Rocket Raccoon SFW/NSFW Alphabet REMASTERED
When I made the original I was rushing myself, trying to get it done in a certain amount of time, so I polished it up, made it a bit more cohesive and actually edited it to make it easier to understand/read! Note that this isn't based on a specific version of Rocket, it's just how I see him.
Basically just 36,905 words worth of what Rocket would be like in a relationship with you... did I go overboard? I don't know... You tell me if I did.
Enjoy!
—--A-Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)--
Rocket is intensely affectionate with you, just not in ways anyone else would recognize at first glance. His love never arrives loudly. It slips in sideways, disguised as habit, routine, coincidence, anything but vulnerability. It lives in the Post-its scattered around your space like breadcrumbs only the two of you understand. Half are gruff reminders. “Eat something.” “Sleep.” “Don’t touch the thing on the counter.” The others linger softer than he means them to.
“Don’t skip meals,” one reads in sharp handwriting. Then, squeezed underneath: “...Idiot.”
He notices everything. Always has. A passing glance at something in a market stall, a snack you mentioned once three months ago, the way you rub at your wrists when you’re stressed. Suddenly it appears in your hands later like it was nothing.
“What?” he mutters when you stare too long. “You were lookin’ at it.”
His affection lives in action more than words. A drink handed to you before you realize you’re thirsty. A gadget tuned perfectly to your habits. His hand finding yours automatically, fingers threading together without ceremony while he keeps talking like nothing happened. Sometimes he drags your head into his lap while he works, absentmindedly combing his claws through your hair if you have any, fully focused on a screen while touching you like it’s instinct.
“Hold still,” he grumbles softly. “You’re distractin’ me.”
Quick kisses. Brief cuddles. Tiny moments he brushes off immediately after with a scoff, like you’re the one making it emotional. But he never pulls away first.
And when you’re gone, he steals your clothes. Not because he thinks it’s funny, though he’ll absolutely pretend that’s the reason. “Relax. It’s comfortable.” But it smells like you. Feels like you’re still there. The quiet gets easier when he can trick himself into thinking you haven’t really left.
Sometimes, late at night when he thinks no one’s listening, he hums under his breath while he works. Soft, absent little melodies that vanish the second you notice them. “I wasn’t singin’.” Sure.
Around other people, he reins it all back in. Keeps his affection compact, controlled, hidden under sarcasm and sharp edges unless you genuinely need comfort or he’s feeling territorial enough to make a point. Alone, though, it changes. Softer touches. Longer silences. His tail curling loosely around your leg while you sit together like it belongs there.
And he’s clingier than he’ll ever admit. Walking side by side, if your hand slips from his without thinking, he stops instantly. Mid-step. Mid-sentence. Just stands there staring at you expectantly until you take it again. “…You forget somethin’?” Then, once your fingers lace back through his: “Just keepin’ you from wanderin’ off.”
When you rest together, there’s always contact. A shoulder against yours. A leg hooked over yours. His head pressed against your chest while he pretends he’s “just comfortable.” Distance bothers him more than he knows how to explain.
Because beneath the sarcasm, the attitude, the constant disguises, Rocket aches for closeness in a way that runs bone-deep. He just learned a long time ago how to hide it behind noise.
His love speaks in quiet things. In time. In touch. In all the tiny acts of care he performs without asking for credit. And if you want to reach him back, truly reach him, it’s simple: stay close, choose him consistently, and never make a spectacle out of it.
That’s the language he understands best.
—--B-Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)--
Rocket is an absolute menace packed into a small, furred package; all sharp tongue, sharper wit, and the kind of intelligence that turns ordinary trouble into a full-scale production. He does not just pull pranks, he engineers them. Every setup is deliberate. Every outcome calculated. Tiny disasters assembled with the same care he gives explosives or ship repairs, all because he genuinely thinks the payoff of someone standing there stunned and betrayed is worth the effort.
If something sparks unexpectedly, collapses at exactly the wrong moment, or leaves somebody loudly humiliated in front of an audience, there is a very strong chance Rocket is somewhere nearby pretending to mind his own business.
“…What?” he asks flatly the second everyone turns toward him. A beat passes. Then the grin splits across his face, impossible to suppress. “Okay, yeah, that one was me.”
He never lets anything slide either. Not awkward stumbles. Not bad excuses. Not one poorly chosen sentence. “Wow,” he drawls after watching you nearly eat shit on a slick floor, “that was incredible. You practice that, or was that raw natural talent?” Say something questionable around him and he is already dissecting it with surgical precision, tearing the logic apart piece by piece while looking deeply entertained by your attempts to recover. “Hey, don’t get mad at me,” he says, hands lifting innocently. “You said it. I’m just pointin’ out how dumb it sounded.”
The thing is, beneath all the sarcasm and constant needling, Rocket is painfully honest. He does not sugarcoat. Does not soften the edges just to make people comfortable. If he cares about you, you are getting the truth whether you asked for it or not. Blunt honesty is about as close to vulnerability as he naturally knows how to get.
And underneath all the chaos, he is always watching. Rocket notices things long before other people do. The stranger staring at you too long across the room. The tension in your shoulders before you admit something is bothering you. The tiny shift in your voice when you say you are “fine” but absolutely are not.
He rarely points it out directly. Instead, he moves. A quiet step closer. A distraction. A joke sharp enough to redirect attention somewhere safer.
“Hey, genius,” he mutters casually to somebody crowding your space a little too aggressively, “take about three steps back before I decide to make this everybody’s problem.” Like it is irritation. Like it is not protection wrapped in sarcasm because concern still feels too vulnerable to say plainly.
Call him out on it afterward and he scoffs immediately. “Relax. I just didn’t feel like dealin’ with the fallout if you got into a fight.” A beat. “You’re freakin’ welcome, by the way.”
Rocket is absolutely the kind of friend you call when you want a night that turns into a story. Not necessarily a safe story. But a memorable one. He balances recklessness and responsibility in this bizarre, impossible way, like holding a lit match over a fuel line while still making sure everyone gets home alive afterward. Reckless enough to make life exciting. Smart enough to keep things from tipping too far.
If you wanted to get high for the first time, Rocket would take it way more seriously than anybody expects him to. Not judgmental. Protective.
He would already have everything prepared before you even sat down. Snacks piled nearby. Water bottles within reach. Music queued up. Blankets stolen from somewhere on the ship because he knows you are probably going to get cold later. He acts irritated the entire time too, muttering complaints while very obviously making sure you are comfortable.
“Okay, first rule,” he says while pointing at you with exaggerated authority, “you do not try to impress me by takin’ more than you can handle. I already think you’re cute. Don’t make this weird.” Then, after a beat: “And if you start spiralin’, I’m puttin’ on Quill’s awful little gargoyle music playlist until you calm down. This is a threat.”
The funniest part is that once you are actually high, Rocket becomes even more attentive. Quietly watching for signs you are overwhelmed without hovering too hard. Steering conversations away from bad thought spirals before they can really settle in.
“You’re good,” he says at one point, voice lower now, calmer than usual while nudging a drink into your hands. “Promise. Nobody’s dyin’. Your brain’s just doin’ cartwheels right now.” And if you start laughing uncontrollably over something stupid? Done. He is laughing too immediately, probably harder than you are, especially if he is high himself. Rocket absolutely becomes the kind of intoxicated person who swings wildly between philosophical and deeply ridiculous with almost no warning.
“You ever think about how insane chairs are?” he asks suddenly while hanging halfway upside down off a couch. “Like. We invented dedicated skeleton parking.” Then twenty minutes later he is staring quietly at the ceiling talking about freedom, identity, and how strange it feels to finally have people around him who stay.
That is the thing about Rocket. Underneath all the swagger and sarcasm, he is fiercely loyal. Ride-or-die loyal.
If somebody at a bar makes you uncomfortable, he notices before you even say anything. One glance at your face and suddenly he is there, sliding neatly between you and the problem like he was always supposed to occupy that space. “Problem?” he asks casually, though the edge under the word is sharp enough to cut metal. Most people back off immediately. The ones who do not usually realize too late that the small raccoon with the sharp teeth is significantly more dangerous than he looks.
But most nights with Rocket are fun before they are serious. Sticky bar counters. Loud music. Him cheating shamelessly during bar games while arguing that technically it “counts as strategy.” The two of you half-laughing through terrible decisions while Rocket keeps one eye on the exits and another on whether you are still having a good time.
And when he is drunk, he absolutely becomes weirdly affectionate while pretending he is not.
“C’mere, idiot,” he grumbles while throwing an arm around you to steady you on the walk home. “If you fall and crack your skull open, I’m not explainin’ that to anybody.” Then five minutes later: “No, seriously, lean on me if you gotta. I got you.” And he means it every time.
That loyalty stretches far beyond parties and bad decisions too. Rocket is the kind of person who shows up when things get ugly. The kind who sits outside your door in the middle of the night because your voice sounded wrong over comms. The kind who helps you through breakdowns with awkward practicality instead of empty platitudes.
“You call me, I’m there,” he says once with a shrug, like it is the simplest thing in the world. “That’s kinda how this works now.”
Trust matters to him more than he knows how to explain cleanly. Maybe because he spent so long without it. Maybe because once Rocket cares about somebody, he cares with his entire chest like an engine running too hot.
And stereotypical gender roles? Rocket could not care less about them if you paid him.
Need somebody to vent to after a breakup? He is already beside you with stolen snacks and enough blunt honesty to rebuild your self-esteem through sheer aggression.
“That guy was an idiot,” he says immediately after hearing the story. “No, seriously. You deserve somebody who doesn’t make you feel like you gotta shrink yourself down just to keep ’em comfortable.” Then, after a beat: “Also, if you want, I can absolutely sabotage his engine.”
Girls’ nights are another thing he pretends to hate while secretly loving every second of them. He complains the whole way there like he is being marched toward execution instead of a living room full of snacks, face masks, and bad movies.
“I just want the record to show,” he mutters while carrying bags of snacks and drinks anyway, “I was manipulated into this.”
Twenty minutes later he is fully invested in the reality show drama and yelling at contestants through the screen. “Oh, this guy is absolutely lyin’. Look at his face. That’s the face of a man who’s about to ruin somebody’s life on purpose.”
And somehow, against all odds, Rocket turns out to be weirdly good at things nobody expects him to be good at. Painting nails, for example. The first time you hand him a bottle of polish he scoffs immediately.
“You trust me with tiny brushes and chemicals?” he asks. “Bold strategy.” Then he proceeds to paint your nails with terrifying precision, steady hands and intense focus making every line annoyingly perfect. Meanwhile, when you paint his, one claw comes out slightly uneven.
“…You missed a spot,” he says instantly, holding his hand up dramatically. “You are impossibly picky.” “I am an artist.”
And honestly? He secretly loves it. Sitting there while you work on his claws, tail flicking lazily behind him while he pretends he is not enjoying the attention nearly as much as he is.
Sometimes he picks ridiculous glitter colors just because he commits fully to the bit. “This one’s nice,” he says once while inspecting sparkling polish under the light. “Kinda got a nebula thing goin’ on.” “You like glitter now?” “I contain multitudes.”
The same goes for dressing up. Suggest it as a joke and Rocket rolls his eyes so hard you think they might get stuck. “You people are never lettin’ me live this down, huh?” And then somehow twenty minutes later he walks out in an expensive pink dress looking unfairly good in it.
That is the dangerous part. Rocket commits. The posture changes first. Then the grin. Then suddenly he is leaning against a doorway like he belongs on the cover of some absurdly expensive intergalactic fashion magazine.
“…Okay, hold on,” he says while smoothing one hand down the fabric and staring at himself in the mirror a second too long. “This kinda rules.” “You like it.” “No I don’t,” he answers immediately. Pause. “…Maybe a little.”
Because underneath the sarcasm and theatrics, Rocket genuinely loves self-expression. Clothes are clothes to him. Style is style. If something looks good, feels good, or makes him laugh, he is into it. No insecurity attached. And if somebody else dares make a comment about it? Rocket’s eyes narrow instantly. “Buddy,” he says flatly, “I fought space pirates naked and won. I think I can survive wearin’ a dress.” Then he dramatically flips imaginary hair over one shoulder just to make the point land harder.
Rocket is more often than not the smartest person in the room, and unfortunately for everyone around him, he knows it. Engineering, tactics, weapons, escape routes, mechanical systems, probability calculations done mid-crisis while everybody else is still panicking, his brain moves frighteningly fast when it comes to survival and problem solving.
Put him in a fight, a heist, a negotiation gone sideways, a crisis situation, or a ship held together with optimism and loose wiring, and he becomes razor sharp. Focused. Efficient. Almost impossible to keep up with. Social situations, however? Entirely different battlefield.
Not because he lacks intelligence. Quite the opposite. Rocket tends to overanalyze people so hard he circles right past normal interaction and straight into defensive paranoia. Conversations become calculations. Tone shifts become potential threats. Kindness gets inspected for hidden motives before he lets himself believe it is genuine. And subtle social cues? Forget it.
Someone hints they are upset instead of saying it directly and Rocket will stare at them for a solid ten seconds before narrowing his eyes suspiciously.
“…Okay, so are you mad at me or are you just makin’ a face?” he asks bluntly. Another pause. “See, this is why I hate conversations. Everybody’s talkin’ in riddles.”
He struggles with softness for softness’s sake. Compliments feel awkward in his mouth unless they are wrapped in sarcasm. Comfort usually arrives disguised as irritation.
You cough once too hard and suddenly there is medicine shoved into your hands. “Take this.” “You could’ve just said you were worried.” “I could’ve,” he replies flatly. “But then we’d both be uncomfortable.” That is Rocket in a nutshell. He rarely says exactly what he means when the emotion underneath it matters too much.
Vulnerability sits badly on him, not because he does not feel deeply, but because he feels too deeply and learned early that exposing those feelings usually ended painfully. So instead, he defaults to sharp edges. Deflection. Humor mean enough to keep people from looking too closely.
If somebody thanks him sincerely after he helps them, he visibly short-circuits for a second. “Yeah, well,” he mutters, suddenly finding literally anywhere else to look, “don’t make a thing outta it.” Or:
“…What do you want?” he asks immediately after a genuine compliment, suspicious enough to make the other person blink. “Nobody says stuff like that for free.”
“You get one emotionally honest conversation outta me per quarter,” he mutters once while aggressively pretending to focus on repairing a console. “Use it wisely.”
Trust is even harder. Rocket expects betrayal the way other people expect weather. Constantly. Quietly. As a baseline condition of existence.
If plans go wrong, his first instinct is sabotage. If somebody acts unusually kind, he assumes they want something. If someone disappears too long without explanation, part of him is already preparing for abandonment before they even come back. And honestly? Given his history, it makes sense.
“You really wanna know what my problem is?” he asks once during an argument, voice sharper than usual but quieter underneath it somehow. “People always say they’re stayin’ until things get difficult.” A bitter little laugh slips out after that. “Then things get difficult.”
“You don’t survive long by assumin’ people got good intentions,” he says once while cleaning blood off a weapon with mechanical precision. “You survive by noticing when they don’t.”
But beneath all the suspicion and defensive hostility sits something painfully genuine: Rocket is a good person. Not polished. Not easy. Not gentle in the traditional sense. But good in the way that matters when everything goes wrong. Because once he cares about somebody, once he mentally categorizes them as his, that loyalty becomes terrifyingly absolute.
So instead of saying I was worried about you, he appears outside your door early in the morning before anyone else is up, holding food and acting annoyed about it. “You forgot to eat again,” he grumbles while shoving a container into your hands. “And before you start, no, this isn’t me bein’ nice. I just got tired of watchin’ you function like a haunted fabric doll.”
He will cross galaxies for the people he loves without hesitation. Fight armies. Build impossible things. Stay awake for three straight days fixing a system nobody else even understands because somebody he cares about needs it working.
He notices preferences nobody else remembers. Makes modifications to equipment so it suits you better without telling you he did it. Learns your habits accidentally because he pays attention even when pretending not to.
And if someone threatens you? The joking stops instantly. Rocket’s anger becomes frightening specifically because it goes cold first. “Back away from them,” he says quietly one night, stepping between you and somebody twice his size. No yelling. No dramatic threat. Somehow that makes it worse. The other person laughs. Rocket does not. “You got about three seconds,” he continues flatly, claws flexing once at his sides, “before this becomes the worst decision you ever made.”
That protectiveness bleeds into smaller things too. Walking slightly closer to you on the more dangerous planets. Checking exits automatically whenever you enter somewhere crowded. Quietly handing you better armor and weapons without making a big deal out of it.
If you notice and thank him, he immediately gets defensive. “Relax,” he grumbles. “I just don’t feel like draggin’ your unconscious body through a firefight later.” Sure. “Listen,” he says once after patching you up from an injury while trying very hard to sound irritated instead of scared, “if anybody kills you, I’m gonna be extremely inconvenienced. So maybe stop doin’ stupid things for like… five minutes.”
And despite all his issues with trust, once Rocket finally does trust somebody, he trusts hard. Almost recklessly hard. He just rarely realizes he is doing it until it has already happened. You see it in tiny moments first. The way he falls asleep near you without pretending he is “just resting his eyes.” The way he lets you touch his fur without snapping immediately. The way he starts including you in plans automatically, like your presence beside him stopped being temporary somewhere along the line.
That is the tragedy and beauty of Rocket all tangled together: He expects the worst from people because life taught him to. And he keeps choosing to love them anyway. He acts like the irritating sibling you swear you could strangle half the time. Always poking. Always provoking. Always finding exactly which nerve to hit for maximum reaction.
“Oh, c’mon,” he laughs when you glare at him. “That all you got?” But the second something genuinely threatens you, the teasing disappears instantly. No grin. No sarcasm. Just cold focus sharp enough to split glass. “Back off.” Quiet. Flat. Dangerous. That contrast says more than anything else ever could.
No matter how much he drives you insane, Rocket never lets the people he loves stand alone when it matters. There is always an invisible line around them, and he watches it constantly. You can call him insufferable. Roll your eyes at him. Threaten to throw him out an airlock at least twice a week. And maybe that is exactly why he fits so naturally into people’s lives once they let him in. Loud. Chaotic. Impossible. But unmistakably on your side.
—--C-Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)--
Rocket is, against all odds and every ounce of his carefully maintained attitude, an unapologetic cuddlebug. Give him a couch, a bed, or even a vaguely horizontal surface, and he’s already claimed it, dragging you down with him like gravity has personal favorites. He doesn’t ask. He decides. One second you’re upright, the next you’re pinned under a determined little menace who refuses to acknowledge how much he needs this.
“Quit hoverin’ and get over here already.” And just like that, you’re not standing anymore.
And yes, he’s almost always the little spoon. He’d deny it under interrogation, but the way he immediately melts the second your arms wrap around him gives him away every time. The tension leaves him in quiet stages, shoulders loosening, breathing evening out, tail flicking once before settling against you. Try to get up too soon and the dramatics start instantly. A low whine. A grumbled complaint. Hands grabbing at whatever part of you he can reach before you escape. “Hey. Where d’you think you’re goin’?” Then he’s hauling you back against him or flipping you onto his chest like he personally invented comfort. “Not done yet.” The pout is theatrical. The sincerity underneath it is not.
Kiss him while he’s like that, forehead, cheek, top of his head, and it completely short-circuits him. The first few times he freezes outright, staring at you like you just handed him a problem he doesn’t know how to solve. “What was that for?” But if you keep doing it, patient and casual, he starts leaning into it before he catches himself. Eventually the reaction becomes automatic, a quiet little surrender he’ll spend the next hour pretending never happened.
He falls asleep on you constantly too, using you as a pillow like it’s the most natural thing in the galaxy. Other times he prefers you sprawled across him, your weight pinning him down in a way that steadies something restless under his skin. “Yeah… stay there.”
The affection runs deeper than cuddling alone. His body aches more than he lets on, old injuries and implants catching up to him whenever he pushes too hard, and eventually stubbornness loses to exhaustion long enough for him to let you help.
“I don’t need… fine. Just make it quick.” But your hands work through it, and he goes quiet in a way that means he’s stopping the fight. “…Don’t stop.”
Ten minutes later he’s purring loud enough to rattle your ribs and pretending not to notice. Pet him behind the ears, along his back, under his chin, and instinct takes over faster than pride can recover. The base of his tail is even worse; one careful stroke there and he goes completely soft, glaring at you like this is somehow your fault. “You’re doin’ that on purpose.”
For all the noise, the attitude, and the careful armor he wears, Rocket just really, really likes being held. “…Don’t move.” Not an order. Just honesty in disguise.
—--D-Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)--
Call him a “housewife,” and you might not survive the next five minutes. The glare alone could probably strip paint. “Say that again. I dare you.”
But the evidence is stacked higher than a perfectly organized toolbench, neat, deliberate, impossible to ignore. Rocket slips into the role of caretaker the way gravity pulls things downward, quiet, inevitable, never announced. One day, you just notice. The place is cleaner than it’s ever been. Every surface wiped down, every tool exactly where it belongs, every system running with an almost obsessive precision. He doesn’t make a show of it. He just does it, muttering under his breath the whole time. “Unbelievable. Nobody knows how to put things back where they found ’em?”
Ask him about it and he shrugs, already moving on to the next thing. “Was drivin’ me insane.”
Like that explains the sparkling counters. Like that explains why he reorganized everything three separate times until it felt right.
And the cooking. That’s where it gets dangerous. Not explosive, well, not usually, but in the way it quietly resets your standards without asking permission. Rocket doesn’t cook. He engineers meals. Flavor, texture, timing, every detail is a problem to solve, something to refine until it’s exactly right. He moves through the process with focused precision, adjusting, tasting, recalibrating like he’s tuning a machine. “It’s not complicated. You just… don’t screw it up.”
He says it like that, dismissive, but his eyes flick to you when you take the first bite. Just for a second. Measuring. Waiting.
“Well?” If you compliment him, he snorts, waving it off like it means nothing. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t make a big deal outta it.”
If you don’t, he notices that too. Doesn’t say anything, just tweaks something the next time, adjusts, improves. He’d never admit that feeding you matters, but it does. It hums quietly beneath every plate he sets in front of you.
Domesticity settles over him in strange, unspoken ways. Things get fixed before they break. Your favorite snacks just… appear. Items you forgot you even mentioned show up within reach like they were always meant to be there. It isn’t soft in the way people expect. It’s sharp-edged care, wrapped in irritation and handed to you like it’s a side effect instead of a choice.
“Don’t get used to it.” But he keeps doing it anyway.
Marriage is where he draws a line. The moment it comes up, something in him stiffens, expression sharpening just a little. To Rocket, it’s paperwork. Contracts. A system trying to pin down something he doesn’t believe should be owned or defined. “You really need a document to prove somethin’?”
There’s no romance in it for him. Just legal strings and expectations he doesn’t trust. But commitment? That part isn’t up for debate. He’s already there, already all in, just without anything stamped or filed to prove it. “I’m still here, ain’t I?”
Kids are different. That’s where his voice changes, quieter, tighter around the edges. He doesn’t joke as easily there. Doesn’t brush it off the same way. “…That’s not exactly a small thing.”
He doesn’t hate the idea, not really. But the weight of it sits heavy. Responsibility like that, something fragile, something that matters that much, it unsettles him in a way he can’t easily shake. It tangles with everything he’s been through, everything done to him, all the things he doesn’t trust himself to get right. “What if I screw it up?”
It slips out once, low and rough, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. And underneath that sits something even quieter, something he won’t touch directly. The possibility that the choice might not even be his to make. That whatever future he might’ve had there could’ve been decided for him a long time ago. He never says that part. Never lingers on it. But it’s there, just beneath the surface.
If a kid ever does end up in his life, by chance or by choice or by some twist of fate, it won’t be smooth at first. He’ll be awkward about it. Defensive. Acting like he never signed up for any of this.
But he stays. Learns. Adapts. Slowly, stubbornly, completely. Because when Rocket cares, he doesn’t do it halfway. He builds around it. Adjusts everything else to make it work.
“…C’mere. Don’t wander off.” It’s not polished. It’s not easy. But it’s real. And once it’s there, it’s not going anywhere.
—--E-Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)--
Loving Rocket is a little like holding onto something that’s already bracing for impact. Even in the quiet moments, even when everything feels steady, there’s a part of him that never quite stops waiting for it to go wrong. And if it ever does, if things get too real, too heavy, too important, he doesn’t unravel gently. He doesn’t sit you down and explain. He doesn’t trust himself with that kind of honesty, not when it would mean saying out loud just how much you matter.
So instead, he starts pulling threads. At first, it’s subtle. A sharper edge to his voice. A little more distance where there used to be none. He picks at things that don’t deserve it, small disagreements stretched thin until they snap. “Seriously? That’s what you’re goin’ with?”
It’s not really about the thing in front of him. It never is. He knows that. You might, too. But he keeps going anyway.
He gets colder. Rougher. Like he’s sanding down every soft place between you on purpose. Because if it’s gone, if it stops being something worth holding onto, then maybe it won’t hurt as much when it breaks.
“Don’t look at me like that.” There’s a bite to it, but underneath, something frayed, something strained.
He wants you to walk away. Not because he wants to lose you, but because in his mind, that’s the only way you get out clean. If you leave, then you chose better. You didn’t stay long enough to get dragged down with him. It’s a twisted kind of mercy, the kind that bruises deeper than anything honest ever could.
“You’d be better off, y’know.” It comes out wrong. Too blunt. Too careless. Like it doesn’t matter. Like you don’t matter. And it wrecks him.
He sees the way your expression shifts, the way something closes off behind your eyes after he says something he can’t take back. He hears the silence that follows, heavy and wrong. He hates it. Hates himself for it.
“…What?” Like he doesn’t already know.
But he doesn’t stop. He can’t. Because stopping would mean facing it, and facing it means admitting he doesn’t actually want you to go. So he doubles down. Pushes harder. Turns every moment into something jagged and impossible to hold onto.
“Then leave. Nobody’s makin’ you stay.” It’s cruel. He knows it is. It lands exactly where it shouldn’t.
And when it finally breaks, when you reach the point where staying hurts more than leaving, he lets it happen. Doesn’t fight. Doesn’t reach out. He just stands there, jaw tight, shoulders locked, like he’s braced for this from the start.
“…Yeah. Figures.” The words come out flat, like they don’t mean anything. Like they don’t hollow him out the second you’re gone. He doesn’t chase you. Doesn’t try to fix it. Because in his mind, this was the goal. You’re safe now. Away from him. That’s what he wanted. It doesn’t feel like winning.
If the relationship were truly toxic, though, something that cut deeper than it gave, he wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t drag it out into something slow and cruel. He’d stay longer than he should, take more than anyone reasonable would, but once it crossed that line, once it became something that only hurt, he’d leave. Clean. Immediate.
“…I’m done.” No shouting. No spectacle. Just final.
Even then, it wouldn’t be easy. The anger would linger, sharp and restless. The grief, heavier, quieter, settling somewhere deep in his chest where it doesn’t quite go away. Because even when something is bad for him, that doesn’t make it meaningless. It doesn’t erase what it was. It doesn’t erase you.
“Don’t think this means it didn’t matter.” He wouldn’t look at you when he says it.
Rocket doesn’t leave easily, no matter which way it goes. Whether he’s pushing you out or walking away himself, it costs him more than he will ever admit. He just buries it the only way he knows how.
Distance. Silence. And a kind of quiet heartbreak that lingers long after everything else is gone.
—---F-Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)--
Marriage, to Rocket, feels like trying to bottle lightning and slap a label on it. Contain it. File it. Pretend something wild and hard-earned can be reduced to signatures and neat little lines waiting to be filled in. He doesn’t trust it, not the ceremony, not the paperwork, not the idea that something as volatile as love could be stamped and declared official like a shipment cleared through customs.
“Paper doesn’t make it real,” he says, voice edged, dismissive in a way that sounds practiced. “Either it is, or it isn’t.”
For him, what you have already is. That’s the point. It exists whether anyone else recognizes it or not. Alive. Stubborn. Unmistakable. It doesn’t need witnesses or approval to keep breathing.
That doesn’t mean he’s against meaning or ceremony. Quite the opposite. He just wants it where no one else can touch it. Something private. Untouchable. Promises murmured in the quiet when no one’s watching. Small, deliberate gestures that don’t look like much to anyone else but mean everything between you.
“Why’s it gotta be a whole thing?” he mutters, glancing away like the question itself irritates him. “We know what it is. That should be enough.” And it is. For him, it is.
But underneath that resistance, there’s something quieter. Heavier. A tension that never fully unwinds. A part of him is always waiting for it to go wrong, for the shift, for the moment you look at him and see something different. Something lacking. Something not worth staying for. He doesn’t say that part. Doesn’t even like thinking it.
“…People change their minds,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, tone rougher now. “Happens all the time.”
The idea of tying you to him, of making something permanent out of it, unsettles him in a way he can’t shrug off. Not because he doubts you, but because he doesn’t trust himself to be someone worth that kind of certainty. If there’s a door, he wants it open. Not for him. For you.
“I’m not lockin’ you into anything,” he says, sharper now, like he’s pushing the idea away before it can get too close. “You wanna go, you go. No strings.”
It’s not indifference. It’s the opposite. It’s him trying to make sure you never feel trapped. Never feel like staying is something you have to do instead of something you choose.
If you want marriage, if you want that kind of declaration, it won’t come from him first. Not like that. You’d have to be the one to step forward, to close that distance, to show him in a hundred small, steady ways that you’re sure. Completely sure. No hesitation. No doubt.
“…You’re serious?” he’d ask, quieter than usual, searching your face like he’s waiting for the catch. “About me?”
He doesn’t want to trap you. Doesn’t want you waking up one day feeling stuck, tied to something you regret. So he keeps it open. Free. Chosen every day instead of promised once.
And if you stay, not because you have to, not because anything says you should, but because you want to, that means more to him than any vow ever could.
“…Yeah,” he mutters, softer now, almost to himself. “That’s what matters.”
He’ll still show up like it’s forever. In the way he stays. In the way he builds around you, day by day, choice by choice. He just won’t call it that. Not out loud.
—--G-Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)--
For all the sharp edges he carries, Rocket has a softness tucked away where almost no one ever gets to see it. It doesn’t come out easily. It doesn’t show up on good days, or in passing moments. It’s reserved for when things tip too far, when the weight of everything starts pressing in and you don’t quite know where to put it.
He doesn’t make a scene. Doesn’t try to fix it with something loud or obvious. No grand gestures, no forced conversations. He just… moves you. Out of the noise, out of the chaos, somewhere quieter where the world feels a little less suffocating.
“C’mon. Sit.” That’s all he gives you, voice low, steady, like it’s not a suggestion so much as a gentle certainty. And then he’s there, close without crowding, grounded in a way that pulls you back with him. His arms wrap around you, not tight enough to trap, but firm enough to keep you from slipping through the cracks. Careful. Measured. Like he knows exactly how much pressure you can take. “Yeah. I got you. Just… breathe a second.”
When you start talking, if you start talking, he listens. Really listens. No interruptions. No sharp comments cutting through your words. No impatience creeping in at the edges. Just quiet attention, the kind that doesn’t demand anything back. Every now and then there’s a low hum, a quiet acknowledgment, just enough to let you know he’s still there, still following every piece of it. “Mm. I hear you.”
His usual edge softens, worn down into something slower, something warmer. He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, small, grounding touches that feel less like affection and more like anchors. His hand moves along your back in slow, steady circles, or drifts through your hair if you have any, giving you something consistent to hold onto while everything else feels unsteady.
If you tense under it, if the stress has settled into your body where words can’t reach, he notices. Of course he does. “…Y’know,” he starts, a little rough around the edges, like he’s testing the words before committing to them, “I could help with that. If you want.”
He doesn’t make it a big deal. Just shifts slightly, a massage follows. Hands working carefully, deliberately. He knows what it feels like to carry pain in your body, to let it build until it’s unbearable. So he takes his time, easing the tightness out of your shoulders, your neck, wherever it has settled. There’s a quiet focus to it, like this is something he understands better than words. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
He means it. Adjusts without hesitation, paying attention to every small reaction like it matters. Because it does.
When the words run out, or maybe they never came at all, he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t act like the moment’s over. He keeps you there, tucked against him, like letting go would undo something important. His grip shifts just enough to stay comfortable, but it never disappears.
There’s a pause before he speaks again, longer than usual. Like he’s searching for something he doesn’t quite know how to say. “Hey…” It comes out quieter this time, rough in a different way, like the edges aren’t there to protect him anymore.
“It’s not all on you, alright?” He hesitates, jaw tightening just slightly before he pushes through it. “You’re… doin’ better than you think you are.” Another pause. Then, softer still. “I got you. You’re not dealin’ with it alone.”
It isn’t polished. It isn’t perfect. The words come out uneven, like they don’t fit naturally in his mouth. But they’re real. Every bit of it is real. And that’s what makes it land.
Because Rocket doesn’t offer softness easily. He doesn’t hand it out or dress it up to make it easier to take. But when he gives it, when he lets you see that part of him, it’s steady. Honest. Something you can actually lean on.
“…Yeah,” he mutters, almost under his breath, like he’s reassuring himself as much as you. “I’m right here.”
—--H-Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)--
Rocket exists in a strange orbit when it comes to touch, caught between wanting it and bracing for it like it might turn sharp without warning. Hugs, especially, are complicated. With you, they’re something he wants, even if he’d never say it outright. It shows up in the small things. The way he lingers a little too close. The way he doesn’t step back when he has every chance to.
There’s always that split second, though. You pull him in, and he goes still. Not pushing you away, not leaning in, just locked for a beat. Shoulders tight. Breath catching like his body’s waiting for the catch, the one that never comes.
“Tch… gimme a second.” It’s quick. Reflex more than resistance. And then it shifts. Slowly, like something frozen finally giving way. The tension drains out of him piece by piece. His grip changes, not gone, just different. Less guarded. More present. He leans into you without thinking, weight settling like he’s been holding himself up longer than he should have. “…Yeah. Okay.” It’s quieter now. Almost reluctant. Almost relieved.
He isn’t good with words for this. Won’t name it, won’t explain it, but his hugs do it for him. Careful. Measured. Like he’s handling something that matters and doesn’t trust himself not to mess it up. There’s caution in it, but underneath that, something deeper settles in. Something that lingers just a little too long to be casual. Not tight enough to trap you. Just enough to stay.
His hands adjust slightly, subtle, making sure you’re comfortable without asking. Like he’s memorizing the shape of it. Storing it somewhere quiet for later, for when things get loud in his head again.
“…Stay a sec.” It slips out before he can stop it.
There’s a weight to him then. Not heavy, not overwhelming, just present. A quiet, touch-starved kind of hunger threaded through the way he doesn’t let go right away. If you’re paying attention, you feel it in that extra second he holds on. That small refusal to break contact first.
He doesn’t let just anyone get close like this. Trust decides that. Comfort seals it. Without both, there’s no hesitation, just a sharp edge; a warning snap of teeth or words that hit just as hard.
“Back off.” Flat. Immediate. Final. Push past that, and he doesn’t soften. He doesn’t bend. Boundaries with him aren’t suggestions. They’re lines you don’t cross twice.
But you’re not on that side of it. You get the version of him that stays. The one who, after that initial flinch, presses closer instead of pulling away. The one who lingers, even when he pretends he’s about to let go.
“…Alright, that’s enough.” He says it like he means it. He doesn’t move. Not right away. Because for all the ways touch throws him off balance, keeps him half on guard even now, it’s also the one place something in him finally quiets. Where the noise fades, just enough to breathe. And that’s not something he walks away from easily.
—--I-I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)--
Love, for Rocket, doesn’t arrive cleanly. It doesn’t show up in a tidy sentence or some perfectly timed confession. It builds. Quiet, stubborn, slow as something growing beneath the surface where no one can see it. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t trust anything that comes too easy. By the time he realizes what it is, it’s already rooted deep, tangled into everything.
Saying it is another matter entirely. Even when he knows, even when it’s settled in his chest with a weight he can’t ignore, the words don’t come easy. They sit there, caught somewhere between fear and certainty. Because once he says them, they’re real in a way he can’t take back. And Rocket doesn’t gamble with things that matter that much.
“…Yeah, no. Not sayin’ that.” It’s muttered, half to himself, like the idea alone is enough to make him bristle. So he says it differently. In actions. Always in actions.
He fixes things before you even notice they’re broken, like it’s instinct. Keeps track of details you forgot you mentioned, then builds around them without ever pointing it out. Adjusts, adapts, makes space for you in ways that feel seamless, like you were always meant to fit there.
“Don’t touch that, I already fixed it.” There’s a glance, quick and sideways, checking your reaction before he looks away again.
He stays. That’s the clearest part of it. Stays through the noise, through the sharp edges, through the moments that would’ve sent him running before. He chooses you again and again, quietly, without announcing it, like it’s just a fact of how things are now.
“…Where else am I gonna go?” It’s said like a deflection. It isn’t.
You feel it in the late nights, side by side, not talking, not needing to. In the way his hand finds yours without thought, fingers hooking in like they belong there. In the way he softens around you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. That’s his version of it. That’s how he says it without saying it.
And when the words finally do come, they don’t arrive polished. They don’t come wrapped in anything neat or pretty. They fight their way out, rough at the edges, like he had to drag them into the open.
It’s never in front of anyone else. Never when the world is watching. It happens in the quiet, in the in-between moments where his guard slips just enough. He starts like he’s not going to finish. “…Y’know I…” The words stall. He exhales, jaw tightening like he’s already reconsidering. “…Tch. This is stupid.” But he doesn’t walk it back. “…I do.”
It’s not loud. Not dramatic. Almost understated. But there’s nothing uncertain about it. No hesitation left once it’s out there. He won’t look at you right away. Like saying it was one thing, but seeing your reaction is something else entirely.
“Don’t make a big deal outta it.” There’s a pause, quieter now. “…Just. Don’t.”
Because for him, it is a big deal. Bigger than he knows how to handle out loud. Rocket doesn’t say those words unless he’s certain. He turns them over, tests them, looks for cracks, for anything that might make them less real. And when he doesn’t find one, when it holds steady no matter how hard he pushes at it, that’s when he finally lets himself say it. Not often. Not easily. But when he does, it means everything.
—--J-Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)--
Jealousy, with Rocket, doesn’t arrive like a storm. It slips in quiet and precise, a flicker behind his eyes, a shift in posture so slight most people would miss it. He notices everything. The way someone’s gaze lingers a second too long, the warmth in their voice when they say your name, the subtle drift of your attention away from him. It presses at something old in him, something restless that never quite learned how to trust that good things stay. He doesn’t make a scene. Not at first.
Instead, it shows up in the edges. A comment that lands just sharp enough to sting. A step forward that places him between you and whoever’s getting too comfortable. His hand finding your waist or your shoulder, casual on the surface, but steady. Claiming in a way he’d never admit out loud.
“Problem?” he mutters, voice low, eyes already measuring the other person like he’s deciding how much of an issue they are. It’s subtle. Controlled. The kind of warning that doesn’t need to be loud to be understood.
That’s early on. Before things settle. Before he trusts it, really trusts it. Before he believes you’re staying. Because once he does, once that certainty sinks in, the edge softens. Not gone, never gone, but dulled into something lighter. Something almost amused.
He still notices. Of course he does. But now, when someone flirts with you, there’s a slow curve to his mouth, something sharp and entertained threading through it. Like he’s watching a play where he already knows the ending.
“…Yeah, good luck with that.” It’s quiet, almost to himself. There’s a flicker of understanding there, too. Because he gets it. He knows exactly why someone would look at you that way. He just knows it’s not going anywhere.
And there you are, caught in the middle of it. Being polite. Trying to let them down gently. Shifting your weight, clearly uncomfortable but too kind to shut it down outright. Your eyes flick toward him, just for a second.
Help me. He sees it. Of course he sees it.
And instead of stepping in right away, he leans back, arms crossing, expression tipping into something downright entertained. He lifts a hand in a lazy little wave, like he’s enjoying the show. “You got this,” he calls, smirk tugging at his mouth. “C’mon, I wanna see how you handle it.” There’s no urgency in it. No tension. Just quiet confidence. He knows you’ll turn them down. Knows you’ll choose him.
Not in a possessive way. Not something that cages or confines. Just a steady, grounded certainty. Mutual. Chosen. And maybe, just a little, he enjoys watching you squirm.
“Wow, you’re really draggin’ this out, huh?” he adds under his breath, clearly amused. But the second it shifts, the second your discomfort turns real, the second the other person pushes too far or doesn’t take the hint, everything in him changes. The smirk disappears. He’s moving before you even have to ask. One step, and he’s there, presence sharp and immediate, slotting himself into the space like he belongs there. Because he does. “That’s enough.”
His voice isn’t raised. It doesn’t need to be. There’s something in it that closes the situation down instantly, no room for argument, no room for misunderstanding. His hand settles at your side again, firmer now.
“We’re done here.” It’s final. And just like that, it’s over.
Afterward, when the moment has passed and the tension drains out of the air, he glances at you, something lighter creeping back into his expression. “…You were doin’ fine,” he says, like he wasn’t watching every second of it. Like he wasn’t ready to step in the entire time.
A beat. “…Still took you long enough.” There’s that edge again, but softer now. Playful. Because jealousy might spark it, that initial flicker of something sharp and instinctive, but it’s trust that steadies him. Keeps him grounded. Lets him lean back instead of stepping in.
He knows what he has. More importantly, he knows you chose him. And that’s enough.
—--K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)--
Kisses, for Rocket, are improvised more than anything else. His muzzle changes the angles, the timing, the way contact even works, so whatever people expect a kiss to look like usually goes out the airlock immediately.
He figures it out his own way, piece by piece, wrapped in quiet curiosity and his usual defensive attitude. “Tch. It ain’t rocket science.” Which, coming from him, somehow makes it worse.
At first there’s hesitation buried under the confidence, little pauses where he’s clearly overthinking before pretending he isn’t. Sometimes it comes out soft: his nose brushing yours, a slow nuzzle lingering longer than necessary, his mouth pressing carefully against your skin instead of chasing something conventional. Other times affection slips out more instinctively, quick nips at your jaw, playful little nibbles, the occasional swipe of his tongue before he realizes he’s doing it. “What? Quit lookin’ at me like that.”
The deeper kisses take time. Early on, he approaches them with startling focus, slow and measured like he’s solving a problem in real time. You can practically feel him learning the rhythm, mapping out what works, adjusting as he goes with that sharp little engineer brain of his locked onto the task. But once he trusts you, trusts the moment, the thoughtfulness melts into instinct. The tension leaves him. His hands settle more confidently against you, claws careful, breathing roughening just slightly as he leans into it instead of analyzing it. Then it becomes something entirely his: messy in places, playful in others, full of that restless affection he never quite knows what to do with. “Yeah, alright… maybe I’m gettin’ the hang of this.”
Receiving kisses is where he completely unravels. Press one to his forehead, his cheek, the bridge of his nose, anywhere soft and unguarded, and you feel it immediately: that tiny freeze running through him before he can stop it. His body locks for half a second, caught between reflex and confusion like gentleness still catches him off guard no matter how many times it happens.
Early on, he genuinely doesn’t know what to do with it. “...What was that for?” Not suspicious exactly. Just bewildered, like he’s waiting for the catch hidden behind the affection. You have to let him sit with it for a moment, let the realization settle that nothing bad follows.
And once it clicks, he melts in quiet, reluctant stages. The stiffness drains out of him, shoulders easing, ears flicking back as he leans into the next kiss before he can stop himself. That’s the part that really gets him: how automatic it becomes. How badly he starts wanting something he never learned how to ask for. He won’t admit any of it outright, obviously. Instead he hovers closer than necessary, angles himself into your space without thinking, suddenly finding a dozen excuses to end up within reach. “Don’t start makin’ a thing outta this.” Too late for that. Because kisses slip past his defenses faster than almost anything else, cracking through all the sharp edges and sarcasm before he has time to reinforce them. And once that softness gets in, Rocket never quite manages to shove it all the way back out again.
—--L-Little ones (How are they around children?)--
It throws people off, the way Rocket is with kids. You expect sharp edges, a short fuse, impatience that snaps the moment things get loud or messy. Maybe a cutting remark. Maybe nothing at all beyond irritation. That’s what people brace for. What they get instead is quieter. Controlled. Not soft, not performative, not suddenly sweet. Just… deliberate.
He stays himself around them. Still rough around the edges, still muttering under his breath when a question gets asked for the fifth time in a row or someone invades his space like personal boundaries are optional settings. His ears flick, his shoulders tighten, a sigh slips out like he’s holding something back rather than letting it out.
But it never crosses the line. Never becomes something that lands wrong. “…Yeah. Yeah, I hear you,” he says once, low and a little strained, like he’s actively choosing each word before it leaves him.
There’s restraint there. Constant, practiced restraint. Not because he’s trying to be someone he’s not, but because he’s very aware of what words can do when they land wrong. He knows what it’s like to be on the receiving end of that. And that knowledge sits under everything. He doesn’t talk about it. Doesn’t frame it. Doesn’t give it shape. But it’s there anyway, in the way he adjusts his tone when a kid looks unsure, or the way he gets to their level when something needs explaining.
“Alright, c’mere,” he mutters sometimes, like it’s an inconvenience he’s decided to accept.
He remembers too much. That’s the problem. He remembers what it’s like to be small in a place that isn’t safe. Rooms that felt wrong. Fear sitting heavy in the air, thick enough to choke on. Younger ones who didn’t understand what was happening, just that it hurt. And back then, he learned how to adjust. How to make himself smaller in the right ways. Softer. Not weak, never that, but careful enough to take the edge off things. He’d distract them. Tell stories. Sit close so they didn’t feel alone. A big brother in a place that didn’t deserve one. It stuck. That version of him. The one that didn’t quite fit what people expected, but made sense once you saw it long enough.
“Yeah, no, that’s not how that works,” he’d say, correcting gently in his own blunt way, then pause like he regretted sounding too firm and add, “Try again. You’re close.” Or he’d distract them entirely, pulling some half-made story out of nowhere just to pull their attention away from whatever had them spiraling. “…So anyway, the point is, don’t trust things that hiss at you twice. Learned that one the hard way.”
Because when he looks at kids now, he doesn’t just see noise or chaos or something to be managed. He sees something unbroken in a way he doesn’t quite know how to name. Something that hasn’t been worn down yet.
And there’s a part of him, quiet and unspoken, that doesn’t want the world to take that away too soon. Not that he’d ever say it like that. “Don’t start with me,” he mutters when a kid tugs at his arm again, though he doesn’t pull away. He just stays.
And when the idea of having one of his own comes up, even hypothetically, his answer is immediate. Almost too immediate. “…No.” A beat. “Not happenin’.” No explanation. No debate. Like closing a door before anything can walk through it. Because that kind of responsibility sits too close to things he doesn’t trust himself with. Too many variables. Too many ways something could go wrong and never come back from it.
And once kid does end up in his orbit, they’re safe there. He doesn’t walk away. He just adjusts his voice a little lower. “…Alright. Listen to me this time, yeah?” And somehow, it works. He’ll explain things straight, no talking down, no brushing them off. Answer their questions like they actually matter. Might even spin a story if it keeps them calm, keeps them from getting that look in their eyes he knows too well.
“Hey, hey… you’re good. Nothin’s gonna get you, alright? I got it handled.” There’s patience there. Not natural. Not easy. But steady. Earned the hard way. He’ll huff, roll his eyes, act like it’s a hassle, but he stays. Always stays. “Yeah, yeah, I hear ya. Ask your question already, I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
And if something threatens them, that careful restraint disappears fast. Gone. What’s left is sharp. Focused. Uncompromising. “Back up. Now.” No room for argument. No hesitation. Because he might not want to be a father. Might not believe he could ever be that for someone. But protecting, that he knows. He’s done it before. And when it comes to kids, those small, bright pieces of the world that haven’t been broken yet, he always will. “…You stick close to me, yeah? I won’t let anything happen to you.”
—--M-Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)--
Mornings with Rocket don’t really start so much as they unravel. Slow, reluctant, like the world itself has to convince him to participate.
He is not built for early anything if he can avoid it. If there is even a sliver of warmth left, even a hint of extra time, he takes it without hesitation or apology. The outside world can wait its turn. You shift first. That is always where it begins. The moment you try to sit up, there is a low, gravel-thick sound from behind you. “…Mm. No.”
Then an arm tightens around your middle, firm enough to be decisive but still half-lost in sleep. You are pulled back with no ceremony, no warning, just inevitability, like gravity decided you belong exactly there and changed the rules accordingly. “Stay,” he mutters into your shoulder, voice roughened by sleep, the word more instinct than speech.
It is not a request. It is not even fully awake enough to be a command. It is something simpler. Something certain. His face presses somewhere warm without bothering to aim properly. Shoulder, neck, wherever he lands, he stays there like the decision has already been made and reviewed twice.
You can feel the slow rhythm of him settling back in, the way tension drains out of him in stages. Not gone. Just postponed. A few minutes pass like that. Neither of you moving much. The world outside feels distant, irrelevant, like it belongs to someone else’s schedule.
Eventually, you manage to slip free. Not because he lets you go so much as because he briefly forgets he is holding you. It does not last.
You are barely out of the room before you hear it. The soft shuffle of movement. The dragging weight of him waking in pieces instead of all at once. “Where you goin’,” comes a voice from the hallway, low and unimpressed, like the concept of separation is personally offensive. He appears moments later still half-wrapped in sleep, fur a mess, posture loose in a way he never manages fully awake. He looks like he is following a scent trail rather than making a conscious decision.
Kitchen, apparently. That is where you ended up. “Yeah. Figured.” He says it like it was always obvious. Then he is behind you. No announcement. No buildup. Just arms around your waist or thighs, chin settling against your back like it belongs there. The weight of him presses in, steady and familiar, as if your body is just an extension of wherever he last stopped resting.
“…Too early for this,” he mutters, though he makes no move to leave. If you try to work around him, he adjusts instead of letting go, shifting with you like it is the most natural coordination in the world.
At some point, he climbs up properly, feet thudding softly behind you before his weight settles higher against your back. Arms loop loosely, chin resting over your shoulder, completely unbothered by physics or personal space. “Don’t act like this is weird,” he says, as if you are the one breaking an established rule.
You hand him something without looking. He takes it without question, not even opening his eyes properly. “…Mm. Yeah. That’s fine.” A bite. A sip. Whatever it is, it disappears quickly. Then, as if remembering something important, he adds, almost absently, “You’re doin’ it wrong, but it’s edible.” It is not a complaint. Not really. It just sits there, part of the rhythm.
And then someone else enters the space. The shift is immediate. He is still there, technically. Still close. Still attached in a way that is impossible to misread if you were paying attention. But his voice changes. “…Tch.” He loosens just enough to pretend he was never quite that close in the first place. Not fully letting go. Just reconfiguring. “Don’t start.” Like you are the one responsible for the evidence.
If he is cooking, it does not change much. He still keeps you within reach, always. A hand at your wrist, a tail looped loosely around your leg without ceremony, subtle as breathing. If you move, he adjusts. If you stop, he notices.
“Here,” he says at one point, holding something out without looking. You take it. He does not wait to see if you like it. He already assumes you will. “…Obviously it needed more salt,” he adds, like that explains everything about the universe.
And through it all, he never fully detaches. Not really. Even as the day begins to assemble itself around you, he stays half-tethered to that early softness, still waking up in layers instead of steps. Because mornings with Rocket are not about starting the day. They are about refusing to let go of it too quickly.
—--N-Night (How are nights spent with them?)--
Nights with Rocket carry the same quiet gravity as mornings, only softened at the edges, like the whole world has been turned down to a low, steady hum. Everything feels slower here. Easier to hold. Easier to let go of.
Some nights, neither of you has anything left to give beyond simply being near each other. A shared shower. A slow bath. Nothing rushed, nothing performed. Just steam curling in the air, water slipping over tired muscles, the kind of silence that doesn’t ask to be filled. He leans against the tile for a moment, eyes half-lidded, then mutters, “…Don’t move.” It is not really a command. More like a preference he assumes will be followed. You shift anyway, and he sighs through his nose like this is an inconvenience he is willing to tolerate. But he does not actually stop you.
By the time you make it back to bed, there is no conversation left to have. No decisions to make. It is instinct now. Familiar enough that it happens without thought. Arms finding their place. Weight settling. The bed adjusting around you both like it has been expecting this. “…Finally,” he mutters, already halfway gone.
Sleep arrives quickly on nights like that. Not dramatic. Not heavy. Just a gradual sinking, like the world is lowering you both into something softer than it has any right to be.
Other nights carry more spark. More intimacy. His attention sharp even when he is tired, like something in him refuses to fully power down. He is closer like that. More present. Less guarded in small, fleeting ways.
“…You still up?” he asks once, voice low, watching the ceiling like it might answer him back. You are. Or you are not. Either way, he stays near. There is a quiet kind of energy in those nights, but it never scatters. It always circles back. To contact. To proximity. To the simple fact of you being there and him choosing to remain in the same space without making it complicated.
If he brushes your hand, it is not accidental. If he stays within reach, it is not coincidence. “Don’t read into it,” he says at one point, even though nothing about it needs explaining.
Then there are the restless nights. The ones where sleep refuses him entirely. If you are already out, he stays still at first. Watches you in that quiet, guarded way of his, like he is keeping watch over something he does not entirely trust the world with. The edge is still there, even in softness, but it is quieter when it is just you. His hand drifts without thinking, fingers brushing through your hair if you have any, slow and absentminded. Like he is checking something real. Something stable.
“…Mm,” he murmurs under his breath, not quite awake, not quite gone. Sometimes that is enough to anchor him. Sometimes it is not. When it is not, he moves carefully. No sudden shifts. No unnecessary motion. He untangles himself like he is trying not to disturb something fragile, even if he would never call you that out loud. He pauses once, looking at you like he is weighing whether leaving is even worth it. Then he exhales. “…Yeah. Just for a sec.” He does not go far.
There is always somewhere he ends up. Half-finished work left open like he planned to come back in a minute. Tools scattered with no real order. A console still running. A chair he clearly did not intend to fall asleep in. Or the pilot’s seat. Head tilted forward. Arms slack. Exhaustion catching him mid-thought like it finally won an argument he stopped having. He never plans to stop. He just runs out of momentum. And if you wake and notice he is gone, you already know where to find him.
There is something quietly intimate about bringing him back. Not dragging. Not forcing. Just guiding him up, one step at a time, half-asleep and mildly offended by the concept of being interrupted.
“…I was fine,” he mumbles when you get him moving. “You always say that,” you answer. “That’s because it’s true.” It is not. But he does not resist when you steer him back. Not really. He leans into you in a way that is almost subtle, like some part of him trusts the motion more than his own judgment. By the time you get him to bed, the fight is already gone out of him.
The moment he is under the covers again, it is immediate. Like something clicks back into place. His body settles. His breathing evens out. The tension that was holding him upright dissolves all at once. “…Don’t make a thing outta this,” he mutters, already drifting. But he is close again. Always close. Like distance was never the point. Like no matter how far he wanders, through rooms, through work, through exhaustion, there is always something in him that arcs back to you without needing permission.
And once he is there, he stays. Like that is the only place he ever meant to end up.
—--O-Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)--
Getting Rocket to talk, really talk, is like trying to coax a locked vault into humming open on its own. He keeps most things sealed behind reflex and habit. Thoughts, worries, the heavier knots in his head. They don’t get spoken, they get carried.
If you want something from him, you have to ask. And even then, he treats it like a negotiation he didn’t agree to. “Why d’you care?” he tosses out, like it’s nothing. Or, “It’s fine.” Or, “C’mon, that’s ancient history.” The words come quick, clean, practiced. Not because he is hiding, exactly, but because answering means letting something out where it can be seen. And being seen like that has never felt safe. Sometimes he redirects without even realizing he’s doing it. A shift of focus. A sarcastic jab. A sudden interest in literally anything else in the room.
“You always this nosy or is today special?” It is deflection, but it is also rhythm. The way he keeps himself balanced. Still, if you stay with it, if you don’t chase him and don’t let it drop either, something in him starts to hesitate. Not surrender. Not yet. Just a crack in the pattern.
“…You’re not lettin’ this go, huh,” he mutters eventually, like it annoys him more than it should. And when you just wait, he exhales through his nose, sharp and resigned. “Fine. Fine. Don’t make it weird.” That is usually how it starts.
Serious things are different. If something crosses a line he can’t step over alone, he brings it up himself. Not gracefully. Never gracefully. “I gotta say somethin’,” he’ll start, like he is already halfway out of his comfort zone. Then a pause. Then, quieter, “It’s not great.” He won’t dress it up. He won’t soften it unless he absolutely has to. But he will say it.
Alcohol changes the shape of it, not the core. The walls are still there, just a little looser at the edges, like a badly fitted hatch under pressure. Things slip through that he would normally clamp down on before they ever reached air.
“You ever think about how everything’s just…” he once muttered, staring at nothing in particular, “temporary garbage that somehow still matters?” Then, like he caught himself, a short laugh. “Forget it. That’s nothin’.” But it stays in the room anyway. The next morning, if you bring it up, he narrows his eyes immediately. “I didn’t say that.” “Yes you did.” “Nope.” A beat. “…Okay, maybe I did. Doesn’t mean it counts.”
It is not that he is silent because there is nothing inside him to say. It is that every word feels like something that can be used against him if handled wrong. Trust, for Rocket, is not a speech. It is repetition. It is presence. It is someone asking once, twice, and still being there when he finally stops pretending he did not hear them. And eventually, when he realizes you are not leaving the question behind him, his voice drops a fraction softer, like it is deciding to exist in the open. “Alright,” he says, slower this time. “You wanna know? Then listen. For real.”
—--P-Patience (How easily angered are they?)--
Rocket’s temper is not subtle. It arrives fast, bright, and a little dangerous, like a spark dropped into dry wire. He snaps before thought catches up. Words come out sharp, unfiltered, sometimes unfair even by his own standards. He knows it too. That’s the part that lingers after the noise fades.
Being close to someone doesn’t erase it. It reshapes it, unevenly, over time. Not neatly. Not predictably. Some days he catches himself before it tips over, jaw tightening as he turns away instead of letting it land. Other days, it slips. The edge comes out too hard, too quick, and there’s that half second afterward where everything shifts. Not regret exactly. Awareness. “Yeah. Fine. Whatever,” he mutters when it happens, already moving like distance can undo impact. It’s not an apology. Not yet. But it’s the closest thing he offers in the moment before he either circles back later or pretends it never needed circling at all.
What changes him isn’t pressure. It’s pattern. The realization, slow and stubborn, that his temper doesn’t exist in isolation. It hits outward. It lands. And that matters more than he expected it to. So he starts adjusting in small ways that don’t look like effort from the outside. He leaves the room when it builds too high. Not gracefully. Not happily. Like it costs him something to step away instead of pushing through. “Tch. Gimme a minute,” he’ll throw over his shoulder, voice tight, like the space is the compromise and not the escape.
Sometimes he redirects it into work. Metal, systems, anything that can take impact without pushing back. Anything that doesn’t talk back. He won’t call it growth. If you point it out, he’ll scoff immediately. “I’m not doing anything different,” Rocket says flatly, not looking up from whatever he’s fixing. “Just not worth blowing up the whole room over nothing.”
But the truth sits underneath that, steady and unspoken. He is trying. Not because someone asked him to. Because he’s starting to understand what his fire costs other people. And that realization sticks.
—--Q-Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)--
Rocket’s memory is not just sharp. It’s precise enough to feel intentional, like nothing ever truly slips through it. Things you say once, half distracted, barely meaning them to stick, come back later in ways that prove he never missed them at all.
You mention not liking a certain smell, and it never shows up around you again. You flinch at something small, and he adjusts without comment. You confess a preference you thought was trivial, and somehow it becomes part of how he moves around you going forward.
It’s unsettling if you think about it too long. How much he retains. How much he tracks without ever announcing it. “You remember all that?” you ask him once, caught off guard.
Rocket snorts like the question itself is ridiculous. “It’s not hard. You just talk a lot.” “That’s not an answer.” “It is,” he says, finally glancing up. “You just don’t like it.” And that’s the thing. He never frames it as care. Never labels it as attention. To him, it’s observation. Logic. Pattern recognition.
But it isn’t accidental. It shows up in the smallest corrections, the quiet adjustments he makes without announcing them. The way he anticipates needs before they’re spoken. The way he remembers not just what you said, but how you said it. “You didn’t have to remember that,” you tell him another time, softer. Rocket pauses just slightly too long before responding. “Yeah,” he says at last, turning back to what he’s doing. “Well. I did.” Like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t mean anything. But it does. Because Rocket doesn’t store things in his mind by accident. He stores them because, somewhere along the way, he decided you were worth keeping track of.
—--R-Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)--
Rocket would complain the entire time if you asked him to pick a favorite memory. He’d call it stupid, claim ranking moments makes no sense, act like he’s got better things to do than sit around being sentimental. “Tch. What kinda question is that?” But if you paid attention, really paid attention to the moments he drifts back to without realizing it, the pattern becomes obvious. He loves the quiet ones most. The stretches of time where nothing important is happening and somehow that’s exactly why they matter.
Sitting beside you while he rambles through some half-finished idea, tools spread everywhere, hands moving faster than his mouth as he explains something wildly complicated like you’re supposed to keep up. “No, no, see, if I reroute the capacitor through here, then the whole thing stops overheating.” He glances over a second later, catches your expression, snorts. “You got absolutely no idea what I’m talkin’ about, huh?” He doesn’t actually care whether you understand. He just likes that you stay and listen anyway.
Or maybe it’s one of those late nights where Rocket ends up sprawled beside you, tools abandoned for once, lazily regaling you with stories from his long list of disasters, escapes, and barely-survivable decisions. He tells them like they’re jokes at first, all swagger and exaggerated hand gestures, painting himself as the smartest thing in the room even when the story very clearly suggests otherwise.
“So there I am,” he says, pointing dramatically with a wrench he definitely should not still be holding, “danglin’ off the side of a cargo ship held together with rust and bad decisions while three bounty hunters are shootin’ at me.” You raise an eyebrow. “Three?” “Five,” he corrects instantly. “Actually, no, wait, seven. Point is, they were losers.”
Half the fun is watching him get carried away. The more invested he gets, the more animated he becomes, ears twitching, tail flicking, hands moving faster than the story can keep up with. He’ll drift closer without noticing, bumping against your side as he talks, completely absorbed in reliving the chaos.
“And then Groot throws this guy through a window, right? Funniest thing I ever seen. Guy screams the whole way down.” “You’re smiling way too hard about that.” “Because it was funny.”
Sometimes the stories turn ridiculous. Smuggling runs gone sideways. Prison breaks that somehow involved explosions, stolen uniforms, and at least one very angry guard he still insists started it. Other times, quieter details slip through before he can stop them: nights spent hiding in broken ships, patching himself together alone, running on fumes and spite because there wasn’t another option. Those moments never last long. The second things get too honest, he swerves hard back into humor. “Anyway, moral of the story? Never trust a guy with neon teeth. Learned that one the hard way.” But he keeps talking. Keeps letting you hear the stories anyway. And somewhere between the sarcasm, the near-death experiences, and the increasingly dramatic reenactments, you realize what he’s really giving you: pieces of himself. Messy, chaotic, half-buried pieces, handed over in the only way he knows how.
The playful moments stick too. The rare times he relaxes enough for the sharp edges to dull into something lighter. Less guarded. More reckless in the fun way instead of the survival way. Those moments hit different because they’re so rare. He laughs louder, teases harder, lets himself enjoy things without constantly waiting for the next disaster. And then there are the quieter close moments he never mentions aloud at all, the ones he revisits privately when the ship’s asleep and his thoughts get too loud. A hand in his fur. Your weight against his side. The kind of memories that settle deep whether he wants them to or not.
But if there’s one memory that wins outright, the one that lives rent-free in his head forever, it’s the day he discovered you were absurdly ticklish. It starts innocently enough. A brush of his hand against your side, an unexpected reaction, and then that dangerous little look sparks across his face. Curious first. Then delighted. Then absolutely catastrophic. “...No way.” You’re doomed immediately. Suddenly he’s poking at your sides like a scientist making a groundbreaking discovery, testing reactions with increasing enthusiasm while you’re laughing too hard to defend yourself properly. “Hold still, I’m conductin’ important research here!” His grin turns outright vicious the second he finds a weak spot. “Oh, that one got ya good.” And the best part, the part that sticks with him afterward, is the sound of it all. Your laughter. His own, loud and sharp and completely unrestrained in a way it almost never is. For once he forgets himself entirely. No walls. No careful control. Just chaos and joy crashing together in the middle of the room.
Of course, eventually you discover he’s ticklish too, and the entire situation implodes instantly. The confidence disappears the second your hands hit the right spot. He jerks away so hard he nearly falls off the couch, tail puffing out in outrage. “Don’t you dare!” Which, naturally, only encourages you. Suddenly Rocket’s the one squirming, half laughing despite himself, trying to twist out of reach while throwing out increasingly useless threats. “I swear I’m gonna rewire every appliance you own!” By that point you’re both laughing too hard for him to maintain any dignity anyway. After that, it becomes an unspoken war. Random attacks. Petty revenge. A standing truce neither of you respects for more than three business days at a time. And honestly? Those are the moments he treasures most. The ones where he laughs so hard he forgets to stay guarded. The ones where, for a little while, being happy stops feeling like something he has to earn.
—--S-Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)-
Rocket’s protectiveness is precise. It’s not suffocating, not the kind that cages you or treats you like fragile glass. He knows better than that. He knows you’re capable, strong, and he respects it too much to smother you. But that doesn’t mean he’s not watching. He just does it differently.
Instead of hovering, he equips you. Upgrades your defenses in ways that feel almost casual, like it’s no big deal, like he’d do it for anyone. A modified blaster here, a piece of tech there, small adjustments that make a big difference. He doesn’t frame it as protection. “Don’t look at me like that. Yours was junk. This one won’t blow up in your hand.” It’s his way of making sure that, even when he’s not there, you’re never unprepared. And if something goes wrong? He’s already moving. No hesitation. No question. Sharp, immediate action. “I got it. Stay behind me.”
What he doesn’t know how to handle at first is the reverse. Being protected. That throws him off balance. The first time you step in for him, really step in, not because he asked but because you wanted to, there’s a flicker in him. Not anger exactly, but close, defensive, confused. “What’re you doin’?” “I had it handled.” It’s not pride, not entirely. It’s deeper than that. He’s not used to being someone’s concern, to being worth that kind of instinctive care. His first reaction is to misread it, thinking you underestimate him, or worse, that you don’t trust he can handle himself.
But if you stay steady, if you make it clear, not with words but with consistency, that it’s not doubt, not mockery, not pity, just care, that’s when it hits him. Hard. He goes quiet. Not shut down, just still. Processing. The sharp edges soften, vulnerability flickering beneath the surface. He won’t cry, not openly, not now, but it gets close. Close enough that you can see it in the way he looks at you, like he’s trying to understand how this is real, how you could do that for him.
“…You didn’t have to do that.” It’s quieter than usual. Rough around the edges, but honest in a way he doesn’t let himself be often. From that point on, something shifts. He doesn’t fight it the same way. Still awkward, still adjusting, but he accepts it. Holds onto it in that quiet, careful way he does with anything important. “Yeah, yeah… don’t make it a thing.”
And in those private, unguarded moments between the two of you, that softness doesn’t disappear. It deepens. There’s a kind of intensity in how he returns your care, like he’s trying to give back something he still doesn’t fully believe he deserves. Not just physical closeness, but attention, focus, a kind of reverence that shows up in how present he is, how much he feels everything instead of brushing it off. “…C’mere.”
And if he’s ever even slightly injured, a minor scrape, the faintest cold, nothing serious, at first he’ll try to hide it. A scrape, a fever, something pulled just a little too tight, he brushes it off, keeps moving, acts like it’s nothing.
“I’m fine.” It’s quick, dismissive, like if he doesn’t give it weight it won’t matter. It’s instinct. Showing weakness has never felt safe, and being taken care of throws him off more than he’ll admit. But if you catch it, if you push past the deflection and make him stop, it turns into a fight. He hates bed rest, resists it like a personal offense, like slowing down means losing control. “I said I’m fine. Quit hoverin’.” And still, once you’ve got him there, once he realizes you’re not backing off, something in him gives. He settles into it, reluctant at first, then just a little too willing. Not enough to be obvious, but enough to keep you close, keep you hovering, keep you right there with him. Dramatic, calculated, entirely intentional.
“…You’re not leavin’, right?” It’s quieter. Barely there. Like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. Being protected by you didn’t make him smaller. It made him feel chosen. And that’s something Rocket never takes lightly. “…Yeah. Thought so.”
—--T-Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)--
At first, he treats you like something breakable, like you might scatter into pieces if he holds on at the wrong angle or says the wrong thing without meaning to. Every date feels like a careful construction he refuses to call a performance. Every gift feels like it should come with instructions he never read. He replays everything later in his head anyway, combing through your expressions like there might be hidden signals he missed. A pause too long. A smile not quite right. Proof, in his mind, that he slipped. That he gave you a reason to reconsider him.
In his head, the math is brutally simple. One mistake and you’ll look at him differently. One wrong step and the version of you he’s trying not to lose will decide he is not worth the trouble.
He never says that out loud. He just leans back like it does not matter at all. “It’s just a date,” he mutters once, like that explains anything, like it did not take him three hours to stop rereading the same message before sending it. But time has a way of sanding down sharp edges, even his.
Slowly, the tension stops sitting so tightly under his skin. The rehearsed versions of him start slipping out of practice. He stops treating every moment like it might be evaluated later. The silence between you stops feeling like something he needs to fill or fix. He starts staying in it instead. He laughs more without catching himself doing it. Argues less with the invisible version of you he used to imagine judging him. Watches you without that constant background calculation of what you might be thinking.
And the gifts change. They stop being evidence of effort and start being fragments of attention. A tool he fixed because he knew you hated when things stuck. A snack he grabbed without thinking because you mentioned it once and he remembered anyway. Something small left in your space like it was never meant to be impressive, just present.
You catch him watching you use one of them once, arms crossed, trying to look indifferent. You lift it slightly. “You made this better.” He scoffs immediately. “It was already fine.” A pause. Then, quieter, almost like he did not mean for it to escape him, “Just… did not like the way it was before.” He still cares. That never changes. There is always a part of him that wants things to be right, precise, safe in the way he understands safety. But it stops running the whole system. It stops turning every interaction into a test he might fail.
Eventually, something in him gives up on the idea that he is on trial at all. One night, he catches you looking at him when nothing is happening. No task. No distraction. Just you, looking. He narrows his eyes a little, suspicious by habit more than feeling. “What.” You shrug. “Nothing.” That makes him more suspicious, not less. “You always say that when it is something.” You smile. “Maybe I just like looking at you.” That lands differently. Not like praise he can deflect. Not like a compliment he can disassemble into safer parts. It just sits there, plain and unarmored.
He goes quiet for a moment too long, ears flicking like he is recalibrating something internal. “…You are serious, huh,” he says finally, like he is trying to decide if that is more dangerous than criticism. You nod. Another pause. Then he exhales through his nose, like the tension he has been carrying finally ran out of places to hide. “Yeah,” he mutters, softer now. “Alright.” He looks away first, but he does not pull back. Does not rebuild the distance. Just stays there, in the space where he is not performing anything, where nothing needs to be earned in real time.
And for Rocket, that is what it looks like when the fear stops driving. Not perfection. Not certainty. Just staying anyway, without waiting for the moment it all falls apart.
—--U-Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)--
Where do you even start with this part of him.
Rocket does not carry baggage so much as he rigs it with tripwires and pretends he is not walking through it. Most of it stays buried under sarcasm sharp enough to cut clean through conversation. A flick of attitude here. A dismissive snort there. Anything to keep people from getting close enough to notice the weight underneath. But it is always there. And it does something strange in him. It does not get louder when everything falls apart. It gets louder when things finally stop falling apart. When there is quiet. When there is ease. When there is warmth that does not demand anything back.
That is when his mind turns on him. Because in his world, quiet is never just quiet. It is what happens right before impact. It is the breath held before something breaks. So instead of resting in it, he starts scanning for damage that is not there yet. He picks at edges that do not need picking. He sharpens harmless moments until they start to look like threats.
A comment lands wrong on purpose even though he does not fully mean it to. A disagreement sparks out of nowhere and escalates before even he can explain why he started it. He pushes, just a little, just enough, testing where the breaking point is so it does not surprise him when it comes. Because in his head it always does. “Better I wreck it first than sit around waitin’ for it to blow up in my face.” He would never say it cleanly like that. If he said it at all, it would come out sideways. Something like a scoff first. Then, quieter, almost like it annoys him to admit it even exists. “…’Cause I know how this ends.”
Sometimes he does not even realize he is doing it. It is not a plan. Not a strategy. It is reflex. A survival loop that learned early that good things are just delayed losses with nicer lighting. And when the spiral really takes hold, he does not even argue anymore. He just goes distant. Less bite, more silence. Standing in the same room but already halfway out of it, like if he loosens his grip on things first it will not hurt as much when they slip away later.
The worst part is the aftermath. That pause. That moment where he realizes he was not protecting anything. He was just reenacting an old fear with new faces. He never looks at you right away when that realization hits. Like eye contact might make it real in a way he cannot undo. You are still there though. That is the part he does not know how to file away. Not fixing it. Not arguing it into submission. Just staying. Not flinching when he gets sharp. Not disappearing when he gets difficult. Not turning his fear into your responsibility. “Yeah? You still here?”
He says it like it is bait. Like he is expecting you to prove the obvious answer wrong. Like he is waiting for the catch to finally show itself. What he is actually asking is quieter than that. Less language, more panic he refuses to name. Are you real. Are you still real. Are you about to become like the rest of it. And when you answer by just being there, steady in a way he does not know how to argue with, something in him falters. Not dramatically. Not neatly. Just a small internal misfire. Like a weapon that expected recoil and got none. “…Huh.”
It is not understanding yet. Not peace. Not even belief. It is the first crack in the assumption that everything good is temporary. He still tests it sometimes after that. Not because he wants to lose you, but because his instincts are stubborn and old and loud. A sharp word that slips out before he can catch it. A moment of distance he builds out of habit more than intent. But it does not land the same anymore. Because you are still there after it. And slowly, reluctantly, that becomes data he cannot ignore. So he stops preparing for the ending every second of the beginning. Stops trying to outrun something that is not happening.
And in the rare quiet moments where he lets himself just exist inside something steady without sabotaging it for practice, you can see it in the way his shoulders drop a fraction. In the way he does not immediately reach for an exit. In the way he stays. Not because he is convinced it will last forever. But because, for once, he is not assuming it will not.
—--V-Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)--
He carries a quiet, constant discomfort in his own skin; scars etched where they never should have been, metal threaded through him like reminders he never asked to keep. It is the kind of thing Rocket notices even when he is trying not to. A low static hum beneath everything else. Scars. Hardware. Old damage layered together with modifications he never chose. Pieces of himself that still feel like echoes of somebody else’s decisions. It leaves him with a complicated relationship with his own body, caught somewhere between resentment and reclamation.
Some days he wears confidence like armor, sharp grin flashing the second he catches someone staring too long. Other days the awareness sits heavier beneath his fur, every scar and alteration suddenly impossible to ignore.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he mutters once after catching your attention lingering a little too long, ears flicking with mock irritation. “Try not to look so fascinated. You’re bruisin’ my ego.” Then, because deflection is second nature to him, he adds dryly, “Careful. You keep lookin’ at me like that, I’m gonna start chargn’ admission.”
The jokes land easy, polished smooth after years of using humor and swagger like camouflage, but there is still a flicker of self-consciousness underneath them. Rocket notices everything about himself with exhausting precision. There is a mental list he never writes down but might as well: what was taken, what was added, what was changed, what still does not fully feel like it belongs. It never completely shuts off. Even on good days, it hums quietly under everything else like distant machinery he has simply learned to function beside.
Rocket’s body is uniquely his own, though internally he still questions how much of it actually feels like his. Shaped by genetic modification, cybernetics, and years of surviving things that should have broken him, it is less one clean story and more a collection of chapters written by different hands. Some of it was forced onto him. Some of it was survival. Every scar, implant, and carefully chosen alteration tells part of that history, not neatly, but in overlapping layers that do not always agree with each other.
Most of it was never his decision. “Yeah,” he says once, almost like he is answering a question nobody asked aloud, fingers brushing briefly near one of the metal points along his body, more habitual than tender. “Most of this wasn’t up to me.” A beat passes. Then, quieter now, sharper in a way that feels less like anger and more like ownership finally asserted: “But the parts that are? Those are mine.”
Piercings became one of the first ways he reclaimed that ownership. Not subtle ones, either. Ear piercings scattered along the edges, metal catching the light whenever he turns his head. A tongue piercing he absolutely weaponizes for reactions because he thinks watching other people get flustered is hilarious. Barbells and rings and studs placed with deliberate intent rather than impulse, every single one chosen by him. Not a scientist. Not a surgeon. Not somebody pinning him down under bright operating lights. Him.
“Yeah, I know they look good,” he says immediately if he catches you staring too long, grin sharp around the edges. “Try not to sound so surprised about it.” And there is pride there. Real pride. Hard-earned pride.
Rocket takes care of his appearance with precision, from the condition of his fur to the maintenance of every piercing and implant attached to him. Nothing about him feels random anymore. That matters. After spending so much of his life treated like a project instead of a person, intentionality became survival. Reclamation through detail.
The jewelry is part of that reclamation. Too many people spent too long treating his body like it belonged to them. Something to alter. Improve. Cut apart and rebuild according to somebody else’s blueprint. The piercings became his answer to that history, turning his body into something expressive instead of clinical. Not a specimen. Not an experiment. His.
“You’d be amazed how annoyin’ it is when people think they get a say in what happens to you,” he mutters once while adjusting one of the barbells absently. His tone stays casual, but not enough to fully hide the bitterness underneath it. “So now they don’t.” Then, almost immediately, he scoffs softly and flicks his ears back like he caught himself getting too honest. “Besides,” he adds, swagger sliding neatly back into place, “I make this look good.” And annoyingly enough, he does.
Rocket carries himself with the kind of confidence that only comes from surviving impossible things and deciding to look good afterward purely out of spite. The piercings. The carefully maintained fur. The sharp grin. The layered clothes and scavenged accessories. All of it tangles together into something unmistakably him. Not perfect. Not untouched. But chosen. Claimed. Owned by nobody except himself.
Then there is his fur. That is his. He knows every angle of it, every shift in light, every way it moves when he does. He has a grooming routine he would absolutely deny having, but it exists anyway. And if something is off, he notices instantly.
“Hey. Hands off.” Not loud. Just final. Touch it wrong and the warning sharpens immediately, clean and absolute. “Start apologizin’ now.”
Do not touch it unless he says so. Do not get it wet. Do not get it dirty. And do not comment on it unless you are saying something he approves of. Otherwise, congratulations, you have just earned a very loud, very irritated raccoon directly in your face.
“Hey. I said hands off.” The tone stays flat, but the boundary is already drawn and enforced before the sentence even finishes landing. “I swear, you do that again, I’m gonna make it everybody’s problem. I am gonna put you through a bulkhead.” Half threat. Half emotional overload he refuses to unpack.
Because this is not just vanity. It is territory. One of the only things in him that feels untouched by anyone else’s design. Fur is not aesthetics to Rocket; it is identity, control, and a rare source of confidence that does not come from surviving, but from finally having something that still feels entirely his.
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” he snaps once, ears angling back. “Like you’d survive five minutes in my body, let alone look this good if you had fur.” But even then, the edge fades faster than it used to.
And somehow, unfairly, Rocket still manages to look good covered in grease. Not “presentable.” Not “cleaned up despite the mess.” Good.
Like the streaks of oil dragged across his fur and the smudges darkening his gloves were deliberate accents added by a stylist with a mechanic’s license. He can spend twelve straight hours half-buried inside an overheating engine room, emerge smelling faintly like ozone and gunpowder, and still carry himself like he stepped out of an underground fashion spread titled Weapons Maintenance But Make It Dangerous. It makes no sense. Everybody around him hates that it makes no sense.
His fur ends up marked with fingerprints of black grease along his forearms and shoulders, little metallic flecks caught in the softer silver strands near his neck where sparks jumped while he welded something he absolutely should have powered down first. Sleeves rolled unevenly. Goggles shoved up onto his head. Utility belt hanging low around his hips with tools still clipped onto it because he “might need ‘em again in five minutes.”
The look should be chaotic. Instead, Rocket wears it with the kind of confidence that turns chaos into style.
“You know,” you say once, watching him lean back beneath a console with a wrench clenched between his teeth, “most people look concerning when they’re covered in motor oil.”
Rocket slides out from under the machinery a second later, ears flicking as he spits the wrench into one hand with practiced ease. There is a smear of grease cutting across one cheekbone and another streaked near the bridge of his nose. Somehow it only makes his grin look sharper. “Yeah?” he asks casually. “And most people ain’t me.”
Then he catches his reflection in a dark monitor screen while wiping his hands on an already ruined rag. He pauses. Tilts his head slightly.
“…Okay, hold on,” he mutters, inspecting the streak across his jaw with entirely too much seriousness. “This one kinda works.” “You’re unbelievable.” “I’m iconic, actually.”
The worst part is that he is meticulous underneath all of it. The mess never feels accidental. Even elbow-deep in machinery, there is still precision in the way he carries himself. Fur brushed back just enough to stay out of his face. Piercings cleaned and maintained no matter how long he has been in the workshop. Tool harness adjusted perfectly against his body. Rocket treats practicality and presentation like they belong in the same category. Because to him, they do.
His appearance is still his, even in the middle of hard work. Maybe especially then. There is something deeply personal in the fact that he can look worn down without ever looking diminished. Grease stains do not make him feel damaged in the way old surgical scars sometimes can. Those marks came from him. From building things. Fixing things. Surviving another impossible situation through sheer stubbornness and technical brilliance.
The oil streaked across his fur after repairing a ship engine late at night means something entirely different than the marks forced onto him in laboratories and operating rooms. Those are proof of capability. Proof of choice. Maybe that is why he wears them so well.
You notice it most when he is focused. Tongue pressing faintly against the inside of his cheek while he works or slightly sticking out. Goggles slipping slightly down his nose. Claws clicking rapidly across exposed wiring with impossible precision. His tail flicking sharply whenever somebody interrupts him at the wrong moment.
“Rocket,” you say carefully while peering into the engine compartment, “how long have you been awake?” “I dunno. Couple hours.” “You’ve been in here since yesterday.” “That sounds fake.” “You are actively holding a screwdriver backwards.” He stares at the tool in his hand for a long beat before quietly flipping it around. “…Okay, rude. Don’t embarrass me in my own workspace.”
And even exhausted, fur rumpled from hours of work and grease streaked practically everywhere, he still looks unfairly put together. Like the grime became part of the outfit instead of damage to it. The sharp grin helps. The confidence helps more.
“You know this look’s workin’ for me,” he says eventually after catching you staring again. “You’re covered in engine oil.” “Fashion engine oil.” He gestures vaguely at himself. “Very different.” Then, with complete seriousness: “This is what peak engineering performance looks like.”
The terrifying part is that he believes it completely. And somehow, standing there beneath flickering workshop lights with grease on his fur and sparks still cooling behind him, he almost convinces everyone else too.
The same goes for his style in general. Clothes, gear, piercings, whatever combination he is wearing, none of it is random. Whether he made it himself, stole and altered it, picked it up cheap, or bought it impulsively because he liked the look of it, every piece is deliberate. A statement. Control over how he presents himself to the world. Small islands of order in a life that rarely gives him any.
You think he just throws things on? Please. Straps, gadgets, mismatched layers. It is all intentional, even when it looks chaotic. Especially then. And if you insult it? Yeah. He has opinions.
“Sorry,” he says flatly, eyes narrowing. “Didn’t realize I was takin’ fashion advice from you.” A beat. “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.”
Then there is you. That is where the pattern bends. When you reach for him, fix something crooked, smooth down fur ruffled the wrong way, adjust a strap sitting unevenly against his shoulder, he still watches at first. Waiting for the catch that never comes.
Then he goes still when it does not arrive.
“…Careful,” he mutters, but the warning sounds thinner now. Habit instead of resistance. And when you do not stop, he does not stop you either. That is the change. Eventually, he leans in just slightly, like his body forgot to argue for a second. “Don’t get weird about it,” he says quietly, ears flicking once. “It just… sits right this way.” But he does not move away. Not from you. And in that small refusal to retreat, something in him says more than words ever could. Not softness. Just permission.
—--W-Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)--
Rocket guards his independence like it’s the last thing in the galaxy nobody gets to take from him. He disappears into projects for hours, sometimes days, buried elbow-deep in circuitry with music crackling low in the background and enough spare parts scattered around to qualify as a controlled disaster. Solitude doesn’t scare him. He needs it. Needs the quiet, the control, the freedom to move at his own pace without someone breathing down his neck.
“Relax, I ain’t goin’ anywhere,” he mutters without looking up from whatever explosive little nightmare he’s soldering together. “Just got stuff t’do.” And he means it. A few hours apart barely faze him. He’ll think about you in passing, maybe catch himself reaching for a comment you’re not there to hear, but that’s it. A few days to a couple weeks, though? That’s when the cracks start showing. He gets twitchy. Distracted. Starts three different projects and abandons all of them halfway through. Tools end up in the wrong places. He rereads your messages more than once. The ship feels too quiet in a way that gets under his skin.
“…Tch. S’too damn quiet in here.” He says it to himself like it’s the ship’s fault. Like it has nothing to do with the missing warmth beside him, the absent little touches, the steady comfort of you simply existing nearby. Rocket can handle being alone. What he hates is missing something he didn’t realize had become part of him. Push the distance too long, and it stops looking like independence and starts looking like irritation wrapped around something softer. His temper shortens. He paces more. Checks the door whenever there’s a sound without realizing he’s doing it. Because for all his stubbornness, closeness grounds him. Keeps him from disappearing too far into his own head.
So when you reunite, be it from him being buried in his machines or being away on a mission out in space, subtlety dies instantly. He’s on you before pride can stop him, hauling you close with a grip tighter than usual, burying himself against you like he’s making up for lost time all at once. “Don’t read into it,” he grumbles, already refusing to let go. “Just been a while, that’s all.” It’s a terrible lie. You feel the truth in the way he lingers afterward, hovering close without even noticing it, shoulder bumping yours, tail curling loosely around your leg when he thinks you aren’t paying attention. Rocket needs space the same way a fire needs oxygen. But eventually, even he comes back looking for somewhere warm to land.
—--X-Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)--
Rocket doesn’t waste time with labels. Space doesn’t do neat categories, and neither does he. Everything out there is movement, friction, contradiction. That tracks. If you absolutely forced it into words, it would land somewhere like omnisexual. Demiromantic. He would hate the sound of that out loud. “Yeah, no,” he’d mutter immediately, ears flicking back like the words personally offended him. “Don’t start tryin’ to catalog me like I’m some specimen.”
Connection? He understands it well enough. Casual intimacy doesn’t intimidate him. It’s simple, direct, no hidden contracts attached. He can be bold when he wants to be, playful when the mood hits, even a little reckless if he trusts the moment. A night with him is never forgettable. He knows that much. Romance is where things get complicated. Not because he rejects it. Because he approaches it like unstable terrain. Carefully. Testing every step before he commits weight. Real relationships for him are rare, deliberate, almost scientific in how slowly they form. Not grand declarations. Not fireworks. More like repeated checks that the ground is still there. Trust is not automatic. It is earned, re-earned, tested again when he thinks no one is looking. “So don’t go makin’ it weird,” he’d say, like that explains anything. “It’s just… different. That’s all.” Different, yes. That is his favorite word when he does not want to explain the rest of himself.
And then there are the contradictions he never bothers to reconcile. Sweet tooth? Dangerous. Give him a whole cake and you will blink and it is gone. “What?” he snaps, licking frosting off his finger like he is the wronged party. “You left it. That’s consent.” He hoards snacks like a tiny, furred dragon convinced the universe runs on scarcity and bad timing. Denies it every time. “That wasn’t hidden. You just suck at looking.”
Then there is the rest of him. The sensory architecture no one asked for. Rocket carries quirks from genetic experimentation that never fully stopped echoing in him. Tetrachromacy stretches the world into impossible color ranges, where things others call blue or red split into layers he cannot explain without sounding insane. Synesthesia bleeds sound into texture and hue, turning noise into something he feels in his skin more than hears. Phonological dyslexia tangles words sometimes, making speech and reading a careful negotiation instead of a straight line. He compensates. Always has. What he would never call out loud is how much he notices. Patterns. Systems. Symmetry. The way he checks things twice, sometimes three times, not because he is obsessive for show, but because the alternative feels worse. “Relax,” he mutters when someone notices him double checking a lock. “Just making sure reality’s not fallin’ apart again.”
Rocket doesn’t talk about it like a condition. He talks around it like it is weather he learned to survive instead of something that settled into his bones and never fully left. C-PTSD lives in patterns with him, in instincts sharpened past the point of rest. His body reacts before thought can catch up. He goes still first. Too still. Like some switch deep inside him snaps into survival mode before he can stop it. Then the scanning starts automatically: exits, threat angles, unfamiliar sounds or smells, who is standing too close, what changed in the room. Even when nothing is wrong, his nervous system does not fully believe it yet.
“Hang on.” The words come short and distracted, eyes flicking toward the nearest doorway before settling back on you. Sometimes it passes in seconds. Sometimes it lingers like static under his fur. Crowded places wear him down fast. Too much noise. Too many moving parts. Too many people brushing too close without warning. He gets sharper there, more irritable, every nerve stretched thin beneath the surface. Not cruel. Just overwhelmed in a way he hates admitting.
And there are smaller things too. Flinching at sudden touch if he is already on edge. The way certain sounds or smells make him visibly tense. How he hates feeling trapped, cornered, restrained without warning. Some days he handles it well. Other days it crawls under his skin and makes everything feel too loud, too close, too heavy. But trust changes things. Slowly. With you, he starts warning instead of snapping. Starts leaning into comfort instead of isolating himself completely. He still struggles. Probably always will. But there is a difference between surviving alone and learning someone is safe enough to stand beside you while you do it.
“Tch. Don’t look at me like that,” he grumbles when you catch on too quickly. Then, quieter, almost reluctant: “...Just stay close, alright?” You reach out to touch him, maybe a hand on his shoulder... “Don’t,” he mutters once, cutting off his own reaction. Then quieter, forced, “Just give me a second.” With time, the edge eases, not gone, just less sharp. His grip loosens in stages, like his body is relearning safety. He stays alert, still listening for ghosts, but no longer alone inside them. He manages it through control. He checks rooms twice. Keeps walls at his back. Memorizes exits without thinking about why. “Just smart,” he says when it is noticed.
But there are moments when it slips. Something too familiar, too sudden, and he goes quiet in a way that is not attitude or irritation, just distance. In those moments, he stays closer to you without explaining it. Shoulder near your hip. Hand catching yours like it is incidental. Staying within reach because being too far feels worse than admitting nothing. And sometimes, when it breaks through fully, he says it anyway. “Don’t leave me in my head too long,” he mutters, rough and defensive. Then, immediately, “Not saying I can’t handle it. Just don’t.”
He is also, inconveniently, superstitious in ways he would absolutely deny. “That’s not a thing,” he says immediately after knocking on wood anyway.
The softer parts of him are hidden in plain sight if you know where to look. Plush blankets folded too neatly. Pillows that are worn in a way that suggests preference, not accident. A couple of ridiculous little plush toys tucked into his sleeping space like they migrated there on their own. He catches you looking once. “They’re not mine,” he says too fast. “They just… ended up there.” They absolutely did not. But he does not remove them. Because control, for Rocket, is not just sharp edges and systems and weapons. It is also choosing what he keeps close when no one is watching.
Rocket has a dramatic streak a mile wide, even if he pretends otherwise. Give him an audience that does not require emotional vulnerability and suddenly he becomes unbearable in the most entertaining way possible. He loves showing off his work. Not subtly, either. If Rocket builds something brilliant, dangerous, or wildly overengineered, he wants people to see it. Wants them to understand exactly how much smarter than them he is.
Half the fun is in the presentation. He does not just unveil a new weapon; he flourishes it like a magician revealing the final trick. He does not simply repair a ship system; he waits until everybody is panicking first, then fixes it in thirty seconds while acting deeply inconvenienced by everyone else’s incompetence.
“Okay, first of all,” he says while climbing out from under a smoking console, sparks still hissing behind him, “I need everyone here to acknowledge how impressive that was.” He wipes grease across the side of his face completely by accident and somehow only looks cooler for it. “Second, none of you are ever allowed to touch this system again.”
Rocket thrives on reactions. Shock. Amazement. The exact moment somebody realizes the small raccoon they underestimated just out-engineered, out-fought, or outsmarted them completely. That moment feeds him like oxygen. And he absolutely plays into it.
If he walks into a fight carrying one of his custom-built weapons, there is a good chance he pauses dramatically before firing it for the first time just to enjoy the anticipation.
“…Y’know,” he says casually while flipping a modified blaster in one hand, “I almost feel bad for you.” A beat passes. “Almost.” Then the thing unfolds into something horrifyingly advanced with a loud mechanical click and suddenly nobody is laughing anymore.
He loves spectacle because spectacle gives him control of the room. People stop seeing him as small. Stop seeing him as vulnerable. Instead they see the genius. The danger. The impossible little gremlin raccoon holding together a bomb with one hand and everybody’s survival odds with the other.
But Rocket also does not mind being underestimated. Honestly? Sometimes he prefers it. There is something deeply satisfying to him about watching somebody dismiss him right before he ruins their entire day. “Oh no,” he says flatly once after overhearing someone call him harmless. “Please. Continue underestimatin’ me. This is gonna save me so much time.”
Because Rocket knows exactly what people see at first glance. Small. Scrappy. Mouthy. Easy to dismiss if you are stupid enough. And he weaponizes those assumptions constantly. Lets people relax around him. Lets them think they are in control right up until the second he flips the situation completely sideways. The smugness afterward is unbearable. “You really looked at me and thought ‘yeah, I could take him,’” he laughs afterward, still breathing hard from the fight. “That’s honestly kinda adorable.”
But put that same Rocket in front of a crowd of people genuinely admiring him? Looking up to him? Expecting inspiration instead of chaos? Everything changes. The confidence does not disappear entirely, but it stumbles. Falters around the edges. Because showing off skills is easy. Showing off himself is not.
The first warning sign is always the ears. They flick back slightly when too many people start staring at him expectantly. His tail twitches once. Twice. Suddenly he is adjusting tools that do not need adjusting or pretending to inspect something nearby just to avoid the weight of everyone’s attention landing directly on him.
“Okay,” he mutters under his breath once while being shoved toward a podium after a successful mission, “absolutely hate this. Hate all of this.”
Rocket can command a battlefield without hesitation. Can bark orders during a firefight with terrifying confidence. But ask him to stand in front of a crowd and give an actual heartfelt speech? Suddenly he looks like somebody threatened him with psychological warfare. “You got this,” you tell him quietly. “Incorrect,” he replies immediately. “I got ambushed.” Then he steps up anyway because people are waiting. And the second he realizes they are not staring at him with fear or skepticism, but admiration? That is somehow worse.
He freezes for half a second under the lights, claws flexing awkwardly at his sides.
“…Uh.” A long pause. “Okay, first off, this is weird.” The crowd laughs softly. Rocket squints at them suspiciously like they have somehow betrayed him already. “No, seriously,” he continues, visibly uncomfortable with how much attention he has all at once. “Why are this many people lookin’ at me voluntarily?”
And that is the thing. Rocket knows how to perform confidence, but genuine vulnerability catches him off guard every time. Public speaking feels vulnerable in a way combat never does. There are no machines to hide behind. No explosions. No sarcastic distractions. Just him standing there with people actually listening. So he defaults to humor immediately.
“Anyway,” he says while rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, “if anybody tells Quill I gave a speech, I’m sabotagin’ his music collection.” Another laugh from the audience. Easier this time. Rocket relaxes a fraction. Then, slowly, the honesty sneaks through despite himself.
“You all did good out there,” he says eventually, quieter now. More sincere. “Real good.” He shifts his weight awkwardly under the attention. “Most people would’ve run. You didn’t.” And there it is. The real part underneath all the jokes.
The funny thing is that Rocket becomes almost shy specifically because admiration means something to him. Too much, maybe. He expects criticism. Distrust. Fear. Those things he knows how to navigate. But people believing in him? Looking at him like he is worth following? That still scrambles something in his brain every time.
Afterward, the second he gets offstage, he acts like the whole thing was torture.
“Oh my freakin' god,” he groans dramatically while grabbing a drink from somebody’s table. “Never make me do that again.” “You were great.” “I was sweating through my fur.” “You threatened Quill’s playlist in front of two hundred people.” “Yeah, and I meant it.”
But there is always a tiny flicker of pride underneath the embarrassment too. Because even if public admiration makes him squirm, part of Rocket still needs it. Needs proof that people could look at him and see something worth respecting instead of fixing. Worth following instead of controlling.
He just handles that realization the same way he handles most emotions: With sarcasm, dramatic complaining, and enough swagger to keep anybody from noticing how much it actually mattered.
He’s used to living rough, to the point where something as simple as a soft bed feels like a luxury. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t crave the real thing. Not for the shine of it, not for status, but for what it represents. Taking something back. Every piece of jewelry he swipes, every bit of overpriced decor he lifts from people who think they’re untouchable, it’s personal. A quiet, defiant kind of satisfaction. He thrives on it, selling what he can, keeping what he likes, basking in the aftermath like he’s rewriting the balance just a little. “Relax,” he mutters, turning something expensive over in his hands like it’s nothing. “They’ve got ten more just like it. They won’t miss one.” It’s not about greed. It’s about control. About proving, in his own way, that the world doesn’t get to decide his worth.
Then there are the fears. Not the big, dramatic kind he can shoot at or outsmart. No, his are quieter, meaner. Medical rooms. Cold metal. Needles. Anything that smells like a lab. Small, dark rooms that feel too confining. That’s where the cracks show. He gets twitchy, sharp in a way that’s less attitude and more instinct. Jokes come faster, sarcasm sharper, or he just avoids it altogether, finds an excuse, changes the subject, disappears if he can. “Yeah, no. Not happenin’.” He won’t explain why. Won’t unpack it. But it’s there, just under the surface, a reminder that some things don’t fade, no matter how far he’s come.
Aquaphobia, he’ll claim it's about his fur; as if he'd rather let you think it's vanity rather than very real fear. “Yeah, I got standards. Ever tried dryin’ this much fur? Nightmare.” It’s a practiced excuse. Clean. Harmless. Easier than the truth. Because that’s only half of it.
Water doesn’t just feel wrong to him. It feels heavy in a way it shouldn’t, like the metal in him turns it into something that drags instead of holds. Something that doesn’t give him back the surface once it takes it away. He sinks faster than he should, like his body is always just a little too willing to go under. It’s happened before. More than once. Not all of it clean accidents. Not all of it something he can joke through. He never talks about that part. “Wasn’t a big deal,” he says instead. “Handled it.” No details. No context. Just the dismissal, sharp enough to shut the door behind it. But his body remembers anyway. So he avoids it. Keeps distance from deep water, from anything that takes away control or footing. Turns fear into attitude because attitude is easier to carry than panic. “Yeah… no,” he mutters, like the words themselves are a boundary. Push it further and it hardens. “Yeah… no. Not happenin’.” Not drama. Not performance. Just instinct wrapped in sarcasm, and the quiet certainty that some things are learned too deeply to be reasoned away.
That’s Rocket. Contradictions stacked on top of each other, barely held together but somehow still standing. Reckless but calculating. Guarded but capable of something real when it counts. Indulgent one second, tightly controlled the next. Hard to define. Harder to predict. But completely, stubbornly, unapologetically himself.
—--Y-Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner.)--
Rocket’s got patience. Just… not a lot of it. Stupidity, especially the intentional kind, burns through it fastest. He doesn’t do pointless. Pranks with no payoff, noise for noise’s sake, people acting dumb like it’s a personality trait; he’s not laughing. Not even close. Just a flat stare, like he’s deciding whether you’re serious or beyond saving. “Wow. You put real effort into bein’ that dumb, or does it come naturally?” Intelligence, to him, isn’t just about performance. It’s respect. Awareness. Thinking before you act. Reading a room. Understanding consequences. He notices when it’s there, and when it isn’t, and when it isn’t… it grates.
Morality is another line entirely. He knows full well what the world is like, he can handle gray. He understands hard choices, even selfish ones sometimes. But cruelty without reason, harm without hesitation, no compass at all? That hits something sharper. Especially if it’s aimed at his people. Cross that line and there’s no warmth left in him, only calculation. “Careful. You’re real close to findin’ out why that was a bad idea.” At first it’s sarcasm, precise and warning-edged. After that, it goes quiet. Not explosive. Worse. Focused. He starts figuring out exactly how far he needs to go to make sure the lesson sticks. He doesn’t forget easily.
Entitlement is its own trigger. People who expect everything handed to them, like effort is optional and the world owes them a favor. That gets immediate, unfiltered contempt. “You want it? Earn it. Otherwise quit complainin’.” Because he’s never had the luxury of not trying. Not once. Effort earns his respect. Skill earns his attention. Even failure, if it’s honest, gets more patience than laziness pretending to be important.
At the end of it all, Rocket’s standards are simple. Competence. Loyalty. Respect. Meet them, and you’re fine. Miss them, and you’re not just wasting his time. You’re testing a temper that rarely warns twice.
—--Z-Zzz (What is a sleep habit of theirs?)--
Rocket’s sleep schedule is a mess. No sugarcoating it. Insomnia hits whenever it wants, and when it does, he turns into a restless little storm, too much energy, nowhere for it to go. He just lies there at first, staring at the ceiling like stubbornness alone could quiet his brain. It never works. So he gets up. Tinkers with whatever’s nearby. Pulls apart things that were fine. Paces like he’s wearing grooves into the floor. Anything to burn off the static under his skin.
“…Tch. Not tired.” Lie. He knows it. You know it. But getting him to stop usually means stepping in, dragging him back down, forcing stillness into him until his body finally gives up the argument. He grumbles, half protests, mutters something like “I was busy,” like you interrupted something critical. But he stays. Eventually, he sleeps.
Even on better nights, he is not an easy sleeper. Light. Alert. Wakes at the smallest shift, especially somewhere unfamiliar or if you are not there. That absence registers fast. His hand reaches out automatically, searching for something, anything, a blanket, a pillow, a point of contact. Something to replace what is missing. Real sleep only happens when his guard fully drops, when his body finally decides it is safe to stop watching the world. With you, or someone he trusts without question like Groot, he settles. Fully. Tension drains out of him like it was never there. Breathing evens. Quiet, reluctant little sounds slip out before he can stop them. He would deny it later.
He sprawls without thinking, takes up space like he is trying to anchor himself to it. Half claiming you, half tangled in blankets like they might vanish if he loosens his grip. You wake to him in absurd positions, too close, arm thrown over you like a lock. Maybe curled around your head, maybe stealing all the warmth without apology. But he is always there. Always connected. And once he trusts it fully, he stops correcting himself. Stops pretending he needs distance. He just stays.
Rocket snores. Not loudly, not the kind that rattles the walls of the ship or makes you wonder if something in his respiratory system is about to fail catastrophically. His are softer than that. Low, steady little sounds that drift out of him once he is fully asleep, warm and rhythmic enough to blend into the background hum of the ship itself. Easy to miss at first. Impossible not to notice once you know they are there.
The first time you hear it, it almost catches you off guard. Because Rocket sleeps like someone expecting interruption. Even relaxed, there is usually tension wound somewhere inside him: one ear twitching at noise, claws flexing faintly against blankets, tail moving when dreams get restless. He never looks entirely defenseless, even unconscious. So hearing those tiny, quiet snores coming from him feels strangely intimate and adorable in a way he would absolutely hate hearing out loud.
And if you mention it? “Don’t.” His eyes stay closed, voice rough with sleep while one ear flicks irritably. “Not a word.” The problem is the denial loses a little impact when another soft snore interrupts him halfway through the threat. You laugh once, quietly, and one eye cracks open immediately.
“I’m serious,” he mutters, already pulling the blanket higher like that somehow preserves his dignity. “I got a reputation to maintain.” But there is no real bite behind it. Not when he is half asleep and warm beside you, voice blurred at the edges with exhaustion. If anything, he just sounds embarrassed that you noticed.
The snores get slightly louder when he is truly exhausted, especially after long missions or nights where he pushed himself too hard and finally crashed face-first into sleep the second he felt safe enough to let go. Those nights, he curls closer without realizing it, tail loosely hooked around you like instinct took over where conscious thought stopped. The sound settles into a slow, steady rhythm against your shoulder or chest, oddly grounding. Like proof that for once, his nervous system finally stopped bracing for impact.
Sometimes he wakes up enough to realize you are still awake listening to him. “…Why are you starin’ at me?” “You snore.” “I do not.” Another tiny snore escapes him almost immediately afterward, and he groans into the pillow. “Traitor,” he mumbles, apparently directing the insult at his own body now.
And honestly, that softness feels rare with him. Rocket is sharp edges most of the time: quick wit, quicker defenses, constant movement like standing still too long might let something catch up to him. But asleep? Fully asleep? The sarcasm drops away. The tension eases. The ship hums around you both while he breathes slow and even beside you, tiny snores slipping out every few breaths like quiet static from an overworked little engine finally allowed to idle. He would die before admitting it is endearing.
“You tell anybody,” he says once without opening his eyes, already halfway back to sleep, “and I’m sabotagin’ your shampoo.”
Night terrors are different. No control. No warning. C-PTSD does not give him the courtesy of distance. Dreams hit like memory and invention colliding too hard to separate. He wakes abruptly, breath sharp, body locked in readiness, claws half raised before he even knows where he is. It takes him a moment to orient. Sometimes longer than he likes. If you are there, he reaches immediately. Not careful. Not gentle. Just real. Something solid. Something alive. “You’re here,” he says, rough and disbelieving, like he needs the fact confirmed out loud. When he fully comes back, he does not let go right away. His grip stays tight, then slowly loosens only enough to breathe.
“…Don’t move.” Not a request. Just something honest and stripped down. Staying asleep after that is uncertain, but he does not leave. Not then. Not easily. You become the anchor he cannot afford to lose in the dark. Sleep, for him, is not just rest. It is trust. It is safety without performance. The only place he cannot pretend he is fine. And when he finally is, really is, it means something he never says out loud, but always feels.
WARNING NSFW BELOW THE LINE












