Yes. Yes To All Of This!

#artists

Love this!

This is goddamn beautiful, and I’m just loving every bit of interaction between these two darlings. Also, Rocket should fuck around with every part of Natasha’s car. 🚗

the raccoon, the witch, & the roadtrip. part three. illinois. wisconsin. minnesota.

the raccoon, the witch, & the roadtrip masterlist previous part | next part [est june 4] | main masterlist

angst, comfort, friendship, & fluff for @hibatasblog rocket & wanda | part 3/6 | word count: 1680.

night falls on the outskirts of chicago. wanda and rocket reflect on the horrors of the universe.

During a watch party for Avengers: Endgame on Twitter, Markus revealed the idea to team Wanda with the Guardian of the Galaxy captain actually made it into several versions of the film's script. "We had whole drafts with Wanda on a road trip with Rocket," Markus wrote, "but after the Vision plot in Infinity War, nothing we came up with was anything but wheel spinning for her character." CBR

references dialogue from All-New Guardians of the Galaxy Issue #4 - 6/21/2017

At Rocket’s urging, they’d stopped in a weird little convenience-and-fuel shop that the witch had called a rest stop, and he’d sneaked in behind some other humies and poked through the variety of chargers, converters, headphones, and other piecemeal tech that the rest stop had available for travelers to buy.

He’d emptied his pockets once they’d gotten back on the road and Wanda had looked at him with a crease between her brows. 

“How did you buy all that?” she’d asked, lips pursed. She always has big eyes, but they’d seemed even bigger then, and he hadn’t been able to quite clock what her expression had meant.  

So he’d just snorted. “Do I look like I carry Terran cash?”

Again, something in the corner of her mouth had flickered.

He’d been able to spend most of Indiana peeling apart wires and twisting them into one, breaking apart plastic hulls, and snapping together pieces of metal. 

“Natasha’s going to kill you,” Wanda tells him when he pries off the plastic facade protecting the wiring for all the fancy controls on Nat’s dashboard.

He shrugs. “Not if she can’t catch me.”

The witch makes that little puff of sound again. “Just — don’t mess with anything but the sound system,” she tells him. “I’m not making this drive without climate control and blinkers.”

He snorts, then points to a little heating coil the size of an old Kree Imperial coin. “What about that? Can I fuck with that?”

She glances over. “The cigarette lighter? Sure.”

It barely takes him any time to hook up the zune, and it’s crooning through Nat’s speakers by the time they hit the outskirts of Chicago. The sun’s long dropped behind the horizon by then, and he tells her they should hole up for the night.

“Danvers ain’t in that much of a rush,” he tells her. “We can take a break. Get some sleep.”

The witch doesn’t seem the least bit concerned about sharing a room with him, which is nice, because most of the time he feels like he’s gotta be on his guard with these baldbodies. He’s fairly certain at least half of the Avengers ain’t got any frickin’ respect for him or Nebs, and it’s frankly demoralizing.

But here he is, sharing a room with the witch. He’s never been one for regular sleep, and he’s got this thing with nightmares he doesn’t really want to inflict on Wanda. So he stays up most of the night, propped dozily against the headboard and fucking around on a datapad. The witch, for her part, pretends to watch some show on the two-dimensional Terran holovid-projector — primitive — then turns it off and pretends to sleep.

Pretends.

He tilts his head down at his datapad and wonders whether or not he should tell her that he can hear her heartbeat. It hasn’t dropped down to a relaxed, drowsy rate yet — in fact, sometimes he can hear it picking up, just for a minute. He wrestles with himself for a good fifteen minutes before he sighs and gets up, crossing the room to lean against the wall with the window. The witch is facing it, and he knows she can sense him, even though her eyes are closed. He leans back against the wall-mounted climate control unit, crossing his arms across his chest and his legs at the ankle while he waits for Wanda give up her silly charade.

It only takes about twenty seconds of him staring at her with one brow raised before she opens her eyes. They’re glowing as blood-crimson as his in this light — but where Rocket knows that his are made of reflective eyeshine, throwing back the flat light from the cracked bathroom door, hers are lit from the inside: whirling firestorms that would light up like furious beacons on even the most lightless of planets. 

He tries to curl the corner of his mouth in a way that says he’s unimpressed, but it’s a lie, and he’s never been good at lying.

“F’you’re not gonna sleep…”

She sighs and sits up, then rises, moving toward him so quickly that he startles: arms unfolding to defend himself, ears flickering flat. But she just comes and pulls the heavy curtains back, staring out into the distance. The glow of the city sits on the horizon, pinned with gemstone-lights. She leans forward, elbows propper on the window sill and hands on her chin.

“I don’t sleep much,” she says quietly.

He hesitates, then leaps nimbly onto the armchair on her other side, so he can peer out the window too.

“Yeah, well, you’re in good company,” he concedes after a moment. “Not sure how anybody does, to be honest.”

She snorts delicately at that, and he startles again. It’s the first time he’s seen that much life out of her — not counting her barely-banked outrage when he’d first called her boyfriend a robot, or the deadly-looking glow in her eyes a few moments ago.

“They think you can look away from the horrors of the universe,” she says emotionlessly, then shrugs. “I suppose—”

“No,” he interrupts flatly. “You can’t.”

She’s silent, and he doesn’t say anything either. They stare out toward the city for longer than Rocket knows — and to be honest, he’s only partly paying attention: sunk moodily into the horrors that plague his own mind. When he shakes himself – fur rippling from nose to tailtip — he’s reminded that he’s not alone. The witch looks as distant as he probably had. He’d been wondering — ever since the Snap — why she’d seemed so separate from her fellow Avengers, but he figures he gets it now. They’re an annoyingly optimistic bunch and she — she’s got her own horrors, too. 

She sighs, and stretches: hands gripping the sill, back arched like a cat. “Well,” she reasons. “If neither of us are sleeping, maybe we should get on the road?”

They stop at a roadside diner with outdoor seating and even though the sun is only blushing up the eastward horizon, Wanda insists on eating outside. She’s not trying to get in a situation where someone tells them that Rocket can’t be in a restaurant. She doesn’t have the energy to deal with his fury at the — well, the injustice of it. 

Because he’s not an animal. She’s still not sure exactly what he is, but he’s not an animal. She thinks again of his voice in the darkness beside her in the still-dark hours of the morning:

No, you can’t.

All of the Avengers do it, to some extent or another. Look past some of the horrors. She supposes it’s how they survive.

But she can’t.

She hasn’t been able to look away since she’d been trapped under that bed with Pietro, staring at the Stark Industries missile. She’s been waiting for death ever since. Now, under a rose-and-lavender sky with Rocket, she suddenly realizes that this is why it had been so easy to believe in Ultron’s promises.

Ultron hadn’t been able to look away, either. 

She supposes now that killing people is perhaps the wrong way to deal with it, but she still understands the broken heart at the core of the whole aching dilemma.

She’d started to take her eyes off it, once — the Stark Industries missile and everything else that came after. She’d started to lose sight of all that misery in the softness of Vis’ eyes, and now — now there’s nothing to distract her.

She just wants to look in his eyes again, instead of at — everything else.

But here’s Rocket, and he — she thinks maybe he understands. Strange, that she would find someone else so like her. It apparently took billions of lightyears’ worth of travel and some sort of — of alien mutation or something, but here he is.

They take breaks in Rochester and Sioux Falls, and listen to almost every song on the zune, including repeats from yesterday. Rocket picks up earpods and batteries and a dozen other small devices at every rest stop they pause at, and she doesn’t ask how he gets a hold of them. He tears them apart beside her, legs still swinging in the seat, and she imagines stopping somewhere and picking up a child’s carseat for him. There’s a curl in the corner of her mouth before she recognizes the feeling of it, and it startles her — to know that she’s still capable of smiling.

Rocket reconfigures the little devices into strange combinations that she’s sure are somehow purposeful, seemingly none-the-wiser in regards to her errant, probably-insulting thought and her first smile in years. The quiet between them feels oddly companionable. 

“Rocket,” she says, sometime between stops. “What is this mission Carol gave you, anyway? I need to know how I’m supposed to help you.”

He shrugs, focused on the now-unidentifiable piece of tech in his hands. It moves so fast — flashing metal and chipped plastic, little bundles of wires. “Gettin’ me there’s good enough, sweetheart,” he mutters, then flinches at the same time she shoots him a startled, sideways stare. “Sorry,” he mumbles, grimacing. 

She puts her eyes back on the pavement, the broken white lines sliding quickly beneath and beyond them. “That’s fine,” she says quietly, and he offers a half-shrug.

“Know Nat hates when I call her that,”  he admits, still focused on whatever he’s making. Another quick glance tells her his ears are flattened, though. “Try not to.” She can feel him hesitate before he flashes a sharp grin into her periphery. “Prob’ly can’t just keep calling you witch, though.”

She snorts before she can stop herself: a broken half of a chuckle, rusty and unused. “Why not?” she asks, and he snickers under his breath as the trees go by and the zune repeats another song through his makeshift adapter.

“I think calling her sweetheart is going to be the least of your concerns once she sees how you’ve messed with her car,” Wanda adds, and when he cackles, it pulls something answering out of her lungs: cherry-blossom-bright and unfamiliar, and real. The laugh feels strange in her mouth, absent so long she’d forgotten the petalled shape of it.

Both of them abruptly fall quiet, the sounds of Joan Jett curling through the speakers.

“Did you just—?” Rocket asks, the words crackling off at the end, and Wanda’s hands tighten on the wheel.

“Yes,” she says quietly, although the startle is still in her voice. “I did.”

the raccoon, the witch, & the roadtrip masterlist previous part | next part [est june 4] main masterlist

Sexy grooming time.

ᯓ⋆｡°✩ practice

for a nonnie who asks the important questions main masterlist | oneshot 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.

initial ask | the beard | rocket smells like eidos-rocket-headcanons | main masterlist | oneshot masterlist

“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 just 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.”

initial ask | the beard | rocket smells like eidos-rocket-headcanons | main masterlist | oneshot masterlist

banners & dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Y’all. Y’ALL. I’m losing my mind over this. Fans self as I try not to ignite in a grand conflagration of flame. 🔥 Rocket, go slay that sweet storyteller pussy. 🚀 🦝 🍆 🍑 💦 🦷 😜

year five: dispersal

part three preview ✿ coming wednesday 4/30

florescence❀| navigation | fanfiction masterlist 18+ only MDNI | no use of y/n | f!reader | 5+/6 years | word count: pending.

seeds of second chances.

“Well, this is definitely where I’m gonna fuck you, then,” Rocket growls, and the words are soft and smoky against the rumpled bedroll. 

A shiver — ticklish-soft, like feathers and fur — floats up your spine. You let out a shuddery breath and turn back to hold his shining eyes. With the festival tonight, you’d never started a fire in the hearth, and Rocket is just a dark and threatening shadow to your weak vision in the night. Without the fire to throw his ruby-cabochon eyes into glow, you can barely pick him out in the shadows.

“‘Cause I missed you, storyteller.” 

Your ears strain. You’re sure he takes a step toward you. 

“You and all your pretty words. How stubborn you are. How smart you are. How damn sweet.” 

The words float toward you, and your abdomen clenches tight, even while something stings your eyes. 

“I missed you too,” you admit. Your voice wobbles, and you scrunch your nose and lick your lips, trying to keep your words measured. “I — so much, sweetheart.”

“I know, babygirl.” He tsks against his teeth — takes another step toward you. Some small shard of light must catch his eyes, because they flash like copper moons — three paces further to the left than you’d thought.  “Wouldn’t have believed it a few circs ago, but you miss me every time I’m gone, huh?” His voice roughens — grows hoarse, with something you’re sure is regret. You’ve heard it lingering against his teeth enough times to recognize it. “I was starside for so frickin’ long this time, too. Wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d given up on me—”

“Absolutely not,” you hiss, wounded by the words. The dark silhouette of him raises its hands in mock-surrender, eyes flashing like garnets as he slides another foot forward. “You promised—”

“I know, princess,” he purrs. “I did. But my promises haven’t meant much to most people before now. Groot’s prob’ly the only one who ever believed in ‘em before.” Another careful, measured stride. “The whole frickin’ time I was out there, I was thinking of you. Wanting to get back — tell you how much I love you. Lick that mark I left you.”

Your fingers flutter up to the pearly ring of scars, and your pussy suddenly flutters and dampens. You take a step backward, further onto the bedroll.

“Could bite you a new promise,” he croons dangerously. “One where I don’t gotta leave you behind again.”

Your cunt spasms now, and something beneath your sternum does too: heart clenching just as needily.

“I want that,” you agree breathlessly. “I want that too.”

“Right here,” he continues. “Gonna fuck you and bite you right on this damn bedroll. Can’t tell you how many times I wanted to before.”

Another loping stride toward you; another quick crimson gleam of lava-hot eyes. Your bare toes curl against the softly-crumpled blankets and quilts.

“Wanted to fuck you in this bed for so long, babygirl. Probably since the first morning I came in here  — following a stray fuckin’ flerken — and saw you layin’ there, all soft and messy.” His voice dips low. “Like that damn pussy of yours.” 

You hear him — breathing in, slow and steady. Inhaling your scent like a hunter.

“I missed her, too, storyteller,” he admits, and when he steps toward you again, he’s got the look of a predator caught in his eyeshine once more. It sends a shiver up your spine. “An’ I can tell by the way she smells that she missed me back.”

from chapter six year five: dispersal, part three [anticipated 4/30] ‬❤︎‬❤︎ florescence❀| navigation | fanfiction masterlist

WARNINGS for this chapter: touch of primal play, touch of somno, light bondage/blindfolding, torn clothing, The Tail™. tons of dirty talk. light painplay, nipple-play and tit-slapping, marking (claws, teeth/biting), praise, light degradation, "slut" (affectionate), lots of overstim, masturbation, cunnilingus.

“The only chance we got is to get to the other side of the universe as fast as we can and maybe, just maybe, we'll be able to live full lives before that whack-job ever gets there.”

rocket & groot leave their friends behind on knowhere, despite the latter’s protests, and end up hiding out on a nothing-planet (with a non-extradition policy) at the edge of the shi’ar galaxy.

flower divider by @/thecutestgrotto • planet divider by @/edensrose • mdni & support banners by @/saradika-graphics • moodboard by me! ♡

Or have him fuck the shit out of me… I’m not picky.

It delights me to know that my art made you happy! I wish I had more free time to make art for your wonderful stories. You have been so great, and the greatest present is being your friend.

Happiest birthday to raccoonfallsharder! You are the best, and you deserve the moon and stars! In addition to being an amazing storyteller, they are a wonderful, kind, loving friend. I’ve benefited so much from knowing them. In honor of their special day is a gouache on fabric painting from their incredible story “Cicatrix.”

A kiss kiss may lead to a bang bang… read this awesomeness everyone!

negotiations.

BOOK THREE ~ ♡ kiss kiss ♡ BANG BANG [NEW 2/19] navigation | fanfiction masterlist

mid-to-high grade spice | gn reader | no use of y/n | oneshot | 1,834 words. read negotiations now ♡༄.° ✈︎ ₊⭒˚｡⋆

you and rocket make a deal (not for the first time).

Primary Prompt: Distracting kisses from someone that are meant to stop the other person from finishing their work, and give them kisses instead. (#42)

Supplemental Prompt: A kiss that is leading to more, but is interrupted by a third party. (#22)

“You’d been working for almost three straight shifts,” you protest. “I just wanted you to come to bed and rest — to take care of yourself.” Your neck softens against your will and your head rolls back as he nibbles a line along the top of your shoulder: from spine to wingtip, then back to the juncture of your throat. You can feel the blunt pressure of his careful canines — the silken brush of his beard against your shoulderblade when he tugs the collar of your shirt down, stretching it out enough to make room for himself. “Well, now I’m gonna take care of you,” he rumbles, and you can feel his chest vibrate through the flimsy cushion of the chairback. His hand cradles the back of your skull — fingers sinking into your hair, claws prickling your scalp — before he curls them into a fist and uses it to guide your head to one side, baring the tender veins and arteries and tendons to his mouth.

read more on ao3 ♡༄.° ✈︎₊⭒˚｡⋆

♡ kiss kiss ♡ BANG BANG | navigation | fanfiction masterlist

CONTEXT/WARNINGS: loosely eidos-inspired; rocket's a mischievous and bossy little scamp with one flarkin' thing on his mind. this is just like. a lot of steamy smooching with suggestive commentary (nothing too explicit but, you know, they're clearly sleeping together). reader is described as having hair long enough for rocket to grip. pet names, including but not limited to sweetheart, honey, etc.

kiss divider & support banner by @/saradika-graphics | glitterfall divider by @/bernardsbendystraws | star fairylights by @/thecutestgrotto

Rocket: [Referring to Blackjack] He’s selling us out!!!

[Rocket starts strangling Blackjack but is pulled off by Lylla]

Lylla: Rocket Stop!!! There has to be a reasonable explanation! At least give him a chance.

Blackjack: Thank you Lylla… I’m selling out.

[Lylla starts strangling Blackjack and Rocket crosses his arms and smiles smugly]

How else is Rocket gonna build his fuck-you disks if he can’t keep his poor dick warm?

cicatrix .⋆☁︎:･꧂

chapter sixteen. craxis. [new 7/12] ❤︎❤︎

18+ only | rocket x f!oc | 16/25+ | wip | word count: pending. masterlist, notes, & moodboard | chapter sixteen. craxis. ART: pearl's character design | pearl & rocket's bunk (1) and (2) |

PLEASE check out this art from chapter one. nemotia. by @frostedwitch ♡♡ it's so gorgeous i could die. i have died, actually. i am typing from beyond the grave

pearl considers the problem of sovereign. see below for warnings & notes.

“Don’t gotta fuck just because you missed me,” he reminds her, though he sounds almost reluctant to admit it. “Shouldn’ta made you sleep alone these past few rotations, but I — uh—“ his voice breaks off and he looks away, using his empty hand to rub the back of his neck. “Just wanted to get to Sovereign quick,” he decides to say at last, though his eyes flicker like he’s hiding a different thought, and again, she could almost think he’s blushing.  It doesn’t look like a happy or excited blush, though. Embarrassed, pearl would guess. Or sad.  “No,” she protests quickly, her hand darting back out to his fur. “I missed you, and I want to. Please, Rocket?” He turns his eyes back to her, and they’re suddenly liquid-dark, pupils blown out into the sunset-red. “You want my dick or my tongue, sweetheart?” It’s a lazy drawl. “M’not gonna make you beg again right now, but you’re gonna have to at least say it.”

read more on ao3 | masterlist, notes, & moodboard

there is more to this chapter than just smut, i swear it. (but mostly it's just smut.)

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.

WARNINGS for this chapter: smutty-smut while rocket wears his cute lil goggles. cockwarming. a light foray into subspace. dirty-talk. praise. mentions of gagging and one light spank. dirty-talk. use of “slut”/”whore” (affectionate). aftercare. so much dirty-talk.

fluff ✮ | spice ✩ | some smut ❤︎‬ | much smut ❤︎‬❤︎‬

banners & rose dividers by @/saradika-graphics pearl dividers by @/thecutestgrotto taglist ♡ @evolvingchaoswitch ♡ @glow-autumz ♡ @wren-phoenix ♡ @suicidalshitstick ♡ @pretty-chips