#rfh headcanons

[raccoonfallsharder]

what if, during vol3 when they raided the arete... rocket had found another young raccoon. Not the normal babies, but a raccoon who, like him, was altered. About the same age as when rocket figured out the filters the HE Couldn’t figure out. I have an entire ass scene in my head about it. The baby raccoons are still there ofc, but it would make sense if the HE kept trying to, idk recreate rocket but none of the raccoons ever met his standard.

BABE. if you have this scene in your head, get it out! write it or draw it!! i would absolutely consume the fuck out of that.

i definitely believe that the high ev kept experimenting on raccoons. in his unfettered, entitled impulsivity, he might have even made a whole new batch of no-longer-quite-raccoons. maybe he even tried to cultivate replicas all at once, from a single sad litter — and when none of them measured up, he still raised them. executed a new one at regular intervals — every other circ, maybe — to study the changes in their brain over time.

the one rocket found would probably be the last survivor of their little family, just like rocket himself — though unlike rocket, they had never escaped.

i wonder what their experience was like — what tasks and abuses the high evolutionary subjected them to when they didn’t show the same aptitude for math and science, engineering and invention. how long did the experiments continue? what iterations of their prosthetics are the same as rocket’s, and which are different? did they get shuffled into grunt work — forced to clean the cages of the other experiments? surely they were cuffed and kicked aside by theel on more than one occasion — that nasty, small-minded recorder, who always took out his lack of power on those smaller than himself. were they harassed and bullied by the hellspawn, or did they find a tentative alliance with those other subjects — maybe even friendship?

i wonder how their personality was shaped, too. if they were quiet and skittish and tried to keep out of the way, or if they were calculated and cunning and sought their revenge wherever they could get it, in small doses stretched out over circs. i wonder if they’re bitter and cynical and slow-to-trust, more prickly and defensive than rocket himself — or if they’re so lonely and bruised that they’re willing to give others their softness even when they know they shouldn’t, because they know firsthand how cold the universe can be and they don’t know how to survive without trying to put a little bit of warmth back into it.

and i wonder how rocket responds. does he avoid them, too afraid of finding that he’s looking in a mirror, seeing parts of himself he’s hidden or tried to work through? too afraid of seeing yet another hellish possible outcome that he’d only narrowly avoided? is he afraid of making things worse, or does he take it upon himself to (awkwardly, probably) help them adjust to a new life — one they’d never thought they’d have? does his survivor’s guilt surge back to the forefront? is he able to quiet it long enough to reach out and try to connect? does he admire them? does he try to be careful? does he stalk back down the the high evolutionary’s holding cell and put a bullet in the bastard’s head, or just stare at his maker with furious eyes and a growl kept silent between clenched teeth — flexing and unflexing his fists as herbert edgar wyndham complains about the lack of luxuries in his cage — before he spins on his heel and strides out, never saying a word?

does he comfort this other not-quite-raccoon when they end up waking with nightmares? does he have to be the captain now and talk them down after they lash out at poor xlomo smeth for accidentally spooking ‘em?

does he end up helping them pick a name?

gotta have a name, he’ll say, taking a drag on a cigarette stuffed with World Tree Root, then blowing the glittery, minty smoke out over the edge of the observation deck. they’ll be sitting side-by-side, cautiously or companionably, and the glowing ember on the end of the cig will burn between rocket’s fingers like he’s pulled a star right outta the sky.

and when the other survivor asks why — curious or skeptical or sneering — rocket will shrug.

dunno. just gotta.

they’ll cock their head, or laugh softly, or scoff, and rocket will shrug. take another drag.

a hundred reasons, he’ll say, waving the lit cigarette. it trails vapor like a comet across the blackness of space. take your pick. he shrugs. like, ‘cause he didn’t let you have one.

or ‘cause it’s one way to take part of you back.

he slants his eyes sideways at knowhere’s newest resident and lets a smirk curl the corner of his mouth before he inhales another lungful of Root, then blows it out into the stardust.

or ‘cause i ain’t fuckin’ callin’ you 107G42 forever.

[raccoonfallsharder]

i think a lot about how rocket does, in fact, end up building great machines that fly, and him and his friends do go flying together into the forever and beautiful sky. but he’s not content with only the aero-rigs, or even the benatar and the bowie — no. he ends up turning knowhere itself into a ship. and why? because at some point, he’s realized that he has more friends than just the guardians.

and they won’t all fit anywhere else.

yeah, rocket just wakes up one day, looks out at this enormous mining colony, and is like — welp, not sure you morons can take care of yourselves, so i guess i’m takin’ you with me.

and that’s that.

so yeah, i think about knowhere a lot as a flying machine.

but i also think about the fact that exitar is a city.

ages ago, when rocket was still young and green and soft, he’d sat on his maker’s knee and gazed out at the gleaming spires and skyscrapers of an empty metropolis, and he’d learned the shapes of hope and tomorrow silhouetted against the endless blue. he’d sprawled in his cage with his brother and sisters, and they’d daydreamed about a future in which they’d leave the labs behind, and make a place for themselves in the new world. together.

so now, ages later, rocket takes the city of exitar — famed for its corruption and filth and flippant violence — and transforms it into a haven. not alone, of course — he’s got too many friends for that these days; can barely get a frickin’ microsecond of piece, honestly. but with neb’s help — and eventually mantis’s, and pete’s, and drax’s — the city becomes something of a safe harbor.

for his friends, yes. for his fellow guardians, of course.

but also for repentant former enemies.

and for fleeing, frightened animals.

and for refugee children with no-one to look out for them.

and for anyone who’s ever looked out at a distant, dazzling city, and hoped they would find a home.

[raccoonfallsharder]

Whenever my cat walks on my chest it feels like a ten ton brick has just been dropped on me just from her standing, do you think the same hapoens with tocket?

(Probably not because from what i could find cats are just full force, full time because theyre quadrapedal but rocket was also made from a quadroped so its possible in theory…)

i dont really know, but i wanted to run it by the rocket master :3

babes, be prepared for a very unscientific response base on guesswork, imagination, and the desire to have my anxiety physically squeezed from my body by the weight of a sentient raccoon lol

so, i also have cats, and i know exactly the phenomenon of which you speak. similarly, why does my cat weigh only eight pounds, but it feels like she's fucking STABBING me with a blunt fucking sword every time she steps on my belly or leg or tit? (the answer is because all eight pounds are exerted against me in such tiny little paws. eight pounds of pressure in like, four 1x1-inch points of contact.)

now, rocket's feet are gonna be bigger than a cat's, which means a little more weight distribution. i think the average raccoon paw is about 2-3 inches long, and depending on how you think his body was altered, his could be a little longer. that probably evens out to something like 12 square inches of contact rather than 4 square inches. but he also weighs way more than your average 8-12 pound cat. the comics estimate him at 40 pounds, which is a bit heavier than the average raccoon. i usually estimate him around the same on account of all the prosthetics, but he could weigh even more.

which is all to say that i think that rocket standing on you might not feel as painful as a cat's paws can feel, but the weight is gonna be bruising, and you'll definitely have a hard time breathing. (i think human ribs can withstand 50+ pounds of force before they start cracking, but 40 pounds of pressure still doesn't seem like a walk in the park, especially given how small his feet still are). i mean, he could still stand or walk on you without really hurting you, but he'd have to be careful. definitely no jumping allowed.

that said, human chests can withstand a lot more pressure if it's evenly distributed and static, so if he's sitting or laying on your chest — it'll still be heavy as hell, but a lot more manageable. plus, i like to think he'd be sensitive enough to your survival-needs that he'd be more likely to sprawl half-across your belly, with his legs dangling on either side of you — spreading his weight as wide and as evenly as he can.

(i imagine, when he's doing it right, that he feels like the best and heaviest weighted blanket in the universe.)

[raccoonfallsharder]

I saw the superstition ask, and now I'm wondering what Rocket would think of terran traditions. I think depending on what kind it is, he would either love it or hate it.

For example, in my country, on Easter Monday, if you are a woman you get told a small rhyming poem usually asking at the end, "Szabad-e locsolni?" (rough translation: May I water you?) by one or more men visiting your house, and then you get cologne spritzed on you by those men if you say yes, and you give them a painted egg in return. That can be kind of cute if you are cis (im not, so this brings me some grievances).

HOWEVER. There was a time (and I'm pretty sure some villages still do this), where men poured cold water out of buckets on still sleeping women on Easter (w/o asking!!). I feel like Rocket would be kind of horrified, because what person in their right mind pours a BUCKET of COLD water over another while they are asleep? I grew up with this tradition (only the cologne version), so it seemed quite normal to me until I started to think about it more deeply with an adult head. It's honestly kind of fucked up if I look at it through modern lens (this specific tradition of ours, I really don't like for the reasons I listed above). You can read more about it here if you are curious:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Easter_sprinkling_in_Hungary

(Also, I don't want to spam hungarian shit in your asks, so as an aside not that related to this: I'm pretty sure Rocket would LOVE pálinka (I couldn't find a translation for the name, It's a high % alcoholic drink. It burns so bad when you drink it. I got offered one that was home-brewed once, and that convinced me not to ever drink it again (<- im fake hungarian, most of us love pálinka/other alcohol, i don't. it did get me under the table quite quickly tho). Great way to kill your liver quickly 😭. You couldn't even taste what fruit it was mixed with.)

first of all darling, thank you so much for sharing this little glimpse into your country's traditions! superstitions and inherited rituals are always fascinating and i am always so very very curious about their origins. (given easter's pre-christian ties to fertility celebrations/rituals, this particular tradition seems... a little self-explanatory, at least on the surface. people are very weird and the "traditional" perspectives and rituals related to gender are invariably even weirder.)

of course, rocket would have no real historical context for easter, and i think conservative ideas of gender would make no sense to him. i agree with you: i think the idea of just dumping a bucket of cold water on any random sleeping person feels not only fucked-up to our guy, but also — fucking dangerous.

you wanna get shot in the face? that's how you get shot in the face.

later, when he finds out terrans do this shit based on their weird and limited ideas of gender? he probably raises a brow and says something like, that's a violation of section 38982 of the intergalactic accords, and i ain't gettin' caught up in that shit. he's got plenty of things on his legal record that he's actually proud of, and no desire whatsoever to be part of what sounds (to him) like a gender-based hate-crime.

(telling him it's just water won't matter. water's lethal to some lifeforms, you know, he'll point out, refusing to listen if you try to explain that this is a comparatively harmless — if upsetting — tradition)

now, all that said, if rocket conveniently forgets the gendered origins of this tradition — or never really internalizes them — and instead starts thinking of it as an annual excuse to prank a friend or two, then you can count on him eventually drenching a sleeping peter quill — at least once or twice. rocket will not quite understand how easter lands on the multicalendar (why would he? i barely understand how it falls on the gregorian calendar, and i grew up knee-deep in catholic doctrine). so while pete's sputtering and choking and asking why the hell he did that, rocket will just shrug and say, eh, i thought it was easter.

similarly, divorced from gendered origins, i do think rocket would be captivated by the cologne version of this tradition. and i think he would quite like the idea of having an excuse to scent-mark someone he cares about or is attracted to.

especially if he hasn't figured out if — or how — to actually tell them yet.

♡♡♡

ps i read a little about pálinka and i am absolutely on board. it sounds RIGHT up rocket's alley. almost strong enough to give him a little buzz lol

[raccoonfallsharder]

I know you are swarmed with asks, and if this ask is too heavy (given current world events), feel free to ignore this ask, I'll totally understand.

I've realized recently that I have thanatophobia (I had it all my life, I just wasn't aware there was a name for it). It tends to be the worst when I'm trying to fall asleep. My brain will just throw the thoughts of: "I'll die one day and I won't ever reach my goals in life. Maybe I won't remember any of my experiences and I don't even know if I'll have a consciousness after death. What if there's an after-something? I would take that over just not having a consciousness anymore, maybe. What will happen to the people in my life if I die? Will they even miss me? What if I die tonight during sleep?" etc. (I'm so sorry if these thoughts I wrote down are TMI)

It kinda sends me into an anxiety attack anytime this happens...

I would love to hear your thoughts on how Rokcet would react to this if he found out about it.

(If you do decide to answer this, I'll totally understand if this will be answered much much later than I sent it. Please take care of yourself first and foremost 💜)

hey little lightning bug. these thoughts are absolutely not TMI and i'm so grateful you shared them here. i think most people get preoccupied by death from time to time, but for some of us, it can sometimes become utterly overwhelming. to be clear: a fear of death is real and reasonable. your poor nervous system is trying so hard to keep you alive, and we can respect that. unfortunately, the way it's trying to do that — by hyperfixating on the end — is just not helpful for you right now. it's exhausting, and probably getting in the way of you being able to enjoy a lot of things, and i'm so sorry you're going through that. (you probably already know this, but just in case: therapy and/or meds might be able to help. i hope you have the resources and support to seek those out if you want to.)

look, as i was writing, i wasn't sure if this would be helpful and comforting, or super-activating, so please proceed with caution. i wrote it with a lot of love, but there are a lot of landmines/potential triggers, and obviously no two people will find the same thing resonates with them. i do hope, though, that this gives you a little bit of relief.

because the truth is, i actually imagine rocket relates.

look, maybe you and he got off to a difficult start in your relationship. or maybe the two of you became friends immediately: falling into each others' habits and company as easily as falling into a gravity well. either way, when he finds you wandering around late one sleepshift — in the catwalks of the third quadrant, or maybe on the observation deck on knowhere — he'll ask you what's got you awake so late. your poor humie heart's probably still going a lightyear a minute, thudding and tripping over itself behind your ribs.

he can hear it.

i imagine it takes you a minute to be able to share. maybe because your mouth and lungs are still full of panic, or maybe just because you're a bit self-conscious and not sure how he'll take it. but eventually, he lures you into a bench behind a bulwark, or a mostly-empty bar, and he convinces you to spill your guts.

i'm not sure what you expect at first. maybe you think he'll scoff — a gruff caricature of nonchalance when you know he actually cares — or maybe you think he'll offer you some sort of solace in the form of a drink or an awkward hand-pat. but i don't know if you anticipate him just listening to you, his warm-rooibos eyes growing wider with every broken word that limps out of your mouth, before he utters — almost breathlessly—

"i didn't know there was a frickin' word for it."

because you see, rocket spent most of his life grappling with something very similar. maybe not all the time, and maybe not in exactly the same way. but memories of laser-scalpels and plasma-stitches and the warm life of lylla's body growing heavy and cold aren't the only things that have kept him up at night. there are reasons he'd wanted to take groot and run from ronan, and then from his friends, and always from the high evolutionary. he'd known his lifespan would be brief; had known he'd eventually end up shot or slaughtered or thrown in an incinerator after a too-short life spent purposeless and listless and unmoored, and that no-one other than groot would mourn him.

perhaps more than anyone else you could talk to, rocket understands the shape of death. it's always seemed to cling to his heels like a shadow, haunting him not only in the form of those who have already passed — but also his own impending future.

until — well — he died.

don't misunderstand. it's not the act of almost-dying itself that helped him. not exactly. it's what happened while he was there.

his memory of the liminal space between life and death is hazy at best, but he remembers the soft curl of mist, cool and sweet and beading up on his fur. he remembers the gentle puff of lylla's breath when she'd nuzzled gently beneath his chin, and the way her embrace had finally felt — unbroken, this time, by a laser-pistol shot.

Can I come?

he can't remember the words exactly — but he remembers the feeling of them. the grief and hope, curled like two sleeping cats, so close and soft that it would be almost impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

it had been the first time he'd ever wanted death. the certainty of it had only ever frightened him before. he’d been running from it for so long.

Yes. But not yet. You still have a purpose here.

he hadn't believed it. he'd never believed it before. he'd always scorned the idea.

A purpose for what?

but something about lylla's quiet confidence had clung to him after he'd gasped himself awake. the idea, however amorphous, that he might have a purpose after all.

he hasn't quiet figured out what that purpose is yet. but the process of looking for it has been distracting enough to keep some of the old fear at bay.

"a… a word for it?” you repeat blankly, baffled.

he clears his throat. "i just mean that i do somethin' similar, sometimes. used to do it more often. thought i was gonna have a real short life-span." he squints his eyes up at you. "we are gonna die sooner or later, you know?" he juts his chin in the general direction of other people: the rest of the crew, maybe, or the city at large. "most of those morons seem to find it easy enough to forget, but not me. not usually." he shuffles one shoulder in an apologetic shrug. "not unless i get distracted enough."

you swallow. "by what?"

the velveteen fur along his nose crinkles, whiskers shifting as he grimaces. "living, mostly."

you huff a laugh. "i've tried that," you point out wryly. "how do you think i ended up out here in the first place?"

but rocket just shakes his head, and offers up a smirk. "you haven't tried with me yet, have ya, kid?" he shrugs again. "look, i ain't a doctor or a — one of those therapistical providers or whatever. but you can come to me when you're spirallin' and we'll sit and breathe through it and talk. and you can come to me when you're thinkin' too much about what it's like to die, and we'll do somethin' to make sure you're getting the most outta the time you got."

there's a small span of quiet in the space between you. maybe your eyes are watery. maybe not. when rocket speaks, his voice doesn't break the silence — it curls around it, raspy and warm.

"lately, i been keepin' busy tryin' to find my purpose. turns out there's a lotta options, but i'm trying to figure out which one feels right." he tilts his head. "d'you got one already?"

you blink at him. "a purpose?"

"no, a frickin' infinite-proton micro-rotator." he rolls his eyes, but there's nothing unkind in the gesture. "yeah, a purpose. somethin' you gotta do before you leave this mortalistic fuckin' realm." he sighs. "even if it's small. even if nobody else notices."

"i don't — i'm not sure," you say slowly. "sometimes i think i do. but sometimes i just feel — insignificant.”

he huffs softly, and sways. for the barest fraction of a moment, you feel his shoulder brush against you. it feels like camaraderie. it feels like yeah, okay, maybe you're facing an eventual, inevitable death after all.

but at least you're not doing it alone.

"well then," he tells you gruffly. "guess we figure it out together."

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

[raccoonfallsharder]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(as he should. they mostly are.)

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

at least, that’s what you imagine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“old seasons of great british bake-off?”

rocket doesn’t even notice your surprise.

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

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

curiosity hums on your lips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and he has always wanted to share them with friends.

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

[raccoonfallsharder]

Hello~ Long time Lurker and Liker here! Sorry for the sporadic like-spam, I think abt your blog like every few months and just explore.

I wanted to ask, what do you think Rocket makes of our Terran superstitions? I imagine space Travellers probably have their own superstitions, but theyre probably different from ours.

Like, I was eating lunch and spilled salt, so I did as superstition says and tossed some over my shoulder and the image of Rocket staring at Reader going "Why tf would you do that?" Popped into my head. I dont think he'd really care, would only get annoyed if Adam and the Star Kids picked some of them up, like "Step on a Crack, break your Mamas back"

Once again I love your writing and your art, thank you for making fellow rocket lovers so happy

YOU'RE SO SWEET. thank you, friend!!! never-ever apologize for spam-liking my shit. it makes me so happy when it feels like someone has gone through my blog and found so many things to enjoy!! plus i remember your url so it always makes me happy to see you again after a long absence (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

... now, personally, i think rocket is SO superstitious, both in little habits (like always keeping a honchi everbloom on board for safe travel through jump-points, or always wasting the first bullet from a box of new ammo) and in bigger, more pervasive ways of thinking (like the belief that he ruins everything). i think he'd be baffled by some of your terran superstitions but as soon as you explained — this is to ward off bad luck, this is to bring good fortune — he'd probably adopt a few of them himself. what could it hurt? if you're wrong, all he's done is wasted a little bit of salt. no big deal when there are whole planets made out of the stuff.

and if you're right, maybe it'll bring in some extra units — which he'll be more than happy to share with you! ♡♡

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

[raccoonfallsharder]

Just gonna drop this in here but I had a little daydream that got me through some tough days at work. Picture this. Rocket and the reader has a history and they didn't exactly leave on bad intentions so picture Rocket's surprise when he enters a bar on Knowhere, could be the boot or somewhere new, and he sees her. On the stage, the way she wanted. Singing this little song with the Terran instruments and it kills him how she hasn't changed and how she's changed so much since they've been apart. and in my head, she wrote most of her songs about rocket.

I NEVER KNOW WHERE IT ENDS BUT IN MY HEAD SHE'S SINGING "VAMPIRE EMPIRE" AND THEY MAKE EYE CONTACT WHEN SHE SINGS "I wanna kiss your skin and- your everything." And she's gets this flustered look on her face, shock as well. but she doesnt look away.

YOU DONT HAVE TO RESPOND BUT I DONT HAVE ANYONE TO TALK ABOUT ROCKET TO SO I THOUGHT ID LEAVE A LOYTLE RAMBLE.

babe. THE YEARNING.

maybe they met on some other planet, when rocket was on an early guardians-mission. he was still a serious jackass in those days, you know?

the meet-cute happens in a bar, during a conflict. maybe the fight had started there: the guardians confronting their target at the counter or on the floor. or maybe it started in the street, but they'd crashed through the wall during a face-off. who knows?

either way, i like to think your little songstress was just an innocent bystander. maybe her band had a gig at the bar — the only place they get to play, really — or maybe she's just singing karaoke with her friends.

then these a-holes come in and start shooting up the place.

it's hectic. it's chaos. and in the middle of it all, someone almost ends up getting shot through the heart with an ion-pistol. maybe it's rocket. maybe it's our singer. but either way, it's the other one who tackles them out of the way.

if it was rocket doing the saving, he'd be all growly and grumbly about it. but if it was her — well. he'd be trying to pretend he wasn't distracted by the idea of some soft, strange girl trying to protect him. they'd be crouched together behind a barrier — an overturned table, maybe, or the edge of the stage, or behind the bar itself — while the lasers and ion-blasts burst through the rubble around them, and she'd be skittish and scared. she's an aspiring singer, for chrissake — not a gunman or an assassin. and her nerves would twinge something in rocket — something he hasn't felt for a long time — so he would do the only thing he'd known how to do at the time:

run his fuckin' mouth.

at some point he'd startle a laugh out of her, and before he'd know it, he'd basically be chatting her up in the middle of a firefight. it would be an absolutely surreal experience for both of them. but eventually, the guardians would win the fight and bag up the bad guy — of course they would — and, hot-faced with embarrassment, our girl would ask rocket if he wanted to get a drink afterward.

he'll be blushing just as hard under his fur, scoffing as he agrees.

they'll spend that first cycle together around the clock. she reminds him to eat, and he watches her while she lays on her back on her bed, with her legs propped at a ninety-degree angle against the wall and a scavenged terran mandolin cradled against her belly. they both think each other is breathtaking.

maybe their little affair only lasts that brief cycle, while the guardians are planetside, recovering and enjoying the local scene. she and rocket would end things amicably, because they'd always known it was time-limited. or maybe the two of them keep seeing each other for a while afterward — rocket visiting whenever he gets the chance — before a gap that drags on too long makes him feel like he's got no right to come back, to keep stringing her along when he's got no aim or goals of his own other than the next pay-out.

but just because they end things on good terms doesn't mean that they don't dream about each other, damn near every night. she tries to find other relationships, but how can anyone compete with a guardian of the galaxy who used sarcasm to keep her safe and calm during one of the scariest moments of her life? and rocket — he tries to sleep around, but no-one can compare to the bright spark of her personality, flaring and glowing like a lodestar in the darkness. she thinks of him every time she looks at the night sky, and he thinks of her twice as often. he recalls the silken feel of her skin under his rough palms every night; she can't help but remember the way he'd swallowed each time before he'd touched her, as if her permission was a gift.

he hears the melody of her voice in every song he listens to, and she writes every lyric to the memory of his gruff kindness.

circs pass. circs, my friend. they're on opposite ends of the galaxy most of the time, but their thoughts bind them together like silver threads across the stars. and then, one day, her band — which has been really growing its audience since the old days; they've traveled to a modest twelve other star systems! — gets a gig on knowhere. she knows rocket lives there now — knows its the guardians' base of operations — and her stomach's all aflutter with nerves. she keeps telling herself that the likelihood of running into him is low: that he's more likely to be off-skull on a mission somewhere than in the bar where she's singing. that he probably wouldn't even remember or recognize her if he did see her.

that's what she tells herself.

so when she's in the middle of a heartwrenching bridge — imagining the tilt of his ears and the softness of his fur, the way she thinks she can still feel the brush of his tail even though it's been ages — and he happens to walk in—

well. it sounds like you've already imagined the rest.

̗  ̗ര́  ̬꤮ ̗  ̗

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