Rocket Raccoon ♰ Sick love
f!reader, no dialogue, Rockets’ POV
Study break!! So Rocket is on my mind all the time and I can’t STOP. It’s like 3AM for me rn and I’m spiralling lmao （ΦωΦ）
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
Openly defective is the lover you elected and
a portrait she was bound to portray—
Rocket didn’t mean to gawk. He tells himself he’s just checking the room, doing a sweep, staying alert—whatever excuse keeps him from admitting the truth. But every time you walk by, his eyes drag to you like gravity’s been rewritten just to fuck with him. His gaze catches on the line of your back, the curve of your jaw, the soft way you exist in a place built for violence.
He hates how easily you snare him.
Hates how automatic it is.
How inevitable.
You move through the ship as you hum some Terran song, and the whole place shifts.
Feels warmer.
Feels smaller.
Feels like temptation brushing up against metal walls.
Rocket watches the way you tuck your hair behind your ear, the way your fingers skim the railing as you climb the steps, the way your shirt clings where sweat dampens it—subtle, natural, completely unintentional—and it guts him because you have no fucking idea what you’re doing to him.
Blood sugar sweet and sick… sick love…
Yeah.
That’s you.
Sweet enough to rot his teeth, sick enough to torment him.
Rocket drags a paw over his face.
He knows he’s staring too long, too hard.
But he can’t stop.
Because every time he looks at you, something in him flares—a warmth he doesn’t trust, a want he doesn’t deserve, a weakness he swore he carved and ripped out of himself years ago. But there it is, rising back up like weeds through concrete.
You lean over the console, checking readings, and Rocket’s eyes track the movement like he’s been programmed for it. The dip of your shoulder. The shape of your spine. The smell of Prozac in your pretty hair. The delicate little things about you he’d never say but always notices.
He looks at you like someone starved looks at food.
Desperate.
Angry about being desperate.
Ashamed of how often he does it anyway.
He catches himself imagining it—your warmth against him, your breath on his neck, the way your skin would feel if he got close enough. He imagines things he shouldn’t, things he’d never let himself act on.
Not because he doesn’t want to—
but because wanting feels like another experiment, another setup, another sick-joke ending waiting to happen.
You adjust a dial, and Rocket watches the motion of your wrist, the small flex of muscle.
He feels it deeper than he should.
Lower than he should.
Fuck.
This is getting real bad.
She’s gonna ruin me without even touching me.
The ship hums around you both, a low, steady vibration, but he can hear his pulse louder than the engines. Hear the sound of his restraint wearing thin.
Seriously… how the hell do you do it?
How do you burrow under his skin without even trying?
You shift your weight, and Rocket’s eyes drop to your hips before he can stop them. Heat flares through him, sharp and stupid, and he turns away like that’ll fix anything. Like he didn’t already memorize everything about the way you move.
He tries to put distance between you.
Takes a step back.
Then another.
But you follow, unaware, just walking the same direction—and Rocket feels the sick-love punch hit him deep in the ribs.
It’s not fair.
You’re too close.
You’re too warm.
You’re too fucking gentle for someone like him.
He thinks about touching you for half a second—what it would feel like, what you’d taste like, if his claws would shake or if his control would crack clean in half. The thought is so visceral it scares him.
He forces himself into the pilot seat, grounding himself with metal and cold surfaces.
But then you come up beside him—
not even brushing him, not even touching—
and it’s still too much.
Rocket looks at you again, and it feels like damage.
Feels like danger.
Feels like the kind of wanting that eats people alive.
He looks at you like you’re sunlight he shouldn’t stare into.
Like you’re golden nectar on a daggers’ tip.
Like you’re the sweetest, deadliest addiction he’s ever had.
He hates metaphors. Hates what they imply. But he feels them anyway.
Sick love, come on and get my soul.
He knows you already have it.
He’ll never admit it.
But every time his eyes find you—
He tumbles a little further.
And it aches.
And still… he wants it, that sick love.
