˚₊‧✶ Headcanons & Imagines ✶‧₊˚

Rocket: [Referring to Blackjack] He’s selling us out!!!

[Rocket starts strangling Blackjack but is pulled off by Lylla]

Lylla: Rocket Stop!!! There has to be a reasonable explanation! At least give him a chance.

Blackjack: Thank you Lylla… I’m selling out.

[Lylla starts strangling Blackjack and Rocket crosses his arms and smiles smugly]

He put them in while they slept.

Cosmo: Rocket, where are the others right now?

Rocket: How should I know? D'ya think I put tracking chips on 'em or somethin'?

Cosmo:

Rocket: Yeah, okay, hold on. Lemme go get the tablet.

Cosmo: It is normal. I have one on Kraglin at all times.

The H.E. Deserved worse.

Tw blood , trauma

-

POV: you’re the high evolutionary😭😭😭

Enjoy!!

Oh my poor sweet raccoon. I’d give him all the pets.

Rocket Secretly Liked Being Petted I

For a moment, Nebula wasn't sure what to think. Then, "You hacked your Cyberbrain?" she exclaimed with a mixture of anger and concern. "Why?!"

Rocket's expression wilted. "Shouldn'a said nothin'... Knew this was a bad idea..." he mumbled. Then, bracing himself as if for retaliation, he answered, "I... it's a piece of code that works on a timer, 'bout half an hour to an hour. It... it sorta half shuts me down, brings 'me' - Rocket - semi-offline, gently; leavin' the... the base animal... but also leavin' enough'a me there so's I can control the base instincts so it don't get scared..."

Nebula puzzled through the jumbled rambling explanation, then, exasperated, asked "What if this piece of code fails?! What if this 'timer' stops working?! You'd never surface again, Rocket! Why would you make such a thing?!"

"BECAUSE WHEN DRAX PETTED ME, I LIKED IT, OKAY, AND I WANTED TO BE PETTED AGAIN!" Rocket suddenly shouted, eyes tearing up. "Because... because I wanted to know what all it was like without me gettin' in the way; all'a my thoughts. "'Touch only brings pain, Rocket! Petting is demeaning, Rocket. It's only for animals, pets, Rocket, and you ain't no animal or someone's pet!' All these awful thoughts, me gettin' in the way. B-But... I saw Quill layin' on the couch in the Milano Commons an' he was 'pettin'' Gamora, he was strokin' her hair an' she looked nearly asleep. I... I wanted that, to know what it was like, this pettin' thing..."

Nebula nodded; she thought she kind of understood? "Just..." she huffed, "when you do this, please make sure someone is with you, just in case..."

Wiping his eyes with his paws, Rocket looked up at her. "Yeah... The other day, when Quill and I were arguing? It was all staged so's I could get him away from you all. I... I got him back to my room, apologized an' then we hashed out a deal..."

A secret or a heartbreaking revelation? Wanda and Rocket have more in common than one would think.

the raccoon, the witch, & the roadtrip.✮ part six. idaho. washington.

the raccoon, the witch, & the roadtrip masterlist prev | next [est june 25] | main masterlist

angst, comfort, friendship, & fluff for @hibatasblog rocket & wanda | part 6/7 | word count: 2210.

our heroes share their secrets.

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

The city of Missoula spreads out underneath them like a lakeful of stars or a well of distant coins, glimmering in the night-velvet hug of the mountains. When the sun crests the horizon, they'll make their way through Idaho and onto the last little part of their journey — but for now, Wanda leans against the open window of the bed-and-breakfast where they’ve holed up for the night and lets the Montana breeze kiss the ends of her hair. She closes her lashes, and for a moment, she can almost imagine it’s Vis, leafing through her crimson locks with gentle, marveling hands. 

You’re only gonna become someone’s nightmare.

Well, she thinks savagely — she’s always been someone’s nightmare. They hadn’t decided to call her a witch for no reason. Made by circumstance and bastardized science — layers of folded power. Sure, people fear Danvers for her strength, too — but Danvers has blond hair and an impulsive, crooked smile. For some reason, blond hair and an easy smile always seem to set the rest of the Avengers at ease, as if it’s skin and hair color that make a person good. 

Wanda — with her dark eyes lit from within and her hellish tendrils of magic — stands no chance when compared to a woman who radiates iridescent power like something avenging and divine. No — the Scarlet Witch is made of nightmares, and she has been since long before Hydra. The only ones who have looked at her with anything other than trepidation or terror or disdain were her adopted parents, and Pietro, and Vis.

And now, perhaps Rocket. 

Yes, she’d made the captain of the Guardians of the Galaxy nervous — she can tell. But that was a fear she’d earned — a result of her less-than-noble confession. If Rocket had been anxious in that last hour on the road, it hadn’t been because of who she is. 

Or what she is. 

She sighs, and leans out into the breeze.

“Don’t go making any magic cities out there, now.”

She half-turns, casting a look over her shoulder. He’s sauntering up beside her, scrabbling up onto the desk chair next to the window to peer out over the sweep of the midnight city, studding the valley like a jewelry-box full of diamond strands. From this angle, she can see the lights catching and flickering in his eyeshine, turning them into flat red coins and then back again. She feels one brow arch.

“We’re making jokes about it now?”

He shrugs, peering down into the spangled mountainside. “What’s the alternative?” A sideways smirk. “I blow you up?”

She snorts. “You could try.”

His grin widens. 

Well, his fear has apparently been short-lived. Something about that feels like a quiet reassurance — a flicker of candleflame in the winter solstice of her life.

“You’re not worried about me turning myself into a monster?” she asks anyway. She’s trying to make it sound light, but the words are laced with bitterness and salt.

He shrugs. “Not yet.” He raises his own brow and slants her a calculated glance. “Hopefully not ever.”

She keeps her eyes on the city, unwilling to spare him her own stare. 

“Where’d you, uh, get your powers anyway?” he asks after a moment. The words ripple in the cool night air. “Lab or infinity stone?”

She huffs a soft, almost-laugh. “How do you know I wasn’t born with them?”

“What, like Dazzler?” he asks doubtfully. 

She tears her eyes from the valley now, brow creased. “You know Dazzler?” 

He shrugs. “Sure. She sings, doesn’t she? Wouldn’t mind getting some of her stuff on the zune, actually.”

An incredulous chuckle bursts in the back of her throat like a ripe cherry. “Not like Dazzler,” she concedes. “Dazzler has a genetic condition—”

“That makes her cool as hell,” Rocket supplements, and Wanda offers an acquiescing half-shrug laced up with a half-smile.

“That makes her cool as hell,” she concedes. “I was born with — something else. And then, I think—” she pauses, feeling the crease form between her brow. “Well. Whatever it was, it was enhanced, I guess.”

“Lab then,” Rocket says, and sighs. “How come so many of you Terran-types can walk into labs and say, hey, fuck me up, with no frickin’ regard to your own lives and bodies? And then you come out with cool powers and super-strength and shit?” He scowls down at the city and his next words are so low under his breath that she almost doesn’t hear them. “Need a t-shirt that says, all I got was chronic pain and indigestion.”

She could leave it. Pretend she hadn’t heard him, which is probably what he’d intended. But for whatever reason, his sarcasm always seems to pull out these bite-sized heart-to-hearts from her. “Anxiety and depression.”

He blinks up at her, nonplussed. “What?”

“My t-shirt. I got experimented on! And all I got was anxiety and depression.”

He holds her eyes, his own rounding out, then flicking away. “Yeah, well. You say yaro root, I say yaro fruit.”

She lets the moment slide through her fingers, lingering and bittersweet over the star-spattered valley. “Besides,” she says, and she’s surprised to hear a thread of humor weaving together her own words, “I’m special. I was made by an infinity stone and in a lab.” She feels the corner of her mouth twist. She hadn’t been going to admit it, but why not? Who else would she ever tell, now that Vis is gone? “Labs, actually. I think.”

His ears flicker. “Plural? Wait, how’d that happen?”

The twist turns into a quiet smirk. When was the last time she’d smirked? “Which one?”

He furrows his brow. “The first. No, the most recent. Both.”

She braces her forearms on the window sill and leans out further, letting the wind whisk her words away: keeping them as short-lived as a luna moth. Maybe shorter. There’s safety in the brevity of the words, in how transparent and transitory they seem when they’re caught up and spiraled in the shadowed mountain-breeze. 

“I remember the second one best. I was older, and — foolish. And fixated on revenge for the loss of my parents.” She gives him a sideways look. “The horrors of the universe, you know. Pietro and I had been orphaned and adopted, only to be orphaned again. I joined a — well, I joined the bad guys, I guess, and I let them experiment on me with the mind stone. It was before anyone really knew what the mind stone was. At the time, I thought it gave me my powers, but now…” She hesitates.

Rocket stares at her, then scowls. “I meant what I said earlier. What is with you morons walkin’ into labs like that? Sure, I don’t know what this glowing rock is. Hit me with it,”  he mimicks — but there’s something half-shrill underneath his voice, clenched into the back of his teeth. She wonders if it’s concern, just a decade or two too late. “You know, I kinda liked Banner at first. He seemed like a genius-idiot, and — you know—” He holds up two fingers, a scant half-inch apart. “—tiny little temper problem. Kinda like me. But he did that to himself?” Rocket clicks his tongue against his teeth. “Thought I liked Steve too, but he just walked into a situation with strangers and said, yeah, gimme this highly-experimental drug and let’s see what frickin’ happens.” He shakes his head. “You morons are reckless. And ungrateful.”

She hums. And she doesn’t deny it. 

“But now, what?”

She blinks and casts him a questioning glance. 

“You said, you thought the stone gave you your powers. But now. But now what?”

She grimaces, dark-cherry brows furrowed. Not a thing slips past him, apparently. “I don’t know,” she admits. “Maybe it was just a dream. But—”

She hesitates, and he waits — surprisingly patient.

She takes a breath. She can already tell the words are going to hollow her out. She tries to say his name so little, because it guts her every time, and because so few of the Avengers seem to want to hear it.

And she has no-one else to listen.

“Vis never had a childhood,” she says at last. “Not a bad one or a good one — just none at all. The idea of it — all the complexities of physical development combined with cognition and learning and vulnerability — it meant so much to him. He thought it was beautiful, and strange. One of the great mysteries of the universe, he said.” The last few words are strangled. She’d opened her mouth and said his name, and it had floated up out of her like a butterfly tethered to ghostly memories she’d tried to keep down. Ribbons and bows in the tail of a haunted kite. Each word starts to drift up and out of her and she just knows, if she doesn’t choke them back, they’ll keep rising. And while she’s happy to sacrifice the words of her own past to the nightsky, every bit of Vis is too precious and rare to let them slip away into midnight mountain breezes.

“He’d always ask about mine,” she finishes abruptly, shrugging. The words quietly click the whole story closed. “The more he asked, the more I think I remembered.” 

Of course, Rocket doesn’t let anything rest, she’s learning. Not unless it suits him. He squints one gleaming red eye up at her. 

“What’d you remember?”

She looks out on the sea of tiny lights, like fireflies and gemstones and stars. Over seventy-three thousand little lives, all cradled in the palms of a single mountain range on an unremarkable little planet the midst of a galaxy and universe far wider than she can ever really know.

“I think it was another lab,” she says quietly. “One in the mountains. Not like these mountains — more severe. Cliffs and crags. It felt….haunted.” She takes a steadying breath. “I think there was a man — cold. Casually cruel. He would be silhouetted against these vaulted glass windows overlooking a sheer drop, staring down at me and Pietro. I could feel his disdain — even as a child.” She hesitates. “Sometimes he would hold my head in his hands and stare into my eyes like he was trying to see into my brain. I remember having nightmares after we were adopted. I would dream that he carved into my skull while I was sleeping, to try to find where I kept it.” She shivers. “The magic.”

She can feel Rocket shuttering closed next to her, and she supposes she’s already said too much. Made things uncomfortable between them — been too vulnerable. These intimate little exchanges are never supposed to last more than a handful of sentences, but here she is: spilling them out onto Missoula, as personal and quiet as if she were on a midnight walk with Vis, or curled up beside Pietro in their dark orphanage bed.

But then Rocket sighs beside her, and even in her periphery, she can see his stiff shoulders loosen. He wedges his own forearms against the sill, mimicking her posture as he leans out over Missoula too. She turns her head slowly to look at him, and the breeze that has been playing with her hair now ruffles his fur, too.

“I knew a guy like that once,” he says roughly. “I knew a guy — too much like that.”

She inhales, more slowly than she has since long before she’d ever heard of Thanos. She thinks she can remember the last time she took in air like this: the morning before the Black Order had found them in the streets. She’d stretched against the faded sheets of the bed she’d shared with Vis, and everything had come easy — even her breath. 

She exhales — just as slow.

“I don’t trust my memory,” she admits. “I was a child. Maybe I made it all up.”

Rocket grunts. “Don’t sound like something little humie gargoyles just make up.”

She huffs a laugh. “Maybe not, but my adult-mind says he can’t possibly be real,” she tells him quietly. “My memories make him into too much of a… a ghost story. Too much of a legend, or a monster under the bed. A caricature of what he probably really was.”

Rocket doesn’t look at her, but she can see him raise his eyebrow doubtfully. “Prob’ly we all do that with the things that fucked us up when we were kids,” he concedes grudgingly, and she shifts uncomfortably. How to make Rocket understand? The imposing figure, so severe — the words, so cultured and sophisticated — the surrealism of the mountain, snowy and mist-shrouded, stabbing the sky? It’s too fantastical to be real. She’d told Rocket her secret, perhaps ill-advised dream of a town based on the old TV shows she’d seen her childhood; how can she explain how these shadows of her childhood seem like the other side of the coin? She thinks of the man again, and all she can picture is a caricature of a cartoon villain.

“In my memory, I think he always wore all purple,” she explains. Like a uniform. Wanda shakes her head, frustrated. It’s not clear enough. She inhales again, slow and steady. She exhales again — just as measured. When she speaks, her voice is hushed, and she can’t keep that old childhood terror from seeping in at the edges. “In my memory, I think he came back one day without a face.”

scarlet witch was one of the high evolutionary’s subjects in the citadel of science at mount wundagore pass it on. look this is a fluffpiece so will anything come of this? not beyond a lil bit of emotional bonding. maybe volume three would play out a bit differently but we're not going that far. still, i couldn't bear to leave this bit in the comics ♡♡

the raccoon, the witch, & the roadtrip masterlist prev | next [est june 25] | main masterlist

A Call Home ———

Little hands The world is yours Hold it close with open arms Little feet With miles ahead Take it slow see it all take it in

I see me in you You in me I see me in you You in me I see it in your eyes I see it in your eyes Little heart Dancing on So the ins and outs won't bring you down Little dream Grow up tall With a little rain A little sun you'll feel alive I see me in you You in me I see me in you You in me I see it in your eyes I see it in your eyes Little hands The world is yours Hold it close with open arms Little hands -Little Hands Inland Sky

———-

Based off Marvel comic creatures and the story by @bbasmos. I finally attempted to color this and it couldn’t have been more of a chaotic day.

I saw an image from a film called Delivery Man and decided to draw it for RocketRaccoonPromptWeek. Check out the movie, the song or the story and I hope you have a good time with it.

Seriously, wtf world.

I’m posting this every Wednesday. 

I’m dying right now. Dying of anticipation. Pray for me y’all.

momophobia.⋆☁︎:･꧂ preview

[anticipated 3/19] ✩

18+ only | rocket x f!oc | 27/40+ | wip | wordcount: pending. masterlist, notes, & moodboard | navigation ART: pearl’s character design | pearl & rocket’s bunk | heartspur scene | chapter one. nemotia. art by @/frostedwitch| rocket & pearl snuggle | adorable pearl x rocket selfie by @/starriidreams | sexy, evocative waterlily pearl x rocket painting by @/hibatasblog ♡ | NEW! rocket combs pearl's hair

bathtime confessions. warnings below.

“Sweetheart.” Pearl shifts on the copilot’s seat, nuzzling toward the sound of his voice, and Rocket lets his knuckles kiss her cheek again. He sweeps back a handful of hair, and plucks the cold compress from where it had nestled in her matted curls while she’d slept. Everything in him stretches for her, down to a cellular level. 

“Hmm?” she murmurs, soft as kitten-fur. He closes his eyes, and inhales: waterlily, clean canals, bone-dust and salt and blood. The scent of her, even tangled up with so much pain and fear, grounds him. At least she’s  still here, not left on HalfWorld or Cyxlore, not— not a broken, abandoned corpse on Knowhere.  His gut twists and his tongue suddenly feels thick and swollen, his whole mouth slick and sour. The space behind his eyes tightens and prickles.  “C’mon, doll,” he murmurs. “Lemme get you—“ Lemme get you somewhere safe and soft. “Lemme get you into bed.” She sits up slowly. The f’saki underneath her seat stirs. Her ponytail had been lopsided from the first moment he’d seen her in that stolen bootlace — tilted as drunkenly askew as she had been — but half her hair has loosened, falling in ragged tangled loops and knotted ringlets next to her face. He tries to keep his hands to himself now — she can’t possibly be interested in him touching her again; at the very least he should probably try groveling first — but he can’t keep himself from carefully cupping her chin in his fingers and tilting her face this way and that. There’s the cut on her puffed lip and the graze on her swollen cheekbone, the bloody divot above her brow that Drax had pulled closed with a steri-strip. It all reminds him too much of the cuts he’d left behind on her body that first night — the brutal, repeated thud of her head against the floor — and his throat throbs when he tries to swallow.  But she just looks at him with sleep-blurred moonsilver eyes, all soft and unfocused and timid. I just need to think, and I can’t with you looking at me like I’m some kind of monster.  Something slides right between his ribs, so piercing and sharp that his shoulders hunch convulsively and he curves inward, almost staggering under the arrow of it. “Are you okay?” she asks softly. The words bounce gently around the glass bubble of the cockpit, hushed between the shadows and stars.  His eyes gloss over. “Yeah, sweetheart. Come to bed with me?”

from chapter twenty-eight. momophobia. ✩ ‬ cicatrix masterlist.⋆☁︎:･꧂ navigation | fiction masterlist

a story about scars. two survivors learn about themselves, each other, hope, and the universe. a freakish little monster visits the high evolutionary’s bride on her wedding night. an adventure of intergalactic proportions ensues. aka raccoons make plans; the universe laughs.

WARNINGS for this chapter: infinite angst (& comfort). woundcare. discussion of animal surgery, and medical & (i would argue) psychological torture. lots of non-smutty naked/partially-clothed intimacy and the occasional dirty thought (because rocket).

fluff ✮ | spice ✩ | some smut ❤︎‬ | much smut ❤︎‬❤︎‬

banners & rose dividers by @/saradika-graphics pearl dividers by @/thecutestgrotto

Me and Rocket having all the things in common.

So freakin’ sweet!

rocket raccoon prompt week ✷ day seven home ✷.⁺⋆˚₊

fluff | no use of yn | gn reader | drabble | word count: 661.

Home had been a shining city on the far horizon for most of Rocket’s formative years: distant and gleaming under an impossible blossom-blue dome. Unreachable. Untouchable. He’d left any hope of it behind, a dozen cannon-shots or more before he’d ever even stepped foot off the Arête. No. Rocket had gone straight from the cages and right into his escape pod, out into a sky that had suddenly seemed much less beautiful and much more forever. 

And so home had always been a far-away thing, a thing he could never go back to, a thing that — like love, like peace, like a restful night’s sleep or body that didn’t hurt — Rocket could simply never have. A thing that hadn’t been meant for him. Like the screws slowly grinding away at his bones or the muscle contractures he’s always fighting in his hips and chest, home had just become another old ache that he’d grown to barely notice, except when he’s on a planet where the weather is bad. 

And then, one shift — when it was just you and him — he’d been trying to work the knots out of his shoulders. You’d reached out with dancing fingers and a query on your lips — a gentle little sound of offering — and he’d gone as still as a moon pinned between two gravity wells. Your fingers had felt light as little birds, perched on his shoulders weightlessly, and you’d guided them into a rolling series of rotations. Then you’d tugged him between your knees, and kneaded every small stone you’d found lodged under his skin and fur. 

When he’d finally gone as molten and buttery as a beeswax candle on a warm day, you’d murmured another little question. He’d blinked at you blankly — completely disconnected from anything but the feel of his body, pliant for the first time in possibly his entire life — so you’d pulled him onto your lap and continued your little ministry of touch until he’d fully curled up, his tail a wreath of feathery brushes around you both. His back had pressed itself into your hands as you’d worked your thumbs into the base of his spine: freeing the tension from his hips, beckoning it out of muscle and bone, letting it dissipate into the air between your fingertips. Your hands had been so warm that even all the metal plates and bolts deep inside had suddenly felt like a part of him — had suddenly matched his own body temperature — every piece slotting together inside him with a rightness he’d never known before. The air in his lungs had turned into little pearls and gemstones, spilling up into his throat like jeweled gravel. He’d made a noise — some kind of rumble — and it had startled him until your hands had soothed over him again and you’d whispered something that had sounded like you’re just purring. 

He’d never say any of this in front of the others, never let them know about this: about how soft he is for this, for the warm quiet circle of space in your arms and on your thighs. He’d never climb into your lap like this if they could see it; never make a nest out of your body-heat and burrow into the loose thick folds of your sweatshirt. He  only does it on the shifts when everyone else is asleep, or planetside, or away. 

It’s not that he’s ashamed. It’s just — this is something special and precious and small, and if he looks at it too closely or acknowledges it exists, he may never have it back. But for now — for these moments that he can only measure in the soft wash of his breath or the thrum of his pulse in his wrists, the steady sound of your heartbeat holding him together like gravity — for now, it’s touchable, and attainable, and real — 

Moreso than any shining city on the far horizon, glimmering against the sweep of a blossom-blue ocean and a forever sky.

i did it! i brought my wordcount down! this was just a fun little exercise in writing whatever weird shit came to my mind so sorry if it makes no sense but i figured i'd indulge my inclination toward purple prose (get rekt literary critics). anyway this was fun and i am very much in favor of many future rocket raccoon prompts & prompt weeks, and thank you for creating this and bringing it to my attention, @frostedwitch ♡♡♡

i will be putting out a masterlist for this set of prompts sometime next week probably. i really hope you enjoyed reading as much as i enjoyed writing! ♡

day six. bite ✷ rocket raccoon prompt week list

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