100% Agreement. Really, Could See Most Versions Of Him Using The Occasional Recreational Drugs For Multiple

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.

A question about fornication is asked. Confusion is the result.

sometimes a draft of a future chapter is going so well and i want to share it (especially when it’s something i usually struggle with like actual plot lol) but it would be like, major spoilers.

in unrelated news, chapters 19 and 20 of cicatrix.⋆☁︎:･꧂ are coming out so well. but holy shit this fic is gonna be long

here be spoilers.⋆☁︎:･꧂

(totally unedited & probably with many major typos)

Rocket stares. He can taste his tooth enamel, flaking as his molars grind together. “What,” he asks slowly, “do you mean by give you a ride?”

Drax shrugs. “After I win our competition,” he says reasonably, “I—“

“You ain’t winning anything,” Rocket snaps. The Destroyer looks at him with something like pity.

“I will kill the most abilisks,” Drax explains patiently. “Then I will gut the Daughter of Thanos like the enormous moon-scaled fish that used to roam the Forgotten Lakes of Kylos. But then,” he gestures with something like helplessness, “I will need transportation.”

“You… don’t have a ship?” pearl asks carefully.

“I am Groot?” Groot chimes in.

“Yeah,” Rocket interjects, picking up on Groot’s general question. “How did you even get here?”

“I coerced the captain of a merchant vessel,” the Kylosian says simply.

Rocket throws up his hands. “Then what makes you think I’d frickin’ want you on mine?”

Drax blinks. “We’re friends now,” he points out. “We almost shared a meal together. Your Terran pet—“ He points at pearl and Rocket’s brain is back to short-circuiting. “—warned me about the miserable tastelessness of Sovereign food. I complimented your impressive strength, and have spent casual time in your party’s company.” His brow furrows, like he’s surprised he’s gotta explain all this.

“We ain’t friends,” Rocket says darkly, and the words are almost shrill. “I’m barely friends with them,” he adds, jabbing a thumb at pearl and a forefinger in Groot’s direction.

Drax’s eyes widen, and he looks wounded and betrayed. “But we slept together,” the Destroyer whispers.

Rocket sputters.

“I am Groot,” Groot concedes, and Rocket turns on the Taluhnisan.

“We did not sleep together,” he snaps at the Big Guy. “For fuck’s sake — you three slept together.”

“I am Groot,” Groot reasons, and pearl chokes. The statement’s too complex for Rocket to catch, though, and he turns to pearl, who looks half-panicked herself.

“What’d he say?” Rocket asks dangerously.

“He said, uhm.” Her moonsilver eyes flick to Groot, and Drax, and then back to him, wide and alarmed. She’s pale except for two high spots of color in her cheeks. “He asked if the transitive property applies to mammal sleeping habits.”

“I am Groot,” Groot adds.

“He says, if I slept with them, and you slept with me—“

“I am Groot—“

“Enough!” Rocket bellows. “What is wrong with you people?”

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

I might be in love with Wanda now too.

the raccoon, the witch, & the roadtrip. part four. south dakota.

the raccoon, the witch, & the roadtrip masterlist prev | next [est june 11] | main masterlist

angst, comfort, friendship, & fluff for @hibatasblog rocket & wanda | part 4/7 | word count: 1864.

rocket and wanda get in a fight.

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

They don’t stop until Rapid City. Wanda looks like she might actually be ready for a nap — her firestorm-eyes somehow blunted by exhaustion — and Rocket himself could go for a few drinks, which is apparently not a thing you’re allowed to do if you’re in a moving vehicle in this corner of Terra. 

Stupid, he’d scoffed at the witch. M’not even the one working the frickin’ pod.

Car, she’d corrected mildly, and she still hadn’t let him have a drink. He’d thought about swiping some booze at one of the so-called rest-stops, but then he’d felt all twisted-up inside about sneaking a drink when it was clearly something she didn’t want him to do. In some ways, she reminds him of Gamora — too serious, carrying way too much for her skinny baldbody shoulders — and the thought of fucking around with her rules when she’s got so few of ‘em just makes him feel small and low.

Sometimes he misses the days when screwing with someone brought him twisted shreds of meanspirited joy. 

Time to be the captain, he thinks bitterly.

By the time they find a hotel with a vacancy that doesn’t look like a shithole — not that he minds shitholes, of course, they kinda feel like home to him; but Wanda’s muttering something about bedbugs and reminding him that Natasha’s paying  — well, by then, he’s a little worried he’s not gonna get a drink after all. There doesn’t seem to be a bar within reasonable walking distance — not that he can see. But when they check in, he can see from the corner of his eye that there’s a bar attached right to the frickin’ lobby, and he thinks maybe Terra doesn’t completely suck after all.

The witch is so exhausted that it actually doesn’t take long for her to drift off this time — at least, not by his standards. He can hear her heartbeat suddenly thumping her awake every few minutes for the first half-hour or so — but eventually, her stifled breaths of wakefulness spread out and smooth over. 

It’s not that he’s trying to sneak out. He hasn’t done that since — well, since Pete was around, and that was mostly just to fuck with an easily-annoyed Star-Lord. Really — and Rocket would never admit it if asked — he’s pretty sure that, like himself, the witch finds it easier to sleep when she’s not alone. 

So he putters around, quietly working on a series of tiny linked infrasonic mines made from some scraps he’d squirreled out of Nat’s sound system and a pocketful of things called earbuds he’d swiped at one of the fancier rest-stops. Once he’s sure Wanda’s asleep, he scrawls a note for her — hoping he’s remembering the written Terran language Pete had insisted on trying to teach the Guardians before everything went to hell. Rocket had picked up a fair amount of it, even if he’d pretended disinterest. 

He wishes he hadn’t been such a frickin’ dickhead about it.

witch -  goin to lobby bar. see you in mornin. r

He snags one of the access cards out of the flimsy paper envelope that the front desk had issued them, and carefully eases the door shut behind him. Currently, the plan is to let the poor witch sleep, and to get so wasted while she does it. He’s been sober for cycles now, and he frickin’ deserves it.

Down the hall he goes, whistling a jaunty tune, tail swinging casually behind him. On the way past the ice machine, the door of another room opens. Some baldbody woman looks out, then drops her eyes to his. She blinks, goes white, and closes the door right back up again. He shrugs — weird — and hops in the elevator. He ain’t a fan of the little crack between the floor of the hotel and the little metal box, dropping down countless stories to the basement below. Don’t Terrans know how to make any safe tech? He tries not to think about being in a deathtrap while he hits the button labeled G, which Wanda had explained was for ground floor. 

On four, the elevator pauses and a man nearly steps in before noticing Rocket. The interim captain of the Guardians of the Galaxy offers a friendly, nonthreatening mock salute. 

“Hey, guy.”

The man goes white, and steps back out of the elevator, suddenly gripping his messenger bag in front of his belly. Rocket frowns as the doors slide shut.

Terrans are so frickin’ weird, he thinks again.

The elevator dings and the doors slide open, and Rocket grins at the sight of the bar, with all its glass bottles reflecting molasses-brown shadows and amber light.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he murmurs, and strolls across the tiled floor and through the little entryway. The bar is nearly empty — perfect for penance-drinking. He leaps delicately onto a stool at the bar. “I’ll take the hardest thing you’ve got,” he tells the bartender — a slender humie with thick, darksilver hair. The man blinks at him, eyes growing wide and face turning to ash. “The whole bottle,” the captain clarifies, suddenly recalling that Terran humies tend to distill some of the weakest liquors in the galaxy.

“I — I don’t think I can do that,” the Terran says thinly. His eyes flicker over Rocket, ears to tailtip.

Rocket’s brow pleats. “Huh? Why not?”

“Uh,” the bartender says, eyes siding nervously to one side, “we don’t serve… pets at the bar…”

It takes a minute for Rocket to be sure he’s understood correctly. His lip peels back from his teeth and he catches himself at the start of a seething hiss when the man shrinks back.  

Terrans are just morons, Rocket reminds himself. You’re s’posed to be the captain now. Of the Guardians of the frickin’ Galaxy. A good guy. 

Hang onto your frickin’ temper.

“Dude,” he manages to grind out between sharp teeth. “I ain’t a frickin’ pet.” 

“Wild animal, then,” the bartender mumbles, eyes nearly as big as Mantis’ had been, but much less kind. It sends a spear of leaden regret slides right through the fucked-up, half-shredded muscle of Rocket’s heart. 

That chick with the antennae, he’d called her. Why’s he always gotta be such a dickhead?

For once, he tries not to turn that pain outward, even though it’s always so much easier. Still, he can’t help but feel his fists curl and his ears flick back, flattening against his skull. “How many wild animals do you know that talk?” he asks the humie behind the bar, trying to be reasonable. “I’m a frickin’ Guardian of the Galaxy. An honorary Avenger or whatever. I fought Thanos for you assholes.”

I lost my whole family for you.

The bartender begins backing away, palms raised in surrender. “Look, I don’t know anything about you being an Avenger, but if you’re not a service animal, I don’t think you can even be in the bar—“

Rocket feels his eyes go round and his spit go sour. The fur on his back and neck and arms splays wide, and his tail puffs to twice its normal size. “A. What?”

The bartender looks like he’s going to cry. “I don’t know, man! For all I know, you could be rabid—“

“I ain’t rabid,” Rocket snarls, rising to his feet on his barstool. “I get my frickin’ shots—“

“—and we don’t serve raccoons!”

His jaw clicks shut. The sharp electric-shock of the word burns every nerve and short-circuits his brain, and all he can think is how much he’d give up for Pete to call him that shit-name again.

“What’d you call me?” 

He launches himself over the bar and lands on the mirrored shelf behind it, spraying bottles across the narrow space while the Terran shrieks and cowers. Glass and booze explode against the tile while Rocket spins and hooks his hands into claws, ready to rend. 

“I’m gonna frickin’—“

He’s springing through the amber and blue shadows when strands of light, as glowing-crimson as his own warning-beacon eyes, loop around his waist and tug him back, suspending him in midair. He tears at the gossamer-fine threads, but they slip through his fingers like mist.

“Rocket.”

He bares his teeth and glares upward. 

The witch. 

She strides across the lobby, smudged and tired, her red-star eyes spiraling and spilling molten fire. Her hair’s all tangled from whatever brief sleep she’d gotten, and her face looks white and pinched and pained. She must’ve woken, some part of him notices — smothered under the heat of his fury, his lashing tail and kicking legs. She must’ve woken, and noticed he was gone, and seen his note.

She looks concerned.

The front desk staff flinches away from where they’d been watching the scene unfold in the bar.

“Rocket,” she says gently. “Stop.”

“I will, sweetheart,” Rocket promises earnestly, still twisting and tearing at her threads of power. “Swear I will. Just lemme take care of this one jackass first—“

“No,” she says, stepping up next to wear he’s suspended, her face just a few inches from his. Her magic pulls him gently over the bar, closer to herself. “He’s not worth it.” She looks around the lobby, and some distant part of Rocket wonders how such a volcanic stare can suddenly look so utterly cold and remote. Is his own eyeshine is picking up the reflection of her light and throwing it back at her? He can picture it: four firestorm-eyes lighting up the entire hotel lobby. 

“Nothing in this place is,” she adds icily, and the ends of her hair begin to flicker and float in a wind he can’t feel.  His instincts suddenly shudder and go still: the freeze element of a classic flight-or-fight reaction. Something deep under his fur acknowledges the pure threat of her. The witch’s voice is dark, and crackling with raw red lightning. Something at the base of his spine recognizes it as the most dangerous sound he’s ever heard, and his ears flatten in alarm, puffed tail suddenly tucking in against his inner calf.  The silk strands of magic lower Rocket gently until his feet rest on the surface of the bar, but they don’t release him — not yet. Never mind that he’s not fighting anymore.

“You are a fool,” she tells the bartender, turning her molten eyes toward the baldbody still cowering behind the bar. She lifts a hand to point at Rocket. “This person is more than just an Avenger. He has saved the entire galaxy — a number of times. In all likelihood, he has saved you. Personally.” Her eyes skim the weeping bartender dismissively, then flick dismissively over the front desk staff and the two other patrons Rocket hadn’t even noticed, hiding near a potted tree that reminds him too much of a young Groot. 

“He’s no animal,” she tells them in that terrifying, midnight-voice. Honestly, Rocket wouldn’t blame any of them if they’d wet themselves. His own bladder suddenly wants to let go and it’s only his superior frickin’ aversion to embarrassment that keeps his body under control. 

“He deserves your deepest respect, and your deepest gratitude,” she tells them. Her eyes, still haloed in red radiance, hold onto the bartender.

“Now pour him a drink.”

the raccoon, the witch, & the roadtrip masterlist prev | next [est june 11] | main masterlist

So excited! I can’t wait for the Wanda and Rocket roadtrip!

may aspirations

friday, may 3: ꧁･:☁︎⋆. cicatrix .⋆☁︎ :･꧂chapter eight. keep. ✩

sunday, may 5: happy birthday, volume 3! begin posting new Domestic Scenes in Space Travel masterlists (my first gotg fanfic!) *may 5: the very boring adventures of space pilot & sweatshirt girl❤︎❤︎ *may 8: outer space safety & spaceship maintenance training ❤︎❤︎ *may 11: reconnaissance for beginners: an instruction manual ❤︎❤︎

thursday, may 9: cicatrix .⋆☁︎ :･꧂chapter nine. mal de coucou. ✩

tuesday, may 14: the raccoon, the witch, & the roadtrip. [headcanon part one] ✮

thursday, may 16: cicatrix .⋆☁︎ :･꧂chapter ten. querinous. ✩

wednesday, may 24: cicatrix .⋆☁︎ :･꧂chapter eleven. hailbound. ✩

tuesday, may 28: the raccoon, the witch, & the roadtrip. [headcanon part two] ✮

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

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆ other things i'm working on ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆ for june and beyond...

the raccoon, the witch, & the roadtrip. [part three and four] ✮

cicatrix .⋆☁︎ :･꧂ chapter twelve. ochisia. ❤︎ chapter thirteen. heartspur. ✩ chapter fourteen. ghough. ❤︎❤︎

warm compress ☾.༊·˚⋆⭒ oneshot. ✮

florescence❀, chapter five year four: formation. ❤︎❤︎

⭑˚.⚘𖡼𖥧𖤣 windfall, part three: candied apples. ❤︎❤︎

･:*𑁍✧˚₊ overheard on the bowie. oneshot. ❤︎❤︎ ︎

✩࿐࿔ take what you need. [on standby] ✮

other future projects

Amen and preach on.

I say this every time I argue for raising the minimum wage. I never hear anyone else say it and I’m glad I found this.

If you build your business and your bonus on the backs of others who you don’t pay a living wage you don’t deserve to be in business.

Cute Rockstar.

Hay Amor (There’s Love)

I lost some art due to some carpet flooding. So I hope to repost what I can on here.

By @bbasmos!! I adore this story so much! It throws everything at you that you could want. Sadly, I don’t have all the art that I made for this fic anymore, but I’ll attempt to salvage what I can. It wakes a google translate but it’s so good that not even google can deter it!

I love this so much, and yes his partner would freak out that he said this.

I’m not sure if this is a fact or not, but I read on tiktok that apparently your brain shows you seven minutes of your life when you’re dying and those seven minutes are supposed to be the best parts of your life.

So I thought of what if Rocket sent this to you as a text message, thinking it would be sweet, but he didn’t really take in the “dying” part of it 😭

-

Rocket: “Apparently when you die, your brain shows you 7 minutes of the best moments of your life. You would be my 7 minutes.”

And about 15 minutes later, he got a face call from you and he picked up and you were sobbing. “What is wrong with you? Why would you say something like that?” Obviously crying because it was so sweet yet so sad.

Rocket laughed a bit, “it was supposed to be nice!”

You replied, crying harder, “it was nice, you fuck! Very nice! Now look what you did!”

“I didn’t mean to make you cry! I wanted to be sweet.”

“By talking about you dying?!”

“I don’t know! Just in case—“

“In case of what? Because if you think—“

“Nothing, nothing, I’m exaggerating!”

“If you think you’re not coming back here, Rocket…”

“Listen, the only reason I wouldn’t come back on time would be because I was getting you flowers on the way home. I ain’t leaving, baby. Okay?”

-

Thank you tiktok for this beautiful yet heartwrenching idea :)

Happy Pride!❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🩷🖤🩶🤍🤎

Happy pride month GOTG tumblr!!! 🏳️‍🌈🦝

I love being a lesbian, it’s one of the greatest gifts this world has given me :)❤️

I drew a pride Rocket for you all today to celebrate!!😄❤️

Enjoy!