Requiem Of Absolutions

An Aspiring creator of stories of lover of depressed fictional characters 20s, He/Him/They/Them, Asexual/Demi-Panromantic

[chowdragun]

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

—--A-Aftercare (what they’re like after the act)--

Afterward, Rocket goes soft. Not all at once, and sure as hell not in any way he’d ever admit, but it happens anyway. The sharp edges don’t vanish so much as dull, worn smooth by the warmth still humming between you. The tension drains out of him in slow, reluctant waves until what’s left is quieter. Warmer. He settles against you like gravity finally remembered him, all loose limbs and slow breaths, that usual razor wire bite softened into something almost unbearably tender. His weight drapes over you like staying close is the only setting his body recognizes now.

If it’s casual, he tries to keep it contained. He’ll sit up first, grumbling while he reaches for clothes or starts scanning the room like normality can be reinstalled. But even then, he makes sure you’re taken care of. Something to eat. Something to drink. A quick check of you like it’s just habit he never named. Maybe a kiss, maybe a pat on the hip or ass, depending on his mood. “Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, already halfway to pretending nothing happened. “I’m just makin’ sure you’re good.” Then he’s gone before the moment can settle too deep. Distance as default. Familiar. Safe.

But with someone he truly loves, someone who stays, who steadies the edges of his world, it hits differently. Harder. Quieter. It slips past every lock he built before he can argue with it. It does not break him. It just leaves him softer, like something knotted tight in his chest finally gave up. And the strangest part is he does not run. Normally, his instincts would already be looking for exits, too much closeness, too much feeling, some old alarm buried deep in him insisting on escape. But not here. Not with you. If anything, he folds closer.

“I ain’t clingy. You’re just comfortable.” He says it like it’s your fault, like you engineered gravity just to mess with him, but the lie does not survive contact with reality. The way he stays pressed in, the way his tail drifts closer without thinking, the way his grip never quite lets go. His hands move over you in slow, absent patterns, tracing shapes into your skin like touch is the only language that doesn’t demand explanations. Still here. Good. Touch becomes his voice when words get too exposed. A hand at your waist. Fingers brushing your thigh. Claws carefully dulled down into something barely there. Reassurance without naming itself.

Then the practical side takes over, because grand declarations are not his thing. His care shows up in action. He gets you cleaned up with that focused, almost overly precise attention of his, warm washcloths, careful hands, maybe a bath if neither of you is too wrecked to stand. He fusses, though he would absolutely deny it. “Drink,” he says, already holding the glass out before you ask and a plate or bowl of food in case you’re hungry.

He notices everything, the heaviness in your breathing, the slackness in your limbs, the way your shoulders sag once the adrenaline fades. If you’re cold, the blankets are tugged higher before you can say a word. Pillows get shifted. A stray lock of hair gets brushed back, if you have hair. And if there are any marks left behind, claws, teeth, cuffs, ribbons, rough hands, his expression changes. Quiet. Focused. His thumb brushes over them with careful precision, checking, making sure nothing hurts more than it should. It is not performance. It is instinct. This is how he apologizes without ever saying the word. “…Didn’t mean to go that hard.” It is barely a whisper. Then he clears his throat like that fixes it.

Because this is how Rocket loves. Not speeches. Not promises. Just care. Just presence. Just staying when everything in him was trained to leave first. And the part that gets him every time is still the same. The staying. When the heat fades and everything is quiet again, you are still there. So he stays too, pressed close, head tucked somewhere against you, fingers moving in slow absent patterns like he is trying to memorize the shape of this moment before it disappears. Trying to memorize you. If you move too soon, his grip tightens just a fraction. “Don’t rush it.” Not sharp. Not commanding. Just honest. Almost too honest for him. Sometimes he does not even notice sleep taking him, drifting off still holding on, breathing evening out as his body finally lets itself rest without argument.

Because for Rocket, this was never just physical. It is trust. It is safety. It is the rare moment where he does not have to stay armed against the world. Just warmth. Just you.

And if you turn that same tenderness back on him, if your hands are the careful ones for once, he goes still. Not tense, not defensive, just caught in something unfamiliar enough to short out the usual instincts. Like his mind is standing in front of a door it assumed was locked, only to find it open and waiting. His eyes soften at the edges, that sharpness dulling into something quieter, more exposed, something he would rather chew through a toolbox than name. But he does not pull away. That’s the strange part. He lets it happen. He lets you guide him into aftercare like it is just another system being stabilized, even though it hits him somewhere deeper than anything mechanical ever could.

“...You always do this?” he mutters after a moment, voice lower than usual, rough in a way that is not irritation so much as uncertainty. You adjust the blanket around him. He does not stop you. In fact, he shifts closer without thinking, like his body decided before his pride got a vote. “Tch… don’t get all quiet on me now,” he adds, but there is no bite in it. It lands more like habit than protest.

His fingers hover near yours for a second, then settle. Not grabbing. Not pulling. Just there. Testing the idea that he can stay without it being taken away. It is in those small things where it shows most clearly. The way he accepts water when you hand it to him without a lecture. The way he actually eats when you press food into his space instead of brushing it off. The way his shoulders, usually wound tight like a coiled wire, slowly unknot under steady, patient care. “You don’t have to… do all that,” he says eventually, quieter now, watching you like he is trying to solve a problem that refuses to behave like one. But he does not move away when you keep going. He lets you check him over, lets you steady him, lets the world shrink down to something simpler and safer for a while. If you brush your thumb over his hand, he pauses like his system lagged.“…That’s weird,” he admits after a beat. A pause. “Not bad. Just… weird.” And then, softer still, almost like it slips out before he can intercept it, “Don’t stop yet.”

That is the part he does not have language for. The aftercare itself is not just comfort, it is recalibration. It tells the parts of him that are always braced for impact that nothing is coming for him right now. No catch. No punishment. No cost. When you guide him into lying down properly, he does not argue as much as usual. When you adjust his position, he follows the motion instead of resisting it. He watches your hands more than your face for a moment, like he is learning what safety looks like in practice rather than theory.

“…I ain’t used to this,” he says finally, quieter than everything before it. Then, after a second, like it annoys him to admit even that much, “…but I don’t hate it.” And when he finally settles, really settles, it is not dramatic. It is gradual. Like something inside him stops holding its breath. He exhales, slow and uneven, and lets himself lean fully into you, not as a tactic, not as a reflex, but as a choice he is still getting used to making. He does not fully believe he gets to have this. Not yet. But he is starting to stay anyway.

—--B-Body part (favorite body part their own or their lovers)--

Rocket’s confidence in himself is oddly specific. His fur? Untouchable. Flawless. Everything else? He picks at it, doubts it, rarely lets himself feel good about it. But with you? That filter disappears. Suddenly, he notices everything, the little things other people overlook. Your eyes captivate him most of all. Not just a glance, not just a feature… windows, he thinks, to a part of you only he gets to see. And he can’t look away. He memorizes how they shift, how they catch light, the subtle flickers of expression you don’t realize you’re giving away. “…Y’know you give yourself away with those, right?” It’s quieter than most things he says, almost thoughtful, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. But he doesn’t look away. Not even for a second.

Beyond that, he’s attentive in ways that are equal parts playful and possessive. Rocket’s attention doesn’t wander; it lingers. Playful on the surface, yes, but there’s an undercurrent: deliberate, claiming. Your legs, your thighs, your hips, your ass; he notices. Your chest, collarbone, even your hands; he lingers on them quietly, storing them away, marking them in his mind as his. He sees the beauty in angles, curves, lines, the intimate details no one else might care about. They don’t get announced. They get kept, tucked away, quietly claimed.

It’s not just how your body looks. He notices how it moves, how you fit together, how closeness flows between you. Physically, he gravitates toward presence, curves, muscle, whatever feels right, but that’s secondary. What really hooks him is rhythm. The shared motions, the give-and-take of proximity, the subtle dance of bodies and minds syncing. “Don’t move like that,” he complains sometimes, though he doesn’t mean it. Not really. It’s just his way of acknowledging that you’ve become part of his internal calibration.

Attraction for Rocket isn’t shallow. It isn’t surface-deep. It’s soul-deep, attention-deep, intimacy-deep. It’s the sum of shared rhythm, of how closeness sparks, of the way intimacy flows, and how he melts when it all aligns. That combination? That’s what keeps him. That’s what makes him soft. That’s what makes him utterly, stubbornly devoted in every way he knows how.

—--C-Cum (anything that has to do with it)--

He gets off on seeing you react. Thrives on it. The way your breath catches, the flush creeping up your neck and cheeks, it feeds him, turns him on in a way he never even tries to hide. Rocket watches everything. Every twitch. Every shaky inhale. Every little sound you try and fail to swallow back down. Half the time, he looks more satisfied by your reactions than his own pleasure.

“Yeah… there it is,” he mutters once, voice rough and low, eyes fixed on your face like he’s committing every expression to memory. “Knew I could get that look outta you.” And when he gathers your cum on his fingers, tasting it slow and deliberate, it sends a visible shiver through him. His eyes half-lid for a second, tail flicking once behind him before a smug grin creeps in at the edges.

“Tch. C’mere,” he says, like he’s annoyed about how much he likes this. “You taste too damn good.” There is possessiveness in it. Not cruel. Not controlling. Just intensely intimate. The kind that says mine in the quiet spaces between touches. He loves seeing the evidence of what you did to each other smeared across skin and fur, tangled between bodies, proof that neither of you walked away untouched. To Rocket, it is not embarrassing. It is beautiful. Messy in the best possible way.

And he absolutely loves when you mirror that energy back at him. The second you start putting on a show just for him, tasting him slow, watching him while you do it, he short-circuits a little. You can see it happen in real time. His mouth parts. His grip tightens. Cocky confidence slips just enough to expose the raw hunger underneath. “That’s cheating,” he says weakly at one point, though he makes absolutely no move to stop you. His gaze stays locked on you, blown wide with heat. “You know exactly what you’re doin’.”

And when he finally cums inside you, it never feels casual to him. Even if he tries to act cool about it after. The moment always hits him harder than he expects. A deep, almost instinctive satisfaction curling through him as he holds you close, breathing uneven against your skin. His forehead presses against whatever part of you he can reach, eyes shut for just a second too long before he catches himself. “…Yeah,” he murmurs quietly, more to himself than you. “That’s it.”

And if the roles were reversed, if you gave him that same attention, that same reverent hunger, he would melt into it just as hard. Maybe harder. He would act smug about it afterward too, right up until you caught the way his ears flick warm with embarrassment. “Tch. Whatever,” he scoffs when you tease him for how affected he looks, tail swishing once behind him. “Don’t act like you weren’t just as gone.” But he stays close while he says it, hands still roaming lazily over your skin, reluctant to put even an inch of distance between you.

—--D-Dirty secret (Pretty self-explanatory)--

Rocket would never admit it out loud, certainly not sober, but deep down, buried beneath all that attitude and razor-wire control, there is a part of him that is just tired. Tired of holding everything together. Tired of thinking three steps ahead, of keeping his guard up so constantly that relaxing feels unnatural. Deep down, quietly, stubbornly, he wants to be taken care of too.

“Just… for a moment,” he says one night, voice rougher than usual, quieter. Like he is arguing with himself for even letting the words exist. “Don’t make a big deal outta it.”

Letting you take control changes him in subtle ways. The sharp, reactive parts of him ease back little by little, tension unraveling from his shoulders as he lets himself stop steering for once. It is not really about surrender in the simple sense. Rocket never fully gives up control. Even vulnerable, there is still awareness in him, still that careful intelligence always ticking beneath the surface. But with you, he lets the weight shift. Lets someone else carry it for a while. And the relief in that is almost frightening.

When you guide him gently, set the pace, hold him steady instead of asking him to hold everything else together, something inside him softens before he can stop it. His breathing slows. His claws stop flexing so tightly. He melts into the touch despite himself, eyes half-lidded with that conflicted look he gets whenever comfort reaches somewhere too deep.

“…Yeah,” he murmurs at one point, barely audible. “Like that.” There is vulnerability threaded through it, though he would rather bite through steel than call it that. Letting himself be cared for digs under every defense he has. Being allowed to simply exist for a while, without performing competence, without carrying responsibility, without needing to stay sharp enough to survive, hits him harder than any roughness ever could.

A little roughness does excite him, though, when it comes wrapped in trust. A hand gripping firmly at his hips. Fingers catching lightly at the base of his tail, controlled and deliberate instead of careless. Enough to spark heat through him without tipping into pain. “Easy,” he warns once, breath catching despite the smirk trying to pull at his mouth. “Keep doin’ that and you’re gonna make this worse for yourself.”

But it is gentleness that truly undoes him. Your hands smoothing through his fur afterward. Your voice softening around him. Praise spoken low and sincere. The kind that asks for nothing in return. Rocket acts cocky about compliments, rolls his eyes, scoffs like he is above all that, but the second they land somewhere honest, somewhere real, he folds around them like starving hands around warmth.

“That’s it,” you tell him quietly, fingers tracing slow through the fur behind his ears. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.” And for a second, he looks wrecked by it. Not broken. Just overwhelmed in the quietest way imaginable, eyes slipping shut as tension leaves him in slow waves. He leans into your touch before pride can stop him, pressing closer instinctively like some exhausted part of him has finally found somewhere safe enough to rest.

Rocket does not crave pain. He does not want that hard dominance. What he wants is trust. The ability to let someone close enough to see the messy, unguarded parts of him and know they will handle them carefully. To be wanted without having to earn it through usefulness first. To be reassured, touched, praised, held onto gently instead of treated like something sharp enough to fear. And when he feels that, really feels it, he becomes devastatingly soft beneath all the attitude.

His satisfaction tangles itself around yours completely. Every reaction you give him feeds into it, every gasp and shiver winding tighter through him until the line between submission and dominance blurs together. Rocket does not just crave sex. He craves closeness wrapped inside it. The intensity. The laughter. The trust. The strange, fragile intimacy of letting someone see him with all the armor set aside for once.

And afterward, when he is sprawled against you still catching his breath, eyes heavy and fur rumpled beyond saving, there is always that look. That quiet glint in his eyes when he thinks you are not paying attention. Like he is savoring every second of this. Like some part of him still cannot believe he is allowed to have it.

—--E-Experience (do they know what they’re doing)--

Before you, he was a frequent, popular, familiar face in brothels, the kind that don’t ask questions and don’t pretend they mean more than they are. That’s where most of his experience comes from, mechanical in its repetition, efficient in its own way. No expectations beyond the transaction, no lingering weight afterward. Just bodies, time, and silence when it was done.

There were other things too. One-night stands in bars where the lighting was too dim to remember names clearly, or casual hookups that happened in the aftermath of a heist or particularly pricy bounty, when adrenaline still clung to everyone like smoke. Messy and uncomplicated. The kind of encounters that burn hot and vanish just as quickly.

Rocket learned a lot in those spaces. Not about connection. About control. About reading reactions. About what people respond to when they are half-distracted, half-willing, half-running on instinct. He got good at it. Efficient at it. Confident in the way competence eventually turns into reputation. There were also the few, rare times he would fall into a relationship that was more that just occasional meet-ups for sex and leaned into something he was too hesitant to actually give name to.

But with you, it stops being a sequence he can categorize. It becomes something layered, play and connection and release tangled together until he cannot separate one from the other even if he tries. He indulges freely, unapologetically, always ready to pull you into his orbit the second the mood shifts and locks in. Confident? Absolutely. Cocky? Without question. The difference is that Rocket earns it.

He knows exactly how to push every nerve, how to time a glance, how to read the smallest reaction before it fully forms. It is the same kind of focus he usually reserves for explosives and engineering, only redirected, sharpened into something personal. He watches you like you are a problem he refuses to solve carelessly, adjusting constantly, refining the approach with precision that feels almost unfair. Less performance, more instinct honed into habit. He tracks everything like it matters. Like nothing about it is worth wasting.

And it shows in the way he talks when he is locked in on you, voice lower, steadier than usual, like everything unnecessary gets stripped away the moment he decides what he wants. “Yeah,” he mutters once, eyes flicking over you like he is already three steps ahead of your reactions. “There you are.” A pause. That slight tilt of his head, like he is confirming a theory only he can see. “Don’t think I don’t see what that does to you.” There is a brief smirk after it, quick and controlled, like he is trying not to look too satisfied with himself.

Because for Rocket, this is not just about gratification. It is attention, adaptation, response. A feedback loop he is constantly reading and rewriting in real time. And somewhere along the line, without him naming it, it stopped being about how good he is at it. It became about you being part of it at all. Not a pattern. Not a routine. Something shared that refuses to stay simple “You’re already lookin’ at me like that,” he says once, catching your stare with that familiar crooked grin. “Can’t blame me for takin’ advantage.”

He knows his body. Knows yours, too. Every shift in your breathing, every attempt to steady yourself, every involuntary reaction you try to hide. Nothing really gets past him. It never has. Rocket doesn’t stumble through intimacy. He builds it in real time. Every touch feels deliberate, every pause intentional, every word placed exactly where it will land hardest, not in force, but in accuracy. Like he is constantly reading the shape of you as it changes and adjusting to match it.

And he loves reactions. The smallest shiver when he leans in too close. The way your focus fractures when he stops pretending not to notice you. The little betrayals your body gives away before you can catch them. That is what hooks him every time.

“Yeah,” he murmurs softly at one point, voice roughened at the edges, satisfaction barely contained. “There it is.” A pause, quieter now.

“Knew I could get you there.” It is not just confidence. It is recognition. Like he is watching something click into place that only exists between the two of you. And then it shifts again, because Rocket never stays in one register for long. One moment he is all sharp focus and control, the next he is leaning closer, forehead nearly touching you, grounding himself in proximity more than words.

“Quit smilin’ like that,” he mutters, half warning, half reluctant admission. “Makes it real hard to keep my train of thought.” Even when he says it, he does not pull away. Because for all his bravado, it is never detached with you.

There is always something running underneath it, steady and unspoken, like a current that refuses to break. He is here. Fully. Irritatingly. Undeniably here. And when it is over, when the moment finally settles and the heat fades into something quieter, he always looks like he has won something he refuses to label out loud.

“Told you,” he says at last, tail flicking once behind him, voice smug in that familiar way. “Nobody does it better.”

—--F-Favorite position–

Rocket loves the positions that keep intimacy close and immediate, where connection feels woven into every movement instead of distant or detached. Physical closeness matters to him almost as much as pleasure itself. He likes seeing your face, tracking every flicker of expression, every breath, every reaction he pulls from you in real time. Eye contact alone can wreck his concentration in the best possible way.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters once, already failing to sound unaffected as his hands tighten instinctively against you. “Makes it real hard to focus.”

His favorites are the ones that let him hold you close while still giving him room to tease, guide, and control the pace. Positions where he can feel your breathing change against him, where he can press in close enough for every touch to feel personal instead of distant. He gravitates naturally toward anything that blends intensity with affection, where the line between wanting and caring starts blurring together.

And Rocket absolutely pays attention to comfort and chemistry. He adapts constantly, shifting angles, adjusting positions, figuring out what works best for both of you with the same sharp focus he brings to everything else. If something feels awkward or off, he notices immediately.

“Hang on,” he says at one point, repositioning slightly before flashing a smug little grin. “There. Knew I could make this work better.”

That problem-solving streak of his makes him dangerously inventive once he gets comfortable enough. The second he realizes intimacy can also be playful, experimental, and collaborative, he leans into it hard. Not for novelty alone, but because he genuinely enjoys discovering new ways to make the experience deeper, more intense, more connected.

And if Rocket ever got his hands on something like the Kama Sutra? Absolute disaster. The fun kind. At first he would approach it like a challenge, flipping through pages with growing disbelief and immediate overconfidence. “…There’s no way anybody actually pulled this one off,” he scoffs, already mentally planning how to prove himself wrong. Then suddenly you are getting dragged into increasingly ambitious experiments fueled by equal parts curiosity, competitiveness, and flirtation. “C’mon,” he says, tail flicking with excitement as he pulls you closer. “Worst case scenario, we fall off the bed again.”

The thing is, even in the middle of all that chaos and laughter, Rocket never loses the intimacy underneath it. Every experiment still circles back to closeness. Hands lingering at your waist. Foreheads brushing together between teasing comments. Quiet praise slipping out before he can stop it.

Because for him, sexiness and connection are inseparable. He wants passion, heat, challenge, laughter, affection, all tangled together into one unforgettable mess. And when he finds that balance with someone he trusts, he throws himself into it completely.

—--G-Goofy (how serious are they)--

Rocket thrives on chaos and playfulness, but he never actually loses control of it. Even when things tip into absurdity, he is already leaning into the moment like he meant for it to happen all along. If something silly happens, like tumbling off the bed after getting a little too enthusiastic, he is laughing before he even fully lands on the idea of what just happened. “Ha. Yeah, that was totally your fault,” he says immediately, grinning like he did not also just go down with you.

He is already pushing himself up, shaking it off like gravity simply made a poor decision. “Seriously?” he snorts, half laughing, half offended on your behalf as the aftermath settles into tangled limbs and displaced blankets. “That was your idea of graceful?” Then, of course, he notices the lamp. Slightly askew. Almost heroic in its survival. His eyes flick to it, then back to you. “…Okay, that one might be your fault,” he adds, far too pleased with himself. If you shove him lightly, he just catches your wrist with lazy confidence, not stopping you so much as redirecting the motion. “Don’t start,” he says, but he is still smiling, sharp and bright. “You’re the one who got cocky.”

There is no real reprimand in it. Just that familiar Rocket rhythm, teasing threaded with something more anchored underneath. He never lets the chaos spiral without him. Even when he is laughing, especially when he is laughing, he is already shaping it, steering it back into something only slightly less ridiculous than before. And if you try to recover dignity too quickly, he leans in just enough to block the escape route, eyes gleaming. “Yeah, no,” he mutters, amused. “You are not getting out of this that easy.”

That’s how it is with him most of the time. Teasing threaded through everything. Quick remarks. Smirks that never quite leave his face. Even the closeness feels alive with it, like it refuses to settle into anything too neat or too serious for long. He’ll lean in close, voice dropping just enough to make you think he’s about to say something meaningful, and then ruin it at the last second. “…You always look at me like that, or is it just when I win?” And just like that, the tension breaks into something lighter again. But it’s not shallow. Not really. It just refuses to sit still. Even the intensity with him has motion in it, like it’s always shifting between warmth and heat, between teasing and something deeper that neither of you lingers on for too long.

Still, there are moments when it changes. Not announced. Not marked. Just a quiet shift where his humor doesn’t disappear, but softens at the edges. Where his hand slows instead of teasing. Where his voice drops into something steadier, less sharp, more present. “…Stay,” he mutters sometimes, like it slipped out before he could stop it.

And if you do, if you match that slower rhythm with him, he doesn’t resist it. He just adjusts, like he’s capable of both worlds and chooses the one you’re in. But even then, he never lets it get too heavy for too long. A grin returns. A quick comment. A playful shove of his shoulder against yours. “C’mon. You looked way too serious. Had to fix that.”

Sex with him is rarely serious by default; he loves keeping things light, teasing, and fun, letting humor weave effortlessly through the intensity. “C’mon,” he mutters once, already grinning like he knows exactly where things are going. “You’re thinking too hard again.” “That’s better,” he says at one point, softer now, eyes narrowing like he is reading something only he understands. “Don’t overcomplicate it.”

Of course, when the moment calls for it, which it does often, he can shift seamlessly into slow, tender, deeply intimate and domineering. But more often than not, Rocket wants every encounter to carry that perfect mix of pleasure, laughter, and unpredictable spark; the kind that makes being with him feel electric. With him, nothing is ever completely safe or boring; it’s messy, heated, playful, and ridiculously fun all at once.

—--H-Hair (grooming habits)--

Rocket is covered in fur, and not just any fur. It is immaculate. Maintained with near obsessive precision, every section brushed and aligned like it answers to a system only he understands. The darker stripes along his tail sit exactly where they should. The softer silver around his face stays sleek and clean of dust and debris. He notices every misplaced tuft immediately, every disruption standing out to him with the same intensity other people reserve for alarms going off.

And he takes real pride in it. Not casual pride either. Territorial pride. The kind rooted somewhere deeper than vanity. Anything that throws it off outside his control gets taken personally.

He catches a glimpse of himself after the fact and freezes for half a beat, staring like reality itself just insulted him. “Tch,” he mutters immediately, visibly offended. “I look like a drowned flerken.”

His ears flatten slightly as he turns his head back and forth, inspecting the damage with surgical disappointment. Water dripping from flattened fur. Tail puffed unevenly. The sleek symmetry he works so hard to maintain completely ruined. “Unbelievable,” he adds under his breath, like the universe should genuinely apologize for allowing this to happen.

And then he is already fixing it. Claws comb carefully through damp fur with practiced efficiency, movements quick but controlled, smoothing sections back into place with the focus of somebody recalibrating delicate machinery. He works through knots and uneven patches with visible irritation, muttering the entire time.

“Who designed humidity?” he grumbles while fluffing out his tail aggressively. “Terrible concept. Zero stars.” It is not really about appearances alone. That is the thing people misunderstand. For Rocket, grooming is ritual. Control. One of the few routines in his life that belongs entirely to him. Fur stayed his even when everything else did not. Nobody engineered the way he styles it. Nobody forced those choices onto him. The maintenance, the precision, the care behind it, all of that became tied to identity somewhere along the way.

It is comfort disguised as vanity. Order restored one careful brushstroke at a time. And honestly? He knows he looks good. That confidence is hard-earned and he wears it openly.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says if he catches someone staring a second too long while he fixes himself up. “Try livin’ with this much natural beauty. It’s exhausting.”

The exception, strangely enough, is you. Because when the mess comes from intimacy, the reaction changes completely. The irritation softens around the edges, traded for something warmer. More playful. Fur dampened from sweat, cum, fingers, tangled sheets, all of that lands differently in his head. Less ruined. More shared.

He still notices, of course. Rocket notices everything. But instead of recoiling from it, he leans into it.

There is a moment afterward where he catches sight of himself again, fur visibly mussed, ears crooked slightly out of place, and instead of immediate offense there is just this low huff of amusement. “…Alright,” he mutters, smoothing one hand absentmindedly down his chest fur. “This one doesn’t count.”

Sometimes he complains anyway out of reflex. “You got my fur all messed up,” he grumbles while very obviously making no effort to move away from you. Then, quieter a second later, tail flicking lazily behind him: “…Not sayin’ you should stop or anything.”

That is the difference. Outside interference feels invasive. With you, it feels intimate. Chosen. The disorder means something when it comes from somebody he trusts enough to let close.

Otherwise, Rocket remains meticulous. Brushed. Sleek. Carefully maintained whenever possible. His fur is more than appearance to him. It is armor. Identity. A point of confidence built entirely by his own hands.

One of the few things in his life nobody else gets to define for him.

—--I-Intimacy (in the moment romantic or rough/dirty)--

Rocket’s pleasure is a volatile little cocktail of intensity, intimacy, and barely restrained mischief. He thrives on contrast. One moment rough around the edges, all sharp grins and possessive energy, the next unbearably tender in ways that hit harder because he never means for them to. He likes the chaos of desire, the heat of it, the feeling of losing himself just enough to stop thinking so damn much for a while.

And he loves reactions. Watching you get flustered absolutely destroys his self-control in the best way. The second your cheeks start heating up or your breathing turns uneven, his entire expression changes. Smug. Focused. Delighted. “There it is,” he says softly once, eyes locked on your face like he just won something. “Knew I could get you like that.”

His tail flicks behind him with restless satisfaction, impossible to hide. Part of him gets possessive about it too, quietly territorial in that instinctive, almost playful way he has when he is deeply attached to someone. Not controlling. Just intensely pleased by the fact that he is the one pulling those reactions from you. “C’mere,” he murmurs at one point, hands sliding back to your waist before you can drift too far away. “You’re stayin’ right here.”

Rocket enjoys roughness when it is balanced with trust and mutual want. The messy, breathless kind of passion where teasing turns into laughter, where tension snaps into something heated and consuming. He likes pushing boundaries just enough to keep sparks flying, likes the thrill of watching composure unravel under his attention.

But tenderness matters just as much to him. Maybe more than he realizes. Because beneath all the confidence and dirty remarks, Rocket craves intimacy with almost startling sincerity. Quiet moments. Slow touches. Foreheads pressed together while the world narrows down to shared warmth and breathing. The kind of closeness that makes him feel grounded instead of guarded.

And that is where he really comes alive. Not in one extreme or the other, but in the balance between them. The roughness satisfies something primal in him. The intensity. The challenge. The thrill of mutual desire crashing together hard enough to leave both of you breathless. The tenderness reaches somewhere deeper.

It is in the way his hands soften afterward without him noticing. The way his voice lowers instinctively when he says your name. The way he lingers close instead of pulling away once the adrenaline burns off.

“…You good?” he asks quietly at one point, brushing his thumb along your skin with absent gentleness that completely contradicts the cocky grin from earlier. That contradiction is Rocket in a nutshell. Messy and affectionate. Playful and deeply attentive. All sharp edges wrapped around a core of startling devotion he tries very hard not to expose too openly.

Because for him, pleasure is never isolated from connection. Every laugh, every gasp, every teasing glance, every lingering touch feeds into the same thing: the feeling of being fully intertwined with someone he trusts. Wanted by them. Wanting them back just as fiercely.

And once Rocket has that with someone, he throws himself into it completely.

—--J-Jack off (do they masturbate and how often)--

Rocket doesn’t go long without finding some kind of release. Space can be stressful, cramped, loud in all the wrong ways, or sometimes way too quiet, and when he’s stuck out on jobs or separated from you for too long, the tension starts building fast. He deals with it the same way he deals with most things: privately, practically, without making a production out of it. Masturbation is normal for him, frequent enough to keep the edge off and stop his thoughts from spiraling too far into restless frustration.

“…Tch. Better than stayin’ distracted all day,” he mutters once, like that settles the matter entirely. And honestly, to him, it does.

It is less about loneliness and more about pressure relief, a way to burn off excess energy when there is nowhere else for it to go. Especially when he is stuck in space for long stretches, elbow-deep in repairs with too much adrenaline and nowhere comfortable to put it. Rocket likes control, likes feeling grounded in his own body, and sometimes release is the fastest way to get there again.

But when you reunite? That is different. The second you are within reach again, all that carefully managed restraint collapses into focused, unmistakable want. Suddenly he is hovering closer, touching more, attention locked onto you with that sharp intensity he gets when something matters.

“…Yeah, no, you’re not disappearin’ on me again tonight,” he says immediately, already pulling you toward the bunk before you can pretend you had other plans.

He keeps you close afterward too. Longer than usual. Like separation wound him tighter than he realized, and now he is trying to work every last knot loose through touch, warmth, and closeness. The physical side of it matters, sure, but what he really craves after being apart for too long is connection. Familiarity. The grounding reassurance of you there with him again.

“You got any idea how distractin’ you are?” he grumbles at one point, though his hands never stop roaming lazily over you. “Couldn’t focus on anything the whole last week.”

There is no real irritation in it. Just affection buried under sarcasm, exactly where Rocket always hides it. And once he has you back, he indulges shamelessly. More lingering touches. More lazy kisses. More playful teasing that turns heated the second you react. He gets greedy with your attention in that half-possessive, half-relieved way of his, like he is reclaiming lost time one moment at a time. Not frantic. Not careless. Intentional.

Because his time alone might take the edge off physically, but it never replaces you. If anything, it makes the reunion hit harder. Makes him hungrier for the real thing: your warmth against him, your reactions, your presence tangled into his again until that restless static in his chest finally quiets down. And when he finally settles beside you afterward, breathing slower now, tail loosely curled around you like an anchor, he lets out a low hum of contentment he would absolutely deny making if you pointed it out.

“…Shut up,” he mutters immediately, already half-asleep against you. “Didn’t say anything.”

—--K-Kink (what they like possibly unusual)--

Rocket is an unapologetic slut who knows exactly what he likes, with kinks that are wide-ranging, intense, and fully explored. He has a major praise kink, practically melting whenever you tell him how good he is, how well he fucks, or how perfectly he takes it. “…Tch. Keep talkin’ like that and see what happens,” he mutters, ears flicking while the grin he is trying to suppress gives him away completely. “Seriously. You’re playin’ with fire now.”

Bondage excites him deeply; he loves tying you up, blindfolding, gagging, and exploring trust through shibari. “You got any idea how much math goes into this?” he mutters once while tightening rope around your body in intricate patterns with infuriating concentration. “People think this is all aesthetic. Nah. This is engineering.”

At first, the idea of you using bondage on him scraped against old instincts too sharply. Too many memories tied to losing control, to being trapped, pinned down, unable to escape. The first time you hold his wrists above his head, he goes still for half a heartbeat before forcing himself to relax through it. “Don’t get used to this,” he grumbles immediately, already leaning into your touch despite the warning. “I reserve the right to complain the entire time.” But trust changes things. Clear communication. Easy exits. Constant reassurance that he can stop whenever he wants. Eventually the tension starts unwinding little by little until submission stops feeling like helplessness and starts feeling like relief.

He also gets a distinct thrill out of being called “Captain” in the bedroom and is never shy about calling you all kinds of playful, filthy, and affectionate pet names in return.

He adores your bossy instructions, being told to keep his hands above his head, following your rules, and submitting in ways that emphasize your control. He finds that bossy side of you irresistibly hot and, honestly, a little adorable too. “Hands up.” Rocket rolls his eyes dramatically before obeying anyway, tail lashing once behind him. “You are enjoyin’ this way too much.” he accuses, though the heat in his voice ruins any attempt at sounding annoyed. The irony is that he is too. He likes challenge and pushback, but he also craves the strange relief of not having to lead every second. Letting someone else steer for a while scratches at something deeper in him, something tired and touch-starved and quietly desperate to feel safe enough to let go. It’s the one time he doesn’t mind submitting.

Marking and biting thrill him, and he loves seeing the evidence of his claim, especially when he knows you enjoy it just as much. “Look at that,” he murmurs once, thumb brushing lightly over the marks he left behind, expression unfairly pleased with himself. “Pretty sure everybody’s gonna know you’re mine now.” Edging, cock warming, body worship, and teasing you with feathers or his tail are all favorites. Watching you put on a show for him by touching yourself turns him on just as much as having you watch him do the same, “Look at you,” he says softly once, sounding unfairly pleased with himself. “You get all worked up so easy.”

Rocket’s interests stretch wide: roleplay, spanking, playful strength dynamics, dirty talk, though he gets flustered if directed at him, consensual degradation toward you, putting you in collars and leashes, somnophilia, size play, experimenting with sensation and toys, all fuel his curiosity and imagination. With permission, he’s open to including another partner, aphrodisiacs or “potions” to heighten pleasure even if they're not needed, sex in front of mirrors, or recording it for later enjoyment.

Give him complete control, and satisfaction is guaranteed. While he enjoys inflicting a little pain, he never causes permanent harm and is obsessively careful about consent. “Still with me?” he asks quietly sometimes, tone losing all its swagger for a second. Genuine. Focused. And when you nod, something in him visibly settles. “Good,” he murmurs, softer now. “That’s all I needed.”

Every encounter is safe, sane, consensual, and mutually pleasurable. With Rocket, pleasure is deliberate, messy, playful, and entirely unforgettable.

—--L-Location (where they like to get it on)--

Rocket doesn’t care much about where sex happen, as long as it’s private enough and you’re comfortable. Rules are flexible to him. Mood matters more than location, and if the mood’s right, he’s already halfway convinced the universe should’ve planned for it.

The bedroom is fine. Safe. Expected. But Rocket has never been particularly impressed by expected. The couch works. So does his workbench, the cockpit when the ship is quiet, or any empty room where the door shuts cleanly and the world stops trying to get involved.

“Seriously?” he mutters once, scanning a space like it personally offended him. “This is fine. Nobody’s gonna bother us.” Then, after a glance your way: “…Unless you’re worried. In which case, we can move. I’m not married to the location.” He follows your lead more than he admits. If you hesitate, he doesn’t push, just shifts with you like it was always an option, not a demand.

Public bathrooms are an immediate no. “No. That’s disgusting. I have standards.” He looks genuinely appalled, like the idea itself is a personal attack. Alleys, hidden corners, places tucked out of sight? He’ll consider them, then smirk like he’s already decided. “…Yeah. That I can work with.” The kitchen counter suggestion earns you a long stare, like he’s deciding whether you’ve lost your mind or just upgraded it. “…You’re lucky I like you.” Afterward, he’s the one scrubbing everything down, muttering the entire time. “This is why I don’t do messy. This is exactly why.” But there’s no real irritation behind it. Just habit. Just him making sure the world is back in order. Because for Rocket, it’s never really about where. It’s about you being there with him in it.

“C’mon,” he says at last, flicking a rag aside, eyes bright again. “Pick the next location for later. I’m feelin’ generous.”

—--M-Motivation (things that make them tick/turn-ons)--

Rocket has a high sex drive, and it shows less as constant pursuit and more as constant potential. It is never far away from the surface with him. Often he is too busy, too focused, too deep in whatever project has his attention, but it does not take much to shift him. A look. A touch that lingers half a second too long. The unspoken certainty that you want him. That alone is often enough.

He will pause mid-task, tools still in hand, ears angling slightly like his body is processing something his brain has not fully caught up with yet. His eyes narrow just a fraction, not suspicious, not defensive. More like recalibrating. “…You’re doin’ that on purpose,” he says at last, though there is no real edge to it. You do not deny it. You do not have to. That is usually what tips him over the line.

Rocket responds to desire like it is its own form of communication, one he understands instinctively. It cuts through everything else. Distraction. Fatigue. Focus. All of it gets quietly pushed aside the moment he registers that attention is aimed at him in a very specific way.

For a moment, he just looks at you. Then something in his expression shifts. Not sudden, not dramatic. More like a switch settling into place. “…Yeah?” he mutters, voice lower now, attention fully rerouted. “You tryin’ to get me off track?” There is a beat where he tries to pretend he is still deciding what to do. It does not last long. Because he notices everything.

The way you are standing. The way your focus does not waver. The intent behind your eyes. And that combination hits him with the kind of precision he usually reserves for problem solving. “…Tch,” he exhales, looking away for half a second like it might help him reset, then back again immediately. “Yeah. That’s workin’.”

If you show up wearing something intentionally chosen for him, something that signals exactly what kind of attention you want, it short circuits his restraint even faster. He stares for a second too long before catching himself, tail flicking once like it is trying to betray him on its own. “…Seriously?” he breathes out, and despite the words, there is no complaint in it. Just focus. Just intent. “You’re not even playin’ fair right now.” A pause. Then, quieter, more certain: “C’mere.”

It is not demanding in a loud way. It is simply inevitable. Like gravity deciding direction. The rest of whatever he was doing becomes irrelevant the moment you are in range, because Rocket does not really split attention when it comes to desire. He narrows it. Focuses it. Turns it into something sharp and unmistakable. Once it locks in, there is no half measure with him.

He leans closer, voice dropping again, that familiar mix of teasing and intensity threading through it. “You always act surprised when this works,” he mutters, like he is mildly offended by the predictability of it. “Like you don’t know exactly what you’re doin’ to me.” And that is the core of it for him. Not chaos. Not randomness. Connection. Mutual pull. Mutual reaction. The feedback loop of wanting and being wanted, tightening until neither of you is really separate from it anymore.

—--N-No (turnoffs or absolutely won’t do)--

Rocket has very clear boundaries when it comes to sex, and once he draws a line, it stays there. No blood kinks. No watersports. No scat-play. He is far too meticulous about hygiene to enjoy anything that feels unsanitary, and the second something crosses into genuinely unsafe territory, his interest dies immediately. “Yeah, absolutely not,” he says flatly the first time the subject ever comes up, already making a face. “I got standards.”

The same goes for anything involving coercion or blurred consent. R*pe roleplay, including CNC, is completely off-limits for him. Rocket needs trust to really enjoy intimacy, and the idea of deliberately mimicking fear or non-consent hits every wrong nerve in his system. He is equally strict about intoxication. If someone is too drunk or too high to think clearly, he shuts things down immediately unless there was clear discussion and consent beforehand. “Nope,” he says once, firm enough to end the conversation on the spot. “I’m not touchin’ that situation.” For Rocket, there is nothing appealing about taking advantage of someone who cannot fully choose what is happening. Control matters to him, but mutual awareness matters more.

That same mindset extends beyond sex too. Bounties are an instant no. To him, it feels exploitative, plain and simple. Coworkers are off-limits as well. Mixing business and personal relationships sounds like a disaster waiting to happen, and Rocket has survived enough disasters already. “Trust me,” he mutters dryly. “That kinda thing gets messy fast.”

Certain dynamics just kill the mood outright for him too. Daddy or mommy kinks do absolutely nothing except earn an immediate grimace, and age play makes him visibly uncomfortable. Call him “daddy” once during a heated moment and you will probably get stared at like you just disconnected a bomb wrong. “…Wow. Great way to ruin it,” he says, ears flattening while he points accusingly at you.

And while Rocket enjoys the aesthetics and symbolism of things like collars and leashes, actual pet play is entirely off the table. The line matters to him. He likes the intimacy, the trust, the teasing control behind it, not roleplaying as an animal. “Do not call me ‘pet,’” he warns immediately, expression dead serious despite the flicking tail behind him. “Seriously. Don’t.”

For Rocket, sex is supposed to feel exciting, connected, alive. Messy in the emotional sense maybe, intense definitely, but always grounded in communication. Boundaries are not obstacles to him. They are what make everything else possible. The clearer the trust, the freer he feels to throw himself fully into the experience without hesitation. And once that trust exists? Rocket gives everything to it. Enthusiasm. Attention. Playfulness. Vulnerability hidden beneath sarcasm and sharp teeth. Every reckless little spark balanced carefully against the certainty that both of you are safe in each other’s hands.

—--O-Oral (receiving or giving and how skillful they are)--

Rocket definitely leans more toward giving than receiving. He thrives on it in a way that borders on obsessive, not because of ego alone, but because he genuinely loves learning someone piece by piece until he can pull them apart with terrifying precision. Pleasure becomes a puzzle to solve, and Rocket has never been able to resist a challenge.

He notices everything. The smallest hitch in your breathing. The twitch in your thighs before you even realize it happened. The way your hips shift when he finds the exact right spot. Every little reaction lights up behind his eyes like a control panel feeding him information in real time, and he adapts instinctively, changing pace, pressure, rhythm, all with that sharp focus of his locked completely onto you. “Yeah,” he murmurs once, voice low with satisfaction as he catches another involuntary reaction from you. “There it is.”

There is something almost unfair about how observant he is. He learns quickly. Remembers faster. Once Rocket figures out what makes you melt, he stores it away like valuable intel and uses it with devastating efficiency later. And he loves watching it happen, watching you unravel under his hands and attention while he sits there looking unbearably pleased with himself. Not smug exactly. Though there is definitely some smugness. More like fascinated. Like every gasp and shiver feels rewarding in a way he cannot quite explain. “You make the best faces,” he says at one point, grinning sharp enough to make your stomach flip. “Seriously. Kinda distractin’.”

For Rocket, giving is power tangled together with affection. It is attention. Care disguised as teasing. He likes making you feel good because your reactions feed something deep and possessive in him, yes, but also because seeing you happy, overwhelmed, completely lost in the moment because of him, does something soft to his chest he refuses to examine too closely.

Receiving, though? Entirely different battlefield. Rocket is enthusiastic about it, absolutely, but confidence starts cracking the second the focus shifts fully onto him. The bravado stays for a while, little sarcastic comments and cocky grins meant to keep himself steady, but the more attention you give him, the more obvious the fluster becomes. His ears twitch. Tail flicking restlessly behind him. Hands fidgeting against the sheets or your shoulders like he does not know where to put all that nervous energy suddenly flooding through him. And despite all of that, he cannot stop looking at you. That is the dangerous part. Rocket holds eye contact through it almost stubbornly, pupils blown wide while he watches you with an intensity that feels almost too intimate. Like he is trying to process the fact that someone wants him this much and short-circuiting a little under the weight of it.

“…Tch. Quit lookin’ at me like that,” he mutters weakly at one point, already flushed all the way to the tips of his ears. You do not stop. Neither does he. Because beneath the embarrassment, beneath the restless squirming and breathless swearing, he loves it. Loves the intimacy of it. Loves feeling wanted in such an open, focused way even if it leaves him visibly overwhelmed. There is vulnerability there that he cannot entirely hide, and somehow that only makes the whole thing more consuming for him. The contradiction is pure Rocket.

He wants attention desperately while simultaneously not knowing what to do with being cared for so openly. Wants to stay in control while melting under genuine affection. Wants to act cocky while practically trembling from how intense the connection feels. And honestly? That tension only makes him crave it more.

—--P-Pace (how fast they are and how long they last in bed)--

Rocket’s endurance is honestly unfair. Once he gets going, he can keep the energy up for an absurd amount of time, relentless in that focused, almost competitive way he approaches anything he enjoys. Fatigue barely seems to slow him down when he is fully invested, especially when he is feeding off your reactions in real time. The more breathless and overwhelmed you get, the more energized he seems to become.

“You tappin’ out already?” he teases, voice rough with amusement as his grin turns downright dangerous. “C’mon, I know you got more in you than that.” Part of it is physical endurance, sure, but most of it is Rocket himself: stubborn, intense, and completely unwilling to half-ass something that matters to him. He treats intimacy the same way he treats engineering or combat, with total focus and relentless determination once his attention locks in.

The only thing he consistently forgets about is basic self-maintenance. Hydration becomes an actual issue because Rocket will absolutely keep going long past the point where most people would have collapsed into the mattress hours ago if nobody stops him.

“Drink some water,” you tell him eventually. “I’m fine.” “You are literally shaking.” “…That’s unrelated.” He says this while accepting the glass anyway.

And despite all the teasing confidence, Rocket never loses sight of mutual enjoyment. He pays close attention, constantly adjusting, checking reactions, reading body language with near unfair precision. Every gasp, every shiver, every laugh that slips out in the middle of heated chaos feeds directly into that smug, delighted satisfaction of his. “That,” he says softly at one point, looking entirely too pleased with himself, “was definitely my favorite reaction so far.”

There is always playfulness tangled into it too. Rocket thrives on momentum, tension, unpredictability. The experience never feels mechanical or repetitive with him because he is always experimenting, improvising, chasing that perfect balance between intensity, affection, and chaos. Sometimes it turns competitive. Sometimes affectionate. Sometimes both at once in ways that leave the room looking like a small disaster zone afterward. And honestly? He loves that.

Because with Rocket, intimacy is never treated like something distant or clinical. It is alive. Messy. Loud with laughter one second and breathless tension the next. A whirlwind of closeness and energy that sweeps both of you up before either of you fully realizes how deep into it you have fallen.

By the end of it, he is usually sprawled beside you, breathing hard, fur completely ruined, still wearing that impossibly smug little grin.

“…Worth it,” he mumbles without an ounce of regret.

—--Q-Quickie (do they prefer fast and hard)--

Rocket generally prefers to take things slow. He savors foreplay as much as the main act; every teasing touch, whispered word, and mischievous nudge is part of the experience. He thrives on the push-and-pull: giving pleasure, receiving it, teasing, letting you tease him, driving both of you to that delicious edge where begging becomes inevitable. “Relax,” he mutters once, eyes flicking over you like he is already tracking every small shift in expression. “You always try to speed things up.” There is no real judgment in it. Just observation, like he is noting a pattern he has seen before and decided to gently resist.

He is patient in his own way, but it is not passive patience. It is engaged. Intentional. He is always paying attention, always calibrating. “That’s it,” he says under his breath at one point, almost satisfied, like something has finally aligned the way he wanted it to. “Don’t overthink it.”

That said, he’s not rigid. Quickies? Absolutely on the table if you ask for them, and he’ll dive in enthusiastically, all hunger and precision. But given the choice, he loves when things unfold slowly; the drawn-out anticipation, the tension that coils tighter with every glance and brush of skin, the delicious, messy back-and-forth. For Rocket, sex isn’t just a climax; it’s every charged second leading up to it, the connection, the heat, the intimacy… every electrifying moment in between.

—--R-Risk (do they like to try new things)--

Rocket is unapologetically open-minded when it comes to intimacy. Toys, techniques, experimentation, he approaches all of it with the same curiosity and fearless enthusiasm he brings to everything else in life. If something sounds interesting and safe, he is probably willing to try it at least once just to see what happens. Maybe twice, if the first attempt got a particularly entertaining reaction out of either of you.

“Lets try it,” he says at one point, shrugging like it is the easiest thing in the world. Then, after a beat, his voice lowers slightly, more sincere beneath the teasing edge. “If you hate it, we don’t do it again. Simple.”

That is the thing about Rocket. Beneath all the confidence and chaos, there is always attentiveness underneath. He notices discomfort fast. Hesitation too. No matter how adventurous he gets, your comfort matters more to him than the experiment itself. Boundaries are not obstacles in his mind; they are part of the trust.

His personal philosophy is straightforward: the first time is exploration. The second time is understanding it properly. “Can’t judge somethin’ off one attempt,” he insists smugly. “That’s bad science.” You laugh immediately. “This is not science.” “It absolutely is.”

Rocket treats experimentation less like chasing shock value and more like discovering new ways to connect. The excitement for him comes from the shared experience, the unpredictability, the way the two of you learn each other piece by piece in real time. Every new thing becomes another private language between you, another memory, another spark.

And honestly, he enjoys the planning almost as much as the experience itself. He likes researching things together, reading reactions off your face, pretending to be impossibly professional while very obviously getting distracted halfway through. “You’re smilin’ like that on purpose,” he accuses once, narrowing his eyes while trying and failing to stay focused. “How’m I supposed to concentrate now?”

There is always humor tangled into it somewhere with him. Teasing. Laughing. The occasional disaster that leaves both of you breathless for completely different reasons. Rocket never wants intimacy to feel clinical or stiff. He wants it alive. Comfortable enough for mistakes. Safe enough for honesty.

Because at the core of it, that openness is not really about recklessness. It is trust. Trust that you can explore together without judgment. Trust that either of you can stop at any point without fear. Trust that curiosity does not have to come at the expense of safety or care. And with Rocket, that trust makes everything feel electric.

—--S-Stamina (how many times they can go and how long each round lasts)--

Rocket’s stamina is next-level, no contest. Once he gets going, he can keep the energy up for hours, teasing, provoking, and wearing you down with that relentless mix of confidence and enthusiasm that somehow only makes him more energized the longer the night goes on. He treats intimacy like he treats everything else he loves: with total focus, stubborn determination, and just enough chaos to keep things dangerous.

“You’re already tired?” he teases at one point, sounding way too entertained by it. “C’mon, I barely even started.” And the worst part? He sounds genuinely offended by the idea of slowing down.

Rocket thrives on momentum. He likes building tension slowly, dragging reactions out of you piece by piece until both of you are breathless from the sheer intensity of it all. Every laugh, every shiver, every frustrated little glare when he keeps teasing instead of letting either of you rest only encourages him further. “That look means I’m winnin’,” he says smugly, tail flicking once behind him.

He makes the entire experience feel alive, unpredictable in the best way. One moment playful and laughing against your shoulder, the next suddenly focused with that sharp, intense attention that makes it feel like the rest of the galaxy stopped existing hours ago. Rocket does not do halfway effort in anything, especially not this.

And somehow, even after hours, he still finds the energy to keep talking. “You knew what you signed up for,” he mutters, grinning against your skin when you finally complain about how impossible he is. “Can’t blame me now.”

The only thing capable of slowing him down consistently is dehydration, because Rocket absolutely forgets basic self-care once he gets invested in something. You practically have to shove water into his hands yourself. “Drink.” “…Bossy.” “You’re the one who’s been going nonstop for four hours.” “That sounds made up.”

Despite all the teasing bravado, though, Rocket never lets the experience become one-sided. He notices when you need a break before you even say it, adjusts instinctively, keeps checking in through touch and quiet little looks he pretends are casual. For all his intensity, there is care woven through every second of it. That is what makes being with him unforgettable. Not just the stamina. Not just the heat or the chaos.

It is the way he throws himself into every moment completely, like making you feel wanted, desired, and entirely consumed by the experience matters just as much to him as his own pleasure.

Maybe more.

—--T-Toys (are they game for using sex toys on themselves or lovers)--

Rocket is an absolute enthusiast when it comes to toys. Half collector, half engineer, he treats them with the same obsessive curiosity he gives every other gadget that catches his interest. Some are professionally made, sleek and expensive (stolen). Others are things he modified himself after deciding the original design was “inefficient.” A few were definitely acquired through methods he refuses to explain in detail. “What? They weren’t usin’ it right anyway,” he says with a shrug that is far too innocent to be believable. Some may have even been gag gifts from old friends or exes that he miraculously stayed on ok terms with or friends from the brothels he'd frequently go to.

His stash is extensive, meticulously organized despite the chaos he pretends to thrive in. Cases labeled. Parts cleaned and maintained with near ridiculous care. Rocket approaches intimacy with creativity and enthusiasm, and toys become another way to experiment, tease, and build trust.

He especially enjoys guided play, talking you through things in that low, confident voice of his while watching every little reaction like it is the most fascinating thing in the galaxy. “Yeah? That feel alright?” he murmurs, studying your expression carefully before smirking when you try to downplay it. “Don’t lie. I can tell when you’re bluffin’.”

That attentiveness never really shuts off. Beneath all the teasing and swagger, Rocket is deeply tuned into your comfort level. He checks in constantly, often so naturally it barely even feels like a question. “Still good?” he asks sometimes, quieter now, less cocky and more genuine. When you nod, he exhales softly through his nose, tension easing from his shoulders like he had been bracing for the possibility of getting it wrong. “Good.”

His curiosity stretches into experimentation too. Different sensations. Different dynamics. Different ways to draw reactions out of each other. Rocket loves the anticipation almost as much as the payoff, especially when he gets to build tension slowly and deliberately until the room feels charged with it. His size kink carries seamlessly into toy use, so dildos and plugs of all sizes are right in his wheelhouse, most requiring careful preparation he relishes orchestrating. And of course, there is always that playful streak running underneath everything.

Public teasing in particular amuses him far more than it probably should. Having you wear a plug or vibrator out in public, controlling it remotely, feeling your subtle reactions, sharing that secret intimacy; it’s his playground. Not anything reckless or humiliating, just subtle little secrets shared between the two of you while the rest of the world stays oblivious. A private game hidden beneath casual conversation and perfectly innocent expressions. “You’re terrible at actin’ normal, by the way,” he mutters once, looking entirely too pleased with himself while you try to keep a straight face. “Seriously, your whole expression keeps glitchin’.”

Rocket thrives on that mix of intimacy and chaos. The shared laughter. The tension. The way trust turns experimentation into something exciting instead of uncomfortable. To him, toys are never really just objects. They are tools for connection, curiosity, intimacy, and playfulness, another way to explore each other without losing the warmth underneath it all. Because even at his most teasing, most confident, most shamelessly smug, Rocket never loses sight of the thing that matters most to him: Making the experience feel safe, mutual, and unforgettable for both of you.

—--U-Unfair (how do they tease or do they enjoy suspense themselves)--

Rocket lives for teasing. Foreplay isn’t just a warm-up, it is the main event. He thrives on pushing you to the edge, stretching every second until you’re begging, trembling, completely undone before anything else even starts.

Your raw, obvious desire? It lights him up like nothing else. “…That’s it. Keep lookin’ at me like that.” There’s a sharp little grin there, all confidence and calculation as he watches every shift in your expression. And Rocket isn’t just playful, he’s precise. Hands, tongue, and yes, that mischievous tail, all working in quiet coordination, testing limits... reactions, learning what makes you falter.

“Think you can hold out a little longer… or you gonna give in already?” He’ll hover right at that edge, deliberately holding back, letting anticipation build until it’s almost unbearable. For him, the thrill is in that unraveling under his control, in watching you lose composure piece by piece under his control, blending precision, playfulness, and that electric tension into something impossible to ignore.

—--V-Volume (are they loud, what sounds, and do they talk)--

Rocket isn’t loud in the bedroom. Not in the dramatic, attention-grabbing sense. His pleasure doesn’t spill outward in noise so much as it settles into the space between you, heavy and charged, like static before a storm finally breaks. Most of what he gives you is felt before it’s heard. A sharp inhale when something hits just right. A low, involuntary sound caught in his throat when he loses control for half a second. The faintest tremor in his breath when you shift your attention exactly where he didn’t expect it. And underneath it all, that subtle, steady rumble of a purr he pretends not to notice at all.

“…Tch,” he mutters once, clearly annoyed at himself for it, even as he leans closer. “Ignore that.” It never actually stops. Rocket is more presence than performance.

His voice is where most of it lives. Low. Close. Controlled. He leans in just enough that every word feels like it belongs only to you. “Yeah… just like that,” he breathes, tone roughened by restraint, like he is holding himself back more than anything else. “Look at you… takin’ it so well.”

There is a pause after that, like he is savoring the reaction more than the moment itself. Then softer, almost uncharacteristically gentle: “Don’t stop,” he adds, quieter now, forehead brushing against yours as his grip tightens just slightly, grounding rather than restraining. “I got you.”

Even his teasing edges are measured. If he slips into something more commanding or provocative, it is precise, deliberate, never careless. A controlled flick of tone rather than a flood of it. “C’mon,” he murmurs at one point, a faint grin in his voice. “Don’t go shy on me now.” But even then, it circles back to closeness. Always closeness. Rocket does not fill space with noise. He fills it with attention. With breath shared too closely. With reactions he tracks like he is memorizing them. And when he does make noise again, it is never for show. It is instinctive. Honest. A small crack in that carefully held control that says more than words ever could.

—--W-Wild card (random head canon of any sort)--

Rocket is a switch, but make no mistake, he is almost never passive. Whether he is topping or bottoming, there is still something intensely deliberate about the way he moves through intimacy, like he is reading the entire situation in real time and adjusting it to his liking with frightening precision. Even when he is the one pinned beneath you, breathing harder than usual with fur ruffled and pupils blown wide, there is still challenge glittering behind his grin. Still control woven through the tension somehow.

“Don’t get it twisted,” he mutters once, breathless but smug, claws flexing lightly against your side. “I’m still the one runnin’ this situation.”

And honestly? Half the time he believes it.

When Rocket bottoms, he tends toward power plays and provocation. Bratty little comments slipped in at the worst possible moments. Sharp, teasing grins when he knows exactly what he is doing to you. He pushes boundaries just enough to get a reaction, just enough to make you work for control while he watches with open amusement. 

“C’mon,” he says one night, head tipped back against the pillow while his tail flicks lazily behind him, eyes bright with trouble. “That all you got?”

He likes challenge. Likes tension. Likes the electric little power struggle that forms when somebody refuses to let him get away with running his mouth unchecked. But underneath all of it sits trust, quiet and unwavering. Rocket craves intensity, not fear. Excitement, not harm. He wants to feel safe enough to push without worrying the ground beneath him will disappear. And when he finally does let somebody take control for a while, there is still intention behind it. He chooses it. Chooses you.

The collar and leash become part of that dynamic almost naturally. Rocket likes the symbolism of it nearly as much as the actual physicality. Not humiliation. Not ownership in the ugly sense. Something more intimate than that. Trust made visible. A private exchange of control sharpened into tension and closeness.

The first time he fastens the collar around your throat, his usual cockiness slips just enough for you to catch the concentration and care underneath it. His hands are gentle while he adjusts the fit, movements surprisingly soft despite the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“There,” he murmurs once it sits properly, thumb brushing briefly along the strap. “Looks good on you.” And the dangerous thing is how honest he sounds. His pupils widen slightly afterward, tail flicking once behind him with poorly disguised excitement as he hooks a finger through the leash and gives it the gentlest tug. Not enough to force. Just enough to guide your attention back toward him.

Rocket thrives on contrast in moments like that. Playfulness tangled together with control. The way he can pull you closer with one hand while the other settles against your hips, grounding and possessive all at once. The whole thing becomes a game of tension and restraint, slow or fast rolls of his hips paired with sharp little tugs whenever he wants your attention exactly where he wants it. Teasing wrapped around sincerity tightly enough that sometimes even he cannot separate the two cleanly anymore.

“Eyes on me,” he says eventually, voice lower now, roughened at the edges. “C’mon. Don’t get distracted.”

He loves reactions. Every shift in your breathing. Every flush creeping up your neck. Every tiny hitch in your expression when he pulls you closer by the leash just enough to make your pulse jump. He watches all of it with laser-focused attention, visibly pleased each time he manages to unravel you a little further. “Tch,” he laughs softly at one point, forehead briefly pressing against yours. “Look at you. Way too into this.” The irony, of course, is that he is just as affected.

Because underneath the confidence and filthy teasing sits something startlingly personal for him. Rocket understands the weight of trust better than most people ever could. Being handed control willingly instead of having it taken by force hits somewhere deep and complicated inside him.

That is why even at his roughest, there is always care underneath it. Constant awareness. Constant adjustment. He notices discomfort instantly. Reads hesitation before words even fully form. Every touch, every pull of the leash, every shift in tone gets filtered through that sharp attentiveness of his. And when the teasing fades quieter for a moment, when his movements slow and he pulls you closer by the leash just to keep you near, his voice drops softer too. “…Mine... my sweet, precious doll.” he murmurs against your skin, sounding almost surprised by his own honesty before the grin returns to hide it again. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

And when he tops, the energy shifts completely… for the most part.

Sometimes he leans into being a service top, all focused attention and deliberate praise, taking obvious satisfaction in pulling reactions from you piece by piece. Other times, he settles into something quieter and more commanding. Hands firm at your waist. Voice steady against your ear. Guiding instead of demanding, but no less in control for it “There you go,” he murmurs one night, sounding unfairly pleased with you. “Good. Stay with me.”

Even then, Rocket talks constantly. Low teasing comments. Smug observations. Praise slipped between sharp little grins clearly designed to make your brain short-circuit. “You hear yourself right now?” he asks softly after catching one particularly helpless sound from you. “That’s adorable.”

And if you ask for something rougher, something sharper around the edges, Rocket rises to it with dangerous enthusiasm. Focused. Precise. Intense in a way that never feels detached. Every bit of dominance from him feels personal because he makes it personal.

The leash curls around his hand while he keeps you close, one palm steady at your waist as if grounding both of you at once. “Stay right there for me,” he mutters near your ear, voice roughened lower than usual. “Yeah… just like that.”

And despite all the swagger, Rocket is affected by you just as badly in return. Fingers sinking into his fur make him shiver instantly. Teeth grazing his shoulder or neck pull sharp little curses from him before he leans right back into the touch. Tug at his ears hard enough and his composure cracks almost embarrassingly fast. “…Yeah,” he growls quietly once, pupils blown wide while his tail lashes behind him. “Keep doin’ that and see what happens.”

There is always care beneath the chaos, though. That never disappears. Boundaries matter to him. Communication matters. Trust matters most of all. His safeword is simple. “Cherry.” Short. Clear. Impossible to misunderstand.

Because for Rocket, dominance is never just about power. It is intimacy sharpened into something electric. A push and pull built on trust, challenge, connection, and the thrill of knowing someone deeply enough to unravel them carefully instead of carelessly.

He wants the laughter tangled up inside the tension. The teasing mixed with tenderness. The closeness hidden underneath all the heat and sharp grins.

And no matter which side of the dynamic he lands on, one thing never changes: Rocket throws himself into it completely. Body, mind, claws, tail flicks, sharp mouth and all.

—--X-X-ray (what’s down below in dem pants)--

Rocket’s anatomy is uniquely his own, shaped by the same genetic modifications and invasive experimentation that touched every part of his life. Even the pieces of him that feel natural carry traces of alteration somewhere beneath the surface. His cock is slightly larger than a normal raccoon’s, measuring around 5.3 inches when fully aroused and roughly as thick as two fingers, with a subtle downward curve caused by the baculum bone along its length. Normally it stays tucked safely within a sheath, hidden away until arousal draws it out. The color starts as a pale pink and deepens toward the tip into a darker, richer red.

“Careful,” he mutters once after catching your attention lingering a little too long, ears flicking with mock irritation even while the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “You keep starin’ like that, I’m gonna start thinkin’ you’re obsessed.”

His balls sit snug and tight against his body, sensitive in ways he pretends not to acknowledge until you catch the reaction anyway. That is the thing about Rocket. He acts smug right up until you notice something genuine underneath it. Then suddenly he is grumbling under his breath like getting flustered was somehow your fault. “Tch. Quit smilin’.” His tail flicks sharply once behind him. “You’re way too pleased with yourself right now.”

Like the rest of him, even his body carries signs of reclamation and choice woven through it. A barbell and ring through his sheath, paired barbells along his perineum, his uppermost nipples, and suddenly Rocket looks less like somebody who survived experimentation and more like somebody who decided to survive loudly.

—--Y-Yearning (sex drive level)--

Rocket’s sex drive runs high almost constantly. Desire sits close to the surface with him, restless and warm, threaded through his teasing looks, casual touches, and the way his attention sharpens the second you show even the slightest interest back. He is rarely difficult to tempt.

That said, he is not reckless about it. Rocket pays attention. If you are stressed, exhausted, distracted, or clearly not in the mood, he backs off without making you feel guilty for it. He might grumble a little under his breath, maybe throw out a sarcastic comment just to save face, but he respects boundaries too much to push. “Relax,” he mutters once with a lazy flick of his tail when you apologize for turning him down. “I can survive a night without jumpin’ your bones.” Still, if you are interested? If you look at him a certain way, touch him a little too deliberately, lean close enough for tension to spark between you? Rocket folds fast. Almost embarrassingly fast.

The shift in him is immediate. Eyes locking onto yours. Grin turning sharper. Every ounce of his attention narrowing down to you like the rest of the room stopped existing. “…Yeah?” he asks, voice lower now, already moving closer. “Thought you were tryin’ to distract me.” Unless he is genuinely buried in work, elbow-deep in repairs, or mentally tangled up in something heavy, he almost never turns you down. And even then, all it usually takes is enough teasing before his concentration starts cracking around the edges.

“You are a menace,” he informs you at one point while trying, and failing, to stay focused on the project in front of him. Five minutes later, the tools are abandoned. When Rocket wants you, he wants you fully. Enthusiastic. Engaged. Restless with anticipation. There is no detached half-effort with him once he commits to the moment. He throws himself into it completely, making every touch feel deliberate, every glance charged with playful intensity.

And honestly? He enjoys your excitement almost as much as his own. The second he realizes you genuinely want him, that you are craving him back just as intensely, something smug and hungry lights up behind his eyes. “That’s what I thought,” he says softly once, sounding entirely too pleased with himself.

For Rocket, attraction is not just physical release. It is connection amplified through tension, humor, affection, challenge, and closeness all tangled together into one chaotic, intoxicating mess. He likes the anticipation. The teasing. The spark of mutual want crackling between you before anything even starts. And once that spark catches properly? He is all in.

—--Z-Zzzz (do they sleep after if so how quickly after)--

After sex, Rocket goes soft in a way he’d never advertise. The edges dull, the tension drains out of him in slow waves, and suddenly he’s all warmth and weight and reluctant closeness. For the first stretch of time he doesn’t really let go, just presses in like proximity is the only thing keeping him oriented.

“…Don’t move.” It’s not an order, just something quiet and honest, like he forgot how to pretend for a second. His grip tightens slightly, anchoring himself to you more than the bed. “Stay a minute… yeah?” His voice drops lower, roughened by exhaustion and satisfaction, and he’s already settling in deeper, nuzzling closer like his body made the decision before his pride could object. Eventually, he drifts off still holding you, like sleep and contact are part of the same need.

If you slip away later, it doesn’t stay quiet for long. Rocket wakes like a snapped wire, groggy and disoriented, immediately aware of the absence. Within minutes he’s up, stumbling through the space with stubborn focus until he finds you. “…Hey… where’d you go…?” Sleep clings to his voice, eyes barely open as he reaches for you on instinct, fingers closing around your hand like it’s a lifeline. “C’mon… not done sleepin’ yet.” There’s no real patience in it, just need, soft and insistent as he tugs you back toward the bed, already turning like it’s obvious you’re supposed to follow.

By morning, the confidence returns in pieces, and so does the embarrassment. He acts like nothing happened, but it lingers in the edges of his tone, the way he avoids lingering too long on the subject. “Don’t make a thing outta it,” he mutters. “I was half outta my mind.”

[homunculus-argument]

I find it funny when queer fantasy stories are written in a setting where homophobia doesn't exist, but there's a ~forbidden romance~ element coming from some completely different, fantastical prejudice. Like

"Son, I don't care if you suck dick, but no child of mine will be sharing a bed with a goddamn necromancer!"

[eurypotpourrie-deactivated20250]

king, pacing the floor : how many times have we told you? prince : dad, i can explain- king : how many times prince : king : prince, sighing : fine dad im sorry i slept with a man- king : YOU SLEPT WITH A COURT JESTER!!!!

[fireflychaosdemon]

I am dying at these tags

[ferret-on-pancakes]

You know the jester is gonna mess with him about it, too.

[ferret-on-pancakes]

@urbeastprime you get it

[raccoonfallsharder]

I have an idea for a rocket imagine/headcanon. I know you often make him a magnificent cook in your fics and it just makes sense. He’s ALOT more artistic and creative then he gives himself credit for and it would translate well in cooking...

I imagine, if he were to give reader access to terran television either on the ship or on knowhere rocket would develop a love for cooking shows, especially competitive ones. Some examples being: hells kitchen, man vs child chef showdown, worst cooks in America, etc... cooking competition shows are to rocket as soap operas are to drax.

I think he'd end up liking Gordon Ramsey and end up yelling along with him when the competitors anoy him 🤣 imagine if he starts calling people an idiot sandwich or a donut, I just know he'd leave out context and leave people very confused by the insult. Any competition that included kids would make him root for the kids all the way and he'd cackle whenever the adult chefs would loose, especially if the adult chef was acting all cocky and celebrate along with the kids.

yessssssssss babe. YES. brilliant, beautiful nonnie!! ♡

i headcanon rocket as being at least a middling-to-excellent cook in part because the main reason raccoon-hands are so sensitive is likely to help them discern and recall which foods are edible. (it’s also why they wash their food so often — getting their hands wet means they’ll remember it more clearly or in more detail.) that said, he can sometimes have a pretty wild palate, and he’s eaten so many things from so many planets and cultures that i’m sure not all of his dishes would taste great to you.

all that said, i think you’re right. i think rocket loves reality/“unscripted” television and competition shows best because they’re entertaining without him having to deal with the cognitive dissonance of enjoying an actor’s work (we know from the holiday special that disdain for actors is common in space — I hypothesize the prejudice exists because some people view acting as lying rather than storytelling). and i also think you’re right in that cooking shows would be particularly entertaining for him. he’s probably watched all the cooking shows he can find streaming on the terran internet — which means, yes, you’ve gotten to watch him cackle and kick his feet when gordon ramsey is being particularly obnoxious.

little do you know, that's only the tip of the iceberg for him.

see, you assume that rocket favors gordon ramsey's shows because of gordon ramsey’s insults. of course you do. it makes sense that this very competent, confident, abrasive mechanic would find something appealing in watching a competent, confident, abrasive chef be a complete and total dickhead. after all, you reason — rocket probably wants to call every single guardian an idiot sandwich on a daily basis.

(as he should. they mostly are.)

the difference is, they’ll ask rocket why he’s being an asshole, or else be assholes right back. but nobody asks gordon ramsey why he’s an asshole, you notice — and certainly nobody dares to turn in the tables. in fact, ramsey seems to be respected for his shitty behavior. so of course — of course — there’s probably some wish-fulfillment or vicarious living happening from rocket’s perspective.

at least, that’s what you imagine.

look, you’re not wrong. there is something to that idea: a little vicarious living by rocket, through ramsey. but ... once you two start making your way through old seasons of masterchef junior, rocket grows quiet and intent: watching even more closely, with soft eyes and the faint lopsided curl of a smile. or sometimes, with a stare so fierce that it looks almost angry.

“hey,” he asks you once, after an episode is over and you’re about to roll into a new one. “drax is teaching the kids that shit, right? how to cook?”

there’s an intensity to his voice you haven’t heard before. which is not to say he's never intense — he almost always is — but something about the way he says it makes your bones resonate at a frequency you can't quite hear.

but you can feel it. you can definitely feel it. gooseflesh prickles on your arms.

“uhm, i think he’s outsourcing that to ssssaralami,” you respond softly, bewildered by the unexpectedness of the question and the way the little hairs at your nape rise. something tugs on your vagus nerve, but you have no explanation for it. “but — yeah. they’re learning.”

rocket breathes in: slow, steady, deep. his whole chest expands — then eases as he breathes out again.

“good,” he says quietly. “okay. that’s good.”

it’s an odd enough moment that you recall it later — turning it over in your head as you fall asleep that night, and having strange dreams you can't remember but that leave you vaguely troubled in the morning. still, by the next rotation, you've basically forgotten the exchange. in fact, you don’t think about it again until a few cycles have past and the two of you are hanging out in his apartment. the manufactured sun has set a long time ago, and it's far too late for you to want to walk back to your own apartment. which is why, with a grudging roll of his eyes, he’s invited you to crash at his place — as if you don’t know how much he secretly loves when you sleep over.

the plasma orbs hanging from his ceiling have dimmed, and the apartment is dark now. the lights outside filter through his frosted windows, leave pale soft-edged splashes on the ground. you watch from your spot on his bed — now capped with one of those frothy cyxlorade mattresses that make the scrapmetal frame surprisingly comfy — as he scrolls through shows on his datapad. the holoprojector above your heads whirs softly, and you’re surprised when the faces of mel and sue flicker into the blue-silver glow before your eyes.

you blink. your lips part. you couldn't hold the question back if you wanted to — not that you're prepared to stifle it.

“old seasons of great british bake-off?”

rocket doesn’t even notice your surprise.

“''course. started watchin’ ‘em before i go to sleep at night.” he shrugs one shoulder, focused on navigating to his desired episode. “this one’s my frickin’ favorite,” he confides — with relish.

you sit with that for a moment, brow furled as you try to slot this new information into your understanding of roket's food-show-favorites. he climbs onto his bed beside you. the ridged handle of the old scrapmetal frame props the mattress into a low lump of a wall between your hip and his.

curiosity hums on your lips.

“i ... wouldn’t have clocked that one,” you admit at last.

he cocks an eyebrow, then shrugs again. “i like diners, drive-ins, an’ dives too.”

you blink again. maybe you hadn’t expected that one, either.

the projection begins playing. golden close-ups of bread and berries skim across the holo. human hands crack a sunshine-egg. flour puffs into the air like pixie-dust.

"okay," you say cautiously, trying not to make a big deal out of it — and understanding at the same time that it is a big deal. "so ... what is it about these shows?"

there’s a long moment of quiet while happy, frolicsome string-music bounces playfully through the midnight air. you can hear rocket swallow beside you, and some part of you braces — then relaxes.

he’s about to tell you something he hasn’t shared with anyone before. you can tell.

“i dunno,” he says at last. the rasp of his voice is hushed under the shadows. “i was just… hungry a lot, when i was a kid. even before i was on the streets.” he swallows again. “sure, the cutthroat-shit is fun. that one guy yellin’— he’s great too. but there’s somethin’ about just watchin’ people who like each other, makin’ good food — eatin’ it together, an’ enjoyin’ it — that makes me sleep a little easier.” he scoffs a little. “couldn’t tell ya why.”

but you know why. your hand crawls across the rumpled blankets and over the lumpy barrier between your body and his, while the holo frames up a pretty, pastoral tent in a meadow, whimsical under a the perfect blue of a beautiful and forever sky. you feel him jump when your fingers tangle with his, and when you squeeze his hand, he only freezes a moment before squeezing back.

yeah. you know why. the answer is simply this:

whether it’s freedom, or flight, or just a comfortably-full belly, rocket has always wanted to be part of the things that have seemed so far beyond his reach.

and he has always wanted to share them with friends.

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

[shymagnolia]

so I got into grad school today with my shitty 2.8 gpa and the moral of the story is reblog those good luck posts for the love of god

[shymagnolia]

okay so i just got my dream job??? a week after applying to it?? and now i’m thinking….maybe this is the good luck post

[flagellant]

…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment

likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post

[coffee-or-hot-cocoa]

i need all the help i can get for finals

[finnglas]

Hey so

the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like. 

So you know. 

This might be the real one, y’all.

[avhira]

I could use some luck

[venusonemoon]

How is fucking rocket so smart yet so dumb at the same time. He can build fucking bombs, have plans to escape the MOST SECURE PRISON but doesn't know jack shit abt social cues or how to act around other people, or even treat them with respect.

[raccoon-coded]

He's not dumb, he's traumatized. Allow me to explain.

Rocket's childhood taught him that kindness and trust will get you killed. Truly good people die young, (Lylla, Teefs, Floor) and anyone else buttering him up with pretty words are only manipulating him to get what they want out of him until he's no longer useful (High Evolutionary.)

He's angry, he's hurting and he lashes out at others because getting attached gets you hurt, and violence is your only chance at freedom. Besides, who could ever really care for a monster like him but another monster like him? And there's no one else like Rocket. Not anymore.

So why be kind in a galaxy that punishes kindness? Why be gentle when you've only known cruelty?

After Batch 81, no one treated him with care and respect until Groot (someone humies also looked down on because they didn't understand him) and then once again, as soon as he's learned to let someone in a little, Groot gets taken from him too. Why? Because Groot was kind, he trusted, and he cared.

This reinforces the views instilled in him as a child, and he pushes people away before they can hurt him or end up hurt because of him.

Yet still, he stays with the Guardians because it benefits him he has nothing else, and as much as he hates himself for it, he desperately craves approval and connection. He thinks they're pretty decent people, not that he'll admit it, so either they'll die or more likely they'll get tired of his shit and decide his usefulness isn't worth the hassle, and abandon him in a self fulfilling prophecy. He'll push them away before they can push him away.

Either way, he'll end up alone. Either way, the only way to not get hurt is to not care. Or at least, fake it til you make it, because while he pretends not to care, deep down he does.

He slowly has to unlearn all these core beliefs and unhealthy coping mechanisms that have kept him alive for so long. And that's not an easy process. It takes time and there are moments where he backslides into what he knows best. But eventually he gets there.

Eventually he learns that there are people who will stick around. There are people who care and there are people worth caring for. And maybe a lot of people were just like him once — angry, hurting and in need of someone to show them the kindness no one ever has before. He's still rough around the edges, but he's learning and he's trying.

Rocket's done running. Done letting fear and regret rule his life. Now he has the opportunity to be the kind of hero he never had for himself.

[chowdragun]

If you don't mind me asking, do you know where you found the headcanon that the HE is an elder of the universe? I actually have the same headcanon that I use for my au and I'd like to see what people have to say :)

first off, thank you for being my first ever ask! It's a huge milestone for me.

To answer your question, it actually came from some of my irl friends. They were romantically re-binge watching the gotg volumes like ya do... and when they got to vol3 one of them thought that there was a lot of similarities between the collector and the high douchebag. It sort of spiraled from there before they brought it up with me a bit later. I thought it made way too much sense to ignore and decided to bring it here for the same reason you asked me about it. If you’re willing I'd love to hear about your AU!

[raccoonfallsharder]

I recently saw a headcanon that MCU High Evolutionary is a Elder of the Universe, and I think it makes perfect sense... the Elders are all ancient, near immortal beings that were part of the original intelligent race—and they all have a singular obsession that drives them. Sound familiar???

For the collector its imprisioning collecting any and all rare and unique lifeforms and objects...

For the Grandmaster its games and competitions...

Etc...

I don't know his comics origin save for what I've briefly read, I think it said he was a human geneticist who altered his own body and mind to godlike abilities and intelligence, but idk. But I think it would make perfect sense if his MCU version was counted amoung the elders, everything fits. His obsession is evolution and perfection.

What if the other elders don't acknowledge him because even they agree that he's rotten, idk if that would be out of character for them, for all I know they might not have any morals but I'm not too familiar with the comics.

this is a phenomenal headcanon for the mcu!! thank you so much for sharing ♡♡

and yes, herbert e. wyndham is an earther in the comics, but the comics are so earth-centric it's boring imo. i'd much rather read this iteration! his name doesn't feel like it really fits with most of the other elders' names (it's rather modern and terran-esque) but i think a writer could easily argue he chose a new one (especially with him being so obsessed with terran culture) or even change his name a little. (i actually don't think his name is established in the mcu so they could take it any direction they wanted)

all that said, i don't think the other elders would reject him — at least not any more than they tend to reject each other all the time. they're all a bunch of assholes with a very self-absorbed, almost fey (in the worst way) approach to morality. like, you'd probably had one or two who sneered at him extra-hard or refused to acknowledge him, but most would treat him with the same twisted, semifamilial disdain that they treat all the rest of their brethren.

excellent headcanon; i will be mulling over this for quite some time!

[chowdragun]

I could see him changing his name every few centuries depending on his current obsession i.e. Earth. I can also see him as seeing himself as being above the other elders despite them being "equals".

Considering how, according to Gamora in Vol3, corners of the universe consider him a god and the fact that he has lived for many centuries i just don't see how he could actually be terran in the mcu. Plus I think it was implied that he came to earth and was inspired rather then being from earth. Unless his parents or ancestors somehow found themselves in space during idk the middle ages... it doesn't add up.

I definitely believe he is an elder of the universe.

[raccoonfallsharder]

oh, I definitely don’t think he’s terran in the mcu. it’s definitely implied that he’s eons old and that he was inspired by earth in the eighties/nineties. i suppose it’s possible that he was an ancient terran who was abducted and figured out how to manufacture a long life, but i don’t really subscribe to that either. generally i think: long-lived alien species who also engineered himself an even lengthier lifespan.

i do like the idea of him being an elder though!

[chowdragun]

now im randomly thinking of 'you are cordially invited'...

Well shit.

Imagine if thats how he found out Rocket was alive...

[raccoonfallsharder]

I recently saw a headcanon that MCU High Evolutionary is a Elder of the Universe, and I think it makes perfect sense... the Elders are all ancient, near immortal beings that were part of the original intelligent race—and they all have a singular obsession that drives them. Sound familiar???

For the collector its imprisioning collecting any and all rare and unique lifeforms and objects...

For the Grandmaster its games and competitions...

Etc...

I don't know his comics origin save for what I've briefly read, I think it said he was a human geneticist who altered his own body and mind to godlike abilities and intelligence, but idk. But I think it would make perfect sense if his MCU version was counted amoung the elders, everything fits. His obsession is evolution and perfection.

What if the other elders don't acknowledge him because even they agree that he's rotten, idk if that would be out of character for them, for all I know they might not have any morals but I'm not too familiar with the comics.

this is a phenomenal headcanon for the mcu!! thank you so much for sharing ♡♡

and yes, herbert e. wyndham is an earther in the comics, but the comics are so earth-centric it's boring imo. i'd much rather read this iteration! his name doesn't feel like it really fits with most of the other elders' names (it's rather modern and terran-esque) but i think a writer could easily argue he chose a new one (especially with him being so obsessed with terran culture) or even change his name a little. (i actually don't think his name is established in the mcu so they could take it any direction they wanted)

all that said, i don't think the other elders would reject him — at least not any more than they tend to reject each other all the time. they're all a bunch of assholes with a very self-absorbed, almost fey (in the worst way) approach to morality. like, you'd probably had one or two who sneered at him extra-hard or refused to acknowledge him, but most would treat him with the same twisted, semifamilial disdain that they treat all the rest of their brethren.

excellent headcanon; i will be mulling over this for quite some time!

[chowdragun]

I could see him changing his name every few centuries depending on his current obsession i.e. Earth. I can also see him as seeing himself as being above the other elders despite them being "equals".

Considering how, according to Gamora in Vol3, corners of the universe consider him a god and the fact that he has lived for many centuries i just don't see how he could actually be terran in the mcu. Plus I think it was implied that he came to earth and was inspired rather then being from earth. Unless his parents or ancestors somehow found themselves in space during idk the middle ages... it doesn't add up.

I definitely believe he is an elder of the universe.

[chowdragun]

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.

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 immediately recognize. His love never arrives loudly; it slips in through the cracks, disguised as habit, coincidence, anything but vulnerability. It lives in the Post-its he leaves scattered like breadcrumbs, half gruff reminders to take care of yourself, the other half softer than he’d ever admit, little notes that linger long after you’ve read them. It’s in the things he makes with his own hands: weapons fine-tuned to perfection, gadgets you didn’t know you needed, or something small you paused a little too long to admire while walking together. He notices everything. He always has.

He brings you snacks, drinks, little things you hadn’t even realized you were craving yet, as if he’s memorized you down to instinct. His affection lives in what he does rather than what he says. And then there’s the physical side, the part he pretends is accidental. His hand finds yours like it belongs there, fingers threading together without ceremony. He’ll absentmindedly play with your hair if you have any while focused on something else, as if touching you is second nature. Quick kisses, brief cuddles, fleeting moments he brushes off with a scoff or some muttered excuse. He acts like it’s all begrudging, like you’re somehow inconveniencing him, but the truth is written in every lingering touch.

When you’re not around, he steals your clothes. Not out of mischief, well, not entirely, but because they smell like you, because it tricks his mind into thinking you’re still there, close enough to reach. It’s the closest thing he’ll allow himself to admit to needing you. Sometimes, when the world quiets down, he hums, soft and absent, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. If you’re lucky, it turns into something closer to a song, though he’d deny it the moment you mentioned it. He calls you by a dozen different pet names, each one slipping out before he can stop it, each carrying more weight than he’ll ever acknowledge.

Around others, he pulls back, keeping everything restrained and measured. He hates attention, hates the vulnerability of being seen like that, unless you truly need the comfort or he’s in the mood to make a point for reasons entirely his own. Otherwise, the affection goes quiet again, tucked safely out of sight. But when you’re alone, it surfaces fully, softer, warmer, unguarded in a way he’d never call it. Of course, that depends on his mood. He’s just as likely to be sharp-tongued and restless, snapping at nothing, difficult in the way only Rocket can be. Even then, he never strays far. There’s a kind of gravity to him.

You see it in the smallest moments. When you’re walking side by side, hands linked, and you let go without thinking, he stops immediately, mid-step, mid-sentence, mid-breath, and simply looks at you, silent and expectant, unmoving until your hand finds his again. “Just keeping you from wandering off,” he’ll mutter, like that explains anything, before continuing on as if nothing happened. But you know.

When you’re resting together, there’s always some point of contact: a shoulder pressed to yours, a leg thrown lazily over yours, his tail curling around you without thought. Something. Always something. As if distance itself is unacceptable. Because beneath all the sarcasm, the deflection, and the careful disguises, Rocket aches for closeness. He’s just learned how to hide it well.

His love speaks in actions, in time spent, in the quiet things done for you without expectation. And if you want to reach him in return, truly reach him, it’s simple: stay close, touch him, choose him again and again without making a spectacle 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?)--

He’s an absolute menace in a small, furred package: sharp-tongued, brutally honest to a fault, and far too entertained by other people’s suffering when it’s merely inconvenient rather than genuinely harmful. Rocket doesn’t just pull pranks; he engineers them, crafting each one like a tiny catastrophe built for his own amusement. If something explodes, misfires, malfunctions, or leaves someone mildly humiliated, there’s a very real chance he’s somewhere nearby, wearing the most suspiciously innocent expression imaginable before cackling like a madman.

And he never lets anything slide. Trip over your own feet? He saw it, and he’ll absolutely comment on it. Say something even slightly questionable? He’s already tearing it apart with surgical precision, picking through every word just to watch you squirm. His honesty comes without soft edges, blunt and unfiltered, often a little too accurate for comfort, but it’s never empty cruelty. There’s something almost intimate in the way he refuses to lie, as if that sharp honesty is the closest thing he offers to trust.

Beneath all that chaos, though, runs a constant, quiet vigilance. He notices everything: who looks at you too long, what suddenly feels off, the subtle shift in your voice when something’s wrong. He rarely calls attention to it. Instead, he adjusts, stepping closer, redirecting attention with a perfectly timed insult, inserting himself into situations before they can tilt the wrong way. Protective, but never obvious. Call him out on it, and he’d scoff, brushing it off with a line like, “Relax. I just didn’t feel like dealing with the fallout if something happened to you.”

He carries himself like that relentless, irritating sibling you swear you could live without, always provoking, always finding exactly which nerve to press just to see how you’ll react. But the second something real threatens you, the teasing vanishes. What replaces it is something colder, sharper, and far more dangerous. That contrast makes everything obvious: no matter how much he pushes your buttons, he never lets you fall alone. There’s always an invisible line, and Rocket is always watching it.

You might roll your eyes, snap back, or call him insufferable, and maybe he is. But there’s a steady kind of comfort in knowing he’s there anyway. Loud. Irritating. Unpredictable. And, when it matters most, 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 curated attitude, an unapologetic cuddlebug. Give him a couch, a bed, a quiet corner, anything that even vaguely resembles a place to rest, and he’s already there claiming it, dragging you down with him like gravity suddenly got personal. He doesn’t ask. He simply decides you’re part of the arrangement. One moment you’re standing, the next you’re pinned beneath a surprisingly determined little menace who refuses to acknowledge just how much he needs this.

And yes, he’s almost always the little spoon. He’ll never say it outright, but the way he slots himself against you, the way he visibly relaxes the second your arms wrap around him, gives him away every time. He loves the closeness, the warmth, the steady reassurance of you being right there. Try to pull away too soon, though, and the dramatics begin: a low, annoyed whine, a muttered complaint, maybe even a full pout if you’re lucky. He’ll grab you without hesitation, hands, arms, whatever he can manage, and haul you right back where you belong, pressing you against him or flipping you so you’re sprawled across his chest like he personally invented comfort. “Not done yet,” he’ll grumble, as if it’s a perfectly reasonable decree. The whining is mostly theatrical. Mostly. There’s always a flicker of sincerity buried underneath it, but he’d rather combust than admit that.

Kiss him while you’re like that, the top of his head, his cheek, his forehead, and it’s like you’ve short-circuited something important. The first few times, he goes stiff, uncertain, pretending he doesn’t know what to do with it. You have to coax him past that instinct to deflect, ease him into the softness of it. But once it settles in, he melts. Completely, helplessly melts into you, every bit of tension draining out of him in a quiet surrender he’ll never acknowledge later. Call attention to it, and he’ll deny everything with impressive conviction.

He has a habit of falling asleep on you, too, using you like a pillow as if you were specifically designed for this purpose. You’re warm, soft, steady, and for someone who spends so much of his life wound tight, that kind of comfort hits deeper than he’d ever admit. Sometimes he prefers the reverse, though, having you draped over him, your weight settling across him like a living blanket. It grounds him, keeps him tethered in a way he doesn’t quite have words for.

The affection runs deeper than cuddling alone. He aches, often. The implants take their toll, leaving him sore in ways he tries to ignore until he can’t. That’s when he begrudgingly lets you help, massages that begin with complaints and end with him half-asleep, tension slowly unraveling beneath your hands. Sometimes he doesn’t even make it to the end before he’s out.

And if you ever start petting him, that’s game over. Fingers behind his ears, along the top of his head, down his back, under his chin, he leans into it before he can stop himself, some instinctive, deeply rooted response taking over. The base of his tail is an especially dangerous weak point; the gentlest strokes there leave him completely undone, no matter how hard he tries to act unaffected.

He purrs, too. Loudly. Relentlessly. A whole symphony of contentment vibrating through him, and he’ll deny it like his life depends on it. “It’s not purring. Something’s wrong with the damn implants.” Sure. Absolutely.

And if he’s ever even slightly injured, a minor scrape, the faintest cold, nothing serious, there’s a very real chance he leans into it just a little too much. Not enough to be obvious, but enough to keep you hovering, keep you close, keep you right there in bed with him after you’ve already insisted he rest. Getting him to slow down is a battle in itself. He resists it like it’s a personal offense. But once he’s there, once you’ve managed to pin him down and keep him still, he makes the most of it. Dramatic. Calculated. Entirely intentional.

Because at the end of the day, for all his noise, deflection, and carefully maintained reputation, Rocket just really, really likes being held.

—--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. But the evidence? It’s stacked higher than a perfectly organized toolbench. Rocket slips into the role of caretaker the way gravity pulls things downward: quietly, inevitably, without ever asking permission. One day, you simply realize the place is cleaner than it’s ever been. Every surface wiped down, every tool exactly where it belongs, every system running with almost obsessive precision. He doesn’t announce it. He just does it, muttering the whole time about how no one else seems capable of maintaining basic standards. “Was driving me insane,” he grumbles, as if that somehow explains the sparkling countertops and the fact that he reorganized everything three separate times until it felt right.

And the cooking? Dangerous. Not in the explosive sense, well, not usually, but in the way it completely rewires your expectations. Rocket doesn’t cook so much as engineer meals. Flavor, texture, timing, every detail is treated like a problem to solve and a craft to master. He’ll insist it’s purely practical, that he just didn’t trust anyone else to do it properly, but then he watches you from the corner of his eye while you eat, quietly measuring your reaction. It matters more than he wants it to. Compliment him and he shrugs it off. Don’t, and he notices anyway. He’d never admit that feeding you feels important, but the truth hums beneath every carefully plated bite.

Domesticity settles over him in strange, unspoken ways: fixing things before they break, keeping your favorite things stocked without being asked, remembering the little details you didn’t even realize you’d left behind. It isn’t softness in the traditional sense. It’s sharp-edged care, wrapped in irritation and delivered as though it were merely a side effect instead of a choice.

Marriage, though, is where he draws a line. To Rocket, it’s paperwork. Contracts. A system trying to define something he doesn’t believe should be boxed in, stamped, or owned. He doesn’t see romance in it, only legal strings and expectations he instinctively distrusts. “You really need a document to prove something?” he’d scoff. But commitment? That part is never in question. He’s already all in, you just won’t find it stamped and filed.

Kids are where his voice gets quieter, tighter around the edges. He doesn’t hate the idea, not really, but the thought of being responsible for something that fragile, that important, unsettles him in a way he can’t easily joke away. There’s a heaviness there, rooted deep in everything he’s survived and everything that was done to him. He doesn’t trust himself with that kind of role. Doesn’t believe he’d get it right. And beneath even that sits something sharper: the possibility that the choice might not even be his to make, that the future could already have been decided for him long before he was ever given the chance to consider it. He never says it aloud, never lets himself linger there for too long, but it’s always present, quiet and cutting beneath the surface.

If a child ever did come into his life, adopted, engineered, or by some twist of fate, it wouldn’t be gentle at first. He’d be awkward, defensive, acting like he never signed up for any of this. But he would learn. Slowly. Reluctantly. Completely. Because that’s the thing about Rocket: he can deny, deflect, and disguise it all he wants, but when he cares, he doesn’t do it halfway. He builds a life around it.

—--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. If it ever came down to it, if things became too real, too heavy, too important, he wouldn’t go quietly. He wouldn’t sit you down and explain himself. He wouldn’t trust himself to say the truth out loud, because that would mean admitting just how much you matter to him.

So instead, he starts pulling threads. At first, it’s subtle. Sharper comments. More distance. Picking fights over things too small to deserve the weight he gives them. He turns colder, rougher around the edges, as if he’s deliberately sanding down everything soft between you. Not because he stopped caring. Because he cares too much, and that terrifies him more than the thought of losing you.

He wants you to be the one to walk away. In his mind, if you end it, then at least you’re choosing something better. At least you’re not being dragged down by him. It’s a twisted kind of mercy, the kind that leaves bruises long after the wound is gone. And it wrecks him. Every second of it. He hates the way you look at him after he says something cruel. Hates the silence that settles afterward. Hates himself for not stopping. But he doesn’t stop. He doubles down, pushes harder, makes it impossible to stay, like he’s setting fire to something he built with his own hands just to make sure you don’t get caught in the collapse.

And when it finally breaks, he lets it. He doesn’t fight for it. Doesn’t chase you. He just stands there, jaw tight, shoulders rigid, like this was always how it was meant to end. “Yeah… figured.” As if the words don’t hollow him out the second you’re gone.

If the relationship were genuinely toxic, though, something that wounded more than it held, he wouldn’t play games. Not like that. He’d endure it longer than he should, absorb more damage than anyone ought to, but once it crossed that invisible line, he’d leave. No theatrics. No slow unraveling. Just gone. Even then, it wouldn’t be clean. There would be anger, grief, something raw and heavy lodged in his chest long after he walked away. Because even when something is bad for him, that doesn’t mean it didn’t matter. That doesn’t mean you didn’t matter.

Rocket doesn’t leave easily, whether he’s forcing you away or walking out himself. Either way, it costs him more than he will ever admit. He just buries it beneath the only language he’s ever truly trusted: distance, silence, and the quiet kind of heartbreak that never quite fades.

—---F-Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)--

Marriage, to Rocket, is like trying to bottle lightning and slap a label on it. He doesn’t trust it, not the ceremony, the paperwork, or the idea that something as volatile and hard-earned as love could be reduced to signatures and legal terms. In his mind, if what you have is real, it doesn’t need proof. It exists. Alive. Stubborn. Undeniable. Without anyone else stamping it “valid.”

“Paper doesn’t make it real,” he’d say, voice sharp, dismissive. “Either it is, or it isn’t.” For him, what you two have is enough.

Rocket isn’t against meaning, but he wants it private, untouchable, something no one else can define. Promises whispered under a sky full of stars, subtle gestures only you both understand, they mean more than any ceremony ever could.

Underneath his resistance, there’s something quieter, heavier. A part of him is always bracing for the other shoe to drop, expecting that one day you’ll see him differently, step back, and realize you deserve better. The idea of tying you to him permanently unsettles him, not because he doubts you, but because he doesn’t trust he’s worth staying for.

If you want to marry him, you’d have to be absolutely sure. You’d have to be the one to make the leap, to propose, to prove in every small way that you have zero doubts about him. He doesn’t want to trap you. He keeps it free, open, chosen every day. If you stay because you want to, that matters far more than any vow ever could.

And he’ll still show up, like it’s forever. 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 this hidden, almost disarming softness that only shows itself when you really need it. On days when everything feels too heavy, he doesn’t make a scene. Doesn’t try to fix it with some grand gesture. Doesn’t force you to talk before you’re ready. He just gets you out of the noise. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere it’s just the two of you, and the world can wait its turn.

“C’mon. Sit.”

That’s all the invitation you get. And then he’s there, close, steady, present in a way that feels grounding. His arms wrap around you, not tight enough to trap you, but firm enough that you don’t feel like you’re falling apart. Gentle. Careful. Like he’s handling something fragile, even if he’d never call you that.

When you start talking, venting, unraveling, letting everything spill out, he listens. Really listens. No interruptions. No impatience. No sarcastic remarks cutting through your words. Just quiet attention. The occasional hum or low response, so you know he’s still right there with you.

His affection shifts in those moments. Softer. Slower. A kiss pressed to your temple. Another against your cheek. Small, grounding touches that say more than anything he could put into words. His hand moves along your back in slow circles or brushes through your hair, just to give you something steady to focus on.

If you need it, he offers more without making a big deal out of it. “Y’know… I could, uh… help with the tension. If you want.” 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.

And when it’s over, when you’ve said everything or nothing at all, he doesn’t pull away. He keeps you close. Holds you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like letting go would defeat the purpose. His voice drops softer than you’ve ever heard it, low and rough around the edges as he tries, really tries, to give you something to hold onto.

He’s not great with emotional speeches. He fumbles, pauses, searches for the right words like they don’t come easily to him. But he still says them.

“Hey… it’s not… it’s not all on you, alright?”

“You’re… you’re doin’ better than you think.”

“I got you. You’re not dealin’ with it alone.”

It’s imperfect. A little awkward. Completely genuine. And somehow, that makes it land harder than anything polished ever could. Because Rocket doesn’t offer softness lightly. But when he does, it’s real.

—--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 somewhere between wanting it and bracing against it. Hugs, especially, are complicated. With you, they’re something he wants. Not in an obvious, easy way. He’s not walking around asking for them, but it shows up in quiet moments, the way he lingers a little closer than necessary, the way he doesn’t move away when he could.

Still, there’s always that split second. That instinct. You pull him in, and he goes rigid at first, shoulders tight, breath catching, like his body’s waiting for the catch, the one that never actually comes. It’s not about you. Not really. It’s just how he’s wired.

“Tch, gimme a second.”

It doesn’t take long. Because then it shifts. Slowly, like something frozen starting to thaw. The tension bleeds out of him. His grip changes, not gone, just different. Less defensive. More present. He leans in, weight settling against you like he’s been holding himself up longer than he should have.

And once he lets himself be there, that’s when the truth slips through. Rocket isn’t good with words when it comes to this. Won’t say what it means, won’t spell it out, but his hugs do it anyway. They’re careful. Almost cautious, like he’s handling something important and doesn’t trust himself not to mess it up. But underneath that is something deeper, something that lingers just a little too long to be casual. Not tight enough to trap you. Just enough that you notice. Like he’s committing the feeling to memory, storing it somewhere he can reach later, when things get loud in his head again.

There’s a weight to it. A quiet, touch-starved kind of hunger he keeps mostly under control. Not overwhelming. Not obvious. But it’s there, threaded through the way he holds on for that extra second. If you’re paying attention, you’ll feel it. He doesn’t let just anyone get close like that. 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. Push past that, and yeah, he will make you regret it. Boundaries with him aren’t polite suggestions. They’re enforced.

But you? 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 as much as touch throws him off balance, keeps him half on guard even now, it’s also the one place he feels it slip. Safe. 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, isn’t something that arrives in a neat little sentence. It builds quietly, stubbornly, like something under the surface that refuses to be rushed. It would take him a long time to say it, really say it. Even after he’s come to terms with how he feels, the words sit heavy in his chest, caught somewhere between fear and certainty. Because once he says it, it’s real in a way he can’t take back. And Rocket doesn’t gamble with things that matter that much.

So instead, he speaks in a different language. In actions. In the way he fixes something before you even realize it’s broken. In the way he remembers the smallest details about you and quietly builds around them. In the way he stays, again and again, choosing you without ever announcing it. In the way he lets you see the parts of him no one else gets near. He says it a thousand times without forming the words.

You feel it in the late nights spent side by side, in the quiet companionship he never thought he’d want but now refuses to give up. In the way his hand finds yours without thinking. In the way he softens around you, even when he’s trying not to. That’s his version of “I love you.”

And when he finally does say it, it won’t be grand. It won’t be perfectly timed or wrapped in poetry. If anything, it’ll be a little rough around the edges, like it had to fight its way out. Maybe it slips out in a quiet moment, when the world isn’t watching and he forgets to guard himself. Maybe it comes after something real, something that cements it for him, makes it undeniable.

“…Y’know I” A pause. A breath. “…Yeah. I do.”

Like he’s admitting something more than confessing it. But there’s no doubt in it. Rocket doesn’t say things like that unless he’s certain, unless he’s tested it, turned it over, tried to find a flaw, and failed. He needs to know it’s real. Not temporary. Not fragile in the way he fears. And once he knows, once he believes it, then the words finally come. Not easily. Not often. But when they do, they mean everything.

—--J-Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)--

Jealousy with Rocket starts sharp. Not loud. Not explosive. But present. A flicker in his eyes. A subtle shift in the way he carries himself. He notices when someone looks at you too long, when their tone lingers just a little too warm, when your attention drifts somewhere that isn’t him. It needles at him, that old instinct whispering that good things don’t stay, that someone else might take what he barely trusts himself to have.

He won’t make a scene. Not at first. Instead, it shows up in smaller ways. A comment edged just enough to sting. Him sliding between you and whoever’s getting too comfortable. A hand on your waist, your shoulder; casual, but claiming, in a way he won’t acknowledge. “Problem?” he mutters, eyes already sizing up the situation.

But that’s early on. Before he feels steady in it. Before he fully believes you’re staying. Once he does, the edge softens. Dulls into something lighter. Something almost entertained. Rocket knows what he has. More importantly, he knows you chose him. And that knowledge settles into him like a quiet kind of confidence he doesn’t talk about but absolutely carries.

So when someone flirts with you, he notices. Of course he does. But instead of bristling, there’s a slow, amused curve to his expression, like he’s watching a situation play out that he already knows the ending to. If anything, there’s a flicker of understanding; because yeah, of course they’re interested. He gets it. He just knows they don’t stand a chance.

And there you are, caught in the middle, being polite, trying to let them down gently, clearly uncomfortable but too kind to shut it down outright. Your eyes flick toward him, silently begging for rescue. “Help me.” And Rocket leans back, waves, smirks like this is the most entertaining thing he’s seen all day. No urgency. No interference. Just pure, unfiltered amusement at your slow unraveling. Because he knows you’ve got it handled. Knows you’ll turn them down. Knows you’re his, not in a possessive, suffocating way, but in the quiet certainty of mutual choice.

And maybe he enjoys watching you squirm just a little. Of course, the second it crosses a line, if you’re truly uncomfortable, if the other person won’t back off, if there’s even a hint of trouble, that amusement disappears instantly. He steps in without hesitation. No smirk. No teasing. Just sharp focus, a presence that makes it very clear the situation is over.

But until then, he lets it play out. Watching. Waiting. Amused in that way only he can be. Because jealousy might’ve been the spark, but trust is what keeps him steady.

—--K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)--

Kisses, for Rocket, aren’t simple. They’re improvised. His muzzle changes everything; angles, timing, the way contact even works. Whatever people usually expect, throw that out. He figures it out his own way, piece by piece, all quiet curiosity wrapped in that usual layer of attitude. “Tch. It’s not that complicated.” It is. He just won’t admit it.

Sometimes it’s soft. His nose brushing against yours, a nuzzle lingering a second longer than it needs to, like he’s testing the moment instead of rushing through it. Other times, it’s the side of his mouth pressed to your skin; not quite traditional, but deliberate. Careful. It still means the same thing. Then there’s the playful side: quick nips, light nibbles, the occasional swipe of his tongue; affection slipping out in ways that feel more instinct than intention. Less thought, more feeling. The kind of thing he does before he can overthink it into something awkward.

And deeper kisses, kisses that are more tongue than anything else? Yeah, he can do those too. At first, it’s slow. Measured. Like he’s mapping it out, learning the rhythm, figuring out what works and what doesn’t. There’s focus there, a quiet intensity he doesn’t even realize he’s showing. But the more he trusts it, trusts you, the easier it becomes. Less thinking. More instinct. Something that starts to feel natural instead of learned. Something that’s his.

Receiving kisses? That’s where things fall apart. Press one to his head, his cheek, his shoulder; it doesn’t matter where, and you feel it instantly. That pause. The brief, sharp tension where his body just locks. Like it doesn’t know what to do with something that gentle. Early on, it’s obvious. He stiffens, caught between reflex and something softer he hasn’t quite figured out yet. There’s no script for it, no instinct to fall back on. You have to give him a second. Let it sink in. Let him realize there’s no catch waiting behind it. “…What was that for?” It’s not rejection. It’s confusion.

Because once it clicks, he melts. Not all at once, he’d hate that, but enough that you can feel it. The tension drains out, his body softening under your touch, leaning in before he can stop himself. And that’s the part he really doesn’t know how to handle. There’s something unguarded in it. Not weak, never that, but exposed in a way he doesn’t usually allow. Like you found a switch buried deep, something he didn’t even know was there until you flipped it.

He won’t admit how much he likes it. Won’t say it outright. But it shows. In the way he lingers just a little closer than necessary. The way he angles himself without thinking, making it easier for you to reach him. The quiet, almost accidental ways he ends up within range, like he didn’t plan it, but didn’t avoid it either. “Don’t make it weird.” Too late.

For someone who guards himself as tightly as he does, kisses are effective. They slip past his defenses without asking, without warning. And once they’re in, there’s no shoving that softness back into place like it never happened.

—--L-Little ones (How are they around children?)--

It throws people off, the way Rocket is with kids. You expect the usual: short temper, sharp tongue, zero patience for noise or nonsense. Maybe a comment that cuts a little too close. That’s not what they get. With kids, he’s careful. Not soft in an obvious way. Not overly sweet or fake about it. He’s still himself, still rough around the edges, still liable to mutter under his breath, but there’s a kind of control there. Deliberate. Constant. Like he’s measuring every word before it leaves his mouth.

Because he knows how much they can stick. A kid pulls at him, asks the same question five times in a row, crowds into his space like they don’t know what personal boundary means; and yeah, it gets to him. You can see it: the flick of his ears, the tight set of his shoulders, the quiet exhale as he bites back a response that wants to be sharper. But it never crosses the line. Never turns into something that could actually hurt. Because he knows what that feels like. “…Hey. Easy.” It comes out rough, but not unkind.

There’s history there. The kind he doesn’t talk about, doesn’t even look at directly, but it shapes the way he moves around them all the same. 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. That part of him stuck.

So when he looks at kids now, he doesn’t just see noise or chaos. He sees something untouched. Something that hasn’t been worn down yet. And whether he’d ever admit it or not, there’s a part of him that wants to keep it that way. Just a little longer. Give them the time the world didn’t give him. He’s not going out of his way for it, though. Wouldn’t volunteer. Wouldn’t sign up. And the idea of having one of his own? Yeah. No. Too much weight. Too much that could go wrong. Too many ways he thinks he’d mess it up. “Not happenin’.” End of discussion.

But if a kid ends up in his orbit, that’s different. They’re safe there. He’ll get down to their level, 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. There’s patience there. Not natural. Not easy. But steady. Earned the hard way. And if something threatens them, that careful restraint disappears fast. Gone. What’s left is sharp. Focused. Uncompromising. 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.

—--M-Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)--

Mornings with Rocket don’t so much start as stretch. He’s not built for early anything if he can help it. If there’s even a scrap of extra time, he takes it, no hesitation, no guilt, dragging you back into the warmth like the outside world is optional and, frankly, not worth the effort. Half-asleep, half-aware, he runs on instinct. You try to get up? Yeah. No. A low, gravelly grumble, arms tightening around you, pulls you right back where you were, like gravity suddenly decided you belong to him. He buries his face somewhere warm, your shoulder, your neck, wherever he lands, and settles in like that’s the final decision. He’s not even fully awake. Just decided. “Stay.” It’s barely a word, more of a sleepy demand.

Mornings like that blur. Edges soft. Time stretched thin. Neither of you in any real hurry to move, to break whatever quiet little pocket you’re tucked into. The day can wait. It usually does. Eventually, you manage to slip out. Doesn’t last. Give it a few minutes, and there he is, dragging himself after you. Not rushed. Not fully functional. But determined. Still warm, still heavy with sleep, like he hasn’t quite separated from the bed yet. If you’re in the kitchen, he latches on like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Arms around your waist or your thighs, face pressed in, holding on with zero intention of letting go. No commentary. No explanation. Just quiet, stubborn attachment.

And if he’s feeling particularly bold, up he goes, climbing onto your back, weight settling in like you’re just a continuation of whatever soft place he left behind. Chin hooked over your shoulder, breathing slow and even, perfectly content to exist there. A living, breathing koala. He barely talks at first. Just low hums, quiet grumbles, the occasional half-formed murmur as he wakes up in pieces instead of all at once. You feed him something? He takes it without question, doesn’t even look, just opens his mouth slightly, like this is an understood system neither of you needs to explain. Probably is.

Until someone else walks in. Then suddenly he’s gone. Or at least pretending he wasn’t just wrapped around you like you were the only solid thing in the room. “Don’t start.” Like you’re the one making it a thing. If he’s the one cooking, it flips, but not really. You don’t get far. He keeps you close without making a show of it. Always within reach. His tail hooks loosely around your wrist, your arm, your leg, casual but not accidental. A quiet tether he doesn’t bother hiding. Every so often, he hands you something, a bite, a taste, without even glancing your way. Just expects you to take it. You do. It’s easier that way.

Through it all, mornings stay soft. His fur’s a mess, sleep-ruffled in a way he hasn’t bothered fixing yet. His voice is lower, rougher, still caught in that half-awake haze that smooths out all his sharper edges. Words come slower, less guarded, like his defenses are still waking up along with him. It’s rare, seeing him like that. Unpolished. Unfiltered. Close without pretending he’s not. And that’s what mornings with Rocket really are. Not about starting the day. Just staying in it a little longer than you probably should.

—--N-Night (How are nights spent with them?)--

Nights with Rocket carry that same quiet gravity as mornings, just dimmer, softer, like the world’s been turned down to a low, steady hum. Some nights, you’re both too tired to be anything but there. Side by side. Close, but quiet about it. Maybe it’s a shared shower or a slow bath, nothing rushed, nothing playful. Just warmth, water slipping over tired muscles, the kind of silence that doesn’t need filling. It’s not about anything more than easing the day out of your bones before letting it go. By the time you make it back to bed, there’s no discussion. It’s instinct. Arms finding their place. Bodies settling into something familiar, something already learned. Sleep comes easy like that, pulling you both under before either of you can think too much about it.

Other nights carry a little more life. Not loud. Not distant. Just aware. There’s a spark there, a quiet kind of energy that hasn’t burned off yet, but even then, it stays close. Grounded. Never rushed, never careless. Whatever passes between you always circles back to the same thing: connection. The kind he pretends he doesn’t need.

Then there are the restless nights, the ones where sleep just doesn’t come for him. If you’re already out, he’ll stay still at first, lying there, watching you in that quiet way of his, guarded even in softness, but unmistakably gentler when you’re not there to catch it. There’s something protective in it. His hand might drift without thinking, fingers brushing through your hair if you have any, slow and absentminded. Not enough to wake you, just enough to keep himself grounded, like you’re the one steady thing in a mind that won’t slow down. Sometimes, that’s enough. Sometimes, it isn’t.

When it isn’t, he slips out carefully. Untangles himself from you with a precision that doesn’t match his usual rough edges, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying not to break something fragile. If there’s even a chance it’ll wake you, he stays. But if he can leave without disturbing you, he does. Doesn’t go far. You’ll find him eventually, curled up somewhere he definitely didn’t mean to fall asleep. Half-finished project still in his hands, tools scattered like he just paused for a second and never picked them back up. Lights left on, systems humming quietly around him. Or slumped in the pilot’s seat, head tipped forward, exhaustion catching him mid-thought. He never plans to stop. Just runs out.

And if you wake up and notice he’s gone, you already know where to look. There’s something quietly tender in bringing him back, guiding him up, half-asleep and grumbling under his breath, back to bed where he should’ve been hours ago. He won’t fight it, not like that. Just leans into you, lets you steer him like some part of him trusts you to take over when he can’t keep going anymore. “…I was fine.” Sure he was. Back under the covers, it’s immediate. He settles in close again, like distance was never the point. Like no matter how far he drifts, across the room or halfway across the ship, there’s always something in him that pulls him back. To you. And once he’s there, he stays, like that’s the only place he ever meant to be.

—--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 pry open a sealed vault with your bare hands. He doesn’t offer things up easily. Not thoughts, not feelings, not the heavier stuff that sits under everything else. If something’s on his mind, he carries it quietly, lets it settle, turns it over internally until it either dulls or buries itself deep enough to ignore.

If you want to know something, you have to ask. And even then, it’s not guaranteed. He’ll deflect first, quick, instinctive. A joke. A sarcastic comment. A sudden shift in topic, like he’s expertly dodging a question he never intended to answer. It’s not always obvious either; sometimes it’s smooth enough that if you’re not paying attention, you’ll miss it completely. “Why d’you care?” “Does it matter?” “C’mon, that’s old news.” It’s not that he doesn’t hear you. It’s that answering feels exposed. So yeah, getting him to open up can feel like pulling teeth. Slow, stubborn, occasionally frustrating. You have to circle back, ask again, stay patient without pushing too hard. Let him realize you’re not going anywhere. That you’re not asking just to satisfy curiosity. That you’re asking because you care. That matters to him, more than he lets on.

If something is serious enough, if it crosses a certain internal threshold, he’ll bring it up himself. Rarely. Usually a little rough around the edges, like he’s not entirely comfortable being the one to start the conversation. But he will. Eventually.

There’s also a loophole. Alcohol. Rocket’s tongue gets looser when he’s drunk. The walls don’t disappear, but they crack, just enough for things to slip through that he’d normally keep locked down tight. Thoughts he wouldn’t voice, feelings he’d usually bury, they surface in pieces. Sometimes clumsy, sometimes more honest than he realizes in the moment. He might not remember everything he said the next day. Or he might, and pretend he doesn’t. Just an occasional unraveling when his guard drops lower than intended.

At the end of the day, Rocket isn’t silent because he has nothing to say. He’s silent because saying it out loud means trusting someone else to hold it. And that’s not something he gives easily. But if you’re patient, if you stay, if you keep showing up, if you let him come to you instead of forcing the door open, he will talk. Not all at once. Not perfectly. But enough.

—--P-Patience (How easily angered are they?)--

Rocket’s temper isn’t subtle. It’s quick, bright, a little explosive, like striking a match in a room already full of fumes. He snaps fast. Gets irritated faster. Little things set him off, and when they do, his words come sharp and unfiltered, cutting before he’s had a chance to think twice. It’s not always fair. Not always controlled. And he knows that, probably better than anyone.

Being with someone, being part of something, changes the equation. Not overnight. Not cleanly. Rocket isn’t the type to just decide to be better and suddenly is. It’s messy. Inconsistent. Some days he handles things well: walks away before it escalates, bites back the worst of it, chooses silence over saying something he’ll regret. Other days, he slips. The temper flares. Words land too hard. And there’s that split second after where he knows he crossed a line. You can see it, a flicker, before he either doubles down out of stubbornness or pulls back with a frustrated huff. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” It’s not an apology. But it’s the closest he gets to one in the moment.

What matters is that he tries. Not because someone told him to, not because he thinks he should, but because he realizes, slowly, that his anger doesn’t just affect him. It hits the people around him. The people he cares about. And that sits wrong with him. So he starts adjusting. Small ways. Taking a breath before reacting sometimes. Leaving the room when he feels it building, reluctantly. Redirecting that energy into something else: tinkering, fixing, working, anything that burns it off without hurting someone.

He’ll never be perfectly calm. That fire is part of him. It always will be. But when he’s with people he trusts, he learns how not to let it burn everything down. And that effort, that conscious, stubborn attempt to do better, that’s where the real change lives.

—--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 isn’t just sharp; it’s surgical. Nothing you tell him truly disappears. It’s cataloged somewhere behind those eyes, filed with a precision that borders on eerie. You could mention something once, offhand, half-distracted, barely thinking it matters, and months later, there it is again. Remembered. Applied. Used in a way that makes you pause and realize he was listening far more closely than he ever let on.

You don’t like a certain food? It never appears near you again. A fabric you hate the feel of? Somehow, it’s completely avoided. A fear you admitted quietly, maybe reluctantly? He adjusts without ever making you feel exposed. Dates, memories, tiny details you barely remember sharing, they’re all tucked away like they were important from the start. Because to him, they were.

It’s not just memory, either. It’s instinct layered over precision. The way he recalls things he’s touched, built, taken apart, bleeds into how he understands people. You’re no exception. He learns you the same way he learns everything else: thoroughly, carefully, piece by piece, until he knows how things fit together.

And he’ll never admit how intentional it is. Call him out, and he shrugs. “Wasn’t hard to figure out.” “Anyone would’ve noticed.” “Just common sense.” Like it wasn’t him paying attention. Like it didn’t matter enough for him to remember.

But it’s not random. It’s not luck. It’s care, disguised as coincidence, dressed up as indifference. Rocket doesn’t just remember things for the sake of it. He remembers because, somewhere along the way, he decided you were worth remembering.

—--R-Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)--

Rocket wouldn’t be able to pick a favorite moment without a lot of grumbling first. Ask him, and you’d get a vague answer, something dismissive, like ranking moments is a waste of time. But if you watched him closely, paid attention to the ones he lingers in, the ones he revisits without realizing it, a pattern emerges.

He loves the quiet ones. The ones where nothing important is happening, but everything feels right anyway. Sitting side by side while he rambles about some half-finished idea, hands moving as he explains something that probably sounds like nonsense to anyone else. He doesn’t care if you fully understand it; he just wants you there, listening, letting him think out loud. Those moments stick.

So do the playful ones, the rare pockets of time where he loosens up completely. Sarcasm lightens, tension fades, and he just has fun. No pressure. No expectations. Just being with you in a way that feels easy.

And then there are the closer ones. The ones he’d never talk about, but thinks about when he’s alone. They matter more than he’d ever admit.

If forced to choose a single memory, though, there’s one that wins. The day he found out you were ridiculously, unfairly, hopelessly ticklish.

It starts innocently enough. A brush of his hand. A reaction he didn’t expect. Then that look crosses his face: curious. Amused. Dangerous. “Oh, no way…” And just like that, it’s over for you.

He takes it as a personal mission, testing, poking, figuring out exactly where your worst spots are while you squirm and fight him off. Laughter spills everywhere, yours, loud and uncontrollable; his, sharper, brighter, entirely unrestrained. For once, he isn’t holding back. And he loves it. Loves the chaos, the unpredictability, the lightness of it all.

Of course, the victory doesn’t last forever. You figure out his ticklish spots. Suddenly, tables turn. Confident teasing flips into immediate regret. He jerks away, muttering half-formed threats, pride dangling by a thread. “Don’t-don’t you dare!” Too late. Now you’re laughing, and he’s caught off guard, dignity in shambles.

From then on, it becomes a standoff. A dangerous, unspoken truce neither of you fully respects. At any given moment, either of you could start it all over again. And honestly, those are the moments he treasures most. The ones where he forgets to guard himself entirely.

—--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. “Just figured you could use somethin’ better.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

Being protected by you didn’t make him smaller. It made him feel chosen. And that’s something Rocket never takes lightly.

—--T-Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)--

At first, he treats you like something breakable, like if he doesn’t hold everything just right, you’ll slip through his fingers and be gone. Every date feels like a performance he’ll never admit he’s putting on. Every gift feels like a test he didn’t study for. He overthinks the details, replays your reactions later, looking for cracks, for signs he missed something, did something wrong. In his head, it’s simple: mess it up once, and you’ll see him for what he really is. Realize he’s not enough. And then… you’ll leave.

He doesn’t say any of that out loud, of course. Just shrugs it off, acts like it’s no big deal. “What? It’s just a date.” Like he didn’t spend hours making sure it went perfectly.

Time, though, has a way of wearing that edge down. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the pressure loosens. The overthinking quiets. He stops bracing for disaster every five seconds. The rehearsed parts, lines, careful timing, start to fall away, replaced by something rougher, something more real. He laughs easier. Stays in the moment longer instead of picking it apart mid-action. Stops watching you like you’re poised to deliver a verdict.

The gifts change too. Not polished, not meant to impress. Just… him. Something he saw that made him think of you. Something he made, fixed, or grabbed without overanalyzing it. Little pieces of his day, his thoughts, his attention, handed over without that anxious weight behind it.

He still cares. That never disappears. There will always be the part of him that wants to get it right, to give you the best he has. But it stops driving him. Stops turning everything into a pass or fail moment. Eventually, it sinks in, slow, stubborn, hard-won. You’re still here. Not for the perfection, not for the gifts, but for him.

“…You’re serious, huh?”

He won’t say it like it matters. Won’t admit how much it does. But something in him finally settles when he realizes you’re not looking for a performance. You’re looking at him. So he lets himself ease in. Lets the tension drain from his shoulders. Lets the quiet panic soften into something gentler. No act. No script. Just him. And for the first time, that… yeah. That feels like enough.

—--U-Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)--

Where do you even start with this part of him… Rocket carries more than he’ll ever admit. Most of it stays locked behind sarcasm, deflection, a quick snap of attitude before anyone can get too close. But it’s there. Always there.

And the worst part? It doesn’t get louder when things are bad. It gets louder when things are good. When everything starts to feel steady. Easy. Safe. That’s when something in his head twists. To him, that kind of quiet? That kind of right? It’s a warning. He’s spent too long learning that good things don’t last, that the moment you let your guard down is the moment everything is ripped from under you.

So his brain does what it’s trained to do, what it had to do to survive. It gets ahead of the damage. Starts picking at things that don’t need picking. A comment sharper than it should be. A fight that doesn’t make sense, even to him halfway through. Decisions that push you back, just far enough so it won’t hurt as much when you leave. Because in his mind… you will.

“Better I wreck it first than sit around waitin’ for it to blow up in my face.”

He won’t say that outright. Might not even realize that’s what he’s doing in the moment. It’s not calculated. Not cruel. Automatic. A reflex wired together from every time something good turned into something that hurt. Sometimes he shuts down instead. Becomes distant, quieter than usual, already halfway out the door emotionally, bracing for impact you haven’t even hinted at.

And later, after the tension settles, there’s that flicker of awareness. The moment he realizes… yeah. That was him. He just won’t look at you when it hits.

That’s where you come in. Not to fix it, not really. You can’t rip something that deep out of him. But you can anchor him when he starts drifting into the spiral. Consistency matters more than anything. Showing up again and again, even when he makes it hard. Not backing off when he pushes. Not escalating when he snaps. Just… steady.

“Yeah? You still here?”

He says it like a challenge, daring you to prove him right. What he’s really asking is something else entirely. Your voice, your presence, the way you don’t flinch when he gets rough around the edges; that’s what cuts through. Sometimes it’s words. Sometimes it’s just being close enough that he can feel you there, solid and real, when his thoughts start slipping.

It’s not quick. Not clean. He’ll fall back into it. More than once. Test the line, push too far, say things he shouldn’t; not because he wants to hurt you, but because some part of him is still waiting for you to prove he’s wrong to expect the worst. And yeah… sometimes it’ll hurt. But if you stay, if you meet that chaos with steadiness instead of fragility, he starts to learn. Slowly. Stubbornly. That this isn’t a setup. That happiness isn’t just the calm before something worse. That you’re not temporary, something he has to brace himself to lose.

“…Huh.”

The realization doesn’t hit all at once. It settles piece by piece, quiet, reluctant. But when it finally sticks, when he stops waiting for everything to fall apart, even just for a moment, that’s when you see it. The tension eases. The constant readiness softens. He doesn’t pull away as quickly. Doesn’t sabotage the silence just to fill it. He just… stays. Lets himself exist in something good without tearing it apart first. And for Rocket? That’s not small. That’s everything. Even if, every now and then, you still catch that old instinct flicker, a reflex he hasn’t quite unlearned yet.

—--V-Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)--

He carries a quiet, constant discomfort in his own skin; scars etched where they shouldn’t be, metal threaded through him like reminders he never asked for. It’s the kind of thing he notices even when he’s trying not to, the kind that keeps him just a little on edge in his own body. Those parts? He’s hyper-aware, critical, rarely gives them a break. There’s a mental list he doesn’t write down but might as well: scars, metal, pieces that don’t feel like they belong. It’s always there, buzzing in the back of his head, whether he wants it or not.

But his fur? That’s different. That’s his. The only thing on him untouched, unmodified, unclaimed. And yeah, he knows it looks good. Don’t argue; he’s ten steps ahead. He’s got a routine for it too. Mornings, nights, doesn’t matter; he’s going over it, fixing anything out of place, making it exactly how it’s supposed to be. You mess with that? Start apologizing now. Don’t touch it unless he says so. Don’t get it wet, dirty, or comment on it unless you’re saying something nice. Otherwise, congratulations, you’ve just earned a very loud, very irritated raccoon in your face.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Like you’d look half this good if you had fur.”

It’s not just appearances. It’s control. Something wholly his, start to finish, no one else’s fingerprints. He can fix it, maintain it, make it exactly how he wants. Prepare for full, dramatic ire. Fur isn’t aesthetics; it’s pride, identity, a rare source of confidence wrapped in glossy, sleek form.

Same goes for his style. Clothes, gear, piercings, whatever combination he’s rocking; it’s not whimsy. Every piece is deliberate, a statement of control over how he presents himself to the world, small islands of order in a life dictated by chaos. You think he just throws stuff on? Please. Straps, gadgets, odd pairings, it’s all intentional. Insult it, joke about it? Oh, he’s got opinions.

“Sorry, didn’t realize I was takin’ fashion advice from you.”

Cue the glare, maybe a muttered under-breath comment. Push it further, and yeah, it’ll become a full-on rant. Because it matters. More than he’ll ever explain.

Now, if it’s you? That’s different. When he trusts you, he lets you see this side. A brush of his fur, a tweak to a strap; there’s a quiet acknowledgment there: your hands are safe. You’re allowed to touch, adjust, share this sacred little part of him. His fur, his style, they’re armor, yes, but also a statement of control and pride in a harsh, unyielding world.

He’ll still grumble, complain, act like you’re inconveniencing him. But he won’t stop you. Might even lean into it for half a second before catching himself.

“Don’t get used to it.”

But he doesn’t pull away. That’s about as close as you’ll get to him saying he trusts you with it.

—--W-Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)--

Rocket guards his independence like it’s the last thing anyone could ever take from him, and he’s not about to let that happen. He’s not clingy, not often, not unless he’s worried, running on empty, or just craving comfort. Give him space, and he’ll take it without hesitation. He can disappear into his work for hours, even days, hands deep in circuitry, mind locked onto whatever he’s building or fixing. Or he’ll vanish into his own corner of the world, perfectly content to be left alone with his thoughts and a little quiet. To him, that solitude isn’t loneliness. It’s freedom.

“Relax, I ain’t goin’ anywhere. Just got stuff to do.”

And he means it. Being on his own terms, answering to no one, moving at his own pace; that’s where he’s most comfortable. That’s where he feels like himself. But there’s a limit. A few days without you? No problem. He barely even notices at first, maybe sending a passing thought your way, something small he’d tell you if you were around. A week? Now it starts to itch. He won’t say anything, keeps up the act like he’s totally unbothered. But restlessness creeps in. He gets distracted easier, fidgets more, starts projects and abandons them halfway through. It’s not just you he’s missing, it’s the little things. The weight of you against him. The absentminded touches. The way your presence fills the space without demanding anything, quiet and steady; a reassurance he only realizes when it’s gone.

“…Tch. S’too quiet.”

Push it past that; too many days, too much distance, and it stops being shrug-offable. It starts to feel like deprivation. Something essential has been stripped out of his routine, leaving everything slightly off. He won’t call it soft, won’t dress it up as longing, but it shows in the pacing, in how often he checks his messages, in the shorter fuse in his temper. For all his independence, all the space he needs, that closeness, that contact, is what keeps him grounded. Keeps him from drifting too far into his own head. Keeps him softer than he likes to admit.

So when you finally return, don’t expect subtlety. He’s on you before he even thinks about it, pulling you in, holding tighter than usual, like he’s making up for lost time all at once. He might grumble, act like it’s no big deal, but he doesn’t let go.

“Don’t read into it. Just… been a while, that’s all.”

He’ll stick close longer than normal, take what he missed without asking, instinctive, like his body already decided before his pride could argue. Rocket can handle being alone. He likes it, even needs it sometimes. But there’s a difference between choosing it and going without you for too long.

—--X-Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)--

Rocket doesn’t waste time thinking about labels. Space doesn’t care about neat little boxes, and neither does he. Everything out there is shifting, relative, a little chaotic, and yeah, that tracks. But if you really had to pin him down, omnisexual. Demiromantic. Not that he’d ever say it like that without rolling his eyes.

Connection? Sure. He’s open to it, curious even. Physical stuff doesn’t scare him. It doesn’t come with a thousand rules and expectations. He can be playful, bold, a little reckless when the mood strikes. A night with him? Memorable. No complaints there.

Romance? That’s a different language entirely. One he understands just enough to get by and not much more. He’s had real relationships, rare, deliberate, built slow. Less about grand gestures and more like testing the ground beneath his feet, seeing if it’ll hold. Trust, for him, isn’t a given. It’s an experiment. And when he does let someone in like that, it means more than he’ll ever put into words, more than all the fleeting connections he brushes off like they’re nothing.

“Don’t make it a big deal. It’s just… different, that’s all.”

Different. Yeah. Then there’s the rest of him, the parts he doesn’t overthink. Sweet tooth? Out of control. Hand him a whole cake, it’s gone before you can blink. Not sharing. Not apologizing. And he’ll act like you’re the weird one for expecting restraint.

“Hey, you offered.”

Snacks? He’ll absolutely stash them where he thinks no one will find them, like that ever works long-term.

Rocket also carries... quirks from the genetic experiments done to him. Tetrachromacy lets him see up to a hundred million colors, roughly a hundred times more than the average human, while synesthesia makes sound bleed into color and texture. He also deals with phonological dyslexia, mild checking OCD, mild symmetry and ordering OCD, and C-PTSD. It’s a lot, and it all stacks, quietly shaping how he interacts with the world. He’d never admit it, but he can also be surprisingly superstitious.

The softer stuff is buried, tucked away where no one’s supposed to see it. Plush blankets, worn pillows, a couple of small, ridiculous-looking plushies in his hammock, like they just ended up there. Call him out and he’s quick and defensive.

“They’re not mine. They just… ended up there.”

Sure they did. Doesn’t make them any less important.

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. 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.

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? Top of the list for things that’ll burn through what little tolerance he’s got in record time. He doesn’t do pointless. Pranks that go nowhere, noise for the sake of noise, people acting like idiots thinking it’s funny; he’s not laughing. Not even a little. You’ll get a flat look, maybe a slow blink, like he’s deciding whether you’re serious… or just hopeless.

“Wow. You put real effort into bein’ that dumb, or does it come naturally?”

Intelligence, to him, isn’t showing off. It’s respect. Awareness. Thinking before you act (ironic coming from him). Reading the room. Understanding consequences. He notices when it’s there, and when it’s not. And when it’s not? Yeah. It grates.

Morality’s another line you don’t test. He’s not naïve; he knows the world’s messy, ugly even. He can work with gray areas. Can respect someone making a hard call for the right reasons. He could even understand selfishness to a point… but Evil? Cruel? No compass, no hesitation? That’s different. That’s a line he won’t cross. Hits something sharp. Especially if it’s aimed at him, or worse, the people he considers his. Friends. Family. The few he’s let close. Cross it, and forget second chances. He can, and will, hold a grudge.

At first, it’s sarcasm. Cutting, precise, just enough to let you know you’ve stepped somewhere you shouldn’t. After that? He’s calculating. Quietly. Weighing options. Figuring exactly how far he’s willing to go to make sure you understand the mistake you just made.

“Careful. You’re real close to findin’ out why that was a bad idea.”

He keeps control, always. And somehow… that’s worse.

Then there’s entitlement. Spoiled attitudes. People expecting everything handed to them, like the universe owes ‘em interest. No. That behavior earns instant, unfiltered contempt. He’s clawed, fought, scraped for everything he’s got; he doesn’t have patience for whining because someone didn’t hand them a shortcut.

“You want it? Earn it. Otherwise quit complainin’.”

Effort? Skill? People who try, even if they screw up along the way? He respects that. Laziness dressed as arrogance? Fast track to being written off.

At the end of the day, Rocket’s standards are simple. Competence. Loyalty. Respect. Hit those, and you’re fine. Miss them? You’re not just wasting his time. You’re testing his temper. And he’s not known for letting that slide quietly.

—--Z-Zzz (What is a sleep habit of theirs?)--

Rocket’s sleep schedule is… a mess. No sugarcoating it. Insomnia hits whenever it feels like it, and when it does, he becomes a restless little storm; too much energy, nowhere to put it. He lies there at first, staring at the ceiling like he can out-stubborn his own brain. Doesn’t work. So he gets up. Starts tinkering with whatever’s closest, pulls apart something that doesn’t need fixing, paces like he’s carving a groove into the floor. Half-finished projects suddenly become urgent. Anything to burn off the static buzzing under his skin.

“…Tch. Not tired.”

Lie. Step in, drag him back, get him to settle down, it usually works. Not that he’ll admit it easily. Grumbling, a half-hearted protest, maybe a “I was busy,” tossed over his shoulder like you interrupted something important. But he stays. Eventually… he sleeps.

Even on better nights, when insomnia lets him be, he’s not an easy sleeper. Light, alert. Wakes at the smallest shift, especially somewhere unfamiliar; or worse, if you’re not there. That’s when instinct kicks in. He reaches for something: a blanket, a pillow, anything to anchor him. Something to replace the absence, even if it’s not quite enough. Real, deep sleep? That only happens when he feels completely safe, when the guard drops all the way, when nothing in the back of his mind is telling him to stay ready. Curled up with you, or someone he trusts without question, like Groot. Then, finally, he relaxes fully. Tension drains out like it was never there. Breathing evens, soft little snores slipping through no matter how much he’d deny it later.

He sprawls without thinking, takes up more space than he should; half claiming you, half tangling himself in blankets as if they might disappear if he lets go. You wake to him in ridiculous positions, curled too close, one hand hooked over you like an anchor. Maybe halfway off the bed, maybe stealing most of the blankets. Doesn’t matter. He’s always close. Always connected. Once fully comfortable with you, he stops overthinking even that. Drops little barriers he didn’t realize he was holding onto, like clothes, choosing warmth, closeness, familiarity over anything else. Not about appearances. It’s simpler. He sleeps better when he can feel you there. That steady, grounding presence; that’s what keeps him under.

Night terrors, though? Different story. Not quiet. Not controlled. He’s caught in them before he can stop it; breathing sharp, body tense, trapped somewhere between memory and panic. His first instinct isn’t to fight, it’s to hold on. He latches onto you without thinking, grips tight like you’re the only solid thing in reach. Not graceful, not subtle; instinctive, raw, immediate. He needs something real, warm, something that tells him he’s not back there.

When he finally comes back, really comes back, he doesn’t let go.

“…Don’t move.”

Not a request. A quiet, rough-edged need. Falling back asleep isn’t always guaranteed. Sometimes he just stays there, half-awake, holding on like letting go might drag him under again. But one thing’s certain: after that? He’s not going anywhere. You’re his anchor. His landing point when things get rough. The one thing that pulls him out of the dark and keeps him there.

For Rocket, sleep isn’t just sleep. It’s trust. It’s safety. It’s the one place he can’t fake being okay. And when he finally is? Yeah. That means something.

WARNING NSFW BELOW THE LINE

—--A-Aftercare (what they’re like after the act)--

Afterward, Rocket goes soft. Not all at once, and sure as hell not in any way he’d ever admit, but it happens anyway. The sharp edges do not vanish so much as dull, worn smooth by the warmth still humming between you. The tension bleeds out of him in slow, reluctant waves, leaving something quieter. Warmer. He settles against you like gravity finally remembered him, all loose limbs, slow breaths, and that usual razor-wire bite gentled into something almost unbearably tender. His weight drapes over you in that half-lazy, half-instinctive way, like moving away never even occurred to him.

With someone he truly loves, someone who stays and steadies the world around him, it always hits deeper than he means for it to. Harder. Quieter. The kind of feeling that slips past every lock and defense before he even notices the breach. It does not break him. It simply leaves him softer, like something knotted tight in his chest has finally loosened. And the strangest part? He does not run. Normally, Rocket’s instincts scream for distance. Too much feeling, too much closeness, and some old reflex starts searching for the nearest exit like a fire alarm buried in his bones. But not here. Not with you. If anything, he folds closer.

“I ain’t clingy. You’re just comfortable.”

He says it like a complaint, like you are somehow at fault for being too easy to curl up against, but the truth is written all over him: the way he stays pressed close, the way his tail drifts nearer, the way he never quite lets go. His hands move over you lazily, tracing absent little circles and lines into your skin, like he is writing in a language only touch can speak. It feels thoughtless and deliberate all at once. Still here? Good.

Touch becomes his voice in the spaces where words feel too raw. A hand at your waist. Fingers brushing your thigh. The careful drag of claws, dulled down to something feather-light and tender. It is reassurance. Confirmation. Proof.

Then the practical part of him takes over, because Rocket has never been good at grand declarations. His love lives in action. He gets you cleaned up with that laser-focused, hyper-aware attentiveness of his, gentle in a way that always feels a little startling coming from him. A warm washcloth, careful hands, maybe a bath if neither of you is too wrung out to move. He fusses, though he would absolutely deny that word.

“Drink.”

Half order, half concern, he’s already holding the glass out before you can answer, a plate or bowl of food in case you’re hungry. He notices everything, the heaviness in your breathing, the slackness in your limbs, the way your shoulders sag once the adrenaline fades. If you’re cold, the blankets are tugged higher before you can say a word. Pillows get shifted. A stray lock of hair gets brushed back, if you have hair.

And if there are any small marks left behind, claws, teeth, cuffs, ribbons, rough hands, his whole expression changes. Quieter. Softer. His thumb brushes over each spot with impossible gentleness, like a silent apology, making sure nothing hurts more than it should, tending to whatever needs tending. Because that is how Rocket loves. Not in speeches. Not in sweet little promises. In care. In warmth. In making sure you have eaten something. In staying close when everything in him once learned to leave first.

And that is the part that gets him every time: the staying. When the heat burns off and all that remains is quiet, exhaustion, and tenderness stripped bare, you are still there. So he stays too, pressed close, warm and quiet, head tucked somewhere comfortable against you, his fingers still tracing those absent-minded patterns like he is trying to memorize the shape of this moment. Trying to memorize you.

If you try to move too soon, his grip tightens just a fraction.

“Don’t rush it.”

Not sharp. Not possessive. Just honest. A little vulnerable, if anyone were brave enough to call it what it is. He lingers. Always lingers. Sometimes the calm finally catches up to him and pulls him under before he even notices, and he drifts off still holding onto you, breathing slow and even, more at ease than he ever lets himself be.

Because for Rocket, this was never just physical. It is trust. Closeness. The rare, precious moment where he lets every defense fall silent. Just warmth. Just you.

And if you turn that same tenderness back on him, if your hands become the careful ones, if your voice softens around him and you give him the same gentle aftercare he has been giving you, he goes quiet. Not the bad kind. Not distant. Just stunned. Like some small, wounded part of him still cannot quite process being cared for without having to earn it first. His eyes might go a little glassy at the corners, wet with something he would rather bite his own tongue than name. But he does not pull away. He lets you hold him. And in that silence, in the way he leans into your touch without thinking, the truth is there: he still cannot quite believe he deserves this kind of tenderness. But he wants it. And maybe, slowly, he is starting to believe he does.

—--B-Body part (favorite body part their own or their lovers)--

Rocket’s confidence in himself is oddly specific. His fur? Untouchable. Flawless. Everything else? He picks at it, doubts it, rarely lets himself feel good about it.

But with you? That filter disappears. Suddenly, he notices everything, the little things other people overlook. Your eyes captivate him most of all. Not just a glance, not just a feature… windows, he thinks, to a part of you only he gets to see. And he can’t look away. He memorizes how they shift, how they catch light, the subtle flickers of expression you don’t realize you’re giving away.

Beyond that, he’s attentive in ways that are equal parts playful and possessive. Rocket’s attention doesn’t wander; it lingers. Playful on the surface, yes, but there’s an undercurrent: deliberate, claiming. Your legs, your thighs, your hips, your ass; he notices. Your chest, collarbone, even your hands; he lingers on them quietly, storing them away, marking them in his mind as his. He sees the beauty in angles, curves, lines, the intimate details no one else might care about. They don’t get announced. They get kept, tucked away, quietly claimed.

It’s not just how your body looks. He notices how it moves, how you fit together, how closeness flows between you. Physically, he gravitates toward presence, curves, muscle, whatever feels right, but that’s secondary. What really hooks him is rhythm. The shared motions, the give-and-take of proximity, the subtle dance of bodies and minds syncing.

Attraction for Rocket isn’t shallow. It isn’t surface-deep. It’s soul-deep, attention-deep, intimacy-deep. It’s the sum of shared rhythm, of how closeness sparks, of the way intimacy flows, and how he melts when it all aligns. That combination? That’s what keeps him. That’s what makes him soft. That’s what makes him utterly, stubbornly devoted in every way he knows how.

—--C-Cum (anything that has to do with it)--

He gets off on seeing you react. Thrives on it. The way your breath catches, the flush creeping up your neck and cheeks, it feeds him. Watching him gather your cum on his fingers, tasting it slow and deliberate, sends a shiver straight through him; a delicious mix of possession and desire.

He loves the mirrored scene too. Your eager imitation, the way you put on a show just for him, like every twitch, every gasp, is a secret message meant only for him. Seeing it on your skin, the sticky evidence of surrender shared between you, pushes him higher. Proof of closeness, of trust, of bodies tangled in the same craving.

When he finishes inside you, it’s never just release. It’s a claim. A communion. An intimate punctuation that only he fully savors. And if the tables turned, he’d devour the moment with the same raw, hungry reverence.

—--D-Dirty secret (Pretty self-explanatory)--

Rocket would never admit it out loud, certainly not sober, but deep down, buried under all that attitude, all that control he clings to like it’s the only thing keeping him upright, there’s a part of him that’s just tired. Tired of holding everything together. Tired of being the one thinking three steps ahead, keeping his guard up, keeping his hands steady. He wants to be taken care of.

Letting you take control, letting himself go. For a moment, the sharp, reactive, calculating parts of him fall quiet, just long enough to feel what it’s like not to have to drive everything. Letting him be a pillow princess, giving him that freedom, that security to simply exist without holding it all together. He’d never call it vulnerability, but that’s exactly what it is, and it digs in deep. The idea of handing you the reins, of letting himself soften into that space, twists something raw and needy inside him, a quiet thrill he’d never confess out loud.

A little roughness doesn’t scare him, as long as it’s balanced with care. He hates having his tail pulled outright, but give it a gentle, deliberate tug, something controlled, something intentional, and it only winds him tighter, turning irritation into something far more charged.

Your hands, your touch, your words, your affirmations, orgasms that remind him he’s safe, desired, cherished. He knows he can be insufferable: loud, brash, infuriating, and somewhere in the back of his mind, a corner he’d never admit exists, he wants you to put him in his place. But contrast that with gentleness, and he melts. Like no one else. Soft care, patience, tenderness, he might actually cry. Tears of relief, joy, raw vulnerability rolled into one, because moments where he feels safe enough to truly let go are rare.

We’re not talking about hard domination or pain for pain’s sake. Rocket isn’t into that for himself. It’s the trust, the surrender, the knowledge that he can let someone in so completely without fear of being broken. Layer that with his praise kink, and the formula becomes simple: constant reassurance, tender care, affirmations that he’s treasured, and he’s yours. Soft, vulnerable, utterly devoted.

His ideal mix is deceptively simple but profound: trust balanced with care, a pinch of controlled chaos to keep him on edge, yet firmly grounded in your hands. He takes every bit of pleasure you give him greedily, savoring every gasp, every shiver, every deliberate touch. His satisfaction is inseparable from yours, tangled, feeding off it, driving it further. Rocket doesn’t just crave sex; he craves the experience, the messy, heated, unforgettable details that leave both of you breathless.

And if you catch that glint in his eye while he’s still catching his breath, that’s him. Silently daring you to notice just how much he’s savoring every second, every inch, every reaction, every wordless confession of delight he’ll never say aloud.

—--E-Experience (do they know what they’re doing)--

Rocket loves sex; truly, obsessively loves it. It’s never just physical for him; it’s play, connection, release, all tangled into one. He indulges freely, unapologetically, always ready to initiate when the mood strikes. Confident? Absolutely. Cocky? Without a doubt.

He knows exactly how to push every nerve, tease every reaction, drive someone wild with want. He knows his body. He knows yours. He threads intensity with intimacy so seamlessly it feels effortless, yet every touch, every stroke, every whispered command is deliberate. Rocket doesn’t coast; he orchestrates.

Playful, relentless, precise, ever-curious in the ways he can pleasure and provoke; his confidence isn’t arrogance. It’s mastery. Pride in the art of it. A promise that being with him is always wild, unforgettable, unapologetically him. He doesn’t just have sex; he commandeers it, thrives in it, basks in it… and somehow makes it all about connection even as he takes center stage.

Tender or slow. Messy or filthy. He revels in it all. And watching you respond: melting, shivering, begging; that’s the true prize. The spark that keeps him coming back, craving more, daring you to crave him in return.

—--F-Favorite position–

Rocket prefers positions that maximize intimacy and mutual pleasure; where closeness isn’t just physical, but in every glance, every brush of skin, every shared breath. He loves holding you tight, seeing your face, reading every expression, and focusing entirely on the rhythm of shared desire.

His favorites are the ones that let him connect fully: missionary, anything from behind, lotus, pretzel, riding, face-off, spooning; assuming the height difference allows it. For him, sexiness and intimacy are inseparable. He thrives on a mix of tenderness and intensity, the push and pull of soft affection and hard desire.

And knowing Rocket? If he ever explored the Kama Sutra, you’d be in for wild, inventive, unapologetically affectionate experiments; each one a masterclass in both passion and connection.

—--G-Goofy (how serious are they)--

Rocket thrives on the chaos and playfulness of intimacy. If something silly happens; like tumbling off the bed after getting a little too enthusiastic… he’ll laugh, mostly at your expense, that glint of mischief always dancing in his eyes. Sex with him is rarely serious by default; he loves keeping things light, teasing, and fun, letting humor weave effortlessly through the intensity.

Of course, when the moment calls for it, he can shift seamlessly into slow, tender, deeply intimate. But most of the time, Rocket wants every encounter to carry that perfect mix of pleasure, laughter, and unpredictable spark; the kind that makes being with him feel electric. With him, nothing is ever completely safe or boring; it’s messy, heated, playful, and ridiculously fun all at once.

—--H-Hair (grooming habits)--

Rocket is covered in fur, and not just any fur. It’s immaculate, cared for with near-obsessive precision, and he takes immense pride in how it looks. Anything that messes with it outside of his control? A serious offense to his vanity. He’ll grumble immediately about looking like a “drowned flerken,” acting as if all his allure has vanished.

The exception? You. If the wetness comes from sex with you, it’s an entirely different story. In that context, it’s not a loss of style; it’s intimate, playful, even a little arousing. Otherwise, Rocket is meticulous: brushed, sleek, perfectly maintained whenever he can manage it. His fur isn’t just fur; it’s a statement, a shield, and one of the few things he’s truly confident about in his appearance.

—--I-Intimacy (in the moment romantic or rough/dirty)--

Rocket’s pleasure is a heady mix of intensity, intimacy, and a sly dash of mischief. He thrives on contrast. Rough, dirty sex excites him; the raw, chaotic, untamed kind that lets him unleash all his lust and dominance. Watching you flustered, cheeks flushed, makes him grin, smirk, smug as hell, chest puffed, tail flicking with barely contained excitement. Part of him is possessive, “mine, all mine”, and the rest? Pure, unfiltered arousal. He devours every flicker of heat on your face like candy, mentally high-fiving at just how perfectly it fuels him.

But Rocket also craves tenderness. Sweet, intimate, romantic sex thrills him in a different way; moments that aren’t about domination, but about trust, closeness, and showing love through touch. For him, it’s never a choice between one or the other; he wants it all. He wants to leave you spent, body and mind, while making you feel cherished, adored, utterly connected. The roughness satisfies his primal hunger; the tenderness satisfies his heart.

That combination? That’s Rocket at his most alive: messy, affectionate, playful, completely devoted. His pleasure is inseparable from yours; a give-and-take that blurs the line between desire and intimacy. Every touch, every taste, every gasp fuels him, and he thrives on the shared, messy, beautiful chaos of being utterly entwined with you.

—--J-Jack off (do they masturbate and how often)--

Rocket doesn’t go long without release. If he can’t get a quick lay while out in space; or if you’re away, he takes matters into his own hands. Masturbation is normal, frequent, a way to burn off tension and keep himself sane until you return. Once you’re back, though, all that pent-up energy becomes yours to claim. He keeps you in the bunk with him for a good long while, insisting on attention, closeness, and maybe a little extra spice to make up for lost time. His solo indulgence only heightens the intimacy when you’re together again; he’s eager, hungry, and completely devoted to making every moment unforgettable.

—--K-Kink (what they like possibly unusual)--

Rocket is an unapologetic slut who knows exactly what he likes, with kinks that are wide-ranging, intense, and fully explored. He has a major praise kink, practically melting whenever you tell him how good he is, how well he fucks, or how perfectly he takes it. Bondage excites him deeply; he loves tying you up, blindfolding, gagging, and exploring trust through shibari. Though initially hesitant to try it on himself because of past trauma, with patience, clear communication, and the reassurance that he can free himself easily if needed, he eventually embraces it with surprising enthusiasm. He also gets a distinct thrill out of being called “Captain” in the bedroom and is never shy about calling you all kinds of playful, filthy, and affectionate pet names in return.

He adores bossy instructions, being told to keep his hands above his head, follow your rules, and submit in ways that emphasize your control. He finds that bossy side of you irresistibly hot and, honestly, a little adorable too. It’s the one time he doesn’t mind submitting. Marking and biting thrill him, and he loves seeing the evidence of his claim, especially when he knows you enjoy it just as much. Edging, cock warming, body worship, and teasing you with feathers or his tail are all favorites. Watching you put on a show for him by touching yourself turns him on just as much as having you watch him do the same, and his mild strength kink makes playful overpowering feel absolutely electric.

Rocket’s interests stretch wide: roleplay, spanking, dirty talk, though he gets flustered if directed at him, consensual degradation toward you, putting you in collars and leashes, somnophilia, size play, experimenting with sensation and toys, all fuel his curiosity and imagination. With permission, he’s open to including another partner, aphrodisiacs or “potions” to heighten pleasure, sex in front of mirrors, or recording it for later enjoyment.

Give him complete control, and satisfaction is guaranteed. While he enjoys inflicting a little pain, he never causes permanent harm and is obsessively careful about consent. Every encounter is safe, sane, consensual, and mutually pleasurable. With Rocket, pleasure is deliberate, messy, playful, and entirely unforgettable.

—--L-Location (where they like to get it on)--

Rocket doesn’t have many hang-ups about where sex happens, as long as you’re both comfortable. The bedroom’s the obvious choice, but he’s just as happy getting frisky on the living room couch, his workbench, the cockpit, or any empty room where no one else is around. Bold, mischievous, and unapologetically confident, he rarely worries about being caught; but if you hesitate, he’ll play along, keeping just out of sight.

Public bathrooms? Absolute hard no; too dirty for Rocket to enjoy properly. Alleys, tucked-away corners behind buildings? Fair game. With enough coaxing, you might even convince him to have a romp on the kitchen counter; but don’t expect him to leave it be. He’ll be adorably grumpy afterward, insisting on scrubbing every surface until it gleams like a mirror; Rocket’s pride, and hygiene, are non-negotiable.

No matter the location, the rule is simple: if it’s private enough, clean enough, and you’re comfortable, Rocket is game. Playful, daring, and completely devoted, he makes every moment intense, fun, and utterly unforgettable.

—--M-Motivation (things that make them tick/turn-ons)--

Rocket has a high sex drive; getting him in the mood is rarely a challenge, unless he’s elbow-deep in explosives, tinkering with tech, or mentally weighed down by something heavy. Even then, just seeing your desire for him is enough to spark him. He thrives on knowing you want him. Lustful glances, teasing touches, whispered words; they often work faster than anything else.

For an extra boost, wearing something special just for him: sexy, cute, or both, will absolutely turn him on. Rocket is incredibly responsive to the combination of visual cues, scent, and the sheer energy of your desire. He loves the way you look at him, the way you want him, and that hunger is usually all he needs to shift from distracted to fully, deliciously focused on you.

—--N-No (turnoffs or absolutely won’t do)--

Rocket has very clear boundaries when it comes to sex. No blood kinks, no watersports; he’s far too meticulous about cleanliness to entertain them. R*pe roleplays, including CNC, are completely off-limits. He won’t engage with anyone who’s too drunk or under the influence unless there’s explicit, prior consent. Crossing a line where someone isn’t fully in control, physically or mentally, is unthinkable to him.

His ethical standards extend beyond sex. Bounties are never an option; he sees it as taking advantage, plain and simple. Coworkers are off-limits. Mixing business with pleasure isn’t his style. Rocket also isn’t into daddy or mommy kinks, or age play; calling him “daddy” is a guaranteed way to ruin the mood for him. Pet play is absolutely off the table; never call him “pet” or anything related.

For Rocket, sex is about desire, connection, and consent: fun, messy, intense, but always safe, sane, and mutually respectful. Boundaries aren’t limitations; they’re what make being with him trusting, exciting, and utterly satisfying.

—--O-Oral (receiving or giving and how skillful they are)--

Rocket definitely leans more into giving rather than receiving; he thrives on it. There’s a rush in knowing he can orchestrate your pleasure, teasing and pushing you to your limits while watching every reaction. His observant nature makes him exceptional at it. The slightest shift in your breathing, the subtle curve of your hips, the way a muscle tenses, he notices it all and adapts instinctively to hit every sweet spot. Watching you unravel under his hands, tongue, and lips is one of his favorite forms of power, and he revels in it. It’s not about control for ego’s sake; it’s about making you feel incredible, utterly undone in the best way.

Receiving is different. Rocket is enthusiastic, yes, but flustered, intensely so. Oral attention makes him flush, squirm, fidget, yet he cannot resist holding eye contact. That gaze turns everything electric. Seeing you focused on him, feeling him, wanting him, amplifies the intimacy like nothing else can. It’s a thrilling tangle of vulnerability, desire, and connection. He craves it, yet struggles to fully own it, and that delicious tension only makes the experience more consuming, more addictive, more him.

—--P-Pace (how fast they are and how long they last in bed)--

Rocket’s stamina is legendary; he can go for hours, powering through multiple rounds without so much as a falter. Thanks to his baculum bone, even after he cums, he can keep going; relentless, insatiable, an absolute handful in the most electrifying way. The only real caveat? Hydration. Keep him fueled, and he can outlast nearly anyone, maintaining unyielding intensity while making sure the pleasure is mutual, messy, and utterly satisfying. Rocket doesn’t just endure; he dominates, teases, and thrives on every gasp, shiver, and moan. With him, every session isn’t just sex; it’s a masterclass in stamina, desire, and the delicious chaos of being fully, recklessly entwined.

—--Q-Quickie (do they prefer fast and hard)--

Rocket generally prefers to take things slow. He savors foreplay as much as the main act; every teasing touch, whispered word, and mischievous nudge is part of the experience. He thrives on the push-and-pull: giving pleasure, receiving it, teasing, letting you tease him, driving both of you to that delicious edge where begging becomes inevitable. That said, he’s not rigid. Quickies? Absolutely on the table if you ask for them, and he’ll dive in enthusiastically, all hunger and precision. But given the choice, he loves when things unfold slowly; the drawn-out anticipation, the tension that coils tighter with every glance and brush of skin, the delicious, messy back-and-forth. For Rocket, sex isn’t just a climax; it’s every charged second leading up to it, the connection, the heat, the intimacy… every electrifying moment in between.

—--R-Risk (do they like to try new things)--

Rocket is unapologetically open-minded in the bedroom. Kinks, toys, new techniques; he’s game for almost anything, as long as it’s safe and won’t put either of you at risk. Curious and adventurous by nature, he pairs that thrill-seeking streak with a protective instinct, always prioritizing your comfort and boundaries above all else. His philosophy is simple: try it at least twice. The first time is for exploration, the second for mastery; and maybe, just maybe, to discover exactly how much fun it can get. With Rocket, experimentation isn’t just playful; it’s electric, intimate, and charged with that signature mix of mischief and connection only he can pull off.

—--S-Stamina (how many times they can go and how long each round lasts)--

Rocket’s stamina is next-level, no contest. Once he gets going, he can go for hours, teasing, pleasing, and driving both of you to the edge again and again. Brace yourself for a long night, because Rocket isn’t just about intensity; he’s about endurance, making every moment unrelenting, electrifying, and utterly unforgettable.

—--T-Toys (are they game for using sex toys on themselves or lovers)--

Rocket is a total enthusiast when it comes to toys. He loves them, collects them, experiments with them, and keeps an impressive stash for solo play. Some are his own creations, others purchased… or “acquired” in his usual mischievous way. He delights in using them on you too; teasing, testing your limits, and savoring every reaction. Guided play is a particular favorite: talking you through it, building anticipation, watching you squirm with pleasure. His size kink carries seamlessly into toy use, so dildos and plugs of all sizes are right in his wheelhouse, most requiring careful preparation he relishes orchestrating. Public tease play excites him as well… having you wear a plug or vibrator out in public, controlling it remotely, feeling your subtle reactions, sharing that secret intimacy; it’s his playground. For Rocket, toys aren’t just objects; they’re tools of dominance, mischief, and connection, making every session thrilling, intimate, and unmistakably him.

—--U-Unfair (how do they tease or do they enjoy suspense themselves)--

Rocket lives for teasing. Foreplay isn’t just a warm-up, it is the main event. He thrives on pushing you to the edge, stretching you until you’re begging, trembling, utterly undone before anything else even starts. Your raw, obvious desire? It lights him up like nothing else. And Rocket isn’t just playful, he’s absurdly skilled. Hands, tongue, and yes, that mischievous tail, all perfectly tuned tools in his arsenal. He’ll straddle you with a cocky smirk, letting his tail brush and tease in ways that make you shiver, exploring every reaction, testing every limit. For him, the thrill is in watching you unravel under his control, blending precision, playfulness, and pure lust into an experience you won’t forget.

—--V-Volume (are they loud, what sounds, and do they talk)--

Outside of the degradation and dirty talk, Rocket is mostly quiet in the bedroom; more erotic than loud. He doesn’t scream or shout; his pleasure comes out in subtle, intense ways: soft gasps, little whines, muted moans, low growls, and purrs that somehow feel far more intimate than any loud noise. He pairs this with words: whispered praise, tender adoration, or teasingly dirty talk, each syllable deliberate, personal, and charged. Sometimes he’ll lovingly degrade you, voice low and confident, every word a precise mix of control and desire. With Rocket, it’s never about volume; it’s about tension, closeness, and the way every sound and word pulls both of you deeper into the moment, driving desire to an exquisite edge.

—--W-Wild card (random head canon of any sort)--

Rocket is a switch, but make no mistake, he’s always in control. Whether topping or bottoming, the reins stay firmly in his hands. Even when he’s receiving, he dominates the situation, tying you up, having you wear a leash-and-collar combo while he rides you, or using you like a toy, every move meticulously orchestrated to his liking. The closest he gets to true submission is as a bratty bottom, teasing, pushing boundaries, but still steering the scene. When he bottoms, he’s often a power bottom. When he tops, he can be a service top or a soft dom, depending on his mood. Ask him to take on a hard-dom role, and he does so with enthusiasm, intensity, and precision. Rocket is naturally dominant, thrives on challenge, and craves control, but he isn’t rigid. He’ll experiment with a more submissive role as long as his boundaries are respected. Every touch drives him wild: nibbling on his ears, lovebites anywhere you can reach, tugging on his fur in the heat of the moment, all of it amplifies his intensity. For safety, his safeword is “Cherry.” For Rocket, dominance isn’t just power, it’s intimacy, play, and mutual trust. He relishes every second, blending control with connection in ways that leave both of you utterly consumed.

—--X-X-ray (what’s down below in dem pants)--

Rocket’s anatomy is uniquely his own. His cock, slightly larger than a normal raccoon’s thanks to genetic modifications, measures about 5.3 inches long and as thick as two fingers when fully aroused, with a subtle downward curve. Normally tucked safely in a sheath, it only emerges when arousal strikes. Thanks to his baculum, once erect he can maintain a rock-hard state for impressively long periods, giving him remarkable stamina and control. Combined with his teasing nature, skill, and ability to switch between dominating or pleasuring, he can turn nearly any encounter into an intense, drawn-out experience. His balls are fairly large, held snugly and tight to his body. He’s pierced in multiple places: two on his sheath (a barbell and a ring), two barbells on his perineum, a tongue piercing, and his two uppermost nipples have barbells (he has eight nipples total). These piercings aren’t just adornments, they’re his way of reclaiming his body, asserting ownership over himself after the experiments and surgeries that tried to define him.

—--Y-Yearning (sex drive level)--

Rocket’s sex drive is massive, practically always running high. He’s considerate enough not to initiate if he thinks you’d say no or if the timing’s off, but if you’re interested? Almost never will he turn you down; unless he’s genuinely busy or caught up in something important. When he’s in the mood and the circumstances allow, he’s all in: enthusiastic, eager, and entirely devoted to making every experience intense, messy, and utterly pleasurable for both of you.

—--Z-Zzzz (do they sleep after if so how quickly after)--

After sex, Rocket melts into peak softness. He becomes cuddlier than usual, clinging to you for warmth, comfort, and careful aftercare. For the first ten to twenty minutes, he burrows close, pressing himself against you; utterly sated yet reluctant to let go. Eventually, he drifts off, fully content.

If you leave the bed during the night, Rocket stirs; groggy, half-asleep, and utterly determined, he stumbles through the home in search of you. When he finds you, he grabs your hand, tugging gently but persistently, trying to pull you back into bed with him. Needy, clingy, and adorably insistent, he wears his affection on his sleeve. Come morning, he’s a little embarrassed by just how clingy he got, so it’s best to let him be; he’s already flustered enough about it on his own.

[shylyobscene]

oh my god i’m only halfway through and this is CHANGING MY LIFE. what a fantastic fucking read. sooo soo beautifully written and eloquent. all the rocket dialogue sounds like it’s straight from his mouth. the world had better prepare for the day you decide to sit down and write a full fic

[chowdragun]

I actually have plans for a full fic, but being stuck in a small hotel room with a seven year old kid kinda makes it difficult to write what I wanna write...

[happylittleshrub]

It's a battle royal! Which rocket wins!

Edios, mcu, rivals, cartoon, scotty, ewing, telltale, classic, or zombies!

No outside help, just brainpower and gadgets!

Whichever Rocket wins gets 100,000,000,000 units and a brand new ship!

(If I forgot a Rocket feel free to include him if you so wish)

A Battle Royale, huh? Interesting!

Considering that Marvel Zombies Rocket is canonically a pile of bones he loses instantly. He receives this PNG of a participation trophy.

I feel like the Original Rocket will probably be next to go. Not that he isn't skilled but he just doesn't have that same bloodlust the more modern incarnations of Rocket do.

Rivals Rocket is next simply on account of having the worst gun. He says he has other weapons but he doesn't use them in combat now does he?

As for the rest it's more difficult to determine. They're all about equal in firepower and brains (although honestly I think Scotty Young Rocket is quite an idiot but anywhoooooo) So from here I think there's only one way forward.

The Rockets would probably never really fight and they're all equally good etc. etc.

I put them in the Hunger Games!

(should be obvious but heads up for violence and character death because Hunger Games)

Surprising amount of cooperation during The Bloodbath! So much so they legally can't even call it The Bloodbath anymore because that would be false advertising.

I knew Original Rocket wouldn't last long but sheesh I didn't expect him to give up that easily. C'mon man you're better than that. Ewing Rocket not holding anything back and he claims the second casualty. RIP Eidos Rocket, gone too soon.

Animated Series Rocket must have a guardian angel looking after him he keeps getting stuff from sponsors. Also RIP to Marvel Rivals Rocket. As someone who has fallen into many a map hazard in Rivals I can confirm that this checks out. He might've survived if NetEase hadn't nerfed his jetpack 😔

Not much happened here

Awww RIP Animated Series Rocket. Ya hate to see it. I guess his sponsor supports Ewing Rocket now.

A surprising act of compassion from Scotty Young Rocket of all people. He does know this is a Battle Royale right? Ewing Rocket got gifted an explosive how nice.

Ewing Rocket stirring up drama! I support MCU Rocket's decision but wow that was right after Scotty Young Rocket spared him! THE BETRAYAL! THE BACKSTABBERY! HOW COULD HE? I guess he is self-described as a Professional A-Hole, this should've been foreseen.

How does a raccoon fail at climbing a tree? Flarkin' idiot. Seems Ewing Rocket and MCU Rocket are in some kind of temporary alliance.

BACKSTABBED AGAIN! MCU Rocket breaks the fragile truce to end Ewing Rocket and claim TOTAL VICTORY!

MCU Rocket asserts his rightful place as the Greatest Rocket of All Time and has won the Hunger Games! He will be the recipient of 100,000,000,000 units and a brand new ship! Congratulations!

👏 🎉 👏 🎉 👏 🎉 👏 🎉 👏 🎉 👏 🎉 👏 🎉 👏 🎉 👏 🎉

Well, I think we all learned something from this experience.

[chowdragun]

this was beautiful. Poor original rocket, he just didn't have the drive. Also...

WTH telltale rocket... YOU ARE A LITERAL FREAKING RACCOON HOW DID YOU DIE FALLING OUT OF A FREAKING TREE!!!???

I like to think the rockets set up this little simulation during one of their meet ups after they argued about which of them is superior 🤣

[happylittleshrub]

Yeah I could see that 🤣 The other Rockets are gonna clown on Telltale Rocket about the tree thing forever. He'll never live it down lol

[chowdragun]

-somepoint in the future-

All rockets arguing about something...

Telltale Rocket: well, what about-

Edios rocket: nah nah nah, you don't get a say, not after you died falling out of a flarking tree!

Telltale: that wasn't me, that was a simulation...

Edios rocket: a flarking tree!

[happylittleshrub]

It's a battle royal! Which rocket wins!

Edios, mcu, rivals, cartoon, scotty, ewing, telltale, classic, or zombies!

No outside help, just brainpower and gadgets!

Whichever Rocket wins gets 100,000,000,000 units and a brand new ship!

(If I forgot a Rocket feel free to include him if you so wish)

A Battle Royale, huh? Interesting!

Considering that Marvel Zombies Rocket is canonically a pile of bones he loses instantly. He receives this PNG of a participation trophy.

I feel like the Original Rocket will probably be next to go. Not that he isn't skilled but he just doesn't have that same bloodlust the more modern incarnations of Rocket do.

Rivals Rocket is next simply on account of having the worst gun. He says he has other weapons but he doesn't use them in combat now does he?

As for the rest it's more difficult to determine. They're all about equal in firepower and brains (although honestly I think Scotty Young Rocket is quite an idiot but anywhoooooo) So from here I think there's only one way forward.

The Rockets would probably never really fight and they're all equally good etc. etc.

I put them in the Hunger Games!

(should be obvious but heads up for violence and character death because Hunger Games)

Surprising amount of cooperation during The Bloodbath! So much so they legally can't even call it The Bloodbath anymore because that would be false advertising.

I knew Original Rocket wouldn't last long but sheesh I didn't expect him to give up that easily. C'mon man you're better than that. Ewing Rocket not holding anything back and he claims the second casualty. RIP Eidos Rocket, gone too soon.

Animated Series Rocket must have a guardian angel looking after him he keeps getting stuff from sponsors. Also RIP to Marvel Rivals Rocket. As someone who has fallen into many a map hazard in Rivals I can confirm that this checks out. He might've survived if NetEase hadn't nerfed his jetpack 😔

Not much happened here

Awww RIP Animated Series Rocket. Ya hate to see it. I guess his sponsor supports Ewing Rocket now.

A surprising act of compassion from Scotty Young Rocket of all people. He does know this is a Battle Royale right? Ewing Rocket got gifted an explosive how nice.

Ewing Rocket stirring up drama! I support MCU Rocket's decision but wow that was right after Scotty Young Rocket spared him! THE BETRAYAL! THE BACKSTABBERY! HOW COULD HE? I guess he is self-described as a Professional A-Hole, this should've been foreseen.

How does a raccoon fail at climbing a tree? Flarkin' idiot. Seems Ewing Rocket and MCU Rocket are in some kind of temporary alliance.

BACKSTABBED AGAIN! MCU Rocket breaks the fragile truce to end Ewing Rocket and claim TOTAL VICTORY!

MCU Rocket asserts his rightful place as the Greatest Rocket of All Time and has won the Hunger Games! He will be the recipient of 100,000,000,000 units and a brand new ship! Congratulations!

👏 🎉 👏 🎉 👏 🎉 👏 🎉 👏 🎉 👏 🎉 👏 🎉 👏 🎉 👏 🎉

Well, I think we all learned something from this experience.

[chowdragun]

this was beautiful. Poor original rocket, he just didn't have the drive. Also...

WTH telltale rocket... YOU ARE A LITERAL FREAKING RACCOON HOW DID YOU DIE FALLING OUT OF A FREAKING TREE!!!???

I like to think the rockets set up this little simulation during one of their meet ups after they argued about which of them is superior 🤣

[raccoonfallsharder]

Audiotransmission_7. A PREVIEW. [EXPECTED APRIL 15] Dickhead Crewmate Edges & Overstimulates You in the Showers. Rack & Ruin. | navigation | fiction masterlist 18+ only | rocket x f!reader x blackjack | 4/7 parts

the campaign to seduce the captain (through jealousy) continues. excerpt and warnings below.

NOTES: this is my first (and probably last) time writing m/m smut, but reader is still very much a presence between rocket and jack. anyway i hope it's tolerable lol

“Oh, she’s so into it,” Jack retorts, reaching behind himself with a free hand to palm Rocket through his pants. The latter growls and snatches that hand too, pinning them against the wall on either side of the Bunny’s face — wedging his knee between Jack’s thick thighs. “You don’t even know, Rocket.” His voice turns into a lilting, jeering little song. “She wants to fuck her strong, mean Captain so bad — she wants to get tossed around and told what to do — she’s such a good, obedient little—“

“D’you ever stop running your frickin’ mouth?” Rocket mutters, even as he feels his cock twitch and his balls tighten under his fur. He’s passing one of Jack’s hands to his other fist, pinning them both overhead between the merc’s bullet-riddled ears now. Not that Jack seems to care — he’s using the leverage to try to grind back harder against Rocket’s dick. 

“Only when you put something in it,” Jack sasses back with a grin, and Rocket grits his teeth.

“How many fingers?” he snarls.

“What the fuck are you talking about, old man?”

I’m literally less than a circ or two older than you, he almost spits, then collects himself. Jack’s only more incorrigible when he realizes he’s winning. Instead, the Captain drops his voice and presses his mouth to the base of one of Jack’s long ears. The double-piercing brushes his nose. The silvery rings feel cool and smooth and strangely grounding. 

“You said you finger-fucked our sweetheart so full that she had to try to run away from you,” he murmurs darkly into Jack’s ear. “So how many did you stuff inside her, you greedy fuckin’ brat?”

There’s a moment of sudden, uncharacteristic quiet, and Rocket’s belly turns over — unaccountably nervous. 

“Four,” Jack says at last, grudgingly. 

Rocket spine snaps into something rigid. “Four?” 

“I was careful,” the hare defends, though he hasn’t resumed his wriggling and there’s no mockery in his voice. “I didn’t friggin’ hurt her—“

“Four?” Jack’s fingers are thick.

“You don’t understand,” Jack snaps, sounding more irritable than mischievous for once. “Her pussy’s so good, Rocket. I never felt anything like it. It’s so soft. And stretchy. It just wanted to hug my fingers so tight.” He leans his forehead against the wall, and Rocket finds himself leaning in too — dropping his brow to Jack’s shoulder as he wrestles with his own suddenly too-tight lungs. His hips roll, and now he’s the one grinding his dick into Jack’s taut ass and stupidly-fluffy tail. “I was soaked up to my elbow. And I think I coulda fit my whole hand inside, if we’d kept going.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Rocket curses against Jack’s leather-slick back, trying not picture it. He’s never seen Terran pussy before but he’s gotten his hands on enough humie-types to imagine the basics, and it makes his cock throb in his pants.

“And then she was still all snug and tight later, when I had her climb up and ride me,” Jack says. The almost-marvelling tone in his voice melts back into a taunting drawl. “Sweet, too — of course. All worried about hurting me, about making sure I got a chance to come. You should’ve seen her, Rocket. Glazed eyes and these cute, stiff little nips, so worried about whether I was having a good friggin’ time — asking if I’m sure I don’t wanna fill her little pussy up with cream.”

Rocket shakes his head slowly against Jack’s  shoulder and snakes his free hand down between them, fingers finding the button above Jack’s curled tail so he can unsnap the slick leather pants. They loosen and sag around Jack’s waist before Rocket turns his attention to his own pants. 

“She’d be so good for you, Rocket. A perfect little princess. An angel—“

“Four fingers,” Rocket growls, and reaches around to press all four of his own digits into Jack’s mouth.

excerpt from Audiotransmission_7. [EXPECTED APRIL 15] Dickhead Crewmates Edges & Overstimulates You in the Showers.

WARNINGS for this chapter: mm smut. anal. edging/denial. filthy dirty talk. d/s vibes (rocket doms (or attempts to), jack's a bratty sub). mention of fisting, sort of? mentions of aftercare (unsatisfied). angst.

Rack & Ruin masterlist. 18+ only | rocket x f!reader x blackjack | 9? parts | wordcount: pending. navigation | fiction masterlist

you have two ridiculous, impossible, extremely-silly crushes. one is on an audio-porn performer whom you've never met, but whose growly voice brought you comfort during a low point in your life. the other is on your fucking boss. which is why you really don't have the bandwidth to start crushing on the captain, too.

CONTEXT: mcu-based with inspiration from the comics. mostly post-vol3 with references to major past events. while blackjack and rocket do have a pre-existing relationship, the focus is on reader in this story. limited physical description of reader / she does have hair.

skulls dividers and support/mdni banners by @/saradika-graphics | titlecard, ombre green, and ombre glitter dividers by me!

[chowdragun]

We truly will be well fed.

[chowdragun]

Do you all think Blackjack would often suffer from phantom limb??? Since both his legs were amputated there's no way it wasn't traumatic. I still have all my limbs so if anyone out there has experience with it or knows someone who does I'd love to hear what you think.

Im also asking for story reasons, I want to be able to make an accurate representation of it and I'd rather hear from experience rather than google.

[raccoonfallsharder]

april 2026 aspirations. nav | fanfiction masterlist | art masterlist fluff ✮ | spice ✩ | some smut ❤︎‬ | much smut ❤︎‬❤︎‬

hey friends! i have some big life stuff coming up in the next month or two so i may not be on tumblr as much BUT i am going to try to keep up on my posting dates. some of them may change last minute as real-life stuff requires me to step away at the last minute BUT ~ i am currently still on track with the actual WRITING to make these dates happen. i hope you're enjoying and if you celebrate easter, i hope you're having fun! (obligatory blackjack joke here)

thursday, april 9. a soft fixation. | oneshot. ❤︎

wednesday, april 15. rack & ruin. | audiotransmission_7. ❤︎❤︎‬

wednesday, april 21. cicatrix. chapter forty-one. eisce. ✩

thursday, april 30. rack & ruin. | audiotransmission_8. ❤︎❤︎‬ FINALE?

take what you need is going to be slow this year. you're welcome to continue requesting but please also consider looking back through existing scenes and seeing if one might be useful for you!

tuesday, may 5. anniversary oneshot?? ✩ ❤︎

wednesday, may 13. take what you need. untitled involuntary age regression/c-ptsd scene for nonnie. ✮

wednesday, may 20. birdie. chapter ten. risk profile. ❤︎❤︎‬

wednesday, may 27. untitled request from @coffinwhiteheart. ❤︎‬❤︎

june. take what you need. cicatrix. love is blind. . MYTH.

june. take what you need. cicatrix. birdie.

july. take what you need. cicatrix. love is blind.

resume crossposting to ao3 ᯓ⋆｡°✩practice: an eidos-rocket minific ✩ fistful of sunlight ✩ every rocket

other future projects

starshaped fairylights by @/saradika-graphics

[myspinehasexploded626]

[raccoonfallsharder]

one of my favorite arcs (ᵕ̣̣̣̣̣ ͜ ᵕ̣̣̣̣̣ ˶ )♡ god i love grounded

[chowdragun]

Ahh yes, the comic where rocket gets naked... twice!

[chowdragun]

Found this useful tutorial

Link to original post: https://www.deviantart.com/flora-tea/art/Raccoon-Drawing-Tutorial-716661577

[chowdragun]

FUCK, MARRY, KILL...

MCU Rocket (POST V3), Edios Rocket, Rivals Rocket...

my answer: fuck rivals rocket, marry mcu rocket, kill edios (sorry 🥺)