcu-inspired. pining. rocket is clueless. dirty daydreams. reader's being hella brave by taking the initiative with this clueless jackass, but she also second-guesses herself a lot. kissing. fellatio, cockwarming, accidental near-exhibitionism of the "almost-got-caught' variety. praise, use of petnames (especially "doll" and "dollface," love-confessions.

kiss divider & support banner by @/saradika-graphics | glitterfall divider by @/bernardsbendystraws | star fairylights by @/thecutestgrotto

Hello rocket raccoon fans. I like to put him in t shirts

Quill: Yondu loved me. He just didn’t care for my general happiness or self-esteem.

Happy New Year @nerdy-and-dedicated! You’ve been such a delightful friend! Thanks for making 2023 even better.

Everyone have a lovely day! roquill was my 2023 year. My heart is better for it!

Tiny note. This was slightly inspired by the ride BREAKOUT in Disneyland. Rocket getting back his baby-boo’s headset from the collector. Sweet boy!

Stop discriminating on skin color/race/gender/religion/sexuality/gender identification/anything people. We are all just human beings. Our differences only make us more interesting!

He’s Sikh, not a terrorist. Poor Sikh comunity always bears the brunt of ISIS terrorist because they wear a simple turban..  Wake up and accept cultural differences, not every foreigner is out to hurt you.

Agree 100%

anyone who says they would rather be an avenger than a guardian is a fool. the guardians go on constant outer space adventures with a talking tree set to 70’s dad music. plus they all love and would literally die for each other. what do the avengers do? assemble for five minutes then get into a walmart parking lot fight and never see each other again. fuck you.

Here’s a sneak peek at Entanglement chapter 15. 🚀 🦝

When Rocket and Lethys entered the lecture hall, a hiss and rumble of voices erupted around them. Lethys walked as if he were a king, proud and tall, but his ears swiveled catching the odd whispered word or snide remark. His upper lip lifted towards one particular humie who quailed at the sight of three-inch long canines.

Tail bristling, and chest so tight even the metal there ached, poor Rocket heard more clearly than his father: “Look at that thing,” “Am I truly to believe that creature is a Tekton,” “I can’t believe these two were even allowed into the building,” and “Let us hope they have had their shots.” It took everything that Rocket had inside of him to keep from either latching onto the rich wool of Lethys pantleg or fleeing the room.

His crimson eyes swept the room, searching for even one friendly face. Just as he began to harden his heart against the whole assembly, a bald, short, and aging man and a willowy tall and thin woman stepped into the aisle. “Rocket, my boy!” the older man smiled in true welcome, and Rocket recognized the jovial voice.

“Professor Stollwizer?” he guessed from the rich baritone of his favorite teacher.

“Yes, indeed! It is a pleasure to finally meet you, young man,” Professor Stollwizer smiled his bushy mustache moving with his lips.

“Nice to meet you, Professor,” Rocket said with his best manners, voice clear and free of accent as he could manage.

The little man shook Rocket’s hand with real affection before offering his hand to Lethys. “Sir, your son is the most brilliant scholar I have ever had the good fortune to teach. You must be so proud of him,” the man enthused.

Lethys guarded expression smoothed into one of beaming pride, “I am most proud of him and his achievements,” he agreed, his massive paw completely engulfing the man’s small hand.

“Ah, Rocket, Mr. Kavashi,” Professor Stollwizer smiled broadly as he gestured at the thin woman next to him, “This is Professor Rikthi. Rocket, you will be the teaching assistant in her introductory physics and mechanical theories classes.”

Professor Rikthi bent down to offer her hand to Rocket. She had an ageless face, a monocle, and a soft, kind voice, “I’ve heard how hard of a worker you are, Rocket. I’m sure we will get along well.”

“I wouldn’t be so certain about that,” interjected a middle-aged Xandarian who eyed Rocket and Lethys with a sneer of derision as he pushed up his glasses and shoved his way past Professor Stollwizer. “It hasn’t yet presented any proof that he is the true author of the paper submitted,” the man continued in an annoyingly nasal voice.

“He,” growled Lethys looming over the man, “My son is a person, a male, he is not an it.”

“It,” the man snarled back, uncowed by Lethys’ size and ferocity, “Is an animal, a sick joke being played on our university by this preposterous creature,” the man indicated to Lethys then and smiled meanly. Every cell in Rocket’s body longed to hide behind his father from this sharp man that reminded him too much of his Sire. “How long did it take you to train it to wear clothes? Stand on its hind legs? There is no possibility of this little monster having authored-”

“Enough-” interrupted Professor Stollwizer in booming voice at odds with his cheerful seeming mien. “I assure you that no one else but Rocket Kivashi could have written the thesis in question,” Professor Stollwizer frowned up at the man, “I advised him extensively during the writing process, his voice has always been the same, writing style the same, intelligence unrivaled by any person I’ve ever met-”

“Shall I tell you how easy it would be to fake a voice, old man? Are you so far into your dotage that you actually believe this preposterous lie?” the angry man hissed. He pointed at Lethys, “The only thing that surprises me, is that you planned this ruse so poorly. Couldn’t you have engineered something that looked more convincing? I can see bolts sticking out of its face.”

Rocket barely controlled the instinctive reaction to touch the metal on his cheeks. Heat burned his face, and he wanted to cry, but just as he was about to open his mouth on a silent sob, a memory flickered in his mind.

The evening before he’d stood on the stool in Petra’s bathroom combing his face fur, trying to style it in a way that would cover the metal there. As he grew older, Rocket’s fur grew more and more luxurious, but it still didn’t cover that hateful metal in his face. He sighed and considered using some of Petra’s hair gel, but thought better of it when he remembered that it accentuated her curls but did little to control them.

“Whatcha doin’?” Petra asked appearing behind him in her nightshirt.

“Oh, nothing,” he tried to lie.

“Rocky, you were combing like you wanted to pull out all your fur. What are you doing?” Petra countered as she came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Standing like this, his head was just below her chest; if she leaned forward any closer, she could rest her breasts against the top of his head, a thought that made his embarrassment flare even hotter.

“People will see the metal in my face, see what a freak I am,” he whispered watching Petra’s face in the mirror.

She frowned then and used her hands to turn him to face her. “There is nothing about you that makes you a freak, Rocky. Besides lots of spacers have mods.”

“What will I say if people ask about them?” he asked her, so many things he had to cover for, think of excuses for.

“Tell them to mind their goddamn business, is what you’ll say,” Petra replied with real heat, “Tell those rude motherfuckers to fuck right off.” She searched his face and found him still uncertain and lost. Petra leaned in close and slowly, purposely pressed a kiss right over both protruding metal implants. “You tell those assholes that your girlfriend kisses your beautiful face so much you had to your cheeks reenforced, that you’re just that irresistible to her.”

Rocket’s eyes went wide and he whispered, “No one would ever believe that. I don’t even believe that. I-”

Instead of answering him with words, Petra lowered her face and pressed her lips to the metal collarbones holding his shoulders back, kissed the metal bars that squeezed his chest. “I will kiss any part of you to convince you otherwise,” she whispered against the scarred naked skin around the outer ribs. “So don’t you even care about what anyone thinks about your body but me.”

Inside of Rocket’s chest fear turned to anger, because, the truth was, his appearance didn’t and shouldn’t matter. Lethys and Petra loved and accepted him, and that was all he needed. This fucker’s opinion didn’t matter at all. “It is too my paper,” Rocket found himself declaring loudly enough that the whole hall went still. “I wrote every single word, and in my defense I’ll prove it beyond doubt.”

Every eye was swiveled his way, every human face staring at him in either disbelief or shock except for Professor Stollwizer and Professor Rikthi who smiled warmly. “Ask any question you want about my paper,” Rocket said casually as he walked to the stage. Before he stepped up the first stair, he shot back over his shoulder, “Of course, that’s assuming that you can understand the complexity of the work in question.”

This is goddamn beautiful, and I’m just loving every bit of interaction between these two darlings. Also, Rocket should fuck around with every part of Natasha’s car. 🚗

the raccoon, the witch, & the roadtrip. part three. illinois. wisconsin. minnesota.

the raccoon, the witch, & the roadtrip masterlist previous part | next part [est june 4] | main masterlist

angst, comfort, friendship, & fluff for @hibatasblog rocket & wanda | part 3/6 | word count: 1680.

night falls on the outskirts of chicago. wanda and rocket reflect on the horrors of the universe.

During a watch party for Avengers: Endgame on Twitter, Markus revealed the idea to team Wanda with the Guardian of the Galaxy captain actually made it into several versions of the film's script. "We had whole drafts with Wanda on a road trip with Rocket," Markus wrote, "but after the Vision plot in Infinity War, nothing we came up with was anything but wheel spinning for her character." CBR

references dialogue from All-New Guardians of the Galaxy Issue #4 - 6/21/2017

At Rocket’s urging, they’d stopped in a weird little convenience-and-fuel shop that the witch had called a rest stop, and he’d sneaked in behind some other humies and poked through the variety of chargers, converters, headphones, and other piecemeal tech that the rest stop had available for travelers to buy.

He’d emptied his pockets once they’d gotten back on the road and Wanda had looked at him with a crease between her brows. 

“How did you buy all that?” she’d asked, lips pursed. She always has big eyes, but they’d seemed even bigger then, and he hadn’t been able to quite clock what her expression had meant.  

So he’d just snorted. “Do I look like I carry Terran cash?”

Again, something in the corner of her mouth had flickered.

He’d been able to spend most of Indiana peeling apart wires and twisting them into one, breaking apart plastic hulls, and snapping together pieces of metal. 

“Natasha’s going to kill you,” Wanda tells him when he pries off the plastic facade protecting the wiring for all the fancy controls on Nat’s dashboard.

He shrugs. “Not if she can’t catch me.”

The witch makes that little puff of sound again. “Just — don’t mess with anything but the sound system,” she tells him. “I’m not making this drive without climate control and blinkers.”

He snorts, then points to a little heating coil the size of an old Kree Imperial coin. “What about that? Can I fuck with that?”

She glances over. “The cigarette lighter? Sure.”

It barely takes him any time to hook up the zune, and it’s crooning through Nat’s speakers by the time they hit the outskirts of Chicago. The sun’s long dropped behind the horizon by then, and he tells her they should hole up for the night.

“Danvers ain’t in that much of a rush,” he tells her. “We can take a break. Get some sleep.”

The witch doesn’t seem the least bit concerned about sharing a room with him, which is nice, because most of the time he feels like he’s gotta be on his guard with these baldbodies. He’s fairly certain at least half of the Avengers ain’t got any frickin’ respect for him or Nebs, and it’s frankly demoralizing.

But here he is, sharing a room with the witch. He’s never been one for regular sleep, and he’s got this thing with nightmares he doesn’t really want to inflict on Wanda. So he stays up most of the night, propped dozily against the headboard and fucking around on a datapad. The witch, for her part, pretends to watch some show on the two-dimensional Terran holovid-projector — primitive — then turns it off and pretends to sleep.

Pretends.

He tilts his head down at his datapad and wonders whether or not he should tell her that he can hear her heartbeat. It hasn’t dropped down to a relaxed, drowsy rate yet — in fact, sometimes he can hear it picking up, just for a minute. He wrestles with himself for a good fifteen minutes before he sighs and gets up, crossing the room to lean against the wall with the window. The witch is facing it, and he knows she can sense him, even though her eyes are closed. He leans back against the wall-mounted climate control unit, crossing his arms across his chest and his legs at the ankle while he waits for Wanda give up her silly charade.

It only takes about twenty seconds of him staring at her with one brow raised before she opens her eyes. They’re glowing as blood-crimson as his in this light — but where Rocket knows that his are made of reflective eyeshine, throwing back the flat light from the cracked bathroom door, hers are lit from the inside: whirling firestorms that would light up like furious beacons on even the most lightless of planets. 

He tries to curl the corner of his mouth in a way that says he’s unimpressed, but it’s a lie, and he’s never been good at lying.

“F’you’re not gonna sleep…”

She sighs and sits up, then rises, moving toward him so quickly that he startles: arms unfolding to defend himself, ears flickering flat. But she just comes and pulls the heavy curtains back, staring out into the distance. The glow of the city sits on the horizon, pinned with gemstone-lights. She leans forward, elbows propper on the window sill and hands on her chin.

“I don’t sleep much,” she says quietly.

He hesitates, then leaps nimbly onto the armchair on her other side, so he can peer out the window too.

“Yeah, well, you’re in good company,” he concedes after a moment. “Not sure how anybody does, to be honest.”

She snorts delicately at that, and he startles again. It’s the first time he’s seen that much life out of her — not counting her barely-banked outrage when he’d first called her boyfriend a robot, or the deadly-looking glow in her eyes a few moments ago.

“They think you can look away from the horrors of the universe,” she says emotionlessly, then shrugs. “I suppose—”

“No,” he interrupts flatly. “You can’t.”

She’s silent, and he doesn’t say anything either. They stare out toward the city for longer than Rocket knows — and to be honest, he’s only partly paying attention: sunk moodily into the horrors that plague his own mind. When he shakes himself – fur rippling from nose to tailtip — he’s reminded that he’s not alone. The witch looks as distant as he probably had. He’d been wondering — ever since the Snap — why she’d seemed so separate from her fellow Avengers, but he figures he gets it now. They’re an annoyingly optimistic bunch and she — she’s got her own horrors, too. 

She sighs, and stretches: hands gripping the sill, back arched like a cat. “Well,” she reasons. “If neither of us are sleeping, maybe we should get on the road?”

They stop at a roadside diner with outdoor seating and even though the sun is only blushing up the eastward horizon, Wanda insists on eating outside. She’s not trying to get in a situation where someone tells them that Rocket can’t be in a restaurant. She doesn’t have the energy to deal with his fury at the — well, the injustice of it. 

Because he’s not an animal. She’s still not sure exactly what he is, but he’s not an animal. She thinks again of his voice in the darkness beside her in the still-dark hours of the morning:

No, you can’t.

All of the Avengers do it, to some extent or another. Look past some of the horrors. She supposes it’s how they survive.

But she can’t.

She hasn’t been able to look away since she’d been trapped under that bed with Pietro, staring at the Stark Industries missile. She’s been waiting for death ever since. Now, under a rose-and-lavender sky with Rocket, she suddenly realizes that this is why it had been so easy to believe in Ultron’s promises.

Ultron hadn’t been able to look away, either. 

She supposes now that killing people is perhaps the wrong way to deal with it, but she still understands the broken heart at the core of the whole aching dilemma.

She’d started to take her eyes off it, once — the Stark Industries missile and everything else that came after. She’d started to lose sight of all that misery in the softness of Vis’ eyes, and now — now there’s nothing to distract her.

She just wants to look in his eyes again, instead of at — everything else.

But here’s Rocket, and he — she thinks maybe he understands. Strange, that she would find someone else so like her. It apparently took billions of lightyears’ worth of travel and some sort of — of alien mutation or something, but here he is.

They take breaks in Rochester and Sioux Falls, and listen to almost every song on the zune, including repeats from yesterday. Rocket picks up earpods and batteries and a dozen other small devices at every rest stop they pause at, and she doesn’t ask how he gets a hold of them. He tears them apart beside her, legs still swinging in the seat, and she imagines stopping somewhere and picking up a child’s carseat for him. There’s a curl in the corner of her mouth before she recognizes the feeling of it, and it startles her — to know that she’s still capable of smiling.

Rocket reconfigures the little devices into strange combinations that she’s sure are somehow purposeful, seemingly none-the-wiser in regards to her errant, probably-insulting thought and her first smile in years. The quiet between them feels oddly companionable. 

“Rocket,” she says, sometime between stops. “What is this mission Carol gave you, anyway? I need to know how I’m supposed to help you.”

He shrugs, focused on the now-unidentifiable piece of tech in his hands. It moves so fast — flashing metal and chipped plastic, little bundles of wires. “Gettin’ me there’s good enough, sweetheart,” he mutters, then flinches at the same time she shoots him a startled, sideways stare. “Sorry,” he mumbles, grimacing. 

She puts her eyes back on the pavement, the broken white lines sliding quickly beneath and beyond them. “That’s fine,” she says quietly, and he offers a half-shrug.

“Know Nat hates when I call her that,”  he admits, still focused on whatever he’s making. Another quick glance tells her his ears are flattened, though. “Try not to.” She can feel him hesitate before he flashes a sharp grin into her periphery. “Prob’ly can’t just keep calling you witch, though.”

She snorts before she can stop herself: a broken half of a chuckle, rusty and unused. “Why not?” she asks, and he snickers under his breath as the trees go by and the zune repeats another song through his makeshift adapter.

“I think calling her sweetheart is going to be the least of your concerns once she sees how you’ve messed with her car,” Wanda adds, and when he cackles, it pulls something answering out of her lungs: cherry-blossom-bright and unfamiliar, and real. The laugh feels strange in her mouth, absent so long she’d forgotten the petalled shape of it.

Both of them abruptly fall quiet, the sounds of Joan Jett curling through the speakers.

“Did you just—?” Rocket asks, the words crackling off at the end, and Wanda’s hands tighten on the wheel.

“Yes,” she says quietly, although the startle is still in her voice. “I did.”

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100% agreement. Really, could see most versions of him using the occasional recreational drugs for multiple reasons: pain reduction, nerve calming, fun, just to see the infinite beauty of the stars shimmer a little harder, to forget emotionalistic memories, a general disregard for health/safety, and pure unbridled curiosity.

a brief eidos headcanon

the eidos collection | navigation fanfiction masterlist | collections masterlist

CONTEXT/WARNING: suggestive. mild recreation drug use, intox if you squint? this was noodling around in my brain & i’m trying to figure out if it’s something

like. eidos-rocket for sure smokes.

maybe world-tree-root, or a deep-space varietal of everbloom, or whatever. it takes you a while to figure out that’s why he always smells like campfire and ginger, mixed in with the pepper-cedar of the oil he uses for his fur and the almost-citrus scent of dark-matter engine-fuel

smokes and booze just fold themselves into the fabric of his life, so easily he barely notices. he’s not always got a cigarette clipped between his teeth — works with too many combustibles for that — but he likes to take the edge off when the situation allows.

and it’s not like smoking is his favorite thing. not even close. up till now, if a person had asked what he liked to do in his spare time, he’d say he prefers to blow shit up, work on the milano, and steal from snotty-rich skagheaps and scutbags.

but one random night between missions he manages to convince you to hang out with him at mantlo’s, and he realizes you’ve never smoked everbloom before. deviousness curls the corner of his mouth, and he finds himself flashing a fang before he can stifle the wickedness of his sharp grin. and by the time the night’s over, rocket’s realized he’s got a new favorite pastime after all:

shotgunning you in the dimly-lit backcorners of seedy knowhere bars

support banner by @/adornedwithlight | outer-space divider by @/enchanthings | moodboard by me! ♡