Fucking Adorable.

Read this. Stop everything you are doing and read this.

2023 fanfiction collection

navigation | full fanfiction masterlist | collections headcanons & imagines | sfw fanfiction | nsfw fanfiction

below the cut, you'll find individual sfw & nsfw rocket fanfics completed in 2023.

relevant ratings key: fluff ✮ | spice ✩ | some smut ❤︎‬ | much smut ❤︎‬❤︎‬

more detail about what you can expect from my fiction

typically, platonic & spicy stories will feature a gn reader (no use of y/n). smutty stories are more likely to feature a "female" reader or oc.

a separate post for headcanons & imagines organized by year will be forthcoming. eventually.

check out the navigation & full fanfiction pages for links to future projects and expected updates, other recommended writers in the fandom, my rocket fan art, writing tips, marvel critique, fic previews, new posts, etc ♡

July 2023

The Very Boring Adventures of Space Pilot & Sweatshirt Girl. ❤︎‬❤︎ 18+ only MDNI | f!reader | 5/5 visits | word count: 37,783. In Rocket Raccoon: Grounded (2016) / Issue #3, Rocket asks a stranger on the ferry to "make sure nobody does anything weird" to him while he naps, and the stranger just, like, abandons him while he's sleeping?? who does that? when a stranger asks you to watch their stuff in a coffee shop, it's a holy obligation. x100 if it's a hot local space pilot trying to catch some Zs on the ferry. get in loser we're gonna fix it. | Domestic Scenes in Space Travel.

August 2023

Outer Space Safety & Spaceship Maintenance Training. ❤︎‬❤︎ 18+ only MDNI | f!reader | word count: 9,853. study night. or: why study when you can seduce your hot local Space Pilot into oral? | Domestic Scenes in Space Travel.

September 2023

Autopilot Systems Check ✮ fluff | gn reader | word count: 1,406. reader wakes up in the middle of the night and rocket is nowhere to be found. mcu-based, post-endgame. | anthology

Reconnaissance for Beginners: An Instruction Manual. ❤︎‬❤︎ 18+ only MDNI | f!reader | word count: 14,329. date night. in a gesture of true romance, rocket takes you to a dive bar. of all the stories he's shared with you, his favorites are the ones where he gets saved by the space princess. not that he'd tell you that. loosely based on Rocket (2017): The Blue River Score. | Domestic Scenes in Space Travel.

October 2023

Blackmail Material. ❤︎‬❤︎18+ only MDNI | f!reader | word count: 30,591. a classic tale of "that fuckin raccoon found your sex toy." post-endgame friends-to-lovers smut with feelings, fluff, & love confessions. see post for warnings and contex

kinktober 2023. ❤︎‬❤︎ f!reader x rocket. please read all warnings.

Turbulence ♡ cockwarming word count: 1,229 rocket needs you to hold. flarkin. still.

Practice ♡ hunter/prey word count: 987 rocket requests your assistance in brushing up on some of his old résumé skills. expansion: evasive maneuvers.

Nod for Yes ♡ blindfold word count: 1,261 rocket saves you.

Heavy Artillery ♡ gunplay word count: 3,796 rocket sets you up with terran internet access on knowhere.

Proof ♡ recording rocket wants something to remember you by while he’s away. overlaps with Domestic Scenes in Space Travel.

Soft ♡ nipple/tit play word count: 4,280 rocket just wants something soft.

Sunshine ♡ against a wall word count: 5,489 you take a stranger home. expansion: sunshine.

Triptych ♡ praise word count: 5,514 rocket’s girlfriend is a virgin in three different universes.

Good Dreams ♡ dacryphilia & somnophilia word count: 3,256 rocket stays up late to finish some work.

Tech ♡ sex toys word count: 1,326 rocket made you something.

Giftwrap ♡ lingerie word count: 6,484 semi-shy, ultrafeminine reader goes shopping with friends; picks out something nice for rocket. sequel to windfall (can be read alone).

Wyndham; or, the Intergalactic Prometheus ♡ free space 21 ~ hate sex ♡ 23 ~ dirty talk/begging/cnc ♡ 26 ~ choking ♡ 29 ~ creampie word count: 13,512 a smutty  ode to a halloween classic ♡ mary shelley’s frankenstein; or, the modern prometheus. au rocket essentially lives the creature's life; visits the high evolutionary’s bride on your wedding night per the novel. things go off the rails from there. READ WARNINGS. expansion: cicatrix.

tomorrow. ✩ 18+ only MDNI | f!reader | word count: 2,441. you had a long day at work. rocket decides to comfort you.  no real smut (this was a failed kinktober 2023 fic) but some explicit references to sex acts. unhealthy coping mechanisms. PLEASE check main page for warnings. | anthology

November 2023

adorations. ❤︎‬❤︎‬ 18+ only | f!reader | word count: 4,518. you have a habit of complimenting rocket. he decides to give you plenty of reasons to keep doing so. aka rocket has a praise kink and no-one can convince me otherwise. mcu-based smut with feelings. see post for warnings and context.

Critical Interview Questions for Potential Crewmates ✩ | ❤︎‬❤︎ varies | f!reader | word count: 6,111 - 6,723. you take rocket on a fall-themed date. unbeknownst to you, he also has plans: specifically, to introduce you to some potential roommates. just pumpkin-spiced, apple-scented, maple-flavored FLUFF. see post for clarifying info and context. | Domestic Scenes in Space Travel.

take what you need. eat somethin. ✮ fluff | gn reader | word count: 576.

take what you need. get outta bed & get your shit done. ✮ fluff | gn reader | word count: 925. for @/caesarhamato22 ♡

take what you need. go to frickin bed already. ✮ fluff | gn reader | word count: 737.

take what you need. leave your frickin skin alone. ✮ fluff | gn reader | word count: 1,579. for nonnie! ♡

take what you need. take a damn bath. ✮ fluff | gn reader | word count: 1,375. for @/hibatasblog ♡

December 2023

frostnip. ✮ fluff | gn reader | word count: 1,880. you teach rocket about appropriate winterwear. mcu-based. | borealis: year one

snow & stars. ❤︎‬❤︎ 18+ only MDNI | f!reader | word count: 16,450. citing a lack of "team spirit," corporate requires you to attend the annual holiday office party (off the clock, of course) if you want to be eligible for your raise. luckily, the new guy makes things... interesting. | borealis: year one

take what you need. drink some goddamn water. ✮ fluff | gn reader | word count: 1,209.

take what you need. stop destroying your frickin clothes. ✮ fluff | gn reader | word count: 1,609. for nonnie!♡

take what you need. take a fuckin study break. ✮ fluff | gn reader | word count: 1,020. for like 80% of you probably ♡

traditions.✮ fluff | gn reader | word count: 3,368. every winter, rocket comes to your place to celebrate the holidays and take a nap. mcu-based. can be read romantically or platonically. just pure feel-good shit, warm as cocoa and twice as sweet. | borealis: year one

ugly sweater. ✩ suggestive! spice | gn reader | word count: 5,196. rocket might make fun of your holiday attire, but he kind of wishes you'd wear it more often. | borealis: year one

frostnip.✮ fluff | gn reader | word count: 1,880. you teach rocket about appropriate winterwear. mcu-based. | borealis: year one

snow & stars. ❤︎‬❤︎ 18+ only MDNI | f!reader | word count: 16,450. citing a lack of "team spirit," corporate requires you to attend the annual holiday office party (off the clock, of course) if you want to be eligible for your raise. luckily, the new guy makes things... interesting. | borealis: year one

Winter Across the Galaxy ✩ spice | rocket x f!oc | word count: ?? a super-casual barely-edited oneshot written in response to a reader comment, "Thinking about how Jolie would have reacted to the events in the Holiday Special and laughing." | borealis: year one | Window Across the Galaxy.

A question about fornication is asked. Confusion is the result.

sometimes a draft of a future chapter is going so well and i want to share it (especially when it’s something i usually struggle with like actual plot lol) but it would be like, major spoilers.

in unrelated news, chapters 19 and 20 of cicatrix.⋆☁︎:･꧂ are coming out so well. but holy shit this fic is gonna be long

here be spoilers.⋆☁︎:･꧂

(totally unedited & probably with many major typos)

Rocket stares. He can taste his tooth enamel, flaking as his molars grind together. “What,” he asks slowly, “do you mean by give you a ride?”

Drax shrugs. “After I win our competition,” he says reasonably, “I—“

“You ain’t winning anything,” Rocket snaps. The Destroyer looks at him with something like pity.

“I will kill the most abilisks,” Drax explains patiently. “Then I will gut the Daughter of Thanos like the enormous moon-scaled fish that used to roam the Forgotten Lakes of Kylos. But then,” he gestures with something like helplessness, “I will need transportation.”

“You… don’t have a ship?” pearl asks carefully.

“I am Groot?” Groot chimes in.

“Yeah,” Rocket interjects, picking up on Groot’s general question. “How did you even get here?”

“I coerced the captain of a merchant vessel,” the Kylosian says simply.

Rocket throws up his hands. “Then what makes you think I’d frickin’ want you on mine?”

Drax blinks. “We’re friends now,” he points out. “We almost shared a meal together. Your Terran pet—“ He points at pearl and Rocket’s brain is back to short-circuiting. “—warned me about the miserable tastelessness of Sovereign food. I complimented your impressive strength, and have spent casual time in your party’s company.” His brow furrows, like he’s surprised he’s gotta explain all this.

“We ain’t friends,” Rocket says darkly, and the words are almost shrill. “I’m barely friends with them,” he adds, jabbing a thumb at pearl and a forefinger in Groot’s direction.

Drax’s eyes widen, and he looks wounded and betrayed. “But we slept together,” the Destroyer whispers.

Rocket sputters.

“I am Groot,” Groot concedes, and Rocket turns on the Taluhnisan.

“We did not sleep together,” he snaps at the Big Guy. “For fuck’s sake — you three slept together.”

“I am Groot,” Groot reasons, and pearl chokes. The statement’s too complex for Rocket to catch, though, and he turns to pearl, who looks half-panicked herself.

“What’d he say?” Rocket asks dangerously.

“He said, uhm.” Her moonsilver eyes flick to Groot, and Drax, and then back to him, wide and alarmed. She’s pale except for two high spots of color in her cheeks. “He asked if the transitive property applies to mammal sleeping habits.”

“I am Groot,” Groot adds.

“He says, if I slept with them, and you slept with me—“

“I am Groot—“

“Enough!” Rocket bellows. “What is wrong with you people?”

Madame, that raccoon is a wicked, wicked tease.

Candied Apples 𖤣𖥧𖡼⚘.˚⭑ anticipated july 19 ❤︎❤︎

the THIRD & FINAL part of ⭑˚.⚘𖡼𖥧𖤣 windfall | main masterlist COMING THIS FRIDAY. FINALLY.

18+ only MDNI | no use of y/n | f!reader | 2/3 parts | wip | word count: pending. thievery in the garden.

You shiver again. You just want his hands back, even just the forefingers that had lingered on your shoulders — something, anything. You gnaw at your lip. “C-Captain?” you say meekly. “Rocket?” “Yeah, angel?” You can’t feel his touch, but you can tell he’s toying with the bow. The featherlight weight of it shifts against your spine; the ribbon whispers against your skin.  “Touch me?” you beg softly. “Please?” “Gonna,” he husks. “But sweetheart, I told you I was a real jackass. Greedy. Mean as shit. Told you I was awful.” You hear him inhale: so slow and steady and measured that you think it must be in an effort to keep his own control. “I’ll be rough with you later like you asked for, angel — but this first time, I’m gonna be mean. I’m gonna be so frickin’ lightfingered that you’re gonna feel like you aren’t being touched at all.” Your flesh heats and you find yourself shivering again at the same time: hot and cold, fevers and chills. Slowly — slowly — he pulls on one of the tails of the bow, and you can feel the tension of the knot at your back, being pulled taut. The slight tug is echoed in the tangle of nerves in your belly, tied somewhere right around your cervix: tightening, tensing. Then the knot holding together the back of your dress melts into something slack and loose. Maybe it would be nice if the knot in your abdomen did that too — but, perversely, it only winds tighter. Another whimper rises high in the back of your mouth and bubbles out, soft and pleading. He chuckles at the sound — and abandons the bow.  Just — drops the threadbare ribbon to stroll another circle around you, eyes licking hungrily over your loosened straps, the disheveled dip in your neckline, the way your knees peek out from the rumpled ruffle of your skirt and press into the cushion on the floor. The way your fingers curl desperately into the worn fabric.

there is another preview of this chapter.... the THIRD & FINAL part of ⭑˚.⚘𖡼𖥧𖤣 windfall is COMING THIS FRIDAY. FINALLY.

wind·fall /ˈwin(d)ˌfôl/ noun. an apple or other fruit blown down from a tree or bush by the wind; an unexpected piece of good fortune.

semi-shy touch-deprived reader tries to avoid meeting knowhere’s intimidating captain. is profoundly unsuccessful.

based on a prompt by @creativepromptsforwriting: The apartment she moved to has a beautiful, well-tended garden. After a while she finds out that her neighbor is the one tending to the plants and she decides to help him out one day.

⭑˚.⚘𖡼𖥧𖤣 windfall masterlist | main masterlist flower dividers & banners by @/saradika-graphics

So much amazing art today! I love them together.

Entanglement

A woman sang softly as she held Petra in her arms. Her voice spilled out into the air, a golden river of song. Outside it was windy and cold with snow, but, here, she was safe and warm and happy. Petra nuzzled closer to the woman and pressed her face into her soft sweater. The woman smelled dizzily of the fragrant Georgio Beverly Hills perfume made up of the soft springy scents of orange blossom, rich tuberose, and delicious, mouth-watering vanilla.

Petra’s mother smelled like a dream come true, and she was so, so pretty. Her eyes were clear beryl and her smile filled her heart with pure love and trust. Petra cuddled closer as her mother continued to sing.

-Chapter 7 by @hibatasblog

I love my mom. She’s my rock so I really related to this scene in the story where Petra is left alone after an assault. She taps into memories of her mother to lure herself into a better state of mind. Made me happy… till it didn’t. (Spoilers!)

anyway! Please look up the story! It’s amazing!!! Everyone! Please have a lovely day!

The art is so lovely and the story is super hot!

"Um, what do ya suggest then? Mister expert?"

"What you do best…" Peter leaned down, and Rocket caught the light shining off the curls. Mentally he took back all the bald jokes he ever made. There were even strikes of amber mixed with the blonde. "Test things out… see for yourself… if you can use me as a cure."

Rocket took a deep breath. Was it getting hot here in the hangar or what? "All right. It was funny. I get it. Now knock it off." Rocket tried to back away, played it all as a joke. Even if his dick had different ideas. At this point the thing has laser focus.

"I ain't yer type at all."

Peter's first instinct was to creak a joke but something in Rocket's face told him now wasn't the time. Firming his nerves, Peter reached out and took Rocket's hand in his. Allowing a second for Rocket to reject him or not, pain having been his teacher, Peter rubbed his thumb over Rocket's knuckles. The contrast of size was considerable.

"Says who?"

A collab with the wonderful @bbasmos for the lovely @nerdy-and-dedicated!

-sorry for the delay. I still recovering from a slumping depression.

Rocket: I say we get drunk and shoot crap.

Groot: <Yeah, except we do that every day.>

do you ever feel victimized by fanfic authors when you make them fanart and then they give YOU compliments and you try to give THEM compliments and its a vicious cycle??? ♥♥ ft. @nicolareed

I died. Seriously, I am so pleased with this.

rocket raccoon prompt week ✷ day six bite ✷.⁺⋆˚₊

low-grade spice & fluff | no use of yn | gn reader | drabble | word count: 2,266.

“That’s — a big frickin’ scar you got there.”

Your eyes flare wide and you twist in your seat so fast you nearly spin off it, staring at the stranger who has just hoisted himself onto the barstool next to you. Not because you recognize the voice — you don’t yet, though you will — but just because it’s such a personal remark.

And you’re a little bit sensitive about the scar, if you’re being honest. It’s something of a souvenir.

Then recognition clicks in. Because there he is: short. Covered in fur. Velveteen ears and a dark mask, and a plush ringtail that sweeps behind him. Eyes like red stars.

Cutie.

You stare at him, breath sucked right out of your lungs. He’s got hesitation scrawled and sprawled all over his face: ears flicking down and tail lashing once, nervously. His claws clink against his massive, nearly-empty stein of Xitarish whiskey. 

You tear your eyes away and stare down at the ring of pearly ridges stitched into your arm — like maybe there were answers carved into your flesh there all along, and you’d just never noticed. Or like each toothmark is a lodestar, and together the circle of them can help get you home. 

“Isn’t it rude? To comment on a stranger’s scars?” you breathe out, trying to buy yourself time as all the pieces begin falling together. 

He blinks at you, and shifts uncomfortably. “Uh, Jemiah.” He gestures at the owner of The Boot, who just so happens to be your boss. “Next drink’s on me.”

“Sure thing, Rocket,” Jemiah says warmly — far more warmly than you’ve ever heard from him before. 

You feel your eyes flare wide. “You’re Rocket?” you manage to utter, eyes scrolling up and down him again. “One of the people who bought this damn skull? The pilot — the Guardian of the Galaxy or whatever?”

Somehow he looks even more uncomfortable. “Guardians of the Galaxy. Plural. We’re — a team.”

You exhale slowly — measuredly — and try to loosen all the small feathers of confusion crowding up your head, downy-soft. And as you let go of all those wisps, adrenaline rushes in to take their place: the intoxication of suddenly seeing him. Meeting him — for real this time. Having a name to put with the memory. 

Your smile blows wide. You can’t help yourself. 

“The cutie has a team,” you murmur under your breath, and you feel the blood rush to your cheeks when his eyes sharpen on you. He shifts on his stool, but his shoulders relax a little, and the corner of his mouth twitches. 

“Don’t listen to him, Jemiah,” you call out. “His drink’s on me.”

Your boss ducks to hide his grin even as the cutie in question — Rocket, you think, with a pleased little grin — grimaces. “Wait—“ he starts.

You click your tongue and shake your head, cutting him off and grinning. “Not a chance. You bought this stupid skull out from under the Collector and made it a tolerable place to live? There’s no way you’re buying the drinks. I have to show my gratitude somehow.”

You drop your lids to half-mast and raise a brow, hoping he knows that you’re happy to show your gratitude in a few other ways as well. The risk of offering brings a nervous little buzz to your belly. 

As for him — well, you get the sense that he’s a guy who doesn’t let himself flounder very often, but right now his face is flickering between so many emotions that you can’t possibly catch them all. Shock, and then a brief flash of something like smugness, followed immediately by a flash of narrow-eyed skepticism — then a sort of uncertain hesitance, a brief twinge of humor, and finally, a cynical half-sneer. Then he starts right back at the beginning and does it all over again.

It’s fascinating.  

“Did you know,” you say slowly when Jemiah sets down the fresh drinks, “that I work here at The Boot?”

The stranger — no longer a stranger, you suppose; no longer just the cutie — no, Rocket pauses in his cycle of expressions, takes a slug of his new stein of whiskey, and shakes himself out. 

Where the hell does he put it? you wonder. The stein is as big as his whole torso, you think.

But he doesn’t seem buzzed at all. Instead, he casts you a measuring, sideways glance, entirely too alert for your tastes. 

“You don’t say,” he drawls at last, one brow raised as his spine eases a little more.

“Mmhmm,” you say mildly. “It’s my day off.” You pause meaningfully and take another sip of your own drink. “Didn’t used to get days off in Exitar. Or anywhere else on Knowhere, as a matter of fact.”

His eyes track your hands, and flick to your face. 

“Guess the difference is all thanks to you,” you tell him lightly, and tilt your glass toward him. “Here’s to the happy change in leadership.”

He studies you, and waits till you set your drink down again. 

“So. Uh. How long you worked here?” he asks — as if he didn’t already have at least some idea.

You grin into your glass. “Long enough to have developed a very strict set of rules for my survival.”

His ears flick. You’re glad he’s indulging you — playing along for now. “What’re the rules?”

You lean back. “I’m glad you asked,” you tease, and splay out one hand so you can count them on your fingers. “Number one. Avoid the Collector at all costs.”

He snorts. “Well, guess you’re not a complete idiot,” he mutters, and then slashes his red-amber eyes at you and flinches, like he thinks maybe you’re going to be offended. 

But you only wink at him. Not a chance, cutie.  “Number two. Never hide all your units in one place — or on one datacard.”

A smirk curls the corner of his mouth and his nose twitches.

“Three. Always lock your doors behind you. And four, Don’t walk home alone from the Boot.” The smirk slides off his face at that and his eyes flash, so you rush along to the next rule, hoping to lighten the mood again. “Five. Always get customers’ money before you hand them their booze.”

There you go. The little curve is back at the corner of his mouth, even if his brow is still furrowed — almost like he’s distressed. 

You lean sideways and nudge him with your elbow. “And finally, number six.” He looks up at you and his ears tilt, eyes locked on yours like glimmering red stones. You lean so close you know your breath will flutter in the curve of his ear, and you drop your voice to a whisper. “Don’t try to break up fights.”

The pilot rears back, nearly tumbling backward off his stool, and you reach for him before you both catch yourselves. Reeling your outstretched hand back into yourself, you instead gift him a reckless grin and turn to your drink once more.

“It’s not a comprehensive list,” you tell him pragmatically, “and it isn’t in any particular order, but it’s kept me alive this long.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Rocket says, and his voice is suddenly raspy and low. “Even that last one?”

The laughter surprises you, fluttering up behind your ribs and escaping between your lips, soft  and velvety and hushed. 

“I only broke that one once,” you tell him, lifting your glass to your mouth and half-hiding your grin behind it. You can tell your eyes are sparkling, though. “And it’s not like I ever regretted it.”

He makes a sound in the back of his throat. “Sounds like you got a story.”

“Mmm,” you acknowledge, and you keep your voice playful. “It was years ago, now. I knew all the regulars back then — well, I still do, but more of them were jackasses back in the day. And this guy comes in — someone I’d never seen before. Swaggering, carrying a cannon twice as big as himself. Maybe — three feet tall? A true Short King.”

He’s got his stein to his lips and he chokes on a mouthful of whiskey, sputtering. “A what?”

You ignore him, still casting him that teasing half-smile and raising an eyebrow. “He had pretty eyes, and I remember him being more foulmouthed than a landlocked Ravager.”

“Pretty — what?” 

“Keep up, Rocket,” you taunt lightly, tapping a finger to the air just an inch away from the top of his nose, and his eyes go narrow. Everything on his face is suddenly promising retribution, but you’re reckless with glee now.

And you’ll be happy to pay up if he actually comes to collect. 

“I told him that I needed payment up front when he ordered—“

“Get the money before you hand them their booze,” he echoes Rule Five, eyes still hunting you, and you nod with mock-approval. 

“You get it,” you say with a chuckle. “Anyway, his response was just to swipe another patron’s datacard right in front of me and hand it over.” You can still fucking see it: his challenging half-grin, one brow raised.  “I think I stared at him for a full thirty seconds, but this cutie just smirked up at me. Brazen as fuck.”

You laugh softly at the memory, and Rocket — who might as well be your new landlord, you’ve realized — grumbles something under his breath. 

“Anyway, I was kinda smitten,” you admit with a little curve in your mouth, still buzzing the inside of your belly. 

It’s the truth, too.  You’d never thought that raccoon can get it before, but there you were. 

And here you are. 

To your surprise, Rocket goes quiet at that. The pilot of the famous — or infamous — Guardians of the Galaxy, and one of the new owners of Knowhere: still and silent for a long moment. 

Maybe he’ll slip out of his chair and leave, you think, and the flutters in your belly twist in sudden regret. Maybe you’ve scared him off. 

But when he speaks, his voice is like crystallized maple syrup: rich and gritty, waiting to crumble and melt and scrub against your skin.

“He’s why you got into a fight?”

You weigh out your options here. What to say? You’d lost sight of the cutie thanks to his height and the constant surge of new customers, and you’d sort of forgotten about him in the moment, to be honest — though you’re sure you’d have remembered later, alone in your shitty little room — but then you’d heard the sudden cacophonous boom of his enormous augmented cannon. There’d been screaming and crashing, and you’d woven yourself  between the bodies toward the sound. Just to assess, just to figure out what kind of danger you’d been in—

Fucking B’darl — the worst of your regular patrons — had entered into view and suddenly hoisted the cutie right up into the air before slamming him down into the orloni fighting ring. 

You hadn’t thought about it — about anything, really — just thrown yourself through the crowd, toward the fighting ring. By the time you’d gotten there, B’darl had the cutie pinned to the miniature arena’s floor by the throat.  Both the orloni and the f’saki had cowered back, blood-soaked and wounded, from the sudden interference in their battle-to-the-death. 

Looks like you wandered outta the ring, the fucking brute had sneered.Time to go back to brawling with the other vermin, you little monster. 

B’darl had lifted his other fist, easily the size of your entire head.

My money’s on the f’saki, though. 

You’d surged between them without thinking, latching onto B’darl’s massive forearm, knocking his fist to one side.

You shrug. “It was worth it,” you tell Rocket mildly, and take another sip of your drink.

His eyes drop to the ring of teethmarks in your arm again. He opens his mouth to speak, and you cut in.

“My own fault,” you tell him. “I should’ve known the cutie could handle himself. I got in the way.”

You can still remember how his firelight-eyes had stared up at you from behind a mouthful of flesh and blood, stunned and maybe horrified, teeth sunk almost to the bone.  In a worse timeline, maybe you’d have tried to rip your arm away. But here, in this one, you’d curled around him instinctively. Protectively. 

And then he’d reached around you smoothly and snagged B’darl’s ion pistol, and you’d heard the gun go off as he’d squeezed the trigger, blind.

“My only regret is that I lost sight of him in the aftermath,” you tell him with a shrug. You try for a teasing smile but it suddenly feels strained, tense on your mouth. You’d been too flushed with adrenaline when you’d first started this conversation. Now, suddenly, the nerves are present: rattling and twitching behind your sternum. Your fingers shake a little and you clamp them onto your glass. “Didn’t even catch his name.” 

He doesn’t say anything, and you squeeze your eyes shut. When you finally get the fluttering in your vagus nerve under control, you hazard a look up at him. 

His eyes are on your forearm though: the circle of silken raised marks, just three shades lighter than the rest of your skin, and strangely — almost prettily — translucent. His finger reaches out: dark and clawed, his touch like warm leather. You go so still that you can’t blink, can’t even breathe as he paints a ring of warmth on your skin, looping the circlet of scars onto his fingertip like pearls threaded on a string.

The flutters are back, full-force. 

Slowly, Rocket drags his gaze up to yours, sunset-eyes glowing.  “Cutie works.”

@hibatasblog deserves so much more & better than this little ficlet but i am dedicating it to them anyway because they regularly call rocket "short king" and i cannot get it out of my head. deepest love to them & all their writing (please do yourselves a favor and check out their ao3 fics if you have not already)

look i just feel like (1) rocket is a cutie and if you say it in the right tone, he'll be flattered enough to not kill you and (2) there's no way he'd ever forget the stranger who jumped into a fight on his behalf — and probably got scarred for it — back before he met the guardians. which is when the og encounter takes place fyi. forget about the fact that i don't think we know if he had ever been there before gamora brought them along — i headcanon that where two or more lowlifes gather, so too there is rocket.

sidenote oh my god i literally cannot stop with the increasing wordcount. day seven (when i eventually get around to it) is gonna be SHORT. it's a promise/challenge to myself. anyway i think my writing quality peaked with machinery and i'm sorry this is so late

day five. machinery. ✷ day seven. home. rocket raccoon prompt week list

taglist ♡ @evolvingchaoswitch ♡ @glow-autumz ♡ @wren-phoenix ♡ @suicidalshitstick ♡ @pretty-chips

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