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I recently finished the GOTG game, and that means, fanart! Love this version of Rocket, a very fun character who is also veryy fun to draw <3

Also have the flat version too :3

#rocket raccoon #rocket raccoon fanart #eidos rocket #eidos gotg #gotg game #guardians of the galaxy #marvel's guardians of the galaxy #my art #gotg fanart #gosh i wish there was a shorter name for this game im in tagging hell #also please ignore that he has boots on the right #i was using a nova outfit pic as reference and it spawned into his base game suit #while i was drawing #this particular version of rocket is so funny but also sweet under the mean comments i love him <3 #also ik his eyecolor should be brown but i live by the rule of cool lol

Originally drew this Rocket for a collab which doesn't seem to be happening anymore, but I spent way too long on that frickin' gun not to post him so here he is

#rocket raccoon #shrub's art #eidos rocket #videogame rocket #gotg game #guardians of the galaxy #gotg #gotg rocket #rocket gotg #gotg fanart #rocket raccoon fanart

ROCKET FALLS FOR YOU. | EVERY ROCKET HCs nav | fanfiction | headcanons & imagines

for @adimn-adam ~ i know, i know. this has taken literally like six months, but here we are. it's a long one, but i hope it satisfies.

here's the thing: while every rocket is not the same, they are all — at their core — still rocket, reskinned with different experiences and contexts. so when you ask, “what would it take for every rocket to fall for someone?” the answer, in its most foundational form, is time + trust.

but we can still play around with that. NSFW-lite with gn reader below the cut my loves.

ROCKET FALLS FOR YOU. | EVERY ROCKET HCs

WARNINGS: moderate spice, crude terms. some angst, references to rocket’s extensive sexual history, brief allusions to substance use and abuse, brief mentions of roleplay. reminder: universe-killer rocket is his own warning. collaring, biting, tracing/tracking, some minor oral surgery of dubious consent, implied begging, low-key exhibitionism, and a whiff of something that could be read as stockholm syndrome.

ROCK-BOTTOM, BABY: remember that whole “time + trust” thing? this rocket is going to require all your grace, even when knocking jet-boots turns into can’t sleep without you. maybe especially then. because while it might feel like this rocket doesn’t trust you, the truth is, he doesn’t trust himself. believing in the high evolutionary did a number on him, and while rocket might be able to build a semi-reliable spacecraft out of a match, some string, and a soda can, he’s not sure he can recognize a person who intends to do harm. which is why he treats everyone like they intend to do harm. it’s a sorta preemptive strike, or whatever. best defense is a good frickin’ offense. blah blah blah, insert some other weird humie idiom he learned from pete here. so when he realizes he misses you while you’re separated on different missions — well, there’s gonna be some explosions. or implosions. or a little self-sabotage. at first he’ll growl and snarl and try to convince himself that he only misses you for your warm humie body and the sounds you make when he’s wringing orgasms from it: for your blunt teeth and your sea-salt and summer-sugar scent — for your lips, so much fuller and plumper than his. for the novel view of your ass, unobstructed by clothing or tail. he ignores the sickening hollow in his gut that suspects he’s a dirty frickin’ liar, till it cramps so bad that he has to admit he misses you for more than all that. he misses the way you sing along — badly — to quill’s music, and the way your eyes sparkle when you smile, and how your fingers curl and claw through his fur. he misses the way you talk to groot, and your terrible sense of humor, and your awkwardness when you get embarrassed. he misses your presence, and the quiet way you listen to him, your consistency and your patience, and the way you seek out his thoughts like each one is worth more than an anulax battery. hell, he even misses the way you get cranky and scowly and grumpy when he says stupid shit, or when he keeps you up too late in the sleepshift. which means that by the time you get back, he’s spoiling for a fight. buckle in, babe. this rocket’s bound to be an a-hole — more than once, probably. but whether your response is to cry, or argue back, or give him the coldest shoulder this side of the galaxy — well. these fights are just gonna make him miss you more than he already did. plus, seeing you hurt because of his insecurities has a way of chewing him up way worse than any punishment you could possibly mete out. he’s gonna make it up to you, he tells himself. and not with some stupid, grandiose gesture, either — no matter what pete says. you won’t be getting twenty spartaxian roses from this rocket (and if he gives you a fancy new gun, it ain’t in lieu of an apology — it’s just because he wants to make sure you’re safe). he’s not suddenly trying to sweep you off your feet, or shower you in a bunch of sappy nonsense. nah. he’s gonna do the frickin’ work, and fix his own shit. so you don’t have to.

FALLING: babe, i’m so sorry to say that this rocket barely clocks you at first. it’s not your fault. you’re just another flarkin’ biological on his ship, causing problems and taking up oxygen. he’s too focused on building bombs to be bothered with you — other than to tell you to keep your fingers to yourself if you wanna keep ‘em at all. plus, when it comes to — er, romance — his eye tends to be drawn to flashier lifeforms: dancers in cheap dazzling sequins, babes with a lot of skin or scales or feathers showing. come-hither smiles that can beckon from all the way across a crowded dirty dive-bar in the coldest reaches of the universe. your comparatively-timid attempts at flirtation will likely be returned with eyerolls — if rocket notices them at all. try not to be too disheartened. this guy gets hit on in every gambling den and darkened alley he comes across. he’s going out on dates every time the milano docks on some greasy space station for more than a rotation or two. he’s disappearing for sleepshifts and coming back midway through breakfast with a sway in his lush plush tail and a smirk painting his mouth. you never had a chance, babe. at least not that way. not yet. look, it might sound cliché, but you’ve gotta just be yourself. at some point, he’ll start glancing at you with more speculation than cynicism in his eyes. And it won’t be because of anything you’ve done, either — not directly. it’s just that groot talks about you. incessantly. and rocket’s used to the flora colossus being overly-affectionate with every d’ast biological he comes across, but he’s not used to the sharp, focused intensity of groot’s fascination when it comes to you. the big guy’s always telling stories: from the time you were struggling to learn how to aim the laser cannon because you weren’t used to adjusting for thermal bloom, to some song you were singing while you helped him prune some of the excess growth on his head, right down to yesterday when you knocked over the salt at dinner and made fun of yourself. it’s exposure, rocket tells himself when he finds his eyes following you through the cockpit — when the snarky comments that always seem to slide off your shoulders like silk skew instead into dirty, flirty little remarks. yeah. it’s exposure, and forced proximity. he’s been hearing about you too much, so of course it’s got him curious, and remembering all the times you might’ve said something cute to him back in the early days. he suspects the novelty of your presence will wear off once he gets used to you. spoiler — it doesn’t. probably because groot isn’t wrong — you really are so flarkin’ sweet with the big guy. chattering at the flora colossus, listening even when you can’t understand him. holding his hand. watching his back. protecting him in a fight, or standing up for him when quill hatches some stupid plan that would put him at risk. look, rocket tries to keep an eye on groot, but he can’t be there all the time — and he’s sorta grudgingly grateful that somebody else is looking out for the flora colossus too, because nobody’s as gentle and kind and softhearted as groot is. though maybe you’re pulling up in a close second.

ROCK-BOTTOM, BABY: in the end, what will win this rocket over — well, the rest of the way — isn’t anything you could have prepared or planned for. see, this rocket dreams, even more than any of the others: about the sensory deprivation tanks, about the spinal control units. about rote memory exercises that unspool like an endless purgatory while he sleeps, and the people he loves sacrificing themselves again and again. the nightmares are nothing new. the universe is a cold flarkin’ place, and — in spite of the abundance of one- and two-night-stands — this poor rocket has gotten used to dealing with it on his own. he’s never really considered any other option. not since tella. and he’s certainly never considered what it might be like to stumble out of his bunk, broad-shouldered and ash-mouthed, shirtless and combing absently through his beard with shaky claws like he’s trying to rake his nightmares out of his fur — not while you’re on board. he’ll be busy being preoccupied with his leftover hell — grateful he wasn’t off-ship in somebody else’s bed when it woke him. he’ll swagger slowly through the corridors of a sleepy milano and into the central bay, forcing himself to focus on fantasies of building a new kind of grenade. he’s prob’ly gonna sit up all night, distracting himself with its creation. at this rate, he’ll have it done before the first wakeshift even hits— —which is about when he stumbles right into you, draped in stars and shadows and insomnia, prettier than any sequined dancer. you, round-eyed and startled, with concern carved into your moonlit brow. your head will tilt. your eyes will squint. your lips will purse, thoughtful and worried, and he’ll know that you’re seeing right through him. he’ll stare back, slack-jawed and horrified, and hoping against hope that you won’t needle him for more information than he’s ready to share. but you won’t. hey, you’ll say instead — the word slow and measured as it filters into the long lingering silence. your bare humie-toes, rounded and clawless, will twitch as you curl yourself onto the couch, making space for him in the shadows — adjusting the blanket so there’s room for him at the other end, if he wants. yeah, sure, there’s a whole cold universe all around you both — but here you are, offering him a little bit of your warmth, with no demand for him to give back anything at all. wanna sit with me?

FALLING: look, my friend. i hate to break it to you, but universe-killer rocket doesn’t fall. oh, he’s fascinated by you. it doesn’t take long for him to get there at all. hell, there’s almost no build-up whatsoever. the first time he watches you persist in the face of cruelty — perhaps at the hands of the universe, or some stranger, or his own hellspawn-crew — he finds a bitterly bemused smirk twisting up one side of his mouth. just what else can you survive? it only takes the two of you crossing paths once or twice before he decides he should just keep you — for however long you can last, anyway. maybe you’re lucky, and you have some tangible skill or advantageous information that could be useful to him. at least that way, you might serve in a role that his hellspawn will treat with some respect. but if you’re just the soft, pretty baldbody who the universe-killer keeps collared for his own amusement—? well, then life will be a lot harder. for a lot longer. either way, the longer this rocket keeps you — the longer you survive — the more he craves your presence. that resilience of yours — it glistens like gunmetal. like the hull of a silver ship, protecting your fragile human heart from the cold sucking wound of space. maybe you’re the type to become as sharp-edged as he is (you could never be as sharp-edged as he is); maybe you bite back when he’s vicious. maybe survival has made you grim and distant, or soft and pliant. maybe you’ve decided to try and create some kindness in a deeply-unkind cosmos. it doesn’t matter. as long as you keep being somehow, relentlessly you, he’ll want to keep you for his entertainment. at some point, you’ll come to understand. this rocket is so fascinated by you because there isn’t anything left of him at all. not because of his prosthetics, of course. no — like theseus’ ship, he has replaced every whisper of his naive, gentle youth with a faster and stronger bite, with longer and sharper claws, with bigger and bleaker canons. there isn’t anything of his softer self left, and most days, he takes a sort of fucked-up pleasure in that. but here you are — unbelievably, perplexingly, amusingly whole — and sometimes when he’s high on wundagorish everbloom, he thinks he can stare right into that flawless star-bright core of yours. you fucking burn him. but then, this rocket has learned long ago to crave what hurts him — to demand more of it. and more of it. and more. and when it comes to you, he does. want. more.

ROCK-BOTTOM, BABY: i don’t think this rocket realizes how much he wants more of you, though — not until something happens to threaten his ownership. some idiot crew of sakaaran smugglers and slavers, perhaps — crossing paths with him on a random planet he’s slated for demolition. thinking they can raid his ship without realizing who he is. it’s rare for his crew to be confronted by other spacefarers at all — but for the transgressors to survive long enough to leave? unheard of. but this time, one of the lucky — or perhaps unlucky — jackasses manages to snatch you as a hostage. rocket holds up one mechanical claw to his crew, signaling them to fall back as the sakaarans toss you around like a ragdoll. he watches through silent, narrowed eyes while you fight them. but you’re no match for a dedicated crew of slavers, and rocket stares with a faint curl to his lip when they hold you steady and use a hyperlaser to cut off your collar. apparently, sakaarans are smart enough to recognize that there’s probably a tracker embedded in it, but not smart enough to realize that nicking your flawless neck has earned them far worse than a death sentence. when you wince and hiss and a thread of thin smoke rises from the burn, this rocket just smiles with the same deadly amusement as he had when the collar had first closed around your perfect throat. his singular prosthetic eye glows reality-stone-red when the smugglers take off: as bloody and bright as a wartime promise. it doesn’t take long for the hellspawn-crew to get you back. the sakaaran vessel is left a smoldering, collapsing husk of ruin: a smudge against the skies, one of the many ghost-ships that this rocket has left scattered throughout the universe like confetti and shrapnel. any future scavengers will flee the wreckage before they’ve even truly glanced inside — overwhelmed by a lingering dread too thick and heavy for even the most hardened ravager to stomach. when rocket gets you back under his cybernetically-enhanced hands, he doesn’t bother to take you back to the captains’ quarters. he pulls you onto the lowered ledge built into the captain’s seat: a little addition made specially for you, so he can keep you wedged between his thighs when he wants. he tilts your head this way and that: studying the burn on your neck, patting your disheveled hair or tear-salted cheek with a smirk. you shift against the metal plating of his armored prosthetics, inexplicably glad to be back in his reach. he’ll snap his clawed fingers at warpig, who’ll stride forward silently with a delicate laser scalpel-sealer in one hand and jar of oral anesthetic in the other. the captain’s arm will reach around you and pull your spine squarely against his belly; one fist will close with shocking, mocking gentleness on your jaw, forcing your mouth into an embarrassing slippery-wide pout in front of his entire crew. the fingers of his other hand will dip into warpig’s jar of anesthetic and then slide between your lips, stroking over tongue and teeth till he’s coated every soft wet surface. then rocket will nod to his chief medic, and she’ll step forward with the tiny scarlet laser, as glowing-red as rocket’s augmented eye. you’ll flinch, of course — look up over your shoulder to the universe-killer, hoping he’ll give you pity or answers. he never gives you pity.

FALLING: unlike the other rockets, this guy’s got no qualms with hitting on you from day one. you’re it, babe — for this cycle, anyway. he sees you, he wants you, and he’s gonna keep up with the outrageous come-ons till you’re charmed enough to let him in your bunk. it’s all drawled snarky flirtations, tipped hats and sly grins, a hundred come-hither winks beneath taunting tosses of hair. he loves how you respond: cheeks warm and nervous at first, but he can tell you’re into it. and he’s absolutely lustdrunk when you get more comfortable and start paying back each and every slightly-smarmy compliment with an eyeroll or a smartass wink — right before flicking his shiny earring in a way that manages to make him want to sputter like a moon-eyed virgin. this rocket doesn’t really think about it as anything deeper. not at first. he just likes the way you look, the way you smell. the sound of your grumpy g’morning first thing in the rotation, when your voice is all hushed and crushed and sleepy before you pour yourself that first cup of hot caffeine. eventually — once he wins you over — he’ll be infatuated by the feel of you under his hands, too: the uniqueness of your fat-to-muscle ratio, the way your humie-lips are so much fuller and more plumped-up than his, the bluntness of your bite. the way — blindfolded — he can run his fingers over tiny patches of your skin and know exactly which part of you it belongs to. that’s that ticklish inner elbow, he’ll say with a leer and his candy-red eyes closed tight. the right one. he loves games, after all — and sure, he usually cheats at ’em, but he doesn’t need to with this one. that’s the inside of your left knee. the arch of your right foot. middle of your back, just to the left of your spine, sorta under your shoulderblade. that’s the skin riiiiight under that bouncy left ass-cheek. and that’s your tummy, at the tippy-top of your belly-button. i keep tellin’ you, sugar, each spot on you feels different. and i got you memorized.

FALLING: like his eidos-counterpart, this rocket probably doesn’t even look at you twice. at first. you see, he’s also got a type, and it’s got nothing to do with skin color or body size or number of limbs. rocket prefers one-night-stands in general, but if he’s gonna start a relationship, it’s probably gonna be with a hottie who low-key loathes him. not necessarily in a step-on-me sort of way — not that he’s always opposed to that, either — but just in the way where he can vaguely pick up on a little condescension, a little contempt. the likelihood of an eventual betrayal. it sort of automatically puts an expiration date on things, and there’s some security in that. and besides, it’s not like he holds himself in all that high of regard anyway. so when you enter the scene — a fellow crew member who he’ll have to live with for who-knows-how-long, with barely a breath of true derision in your whole body — some part of rocket’s brain just turns off and doesn’t even acknowledge your presence. quiet persistence is key here. personally, i’m always a fan of bringing this rocket late-night cups of coffee in the cockpit. it’s a lot harder for him to ignore you when you’re the only other person in the room and the rest of the guardians are all asleep in their bunks, and the ship feels dark and dreamy and hallowed. eventually, your one-sided conversations will lull him into a place where he misses your company on the sleepshifts when you don’t show up. flying alone is great and all, but nothing compares to having you rambling quietly about nothing, or snoozing in the copilot’s seat, glossed up in starlight and haloed by galaxies. rocket’s been lucky enough to have a few good friends in his life, and even more lovers. but at some point — when you’re laughingly telling him some story, or listening to him attentively with moons reflected in your eyes, or muffling little yawns and snuffling snores into the duvet you‘ve started hauling into the cockpit with you, rumpled in sleepiness and wearing fuzzy flarkin’ slippers on your hopeless humie feet — at some point, he’ll start to wonder if he can let himself have someone who’s both.

FALLING: looook, babe. real talk: this rocket thought you were cute from the beginning, and he totally wouldn’t mind boning you if it weren’t for his whole self-imposed “don’t fuck your co-workers” rule (a rule which, he’s noticed, neither pete nor gamora seem similarly hindered by). being cute doesn’t really set you apart though — rocket’s had more bedpartners than he can count, and frankly — in their favor — almost all of ‘em had more money he could steal on his way out. so he doesn’t imagine you’re gonna be that much of a temptation. then the crew ends up on nivlent during their annual wrestling tournament, and groot’s sorta a local legend when it comes to nivlentine wrestling. usually the rest of the crew leave him and his buddy alone when they’re mission-free and planetside. let ‘em do their own thing — which is mostly causing fights, fixing fights, gambling on fights, and making a scene. but you insist on joining them — maybe a little naively, rocket thinks — ‘cause you wanna “support groot in his wrestling matches.” look, rocket’s taken a lot of dates to wrestling shows — the louder and wilder, the better — and they never seem into it. he’s already positively grumpy at the thought of having his enjoyment dimmed by some wet-blanket babe who can’t appreciate a good adrenaline rush and who he’s not even gonna get to rail afterward. but not two seconds into the first match, you’re up on your feet before he is, jumping and whooping, a grin on your face and glitter in your eyes while you cheer for your boy in the ring. it makes rocket’s jaw drop at first. then he scrambles up on his chair next to you and joins his yells with yours, pressing himself shoulder to shoulder with you as you’re squeezed together by the crowd on either side. yeah. you’re by far the rowdiest supporter in the stands, and by the end of the night, rocket can barely see the stage thanks to the hearts blossoming up in his eyes. that’s when he starts paying more attention to you: watching the way you handle your blasters, keeping an eye on you in missions. flirting with purposefully over-the-top outrageousness and a wide shit-eating grin that makes you roll your eyes and laugh: certain that he’s just making fun of you, and taking it all in a stride. by the time you start attending dungeons-and-dragons nights, he’s basically lost it. not only can you hold your own in a crowd of overzealous nivlentine wrestling fans during a planetwide championship, but you’ve got almost as good an imagination as he does? and you keep putting tony in his place when the bastard deliberately tries to derail rocket’s campaign plans — which is not only hot as hell but also gives rocket an unfamiliar flutter behind his breastbone. for flark’s sake, he doesn’t even mind you teasing him about always being the gm when you keep saying “game master” in that throaty tone of voice. in spite of the whole “no fucking coworkers” thing, he can’t keep himself from wondering if you’d be interested in trying some other roleplaying games back in his bunk.

#rocket raccoon #rocket raccoon x reader #guardians of the galaxy #gotg video game #marvel rivals #every rocket #eidos rocket #gotg fanfiction #gotg rocket #rocket raccoon fanfiction #rocket raccoon x you #rfh headcanons #universe killer rocket #mcu rocket #comics rocket #skottie young rocket #ewing rocker #rivals rocket

What if you had a big harem of rocket raccoon clones?

THE DREAM!!! >u< ✨🚀

THANKS FOR THE IDEAAAA. ❤️ Could be kinda chaotic for good haha, and funny!! can you imagine how would all this guys get along?

At first I thought of clones of the same version of Rocket, but that made me think about which VERSION of Rocket to choose and as you can see, I couldn't choose just one. Ironically, there was a moment when I didn't know who else to add, so I chose them by visual style/outfit.

I love how 80s Rocket is the most nervous of them all, that Rocket version is so cute!!! c: I like to think he's a little worried about 23's face haha.

On the other hand, the rest have higher egos, some more than others, some more competitive than others, some more grumpy than others and Young's Rocket is the most hyperactive of them all.

Eidos Rocket is the grumpiest here :3

Some wouldn't be exact clones but you get the idea xD.

Oh and 23 is just like, still processing the facts, vibing🤙

ref:

#rocket raccoon #rocket x 23 #angy cortoons #rocket raccoon fanart #rocket x oc #rocketraccoon #cartoon #fanart #gotg #rocket gotg #digitalart #marvel rivals rocket #eidos rocket #yumeship #yumeshipping #angycortoons

Finally finished this piece after procrastinating on it for so long. Decided to practice drawing Eidos Rocket and MCU Rocket and thought it's be funny to redraw this Sonic X screenshot with all three Rockets (screenshot below)

I also forgot how much I struggle with backgrounds though I'm a little proud of this piece especially with how difficult it was for me to draw MCU and Eidos in my style.

Bonus messy sketch I did cause I realized Marvel Rivals Rocket is the only with red eyes in this drawing.

#rocket raccoon #guardians of the galaxy #mcu rocket #marvel mcu #GOTG 2021 #Eidos Rocket #marvel rivals #rocket gotg #marvel rivals rocket #my art #digital art #does the gotg 2021 game not have a tag?#how do I even tag this?#not gonna tag the sonic characters cause its mainly Marvel related #finally done with this don't ever let me draw a background with no sketch again

This prompt is what led us here (✪ω✪)

Love your brain @simps-for-rocket

Rocket Raccoon ♰ gn!reader

Rocket watches. Not openly. Not carelessly. But deliberately enough that it stops being an accident.

It starts innocently enough—purely accidental, purely logistical. He needs to reroute water flow. Check heat levels. Make sure the ship doesn’t flood because Quill decided leisure was a human right and not a structural liability. And somehow, every time Rocket ends up lingering in the corridor outside the washroom, you’re already there.

Steam curls out when the door slides open, thick and warm, clinging to the air like it doesn’t want to leave. The scent of soap and heated metal follows—clean, human, unmistakably you. Rocket tells himself he’s cataloguing it for maintenance reasons.

Rocket tells himself a lot of things.

Humans are strange with water. Vulnerable. Soft. They strip down to nothing and stand beneath it like they trust it not to hurt them—like it’s comfort instead of threat. Watching you exist so easily in something he had to train himself not to fear does something sharp and curious in his chest.

He starts noticing details before he realises he’s allowed himself to.

The way your posture changes when the water hits your shoulders. How your head tips forward just slightly, like you’re giving the weight of it permission to touch you. Tension leaves you in stages—neck first, then spine, then the rest of you slowly follows. The glass fogs just enough that Rocket has to fill in the blanks himself, and that might be the worst part.

Or the best.

Hard to tell.

He lingers longer than necessary.

Not close enough to be obvious. Rocket’s good at that. Leaning against a panel that doesn’t need fixing, tail tucked around his ankle like he’s relaxed instead of coiled tight with interest. His eyes track movement through distortion—your silhouette bending, stretching, palms braced against tile. He notices the rhythm of you. The way you move when you don’t think anyone’s watching.

Nothing explicit.

Just enough to make his brain start asking questions it doesn’t need answered.

His curiosity isn’t hungry.

It’s reverent.

Observational. The way he studies unfamiliar tech or rare components—looking for patterns, weak points, consistencies. Water slicks your skin differently every time. Sometimes it beads and rolls. Sometimes it clings like it doesn’t want to let go. Rocket wonders, not for the first time, how close he’d need to be to feel the heat of you without the glass in the way.

Wonders how long he’d last pretending not to notice.

That thought sticks.

So he installed the damn hot tub.

Rocket doesn’t tell anyone though. It isn’t for everyone. It’s for him. And—if he’s being honest, he wants you in it with him. Purely because it recreates the conditions where he keeps seeing you at your most unguarded.

He eases himself into the water like it might still betray him. Fur bristling. Jaw tight. But the heat sinks in slowly, patiently, and his body relaxes despite him. Muscles loosen. Breath evens out.

Then the door opens.

Rocket doesn’t look right away.

He listens first—the shift of your weight, the quiet pause when you register him there. Steam thickens, catching the light, blurring the room into something private. When Rocket finally glances up, it’s casual.

His focus is not.

You’re damp. Not soaked—just warm. Skin faintly flushed, water clinging in places his brain very unhelpfully lingers on. He doesn’t leer. Doesn’t grin. Doesn’t bare teeth or make it obvious.

He just allows himself a longer look than necessary.

Longer than polite.

Shorter than obvious.

His tail flicks beneath the water, slow, intentional. He shifts slightly, letting the bubbles obscure him while he takes you in properly—the way you hold yourself when relaxed, the way your attention keeps drifting back to him before you remember not to stare.

He notices that too.

From then on, water becomes a pattern.

Rocket times his tub sessions around your routines without admitting it to himself. He always seems to be there when you pass by—half-submerged, steam curling around him, eyes heavy-lidded like he’s resting when really he’s tracking every small change in your posture.

Then one night while watching you linger near the doorway longer than usual, he offers it—no words, just a tilt of his clawed paw toward the water. The gesture is subtle, almost casual, but loaded, this is mine, but I want you here. The tub is his domain, carefully engineered, private, the only place on the ship he finally feels this calm and in control.

And yet… he wants you there. Wants to see how you fit into it, how your presence changes the warmth, the steam, the way the water moves. It’s an invitation without pressure, and the slight raise of his eyebrows is enough to let you understand that it’s okay…more than okay—it’s exactly how he wants it.

He likes watching you react to the heat. Likes the subtle lean of your body toward the warmth. Likes that you don’t flinch at the sight of him in water—like you recognise this version of him as something earned.

The perverted part—Rocket admits it quietly—comes from wanting to understand.

How you wear your body when you’re comfortable. How water slides over you and leaves you softer instead of guarded. How close he can get without breaking whatever fragile, domestic thing is taking shape between you.

One night, you sit closer than usual. Close enough that condensation drips from your elbow into the tub. Rocket watches the ripples spread, fascinated by how something so small can disrupt everything around it.

That feels familiar.

Your knee brushes his thigh. Accidental. Not corrected.

Rocket doesn’t move. Doesn’t grab. Doesn’t test.

He lets himself enjoy the awareness.

The warmth. The proximity. The quiet thrill of being allowed to notice without being pushed away. His fear stays quiet, tucked under trust and steam and the growing certainty that water keeps leading him back to you.

And Rocket, who has always learned best through repetition—decides this is a habit worth keeping.

Not just the tub.

But the way you soften near him.

The way his curiosity sharpens instead of turning ugly.

The way water has stopped being something that takes—

—and started being something that gives.

#Eidos Rocket #Rocket #prompt!!!!#this was so fun #gn!reader #marvels guardians of the galaxy #gotg #I have NOT played the game #though I would love too but my attention span sucks #I’m still figuring out how I want to structure my fics sorrryyyy if it’s shit #meet you in the hot tub with rocket

Why is he so fine. 💕

#rocket raccoon #guardians of the galaxy #gotg #marvel #rocket #GOTG game #guardians of the galaxy game #raccoon #eidos rocket

ROCKET WITH A CLINGY PARTNER. | EVERY ROCKET HCs nav | fanfiction | headcanons & imagines

for nonnie ♡ i'm so behind on these and this felt like such a project, but i truly hope that at least one of these is what you're looking for, babe.

separation anxiety can look different from person to person, situation to situation. so i've played with some different kinds of presentation here, varying from low-key "clinginess" to clinical attachment concerns, from panic attacks to irritability.

and god knows rocket has attachment issues of his own.

NSFW-lite (VERY lite - really more like low-grade steam) with gn reader below the cut my loves.

ROCKET WITH A CLINGY PARTNER. | EVERY ROCKET HCs

WARNINGS: enabling behavior. mcu rocket is a little mean. eidos rocket fantasizes about you (brief reference to masturbation). skottie young rocket being a slut as usual. reminder, as always: universe-killer rocket is his own warning. stockholm syndrome, forced isolation, manipulation.

CLINGER: it’s too bad that you’re smitten with rocket from the moment you meet him, because of course, this guy’s too full of self-loathing to realize it. unfortunately, like a duckling, you imprint on him right away. something about his crankiness makes you trust him immediately, as if it’s an indicator of his authenticity. and being in the far reaches of outer space is fucking scary for a freshfaced terran like you, unused to being out in the stars. so you pretend nonchalance while you wander into the cockpit when he’s there, and the commons bay when he’s there, and the engine room when he’s there… it’s equally too bad that rocket’s not a frickin’ idiot. he notices right away — how you flicker at the edges of his presence like a moonmoth to a bowlight— and it’s fuckin’ annoying. early on, in a fitful moment of defensiveness, he sneers at you with all sorts of poison in his voice. clingy much? it's pretty much the only thing he's said to you since you've showed up. humiliation heats your cheeks, but it doesn’t make you stop. for fuck’s sake — why are you always watching him like that? d’you think he’s gonna steal something? (spoiler alert. he is gonna steal something. or at least, he’s gonna try. but having your eyes on him around the clock has stopped him from swiping a number of little treasures over the last few cycles, and his resentment grows each time.) with each passing rotation, his tension ratchets higher and higher, and he hates how certain he is that your big, manipulative eyes are picking apart everything about him: his flinches, his scars, his aches. his criminal intentions. eventually — as per frickin’ usual — he cracks under the strain. furious, venomous words ricochet from his lungs and spit out his mouth, like bullets and ion blasts. get the fuck away from me, he seethes, you nosy fuckin’ parasite. and you do. rocket feels bad about it later: ears flat, tail tucked, moping and sulking even though he knows he’s got no right to be so miserable about his own frickin’s behavior. he feels even worse when gamora scolds him for it — reminding him that you’ve got no-one out here. lots of people got no-one, he snaps back, as if it doesn’t make his already-crumpled-up heart shrivel and pinch further in his chest. at least the rest of us manage to keep from being so damn annoying about it. rocket, gamora deadpans, that sweet kid is probably the only person on this ship who doesn’t think you’re annoying. she shakes her head, like he’s the idiot. they just want to be around you. he freezes at that. scoffs. gamora’s usually a decent judge of character, but in this case, she’s gotta be wrong. rocket’s pretty sure that the only person who’s wanted to be around him since halfworld is groot senior. everyone else is just there due to obligation or familiarity, as far as he can tell. and you’ve got no obligation, and even less familiarity.

CLINGEE: still, though—he starts watching you. really watching you, trying to tamp down on his preconceived notions. you’re — well. you’re a little clingy with everyone, aren’t you? like a lost little puppy. worried every time they leave; eager to see them back. trying to discreetly check them over for injuries, always looking uncertain of your own welcome. you’re so concerned, so caring. it’s still annoying, of course — on principle — but it’s increasingly hard for him to dredge up any hostility about it. he tells himself that you need to toughen up. that nobody out here is gonna be as stable and dependable as you apparently need. that you gotta get some calluses to survive in space. but he can’t bring himself to say as much. not out loud. he figures he’s done enough damage to your soft, fragile feelings. and besides, it’s not like he doesn’t notice that you never follow any of the others the way you used to follow him. only now, the memory of you chasing him around doesn’t feel like such a sour, suspicious thing. now, he wishes he’d enjoyed it more. because the truth is, you’re kind of cute about it. a little self-conscious. a little needy. in retrospect, it could’ve been nice — someone wanting him around that much. someone worrying and fretting over his absences, hoping to be consoled with kisses when he returns. it gets harder and harder to sneer at you every rotation, and even the gruffness in his voice starts to feel more like velvet than sawblades. it’s not till he’s waiting in the cockpit, tracking your ship as you go on your first-ever solo mission — plucking a bald spot into his tail and planning regular transmission check-ins every rotation — that he realizes what’s happened. And it’s all stupidly thanks to pete: strolling in, all nonchalant — like you aren’t a few hundred lightyears away, all by your lonesome, and not due back on the benatar for another five-and-a-half-rotations. rocket’s already promised himself that when you get back, he’ll be nice. so nice. hell, he might even frickin’ apologize for being such a dickhead. he’ll let you hang around as much as you want: camp out with him in the cockpit, hand him tools in the mechanical room. sleep in his frickin’ bunk. if you want. fuck. it’ll be fine, pete says, interrupting rocket’s thoughts with a roll of his eyes. he tells rocket how smart you are, how clever, how resourceful — as if rocket didn’t know all that. there’s nothing to worry about, dude— i just want ‘em home, rocket snaps. another handful of fur floats to the cockpit floor, and pete rolls his eyes again, smirking. geez, rocket. clingy much?

CLINGER: he’s not sure how the flark you won him over. ever since he’d made the mistake of telling you he thought he was gonna die — just a little hazing for the newbie, nothing serious; not till you'd started bawling your d’ast eyes out, looking like he’d broken your soft little humie heart — he’s found it hard to take his eyes off you. you’re cute. like, real cute. and even if he’s a scummy son-of-a-chog who really should leave you alone, he can’t help but wanna keep you close. and apparently the feeling’s flarkin’ mutual, because you seem to be around all the time these days. he’d bet a hundred-k credits that you’d follow him right into his bunk if he let you, never mind the fact that he figures you’re just a little too innocent for most of the games he likes to play there. it’s the first time he goes on a solo mission that he realizes just how attached you’ve gotten. your brow’s all pinched and twisted, and you look a little waxy, skin damp like you’ve got a fever or chills or both. just not feeling my best today, you tell groot when he asks, then mumble something about headaches and nausea. you’re scrubbing your knuckles over your sternum like you’ve got heartburn. his ears twitch. every once in a while your heart does a double-beat, hiccuping like the false start in a sprint, and your breathing gets reedy and shallow. what the fuck? you worried about me, sweet thing? he’d meant it to sound condescending and smug, but the words come out crackled with concern. he’s developed a begrudging sort of affection for you. maybe even a rather filthy fixation that he’d absolutely act on if he hadn’t sworn off biologicals. not to mention that watching pete and gamora fumble around like a pair of flarkwits is enough to put anyone off the idea of dating in-house. you flinch when he asks, though. just… come back, you’d ordered through bloodless, pinched lips. normally he’d balk under someone thinkin’ they could tell him what to do, but it strikes something in him: what you’d said. the way you’d said it. he knows what it’s like to be afraid of losing people. so instead of getting snippy, he just squints up at you with caramel-rum eyes and finds — for once in his d'ast life — some krutackin' patience. hey, i got some stuff in my bunk that needs to be kept watch over, rocket tells you slowly. the words are cautious, even if the impulse isn't. but then, he’s always been a creature of impulse. do me a favor, sweet thing — sleep in there while i’m gone? you can have the hammock. might be a tight squeeze, but— okay, you say quickly, like he’s just offered you way more than a substandard bed. his eyes narrow further. f’you hear any weird beeping, get quill, he instructs, knowing that you won’t hear anything of the sort. or, well, if you do, it won’t matter anyway, because half the sector’ll already be condensing into a manufactured black hole from that black-market gravity-bomb he’s been messing around with for the last quarter. no — needing you to keep an eye on his scut is just a pretty fiction for both of you. an excuse — to comfort you, of course. and maybe to get you into his bed without him having to worry about flarking things up.

CLINGEE: he imagines it a few times. that is, a few times for each and every rotation that he’s away. he kinda likes picturing you, climbing clumsily into his hanging bed. snuggling up to his pillow. waking in a loose sleepy tangle of limbs. maybe once or twice, he even indulges in the thought of you playing with yourself there, just 'cause you can’t help but miss him oh-so-very-much — even though he’s never once let himself touch you like that before. so far, anyway. when rocket finally returns to the milano a cycle-and-a-half later, you’re waiting at the airlock before his pod even docks. your eyes look starved for him. and it’s… gratifying. flark. not even groot has ever looked so thrilled by his return. throughout the rest of the rotation, you stick so close to him that he can feel you brushing against his fur everytime you breathe. funny — a quarter or two ago, he woulda found it as annoying as flark. now he leans in. maybe he should go more often, he thinks — if this is the sweet homecoming he gets when he returns. you, clinging to him like honey. the sleepshift destroys that idea, though. he hadn’t thought about what it would be like to come home to a bed you’d slept in. never again, he thinks, fisting a handful of the blanket still drenched in your scent. he drags the fragrance into his lungs, practic’ly salivating while he grips his aching dick and strokes it along the curve. fuck morals and ethics and the stickiness of workplace-relationships. and fuck you, for getting your flarkin’ pheromones or whatever all over his d’ast hammock — never mind he’s the chog who told you to sleep there. he forces himself to let go of his cock and his quilt, fumbling himself back into his pants and raking an angry claw through his beard, tousling the fur on top of his head. never again, he snarls on repeat under his breath, starting for the hatch of his bunk — heading toward you like the gravity-bomb’s been set off after all, and you’re the walking talking singularity. yeah, fuck you. he’s never letting you sleep in his bunk without him again. short term, the only solution is to drag you back here tonight. longterm? he’ll just have to take you with him.

CLINGER: it takes a minute for universe-killer rocket to figure out you’ve got a little separation anxiety — and the microsecond that he does, he pounces. how can he help himself? this rocket has learned to take every scrap he wants. he’s so darkly delighted to find that you have such an easily-exploitable weakness, and he’s thrilled to figure out how he can manipulate it to please himself. in this case, pleasing himself mostly means breaking you down into a cute, dependent little humie pet: willing to give him the information only you know, or complete the tasks only you can complete. and equally willing to beg for his collar around your throat or his bite on your skin. so he gets to work, with all the power of that intuitive genius that seems to come so easily to him. eventually he settles on a calculated cocktail of instability and stockholm syndrome, which seems to do the job nicely. in no time, you’re doing everything in your power to convince him to keep you by his side. once, you even going so far as to offer to let him leash you if he’ll take you with him. he gives in that time. for his own entertainment. and you are entertaining. for fuck’s sake, at some point, you start picking your cuticles raw every time he leaves you locked in his captain’s quarters for an hour or two, till he threatens to keep you electrocuffed to the bed if you don’t stop. no-one spills your pretty red blood but me, he teases, his unholy prosthetic eye all aglow. not even you. later, when the hellspawn fleet has overtaken a new star system and knowhere is blotting out some poor planet’s sun, the universe-killer is called to descend to the world below on account of some disagreement between his crew. It’s a minor matter — one they should be able to figure out on their own — but they’re terrified enough to ask for his input, and he’s always pleased with the power that comes from giving it. and when he returns to the skull, smug and satisfied — why, you’re practic'ly frickin' weepy. he loves that about you. loves how you look up at him with those big wet eyes and trembly-tear-glossed lips, the slightly-swollen tip of your nose from scrubbing at it while you’d sniffled in his absence. it’s fucking intoxicating, in a way he hasn’t been able to manufacture with chemical substances. what’s left of his biological nervous system crackles with static; the mech-engineered nerves feel like they’re sparking, hot little lances of pain. yeah, he loves it. loves you. whatever. loves the way that you hiccup when your eyes finally fall on him, the tension rippling out of your shoulders in relief only to come rolling back in when you remember that he’s a fuckin’ monster. loves the way you start warbling again, tripping over your words when you try to convince him that you’re so grateful for his return. it isn’t till the next time he’s called away that he figures it out. he’s amused, at first — like he always is — at the way you beg him not to leave, promising him you’ll be good, pleading with him to take you with him. amused, and pleased, and more turned on than he has time for right now. mockingly — not expecting a real answer — he asks what has you so needy for a universe-killer’s company. you don’t want to tell him. universe-killer rocket has a laugh that curdles your insides: sarcastic, taunting, gleeful. you fully expect it to be wielded in your direction if you admit why you need him to stay, to keep you with him. it’s a laugh that slices through you, that always seems to show you in no uncertain terms jyst how vulnerable you really are, and you’ve no desire to have it turned toward you once more. but — you’ve also been under his thumb too long to disobey. so, hiccuping and hyperventilating around mouthfuls of tears — you tell him anyway.

CLINGEE: he’ll never forget the way his heart drops, sickening and gutted and hollow, certain you’ve been traumatized or wounded — maybe even mortally. he all but lunges at you, gripping his prickling claws into your upper arms, hauling you upright so he can check you over. you look unharmed— for all that your breath is hitching and hiccupy. your fingers plunge into his fur and curl, anchoring yourself to him like you’re daring doom’s chronoverses to try and tear you away again. his nose flares, but he can’t pick up the scent of any blood; his ears prick, but your heart sounds mostly normal, if far too fast. he asks what’s wrong, what happened, if you’re okay; you try to respond — at least, he thinks you do — but all your words are a wreckage of broken gasps. later, he’ll stay up for rotations on end. he’d previously been working on some better weapons — some tech that could maybe help stabilize some of the secondary chronoverses, too. but after today, he’ll redirect his time and energy into making something that can keep you two together. because what happens if you get pulled somewhere without him? and you panic like this, where there’s no-one good enough to take care of you? to protect you and look out for you? no. wherever you go — whenever you go — he goes too. that’s just how it’s gotta be. but for now — in this moment — he has to deal with the gasping, wrenching, gutting agony of your anxiety attack. too bad he’s no good at it. injuries he can handle — but as much as he’d love to console you right now, he’s trash at this emotional stuff. so he tries to get up, to go find someone who might actually know how to be comforting. but your fingers knot in his, big teary eyes begging wordlessly: stay. he’s never really thought of himself as a pushover before, but here he is: wrapped around you, petting you, holding you tight. trying to help you slow your breathing. muttering into your skin: yeah, yeah. okay. i’m here, sweetheart. i’ll stay.

CLINGER: this rocket is the rocket that takes the healthiest approach to your separation anxiety. not because he’s got any emotional intelligence, mind you. just chalk it up to his .976 optimum intuitive grasp. or his infamous, innate skill for strategy. or something. it’s a bumpy start, though. as a rule, rocket doesn’t bother trying to learn new crewmates’ names. the original guardians can barely stand to stick together for more than a quarter at a time — most of the new ones don’t last half that long. and stronger earthers than you — kitty, ben — have ended up tucking tail and going home to their backwater mudball far sooner than rocket would have liked. so combine that with his own reluctance to develop relationships — not to mention pete tryin’ to flarkin’ strongarm rocket into showing you around the ship — and he’s got a healthy dose of resentment already brewing by the time he realizes you’ve, like, bonded to him or something. …sucks to be you, he thinks. you’ve gone an developed some sort of attachment issue to the one grizmod on the ship who’d rather be alone. he manages to stoically ignore you at first. and to your credit, you don’t kick up a fuss about it. you simply find your own grizz to do, lingering in his periphery like an annoyingly-endearing shadow. you never seem to demand his attention — nothing more than a nod, a shy smile, the occasional offer of coffee. it isn’t till the guardians undergo one of their annual krutackin’ break-ups that he realizes how much trouble you’re in. the truth is that all the guardians — with the exception of you and groot — are prone to throwing temper tantrums when they don’t get their way. and yeah, that includes rocket himself — and he knows it, though he’ll never admit it out loud. In the middle of this particular fight, gamora storms off in the only working escape pod, and drax demands to be let off at the next spaceport, and frankly — rocket yells — pete better be plannin’ on hitching a ride there too, because rocket’s put in too many hours working on this gorgeous ship to give it up for a manipulative brat like flarkin’ star-lord. and nobody — not even groot — notices how hard you’re trying to bend over backward, to get them to talk, to try to make a little peace between them all. later, rocket remembers it. your teary eyes, the way you’d practically started hyperventilating when gamora had left — you pupils dilating in panic. he remembers it. he thinks about it. he can’t stop turning it over in his head. halfway through the sleepshift he gives up on rest and makes his way back to the cockpit, intent on flying them that much closer to a place where they can split up — trying to figure out what the flark he’s gonna do with you. give you to pete, till the next time they get back together? it’s the smart decision, but it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. pete’s a little safer than rocket. less likely to take risks, maybe. less prickly, certainly. though k’ythri only knows what will happen if the grizmod gets it into his head to seduce you — which is another thought that puts rocket’s sharp incisors on edge. all these tangled thoughts are the reason why rocket’s so distracted that he doesn’t even notice you in the copilot’s seat until he’s almost sitting down next to you. it makes him jump, and he never flarkin’ jumps. for sharra’s sake, he almost yelps. what the krutack are you doin’ here? you blink up at him with bleary eyes and salt on your cheeks. a divot’s carved between your eyes, and your lips tremble and purse. sorry, you croak, your voice all throaty and hoarse like you’ve been sobbing. something stupid wrenches in his chest. he scrubs at his manufactured sternum uselessly, so distracted — again — that he almost misses it when you tell him you’re leaving.

CLINGEE: wait, rocket says impulsively, as you begin shuffling yourself out of the seat. just — just flarkin’ hold on. he pinches the bridge of his nose. look. are you… all right? you stare at him blankly. you look like the saddest krutackin’ thing in the universe. yeah, you whisper after a moment. i’m fine. i just have a headache. you turn, and he finds himself calling out again. wait. uh — you know where the headache meds are? he ends up getting them for you. meds. a cup of water. he gruffly encourages you to sit. and he asks. what’s goin’ on? why are you so worked up? it’s nothing to freak out about, he tells you. splitting up is something the guardians do with more regularity than breaking the law or saving the galaxy. they all just need some time to cool off. they’ll be back. they always are. your pretty eyes start leaking again as he talks, and he kinda wants to strangle himself. he’s even tempted to try it. but instead, he does what he does best. he strategizes. before you know it, he’s steadying you. distracting you. not well, but enough that your tears come slower. less often. and once he’s sure you’re asleep, he’s sending a transmission to gamora. i don’t care how pissed you are, he snaps into the holorecording. you don’t walk off again like that without talking to the new kid first. and you need to comm ‘em first thing in the wakeshift. every first wakeshift for as long as you’re gone. regular, steady contact. you understand? a growl. you owe me, gams. drax and pete wake up right as gamora happens to comm him back. rocket’s grateful you’re still sleeping — worn out, he assumes, by yesterday’s distress. listen, he says. he has to grimace around the sour taste of his pride as he swallows it down. for you. listen. i still hate you all. lie. but i’ve hated you before, and we still managed to pull ourselves together to save the universe or whatever. this is — this is just as important. of course, everyone agrees. soon, they’ve got a whole scheme worked out. regular solo-missions for the foreseeable future, one at a time, starting out with contracts that will only require a few hours apart and gradually growing longer. plans for each guardian to talk with you about goodbye rituals and keeping in contact with you during their absences. increasing independence. it’s a flexible plan — responsive to your needs, while balancing the expectations of their good paying customers. flexible, but steady. reliable. stable. probably more stable than anything they’ve ever tried to do before. which means, rocket thinks with a sigh, that they’re bound to flark it up. but for you, they’re willing to try. together. and so is he.