I’m Gonna Write The Fuck Outta This Scene You’ve Imagined If You Aren’t Careful. 🦝 🧔

OMFG… Ya’ll, I died. This is the sex pollen Rocket story we need in our lives!

you are cordially invited ★⋆.࿐࿔˚⋆˙‧₊ to the fifty-second bicentennial masquerade exhibit on exitar: a night of haunting & hedonism (hosted by the tivan group)

kinktober 2024 | navigation | fanfiction masterlist 18+ only | no use of y/n | f!reader | 2 parts | word count: pending. read book three ★࿐࿔ you are cordially invited now ★⋆.࿐࿔˚⋆˙‧₊

you'd do anything for enough money to care for your ailing mother — including agreeing to a night working for the collector. too bad you weren't more prepared to be part of the entertainment.

CONTEXT: au based loosely on mcu vibes. resourceful reader is also a bit of a nihilist (expression of apathy toward life/death). caretaker reader/discussion of ill parent/parent death. the collector & his friends are creepy bastards (seriously i did the elders real dirty in this one). sub reader / dom rocket. HEA of course. warning for a no-smut first chapter, too much lore, + unhinged plant-science.

★⋆.࿐࿔˚⋆˙‧₊ part one | tricks | thursday, october 31. you try to stay under the radar at your new temp job: one night in a gutted skull, serving devious eldritch monsters in masks. your only ally? a rather ominous wolf. (... well, "ally" might be a generous term...)

KINKS/WARNINGS: no smut (yet), very mild spice (slow-burn i guess?). warning for too much lore + unhinged plant-science.

★⋆.࿐࿔˚⋆˙‧₊ part two | treats | tuesday, november 5. caught in a maze of glass coffins and hunting for escape, you and your wolf stumble across some particularly lascivious pumpkins, resulting in something more-or-less akin to — well, possession.

KINKS/WARNINGS: wolf/bunny play, exhibitionism, voyeurism, sex pollen, noncon/dubcon*, public sex, edging & overstim, dacryphilia, begging, praise/degradation, light humiliation, come-eating, too many orgasms, biting/marking, aftercare. *neither rocket nor reader are necessarily the "aggressor" in this scenario, but have both been forced to ingest an aphrodisiac by a third party.

★⋆.࿐࿔˚⋆˙‧₊ excerpt below.

When you look down, you can see that all the tiny purple crystals and amethyst-prisms on your corset are flecked with orange now, too — microscopic tiny shreds of gold leaf clinging to your bodice. “What is it?” you ask, and some of it falls into your mouth. Strawberry pixy stix, you think, and your tongue darts out before you can stop it.  “Fuckin’—“ He shoots a glare at someone over your shoulder. “Little gift from the Erotist, I’d guess. Or the Gardener.” Something warm blooms in your belly — an answer to the hollow ache of want, a solution if you could just grasp it — and you try to wipe away the pollen cluttering up your lashes and lips like sugary sequins.  The Gardener chuckles. “I’m afraid neither of us can take credit for this one, my dear boy. The Virgin’s Calabash is a creation of the Epicure.” The woman in the onyx-studded violet veil to his right nods her acceptance of this fact, all fake-modesty.  “Legend says it was from the lusty wet-dreams of a thousand touch-deprived virgins,” the Erotist snickers.  “That is not true,” the Epicure utters from behind her veil, tossing back a sheet of darksilver hair and sniffing disdainfully. You try to scrape the sweetness off your tongue with your teeth. It tastes good — but anything made by an Elder can’t be, as far as you’re concerned. “How bad is it if I ingest it?” you murmur to Rocket, and his eyes flare up at you. “Bad. Don’t.” Shimmering pollen clings to his whiskers and studs his fur like drops of sunstone and citrine. “What we got on us is bad enough. What we breathed in — worse.” You shift uneasily. The cool, crisp air of the chamber suddenly feels soothing on your skin. “What—“ “Another myth says that their nectar was used to dose the high priests and priestesses of the Indigarr Sky Lords over a chiliad ago. It caused such a disruption in the governing temples that the order was completely overthrown by invading forces, which ended up occupying Indigarr for nearly six centenaries afterward.” “That one is true,” the Epicure says with a curve of her eyes that seems to indicate a sly smile.  It’s hard to focus, though, as something like a blush blooms on your skin and lingers. You stagger to your feet, trying to brush the gold from your layers of tulle. Your eyes dart to the swing of Rocket’s tail. If he hadn’t made it so clear that he had no interest in you — which you can’t really hold against him, given the circumstances — you might have complimented him on it. The fur is so thick — shiny and soft. You wonder what it would feel like if he let you stroke it. What it might feel like, skimming softly against your skin. You squeeze your eyes shut tight. It’s a weird thought to have — not that you wouldn’t have thought it on a better day. But right now, you need to focus on getting him out of here — not on how luxuriously ticklish his fur might feel on your clit— “Let’s go, then,” you murmur. Your throat feels tight, and something on your belly flutters. “Let’s get out of here—“ “Don’t gotta tell me twice,” he mutters. “I could already be through here if I wasn’t babysitting you—“ Your lips are tingling, and the wave of heat you’d felt a moment ago suddenly intensifies. Is it an allergic reaction, you wonder? Or a normal result of the pollen? You wave a hand at yourself, trying to fan off some of the pollen, trying to cool the rush of warmth in your throat. 

read book three now ★⋆.࿐࿔ kinktober 2024 | navigation | fanfiction masterlist

purple support/mdni banners by @/cafekitsune gold rose & masquerade dividers by @/sweetmelodygraphics

I feel personally attacked.

Baby Groot: [is crying]

Rocket: Hey, listen to me. You’re out of control, okay?

Baby Groot: [cries more]

Rocket: You’re a baby. Your life is not that hard! You’re embarrassing yourself!

The systemic elimination of the Native American population did not end with Trail of Tears or the "Wild West." Post Colonialism is still Colonialism, and until one group of people stops devaluing other cultures as less than. I am haunted by the story my great uncle told me that he experienced as a child. He was a small boy during the Great Depression in Northern Georgia. One day he went into his barn and found an ancient, wizened man. He asked the man what he was doing in his families barn. The man told him that this was the spot he was born in, and this is the spot he was going to die in as well. My Great-Uncle went and got his father, and the old man's tale unraveled. The man's family and tribe were removed- forcibly and cruelly by the US government when gold was discovered in North Georgia. The man told them of his hardships and how he had searched for this place. My Great-Grandfather, invited him into the house to eat and stay, but the man wanted to stay in the barn. The family brought him food, and offered him company. He accepted the food, but wanted to be left alone. He died a few days later. Evil actions that took place 100, 200, 500 years before still resonate in the bones of an entire people. The fact that Georgia's Capital building is covered in gold makes me sick- disgusts me. I remember my school books glossing over the Trail of Tears and focusing on the Gold Rush. Some proud state history.

“Kill the Indian, save the Man.”

Native parents from around the world held their very young children’s hands as they walked them to boarding schools and residential schools. Some Native parents were forced to completely sign away their guardianship to principals of these “schools”, or face jail time. Others were visited by policemen, who forcibly seized their children from them. A few were undermined by “Indian Agents” on reservations, who withheld their rations on ration days. Some children never saw their parents again.

Boarding schools were built to “assimilate” the Native population into a white society, targeting their children. It had been assumed that conversion to Christianity and assimilation was “for the best interests” of Native and Indigenous people in Australia, the US, and Canada. The Native children were not allowed to practice skills relevant and appreciated to their cultures, such as carving. They were disallowed to speak in their native tongues, and were often physically, sexually, and psychologically tormented for doing so.

A five year old Native boy is raised by his family to know his hair as an extension of his soul, and that people only cut their hair if they experienced a loss of a loved one, a loss of a relationship, or a loss of oneself. As a stranger cuts off the little boy’s hair in order to better assimilate the child into the sex-based roles of a white male, the Native child is left quietly wondering who it is that has died, where his family went, and why the other children are being beaten for speaking to one another.

Only a small portion of each day was spent learning academically at these “schools”. Most of the day the children were exploited for their labor. How the labor was divided was based upon the Native child’s sex. Native girls were expected to do the domestic labor that was expected of white girls and women, such as cooking and cleaning, and Native boys were expected to perform manual labor, such as farm work, blacksmithing, and shoemaking.  The children would reach a point where they would be “phased out” of these boarding schools for a summer or year at a time and forced to perform labor for private white and wealthy families who did not want these jobs and duties themselves.

Many boarding schools and residential homes had an overwhelming death rate from Tuberculosis, which swept through these schools and homes. Tuberculosis kills it’s victim within ten days. Native children were forced to play and sleep alongside other Native children who had contracted tuberculosis so that they, too, would die. Boarding schools suffered a 50% or higher death rate because of this, effectively reducing the Native population in an attempt to eradicate them.

Maisie Shaw, age 14, was kicked down a flight of stairs by Alfred Caldwell, the principal of the residential school she was forced to stay in and killed.

 Other small skeletons of Native children have been found in church basements, which served as residential homes and boarding schools.

Other children were forced into prostitution rings.

Over fifty thousand children in Canada’s First Nations residential schools were beaten, raped, suffered from electrocutions and electroshock therapy, were forcibly sterilized, often medically experimented on, starved, and murdered. 

It wasn’t until 1978 in the US that Native parents won the rights to deny sending their children to boarding schools. This wasn’t that long ago. In 1978, my mother was 21 years old. 

In Australia, the residential homes lasted until 1984.

In Canada, the last residential home was closed in 1996. 

Agreed 100%

I live in a country, where straight-up Nazi’s, with torches, marched on a campus founded by Thomas Jefferson, shouting Nazi slogans, wearing MAGA hats, saying “Heil Trump,” and attacked counter-protestors last night/this morning.

So for the record: Fuck white-supremacists. Fuck Nazi’s. Fuck the current administration that emboldens their actions. Fuck the people that voted for them. Black lives matter. Lesbians, Gays, Bisexuals, Transexuals, Asexuals, Nonbinaries, and everything in-between have the right to exist in public spaces. Women have the right to abortions. ISIS is NOT representative of Islam. We need single-payer healthcare in this country. Minimum wage needs to be AT LEAST $15 an hour.

And if you have a problem with any of that? Unfollow my ass.

It’s so fucking cute. I’m gonna die from cuteness overload. I love it.

Commission gift for Hibata, inspired from his fan fic Entanglement ❤️❤️

The H.E. Deserved worse.

Tw blood , trauma

-

POV: you’re the high evolutionary😭😭😭

Enjoy!!

them,,,,

So freakin’ sweet!

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 raccoon prompt week list

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

Rocket in any romantic relationship he gets into. (He’s the one being carried.)