Dark, Dangerous, And Heartbreaking. This Chapter Might Unlock New Kinks And Destroy You Emotionally.

Ya’ll. I hate people touching my hair, but I would let Rocket play with it, brush it, style it, and run his fingers through it 4-Evah. 4-EVAH.

✩࿐࿔ brush your fuckin' hair. [new 4/21]

✩࿐࿔ take what you need masterlist | take what you need queue fanfiction masterlist | navigation

fluff | gn reader | no use of y/n | anthology one-shot | word count: 1,649. read ✩࿐࿔ brush your fuckin' hair on ao3 excerpt & warnings below the cut.

the captain is an expert on fur, and he can tell you’re not brushing yours. it’s important to take care of your hair — keeping it free of dust and debris, tangles and shedding strands. even finger-combing it is better than nothing! and who knows? maybe if you can start brushing a little more regularly, the captain will even help you out on occasion. 

for nonnie! ♡♡♡ i really wanted to write this one with eidos-rocket, but i wasn’t sure if you were a fan of the 2021 game. however, please know i was channeling a lot of my eidos-rocket headcanons (like him being VERY VAIN about his fur) while writing this. a few warnings: one very brief, not-explicit off-color joke of a suggestive nature from reader, some assumptions about hair length and texture based on the wording of your ask, and physical affection/hair combing. i hope you enjoy this little story and that it maybe gives you some encouragement to take a little more care of your hair.

“You ain’t brushed your hair again.” The words make you stiffen in alarm. You’d been standing at the tiny counter of your kitchenette, opening two milky fizzes — one for yourself, and one for the Captain — and pouring a carton of zargnuts into a bowl when he’d decided to interrupt you with what sounds an awful lot like an accusation. You whirl around to face Rocket, one hand automatically flying to the back of your head — finger-combing the strands and checking for snarls. “Whaaat?” you manage to ask with a little laugh that you hope sounds incredulous, but probably sounds cornered instead. Your eyes skitter from Rocket to the book shelf, the ceiling, the holoscreen — to anything in your cozy studio apartment that isn’t him. The air is velvety and blue right now — just a few shadowed shades past Knowhere’s artificial sunset. There are only a few sources of light against the darkness: one dim plasma orb glows on the narrow coffee table, and there’s a handful of tiny twinkle-lights dotting your kitchenette shelves. Outside the window, a net of stringed lights shimmer against the newly-gathering night. The Captain isn’t deterred by your frantic lack of eye contact or your sputtered semi-denial, though. He’s twisted in his seat on the couch, peering over the back of the cushions with his head at a ridiculous angle. He rolls his eyes. “Don’t try to lie. I can see right through you, kid.” Your fingers fuss at the back of your skull and you wince. Your somersaulting belly decides to tie itself in a neat knot of dread instead. “Does it — look bad?”

read more on ao3 ✩࿐࿔ for nonnie ♡ ✩࿐࿔ take what you need masterlist | take what you need queue

need more reminders from rocket?

the world is hard, and sometimes it's difficult to complete daily tasks & take care of yourself (aka rocket bullies you for your own damn good).

feel free to ✩ request reminders ✩ via reblogs, asks, and tumblr or ao3 comments if they would be helpful for you. it may take me a hot minute to get to them depending on life n stuff, but i will do my best. ♡ view the take what you need queue to see upcoming installations & the current backlog. SOFT HIATUS: feel free to request things but i am going to take a brief break from twyn after chapter 29 posts next month. i got a few requests here on tumblr for other things i'd like to take a crack at!

this is about as wholesome as it gets (for me) i think. can be read platonically or romantically. mcu-based anthology, meant to take place post-volume-3, but headcanon however you want ♡

✩࿐࿔ take what you need masterlist

eat somethin. (wc: 576)

go to frickin bed already. (wc: 737)

get outta bed & get your shit done.(wc: 925)

take a damn bath. (wc: 1,375)

leave your frickin skin alone. (wc: 1,579)

take a fuckin study break.(wc: 1,020)

drink some goddamn water. (wc: 1,209)

stop destroying your frickin clothes. (wc: 1,609)

just buy the damn thing already. (wc: 1,271)

it's frickin laundry day. (wc: 1,923)

get some sunshine, sunshine. (wc: 1,614)

did you take your damn meds today? (wc: 1,288)

schedule your fuckin' appointments.(wc: 1,222)

do your goddamn dishes. (wc: 994)

brush your frickin' teeth. (wc: 1,774)

nobody fuckin hates you (wc: 1,231)

stop biting your goddamn nails (wc: 2,920)

take a frickin' shower (wc: 1,359 )

take care of your fuckin injury (wc: 2,102)

cook some goddamn food. (wc: 2,707)

clean your frickin room. (wc: 2,465)

stop hittin shit. (wc: 1,862)

do your frickin homework. (wc: 2,121 )

chill the fuck out. (wc: 1,499)

i'm damn proud a' you, kid. (wc: 1,639)

fuck heartache. (wc: 1,781)

stop frickin' apologizing. (wc: 1,207)

brush your fucking hair. (wc: 1,649)

if you find any of these at all helpful, they're meant for you.

teacup and teal line dividers by @/saradika-graphics | support banner by @/saradika-graphics | raccoon divider by @/thecutestgrotto. total wordcount: 43,690.

Good bless you crazy raccoon.

39. Roach

Everything is fine until the roach is airborne.

I died. Seriously, I am so pleased with this.

rocket raccoon prompt week ✷ day six bite ✷.⁺⋆˚₊

low-grade spice & fluff | no use of yn | gn reader | drabble | word count: 2,266.

“That’s — a big frickin’ scar you got there.”

Your eyes flare wide and you twist in your seat so fast you nearly spin off it, staring at the stranger who has just hoisted himself onto the barstool next to you. Not because you recognize the voice — you don’t yet, though you will — but just because it’s such a personal remark.

And you’re a little bit sensitive about the scar, if you’re being honest. It’s something of a souvenir.

Then recognition clicks in. Because there he is: short. Covered in fur. Velveteen ears and a dark mask, and a plush ringtail that sweeps behind him. Eyes like red stars.

Cutie.

You stare at him, breath sucked right out of your lungs. He’s got hesitation scrawled and sprawled all over his face: ears flicking down and tail lashing once, nervously. His claws clink against his massive, nearly-empty stein of Xitarish whiskey. 

You tear your eyes away and stare down at the ring of pearly ridges stitched into your arm — like maybe there were answers carved into your flesh there all along, and you’d just never noticed. Or like each toothmark is a lodestar, and together the circle of them can help get you home. 

“Isn’t it rude? To comment on a stranger’s scars?” you breathe out, trying to buy yourself time as all the pieces begin falling together. 

He blinks at you, and shifts uncomfortably. “Uh, Jemiah.” He gestures at the owner of The Boot, who just so happens to be your boss. “Next drink’s on me.”

“Sure thing, Rocket,” Jemiah says warmly — far more warmly than you’ve ever heard from him before. 

You feel your eyes flare wide. “You’re Rocket?” you manage to utter, eyes scrolling up and down him again. “One of the people who bought this damn skull? The pilot — the Guardian of the Galaxy or whatever?”

Somehow he looks even more uncomfortable. “Guardians of the Galaxy. Plural. We’re — a team.”

You exhale slowly — measuredly — and try to loosen all the small feathers of confusion crowding up your head, downy-soft. And as you let go of all those wisps, adrenaline rushes in to take their place: the intoxication of suddenly seeing him. Meeting him — for real this time. Having a name to put with the memory. 

Your smile blows wide. You can’t help yourself. 

“The cutie has a team,” you murmur under your breath, and you feel the blood rush to your cheeks when his eyes sharpen on you. He shifts on his stool, but his shoulders relax a little, and the corner of his mouth twitches. 

“Don’t listen to him, Jemiah,” you call out. “His drink’s on me.”

Your boss ducks to hide his grin even as the cutie in question — Rocket, you think, with a pleased little grin — grimaces. “Wait—“ he starts.

You click your tongue and shake your head, cutting him off and grinning. “Not a chance. You bought this stupid skull out from under the Collector and made it a tolerable place to live? There’s no way you’re buying the drinks. I have to show my gratitude somehow.”

You drop your lids to half-mast and raise a brow, hoping he knows that you’re happy to show your gratitude in a few other ways as well. The risk of offering brings a nervous little buzz to your belly. 

As for him — well, you get the sense that he’s a guy who doesn’t let himself flounder very often, but right now his face is flickering between so many emotions that you can’t possibly catch them all. Shock, and then a brief flash of something like smugness, followed immediately by a flash of narrow-eyed skepticism — then a sort of uncertain hesitance, a brief twinge of humor, and finally, a cynical half-sneer. Then he starts right back at the beginning and does it all over again.

It’s fascinating.  

“Did you know,” you say slowly when Jemiah sets down the fresh drinks, “that I work here at The Boot?”

The stranger — no longer a stranger, you suppose; no longer just the cutie — no, Rocket pauses in his cycle of expressions, takes a slug of his new stein of whiskey, and shakes himself out. 

Where the hell does he put it? you wonder. The stein is as big as his whole torso, you think.

But he doesn’t seem buzzed at all. Instead, he casts you a measuring, sideways glance, entirely too alert for your tastes. 

“You don’t say,” he drawls at last, one brow raised as his spine eases a little more.

“Mmhmm,” you say mildly. “It’s my day off.” You pause meaningfully and take another sip of your own drink. “Didn’t used to get days off in Exitar. Or anywhere else on Knowhere, as a matter of fact.”

His eyes track your hands, and flick to your face. 

“Guess the difference is all thanks to you,” you tell him lightly, and tilt your glass toward him. “Here’s to the happy change in leadership.”

He studies you, and waits till you set your drink down again. 

“So. Uh. How long you worked here?” he asks — as if he didn’t already have at least some idea.

You grin into your glass. “Long enough to have developed a very strict set of rules for my survival.”

His ears flick. You’re glad he’s indulging you — playing along for now. “What’re the rules?”

You lean back. “I’m glad you asked,” you tease, and splay out one hand so you can count them on your fingers. “Number one. Avoid the Collector at all costs.”

He snorts. “Well, guess you’re not a complete idiot,” he mutters, and then slashes his red-amber eyes at you and flinches, like he thinks maybe you’re going to be offended. 

But you only wink at him. Not a chance, cutie.  “Number two. Never hide all your units in one place — or on one datacard.”

A smirk curls the corner of his mouth and his nose twitches.

“Three. Always lock your doors behind you. And four, Don’t walk home alone from the Boot.” The smirk slides off his face at that and his eyes flash, so you rush along to the next rule, hoping to lighten the mood again. “Five. Always get customers’ money before you hand them their booze.”

There you go. The little curve is back at the corner of his mouth, even if his brow is still furrowed — almost like he’s distressed. 

You lean sideways and nudge him with your elbow. “And finally, number six.” He looks up at you and his ears tilt, eyes locked on yours like glimmering red stones. You lean so close you know your breath will flutter in the curve of his ear, and you drop your voice to a whisper. “Don’t try to break up fights.”

The pilot rears back, nearly tumbling backward off his stool, and you reach for him before you both catch yourselves. Reeling your outstretched hand back into yourself, you instead gift him a reckless grin and turn to your drink once more.

“It’s not a comprehensive list,” you tell him pragmatically, “and it isn’t in any particular order, but it’s kept me alive this long.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Rocket says, and his voice is suddenly raspy and low. “Even that last one?”

The laughter surprises you, fluttering up behind your ribs and escaping between your lips, soft  and velvety and hushed. 

“I only broke that one once,” you tell him, lifting your glass to your mouth and half-hiding your grin behind it. You can tell your eyes are sparkling, though. “And it’s not like I ever regretted it.”

He makes a sound in the back of his throat. “Sounds like you got a story.”

“Mmm,” you acknowledge, and you keep your voice playful. “It was years ago, now. I knew all the regulars back then — well, I still do, but more of them were jackasses back in the day. And this guy comes in — someone I’d never seen before. Swaggering, carrying a cannon twice as big as himself. Maybe — three feet tall? A true Short King.”

He’s got his stein to his lips and he chokes on a mouthful of whiskey, sputtering. “A what?”

You ignore him, still casting him that teasing half-smile and raising an eyebrow. “He had pretty eyes, and I remember him being more foulmouthed than a landlocked Ravager.”

“Pretty — what?” 

“Keep up, Rocket,” you taunt lightly, tapping a finger to the air just an inch away from the top of his nose, and his eyes go narrow. Everything on his face is suddenly promising retribution, but you’re reckless with glee now.

And you’ll be happy to pay up if he actually comes to collect. 

“I told him that I needed payment up front when he ordered—“

“Get the money before you hand them their booze,” he echoes Rule Five, eyes still hunting you, and you nod with mock-approval. 

“You get it,” you say with a chuckle. “Anyway, his response was just to swipe another patron’s datacard right in front of me and hand it over.” You can still fucking see it: his challenging half-grin, one brow raised.  “I think I stared at him for a full thirty seconds, but this cutie just smirked up at me. Brazen as fuck.”

You laugh softly at the memory, and Rocket — who might as well be your new landlord, you’ve realized — grumbles something under his breath. 

“Anyway, I was kinda smitten,” you admit with a little curve in your mouth, still buzzing the inside of your belly. 

It’s the truth, too.  You’d never thought that raccoon can get it before, but there you were. 

And here you are. 

To your surprise, Rocket goes quiet at that. The pilot of the famous — or infamous — Guardians of the Galaxy, and one of the new owners of Knowhere: still and silent for a long moment. 

Maybe he’ll slip out of his chair and leave, you think, and the flutters in your belly twist in sudden regret. Maybe you’ve scared him off. 

But when he speaks, his voice is like crystallized maple syrup: rich and gritty, waiting to crumble and melt and scrub against your skin.

“He’s why you got into a fight?”

You weigh out your options here. What to say? You’d lost sight of the cutie thanks to his height and the constant surge of new customers, and you’d sort of forgotten about him in the moment, to be honest — though you’re sure you’d have remembered later, alone in your shitty little room — but then you’d heard the sudden cacophonous boom of his enormous augmented cannon. There’d been screaming and crashing, and you’d woven yourself  between the bodies toward the sound. Just to assess, just to figure out what kind of danger you’d been in—

Fucking B’darl — the worst of your regular patrons — had entered into view and suddenly hoisted the cutie right up into the air before slamming him down into the orloni fighting ring. 

You hadn’t thought about it — about anything, really — just thrown yourself through the crowd, toward the fighting ring. By the time you’d gotten there, B’darl had the cutie pinned to the miniature arena’s floor by the throat.  Both the orloni and the f’saki had cowered back, blood-soaked and wounded, from the sudden interference in their battle-to-the-death. 

Looks like you wandered outta the ring, the fucking brute had sneered.Time to go back to brawling with the other vermin, you little monster. 

B’darl had lifted his other fist, easily the size of your entire head.

My money’s on the f’saki, though. 

You’d surged between them without thinking, latching onto B’darl’s massive forearm, knocking his fist to one side.

You shrug. “It was worth it,” you tell Rocket mildly, and take another sip of your drink.

His eyes drop to the ring of teethmarks in your arm again. He opens his mouth to speak, and you cut in.

“My own fault,” you tell him. “I should’ve known the cutie could handle himself. I got in the way.”

You can still remember how his firelight-eyes had stared up at you from behind a mouthful of flesh and blood, stunned and maybe horrified, teeth sunk almost to the bone.  In a worse timeline, maybe you’d have tried to rip your arm away. But here, in this one, you’d curled around him instinctively. Protectively. 

And then he’d reached around you smoothly and snagged B’darl’s ion pistol, and you’d heard the gun go off as he’d squeezed the trigger, blind.

“My only regret is that I lost sight of him in the aftermath,” you tell him with a shrug. You try for a teasing smile but it suddenly feels strained, tense on your mouth. You’d been too flushed with adrenaline when you’d first started this conversation. Now, suddenly, the nerves are present: rattling and twitching behind your sternum. Your fingers shake a little and you clamp them onto your glass. “Didn’t even catch his name.” 

He doesn’t say anything, and you squeeze your eyes shut. When you finally get the fluttering in your vagus nerve under control, you hazard a look up at him. 

His eyes are on your forearm though: the circle of silken raised marks, just three shades lighter than the rest of your skin, and strangely — almost prettily — translucent. His finger reaches out: dark and clawed, his touch like warm leather. You go so still that you can’t blink, can’t even breathe as he paints a ring of warmth on your skin, looping the circlet of scars onto his fingertip like pearls threaded on a string.

The flutters are back, full-force. 

Slowly, Rocket drags his gaze up to yours, sunset-eyes glowing.  “Cutie works.”

@hibatasblog deserves so much more & better than this little ficlet but i am dedicating it to them anyway because they regularly call rocket "short king" and i cannot get it out of my head. deepest love to them & all their writing (please do yourselves a favor and check out their ao3 fics if you have not already)

look i just feel like (1) rocket is a cutie and if you say it in the right tone, he'll be flattered enough to not kill you and (2) there's no way he'd ever forget the stranger who jumped into a fight on his behalf — and probably got scarred for it — back before he met the guardians. which is when the og encounter takes place fyi. forget about the fact that i don't think we know if he had ever been there before gamora brought them along — i headcanon that where two or more lowlifes gather, so too there is rocket.

sidenote oh my god i literally cannot stop with the increasing wordcount. day seven (when i eventually get around to it) is gonna be SHORT. it's a promise/challenge to myself. anyway i think my writing quality peaked with machinery and i'm sorry this is so late

day five. machinery. ✷ day seven. home. rocket raccoon prompt week list

taglist ♡ @evolvingchaoswitch ♡ @glow-autumz ♡ @wren-phoenix ♡ @suicidalshitstick ♡ @pretty-chips

Baby Groot: [drops a plate] <Oh, shit.>

Rocket: WHO THE FUCK TAUGHT YOU TO SWEAR?

Baby Groot:

Rocket: IT WAS QUILL, WASN’T IT?

Baby Groot:

Rocket: Oh fuck it was me wasn’t it.

Quill: Yondu loved me. He just didn’t care for my general happiness or self-esteem.

Oh, my poor babies here. The exchange is so beautiful. You can tell that they are both struggling so much. Your work is amazing! Seriously, check out all the art by shelbyinubakilee!

Entanglement

Rocket hurt all over, more than that, he was angry. He’d been through so much. So, when the small human threw the parka and scooped him up he bit through the white cloth right into the hand that held him, that cradled him softly against a chest with a beating heart.

A squeak of pained surprise sounded above him. Again, there was the taste of blood in his mouth. Rocket screamed a high-pitched wail before using all of his remaining strength to bear down as hard as he could on the flesh between his teeth. Again, there was the sound of another’s pain. For a moment, the arms restraining him clenched tightly, squeezing his ribs, almost hurting, but the grip quickly stopped and loosened.

Still biting hard, Rocket decided he wouldn’t let go until he was forced to or killed. He would go down fighting. He struggled, worrying at the flesh trying to inflict as much pain as possible. “It’s ok,” the voice above his said shakily, “You’re ok, little guy.” Rocket paused mid-bite, his teeth releasing some of their pressure. -Chapter 3 by @hibatasblog.

Wow. Caffeine did not help with anxiety. But it made me laugh though!

I love this! It’s so intricate and detailed with all of the story. Favorite part was “engine shit.”

rocket & pearl’s bunk in cicatrix .⋆☁︎ :･꧂ working on an illustration of one of my favorite scenes from chapter thirteen. heartspur.

did i say “fuck perspective”? yes i did but i tried to make up for it by including rocket's laser cannon, railgun, twin barrel blaster, stolen nova cannon (obscured by the bunk-straps), gatling blaster (i tend to call it a rotary autocannon or autoblaster since, like, "gatling" wouldn't really exist in intergalactic parlance?), parts of the hadron enforcer, and another gun i've seen him with but whose name i couldn't identify. and, of course, the modded quadblaster he's working on for pearl. i did not include katie and vicki or the collapsible blaster-rifle, but assume they're in there somewhere. maybe over on the other bunk-turned-workbench.

i sketched the layout of the runabout (below) for my own reference while writing (i clearly know nothing about how spaceships work but hey, this one’s been modified by a sentient raccoon so we can all suspend some disbelief).

let’s assume the hull is a lot thicker and there’s a lower-lower level still (probably accessible from the engine room) that contains some additional shit connecting the engine, fuselage, artillery, etc. honestly this is just so i have a general idea of the environment while writing.

I’ve been seeing a lot of anti-Nazi ones, which is great, but I felt like we needed one to show our support for the Jewish community.  

If regret were a fine wine, that’s what this chapter tastes like. Or a sinful treat.

꧁･:☁︎⋆. cicatrix .⋆☁︎:･꧂ chapter three. rasque. [new 3/7] ❤︎

18+ only | rocket x f!oc | 2/25 | wip | word count: pending.

a daring escape.

“Put your feet like this, pearl,” he grunts at her, showing her how to notch the soft soles of her humie feet into the metal rails framing each pane in the pyramid. “Lean against the glass — it won’t break. This frickin’ stuff is made to hold up on re-entry.” She blinks at him over her shoulder. “The Arete is a ship?” Smart girl. “Focus on your feet,” he orders instead, grimacing. He hovers his hand over the curve of her hip, and hopes that they both get lucky and neither of them get struck by lightning. To her credit, the girl gets halfway to the vertical strut he’s gonna need her to climb down before she wobbles. His hand rises to her flank immediately, pressing her against the glass. Without thinking, he strokes his hand down over the curve of her hip in a way he means to be comforting — as if he could possibly be of any comfort to her at all — but she doesn’t seem perturbed by the gesture. There’s a slight uptick in her heartbeat — a soft little drumbeat beneath the rain — but it evens out quickly. Unlike his, which is picking up speed with every new raindrop that lands on her stupid frickin’ dress. The pale silk of it is already silvering into translucence under the onslaught of the storm, and he realizes — with a stifled groan buried under the low thunder and the sound of the rain hammering the glass — that by the time the two of them get to the stolen runabout he has stowed at the shoreline, she’ll be as good as naked. Worse, really — all wrapped up like the cutest little piece of candy, pink and peach peeking through the transparent layers and clinging wet veils.

read chapter three. rasque. on ao3 :･꧂

WARNINGS: references to the last chapter’s violence. big regrets. sexual fantasies. cutting (to remove a tracking device). some aftercare.

rated with one heart mostly for rocket's filthy mind (rather than anything actually happening). aftercare will resume in the next chapter, which will probably be in about 1.5-2.5 weeks. i hope you joy my lovelies.

꧁･:☁︎⋆.masterlist, notes, & moodboard.⋆☁︎ :･꧂

some explicit statements or references ✩ abbreviated explicit sequences ❤︎ detailed/prolonged explicit sequences ❤︎❤︎

taglist ♡ @evolvingchaoswitch ♡ @glow-autumz ♡ @wren-phoenix ♡ @suicidalshitstick ♡ @pretty-chips

Just perfectly painful and lovely in all the best ways. Achingly vulnerable Rocket is my jam. Read and comment on every chapter of this gorgeous story.

cicatrix.⋆☁︎:･꧂

chapter twenty-eight. la momophobia. [NEW 3/19] ✩

18+ only | rocket x f!oc | 27/40+ | wip | wordcount: pending. cicatrix masterlist & notes | navigation chapter twenty-eight. momophobia. ✩ see warnings and art below. | NEW! rocket combs pearl's hair

bathtime confessions.

“Close your eyes,” he rasps, and she does. He leans over the lip of the tub and presses the warm, damp fabric to her forehead, carefully avoiding the wounds that Drax has already cleaned and dressed — dabbing cautiously at the shallow scratches that he hadn’t. Pearl doesn’t flinch or hiss or even gasp: just lets herself go soft and easy under his touch, so absolutely trusting that it wrenches his heart all over again. He gently mops the smears of blood left behind, and the creases and tear-tracks in the dust on her cheeks, all crisp and crystallized with salt. “Rocket—"

“Just—“ he interrupts, and the word is thick and heavy in his mouth. “Just shut up and lemme do this, okay?” But there’s no venom in his voice, no razor-sharp slice. He almost doesn’t even recognize it as his own. He cleans every soft plane and hollow in her face: tracing each bone and curve, drawing constellations in her freckles with the cloth. Adrestia. Auxesia. Penthus. Arete. Astraea. Dicé. His right hand follows his left: memorizing her hairline, lingering mournfully at the edges of her minor cuts and scrapes. Archiving each little wound into his sensory memory, like a prayer or a punishment. As his palms grow wet, the feeling of her intensifies under his hands. By the time he’s washing the dust off her eyelids, he swears he can identify each and every soft eyelash feathering under his thumb. He cleans the hollows behind the hinge of her jaw, the soft vulnerability under her chin. When he moves down the throat he’d almost crushed that first night on the Arete, his eyes burn. You’re not a monster, she’d whispered up to him that night, with her ribs bruising between the brutal grip of his knees. You never have been.

read more on ao3 | cicatrix masterlist & notes see warnings and art below. this chapter is full of angst so double-check the warnings please!

a story about scars. two survivors learn about themselves, each other, hope, and the universe. a freakish little monster visits the high evolutionary’s bride on her wedding night. an adventure of intergalactic proportions ensues. aka raccoons make plans; the universe laughs.

ART: pearl’s character design | pearl & rocket’s bunk | heartspur scene | chapter one. nemotia. art by @/frostedwitch| rocket & pearl snuggle | adorable pearl x rocket selfie by @/starriidreams | sexy, evocative waterlily pearl x rocket painting by @/hibatasblog ♡ | NEW! rocket combs pearl's hair

WARNINGS for this chapter: infinite angst (& comfort). woundcare. discussion of animal surgery, and medical & (i would argue) psychological torture. lots of non-smutty naked/partially-clothed intimacy and the occasional dirty thought (because rocket). regret, self-recrimination, and self-loathing.

fluff ✮ | spice ✩ | some smut ❤︎‬ | much smut ❤︎‬❤︎‬ masterlist, notes, & moodboard | navigation

banners & rose dividers by @/saradika-graphics | pearl dividers by @/thecutestgrotto