He's pretty decent at it, layers, trim, buzz, 3.5 stars all around
I can just imagine him saying
"hold still" "Hold still!"
"Sit up straight you're tilting!"
"groan* I said hold Still!!!"
And you weren't doing anything besides breathing, or answering him,
Speaking of> he loves to gabber on and on with you like this and fill each other in on the gossip around the ship or just catch up with you and find out how you've been, disguised as just doing you a favor,
He sometimes likes to play music and hum along or play a movie in the background to listen to and look at every so often,
He does tug sometimes by accident "ouch." "oh, sorry."
He actually enjoys playing around with hairstyles too like hair clips, bows, braids, ribbons, but HE WILL KILL YOU if you tell anyone quill or dracks
He will joke about ruining your hair but he'd never actually do it, because in his eyes that's too far and disrespectful,
When you're done he'll pat your shoulders with a "okay you don't look completely homeless now" / "okay now get outta here kid" if you pout at him or drop your head disappointedly "sigh* you look nice"
Groot might make an appearance wondering where you guys are, he likes to watch and eat snacks or take a nap on your lap under the cape, he's also a sweetheart and will share while neither of you can use your hands.
A/n I wrote this last night when i should've been sleeping. Hope you like it 😊😄
[new 8/2] ❤︎❤︎
oneshot masterlist | main masterlist
fluff ✮ | spice ✩ | some smut ❤︎ | much smut ❤︎❤︎
18+ only MDNI | no use of y/n | f!reader | oneshot | word count: 12,973.
rocket laments building the bowie with such thin walls between bunks. ie, you haven’t been able to get off in a while, and your neighbor knows it. see warnings below.
Rocket’s not thinking. His low-light vision is hungrily licking up the gleam of your shins and your shoulders and your hair — your big shocked eyes all shiny, your lips swollen and bitten and slick. Your panties are still slightly askew and he can see how soaked they are from here: the silken shine of wetness on the inside of your thighs, the puffy outline of that soft, bratty little cunt of yours.
“R-Rocket?”
Chest heaving, he leaps onto your bunk, clawed hand cuffing your pretty ankle and yanking. Your breath whuffs out of your lungs as he heaves you off the pile of pillows and down onto your back: t-shirt rumpling up under your shoulderblades and tits, hair splaying like a flower behind your head as he hauls you toward him. Your eyes are all glossy and baffled and maybe a little scared, and that pierces through his glaze of need and greed and wild fury for a second. It’s not your fault you have the worst-behaved little pussy in the galaxy. He reaches out to you and grips your chin, leathery fingers squishing your cheeks just a little, claws denting the flesh — but not cutting.
“I’m gonna help you out with your little problem. ‘Kay?”
When you just stare at him mutely, eyes all big and confused and kinda frightened, he grunts and crouches and reaches for your wet panties with his other hand, tapping unerringly against your clothed clit.
“This one, sweetheart. Okay?”
Your eyes flicker — he can’t read with what — and your face grows hot under his fingers. He waits, teeth gritted, muscle twitching in his jaw, nose flared and breathing in the scent of you, wet and needy.
Hesitantly, you nod.
･:*𑁍 read more on ao3 𑁍*:･
oneshot masterlist | main masterlist
WARNINGS: absolutely plotless smut. pining, angst, far too much sexual frustration. fingering, spanking and pussy slapping, begging, cunnilingus, praise/degradation, crying, overstim. variations on "slut" and "brat" (affectionate), pet names like "sweetheart," "princess," etc. i scaled back the number of orgasms but it's still a pretty unlikely number for an average humie. i apologize for my sins
lace divider by @/v6que
titlecard & support/mdni banners by me!
Summary: Long from home, the ship's air conditioner breaks, resulting in hallucination-inducing heat. Your obvious crush on Rocket doesn't make things any better.
Warnings: Inspired by a series of TMNT fics I did a while back, sexual innuendo, dirty talk, degradation, praise, illness from excessive heat, daydreaming/hallucinating, suggestive situations, sexual tension, judgment impaired by arousal, fem!reader, non specified species!reader, humanoid/anthro!reader, takes place between vol. 2 and infinity war
You were so dizzy, melting into the sofa, sprawled out with no regard for anyone else's comfort. Your head rested against Mantis's leg, while your legs invaded Drax's bubble, not that he minded. His people didn't really understand the concepts of personal space anyhow. You were all in this boat though, Gamora splayed out on the floor as it was the coolest surface in the ship. With this heat, all there was to do to bear it was strip down to the littlest clothing possible before becoming indecent and napping to make the time pass quicker.
"C'mon, you guys, cheer up," Peter forced a cheerful tone from the cockpit. "Rocket said he should be finished with the repairs on the AC tomorrow."
"Thank God," you groaned, pinching the fabric of your tanktop to unstick it from your chest. "I can't take this shit anymore."
"Yeah, I'm so sweaty, it feels like I showered in my clothes." Mantis agreed from above you, doing the same and wiggling all over to have her shirt sit right.
"But you didn't," Drax gave her a lead-poisoned stare. "I have been watching you for hours and you haven't moved, let alone gone to shower." The empath's head very slowly turned towards him, her glare and pursed lips screaming that she was done with his nonsense.
"Ya know," the captain called again. "If you're hot, just think how Rocket feels. It's probably way hotter down there in the boiler, plus he's covered in fur."
"I am Groot." The sapling said, raising his head off Gamora's chest as she nodded, agreeing with him.
"I don't care that fur is like insulation, if you're hot, he's hot. And I don't see any of you trying to help him, so stop whining." Peter's light reprimand, admittedly had pulled on your heartstrings a bit. It was awfully nice of Rocket to fix the AC all by himself, even if he was the only one with the know-how to do it.
"He's right," you sighed, begrudgingly tearing yourself off the sofa, your exposed skin having stuck to it. Finally separated from the mound of leather and flesh, you stumbled over to the kitchenette and threw open the fridge before grabbing a few bottles of water. "Rocket might need some help, I'll go check on him."
-----
You had never been in this part of the ship before, slinking through halls and around protruding pipes and fixtures. It was much hotter down here, closer to the water heating systems. You had to halt for a moment, pressing your hand to the wall for stability as you hunched a bit. If you were already feeling faint, you couldn't imagine how Rocket was feeling. For all you knew, he could have passed out and nobody would have known.
Suddenly you began to make out a distant, distorted racket that echoed and reverberated against every surface. It sounded almost...melodic? Following as it became louder, it led you to a warm light that streamed out from beyond a closed door. You halted for a moment, now being able to separate the noise, which you now recognized as a voice, singing lazily. Rocket never sang in front of people and you almost felt perverted as you listened to his rendition of Silver's 'Wham Bam Shang-A-Lang'. "Now that it's said and we both understand," he softly crooned, voice carrying to far reaches. "Let's say our goodbyes before it gets out of hand."
Inhaling sharply, you finally found it in you to grip the door handle and let yourself in. Orange light flooded out of the small room and the music became as clear as it was going to get, loud enough to conceal the sound of the door opening. Your heart skipped a beat at the sight of him.
Everyone had always been able to tell you were sweet on Rocket, and you'd never done much to hide the fact but seeing him now, bathed in marigold neon, laid flat on his back up underneath a large fixture...shirtless- it was too much for you. His fur was slicked against his chest from sweat and his jumpsuit was tied loosely on his hips, revealing much more of him than you ever could have been prepared to see. Adding to that his admittedly lovely, gruff singing voice, the scene was a recipe for an upset tummy.
Deciding you couldn't handle this, you silently tried to back out of the room, eyes trained on him like a deer in headlights. You may have gotten away with it, had one of the water bottles not fallen from the crook of your elbow, alerting him to your presence. Instantly, he rolled out from under the machine, set down his tools, and sat up, staring at you. "(Y/N), what are you doing down here?"
Now that you could see his face, you were in even worse shape. The white stripes on his cheeks were smeared with grease, whiskers crumpled, and fur unkempt. He looked incredibly rugged- more so than usual. "Hello? Knowwhere to (Y/N)?" he croaked again and waved a hand in front of him, voice hoarse from unrestricted use. "You okay?"
At last, you shook out of your trance, flustered to hell and back, and eagerly swooped down to grab the bottle. "Y-Yeah, I'm great! You're just really hot!" Rocket stared at you for a second, waiting for you to correct yourself before owning the compliment and mocking you for it. Obviously, you didn't take the hint, so that was his cue.
"Well thanks, dollface," he smirked, standing up and sauntering over to the doorway, taking the dropped bottle from you before popping off the cap and chugging it. About halfway through, he stopped with a deep, relieved sigh. "I always thought I was pretty hot but it's still nice to hear it from someone else." That's when your stomach dropped, realizing what you'd said. Time to backtrack.
"Oh my God, no!" you gasped, once again dropping what you were holding to slap your hands to your face. "I don't think you're hot!" Rocket looked at you quizzically, hand on hip. "I-I mean I do think you're attractive, b-but not in a weird way! More like a friend way!"
"Uh-huh," he teased, crossing his arms and leaning on the doorframe. "Friend attraction's the best kind, ya know? And don't sweat it, Quill says I'm hot all the time."
"Rocket, please..." you finally gave in, physically crumbling. "I meant like- you're probably getting hot down here and I wanted to bring you something to drink."
"I know, dollface, I'm just yankin' your chain." he laughed, pushing off the wall and walking back farther into the room to sit on a bucket. "I needed a break anyway, thanks princess."
"Princess...?"
"What?"
"N-Nothing!" You finally let out a sigh of relief, following a bit closer and sitting on the floor. "So how's it coming?" you asked, uncapping your own bottle after passing him the last one.
"Well, I've identified the problem, but I don't got the right parts to fix it. Good news is, I think I was able to work up a temporary replacement that should at least get us back to Knowwhere. I know if we can just get home, I can get a brand new part for cheap-" You weren't sure when, but at some point, you'd stopped listening, mind and eyes wandering.
" Ah, fuck, (Y/N), easy! Yeah, j-just like that, keep movin' just like that for me princess..."
"Are you even listening?" Rocket's annoyed tone brought you out of your daydream. You must have zoned out without realizing it, how embarrassing. "Jeez, you're hopeless, ya know that?" He chided, standing up and grabbing a rag to wipe his hands on.
"Sorry..." you slumped shamefully before trailing him as he got back into position. "H-Hey, is there anything I can do to help you out?"
"Hmm," he paused, laying back down on the creeper, ready to roll back under the unit. "I guess you can keep me company, hand me tools," he proposed, disappearing under the machine. Suddenly his voice dropped an octave, words echoed against metallic surfaces that made you freeze. "I know my girl is very good with my tools."
You squeaked at his sudden turn in demeanor, falling on your behind and scrambling away from him. "W-What?!"
Rocket rolled back out, propping up on an elbow, eyeing you with concern. "What, what'd I say?" he asked frantically. "What's up with you?"
"Y-You said-" you stammered, not even comfortable with repeating what you heard. "Y-You said...I'm g-good with your tools!"
He looked at you like you were the biggest moron he'd ever met. "Well, yeah?" he chastised. "You help me in my shop all the time, so I know you know which ones are which. You're good at knowing which ones to hand me." Your chest heaved as he once again returned to his position, reaching his hand out. His small fingers curled, a sign for you to hand something over. "Gimme that ratchet." Quickly, you placed it in his hand, before clicking open the socket set.
"What size socket?"
"Twelve millimeter." He answered, settling the tool on his stomach to use both hands for whatever he was doing. Scanning the set, you plucked out the shallow twelve millimeter piece and set it on his chest, waiting for him to grab it. He did and growled in dismay, giving it back.
"No, princess," he corrected, gasping through clenched teeth. "Need it deep."
"You...w-what?" you carefully asked, feeling incredibly dizzy and unable to discern truth from hallucination.
"I need the deep twelve millimeter, not the shallow one." Rocket scolded, giving a frustrated sigh as he listened to you scramble for the correct piece, profusely apologizing all the while. Finally, you found the right one, presenting it to him just in time for him to roll out from under the fixture again. "Okay, dollface," he titled his head, worried. "What's your deal?"
"Deal? There's no deal!" you played dumb, laughing nervously, hoping he'd just drop it. "I'm fine, really!"
You went rigid, watching him silently creep closer to you, unsure if this was real or not. Finally, he placed a paw against your cheek and whispered in close: "You're burnin' up, baby."
"Rocket, I don't feel good." you stated abruptly. "I-I think something's wrong with me."
"I'll say," he cooed, dragging his knuckles down the side of your face. "How about you let me change that, hmm?" The world around you began to blur, and all you could make out were his words. You understood that his hands were on you, but you couldn't say where; you couldn't feel it, you couldn't even see clearly. "Yeah, baby just lay down, lemme do all the work." He soothed seductively. "Let daddy take care of you, 'kay, (Y/N)?"
That last word, it was your name, right? He kept repeating it, like a broken record, and suddenly all the gruffness left his voice. You listened as intently as you could, hearing it morph from lustful to monotone, and then increasingly more worried- desperate even. "(Y/N)!" There it was again.
Slowly, as his voice became more clear, the cloudiness in your vision dissipated and your senses began to return. Your cheek burned against hot metal, and you could feel patting on your face. A figure hovered over you, close enough to breathe on you. "Goddamnit, (Y/N), wake up!"
"R-Rocket...?" you stuttered, recognizing the figure. "What's going on...?"
"Nevermind that," he hushed. "Lay back down," Suddenly, he turned away from you, yelling out the door, presumably to the oncoming footsteps stampeding down the hall. "In here!" Your eyelids began to get heavy as the world began to fall away again. The last thing you remember was being lifted into the air by a second, hulking figure, then nothing.
-----
You awoke in your bunk, arctic air breezing by your face. What had happened, how did you get here? Where was Rocket? Your fingers twitched, sore from lack of use and the tips of them caught the sensation of something foreign. Multiple fibers connected to one source, soft in mass but wirey when you singled one out. Letting your hand travel up the organism, you froze, realizing you'd answered one of your questions. Glancing down, you found Rocket, curled in a ball at your side. That was odd, you did share a room, but Rocket never slept in your bunk.
Your movements must have roused him as he stirred under your touch, slowly unfurling himself and stretching out. "You're up," he noted, smiling a bit. "You'll be happy to know the AC is fixed."
Now that you took notice of it, the room was cooler, cold even. "Wow," you yawned, smiling back sleepily. "How long was I out for?"
"About eight hours," he copied, yawning as a reaction to seeing you do the same. You halted a moment, confused.
"Wait, I thought you said it'd take you another day to fix it?" you rubbed sleep from your eye waiting for his explaination.
"Nothin' an all nighter couldn't fix." He laughed exhaustedly, curling back up into your side. You'd usually question his sudden cuddliness, but it made your bed that much cozier. "Honestly, your little heatstroke..." his voice softened a bit. "It scared me a little. I was worried about ya."
"Heatstroke..." you repeated. "That makes so much sense," At least now you had an explanation for all those hallucinations from earlier. Though you were glad to be well again, Rocket's attention was nice, even if it was all in your head. "That explains me hearing and seeing things that weren't there down in the boiler. Sorry for acting so weird.." you confessed sheepishly.
"Don't be sorry," he chuckled cockily, eyes peacefully resting. "We'll definitely be having a lengthy, private conversation about all that after I catch up on some sleep." Your stomach dropped at that, imagining all the terrible outcomes that could result from said conversation. "And for the record, dollface, I do think you're very good at handling my tools, ya know," he smirked, nuzzling your ear. "When you follow directions."
Your stomach did flips as your head began to feel heavy again. "I-I must still be hallucinating...I swear I just heard you say-"
Imagine a distant relationship with Rocket then finally meeting.
So i was annoyed with myself on how i never get to the point and i just write so much that isn't THAT important, sooo i wrote another one that actually gets to the point, sorry if you guys were liking the parts, but i was getting desperate. I can't write chapters cause then i get writer's block, so i stick to just simple stories. Anyways, hope you enjoy!
--------------
You laid on your bed, an half an hour has passed as you talked to Rocket. Everything was going well and it looked like it was going to be a good night.
"So how is everyone?"
"Eh, they're fine. Quill's still annoying, Gamora still keeps to herself. Groot's being a teenager while Drax and Mantis are doing whatever."
You giggles because no matter how many times he rants about them being annoying, it's obvious he has a big soft spot for each and every one of them. You sighed and smiled.
"Okay, well how are you?"
"I'm okay."
"Why are you not fantastic or amazing?
"I don't know.." He mumbled.
"Are you sure you're okay babe?"
He sighed. "I'm fine."
"You don't sound fine-"
"I said im fine!" He raised his voice. He rarely raised his voice to you.
You blinkwd and stared confusely.
"..okay"
·
·
·
"I'm sorry, i didn't mean that."
You nodded as if he could see you. "No it's okay.. Is this about what we were talking about earlier?"
"(Y/N).."
"It's just.. It's been 7 months since we've started dating and i just want to meet you already."
"I know, I'm just.."
"You're just what?"
"... Scared."
You chuckled, "what are you scared of? I don't bite. If it has to do with the distance, i can just buy a ticket and meet up with you in Missouri, it's no big deal-"
"I'm not in Missouri."
"Oh. Well then where are you?"
He sighed again but he sounded frustrated.
"In space. "
You laughed loudly. "Yeah, sure you're in space, now c'mon. Stop playing, where are you?"
He huffed. "I already flarkin told you!"
"Rocket stop playing! Where are you?"
"I'm not playing! I really am in space! Can't you understand that?"
You were taken back.
"Okay, whatever! If you're really in space then come see me right now."
"I can't-"
"Yes you can. Come to me. Please Rocket."
"I-.. (Y/N).. There's something else."
You threw your hands in the air. "Something else?? Don't tell me you're an alien too"
"I guess you can say that.. I'm not human." He whispered so silently, but you heard it.
You just stared at the your transmitter. You didn't move. You couldn't breathe. What is going on? Was he playing around? Is this his cruel way of wanting to break up with you or something? Was this relationship a lie?
Your mind raced and jump to conclusions that was gave you so much anxiety. You we're shaking.
After what felt like for hours..
"... I'm coming." His end turned off.
You gasped and ran to your bathroom.
'This is happening. It's finally happening."
You weren't sure if you should be excited or nervous. If he's not human, then what is he?
You made yourself took a little more presentable, that's when you saw a big flashing light outside your window. You ran towards your door and reached towards the nob. You froze.
"What if.."
You shook your head, and opened the door. A small pod landed, making dirt clouds around you. You stood at a good distance and waited.
And waited.
Finally the pod opened and all you could see was darkness.
You took a few steps forward. "Rocket?"
Finally he walked out, or in this case, he hopped out.
You lowered your gaze. He was right.. He wasn't human he was-
"A raccoon?"
He flinched. He hated that word. But that's what he was.
"(Y/N) I-.. I'm so sorry i lied to you. I'll understand if you just want to- oof!"
You pulled him into a tight hug and kissed his forehead.
"Don't be silly.. I'm not ending us, i just wanted to know who i was talking to this whole time." You pulled slightly away just to get a better look at him.
"I love you." You blured out.
He just chuckled. "Yeah.. Me too."
------------
I hope you guys enjoyed, and trust me! I'm getting to the request! There are a few that i will not be doing, so I'm sorry if you don't see yours! Anyways thanks for all the love amd support!
i write about raccoon sense of touch a lot [this kinda spicy rumination] and i think about it a lot
like two-thirds of a raccoon’s sensory perception area in the cerebral cortex is just… focused entirely on interpreting tactile data. their fingers have whiskers (okay, vibrissae) so they can identify objects without even making paw-contact. their hands become hypersensitive when wet (lord). if they identify things with their paws, they can remember them for up to/around a year without touching them again.
so yeah, when you press a kiss to rocket’s palm, it damn near lights up his whole brain. holding hands? palm-to-palm? it’s so intimate that he’s probably absolutely scarlet under all that fur. he probably thinks it feels like you might as well be reading his mind. he memorizes you the same way he memorizes every gun he takes apart and every bomb he puts together.
i suppose this means he thinks mostly in tactile sensation, too. when he’s imagining you, it’s less about the color of your hair (assuming the high evolutionary’s made sure he can see the same color-range as humans, anyway). it’s not about the clarity of your eyes, or how you’d looked with the sun haloing you that morning on xandar when he’d first let you touch his shoulder. nope. when rocket thinks about you, it’s how warm your hands are, every little soft pillow and rasping callus on your palm and fingertips. the brush of them through his fur, every one of his little hairs standing on end in its follicle. it's the shape of the bones in your wrists from that time he traced them into memory.
similarly, rocket doesn’t remember lylla’s liquid-dark eyes so much as the silkiness of her pelt, the cool graze of her vibranium-alloy hands. the delicate touch of the damp fabric on his forehead that very first day, and the squeeze of her arms on the very last.
and so, the natural outcome of all this is that he dreams in touch, too. it’s not the silver flash of scalpels and the blood on the ground — it’s not even the gunshots and floor’s desperate pleading and his own wails, or the scent of laser-burnt fur and blood — though of course those are all there too. it’s the pain he dreams of: feeling it fresh in his body, every incision and broken bone and careless laser-stitch, every screw and metal plate soldered in. it’s not the lights for their white-brightness; it’s the tearful squinting squeeze of his eyes, the burning in his pinpoint-pupils. it’s the way lylla’s body had buckled and loosened, and pulled from his arms to the ground by gravity — the last of her warmth wisping through his fingers, already a ghost between the cold arête cages. it’s the plummet in his own belly — that terrible twisting knot that dropped when his first family did, and never ever stopped.
all that pain. it’s so much. it’s so much to make up for.
for a nonnie who asks the important questions
navigation | the eidos collection | main masterlist
spice | no use of y/n | gn reader | oneshot | word count: 1,684.
you're not quite as good as rocket when it comes to braiding. luckily, he's a kind and benevolent soul who just wants to give you the chance to improve. or, you accidentally seduce rocket. he intentionally seduces you back. WARNINGS: general suggestiveness, lil bit of pining on your part. eidos-rocket is a bossy little shit and calls you buttercup x2. this is pure lighthearted fun & doesn’t delve into the inner workings of rocket’s trust-issues and angst.
brave nonnie asked, do you have any headcanons for Eidos Rocket with an S/O? and the answer is too many and also why am i like this.
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“Hey.”
You’d looked up, startled that he was talking to you. You’d been curled up on the mustard-yellow sofa, catching up on one of drax’s favorite dramas on a holopad, and you’d been careful not to look up when Rocket had entered the space and plopped down on the couch across from you. The fact that he’d been out here at all — willing to share space with you — had seemed like something of a miracle, and you’d had to fight every instinct to not steal surreptitious glances out of your periphery. He’d been in a suit — broad shoulders and a narrow waist, the plume of his tail as ridiculously thick and fluffy as always — carefully rebraiding his beard.
“How’s this look?”
You’d hesitated, squinting one eye and screwing up the corner of your mouth. “You look good,” you’d admitted, and he’d preened.
“Got a hot date,” he’d informed you smugly, and it had made something in your belly plummet low. It hadn’t even been anything new — Rocket had been going out as long as you’d known him, whenever the Milano had docked somewhere that had allowed for it. Still, the prospect of dealing with him the next day, after he’d thoroughly enjoyed yet another apparently-meaningless one-night-stand? The idea of watching him smirk smugly for hours while he accused everyone else of needing to get laid? It had made your vagus nerve twist miserably. You’d wished you could roll your eyes at yourself without him misinterpreting the look.
You’ve got to get over this stupid crush of yours.
“Cool,” you’d said aloud, weakly. “Have fun.”
He’d been the one who’d ended up rolling his eyes — still at your expense — and you’d decided to live vicariously through his disdainful expression. "The beard okay?” he’d asked, persistent.
You’d leaned forward, hinging at the waist to see better. It had looked a bit asymmetrical — like one side had been braided a little more tightly than the other — and once you’d begun studying it, you’d been able to see a few threads of glossy fur that had crimped up and escaped between the beads. You’d gestured with your own hands to your chin.
“It’s not quite as neat as it usually is,” you’d admitted, and to be honest, it had given you a frisson of concern. He’d always been obsessive about his fur: brushing out his tail with quick deft fingers whenever he thought there might be a bit of debris in it, making sure his goggles didn’t damage the soft velvet pile at the base of his ears. Distractedly finger-combing the ruff at his throat and cheeks throughout the day, probably without even realizing it. He’d been particularly meticulous about the goatee — intentional in a way that had immediately endeared him even further to you. He’d always kept the silky-looking beard immaculate, and you can’t remember ever seeing even a hair out of place on it, outside of the occasional firefight — and even that had been rare.
His lip had curled in something between a snarl and a grimace. “Mirror in my room got broken in that last tangle with the Badoon,” he’d admitted. “I’ve been trying to do it without seeing.” He’d begun loosening the little braid, about to make another attempt.
You’d hesitated, then cautiously set aside the holopad. “Let me?”
You’d braced yourself for some loud, derisive comment, already wincing — but he’d been silent. When you’d dared to look across at him, he’d been sizing you up, one eye half-squinted and both of them dark and inscrutable.
“Okaaay,” he’d said slowly. “Yeah, okay.” A scowl and a dismissive wave of one clawed hand. “Don’t flark it up.”
You’d risen cautiously, keeping your eyes on his chin — afraid you’d lose your nerve if you’d looked anywhere else. Without thinking, you’d gently nudged his knees apart with your own, and dropped down between them. The foam pad on the floor had given you a little bit of protection from the duranium plating underneath, but you hadn’t bothered trying to get comfortable. Instead, you’d focused on sliding your hands between his own, gently loosening them from where they’d gone still in his beard. You’d slid the beads aside and placed them carefully in his palm, trying to ignore the heated-leather of his hand brushing your fingertips. Then you’d gently — almost reverently — unlaced the braid. The strands had been so silky and glossy, cool as water flowing over your fingers. This close, you’d been able to smell him: the gingery scent of burnt everbloom, a whiff of iron. Something like cedar and black pepper.
Oh, you’d thought, trying not to pout. He's going to make his date drool.
You try not to be the jealous sort but, it had seemed so unfair. You’d gotten butterflies just because he’d been willing to tolerate your presence enough to be in the same room with you. Meanwhile, he’d seemed unmoved by you in any way — vacillating only between a distant acceptance of your occasional accidental displays of affection and admiration, and utter, debilitating annoyance.
Debilitating for you, anyway.
It hadn’t been that you hadn’t wanted him to go out — not exactly. You’d wanted him to have fun, to be happy, to enjoy people and drinks and whatever. You’d only wished that the prospect of him spending the night with someone else hadn’t made your heart turn over so forlornly in your chest.
The stupid organ had thought it was an abandoned kitten at a shelter, mewing for a home.
God, you’d thought suddenly. What if he brings his date back to get laid?
You’d released a miserable little sigh without meaning to, your breath fanning gently over the silk of his beard and his mouth. You’d seen his lips part over a brief flash of sharp teeth — then close and tighten — and you’d tried to ignore the knot of misery in your belly while you’d smoothed the strands into three sections, stroking them until they’d been sleek as satin ribbon. Tenderly — careful not to pull — you’d begun to weave the sections together, nice and even.
You’d braided it all the way to the end, to help the beads slide on more smoothly — a wooden one that looked remarkably like Groot, a red sphere, and two black nuts. You’d plucked them like berries from where he’d set them on the cushion at his side. Tying the tail with the tiny clear elastic had been the most difficult part — you’d been so worried about tugging too hard — and then you’d eased the bottom two nuts down to cover the tie before carefully combing out the ends with your fingers, rumpling the loose strands free of the braid. Leaning back, you’d braced your hands on his thighs and eyed your work critically.
“It’s not quite as good as it usually is,” you’d admitted, ribs all tight and guilty on your lungs, “but it’s better than what you had just now.”
When you’d glanced up at the rest of his face, your breath had tangled into a gasp. His eyes had been hot and dark, roving over you. The ghost of surprise had still been gleaming in them, but if he’d been stunned when you’d dropped yourself to your knees between his thighs, that shock — along with the tooth-gritting frustration and confusion and conflict that he’d been silently grappling with since the first mission he’d shared with you — had mostly faded in the wake of something infinitely more focused and intent.
After all, an opportunity had fallen — well, not in his lap so much as directly between his thighs — but he’d never been one to check a free ship for a serial number.
“Well,” he’d said, his voice low and drawling, dripping like half-crystallized maple syrup all over your skin, “maybe you just need more practice, buttercup.”
Which is probably how you find yourself a few cycles later, tucked inside Rocket’s bunk, sprawled over his belly in the curve of his hammock: trying to comb through the satiny threads while his claws prickle against the skin of your shoulderblade.
“Focus,” he says, and snickers when you jolt under the sharp tickle of his claws. He’s leaning back against his other hand and forearm, tilting his chin up while he looks down the sides of his face at you with glinting, teasing eyes.
“You’re distracting me,” you protest, fingers shaking as you try to divide the lengths of silken fur into even sections. Your eyes blur when the leathery pads of his fingers slip delicately under the edge of your tanktop, coasting against your skin. It’s a struggle not to squirm against him — a fight that you must be losing, based on the growing grin in the corner of his mouth.
“You’re distracting me,” he mimics, pitching his voice into something far more whiny than is fair. You scowl. “How are you gonna get better at this if we don’t increase the difficulty-level? C’mon,” he adds, finding that spot next to your spine that always makes you arch when he presses insistently against the muscle, “M’not even using both hands.”
You glower at him, but the look falls apart when he massages his fingers into that spot again. A shudder runs from the nape of your neck to the small of your back — an inhale catching and rattling in your lungs, so sudden you feel it in the back of your throat — and your hips buck against him without your conscious permission. Heat pools in your abdomen and your cheeks, radiant. You wrangle up all your self-control to attempt a glare.
“Aww,” he jeers. “You’re flarkin’ cute when you pout.”
“Be nice.” You try to sound firm — commanding. “I’m the one with the power, here.” To make your point, you tug gently on the silk strands woven between your fingers.
But Rocket just grins at you lazily, whiskey-dark eyes hooded and warm. “That’s a laugh.”
His fingers dive deep into that muscle again, making you gasp and crumple against him. He doesn’t seem to mind that you’ve just pulled harder than intended on the lengthy strands of fur at his chin. Then his hand is coasting up the valley of your spine — claws dancing and teasing, leaving threads of fire and chills in their wake. The hot ribbons of desire in your abdomen suddenly feel braided themselves: twisted together and tightening, beaded with arousal.
“Just ‘cause you’re on top doesn’t mean you’re in charge,” he gloats. “And I got it on good authority that you like it when I’m a little mean.” His hand sweeps up to anchor to the back of your throat: not squeezing, just resting the warm weight of his palm there, fingers collaring the sides of your neck in a way that makes a shiver run the length of your spine again. His grin widens and his eyes grow smoky and heated.
“Now get back to work, buttercup.”
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rocket raccoon prompt week ✷ day seven
home ✷.⁺⋆˚₊
fluff | no use of yn | gn reader | drabble | word count: 661.
Home had been a shining city on the far horizon for most of Rocket’s formative years: distant and gleaming under an impossible blossom-blue dome. Unreachable. Untouchable. He’d left any hope of it behind, a dozen cannon-shots or more before he’d ever even stepped foot off the Arête. No. Rocket had gone straight from the cages and right into his escape pod, out into a sky that had suddenly seemed much less beautiful and much more forever.
And so home had always been a far-away thing, a thing he could never go back to, a thing that — like love, like peace, like a restful night’s sleep or body that didn’t hurt — Rocket could simply never have. A thing that hadn’t been meant for him. Like the screws slowly grinding away at his bones or the muscle contractures he’s always fighting in his hips and chest, home had just become another old ache that he’d grown to barely notice, except when he’s on a planet where the weather is bad.
And then, one shift — when it was just you and him — he’d been trying to work the knots out of his shoulders. You’d reached out with dancing fingers and a query on your lips — a gentle little sound of offering — and he’d gone as still as a moon pinned between two gravity wells. Your fingers had felt light as little birds, perched on his shoulders weightlessly, and you’d guided them into a rolling series of rotations. Then you’d tugged him between your knees, and kneaded every small stone you’d found lodged under his skin and fur.
When he’d finally gone as molten and buttery as a beeswax candle on a warm day, you’d murmured another little question. He’d blinked at you blankly — completely disconnected from anything but the feel of his body, pliant for the first time in possibly his entire life — so you’d pulled him onto your lap and continued your little ministry of touch until he’d fully curled up, his tail a wreath of feathery brushes around you both. His back had pressed itself into your hands as you’d worked your thumbs into the base of his spine: freeing the tension from his hips, beckoning it out of muscle and bone, letting it dissipate into the air between your fingertips. Your hands had been so warm that even all the metal plates and bolts deep inside had suddenly felt like a part of him — had suddenly matched his own body temperature — every piece slotting together inside him with a rightness he’d never known before. The air in his lungs had turned into little pearls and gemstones, spilling up into his throat like jeweled gravel. He’d made a noise — some kind of rumble — and it had startled him until your hands had soothed over him again and you’d whispered something that had sounded like you’re just purring.
He’d never say any of this in front of the others, never let them know about this: about how soft he is for this, for the warm quiet circle of space in your arms and on your thighs. He’d never climb into your lap like this if they could see it; never make a nest out of your body-heat and burrow into the loose thick folds of your sweatshirt. He only does it on the shifts when everyone else is asleep, or planetside, or away.
It’s not that he’s ashamed. It’s just — this is something special and precious and small, and if he looks at it too closely or acknowledges it exists, he may never have it back. But for now — for these moments that he can only measure in the soft wash of his breath or the thrum of his pulse in his wrists, the steady sound of your heartbeat holding him together like gravity — for now, it’s touchable, and attainable, and real —
Moreso than any shining city on the far horizon, glimmering against the sweep of a blossom-blue ocean and a forever sky.
i did it! i brought my wordcount down! this was just a fun little exercise in writing whatever weird shit came to my mind so sorry if it makes no sense but i figured i'd indulge my inclination toward purple prose (get rekt literary critics). anyway this was fun and i am very much in favor of many future rocket raccoon prompts & prompt weeks, and thank you for creating this and bringing it to my attention, @frostedwitch ♡♡♡
i will be putting out a masterlist for this set of prompts sometime next week probably. i really hope you enjoyed reading as much as i enjoyed writing! ♡
day six. bite
rocket prompt week masterlist ✷ main masterlist
rocket raccoon prompt week list
･:*𑁍 overheard on the bowie
[anticipated august 2]
18+ only MDNI | no use of y/n | f!reader | oneshot | word count: TBD.
rocket laments building the bowie with such thin walls between bunks. ie, you haven’t been able to get off in a while, and your neighbor knows it.
i am having too much fun writing this because apparently while i ultimately want to be a benevolent god who gives rocket only happy endings, i apparently have no qualms with torturing him with sexual frustration in the meantime.
nsfw after the cut | FULL FIC NOW POSTED
He’d looked up at you, your eyes all shiny and plush lips framing the words, Can I help you with something? Do you need anything? and the only words that had come to his mind were, Sweetheart. Can I help you?
Because the worst part of it is — you’ve been so unlucky.
He continues to stare at the dark ceiling, palms resting on his chest, and wishes he’d stolen Pete’s zune. Stick the little headphones into his ears and distract himself for a little while.
“Slow down, princess,” he mutters into the shadows. He’s usually got no qualms against eavesdropping in general but he wouldn’t try to listen in on this. Unfortunately for both of you, there’s no world in which he can avoid hearing it: the steady soft schlick-schlick of your pussy lips rubbing wetly against each other, or maybe your fingers, if you’ve got them stuffed cutely inside your pretty hole. Your shallow, reedy little breaths, puffing over lips he’s sure you’ve bitten raw. The rustle of the blankets as you shift and try to adjust yourself: legs opening wider, he imagines. Or maybe he’s wrong and you’re not going too fast and hard at your little clitty: maybe you’ve hit the right pace for yourself, and your knees are locking and your toes are curling and you’ll both — finally — get some relief tonight.
But nope. He can hear you, winding yourself tighter and tighter, higher and higher, more and more desperate. A quiet, pitiful little whispered word — “please” — to the gods, like they’ll finally take mercy on you. But he’s listened to you enough times that he can pinpoint the moment that your desperation turns into frustration, and then despair. There’s a sad little muffled whimper — pressed into a handful of blankets, he’s sure — and then the sounds of your strokes slow, and finally cease. A soft, miserable sigh, and the whisper of skin on skin — you rubbing your thighs together in resignation, he suspects.
He rolls over in his hammock and screams into his pillow.
