Chapter 1: Slow And Sudden Miracles
Summary:
Rocket and Peter meet once again. Things fundamentally shift and lines are blurred.
Chapter Text
Slow And Sudden Miracles
There were times when he wished his body wasn’t what it was. That his form didn’t have to carry an innate horror to it—the terror and fear of an organism torn apart and put back together. Consciousness and sentience crammed into the skull of a creature never meant to exist. It was an existential horror, Rocket mused as he swirled a shot glass of a strange blue-tinted liquid. He’s not entirely certain as to what it is or if it’s even compatible with his biochemistry. But at this point in the night, and with how much his mind was tormenting him, it didn’t really matter. It all went down and burned the same, smoldering and heating his lower stomach as his racing thoughts were pleasantly swept away in a rush of satisfying confusion and beautiful drunkenness.
Rocket could only chuckle hoarsely as he swished the blue liquid once more and slammed it, throwing his head back, ears tightly held down, as the drink poured down his throat. Finished, he tossed the shot glass onto the counter and tapped two small fingers, signaling the bartender to prepare another. The alien only stared at him uneasily for a second before relinquishing when the raccoon bared his blue-stained canines, not eager to start any trouble.
Rocket just rolled his eyes, mumbling “D’ast idiot,” as he aggressively snatched the glass back and swiveled in his seat, desperate to look at anything other than the hideous, abilisk-looking server he had the misfortune of meeting this night. It’s not like he personally held anything against abilisks, especially not after seeing how Mantis had somehow managed to tame them, but when he was trying to get shitfaced drunk to forget the nightmares written across his body and psyche, he did not want to be faced with moist tentacles and hundreds of teeth.
Cringing, Rocket absentmindedly rubbed his sternum, unconsciously soothing the phantom pain that haunted that healing wound. No amount of Med-Pak’s would ever truly get rid of the shock his body had been subjected to when that golden boy Adam tried to murder him. Yes, now they were on somewhat friendly terms and even sometimes worked together, but Rocket couldn’t help the slight anxiety he felt whenever Adam got too close. It almost reminded him of how he’d react anytime he heard HE’s voice—instinctively recoiling and flinching. A fear so internalized that it may as well be built into the titanium that made up his skeleton.
A little monster…
Feeling that he was starting to spiral once again, the raccoonoid blinked and refocused on the dance floor. From his seat, he could see a crowd of varying sizes and shapes, all moving with the sound of the music blasting from the speakers. His lidded eyes could barely keep up with the strobes of multicolored lights, his cybernetic-enhanced brain struggling to comprehend the rapidly shifting scene. It was so loud that Rocket could see his drink vibrating within the shot glass from the bass.
“Cheezus…” Rocket murmured, his ears barely picking up on the sound of his own voice. It all felt so muffled, as if someone had stuffed cotton deep into his ear canals.He was so distracted that his usually acute senses failed to notice the figure that was approaching him from the dance floor. It was only as he took a moment to lap at the blue liquid that he looked up and realized—there was the form of a person outlined by the strobes of light standing in front of him, staring down at him. The raccoon’s fuzzy mind immediately photographed the imagery presenting itself to him. A cocky, tilted grin, teeth stained blue, and a sheen of sweat highlighted the strands of hair that fell from their gel hold. Instantly, Rocket’s hackles were rising, and he snarled at that man, not caring if he looked feral.
Fuck off. He hoped the snarl was getting across. He didn’t want any company at the moment.
If ever. His brain helpfully added.
So afraid, yet so desperate to fill that void within…
The man, clad in a fading red leather jacket and tight black jeans, only grinned further as he leaned into the raccoon’s personal space, dropping a hand on the counter behind him. He licked his stained teeth and lips before speaking as low as the volume of the music permitted.
“Drinking all by yourself?” He asked, grinning as he picked up on Rocket’s low growl. Rather than put him off, it only seemed to excite the man even more. Sick bastard.
Like anyone could ever truly be attracted to you…
Rocket glared at the man, flashing his canines as threateningly as he could. “What’s it to ya?”
The man, most likely a Xandarian, chuckled. “Just wanted to see if you’d appreciate some company.”
“Get the flark out of here, man, I ain’t lookin’ for a buddy.”
“You sure? Cuz, you’re looking mighty alone from what I’m seeing.”
Rocket’s growling only increased in volume and aggressiveness, a rush of stressed hormones causing him to clench his hand around the shot glass.
I’m gonna rip this man’s face off if he steps an inch closer. His mind snapped, a hot, pounding sensation growing from the center of his inebriated brain. It seemed the pleasant buzz was already giving way to a massive headache. Gods, he was going to regret this so much in the morning…
“Step away if you know what’s good for ya,” the raccoonoid muttered coldly, returning to lapping at his drink. The man only smiled sickly sweet in response, dragging a hand through his sweaty hair before looking past him and tapping on the counter for the bartender's attention. Two little movements that Rocket could feel through the bar table. Suddenly, he was aware of how uncomfortable he was—how the seat cushion beneath him crinkled and cracked every time he shifted. An annoying creaking sound filled the air as he tried to find a comfortable spot.
“Two drinks for myself and this fine man right here.” The man glanced back down, huffing somewhat frustratedly, “The name’s Yericho. You?”
Sneering, Rocket spat out, “None of yer business! Cheezus, how many times do I have to tell ya to leave me alone?” At that, Yericho appeared to finally begin getting the message, hesitating slightly as the drinks were set on the table. Rocket couldn’t help the grin that twisted his lips as Yericho faltered, pleased at the sight of a man twice his size struggling for words.
Please just leave me alone. Rocket begged internally, steeling his nerves for another response.
“You’re just playing hard to get, aren’t you, sweetheart? Well, good thing that Yericho is known as a man who doesn’t know when to give up.” The jacketed man said smugly, as if puffing up his feathers like a cocky bird. Fortunately, just as Rocket was swiveling in his seat, bare foot pads digging into the foot rest, preparing to lunge, a familiar-looking fist collided loudly with the table. D’ast, another body inserts itself into Rocket’s ever-shrinking personal space. What is with all the attention Rocket is getting tonight? He’s not even particularly dressed up or anything.
Do I smell good? His mind wondered, distracting him as he attempted to clear his inebriation enough to seem coherent. An attempt that would immediately fall apart the moment he looked upwards. Just as he was preparing to hand the newly intervening man his ass, Rocket glared up, snarling—he all but froze in place when his carmine eyes made contact with the face above him. Is that Peter goddamn Quill? Instantly, it feels as if he’s sobered up, a cascade of icy, complicated emotions tumbling down his spine and into the pit of his cooling stomach.
What is he doing here? The raccoon recoils. Shouldn’t he be on Earth with his family?
He can still recall that day. The day Peter left them. Left him. He still remembers how it felt when the world was seemingly falling apart again, vanishing into dust and slipping through his fingers. He had worked himself so hard up to that point, keeping it all together. Keeping what remained of his family united in the face of a universe that was out for him. But it seemed every time, no matter how much he cried and howled in grief, he wasn’t meant to have anything. He was born to be forever alone. Losing Floor, Teefs, and flark, Lylla, had nearly destroyed him. Those first moments of freedom had been the most bittersweet moments of his life, and now he was feeling it all over again. Just now that instead of bittersweet, he mostly felt bitter—a sour, disgusting feeling permeating his entire body. Why couldn’t he just keep something for once? Had he not suffered enough just by being born? Why did he have to be faced with his failures and insecurities all the time? Why did Peter have to leave him?
Rocket watches on, static buzzing in his ears, as Peter seemingly snarls at Yericho, his lips pulled back and flashing his blue-stained teeth. Had he also been drinking?
“Did your mother never teach you that no means no?” Quill spits, using his body to essentially encircle Rocket and push away the other man. As if he were protecting his own territory from an intruder. A droplet of heat, a heady sensation, drips into the ice pit that is Rocket’s stomach, returning life to his catatonic form.
“QUILL?” Rocket yells, “What in the everloving hell are you doing here?”
“Didn’t yours ever teach you to leave a man’s conquest to himself and not intrude into something that’s none of your business?” Yericho says angrily, standing up to his full stature. A move that barely brings him up to Pete’s nose.
Ignoring him, Peter tilts his head eerily and moves his hand to his hip, gripping the blaster that familiarly hangs there. “I’d watch your tone if I were you. It would really suck if something bad happened.”
At that, Yericho deflated in seconds, his brown eyes flashing with fear. It seemed, as Rocket had assumed, that the man was a member of the Nova Corps and was unarmed. A regulation to prevent unruly corpsmen from causing trouble on systems not within the periphery of the Nova Empire. A usually armed man, full of bravado, had found himself with his figurative pants down. He attempted to salvage the situation, chucking hollowly as he raised his hands into the air.
His hands are shaking. Rocket noticed, also standing up on the crinkly seat and crossing his arms over his chest.
“A-alright now, not too much. You coulda just said this one was yours, and I’d be on my merry way.” The Xandarian laughed, stepping away minutely. Ready to scamper away at a moment’s notice.
His? The raccoon’s inner voice reeled, walls of insecurity and fear slamming back up.
“I ain’t anyone’s but myself, jackass,” Rocket drawled bitterly. “Leave before it gets ugly.”
“Yeah, leave.” Pete repeated giddily, finally ready to stop ignoring the raccoonoid standing beside him. The tone of his voice had the raccoon giving him a confused side eye. “He’s not yours to bother. He’s mine.” Now that made everyone’s eyebrows rise.
Hastily, “Sure, sure. But if you’re left unsatisfied, y’know where to find me, sweetheart. Hotel room’s right underneath that shot glass.” Yericho winked before finally turning around and fleeing, only looking back to make sure he wasn’t being followed.
Glancing downward, the raccoon pushed the shot glass with his thin finger and grimaced as he found the aforementioned note. A small slip of celluloid was punched with the number of a hotel room. A tiny heart decorates the corner. He could only roll his eyes and crumble the slip, tossing it behind him.
Now that’s that over… Rocket spun around, ready to tear Pete a new one. What he found instead, astounded, was Pete continuing to glare at Yericho’s fleeing form, a strange glint in his eyes he was unable to parse. He seemed to not be there entirely, as evidenced by the uneven movement of his shoulders as he breathed. Now, looking at him, nothing about him seemed okay.
“Quill.” Pete did not respond.
“Quill.” Still nothing.
“Peter!” At Rocket’s shout of his first name, Pete finally dropped his stare and glanced down at the raccoon. It was as if he were remembering where he was, his green eyes giving the room a quick once-over. Unsteadily, a stilted grin made its way onto the man’s face, a shaky hand running a quick sweep through his tousled hair.
“Rocket. Man, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you! How’ve you been?” Peter said happily, his face a sickly pallor that highlighted the blue stain of his teeth. Indignantly and admittedly worried, Rocket ignored his question and jumped off the stool, waving his hand in a motion that paid his tab seamlessly. The bartender hummed in satisfaction and nodded, bidding him a good night.
I am so not prepared for this. He complained internally as he walked away, expecting the seemingly unstable man to follow.
Flark, can’t I ever catch a break? He sighed, dragging a paw over his tired eyes and massaging his temples as a headache pounded away. It felt as if a nail was being driven over and over into his dura mater, flashes of light spontaneously appearing and disappearing as he squeezed his eyelids tightly shut. The only consoling fact he could come up with was that Peter had followed him, his shuffling footsteps not too far behind. But even that only dampened his mood even further, unable to stop the feeling of unease and anxiety that filled his chest.
Rocket kept walking until they were standing in an alleyway, his arms crossed over his chest, shooting Pete a bemused look as he waited for him to begin speaking. Said man stood there awkwardly, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, opening and closing his mouth as he tried to find the proper words to begin this—a realization dawning on the both of them—difficult conversation. Eventually, the Terran closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and exhaled. Seemingly now ready. Rocket tapped his foot impatiently.
“So, I left Terr- er, Earth.” Pete said simply, egging the raccoon into continuing the exchange.
Sighing, he acquiesced. “Yes, I can see that. But that doesn’t answer my d’ast question as to why you’re here on Knowhere. And in a bar of all places.” Again, that uneasy feeling returned.
Was Peter drinking again? He said he wouldn’t…
Peter jumped at that, his eyes widening at the slight accusation. “N-no, well, yes. I, uh, I was trying to find you, y’know. Asked around and found you at the bar.”
“And had enough time to down a couple cold ones?” Rocket drawled, leaning into his hip. Peter at least had the wherewithal to look away abashedly, his face flushing a splotchy pink.
“’M sorry,” the man sniffed, kicking his toes into the dusty ground. “I just needed a quick pick me up, y’know. A lil’ somethin’ to get myself up and runnin’. It was a long journey from Earth.”
“Peter… You said you wouldn’t. That you would stop.”
Why does it hurt so much that he broke that promise? Rocket wondered, shocked even by his own level of hurt. It almost feels like when HE lied…
Sniveling, Pete whispered brokenly, “I know I did; ‘m sorry. I just wanted to see you.”
Rocket felt like he was back in time when Peter was moping all over the place, unable to deal with his grief over Gamora’s death. A husk of a dead man trying to get by, drowning his sorrows in chemical ablation and emotional fights with all those around him. A constant cycle of moments where he’d seemingly recover—energetic and eager—eyes shrunken down to points but just as happy to help the rebuilding of Knowhere’s damaged infrastructure. Then, when something would inevitably go wrong, it all came crashing down into the pits of hell. Peter would instantly become a sad sack of shit who couldn’t even give less of shit to change his underwear, much less take a shower. It was all so confusing that it made Rocket mad. It always pissed him off to see such carelessness and laziness. So he responded in the only way that he knew; anger.
Did Peter never see how hard he tried for him? Did he even care? He told him, so many times, over drinks and held hands, all his insecurities and scars, and how did he repay him? By abandoning him. By leaving him behind. Was he not enough as is?
Logically, Rocket could recognize that he was lashing out and that he was unfairly burdening Peter with the weight of his own mental faults, but by the gods, it felt good to release these emotions. To let out months of frustration and anxiety.
The raccoonoid was breathing rapidly, his small shoulders rising and falling quickly. Clenching his fists, he stepped closer to Peter, a curl of satisfaction blossoming in his lower abdomen as the larger figure visibly flinched and stepped back. The Terran retracted his hands from his pockets and unsteadily gripped his elbows as if he were attempting to hug himself.
“You don’t even care, do you?” Rocket said, a grin devoid of all humor upturning his thin black lips.
“Wha-”
He interrupted him, “Do I really matter that little to you, Quill? Those measly drinks were worth more than talking to me?”
Peter’s expression was crumbling from one of sadness to despair, his knees trembling in preparation for the collapse they both knew was coming. His dull green eyes were filled with tears, shining in the neon light of the signs hanging above them. He looked devastated, glancing around as if he’d find the answer in the ramshackle structures and homes of Knowhere. A gentle draft of wind filtered through the alleyway, the distant sound of mining operations providing an ambience to the otherwise emotionally charged atmosphere. There was no answer, and Peter seemed to realize it at that moment.
“N-no, Rocky, please. Please don’t say that. I do care. I do. I just got distracted. You know I get distracted easily.”
“Tch,” Rocket scoffed, tilting his head to revel in the way Pete flinched once more, “You say that, yet you don’t show it. Why are you so weak, Quill?” A deadly blow, if one had ever heard one.
“I-” Peter choked, breaking eye contact to look steadfastly downward, fists clenched harshly into the flesh it had grabbed onto. So tightly held that the flesh beneath his fingers was turning yellowish-white. “I-”
“I-I-I-, can you flarkin' say something?” Exhilaration filled him, a nice buzz replacing that pounding headache, as the Terran finally fell to his knees and prostrated himself to the raccoon. Trembling, Rocket ensnared a clawed hand into the man’s soft hair and tugged, forcing them to be on the same level. Dilated carmine eyes stared intently into watery greens. He could see the multitude of emotions that passed over the humie’s face—grief, terror, arousal—and smirked wickedly, teeth glinting in the neon lights.
“Rocky,” Peter moaned, “I left Terra because I couldn’t handle it. I couldn't handle the guilt. I feel so bad, Rocky. Please, I had to leave. I was so excited to leave, too. I felt as if I could take on the galaxy again. I felt invincible.” The man blubbered, tears tracking down his reddened cheeks.
There he goes again with that. That cursed cycle.
“But now you don’t, huh? Now ya just feel like the smallest piece of shit this side of the galaxy, amirite? What was it that you said—that you had to learn to swim? How did that go, Quill? Did you learn how to swim? Was it worth it?”
“N-no, I didn’t! It wasn’t worth it!” The man sobbed, “Why are you being so mean to me?”
“Because I care about you, you d’ast idiot. I care about you, so I have to help you see your mistakes.” Rocket said off the cuff, surprised at his own insistence. Shocked that he could be so candid about his emotions. Usually, he wasn’t one for feelings and all that pansy shit, but seeing how positively Peter reacted to it, seemingly melting into the harsh grip the raccoon subjected his scalp to, made it all worthwhile. Gratifying in the sway he held—pleasing in a way that he’d achieve only a few times in his miserable life. It was power. Heady, potent power. And he wanted more of it.
Chapter 2: Entangled for Eternity
Summary:
Rocket and Peter meet once again. Things fundamentally shift and lines are blurred.
Notes:
being a first time poster, I never rly realized how much work went into formatting lol. like I've never used html in my life.
Chapter Text
Entangled for Eternity
From the day Rocket had been born, he had only known suffocating powerlessness. A mere subject, a marionette on strings dancing at the whims of his creator. He had no choice in anything, for if the High Evolutionary wanted to try something new, something even more painful than the last, subject 89-P13 had no choice in that.
He would know; he had tried it and only rewarded himself with being vivisected with no anesthesia. For months, he was rewarded with piercing scalpels and bright, searing pain as the surgical instruments tore him apart, every single nerve screaming as he squirmed and cried. But cry as he may, it didn’t really change much of anything, no matter how loud he wailed. Rocket would always just be tossed back into his cage the same way, trembling and bleeding. Floor would always attempt to comfort him, cuddling up to him and talking excitedly about the world waiting for them. He would smile and shakily hold onto the white rabbit, agreeing to everything she’d say. Ignoring how deep down inside he felt that, if seeing this new world meant so much suffering, he’d rather take a scalpel deep into his brain and end it all for once.
It was from that punishment onward, even as he was given the privilege of some anesthesia again, that he couldn’t kill the growing gaping void in his chest. A huge abyss that left him a shell in the mold of an unnatural bipedal creature. Rocket, in those moments, could see the yawning chasm of his future and the decaying bridges that crossed gaps of failure. So many of them were to remain as is and accept his miserable station in life, to give up and allow an insane megalomaniacal man to play with his form and intelligence as he pleased. To live in a world where there was no such thing as agency and no such thing as control. Or, there was the path of liberation. A passage to freedom and prosperity for himself and his family. Rocket likes to think he knew from the beginning that there were never any plans for them to live on Counter-Earth and that he had been building that escape device as a failsafe in case things went south.
But what is he kidding himself? He can still recall his shock and hurt at HE's derisive remark. For all his intelligence and genius, he was still incredibly naive to believe there could be kindness and good-hearted people in this world. In the end, for Rocket and everyone he cared about, they were nothing other than lab experiments to be thrown out when their need expired. In the end, all there was were dingy cages, whimpering creatures, and the separated love he felt for his family. A love that they so dearly—or rather, so desperately—gave back.
Lylla, Teefs, and Floor. He knew then that his final mission was to rescue them all. To give them all control.
They were his only anchor to reality, his solitary connection to an inkling of agency. A frenzied, hapless bond formed from shared trauma and mutual fear. They understood each other. They knew what each other had been through and how to help with the pain. They were family, and they loved each other. Perhaps Rocket’s love for Lylla wasn’t entirely what she gave him in return, but it didn’t really matter. He was more than happy to ignore his annoying feelings if it meant getting to spend one more moment with his family, playing touch and run, laughing, and falling to the floor breathless. Small flashes of light and joy in the face of overwhelming and tortuous darkness. It filled, if even for a second, the vacuous hole ruining his insides. It made him almost feel like a person. A person deserving and capable of affection and life. That if he held his family close, they’d never leave him. He would never, ever be alone. Not if he could control it.
Of course, to Rocket's utter despair and terror, it was never meant to last. In the flash of a bullet, Lylla was killed. Her body fell to the floor in a heap, staring ahead, gasping for the last breaths she’d ever heave. He had never felt such anguish before, such heartache and grief. Not even when he watched those rapidly evolved creatures get incinerated to death had he felt such a thing. His howls were guttural, purely emotional, and purely of loss and resignation. It was all his fault. All of it. Floor was screaming in panic, desperate to leave. And he had caused that. Teefs was frozen in fright, unable to move. And he had caused that. That void inside of him had never been so large, so all-encompassing, and so undeniably true.
But what happened next would forever define him. Rocket’s resignation quickly turned into anger in the face of mockery. An animosity and fury that burned so brightly it reduced him to ash as he lunged and clawed at his creator's face. A small act of rebellion is a large step towards autonomy, after all. Never had such elation sung in his blood—perfect angelic hymns fueling him as he tore apart flesh and delighted in the screams of agony. His body buzzed with delight even as his muscles burned with exertion, leaping off the twitching body and picking up a blaster to defend himself and his family. He gunned down the security guards swiftly, intoxicated on control as he turned around to inform Floor and Teefs.
Much of what happened after that is still mostly a blur to Rocket, only remembering brief moments of adrenaline, gunshots, and the anxiety of freedom looming over him. He was liberated, an agent of his own free will, but at what cost? He had been incinerated, reborn, and left a new person. Where he was once easygoing and quiet, he was now quick to anger, unstable, and emotionally violent. What once used to be laughter and cuddles was now cruel sneers and cold mocking chuckles. Rocket knew he wasn’t the hallmark of mental stability, but sometimes, during particular moments of peace, he felt as if he was about to slough off his skin. And all that one would see would be an endless miasma of fear and insecurity. A swirling, draining void.
On some level of cosmic karma, Yondu had been right. He had stolen those anulax batteries because stealing things from others temporarily filled that chasm. It was a quick shot of good-feeling chemicals to have him feeling cocky for days, pushing at bay the intense emotions warring in his mind. But in his heart of hearts, as Yondu had forced him to recognize, he was just desperate to push away the few good things he had left in life. By stealing those damn batteries, he would knowingly antagonize those around him, especially his new family.
It wasn’t without reasoning, though, permitting a bit of irrationality. The last time he had held on tight, held on so fiercely, he had lost it all. Rocket had lost control. If only he had been given the foresight of the future to know just how precarious his situation had been, maybe it would’ve turned out differently. Maybe this could turn out differently, he thought as he gently caressed Peter’s reddish brown hair. No, it was going to be different. He could feel it; from the tip of his twitching ears to the bottom of his bare, padded feet, Peter Quill was going to fill that void. Already, a tranquil ebb was filling in the cracks of his inner form, Rocket feeling the most whole he had in an extremely long time. He was sure of it, so certain that it was unlike anything he’d ever been sure of before.
Glancing down at the trembling human, the raccoonoid could hear a low hum emitting from the man’s chest as Pete attempted to self-soothe. His eyes, still moist with tears, were swollen shut as he continued to kneel. It didn’t take an expert on human body language and emotion to see that the man was not okay. Immediately, his ears lowered tight against his head as regret flooded him, a rush of fear following alongside it. He was pushing him away and antagonizing him before they’d even had a sober moment to speak. In a sudden realization, Rocket knew he could not let this precious man go. He had to apologize.
Grimacing, Rocket opened his mouth before closing it, unsure of what to say. After a few moments of deliberation, he ultimately settled on a soft, “Sorry, Pete. I didn’t mean to be so mean.”
At that, the sniffling man perked up, his reddened green eyes opening up to stare at him with such eagerness to please. “What?” He cleared his throat questioningly, his voice a meek mewl. Rocket couldn’t help the growl that rumbled in his chest at the sight.
“I said, I'm sorry. I didn’t mean to push ya so hard. I’m just not at my best right now, ya know?” The raccoon repeated, making sure to comb his claws through Peter’s fluffy hair in a way that scratched his scalp, “I promise not to say anything like that again. I didn’t like seeing you cry.” He did, but a little white lie never hurt anybody.
He looked so beautiful, with his eyes full of tears. So pathetic and weak. He could probably raise his fist, and Peter would flinch and cry in return.
Peter seemed to be reeling from the emotional whiplash, a look of confusion and pleased relief battling on his face. His eyes quickly darted away before returning to look at Rocket with a shy expression. “It’s okay. I’m just still confused why you would say such-”
“I didn’t mean them, okay?” Rocket interrupted, disdain subtly leaking into his voice, “You were making me feel angry—you made me feel like a d’ast idiot.”
Pete’s eyes widened, a lack of certainty filling them as he shuffled into a more comfortable position. “I-I’m sorry?” He stuttered, bewildered by the fact that he was the one apologizing. Though, before he could reckon with the answer, Rocket gripped his hair harshly once more and leaned in, sharp teeth glinting in the dim lights of the buildings around them.
“It’s fine; I know you didn’t mean to do it. It’s just… you make me feel so angry sometimes, you know?” The raccoon muttered darkly, claws digging menacingly into Quill’s scalp. “How you showed up drunk for our first meeting in nearly a year. After having screened my calls for months. How do you think that made me feel, Quill?”
“I- terrible…” He cast his eyes downward, guilty and all too receptive to Rocket’s subtle manipulation. “I’m just so tired, Rocky.” He whispered.
Topic successfully averted, Rocket smiled as tenderly as he could, loosening his grip and returning to his gentle ministrations from before. He knew it was wrong, and so terribly manipulative of him to make Peter believe this was all his fault. But how else would the raccoonoid keep his claws on the man he needed? It was like a saying he’d heard before: desperate situations call for desperate measures, and this was arguably one of those.
“I know, Pete. I know you’re tired. You must be so exhausted.”
The validation seemed to light a flame in the human: “Like you wouldn’t believe, Rocky. When I left Terr- uh, Earth, I had such a rush of energy. I had plans to—like,” he shyly looked away, “prove myself to you that I was doing just fine. Show you that I could… could be better after being gone for five years. Maybe I was being a bit delusional.”
For a second, Rocket froze, his paws stilling in their movements. There was a stirring from deep beneath the jaded shields that sealed his heart and soul—he felt a sliver of a crack penetrate the walls that kept down years of unresolved trauma and existential pain. Years of solitude and angst, anger and vitriol towards a universe so bent on taking away everything he’d ever come to know and love. But no matter how hard he tried—to ignore it as much as he could—it always lurked beneath every interaction he had with his family other than Nebula. They had been gone for 1,825 days but were back as if nothing had ever happened.
For five long years, he and Nebula lived in a universe where loss became the single unifying force every single sentient life form could understand. Being the ones who were left behind, there was a strange, unnatural solidarity that Rocket grew to recognize. He'd feel a sense of companionship when he was drinking himself to oblivion, and a group of shitbags would join him, their eyes barely hiding the pain everyone was feeling.
It was odd. Rocket confessed to himself within the confines of his mind, beginning anew with his grooming of Pete’s curls in stilted silence. Half of all life, from the microscopic to the macroscopic, had simply vanished into dust. Figuratively and literally. It was gone, and an already shitty life became exponentially worse. The first months were the darkest for those who remained. There’s not much he can really say about it other than that he’s glad it was reversed. Even if sometimes he honestly feels like they made some mistakes, bringing the snapped back without thinking through the consequences of returning trillions of lives back into existence.
Rocket, on frequent occasions, likes to morbidly amuse himself by thinking Thanos hadn’t exactly thought the whole thing through, because half of all living organisms meant half of all living organisms, not just the sentient ones he was so bent on genociding. Some planets, more inorganic than others, grieved their dead but otherwise were able to survive and move on. Terra—Earth—on the other hand, well, Rocket doesn’t really like to remember his times on Earth following the Snap. To put it simply, even with half of the population remaining, there just wasn’t enough food to go around. Not enough of anything if he was being frank. He was fortunate that the Benatar only sustained a sufficient amount of damage to stay grounded for a few days, but those days...
Nonetheless, Peter Quill was alive. Mantis was alive. Drax was alive. Groot, his damn son, was alive. Gamora may be gone, but she’ll always remain in a place close to his withered heart. They had all been gone for so damn long, but they had been back for longer now. Rocket struggled to remember that. Some nights, he’d wake up panting and shivering, thinking it had all been a dream. That he had, in fact, not saved the universe, and was still alone. So terribly alone as he was destined to be. But then he’d hear Peter’s ridiculous laughter and his even more ridiculous shenanigans with Drax or Mantis, and Rocket would feel a wave of uneasy calm wash away the nightmare. Then, he’d get up and join them—for what was family for if not to have unserious conversations and childish contests?
Now, though, he wakes up to the silence of solitude, heaving breaths as he scrambles on all fours to check on the comm links he’d given everyone before they left. Only then, when he’d see the green hue to the comm links, would he relax before falling to the floor in a heap of sobs and manic relief. Logically, he knew they were fine, but flark, his brain struggled to cope with it all. At least Peter is back now. Maybe the nightmares would stop. Most likely, they wouldn’t, but a raccoon could dream.
Seeing that he’d been quiet for far too long, Rocket let go of the human’s godly hair and stood to create some distance between the two of them. He was worried to see Peter panting heavily, quivering slightly, as he lifted himself from his knees. “C’mon, Pete, it’s time to go to bed. It’s way too late for men our age to be out.” He joked, hoping it would lighten the heavy atmosphere suffocating the both of them, but knowing damn well it wouldn’t. Like he predicted, it fell flat, and Peter only responded with a halfhearted, quiet huff.
“S-sounds good, Rocky.” Peter replied curtly, wrapping his arms around himself one more time. “Sorry if I’m being, like, a downer or something.” He mumbled self-consciously.
“Bah, it’s nothing but dust under our feet, right? You wanna get something to eat on the way back? I know a pretty good Xandarian place nearby.” Rocket was starting to grasp at straws, trying to be comforting rather than brash.
“No- nah, I’m not hungry. I just wanna go to sleep.” To that, the raccoon could only nod, motioning with a paw for the man to follow him. Leaving the alley, the duo once again entered a main artery of Knowhere, the massive chasm of the bustling city opening up above them. The frontier outpost still had a long way to go in terms of recovering from the last couple years of disrepair and constant attacks, the most recent of which left vast portions of residential areas unlivable.
Rocket, as they ambled along, waved and greeted the denizens of the city, pleasantly surprised to see that the resettlement of many of its inhabitants hadn’t led to further social decay. It had been a genuine fear that Rocket, along with Nebula and Drax, shared in the initial days after the destruction of the Arête and the sudden influx of higher life forms and animal refugees into the ruined city. Nebula and Drax, as the de facto leaders of Knowhere’s anarchic society, were at the frontlines of the response to the Arête crisis, delegating tasks to an increasingly growing, yet organized, bureaucracy that, for the most part, managed itself efficiently.
Peter played a large role in that early reconstruction, in the days before he left. With his rescue of Rocket and the survival of their family after the biggest threat since Thanos, the man was simply bursting at the seams with energy and eagerness to help. Rocket honestly should’ve seen it coming when a resettlement initiative failed and a family of new arrivals was violently murdered by a criminal Peter had let go of on the promise of acting better. The look on the human’s face when they had received the news had been a tableau of horror and guilt. In a sequence of a few hours, Quill was collapsing and shutting down, refusing to leave his room and eat anything Rocket or Nebula brought for him.
It reminded the raccoonoid of how the man acted in the aftermath of losing his biological father and adoptive father in one fell swoop. He pretended to act fine when, in reality, he was anything but. He feigned interest in the problems of others when, in actuality, all he wanted to do was curl and die. It only took one bad thing to happen again, be it an argument or a burning dinner, and he would be spiraling from his false peak of stability. Rocket wasn’t exactly sure what it was but, the level of consistency in the ups and downs pointed towards some sort of mind sickness or something. He couldn’t really know, not when he himself suffered from emotional issues too. Psychiatrists were really only a thing on Terra, as far as he knew, or extremely rare anywhere else. There could be some on Xandar, but Rocket wasn’t willing to cough up the units to travel so far for someone to prod and poke him with needles and big words. He doubted Quill would either.
What a pair they made, the raccoon mused as they approached the building Rocket had chosen to become home. A quick glance backwards showed that Peter was starting to drag his feet from exhaustion—a worn, weary look of misery weighing down the look on his blotchy face. It was evident he was going to need a bed to tumble into the moment his legs gave out, small twitches racking his body as he forced himself to continue moving alongside the raccoon. Whatever energy he had left was down to its last breath, only brute sheer determination fueling his aching, lethargic muscles from their inevitable collapse. Peter wasn’t going to be up in the next few minutes, no matter the location or his readiness for an episode of catatonia.
Rocket hastened his pace, eagerly approaching the elevator to the penthouse of the complex. It was more of a glorified attic-turned-living space, but it still provided enough space for ease of access and ample movement. After pressing the button, waiting, entering, and reaching the upper floor, time fastens as Rocket, almost running at this point, guides Peter to his moderately sized bed. The human would most likely not fit in his entirety on the mattress, but it’s better than kissing the concrete floor beneath them. Summarily, the exhausted man fell face first into the bare thread sheets and wonky pillows, curling up and groaning painfully as he hunched in on himself. Pete had probably been nodding off and on as they walked, struggling to stay cognizant, and was most likely instantly asleep the moment he hit a somewhat comfortable surface, a quiet, subdued snore resonating within the room.
Rocket's nose twitched as the smell of the snoozing man began to permeate his room, tendrils of gentle aroma sinking into his bed and covers. He inhaled noisily, sighing lowly as the mouth-watering scent filled and drowned his brain, unable to stop the involuntary closing of the distance between him and the human. Just a hands-length away, the raccoon was filled with wanton desire as memories flitted by of the various articles of clothing Rocket had stolen from Peter throughout the years and how he had used them until the only recognizable smell on them was himself. Pieces of unyielding licentious fabric—shirts, undershirts, and briefs—hidden away in a secret compartment only he knew where to access.
How long had he been this obsessed? Rocket thought as he stared intensely at the lax, sleeping form of Peter, his carmine eyes taking their fill uninterrupted. The Terran’s powerful chest rose and fell rhythmically, an adorable snore following each exhale and a slight wheeze anticipating every inhale. His reddish-brown hair—unkempt, oily, and tangled—was flattened to his right temple as his face evened out in color. No longer a blotchy mess of embarrassment and self-hatred but the bland pallor of an unconscious person. His hands—those thick, nimble fingers covered in blemishes and fading scars—were clenched loosely into the sheets. His body, considerably thinner than the last time Rocket had seen him, still filled out his clothes perfectly. His gut, with a slight paunch, stretched the fabric around his waist. His thighs, Rocket swallowed thickly, were plush and struggled against the holsters wrapped around the black denim the man was wearing. Peter Quill was truly a sight to behold. Rocket was never going to let go until the moment they finally met the end of their tragic lives.
An addicting rush of elation fills the raccoon’s small frame, a breathy laugh sounding alongside gentle snores. Peter has returned, and he’s never going to leave. Not if Rocket had anything to do with it. They were most likely going to knock heads, fight, and probably hit each other all the time, but it was more than worth it for the grinning raccoon. Rocket knows he should feel guilty as he turns around to scamper towards the bathroom, stripping off his clothes as he goes. It’s messy and uncoordinated, but he’s quick to return to his bed and get under the covers, cuddling close to Quill’s unconscious body under the guise of making sure his friend is okay. Slowly, and ever so quietly, he turns to stare at the man face-to-face, eyelids fluttering as the delicious scent of the man invades all of his senses. His mind, tackling so many things at once, struggles to turn the night's events around in his brain. It’s as he revisits his manipulative behavior that he feels a small inkling of remorse—though he doesn’t hesitate to swat it away when he remembers that he’s going to get to have the man this close to him for the rest of their lives, however long that be. He knows the way he’s feeling about Peter isn’t normal, and the way he’s treated him most certainly isn’t moral.
But the more the raccoon gets to see Peter again, the more he realizes he needs him. And he's more than sure that the human needs him too; he needs someone to look after him properly. Rocket knows he would do a better job than Nebula or Drax if they were to look after him. Rocket saw the way that Peter was looking at him throughout the night, like Rocket was the best thing to ever happen to him. That he was a celestial who, with a twirl of his magical hands, created the galactic filaments and stars that define the cosmos they explore.
Thinking about Pete like that has his lower abdomen burning with intense heat, lidded eyes shamelessly undressing the sleeping man in his mind. His blood burns in his veins, and Rocket is well aware he should have more self-control and shouldn’t be reaching over and taking Quill’s face in hand, running his clawed fingers along his parted lips.
This is one of his favorite things about Peter: his sweet face, relaxed and unaware of the touches the raccoon was subjecting him to. The pudge of fat on his tummy is clear from the way his shirt is riding up on his clammy skin. And Rocket just wants to dig his teeth in, bite, and bruise the man so he won't forget who touched him for days, if not weeks.
Wants to spread those thighs and show him how good Rocket can make him feel. He hasn’t really spoken to Quill about their sex lives, but he’s sure the man is more than experienced in ways Rocket will never be able to achieve. But the thought of being his last, being Pete’s only, has his dick stirring out of its sheath and a gasp spilling from his lips, groaning hoarsely as his fingers dip into the heat of the man’s mouth. He can’t help the way he pushes down on the tongue underneath his claws, relishing the quiet whimper that Peter releases.
Clarity hits him as he comes down, hastily retracting his fingers and wiping them on the sparse fur on his chest. Surprisingly, he doesn’t feel as guilty as he knows he should. If anything, he just wants Pete more. It’s not like Rocket wouldn't be good for him; he knows better than anyone how shit Peter’s life has been. How he’s lost his family multiple times. Petey needs someone better in his life.
Someone like Rocket.
Rocket gives himself a cursory look over, satisfied to see that, other than the retracting bulge in his briefs, he was decent for the most part. It was as he was cooling down that he realized he never replied to Nebula’s message in regards to some shipment of building materials being held. He sends a quick message via commlink, and then decides to secretly take a photo of Peter with his holo-pad. His face is slightly flushed from the things Rocket has done to him. And some sick part of him wants Pete to know what he was just doing; he desperately wants him to know how much life the human is already giving him by just being present.
Chapter 3: View of Other Worlds
Summary:
The pair, now living in the same building, form a new coexistence.
Notes:
just wanted to say, if there aren't any tags you feel i haven't included but need too, pls tell me! i really care about proper tagging, but im still new to this, so it would be very helpful. thnx and enjoy! (chp 4 should be out in another week!!)
Chapter Text
View of Other Worlds
“Quill!” A raspy voice echoed down the hall, a thick metal door separating the human from the person calling for him. Said human just groaned loudly, shifting audibly in the bed he’d been resting in for what was most likely days—or weeks, he wasn’t sure. It all blurred into a sludge of exhaustion and brain fog, weighing him down into the warmth and safety of the mattress beneath him. It was probably longer if the ache that permeated his body said anything, mostly affecting his lower back as he let out a pained hiss.
“Quill!” The voice yelled again, louder this time. Peter just grumbled, rolling over to curl up around a saggy pillow and cover his ears with the ratty blanket he was cocooning himself with. A few more twists of his arms soon had the blanket wrapped around his head like a bandage—inhaling noisily as an acrid, metallic smell filled his nose, relaxing him. It was the aroma of electronic tampering and the grease of internal machinery—an entirely familiar scent he’d missed for too long. Peter smiled softly, humming brokenly as he listened absentmindedly to the patter of feet approaching the door.
Three soft taps resonated through the air before a louder creak filled the room as the door slid open. A small figure standing in the light entered from the hallway, dressed in nothing more than a ratty black tank top and well-used blue briefs. Rocket tilted his head, examining the scene in front of him.
“Man, Quill, you asleep or somethin’? It’s time for lunch.” Rocket grouched, crossing his arms to lean into his hip. A few seconds of strained silence gave him the answer he didn’t want. Peter was still ignoring him, or at the very least, was actually asleep. Either way, it didn’t help the flash of annoyance that flickered across his whole body, his tail twitching. Quickly, the raccoon could feel himself bristling at the lack of a response to his question, a quiet growl emitting from deep in his chest: “Quill, c’mon, you need to at least eat something.”
“Hmmm?” was Peter’s only response as he lay prone on the bed, aware but not caring of Rocket’s growing ire. The man, as far as Rocket knew, had to be starving. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning’s force-feeding session, and less since he’d collapsed into bed two weeks ago. Fourteen straight days of exasperating silence and aggravating non-answers. He’d be losing his krutarcking mind if it weren’t for how pliable the human was, completely moldable to the whims of an emotionastically unstable raccoon.
“Well, if you’re going to act like that, then I’ll just have to feed you myself again.” The raccoon faux-sighed, more than used to the way his explosive anger melted away into a wavering genuine fondness at the fact that Peter needed him. Needed him to help him eat. The first time had been a little difficult, with the human acting combative as furred fingers tried to shove morsels of food into his sealed-off mouth. It was easy to see that Quill was still all there in his mind but was trapped within his own body, rejecting that he didn’t require outside help to even do the bare minimum of functioning.
It was a simple fact that was easily exploitable as after a few bitterly cooed words and a couple harsh smacks against the hinge of his jaw, the man was eating like he hadn’t in days. Which he had, in fact, not. Up until then, it had taken Rocket days to grow big enough balls to have the wherewithal to get up on the bed, roll up his sleeves, and feed the man himself. But once he did it, he was more than elated to do it again.
Whistling giddily, Rocket left the dank, dark room and headed towards the kitchen, a small corner in the apartment illuminated by a single, yellow incandescent bulb. The air still hung heavily with the faint smell of a heated metal coil, though it was overpowered by the stench of a nearly burnt piece of meat. He had cooked not too long ago, so all he would need to do was reheat the barely edible food. It gave him time to think about what to do next.
Peter is definitely still in the midst of his crash, he thought as he clambered up a stool next to the stove and began warming up the unidentifiable meat thing he had made. At least the man was moving more than he had in a while, containing enough energy within himself to hum in agreement or groan in complaint. It definitely made communication easier than having to guess what the man wanted when he couldn’t even move an inch. Even then, Rocket had loved every moment of the human’s neediness and overwhelming uselessness. He literally couldn’t do anything by himself, needing—no, necessitating—that the raccoon intervene in every aspect of his pathetic existence. When was the last time he had such control over someone? The sole figure that pops up in his mind is the bloodied, mutilated face of the one person he despises the most.
That would probably remain one of his most favorite memories until the day he died, though Peter’s neediness was definitely putting up a fight for that spot.
He’ll probably need a shower soon. He mulled internally, flipping the meat around with a knife. He watches the way it sizzles in the iron skillet, its blackened surface crying oil as its insides heat. The idea of getting to shower the man wasn’t just a titillating thought, but also an admittedly important one. Peter hasn’t showered since he fell mentally sick, and while Rocket may like—scratch that—enjoy the increasingly filthier smell, he didn’t imagine the human does. Or maybe he does; he couldn’t tell. All the raccoon knows and really cares about is that soon he’ll get to have his hands all over Peter’s naked, drenched body. He can almost see the way the man would be shivering from exhaustion, eyes lidded with lethargy as he watched from afar in his mental fog, small, clever little fingers rubbing soap into his heat-flushed chest. In vivid detail, he drools at the thought of finally being able to see the man in all his glory, with no clothes blocking anything. His eyes would have to start from Peter’s massive thighs, unburdened by fabric and holsters, and follow the trails of hair the man has all over his body.
He can’t help the shiver that racks his body, an inaudible whine following the movement.
Rocket hastily finishes reheating the food and jumps down from the stool, making sure to grab a fork and a towel before leaving the kitchen and returning to the dark room where Peter was still sleeping. His body was hidden away underneath Rocket’s blankets; the gentle rise and fall of the pile the only motion showing that the man was still alive and breathing. Leisurely, he approaches the man and reaches out a clawed hand to tap the human’s shoulder, an undercurrent of frustration forming instantly when Peter fails to respond with anything other than a miserable groan.
“C’mon, Quill, it’s time to eat. I even brought you food.” Rocket grunted, leaving the plate on the edge of the bed and crawling towards the lump of a person. Being small did have its benefits, with his body easily maneuvering around the haphazard pile of pillows and worn blankets and coming to a halt right beside Peter’s head. His frustration grows when there’s no response, not even when he outright punches the man’s shoulder. Rocket may love having the man like he is, but that doesn’t really help soothe his own irritation regarding being ignored. So whether he likes it or not, he will know what’s coming for him. Soon, there will be food in his mouth in the next few moments.
A stilted grin forms on his face. “C’mon, Petey, I know you’re starving. I got a delicious plate of, uhm, hm. Well, uh, it’s a delicious plate of something. You wanna give it a try?” He cooed, his cruel clawed fingers coming to begin unwrapping and unraveling the Gordian knot of blankets around Peter’s head. A few seconds go by before Peter starts to groan in complaint, a delay that has excitement building in the raccoon's chest. He recoils sloppily but simply doesn’t have the strength or energy Rocket has, failing to stop his face from being exposed to the light coming in from the bedroom door that was left wide open.
“There you are.” Rocket cackles, slapping the man’s cheek. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Quill?” The human only responds with an adorable pout and furrowed eyes that has a flash of heat simmering in the raccoon's lower abdomen. His carmine eyes hold steady on the man’s face, and the bits of exposed flesh that peek through his bunched-up shirt as he snatches the plate and settles himself beside the human once again, his gaze flickering to Peter’s lips. Thin, pink, and crackled from dehydration. Rocket had never seen anything more tempting.
The few times he had fed him, it had been a challenge, especially when flailing hands became involved. Peter may be incredibly weak due to the state he’s in, but he still manages to overpower Rocket if push comes to shove. Which happens more than Rocket would like to admit. So to remedy that issue, the raccoon turns the man onto his back and straddles his chest, his furry thighs coming to press the man further into the mattress.
This is all under the guise of helping a friend, he justified, a friend who needs help eating.
A friend who’d done everything for him now needed his help. Just his and no one else’s. For everything Rocket had ever done as a Guardian, it had all been for him. All the good, bad, and morally gray things he’d done had all been him, Rocket Raccoon, being there when he was needed most. Need, want—none of it mattered more than being there when his presence was required by him. When Quill wanted to see his ridiculous cast of a shadow behind him, standing proudly together like in a comic book he’d read once on Terra.
Peter Quill had done everything for him—fought and bled to keep him alive—and now he needed someone to take care of him. And Rocket was more than willing to fill that role. Squeeze every atom of his being into the space he was being given to inhabit. Call him a pest, or vermin, or whatever, but it was embarrassingly true with the way he would always desperately fit himself into the mold he was being handed. He did it so obviously to himself that he’d lash out at those he was trying to warm up to, recoiling at the thought that he’d be so debased to let those around him change him.
But he would happily let Peter flarking Quill do it. He’d change everything about himself in the blink of an eye if it meant living up to what Peter wanted, even if it meant hurting himself. Rocket wasn’t sure when this certainty entered his life, but he suspects that it began when he got him back. All those years ago, when the universe felt right once again, was when this obsession of his began. This compulsion to please, this enthusiasm to abide. It was an obligation to a debt he had to fulfill, a liability hanging over his furred ears since the day the man refused to let him die. It’s an obligation Rocket takes seriously, and now that Peter needs his help? That he has no one else to do this for him? Rocket’s more than glad to be his shoulder to cry on.
Rocket almost feels like a weight has been lifted off his lithe shoulders, a massive rush of relief flooding through his blood at the realization that the roles of their relationship have finally been reversed. It’s such a refreshing experience that Rocket almost feels bad about feeling so positively about holding that weight over Peter’s head instead of his own. But when he sees what that reversal gets him—the way he’s straddling Peter and about to force feed him—all of his guilt and all of his reservations melt away in a quiet sigh of arousal. It’s not like this is uncalled for, right? If Peter expects him to do all that’s expected of him—obedience, friendship, and love—why can’t he expect the same of the human? He’s just as deserving of the same respect, Rocket affirms to himself, clenching his thighs tightly and relishing in the wheeze of breathlessness that Peter emits.
It’s nice to see the larger man underneath him, his face shifting rapidly between a desperate look of hunger and an anxious frown of unease. Rocket sort of feels a little remorse, but this is all for Peter’s own good.
He needs to eat. Rocket nods, humming as he delicately tears a piece of meat with a few clawed swipes and holds it up, rolling the morsel between his index finger and thumb. He’s starving, and I can sate his hunger.
I may be a bit heavy, and it may make it harder for Peter to breathe, but this way, Rocket grins sharply, he won’t be able to move.
Licking his lips, Rocket leans in closely and says, “Open up, Petey; don’t make me force feed you again.” He murmured, glancing heavily at the morsel of meat before taking a long, wet lick of the chunk. Bursts of burnt flavor and smoke explode across his tongue, and his mouth aches as saliva floods his maw. It may not taste the best, but there’s some of him on it, and it’ll soon be inside Peter. Pleased to see it glistening, the raccoon giddily wiggles it beneath the man’s nose, eagerly watching as the man licks his own cracked lips. “C’mon…”
“Mhm.” Peter vocalized, seemingly thinking it over. For a moment, Rocket was a little disheartened when it seemed Peter was going to actually be agreeable this time, willing to put up with the raccoon’s behavior. Though that quickly changed when the once-questioning quirk of his lip fell into an angered frown, eyebrows drawn together, and his strong jaw tense.
Oh, he looks pissed, the raccoonoid thought amusedly, dropping the plate onto Peter’s chest and leaning further in, his muzzle coming dangerously close to the human’s mouth. He could feel the humid puffs of breath hitting his twitching nose as he noisily inhaled the smell of an unwashed body. It made his mouth water, a tingling cascade of shivers following the length of his spine to the tip of his rapidly swishing tail.
Sitting back on his haunches, Rocket aggressively taps the man’s cheek once more, a quiet demand hanging in the air. They both know what’s coming next, but only one of them is trembling with excitement. Peter never liked being looked or talked down on, but if he kept this ridiculous game going, he was leaving Rocket no choice.
Open your mouth, or else. The deafening silence said.
A few moments pass, the silence stretches into eternity, and the smirk on Rocket’s face grows sharper. It doesn’t even feel like a smirk anymore, what with his lips pulled back into a feral snarl and all. The piece of meat, held tightly between his claws, drips and gets colder—crying for a warm place to be in. Rocket’s eyes zero in on Peter’s tightly shut mouth, noticing the almost defiant look on his stubble-covered face. He bites back laughter, shaking his head as he moves his unused hand from Peter’s handful of a chest to his nose, pinching it painfully shut between clawed fingers.
Rocket relishes the surprised whine of pain the man emits, cackling as he says, “C’mon, Petey, open that pretty mouth of yours. You gotta breathe, don’tcha?”
Peter only responds with a shake of his head, his eyes tightly clenched shut. “Well, scut, if that’s what you want, I guess I’ll just keep holding your nose then. Who needs to breathe anyway, right?” The raccoon smiles, carefully watching the motions of the human’s chest and the way it twitches as air fails to enter his increasingly oxygen-deprived lungs. It shouldn’t be that arousing. Rocket moans internally, minutely thrusting his hips in a hitching motion against the man’s stomach. “D’ast… You gotta breathe eventually, Quill. Just let it go; I got you.” He grinds out, licking his maw as he holds the morsel of meat right above Peter’s sealed lips. Thin lips that were slowly turning a bluish hue.
The seconds drag on, and Peter is increasingly becoming more desperate, unable to stop the stuttered noises of a man trying to breathe. Eventually, after what felt like hours, the man gave in. His mouth falls wide open, sucking in as much as he can and panting heavily. Rocket can see the tears gathering at the corner of his still-shut eyes, and the raccoon grins eagerly as he finally shoves the chunk of meat into the human’s mouth, laughing softly when Peter recoils at the flavor. He lets go of his nose and hastily cuts another piece of meat, ready for when Peter’s done eating.
“Chew it, Quill. I know you’re hungry.” He chastises Peter, “Don’t tell me you also need my help to chew too” He chuckles, clawed fingers gently caressing the man’s lower jaw, ready at a moment's notice to slam his mouth shut should Peter try to spit out the food.
Hesitantly, Peter begins to masticate the food, tersely chewing as Rocket’s hands continue their gentle grazes of his stubble-covered jaw. A few moments of stilted eating later, the man swallows, finishing with a couple heavy breaths. It seems like he doesn’t like the flavor; Rocket notices, but that doesn’t matter much to him. He already has the next piece ready to be eaten. “Here comes the next bite.” He hums, roughly shoving the morsel into Peter’s mouth, pleased to see the man start chewing immediately. “That ain’t too bad, ain’t it?” A glistening tear runs down the man’s temple, disappearing into his oily, messy hair.
Time blurs into the sounds of choked-off sobs and soft laughter, the bed beneath them creaking every time Rocket shifts. Peter tried to turn his head once, attempting to refuse more food, but it was an easy issue to solve. A harsh grip in his hair, a couple yanks, and the man was mouth wide open, an enraged wrinkle to the bridge of his nose the only sign that he was in emotional turmoil. Still ate like no tomorrow though, with more than two-thirds of the steak gone within half an hour.
This is nice, Rocket decided, eyes lidded as he readies to feed Peter the second-to-last bite. The raccoon could feel himself becoming more excited by the prospect of getting the human to drink something so he could wash down the dry food he had eaten. It would also probably be a struggle, but there was something about that fact that was so appealing. There was something so tempting about imagining having to hold the larger figure down and essentially beat him into submission. What that said about Rocket’s feelings towards Peter, he had no clue, but it didn’t stop him from continuing with his treatment of the somewhat conscious man.
Picking up the bit of meat, he grabs the man’s jaw and yanks it open, moving his hand right above his open mouth. It’s just as Rocket’s about to let go of the slice when he flinches harshly, yelping loudly as he feels a large hand tightly grip the base of his bushy tail. In shock, his eyes jump to Peter’s, widening when they see fiery green eyes burning into his. The hold on his tail becomes even harsher, pulling a pathetically high-pitched whine out of Rocket.
If he could die right now, he definitely would.
The look on Peter’s face is plain murderous. “I tried to say stop so many times, and you didn’t listen.” He seethes, spittle flying as he grinds out the words. A sudden yank on the raccoon’s tail has the hybrid keening in complaint, dropping the morsel of meat to desperately swat at the hands holding him hostage. “I should flarkin’ skin you, Rocket; tell me why I shouldn’t.” He snaps, yanking the appendage once again. Rocket can only stare in humiliated surprise, his twitchy ears folded tightly against his furry head.
A current of ice cold rapidly freezes his insides, a cascade of shame and arousal mixing together as he squirms within Peter’s grasp, ashamed to feel a spark of pleasure spark through his body as his tail gets tugged once more. He can’t help but hear the whimper that escapes him, gasping as he feels his cock stir within its sheath. This is going to get so much worse if the raccoon doesn’t escape the humans’ hold within the next few moments.
“I-I was takin’ care of ya, Qui-“ Rocket pleads, interrupted when a hand comes to grip him by the throat, squeezing his windpipe under increasing pressure. “You gotta- You gotta understand.” The raccoon wheezes out, claws flying to scratch and scrape the hand holding his throat so precariously.
“You call that takin’ care of me?” Peter yells, astounded, eyes wide and red. Now that Rocket focuses on it, his whole face is flushed red, sweat drenching his forehead and the neck of the bare-thread tee he’s wearing. The hands holding him are trembling, and Peter’s grip is loosening, a look of fear clouding his enraged expression. Rocket’s heart drops into his stomach. “T-that wasn’t talkin’ care of me. I don’t know what that was!” Peter stutters, smacking his lips together as if suddenly remembering what he’d been eating not too long ago. “And what the hell was that scut you were feeding me? It tasted like shit.” He grimaces, his face contorted in distaste.
Feeling the hands loosen on his thin body, Rocket takes the opportunity to scramble free of Peter’s grip, shakily putting almost a meter of space between the two of them. They stare at each other, panting heavily, as Rocket scurries to cover his groin with his hands, desperate to keep those haunting green eyes from staring at such an intimate part of his body. It feels hypocritical, considering what he’d just been doing to Peter, but he embraces the surge of anger and rejection that fills him, his blood burning intensely at knowing he’d been grabbed in such a way.
“Are you going to say something?” Peter demands, his voice shaking. It only serves to boil Rocket’s blood even more, a terrifying snarl etching itself on his face as he continues to glare at Peter. A low growl resonated within the room, making an already tense atmosphere deadly. How dare the man reject his help? Two long weeks of working his ass off for this ungrateful piece of shit and this is how he gets repaid?
Grating out, Rocket says, “That was takin’ care of ya, flarknard!”
He launches himself at Peter, relishing the terrified scream the man lets out as the human rushes backwards into the headboard of the bed, smashing his head against the metal cabinet above the mattress. Wincing, Peter raises one hand to defend himself, the other hastily messaging the growing bump on the back of his head. This doesn’t stop Rocket from slapping away his arm and getting all up in the man’s face, gripping him by his sweaty collar.
“Two long weeks, Quill. I spent two flarkin’ weeks watchin’ over yer useless ass!” Rocket bellows. “I cooked for you, fed you, and cleaned up after you! It’s not my fault you can’t help but be a little shlag when someone wants to help you. Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve given over these last fourteen days?” He seethes, shaking with the sheer rage storming inside him. Peter can only respond with perplexed noises, confused as to why the onus is on him.
Flarkin’ dumb ass, Rocket snarls. Does he not know all that I do for him?
“What?” Peter gaped. “What the hell are you mad over? You were the one treating me like shit while I was sick!”
“What am I mad at?” The raccoon laughs mockingly, “I’m flarkin’ pissed that this is how you repay me when all I was doing was just feeding you when you couldn’t? What should I have done, huh? Left you to die? Sorry then. I’m flarkin’ sorry for keeping you alive.” He finishes, unable to stop how he spits out his last words. He hasn't felt this angry in such a long time, unable to separate rational thought from the irrational as cortisol flooded through his body. Suddenly, he’s craving something he’d sworn off—a promise to himself that he’d never let another drop of that forbidden vial of pure euphoria into his bloodstream. The craving is so intense—so painful—that Rocket groans in pain, hunching inward as his muscles and viscera cry out for their illicit chemical rescue.
Peter is still torn between what to believe and whether to trust his instincts or Rocket’s sensible words. All he knows is that he never wants to be treated like that again. “I just—I don’t want to be treated like that, okay?” Peter pauses, his eyebrows turning down in concern as he hears Rocket’s painful grunt. “Hey, Rocky, are you okay?”
Something snaps in Rocket.
“Fuck off, Quill!” Venom drips his every word: “I don’t need your fake sympathies. Just tell me to fuck off, alright? You don’t gotta pretend to give a shit about me; I know you don’t. If you didn’t want my help, you coulda fuckin’ said so.” Rocket snarks, feeling wave after wave of crippling insecurity collide sickeningly with his withdrawal. “I know I may not be the nicest when it comes to dishing out affection, Quill, but I tried, alright? I flarkin’ tried, and I’m sorry if that didn’t rise up to your high ass expectations.”
Rocket snaps his mouth shut, breathing loudly as he breaks eye contact with those blazing greens, and instead stares intensely at the bunched-up blankets between the two of them. He said too much, panicking internally as he listened to Peter’s attempts at responding. Eventually, the man gives up and sits there in silence, similarly at a loss for words. It feels like a blow to Rocket’s remaining sanity, a quiet, deafening sensation as his claws tear into the sheets.
“Rocket…” Peter’s voice penetrates the oppressive atmosphere: “I—”
“Just leave it, Quill. I’ll get out of your hair. You can move now, right?” Rocket asks, his voice devoid of any emotion. The human just nods, hands clasped tightly on his lap. “Okay. Well, you can go back to yer apartment or whatever you want. You don’t need to be here if you think all I’ll do is hurt you.”
“That’s not what I said, though,” Peter pushes back desperately, eyes wide. “All I said was that I don’t like being treated like that. I don’t want to leave you alone, Rocky.”
Rocket wants to believe him; he very much does, but he can’t. Not when the human is looking at him with such unease and apprehension, “Then don’t. I’ll see you later. I gotta—I gotta go talk to Nebula ‘bout some shipments and whatnot.” He says lamely, missing the way Peter pales, and subtly reaches out with his trembling hand.
Son of a Sch’mag. Rocket commiserates. He probably fucking hates me now.
He knows the way he treated Peter wasn’t exactly the nicest, but it all made him feel so good and needed. Maybe he didn’t go about it in the most appropriate way, but he wasn’t lying when he said he had tried his best. It’s just so hard to express himself, knowing that when he does, Peter’s violent reaction is what he always gets in return.
“N-no, Rocky, let’s just talk this out. I see now that you were just trying. I didn’t mean to be so ungrateful. Y’know what? I forgive you, okay? All’s forgiven, right?” Peter says frantically, laughing as he tries to chase after the fleeing raccoon with a hand. Rocket recoils, knowing that if the man touches him, he won’t be able to hold himself back.
Leaping from the bed, Rocket scampers to leave, ignoring the weight of Peter’s forlorn gaze on his back, heavy with unspoken words and unresolved tension. He grits his teeth, his chest tightening with a mixture of frustration and regret. “Yeah, whatever,” he mutters dismissively, unable to bring himself to face Peter again.
As he walks away, Rocket can't shake the nagging feeling that he's making a mistake. Maybe he should stay and try to talk things out with Peter, explain himself better. But stubbornness and fear hold him back, his footsteps echoing hollowly in the empty corridor.
Deep down, Rocket knows he'll regret leaving things unresolved, but the thought of facing Peter's anger and disappointment again is too daunting to bear. With a heavy heart, he pushes forward, determined to bury his feelings and focus on the tasks at hand.
But even as he tries to distract himself with work, the memory of Peter's angered expression lingers, haunting him like a ghost. And no matter how hard he tries to convince himself otherwise, Rocket can't shake the sinking feeling that he's pushed away the one person who truly understood him.
Chapter 4: Free From Destiny
Summary:
Rocket goes to work.
Notes:
sorry for being a bit late! I got caught up in a tour around my state so I didn't have time to write. This one is a bit more plot related and dialogue heavy, but I hope y'all enjoy!
Chapter Text
Free From Destiny
Knowhere was home. A place for the misfits and rejects of countless societies to find themselves a niche to fill. Home is where the heart is, as the saying goes, and the severed celestial head stood as a ceaseless testament to that universal drive for organisms to set their roots down and grow. For Rocket, Knowhere was an opportunity to make long-sought peace with his tumultuous past and find hopeful solace in the possibility of a better future. It was an unfortunate realization for Rocket that to realize the ideal world he wanted to create for himself and the denizens of the frontier outpost, it would take a lot of time and effort. Time and effort that included sleepless nights and long hours. It wasn’t as if the raccoon wasn’t used to depriving himself of vital sleep hours, but it felt like he’d start graying soon if these meetings kept up with their quantity and intensity.
This was probably the tenth impromptu meeting this month, and Rocket was so done with it all. He was still reeling from his argument with Peter hours before, and now, instead of drinking himself into a stupor, he was inhaling cup after cup of coffee in an effort to stave off inevitable sleep deprivation and exhaustion. Rocket could only yawn, his jaw stretching far and tongue rolling out, as a disgruntled Drax and an ever-emotionless Nebula entered the room, both carrying a holo-pad. The raccoon grunted in greeting, his own holo-pad on the table, and started grooming himself while the pair set up their presentations. He silently licked and fixed his fur as Nebula diligently hooked up her holo-pad to the broader projection screen on the table between them all. Instantly, various red-tinged holograms filled the room, rotating slowly as everyone got their eyes and minds on task.
Rocket sighed, standing up from his seat and climbing onto the projector, subtly pleased to see that he was eye-to-eye with Nebby and Drax.
“So,” Rocket started, clearing the tiredness from his voice. “This is our tenth meeting this month. It’s, uh, being recorded this time, right?” He asked, his mouth upturned in an awkward half-smile.
“Yes.” Nebula said in her iconic montone, “People like transparency, so we should be transparent. You’ll get used to it.”
Drax interjected before Rocket could respond, “We shall become big celebrities, Rat.” He boasted, looking pleased with himself, as he stood directly in front of the floating camera. Rocket growled at the insulting name the Kylosian called him, but let it go as he accepted Nebula’s reasoning.
“Yeah, yeah, that makes sense. By the way, I just wanted to preface this by telling y’all that Quill’s back.” He said it nonchalantly. Sure, it had been two weeks since the man had returned, but it wasn’t really Nebula’s or Drax’s business as to what was going on in his personal life. If anything, they should be glad he’s even telling them to begin with.
Nebula’s eyes subtly widened, reflecting her shock, before flattening back out to her usual scowl. “He came back? When?” She sat up slightly and asked, “Why hasn’t he said anything?”
Drax was similarly surprised but was more overjoyed than anything, smiling heartily at the news. “The wimpy human has returned! We shall soon all be united. Do you know if Mantis is returning?” He asked, pleased at the thought of having the Guardians back together once more.
“Nah, Drax, she ain’t coming back. Well, as far as I know.” The raccoon muttered before turning to answer Nebula’s worried question: “He hasn’t been feeling the best. Something about his head feels heavy or something, I dunno. But he’s staying at my place until he feels better.” A small pulse of possessiveness overwhelmed him for a moment, reveling in Nebula’s concerned expression.
Yeah, my place. Rocket roared internally. Mine.
“In any case, I’d like to see him.” She blinked, looking downward. “It’s been a while since this many of us have all been on Knowhere.”
Attempting to assure her, the raccoonoid lied as easily as he breathed, smiling as he gently said, “I’ll make sure to tell him that when we’re done here. But enough about Quill; let’s get this show on the road.” The raccoon clapped, leaping from the table and seating himself once more. “First item on the list: Nebula. You’ve been pretty vocal about things around Knowhere, so give us a quick rundown of your branch of business.”
Seeing that the previous conversation was over, Nebula nodded, motioning with her fingers to minimize many of the dozens of screens and focus them all on the largest of them all. “It is becoming apparent with time that all the refugees we took on nine months ago are putting strain on the already fragile food and water systems of Knowhere.” She said, her voice dark as her presentation flickered over images and videos of hundreds of individuals in long lines for any food or water they could get their hands on. Rocket felt his chest tighten in anxiety, noticing the majority of the crowd were the Star Children. “I did some research and found that the frontal and occipital zones are nearing famine levels of starvation, with all but the affluent temporal zones experiencing malnutrition. Rocket, Drax—these are serious problems, and I fear that we haven’t made significant progress on expanding food production systems.”
“I hear ya, Nebby,” Rocket hummed, analyzing the cyborgs' work. “Could we possibly increase food imports?”
To the raccoon’s dismay, she shook her head and said, “All sims showed that increased importation only temporarily solved the issue. Switching to synthetic foods could potentially stave off famine for at least a few more months, but we’ll have to deal with it eventually.” Nebula looked around before uttering, “Synth-food also doesn’t taste as good.”
Rocket sighed in frustration, rubbing his fingers into his temple as he read the dire reports on declining food harvests and decaying water purification facilities.
Nothing can ever go right. He complained internally, rolling his shoulders as tension began tormenting his back.
“I agree.” Drax nodded in agreement. “Synth-food should not be considered food.”
“That’s not even—“ Rocket cut himself off, groaning loudly as he tried to keep his sanity in the face of Drax’s wrath. “Whatever. Nebs,” she perked up, “get on importing food while we figure out the best solution to this. We can’t have a famine on our hands when we’re not even out of the woods yet.”
The cyborg frowned—a small quirk to the side of her eyes—and pushed back. “It’s going to cost us a pretty unit, Rocket. Our closest neighbor, willing to increase their exports, would only do so under the terms of leasing access to one of Knowhere’s largest entryways. I am not sure if it’s a wise move.”
“How long are we talking about?”
“Here, let me send you the offer.”
Rocket snatched his holo-pad and watched as Nebula’s message came, a wall of text filling the screen. Reading, he began to understand what Nebs meant by an unwise decision, scoffing as he digested the ridiculous demands the supposed friendly neighbor was making. “Yer telling me they want ownership for twenty-five years. TWENTY-FIVE?! I’ll probably be dead by then! Tell these—what are they called—Philantriumites that we don’t need their flarkin’ piss poor offer.” Rocket snapped, shifting angrily in his seat.
Nebula seemed to be in agreement, her voice lighter as she shifted the presentation. “I agree. Piss poor offer, it is. The Philantriumites are a race of so-called philanthropists. Though it seems their help comes with strings attached.”
Rocket watched the news clippings of multiple desperate planets who had been swindled by the supposed saviors, astonished that even the Nova Empire had fallen victim to their manipulative language. “Flarkin’ scum,” he muttered darkly. “Are there any other ways to increase imports without relying on other actors?”
“I can’t see any. Most of our neighbors don’t want to help to begin with, and those who do want something we don’t have in return.”
“Flarkin’ hell. Just find something in the meantime. I don’t care if it’s food, synth-food, or shit; I don’t care.”
“You don’t think I’m trying?” The cyborg deadpanned, “I’m burning through hundreds of units a day just feeding all these kids to begin with. Don’t even get me started on all those animals wandering around.” She crossed her arms, as if readying herself for Rocket’s inevitable retort.
“What about the animals?” The raccoon asked, his hoarse voice bordering on dangerous.
Before Nebula could reply, Drax warned, “I’d be careful with your words, Blue Lady. Rat is quick to anger.”
“I am not quick to anger!” Rocket snarled, sitting up in his seat as he noticed how the others looked down at him. It made his skin crawl, and the tension in his back worsened as he lunged onto the table, making himself as tall as possible. He hated how that only slightly moved their eyes.
Ignoring the men, Nebula powered onward. “The animals are a drain, simply put. They consume so much but don’t give anything in return. They’re useless. If we want Knowhere to survive, we might have to get rid of them.”
Seething, Rocket barked, “They’re not going anywhere! We didn’t rescue them all just for us to abandon them!” He couldn’t help but see the faces of the kits he had helped escape—their tiny, innocent faces as they latched onto him. There was no way in hell he was going to let all those lives go to waste.
“Be realistic, Rocket. If we keep up with these levels of consumption, we’ll be out of food by the end of the next month. Something has to be done, or else, as you said, we’ll be lost in the woods.” She sneered, taunting the raccoonoid by maximizing an image of the animals dying from starvation. It struck a chord, Rocket’s eyes widening as he recoiled at the picture of a dead kit. His heart sank to his stomach, terrified at the prospect of his failure to protect them—to give them the better life he had never had. But from the wave of horror and abject sadness he felt came a surge of blinding rage. His fur standing on trembling ends, he leapt from his seat and was instantly inches from Nebula’s face, standing tall above her seated form.
Voice ice cold, Rocket overrode her access to the projector. “Pull that scut on me again, Nebula, and I’ll fucking kill you.” The red hologram fizzles out, leaving the trio in the dull white glow of the unconnected projector. “Tell those Philantriumites we’re willing to lease the entryway for 10 years. But,” he holds a clawed finger up, “we’ll maintain the right to audit their venture every 3 months and can withhold their ownership should they unfairly restrict access to all arriving and departing crafts. Should they reject it, well, we’ll cross that bridge when we have to.”
They stood there for an uncomfortable few minutes, faces sharp and angled in the uneven lighting, as Rocket glared at Nebula. The raccoon wasn’t kidding, and his face showed it. Rocket knows his size doesn’t give credence to his ability as a murderous borderline psychopath, but Nebby, of all people, knows very well what he can do. After all, they did spend five long, emotionally unstable years together.
Nebula’s eye twitched, an almost unnoticeable sign of her resolve breaking, before looking away and nodding. “Yes, Cap'n,” Nebula murmured, disconnecting her cables from the projector and connecting herself to the holo-pad. Rocket watched in half-interest as her black eyes became an iridescent blue, flowing with lines of code. “I’ll also be sending you a report soon regarding the costs-benefit analysis you asked for about replacing the water management system.”
They may not always see eye-to-eye about everything, but Rocket could always count on her to get shit done no matter what. Drax, on the other hand, couldn’t help but be more fickle than a fiddle. It seems that during their argument, the tattooed man had had the time to get comfortable in the shitty meeting room chairs and fall asleep.
He doesn’t thank Nebula as he turns his attention toward Drax, who was snoring loudly. His thick, muscular arms were crossed over his tattooed chest, and his head tilted slightly over as he slept. Rocket couldn’t help the cackle that left him as he slid down from the table and walked over to the tattooed hunk. Nebula, still immersed in her own world, stayed silent as she half-watched Rocket approach the sleeping Kylosian. Anticipation filled the room as the raccoon got all up in Drax’s face and cleared his throat dramatically.
“DRAX!” He yelled, leaping backwards as the man woke up screaming. The room quickly filled with Rocket’s laughter as he fell over in amusement, pounding his fists on the table as a startled Drax threw his chair backwards and began ominously approaching the raccoon.
“What do you want, you vile creature?” Drax yelled, angry, as he approached the slippery raccoon. Rocket, for his part, just laughed and dodged every attempt by the man to grab him.
“I just needed your blockhead to wake up!” Rocket snarked, barely moving out of the way of a massive fist, “how’s your branch of business doing?!”
“My branch of business?” Drax mocked, “Stop moving and let me catch you, vermin; that’s my branch of business!” He grunted as he tossed himself over the table, somehow managing to get a grip on the sleeve of Rocket’s shirt. A loud tearing sound filled the room as Rocket once again dodged an incoming fist, his heart beating rapidly as he felt the sleeve get torn off his arm.
Standing opposite to the combative man, Rocket paused and took a quick breath, digesting the picture of the threads hanging from his shoulder and Drax’s twitching fist holding the fabric. The imagery only served to piss him off.
“Look what you did, flarknard; you ripped my favorite shirt!” Rocket griped, demanding the piece of fabric back.
Drax just laughed in response. “You will never get it back, Rat. If anything, I am going to eat it!” The Kylosian threatened, holding the sleeve to his mouth.
Rocket narrowed his eyes, his hindlegs jerking as he prepared to lunge at the tattooed man. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“I would.” Drax cackled, taunting the raccoon by hovering the fabric right above his open jaw. Just as the sleeve was released, with artificial gravity pulling it downward, it was snatched by an extended blue fist. All eyes turn to Nebula holding the sleeve, her face pulled down into a frustrated grimace.
“You two always act like children.” She chastises them, “Need I remind you both that we’re being recorded for everyone to see?” As if they needed a reminder, the floating camera flew into perspective—its haunting abyss for an eye staring at them.
At that, the Kylosian instantly calmed down and sat back down, sufficiently chastised and embarrassed. Rocket did the same, though thoroughly energized by their little fight. Nebula was quick to hand the raccoon his sleeve as the tattooed man settled down, messing around with the cables. Drax’s previous face of anger had flitted to one of discontented unease as his holo-pad connected to the projector. “Yes. My end of things.” He said, pulling up images that had Rocket recoiling from his seat and covering his eyes.
“Drax! Flarkin’ hell! Are you even allowed to show this?!”
“I agree with Rocket, Drax. These images are horrific.”
“I apologize, Blue Lady and Rat, but this is how my branch of business is going.” Drax shook his head, equally heartbroken and enraged, as he explained the situation: “It took me a shamefully long time to notice that many of the Star Children have started going missing. Cosmo and I had to do some sniffing around to find their poor little bodies. I don’t know what else to say other than that we need to find the monster responsible for this! They barely speak Standard; how could they know to call anyone for help? And even if they did, we have no help. The ugly-faced people we have as security are useless! They don’t even bother entering the camps where the refugees live. The Star Children need our help immediately.” He finished, unusually serious and resolute.
It struck Rocket at that moment just how far behind Knowhere was in regards to other settlements. They didn’t have a unified security force or even an armed guard to protect the city in the future. Sure, it was now a movable fortress, looking much different from its original form from years ago. It even had an awesome ass eye cannon he helped design, but that hadn’t stopped HE’s grotesque flying hoard from entering and massacring thousands. He shuddered in barely restrained fear, realizing just how vulnerable Knowhere was. His home could be destroyed all over again, and it could be done in mere minutes.
Consoling himself, Rocket shook off the anxiety and looked back at Drax, who was staring at him intently. This wasn’t something to mess around with. “Do you have any ideas as to what we could do, Drax? From my perspective, I feel creating a Knowhere security force is still too early in the books. I don’t want to have to deal with corrupt cops taking bribes and being bought off by the criminal underground. We already struggle with keeping the H-High Evolutionary under arrest.”
“I have thought of some thoughts, Rat.” Rocket rolled his eyes. “We should create something like the galactic personhood registry. We can keep track of all our citizens and refugees that way.”
Nebula spoke up before Rocket could respond, “I wouldn’t recommend that.” She said huskily, “The galactic personhood registry is the reason why Knowhere is what it is. We house so many unregistered and illegal beings. No offense meant by this, but even Rocket isn't considered a person.”
“I know.” The raccoon spat, uncomfortable with his status as a lab experiment being brought up, “Nebula’s right, Drax. It’s too much of a risk to consider. We already have the Kree and Nova Empires breathing down our necks; we can’t make ourselves even more of a target. Also—wait—how do you even know about the galactic personhood registry?”
Drax looked rather smug as he said, “We are all capable of doing research, Rat. I am not as unintelligent as you all like to think.”
“Yeah, sure, you’re the smartest. That doesn’t answer my question though, how do you know about the GPR?”
Suddenly the tattooed man looked much more melancholic, smiling demurely as he recalled a time from long ago, “I had children, Rat. I remember registering them, and having to fill out all those documents. I was thinking we could do the same for the Star Children. They should grow up as people, not lab experiments.”
It’s an admirable goal. Rocket thought. I’d love to be considered a person too.
But Drax’s reasoning did have some creedence to it, unavoidable truths that Rocket was all too familiar with. His status as a non-person did bring a variety of issues regarding the rights and privileges he was granted, or more succinctly, the ones he was denied. He remembers how as a recently escaped, battered raccoon lab experiment, he had to learn the hard way that, even out here in the bright blue sky, he still was beneath someone. That he was still less than someone.
It had been a difficult pill for him to swallow. It took him needing people to denigrate him, discriminate against him, and overlook his agency. Time after time, no matter where, he learned what his station in life was. His birthright had been one of indefinite enslavement to a person he never asked to create him. It was a lesson he’d abhor to have repeated on an entire group of maturing children.
But they had to be realistic with what they could do. “We can’t do that, Drax. I know you’d more than love to register them, but what if Nova choses to take them all? What if they come for the whole colony? Honestly, I’m not really sure what we can do?” Rocket shook his head, hating the words he was saying.
“Why don’t we just join the Nova then?” Drax grumbled, crossing his arms and looking away defiantly. He probably thought he looked tough, but he just looked like a pouting child.
“Are you even thinking—“
“That’s a terrible idea—“
“Alright! Alright!” The Kylosian cut them off, frowning, eyes wide and moist as he stared at the haunting images before them. “I just do not know what to do. We have lost seven so far; I cannot bear to think about losing more.”
“I don’t know what else we can tell you.” Nebula said, her eyes having returned to their normal black. “Registering all these people would only achieve worse outcomes. We can’t afford not to be cautious.”
“Then what are we doing here, then?” Drax complained, “We only got together to just say that the pathetic human’s back and that we can’t do anything about anything. I might just as well go home.” He said this, leaning back into his chair with a tired frown.
“You actually have a point there.” Rocket yawned, feeling the caffeine from the coffees he drank stop their incessant buzz of his limbs. “We should end the meeting here. Everyone’s tired and a little crazy over the endless issues cropping up. Actually, y’know what, I’ll make that an order. I order you all to go to bed and actually sleep so we can have a better, more productive conversation.” Rocket ordered, slightly amused at how Drax and Nebula both perked at the more authoritative voice. They may not all be on the best of terms right now, especially between the raccoon and the cyborg, but they still loved and appreciated one another.
I may be an asshole. Rocket sniffed. But I do care for you all.
The meeting was pretty much over after that order, with both Drax and Nebula quietly leaving the frustrated and stressed raccoon to his own thoughts. It seemed that everyone left a bit more fretless than temporarily placated and more anxious than before regarding the possibilities they feared could become realities. Rocket knows he did—choosing to remain seated in the dim glow of the projector, face and body shadowed by the pervasive darkness of the unlit room. It felt eerie, his fur standing on its ends as he sat there listening to the hum of the electronics in the walls and table.
Even alone, with no peering eyes at him, he still felt the inescapable urge to begin scratching incessantly at his own skin. To scratch and pick so much—so thoroughly and completely—he’d be nothing other than the viscera of his deepest insides. Glistening, dripping rags of innards, fascia, and insecurities. Carrion-red dregs of guilt, self-hatred, and deep-seated fears.
Eventually, the urge under his claws and the terrifying buzz in his ears became too much. He left the meeting room hastily, paranoia hanging above him like a stormy cloud as he exited the building on all fours. This early in the morning, Knowhere was just starting to wake up—barely more than a couple dozen people were preparing their stalls for the day. The raccoon just stood there, disoriented from the running and nauseous at the smell of vendor-fried orlani.
The best thing you can do, I think, is to create a list of people you trust. Rocket struggled to breathe, unerringly thinking back to Drax’s mournful problems. People like Cosmo and Kraglin. Be the security force, Drax. You’re more than strong for it.
Stumbling, Rocket begins to walk, barely able to ignore the fiery pain slashing up and down his cybernetic spine. It’s hard to empty his mind of the images he had seen and all the stresses of the world weighing on his small, artificially built shoulders. It makes the ache between his joints hurt all the more, wincing as he hears his knees click audibly.
It seems that no matter what he does, it doesn’t fix anything but instead makes it all worse. He only exists to create more problems, as evidenced by his treatment of Peter a few hours ago and how he treated Nebula and Drax. Suddenly, as if he got punched in the gut, Rocket is consumed by a fiery craving for the forbidden—yearning for the feeling of warmth and ease flowing through his bloodstream. He can’t ignore the vial he imagines—the dull, blue casing of the illicit drug. Lowpri is an inexpensive, dangerous substitute for the aristocratic original drug called shawan. A stunning, glowing red liquid, aerosolized and ready for ejection. It burns on the way down, stabbing the sensitive flesh of his throat and tearing apart the smooth muscle of his lungs.
Holy scut. The raccoon gasps. I need it. I need it badly.
He looks up from his feet and from the dust beneath his toes, and he realizes he’s still far from home. He’s still far from the vial he’s hiding underneath his mattress. Rocket remembers who’s been sleeping on top of it. Peter. His lowpri personified. His fix is in the form of an addictive man.
I wonder if Peter is okay. His feet drag along the soil, leaving a staggering trail behind him.
Has he left me?
A draft of wind blows stagnantly through the winding streets of the mining colony. The day is coming, and a small figure shambles home.
Chapter 5: This is Our Life
Summary:
Rocket comes home.
Notes:
now this was a hefty one lol! but in other words, the plot is starting to come together lol. still writing this as i go for the most part though, but i hope you enjoy, i know I definitely did writing this! The next chapter will be uploaded by sometime next week.
Chapter Text
This is Our Life
The metallic door thunks shut behind him, a rush of wind ruffling his fur as he limps into the common area. Rocket glances around, groaning at the mess he sees. The common area, a place where he once had uncluttered couches for people to sit in, has become more of an extension of his workbench, with all the gadgets and half-finished devices laying around. It’s obvious the last two weeks haven’t treated his apartment nicely; the floor is unswept and the shelves dusty. He would do it himself if it weren’t for the pulses and ebbs of pain plaguing his aching body, rendering him useless until the flashes of agony stop. The hybrid suffers from chronic pain by virtue of being what he is, but it’s not common that it flares up this badly. The last twenty-four hours have taken their toll on his cobbled-together frame, the seams holding the unnatural angles and planes of his body dissolving into horrific aches. Rocket just scratches his lower back, hissing quietly when a flare of pain travels up his titanium spine.
The raccoon carelessly kicks off his boots, ignoring them as they land noisily at the feet of his workbench. With a hitch in his step, he enters the kitchen, eager to get something in his stomach. It seems that downing five cups of coffee did nothing to sate the hunger that had his insides in a twist, instead giving him an uncomfortable stomachache that had him gripping his abdomen. The caffeine had long worn off, but even with the bare fumes, Rocket still felt, for the most part, awake enough to open a creaky cabinet and snatch a large bag of zargnuts. They weren’t his first choice for snacking, but he wasn’t even close to the mood for cleaning, much less cooking.
I’m not even a good cook to begin with. Rocket thought, pitying himself as he remembered that burnt-up piece of meat he had eaten before feeding the remnants to Peter. It looked more like a piece of charcoal than food, and that was saying something considering that he’d been trying his best to make something edible other than snacks and takeout. It would be depressing if he didn’t really give a toss.
But it seems zargnuts will have to do for tonight. Rocket huffed, opening the party-size bag and immediately downing a handful. They were a tiny bit stale, but he enjoyed them nonetheless, chewing loudly as he began undressing for the night. His jacket was the first thing to come off, tossed onto the backing of a random chair, followed soon by the faded graphic tee he had underneath. It had been gifted to him by some kid on Terra when he had worked with the Avengers; their little face flushed with excitement at finally getting to meet the snarky raccoon in all his glory. Why he had been their favorite, he had no clue, but it had been a nice gesture. Sure, the child had been insultingly taller than him, but Rocket was more than appreciative, making sure to rotate the tee through his outfits. That didn’t stop it from ending up in a sad pile on the floor, joining its friends in the musty corner the raccoon had chosen to be his dirty clothes bin.
Feeling slightly better, Rocket quickly unbuttoned his pants with a swift motion of a clawed finger. Loosened, he shimmied his worn trousers off, stretching stiffly as his tail finally felt free enough to swish contently behind him. It sent a few satisfying bursts of pain up his spine, pulling a subdued whine of pleasure from deep within his chest. Now clad in the same tank top from the night before and red briefs, the raccoon was officially at home, climbing onto the closest couch and tossing himself backwards onto the cluttered seat beside his workbench. The loose screws on the cushion did dig into his back, but he ignored them in lieu of letting his eyes explore the table next to him.
It was disorganized, covered in unfinished projects he had abandoned while taking care of Peter. Playing nurse had taken a surprisingly large amount of time and energy, forcing him to withdraw progress on the things he’d prefer to have been working on. Things like a potential AI-powered water management system that could effectively solve their water supply crisis should it work like he thinks it will. Or things like a new, sick blaster he was hoping could be replicated for the new Guardians to carry when the cohort would eventually come together.
The thing that stood out the most, though, was the dim, glowing screen of a deeply appreciated gift. Peter’s Zune. It was on his workbench, plugged into a Terran speaker console he’d salvaged not too long ago from some junkyard planet. The clunky box connected to his apartment’s surround sound system, giving him the ability to blast good music as loud and late as he wanted. It had taken a little tweaking to get it working without any static or shitty audio, but it had been more than worth it when he experienced the sheer sound quality the speakers could produce. Rocket may have really sensitive hearing, but he was more than willing to commit a bit of hearing damage if it meant getting to feel sound waves brushing through his fur and resonating deeply within his body.
He can still recall the fluttery feeling that gripped his throat when Pete gave him the music player, eyes wide as the human handed him such an important and sentimental piece of himself. He vividly remembers how distraught Pete had been when his walkman had been destroyed by his own father, crushed within the grip of a celestial pretending to be a benevolent man. So to be given the Zune and all the emotional baggage it carried, it definitely changed the way Rocket saw the human. It was actually moments like those—those soft moments of care and affection between him and Pete—that poured heavy fuel oil onto the flames of his out-of-control obsession. Rocket knew he was deeply neurotic and often found himself struggling greatly with the complexities of his own emotions. Yet, in those fleeting moments of vulnerability shared with Pete, he felt an intense burning ardor within his artificially constructed ribcage. The Zune was more than just a replacement for a broken device and a gift; it symbolized trust, understanding, and a shared history between them. Rocket couldn’t help but feel a surge of mushy gratitude mixed with the heady weight of infatuation as he clutched the music player in his small paws. It was a reminder that amidst the instability and hot-coldness of their relationship, there were still moments of tenderness that anchored him to the human. Laying there on his back, the raccoon stretched once more, sighing raspily at his imagined image of Pete still curled up in his sheets on his bed.
I should probably say sorry for how I treated him. But first, some music would be good right now. Rocket thought, flipping around to crawl up to the Zune, snatching it from its station, and turning it on with a quick tap to the screen. As he scrolls through all the decades, he reminisces on all the times he’d yell at Pete to turn his music off, huffing in amusement at seeing how he’s now the one playing music out loud. Call him a hypocrite, but he won’t be stopping anytime soon, not even when he receives scowls or frowns of complaint from people around Guardians HQ. And it sure is playing all day, non-stop, when the catalogs of songs are just that long. Even now, the raccoon can’t help but be overwhelmed by the sheer size of the playlists, unsure of what exactly to choose. It’s only when he skims by quickly, eyes glazed over the blur of titles of songs, that he quickly reverses when a specific title catches his eyes.
Creep. Rocket perks up. Radiohead
Instantly, he taps the screen where the song is and hastily returns it to its station, laying down on his back as the song starts playing softly through the speakers around him. It’s not at maximum volume, and he’s okay with that, humming as the rhythm of the drums begins washing away his worries of the day.
When you were here before
Couldn’t look you in the eye
You're just like an angel
Your skin makes me cry.
Rocket lays there, his ears perked as the haunting melody fills the room, stabbing directly into the emotions he’s been trying to bury deep within. It strikes a chord within him, stirring memories and feelings he’s long tried to repress. Moments of vulnerability, of regret, and of longing. He remembers the times he’s pushed away the people around him—the times he’s pushed away Pete—his sharp words cutting deeper than he intended. Yet, despite his false bravado, Rocket knows he’s just as flawed and broken as anyone else. And in this moment, with the music surrounding him like a comforting embrace, he feels the weight of his actions pressing down on him.
I wish I was special
So fucking special
But I’m a creep
I’m a weirdo
Amidst the guilt and pain, he still feels a glimmer of hope. As the song reaches its crescendo, with the singer screaming in an amazing, albeit awkward, way, Rocket feels a wave of determination rising in him. Maybe it's not too late to make amends—to mend the fractures in his relationships. With each note, he resolves to be better, to show Pete how much of a better person he could be. The human didn’t have to look at him with such apprehension and suppressed desire. He could be open about it. They both could be. Though it didn’t really help that Peter could be such a little krutarckin’ schlag when he wanted, closing off behind walls of past traumas and shame as if they all didn’t have baggage to carry. And while it may grate his nerves like none other, Rocket has to learn that that’s just the way the human is. If he wants to keep Pete with him for the foreseeable future, he’ll have to learn to appease the man’s erratic and, frankly, annoying behavior.
What the hell am I doin’ here?
I don’t belong here
She’s running out the door
She’s running out
Hesitantly, he tosses himself off the couch and walks towards the room where Peter’s still probably sleeping. The music fades away into the depths of the hallway, the pads of his feet echoing in the long stretch of corridor as he comes to a halt in front of the metal door. He can still hear the song for the most part, albeit significantly subdued, and it gives him enough motivation to raise a small fist and knock softly. There’s no response, but he didn’t expect one, proceeding to carefully kneel down to avoid worsening his pain. Rocket situates himself in a comfortable position, sitting cross-legged as he stares at the daunting door that separates himself and the person he wants the most in the entirety of the universe. Peter Quill may be an enigma of a man to most people, infinitely complex in the ways he presents himself to the world, but Rocket can see him for what he is. A damaged, traumatized, heartbroken man who's been through his unfair share of loss and death.
Even now, eight years after the day he died and three since he came back, he’s never been the same man he was before he turned to dust. Sometimes, when Rocket’s alone and particularly disturbed, he ponders about the possibility that they didn’t make the correct wish or whatever when they brought all these people back. Don’t get him wrong, the raccoon definitely isn’t a Flag Smasher or anything, but he can sympathize with the ideas they espoused—the ideology they advocated for. Terra wasn’t the only place in the universe to become unnaturally unified in the aftermath of the Snap and then vitriolically divided when the Blip brought everyone back. These thoughts don’t usually get him any satisfying answers or insights he hadn’t thought of already in the last three years; instead, they just leave him perturbed. Presently, it just distracts him from what he’s trying to do. He shook off the slight anxiety and knocked once more, discontented by the deafening silence he received.
Perhaps Pete is more upset than I thought. Rocket frowned, scuttling forward to lay an ear against the metal door. He could only hear the hum of the electronics within the door and the whir of the mechanics within the walls of the apartment building. His frown deepened into a weak scowl, pulling back to stare once again at the door. Waiting a few moments didn’t change anything, only serving to add to the growing maelstrom in his stomach as the silence stretched on.
“Quill?” He says disquietingly, “I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry for snapping at you the way I did.” Rocket hugs his knees, bringing them close as he continues speaking to the sleeping man. “I’m—I’m not really good at these types of things, y’know? Never really have been. That—I don’t—I don’t think I told you that I… that I missed ya while you were gone. I missed ya real bad.” He finished talking, his ears hanging drearily as he spoke to the dead quiet. It's as the seconds drag into minutes—a terrifying sensation that leaves him dizzy—that he finally notices something off. The door is sealed shut, and the panel beside it is glowing red. If there were someone inside, Rocket realizes, eyes widening, it would be green.
Instantly he’s upright, barely flinching at the pain that consumes his legs and lower back, and instead focuses on the growing panic within his chest. It’s a sickening feeling, a metastasizing sensation of nauseating paranoia, as he approaches the panel and sees, to his worst nightmares, that there is no occupant inside. All at once, the air leaves his lungs into the stale atmosphere of the apartment, mixing with the growing smell of hysterical confusion. His blood feels as if it's frozen in his veins, coagulating thickly in his sutured arteries and organs.
“No. No, no, no. No, this can’t be.” Rocket mutters, belatedly noticing that he’s hyperventilating. “He can’t be gone. He couldn’t’ve left me. He said he wouldn’t.” He wheezes, slamming his fist against the panel, hoping that the red color would magically turn green. When it doesn’t, he whines in terror, punching it head-on and watching as the glass breaks. The raccoon fails to register the shards digging into his knuckles, tunnel vision closing in on the sparkling, failing screen of the panel. Blood drips to the floor as the screen finally dies, automatically opening the room door as a failsafe. It’s dark inside, but he can see how the once messy and used sheets have been folded neatly and placed at the foot of the bed. His pillows are fluffed up and ready for a head to lay on them. No one’s been here in a while.
Rocket gasps for breath as he scrambles into the room, tossing the pillows and sheets to the floor in a desperate bid for any sign of Pete’s existence. All he finds is the fading smell of the man and a few strands of his auburn hair. The bed’s not even warm; it’s long gone cold, as if no one had been sleeping in it for the last two weeks. As if the raccoon hadn’t shared it with another body multiple times, cuddling up underneath the arm of a comatose Peter. The raccoon sniffles, mind blank, as he seemingly looks down at himself from a third-person perspective. Completely detached from reality, he can see his small, furred body trembling in the shadows and angles of the dark, eerily still as he just stares at nothing in particular. It’s when he hears the distant sound of a blaster going off that Rocket lifts his fuzzy, disoriented head back towards the hallway, his carmine eyes tearing up from how long it’s been since he’s blinked, that he snaps.
A furious, painful snarl itches itself on his face, baring his canines as he lashes out and begins tearing apart his room. Nothing is safe. Nothing is sacred. All of it gets destroyed by his clawed hands. The bedside table gets tossed, clattering loudly as the drawers open and spill out their insides in a rush of shattering glass and denting metal. He sees small flashes of what he’s doing, the destruction he’s wrecking, and he can’t find it in himself to give a damn. Not a single damn in the whole wide universe as he essentially tears his closet door off its hinges and swirls through its contents. Shirts, pants, briefs—all shredded and thrown without a care. He only temporarily freezes when he comes across that burgundy scarf. The one he had worn during those five years. His last connection to that d’ast human. Rocket sees red, and soon it’s nothing more than a mangled mess of strings and grief.
Peter fucking Quill left him when he said he wouldn’t. He’d be waiting for him to get back home after work. Well, as Rocket is realizing, he’s a flarkin’ liar. A two-faced, sniveling, bitch-made, piece-of-shit, pathetic liar who can’t even fucking take care of himself. The rage he feels, the fury that burns in his heart, is like none other. It’s incandescent as he screams in frustration, yanking harshly at his ears as he throws a shoe at the window. It immediately shatters and causes a cascade of glittering shards to flood his room. Instantly, the ceiling and walls are illuminated with the warm, glimmering reflection of the light from the yellowed lamp posts outside, a mocking imitation of a discotheque ambience. Rocket, overstimulated and on the verge of a breakdown, blacks out, unaware, as he continues his rampage across his apartment.
When he comes to, Rocket finds himself on his knees and hands, panting desperately to get the air back into his deprived, sore lungs. His throat aches terribly from all the yelling, and he’s reminded of why he tries to never get attached to people. Reminded of why he’s the way he is and why he does the things he does.
It never flarkin’ goes well. Rocket scolds himself, tired eyes filling up with tears as he glances frightfully at the sheer carnage he’s wrought on his home. His kitchen is trashed; all the food has spilled or been torn from its packets. His living space is nothing more than a bird's nest of haphazardly shredded fabric and agony. It’s an unavoidable, permanent display of his desperation for connection—his ache for someone to soothe the ruinous void within. But worse yet, it details in excruciating, humiliating detail his embarrassing lack of a person to do it for him. He’s so fucking lonely. Choking off a sob, the raccoon lets his forehead hit the floor, shivering awfully as it sinks in that he’s truly, literally, and unflinchingly alone. It’s a heart-shattering revelation, tearing him apart from the inside as tears keep falling and his breaths come in shaky gasps. He really thought he’d found it with Peter. That he had finally found the solution to the painful, cancerous void inside him. He was so relieved, thinking he could finally fill it with something other than drugs and alcohol, completely aware of how those illicit substances were destroying him. But seeing how Peter had flarkin’ abandoned him again—for the third fucking time, he thought with a watery growl—his blood was already singing for the drug he knew he had lying around his house somewhere.
It’s as he shakily lifts himself from the floor, crying out in pain when he remembers the flare-up of pain he’s in, that he’s hit by a brick wall of memories he had buried deep within the twisted confines of his cybernetic brain. It’s a rapid onslaught, Rocket’s closing his eyes so hard he sees stars, that he can’t control the rabid scampering he embarks on in search of the vial of lowpri. He sees in his mind’s eye the vivid images of Lylla being murdered brutally, the bullet searing through her small frame and robbing her of the future she deserved to have. Torturously, he sees the cooling corpses of Teefs and Floor lying dead beside him, their eyes empty and dull as if they hadn’t been screaming just seconds beforehand. They were so quiet, as if they had never existed to begin with. Stumbling into his room once again, he locks eyes with the mutilated mattress, whimpering in anguished joy as he sees the vial unbroken beside the trashed pillows and sheets.
Finally, flarkin’ finally. Rocket grins unsteadily, desperately diving for the lowpri, as he’s hit with another throe of wretched memories.
Ronan the Accuser’s Dark Aster was in flames, hurtling towards the surface of Xandar. Groot was unraveling at the seams, becoming a mass of branches and leaves to encase them as the Dark Aster struggled to hold up against the friction of the Xandarian atmosphere. Rocket begs him—cries for him to not do this to him—and is only given one last loving look as the ship kisses the surface in a terrific explosion that knocks him unconscious.
With trembling hands, the nozzle of the vial is shoved into his mouth, his thin black lips puckering as best they can as he presses on the ejector and inhales as deeply as he can.
Terra during the last doomed battle against Thanos. He’s surrounded by ruined terrain and dead bodies as the Earth is pelted by round after round of destruction. Rocket is not aware of how many they’ve lost, but he knows something is wrong when it seems the whole universe goes unnaturally quiet. It’s when he sees one of the enemy soldiers vanish into dust that his heart sinks to the pits of hell as he realizes they failed. One after another, he watches in numb shock as the grass beneath his boots and the trees above him fade into nothing. When he hears the clattering of a weapon and the fearful grunt of Groot, he turns around to see the adolescent sapling falling to the ground, gripping himself as if he’s fighting to stay together at the molecular level. It’s all for naught. Rocket cries with a shout as he watches Groot die once again.
The mechanism of the ejector clicks loudly, puncturing the vial and releasing the aerosolized red drug through internal heating tubes and into the nozzle as a burning gush of perfection. Rocket can’t help the deep, raspy moan that escapes him, breathing deeply as the lowpri enters his lungs and, instantaneously, his bloodstream. This is why he fucking loves this drug. Infinitely cheaper than shawan, which he’s only had the privilege to try once, and how fast it acts. Immediately, the terrible memories fade away as the chemicals take over and fry his neurotransmitters with artificial doses of good-feeling hormones.
Rocket giggles, dropping the half-used vial onto the floor and curling up into the mess of glass, ruined pillows, and torn blankets as he half-assedly creates a small nest to ride the high in. Lowpri, much like shawan and chase, is a stimulant drug, with the sole purpose of sending his nervous system into a rapid-fire frenzy as he gets higher and higher on the sine wave of the drug. It doesn’t last long—about 25–30 minutes—but those are 25–30 minutes of pure euphoria and worry-free existence. The raccoonoid’s aware that the drug is incredibly destructive to the lining of his throat and lungs, but it’s more than worth it as he, for the first time in months, feels the stress of the universe lift off his shoulders. Rocket’s not sure why he stopped taking it, seeing how much it eases his woes. Eyes falling shut, he nuzzles deeper into the sheets, groaning in overwhelming pleasure. His fur tingles in every single follicle across his body, and his skin buzzes pleasantly as he rubs against the fabric incessantly in an effort to increase as much physical sensation as possible. Heat pools in his lower stomach, whining as he palms at the growing bulge in his briefs. Why is he still wearing these anyway?
Opening his eyes, Rocket looks downward at his groin to see the tent in his underwear and the growing spot of wetness. He growls in displeasure, the offending piece of fabric preventing his dick from entirely leaving his sheath in an increasingly uncomfortable sensation as a pulse of heady arousal wracks his body. Seeing that he was committing to the bit, the raccoon hastily wiggles out of the briefs and kicks them off into the comforting darkness of the room. The lack of light gives him an added level of privacy and detachment from his body. He proceeds to grab his cock with a hand and stroke it lazily while enjoying the crest of the high. He doesn’t know how long he lays there jerking himself off, but all too soon, Rocket is panting as unbearable heat builds in his stomach and dick, his furry thighs tensing in quick intervals while he shoves a paw over his muzzle to muffle his loud yips and trills. It’s embarrassing how loud he can get, but it’s been so long since he’s felt this good—so long since he’s allowed himself something so basal and primal. His whole body is chanting, eager to reach climax, as his fist sped up in its strokes, soaking his fur and palm with precome.
Rocket, at this point, gives up on being quiet and begins moaning loudly, his eyes clenching shut as he feels himself reach the crest of this wave of unimaginable pleasure. The hand that once covered his mouth slams onto the floor beneath him, claws digging harshly into the ground. A few stuttered strokes later, and Rocket is coming all over himself, sobbing as he splatters his hot seed onto his fist, stomach, and chest. Keening, he drags it out, using both hands to continue stimulating both his sheath and cock in a way that has him seeing sparks. Eventually, the half-hearted tugs become too much, and he recoils from his own touch, oversensitive as he lets go of his retracting dick. Rocket lays there, eyes closed, coming down from probably one of the most intense orgasms he has had in a while. Disappointedly, and all so quickly, the post-orgasm rush of dopamine wears off almost instantly, his mood collapsing as the lowpri also wears off. Cooling down—and wincing uncomfortably—the raccoon turns over to curl in on himself, shivering as his come becomes a gunky mess on his fur. Naked and exposed, Rocket sniffles, his eyes filling with tears once more.
Flark. Now I just feel so much worse. Rocket muffles a sob, desperately ignoring the way he feels so empty inside. Jerking off, while an incredible feeling at the time, seems to have been a mistake with the way he’s full on crying his eyes out. Similarly, it doesn’t mix well with the exhaustion that overcomes him all at once, weighing down on his puffy eyes. At least, though, it ceases his sobs in exchange for stuttering breaths as sleep begins taking over. Slowly, his mind fades into the supple embrace of unconsciousness, eager to finally address the sleep deprivation terrorizing his body. The last thing he remembers, right before it all disappears, is the howling of a gentle draft of wind entering through his window, carrying in the distant sounds of Knowhere—an ambience of shouts, mining operations, and ships landing.
+ + + + A few hours later + + + +
Rocket opens his eyes, sighing miserably at the barren feeling tearing him apart from within. Life right now feels like a gray, cold fog as he yawns, stretching carefully to avoid worsening his pain. Although it seems however much sleep he got massively helped with the pain plaguing his body, the once disabling affliction reduced to nothing more than an uncomfortable twinge in his lower back. However, that doesn’t account for the splitting headache he has, grumbling in misery at his own rash decisions. Seeing that his vision is slightly blurry and doubled, he blinks repeatedly to get the sleep out of them, his nose twitching as the world fizzles back into existence around him. His bedroom is cold and quiet, drafts of wind still entering from the shattered hole in the window. The nest he created is nothing more than a pile of crusted sheets and mangled pillows, glass shards, and trash digging into his back from beneath him.
Now, what the hell did I just do to myself? Rocket groans loudly in disappointment, cringing as he digests the mess around him. He doesn’t even want to know what his living room looks like. He covers his grimy eyes with his hands, dragging them downward in rough movements that leave his face burning with pain. He barely remembers anything from yesterday past breaking the panel to the door, and jerking off. Mortified, he yanks an ear harshly in an attempt to self-flagellate.
This is so humiliating. The raccoon whines, lifting himself from the floor to begin at least tidying up his room. Seeing that Peter is now gone, there isn’t a reason to have all these blankets and pillows on his bed. He knows that he’s more than capable of sleeping on a bare mattress—hell, he slept on a metal bed for years before getting one—but that doesn’t exactly light up excitement in him as he kicks the shredded offending items into the corner of the room, making sure to drag along as much glass as possible. Looking around, his eyes happen to come across the vial of lowpri on the floor, noticing how the vial has a small crack nearly splitting the small thing in half. How it’s held together without spilling out its pressurized contents is a mystery to Rocket, but he’s more than glad to scoop it up and set it on the fallen, broken bedside table. He’s still as naked as the day he was born—his tank top nowhere to be seen—and his closet is a mess of ruined tatters. Sighing for the umpteenth time, he begrudgingly accepts that he’ll have to wear yesterday’s used clothes.
Rocket leaves his room with the lowpri in hand, careful to step over the dangerous, sharp items thrown about. It seems as if Thanos had personally gone through his apartment, carrying an axiomatic vendetta to make sure to destroy everything he could. The depressed hybrid is more than aware of what he can do when he loses control, and it definitely isn’t a pretty sight whenever he does, but at least his workbench is mostly untouched. It seems that even in his rampage, he had enough mental faculties to not destroy his ongoing projects.
Seeing his coat hanging off the chair, Rocket grabs it and slips it on, leaving it open as he walks over to the pile of dirty clothes. Now dressed in dirty clothes, the raccoon feels prepared to step outside once again. The gray, heavy mist weighing down on his mind withdraws a bit, letting him stretch his toes mentally a bit and feel more at home within his body. He may have relapsed after being sober for about six months and is definitely going to get high again, but this is his last vial. It will be painful, and he will suffer for it, but Rocket is more than sure that he’s capable of going sober again. He’s done it before, and he’ll do it again—even if he’s aching right now to just swallow the whole ejector when he sees the broken station for the Zune. The Zune itself is in perfect condition, untouched as it rests on the corner of the workbench. It just means he’ll have to scrounge up the units to buy another, whimpering quietly as he yanks an ear once again.
But seeing the sheer disarray of the apartment around him, he’s reminded that there’s an infinitely better place to inhale the remaining lowpri left. The roof on top of his apartment building. Rocket used to get drunk, high, and pass out up there a lot in the early days of Peter’s leave of absence, and it seems just the perfect location to do it again. Up there, he has a perfect view of all the zones of Knowhere and all the traffic that enters and leaves. It used to be a boring game of his when he was high out of his mind that he would point and name the districts he could.
Guardians HQ, foramen zone. Tivan’s recovering collection, mandibular zone. His favorite gambling district, sphenoid zone. He would mumble, desperately wishing he had a warm body to lean on as he shivered in the cold. Now, in the present, walking up the stairs to the roof access, he would never have a warm body to lean on. All because he had to be an asshole to the one person he should’ve never pushed. Rocket was well aware of the crippling insecurities Peter had—one of them being helplessness—and he had taken advantage of them. What was he kidding himself? He had gone far past taking advantage of them; he had completely violated every boundary possible between him and the human. He had gone the extra mile to be as much of a horrible person as possible, enjoying it every single foot of the way.
It definitely reflects the type of person I am. Rocket blinked emptily, kicking the access door open and walking onto the uneven flooring of the roof. Immediately, he was greeted with the smell of mining effluents and fried street food, a potent mix that got stronger the farther he got from the access door. Above him, a queue of ships waited to pass through customs, their engines roaring as they one-by-one exited through the remaining open eye of the celestial skull. It disheartened him to see that there weren’t many lining up to enter, proving to him that Nebula was right about their food situation. But that was then, and he was here now, sitting down by the roof ledge, feet dangling as he raised the nozzle back to his mouth. Just as he was going to press down on the ejector, ready to inhale the euphoric red mist, he froze as he heard a familiar voice. A voice he thought he’d never hear again. Rocket’s heart sinks to his stomach.
“Rocky?” Peter asked, his voice quiet and demure.
Rocket turns around stiltedly, his eyes eerily empty as he stares at Peter. The human’s still dressed in the same clothes he’d been wearing in the club all those days ago, and his face is creased with worry as he looks down at the raccoonoid. Rocket is aware he probably isn’t looking the best, dressed in an unzipped coat and unbuttoned pants. It seems the humie has been up here since Rocket left for work yesterday, doing whatever the hell he was doing, while the hybrid thought he’d been abandoned again. Quickly, the terrible empty feeling is replaced with radiant fury, his nose twitching rapidly as he starts breathing heavily.
In response to his disturbing stare and silence, Pete speaks again. “Are you okay?”
Oh, flark you. Rocket growls, snarling as he stands up and lunges, his sharp claws extended as he collides with the human and latches onto Peter’s jacket. In rapid succession, he lifts a wicked hand to swipe at Peter’s face, slicing deeply through the skin on his cheek.
“How fucking dare you come back after you left me?” Rocket shrieked, ensnaring a hand into his auburn curls and yanking out a lock of hair. Peter howls in pain, falling to his bottom as he attempts to swat at the attacking raccoon. Blood flows steadily down his face as he looks terrified at Rocket, his mouth pulled down in a fearful frown. “How fucking dare you think you could come back, cozy up to me, and just abandon me again?” Rocket cried, heaving as he tried to swipe at Pete’s face once again. It fails when the human just grabs his entire arm with a single hand, leading to a struggle as the raccoon’s unnatural strength puts up a good fight.
“What are you talking about?” Peter shouted, dodging another attempt at an attack. Rocket simply growls in response, baring his teeth as he snaps and latches onto the hand holding his arm, biting down as hard as possible. The human screams in pain once again, blood welling to the surface as the raccoonoid’s teeth dig in. “Rocket, what the hell! Let me go!”
Suddenly, Rocket’s world is turned on its axis as he feels a calloused hand scruff him by the neck, tugging harshly at the skin in an attempt to disengage him. Embarrassingly, it works really well as he feels his body go limp, his jaw loosening as he’s yanked around and shoved onto the ground of the roof, the jagged edges digging into the scars on his back. The raccoon whines, squirming in the steel grip holding him down, desperately looking up at the face of the person disabling him. His carmine eyes, after a few moments of panicked zooming around, finally land on Peter’s green eyes, widening when they see the snarl on the human’s face.
Goddamit, why do I always get overpowered by him? Rocket spat internally, kicking his feet underneath him in an attempt to get his footing. Ultimately, it leads him nowhere other than appearing like a rabid creature that needs to be put down. Fuck, this is so flarkin’ embarrassing. He thought with a weak growl, giving up and giving into the human’s grip. He’d be blushing if he was capable of it—thought as it stands—he only feels warmth burn his face.
Panting, Peter glares down at him and asks, “Are you done?” Rocket’s silence is an answer in itself. “Great. Jesus. You really didn’t have to do all of that.” The man sighs, his voice sounding too breathy for a person who had just been attacked. He rolls his neck, a droplet of sweat mixed with blood running down the hollow of his throat. Rocket can’t help but tilt his head in confusion, noticing the flush high on the man’s cheeks, his forehead damp with sweat as he tries to regulate his breathing. Peter may be bleeding and terrified, but it seems he’s feeling a lot more than fear if the bulge in his jeans is anything to go by, Rocket thinks with an amused snort.
“What?” Pete grunts, seemingly unaware of his body’s visible reaction to their altercation. It’s only when Rocket raises the equivalent of an eyebrow that the human looks downward and sees the hard on in his pants. His face becomes even redder.
Grinning wickedly, Rocket licks the blood on his chops. “Had fun, Quill?” Peter only responds with an inelegant squawk, green eyes dilating into nearly disappearing as he breaks their eye contact and lets go of the raccoon. The human looks like shit, battered and beaten, as he scampers away on his knees before turning around to look meekly at Rocket while covering his crotch with his hands. The look on his face is a hilarious mix of embarrassment and arousal, obviously unable to separate one feeling from another. It must turn him on more, because Pete cowers, hunching in on himself as Rocket jumps up from the floor and crawls over to him.
The raccoon stands up to look down at him, glaring as he grabs the man’s hair once again and pulls it harshly to have them face-to-face. Peter lets him, moaning in pain-pleasure.
Rocket scoffs, feeling his anger collide with his own arousal. “I don’t care where you went. I don’t give a fuck what you were doing. If you ever,” Rocket tugs the auburn strands in his hand, “ever pull that shit again. We’re gonna have a problem. You understand?” To Peter’s pathetic nod, Rocket growls. “I said, do you understand?”
“Yessir.” Peter mewls, thrusting into his hand. “I understand. I won’t do it again, I promise, sir.”
“Good boy.” Rocket smiled, caressing and playing with Pete’s hair, his clawed fingers twirling a coil over and over. “Just ask next time if you want to leave, okay? You really scared me, Pete.” He said quietly, scratching the man’s scalp gently.
Peter nodded, swallowing as he murmured breathily, “Sorry, Rocky. ‘M so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just went to visit Nebula and Drax. I hope that’s not a problem.”
“It’s not a problem, Pete, not at all. I just—” the hybrid paused, unsure of how to say this without sounding insane, “you—you’re mine, right? You won’t leave me again, right?”
The human didn’t even let Rocket finish speaking before he instantly and resolutely agreed, “Yes. Yes, I’m yours.” He said with desperation lacing every single syllable, “I won’t leave you. ‘M sorry. I won’t do it again.” Peter’s eyes were filling with tears, frantic to get Rocket to believe him. He had been terrified seeing what his absence had done to the raccoon—the sheer destruction left in the apartment they had shared for two weeks. He never wanted to see anything like that ever again. And to his wildest dreams and most profound longings, Rocket accepted his apology, acquiescing with a humorous huff.
Rocket’s carmine eyes, shining with malignant obsession and sadistic glee, met Pete’s green eyes, dripping with a frenzied need for subservience and a soul-deep urge to please. Together, their stares collided and fused into an unholy monstrosity of twisted and entangled love. At that moment, they both knew they were never, ever going to let go of each other. They both knew, for eternity and whatever came after, that they’d never leave one another’s side. They’d see each other to each other’s respective graves and still be together beyond the worldly realm. For better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do them part.
Chapter 6: Mounting Frustration
Summary:
Rocket argues with Nebula and Drax. It seems nothing is changing for the better.
Notes:
short chapter, i know, but I had to split cuz then otherwise it would've been way too long lmao. next one should be up soon as it's a doozy lol. thanks for reading!
Chapter Text
Mounting Frustration
“What do you mean they rejected the offer?” Rocket gawked, holding the holo-pad with the turned-down contract.
“They looked at it and rejected it. Pretty simple, Rat.” Drax said, picking at a nail with a knife.
“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?” Rocket snarled, pointing an accusing finger at the Kylosian. “And obviously, flarknard. I’m being rhetorical.”
“The Philantriumites didn’t appreciate the stipulations.” Nebula said huskily, “They sent their counter offer. They’ll agree on a 15-year lease, but they’ll only accept it if they are given complete discretion over the port of entry. They said, quote on quote, ‘We don't like invasive oversight.’”
“Invasive oversight,” Rocket cursed. “What a flarkin’ joke! Goddamnit, scut, do you have any ideas of how to proceed, Nebs?”
“At this point, I’m not really sure. I heard back from that aid organization fronted by Nova, and they’re willing to send a few thousand tons of relief supplies. Similarly, some other aid groups are willing to send some kind of humanitarian assistance.”
“Flark” Rocket grinds out, dragging his paws over his face. “Well, that’s better than nothing, at least. I didn’t even want to give those flarknards the port of entry anyway. Talkin’ bout some invasive oversight…” He looks up from his holo-pad and towards Drax, who is still distracted with his nails. It annoyed him to see the man acting so nonchalantly, crossing his arms boredly, even as the raccoon tossed him a scathing glare. “Do you have anything to add, Drax?”
The man looks up from his cleaning and raises a brow. “What is there to say, Rodent?”
“Oh, I dunno, something useful or productive, y’know. Like, you’re supposed to. And stop calling me that!”
“I am doing all I can, Rodent.” Drax rumbled, completely ignoring him. “Your advice with the trusted security team has worked for the most part. We have some leads, but it’s still a work in progress. The Star Children keep complaining, though. They’re hungry, thirsty, and cold. Those camps are not meant for children.” He scoffed frustratedly, returning to his nail-picking.
“That’s actually something I wanted to speak about. In confidentiality.” Nebula muttered, flicking her hand in a motion that shut down the camera recording them. “I know you won’t like to hear me say this, Rocket, but I am seriously considering recommending a deportation order. There’s just too many mouths to feed and not enough resources to go around. Knowhere, as it stands, is incapable of sustaining as many lives as it is currently.”
Rocket’s annoyance flared into anger, tired of hearing Nebula’s terrible recommendations: “What is with you and these stupid ideas, Nebula? Deportation to where? As I’ve said multiple times, we’re not just gonna abandon these people. We promised we’d help them tide over these troubles, and we’re sticking to that.” He scowled, groaning lowly at the throb of pain that began pulsing at his temple. These flarkin’ headaches…
“Well, I don’t see you giving any solutions other than yelling ‘find another way,’ as if I haven’t exhausted every available avenue possible. We’re on the brink, Rocket; I’m not joking.”
“I’m not joking, either!” Rocket retorted, tossing his head backward. “It’s just frustrating to see nothing changing for the better. I swear we’ve been at this for weeks now, and nothing has improved!”
It really was tearing Rocket apart from the inside out. As the de facto leaders of the renegade colony—and Guardians of the fuckin’ Galaxy—they’re supposed to come up with some awesome idea to get them all out of a tight spot. But it seems that all their efforts, diplomatic or otherwise, have led nowhere other than temporarily staving off the inevitable. The only respite from the daunting prospects at hand was that Rocket was able to get a small team of engineers together to work on a solution to their ailing agricultural production. The only downside was that they weren’t going to work for free, demanding wages while they put their heads down into computers and sims.
Using my own units at that. Rocket frowned bitterly, crossing his arms as Nebula sighed, putting her head in her hands. It seemed as if the woman was at her breaking point, trembling slightly as she breathed in deeply and then out slowly.
“I’ll see if I can get the Philantriumites to renege a bit on their counter offer.” She said tightly, “Until then, please just think over my idea, Rocket. It doesn’t sound pretty, I know, but we can’t risk reaching that point.”
“Or,” Drax cut in, a neuron finally firing and giving him an idea: “We could do an evacuation? Give people the choice to leave of their own accord.” He smiled, thinking he had solved the problem.
“That’s just the same krutarckin’ thing but dressed differently.” Rocket hissed, “My answer is still a resounding no!”
“You know what? If all you’re going to do is growl at us,” Nebula snapped, “we might as well end this meeting right now. I don’t need your frustration and anger making this harder for me than it already is.”
“I am not growling at you!” Rocket growled, slamming the table between them all with his fists. “You don’t think this isn’t hard for me, too? Two-and-a-half weeks of negotiations and flarkin’ sweet talk—all for it to lead nowhere! How can I not be angry?”
To that, the cyborg’s eye twitched, and her lips pulled into a thin line. “That’s the difference between you and me. I am angry, Rocket. But I am constrained, unlike you. All you do,” she spat, “is get all heated and take it out on others. And what’s even worse is that you’ve taken no responsibility for the response to the famine. We’re weeks, Rocket, weeks from seeing mass starvation. We don’t have the luxury of getting all pissy like you love to do.”
“HAHAHA!” Rocket laughed loudly, his voice dripping with animosity and sarcasm. “I haven’t been taking responsibility? Be fucking real. I haven’t slept in weeks, Nebula. I haven’t had a moment to myself since this flarkin’ mess started.” Seeing that Nebula was only getting more ornery, Rocket grinned sharply, eager to get her to stoop down to his level. “Have you been trying to solve the water management crisis? Hm?” Nebula stared at him emptily, breathing restrainedly. “Yeah, I thought so! I, on the other hand, have actively been putting scut together for that! I’m almost done with my solution. Where’s yours, huh? Where’s Nebula’s fix-it-all for this fuckin’ famine?”
“That’s enough.” Drax cut in, standing in his seat to stare down at the fuming raccoon. “This conversation is getting us nowhere.”
Seethingly, Rocket also stands up in his seat. “That’s for me to decide, Drax! I feel like we’ve been very productive this meeting, I swear!” He dramatically fans out his arms in a sweeping motion. “I can feel it right here.” He taps his chest, right above his heart, and says, “We’re on track to solve universal hunger! I—“
“Enough!” Nebula interrupted, yelling as she launched out of her seat to speak directly to Rocket face-to-face. “Do not ridicule me for speaking my mind, you asshole.” She grimaced while saying the curse: “I know how destructive a force starvation can be for a population. I watched my people fight, murder, and massacre one another so they could fill their stomachs with something other than tears and pain. People will do anything, Rocket, if it means not starving to death. In every conceivable universe, I would’ve preferred Thanos to just have killed half of us instead of that blockade. So take me seriously when I recommend such things; I know what I’m talking about.”
So strong was the urge to ridicule Nebula’s sob story that he had to bite down on his fist, screaming internally as his canines nearly broke skin. He could give less of shit about what happened to Nebula—exasperated to find once again that people spilled their traumas and hurt to him thinking it would change his mind. He doesn’t know why they do—or if there’s anything he can do to get people to stop—but as it stands, he can only shoot Nebs a withering glare as he attempts to calm down his vitriol.
Eventually, once confident in his resolve, Rocket clears his throat and hoarsely says, “I see where you’re coming from, Nebby; I really do. I just think we’re better than having to resort to such a terrible decision. Just the amount of suffering that would be caused by such an order is something I don’t want to even entertain, much less plan out. And who knows? It may not even completely fix the problem. It might just make it worse. Look, what I’m trying to say is…” Rocket sighed, scratching his ear rapidly. “What I’m trying to say is that we need real solutions, not just hypotheticals. The Nova aid was a great idea, Nebula; just try to see if you can keep it coming. Drax’s security team, while not the best, still functions much better than what we had before. These,” he emphasizes, “are the types of things I’m worried about and focused on.”
“Then you are wholly unprepared for the future, Rodent.” Drax growled, sitting up from his seat to begin packing his things. “A good leader would have countless possibilities already thought of and fleshed out.”
“Then count yourself lucky you’re not in my head.” Rocket snarled, snatching his own holo-pad aggressively from the table. “All I do is think and think about what could happen, thinking of all the ways everything could go wrong. I’ve never known a moment of peace, and I’ll die never knowing one.” He scoffed, shouldering his coat, before stopping to stare at the two others. Nebula had returned to her side of the table, arms crossed, as she mumbled to herself about whatever she was thinking. Drax was stretching, seemingly releasing some of the stress he’d gained during their meeting. Three hours huddled together, and all they had achieved were tension headaches and a shared sour mood.
When will things start to look up? Rocket questioned himself, uncomfortable with the silence that permeated the room. It was as if it were mocking him—laughing at him as he left the meeting room. He could almost even imagine Drax and Nebula staying behind to talk shit about him, doubting his skills as a leader. They would most likely wait for him to leave before voicing their true feelings about him, laughing about how ridiculous he looks when he tries to make himself bigger than he really is. They’re probably snickering amongst themselves right now about how useless he is and how excited they are to replace him with a certain someone now that their old captain is back.
Tch, well, they can go fuck themselves. Rocket growled, kicking open the door that led to the stairwell. The spiraling thoughts only served to piss Rocket off even more, the ornery raccoon fuming by the time he slammed open the Guardian HQ door, noisily stomping down the stairs in a bid to let off some of the anger. He didn’t try to pretend he was in a less bitchy mood as he usually did, shouldering past anyone who tried to talk or give him attention. Even Cosmo had tried, speaking loudly in her annoying accent as she approached him about some bullshit he couldn’t give less of a flark about. He didn’t feel an inch of guilt when he barked at her, scaring off the dog with a rumbling growl. It seemed so uncharacteristically aggressive that even Kraglin was caught completely off guard, surprised that their benevolent leader of a raccoon could act so inappropriately with his own citizen.
Rocket just shrugged off the concern from those around him and kept walking home, desperate to decompress after that terrible meeting. Maybe Peter would be there waiting for him, eager to share some stupid story of his from his time on Terra. Rocket couldn’t help the small smile that uplifted his lips and eyes—truly disgusted with himself at how that thought made the streetlights a little brighter and introduced a small pep to his step.
Chapter 7: Float Like a Feather
Summary:
Rocket gets high with Peter and has some fun! Good fun, or bad fun? Hell, why not both!
Notes:
chasing the solar eclipse really threw me off my writing schedule lol. pair that with uni... well here it is at last!
Chapter Text
Float Like a Feather
Exhausted and frustrated, Rocket kicks the door behind him closed, muttering angrily as he walks into the living room. It’s as he’s kicking off his boots and leaning over to loosen the laces that he notices Peter sitting on the couch, lowering his holo-pad to look up and admire the incoming raccoon. Dressed in just a threadbare t-shirt and ridiculous cartoon boxers, the human sits there, watching him patiently. It seems as if the man was waiting for him to come home, a domestic, doe-eyed look in his eyes as he smiled goofily at Rocket. That smile, the gentle upturn of those lips—it sent a thrum of adoration through the raccoon, instantly relaxing him just a bit more. He huffed in amusement, tossing his shoes into their corner and approaching the kitchen rather than the human.
“You’re home.” Pete murmured happily, refocusing on whatever he was doing on his holo-pad. “I made something to eat if you’re hungry.” He said, motioning to the kitchen, “It’s not exactly the best, but it's better than anything out there—in my opinion, at least.”
“Anything is better than fried orlani.” Rocket chuckled, dropping his overcoat on the sole seat by the kitchen table. “I swear, I’m getting so tired of smelling that disgusting mess every time I go out.” He peers into the iron skillet, his stomach grumbling when he sees what the man has made. It was some strange thing Pete called hamburger helper—a mix of different meats, spices, and vegetables he could never get enough of. The human was adamant that it was nothing like the stuff he got to eat on Terra when he was a child, incredibly serious in his claim that the stuff in the box was infinitely better than anything he could ever scrounge together in a pale imitation of the original. It never mattered to Rocket anyway because it would always be leagues above what he could do, salivating as he plated some of the delicious slop. “You want some beer?” He yelled without facing the man, opening the fridge and waiting for the man’s response.
“Are you sure I can drink that?” Peter pondered quietly, sounding insecure, as he seemingly struggled with the question.
“Of course you can; it’s just a beer.” Rocket scoffed, deciding for the terran as he pulled out two cans of beer. “Also, it’s been a while since we’ve cracked some cold ones together.” He leaves the kitchen with a slight swagger to his gait, his tail swishing contently behind him as he eagerly approaches Pete. He can finally get some time to himself and relax after his argument with Nebula, unsatisfied with how that whole conversation ended. Though, before he can distract himself with that train of thought, he seats himself beside the human and cracks open the can of beer, holding up the can to the conflicted look on Peter’s face. “C’mon, take it.”
“I dunno,” Peter mumbled, swallowing as he looked away. “I said I’d stop drinking.”
“Bah.” Rocket scoffed, growing frustrated with Peter’s coy behavior. “Like I said, it’s just a beer. Scut can’t hurt you, can it?” He egged, pleased to watch the man’s reservations collapse like nothing. “C’mon, just this once, okay? Like the good ol’ times.”
Biting his lip, the man nodded, grabbing the can. “Like the good ol’ times,” He repeated meekly, quickly taking a large swig before he could regret it. Rocket watched on, hungrily, as the human’s neck was exposed entirely to him—the hollow of his throat moving in swallowing motions as he chugged the beer. A drop of condensation fell from the cold can, trailing down his neck and into the collar of his t-shirt. Rocket licked his lips, thinking of all the ways he could leave that pale expanse of flesh mottled with bruises and bites. Pete already had some on the places Rocket had attacked him, but the wounds were already starting to scab over and fade—a fact that had not so quietly dissatisfied him as he imagined reopening them, eager to see the man’s blood spill.
Seeing that he was done throwing back the beer, Rocket hastily looked away when Peter hummed in satisfaction, shoving a spoonful of food into his mouth as the man looked down at him, smiling.
“Good?” Rocket asked hopefully around a mouthful of hamburger helper.
“Good.” Peter sighed contentedly, leaning back onto the couch with closed eyes as he placed the beer between his legs. “You’re right. It really has been a while since we’ve done this.” And whether the man was doing it consciously or not, the raccoon couldn’t help but notice the way he spread his legs, revealing the paleness of his hairy inner thigh. His boxers, as loose as they were, still struggled to hold the sheer size of the man’s thighs. Rocket sometimes forgot just how much larger Peter was compared to him.
This man is trying to give me an aneurysm. Rocket bemoaned internally. Flarkin’ teases me all the time.
Suddenly, Peter brought a small rectangular device to his lips and inhaled deeply, an alluring cascade of thick smoke billowing out of his nostrils and mouth as he exhaled.
It was such an awesome sight.
Rocket’s mouth was left hanging open as he watched the man nonchalantly nod in satisfaction, the smoke swirling around him as he opened his glazed eyes and glanced down at the shocked raccoonoid. The smirk that smoothly took its place on Peter’s face had Rocket forgetting his hunger and the plate of food on his lap, infatuated with the cocky look the man was sending his way.
“See something you like?” Peter smirked smugly, raising the device back to his lips and seemingly sucking on it. A little white light flickered on the device, signifying it was ejecting whatever was inside.
“What the heck is that?” Rocket asked a little frantically, his tail twitching erratically as he remembered the half-used vial of lowpri he had dropped and broken when he attacked Peter all those days ago. He can still recall how heartbroken and pissy he’d been when the humie tried, for some reason, to put it back together. The only thing he managed to achieve was cuts all over his fingers and a pile of useless, shattered glass. Rocket had been extremely grouchy those two weeks, struggling with withdrawals as his body painfully fiended for something to soothe its aches. It had been bad, nearly enough to deter him from wanting to try Pete’s drug, but seeing that captivating smoke, the way it flowed forth from the human’s charming smile—it reignited the fire of desperation—the need for something to take the edge off.
Gods know I need a break from all the flarkin’ bullshit. Rocket complained, dropping his plate onto the table in front of them before getting onto his knees to peer closer at the thing.
Much like a cat who got the cream, Peter tilted his head slightly, a glint in his eyes, as he grinned at the tweaking hybrid. It wasn’t often Pete got to see him like this—rigid upright ears, pliably soft against his head, carmine eyes filled with want, and tail moving in swift, smooth motions. It reminded him why he used to goad the raccoon into getting high with him before the whole thing with the High Evolutionary happened. At the time, he may have been a drunk, drug-addicted sad sack of shit, but he wasn’t flarkin’ stupid. Peter hated every moment he spent under the influence alone, aching to feel the heat of another body beside him. It hadn’t taken long for him to put two and two together and realize he could easily drag the raccoon along with him into wild drug binges and benders. It hadn’t even been that hard to get Rocket hooked on all the shit he was—just a little ribbing and insults to strike at his insecurities of being left out—and he was going crazy for whatever Peter could get his hands on.
Sweet, sweet, chemical love. Peter thought, leaning into the hybrid’s personal space and waggling the vape beneath his nose. He knew it was so wrong of him to play with Rocket’s addictions like that—especially considering he’s the one who gave him those chemical dependencies—but it was so fucking hot to see the raccoon desperate for something only he could provide.
“It’s a vape, Rocket; I got it on Earth.” Pete said, laughing softly when the raccoonoid tried to grab the pen. “Nuh uh.” He tutted, “You gotta wait your turn, Rocky. Anyway, it’s this new thing I bought while I was there. I think, if I remember correctly, it comes from a plant called marijuana. I found out about it cuz my grandpa grows some for his back pain. I can’t tell you enough how good it is.”
“Scut.” Rocket breathed, eyes wide, as the human took another hefty hit. “Can I try some?” He really, really wanted to try it.
Exhaling, Pete raised a brow. “Do you even know how to use it?”
“Do I know how to use it?” Rocket repeated, offended, “You’re acting like I’ve never smoked in my whole d’ast life! Gimme it!” He demanded, reaching hastily for the vape. The human just chuckled, raising it above Rocket’s head, and grabbed him by the muzzle with his free hand, his eyes lidded as he leaned in.
“Nope.” He grinned, blowing the remaining smoke into the raccoon’s face. “I’ve gotta show you how to use it first, Rocky. I don’t want you breaking it or something, cuz then you’d really owe me.” The grip on the raccoon’s snout wasn’t harsh or anything, but the feeling sure did have Rocket’s mind emptying, quickly becoming nothing more than a vessel dependent on what Peter would give him. He’d be embarrassed at his striking level of shamelessness if not for the indecent way the human wrapped his lips around the tip of the vape—dreamy green eyes fluttering shut as he obscenely sucked in the THC-laced vapor.
Rocket, eyelids heavy with desire, whined brokenly when the hand holding him prevented him from inhaling any of the secondhand smoke that left in a rush from Peter’s mouth, the tip of his tongue sticking out desperately from the little wiggle room Peter gave him with his grip.
Why he hadn’t lashed out and bit the man for the insulting, degrading way he was handling him, he wasn’t sure, but none of it seemed to really matter as long as he could get a hit of the scut the human was blowing in his face.
Talk about self-debasing. Rocket thought passingly, small hands coming up to wrap around the large, strong arm gripping his muzzle.
But by the gods, he’d let this man do anything to him if it meant getting to try the vape. He’d always been a fan, no matter how much he pretended he wasn’t, of the drugs and booze Peter somehow managed to get his hands on. Premium, pricy shit he was more than willing to share as long as Rocket went along with this degrading performance. Gods, please, let me get one hit. I swear, that’s all I need.
“Aw, you want it bad, don’t you, Rocky?” Peter purred, loosening his grip to give the raccoon a chance to try the vape. “You saw how I did it; now it’s your turn. C’mon, do it right or you won’t get another chance.” He said, eyebrows furrowing as he held the small rectangle to Rocket’s thin black lips. His attention to the raccoon’s mouth was anything but innocent, a wicked grin of a smile upturning Peter’s lips as he watched the hybrid suck on the vape as best as he could, inhaling as deeply as possible. “Yeah.” The human drawled, “Flarkin’ take in as much as you can, Rocky.”
“D-dude.” Rocket leaned back, coughing into the crook of his arm as puff after puff of smoke left him. “The fuck are you on ‘bout?” He doesn’t feel much of anything yet in regards to the weed, but he can’t ignore the heat burning in his gut as Peter continues to look at him in such a blatantly filthy way.
The human just smirks at him, shrugging as he takes another hit of the vape. “Oh, you know, just having a great time with my favorite raccoon in the universe.”
“Better be the only one.” Rocket mutters neurotically, snatching the vape from Peter and hitting it, sighing softly as he slowly feels the gentle ebbs of the drug start kicking in. It felt as if his mind was mellowing out, a sudden pervasive warmth invading every inch of his body that made contact with something. The clothes on his fur felt amazing, pulling a raspy moan out of him as he shifted around, pulling on the strap of his tank top. The couch beneath him was perfect to rub his legs against, giggling in pleasure as his mind drifted off into the haze of Peter’s gaze on his body. It almost burned—the drag of his eyes—but it burned so deep and, oh, so good. The man just huffs in amusement, shaking his head, before cockily grabbing onto the raccoon’s hips and pulling them closer to one another—front against front, face to face, and breaths intermingling.
“Feels amazin’, doesn’t it?” Peter breathed as he subtly shifted his hips against the hybrid’s curious hands, coming to explore the available fur for him. Rocket could only moan in delight, chuckling as he felt eager, nimble fingers delve into the fur of his stomach, dragging the delicious scratch of blunt nails up to his chest. It left trails of fire in their absence—flames that engulfed the raccoon as he pushed against the strong hands that held him.
As the seconds stumbled by, the high continued to deepen, sinking into every single pore across his trembling body. Rocket was barely able to keep up with the increasing warmth and touches from Pete, latching onto the wandering hands and returning the gesture, exploring the thick hair on Pete’s arms. “Scut feels better than amazin’. D’ast,” Rocket blushed, averting his eyes to avoid the terran's infatuated gaze. “What the hell, Pete, what did I just let you trick me into taking?”
“The best shit ever, that’s what.” Peter smiled suggestively, his hands finding their way back to the raccoon’s lithe hips. Rocket blinked slowly at the feeling of those thick fingers holding him, digging into the scarred flesh of his waist. He similarly hadn’t stopped his groping at the human, clawed hands resting on the man’s plush chest. He couldn’t help but grind slightly against Peter’s front, whining quietly into the pillow beneath him at how good it felt. Pete was in similar straits, straining slightly as he demanded of Rocket, “Take one more hit, Rocky; I promise it gets better than this. Just one more.” He sounded as if he were about to pass out, all but shoving the vape into the raccoonoid’s snout.
And who was he to deny his best friend?
Hit after hit, Rocket more than willingly fades into the quiet, warm monotony of inebriation, giggling whenever Peter manages to touch him in a way that tickles or startles him. The human, unbound by the rules of sobriety and boundaries between supposed friends, is incredibly touchy, becoming increasingly more bold in his gropes of the raccoon’s body, as after each moment, Rocket does nothing other than laugh or moan. It fuels his confidence—slotting their burning limbs into every crevice or opening available between the two of them and encouraging him to rest his forehead against the hybrids.
“Hey.” Peter murmurs, his eyes going lidded as he glances at Rocket’s lips before returning them to the raccoon’s carmine eyes.
“Hey.” Rocket breathes, sounding and feeling completely out of it. He feels so hot, panting as he squirms against the front of Peter’s body, unknowingly rutting and thrusting against the erection the human fails to hide. It pulls a shaky gasp from the man, groaning raspily as he also begins choppily humping the raccoon beneath him, dropping his head onto Rocket’s shoulder and inhaling deeply.
Slurring, Peter grunts into the side of his head, “You feel so good, Rock, ‘so good.” His rough voice sends delicious shivers up Rocket’s spine. It’s such an intense feeling that it pulls an embarrassingly high-pitched whine out of him when he feels the human mouth at his collar bone, teeth subtly tracing the scarred skin. It’s been so long since he’s been touched that way; he isn’t even sure if he’s ever been touched like that before. And, as if proving a point that his skin is entirely unused to the demanding yet gentle touches, he breaks out in cascades of shivers whenever he’s groped in a way that feels surprisingly pleasant.
Peter moans quietly into Rocket’s ear, his hands trailing slowly downward to grope the raccoon’s ass, aggressively kneading the flesh and reinvigorating their messy thrusts against one another. It encourages Rocket to catch up, putting more energy into meeting the human’s haphazard grinding, letting go of the man’s arms in favor of sinking his clawed hands into Pete’s hair, and pulling at the strands as soon as he could. Soon, their faces are mere centimeters from one another, their breaths mixing as they continue to move against each other. The heat between them burns near uncomfortable, flaming whirlwinds of arousal and desire dancing around their writhing bodies.
“P-Pete.” Clutching at the man’s arm, Rocket keened, digging his heels into the lumpy couch cushion beneath them and fucking his cock against the man’s front with fervent little thrusts as he tilted his head back in pleasure.
“Feels good?” Peter questioned.
Whining, Rocket nodded, pleading for the man not to stop. That similar haze of pleasure was beginning to light up his nerves, pulsing forth from the center of his lower abdomen. It rang roaringly every time, forcing his fuzzy attention to Peter’s strong hands rubbing and touching him, the pressure between them making his cock ache with sensitivity as it throbbed with his heartbeat. He could feel the edge of the impending orgasm coming in like a bullet, precariously dancing along the ridges of delayed gratification and instantaneous relief. It was an odd but ultimately mind-breaking feeling, leaving him nothing but a moaning, breathless mess as the magma in his veins began to overwhelm him. Rocket, blearily, could tell he was saying something, but he couldn’t, in his right mind, figure out what. It didn’t really matter, though, with the way Peter was going to wring this orgasm painfully out of him.
“Come on, Rocky.” Peter goaded cockily, groaning hotly into the space between them, “I can tell you’re close; just let go for me.”
Just letting go was easier said than done, Rocket discovered agonizingly. Every time he’d feel that coil tighten, balls drawing up close, he’d tense and start shaking in nerve-wracking anticipation, preparing for the inevitable maelstrom of an experience he’s about to go through the moment he shoots off. It stifles the crest he’s so desperately trying to toss himself over, whining in complaint as his cock throbs in agony against Peter’s stomach. How the man’s been able to satisfy himself by essentially humping the air, Rocket will probably never know, but feeling the human’s jerky thrusts—his husky, breathless groans resonating in his ears—it has him real damn close to just combusting on the spot.
“I swear to god, Pete, you better—”
“Sh, sh, sh, I got you, Rocky.” The terran cooed, slowing down their combined movements to sneak a hand between their bodies, pawing away at the few barriers of clothing left. The man seems to have come to the conclusion that to finish will mean to entirely undress, exposing themselves to one another in ways that felt remarkably similar to when they used to shower together.
Rocket still likes to think about those times—the years before Peter was turned to dust and they didn’t have consistent access to bathing facilities. Forced into close proximity, and with Peter’s strange habit of showering completely nude, Rocket got accustomed to seeing the human naked. It was only after months of nagging from Pete and getting caught one too many times sneaking into wet rooms when they’d be refueling for Rocket to decide bathing together with Quill made more sense. He found himself surprisingly comfortable stripping down to his underwear in front of the human and even came to derive a sick pleasure from doing so, smirking leeringly when he’d notice the way Peter would stare at him as he unlatched the hooks to his jumpsuit.
For years, they showered together, enjoying the intimate, steamy time with one another by helping each other lather up in soap and scrub each other's backs. It had been fun then—the fleeting glances, the wandering touches, the wrongness of it all—but now it feels like anything other than fun, a rush of anxiety filling his panting chest. Sure, they were pretty damn close to being butt-naked inches away from one another, but Rocket never had the confidence to walk into a wet room clad in nothing but his fur. He was willing to accept Quill’s hands drifting dangerously close to the soaking elastic of his briefs, more than okay with the man’s big, thick hands sometimes dipping adventurously into the dense fur of his crotch, but to actually show his dick? Expose that drooling twig of his?
Hell no.
Rocket feels ice form in the pit of his stomach, extinguishing the lustful fire that had been consuming him this entire time. It’s a jarring realization that Rocket stumbles onto. In just a few moments, the heat of the moment is stamped out and replaced with cold, bereft apprehension.
He doesn’t want to show his pathetic dick to anyone, much less Quill. What if the man sees it and regrets ever thinking they could be compatible? What if this is what makes the man leave him for good? Rocket can’t risk that. Even as much as he wants to just come right there and then, he can’t imperil their fledgling relationship with his hideous body. And as much as it hurts to think that way, the raccoon is firm in his resolve, completely stopping his thrusts against Peter’s front.
“Pete.” Rocket voices, squirming against the man’s hold as he continues to try to undress them. “Pete, stop.” The man doesn’t stop. If anything, he begins to move more hastily, shoving his entire hand into the raccoonoid’s briefs in an attempt to pull the article of clothing in one fell swoop. “Pete—dude—stop. Holy scut, Quill!” Still, the man ignores him, and Rocket feels his fear fuse with his growing anger, instantly exploding in a brilliant explosion of fury and rage. The hybrid raises his hand, claws sharp and ready, and attacks the man.
A quick swat in the face, and Peter is hissing as he recoils away and grabs his cheek. The raccoon’s claws had reopened the once-healing wounds from their last altercation, blood welling to the surface and dripping through the man’s fingers. Peter, face flushed from either arousal or embarrassment, looked up to him with wide eyes, panting as he touched the wound, wincing.
“Dude, what the hell?” The terran swore, brows furrowed in anger as he tried to wipe away most of the blood from his face. “I thought we had something good going.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Rocket spat, backing away from the human to distance himself. “I told you to stop, and you didn’t!”
Peter’s face pales, and he starts to recognize he wasn’t exactly in the right. “I-I don’t know what you want me to say.” He stuttered, unsure of how to word what he wanted to say. “I just thought we were—I don’t—you were being so receptive! I thought you didn’t want to stop!”
“I was telling you I wanted to stop, flarknard!” The raccoonoid groaned in frustration, dragging his paws over his face. “Goddamit, I’m too flarkin’ high for this.” And he really was too high. Rocket would blink, and he’d immediately lose track of where he once was, perpetually confused as he seemingly shifted in and out of the flow of time. Was this really only a weed, or whatever Peter called it? He definitely felt more than just high; his eyes and mouth burning from how dry they were.
Peter moved to yank his own hair, pulling harshly at the godly strands, leaving streaks and stains of carrion. “Oh god—I’m so sorry, Rocky. You gotta understand, I didn’t mean to push you—”
Rocket cut him off, unwilling to hear his pathetic platitudes and apologies. “Can it, Quill. Ugh, just get me another beer if you want me to forgive you.” He grumbled, gripping his hard-on to shift it into the elastic of his briefs. The human was in a similar situation, a rather large bulge tenting his boxers as he shakily stood up and grabbed himself, stroking his cock a few times. It would’ve been an amusing sight if it hadn’t been for the throb the hybrid’s dick gave, stifling a moan as he noticed the messy splotch of precome staining the blunt tip hidden underneath the fabric of his boxers. Outwardly, though, Rocket just feigned disinterest and crossed his legs, ignoring the needy look the man tossed his way as he shuffled awkwardly over to the fridge.
Shifting slightly to hug his knees, Rocket blinks unsteadily, gazing on uneasily as Peter paces around the apartment, beer cans in hand as he returns. His head feels so fuzzy and off-kilter, the ever-present pain of his implants and scars hanging just outside the realm of his awareness. It was disorienting—the sensation of relief over his chronic pain—and it had him feeling somewhat nauseous. At this point, a couple minutes detached from a ruined orgasm, the initial wave of euphoria he had ridden on had faded into a prolonged sensation of anxiety—haunted by a discomforting feeling that he was being watched by somebody, or rather that his space had been invaded and violated in some way he was not aware of.
He glanced out the window, the quick movement disorienting him, as Peter continued to ramble out apologies and pleas for forgiveness. The man, once full of energy in a way Rocket hadn’t seen in years, was now struggling to open the beer cans, accidentally spilling some of the carbonated liquid onto the cold metal floor when he managed to do so. He didn’t seem to notice his mistake and continued with his verbal meandering.
“Can you at least say something? I’m kinda freaking out right now.” Pete stammered, hating himself further as he noticed how small Rocket appeared. “Hey, are you listening to me?” Rocket looked up from the window, ears raised, “Yeah, now you are. Uhm. Yeah, but as I was saying, I’m sorry for pushing you past what you were comfortable with. I guess I just got carried away.”
“Okay, Quill, I get it—you’re sorry. I heard you the first thousand times; you don’t hafta repeat it.” Rocket huffed, picking at the disheveled fur on his legs. “It’s fine. I forgive you, alright? I mean, we both got a little carried away if we’re being honest with ourselves…”
The reassurance of forgiveness immediately changed the terran’s demeanor, altering his once pitiful, blubbering mess of a mood to one of stupid, goofy joviality. It was so fast it gave Rocket whiplash, frowning in confusion as the man gave him a beer and began chugging his own. As if he still wasn’t actively bleeding, the wounds swelling and weeping.
His second drink of the night. Rocket noted, taking a sip of his own. This was his second too, but he was rapidly realizing he hadn’t even touched his first can. The raccoonoid glanced sadly at the now-cold plate of food and flat, room-temperature beer, grimacing at the thought of putting that scut in his maw. He looked back up at the human, raising a brow as the man began to pace around the room unsteadily.
“Thank you so much for forgiving me, Rocky. I promise not to do it again.” The man simpered. They both knew that promise was most likely a complete falsehood, but they could lie to themselves for the night and believe he could be a man of his word. “You have no idea how much it means to me.” He sniffed before pausing for a moment to think. “Actually, y’know what. To prove that I am really sorry, let me get us dinner!”
The hybrid digested what the human had just said and was surprised to find himself in agreement, lamenting his wasted hamburger helper. “That’s the first good idea you’ve had all night, Quill.”
“Hey!” Peter giggled uneeringly, “I have a lot of good ideas!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah—whatever.” Rocket smiled, waving him off in good humor. “You gunna order in or what?”
“Ordering in sounds the best; to be honest, I don’t think I’m in the right condition to go outside.” Peter said, lifting his holo-pad from where he had abandoned it on the table. “What sounds good right now, Rock?”
The human’s words were a nice reminder that Rocket was still incredibly high, blinking slowly as he felt his stomach grumble in complaint. Gods, why am I suddenly so flarkin’ hungry?
“What’s open?” The raccoon asked, letting go of his knees to sit normally. The beer was barely enough to stave off his suddenly ravenous appetite, though it did help with how overheated he was still feeling.
“Dude, it’s like, only shitty places.” Peter scoffed, leaning over the table to show the crimson-stained holo-pad to the hybrid. “Look, there’s like a bunch of them open, but they only sell fried orlani. Actually, what’s up with that? I’m so tired of all the fried orlani I see and smell whenever I go outside! It’s like, is that all there is to make? Where did all the good scut go? I swear, when we first came here years ago, there was so much to eat.”
“Probably something to do with the famine we’re in, I dunno.” Rocket said, shifting on his bottom. He looked down at his paws and saw that his fur was unkempt, sticking up in all directions. It seems his little aborted dance with Peter had disheveled his previously kept fur, grimacing when he imagined how raggedy he must be looking. Instantly, he was consumed by the urge to groom himself, bringing his forearms to his mouth to begin fixing the mess.
“We’re in a famine? Since when?” Pete gaped, completely caught off guard. “Doesn’t feel like we’re in one. Shouldn’t, like, everyone be dying or something?” Quickly, the human stumbled over to the window, tossing the curtains outside as he peered into the abyss of Knowhere’s chasm. “I don’t see anybody starving. How’re we in a famine?”
“Don’t be flarkin’ stupid, Quill. You don’t see stuff like that until it gets really serious. This is why—” Rocket paused in annoyance, finishing his last licks, before humming in satisfaction at his well-groomed right arm. “This is why I said you should attend the council meetings with me. You’re back, and we need all the help we can get.”
“Ugh.” The terran groaned in displeasure, “How the hell are we seriously high right now and talking about flarkin’ work? C’mon, Rocket, be more lively. Say something fun!”
Rolling his eyes, Rocket indulges himself a bit in the haze of the high, luxuriating in the feeling of his anxiety melting away into a pleasant, empty-feeling warmth. It wasn’t the most comforting sensation, but it was infinitely better than the wariness that had been plaguing him before. The semi-occasional sips of beer also seemed to calm him down, making him feel as if everything was going well. And if he was being honest with himself, things could definitely be worse.
Deeming himself ready to respond, the raccoonoid begins grooming his left arm and responds to Peter’s ridiculous request. “Something fun.”
It takes a few awkward seconds for the man to get the joke, but when he does, he breaks out into choppy cackles. “Not like that, asshole.” Peter says between guffaws, “And why the flark would I want to attend those meetings? I’m already stressed out enough living day-to-day; I don’t need Nebula’s terrifying glare to make it worse.”
“You really do overestimate how scary she is.” Rocket mumbles, incessantly fixating on one spot where it seems his wiry fur won’t just lay down no matter how much he passes over it. “She’s, uh,” He starts digging harshly into the stubborn hairs. “She’s, like, not that scary. I be arguing with her all the time. It’s actually kinda funny how mad she gets.”
Breathlessly laughing in agreement, Peter returns from the window and tosses himself beside the grooming raccoon, leaning in to see in detail what the hybrid was getting up to. It seemed their attempt to order food was going to be delayed in favor of Peter pestering Rocket. “You’re really into that, aren’t you?” He said with an all-too-loud sip of his can, smacking his lips dramatically.
Annoyed at the question, Rocket ignores him in favor of getting the last unruly hairs, licking repeatedly at the same spot. Thankfully, after a few more attempts, the hair finally lays down, perfectly in place and flowing with the direction his fur grows in. Seeing himself in better condition has a spark of amusement and affection lighting up his brain, chortling to himself as he combs his hands across his face and over his ears. All the while, Peter doesn’t take well to being ignored, frowning as he pinches one of Rocket’s ears between a thumb and index finger.
“Hey.” Pete pouted, “Stop ignoring me.”
Rocket flicks his ear out of the human’s hold, grunting as he makes eye contact with the inebriated face of a loser. “I wouldn’t be ignoring you if you weren’t asking such dumb questions.” He yawns, falling back onto the couch with a pleased groan as he stretches out his limbs. He’s astounded to see that most of his pain is gone, replaced with a blissful respite from the constant agony underlying any living moment within his own body. Everything may feel as if it’s lagging behind a few seconds, his mouth and eyes incredibly dry, but it’s definitely overpowered by the good feelings running through his blood right now.
Hurt, Peter crossed his arms over his chest and harrumphed, “They’re not d-dumb questions. I just get all silly and talkative when I get high. Lowkey, I didn’t expect you to be the serious, boring type. That really sucks.” He sounds genuinely mournful, pouting childishly as Rocket sucks on his teeth in annoyance.
“I’m not boring.” The raccoon shot back, sniggering. “You’re just annoying as hell, Quill. Asking me if I’m into grooming myself—what kinda question is that?”
“It’s the type of question you ask when you want to make conversation, okay?” Peter stammered, glancing around the room hurriedly, “I just—like, you said it yourself, I’m—I dunno… I’ve been back for, like, a month now. Maybe I should come along and do some stuff around here. Knowhere’s definitely not in the best spot, from what you’re telling me.” The man finished speaking, looking down to make eye contact with the raccoon and expecting a response. A response that never came—nothing other than the raccoon’s shuddery breathing echoing quietly within the room.
Rocket was trapped in his mind, reminiscing on Peter’s words, remembering in vivid detail the day he was reunited with the man. He can still recall the stench of that blue stuff on their breaths as they argued in that alleyway by the bar, the human desperate to prove that he was back for him. And whether he was being honest or not, Rocket had taken what he could and gone along with it. He latched on as tightly as possible, knowing that if he didn’t, he might very well lose his last opportunity to hold the man down. Though it didn’t really matter, if the raccoonoid was being frank with himself, it was simply the fact of the matter—it was nice to have Quill back, waking up every morning and going to sleep at night knowing the man was just around the corner rather than a whole galaxy away.
It was a stark contrast to what his life used to be like before the humie came back, and it was a life he’d do anything to prevent from being returned to. He’d rather die than have to go back to that despotic darkness he somehow survived in for nine months, terrified of what it would mean for Peter to leave him. Rocket’s little breakdown from two weeks ago was evidence enough that he wouldn’t survive being abandoned again. He’d already lost so much too many times; the human abandoning him would be the last nail in a coffin of his own making.
Looking upwards, Rocket lifts himself up from his prone position and crawls towards the human, abandoning his beer can between the couch cushions. His claws flare out as his hands go on to curl and dig into the sensitive flesh of Peter’s throat, surprising the both of them with the boldness of the move. Rocket’s eyes, pupils blown, stare directly into the terran’s, dead set on getting this dire message across. Clearing his dry throat, the raccoon warns in a raspy tone, “You better not leave me, Quill. I swear, if you do, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“Oh, Rocket…”
“Don’t ‘oh, Rocket,’ me,” The hybrid growled, feeling intensely uncomfortable with the warmth building in his eyes, blurriness obscuring the corners of his vision. “Don’t flarkin’ leave me, please.” He sniffs, releasing his harsh grip on the man’s neck and relishing in the fading marks he left behind. “I tried to tell you this before I wrecked my apartment.” Peter perks up in attention, eager to know what exactly led to the destruction of the space he’d come to see as home. “I wanted to tell you that I missed ya. And when I thought you had left me, I just snapped. Yeah,” The raccoon shrugged defensively. “I never said I was the most stable or anything.” Rocket, feeling as if he had just revealed his innards, avoided eye contact with the overwhelmingly sincere look the terran was sending his way.
“Oh, c’mere, you big crazy sap.” Peter laughed wetly, surprising the hybrid with a tight hug. Rocket, struggling to hold back a tidal wave of suppressed grief and emotion, quakes in an attempt to stabilize himself but ultimately fails when he feels Peter’s face snuggle itself into the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply. It's such an intimate feeling that he can’t help the gargled sob that leaves him, curling tightly into the embrace. He’s not used to sharing such intense moments with others, so much so that he’s left speechless as the human tightens his hold on the raccoon, rambling about all the ways he’ll never hurt him. “I promise, Rocky. I promise, I’ll never leave you. We’ll be together forever, okay? There’s nothing in this damn universe that’ll separate me from you.” Peter cooed insanely, nuzzling deeper into the source of Rocket’s scent. “Not a damn thing.” He says, absolutely resolute in his proclamation.
It shouldn’t be so comforting to hear such laughably implausible declarations, but, honestly, like Rocket said, he never claimed to be the most rational person out there. If anything, he’s been pretty clear that he’s anything but okay, mostly unashamed of the fact that his small body is crammed full of so many emotional, mental, and physical issues. Doesn’t really get rid of the complexes and psychopathy he's built around all those issues, but, hey, progress was neither swift nor easy.
A comfortable silence had fallen over the pair, the peaceful quiet insulating them from the cruel universe outside the walls of Rocket’s apartment. They were in their own little bubble, cut off and isolated from all the ways so many things could hurt or kill them. Both of them were haunted by the endless, running list of possibilities and failures hanging over their condemned heads—terrified that, should the moment end, the spell cast keeping them safe would break forever. However, only here, in each other's arms and in this sacred moment, could Rocket drop and temporarily lower his shields, exposing the soft, vulnerable side he was so afraid to show.
So many times, throughout his miserable, wretched life, he had tried to connect with others, hopelessly reaching out in a small, forlorn hope that someone would reach back. So many times had his anguished extension of connection been cruelly shut down—stomped and buried so deep it would never flower again into the fragile petals he had so diligently cultivated. Perhaps Peter would one day hurt him irrevocably and push him over the edge of death. Perhaps he was setting himself up for a whole world of pain in the future, but seeing the peaceful look on Pete’s face and the ease Rocket felt in his arms—it solidified his decision, now steadfast in his choice to crack open the nutshell that was his tough exterior.
Rocket cleared his throat, avoiding eye contact as he began speaking. “I don’t blame ya, y’know. For what happened that day.”
At his quiet words, Peter pulled back from the hug slightly and stared at him adorably in confusion,his lip puffing out in a slight pout. “Don’t blame me for what happened on what day?”
“Everything that happened leading up to the Snap.” Rocket clarified, starting to regret bringing this up when he felt the man tense up. “I just—I don’t blame ya for anything you did, is what I’m saying. We all did what we could with what we had.”
“What’re you trying to get at?” Peter spoke icily, his mood collapsing the longer the raccoon stayed silent. “Why are you bringing this up now?”
Definitely regretting this conversation, Rocket groaned in frustration, dropping his head back onto the couch. “I’m trying to be vulnerable with you, jackass.”
“Oh. Oh! Oh, I’m sorry then, Rocky.” Peter spluttered, embarrassed at how defensive he had come off. “Sorry, I was just—I don’t know. It caught me off guard.” He chuckled weakly, laying his chin on the raccoon’s chest.
“Really? I couldn’t tell.” Rocket drawled sarcastically before shaking his head and sobering up for the conversation they were going to—no—needed to have. “I… gods, this was so long ago, yet it still feels as if it all happened yesterday. I…”
“Take your time, Rocket; there’s no need to rush. We’re not going anywhere any time soon.”
“I know, I know—I just… It’s hard to put into words how it felt when I learned you all had died. It’s one thing to actually see someone turn to dust, but an entirely different thing to just hear about it. I got to watch Groot disappear in front of me, and all I was thinking at that moment was, wow, we really failed?” Rocket stammered, detangling his arms from Peter’s hug to rub at his eyes. “I couldn’t believe it. I saw it all fall apart around me; I saw everything turn to flarkin’ dust. Trees, grass, people, and animals—nothing was safe from whatever was going on. And you know what was really funny at the time?” The hybrid asked emotionlessly, pulling at his ears.
“W-what?” Peter croaked, despairing at seeing the emotional turmoil his raccoon was in.
“I sat there, waiting—thinking—when would it be my turn. Groot was gone again, and I was hearing nothing but bad news from the other Avengers. You all were most probably dead, and I was left all alone again. I just wanted to die and never wake up. But I guess I was unlucky.”
Distressed, Peter frantically sat up, pulling Rocket along with him. “You weren’t unlucky!” He adamantly denied, shaking the raccoonoid. “You got to live. You survived and came back stronger for it!”
“I didn’t survive shit, Quill.” Rocket snapped, flashing his sharp teeth. “I ran like a coward. I knew Terra was going up in flames; I saw the news about how many had disappeared, and I ran the moment I could. Gods, I really just abandoned all of your people, didn’t I?” The hybrid wheezed, squeezing his eyes shut at the barrage of memories. “I couldn’t handle seeing how monstrous people could become given the chance and how quickly civilization could turn to chaos. So I ran like a wuss.”
“It’s not like you could’ve controlled it.” Peter rambled, desperate to get Rocket out of this spiral he was falling into. “No one could’ve controlled it. I mean, I can’t even imagine how the world reacted to just half of all life disappearing. You made the right decision to leave Rocket; what was going to happen on Earth was bound to happen, even if you were there or not.”
Groaning in frustration—seeing that he wasn’t getting across what he wanted—Rocket put some distance between the two of them, shuffling back in an attempt to reestablish personal boundaries. “You don’t get it, Quill. Ugh, how could you? You weren’t there for any of it.” The raccoon shrugged, unsure of how to proceed without being forcefully hospitalized. “Nebula and I left as soon as we could. We left because I couldn’t handle being there. We would’ve stayed had I not—had I not…”
Frowning, “Had you not what?” Peter asked.
“Tried killing myself, Pete.”
“Wuh!?”
“I tried to commit suicide so many times, Pete.” Rocket casually said, unaware he was causing the human immense distress. “The first time was a few days after the Snap, when it all really set in. I realized that you, Mantis, Drax, Groot, and Gamora were all truly dead. And that I had lost my family for the second time. I couldn’t handle the grief—it tore me apart. So I did what I thought was the best thing I could do. I drank a ton of those pills you had in your room and hoped I would die before Nebula found me. Obviously she did, since I’m still here and all, but that was probably the closest I had gotten to actually dying like I wanted.”
Rocket glanced up from his lap to take in the devastation on Peter’s face. The human was barely able to stifle his sobs, covering his mouth with his palm as he tried to regulate his breathing. The hybrid couldn’t blame him for reacting in such a way; this was his first time telling anyone about his experience with the Snap. Even Nebula hadn’t been privy to why he had tried so many attempts on his life, and Rocket was comfortable knowing she never would. This was only for Peter to hear. Only for the ears of the last good thing he had left in life.
“I’m telling you this, Pete, because I trust you. I trust that you won’t use this information against me.” The hybrid assuaged, off put by Peter’s unabashed show of emotion. “It’s like I said; I don’t blame you for what happened. How could I? None of us could’ve predicted that Thanos would actually go through with it.”
“You should be blaming me!” Peter all but yelled, his voice breaking. “I had to be a dumbass and fuck up when Mantis had him. We were so close to stopping him, and I ruined it all. Multiple times at that too!” He shrieked, covering his face with his hands.
“Pete, c’mon. I’m not trying to be an asshole or anything, but that’s a very self-centered thing to say. You may have played a larger role in what happened, but that failure rests on us all. I wish we had a single person to blame.” The raccoon chuckled awkwardly. “Maybe then the guilt wouldn’t have destroyed me all these years.”
Hiccuping, the man paws at his puffy eyes to stem the cavalcade of tears, messily smearing his whole face with blood. “That may be true, but it still doesn’t remove how sorry I am for failing.” He sniffs wetly. “We all came back, but it feels like nothing has changed. It’s been almost four years now, and I swear everything still feels so shitty. Like, everything may be back to normal but, everyone’s hurting as if we never returned.”
“Cuz sometimes it feels like you didn’t.” Rocket murmured, licking his palms to clean off the man. The runny blood on Pete’s face was starting to bother him, so he slowly stood up to begin wiping away the drying crimson. “There are many nights where I wake up terrified that these last three years were a dream and that y’all were still gone. That you were still gone. It was—it was hard, y’know. Being alone for those five years. Sure, I had Nebula and whatnot, and I can never thank her enough for keeping me alive, but it was so lonely. I mean that, even if I didn’t survive to see your ugly mugs again, all that mattered was getting you all back.” Rocket whispered weakly, focusing intently on the terran’s chin. He knew that if he made eye contact, he wouldn’t be able to hold it together. “I never gave up hope that one day, I’d die happy knowing that I did something to fix this. I never stopped hoping that one day I’d get to see you again, Pete. Hell, if that meant building a whole new gauntlet and that I’d have to use it, so be it.”
Peter bit back a laugh that suspiciously sounded like a sob, surprising Rocket with a renewed embrace. “You’re incredible, Rocky. I can’t explain to you how much your strength inspires me.”
Strength? Is that what Peter sees in him? It confuses the hybrid because in what universe does anything about him exude strength? He barely reaches the human’s hips and he can be overpowered in seconds by anyone larger than a small chair. Maybe it’s his gun-toting skills? It did take him some time to train himself to be capable of lifting and using weapons bigger and heavier than him. But anyone can use guns; that’s not remotely special. So what about him inspires Peter?
Nuzzling into the terran’s throat, the raccoon tries to ignore the way his eyes burn, closing them as he desperately holds onto the human. “I don’t feel strong, though…” He muttered hoarsely, relishing in the feeling of big, strong arms supporting him. Rocket really hated how it felt like he was fishing for validation, but gods, would it feel nice to receive some affirmation that he wasn’t some terrible vermin.
“Oh, but you are.” Peter reassures warmly, “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met in my life. You create things from nothing in ways I didn’t know were possible. You’ve been through so much in your life, and yet you’re still here, standing—living and fighting, day after day. I’m not sure about you, but that’s a testament to true strength and resilience.”
Chuckling wetly, Rocket pulls back to wipe away the moisture on his eyes. “You really know how to talk up a guy, don’t you?” He said, shyly cuddling back into Pete’s embrace. He may be playing it off slightly, but Peter’s words profoundly affected him, reminding Rocket of why he’s done all that he’s done to keep the man with him. What other person is capable of bringing out such feelings in him? Reigniting emotions he long thought he’d killed lifetimes ago in a labratory of cages and eternal torment. It was disorienting, terrifingly so, but the hybrid was more than willing to go along with it if it meant getting to have moments like these—surrounded by the smell and presence of the man he’s so obsessively captivated by.
Peter just responds with a half-hearted shrug, grinning and pulling in the raccoon even closer, all but smothering him. “I’d do it for the rest of my life if I could, Rocky,” he hummed, caressing the fur of Rocket’s neck and shoulders. “I’d do anything for you for the rest of my life if you’d let me.”
“Anything?” The raccoon repeated, stunned—yet pleased—at the terran’s concrete conviction.
“Anything.” Peter affirmed—completely, one hundred percent serious.
Oh, Quill… Rocket giddily thought, digesting what he had heard. You’re making such a big mistake by trusting me.
And it was entirely true. There are so many things the raccoonoid wants to do the man—constantly plagued by countless fantasies and thoughts that pass through his mind whenever he’s in the company of the human. Illicit, indecent acts that teeter on the edge of senseless sadism—wanton pale flesh marred with the violent love of welts, bruises, and blood.
He used to think he was some sort of freak or pervert for it, but it seems, after what Peter had done—drugging him to get what he wanted—that he wasn’t the only one who hid from darker, immoral needs. It seemed that Peter and his upstanding personality of ceaseless goodness were nothing more than a facade. Mere fiction of the true nature and feelings he was too afraid to show, terrified of the reprisals he’d inevitably receive.
Fortunately—or unfortunately—for the human, those were repercussions he’d never face with Rocket. If anything, he would be rewarded, praised the further and deeper he went into his flarked-up desires. It was sad to see that Peter wasn’t getting the treatment he really needed when he was so obviously and clearly gagging for it, embarrassingly desperate for any crumb of approval or validation from those around him. Rocket would give it to him in a second, more than happy to get the larger man beneath the heel of his brilliantly spit-shined boot. It’d truly be a dream come true.
Gods, they really were perfect for one another, weren’t they? Equally neurotic and fucked up in so many ways. They were like two forlorn puzzle pieces finally reunited, sliding into place as if they’d never been apart. Like peas in a pod, bound together by shared memories and grief.
Muffled by Pete’s hug, Rocket mumbles as he says, “You're too good to me, Pete.”
“Hah.” Pete huffs, his face flushing red. “I’m just being sensible. And, even if I was being too good to you,” The human lowers his voice to a shaky, trembling whisper only the both of them would be able to hear: “I could be so much more of a good boy for you, sir?”
At that moment, it seemed that the man was extending a fragile invitation, opening himself to the vulnerability of possible rejection. Rocket had always been astounded—yet jealous—of the man’s ability to reach out for connection and open his heart once more, knowing all the loss and suffering he’s endured throughout his life. More likely than not, Peter had tried to tell past partners of this predilection he engaged in, but it was received with disgusted or apathetic silence. The human was, in all likelihood, prepared for the possibility of this ruining their friendship. It didn’t surprise Rocket that the difference between the two of them was that Peter was facing this head-on, aware of the potential downsides, whereas he would’ve just let it fester and rot him from within.
Now, that’s the true sign of strength. Rocket thought as he pulled away from the hug to stake his claim on the human. He leaned in, opening his maw far and wide, his sharp teeth glistening as they hovered just above Pete’s collarbone. The hybrid’s eyes, a mere thin embellishment of reddish-brown around an infinite abyss of darkness, flitted upwards, seeking approval.
“Is that so?” Rocket growled gutturally, baring his canines even further than they had before. It was clear what he was going to do the moment Pete accepted his claim. Blood was going to be spilled, and the lamplit night would bear witness to the birth of their carrion-drenched bond. One would’ve thought that night on the roof had all been but a declaration of marriage, but to Rocket, this would truly seal the deal. The human’s face may bear the wound of the raccoonoid’s anger, but it would soon pale in comparison to the bite he’d be scarring into the flesh of Quill’s neck.
The cuts on his face will inevitably heal and fade away with age, but the mark he was going to leave will never disappear. Peter would never forget who truly owned him. He’d look in the mirror and forever see the deep punctures torn into his skin, a constant, painful reminder of his subservience to his master. Maybe Rocket should be more explicitly vocal about what he’s expecting from the man should he agree to this development, but he finds himself more aroused by the idea of leading Pete into this entirely blind as to what the raccoon was going to do to him.
“Yessir.” Pete whimpered, his eyes dilated to hell. The stunning, messy red blush on his upper cheeks had spread across his face, creeping down into the dampening collar of his t-shirt. It was reminiscent of the look on his face when they’d been rutting against each other not even thirty minutes ago, just that this time, Rocket was in control. Which was, in the hybrid’s opinion, how all things should be.
“Good boy.” Rocket cooed, caressing the soft fabric of Pete’s sleeve. He knew that he was stalling, but the look of anticipation and excitement on the terran’s face was infectious, pulling manic laughter out of him as he brushed his teeth right above the man’s jugular. It pulled a pathetic shudder from the terran, his hands coming to cover his thickening cock—the pulsing member obscenely bulging against his thigh. Unfortunately for him, the hybrid wasn't interested in satisfying that throbbing problem—rather intently focused on the way Pete’s skin gave gently underneath his fangs. Like it just wanted to be cut into, begging for the raccoon to tear into it and take what he needed.
He was so close… just a little more…
In an instant, he clamped down, breaking skin. He felt crazed as a rush of iron flooded his mouth, groaning pleasurably at the muffled scream Pete struggled to hold back. The human had been caught off guard, shocked as lances of fiery hot pain exploded forth from the bite and up his neck. Rocket didn’t doubt he was hurting the man—purposefully digging in his canines into tense muscle, scraping against bone—as he relished the cries Peter was emitting pitifully. He only pulled back when he felt the man’s hands paw at his pant leg, pathetically trying to push him away. It would almost be insulting considering the strength the human holds over him, but it seems to pass over both their minds as Rocket’s claws come to grip Pete’s hair, yanking it harshly as he levels them eye-to-eye.
Reeling from the rush still buzzing all over his body, Rocket struggles to sound unlike an animal as he all but grinds out, “Yer mine, Quill. Y’know that, right?”
The tone of voice only seems to fuel Pete’s arousal, sobbing breathlessly as he shakily strokes himself to completion—his high-pitched moans trailing off into stuttered deep groans. He’s twitching violently when he finally finishes riding the wave of his orgasm, prying his hands away from his dick as he hisses from oversensitivity.
“Yessir.” Peter gasps, clinging to Rocket’s thighs, “I’m yours. Just yours, sir.” The man continues hiccuping out breaths, red-faced and teary-eyed, as he tries to calm down. The hybrid just chuckles, releasing the man’s hair to stand above him and nudging Quill’s softening cock with his foot, grinning at the yelp it gets him.
“That’s right, pretty boy. Yer all mine.” He says, probably enjoying himself more than he should, seeing the fucked-out look on Pete’s face. He barely even touched him, aside from the bite, but it seemed he’d been fucked within an inch of his life, panting slightly as he tried to catch his breath. The entire right side of his neck was drenched in blood, soaking into the ratty shirt he was wearing. It shouldn’t be that attractive of a sight, but with the way he was still whimpering quietly, grabbing the injury on his neck with a tight grip, it had the raccoon throbbing in his jumpsuit.
And what got to him the most was the fact that he was the one responsible for Peter being in the state he is, fueling the fire that is his sick obsession with the human. But, like he mentioned before, no one ever said Rocket was sane to begin with. His birth in a cage and his raising as a lab experiment forever shaped the way his cybernetic brain would perceive the world. It twisted his perception of love and gentleness as violent, bloody exchanges. A hand trying to grab him was a threat, not a caressing gesture. Rocket’s love was as ferocious and bloodthirsty as it ever could be, forever haunted by the lingering pain in his entire being. At least, for now, he had a person to suffer alongside him.
Chapter 8: I'm Fucked Up
Summary:
who doesn't like snorting painkillers?
Notes:
a little interlude before the plot starts to pick up. finals have drained me, so I'll be posting more sporadically.
Chapter Text
I'm Fucked Up
“You should probably put a little cream on it.” Rocket muttered, scrutinizing the healing bite on Peter’s neck, “It’s looking a bit red, and—ew—why is it leaking?”
Peter just groaned miserably, covering his flaming face with his hands. “Just another reminder to not let you take the lead when I’m high and horny as hell.” He peaked a red-rimmed green eye through his hands, looking intently at Rocket. “Can I use a medpak and heal it?”
“Hell no. You knew what you were getting into.” Rocket sneered, grinning proudly when the human glanced away, embarrassed. “Acting like you weren’t fuckin’ coming when I bit you.”
Pete didn’t respond with anything other than a huff, crossing his arms over his chest and tilting his neck further to the right, giving the hybrid more space to work with. Rocket, pleased with himself, scrambles over to his bedside table and opens a drawer full of pomades, creams, and pill bottles, humming quietly as he looks around for what he needs. The humie is lucky they share a common origin—both mammalian and of Terran descent—because almost everything that’s compatible with his biochemistry is compatible with the humans.
Curiously peering over his lithe shoulder, Pete rests his head on Rocket’s furry head and murmurs, “What’s with all the cream?”
The raccoon shrugs, digging through all the metal and plastic tubes for anything that would be good on an open wound. “Chronic pain’s a bitch. Sometimes my implants act up a little, and some massaging does it good. Usually I have Groot do it for me, but since he’s a little busy playing spy at the moment, I’ve had to get by myself.”
“I could do it.” Peter blurts out rapidly without thinking before pausing and stuttering, “I-if that’s what y-you want, of course. Sir.” He tacks on nicely.
“That would be great.” Rocket hums absentmindedly, tossing and turning bottle after tube before finally finding the one he was looking for—an antibiotic ointment he’d stolen a few years ago from some market on Contraxia. It may have expired a while ago, but it’d do the job for the most part. “Here. This should help combat the infection a bit.” He said, sitting up and pushing Peter back into a seated position with a gentle hand to his chest. He straddles the terran’s thick thighs and forcefully tilts the man’s head once again, screwing open the tube and squeezing out some ointment.
“Thank you. I’ll make sure not to hurt you in any way.” Pete promised, flinching when Rocket’s rough finger pads began dabbing the medicine over the swollen, purpling bite marks. “Hey, not so harshly.” He whined, gripping the sheets beneath his hands.
“Don’t be such a baby,” the hybrid chuckled, smiling slightly whenever the man would flinch but then push against the pain again, seeking out the raccoon’s punishing touch. “There. That should have you covered for a few hours. If it doesn’t get better, then we can try a medpak, but I’d rather this heal and scar over as a nice little reminder left by yours truly.” He chortled, digging a sharp nail directly into one of the still-weeping wounds.
“Ack!” Peter yelped, trying to pull away but stopping hesitantly when Rocket growled lowly, warning him to stay still. “S-sorry! Couldn’t help it, sir!”
“Better stay still.” Rocket scoffed, “I’m just trying to get the medicine inside so it can heal faster.” He was aware he was lying out of his ass, covering up the fact that he just liked seeing the terran in pain, but it seemed to work with the way the man forced himself to stop squirming. The raccoonoid continued needlessly irritating the bite marks, drawing small pinpricks of blood.
“T-thanks! It j-just.” Pete gasps, clenching his watery eyes shut, a tear slipping down his cheek. “It just h-hurts.”
“You want something for the pain?” Rocket asks innocently, wondering what drug the human would eventually answer with. Still playing with the wounds, the hybrid glances over to the stockpile of biologics they haven’t used, pleased to see the blister packet of blakang was still unused—gleaming and begging to be popped out and swallowed with a swig of beer. Quite a primitive way to take it, the raccoon opines—preferring to grind up the pills into a powder and snort them—but he wasn’t quite sure if Peter would appreciate that level of dedication to the bit.
“Y-yes. What do—what do you t-think would be good, sir?” The man stammers out, not-so-subtly covering the bulge in his boxers.
Of course he’s enjoying this shit. Rocket thought with a predatory grin, finally pulling away his clawed hands from the now reopened injuries, watching intently at the crimson weeping of the bite marks. Such a flarkin’ painslut.
“Hm.” The raccoon hums, leaning over to lick up the blood that trailed down into the man’s shirt, shuddering as the distinct flavor of iron spreads over his tongue. “I was thinking we could try out something new.”
Panting in relief, Peter breathily laughs, turning around to give Rocket that small, crazed smile of his. “What’s that little furry head of yours cooking up right now?” He said, shifting around to lay back onto the bed, propping himself up with an arm underneath his head. He crosses his legs in a poor attempt to hide his erection, smiling awkwardly when the hybrid gives him a questioning look. Rocket just shrugs, distancing himself from the human.
“Okay, so you know I’ve been around the circuit before when it comes to drugs, right?” Rocket asked, leaping off the bed on all fours to snatch up the blister packet and a surface to cut up the little pills. A table is usually how he used to snort anything, but his room doesn’t have anything of the sort, so he falls back on an old book he’d read years ago. Something about old jump-point tech and how deadly it used to be.
“Oh yeah, without a doubt.” The terran tittered, looking on in open fascination as the raccoon placed a book between them and began popping out pill after pill.
“Yeah, don’t judge me for this,” Rocket warned, “but I wanna snort these right now. You ever snorted anything before?”
“Of course.” Pete responded, sounding almost offended, “I’ve also been around town too, y’know?”
“When did you first do it, then? Mine was, like, a few years after I escaped. I think I was at some club or something—I dunno know—I don’t remember what planet it was, but some guy was, like, freaking the fuck out when he saw me. Like, full-on jumping up and down in excitement.” Rocket rambled, pulling out a little shiv from underneath his pillow to begin grinding up the blakang pills. “He bought me drink after drink, and hey, who doesn’t like free drinks?”
“Was he being weird?” Pete asked, poorly hiding the jealousy and disdain that leaked into his voice.
“Sort of. Though it wouldn’t be my first time that someone’s been weird with me, I don’t know,” the hybrid shrugged, using the flat side of the shiv to smooth out the consistency into a fine powder. “You’d be surprised at the number of people who’ve propositioned me about acting like a wild animal with them while having sex.”
“Wait, what? That’s fucked up.”
“Right? Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, though; I never agreed to anything like that.” And although Peter perceptively relaxed at Rocket’s assurance, he was still internally seething with jealousy, enraged at the idea of anyone else but him touching the raccoon. “Anyway, like I was saying, the guy got me drunk pretty fast, and soon we were popping pills. After, like, a few hours of chase-induced craziness, we were at some run-down drug den. Sure, he may’ve been a little touchy at times, but the guy sure was cool as hell. He started crushing up pills and all but shoved it in my face, demanding I snort it.”
“Did you?” The terran huffed, sitting up to settle himself behind Rocket and loosely wrapping his arms around the raccoon’s hips possessively. Moments like these really made Pete's level of neuroticism apparent, his unruly obsessiveness rearing its ugly head as Rocket continued with his story. The man was aware it was ridiculous to get jealous about a poorly remembered man from about a decade ago, but he couldn’t help the pervasive, disgusting envy that filled him as he thought of the raccoon giving his attention to someone else.
“Hell yeah, why wouldn’t I? Scut was fire as flark. Had me seeing colors and shit.” Rocket chuckled, nostalgically remembering that night and how it ended. It was reminiscent of the first time he got high, diving head first into extremely high dosages and bad trips. Sure, it may not have been all that much fun having panic attacks as his heart seemingly tried to break through his titanium chest, but it had been a wild introduction to the world of a universe’s quantity of drugs and biologics.
“I don’t know.” Peter grumbled, leaning further in to leave a small kiss on his left ear and tightening his hold on the hybrid’s waist. “I just don’t like the idea of you taking things from strangers. What if they were trying to poison you?”
“Then I would’ve died, flarknard.” Rocket laughed, preening in the sickening sweetness of Peter’s jealousy and clingy behavior. He shook his head in amusement as the human just responded with a frustrated growl, nipping at his ear.
“That’s not funny, Rocky; I’m being serious.” He frowned, smothering his face in the raccoon’s fur.
“I am too.” The raccoonoid deadpanned, turning around and holding up the book to the human’s face, showing him the six neat, thin lines of powdery white blakand. “So serious that I want you to snort two of these at once.”
Peter scoffed, “Pshh.” He got closer to the book, closing one nostril with a finger and preparing to inhale. “That’s some pussy shit; lemme get half of ‘em.”
“Go right ahead,” Rocket grinned, cackling as Pete actually did line after line, cheering him on as he sniffed up the last one. “Fuckin’ hardcore, man. Hold on, it's my turn now!” Rocket whooped, covering one nostril with a finger pad and sniffing up the other three lines. Instantly, his eyes shot wide open as the powder coated the insides of his nose, brutally burning as it melted and got absorbed into his bloodstream. He growled in pain-pleasure, clenching his eyes tightly shut as he felt the drugs immediately take hold, slamming his brain with a wave of numbing analgesics. “God flarkin’ damn, that scut hits.” He ground out, howling in laughter as the numb feeling exploded into a euphoric extreme, shooting off flashes of electrifying electricity throughout his cybernetic brain and across his vision.
“Holy shit, this shit’s hard as fuck.” Peter groaned, laughing maniacally as he tossed himself backwards into the bed, dragging Rocket alongside him. Similar to the hybrid, Pete’s brain was struggling with the sudden rush of paralyzing euphoria, translating itself into erratic and twitchy movements as they rolled around in painful laughter.
“Isn’t it crazy that this is supposed to be a painkiller of sorts?” Rocket cackled, spittle flying as he watched the man curl up in agony as the laughter kept getting pulled out of them, verging on tortuously painful.
“W-what? How?!” Peter guffawed, crying as the euphoria rapidly melted into devastating apathy. Just as the mind-breaking elation exploded into existence, it died with a bang, ringing hallowly in their skulls as the analgesic took over the show. Their laughter petered out awkwardly, and soon the pair of men were laying there, blinking slowly as the drug blurred the edges of reality.
Rocket just closed his eyes, focusing on the shifting of his mood and the change in his body. Blakang was a fast-acting drug, moving rapidly from one side effect to another, heightened by the fact that he had consumed it nasally. At least it helped calm down the vortex of feelings and emotions swirling inside of him at all hours of the day. It made melting into the cushions possible as the painkiller seeped into the muscles of his back and legs, numbing the ever-present pain haunting his every waking moment.
Panting in exhaustion, Rocky sighed in existential angst, glancing over to Peter to begin complaining about his worsening mood. However, the instant he laid eyes on the human, he was gasping in awe when he saw the halo of swirling and glitching light fighting for dominance over terran’s head. “Dude, they’re fighting for their lives above you.”
“You see that too? I thought I was hallucinating.”
“No, we definitely are hallucinating. That scut over your head can’t be real. Otherwise, we would be seeing it sober.”
“Aren’t we sober right now?” Peter asked, blinking and finding themselves sitting, legs crossed in a lotus position as they stared off into the expanse of the chasm of Knowhere’s celestial cranium, struggling to comprehend the sheer vastness of it all.
When had they moved from the bed?
“Are we?” The raccoon hybrid breathed, shaking his head as he found himself palming the glass to his window, desparate to see it melt underneath his palms and release him into the pale expanse of the universe’s mysterious machinery.
He vividly remembers how, before he settled down in Knowhere, when he still piloted the Bowie during sleeping hours, Rocket would find himself sitting there, staring off into nothing as the ship continued to cruise through interstellar space. There, all by himself with no one to accompany him, he would turn on the autopilot and pull into himself, hugging his knees as he lost himself in the abyss of the cosmos beyond. It was an entirely existential experience every time—bringing into reality questions he’d rather not answer and solutions he would’ve preferred ignorance to.
Rocket had always had a fascination with the world outside the glass, a place unreachable to him because of a barrier. The freedom he felt flying through the skies and into the open expanse of the universe was like none other. It was the freedom he had imagined as a kit, cursed with the cognition to imagine a world opposite to the one he existed within. He guesses freedom to him is still the same freedom to him from a lifetime ago. Though, in this present moment, tripping balls with the obsession of his life, Rocket feels as if he’s free. Liberated from the shackles of burdening social expectations and exempt from the morality of conventional relationships.
But how could he ever kid himself? He was never anything conventional to begin with.
Seeing that he had left Pete hanging for nearly a minute, the hybrid breaks the silence, filling the air with stilted speech. “We can’t be sober; I don’t think reality is supposed to look this way. I’m not sure though; I think I just wanna go flying through space right about now.”
“Like the time we went jetpack joyriding?”
“Yes! Just that this time, it’s through a nebula or something.”
“That sounds cool and all, but Rocky, are you sure this was only blakang and not something else? Cuz this sure as hell can’t just be a painkiller.”
“I don’t know. I thought you bought it. Didn’t you?”
“I didn’t; I thought you did.”
“Nope.” Rocket said, elongating the word until he was breathless.
“Hm, so that scut was probably laced with something, wasn’t it?”
“Probably. If it is, I wonder what with? This is some crazy ass stuff I’m seeing right now.”
Whispering, Peter nodded his head in agreement as he became aware of their lying position on the bed, staring emptily into the dark ceiling. “I hope it isn’t anything that’s going to hurt us, though.” A prolonged silence came over them at that moment, paralyzed as they stared into the void. And to their horror, it was a stare that was returned. “Okay, that’s enough of that. I’m freaking out pretty bad right now.”
“Ha.” The hybrid weakly laughed and said, "Yeah, that was pretty freaky.” The raccoon flipped onto his side, refusing to look anywhere but Pete’s eyes as the man also turned over to face him. There was comfort in the familiarity of those green eyes and in the way they looked back at him with such adoration.
“Sorta reminds me of the first time I took allsee. I swore it felt like I had discovered the ancient secrets to the infinity stones.” Peter said, bringing a hand up to caress Rocket’s muzzle, shakily playing with his whiskers.
“Oh shit, you’ve taken allsee before?” Rocket asked in surprise, grabbing onto the terran’s hand as he similarly started absentmindedly twirling his fingers through the hair on the man’s arms.
The human hummed, “Mhm. Multiple times, actually. The first time was insane, though. I was, like, seventeen, and this old ravager friend of mine, who I haven’t seen in years by the way, was trying to celebrate my birthday by getting us lit on some new shit he had just gotten his hands on.”
“Why do I feel like I’ve heard this one before?” Rocket chuckled, trailing his claws over some healing scratches on his arms. They were a little gift of his from about a week ago, when the man had tried cuddling him for the first time, suddenly wrapping his arms around the hybrid’s waist and pulling him in without warning. Obviously, it hadn’t been a good idea, on account of the deep gashes littering Pete’s forearms, but it had been a great learning moment for the man in regard to the raccoon’s personal space and boundaries.
Peter laughed boisterously, rolling his eyes as he spoke breathily, unabashedly enamored with the sparks of molten light he saw in Rocket’s carmine eyes. “It’s like a rite of passage, getting high off your mind on something you don’t even know the name of.”
“I'm not embarrassed to say that I’ve done that more than once.”
“Who hasn’t.” The human grinned, sighing dramatically at all the memories he had of doing so. “You’re not a real person if you haven’t tripped balls on some unknown shit.”
“So, what happened next, then?” The raccoon asked curiously, somewhat eager to know the end of the story.
“Huh, oh yeah, well, he gives me these little tabs, y’know, the one’s that allsee comes on?” Rocket nods, “Yeah, well, he told me to take, like, three or four, or something like that. He was like, take them and see how you feel in a few minutes. And when I tell you, in less than thirty seconds, I was gone, dude. I was so fucking fucked.” The terran laughed in a self-deprecating manner, rubbing his hands all across his face in an attempt to disperse the heat flaming his cheeks. “I swear, I saw my friend literally melt into my bed, then respawn in front of me and try to get my attention as if my brain hadn’t just broken.”
“Cheezus.” Rocket murmured, replaying his own memories of dropping allsee. They were mostly montages of him frozen in awe, consumed by the mind-breaking visuals as the world around him pulsed and throbbed with life. It was an incredible experience, completely detached from any other feeling a drug could ever give him. It just sucks that allsee has to be one of the most expensive drugs on the market, derived and distilled from the cerebrospinal fluid of a creature only found on a planet called Laikos Prime.
Rocket had all but sold an arm and a leg for that single tab of magic. Which calls into question: how the hell was Pete’s Ravager friend affording that many tabs of allsee? The raccoonoid, frowning in confusion, turns to look at Pete and asks, “Say, Pete? How the hell was your little friend giving you allsee for free? That scut is so flarkin’ expensive.”
“Oh, he was, like, way older than me, so he had no problem buying the stuff. He just, uh, he just made me do some favors for him, y’know?”
“Favors?” Rocket repeated, a growing sense of dread filling him as the terran kept talking.
“Yeah.” Peter raised a brow, “Like, favors.” He said, mimicking with his free hand a universally recognized motion, and poked his tongue against the inside of his cheek, making it bulge obscenely in time with the jerking gesture.
“During your birthday, right? How old were you again?” Rocket muttered worriedly, his eyes widening with realization as what Peter said sank in. “And you said he was way older? How much older?”
The human laughed, rolling his eyes as if this were some lighthearted moment. “C’mon, you can’t tell me guys haven’t propositioned you for drugs before!” He said, grinning, “He was only, like, thirty-eight or something. I don’t know; space years don't exactly translate the same as Earth years. Also, I’d already been with older people way younger before, so no need to worry.” Pete smugly smiled, wiping imaginary dust off his shoulders.
“Right, but how much older are we talking about? Cuz it sounds like a grown ass man was giving your kid self drugs so you could give him some head.” The hybrid said seriously, sitting up to look down at the human with a concerned look.
“Well, I was just turning seventeen, so I think he was about, like, twenty or some years older than me. And, I mean, I guess you could call him a grown man, but I was just doing what I had to do to get my hands on some fire ass shit. It wouldn’t be the first time; it wouldn’t be the last.” The terran finished speaking, shrugging as he gave the raccoon a look that signified he really didn’t see an issue with what he was saying.
Rocket, through the haze of pain pills broiling his brain, could remember an incredibly drunk Peter telling the whole crew his backstory in excruciating detail, except for the moments where he’d pause, ruminate for a moment, and then move on as if he hadn’t just skipped an entire episode of his past. He’d just get a distant look in his eyes, chuckle drily, and joke that growing up as a Ravager hadn’t exactly been the best environment for a child like him to grow up in. Still reeling from the loss of his mother and desperately seeking parental guidance, Pete had offhandedly mentioned latching onto any man who gave him time of day, no matter how terrible of a person they were. It was only Yondu who had, for the most part, treated him well and given him the implanted translator he currently has so he could understand everyone. He had spent years cuddling up to men twice or three times his age, not understanding a single word they were saying or what they wanted from him.
Rocket, thoroughly perturbed, changed the subject, guiding Peter from pondering those negative thoughts to laughing as he recalled more pleasant times. It was difficult at times to remember that Pete hadn’t had a good childhood, in contrast to what he seemed to exude. He was just a little boy when he was stolen from his home and forced to become something he never imagined being. Larger, crueler hands had played a personal, physical role in his introduction to galactic civilization—in a manner quite similar to the hybrid’s upbringing. It was a painful pill for Rocket to swallow, knowing that the man’s lackadaisical and erratic behavior came from such a painful place of terrible, repressed memories.
And it hurt all that much more to recognize that what he was doing to the human was what those men of his past had done to him. Fortunately—or rather, unfortunately—for Peter, Rocket’s just as equally fucked up and can’t find it in himself to feel anything approximating bad. Perhaps a touch of remorse or guilt, but like many had misunderstood before, Rocket was just the same disgusting creature he ever was. Many, including Quill, failed to see the kind of person he really was, dismissing his drunken or drugged-up ramblings of self-loathing as nothing more than the substances driving him. In reality, he meant all of it. He could be softer and kinder, if need be, but deep within, in his true heart of hearts, he knew he was a sick, borderline psychopathic sadist.
But no matter how much he hurt the man, Peter just continued looking at him with so much admiration, infatuated with whatever he found attractive in Rocket’s cobbled-together existence. Was it a learned behavior from his shitty childhood? Or was it something else? Something so deeply buried and forgotten that not even Pete could recall what had happened to him.
Rocket would probably never know, but if it meant getting to keep this humie wrapped tightly around his finger, he’d do it again. And again and again, for however long he needs to. No matter what.
Chapter 9: Ain't No Mountain High Enough
Summary:
Our beloved duo get invited to a not-so-Xandarian wedding. What will they do?
Notes:
so i got an internship and that got really busy lol. I have like a couple chapters already written and laid out tho, so I'll start posting those soon.
Chapter Text
Ain't No Mountain High Enough
“Why are we doing this again?” Rocket complained loudly, tugging at the all-too-tight collar of the fancy-ass suit he was being forced to wear.
”Because you promised to go.” Peter reminded him with a smile, looking himself over in the mirror. He too was donning a fancy suit, but at least because he wanted to—all too eager to tweak and fuss with the strange tassels hanging off his shoulders, cascading down his body in a shimmer of color and patterns.
Rocket scoffed, frustratedly tugging at his tassels in an attempt to detangle some of the fine strings. “No, it’s because you said it would be the ‘diplomatic’ thing to do.” He turned around, his head rotating as he examined the extent to which the tassels covered his body. It fell just above his hips, creating the strange illusion that he was wearing a poncho of sorts. He was still slightly put off by the fact that the hosts of the wedding apparently knew his measurements accurately enough that he could actually wear the suit without any modifications.
“That’s because it is.” Pete emphasizes, combing a quick hand through his wavy hair, “Also, aren’t these outfits amazing!? I’ve never worn anything like this, and I’ve worn a lot of things.” He grinned, spinning in a circle that caused all the tassels to lift into the air, slapping Rocket in the face with hundreds of strings.
“Dude, stop fuckin’ spinnin’ like an idiot.” The hybrid snapped, stepping out of the way of the tassels. “I can’t believe I let you move me on this. Had I known we’d be dressing up this ridiculously, I would’ve just stayed home.”
“I don’t know; this suit’s looking fire on you. It’s honestly kinda doing it for me.” The human said with a flirty smirk, stopping his idiotic spinning in turn of leaning in closer to the raccoon, “Lookin’ hella delectable, if I do say so myself.”
Rocket just gave him a deadly glare, but sighed in frustration when the man just laughed in response, dropping a hand on his head to mess with the fur of his ears. It would’ve been insulting had it not been for the amazing way the human began scratching his head and digging his nails into that one weak spot he had. It was almost good enough to pull a purr out of him, but he caught himself before he could make such a pathetic sound—swatting at the hand in an attempt to fix up his now tousled hair. “We look ridiculous, Pete. I mean, c’mon, do you not see what we’re wearing?” He said, raising his arms to emphasize his point. The movement revealed a pair of bright, purple wings underneath his arms, making him appear hilariously similar to a flying ilanx.
“It’s their culture, Rock.” Peter said, muffling the laughter that tried to leave him, “We gotta be nice and all understandin’. Don’t wanna leave a bad taste in the mouths of your future constituents.”
“Bad taste my ass; I feel like a flarknard wearing this scut.” The raccoonoid muttered, dropping his arms to smooth out the fur on his head. “Whatever, I’m ready. You?”
The terran huffed, playing a bit more with his hair. “Just about…” He mumbled, giving himself a quick look over in the mirror. He seemed satisfied as he turned around, nodding until he suddenly froze, narrowing his eyes a bit when he focused on how the pants shaped his ass. “Hey, Rocket?”
”Hm?” The raccoon grunted, jumping up onto the toilet to piss before they left.
”Is it just me, or do these pants make my ass look flat?”
“Did you seriously just ask me that?” Rocket asked exasperatedly, beyond done with Pete’s line of questioning. He was always asking the dumbest things he’d ever heard, apparently eager to get on his bad side this early in the day.
Couldn’t a raccoon just empty his bladder in peace?
Apparently not, because Peter was soon doubling down, frowning in genuine worry as he tried to examine his ass as best he could in the small bathroom mirror. “Well, does it? I would hate to go out lookin’ a mess.”
“Dude, I am trying to piss right now; stop distracting me.”
“Well, piss faster,” The human huffed, giving up momentarily on his narcissistic problem. A few seconds of silence passed by, and Rocket was starting to feel frustrated at his sudden inability to pee, uncomfortably aware of the terran’s presence in the bathroom. “I don’t hear anything.” Peter said loudly, leaning into the hybrid’s space in order to annoy him.
“Fuck off.” Rocket growled, shifting slightly to prevent Pete from seeing his dick.
“Oh, do you need help?” Peter grinned, resting a scathing hand on the biped’s lower back, his other coming up to begin rubbing that weak spot between his ears once again.
The fact the raccoon actually considered it for a moment—imagining the human embracing him from the back and holding his cock while whispering filthy nonsense in his ear—enraged him, snarling as he nipped at Pete’s hands, blessing the human with a warning bite. “Get the fuck out, Quill.” Rocket hissed, snapping his teeth at the terran.
“I’m not until you tell me if these pants make my ass look flat.” He said stubbornly, crossing his arms over his chest and distancing himself to prop up against the bathroom wall.
“Holy shit!” The raccoonoid spat, exasperated, “Did you turn into a woman or something? Why are you acting like this?”
Pete gawked at him, eyes wide. “That’s the most sexist thing I’ve ever heard you say! What the hell, Rocket?”
“Well, I wouldn’t be acting this way if you weren’t being as nagging and annoying as one. Now, can you leave so I can finish?”
“Absolutely not; I will not tolerate sexism and misogyny—“
“Yeah, yeah, whatever, I don’t give a flark, okay? Acting like there’s chicks around.” He muttered under his breath before groaning in relief as he finally started relieving himself. “Took damn long enough…”
Eventually, Rocket was done and was zipping up his slacks, leaping from the toilet onto the sink. He washed his hands, glancing over in the mirror to see a pouting Peter, his body facing away from him. The silence continued until Rocket acquiesced with an exhausted sigh, breathing in deeply as he muttered, “Turn around.”
The terran did so silently yet eagerly, spinning around and posing as the hybrid thoroughly analyzed his outfit. The clothes he was wearing, similar to Rocket’s, were measured to near perfection, and as such, the fabric traced the slopes and crevices of his body perfectly, molding to the shape of his form. Especially his ass.
Damn, he actually looks really good.
He gave him one last gander, muffling a chuckle when he realized Pete looked much like a male bird trying to woo its mate. The black slacks were embroidered with colorful geometric patterns, flowing in a very similar manner to that of a flower. The shirt was also just as embroidered, though unique with its patterns and tassels hanging from his shoulder line. The purple wings underneath his arms didn’t help, and soon Rocket was snickering, doubling over as he tried to hold back his laughter.
“What? Does it look bad?” The terran pouted, distressed, as he groped himself in an attempt to feel the imagined flatness.
“Nah,” Rocket tittered, leaping down from the sink and over to Pete, grabbing his hands and replacing them with his own. “Your ass looks great, Quill; you’ll definitely be catching some tail tonight.”
“I hope not; there’s only one person I’ll have my eyes on tonight.” The human mumbled, his face taking on a slight pink color. It was quite obvious who he was speaking about, acting coy as the biped felt him up.
“Oh, what a charmer you are.” The hybrid grinned, pulling away with a slap to the man’s ass. “C’mon, we gotta catch a shuttle to the occipital zone. Don’t wanna be late now, do we?”
“Not at all!” Pete exclaimed excitedly, patting his pants to make sure he had everything he needed for the event. “Should I bring the vape?” He asked, pulling out the small device from his right pocket.
“Is that even a question?” Rocket snarked, baring his teeth as he snatched the pen and hit it, blowing the smoke into the terran’s face. Or rather, in the vicinity of it. Rocket wasn’t exactly the tallest person, much to his chagrin.
“Hey, just wanted to be sure. Not sure if it’s, like, socially acceptable to get high at someone’s wedding.”
“The hell are you talkin’ about? You and I have gotten drunk or high at every single wedding we’ve been to.”
Peter went quiet for a moment, his eyes distant as he recalled all the times he’d gotten shitfaced at weddings, snorting as he remembered a particularly embarrassing moment. “You remember that time at the—what were they called? The serifel?”
The raccoonoid was quick to slap his hands over his ears, glaring at Pete as he said, “Gods, please do not bring that up. We swore to never mention it again.”
Apparently, the human found that priceless because he was instantly cracking up, doubling over as he guided the two of them out of the bathroom. “The way you were chugging whatever the fuck they had in that cooler was insane. You don’t even drink water like that.” The man cackled, breathless.
“Don’t even remind me.” Rocket groaned, feeling nauseous and sick just remembering the whole affair. “I didn’t know I could throw up so flarkin’ much. Like, I’m not that big; where the hell did I fit so much!?”
Peter just laughed a few moments more, still smiling by the time they exited through the front door. Ready and dressed, the pair left the apartment building and entered the streets of Knowhere’s foramen zone, greeting familiar faces as they approached the stop for the shuttle. Rocket had chosen to get his home close to Guardian’s HQ in hopes that he’d never be too far from the center of action on the mining colony. The urban camp he lived in was one of the most dense throughout the entire celestial skull, housing a sizable chunk of the colony’s population. As such, it was considerably more developed than some of the more distant and industrially aligned urbanized outcrops and boasted enhanced public services. One such being the shuttle system. Sure, it was just a bunch of independently run, glorified buses that could fly, but it got people where they needed to go.
Eventually, in under an hour, they hopped off the shuttle and began approaching the neighborhood listed on the invitation. It’s immediately clear they’re in the correct area when they start getting quite the eyeful of colorful, geometrically patterned banners hanging from every building in view, painting an otherwise drab slum in stunning purples and greens. Even Rocket feels a bit caught off guard, flinching when he hears a man yelling in an untranslated language dropping another banner from the roof of a building. The men and women around them start jeering, grinning amongst themselves as the large fabric flutters in the stagnant atmosphere. Rocket glances up just as Pete looks down, their faces contorted in confused frowns.
“Do you understand them?” He asks, tapping at the translator node behind his ear.
The hybrid shakes his head, similarly lost. “Not at all. This is the first time in a while since I’ve heard an unstranslatable language.”
They continue walking towards the apparent center of the neighborhood, pleasantly surprised to see more and more color infecting the buildings. It seemed the residents had partaken in some paint-throwing celebration or something—the walls and doors of homes and stores stained with hand-thrown dye. It’s so different from the normal, gray monotony of Knowhere that Rocket finds himself relaxing slightly in the show of beauty before jumping, startled once again, when he suddenly hears a woman bellowing from above him. The unknown words ring all too familiarly as he leaps out of the way, barely missing the slam of a banner colliding with the ground. He glares up at the woman, who only smiles apologetically, waving at him with glee. Grumbling, the raccoon climbs onto Pete, sitting down on his shoulder in an effort to more effectively observe the scenery around them. And hopefully not get crushed by some flarknards and their stupid banners…
That’s when he sees the host and hostess of the wedding approaching them, the groom smiling brightly as he stumbles over the colorful, lengthy blanket-like thing cascading from his head. The bride similarly smiles, laughing as she struggles to walk in the overly ornate dress she’s wearing.
Scut’s borderin’ on tacky. Rocket comments mentally with distaste. He taps Pete’s head, notifying him of their approaching hosts.
“The bride and groom are comin’ our way. Can you handle all the socializing tonight?” Rocket asked, dropping his head on Peter’s stunning head of hair, “I‘m not feelin’ particularly up for talkin’ about cake or whatever.”
“No problem, Rocky.” Peter said, immediately flashing his blinding smile as the wedded pair finally reached them. “Oh my goodness, Herthel! Goro Han! Congratulations!” He exclaimed, reaching over to give them a hug. It’s a bit uncomfortable considering he has a whole raccoon on his shoulder, but he manages, exuding his Starlord charm the whole time he speaks. “I’m not going to lie to you both; I didn’t expect you guys would ever tie the bow!”
“Neither did us.” Herthel chuckled, looking completely smitten as she threaded her fingers with Goro Han’s. “I still find my body screaming in surprise whenever I remember I’m now tied down.” Her words, heavier than usual, struggled to filter through their translators. For a short second Rocket hissed in discomfort, scratching at the implant as it tried to understand her language.
“I can’t blame you.” The terran beamed, seemingly shrugging off the twinge of pain, “though, if y’all can, can you please speak Standard? Rocket and I are having a bit of trouble understanding you.”
“Oh, yes, please forgive all of me for my bride.” Goro Han apologized, still talking in whatever the hell he was speaking, “Is this better than before? If so, I apologize for the confusion. We’ve been dealing with most of our affairs in our mother tongue. It’s a bit of an adjustment returning to Standard, no?” Now, Rocket was even more confused, tilting his head as he took in their odd accent. He knew they were Xandarian, but their way of speaking was nothing like the usual Xandarian Nova Corpsmen talk he came across when he used to get arrested way back when.
Peter immediately nodded, absentmindedly rubbing a soothing thumb on the hybrid’s thigh. “Very much so. As I was saying, I’m so happy for you guys! Everything is decorated so prettily, I’m starting to become a little jealous at how sad where I live looks in comparison.”
Rocket interjected before the groom could speak, interrupting the flow of the jovial conversation to gruffly ask, “What’s up with all the colors, banners, and stuff? Why are we dressed like this?” Peter frowns at him in disapproval but otherwise keeps quiet as the hosts react to his sudden question.
Fortunately, rather than be offended, Goro Han seems pleased, happily perking up as he explains the sheer colorfulness of the event. “I am glad you asked, Captain Raccoon; I am more than pleased to explain.” Both Rocket and Peter, at the moment, realize how strange the man’s accent is, side-eyeing one another as Goro Han continues speaking. “This is the traditional garb and decorations for a wedding in my culture. Perhaps we are all acting and dressing a tad bit extravagantly, but this is one of the biggest unions in a while. We are uniting two divided communities, so we are very excited!”
“But aren’t you Xandarian?” Rocket duh’d, regretting it instantly when the groom’s glowing smile fell into a scornful grimace, “I’ve been to many Xandarian weddings before, and they never looked like this. Honestly, I’m kinda preferrin’ your guys’.” He shrugged, deciding that since he’s already spoken, he may as well finish his entire train of thought.
“No.” Goro Han said, now a bit peeved, “We are merely Xandarian by origin, but we are nothing like them in culture or tradition.”
“Yes,” Herthel agreed stonely. “Xandar actually has dozens of ethnic minorities indigenous to our world, if you weren’t aware. We don’t even call our homeworld Xandar; that’s what they are by tribe. They won the Great Conflict, and since then, the Xandar have been trying to erase us. We are Xolcar, and, as you can see, this entire neighborhood is, in fact, Xolcarian. Our families have clung to our customs as best as we can, no matter where we are.”
“We’re very proud to still be here.” Goro Han nodded, flashing a quick smile at the attire Rocket and Peter were wearing, before frowning once more. “There are so many of us here because of how violent our erasure was. It’s been hundreds of years, but their attempt to exterminate us could not eliminate our spirit.” He said, smiling proudly yet wearily. In that moment, Rocket understood their entire reason of being, his eyes widening as he took in the sheer pride of their clothing and the flame burning in their eyes as they stood there, knowing they existed in opposition to what Xandar had done to them. Yes, conditions may be worsening on Knowhere, and things may get even worse, but they never gave in to the destruction Xandar wanted for them.
Suddenly, Rocket didn’t feel as ridiculous wearing the suit anymore, playing with a tassel as he took in the vibrant colors of the buildings around them. His silence and apparent satisfaction with Goro Han’s answer allowed Peter to take back control of the conversation, gushing as he led them back into the center of things, raising his voice to speak over the bustle thrumming around them. It was always a bit surprising to remember how Peter tended to act differently around others who weren’t his family. Starlord wasn’t a side of the human Rocket got to see all that often since the man had come back from being dead. Instead, that bubbly, child-like nerd was replaced with a much more subdued and pensive man. He still jammed out to their Zune and pulled him into ridiculous dances all the time, but he definitely wasn’t the same person he was before he turned to dust.
Rocket actually preferred this new version of him, considering how submissive the man would become whenever the biped would so much as raise his voice. It made molding the putty that was his life easier, especially when taking into account that Peter was going along with it all willingly. He wanted to be fundamentally changed—altered in a way only the raccoonoid could offer. He wanted someone to fill that gaping hole inside of him, desperate for anyone to grab him by the face and tell him it’d all be okay. Rocket definitely wouldn’t be doing the latter, more interested in gently, bit-by-bit, chipping away at the void inside him until it was in the shape of his shadow.
Hey. He would say. This is my hole. It was made for me.
And as such, he would enter it, more than happy to become a fundamental pillar of Pete’s will to live. He already was, if the steady grip the man held onto him throughout the night was anything to go by, always touching him in some form or way. It was incredibly reassuring, he thought, grinning to himself whenever the terran would turn down any offer to dance. And while Rocket may not entirely understand human standards of beauty, it’s an undeniable fact that Quill’s an attractive man.
He has a radiant smile that can light up the whole night. His hair—gods, his hair—was literally made by the celestials themselves, with how perfect and heavenly it was. The facial hair wasn’t half bad either, giving him a roguishly handsome look that made him appear like a model straight from one of those Terran movies.
It only made sense that he’d get approached by everyone who had eyes, drawn in by his disgustingly smooth charm and boyish smirk. Sure didn’t help stop Rocket’s seething jealousy though, twitching with barely kept rage every time some bitch with big tits would flash her lashes at what was his. Thankfully, Peter was aware of who he belonged to and what would happen if he tried to accept anyone’s advances towards him. There may not be a solid definition or name for whatever the hell they were doing with one another, but it seemed to be exclusive.
Good.
Very good.
A few more hours of mind-numbing celebration later, and both Rocket and Peter are feeling a bit fatigued. They glance at one another and nod, politely excusing themselves to find an alleyway where they could dabble in their shared custom of getting higher than the last time they were high—which, funnily enough, was only a few hours ago. It shouldn’t be so exciting, but watching a little celluloid baggy, alongside the pen, get pulled out of Pete’s pocket has his tail perking up, swishing rapidly as he trembles with anticipation.
“Holy shit, when did you have time to get flarkin’ dynamo?” Rocket gawked, watching as the terran preened under the positive attention.
With his face bright red with pleased joy, Peter smiled as he said, “You’re out of the house quite a lot, and I had some units to spare, so I got some. Trust me, this is some grade-A shit.”
“What? You’ve already tried it? That’s not fair.” The raccoon whined, wiggling his arms in an attempt to get the baggy.
“Not too fast; I wanna do something before just handing it over to ya.” Pete laughed, smirking with mirth as he pulled a small, blue triangular pill from the baggy and popped it in his mouth. He seemed to let it dissolve for a moment before crouching down to get on his knees, gripping the biped’s shoulders as he leaned in. Rocket didn’t know what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t the terran’s lips hotly smashing against his, a stubby, muscular tongue forcing open his mouth and shoving the half-dissolved pill into his maw. He could only whimper into it, his eyes fluttering shut as he instinctively swallowed the drug in a wave of his and Pete’s saliva. He immediately deepened the kiss, or rather, licked wholly into the man’s mouth. They weren’t exactly the most compatible with one another, but they made it work, swapping spit for what felt like an eternity.
Eventually he pulled back, panting as he licked his thin lips while staring deep into the terran’s glazed-over green eyes. His pupils were completely blown, his lips swollen as he leaned back onto his haunches and laughed breathlessly. “Caught ya off guard there, didn’t I?” He grinned, hastily popping another dynamo pill. Luckily for them, it was another fast-acting drug, and soon they were feeling it, giggling amongst themselves as the world mellowed out.
“You really did. Scut was hot as flark, though.” Rocket leers, leaning heavily into the euphoric effects of the dynamo. “Do it again.”
“Oh, but we can’t, Rock.” Pete sang, standing up and straightening his bunched-up slacks. “We have a party to return to!” He proclaimed, dragging them out of the alleyway and back into the center of the party. Rocket could only grumble in disappointment halfheartedly, distracted by the way his lips still tingled with the fact that this was their first kiss. He wanted more, entirely obsessed with the feeling of the human’s stubby tongue against his. The breathlessness was also a surprising turn-on, blindsided by the way his blood burned in his veins as he felt his chest ache. Of course, the flarkin’ humie was the one to help him discover some new perverted desire of his.
But instead of making out as he wanted, they were being greeted with a massive cheer by the wedding. A pair of young girls ran by them and handed them both a small pouch, giggling when they saw the way Rocket’s ears twitched with curiosity. He peered into the pouch and saw a green powder so vibrant it looked radioactive. Pete leans over to show his powder, revealing a similarly rich magenta. The raccoon looks back up at the girls, only to find them melting back into the crowd.
“I assume this is meant to be thrown sometime later, right?” Rocket asked, tucking the small pouch into his pocket.
“I think so. It’s probably for when they say their vows or something.” Pete responds, dipping a curious finger into the powder and rubbing the residue between his thumb and index finger. It instantly stained his fingers, and soon, his hands as well, when he tried to wipe it off. “Damn, this won’t be coming off any time soon.”
Suddenly, a large, burly man clad in just the patterned slacks began yelling instructions in Xolcarian, everyone hastily listening as they lined themselves into two haphazard lines. Rocket looked around in confusion before the host happened to appear behind him, startling him.
“I apologize for frightening you; Captain Raccoon, I just wanted to inform you and your partner that we’re going to do a very traditional dance! How exciting!” Goro Han beamed, smiling so sweetly that it made the raccoonoid sick. “Just get into the formation the others are in and follow the instructions from Garathi.”
“How the hell am I supposed to understand what Garanthan is saying?” Rocket grouched, yet still complying as he aligned himself with the others beside him. Pete, obediently confused, follows the instructions as well.
“Eh? Hm, you are right, Captain.” Goro Han frowns. “Well, just copy what we’re doing, and you’ll be fine. This shouldn’t be too hard of a dance to keep up with.” He chirped, clapping his hands as he hastily returned to his spot from across his wife.
Rocket looked up to Pete, raising a brow as the sound of instruments began filling the air. “You ready?”
“I was born ready.” The man responded smugly, shimmying his shoulders to loosen up the tassels. At once, what sounded similar to a violin being plucked began playing a slow, melodious rhythm, setting the present mood for a slow forward and backward shuffle. If Rocket focused his ears, he could hear an accordion, blinking in surprise as the pretty catchy tune began moving his body in line with the rest of the crowd. It truly wasn’t that hard to keep up, he found, focusing on the nimble fingers playing the strange instrument.
With the sharp sounds of the strings, he stepped from one foot to another, calmly expressing the growing joy of seeing such a large group of people enjoying themselves.
It’s so flarkin’ infectious. He grinned, winking at Pete.
Then he looked up to the woman beside him and asked, “What’s that thing he’s playing called?”
“Eh.” The woman grunted, looking around, before noticing the hybrid’s voice was coming from below. “Oh, Captain, you were asking what's the instrument Ferren’s playing?”
“Yea. What is it?”
“It’s called a belkala. It’s a stringed instrument from our homelands. It sounds super beautiful, yes?” She said joyously, starting to kick her left foot and then her right, her arms coming to cross over her chest. It caused the tassels to move with her, bouncing in sync with her dance. Rocket was mesmerized, watching the way the patterns of her dress shifted and created the illusion that she was moving much faster than she actually was. He returned his gaze to Peter, smiling goofily when he saw the way the human was starting to get the hang of the dance.
“Right foot, kick, left foot, kick, then twirl!” He panted, moving in sync with his line. The music continued to pick up, speeding up as the belkala and accordion complemented one another, adding a sense of exciting urgency to their movements.
The melody slowed for a moment to allow them all an opportunity to flash the purple underneath their arms. It was tantalizing, Rocket realized, starting to move faster as the strings were plucked quicker.
“Pete! Look at me.” The racconoid laughed, flapping his arms as the others did, swinging his arms upwards to reveal the purple wings underneath. He spun, lifting the tassels, and posed when the song hit a resting beat. He didn’t have a moment to catch his breath before he was back to it, cackling joyously as he and Peter danced around one another, their eyes never leaving each other.
“Told you this would be fun!” The terran yelled happily, slowing down to match the beautiful sound of the belkala strings. For a moment, they stood there, swaying from side to side, nodding their heads as the music began picking up once more. That was when everyone jumped forward and locked arms with their partner, laughter filling the air as people struggled to hold onto one another as they spun around and around in circles.
Their outfits suddenly made a lot of sense.
Rocket blinked, obsessed with how the crowd seemed to pulse and throb with the throes of the music. Rocket couldn’t stop laughing, grinning stupidly as he and Pete stumbled over one another; the size difference was just too much for the quick moves they were making.
It was fast-paced and so much fun.
For what felt like an eternity, they jumped and leapt around the party, never staying in a single spot as they danced around all the other dancers, moving as if they were all a single organism. It was an incredible experience, though Rocket wasn’t sure if it was because of the dynamo making the world feel and seem one hundred times more enjoyable and bright or if it was the way Peter was looking at him. His green eyes were gleaming with joy, and his cheeks were a boyishly pink color as he giggled, completely immersed in the sounds coming from the belkala and accordion. The hybrid was sure he had never seen such a beautiful sight, wholly enamored as he went along with whatever move the human would make.
It wasn’t a sudden realization when it occurred to Rocket that he was entirely lost in the sauce, as Pete often likes to say when they’re tripping or drunk. It’s an apt descriptor for how the drug makes him feel—for the way it blurs the edges of reality. There’s a filter over his vision, and Rocket simply loves the way it makes him feel like everything will be alright and that he can keep dancing for however long he wants. Dynamo, after all, is a central nervous system depressant and was created for spacefarer anxiety—a surprisingly common affiliction among all sentient lifeforms. So, no wonder he feels great; he’s probably taking medicine he should’ve been taking years ago.
Whatever though, it’s not like he can afford to just buy all the dynamo he wants. At this moment, all he cares about is that he and Pete feel good as hell. The human, out of breath, smiles down at him before cheering with the crowd. Way sooner than any of them had predicted, the song was coming to an end. Rocket could tell from the way everyone seemed to slow down, collectively panting as they tried to catch their breaths. That didn’t seem to stop anyone from ambling around, calmly moving with the waning energy of the song. Rocket was surprised to see that he felt no exhaustion or pain and was eager to continue dancing. Pete seemed to be in similar spirits, all but vibrating as they finally parted ways.
“That was so awesome!” The terran beamed, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “We have to do that again!” However, when Rocket focused his eyes, he could see that the terran appeared a bit pale, his eyes slightly gaunt as he panted. It seemed the drug probably wasn’t treating him well; his breathing became ragged the more time passed.
God flarkin’ dammnit, Rocket realized, suddenly feeling a wave of irritation and annoyance overwhelm and infect his intensely positive mood with overtures of quiet disdain. Quill took way too damn much dynamo.
Chapter 10: Ain't No Valley Low Enough
Summary:
Rocket can cruel sometimes, he knows that. But, by the gods, can it feel so good sometimes.
Notes:
its kinda crazy how fast time can fly lmaoo. this is a part of what is a larger chapter but i split it into pieces cuz it was way too long, but i should have the other part out soon! next chapter gets quite spicy :3
Chapter Text
Ain't No Valley Low Enough
It’s embarrassing how often they’ve found themselves in this position before. Rocket wishes he could claim that he’s never had to help Pete tide over a bad trip, but it seems the man tends to have more terrible trips than pleasant ones.
“You good?” The hybrid asked impatiently, tapping his foot impatiently as the man blinked slowly, stumbling backwards until he hit a brick wall and slid down. Obviously, he followed the idiot, but he couldn’t help the growing ire spreading throughout his chest, a deep, frustrated frown erasing the stupid smile he’d been wearing. The mood swing should’ve been nauseating from how rapidly it occurred, but Rocket was more than used to it, taking it in stride as he came to hover above the human.
This’s just another Tuesday, he thought with a slight grin, shivering pleasantly at the sight of the panicking humie. It was always nice to see someone twice or three his size trembling before him, simply satiated some dark, fucked-up part of himself that he didn’t like to think about—very much preferring to believe it was simply some weird kink he has.
“Y-yeah. Just, ehm.” Pete swallowed, glancing around anxiously, “just not feeling so good suddenly.”
“Huh,” Rocket mockingly replied, “I wonder if that has anything to do with the two flarkin’ pills you took like an idiot.”
“Wuh?”
“Frankly, I’m not sure what you thought would happen if you took so many. Are you really that stupid, or are you trying to get on my nerves?”
“I didn’t—“
The biped interrupts him, rolling his eyes. “Okay, yeah, just trying to get on my nerves.” He closes his eyes, growling in annoyance as he massages his temples. “Whatever, just get your ass up off the floor. I don’t want anyone to see you acting like a dumbass and embarrassing me.”
Peter’s face was now flushing red rather than his previous sickly pallor, a sad, dejected look filling his eyes. “Am I really acting that badly?”
“Yes! Obviously! And I said get up! Are you a krutarkin’ flarknard or what?” Rocket snapped, snarling as Peter recoiled, arms coming up to protect his face from a potential strike when he saw the terrifying expression on the hybrid’s face. Rocket knows he shouldn’t feel so satisfied at the terror the human feels when confronted with his anger, but it does. There’s just something about the frightened, beady look in Pete’s eyes that tames the torrent of fiery emotions within him. Makes him feel big in a way that his short stature definitely doesn’t.
“I-I’m sorry, yeah—sorry, just, can you help me up?” He pleaded, looking into the raccoon’s disturbingly empty brown eyes. The human wasn’t sure what he had to deserve such a change in behavior, but it must’ve certainly been something bad with the way Rocket was glaring at him with such anger. The last time he’d seen such vitriol on the raccoonoid’s face was when they’d had their little spat on the roof of his apartment. Sure, most of it was probably his fault for leaving the hybrid the way he did, but what the hell did he do now?
Sneering, Rocket all but spat the answer, “Pick yourself up, actin’ like you can’t do shit.” It really did make him fuckin’ fume when the terran pretended he was a cripple or something. As if he weren’t thee fuckin’ Peter Quill, the human half-celestial who could save the whole goddamn galaxy with that charming grin of his. As if he were the little freak of nature creation. Fucking pathetic.
Panicking, Peter scrambles to his knees, horrified to see that many people were watching them curiously, whispering amongst themselves as Rocket paced around in circles angrily, seemingly on the verge of blowing up. The human, utterly lost, licked his lips as he tried to get his mind to function for once, repeatedly closing and opening his mouth as he struggled to find the words to calm down the emotionally unstable biped.
“H-hey, Rocky—”
“My name’s not flarkin’ Rocky!” Rocket shrieked, “Why do you call me that stupid nickname?! Are you trying to make fun of me?”
Pete shushed him loudly, eyes wide with embarrassment and fear, herding them hastily away from all the upturned eyebrows and curious head tilts. Petrified doesn’t even begin to explain how he’s feeling, throwing pleading, sad looks whenever anyone tries to approach them to help. It wouldn’t do Rocket any good to have people trying to empathize with him when he’s so far gone from his usual level of godawful instability.
“No,” he blanches, treading as carefully as he can. “I’m not trying to make fun of you. Let’s just—let’s just get ourselves back home, okay?” It seems to placate the raccoon for a second until he’s bristling all over again, looking up to snarl at Pete, fur puffing up threateningly. At that moment, Rocket was genuinely glaring at him with a dizzying mixture of disgust and hatred, his gaze chock full of disdain and contempt—all of it aimed solely at Peter. How the hell could the face of a raccoon be so damn expressive?!
It seems Rocket is gearing himself up to say something particularly offensive—a disgusting, painful-looking grin replacing that terrible snarl of his. Whatever he’s going to say, Pete knows he’s going to need a big-ass nap afterwards. He can already feel the inklings of his energy reserves running dry.
“Back home? You mean my house?” He said with such coldness, “Who the flark do you think you are, Quill, to be saying home like it’s yours? I paid for that shit with my own hard-earned units. You just let yourself in, mooched off of me, and soured the smell of my home with your disgusting humie scent. Who even said you could stay in my house? Huh? No one, cuz you’re just a self-serving, conniving little shlag!”
Instantly, the human’s patience ends in a snap, growling angrily as he rears his leg and kicks the raccoon in the back with more power than necessary. The terrible dynamo trip is shoved to the back of the mind, preoccupied with accosting the raccoon.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” The terran spat with distaste, more than done with the hybrid’s bitchy behavior. It shouldn’t please him as much as it does to see the raccoon yelp in pain, curling up pathetically as he collides with the floor in a heap of tassels, but it does. “You think you’re some hot shit, don’tcha? Speakin’ to me like I’m some fuckin’ piece of trash to be thrown away! Who do you think you are, Rocket?”
In the blink of an eye, the hybrid twisted his body in an attempt to escape from Pete’s wrath, but all it achieved was a steel grip on his neck and a painful crick in his back as he was lifted into the air, legs and tail dangling. The human analyzes their situation, uncomfortably aware of all the curious eyes on them, and decides to simply leave, dragging the limp raccoon with him. There’s no reason for them to be there anymore because, for all intents and purposes, the party’s over as far as he cares.
All the while, Rocket comes to a terrible realization. The way he’s being treated right now, in front of everyone to see, is undignified. Undignified and humiliating in a way he hasn’t felt since he was forced to simulate sexual reproduction with a fellow lab experiment. Thankfully, it hadn’t been a family member of his. Though he wouldn’t have put it above the High Evolutionary to do such a thing.
He can still recall the violating feeling of all those beady, goggle-covered eyes watching him as they gave him instructions on what to do. He despised how, through the distorted plastic and surgical masks, he could see a fervent, heated look in some of their gazes—a predatory glee watching as they prodded and adjusted him into the proper position with disgusting, wandering gloved hands. That same sickening sensation, deep in his stomach, overwhelms him as he attempts to loosen the hold on his neck. He tries to growl, a low rumbling deep inside his throat, but it morphs into a pathetic whine when the terran just tightens his grip, scoffing audibly.
“Don’t even try it, dude.” Peter laughed emptily, devoid of all humor: “We’re going to our house, and we’ll deal with whatever the hell’s up with you. Can’t believe you’d try to pull this bullshit on me in public.”
Much like how violated he felt having sex with that flarkin’ lab experiment, he feels the same way now. However, it was strange how instead of being a shellshocked husk like he usually would when confronted with these sorts of flashbacks, it only served to fuel his disdain and anger with the humie.
That’s progress, right?
Well, whatever it was, it made coping with this situation a bit easier, his racing mind coughing up a possible way for him to get out of this mess and maybe attack Pete before running away and changing his locks. The plan wasn’t the best he could come up with, but flark, could anybody fault him? He was dangling from some douchebag's hand like a ragdoll. Fuck, fine, he’ll just have to swallow his pride and carry out the plan to completion.
Breathing in and out, Rocket looks up to give the terran his best ‘puppy dog eyes,’ as the man put it. It’s pathetic and stupid, but it’s the best he’s got. “Hey,” he starts softly, pumping as much sadness and hurt into his voice.
“Nope. That scut’s not working on me anymore, ya manipulative little shit.”
Scut, that failed instantly… fine, guess I’ll just lash out.
“Flark you, then.” Rocket growled, thrashing and scratching at the humie’s hand and arm. It gives him little pleasure, but he’s slightly mollified by the sight of deep gashes weeping red through his now torn-apart sleeves. “It’s not like you’re much better, Stardork. Actin’ all submissive and bitch-like knowing you’re just a freak like me!”
That manages to get a reaction out of Pete, the tips of his ears flushing a dark shade of crimson. “C’mon, man, not so fuckin’ loud.” He whined, shaking the still-thrashing raccoon, “Let’s just get home so we can duke this out without putting on a show for everyone to watch.”
The pair stumbled out of the center of the urban outcrop and back onto the road leading them to the shuttle stop.
“No!” Rocket snapped childishly, “As long as you hold me like a bag of yarrow roots, I’m not shutting my mouth! You gotta a lot of flarkin’ balls to treat me like this considering how much you bitched me to bite you. Straight up cryin’ for it and everything, ya masochistic freak!”
“Oh yeah? You really wanna get into that? You, of all people?”
“The hell do you mean by ‘you of all people’?!”
“I’m not calling you an animal, flarknard. Is it possible for you to turn off your fuckin’ inferiority complex for just a second? Is that something you can do, Rock?”
“Oh, that’s rich coming from you, mister I-lost-both-of-my-dads-at-the-same-time. Your whole thing is abandonment and daddy issues, ain’t that right, Petey?”
“Fuck you.” Peter seethed, lifting Rocket up into the air and tossing the raccoon as bodily as he could. He chuckles as he watches the little furball collide with the wall of a building and fall once again to the floor in an undignified pile of colorful clothes and trash. The joy doesn’t last that long since the biped is instantly on his feet, glaring at Pete as they stand a distance from one another. “Say you’re sorry for saying that.” He demanded of the hybrid.
“And why the flark would I apologize to you?” Rocket frothed at the mouth, shaking uncontrollably. “You’re the one who started all of this because you can’t control yourself.”
“Control myself?!” Pete gawked outrageously, “You’re like control issues personified!”
“Yeah, but at least I don’t make it my whole damn personality. You just mope, mope, and mope all over the krutarckin’ place, pretending to be some little fragile flower when in reality yer just a selfish, greedy little shlag. Constantly,” the raccoonoid spat furiously, “begging and crying for attention to satiate that whorish need of yers to feel wanted by anyone who can tolerate your annoying ass.”
Rocket felt sick, blood boiling and burning as it traveled through his veins. A sudden rush of adrenaline, mixed with a dizzying amount of cortisol, coursed through his body, forcing his pupils to constrict to mere pinpoints. His fur was standing on its ends, hackles completely raised. It did not mix well at all with the dynamo, clashing nauseatingly with the calming drug, churning his stomach until he felt like its contents were seconds from coming out.
He felt this way because of Peter. Only Peter could push him hard enough to fuck with him like this. He was probably doing it on purpose, if the obviously fake look of hurt in his eyes was anything to go by. Rocket was still shocked at how quick the humie could be to put on a sick face when needed, probably all in an attempt to get a rise out of Rocket. Gods, he really could hate this man with a burning rage—nostrils flaring and inhaling the distressed smell emanating from Peter—and growling as he prepared to attack with all the intention in the universe to slash his throat. The humie’s blood, a stunning shade of red, would look stunning as it arched in the air before painting the wall in a macabre rendition of Peter’s last moments.
Yeah. Rocket thought, licking his chops in preparation to taste iron. I should be the last thing he sees before dying.
Peter’s eyes were starting to fill with tears, his breathing picking up as he became increasingly distressed. “Holy shit! See! Why are you saying these things? Are you trying to fuckin’ break me apart again? Are you trying to take away what little emotional stability I have left?!” He cried, trembling fingers coming up to yank at his hair. “So what if I play up the helplessness? After all that I’ve been through, can you really fault me for that?”
“It’s flarking pathetic!” Rocket snarled, spittle flying, “It makes you look r*tarded!”
Peter gasped as if he’d been stabbed, gripping his stomach in an attempt to stem the flow of metaphorical blood. His words had seemingly struck a profoundly internalized area of the terran’s fractured psyche. However, instead of wilting and breaking out into tears like Rocket expected, the man’s eyes took on a cruel light, snarling animalistically as he gritted out, “How do you know that word?”
“What? R*tarded?” The hybrid grinned, feigning cluelessness, “I dunno. I spent a lot of time on Terra too, y’know? Funny bunch, you all are.”
“Don’t ever call me that again, you furry little freak! I’ll fuckin’ skin you if you do.”
”Oh, boo hoo, that’s, like, the third time you’ve threatened to skin me. Keep going at this rate, and I’ll soon be doubting if you even know what skinning is. R*tard.” He added tacitly for a flourish.
“It’s the second time!” Peter yelled, eyebrows bunched up in anger, “And seriously, stop that! It’s not funny, I’m not laughing, I don’t find it funny!”
”Well, I do! HA! HA! HA!” Rocket cackled loudly, sounding like a maniac, as he pointed at the human and mocked him. The verbal assault only served to further fuel the terran’s anger, stoking a rapidly spreading forest fire of ugly, disgusting emotions. Pete appeared as if he were physically ill.
“You’re fucking sick in the head, aren’t you?” He asked, entirely serious. As if he’d suddenly received a data cache on Rocket 101: Introductory Raccoonoid Theory and realized that Rocket wasn’t all there mentally.
Rocket’s face upturned in genuine concern, muzzle bunching up to form an almost frightened look. “You just realizin’ that now, bright eyes?” He thought it was evidently clear that he had emotionalistical issues. Hell, he even said it out loud that one time.
The biped’s genuine confusion flustered Peter, the man blushing in embarrassment as he realized the stupidity of his prior statement. “Okay, yeah, that was a pretty dumb thing for me to say.”
“That wasn’t even a dumb thing for you to say, it’s just… I don’t even know, dude.”
“Okay, okay,” the human raised his hands in a surrender gesture, “but I had a point. Dude, you’re, like, fucked up in the head, and you’re taking it out on me!”
Rocket’s anger was immediately reignited: “Oh, flark off, I’m not takin’ shit out on anyone except tha krutarckin’ latrine. You’re just imagining bullshit to feel bad over.”
“Jesus, you really do have serious problems.” Peter said so casually. Like this was just another Tuesday morning. Rocket, on the other hand, felt as if the words had personally gone out of their way to puncture his lungs, stealing his breath in a wave of hurt. Hurt so intense moisture was soon prickling at the corners of the raccoon’s vision.
“Shut up! Watch your flarkin’ mouth!” Rocket’s voice cracked mid-scream, betraying his pain.
The terran’s expression shifted from a bland look of indifference to one of exasperated annoyance: “That’s what gets you cryin’ like a bitch? Really? Me sayin’ you got problems?”
“I said, watch your flarkin’ mouth! And I’m not crying like a bitch.” Rocket croaked, his raspy voice breaking as he felt warmth start spilling from his eyes.
NO! THEY WERE NOT TEARS!
“I’m not flarkin’ made of steel, Pete. I’m just as much flesh and blood as you are. Well, metaphorically speaking, I do have steel bones…” He looks away, shuffling closer to the human in a pathetic attempt for consolation—hesitation apparent in every fiber of his being. “I-. What are we doing here, Pete? Why’re we doing this? What do you want from me?”
“Do you really want to know?” Pete responds quietly, wrapping his arms around himself. It didn’t take Rocket long to notice that this was the most apprehensive the man had looked in weeks, his face losing all color as they continued to stare at one another. But he wanted—no—needed to know. He couldn’t keep doing this ambiguous, half-assed dance with Quill if they weren’t on the same page. The last few days of drug binges, tearful groping at midnight, and intensely arousing staring contests over lunch were starting to become too much, even for his unstable, wicked ass.
So, the raccoon nodded silently, focusing intently on the way the man’s throat bobbed nervously. “Please don’t get mad at me.” Peter whimpered, closing his eyes as he began recounting what led them to one another again.
“I was on Terra for only six months.”
Wait, what?
Chapter 11: Stories Told of Old
Summary:
Rocket and Peter have a much needed conversation about what they want from each other. The legendary Starlord is, perhaps, a bit too honest and Rocket has no idea how to take that. Other than have some fun, of course!
Notes:
CW: use of the f-slur. rocket learned a lot of cool new words while he was on earth! it's used within a sexual context tho.
pls comment! it gives me motivation to write. the next chapter should be out within the next two or three weeks. my internship is coming to a wrap so i'll have a lot more free time soon. i hope you all enjoy this chapter! i know i did while writing it.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Stories Told of Old
“Wait, what?” Rocked froze, his world coming to a stuttering halt. That couldn’t be right. He vividly recalls how, for the last few weeks they’ve been together, the man’s always been consistent in saying he had been on that wretched backwater for nine months before leaving to find him. He said, quite pathetically and tearfully, that he missed his best friend. That he needed to come back.
So, what the hell had he been apparently doing for three months? Did he lie to him for months?
Pete complained audaciously, stomping his foot like a petulant child, “Don’t look at me like that! You look like you’re coming to conclusions even though I haven’t even started talking.”
“Well, I’ll keep doing so if ya don’t hurry the flark up and tell me about the fact you lied to me!”
“I know! I know! I’m sorry, alright? I just—I don’t know, Rocky, how am I supposed to tell you this without sounding like a fucking psycho?!” The terran warbled, freaking out as Rocket continued to stare at him with his sharp, dissecting raccoon eyes.
“Hm, I don’t know, how about JUST GETTING ON WITH IT?!”
“Fine! Fine.” Peter breathed in, closing his eyes in an attempt to disassociate himself from this problem of his own making. “I came back four months ago after being on that fucking shithole of a planet for half a year. Jesus, Rocket, do you have any idea how terrible the state of my home is? I went back to Missouri, and while I did find my grandpa and his wife, the house I grew up in was just gone. Apparently burned down during the riots following the Snap. I had nothing. I had no one. I’m not sure if it’s just me or the fact that I’m all sorts of fucked up, but I literally felt like I was going to kill myself if I stayed there any longer. I had to leave.”
“And it’s not like I could pretend to keep busy, I didn’t have a job! I wasn’t allowed one. Apparently you’re supposed to have, like, a high school degree or something, but I don’t got shit. I’m dead on Terra. I’ve been dead for thirty years. And for some reason, that wasn’t as much of a barrier as I thought it was going to be. I mean, it makes sense considering half of the world was fucking dead only a few years ago. Honestly, I think that’s the worst part,” Peter gushed rapidly, desperate for Rocket to understand him. “I was just another face in the countless billions of people who found themselves left behind. Just another name and social security for the GRC to play with however they wanted.”
“You suddenly a flagsmasher or something? Get on with it, Quill.” Rocket growled.
“No! You wanted to know so bad, you’ll have to listen to my whole damn story.” He snapped before refocusing. “As I was saying, I was at the whims of those assholes on the council. They had me doing some shit called career development, or, what was it again, a Gee E Dee? I don’t know, but it was so stupid! Call me a flagsmasher all you want, but they had a reason to fight for what they did. Those freaks at the top failed us on purpose. Kicked so many innocent people from the homes they built because of some made-up bullshit about borders?! I don’t know, it’s all so stupid!”
“I couldn’t take out a loan to go to college because I didn’t have a credit history. I couldn’t access my mother’s bank account because, apparently, the country took it during the financial crisis following everyone dying. I couldn’t do shit! Y’know, they have a name for people like me. People who came back but can’t do anything to restart their lives because they weren’t meant to come back. Reappeared Persons. It’s on every single document of mine. I watched as they stamped it onto everything that was Peter Jason Quill. Rocket, I don’t think you get it.” Pete fretted anxiously, messing with one of the tassels, rolling and wrapping it around his index finger repeatedly. “I wasn’t supposed to come back.”
”Of course ya weren’t. None of ya were supposed to. Hell, I thought it was a done deal for, like, half of those five years you were dust.” Rocket added unhelpfully, only serving to worsen the man’s spiraling anxiety.
“Dude, seriously, not helping.” The terran whined before inhaling deeply, trembling as he tried to hold it together. “I guess it was all those things adding up until I couldn’t take it anymore. I hit a breaking point. Broke my sobriety and went crazy. Left home and was homeless for a while. Tried some wild fucking drugs, you wouldn’t even believe the shit I was tripping on. Don’t worry though, I wasn’t alone. There’s so many of us out there on the streets that refugee camps had to be formed. Reappeared Person Tenements. I lived as well as anyone could ask for. Hell, the soup kitchen food wasn’t half bad.”
“I guess I got bored of being an intranational refugee after a while. Came home trashed as fuck, and I got into a pretty big argument with my grandpa about where I was going with my life. Sure, maybe I said some hurtful stuff about what happened the last time we saw each other, but it’s not my fault he was being so judgmental! Doesn’t he get that I’m still trying to get better? Does he even care that I tried as hard as I could? I—“ Suddenly, as if all the winds were pulled from his sails, Peter deflates, voice dripping with misery and grief. “That doesn’t even matter anymore. He all but disowned me before kicking me out onto the streets once again with what little shit I bought with my GRC allowance.”
“So you know what I did—all by myself on the streets and hungover off of fuckin’ everything I could get my hands on? I left. Fuck that dirtball of a planet.” Peter spat, venom dripping from his every word, “I’m tired of it. I used my long-com and called in a favor. Spent a few days on Xandar getting reused to what I was made for. It was like putting on well-worn gloves, y’know? Slipping right back into that niche I had created for myself. It felt good. So damn good, but it didn’t last. Soon, I was aching for somethin’ I hadn’t had in months. My insides were throbbin’ for a familiar face. I just wanted to see someone who could remind me of where I belonged. Someone who could—” Peter choked, coughing as his face flushed a deep red as he shut his mouth with a loud click. He couldn’t hold eye contact with the raccoon anymore, suddenly interested in a divot in the brick wall.
Rocket raised a questioning brow, crossing his arms over his chest expectantly. “Someone who could, what?” He already knew the answer, but, damn, would it be an ego boost to hear it said out loud.
Pete hesitated for a moment, unsure if he should be honest, before folding instantly at the look of heated curiosity on the hybrid’s face. “Someone who could knock me down a peg if I got too fuckin’ antsy. By any means necessary. And you know who it was?”
Frankly, it was quite obvious who it was, seeing how both men found themselves—Pete looking all demure and bash while Rocket was grinning as viciously as ever, stepping ever closer to the human.
“You. It was you, Rocket.” Pete breathed, eyes full of adoration. “I couldn’t get you out of my mind. I couldn’t erase the idea of your paws hurting me, leaving bruises and scratches all over me. I wanted it so bad. I needed it. I needed someone who could remind me of why I deserve to have nothing. Of why I deserve to be punished. So I came back. I came back for you.” The human chuckled breathlessly, smiling unsteadily as he got down onto his knees and arms to put himself level with the raccoon. “Don’t you get it, Rocky? I did it all for you.”
The kneeling to his height would usually offend Rocket, but not when it was Pete doing it. Any other person, the raccoon would feel insulted and belittled, but with Pete, he felt nothing other than bigger. Superior. The man wasn’t meant to be so tall—they both knew it—so he reacted accordingly, getting on his damn knees all the time whenever Rocket was around.
“I left Terra early to get what was mine. No one was going to get in my way.” The human growled, remembering the man who had bothered Rocket in the bar all those weeks ago. It still pissed Pete off that that wasn’t the only time someone had bothered Rocket, internally seething every time he saw a person so much as breathe in the raccoon’s general direction. He had struggled for months, sticking to the shadows and corners of rooms, watching the hybrid catch the attention of others.
Whether it was just friendly conversation or less-than-subtle offers to hook up, Pete had watched, dull green eyes calculating as he fantasized about murdering some of the more unsavory folk. It would’ve been so easy, the terran thought, to kill that Yericho guy and leave him half buried underneath some newspapers and trash in some alleyway behind a strip club. He wouldn’t have been the first, seeing that it was a surprisingly common end for many, and he wouldn’t have been the last. Peter was aware of how insane that justification was, but he could care less. Rocket was his, and all that he had left. That damn raccoon was what little remained of his once large family. He couldn’t take any risk of losing him, he’d rather die than lose him to some lowlife fuck.
So it wasn’t a surprise that Peter’s eyes were glowing with fervent obsessiveness when he tightly gripped the hybrid by his shoulders and leaned in, muttering darkly the rest of his sins, “Do you have any idea how hot it made me to watch you from afar? To know that you had no idea I was always one step behind you, seeing everything that you did.”
What?
He did what?
Rocket gasped, shivering, and tried to pull away from the man’s iron grip, but he didn’t let go, instead yanking the raccoon in even closer, staring at him creepily the whole time. “P-Pete, stop, you’re freaking me out. T-the hell do you mean you were watching me from afar?” He wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear the answer, disturbed by the words coming out of Pete’s mouth. Was he really telling the truth?
“I followed you, Rocket. I followed you for three months. I watched you sleep every single night, never more than an arm's length away from your bed. You know you snore when you sleep.” He smiled widely, eyes crinkling in the genuine way they did when Pete was truly happy. It was a smile he only used to give exclusively to those he cared for. Melted your flarkin’ insides from the warmth of it and made you think, huh, maybe everything will be okay. This time, however, it just made Rocket feel sickeningly warm.
“I really didn’t mean for it to become that bad.” Pete frowned blurrily, a drugged-out look meeting Rocket’s disturbed, blown pupils. “But then I saw you from far away a few times, and I was so intrigued. And I guess my intrigue turned to interest, then fascination, and then obsession…”
Okay, he’s definitely not lying, and Rocket isn’t even sure how to respond to that, completely speechless as the man continues confessing. He thought he’d be mad, enraged by the fact that Pete had lied to them all for months without any remorse. He should be on fire with rage, an unstoppable force of anger and disdain. He should be scared, worried about the humie’s declining mental state. Instead, unsurprisingly, all he feels is a ruinous twister of nauseating emotions tearing apart his insides—a vortex of debilitating arousal.
By the flarkin’ gods, he’s never been so turned on in his life, eyes wide and gleaming as he stared at the human’s eyes, enamored with the glossy, almost crescent ring-like look of the man’s eyes.
“You eat so messily when no one’s there.” He said with a sickening mirth, thumbing the raccoon’s cheek lovingly, “I love how you sing in the shower when you think I’m not there with you in the bathroom, singing along. And you know what I love the most about you, Rocky?”
Terrified, Rocket asks, “W-what?”
“How diligent you are when you groom yourself. Yeah, maybe I shouldn’t have peeked in on you doing that, but I just couldn’t resist!” Pete giggled insanely. “It was so hard to stop myself from leaving my hiding spot and getting my hands all over you. Especially that one time I saw you licking your—“
“OKAY, THAT’S ENOUGH!” Rocket yelped incredulously, petrified by what the humie was telling him. Flark, he had not known that Pete had seen that. Holy shit, does that mean he also saw when he—oh gods, it does. But why does that make his insides clench with desire so badly? He can feel the way his cock unsheathes slightly, pulling a whimper out of him as he subtly shifts his stance to hide his growing problem. Krutarck, is he really that messed up? To get this turned on by this flagrant and blatant violation of his privacy. To get this hard realizing the lengths Peter had gone, all that he had done in order to get what he wanted.
Like holy hell, Rocket had already been of the opinion that the terran was entirely obsessed with him—how could he not? It was quite obvious—but he hadn’t had an inkling it was to this extent. If anything, it was Peter, not Rocket, who had the other around his finger.
And he surprises himself when he finds out that he has no problem with that.
Son of Sch’mag.
He refocused back to see that the human was in hysteria, struggling to breathe as panicked words kept spilling from his lips. “I’m so sorry, Rocky.” Peter cried, his beautiful green eyes filled with glistening tears. “I understand if you want to kill me after hearing what I had to say. I know I’m just a disgusting, sick piece of shit who doesn’t care about your personal boundaries. I violated your privacy so much that I’m not even sure if there’s such a thing as privacy between you and me. I just—I—y’know what? Just fuckin’ do it. Fuckin’ kill me, Rocket, fuckin’ do it. Shoot me in the head and just get it over with. I know you won’t miss me, you’re probably so disgusted by me right now, and I deserve it after doing what I did! Rocket, please! Just fuckin’ kill me already and put me out of my—”
The click of a knife reverberated in the air—the swish of a blade slicing through the stagnant air making itself known as the serrated edge of steel made terrifying contact with the skin of Peter’s throat. It pierces, if even for a micron, into the delicate paleness of his trembling Adam’s apple, pulling out a virulently red droplet of blood. It swells with the hiss of pain Pete releases before getting too large and falling, cascading in a trail down into his collar. Rocket never wanted to lick something as much as he does right now. So he does. He quickly laps up the crimson streak, humming in pleasure at the burst of iron on his tongue.
“That’s enough, baby boo.” Rocket cooed, digging in the knife just that much deeper, pulling out any ounce of pain he could. “You don’t gotta say nothing else, I got you. I’ll let nothing bad ever happen to you again.”
Abruptly, his sobs stop, sniffling loudly as he tries to get a hold of himself. Slowly, the pained, devastated look in the humie’s eyes disappears, replaced with a fragile, tentative expression of trust. A trust Rocket knows has been broken so many times throughout his life, torn apart and spat at by those close to him and wretched away from him by a cruel, unfeeling universe.
Rocket should be drowning in shame with the way he’s abusing that flickering hope in Peter’s stunning green eyes, but he doesn’t and won’t. All it does is fill him with appreciation. Appreciation for how easy the man is. Appreciation for the way he wetly whispers for validation with an amazed, stunned awe imbuing his voice.
“Really?” He simpers, pathetic and fishing for approval.
And how can the hybrid not melt at that? How can he not turn into a puddle of joy when he's being looked at the way he is? Like he’s worth something to grovel and beg for. As if he’s a person to go to for affirmation, knowing damn well he’s anything but. Rocket’s always been an abrasive personality—probably more so than ever—but that seems to do nothing to deter Quill from chasing after him, not even if it hurts the whole time he does it.
“Of course,” the biped pouts mockingly, patting the man’s cheek, “but I feel like there’s a pretty big question we’re forgetting to ask here.”
Pete frowns in confusion. “What big question?”
“I’m so glad you asked!” Rocket smiled, shifting the shiv’s sharp edge so it was right up against the human’s carotid artery. The terran’s eyes widened, realizing that one wrong movement would result in instantaneous death. “I think what we’re forgetting to ask is if you wanted to die here by my hands today. Do you have any idea what I’d do to a person who’s stalked me for three months and lied to me for just as long? I know you’ve seen me getting ahead of myself when fighting sometimes, even if you like to pretend that you didn’t see me do some messed up scut. Is that something that sounds appealing to you? You want me to do that to you?” Rocket asks cheerily, nudging the knife as a painful warning of what can happen if he answers wrong. There’s only one answer he’ll accept, otherwise, he’ll just kill himself in front of Pete. Change the trajectory of his life forever, and whatnot.
Swallowing audibly, Peter scrunches his eyes shut as his face begins to take on an embarrassingly red color, nervous drops of sweat starting to form on his brow. He’s always been one to get disgustingly sweaty when faced with an unexpected turn of events, constantly having to wipe his palms on his pants or hide the humiliating sweat stains that form all over his shirt. He’s struggling to understand what exactly the raccoon wants him to say, and it has him trembling with anxious anticipation, hating the sensation of sweat prickling forth from his skin as he pulls in shaky, lungfuls of air.
Pete, on one hand, would be more than happy to be brutally tortured and then murdered by Rocket. Hell, he’d probably enjoy more than half of the shit the raccoon could conjure to terrorize him with, shivering intensely as he imagines that shiv plunging into his throat, severing various arteries, and spraying the biped with his blood. He thought he’d take that fucked-up desire of his to the grave, but it seems the hybrid wants to hear him admit to it.
But fuck, is he willing to tell Rocket that? To fess up to the fact that he finds it so fucking hot whenever the hybrid kills somebody? To say that he almost comes every time he sees the raccoon covered in guts and blood following a battle? That his wires are so crossed and mixed he can’t differentiate between fear and arousal? The shiv digs into the delicate, thin skin of his throat, breaching the skin from every point of contact. A line the length of his finger is sliced into his flesh, pulling out a pained whimper from the terran as blood rapidly swells to the surface. It’s a not-so-gentle reminder that Rocket wants an answer out of him and that it has to be the right one.
“Please,” Pete forced out, tears burning at the corner of his eyes. “I’d let you kill me anytime you see fit, sir.” It’s obscene how much he’s bulging in the patterned slacks, pressing his thighs together miserably in an attempt to get any form of stimulation on his aching cock. He throbs intensely, eyes nearly going cross-eyed by the sheer intensity of how much it hurts.
God. He needs something to fuck against soon, or he’s going to go insane. Fuck, he might have to overpower Rocket soon if the fucking guy doesn’t get this show on the road. He’s so desperate, in fact, that he doesn’t even care about the inevitable hostility he’d be met with if he all but mounted the hybrid and rutted against him until he came.
“Oh, is that right?” Rocket smirked sleazily, fuzzy ears twitching in that self-assured way of his as he made a show of putting away the shiv. “You sure you’d like me strangling you to death with a coat hanger? Or do you like the idea of me stabbing you in the guts more? Or maybe you’d like me to empty some lead into that stupid skull of yours? Ha! Lookit ya, ya lil whore. Humping the air like a friggin’ dog in heat.”
“Sir.” The terran whined, clenching his eyes shut as tears spilled onto his cheeks from humiliation. Grotesque, violent imagery fills both of their minds, and it has the air around them heating up. It doesn’t phase the pair of men that they’re essentially in public. If anything, they find that fact makes it all that much more appealing.
The biped cackled loudly, all too pleased with the look of utter desperation on Quill’s face. “What? You don’t like being called out for being the slut you are? That’s what you are.” He sneers lecherously, making a show of gripping the bulge in his slacks and stroking it. “Goddamn.” He whispers shakily underneath his breath, “You see what you do to me? How flarkin’ hard you get me?”
Peter all but sobbed, wheezing messily as he lunged forward to rub his face against the raccoon’s front, inhaling deeply. “Finally.” He moaned, panting loudly, “Please, Rock—Sir. Please let me—“
“Let you what, huh?” Rocket spat, thrusting harshly against the humie’s face, growling deeply in his chest as he tried to satiate the fiery arousal burning low in his abdomen. The friction between his cock and Pete’s face was heavenly, sending currents of heady pleasure shooting up his cybernetic spine.
“L-let me suck your dick.” Pete stammered, blushing furiously as he stopped his cat-like nuzzling of the bulge in the raccoonoid’s slacks in favor of leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses. His spit soaks quickly into the threads of Rocket’s slacks, pulling a quiet purr out of the raccoon when he feels the moist warmth finally reach his dick. Pete groans, and Rocket’s waist jumps in eager encouragement.
“Heh, you wanna suck my cock, bitch?” He chuckled, rolling his head back as he gripped Peter’s hair to ride the man’s large nose and sinful lips. The man responded with a debauched moan, hands shaking as they came to begin undoing the clasps to the raccoon’s slacks.
“Y-yessir, I wanna- I wanna suck yer dick, sir. So badly.” The terran stuttered anxiously, brow burrowing with frustration when he realized how tricky the little pieces of metal were. “Dude, what the hell is this?” He whined petulantly, glancing up to give Rocket his best helpless look—a cherry-red-bitten lip sticking out in a childish pout, eyes wide and moist.
Rocket just responded with a disinterested expression, sighing as he rudely shoved Peter’s face away and undid the clasps himself, following the movement with a hurried gathering and bunching of the tassels into a stringy yarn ball. Sure, the suit would most likely be ruined, but the hybrid could care less, tossing the ball of strings over his shoulder and using a pair of clawed fingers to finally drop his slacks. The fabric bunched around his knees, revealing the dark red briefs he was wearing and the drenched spot where he’s been leaking pre-come since Pete kicked him in the back and dragged him by the scruff.
He flashes Quill a lecherous grin, all of his sharp teeth on display. “Well, go on, ya lil’ shit. You gonna suck it or what?” Rocket smiled, leaning against the alley wall behind him to give the human the most depraved look he’s capable of. The biped’s aware of the fact that he isn’t attractive to most humie’s out there—a fact that he pretends doesn’t bother him—but in a universe of so many different aliens, genders, and body shapes, there’s statistically no chance that absolutely no one is attracted to him. Put frankly, he’s had issues finding a wet, pulsing hole to stick his hooked dick in—having been propositioned a couple handful of times throughout his wretched life when he’d find himself out drinking.
The problem is, whenever he’s lucky enough to catch some sicko’s eyes, he’s not sure if that attention is genuine attraction or some flarked-up bestiality kink or whatever. Pete’s been a bit of a tough nut to crack in that regard, but Rocket gets the feeling the man’s a mix of both. Drawn to the raccoon’s personality and familiarity but also to the underlying taboo of getting to fuck around with an animal. The humie may say he’s not, but Rocket’s not stupid or clueless.
The man, in a characteristic show of incompetence, often forgets to clear his cybernet search history on the home uni-nav. Rocket had just been trying to look up some vendors for a metal alloy he needed for some side project when he stumbled across the hastily closed tabs of images and videos of drawn or animated anthropomorphic animals. He sort of just stood there, sucking on his teeth occasionally as he scrolled through page after page of the smut, nodding whenever he’d see a particularly well-drawn picture of a buff wolf getting his shit destroyed from behind by a raccoon. While quite the enlightening experience, Rocket had certainly learned something new about Peter, unable to stop himself from visibly analyzing the man who was crawling desperately towards him to get his mouth on his dick. And hell, if Rocket happened to secretly download some of those pictures for personal use, who could blame him? He didn’t know Terrans were capable of that level of delicious perversion.
So, keeping that in mind, he shows off his body the best he can, attempting to emulate those Terran models on the cover of mags he totally didn’t have a hidden stash of somewhere. He undoes a couple of the bottom buttons of his shirt and pulls it up, highlighting the length and litheness of his torso, forcing Pete’s line of sight to follow the natural contours of the hybrid’s body. Rocket watches as that shiny green gaze crawls downward from the hint of chest he teasingly exposes, leaving trails of burning fire in their wake as they center on the throbbing bulge obscenely pulsing beneath his thin briefs. Peter’s attention falls squarely on the bushy tuft of his pubic hair, pupils all but engulfing the color of his eyes. He quickly glances upwards for permission, aware of Rocket’s dislike of sudden movements. Rocket only thinks over it for a second before nodding, huffing amusedly when Peter fails to stifle a moan. He almost looks feral as he cups two large hands around his middle and draws Rocket right in up close against him, the man going out of his way to bury his face in amongst all the messed up metal circuitry and thick, musky fur and inhaling.
Peter, in bliss, nuzzles deeply into the source of intense, pungent odor—groaning shakily as he sniffs at Rocket’s dick in a hilariously similar manner to that of Rocket’s feral brethren. The sight pulls a shaky, humored chuckle from the biped, grinning cockily as he grips onto Peter’s hair and shoves him all up against his aching cock. “Get in there!” He sniggered, laughing at the smell-drunk droop in the terran’s eyes. “I know you’ve been wanting it!”
”Hn-nnhh. Thank you, Rocky.” Pete smiles dumbly, moaning when he hastily shoves a hand into his pants and starts stroking himself quickly, surprising the raccoonoid with his tenacity. The smile smoothly shifts into the opposite of innocent when he rubs his face between Rocket’s legs. However, moments before Peter exposes Rocket’s length, the raccoon drags in a self-soothing breath and stops the human with a paw to the crown of his head.
“Pete.” He rasps, enjoying the feeling of the man’s hair against his sensitive paws.
It takes a moment for the human to realize the interruption, glancing upwards with confused consternation. “What?” He frowned. “Don’t tell me you're backing out again.”
“I’ve never backed out of anything, Star-loser.” Rocket spat, knocking Quill upside the head for the comment, “I just wanted to make sure you’re entirely down for what yer about to do. I ain’t exactly the most pretty lookin’ down there.”
At that, Pete’s eyes lose their defensive edge and soften, his beautiful greens once again taking on that sweet, dark look. “Oh, Rocky, I’ve already seen/ you before.” He smiles filthily, licking his lips salaciously before speaking in a strange accent Rocket had never heard.“I know what you’ve got going awn down there beneath dem draws, and I want it.” Probably some Terran thing.
Oh right, the humie has already seen his little dick. Fuckin’ freak that he is stalked him and watched him groom himself in incredibly compromising positions. If he didn’t go running out of Knowhere’s eye the first time he got a glimpse of his turgid length, well, it wouldn’t make sense for him to go running now.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.” Rocket grumbled, allowing the terran to finally—finally—pull down the elastic of his red briefs, exposing the raccoon’s dripping arousal to the cool air of the alleyway. He shivers at the cold, wiggling his hips in an attempt to catch Quill’s attention with his precome-soaked shaft. Rocket can’t help but preen at how quickly it works.
“Hehehe… Good boy.” Rocket titters to himself before snarling viciously. He tries to hold in a high-pitched whine when Pete’s lips latch onto his cock, slurping and dragging on Rocket like a damn vice. Goddamn.
Pete moans brokenly, lips bruised a deeper red as his nose rubs Rocket’s stomach with every choppy motion of his head. The hybrid stretches his neck a bit left to get a stunning view of Peter’s human dick poking out from his unzipped pants. They form a wide open V, his cock out, red and heavy. He fists himself and pants for desperate breath after breath through his nose into Rocket’s belly. Rocket grins, pleased by the restless tremor in Peter’s entire body.
”You got so many… You’re so fucked up, man,” the hybrid moans. “There’s… fuck, there’s so much wrong with you.”
Pete keens hoarsely in agreement, the sound purring through Rocket’s dick like a flarkin’ vibrator. Shit. Rocket growls, thrashing his head around as he realizes he’ll be coming soon. But what can Rocket do against a guy Quill’s size? His mouth is so big and so warm. He’s drowning in pleasure before he realizes it, gasping as if he’s been swallowed whole by an ocean, and he’s struggling for air. An incredibly wet, scathing ocean of pure ecstasy. He can’t move, he can’t think. All he can feel are those sinful lips trying to suck the soul out of him. Pete lets out a contented growl of satisfaction, stubby tongue wrapping around his precome-drenched shaft, lapping it up as he bobbed his head down on it in a steady rhythm.
Unabashedly, the human lets go of his own aching arousal to fondle the hybrid’s small, furry balls, gently squeezing them as though hoping to tease out more whines and moans. Embarrassingly enough, it works instantly, Rocket making a sound similar to high-pitched chirp. His paws bury themselves in Pete’s perfect curls and pulls, forcing the terran’s nose into the bushy fur between Rocket’s legs, the hooked, mushroom tip of his cock fully submerged in his throat.
Rocket, teetering on the edge of coming, thrusts unpredictably and rapidly into Peter’s mouth, digging his boot into the floor to get more leverage. It causes the human to gag loudly, looking up to glare at the raccoon with an angry, teary-eyed frown. He whines in complaint when Rocket does it again and again, completely ignoring the man’s discomfort to chase his own pleasure.
“Shut it, whore. I know you can take it, you little flarkin’ slut.” He says, watching Pete through lidded eyes. He takes in his expression. It’s a mix of ecstasy and annoyance—eyes scrunched close, wetted lips wrapped tightly around the biped’s cock while whining. His hips keep rocking forward, the dripping, fleshy pink tip of his dick poking through the V of his open slacks. Flarkin’ hell, little Pete was pretty as flark.
“Mmh.” Pete retches, shaky hands coming up to desperately latch onto Rocket’s lithe hips. It immediately sets off alarms in the raccoonoid’s brain, his body tensing as he struggles to ward off the sudden wave of panic. His steady thrusts falter, and he pretends to take a breather, shivering intensely when Quill’s stubby fingers dig into his hip bones.
“Don’t touch me!” Rocket snapped, slapping away the man’s hands, “Don’t flarkin’ grab me like that!”
Pete instantly pulls off, a lewd, slick sound filling the air. His face is full of regret as he apologizes profusely. “Sorry! ‘M sorry!”
”You better be.” The biped sneered, slapping the man across the face with painful force. The slap has Pete’s head jerking to the right, whimpering in pain as he grips the throbbing skin of his cheek. He flinches when he sees the raccoon’s paw move towards him, cowering in fear as the clawed digits yank at his hair painfully and force his face back to being level with the turgid, bony shaft protruding from Rocket’s sheath.
“Better not do anything like that again, whore. Else, I’ll flarkin’ kill you with this.” The shiv makes a reappearance, scaring the hell out of Pete when the small blade comes dangerously close to his eye. “Heh, don’t act all scared, I know you like being treated like this.” He grins, thrusting brutally back into that scathing mouth, continuing to hold the knife threateningly. “Make me proud, be a good little bitch, and take it. Take this fuckin’ raccoon cock!” The word pulls an embarrassingly loud moan from Peter, his eyes closing hesitantly as he begins bobbing his head again.
Rocket shoulders past the moment of panic, rolling his head side-to-side to release the stress built up in his neck muscles. He focuses on the tight heat wrapped around his cock, melting back into the rhythm of things. Grinning, he glides the flat side of the shiv against Quill’s stupid-looking sideburns, reveling in the pathetic squeak the man makes. That sure doesn’t stop him from sucking, though. If anything, he speeds up with renewed vigor, pushing Rocket ever closer to that explosive edge.
He increases his pace, feeling the oncoming of an orgasm that’s going to leave him boneless. With a few more snarled words of bitch, whore, and slut, Rocket comes with a guttural cry, clawed fingers digging into Pete’s scalp and pulling his hair to bury himself as deep as he can. Surprisingly, Peter’s tear-filled eyes snap open before slamming shut as he comes untouched, whimpering loudly as ropes of sticky white fluid shoot from his cock.
The hybrid, caught in the throes of the best blowjob he’s ever had, is unaware as the ropes smear across his boots and floor between them, chittering animistically as he feels the last of his spend empty itself in the human’s mouth. “Oh, flark, flark! Fuckin’ take it!” Rocket moans raspily, tensing up once again as the pleasure racking his body borders on overstimulating. “Yer such a good little bitch for me. You like me hurting you, don’tcha?”
Pete nods stupidly, crying as he desperately swallows every drop of Rocket’s runny come that he can, licking and sucking up the dribblets that manage to escape past his lips and trail onto Rocket’s sheath and balls. Regretfully, he releases the raccoon’s aching shaft to chase after the come left over, panting heavily and shakily as he slurps up any remaining ejaculate.
“T-thank you.” Pete croaks gratefully, sobbing happily, “Thank you so much, R-rocky. Thank you.” His voice is shot to hell, hoarse beyond belief. Rocket almost frowns at how flarkin’ pathetic the man is acting, hissing when the terran’s tongue passes along the underside of his oversensitive dick. He jabs the handle of the shiv against Pete’s temple, stepping back to create some space between them as the human flinches away in pain. Slowly, the burning heat within him dissipates, the embers of lust cooling and vanishing into the cold, yawning emptiness within his chest. The dynamo is nothing more than a trace element in his bloodstream—its beautiful effects long broken down by his overactive metabolism.
Peter, whiplashed by the sudden change, looks at him in confusion, frowning. “T-The hell? What the fuck was that for?” He sloppily wipes away the drool and drying ejaculate on his lips, reflexively licking the disgusting mix on his sleeve. Rocket’s eyes widen at the nasty sight before feeling a rush of warm feelings flood his body, clashing forcefully against the bitterly frigid emotions tearing him apart inside. For a moment, he almost lets himself side with the painful aggressiveness, preparing to snarl and lash out—a set of reactions he’s entirely familiar with. But then he sees the stupidly fucked-out look in Pete’s eyes, lids drooping as he anxiously fidgets with the tassels of his suit, never able to stay flarkin’ still. It’s such a nostalgic image, so reminiscent of when the raccoon first came across the lonely, weird humie all those years ago, that he doesn’t have a choice but to relax, letting down all his hackles. He’s not sure how Quill is capable of evoking such feelings in a messed-up freak as himself, but he is.
“Cheezus, man, that’s flarkin’ nasty.” Rocket says with too much fondness in his voice, casually slipping the shiv back into a hidden place on his body, “C’mere, ya freak. I don’t need to see you slurping up that mess.”
Pete is quick to shuffle over, closing the space between them to rest his forehead against the raccoon’s chest, nuzzling the fur available to him through Rocket’s unbuttoned shirt. “Sorry. I dunno what got into me.” He murmured quietly, subdued, and completely given over to the hybrid’s whims.
The raccoonoid laughs softly at that, aware of the little lie the man just told him. “I know yer a nasty bitch, don’t act like yer not,” Rocket said, grinning while he combed a paw through Pete’s hair. It was hard not to bask in the warm, peaceful post-orgasmic glow buzzing throughout his body. He eagerly leans into the rare respite of calm.
“No, ‘m nawt.” The man slurred, hiding his burning face. The hybrid scoffed at his response but decided to let the lie slide. They both knew the truth, and it didn’t really need repeating. He’s been aware, for years now, of Quill’s—frankly hilarious—paraphilia for bodily fluids, including the man’s own. Rocket can still remember that weird, strange smile Quill wore as he proudly mentioned the fact that, under black light, the old Milano would look like a Jackson Pollock painting. Definitely a disgusting piece of knowledge he never asked for, but the terran was always willing to divulge, in excruciating detail, tales of his masturbatory practices. He seemed to take a special interest in nonconsensually sharing his sexcapades with all manners of alien life before meeting the Guardians. Gamora would always scoff in disgust, roll her eyes, and leave the room to get as far away as allowed on such a small M-ship. Drax would break out into raucous laughter, egging on Quill to tell more as if they were campfire stories—though, as far as any of them knew, to Drax, they were. Rocket, at the time still uneasy with all the humie’s near him, would pretend to not be listening. He’d fake being busy with baby Groot as he kept an ear open to all the ridiculous and borderline exhibitionist retellings the human would narrate. It didn’t take the biped long to pick up on the common throughline of Pete’s rather incessant focus on come and slick.
Back then, Rocket had honestly just written him off, assuming the man was some sort of perverted sex-pest, especially after catching him hoarding a small collection of all the Guardian’s worn clothing. Surprisingly, including Rocket’s as well. When confronted, he had stammered flusteredly, trying and failing to explain that he was just preparing another load of dirty laundry. It was the most obvious lie Rocket had ever had the displeasure of listening to, and was quick to make that apparent to the ex-Ravager, threatening the man with all forms of blackmail if he didn’t give him a ton of units to keep his snout shut. Pete, in order to avoid weirding out the recently formed team with his stupid flarkin’ collection, coughed up the thousands of units and sulked for weeks, complaining that Rocket was a mean bastard. The raccoon had just cackled the entire time, more than happy to remind Pete of the threat whenever he wanted something for free.
“You just want to feel safe, don’tcha?” Rocket asks, electing to use a different word instead of the cursed l-word. It might be easier now to say it, but the raccoon still finds it a struggle to be so open about his feelings towards others. Especially the mixed and strange feelings he has for his family (i.e., Peter Jason Quill).
Peter nods, silent. He seems to be coming down harshly from the high of coming untouched, meekly seeking out the warm touch of another by digging his face deeper into the fur of Rocket’s chest, inhaling deeply. Rocket hopes he isn’t feeling regret or disgust. Sure wouldn’t be the first time he’s had someone flip out on him when the dust settles after getting off.
“Y’know…” Rocket starts, humming raspily as he mulls over his words, “I’m glad you came back.” See? He’s not entirely incapable of demonstrating affection. “With you, everything… everything feels right.”
“I-it’s not just cuz I’m on my knees, right?” Peter jokes shakily, glancing up to weakly smile at the biped. Rocket just chuckles in response, trembling as the maelstrom of turbulent emotions and turmoil within him calms, temporarily quelled, if even for a moment. That smile. That damn smile. It’s a gentle upturn of heavenly lips that conquerors would go to war for. Kill millions for.
“Partly,” Rocket grins, realizing in that moment why he needs Peter so damn much. Without him, he’s aimless. Without him, he’s lost and trapped in the darkness of this cruel, cruel universe he finds himself trapped in. At least, together, they can run, hand in hand, from the rot tearing them apart from the very inside. They can keep running and pretend whatever is chasing after them—the thing seeking to make their lives as miserable as possible—won’t catch up to them. They need one another. “You do look good kneeling, though,” Rocket says nostalgically, remembering how it felt to run with the Guardians. Before it all went wrong, “I really am glad you came back, Pete. I was lost without you.”
The man’s face flushes red, stammering as he attempts to speak. “I was lost without you too, Rock. Sticking together—being with the Guardians—it makes me whole. I’m not me without you guys. Without…” Pete looks down at his hands on the dusty floor. “Ya know…” His face turns even redder. “You. I don’t know who I am without you.”
Yes, Rocket and Peter can just keep running as they always have. As the Guardians did before Rocket had to flark it all up by having his past make everyone question their place in this weird, messed-up family of theirs. He’d have gladly given up the chance of reckoning with the High Evolutionary if it meant continuing to live in that limbo of stability with his family. Sure, it’s exhausting, and Rocket wants to kill himself sometimes, but it’s exhilarating. It all makes him feel alive in a way nothing else can—no, Peter makes him feel alive in a way no one else can. He can finally flarkin’ breathe the sweet, fresh air of shared misery.
“But together,” Rocket murmurs, carding his claws through Pete’s hair, playing with the curls. “We know who we are. I really missed you, Pete. Why’d you have to leave me? I was hurtin’ bad, ‘nd I needed you, but you left me.” He frowns, digging his clawed fingers into the man’s scalp.
“I was scared.” Peter whimpers, pushing into the punishing pain pulsing from his head. “I was scared to think that if I kept… kept not swimming, I’d drown. I was so, so wrong, Rocky. Please believe me, I didn’t want to leave you! I was just so scared.”
“Scared of what?” Rocket growls, yanking on the man’s hair, “You suddenly a flarkin’ pussy? Peter fuckin’ Quill, Starlord and Savior of the Andromeda and Milky Way, is a d’ast pussyass bitch?”
I have such a way with words. Rocket thinks with a sharp, predatory grin, shivering in delight at the look of hurt in the man’s face. The sway he has, the power he holds over this humie—it reminds him of how it felt to be with the Guardians those first four years and the three years before Peter left him. Tossed him aside so he could fuck off to his shithole of a planet.
“Yes!” The terran cried, beautiful eyes welling with tears. “I was terrified that I’d hurt you!”
“Hurt me, how?!” The hybrid yelled, getting all up in the human’s face, baring his pointed canines threateningly. “You can’t flarkin’ hurt me in any way that matters! Only I can do that! Only I can hurt you!”
“Rocket.” Peter sobs, retching as he fights not to throw up. “I’m not good for you. I’m not good for anyone. All I do is hurt those around me, hurt you. Like you said, I’m the biggest fucking pussyass bitch in the universe. I can’t even handle being yelled at without crying like a bitch.” The man is hysterical, struggling to breathe.
Rocket rolls his eyes, enraged by Pete’s certainty in his pathetic words. “That’s for me to decide, flarknard, not you. I know what’s good for me, and what’s good for me is you! I need you, asshole!” The raccoon spat, starting to feel an inkling of panic in his stomach. Peter looked like he wanted to run away again, to abandon him again. He wouldn’t let him. No flarkin’ way. He’d rather kill the man first before letting him go.
They need each other, that much is obvious. They wouldn’t survive without one another, as is becoming apparent. The Guardians, when they formed all those years ago, was a bond forged by surviving a galactic threat. It was a bond reinforced by the looming fear of death, loneliness, and abandonment. Together, they could ignore that specter hanging above their damned souls. Peter was and is a man haunted by his childhood. The agonizing, slow loss of his mother and his subsequent raising by the Ravagers had molded him into a man who saw personal relationships as transactional to get what he needed. Sex, love, and care—it was an artificial veneer of false interactions that supposedly everyone played. Yondu, as much as the man had been his father, was ultimately not a good man, and Peter had been raised accordingly.
However, the moment he met the Guardians, fought by their side, and accepted he’d died beside them, he needed them. The twisted understanding of connection he had before had been shattered and replaced with an unhealthy attachment to a group of fucked-up criminals he’d only met days ago.
Rocket remembers those weeks they spent on Xandar, awaiting their pardons and recovering from the battle, how the man acted whenever the possibility of them going their separate ways came up. Drax, his bloodlust momentarily quelled, had spoken at length about returning to Kylos. He was not a fan of being returned to the limelight of celebrityhood. Gamora, free from her father’s wrath, had considered investigating if she was truly the last of her kind. She couldn’t accept that her people could have been so thoroughly extinguished. Rocket, perturbed by the idea of staying with those weirdo humies, had been set on returning to his old ways with the then infant Groot. After all, he didn’t know any better. But Quill, the moment he’d hear those words, the second anyone would entertain those thoughts, he would panic.
One time, in particular, when Groot was still just opening his eyes, Pete had jumped the gun by assuming they’d raise the sapling together. Rocket, still of the opinion he’d be leaving the moment he got pardoned, had mocked the man, asking him what he meant by ‘we.’ His accusatory tone set off the human. He looked around at the three of them, eyes full of panic, as if they had all just announced their intentions to brutally murder him. The three of them just stared at him, caught off guard by the man’s desperation. He’d flinched, appearing terrified, as he desperately spoke about them all sticking together, flushing a fascinating shade of red as he essentially demanded they be Guardians of the Galaxy. Obviously, everyone has been put off by the Terran’s certainty about this relationship they apparently had with one another. Rocket had been infuriated by it, pissed off that anyone would dare make a decision on his behalf. The Terran had seemingly gone ahead and convinced himself that they were the best of chums, when in reality they had barely spoken to one another beyond stilted, awkward conversations. The color changing thing he seemed to do constantly had also gotten on Rocket’s nerves. He hadn’t known at the time that it wasn’t some threat display but a reaction to show embarrassment or nervousness. Rocket remembers fondly that that particular culture shock had been slightly difficult for the Guardians to overcome.
“But I’m such a terrible person.” Peter said through gritted teeth, “You have to understand that, Rocket, you have to see it. I fucking stalked you for months, for godsake!”
“Holy shit! I don’t flarkin’ care if you’re a terrible person.” Rocket groaned exasperatedly, shaking the man’s head in frustration in hopes that the harsh movements would kickstart the man’s brain. “You act like you’re the only krutarckin’ asshole in the damn universe. Guess what, hotshot, you’re not! Haven’t you ever considered in that tiny humie brain of yours that we’re both terrible flarkin’ people? Huh? That all of us are terrible, flarked-up idiots? You ever thought of that?”
In the end, their collective trauma bond was much too ingrained to overcome. They couldn’t leave, even if they wanted to. And, somehow, even after all the crimes they had committed and were sure to continue committing, they got their official, Xandarian-stamped pardons. Rocket sold his old, shitty ship, and they blasted off into space, barely holding it together as they immediately jumped from life-threatening battle to life-threatening battle. Never a moment to sit and think about what they had just survived, all they had suffered. Always moving, always running. Those were the best four years of his goddamn life.
“My brain is not tiny.” Peter pouted wetly, pulling from the biped’s hold to glare at him with red-rimmed eyes. “And of course I know I’m not the only asshole in the universe. We’ve met more than our fair share of assholes. It just feels like whenever we’re together, it brings out the worst in us. I mean, that has to be obvious to you, doesn’t it?”
A spike of fear spears through Rocket’s stomach. His hands, which were in the middle of reaching back for Peter’s hair, froze midair. He often forgets how competent Pete can be when he wants to, his show of obliviousness nothing but a farce to mislead people. Shit. Rocket’s supposed to be smarter than to be falling for the human’s trickery. “Bring out the worst in each other? Just what in the hell are you talkin’ about?” Rocket blustered, playing up his offense the best he could. “Is that how you see me? A flarkin’ dink who only brings out the worst in you?”
Pete’s eyes widened, falling for the verbal trap the raccoon had so obviously laid out: “W-what? No- no, that’s not what I meant—”
Rocket cuts him off, snarling in an attempt to come off as enraged rather than how flarkin’ terrified he felt at the prospect of Peter second-guessing their relationship. “Then what the hell did you mean by it?” He said dangerously, arms coming to cross over his chest.
Then, as if suddenly realizing the out Rocket is giving him, the dumbass slams his mouth shut with a click, face twisting in a surprising show of his emotions. Bitterness, exhaustion, shock, but most of all, relief. He’s sickeningly relieved by what the hybrid is indirectly telling him—what he’s allowing him by giving him the opportunity to shut the hell up, feign ignorance, and keep it moving. “Nothing.” He said, smiling emptily, “I meant nothing by it, Rocky.”
“That’s what I d’ast thought.” Rocket grumbled, similarly relieved at having averted this festering wound of a crisis for now. They could just keep running and running into the forever sky, never stopping to let their demons catch up with them. They had tried it multiple times, and it had failed spectacularly in every single attempt. Unfortunately, as those thoughts zipped through his cybernetic mind, his short-lived relief was rapidly replaced with paralyzing alarm. A crescendoing cascade of awareness overwhelms him, gripping him by the throat.
What did it say of them that they couldn’t exist on their own? Are they really that ruined, so much so that they can’t even fathom existing without being surrounded by similarly insane people? It's impossible to unsee it now, Rocket realizes, staring at a confused Peter with wide, unblinking eyes. He can’t ignore the stagnation they’re in. Rocket, in a cursed moment of terrible realization, understands that they need each other to just survive, much less live. For should they stop and go their separate ways—follow their own d’ast paths—well, it never ends well nor pretty. Every single time they split up, it just created a new world of pain for them to experience.
The first time they separated into two groups, Rocket got a nice frontrow seat to watch a mutiny of Yondu’s clan, listening to the screams of good men as they were brutally floated for refusing to betray their captain. Peter, on the other hand, got his head filled with lies by that freak Ego before being turned into a d’ast battery for the egotistical maniac that was his biological father. They were so damn close to dying that time, so close to being suffocated by celestially-powered rocks. And all they achieved from that misadventure was Rocket developing a debilitating phobia of heavy weights on his chest and Peter losing Yondu the moment he realized the blue bastard was his daddy.
Then there was the time they split up to follow some nebulous rumor of a group of Zehoberei survivors on a planet called Zen-Rayjek. Gamora, desperate for the chance to reconnect with what was left of her people, jumped at the opportunity, taking Quill and Nebula with her. It didn’t take long for Rocket and Mantis to sniff out the inconsistencies in the story of these survivors and take off after their idiotic, sentimental crew. Unsurprisingly, the rumor turned out to be a plot to capture the Guardians and ransom the Nova Corps for their release. What made this flarkup of a mission particularly egregious were the snuff films the captors made out of Quill and Gamora’s torture, hour upon hour of holo-vids depicting the human and Zehoberei being brutalized in exceedingly creative ways. Especially Gamora. Gods, the woman had never looked so dead inside, eyes vacant in a way Rocket had only seen when she was reliving some traumatic episode of her childhood. He’s pretty sure some of those holo-vids are still floating around the cybernet, hidden on some distant server-buoys in the backwaters of the galaxy.
However, the time they split up that tore him up the most was when, in the days before the Snap, Rocket chose to run away with Thor to Nidavellir. That argument with Peter, being called out for what he was about to do, would be the precursor to the most haunting decision of his life. That would be the last time he’d see his family for five fucking years. For sixty months, Rocket was tortured nonstop by the guilt of abandoning his family when they needed him. He was split down the middle, atom by atom, by the pain of knowing that the last time he’d ever seen Gamora was with such an unforgivably mean goodbye. The last memory he had of Peter, one that still kept him up at night, was the hurt on the man’s face. Hurt that Rocket, of all times, would choose to abandon them, knowing d’ast well there was a massive chance they’d never see each other again. And he was right. Holy flark was he right. Rocket thought he’d never see them again.
And all Rocket could do every single time he lost someone new, added a new trauma to the mile-long list he already had, or got seriously injured was to brush it off and move on. If he were to stop and take a moment to breathe, he’d be inundated with a fatal amount of flashbacks to all the times he’d lost his family. He’d be confronted with all the mistakes he had made. He’d already lost them twice, and, by the gods, he couldn’t lose them again. He couldn’t lose Pete again. His withering will to live would finally, resolutely shatter.
“Ha.” Rocket started with a shaky chuckle, a broken sound, before more gasps of air left him in a rush, chest aching with the force of it. He’s laughing, he realizes slowly, cackling as his eyesite begins to blur and burn with unshed tears—streaks of burning hot warmth falling from his eyes and onto the tousled fur of his cheeks, leaving behind fiery trails of confused emotions.
Peter looks at him sharply, eyebrows furrowed with worry as the painful laughter continues. “Rocky,” he whispers, green eyes wide with unease. “Are you okay?”
That makes Rocket howl with humor, the choppy sounds flip flopping between desperate sobs and mind-tearing guffaws. “N-no.” He manages to say breathlessly, “Gods, no. I’m not fucking okay. In what world am I okay?” It really shouldn’t be that funny, but the situation he finds himself in—Quill on his knees before him while he has drying come on his boots—it’s flarkin’ hilarious. Probably one of the d’ast funniest things he’s experienced in his thirty-some years of life. Cheezus, what the hell is wrong with him?
The human keeps staring at him with concern before that cute, troubled expression of his melts into an anxious smile. Nodding, as if understanding what the hybrid is going through, he starts to laugh as well, wanting desperately to fit in. He just wants approval, Rocket thinks while roaring with laughter. He wants acceptance and love from Rocket, of all people. Him. The flarked-up, cybernetically enhanced raccoon. He doubles over, stomach cramping from all the laughter. Gods, what even is his life?
“I-it’s just us, ain’t it, Pete?” Rocket giggles, sobbing as he tries to catch his breath by standing up and backing away from the Terran. He realizes there’s nothing left for the two of them but each other. Mantis abandoned them to go who knows where. Drax and Nebula basically don’t even exist anymore, constantly busy with running a whole civilization. Gamora is sorta dead. The Guardians disbanded months ago, and it seems there won’t be any for the foreseeable future. They really only have each other now, don’t they?
“Uh, y-yes?” Peter says, unsure yet still laughing even as Rocket all but cries in front of him. He’s uncertain, moving to sit on his haunches. The position still puts him taller than the raccoon, but has them roughly eye to eye, able to see in crystal clear clarity the turmoil on Rocket’s face. It has him wringing his hands on his lap, trying to dry his sweaty palms. Pete examines the raccoon from top to bottom. Rocket’s furry little face is damp with fresh tears, and his muzzle is open, tongue dangling as he attempts to regulate his breathing. His shirt has fallen to cover his abdomen once again, much to the human’s dismay, and his slacks have somehow managed to hang onto his surprisingly well-shaped, furry thighs. His dick had long retracted into its sheath, but the moist, red tip was still poking out. With the space between them cooling the air slightly, it gives Peter the chance to notice the dripping white fluid on the raccoon’s filthy boots. Instantly, the man’s behavior changed, once again desperate to grovel beneath the raccoonoid.
Rocket, noticing the change in the human’s demeanor, watches in shock as Peter’s face flushes red before he leans down to clean his boots without hesitation. No flarking instructions needed. His tongue, slick with saliva and the raccoon’s spend, licks and slurps up his own come, groaning quietly as the foul flavor of dirt and semen mixes in his mouth. Bit by bit, he leaves the biped’s shoes shining with spit, seemingly unaware of the disgusted fury on the raccoon’s face. Rocket, eyes wide, gags as he sees the column of Pete’s throat move upwards, swallowing down the nasty concoction into his stomach. He hears the raspy, debauched moan that leaves deep in Pete’s chest, and it has him feeling all sorts of ways. Mostly pissed off, but he can’t ignore the flicker of arousal. The man’s acting like he’s some whore bot from Contraxia he’s paid extra to do kinky shit. And holy scut is that pissing him off.
“What the flark are you doing?” Rocket snapped, frozen in place, watching Pete continue licking his boots. Did he look so flarking pathetic that the Terran had to debase himself? He can’t help but remember all the humiliating times he forked up hundreds of credits to have a whore bot pretend he was something he wasn’t. For them to bat their eyes all sultry-like and call him a big, big man.
Rocket snarls, growling deeply in his chest as he proceeds to spit in Peter’s face, a glob of saliva splattering onto the human’s cheek. The lack of reaction he gets only serves to enrage him even more, hating how the human only flinched before continuing to lick his boots. It's flarking pathetic. “Yer disgusting!” The biped yelled, harshly kicking his boot straight into Pete’s mouth, splitting his lip. That still doesn’t stop him. “Fucking stop it!”
The humie starts trembling. Whether it's from fear or horniness, Rocket isn’t sure, but it sure as hell doesn’t deter the man from being a d’ast bootlicker. “J-just let m-me—“ He pants, licking the oozing blood from his torn lip. His hands shakily grip the raccoon’s ankles, forcing him to stay still. “F-fuck. I’m just—“
“Just what?” Rocket interrupts him sneeringly, yanking his leg from the man’s hold. “Actin’ like a flarkin’ nasty ass f*ggot?”
“Yes.” Peter moans sinfully, grabbing the biped’s ankle once again to bring the nanofiber boot back to his mouth. “Call me that again, sir. Please. I’m just a little f*ggot.” He whispers, eyes filling with tears against his will. It’s confusing how such horrible words make him feel so good.
“Gods, you're so flarked up, aren’t you?”
“Just for you, sir.”
They really don’t have anything but each other.
Notes:
i just wanted to do some clarification. what you read is mostly what rocket is thinking. he is most definitely not a reliable narrator. how he feels, what he interprets, and how he understands those around him is very biased towards his messed up perception. he's still mostly accurate but he tends to catastrophize and exaggerate. it feeds into his rapid mood shifts and aggressiveness with his friends, especially with Peter.
i'll probably do some writing from the perspectives of others, all of which will all be unreliable narrators in their own right. like, everyone in this movie trilogy is fucked up in multiple ways lmaoo.
Chapter 12: Not Today, Maybe Tomorrow
Summary:
Sometime after the wedding, Peter crashes into bed once more. He's tired, depressed, and done with it all. Unfortunately, there's a pesky raccoon that just won't leave him alone no matter how much he tells him off.
Notes:
CW: dub con behavior from rocket. obvs, pete enjoys it nonetheless, but be warned.
my internship is done! presented my project and even published it like an accomplished scholar. now i got about two free weeks so i'll be able to get more writing done. i already have the next chapter done and edited and another drafted. i'll post it next week, so dw, there's more content coming <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Not Today, Maybe Tomorrow
Peter’s been in bed for days. A never-ending monotony of sleep and exhaustion. He hasn’t gotten up to brush his teeth since he fell into the comforting mattress, and he hasn't toweled himself down in longer. Morning breath has long been left behind and has been replaced with a smelly, disgusting film in his mouth. It’s probably contributing to that ache he’s pretty sure is a cavity decaying a molar, but he can’t find it in himself to care. Why get up and spend all that energy if he knows it’ll all be for nothing? God, he’s so tired.
The passage of time is distorted and manipulated gently by the fingers of drug withdrawals. The seconds feel more like minutes, and the minutes feel more like hours. He’d have long lost his mind if it weren’t for the pitter-patter of clawed toes against the metal floor around him. He hears the sound at all times of the day, from every direction. Above, beneath, and beside him—a constant flurry of motion and energy. Pete wishes he had that much energy. Maybe then he’d be capable of fucking bathing himself and preparing a plate of food. But until he feels better and feels that swell of manic-induced anxiety, he won’t be able to do anything on his own. He has to be reliant on the saccharine cruelty of those furred paws that hurt him and touch him when he’s incapable of returning those gestures. Make him feel as if he’s some selfish burden, taking and taking when he doesn’t even deserve the idea of nothing.
But the touches never stop. A small drag of claws along his cheek. A cold, moist nose trailed up his throat. An inhale of breath, an exhale of pleasure. His sense of time revolves around this physical dance of sometimes shy, sometimes bold touches. Peter can feel the intention, the feeling behind these gropes. They’re mostly innocuous, innocent in their reason, but sometimes they’re filthy and vulgar in their hopes. It’s not fair, he pouts. His body’s too heavy to maneuver, the artificial gravity incapable of accommodating the sudden weight of his depression. He can’t return the touches, no matter how much he desires to. He can’t even get hard, so drained of everything he has nothing to give. Frankly, it’s humiliating to be this useless. But it seems that the furry bastard takes a special sort of delight whenever he gets like this. Assumes he has some carte blanche to do anything he likes to him, even if Peter vocally disagrees. What could he do anyway? It’s not like he has the energy to fight back. He’s completely defenseless to the whims of a neurotic raccoon. What a joke.
“Stop touching me.” He mumbles, struggling and failing to raise his arms to push away the invasive body. All he manages to do instead is twitch violently and turn his body slightly to the left, creating a gap of space between himself and those inquisitive hands. In a moment of respite, he tries to psych himself up to get that sudden rush of jittery energy, but all he gets is fumes. At the very least, Pete’s capable of opening his eyes, talking, and eating on his own. Unlike last time, where he was straight up unconscious for two weeks.
“Don’t act like you don’t want this, Petey.” Rocket jeers, crawling around and over his body to close that space once again. Peter feels the puffs of air leaving the raccoon’s nose caress the skin of his throat, causing him to shiver. He opens his eyes to glare at the hybrid, watching with a tired, heavy gaze as Rocket leans in to get a whiff of him. For a brief moment, their eyes make contact, and he sees how blown the hybrid’s pupils are. There’s almost none of that lovely reddish-brown color, a deep, black abyss taking its place. Then Peter smells the burnt chemical smell wafting from the raccoon’s breath. His senses could be wrong, but he’s starting to think Rocket’s not exactly sober at the moment.
Peter scoffs at that, finding enough spite in himself to roll over and pull the blanket over his head, blocking the biped from getting what he wanted. If Peter couldn’t have his autonomy, then Rocket couldn’t have a piece of his, frankly, delicious ass. “Seriously, leave me alone, dude. I don’t have the energy to deal with your shenanigans this early.” Ever since he’d blown Rocket, the raccoon’s been insatiable in his desire to initiate any form of contact between the two of them. Constantly, at all times, laid up against him or underneath him, all but begging to be touched between his legs. Pete knew the guy was possessive, a fact he found ceaselessly attractive, but even this was too far. It was as if a switch had been irrevocably flipped with no possibility for reversal, the raccoon refusing to leave his side for any longer than a few minutes. He couldn’t exactly blame the guy, honestly. From what Peter had gathered from their years together, Rocket getting the opportunity to bone somebody was quite uncommon. Even rarer was that attention being mutual and reciprocated, mostly untainted by those fetishizistic desires he despised so much.
“It’s three hours into the night cycle. Don’t tell me you’ve lost track of time that severely.” Rocket asks humorously, forcing his way into the cocoon Peter had made. Soon enough, after enough wiggling and wriggling about, the raccoon’s snout was all up in his face, those bright, carmine eyes staring at him in the dim darkness of the blanket. “C’mon, Pete, can you at least give me a hand? You can’t just give me the best blowie of my life and expect me not to ask for more.”
God, this fucking raccoonoid was going to be the death of him. “No, Rocket, I will not be giving you another blowie. Or a handjob, for that matter. I don’t know if you can see, but I’m not in the best shape right now.” He groaned, undisguised frustration seeping into his tone.
Rocket’s snout scrunches cutely, his ears twitching erratically. “Yeah, I know. You’re acting all sleepy and tired, like that time I brought you in from that alleyway outside Farnouk’s. But you’re talking this time! You can actually move! That’s some improvement, right? Enough improvement to help me get off, right?” The raccoon’s voice was borderline hyperactive, his small frame trembling with the rush of whatever he was on coursing through his bloodstream. It would’ve been adorable if not for the borderline pained look in Rocket’s eyes, nostrils flaring incessantly as his body struggled to keep up with the large dose he always needed. He was never one to take reasonable amounts of anything, and was always reckless in his consumption of drugs. Peter had cautioned him about that once, during one of their earlier benders, and had been met with a barrage of hurtful comments and insults. He didn’t bother to try again, not exactly jumping at the idea of being called an overweight whale on the verge of dying from high cholesterol again.
“You’re high, aren’t you?” Peter deadpans, failing to ignore the stab of jealousy that runs through him at the thought of missing out on being drugged up to hell. Maybe then he could ignore the overwhelming cloud of miserable exhaustion eating away at him, draining and sapping away all the energy he had until he was less than the mere husk of a man he already was. It had worked well enough when he was on Terra, huffing glue in secret so his grandfather wouldn’t find out. Of course, that huffing of glue and snorting of oxys probably contributed to the mental break he had, but that was then and this is now. Unfortunately, Rocket’s been unwilling to give him anything, always ensnaring him with the promise of sweet relief before snatching it away with a cheshire grin. The biped seems to like watching him suffer and beg for drugs.
“How’d ya know?” The biped asks, slowly making his way upwards until his muzzle is buried in Peter’s neck, nuzzling deep into the warm, sweaty source of the human’s scent. “Gods, you smell so damn good. It’s not fair that you’re holding out on me like this, not when you smell this exquisite.”
“Using big words now, aren’t we?” Peter sassed, closing his eyes and shivering intensely, when he felt surprisingly muscular, furred arms wrap around his chest, pulling him in close. He might be depressed all the way to hell and back, but leave it to Rocket to somehow pull out the nonexistent energy within him. “It’s obvious that you’re high. For one, you’re acting all twitchy. And two, you’re horny as hell. Don’t pretend I can’t feel your dick stabbing into my stomach. I bet it’s lowpri. That biologic always gets you going worse than a garlax in heat.”
Rocket hums in agreement, wrapping his thighs around Peter’s stomach. “I always use big words, dummy.” He purrs, starting to hump him as if it were the most normal thing in the universe. He wasn’t even trying to hide the fact that he’s trying to get off, shamelessly chasing after his own completion without any regard to Peter’s growing arousal. “It is lowpri.” He pants, speeding up his aborted, messy thrusts. “Gods, you feel so d’ast good. Do you always feel this good? It’s the lowpri, right? Lowpri’s always made me feel horned up to high heavens. Always gotta jerk off whenever I take it.” The hybrid chitters, small, high-pitched sounds Peter can’t help but find hot as hell. God, he’s so fucked in the head, isn’t he? To get turned on by those animalistic, raccoon-like sounds? There has to be something seriously wrong with him.
“I know. I had to listen to you every time we would take it together back then.” Pete slurs, finding the alluring tendrils of sleep gripping him once again, battling with the flame of arousal burning his insides. “Though, you’d always start crying afterwards. Like, when you were done and everything. It would really ruin my mood, to be honest.” The half-chub he’s sporting in his drawls is about as hard as he’s going to get in this state, unfortunately. He’s already on the verge of falling back into the gray mist of a depression nap when suddenly there’s a sharp tap against his cheek, the harsh impact forcing his eyes back open. Through the dim light filtering through the blanket, he can make out the shape of Rocket’s clawed hand slithering back to where it was before, a painfully-pleasing, prickling sensation digging into the meat of his upper back. His claws dig in deeper, pulling a whimper out of him. He both hates and absolutely loves it.
Rocket moans, burying his face entirely into Peter’s neck, licking and nipping at the sensitive skin behind his ear. “Don’t g-go fallin’ asleep on me now, baby boo…” He breathes heavily, moving around hastily to push off the blanket covering them. “The cryin’ ruins my mood too. Happens way too much fer my liking.” Peter has to snap his eyes closed, hissing from the sudden sting of the headache-inducing lights shining way too brightly this late into the night.
“Holy shit, dude. Why’d ya hafta take it off?” He whines, opening his eyes in a squint to see Rocket’s hips moving forward and back, rutting incessantly into the flabby skin of Peter’s gut. It’s almost funny how much the hybrid shames him for his weight gain when he’s also formed some form of attraction towards his softer, pudgier appearance, unashamedly whimpering as he threw his head back. Pete gets the perfect view of the biped in the throes of pleasure, tongue hanging out from his mouth. The pink organ is framed perfectly by stained, razor-sharp teeth. Little, pointed organic daggers capable of tearing apart flesh, just as brutal and violent as the raccoon himself. His dick gives a valiant twitch.
“Was getting hot, ‘s all.” Rocket says haughtily, trilling and yipping as he takes what he wants from Peter’s body, not stopping for a moment to make sure he was in agreement or even wanted any of this. As if he’s nothing other than some object to use. A toy to get off with. Pete burns with shame, gasping loudly as he turns to bury his flaming face into the pillow beneath him. He’s not surprised to discover he’s disgustingly into this, falling apart at the thought of being used so obscenely.
He’s always had an inclination towards his partners being domineering control freaks who can bulldoze him with their physical or intellectual strength. Gamora had been so much stronger than him in every way that mattered, leading to very interesting (mindblowing) sexual experiences and positions with his late girlfriend. Rocket, on the other hand, may be surprisingly strong for a person his size, but he wouldn’t be lifting him with a single finger any time soon. What he can offer, though, is his sheer bloody tenacity and astounding intelligence. The hybrid is so much smarter than him that he sometimes feels like a pea-sized brainlet standing beside him. All it took was a wickedly sharp grin, a mischievous glint in his eyes, and a piece of garbage, and Rocket could essentially build anything he damn wanted. It was unfairly attractive—the show of competence. He’s so fucking gone for a damn cybernetic raccoon.
“The lights’re,” Peter gasps, sucking in air to cool his overheating body, “the lights’re too bright. They’re hurting my eyes.” The amount of sensation bombarding him is bordering on overstimulating in the most delicious of ways. Cruelly, Rocket’s paws knead the muscle of his chest, playing and tweaking with his hardening nipples through his thin shirt. Currents of electricity shoot up his spine, frying his brain as he moans gutterally, thrusting into the air in an attempt to get any friction on his half-hard dick.
“Ya think I care?” Rocket cackles, painfully pinching a nipple between two sharp claws. “I’m just tryna get off while I’m still riding this high.” He grins, looking directly into Pete’s eyes with a lidded, gleeful gaze. “You wanna get off too, mister limp dick?” He taps a foot roughly against the bulge in his drawls, flexing his toes in a teasingly brutal rub. Pete hates how much he’s into this, panting at the sight of the hybrid’s black toe pads firmly fondling him. He whines, wincing, as Rocket digs a sharp toe claw into his balls.
“F-fuck you!” Peter grinds out, chasing after the pain with a needy conviction. He knows he won’t be getting off when he’s in this state, having tried and failed multiple times in the past. At most, he’ll achieve a ruined orgasm, crying in agony as sad spurts of come splatter onto his stomach uselessly. “You know I can’t get hard, asshole.” His voice breaks off into a cry, moaning pitifully when Rocket pushes his foot down hard against his cock. It’s so good, and his whines don’t stop as Rocket makes sure to abuse the cock being crushed under his foot.
“How flarkin’ cute! The little painslut enjoys having his cock crushed under my feet. Do you wanna come on my feet? Should I make you lick them clean like the dog you are?” Rocket says with a sickeningly sweet tone. After a moment of abusing his cock, he finally gives him reprieve, letting him breathe for a moment as he’s forced by the biped’s rough hands to make eye contact. “Do you like it? Like being degraded like this?” Rocket demands an answer more than asking for one.
Peter struggles to find his words, suddenly speechless when confronted with this weird, fucked-up situation they’ve got going on. His silence seems to piss off the hybrid because he’s slapping his face so hard that he feels like he’s seeing stars. His cheek burns hot with the impact, skin ringing with the pain of those calloused paws hurting him. He wants more. He needs more.
“I said, do you like it?” Rocket repeats again, his raspy voice dripping with force and aggression. Pete can only groan as Rocket grinds his foot harder against his cock. God, if only he could get harder than a soggy burrito, he’d be coming so hard right now. Instead, he has to experience the delicious torment of Rocket toying around with him, callously ignoring his whimpers of pain and despair. It hurts so much, but it feels so good, and he’s not used to feeling this good.
“Yes. Fuck. Yes, I love it.” Peter exclaims, mind reeling from the dizzying mixture of sensations and emotions. It clashes with his depressed state, leaving him a panting, exhausted mess. Jesus, he’s going to pass out at this rate if Rocket doesn’t finish soon.
“Then why aren’t you getting hard?” Rocket guffawed, laughing at him as if he were the biggest joke in the universe. The ridicule hurts him, striking harshly into a bruise of insecurity, digging in deeper the longer the raccoon kept making fun of him. He closed his eyes out of humiliation, tearing up when he realized he loved the treatment.
Still doesn’t stop him from lashing out, petulantly saying. “We all don’t have a weird dick bone like you, that’s why!” It’s a useless, petty jab, but god damn it, he’s on the verge of combusting.
“You sure as hell love this dick bone, don’t you?” Rocket laughed boisterously, licking his lips licentiously. “Had you suckin’ and sloberin’ all over it like a flarkin’ whore.” Suddenly, he curls inward with a raspy groan, gritting his teeth. He tenses up all over, spine going rigid as he makes loud, stuttering noises, roughly thrusting against Peter’s midriff with obnoxious moans and whines. Pete groans in frustration, eyes tearing up when he feels the biped halt all his movements and collapse in a heavy heap on his chest.
His frustration burns him up inside, leaving him a glowering mess, glaring at Rocket. “Seriously, fuck you, dude! You fixin’ to leave me hangin’ like this? Like some friggin’ son of a bitch!”
“Ugh, shut the hell up, man. I’m tryna catch my damn breath. Give me a sec.” Rocket complains muffedly, face buried against Peter’s chest. Eventually, he does get up to shoot him a questioning look, ears tilted curiously. “Also, what did you just say? I swear, whenever you get an eensy, weensy, tiny bit mad, you start speaking nonsense. You know my translator struggles picking up on that accented crud.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Peter says disparagingly, face red from anger instead of its usual embarrassment. “Forgive me for being a put-out bastard, your majesty. I’m just ticked off that you’re a selfish fuck. Comin’ in here to get off and then leave? Yeah, flark you!”
Rocket laughs at that, not taking him seriously at all. “See, now yer way of talking is getting all mixed up. First it was, what was it again, friggin’? Yeah, then it was fuck, and now it’s flark. You Ravager types really are a multicultural bunch, aren’tcha?”
“Shut it.” Pete mutters angrily, turning his head away from the raccoon. Just seeing the bastard ignites his indignation. He closes his eyes when the hybrid just tries to lean into his field of view, his annoyingly smug face smiling proudly as he points towards his soiled briefs.
“You wanna give them a lick?” He says with a sleazy grin, thrusting his hips pointedly. The orange boxer briefs he’s wearing have an indecent, delicious-looking come stain, the raccoon’s thin ejaculate dripping from the drenched fabric. Peter hates how his attention is immediately peaked, glancing over with an overeager, hopeful expression. If he had fuzzy little ears like Rocket, they would’ve perked up from his barely contained excitement.
“Is that even a question?” He asks, licking his lips in preparation for the feast he’s about to enjoy. Rocket chitters in glee, crawling up his chest to position himself crotch-to-face with Peter. The heady scent of the hybrid’s sex instantly enters his nostrils, melting his brain with pheromones as he leans in to begin sucking the runny liquid from the briefs. His anger dissipates and is replaced with blissfully empty contentment, licking and lapping away without a single worry in the world. Peter’s a simple man, after all.
“Good boy.” Rocket praises, and Peter practically shivers at his tone and at how he’s being treated like a fucking dog. He never realized how much being degraded like this turned him on. Sure, sometimes the jabs actually hurt, going further than what he thought was necessary and into the territory of just plain intent to put him down. But, then again, this was Rocket he was talking about. The emotionally constipated, self-professed professional asshole extraordinaire.
Oh, but he’s so gone for this asshole extraordinaire, pressing his face deeply between Rocket’s thighs and bulge, nose running up the side of the bulge as he shamelessly takes a smell. Musky and unwashed, an earthy, wild smell that has Peter melting in ecstasy. The hybrid rumbles in satisfaction as he licks a stripe up the shrinking bulge, lapping up his come as best he can through fabric. Rocket’s dick is already retracting into its sheath, but he prevents it by latching on with his lips, tugging on the hooked end with a pleased grin at the yelp Rocket makes.
“Eep! F-flark, l-let go, damn it! That’s sensitive!” He cries, yanking at Peter’s hair. Peter releases him with a laugh, toning down the playfulness to return to mouthing over the bulge of his sheath. Rocket just grumbles in complaint as he lays a hand on Pete’s head, resting it there as he allows him to do as he pleases. A moment of beautiful silence passes between them, filling Peter with a burning desire for the raccoon he’s huffing in like an animal. Maybe he really is an animal, considering he doesn’t feel human half of the time. He honestly wouldn’t mind being an animal with Rocket. At least then he’d be something more than the nothing he is.
There’s no way in hell he’s ever coming back from this. There’s no way he’s ever going to let Rocket go. He just can’t. Rocket’s his anchor to existence. All that he has left. The only person who’s willing to put up with his nonsense and lies. The only person who recognizes and accepts him for the messed-up weirdo he is.
Peter loves him so much that it's going to end up killing him.
He’d die a happy man.
Notes:
i never really explained what's wrong our favorite human did i lol?
pete has a lot of unresolved childhood trauma from being suddenly snatched the way he was. pair that with all the shit he went through as an adult, and i'd easily diagnose him with ptsd. his childhood was traumatizing enough, but he continued to experience trauma after trauma as he grew up, all of it untreated as far as we know. and terrans aren't common in the andromeda galaxy, so i see him developing an attachment to anything from earth bc it was where he last felt safe and saw his mom but at the same time hating being terran for the rep his species has as weak, uncivilized, and dumb. he's terrified to not remember much about what it meant to be from earth, and rejects being a ravager since that identity is wrapped up in so much pain and loneliness. there's this one author who characterized pete so excellently insofar that i was inspired to write him this way. ravagers are seen as an ethnic group due to their isolation in deep space and adherence to the code, and peter was raised accordingly.
and i don't know about you guys, but with how the ravagers are characterized, i don't exactly believe that they'd treat him all that well, emotionally or physically. i only believe yondu, and to an extent a few others, treated him as a person rather than cargo.
all of this is to say, peter has a lot of identity and abandonment issues. losing his mom the way he did, that defined him as a person. losing yondu and then gamora the way he did, has made him terrified of losing anyone more. it's why he fled after rocket was healed. he doesn't want to confront the idea of losing his best friend/obsession. like, did y'all know he canonically literally left the day after they saved rocket's life lmaoo.
i can literally ramble for days on my headcanons, but that's enough about quill lol <3
Chapter 13: Running Out the Door
Summary:
Nebula discovers something terrible. How will our motley duo react to this new revelation?
Notes:
CW: none.
The funny thing is, I created this chapter months ago when I first started writing this story. I wasn't even sure I was going to continue writing, so this chapter has been put off the more I wrote to characterize Rocket and Peter how I wanted. Now we're finally starting to dip our toes into the plot I've been menacingly planning behind the scenes. I've never written action before, so I'm excited to post them as I go along this journey!
Chapter Text
Running Out the Door
Running, Nebula hurriedly approaches the door to Rocket’s apartment, stomping up the stairs as she configures her arm into a mess of wires and sparking cables. The elevator, although helpful, would’ve taken too long to wait for, and she has no time to waste. There’s no hesitation as she instantly hacks into the locking mechanism of the panel beside the metal door, frowning in frustration when she comes across the annoyingly complicated firewalls and encryption Rocket uses to protect his home.
It takes a bit longer than she’s proud of, but eventually Nebula breaks in, sighing in relief as the panel goes green and the metal door slides open. Stepping inside, the cyborg sees only darkness and the glow of electronics. Rapidly, her arm shifts from its mangled state to a weak flashlight, illuminating the living space and revealing the mess that had been hiding in the pitch black. Clothes were strewn across the floor, and used plates and cups were stacking up on the two tables in the apartment. The only somewhat organized area was Rocket’s workbench, but even that was disastrous-looking.
Nebula can’t help but grimace as she steps her way through the room, careful to avoid the piles of used briefs and suspiciously balled shirts. She also can’t ignore the slight odor hanging in the air, disturbed by how she recognizes that smell as a cross between Rocket and Quill. But before she can get further distracted by that line of thought, Nebula refocuses on her mission. She needs to talk to the raccoon, even if it means waking him up from his sleep. Though, if she’s being honest with herself, he deserves to be rudely awakened after how he’s been behaving these last few months. Constant, non-stop passive-aggressiveness and one grating, bitchy attitude. Combine that with the looming disaster right on Knowhere’s doorstep, and she’s almost smiling as she barges into Rocket’s room. The panel to the bedroom was inexplicably broken, making it all that much easier to enter, so she just went ahead, slamming open the metal door and flipping the room light on.
Nebula, to her shock, is greeted by the sight of an even worse mess. Peter, dressed in nothing more than a large, ratty band shirt, jumps up in fright, hands scrambling for the blaster he’s placed on the scuffed bedside table. All the while, Rocket tosses himself off the messy bed and similarly pulls out a small blaster, panting raggedly as he stands there all bleary-eyed. At least Rocket’s more decent in comparison to Quill, wearing his usual crusty tanktop and crumpled shorts. It seems that the pair had been asleep together, or rather, they had been sleeping together after getting shit-faced drunk and high. Nebula can see, as the two become more cognizant and aware, the dawning embarrassment on their faces as she not so subtly gawks at them. She knew they were basically living together since Peter had returned, but she hadn’t expected them to actually have sex. For months, Peter had been obnoxiously vocal about the fact that he was still hung up on her dead sister and would never be able to get over how she died. Before he left for Terra, the man was constantly drunk or high, completely unwilling to do much of anything to help the former Guardians rebuild the ruins of Knowhere because of how much his heart was hurting. Though, seeing Quill’s face fall at the knowledge of her realization, it seemed he had been over it for weeks now. Enough to shack up with the resident gun-nut pyromaniac, at least.
However, now that Nebula thinks about it, Rocket and Peter’s friendship has always been a bit strange from the moment she met them. Her sister’s relationship with Peter, while incredibly emotionally deep in nature, stood out from the connection the human had with the biped. There were various moments after Ego’s planet, as Nebula was slowly joining the Guardians, when she’d find herself thinking Gamora was in some form of polyamorous agreement with Peter and Rocket. And honestly, how could she not? In the years she got to know the misfit crew her sister was a part of, it was obvious Quill had some sort of fixation with Rocket. He sought out the hybrid’s approval and praise as much as his ire and anger, trading a constant volley of insults, pet names, and terms of endearment. They fed off of one another, encouraging the worst of their mischievous behavior to the detriment of their crew. When drunk, they’d get incredibly touchy and borderline affectionate when they’d inevitably start wrestling and rolling around the floor, boisterously laughing as they tickled each other. When high, Peter would sing soliloquys about Rocket’s fur and teeth in the same breath as he waxed poetry about Gamora’s fiery hair and green skin. Quill obviously has a type and its highly competent, mentally ill people with a tragic backstory who are a little bit mean to him and could kill him with a look.
Her sister had been surprisingly open about her relationship with Quill, including her own suspicions of the nature of the relationship between Rocket and Quill. One instance, she said, that proved to her it wasn’t wholly platonic was when she was deep cleaning the Benatar and discovered a hidden compartment of stolen undergarments beneath Peter’s bunk. It wouldn’t have been that startling a discovery if it hadn’t been for whose clothes were included in that small space. Mostly, they were hers, but, to her surprise, Rocket’s were also in there. She had become sheepish at that point, abashed that she had so thoroughly caught the attention of another but also flustered that she seemingly wasn’t the only one who Peter had eyes on. Nebula didn’t doubt it for a moment and kept her words of initial disgust to herself. Her sister didn’t seem to mind, and Peter never stopped loving her with his whole being, so it wasn’t her place to insert herself. Sure didn’t stop her from being a little nosy early on in getting to know all the weirdos her sister was shacked up with.
However, her snoopy behavior gave her the misfortune of learning about the consistency of the two bathing together whenever they’d visit an industrial docking port. Showering in deep space was not possible, so they wouldn’t have the opportunity to do so until they were passing through a wet room while refueling. Usually, one of the Guardians would be tasked with breaking sneaking into a crew-sized shower block to avoid paying the exorbitant per gallon rate and allow those who wanted to clean themselves in—together. Nebula, while not unused to nudity, was grateful to hear that Gamora took her turn once the men were done scrubbing themselves down, terrified by the possibility that the Guardians had fully converted her sister into a weirdo like them. She was appalled when, after asking how exactly they cleaned themselves separately in enough time to not get caught, Peter and Rocket just glanced at each other, chuckled, and explained that they didn’t. With a smirk from the Terran, he told her that months of living in close quarters does away quickly with the notion of privacy and that it was usually him and the raccoon together in the wet room since Drax didn’t need to clean himself as often as most humanoids did. She didn’t ask for him to continue talking, but ever the blabbermouth he is, he kept talking about the hijinks the two of them got up to while soaking wet and naked as the day they were born. It was as Gamora had once told her with a fond, loving smile on her face that, alone together, they never got up to anything good. Not even in the shower.
Well, if Peter wanted to obsess over a neurotic bastard, he was well within his rights to do so. That wasn’t any of her business. Except, it did become her business when it started interfering with Rocket’s ability to work. She looks around the room, awkwardly silent as she stares at the slew of empty vials of lowpri and crumpled blister packets of various pills tossed haphazardly around the room. She can’t help but visibly grimace when she sees the remnants of a powdery white substance on some book she half remembers Rocket reading some time ago.
“This is what you missed two weeks of work for?” She asks seriously, hating the way Quill seemingly becomes paler yet turns red at the same time. He suddenly seems to notice his nudity, cursing in shock as he tugs his shirt over his exposed genitals. Rocket, as much as he pretends he isn’t, is incredibly easy to read—his folded ears and limp tail tell tale signs of his flustered state. With a slight hesitation, he lowers his blaster, hunching into himself as if preparing to flee on all fours at any moment. They both look ridiculously stupid.
The seconds seem to drag on, and no one responds with anything other than aborted excuses and childishly pointed fingers. She lets them flounder for a few moments more before interrupting them, dragging a hand across her face in frustration. “What you were both—“ She cuts herself off, not interested in the potential answer to that question. “No, nevermind, don’t answer that. Get dressed, you two. There’s an emergency meeting being convened. I’ll tell you more once you’re both decent.” Rocket and Peter just look at each other, thoroughly mortified, and nod rapidly, eager to avoid Nebula’s burning glare as they scramble around the room and pull on used clothes. The cyborg just shakes her head in disbelief, crossing her arms over her chest as she leans into her hip, watching the two idiots yank on their coats.
As Rocket’s shoving his blaster into its holster and chucking a couple of gadgets into the dozens of pockets he has, he begrudgingly breaks the silence. “What’s so flarkin’ urgent that you need to break into my house and wake me up?”
“Just the biggest threat we’ve faced since you almost died.” Nebula replied nonchalantly. She’s pleased to see that it gets an immediate reaction.
“WHAT?!” Peter yells, tripping over himself as he attempts to pull up the loose waist of his pants over his hips. He falls to his knees, grunting in pain. He anxiously glances over to Rocket, seemingly waiting for some sort of response. The raccoon, aware of Nebula’s presence, just looks at the flailing man with an annoyed glare, electing to keep his mouth shut. Sure doesn’t stop Nebula from noticing the fading bruises on Quill’s neck, a healing split in his lip, and scabbed-over claw marks on his cheek. She hates how, in that moment, her former captain appears much too similar to a battered domestic abuse survivor. Hell, now that she notices it, Rocket also looks like he’s been dragged through deep space without a suit on, eyes bloodshot and fur a matted, ungroomed mess. What the hell have they been doing to each other?
“Yes. There is no way to put it lightly. We’re meeting because I called for an OSL-5 convention.” For now, she chooses to keep her damn mouth shut too. They have more pressing matters to deal with than Rocket and Quill’s terrible relationship. She’ll definitely be bringing it up with Drax, though. This is starting to feel eerily familiar to the months leading up to the Terran’s departure to his homeworld, if not worse than before.
“OSL-5?!” Rocket exclaimed, eyes snapping over to Nebula’s in an instant. “The hell is going on?”
She frowned at his demanding tone, leaning into her hip to show her displeasure. “Groot sent an encrypted long-com just under an hour ago.” Rocket immediately stiffens. “Not sure how he got it, but the quantent you gave me received a flag cache of fifty files totaling sixty-five aloims. Took me a while to get through it all, but it was damning information.”
Peter’s eyebrows rise, mouth falling open in a show of surprise. “Sixty-five aloims? Holy shit. Did he hack into the goddamn Xandarian Mainframe Core? That’s, like, a planetary core-level amount of data.”
“I am not sure where he got it from or where he is now. It seemed he was in a panic to send the flag cache. Most likely burnt out his long-com sending such a high-energy signal.” She explained worriedly, unable to ignore the inkling of fear swirling in her cybernetic abdomen. Nebula may be more modded than organic, but her emotions never stopped feeling as raw as her skin did before it was replaced. Groot is not safe.
“Well,” Rocket growled impatiently, stalking towards Nebula in a hilarious attempt to frighten her. “Spit it out. If it took you so damn long to notify me of the fact that my son might be in danger, I’d love to hear now what he found.”
“It was sixty-five aloims, Rocket. Even you know that’s tricky to sort through.” The raccoon doesn’t back down, bedraggled fur puffing up in preparation to attack. Nebula sighs, closing her eyes. “A majority of the files were NTN encrypted, but I was able to get through them. Nova Prime, a few months ago, initiated a series of plans named Protocol Rescue Guardian with the assent of the Xandarian Senate. It’s mentioned various times throughout the cache, describing a variety of protectionist and isolationist economic policies they’re making law in order to keep the Xandarian economy competitive against developing economies. Sounds innocent, right? Well, upon further digging into the few files that were locked behind QCT, I discovered a hidden directive. Rocket, Quill—Nova Prime has betrayed us.”
All the metaphorical air leaves the room in a whoosh, various emotions crossing the hybrid’s and human’s faces. Rocket, at first, appears uncharacteristically scared, if even for a moment. Quickly, however, his ears are twitching erratically as he swings from earth-shattering shock to incinerating fury. Pete, on the other hand, pales considerably. Nebula frowns when the man slaps a hand over his mouth, body retching harshly from the sudden gagging sounds he was struggling to hold back. Was he really going to throw up over some bad news?
“Betrayed us, how?” The biped asks hallowly, trembling with his barely kept explosive anger. Peter, eyes watering, nods in agreement with his hands still clasped over his mouth. A dribble of saliva crawls down his arm, disappearing into the sleeve of his Ravager leathers.
“Protocol Rescue Guardian lays the groundwork for Nova Prime to assume greater control over the government of Xandar. The Senate sees coalescing with the military as the most effective means to ensure their survival as resources become increasingly scarce. What’s of interest to us is the false scheme Xandar is using to front humanitarian endeavors while secretly sowing instability within its periphery. A scheme I unknowingly fell for.” She grudgingly admits before continuing. “Nova Prime, in collaboration with Kree remnants, is working together to blockade all goods and services to weaker groups throughout the galaxy. We are one of the groups now under blockade. This is why I declared an OSL-5 convention. Without a formal Guardians of the Galaxy, we’ll need all governing bodies of Knowhere to help out however they can.” Nebula says, perturbed by the oppressive silence that consumes the room. Any quieter, she swears she would’ve been able to hear a particle of dust land on the floor.
Rocket just nods, digesting the information within that rapid, cybernetic brain of his. With little fanfare, the raccoon finishes preparing himself to go out, latching a comically large blaster onto his back. He waves at Quill to get off the floor and finish dressing, quietly encouraging the human with whispered words of praise. Nebula fails to exactly register what he said, but it seems to work effectively. The human is off his feet and pulling on his pants in no time, holstering his blasters into their proper position on either side of his thighs.
Seeing that everyone’s as ready as they’ll ever be, she motions for the two men to follow her, demanding they keep up as she jogs out of the apartment unit and down the stairway. She ignores the halfhearted huffs of complaint from Quill, amazed that the human can still find it in himself to make light conversation considering the situation they’re in.
“This may be a very stupid question, but what does OSL-5 stand for?” Peter asks after they’ve had a moment to calm down and collect themselves. The three of them step out of the door of the apartment building, pushing past a crowd of people watching some beggars dance for units. He tries, but fails, to not yell loudly when he suddenly feels sharp claws dig into his lower back. Rocket, using a boost of momentum to his advantage, launches himself up onto the human’s back, digging his paws into the shoulder of the man’s leather jacket.
Nebula turns her head sharply to frown at him. “Didn’t you come up with those names with Rocket?”
“I did.” Rocket grunts, trying to stabilize himself on Quill’s squirming body, tossing his legs over one of the man’s broad shoulders and latching onto the padding of the jacket. “As always, Quill here was busy drinking himself blind while I did all the work.” He looks down to sneer at the Terran. “OSL-5 stands for operational security level five. It’s the highest emergency level we got, reserved for omnicidal threats where the entirety of Knowhere is in danger. Were you really that drunk that night? I drank, like, half of the bottle, and you don’t see me having a black hole in my memory.”
Peter’s face turns red—a reaction Nebula still isn’t used to seeing even after knowing the man for many years. “I was in a rough spot, okay? My alcohol tolerance was shot.” The street they’re navigating narrows, a network of industrial piping surrounding them. Peter flinches when a jet of steam blows from one of the outlet pipes directly into his and Rocket’s faces.
“Turn here.” Nebula says, taking a sharp turn to the right and into an alleyway. Straight ahead of them lies an annoyingly long flight of rickety metal stairs, zigzagging its way precariously up the steep hill in front of them. “This’ll lead us directly to the main promenade to HQ. We’ll most likely see a variety of leaders already waiting for us. Raising the emergency level alerted all their long-coms, so they’ve had more than enough time to make their way.”
“Still can’t believe this is what I woke up to.” Rocket complains angrily, dramatically leaning backwards, “Can’t a guy sleep and not have to deal with life-threatening situations anymore?”
“Wait.” Peter frowned, stumbling over his feet as he tried to run up the stairs and balance Rocket on his shoulder at the same time. “That's actually what I was—“ He trips up again, gritting his teeth in frustration as he glares at the serious-faced raccoon. “Holy shit dude, why now, of all times, did you choose to flarkin’ hang off of me like I’m Groot?”
“Hop off, man. I didn’t wanna get left behind.” Rocket grumbled, raising an eyebrow at Nebula when she looked at him with a curious tilt of her head. “Also, this is why I’ve been telling you to join us during meetings. Not because I love bitchin’ at you, but because then you’d be aware we’ve been hovering at OSL-3 for weeks now due to the famine. You wouldn’t be some clueless krutarckin’ flarknard!”
“You really need to learn some new curse words.” The human muttered, shifting slightly to properly hold the hybrid with a hand to his thigh, “starting to sound really fucking repetitive.”
“Oh, fuck off. Does that sound better to you?” Rocket started.
“Oh, quiet the both of you! This is a serious situation, and I don’t want your bickering to make this more stressful than it already is.” Nebula snapped before pointing an accusing finger at Peter. “But Rocket’s right, Quill, you really should’ve attended those meetings. I know you’re trying to get back into the rhythm of things. I just,” She sighed, closing her eyes. “What is it that you want to know?”
“Jeez, okay, message received.” The terran raised his hands in surrender, almost throwing off Rocket. “Sorry, heh.” He cleared his throat, returning his hand to where it was before. “Well, I just wanted to know why they would do that. I swear, last I remember, we were on good terms.” He was starting to sound a little out of breath as they continued walking up the stairs. Fortunately, the trio was soon entering the promenade Nebula had mentioned before, a large awning gate opening above them. As an entrance to one of the major arterial roads in the foramen zone, it held a sprawling complex of slums and merchant districts where anything and everything could be sold or bought. Rocket was a returning visitor to this market—much to Nebula’s distaste—for its variety of illegally acquired materials and parts. Nowadays, most weapon dealers and material manufacturers are shuttered, closed down due to a lack of supply. Components and parts were most likely cycling through various owners multiple times, haphazardly repaired, and repackaged before reaching any new customer's grubby hands.
The cyborg pursed her lips, tilting her head slightly as she thought of the best way to word this. “That’s the issue.” She said slowly, “The last thing you remember is almost eight years old. A lot changed in those five years you were gone, including our standing with the Nova Empire. And you weren’t exactly all there the three years you’ve been back.”
Pete visibly reddens in embarrassment, breaking eye contact with Nebs to focus intensely on the stalls in the bazaar they were jogging through. They had slowed down in order to navigate the throngs of denizens without bumping into and tossing people to the ground, forcing the three of them to huddle up uncomfortably close. “Y-yeah, that makes sense. I guess what I’m trying to ask is, what happened in those five years?”
“Obviously, I don’t have to explain how losing half their population caused their governments to collapse. Nova, in particular, suffered the most, with Xandar being razed by my father before losing half of those survivors. It was complete and total chaos those first months, and didn’t really stabilize until the last third of those five years. Rocket and I were so busy zipping around the galaxy, we probably didn’t sleep for weeks.” Reminisced Nebula, eyes distant as if remembering better times.
Rocket laughed in agreement, smiling mirthfully, “Oh yeah, big time. The whole universe suddenly needed help, and it wasn’t like we exactly had anything other to do than jump headfirst into work. Like, you thought we were sleep-deprived on that stake-out mission we did to Romulon X? That doesn’t even begin to compare to what Nebs and I had to deal with. I swear, I never felt so close to actually going insane from lack of sleep. And that’s coming from me! An insomniac!”
The cyborg’s lips upturned a smidge, the most of a smile she’d ever show publicly. “Yes. I don’t need to sleep as much as you do, and even I was at my wits end. Fortunately, by the end of the first year, Nova was getting back on its feet. Rocket had helped them immeasurably with the reconstruction of Xandar and I with the Nova Corps. It had become the new normal to live within, and we had all accepted that my father had truly succeeded in his life’s mission. I assume we all just wanted to move on the best we could.”
Peter considered the information, tilting his head, before glancing over to Rocket, who was grooming the fur on the back of his paw. His thumb began caressing the raccoon’s pant leg. “It seemed things were going well. The hell happened?”
“I wouldn’t call rebuilding from universal genocide as ‘going well,’ but I guess it’s a pretty apt descriptor.” Rocket shrugged, raising his voice as they passed by a crowded, rowdy bar. “But resource shortages are what happened, as bland as it sounds.”
“Who would’ve thought losing half of all the universal labor force would result in a collapse of galactic trade lines?” Nebula drawled sarcastically, more than aware of the stupidity of her father’s ideology. “It’s astounding a man as intelligent,” she says, rolling her eyes, “as my father didn’t consider the potential of economic destruction following the Snap.”
The hybrid agreed, grinning as his tail thrashed about against Pete’s broad back, causing the man to visibly shiver. “That purple-chin, nutsack-looking motherfucker could give less of a scut about economics. Honestly, we were the same in that regard. I was just forced to give a shit about flarkin’ inflation on the galactic scale and rebuilding interplanetary supply lines.”
“I mean, honestly, who would?” Peter said distractedly, eyes drawn to some stall advertising vouchers for stolen Nova Corps-grade spacecraft equipment. “I only know enough about economics to keep my wallet from going red. Hey, Rocky? Don’t you think the Bowie could use some new steering transmission modules? The hydraulics were feeling a little rusty last I took her for a spin.”
Rocket turns to look at the vendor, analyzing the authenticity of the vouchers he was selling. They seemed real enough, though nobody would actually be receiving their ordered items on account of the total blockade on the colony. It’d be a waste of money, but an entertaining conversation starter. “Hm. I noticed that as well. Isn’t the only component that’s starting to show some signs of wear and tear. The auxiliary support tensors on the ERESA chassis are getting sticky. There were also some issues with the sewage lines. Shit keeps getting backed up.”
“Focus.” Nebula reminds them, “Repairs to the Bowie will have to wait for another time. Units are going to become scarce in the coming months, especially now that we’ve caught onto their ruse. We’ll have to be frugal from here on out.” A vendor yells beside them, screaming about some herbal medicine that solves all kinds of health problems. Nebula grimaces gravely when the Kylorian merchant tries to shove the product in her face. The Kylorian, realizing who he was bothering, pales, eyes widening as he hastily apologizes and leaves them alone. Peter chuckles.
“Yeah, stop distracting me.” Chastises the cybernetic raccoon, patting the hand Peter had on his thigh mockingly, “But yes, the lack of resources led to some pretty bad feuds between us and Nova Prime. Many times we had to tell her off when she demanded we help her with some impossible task, and we simply couldn’t cough up the material support. First off, we were down four members and half a universe, so it wasn’t like we were operating at full capacity. The Benatar was also in bad shape for a while since there were no spare parts available. And if there was, they were so expensive! There’s a reason why I was getting on all your asses to get the Bowie. Benny’s being held together by scotch tape and prayers.”
“You couldn’t have told me that?!” Pete exclaims, glaring at Rocket with disbelief. “I just thought you were being a bitch to annoy me!”
Nebula makes a dry sound, her version of a chuckle. “You know he didn’t tell you for that very reason, Quill. Stars know how much Rocket got on my nerves those five years we spent together. I’m surprised I didn’t skin him by the end of that first month.”
“Why is that what everyone threatens me with?!” The hybrid complained, uncomfortable with the idea of being furless. Cheezus, he’s already lanky enough as is, he doesn’t need to imagine what he’d look like as a fleshy, pink mess.
“Cuz yer a fuzzy lil’ bastard.” The human grinned cheekily, hand coming to mess with the wiry fur on top of Rocket’s head. “Who wouldn’t want a pelt of raccoon hide?”
“Oi!” Rocket snaps, swatting away the hand good-naturedly. “Remind me again why I hang out with you two weirdos.” Peter laughs in response, tweaking an ear playfully while throwing Nebula a boyish grin. Nebula just smiles, the most joy she’s willing to show, and nudges the human’s shoulder. They fall into a comfortable silence, eager to pretend that Nebula and Drax won’t be confronting them when this is all over. None of them are stupid, and it’s obvious that there will have to be some serious conversation about the direction Peter and Rocket are leading one another. Nebula’s not excited for it, she thinks with bone-deep exhaustion. It’s going to be like pulling out teeth from the two very emotionally constipated men who can’t process their traumas in a healthy manner. Not like she can talk anyway, what with her own personal nightmare of a headspace and all.
The trio finally leaves the markets and begins approaching Guardians HQ, the streets giving way to a wider, more open public space. The high level of emergency seems to have brought about a rowdy commotion, a variety of familiar faces speckled throughout the ornery crowds of stakeholders and representatives, vocally making their disgruntlement apparent. If there was one thing that she appreciated about Knowehere’s anarchic flair, it was its brutally honest denizens. The people who find themselves living and raising families in such a place are definitely the people who’ll make their minds known without a single damn about what others think. Much work had been needed to cultivate such an open culture of discourse, undo centuries of oppression, and allow a society to flourish.
The transition to Guardian control had been tricky, fraught with fragile negotiations and reproachful relations. It turns out that when generations of families have lived under an unfeeling, unthinking machine of production, they tend not to trust others except their own kin. Under Tivan’s ownership, there had been no civil society or social structure for peaceful political conflict to exist within. Just a brutal, extractivist regime bent on profiting from the descendants of the original miner stock and whoever immigrated to the renegade colony. On the occasion there’d be a worker’s uprising, it was swiftly and violently extinguished, breeding in the people an utter distrust of government.
Nebula hadn’t been lying when she said she wanted to build the society her father had never given her or Gamora. What she didn’t expect, however, was how difficult that was going to be. She and Rocket, with Drax’s occasional input, spent many nights researching Xandarian, Terran, and other sufficiently advanced civilizations’ political theories. While Peter drank himself to oblivion, the two of them debated the framework for which they’d approach governing Knowhere over lunch or late-night dinners. They needed an agreed-upon direction to approach the daunting task of convincing paranoid denizens that a government would be in their best interests, but it didn’t take long for them to start disagreeing and splitting hairs over the minutiae of the ‘correct’ answer. Nebula found herself more sympathetic to the ideas espoused by Xandarian-esque political theorists. Xandar had a millennia-long tradition of benevolent governance and robust democracy, allowing for the establishment of culturally entrenched institutions and thoroughly protected freedoms. Yes, having the press constantly in her face whenever she visited the empire’s capital was annoying, but she admired how inquisitive Xandarian citizens were. They were taught to be curious, questioning, and scientific from the moment they began schooling. The children of Knowhere have a right to the same upbringing, she thinks.
Rocket, to Nebula’s frustration, just had to be an ideological contrarian. He was incredibly fond of Terran authoritarianism, supportive of creating a centralized government that would lead its population to a classless, post-scarcity society where everyone worked and was paid according to their abilities and needs. He thought the masses were incapable of leading themselves, as evidenced by the corruption and mismanagement of the Xandarian system, and believed that a vanguard was necessary to maintain the strength and stability of society. Rocket was a utilitarian through and through and saw systems of power as the reins to centrally accumulating wealth and redistributing it back to the people while keeping a portion for his vanguard. Nebula vehemently disagreed with the need for such autocratic control, referring to the failure and collapse of the Kree. When the central government fell, there was nothing to replace it. Hala immediately fell into civil war and was torn apart by its own people as the planet reeled from the loss of half of its life. All it would take would be for Rocket or Nebula to become incapacitated in some form, and the entirety of Knowhere would implode.
From there, it became a battle of sorts, with the two of them debating the virtues of their respective ideologies. Even Peter, when he wasn’t off killing his liver, would pop in and give his piece about what little he remembered learning in school about American democracy and what he further learned in his education modules as a child Ravager. The human tended to agree with Rocket’s centralized approach but preferred Nebula’s democratic style. He said that some Ravager clans, while ultimately bending the knee to a strict hierarchical structure, would often make decisions as a collective. It kept people, for the most part, feeling included, all while maintaining order and respect amongst themselves. Obviously, it wasn’t perfect, he laughed, retelling stories of contentious issues causing brawls and murder, but overall, he liked it more than the mean, controlling captains of other clans.
Ultimately, they compromised and chose a centralized authority that representatives, chosen by their constituents, would answer to. The goal would be to reduce wealth inequality as much as possible through redistributive policies and eventually reach a state of collective ownership when the residents of Knowhere transitioned from denizens to proper citizens. Freedom of speech, press, and all that jazz—the announcement and rollout of the plan were well received, and soon the former Guardians were politicians. Gaining recognition of the statehood of Knowhere was difficult, and many still saw it as a backwater despotic dump, but Nebula was proud to see the progress made in such little time. Where people were once terrified of even raising their tone towards their mining sector overseer, now there are a bunch of opinionated, self-interested, and caring people who want the best for their community. It’s exactly what she sought out to do, and seeing the dozens of representatives staring at them as they approached the entrance to Guardian’s HQ, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of joy. All these people would have a voice in a way she never did for her entire life. That has to count for something, at least.
“Okay, people!” Rocket yelled to catch their attention, his tail coming to wrap itself lazily around Pete’s throat. “I’m guessing yer all curious as to why we’ve called such a high-level emergency.”
“You’ve guessed right, Captain. You have any idea how early it is?” An irritated voice spoke to many hums of agreement. It was the buttcrack ass of dawn for many species, after all.
“Watch it, Wan Rol, I’m not in the mood for yer attitude when I’m also just waking up as well.” The hybrid snarks, voice going hoarse for a second, before coughing to clear his throat. “It’s not good news, ya jackasses. Nebs here just got a flag cache from Groot about two hours ago. Though,” He glances at the number of regular folk passing through, face furrowing in worry. “Uh, we’ll cover it more once we’ve entered the Big Room. Can’t have a mass panic start cuz regular people can’t hear bad news without freaking out.”
“Yeah, don’t want a repeat of that time on Heral-Iona.” Peter says distractedly, waving and smiling when he notices Kraglin and Drax are in the crowd. Kraglin’s eyes widen with surprise before grinning goofily as he returns the wave, nudging the Kylosian to alert him of Peter’s presence. Drax similarly smiles heartily, motioning with his hands in a way that implies, ‘let’s get coffee together sometime.’ He nods eagerly in return, signing back his agreement.
Rocket, watching the Terran with a strange glint in his eyes, growls quietly as he lifts himself from Pete’s gentle hold and leaps off, landing in a well-practiced maneuver beside the human. He pulled a key fob from a pocket and held it up to the panel beside the doors, nodding to himself as the red screen turned green, signaling the opening of the loud metallic doors.
“Mhm.” The raccoon hummed, motioning for everyone to follow him. “All I’ll say is,” he remarks to the group of particularly involved representatives following him. “Xandar has their eyes on us, and not in a nice way. They’re having severe resource shortages while we’ve been handling our food supply better than most. It seems we’ve unintentionally painted a target on our backs.”
Nebula grunted in agreement, falling in line beside Rocket. “Groot risked his life to get this information back to us. We can’t let his sacrifice go to waste.” Walking into the building, she risks a glance at Rocket. The raccoon is walking quite stiltedly, giving away the fact that he’s in pain. It would also explain the exhaustedly-angered look on his face, grumbling as he snatches his holo-pad from his pocket, aggressively tapping away at the screen before lifting it up for her to see.
Peter frowned, side-eyeing the cyborg. “You say that like he’s dead. Groot’s not dead. He was probably arrested, and we’ll be getting a comm-link from Denarian Dey soon.” The Terran, ever the nosy person he is, stands on his toes to look over Nebula’s shoulder and directly at the screen Rocket’s showing her, squinting as he tries to read whatever’s being displayed. Nebula, quickly reading the contents, remembers it’s the schematic for the in-situ water purification systems he was building that could potentially be installed in various locations throughout the municipal water supply in hopes of decreasing water leakage from the pipes while increasing efficiency through aeration.
“The schematics look good, Rocket.” Nebula nodded, grabbing the holo-pad from the raccoon’s hands to give it a closer, more thorough glance over. “When do you think they’ll be ready? You have my full approval to install them nonetheless, but I’d like to send out a public notice so people don’t complain about their water suddenly turning off.” She hands the device back to Rocket before turning to glare at Peter, annoyed by what he had said. He backs off with a grin, entirely unashamed that he got caught being nosy.
Rocket shrugs, sniffing as he rubs at his nose with the back of his paw. “I dunno. I got the overall project laid out, but with the blockade and all, I’ve been struggling to source some of the materials I need for the self-repair ability I’d like the nano-bots to have. Also, I’ve been a bit busy these last few weeks with some personal stuff, so yeah. Not sure when they’ll be ready.”
“Personal stuff?” Nebula repeats incredulously, glancing at both Peter and Rocket as they refuse to be more than one step away from each other, as if joined at the hip. Nebula feels her brain throb with frustration when they just stare at her in confusion. Stars, these two are insufferable. Nebula doesn’t know how her sister dealt with them if this is what they got up to when put together. Roughly, she pulls them aside from the crowd of people waiting outside the Big Room and into an empty hallway, feeling all too much like a mother scolding her children. “You two have been drunk and high off your minds for weeks! Don’t think I didn’t hear from Goro Han the stunt you pulled at his wedding.” She grits out in disbelief, leaning in to prevent any potential eavesdropping. “Neither of you have been responding to my messages or my calls. I don't know what stupid things you two have been getting up to, but you can’t just shut us out like that! What if one of us got injured? Or, stars forbid, died? How would we get in contact then? You can’t just disappear as if the world outside doesn’t exist, especially not when we’re dealing with the problems we’re having right now.”
Rocket’s fur immediately puffs up in anger, scoffing derisively as he bares his teeth menacingly. “Well, it’s not my fault people can’t mind their damn business. It’s not like we were shooting up needles in the middle of that tacky-ass wedding. I don’t know why yer acting like I’m not still on top of this. If anything, I’m more on top of this than you are.” He chuckles meanly, shuffling to stand closer to Peter, who was frowning disappointedly at Nebula. “Are you hearing this, Pete?”
“It’s a load of bull, that’s what I’m hearing.” He says to Nebula’s astounded expression. Peter has to rest an arm on Rocket’s shoulder to keep him calm. “He’s doing everything that he can to solve the situation we’re in, don’t think he’s not. If anyone could help, you, of all people, should know it’s him. Don’t you think you’re being a little overbearing, Nebula? Being on his ass this much?”
“I am not being on his ass!” She yells, angered that they’d try to turn this on her. Self-centered pricks. “Don’t try to pin the blame on me. You.” She points at Rocket accusingly. “And you.” She points at Peter. “Need to get your head out of each other’s asses and realize the severity of the problem we’re in. This isn’t something that’s going to get solved by Quill coming up with 13% of a plan—“
“It was twelve, actually.” Peter interrupts matter-of-factly. Rocket snorts, covering his mouth with his paw to muffle the sound.
“I don’t care what it was!” Nebula snaps, “We’re facing a total blockade by one of the most powerful forces in the galaxy. If we don’t somehow create a defense or deterrent against Xandar, all twenty-five million lives aboard this skull are going to starve to death. This isn’t a laughing matter.”
Rocket rolls his eyes, having already heard this before from her. “Do you see me laughing right now? I’ve been thinking of some ideas—“
“Are you, Cap’n,” she says sneeringly, “telling me you have an idea that’s going to save us all without causing an all-out war? An idea that’ll cause Nova Prime to lift her blockade and remove the corpsmen and Kree saboteurs embedded in our midst?”
Peter startles, eyes widening with shock. “Wait, I didn’t know there were—”
“That’s the issue, Peter. Neither of you knows. Did any of you even read the threat level report I sent out yesterday?” The silence to her question is deafening. Stars, why are these the idiots she stuck with again? Gamora would probably know how to go about this, Nebula thinks miserably, wishing that the version of her sister that she grew up with wasn't dead. That the currently alive version of Gamora would just someday wake up with the memories of the woman she came to see as sister and come running back to her family—her home. She was always better at dealing with emotional and relationship issues than she ever could.
“We’re not letting them get shit, Nebula.” Rocket snarls, moving to stand in front of Peter as if to protect him from her. “Knowhere’s my home—our home, and they’ll have to kill me first before I let them invade and take everything I’ve built.”
“I hope to the stars it doesn’t come to that, Rocket, I really do. But seeing how things are going, your utter disregard and carelessness, I’m starting to think it’ll be more of a matter of when—not if—it comes to that. This isn’t just a little mission you can blast or dance your way out of, not when it involves an enemy as powerful as Xandar.”
Rocket crosses his arms over his chest, looking up at Peter to laugh patronizingly before glaring at her. “We took down Thanos, Nebula, I’m pretty sure we can handle Nova Prime getting her panties in a twist.” Stars upon stars, he could be such an infuriating asshole when he wanted to.
“They were dead for five years, Rocket. We grieved them for months before accepting that they were gone. Had it not been for the sheer luck that Scott didn’t turn to dust as well, they would’ve stayed dead. Stars, you almost died in the second battle for Terra! Of course, the stakes will never be as high as universal genocide, but this is dangerous for what we are. You have to recognize that! If you’re not ready for the difficult decision-making that comes ahead, then stay out of the way. Otherwise, you know where to find me after the meeting.” Nebula says with finality, turning around to leave the men without looking back to make sure they’re following her. If they want to, they will. And if they don’t, they won’t. Simple as. She doesn’t need them standing in her way. Not when Nebula’s put all of what little remains of her heart and soul into this project of Knowhere. She won’t—can’t—have anything or anyone, putting that little girl dream of hers in danger.
Chapter 14: Lovesick, Cannibal
Summary:
The emergency convention begins. Problems are laid bare, people react. Rocket's just done with it all.
Notes:
CW: violent language, violent imagery, suicidal ideation, past suicide attempts, just rocket being unstable as hell as usual
uni is very busy, apparently. I have like two assignments due tonight but I had to get this one through. I know it's a lot more plot focused and word heavy, but I promise this'll get us somewhere lol. I'm flexing my major a little here and I hope it shows lmao. I'd never get hired for an mcu writers room because I'd bogged them down with the realistic-ness of anything they write haha. I hope you all enjoy tho! Kudos and comments inspire me to write, so please do both!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Lovesick, Cannibal
Peter anxiously stands by Rocket, unsure of what to say after that confrontation. Rocket himself was mumbling angrily, kicking his feet against the floor in rage as he pulled on his ears, sending painful flashes of pain throughout his skull. His skin was prickling, fur puffed up in the flurry of emotions he was experiencing. Most overwhelming was the anger. Seething anger at everything and everyone around him. His skin itched, had been itching incessantly since three days ago when he woke up from a drugged-up nap alone in bed, Pete absent from his side. For two nights, he tossed and turned, haunted by the nauseating emptiness of the spot across from him. He wasn’t sure what Peter had been doing during the two days he disappeared, but knowing him, Rocket figured he’d probably gone off to get drunk and suck some asshole’s dick behind a bar—the flarkin’ whore he is.
He came back the night prior, reeking of booze and the filthy hands of strangers, a disgusting combination of scents that had Rocket seething. He doesn’t remember much after Peter stumbled through his apartment door drunk, happily calling out for him to dance with him. Rocket can recall seeing red as he launched himself at the Terran, only coming to when he had the man sobbing beneath him, his claws stained with blood. It hadn’t been his intention to hurt Peter as much as he did, necessitating a Medpak to stop the bleeding, but he didn’t regret it for a moment. The man needed to learn that he wasn’t allowed to be so flippant about their relationship, even if said relationship wasn’t anything more than a friends-with-benefits situation as far as Rocket was aware of.
Rocket knew they weren’t boyfriends or anything like that. Pft, that would be ridiculous! But was a little exclusivity really too much to ask for? Did Pete have to be so rude as to make it obvious he preferred going out without his company? Was Rocket really that terrible and awful to hang around with that the Terran chose to leave him without a single word? He knew he wasn’t the nicest or most socially adept guy, but he could still put on a good show—pretend he was more put together than he actually was. He can smile all prettily like Quill says he does, and converse all gentlemanly as Gamora once told him was befitting of him. He can do all of it like the pro he is, so why does it seem to not be enough for Peter? Hell, he’s been doing just that since the moment he was rudely awakened, feigning an easygoing attitude to placate the cyborg and human and keep them from sticking their noses in his emotionalistical issues.
Is he not enough as he is?
Just thinking about it made his skin crawl and his implants throb. He knew the itchiness was purely psychological, but hell did it still made him feel strung out and on edge. Rocket could sense he was on the verge of something dangerous—the roiling fire underneath his skin, the need to hurt. Nebula’s harsh words had stripped him bare, pushing him that much closer to the edge he was always teetering on. Leave it to the damn cyborg to flarking piss him off this badly, and this early in the goddamn morning.
And Quill.
Flarking Quill.
"Did you hear what she said?" Peter asks, nervously picking at a small hole in his shirt, tugging at the loose threads. “That there’s saboteurs here in Knowhere. That’s not good.” He shakes his head emphatically. “Not good at all.”
Who the hell does Peter think he is? Acting like he didn’t just spit in Rocket’s face! They were supposed to be on the same side, united in their shared frustration with Nebula’s nagging. But no—Peter chose to betray him, as if they haven’t always figured things out at the last minute, just like every other time they’ve had to deal with some stupid problem. Whether it was a Nova Corps scouting mission gone wrong or a bounty hunt turning into a political scandal, they always figured out what to do at the last minute. Why would this time be any different?
Rocket just needs to get an audience with Nova Prime to see where she’s coming from in all of this unnecessary drama. If she’s being malicious, then he’ll deal with it. When hasn’t he dealt with some universe-ending nonsense? Call him a fool, but he thought he’d have Peter by his side, supporting him the whole way through, but it seems the human’s still feeling like a bitch since he chose to believe Nebula over him. Gods, sometimes Rocket just wants to shoot him in the head and end it all. Maybe then he’d have some flarking peace.
“I know that, flarknard! God! It’s like you’re flarkin’ stupid or something. Argh!” He yells, closing his eyes harshly as a bright, burning headache pounds away at his brain. It feels like nails of fiery steel are being driven into his skull with a hammer, an unstopping, debilitating pain seizing up his body. Everything hurts. Bad. His heart is beating with punishing strength, his fists a jittery mess. No, they’re not jittery. That’d mean he was nervous—scared—and he’s never nervous. So what is he feeling if not scared? Anger. All he feels is anger. Incandescent, blinding rage towards the world. Peter’s stupid voice makes the itch stronger. He could feel it deep in the fibers of his muscles—a creaking of cybernetically enhanced bones on the edge of snapping.
The urge to hurt, the desire for violence coils sharply within him. Coiling ever longer until it bursts and its spikes erupt across his skin, wrapping prickfully around his organs. He used to let out his vitriol for existence by building massive, destructive weapons that would be used to kill their enemies in incredible, bloody ways. Explosives, guns, and razor-sharp blades—they were so good for helping him end the lives of pitiful scum. Now, all he can do is pretend he’s fine when his bloodlust is constantly howling for attention. When all he wants to do is handle that beautiful laser cannon in the armory, slide the warm, vibrating chassis of the weapon between his thighs… and… kill something. Yeah, that’s what he wants to do.
But what makes the violent, unhinged urge so much worse is Peter’s betrayal—the fact that he dropped and turned against him like he was worth nothing. Choosing to follow Nebula’s lead instead of his. How flarking dare he? How dare he side against him like that, with no words, with no requisite? Up and take every shard of understanding they had back, and then stand next to him, all worried, as if nothing changed. Flark! Rocket grits his teeth, revealing his canines with a snarl when Peter tries to approach him with a raised hand. He feels like he’s going flarking insane! His mind is warring with itself, twisting and contorting in on itself as the enhanced neurons try to make sense of the maelstrom of stimuli flowing through his brain.
Why did Pete leave him alone that night and all the days after? Doesn’t he know that Rocket doesn’t trust just anyone to sleep beside him or touch him like he lets Peter do? He lets the man get away with so much, he should be grateful. He tore open his chest, pulled back his rib cage, and allowed the human to caress his insides, get his filthy hands bloody with Rocket’s devotion and attachment. With trembling claws, he severed the arteries and veins of his heart, painfully wrenching off the cybernetics embedded in the organ. He put his damn heart in the palms of the human, dropped down his ironclad shields, laid in the same bed, let him protect his back, and trusted him.
Let him in.
And Peter changed everything. He brute forced his way through Rocket’s barriers until he had the oily, venomous essence of his soul laid bare. He built himself to be the atoms that make up Rocket’s osteoblasts and myoblasts. He made the routine, the mammalian schedule that made him feel safe, let his guard down, and attached his affection to Peter. It’s disgusting. He loves it.
Then he left. He flarking left.
Abandoned him.
Betrayed him.
Peter, as he was before, continues to stand there uselessly, staring at him with a sad look of empathetic despair. “I’m not stupid, Rocky. Just very worried. Nebula’s right.” Rocket’s heart drops, letting go of his ears to stare at the humie in terror. Please don’t let the human say what he thinks he’s going to say. He knows Peter’s been an asshole to him lately, but he wouldn’t actually leave him for good, would he? They went through so much, for it all to end like this? “We’ve been too distracted lately. I’m not saying we should stop having fun.” Thank flark. “Just that we need to get our heads in the game! We got a whole colony depending on us, after all.” He says cheerfully, clapping his hands. He pulls his holo-pad from his pocket and clicks around for a while, mumbling a song quietly while he pulls up whatever he’s looking for, unaware of the emotional whiplash he just subjected Rocket to. Peter’s excited to be needed for something for the first time in a long while, jumping at the opportunity to prove that he’s not useless.
Rocket, breathing a shaky sigh of relief, rests his hands on his knees, breathing in and out loudly to try to cool down his overheating mind. Was he just seeing things in places they weren’t? It couldn’t be. His gut had never proved him wrong before, and he was sure as hell it wouldn’t start now. Quill had to be lying to him. Nothing between them was fine. Why else would he have done what he’s done to him? He could talk to Peter and ask why he abandoned him the way he did after he promised he’d never do it again. Why he betrayed him to side with Nebula of all people when Rocket was being the logical, sensible one? But what if the answer was what he feared? That he realized Rocket’s too flarked up to put up with and that he was just looking for a place to live without him. That Peter sees him as the insane, dangerous psychopath everyone says he is. The monster he undeniably is.
Is he being unreasonable?
No. Not in his mind. It all made sense and connected. He knows it, he sees the signs even if Quill doesn’t. Even if he lies, obfuscates, and says he doesn’t want their time together to end. He’s lying straight to his face, forcing himself to be with Rocket even as he’s trying to pull away from him.
It really was moments like these that reminded him how much Peter truly didn’t need him or his company. Pete was charming, unfairly charismatic, and bullheaded, sure, but he had such a magnetic personality. Him and Kraglin were thick as thieves, going so far back that they had countless inside jokes about Peter’s upbringing and adolescence Rocket wasn’t privy to, always waving him away with a “you wouldn’t get it” or “you had to be there to understand.” He was capable of making Nebula smile when all Rocket did was give her a headache, a feat that only he, the flark-up he is, could achieve considering her brain was mostly cybernetics and little organic tissue to inflict pain upon. The human befriended everyone he came across, socializing coming to him as easily as breathing does, even when he was in the depths of his depressed lows. He had dozens of friends, hundreds of acquaintances, and thousands of somewhat friendly connections throughout the galaxy—an endless network of faces, testament to his magnetic nature.
So where did that leave Rocket? An anti-social, unwanted asshole? Somebody nobody wanted anything to do with? Rocket was truly just… a set piece, a decoration to be strung along for a bit before being shoved aside and forgotten about. Replaceable, left to collect dust. Hell, why the flark would anyone want him for who he is? Not even his creator wanted him! He just wanted his brain so he could satisfy some flarked-up desire to control the variable that had gone wrong in order to create the mess that Rocket is. Maybe he should be thankful he’s even a piece in Peter’s life, however fleeting that attention may be. Grateful that the human even deemed him worth the time and effort to treat as if he were something capable of approximating personhood. Thankful that he had thought Rocket was ready for the role of captain, going so far as to give him a rare Ravager salute and call him “cap’n.”
But he hated how it never lasted.
Not then, not now. It was never anything but temporary.
The same ugly thing coils deep in his gut, ensnaring itself along his false bones and internal implants. He snaps out of his reverie and is greeted with the visual of Peter looking at him with those wide, pained green eyes. It’s such a wonderful color, containing a jade ocean of infinite depth, but the sight of his sympathy, his pity, makes his gut churn in anger, boiling with an inferno of disdain.
Peter may say he cares for him, that he’s obsessed with him, but Rocket knows better than anyone how quick the man is capable of moving on. He can stare at him, enamored, all he wants, but Rocket damn well knows better, having seen just how rapid the man is to drown himself in booze and pussy when the opportunity avails itself. Rocket wants to shout and scream at him how unfair it was that Pete seemed to move on so seamlessly. That he can just bottle it all in and pretend everything’s fine when it’s so obvious it’s anything but. He wants to claw the human’s eyes out as he cries to him how much he hates him, that he wishes they never met that fateful day on Xandar.
He needed to calm down.
Deep breath.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Then Peter had to open his big, fat mouth. “Hm, you’re looking a little pale there. You okay, Rocky?”
Rocket swears his vision flashes red, the overwhelming urge to explode in the man’s face barely suppressed, shoved down as he forces his anger to rise. He has no defenses except fury, and he’s good at being furious. Harsh words and snappy insults are in his twisted DNA.
“Are you a flarkin’ retar—“
No. He needs to calm down. As hard as it is to swallow down the cruel, barbed wire words he wants so badly to say, Rocket doesn’t want to be the one to push the already teetering balance of their situationship over the edge. This also just isn’t the damn time for Rocket to lay into Peter, breathing audibly as he tries to slow down his rabbit-paced heartbeat. They have a whole conference room full of people about to learn they’re being targeted by one of their closest allies, where many of them have family members and relatives spread throughout and will most likely not get to see for the foreseeable future.
Cheezus. He chuckled breathlessly to himself. That’s going to be a hard one to tell these people. They’ve already lost so much.
Blowing out a puff of air to release the tension torturing his shoulders and upper back, he gets off his knees to stretch out the muscles in his back. He wouldn’t admit to it, but the reason he climbed onto Pete wasn’t because he was missing how it felt to be tall or that he missed Groot, which he did, but because he simply couldn’t walk. The abrupt awakening and truckload of stress dumped on him all at once caused his nervous system to spazz out for a moment, leaving his constructed muscles sore and implants taut. His spine was especially being a huge pain in the ass, the bipedal stance forced upon his vertebrae struggling against his instinctual urge to crawl on all fours. Every step forward sent surges of pain up his knees and into his lower back, a particularly atrocious mishmash of cybernetics, forced evolution, and surgery.
There’s no time like the present, however, so he stands back up, doing his best to hide the whole body flinch that wracks his frame. With a paw massaging his temple and an exhausted tone, he taps a boot at Peter to follow him. “I’m fine. C’mon, bright eyes. We gotta get to the Big Room before they get started without us. Nebula’s being bitchy today, so I wouldn’t put it past her to try getting a head start.” He pulls out his own holo-pad and rapidly flits through multiple tabs, opening his messages to see that the cyborg had indeed sent him a threat level report. He hates how being proven wrong pisses him off even more, growling as he quickly skims the text, sending Pete the necessary parts to understand the basics of the situation. “Check your inbox. Just sent you some information—read the highlights. Nebula tends to go a bit over the top with her writing.” He says snippily, words stilted with barely disguised anger and pain. He begins walking back into the hallway where they were before being pulled aside, not looking back to make sure the humie was following him.
“Why are you acting so bitchy, dude? Nebs is just trying to do her job, and you’re being so damn aggressive for no reason.” Peter frowns, reading over the highlighted notes as he walks beside the raccoon. “Like, shouldn’t you two be the best of chums? Especially since y’all spent five years being badass Guardians saving the galaxy while we were, y’know, indisposed.”
Rocket snarls in response to his nosy questions, snappily putting his holo-pad into his pocket as he comes to a stuttering halt outside the door to the conference room. “Not that it’s any of your business, but those were the worst five years of my life. I wasn’t exactly the most emotionalistically available at the time, or any time during those years. Nebula and I had other things to worry about than becoming best friends.” A few curious heads turn to see what all the commotion is. Rocket’s glare causes them to hastily turn away, feigning ignorance to their argument.
At least they know when to keep their noses out of people’s business, unlike someone.
“Can you speak any louder? Jesus, you really have volume control issues.” Peter hisses, leaning over to stare down at Rocket with wide, gleaning eyes. “Also, why not? Why can’t I make it my business? You know I want to help you with the burden of being gone all that time, but you never want to tell me more than the surface-level stuff you told me that one time! Do I really have to drug you every single time I want to have an emotional moment with you?!” He said desperately, begging the raccoon to let him in with a sorrowful, pain-filled frown.
Surface-level? Is that what he thought of Rocket admitting to him one of his most flarked-up, deeply buried secrets? Secrets he’s tried so hard to forget about, things he did to himself that still haunt his every waking moment. Did he think telling him that he tried killing himself multiple times over his death was easy for him? That it was just a walk in the park? Rocket can still feel the way his overdose on Quill’s sleeping medication permanently damaged his stomach and its once iron lining. When he zones out, he viscerally begins to remember the pain of Nebula having to pump his stomach with her arm, painfully shoving jagged metal down his gullet and into the mess of half-digested pills and blood. Since then, he’s never been able to hold many of his favorite foods anymore, irrevocably altered in a way that he’ll never be able to erase from his memory.
Rocket just chuckled without humor, ignoring the human’s incessant need to crack open a part of his mind he doesn’t want to think about, much less talk about in depth to a person who wouldn’t understand a single thing he’d say. How could he? To him, it all happened in the blink of an eye. One moment he was there, standing on a war-torn Titan, and then the next, he was thrust right back into battle. It was probably disorienting, but Rocket would’ve preferred temporary confusion if it meant not having to live all those years. Pete didn’t get to experience the excruciatingly long time between that blink of an eye. Rocket could cry a whole damn river, and Peter would never truly feel an ounce of what he felt that day and every day after until he got them back. He’d never understand how it felt for that vacuous hole within him to engulf him in his entirety, destroying any semblance of peace he’d found within this new family of his. He’d never know how he’s never been the same since, mind forever stuck on a repeating loop of that day, constantly, nonstop cycling back to the terror and despair he’d felt as his world faded around him, as he felt the very bacteria and microorganisms within his fur, gut, and body vanish inside of him.
He didn’t have the privilege of painlessly turning to dust. Pete did.
So yes, there’s nothing to be said.
“Bringing your annoying ass back should be more than enough proof of how flarkin’ down bad I was.” He sneers, shoving the door open with a quick kick and stomping into the room without a care for all the surprised looks he gets. Peter trails behind him like some sad puppy, trying and failing to restart their conversation when he notices all the eyes on them. He eventually, after a few painful seconds of his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish, shuts up and wilts, standing off to the side dejectedly to let Rocket busy himself with the projection system. Most of everyone here was carrying a holo-pad, although there were some particularly upset folk who stood there empty-handed with their arms crossed over their chests or fretting about, quietly talking amongst themselves. Rocket needed to adjust the projection table to allow community sharing, tapping away at the screen to mess with the broadcast settings.
“Awright, listen up!” Rocket yelled, finalizing the switch in the projection programming with a final tap, a cacophony of chimes filling the room. Everyone’s holo-pad and hand-coms were now capable of linking up with the local area network broadcasting from the projection table, the raccoon instantly connecting to the transmission line and sharing a swirling hologram of the Guardian’s logo. Something Quill had designed early on years ago when he was still trembling with excitement that he now had a team of similarly crazy maniacs who wouldn’t be leaving him the moment they were anchored in some refueling port.
He stands from his hunched position, stretching his back as he lets out a high-pitched yawn, licking his chops as he scratches an itch on his stomach. “As I told some of you guys on the way here, Groot sent us a flag-cache not too long ago containing nearly a hundred aloims of data.” Some people gasp, while others continue frowning silently, hugging their holo-pads tightly to their chests. He continues speaking, motioning with his paw to push an infographic into the main segment of the hologram. “Running the data through an Alteronix algorithm yielded these results. I’ve already sent the datacast to you all, but for those who aren’t familiar with Artruscan analysis software, this is saying that, within all the relevant documents in the cache, Xandar references these words or phrases an inordinate amount of times. Protocol Rescue Guardian is the one that flagged the algorithm the most and is of most interest to us.” He briefly glances at Peter, watching the way the man straightens his posture the moment their eyes make contact, smiling weakly when Rocket tilts his head in question. He holds the man’s eyes for a few moments longer before looking over to the hologram once more. “Protocol Rescue Guardian, as you can see, is a series of programmes and procedures initiated by the Xandarian Senate to hand over more executive capacity to the Nova Corps, recognizing the legislature as incapable of handling the resource shortage on its own.”
“And what does that have to do with us?” A voice interrupted, turning everyone’s attention towards the man speaking, “Why would Xandarian resource shortages be our problem?”
“You really do like interrupting me don’t you, Wan Rol?” Rocket deadpanned, flicking his hand to change the information he was displaying. Wan Rol grins proudly, nudging the woman beside him with a smug expression. Rocket grimaces, mumbling colorful insults underneath his breath. “It matters to us because, unfortunately, a majority of our shipping and cargo operations are handled by three major state-owned corporations: the Kotarra Corporation, Dorthraki Shipping, and Plai’ia Logistics. Kotarra and Dorthraki are both Nova imperial charter companies, while Plai’ia is an association of dozens of lesser Novan shipping and logistics firms who are original signatories of the Novan free trade union.”
“Again.” Wan Rol cuts in once again, starting to get visibly irritated, “How is their resource problem our problem?”
“I’m getting to it! Jeez!” Rocket complains, glaring at the man with distaste. “So, as I was saying before I was rudely interrupted, this is our problem because the Protocols were the Senate relinquishing its authority over most administrative functions of the state, including all power to regulate and control the flow of intergalactic trade. Nova Prime isn’t just the leader of the Nova Corps anymore, she’s basically the supreme commander of the Empire. The Corps has all the power to do whatever it wants.” He says, flicking through a series of official documents, elongating his silence as much as possible. Rocket stalled as long as he could, attention flitting uneasily from impatient face to the next. He can’t keep yapping Legalese. Not with how competent these people can be. Well, might as well get this over with. “Long story short, Nova Prime has levied a blockade against Knowhere by prohibiting Kotarra and Dorthraki from trading with us and threatening sanctions against the Plai’ian association if they—“
The room is suddenly overcome with the panicked voices of dozens, as if everyone was in a trance for a few seconds before waking up abruptly, brutally made aware of the situation they’re facing. A cavalcade of terrified concerns and fears quickly overwhelms Rocket, his ears falling to lay down flatly as he tries to fight back the rush of adrenaline and anxiety that grips him tightly from inside. In a short succession of events, various people have encircled around him, each yelling desperately for answers to their questions. Being as short as he is has always been a challenge for him, struggling to fit in a world made by humies for humies. Seeing half a dozen people towering over him, all but screaming in his face as they demand something from him, it reminds Rocket why he’s never held any kind of love for anyone who was taller than him. He understands their panic, gods know he does, but that doesn’t justify the way they’re looking at him—the way one of them grabs him roughly by the arm and pulls him upwards into the air.
“A blockade?! What do you mean—”
“Is that why I haven’t been able to contact my brother—”
“Why would Xandar do that?! Flarkin’ tell—”
“This is all your guys’ fault! This wouldn’t have—”
Rocket’s a sentient being like them, is he not? Would they have done this had the news come from Nebula instead of him? Definitely not, she can be terrifying when she needs to. Peter, then? Maybe. He’s always had a bit of a punchable face, no matter how serious he tries to take himself. So why is it that no matter how much Rocket loudly projects himself, exudes self-assurance and confidence, he’s doomed to be seen as something that’s worth less on the basis he doesn’t look like a conventional humanoid? He doesn’t even know why he’s asking himself that. Rocket’s known the answer since the moment his consciousness—whatever philosophical definition of it one chooses—emerged from the bleary fog of basal animal instincts, separating itself like oil from water as he slowly, painful surgery by excruciating evolution, became aware of what he was. To himself and to others.
Flarking hell.
Fuck that mess!
He’s been fighting, tooth and nail, every single day since his rebirth to rudely remind those around him he’s Rocket flarking Raccoon. He sure as hell ain’t gonna stop now because people he somewhat cares about don’t see him as their equal. They’re going to learn why he’s the captain and they’re not.
Coming back to his bearings from the initial shock of being treated so roughly, Rocket snarls, twisting his arm out of the grip it’s being held in and slashing at the person who dared grab him like that. His claws, recently filed, slice cleanly through the woman’s forearm, bringing forth green blood into the stale air of the conference room. She hisses in pain, letting him go to hastily slap a hand over the wound in an attempt to stem the torrents of blood spilling out the diagonal lines left by his violence. The look in her eyes as she glares at him, the sheer outrage that a creature like him would do that to her, leaves him shaking with rage, growling as he swiftly spins around to slash another pair of hands rapidly approaching to subdue him. More blood spills, and sensing that the situation was only going to get further complicated after reacting in such a way, Rocket clambers off the table and leaps onto Quill’s shoulder, roughly latching onto the man who wasn’t expecting a surprisingly heavy raccoon to use him as leverage.
Drawing his modified blaster from its holster, Rocket shouts his warning, waving his humming weapon in front of everyone’s faces. “Now who in the deltas of flarkin’ hell do you think you all are?” He spits rabidly, heaving as the crowd tries to surround him and Peter. “I’m trying to help you, and this is how you respond?”
Peter, catching on, flushes red with anger, grabbing onto the hybrid’s quivering leg to steady him. His head swivels left and right in a way Rocket’s intimately familiar with. He’s analyzing the increasingly boisterous mob with a hostile glint in his eyes, adrenaline-blown pupils flitting from each face to another in rapid succession to calculate what level of violence they’re going to use to get out of this quickly worsening situation. The man’s free hand falls to grip the handle of the twin blaster on his thigh, curling his fingers precariously through the trigger guard. He’s unsubtle in the way he switches the weapon from ‘stun’ to ‘projectile,’ a sharp, shark-like grin making its way on Peter’s face as Rocket cackled a high, reedy noise. It’s been way too long since he’s been able to get some action, his body roaring desperately for the rush of senseless violence and the spilling of blood.
However, just as Rocket and Peter are ready to begin firing blindly into the crowd of terrified, angry denizens, an ear-piercingly deafening klaxon splits the air in half, causing everyone to instantly forget what they were about to do in favor of slamming their hands over their ears. A collective wince of agony fills the room, along with the clatter of dozens of blasters falling to the floor in the haste to protect their hearing. Rocket, with how sensitive his hearing is, falls completely limp in Peter’s hold, whining weakly in complaint as his paws fail to silence the eardrum rupturing noise no matter how much he tries to cover them. He shakily opens his eyes to see a similar pained expression on Pete’s face, though he seems to be faring slightly better on account of his shitty Terran ears. He looks down at Rocket, face contorting into a look the biped’s come to recognize as sympathy.
For a few torturous seconds longer, the alarm continues to ring, completely disarming the potential mob and rendering Rocket a pile of exposed nerves. He can’t even tell when the klaxon ends, entirely lost in the ringing that ricochets around inside his skull, bouncing around the organic bone and metal implants in a nauseating, throbbing of his brain. He only comes to when Peter shakes him gently, a warm palm resting on the side of his head, holding his cranium within a single hand. An instinctual shiver wracks his trembling frame, muscles seizing up as a blurry, panic-inducing memory floats up from the recesses of his mind. Sire, gripping his small head in his icy cold, medical hands, remarks on the nature of their relationship—creator and creation, master and servant, sire and sired. Nothing more, nothing less.
Rocket shakes his head free of the thought and of Quill’s hold on him, groaning lowly when his head throbs from the movement. He reopens his eyes once again to see the mob of people he’d almost gunned down standing around, unsure of what to do next now that the fervor of fear-induced rage was gone, leaving an almost comical level of uncertainty hanging over their heads. The air in the room goes slightly awkward, someone clearing their throat audibly when they notice Nebula nonchalantly swiping on her holo-pad as if nothing had happened. It becomes abundantly clear that she was the one responsible for activating the auditory deterrent within Guardian’s HQ, hand still hovering over an obnoxiously red button in case anyone tries to start up the fight again.
Rocket, bleary-eyed and dizzy, lifts himself from the bridal carry Peter had him in, sluggishly coming up to sit on the human’s shoulder. He silently watches Nebula look up from what she was doing on her own device and replaces Rocket’s hologram with one of her own. The cyborg, uncaring of social cues, prolongs the silence, getting up to slowly walk over to stand beside the biped. A few moments pass in deafening quiet, briefly interrupted by Peter coughing when he swallows saliva wrongly, until Nebula finally starts talking, leaning into her hip as she waved her hand to throw up an infographic on the current state of resource supply.
“Seeing that you’ve all calmed down.” She says, voice chock full of annoyance, “We have more important matters to deal with than needlessly getting violent with one another. You know, this is exactly what Nova is hoping for—what they’re expecting by putting us in this position. History has shown that starving out a population is one of the most effective weapons of war, rather than expending the resources to start a conventional conflict with arms and lives. It’s psychological warfare at its finest and will only get worse as we continue to consume our dwindling supply of resources. Nonetheless,” Nebula motions to the hologram, pinching in with a gesture of her finger to zoom in on the endless amounts of fluctuating graphs measuring the live-time usage of various resources. “Potable water is down 43 percent, and recycling rates aren’t keeping up to replace the amount consumed or wasted. Every person in Knowhere, on average, is using about 96.7 liters of water per cycle, when the galactic minimum set forth within the Minimal Rights Accord is 50-75 liters. Fortunately, Rocket has devised a new water management system that’ll prioritize tackling water leakage, so we have some wiggle room, but I do expect we’ll have to initiate rationing within the next hour.”
Ears still sore, Rocket stays silent as he watches Nebula go back and forth with the representatives, arguing on the minutiae of just how screwed they are if they don’t get their shit together. The spiraling hopelessness in their voices is almost amusing, Rocket thinks while yawning and leaning his head onto Peter’s fluffy hair. They’re so desperate to hear anything, other than the relentless monotone of Nebula’s voice about the collapsing quantities of everything essential to living, they keep interrupting her with question after question, derailing the conversation any opportunity they have. Wan Rol, surprisingly, keeps his damn mouth shut as he flits through his holo-pad with a speed that can only come from stomach-churning anxiety. He tilts his device to the left, showing whatever it is he found to some important union leader from the cerebral material refining industry in the parietal zone. Rocket observes as they nod along with what they’ve seen, raising their hands to interject into the argument Nebula’s been having with Klagmor, a labor representative from the ailing hydroponic sector.
“You keep saying raw material imports have fallen by half.” Klagmor rumbles deep in his feathered chest, “I completely understand that, but what I want to know is how this blockade has completely shafted our produce export market with neighboring buyers? We don’t need Kotarra or Dothraki to do our bidding, we have the Tivan Transport Company. Can’t we use our own fleet to circumvent the blockade?”
“As I’ve already stated, Xandar has instituted a total embargo on any products or services originating from Knowhere. We can deploy our reserve fleet as much as we want, but as long as our neighbors don’t want to be sanctioned by Xandar, our cargo carriers won’t move an inch into any foreign port of entry.” Nebula said firmly, turning their attention back to the hologram and emphasizing a key mechanism of the protocol. “The moment anyone detects our reactor signal, they’ll be hailing the Nova Corps to detain our ships.”
Rocket sees the feathered man’s plumage ruffle, the strange crest of feathers on his broad shoulders fluffing upwards as if to ward off a predator. “So why hasn’t that happened? I haven’t heard of any of our cargo carriers being detained for just having a drive signature of our origin.”
“Then you haven’t been paying attention to your own workers, Klagmor.” Rocket buts in, patting Peter’s shoulder so he can put him back down on the table. “We’ve been receiving hundreds of complaints from your shipping magistrates that they’ve been arbitrarily detained, searched, and turned back dozens of times. We were running under the assumption that Xandar was being protectionist to artificially inflate the value of their products galactically, but we now know why they were seizing our goods.” He stretches his arms over his head, yawning obnoxiously loud before pointing a clawed finger towards Wan Rol and his new friend, eager to hear what they’ve been patiently waiting to say. “We can speak more on the specifics of our agricultural ails later, but I’m sure Wan Rol has something urgent to say if his red-face is anything to go by.” Rocket’s pleased to hear his jab landed with some people in the crowd, a chuckle here and there muffled by a hand or tentacle. Nebula just nods gratefully at him, thankful for the respite from the conversation with the ornery bird-like man.
“Flark you, Cap’n.” The Hrktal chuckles, rubbing a palm over his face in a futile attempt to disperse the color painting his skin. Rocket snorts when it obviously doesn’t make a damn difference. “It’s just that Soran and I here came up with an idea on how we could potentially circumvent the blockade.”
“Let’s hear it.” Peter quips, smiling a little smile when various people turn to look at him. He seems to preen in the attention, his cheeks flushing a ruddy hue as he waves at the greetings he receives from multiple acquaintances of his. Drax is particularly excited to see him, grinning stupidly and motioning for Kraglin to also greet his brother while loudly proclaiming, “THE PUNY HUMAN IS BACK!”
Rocket can’t help the flare of ire that sparks in his chest, glancing around the room at all the appreciative smiles people have on their faces as they greet Peter. Why don’t they ever look at him that way? After all Rocket’s done for them, all the countless months of his limited life he’s poured into rebuilding this shithole of a country, and they can’t even dredge up the bare minimum to treat him an ounce the way they do to Quill. Rocket has tried, gods has he tried, to ignore the subtle glares of disdain constantly thrown in his direction, the disappointed frowns from those he cares about, and the disaffected attitudes from everyone about his suffering. People treat him as if he’s nothing more than an unfeeling mess of meat enhanced with circuity. Sure, Rocket’s not really sure where his consciousness arises from in the smorgasbord that is his brain, or if he’s even conscious to begin with. For all he knows, he might just be an infinitely complex network of implants and cybernetics. The line between software and himself is a blurry one, a fact he tries not to think much about. But that doesn’t excuse the cruelty he receives from wider galactic society at large. He does everything for these flarknards, and what does he get in return? Pats on the head as if he’s a flarking dog!
Universally, no matter where he goes, Rocket gets treated the same. Everywhere by everyone. Everyone except his family. Everyone except Peter Quill. Doesn’t Peter see how much he cares for him? The things he’d do for him?
Rocket despises the fact that he’s not the only one the human seeks out approval from, that he’s so debased as to whorishly seek it out in others. Worse yet, from flarking strangers. Rocket crosses his arms over his chest, sighing angrily when he sees the Terran staring particularly hard at a man with toxically red eyes. Is that some fucker he knows from his past? It would definitely explain the look of shock and, dare Rocket say, fear. Wouldn’t be the first time the man’s past as a borderline prostitute caught up to him, the biped thinks with distaste, electing to admonish the humie later after the meeting came to an end.
“Nice to see you at the helm of things again, Peter.” Wan Rol praises him, pulling the human’s attention from the red-eyed man. Pete just smiles weakly, nodding as he averts his gaze from the persistent glare of the man he’s seemingly caught the attention of. Rocket raises a brow at the interaction, non-verbally asking the Terran if he was okay with the hand signs they developed years ago as a team. He responds with a hesitant upturn of his index finger, bringing his thumb and middle finger parallel to one another.
All’s well. He signs before quickly curling his index and middle fingers to touch the tip of his thumb. Will talk.
Rocket nods, touching two claws to the side of his head. Understood. Their conversation can be summed up as Peter saying he’s temporarily fine but will talk to the biped later once they’re alone. They both turn their heads back to Wan Rol and Soran, who were connecting to the projection, chatting amongst themselves as they prepare a complex animation program to demonstrate what they think may just nullify the blockade.
“So.” Soran began, launching the program. The hologram fizzles for a second before a three-dimensional representation of Knowhere appears in the middle of the table, a strobing blue light filling the room. “As we all can recall, almost a year ago to date, Knowhere was put through an experience it had never been capable of before: using the Universal Neural Transportation Network. Captain Raccoon had retrofitted the colony into functioning as a passable structure in case of an emergency.” Xe moves xir hand, demonstrating the upgrades done to improve the structural integrity of the colony, along with an animation of the skull igniting its jump drive and linking with the transportation network. “What Wan Rol and I thought of would be to utilize the jump drive to make hundreds of jumps from the blockaded space we find ourselves in and into the ungoverned zone between Nova and what used to be the Kree Empire.”
Wan Rol clicked his tongue in agreement, swiping away the animation to show a table of data. “We ran various economic simulations and put the results through noise reduction models to get three scenarios depending on the course of action we choose. In scenario one, we determined that we’d be able to alleviate starvation within eight weeks and return to pre-blockade levels of comparable economic growth within half a year.”
Nebula, quickly reading the datacast the pair sent to everyone’s holo-pad, raises her brows in a doubtful, wide-eyed expression. She’s quick to interrupt so she can criticize the scenario: “After one thousand, five hundred, and six jumps?! Knowhere was barely capable of making the sixty-five jumps it did to get to the Arête, in no certain terms would it survive five times the amount of jumps, nevermind nearly twenty-three times as much as this scenario calls for.”
Soran looks at the cyborg with an understanding frown. “It’s the best-case scenario for a reason, Nebula, we weren’t expecting it to become the course of action, but it would be the most beneficial route all things considered. We’d be on the complete opposite side of the galaxy, away from any meaningful power that Xandar could threaten with economic sanctions should they trade with us. We wouldn’t even have to think about entering ungoverned territory. The colony would just need to undergo extensive repairs here,” xe points at various highlighted structural weaknesses of the skull, emphasizing the decaying mandibular ligaments, “and intensive retrofitting here,” xe circles the thrusters lining the temporal and occipital zones, “to make Knowhere stable enough to withstand the gravitational forces.”
“Where would we even get the supplies to do the repairs and retrofitting? Do we have the materials needed here on Knowhere?” Peter asked, attention intently stuck to his holo-pad, falling silent in wait of a response. He chews impatiently on his bottom lip. Rocket notices curiously, watching as the man’s yellowed teeth make an appearance, blunt tips digging incessantly into the thin, pink flesh caught in a nervous tic. The sight, the subtle eroticism of it, leaves him grinding his teeth frustratedly, remembering inopportunely how the humie tasted as Rocket’s tongue licked into his mouth—the feeling of the human’s comparatively dull canines against his. Honestly, Rocket never really saw the hype about humanoids, informed mainly by his marginalization by them, but Peter.
Flark.
There was just something so… attractive about the hairless weirdo that Rocket couldn’t put a claw on, discreetly appreciating the pudge that deliciously accentuated his muscular frame in a way that simply sent him wild. Rocket had never seen such a pretty thing before: his oily, uncombed curly hair, his scraggly, unevenly shaved beard and sideburns, and the swollen, red-rimmed eyes weighed down by dark, exhausted bags. The disheveled, hungover appearance was a surprisingly good look on Peter, Rocket decided at that moment, halfheartedly listening to Quill arguing with Soran over the effectiveness of the colony’s recycler in producing warp-grade reactant base for three-dimensional printing.
Soran was of the opinion that the cleaving units found in the industrial spires of the mandibular zone had enough fission cores to sustain clean digestion of waste material into usable base to make eighty-five percent of expected repairs. Quill was highly critical, noting that reactant base didn’t just need the rare metals necessary for warp-grade construction, it also required an expensive nano-polymer reinforcement additive produced only by a few corporations throughout the galaxy. He would know, he said, mentioning offhandedly that he lived on a deep space vessel most of his life that needed constant upkeep to maintain the jump-stability of not just the jump drive itself but also the entire hull of the ship. He had a point: the energy necessary to reduce the probability trajectories of the subatomic particles of any ship into a predictable, consistent flow of information was immense, especially when spread throughout multiple jumps. The computer and its sphere of observational collapse could only handle so much and would sooner burn its irreplaceable probability modulating complex than get them anywhere far enough from the Nova Empire to escape its wrath.
“What I’m getting from you all,” Wan Rol interjected, laying a calming palm on Soran’s third arm, “is that scenario one is definitively rejected. We completely understand. It’s a big ask, and we’re not entirely sure ourselves if we have the resources necessary for such an endeavor.”
“Please tell me that scenario two or three are more doable at least.” Rocket grunted, swiping away the initial datacast from his main screen into a sub-folder for later viewing. It may not be possible on Knowhere, but the idea of using cleaving units to produce reactant base for smaller, modular crafts or weapons had great potential. Knowhere, with its badass eye cannon, was relatively well defended but lacked a substantial supply of deployable defensive and offensive armaments that could be used to protect the colony in a pinch. The High Evolutionary’s hoard of flying freaks would have easily been defeated with a couple of well-placed tritium and deuterium bombs. Maybe, in a future he really hopes doesn’t happen, he can use them as a deterrent against a threat. Mutually assured destruction was a surprisingly universal concept, Rocket mused, filing away the rough blueprints for such a weapon.
“Yes, Captain Raccoon,” Wan Rol acquiesced, shutting down the running animations of the first scenario and replacing them with the second. “The noise reduction models showed that this course of action was the most feasible out of the three potential outcomes we selected for. It would still involve a significant amount of improvements to Knowhere’s jump stability, but it is within the realm of possibility.”
Nebula seems to agree with the Hrktal’s assessment, her glossy, pitch-black eyes slightly narrowing as she looks over the datacast of this simulation. “What do the projections predict municipal recovery would look like?”
“They show that starvation would be alleviated within twelve weeks and that water supplies could be replenished as soon as two weeks. Economically speaking, this scenario isn’t the most positive due to the proximity to Novan borderspace and civil conflict. The ungoverned space is still completely without any real control by any power, and stars know the Kree are in complete disarray.” Wan Rol mutters, wincing sympathetically when someone brings up the fact they have family members trapped on a war-ravaged planet in the middle of a greater conflict with an upcoming enemy. “Nonetheless, we’d still face severe reductions in imports from neighboring partners, as well as increased threats from a handful of aggressively expanding, wannabe dictators.” He says, displaying a map of the current political landscape of the galaxy.
Rocket hums deeply, claws twirling around the fuzzy fur on his chin as he analyzes the map. It’s a nearly impossible-to-understand mess of dotted and dashed lines, with various colors demarcating where one nation or empire begins and ends. Nova, being the most stable of the hundreds of civilizations reeling from the Blip, occupies a sizable portion of the Andromeda, with its stronghold of power and influence centered around Xandar and its peripheral regions. Knowhere, represented by a silly cartoon skull, was uncomfortably close to Novan borderspace and patrol, only a few million klicks away from the nearest military outpost. But that was because, prior to discovering Nova Prime’s betrayal, Rocket had assumed they were still allies and, as such, could stand to be physically close to encourage closer relations and mutual trade.
Cheezus, he was completely wrong. Rocket realized with wide eyes, a nauseating rush of regret and self-doubt filling his chest the longer he stared at the map of his mistakes. When had he become so stupid as to trust the flarking Nova Empire?! The expansionist, oppressive regime that has committed an untold amount of genocidal destruction against hundreds of planets without a single inkling of remorse. The bureaucrats who lobbied to create the carveout within the Galactic Personhood Minimums Law that excluded organisms like him and Nebula of a right as fundamental as personhood. He’s gotten too complacent, letting his guard down like that. He’s gone flarking soft, falling for the alluring myth of the goodness held by the Xandarian Trisolar banner.
It’s a brutal reminder, a cruel slap in the face, to have his eyes opened once again to the reality of politics. People are liars, backstabbing is the name of the game, and self-interest reigns supreme. The material reality that they all live in is what lays the groundwork for the reason why anyone does anything, and the current reality is disparate. Everything that came before casts a terrible, oppressive shadow on what's happening now, and it all traces back to the goddamn Snap.
Rocket knew things were bad during those five years. He would know, he lived through it all. He witnessed firsthand the destruction wrought on planets not even remotely connected to intergalactic affairs. Entire worlds—trillions of lives—woke up to see everything they knew—their families, friends, and even themselves—turn to dust without a single clue as to why. Rocket and Nebula, both raw with soul-crushing grief after losing everyone they loved, jumped from planet to planet, desperately trying to hold together a universe unraveling at the seams.
When Rocket sleeps, he tries not to remember the haunting cries of soon-to-be mothers, begging to know where the little heartbeat inside them had gone. They clawed at his arms, screaming for him to do something—anything—to bring back the life they had nurtured for months. And all he could do was stand there, spewing empty promises, trying to convince both himself and the grieving mothers that their bundle of joy would return to them. Again and again, from collapsing society to crumbling civilization, he repeated the same lie.
Don’t worry, we’re gonna fix this. How? That doesn’t concern ya, but just know we’re on it. Why? Cuz we’re the flarkin’ Guardians of the Galaxy. Oh, c’mon man, don’t cry like that. You’ll see your husband and daughter soon. I promise.
He had repeated it so many times, he almost began to believe it himself. Even as days dragged into weeks, then months, and finally years. Even when Nebula had to wrestle him to the ground, sobbing and shouting for her to let him pull the trigger on the blaster—to let him see his family again. Even when he had to be forcibly pulled back from the Benatar’s airlock, clawing at her arms, begging to be let go. To be set adrift into the vast black abyss where Yondu was laid to rest and where he might see that grinning, blue-skinned bastard again. A mischievous grin so full of plaque and cavities, yet a grin Rocket had learned to love, a love he never had the chance to fully explore.
Rocket breaks out of his reverie when he distantly hears his name being called, the sound traveling through a field of half-remembered memories and regrets before it reaches his brain. His ears feel as if they’ve been stuffed with cotton, deafened to the repeated ask of:
“Captain?”
Stop.
“Rocket?”
Please.
“Rocky?”
No!
Rocket turns his head, blinking as he realizes that all eyes are on him. Peter stares intently, a worried wrinkle etched between his eyebrows. Rocket watches as the human's mouth moves silently, but the only sound he hears is the rush of blood in his ears. The weight of his responsibilities crashes down on him all at once, leaving him momentarily stunned. The only response he can muster is an inelegant “Huh?”
“We wanted to know what you thought of all the scenarios.” Goro Han said gently, trepidation dripping from his voice. His wife nods emphatically, linking her hand with his.
Rocket glances to the hologram, seeing that the projection had changed to three columns holding summarized information of all the simulations. It doesn’t take him long to read them, and even shorter to realize none of these are good courses of action to choose from.
He looks to Peter as if the man would have an answer for him—the secret solution to all their problems. He did it once, with that twelve percent plan of his. Maybe he’ll have some percentage of a plan for Rocket to go off of this time?
The man just stares at him expectantly, awaiting his answer with baited breath and eager green eyes that sparkle with adoration and sickly infatuation. Useless. Absolutely, flarkin’ useless.
Scut.
“What’ll it be, Cap’n?” Kraglin asked, dropping a heavy palm on Drax’s shoulder. The Kylosian looks back at the Xandarian, loudly questioning why the man is touching him. His question goes unanswered, much to his dissatisfaction.
“I—” Rocket stutters, his already fractured psyche shattering just a bit more, “I, uh, I think that the best decision would be… to go on a thirty-minute recess so I can think this over a bit more,” he says with a level of conviction he absolutely does not have, “we need to consider all possible options before deciding on a course of action, and, uh, I’d like to go over this. With my team. Yeah.”
Cursing himself out for the awkward response, Rocket leaps from the projection table onto the floor and waves his paw, dismissing everyone for the next half hour. His head pounds with a pain that feels like his brain is being torn slowly pulled at the corpus callosum, his clawed fingers rubbing incessantly at the throbbing soreness building in his temples. Flark, where can a guy get lowpri when he needs it? That would most definitely wipe away the agony kicking in his skull.
Sighing deeply, the hybrid stretches his arms behind his back, the popping of inflamed joints echoing in the room as he shifts the tension in his frame. Stepping out of the conference room, Rocket shuffles toward his office, the familiar sound of footsteps trailing behind him: Drax’s heavy stomps, carrying all that brute strength; Nebula’s nearly silent whirring as she moves; Kraglin’s uneven gait from his longer right leg; and Pete’s absurdly confident stride. For a moment, Rocket’s heart aches, a sudden swell of sadness hitting him as he realizes the absence of Groot’s woody footsteps and Gamora’s steady, assured stride. At least with Groot, the memory of what he sounds like is fresh and recent. But Gamora? Yeah, she’s technically alive and pirating with Aleta’s Ravagers, but that woman is nothing to them. The fiery haired, green-skinned woman they loved, the person Peter all but married, died nearly ten years ago, and the memories of her were just as old. Never again will Rocket get to experience her kind, soothing words as she calmed him down from an outburst, or feel her manicured nails scratching that one spot behind his ear that simply melted him into a puddle. Gamora, before everything went to hell, treated him so well, accepted him with wide open arms. She saw the hideous little creature he is and flarking smiled in return. And there’s nothing in the universe that he can do that will ever bring her back, not even if he gathers all the infinity stones once again and kills himself wishing for her resurrection. He would if he could. Peter would probably be happier with her than he’d ever be with a neurotic asshole like him. Gods, he misses Gamora so much.
Notes:
what do we think of the politics? it's difficult to detach earth political culture from a whole different galaxy's but I'm trying! the next chapter probably won't be out for a while. I'll be busy with midterms and uni stuff, so it might be a while until I get something meaningful out. perhaps I'll do an interlude chapter or two of some past events? idk.
Chapter 15: Vignettes of Time
Summary:
Memories aren’t perfect. They’re actually quite fallible. There is no such thing as truth, just the narratives and lies one invents to keep themselves sane.
Or, an insight into the past, and why we are where we are.
Notes:
TW: implied sexual abuse, major character death (temporarily), child abuse, substance abuse, and unhealthy attachment behaviors.
now this was a doozy to write lol. i got bogged down with midterms and the fact that i have two lab classes this semester. who knew learning about soil would take up all my time. eh, it is what it is. i had fun writing this, so i hope y’all enjoy! lemme know if this something that you wanna see in the future as i keep writing.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Vignettes of Time
Peter had been to the surfaces of hundreds of planets in his lifetime. He was about ten Earth years old when he finally set foot off the Eclector, after Yondu gave in to his relentless pestering to be allowed off the rust bucket the Udonta clan called home. Two years without fresh air had taken a toll on his soft, weak Terran body—though he refused to accept that his kind were that fragile. His skin had taken on a sickly pallor, his eyes were gaunt, and his body was marked by visible bruises. It didn’t take much roughhousing from the men around him to leave him covered in painful purples and fading yellows. He fought back with as much of that self-proclaimed "Terran strength" as he could muster, even though he knew he only told himself that to feel something positive about his heritage.
Stepping off the M-ship onto some planet he couldn’t remember the name of, Peter felt a faint sense of loss as he breathed in air that wasn’t from his home. Yondu, with a brief glance from those sharp red eyes, clicked his tongue in annoyance before resting a calloused hand on Peter’s nape. His calloused thumb traced soothing triangles over a bruise that looked uncomfortably close to a hickey. Yondu's face twisted into that familiar, unreadable expression Peter had seen often—usually when the Centaurian noticed signs of the clan’s mistreatment of his adopted son. Pete, unaware of his kidnapper’s internal struggle, was distracted by breathing this alien world’s air, wrinkling his nose when he realized the atmosphere had a slight aftertaste completely unlike that of Earth’s.
Yondu watched Peter’s childlike wonder with amusement, giving him a rough shove off the platform before leaping down onto the dusty ground, his signature red leather coat billowing behind him. It became a sort of tradition between them—standing side by side, taking in the air of a new world each time they went topside. What Peter once thought was a rare experience became routine: landing on a planet’s surface, inhaling its foreign atmosphere, and remarking to Yondu the taste of the air. Some were more breathable, some even tasted better, while others were downright toxic to his human lungs. But none were ever as sweet as the air he remembered from Earth. Maybe it was just his brain latching onto and romanticizing whatever memories he had left of his homeworld, but no place ever quite matched the feeling of frolicking on a hot summer day in Missouri.
Hopping from stone to stone over a creek, visiting the Ozarks with grandpa, drinking hot chocolate on a windy fall day—Peter deeply missed it all. Nothing had ever felt the same from the moment he was stolen from his home and forced to live on a ship full of grown men, with many of them being three or four times his age. Yondu might try, but the crew Peter was told to think of as family were the same people who would pull him aside to beat him up, the same people who do things to him that leave the prints of their hands lingering for hours after. He missed waking up in his mom’s arms, going with her to the food bank every week, and hearing stories about his father who, one day, would come back for him. He thinks it's been four years since he was taken, but Earth time doesn’t really make much sense when most of his time is spent on a ship that doesn’t experience day or night cycles the same way as he was raised. He still remembers how he had to tell Yondu his old bedtime so they could recalculate the onboard circadian clock to account for his sleep patterns. It really messed up his perception of the passage of time and made those first few days feel like months.
Even now, some years later, he still struggles to remember the days of the week or the order of the months. He thought he’d never forget where he came from, clinging desperately to the remnants of his life on Earth. Yet he rarely had time to ponder something as basic or seemingly useless as the planets of the solar system while bouncing from one corner of the galaxy to another. Pete was starting to adjust to the Novan chronometer and its numerous regional variations of time, losing touch with the hands of the kiddy wristwatch he still had from McDonald’s and the calendar in his tattered school agenda.
Yes, Peter missed home deeply and still cried about it to Yondu and Kraglin whenever he could, but he had learned to live day-to-day and in the moment. He wishes he had a choice, but obviously he didn’t have one. Pete was just the unlucky kid whose mom had gotten cancer and died, who had been kidnapped, and who had to rely on some blue alien’s protection to avoid being eaten by dozens of other aliens. Sure as hell didn’t stop them from hurting him in ways that come back to scare him when he’s sleeping—terrible memories of being forced to do things his mom had taught him were wrong, actions worth taking someone to jail for. Whatever; it’s not like he could change anything even if he wanted to. To everyone else, he was just another savage Ravager, discriminated against and ostracized by larger galactic society to the point that the Ravagers had to seek help from apolitical, altruistic aid organizations whenever they needed medical assistance or access to education modules for the few kids they raised.
He was more accustomed to the Ravager creole of the Eclector, and the dialects of the brother clans than to English. No matter how old he was, Pete had become desensitized to thievery, murder, and acts of gory violence. He often wondered what his mom would think of him now or if his old school friends ever missed him when they thought of him. He knows he does. Thinking of all that he’d lost and would continue to lose the longer he was away from Earth, Peter came to a decision that day when a merchant confronted him for trying to swipe a Terran-looking cassette: he would save up enough units to buy his own M-ship and leave the Udonta clan when he turned fifteen. He just wants to go home before he forgets what home even looks like to begin with.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“L-lemme tell ya, ya stinkin’ bastard.” Rocket slurred heavily, standing on the barstool to lean over the counter. “Ya can’t say—” he swallowed thickly, tapping his claws rhythmically against the celluloid-lacquered table, “that you’ve really lived until you’ve had to manually adjust a probability modulation complex on the fly!”
Peter blinked unsteadily for a moment before bursting into obnoxiously loud guffaws. “Holy shit,” he cackled, slamming his fist against the table and knocking over an empty shot glass. “You’re such a flarking nerd. This is what you talk about when you’re drunk? D-doing math?”
He continued laughing until he was panting for breath, sighing happily as he took a swig from the bottle they’d been sharing since the barkeeper forcibly closed their tab. They might have actually been banned from the bar, but neither can remember the angry, spittle-filled admonishments the bartender sent their way. Instead, they were too busy dying of laughter, completely ignoring the Kylorian as they moved from one end of the table to the other. Now they were huddled up closely together, faces mere inches away from each other, breaths intermingling as they drunkenly rambled late into the night. This refueling station they chose to fuel up the Benatar had surprisingly good booze, much to Mantis’ dismay. Rocket snorted when he recalled the disappointed frown on her face when they left to search around for a sleazy hideaway suited for men of their caliber.
“Am I lying though?!” Rocket exclaimed, snatching the stolen bottle from Peter’s hands and throwing it back, gulping down as much liquor as possible. “Not all of us are s-shtupid humies like you.” He burped disgustingly. “Don’tcha remember that time when the jump drive burnt out and I had tah navigate us through f-fifteen flarkin’ jumps? There’s no shot that you could’ve done that.”
“I-I feel like you’re forgetting that I single—” Peter lurched forward, groaning before grimacing as his stomach audibly churned, “singlehandedly reworked the fusion engines to power said burnt-out jump drive. Don’t start with your selective memory just cuz you w-wanna feel like you got something over me.”
Rocket scoffed derisively, “Any flarknard with their thumb up their ass could do that.”
“Oh, c’mon, ya fuzzy bastard, now you’re just lying to the boo- to the both of us.” Pete smiled goofily, blinking unsteadily once more. The sight makes Rocket’s fiery attitude dampen a bit, the force of the human’s dumb behavior surprisingly impactful. Unwilling to investigate the strange feeling stirring in his gut, he chased back the sentimentality with a heavy swig from the bottle, swallowing as obnoxiously as possible.
“Oh flark off,” he said between panting breaths, “reworking the fusion engines is like spacefarer bush fix 101. Anyone who’s even come close to jerking off in a ship has reworked their krutarckin’ fusion engine before. Sorry, but ya ain’t special.” He quickly chugged over half the remaining liquid in the bottle, wincing sharply as the liquor burned a stinging path down his esophagus and into his stomach. He doesn’t see, as much feel, the way Quill is staring at him, the way his green eyes lingered heavily on the undulating column of Rocket’s furry throat.
“Slow down there, Rocky.” Peter grinned, a wicked glint shining in his eyes. “You might get too drunk and—and d-do something you’ll regret come morning.”
The hybrid snorted, looking up from where he still had the rim of the bottle nestled between his black lips, “Bullscut, there ain’t a thing I done in life drunk that I’ve ever, ever regretted. M-maybe you have considering you have a habit of sticking your prick in places it don’t belong when yer—hm—wh-when yer wasted.”
With a leering expression, Rocket, while holding direct eye contact with Pete, sticks his long, flexible tongue into the hole of the bottle, slurping up the liquor like a straw. He smirked when he saw Quill’s pupils expand, a pretty, rosy blush coloring his cheeks and trailing down his neck, spreading beneath the collar of the tac shirt he wore. Rocket watched intently as Peter’s throat shifted with a thick swallow, the tip of his stubby, pink tongue darting out to lick the stray drop of alcohol dangling from his puffy lower lip.
“I ever tell you that you—that yer a weirdo, Quill?” Rocket chuckled, tossing the drained bottle onto the filthy floor beneath them, the glass clattering dangerously.
Peter broke the intense staring by looking away, an abashed expression crossing his face as he rubbed the back of his neck with a hand. “All the damn time, Rocky.” He scrubbed a palm over his face in an attempt to dispel the heat burning his cheeks. “You’ve always been critical of my, uh, T-terran quirks, which I find funny considering you’re also Terran, y-y’know?”
“This again?” Rocket growled, baring his canines threateningly. Unfortunately, it only seemed to catch the man’s lurid attention even more, drawing those shiny green eyes onto his mouth. “How many times—hnn—how many times do I, uh, do I gotta tell ya that I’m not a flarkin’ rac-raboon or whatever you think it is I am? There ain’t—“
“Yeah, yeah, there ain’t nothing like you, ‘cept you.” Peter interrupted, smiling fondly when Rocket responded with a low growl. Abruptly, Pete launched out of his stool and slammed his fists against the table, giggling when he saw Rocket flinch violently at the sudden movement. He leaned in, breath reeking of alcohol, and all but nuzzled his nose into Rocket’s throat, rumbling with pleasure as he inhaled deeply. However, before the raccoon could react, he was already pulling back, eyes glittering with mischief and excitement. “C’mon, let’s, uh, let’s get outta here. As David Hasselhoff used to say, the night is still young!”
Rocket, thoroughly ruffled to say the least, allowed himself to be dragged along by the human, barely putting up any resistance as they stumbled out of the bar and into the winding streets of Knowhere. The barkeeper yells at them on their way out, screaming about an unpaid tab, but they don’t care. Rocket is distracted by the blinding smile on Quill’s face, following the man’s tugging pull without a single thought. Mantis will probably be pissed to see them come home so, well, pissed, but it sure as hell wouldn’t be the first time they’d come home a stumbling, incoherent mess.
“Where ya t-takin’ me, Quill?” Rocket slurred, tripping over some exposed exhaust pipe emitting noxious gasses from deep within the port.
Peter, grinning, glanced down at Rocket before lifting him from the dusty ground and pulling him into a warm embrace. He began sprinting through the narrow, winding streets of the rundown, backwater refueling station. “I passed through this place when I was, like, twenty-four, and I remember there being this cool spot—like a type of club where, uh, you can do whatever. You’ll see; it’s a sick scene, I’m telling you.” He finished, trembling with glee as he hugs the biped closer to his chest.
Rocket, warmer and more snuggled than he’d ever been, fought against the tide of instinctual panic surging in his gut. He struggled not to associate the grip of his favorite human with that of his creator. It was harder than it seemed, but Rocket managed to quell the rising fear and relax, nuzzling deeper into Peter’s hold. Drunkenly, he trusted that Peter would never outright hurt him in a way Rocket wouldn’t find enjoyable. He’s had multiple opportunities to do so in the past, including now, but Peter had done nothing more than be weirdly touchy and affectionate. So, with his annoyingly aggressive hackles laid temporarily down, Rocket chooses to go with the flow. “Better not be some flarked-up sex dungeon,” he chuckled, resting his claws on Peter’s supple chest. “Though, knowing ya, I wouldn’t put it past ya to take me to some underground hole in the ground.”
“Ye of little faith,” Pete laments humorously, digging his fingers into Rocket’s thigh before leaning in electrifyingly close to hoarsely whisper, “You just wait and see, Rocky, we’re gonna have so much fun.”
Rocket can only swallow thickly, self-consciously pressing his thighs together in hopes of taming the increasingly burning heat of arousal swirling in his gut. “S-sounds good.” He stutters, struggling to hold back a whine when Quill’s hands wander upwards and linger just below his jutting cock. The Terran just laughs coyly in response, a deep rumbling noise in his chest that shakes Rocket to his core. Flark.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Stepping off the Benatar and onto the surface of Thanos' world was already a monumental task, given everything Peter had endured in the past forty-eight hours. He had parted ways with Rocket in a way that left him raw, endured his crew fawning over that Asgardian jerk, been ambushed on Knowhere by Thanos, and watched as the love of his life was torn from him. But as he breathed in the air of this cursed planet, feeling the oxygen exchanging with carbon dioxide in his lungs, he was struck by a haunting familiarity—it felt just like his last memory of breathing Terra’s air. The sweet touch of petrichor, a scent he had long associated with his few remaining memories of Missouri, hung nauseatingly in the atmosphere. The unsettling similarity made his stomach churn, adding to the growing unease building within him, but he had little time to dwell on it. Before he could fully grasp how twisted it was that Titan shared the same atmospheric composition as Earth, he was thrust into battle against Thanos once more, this time alongside Earth’s so-called mightiest heroes.
For a moment, they had the Mad Titan subdued under Mantis' psychic control, asleep just as they had done with Peter's biological father all those years ago. Peter wasn’t sure what came over him or why he reacted the way he did in such a crucial situation, but what was done was done. He thinks it was because an irrational part of him—the part that was so tired of constantly losing the people he loved time and time again—was gleeful to have the chance to finally get revenge. He was exhilarated by the opportunity to inflict more than just the pain of loss on the man who had murdered his lover. Peter wanted Thanos to suffer, to feel the agony he'd carried for so long. If given the chance, he would’ve tortured Thanos the way he himself had been tortured by his "family" on the Eclector. But Thanos, ever the conniving bastard, escaped before Peter could follow through, utilizing the space stone to warp the fabric of reality itself until he simply vanished. The defeated, shocked silence that followed was deafening.
In the brief lull that followed, the gravity of what Peter had done finally sank in, and he was hit with the full weight of his mistake. The next few minutes were consumed by regret, terror, and confusion. Suddenly, the once-sweet air of Titan became sickly in his lungs. He had tasted the air of thousands of worlds, but none felt as hostile as this one. It wasn’t that he couldn’t breathe—he was hyperventilating himself into a panic attack—but the realization that he was metabolizing the same oxygen as Thanos sickened him. Pete felt violated in a way he hadn’t in decades, disgusted with himself as the sounds of his injured teammates groaning in pain filled the air. His stomach churned, twisting in knots, as he helped Mantis to her feet and guided them both toward where all the failed heroes were licking their wounds. Peter, always trying to keep up his unserious facade, found himself preparing to crack some dumb joke to lighten the mood, even though the weight of their failure hung heavy in the atmosphere.
Just as Peter was about to speak, Mantis’ voice cuts through the air to ominously say. “Something’s happening.” Instantly, a wave of paralyzing dread crashed over him. He glanced at Mantis, who had begun trembling uncontrollably. At first, he assumed she was sensing some psychic disturbance, picking up on the collective misery they were all wallowing in. But no—she was detecting something far larger, something far more terrifying. With a feeling of ice curdling in his stomach, Pete looks away from her to Stark, about to ask what was going on, when the weight of his teammate suddenly vanished from his grasp. He almost stumbled forward, the shift in weight so abrupt, and his heart froze in disbelief as he watched Mantis disintegrate into dust before his eyes.
His brain just stops computing, breaking completely as his hands are left floating in the air, clenching instinctively around what was once his friend's shoulder. All he feels is soft, sorrowful dust—blowing away gently into a draft of wind that chills him to his core.
W-what? How? She was—she was just there!
Panicking, he turns to look at Drax to make sure the Kylosian is okay, hoping to God that this wasn’t something that could spread. To his horror, all Peter can do is stand there and watch, frozen in absolute shock, as Drax’s right arm disintegrates.
He can’t breathe. Fuck. He can’t fucking breathe.
As if in slow motion, Drax looks up to stare at Peter with such an uncharacteristic expression of fear, only able to utter a shaky, “Quill?” before he just completely falls apart. The dust he leaves behind is quick to dissipate and disappear, leaving nothing of the giant hunk of muscle behind. Peter blinks, desperately hoping that when he reopens his eyes, Drax will be where he belongs. He’s not. He’s just gone. Peter wants to throw up. He can’t get the image of the Kylosian out of his head, unable to unsee the glint of terror—of mortal fear—in the man’s eyes as he died. Drax can’t be dead though, he was just standing right there seconds ago!
It’s all so absurd, so unimaginable, he can’t even begin to process what’s happening or who’s going to go next. He whips around to shout at Stark but is greeted with the sight of the pale, wide-eyed man staring at him with similar reproach. What little vegetation that sticks out of the battle field begins to dissolve as well, whipping away into the air as Drax and Mantis did. They can only hold unsteady eye contact, panting raggedly as the reality of their situation dawns upon them.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
He tried so damn hard to not eavesdrop, distracting himself as much as he could with the prototype blaster he’d been tinkering with for days now. But flark, if the metal walls of this ship weren’t thin as hell, he can’t be blamed for listening to the bickering and yelling coming from Quill’s and Gamora’s room. Rocket’s always been a sucker for drama, and it seems their resident lovebirds are having quite the fucking quarrel.
“Get off my fucking back, Gamora! I don’t need you nagging my head off every single time I want to sit back and relax!” Peter complained drunkenly, audibly pacing back and forth as their argument continued.
“Sit back and relax, are you kidding me? Do you even hear yourself, Peter?” Gamora shot back, exasperation dripping from her every word, “Getting drunk every single moment you can is not sitting back and relaxing! It’s called having a problem!”
Rocket’s ear twitched, swiveling towards the direction of their room.
“A problem? You’re acting like, uh, like I’m some fucking addict. Is that how you see me, huh? Am I just some fucking junkie to you?” Quill retorted, likely knocking something off a shelf as the sound of an object clattering echoed against the metallic floor. Rocket tried, and failed, to stifle the gasp that escaped him.
“Of course not!” Gamora groans, “Why do you always get so damn defensive when I criticize any small thing about you? I’m just trying to tell you that I’m worried about you! I’m worried that you’re drowning all your problems in drinks and drugs!”
The laugh Quill produces is humorless and downright cruel. His pacing slows as he likely resorts to the tactic he likes to use when he’s mad—towering over the person he's arguing with, using his absurd Terran height to intimidate. It grates on Rocket’s nerves to no end, but it’s particularly disturbing that Peter would use this posture against Gamora, considering the trauma she carries from her maniac father exploiting their size difference to his sick advantage. When Peter is truly furious, he can become borderline psychotic, harshly gritting out hateful, uncaring words.
“Oh, you’re one to fucking talk. I get defensive? Me? Do you even hear yourself? Ha!” He barks, stomping his foot like a petulant child, “Don’t be a flarkin’ hypocrite, Gamora, you know it pisses me off when you act like you’re better than me when we all know you damn well aren’t.”
Rocket, now thoroughly invested, flinches when he hears Gamora unsheathe her sword. Quill’s hasty footsteps tap loudly on the floor until he’s pressed right up against the wall between their rooms. Rocket snickers when he hears the human make a pathetic noise as the blade of the sword presses against his throat.
Gamora, sounding as cold as ever, speaks so quietly that even Rocket struggles to hear exactly what she says. “You may think me one of your… girl acquaintances or whatever, but I am not. You do not get to talk down to me like that because you’re feeling like a piece of trash. We all have our own problems. Do not think you are special, Quill, because you’re not. You are as unremarkable as your kind, so check your fucking ego.”
Gamora never curses, Rocket thinks belatedly, stopping his tinkering to eavesdrop even harder than he was before. There’s some sluggish shuffling and muted, harsh whispers, but aside from that, he hears nothing else. Eventually, after a few minutes of prolonged silence, he hears the hiss of a door sliding open and Quill’s drunken footfalls echoing down the hallway from the quarters to the commons, where Rocket’s been sitting for the last few hours modifying a blaster he’d stolen from some vendor weeks ago.
The urge to flee makes him tense up, his clawed fingers digging into the flayed-open chassis of the gun. Just as he’s about to get up and scamper into some vent to escape Quill’s mopey whining, a heavy palm lands on the nape of his neck, the man’s thick, calloused fingers burying themselves in his fur. A body-wide shiver wracks Rocket, and a snarl quickly forms on his muzzle as he looks up to tell the humie off.
“Quill, you better not be—“
Peter interrupts him mid-sentence, abruptly falling to his knees and wrapping his arms around the entirety of Rocket’s lithe frame. Pete completely ignores the threatening growl Rocket makes, opting instead to rest his head against his upper back. The stool more than compensates for the height difference between the two of them. “You’re so—you’re so warm. So soft,” he slurs, words drawn out and silly. “I could fall asleep here for hours.”
Oh hell no.
“You bet your flarking ass you won’t, I’m not playing Quill, get the hell off of me.” Rocket hisses, stiffening as the Terran leans heavily on him, nuzzling his nose deep into the wiry fur of his throat. Rocket can feel and hear Peter inhale deeply before letting out a ragged moan of pure ecstasy, which leaves the hybrid’s fur standing on end. He tries to push the man off him with increasing effort, but it barely budges the large guy. “What the flark are you doing?!” Rocket exclaims, eyes wide in shocked surprise.
“Hmm.” Quill hummed, moving his hands to fiddle his fingers with the countless zippers and pockets of the raccoon's jumpsuit, “nothin’ special. Jus’ wanted to tell you that you’re, uh, that you’re important to me, y’know? Like, you’d never do me wrong, would you?” He asked, dipping a curious finger into a pocket and pulling out a little circuit breaker. He played around with it while Rocket struggled to formulate an answer to his question, unsure of how to broach the seemingly sensitive issue at hand. It was obvious that Peter was fishing for attention and positive affirmations after his argument with his girlfriend, though why he was seeking it from Rocket of all people is beyond him.
“Ugh, Quill, y’know I’m not good with all those feelings and scut. But, uh, no, I’d never wrong you.” Rocket mumbled, burning with embarrassment when the Terran made a pleased noise, returning to rubbing against him like a cat. “You should know that, ya flarknard. Have I ever done anything to make you question that?”
“No, n-not really. It’s just, uhm, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been wronged or treated badly, especially by those I love.” Well, now that’s just sad, Rocket thinks with a frown, turning around to get a good look at the man’s face. Peter is grimacing deeply, a pained expression of festering contempt and hatred towards a universe bent on hurting his family at every turn. Yondu’s death is still fresh on all their minds, but none so much as Peter Quill himself, the man still early in his grieving of a father-son relationship torn apart before he even knew what he had.
None of them are strangers to pain, loss, and suffering—Gamora still battles with the knowledge that she’s the last of her kind, Drax is still coming to terms with the ravaging of his homeworld and the crimes he committed as Destroyer, and Mantis is still trying to find who she is outside of her master’s wrath. Rocket is, well, he’s still alive, and that’s all that he can really say.
Rocket brings his hands to rest on Peter’s face, his claws gently scratching the scruff the man is sporting on his weird, pale humie face. “Go back to bed, Quill, Gam’s probably waiting for you,” he said solemnly, accustomed to the pangs of longing and the aches of desire that swelled in his chest whenever Pete looked at him with those wide, dark eyes. The dim lighting around them could almost be romantic, if not for the reason why Peter was on his knees before him—the reason why he always felt like a second choice to Gamora. It shouldn’t hurt as much as it did, but there was no getting around it—they just weren’t compatible in any way.
“I don—“ Pete burped, swallowing heavily before continuing, “I don’ wanna. Gamora’s probably still mad at me. Like, is it so bad for a man to just want a drink every now and then? I don’ even get drunk all that often.”
Rocket couldn’t help but smile at the man’s inebriated rambling, chuckling when Quill nuzzled into his tiny palm. “Yer damn right, there ain’t a damn thing wrong with wanting a stiff drink after a long day. At least, not in my opinion.” It would be hypocritical of him to even breathe a word of sobriety or shame Pete for his lack thereof when Rocket himself was a high-functioning alcoholic. Maybe it wasn’t the best behavior to encourage the Terran’s obvious drinking problem, but could anyone really blame him? Drinking alone was sad, while drinking with a friend was a blast. The math was pretty simple.
“See, you get it! I dunno why Gamora can’t be like you, Rocky. You know how to have fun, to let loose, y’know? She’s always so… uptight, acting like she’s better than us.” He said, his eyes fluttering shut as Rocket moved his hands from the man’s beard to his hair, scratching his claws against Quill’s scalp.
The atmosphere felt more intimate than it should have. Quill opened his eyes to look at him with such vulnerability that it made Rocket’s chest tighten. He hated how it felt like they’d known each other for an eternity when, in reality, it had only been a little over six months since that fateful day on Xandar. He despised how, in such a short time, he’d deluded himself into believing he could ever be anything more than just a friend to Peter—as if he were worthy of anything other than the man’s scorn.
“Bye, Quill.” Rocket said one last time, his resolve solid as he dropped his hands from the Terran’s absurdly soft hair and turned back to his work. he man was just drunk, Rocket reasoned, ignoring the quiet whimper of complaint Peter made, as if the act of severing their contact was physically painful. For what felt like an eternity, Peter sat there in silence, waiting for something more than the hybrid’s cold shoulder.
Eventually, as the chronometer ticked into the new Xandarian cycle, a gentle, almost hesitant knock came at the entrance to the commons. Rocket recognized the footsteps of the well-trained assassin immediately, but it seemed Quill remained clueless—at least until a muffled, feminine voice traveled through the hallway.
“Rocket, is Peter in there with you?” She asked, showcasing the manners Rocket secretly appreciated by refusing to enter until she’s been told to do so. “I couldn’t find him in the cockpit or the engine room.”
“Yeah, he’s in here alright.” The biped responded, his ears twitching at the disappointed sigh Quill released. “You can come in, Gams, I ain’t gonna bite ya.”
Gamora, unusually soft-looking and timid, entered the room and stopped beside the raccoon’s workbench, staring at Peter with a questioning rise of her brow. The woman, most likely worn out from all the fighting and yesterday’s lengthy mission, sighed in exhaustion before glancing over at Rocket. “You keep an eye on him?” She asked, tilting her head side to side to soothe an ache that had been bothering her.
“Wasn’t like I was jumping at the chance to get wasted with him,” Rocket snarked, twisting some wires around a sampuron crystal. “I’d like to have these things,” he motioned to the blasters spread across the table, “done before we reach Urgei IX. I heard that ungularian skin is extra tough to get through.” Although it wasn’t a direct answer to her question, it was an admission, indirectly telling her he had indeed kept watch.
Gamora noticed and smiled softly, carefully placing her hand on Rocket’s head, scratching her freshly manicured nails into the scarred skin of his skull. It feels inordinately good, a soft tingling sensation of pleasure traveling from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. He relaxes minutely and exhales a soft breath of relief, looking up to slightly nudge into the soothing touch.
“Thanks. I’ll take him to bed.” Gamora continued to smile, a mirthful crease forming at the corners of her eyes. “Make sure you get sleep as well. Can’t have our pilot falling asleep at the helm.” This earned a subdued snort from Pete, his shoulders jostling with muffled laughter.
Rocket grinned sharply in return, halfheartedly swatting away Gamora’s hands before giving Quill one last, lingering look. Then he turned back to the blasters, focusing on his work. “I’d be caught dead first then asleep at the wheel. I know y’all don’t trust me all that much, but trust me when I say that’ll never happen,” he cackled, pushing down the longing that swelled within him and shutting out the useless emotional baggage.
But he couldn’t completely bury the hurt that struck him as the sound of footsteps faded away, leaving him with nothing but silence. He knew how things were; he should be grateful to have a family again, but he just couldn’t bring himself to feel that way. He’s unwilling to. It felt unfair how Quill undervalued his feelings and how kind Gamora was to him when she didn’t have to be.
What does he want?
Why does he want any of this, when he’s never before?
Rocket’s completely unsure.
He’s only known them for six months—just strangers sharing the same space—and yet he feels on the verge of ruining it all, despite finally finding something positive for the first time in a very, very long time. Friendship with this many people? That’s basically unheard of for a thing like him, for a Halfworlder like him. But whatever it is Quill sees in him, he knows he doesn’t have it. He’s not a stupid, flarking humie like Peter, and he’s certainly nothing like Gamora. She’s beautiful, strong, everything he’s not.
Rocket’s ears droop, the weight of despair settling heavily in his chest, overwhelming him with the sadness of never having what he truly wants. None of it feels fair, but then again, nothing in his life ever has been.
The modified blaster in his hands gleams sleek and dangerous, ready to shoot down anyone who dares to stand in their way. At least he has his weapons—an endless cache of ammunition, armaments, and tools of mass destruction. They’ll never be able to truly replace the longing for the warmth of another’s touch on his fur, but he’s come to be somewhat okay with that fact. He needs to be okay with that fact; otherwise, he wouldn’t survive another day.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“Steady, Quill.” Stark says shakily, attempting to calm the agony about to overtake Peter. But it does nothing to quell the maelstrom of anger, grief, and fear swirling around in his head.
This can’t be happening.
This can’t be happening.
This can’t be happening.
I can’t be losing them all.
God, please, don’t let this be true.
I’m not going to survive this—
Peter can’t remember for the life of him what his last words were or what was going through his mind, but in a dizzying, vertigo-inducing moment, he feels himself explode down to the atomic level. It’s indescribable—terrifyingly fantastical—how he felt during those seconds where he was nothing but what could best be described as zero. There’s nothing to compare it to; no explanation or reasoning he could ever possibly muster to make sense of what happened. One moment, he was on the verge of beating Stark to a pulp for failing to stop Thanos; the next, he was reassembling from the dust he had become.
Peter got a front row seat to watch himself reappear, his very hands reconstituting themselves back into existence as soon as he was returning to consciousness. The war-ravaged battlefield where he once stood starts to melt away, a wave of change swirling outward from the spot he first began to materialize. Upturned mounds of rock and soil, crushed trees, and the towering, burning husks of downed ships transform into rain-smoothed rolling hills, covered in knee-high reeds of grass and adolescent trees. The battleships he helped shoot down remain, but now they are hollowed out by scavengers and cloaked in thick foliage.
None of it makes sense, in any form of the word. He feels fine other than the aches and bruises he had from all the hits he received. But if he’s feeling the same, why does everything around him seem different? Is he even on Titan anymore? Sure as hell doesn’t look like it, Peter thinks as he spins around to take in the stunning views of the setting sun on this planet. Once again, he’s met with the terribly sweet air of this world entering his lungs and soothing a homesick part of him he didn’t even realize he still had. For a moment, he feels a peace unlike he’s ever felt before, inhaling deeply to assure himself that he won’t just explode into nothingness should he stop paying attention to his surroundings.
As he crouches down to run a hand through the reeds of grass, he flinches, tumbling onto his behind as a swirl of dark dust manifests from thin air and quickly reforms into Mantis. Just like Peter did, she gasps loudly, whimpering anxiously as she notices the sudden change in scenery.
In quick succession, Drax returns with a loud bellow of fear, swinging his fists at some invisible enemy. The spider kid quickly follows, leaping up from the ground to aim his webslingers at the three of them, crouching down into a flexible position with narrowed eyes. They all stare at each other, off-kilter and confused to the maximum extent possible. However, the moment Peter was about to ask them what just happened, a sparkling, rotating circle of fire opened up in front of them without any explanation. The portal, or whatever it was, led directly to another battlefield where all four of them could see what appeared to be the surface of Terra being bombarded by some intense shelling.
“I-is that Terra?” Peter stammered, suddenly feeling an overwhelming amount of anxiety surging through his veins and arteries. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to visit this homeworld yet, if ever. It’s starting to seem like he won’t be having a choice, though.
“You mean Earth?” The spider kid asked, getting closer to inspect what was on the other side of this magical teleportation ring. “Wait… is that what I think it is—oh frick! It is! That’s the Avenger’s compound! Guys!” The kid turns around, young eyes full of desperation and fear. “You gotta help my friends. They’re being attacked by Thanos!”
“Thanos is still alive?” Mantis asked, edging closer towards the portal, peeking into what seemed to be an army of heroes dramatically assembling in an attempt to fight the Mad Titan once and for all. Whatever just happened to them all—the unexplainable turning to dust thing—seems to have left the megalomaniacal villain alive. Peter, borderline hyperventilating, forces himself to enter a headspace of unusual calm and focus.
He leads the four of them through the portal and onto the battlefield, realizing in that instant the stakes they’re up against. The Gauntlet is precariously being tossed from one side to another, a clash of desperation to one of senseless evil. Peter sees the blur of Rocket’s form fly past him, along with Nebula’s signature blue skin in hand-to-hand combat with some soldiers. It’s an utter mess of events happening from one second to the next. Pete can barely keep up with it, panting as he activates his own rocket boots to fly across the war zone, shooting down whoever he can. Everything melts together in a smorgasbord of smoke, chaos, and death. He’s still struggling to keep up with the fact something happened to him that changed the whole world around him—that Gamora is fucking dead and Thanos is still alive.
That is, until he sees her.
The vibrancy of her beautiful green skin, her fiery red hair.
“Gamora?” He utters, feeling as if the air’s been sucked out of his lungs. Peter goes to kiss her, joy swelling in his chest as the grief of the last 48 hours melts away and gets replaced with pure happiness. She stares at him, eyes unrecognizing of the man she’s looking at. Peter’s stomach drops, but he pushes through the dread and reaches for her, fingers trembling as they just about make contact with her silky soft skin.
She’s alive.
The love of his life is alive.
She’s not dead. Gamora would never die. She wouldn’t leave him like that. She promised him. She promised him during a night of heated passion, her blunt nails digging into his throat as she restricted the air entering his lungs. Gamora, breathless and flushed, whispered lowly in his ear that they’d be together forever—that nothing would ever rip them apart. Biting the sensitive flesh of his lobe, she admitted that she’d rather die than be without him. God fucking damn it, she promised him as he came inside her, sobbing as she not-so-genlty guided him through a ground-shaking orgasm. She’s not dead.
His fingers graze her cheek, and he really hates how she recoils from his touch. In all the time that they’ve been together, she’s never once reacted so flinchingly to him, staring at him with the disdain she’d only save for people who’d sexually harass her. Then the sudden iron grip on his wrist and snarl on her beautiful face further stomps out whatever hope his heart could’ve mustered. Now that he’s thinking about it, is this even their Gamora? She looks so much younger, so much like he remembered her looking four years ago when they first met. Peter, desperate to believe anything but, mentally shrugs off the crippling doubt and tries to lean in further, prepared to receive a passionate kiss in return.
Instead, he gets kicked in the fucking balls. Twice.
God, why? He cried internally, crumbling to the ground in a heap of overwhelming pain and grief. This can’t be real. None of this is true. He tries to speak to her, but Gamora just ignores him, preferring to talk with Nebula about him as if they were nothing more than strangers. It hurts. The pain in his balls and heart. Whoever this woman is, she seems to be from out of her time—like one of the cartoons he watched as a kid of the man out of time. And when his attempts at humor fall flat and Nebula stingingly insults him, Peter just flops backwards as he contemplates giving up.
What is life worth living for if he doesn’t even have the love of his life to share it with? What is the point in going on when he’s had everything taken from him? The chance at getting to love the man his mother loved so deeply? Robbed right beneath him. The realization that his real father had been in front of him the whole damn time? He watched him suffer one of the worst deaths a Ravager could suffer. And now? Losing the one person other than his mother that he’s ever loved as intensely? Pete doesn’t think he’ll be able to survive this.
But that’s when he sees him. Out of the soot and smoke of the battle, in comes flying Rocket, posing valiantly as he stares down at him from where he floats in the air. The raccoon looks as if he’s aged a whole decade, a grim line to his eyes as their gazes connect. His fur ruffles in the drafts of cruel-smelling air imbuing the atmosphere of Terra, the worn, red scarf around his throat fluttering violently. In the instant of a second, Peter feels something in him give way—a massive, deep-seated shifting of feelings and emotions that leaves him breathless. In that moment—that very short moment—he knows. He knows that whatever happened to him—those terrifying seconds of non-existence—were reversed because of Rocket. He knows that whatever was going to happen in these next few minutes, he’d be seeing the hybrid afterwards. No ifs or buts.
“Rocket.” He murmurs, a small, crooked smile forming on his lips the longer he stares at the flying raccoon. Something in him breaks when that smile is returned by Rocket, a vicious snarl of a grin that bares his bloodstained canines. It lays bare what feels like years of repressed emotion and anger, explaining the beginnings of gray hairs at the tip of the hybrid’s snout. The weight of that smile barrels into Peter like a semi-truck, leaving him with more and more questions about what exactly happened and why it seems everything and everyone has aged by about a decade.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The shower block was as barren as could be for an industrial colony at peak hours. There were some people lingering about, laughing and joking around, but they were starting to slowly trickle out, carrying their shower bags over their broad dockworker shoulders. The jumpsuits they were wearing gave away that they all worked for the Klarnax Mining Group, a company the Guardian’s happened to be investigating for alleged corporate espionage so severe and widespread they’ve come under the Nova Corps scrutiny. Rocket has been tailing one of the company’s main head honchos for days now, hacking into his electronics and communication devices along the way. However, hour upon hour of intense surveillance and, if he’s being honest with himself, stalking, have resulted in quite the inability to groom or clean his fur. The last time he walked by Gamora when he went to get some protein bars to eat, her nose had visibly scrunched up even though she adamantly refused to admit it did. When he had passed by Peter, the human just sniffed loudly before getting up and announcing that he and Rocket were going to take a shower and if anyone else wanted to join them.
Drax just grunted a negative rumble, and Groot was still all too young to be getting watered that much, much to the saplings disappointment. Gamora, somehow relatively unscathed by all the crawling and spying she’d been doing as well, glanced between the two men and quirked an eyebrow up before waving them off with a huff, murmuring that she’d shower after the two of them were done. Rocket shouldn’t have felt as relieved as he did, but he was. He found that he preferred bathing with the man over anyone else, distinctly uncomfortable with the idea of disrobing in front of Gamora or Drax. He knew they tried not to, but he could tell they were sometimes off put by all the circuitry and scars across his body, unwilling to look at them, much less touch. Whereas Peter, forever the weirdo he is, was more than enthusiastic to get his hands on Rocket’s fur, always strangely eager to delve his thick, calloused fingers into his undercoat. It made cleaning the harder-to-reach areas of his body easier, even if the feeling of fingers larger than his touching him across his body made him recoil.
Presently, though, as he waits for the last of the miners to leave the wet room, he’s feeling unusually relaxed. Quill’s dressing down, removing his sweaty tac-shirt to reveal the glistening, pale expanse of his torso. A smattering of hair and faded scars covers his broad chest, a trail of fur cascading downwards from his stomach into what the human proudly calls his “happy trail.” The trail disappears into the waist of his pants, drawing the raccoon’s eyes to that delicious sight. He watches intently as the Terran begins to fumble with the buckle of his belt, clumsily pulling at the clasps to release the pressurized grip. Rocket swallows, humming quietly to himself as he listens to the last resounding slam of the bathroom door close behind the miners. Now it’s just him and Pete alone, the air heavy with the humidity of warm showers.
Rocket feels secure enough to also begin the arduous task of disrobing himself, tackling all the hooks, clasps, and zippers of his standard orange jumpsuit. Like usual, Rocket hears the sharp inhale Quill makes at the sight of his jumpsuit falling to hang loosely off his lithe hips, the human’s heart beating slightly faster. Rocket can’t help the cocky feeling that smolders in his stomach, preening under the attention much like a feathered avianid. Had the stare come from any other flarknard, he would’ve reacted violently, lashing out at the perceived slight. With this stupid humie though, he’s free to act as sleazy as he pleases. Pete really is a flarking weirdo.
Quill audibly swallows, licking his lips before he speaks. “Why do you, uh, why do you always make those jumpers of yours so darn hard to take off?” The ruffled sound of the man’s pants falling to the ground in a clatter rings loudly in the heated, warm air of the room. Distantly, a water droplet hits the tiled floor resoundingly.
Rocket snorts, aware of the fact that the man is staring painfully hard at the hybrid’s hips. He turns around to catch the Terran’s eyes with his own, motioning shamelessly to his body. “I’m not exactly the biggest guy out there, Quill. Most things are made for people your size, not mine. So I gotta do with what I got.” He shrugs, slithering out of the tight compression thermals he wears alongside his jumpsuit. They both crumple onto the ground, the raccoonoid yawning as he stretches out his arms and legs, hissing lowly at the pain bothering his lower back.
“Couldn’t you just retrofit a tac-suit into your size?” Peter asks, casually naked as the day he was born. “I swear that they also make them child-sized. I have to imagine that’d be easier than whatever you got going on with that mess.”
“Oh flark you, my jumpsuits are anything but a mess. They’re works of art!” Rocket shoots back, standing across from the human clad in just his thematic orange boxer briefs. He grins when he notices the human’s eyes crawl across his form. “Also, why the hell would I want to wear a flarkin’ child’s clothes? I am way too old for that scut.”
“Y’know, now that you bring that up, how old are you anyway? I don’t think you’ve told any of us. Don’t tell me you’re like, somehow 45 years old.” Pete asks, walking behind the raccoon to turn on one of the shower heads, jumping back from the freezing water still on its way to heating up.
“I promise you I’m not that krutarckin’ old.” Rocket grouches, happily entering the freezing spray of water and letting it soak into his fur. “I think I’m about thirty or some Terran years old. Not sure. The conversion rates are flarked, and I’ve never really been one for tracking that sort of scut.” He says, raising his snout into the cold cascade of water and tasting the flavor of this colony’s pipes. He’s not surprised to see it tastes like rusting iron and, if he’s not mistaken, lead. The element does tend to give things a sweet edge.
Quill passes him the shampoo bar, entering the shower’s spray once it was warm enough. “That’d make me a few years older than you! I’ve struggled keeping up with Terran time cycles as well, but I think I’m about thirty-five years old. That’s so cool!” He says excitedly, groaning in pleasure as the scathing water batters his back and shoulders, relaxing the tense muscles that have been bothering him since they started this mission.
Rocket is unable to hide the leering grin that he makes at Quill’s moans, passing back the shampoo bar to the humie and leaning his soaking head towards the man, nonverbally asking him to wash his fur. “Put yer hands to good use, Quill, and wash me. I’m flarkin’ filthy and exhausted.”
“You don’t even gotta ask me twice.” The human chirps, heaving loudly as he gets down into a crouch and begins lathering the bar with his hands. “Ha, I still remember when you’d tell me that you would rather die than have to take a shower with me. Now you’re here begging to be washed.”
“I ain’t beggin’ for scut, dinkwad, yer just better at getting deep in my fur. Not my fault my fingers aren’t as flarkin’ massive as yours.” Rocket snarks, trailing off into a pleased growl as he feels the Terran’s thick, warm fingers start to massage the soapy foam into his skull, diligently avoiding the sensitive implants and scars. His hands move deftly, gentle but thorough, digging through the layers of grime that only days of crawling around in filth could achieve on Rocket’s fur.
Rocket lets out a low sigh of relief, his muscles finally starting to unclench. The ache that always builds up after these sort of missions seems to melt away underneath Quill’s hands, replaced by an unfamiliar, yet welcome, ease. “Gotta hand it to ya, Quill. Maybe havin’ a humie around ain’t the worst thing in the universe.”
“Damn right, you know damn well I’m good at this.” Peter replies with a shit-eating grin, leaning downwards to meet Rocket’s eyes, “Careful now. Any more these words from you and I might take them as a compliment.”
“Take them however ya want, don’t think I’ll be saying them again anytime soon,” the exhausted hybrid mutters, half-serious, though a hint of a smirk sneaks through. He closes his eyes, letting himself relax for the first time in what feels like weeks. Quill’s hands slide down from Rocket’s head, fingers combing through his fur as they work the shampoo deeper, moving slowly down the back of his neck, skirting the edges of the implants protruding from his upper back. The raccoonoid can feel any remaining tension melt away under the steady pressure of Quill’s palms, each throbbing knot loosening, each reverberating ache soothed. The Terran’s hands soon reach his shoulders, thumbs pressing into Rocket’s muscles with surprising precision, pulling a surprised yelp from the biped.
Rocket shifts slightly, the water cascading over him as Pete’s hands trail lower, working through the thick fur across his lower back. A gruff groan escapes Rocket, caught between relief and a strange, unexpected spark of arousal. He shivers as the man’s fingers trace along his ribs, then down his sides, firm yet gentle as they reach his stomach, rubbing out the grime and tension that’s built up after days of neglect.
“You really know how to work a bar of soap,” Rocket mumbles, his voice softer than he intends. There’s no snark this time, just a quiet, nascent vulnerability that slowly changes the once humorous atmosphere towards one of unexplainable tension. Good or bad tension, Rocket is not entirely sure.
Quill laughs, a low chuckle that echoes through the empty wet room. “Hey, just making sure my best copilot is in top shape. Can’t have you going soft on me, can we?” He says leaning further in, all but surrounding the biped with his massive, crouched thighs.
Rocket snorts softly, the sound coming out rougher than he intended, and shakily mutters, “Yer makin’ me soft with all this attention. Next thing you know, I’ll be expectin’ back rubs every day.”
“Hey, maybe you deserve them. Gotta take care of each other right?” Peter breathes into the hybrid’s ear.
Rocket’s breath hitches as Peter’s words settle over him, warmth prickling through the chilly air of the shower block. There’s something dangerously enticing in the way Peter’s hands move, steady and thorough, gliding from Rocket’s stomach and lower, trailing uncomfortably close to the elastic waist of his briefs. Rocket swallows, feeling his defenses slip as he lets himself lean into the touch, the weight of the Terran’s presence both reassuring and maddening.
“Don’t know ‘bout that,” Rocket grumbles, trying for his usual gruffness but failing to hide the slight whininess slipping through. “Never exactly been the ‘pampered’ type. Don’t go gettin’ ideas now.”
Peter grins, catching the raccoon’s eye in a moment that feels weighted, too heavy for words but somehow saying everything. “Guess I’m just full of surprises, aren’t I?” he gleans, his voice barely above a whisper, his fingers dipping beneath the elastic. Rocket isn’t sure why he hasn’t pushed away the human’s curious touch, why he’s letting him get away with this invasion of his personal space. He just pants in response, whimpering when Quill’s fingers dig into the thick thatch of fur right above his sheath.
Suddenly, the billowing cascade of scathing water runs out, the dim lights going out and the doors to the shower room loudly beeping as they enter lockdown for the night. The two of them can only blink, eye’s adjusting to the dark, before it dawns on them that the doors only lock from the outside.
Peter has to stifle the guffaw that threatens to escape him, trembling as he shakes his head in genuine glee. “Well, guess we’re stuck here. Ready for a long night of sharing body heat to survive the cold?”
The hybrid snorts, giving him a playful shove that barely budges the man. “Yeah, really funny, Quill. Just what I needed—gettin’ locked in a shower with your giant ass all up in my space.” With the heated moment gone, Rocket is quick to put some space between them, searching around for something to dry off with. A few frantic minutes of searching reveals nothing, and he groans as he realizes they must’ve forgotten their towels on the ship. A quick glance at the hydrosonic dryers also reveals that they are shut down for the night, a soft blue light blinking lazily in the cooling humidity of the room.
The Terran chuckles, the sound echoing through the large, dark shower. “Hey, it’s not so bad. I’ve definitely been through worse than being locked in a shower room,” he says, settling down onto the damp floor, patting the spot beside him invitingly. “Besides, wouldn’t kill us to relax for a night, hm?”
Rocket hesitates, then rolls his eyes, grumbling as he plops down next to him. “Just don’t start gettin' all handsy, you freak. We’re gettin’ out of here first thing in the morning.” Rocket elects to omit the fact that he could easily break them out of the shower room in less than a minute. The human most likely knows this fact as well, but he also chooses to play along.
“Scout’s honor.” Peter replies, a mischievous tone underlying his promise as he wraps his arms around the raccoon once again, pulling Rocket close to his surprisingly warm torso. Rocket can’t ignore the way his heart beats rapidly in his chest, an unfamiliar feeling unfurling and taking root in his stomach. He doesn’t know what it is, or why he’s getting it now of all times, but he finds that he doesn’t… hate it. It’s a strange, rare warmth sprouting its leaves within him—a feeling he discovers he doesn’t want to shake off just yet.
Notes:
what do we think of this style? i had so many ideas for what to write in these short vignettes but i reduced them to what i felt were the most important events that were foundational to what's currently happening in the story. honestly, i am not entirely sure how this story is going to end, and it may actually be quite the unhappy ending. i'm not sure if you noticed, but a lot of what i write is inspired by real world events. so, depending on if the world just keeps going to shit, the story might as well lmao. i'm open to any other ideas tho lol, i'm not entirely against these boys getting a somewhat happy ending all things considered.
Chapter 16: Push Your Temper
Summary:
Rocket's abrupt recess doesn't lead to cooler heads prevailing. With Groot seemingly missing, pressure mounting, and no obvious answer apparent, it doesn't bode well for Rocket's crumbling sanity.
Notes:
so... it's been a while lol. i don't really have an excuse other than i've been sick lately lol. updates will most likely slow down as i write, but i still have plans on finishing this! i hope you enjoy this chapter and feel free to comment+kudos, i'll always respond. they make me feel happy and want to write more :3
“So many times, I tried to imagine how he would look like and always ended up believing he is no more than a faceless monster.” - Refaat Alareer
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Where the hell are we supposed to go from here?” Pete asked anxiously, sitting haphazardly in a chair beside Rocket’s desk. He was scrolling and swiping through all the simulations created by Wan Rol and Soran, comparing them to ones he had run on his own time. “These are literally impossible to even get through the first phases of. Like, where the hell would we get anti-graviforce matrix polymers? Those are only produced by some corporation who, mind you, are members of the Novan Free Trade Union.”
“You say that like we don’t know.” Nebula remarks, leaning against the wall beside the door to Rocket’s office, “I thought your argument with Soran made that fact clear enough for all of us. There’s no way we can just jump our way out of this. Not without having to seriously risk severe structural damage.”
Knowhere was old. Very, very old, and oftentimes struggled to even hold itself up—the ancient, rotting innards of a celestial skull slowly decaying and buckling inwards. The Guardian’s already had to deal with constantly compromised and failing structures around the colony, evacuating entire blocks of neighborhoods due to the threat of collapse. It was probably their most unpopular policy, always facing a tidal wave of complaints from people and their families that the new accommodations were worse than what they had before—that the refugee camps were filthy, mismanaged, and borderline inhospitable.
Rocket would respond hilariously with a snarky, unhelpful comm-letter, chuckling to himself whenever he’d get an expletive-filled message back. At that point, Nebula would interrupt his office hours to take over and rewrite all his responses to be formal and professional. Tch, as if her letters were any more damn helpful than his. You could word it however you wanted, but no amount of fancy words was going to be enough to satisfy anyone living in a refugee camp.
Presently, Rocket, occupied with tracking down Groot’s last known location, felt his stomach twist with anxiety, frowning in slight worry as he leaned closer to his nav-pad and saw that the tree’s tracker had been stuck in the same place for approximately a few hours. He lowered his nav-pad to look at Nebula, interrupting her diatribe to ask, “Was there anything else included in the flag-cache Groot sent? I’m trying to find where he is, but his tracker hasn’t moved for almost an entire day.”
Everyone turns to stare at him, an expectant tension filling the air as they wait for the cyborg to respond. She turns from conversing with Peter to raise a bald eyebrow at him, a gesture she must’ve picked up from their sporadic time on Terra. “There was an encoded message at the end, but I couldn’t crack it. I assume it must’ve been meant for you since he hasn’t responded since then.” She said, waving her hand at him and sending him the encoded file. Rocket immediately latched onto his holo-pad and began decoding the complex firewalls Groot for some reason infested this message with. Nebula returns to her conversation with Quill, Rocket halfheartedly listening as he taps away.
“Yeah, your simulations are definitely much more realistic than Wan Rol’s and Soran’s.” Pete agreed, nodding. “I guess the problem I have with yours is: how would we protect Knowhere from being attacked by the Nova Corps or rogue Kree fragments? The ungoverned zone is just an utter mess of a place to move ourselves to. We would need a way to defend the colony from any threats.”
Nebula hummed in consideration, focusing on her own work for a few minutes before sending a room-wide message, pinging all of the former Guardians’ holo-pads. “I’ve been sleeping on this idea for quite some time now,” she began, taking a deep breath before continuing, “and I think it’s time we consider creating a citizen’s militia. Most other colonial outposts, like Knowhere, have their own local militias to defend themselves. We’d only need about a thousand volunteers to create an effective force capable of deterring most attacks.”
Rocket, half listening to their conversation, recalls an emergency meeting they had months ago, early in the first days of what they now know as Nova Prime’s blockade. He remembers Drax asking for the possibility of forming a police force to help patrol the refugee camps full of children and other cybernetic experiments, an idea that was collectively shot down due to the potential of corruption. Why is Nebula suddenly supportive of the initiative when before she was not?
The hybrid, leaning away from his holo-pad and switching back over to his nav-pad, looks curiously at Nebula as he types away. “What’s with the change in opinion, Nebs? I remember you being against the idea of putting together a security force cuz they might’ve been too easy to bribe or something like that.”
“Initially, I was skeptical of such a plan, but the situation has massively deteriorated since that meeting. The dire consequences of this blockade will most likely supersede any desire to engage in such detrimental behavior.” Nebula reasons, tilting her head slightly to the side, “We could also play up the danger of the blockade to encourage further anxiety and fear. It would definitely help to have a more submissive denizenry.”
Rocket nods, liking the sound of having an entire colony of people under his command. Sure, he enjoyed the back and forths with folk like Wan Rol, but it wasn’t exactly the most effective model of governance in his opinion. “The only issue I have with this militia is where will we get the resources to arm and train them? I’m not exactly the most well-versed in anti-Xandarian or anti-Kree military maneuvers or anything.” He said, returning to his holo-pad, grinning as he finally broke through the firewall and got access to the encrypted message.
“Actually,” Pete steps in before the cyborg can respond, “why don’t we just initiate a broad collectivization and nationalization of all resources on Knowhere? Rocket and I have spoken before about how the presence of these privately owned enterprises and companies has been a roadblock in building the administrative infrastructure Rocket thinks would work best for governing the colony.”
The hybrid gets distracted from his work, frowning at Quill for openly revealing their private conversations. His small hands falter on the nav-comm he’s been messing around with, the tension in his body visible even through his fur. He’s always had a bad habit of revealing things he’d been told in private, things he’d been told in confidence that no one else would hear.
Why can’t the flarknard learn to keep his damn mouth shut?
Always having to flap his flarking gums when given the chance.
Like the flip of a switch, Rocket starts to feel a roiling storm of frustration and betrayal bubbling beneath the surface. It churns like a toxic brew in his gut, a mix of anger, disbelief, and a twinge of hurt he refuses to acknowledge. He clenches his teeth, trying to tamp it down before it spills over, but his claws tighten against the edge of the desk, leaving faint scratches in the surface.
Rocket’s already had his share of arguments with Nebula over politics, each one more draining than the last. The idea of another one igniting because of Pete’s inability to keep his mouth shut feels like a personal insult. It would be flarking stupid as hell if Pete started another one because of his blabbermouth. His tail flicks sharply, betraying the irritation he tries to mask. His gaze shifts to Nebula, who, just as he predicted, is already biting the bait.
“Absolutely not. Destroying Knowhere’s nascent private sector would only exacerbate the resource shortage.” She vehemently disagrees, “We’re not even remotely close to dreaming of building a welfare system, how would we expect that collectivization would work?”
“Tch,” Rocket scoffs derisively, preparing a nasty retort that’ll surely ignite a full-blown fight. His sharp tongue is already crafting the perfect insult, a biting comeback designed to cut through Nebula’s argument and spark the kind of back-and-forth that might last hours. His eyes narrow, the gears in his mind turning fast. Just as he’s readying to respond, Drax bulldozes over his words, butting in to say:
“Why can’t we just take the weird white-haired guy’s stuff? Not like he needs any of it.” The simplicity of the suggestion is enough to freeze the moment. It’s so blunt, so quintessentially Drax, that it stops the argument before it can even truly begin. They’ve known Drax long enough to understand what he’s trying to say without much effort. The others exchange glances, first incredulous, then slowly shifting to a grudging kind of consideration.
Everyone turns to look at him, considering his statement before finding it surprisingly reasonable and doable. Even Rocket’s retort stalls in his throat, his annoyance momentarily displaced by the absurd practicality of Drax’s idea. He blinks, his ears twitching, before muttering under his breath, “Well, flark… that’s actually not that bad of an idea.”
Rocket, thoroughly disarmed by Drax’s response, just huffs and settles back into his seat, realizing that a fight with Nebula this early in the day would be a recipe for disaster. The temporary quelling of his emotions, however, sure as hell doesn’t stop the mounting dread in his chest. He tries his best to tamp out the flaring tendrils of panic roiling in his stomach, inhaling deeply before exhaling.
“I gots to say that I agree, Cap’n,” Kraglin nods, digging a pinky into his ear before pulling it out and sticking whatever it was on the tip of his finger into his mouth. “It’s absurd that The Collector’s collection is just lyin’ around and not bein’ used, ‘specially considerin’ he’s got a flarkin’ ton of guns on ‘im. He hasn’t even been on Knowhere in years now! I’d reckon that warrants us confiscating all that stuff, I’d say.” He says emphatically, scratching the top of his head.
Nebula, surprised that the two resident dumbasses of the group actually said something of substance, glances around the room to do a temperature check, finding similar reactions. “In that case,” she hums, “I can draft up a proposal for the emergency council to consider once we return from recess. We have about twenty minutes before we’re due to reconvene. Is there any other proposal we should put up for consideration?”
“I can draft the one for electing to choose your plan. Wan Rol and Soran might get a little pissy at the rejection of their idea, but it's just too extreme for what we can possibly do.” Quill, unaware of Rocket’s inner turmoil, responds to the cyborg’s question, holding up his holo-pad as he leaned further into the seat he is lounging in, his long, humie legs crossed in a frankly uncomfortable-looking manner. Rocket briefly grimaced at the sight but chose not to say anything, more distracted with the discerning amount of nothing he was getting from Groot’s message.
The flag-cache held the basic information any flag of its type did: point of origin, standard time sent, service provider, serial number of device used, and the strength of entanglement it used to reach its destination. Alongside the dozens of aloims of data that Groot had sent, the encrypted message didn’t offer much in the way of information, reading as a simple greeting his son would often send when he was missing his father. Rocket had read the thing up and down and gone as far as to pick out the first letter of every word in hopes of finding some hidden meaning. But it all turned up empty, not revealing anything he didn’t already know.
Growing increasingly distressed, Rocket swipes away the message with a shaky paw, interrupting the meandering conversation between the other Guardians to demand an answer. “Did any of you dinks receive anything from Groot?” He asks, panicked, waving his nav-comm in their faces, “This scut is just a krutarckin’ greeting! This ain’t no damn hidden message!”
This couldn’t be it.
If it was, then what the hell was he going to do? He had no foundation to base himself off of, no place to start looking at.
He can’t handle the idea of failing Groot in some way, feeling fucking sick to the stomach at the thought of this being the last time he ever sees his son.
“That’s all that he sent me, Rocket.” Nebula says with a slight quiver in her voice, betraying the anxiety underlying her words. “I would’ve told you if I had gotten anything else.”
Flark that.
Rocket doesn’t believe her.
Not in the slightest.
She had to be hiding something. They all did. Why else would they be staring at him with such pity—an unsettling, unspoken expression in their gaze as they all looked at him with their gross, invasive eyes?
Suddenly, Peter raised his hands in a placating manner, green eyes soft with understanding, but Rocket only saw it as hostile, flinching when the humie tried to grab his shoulder in a comforting gesture. His reaction causes a wounded look in Peter, but he could care less, snarling at the man as he shifts in his seat to ready himself for any chance they’d try to disarm him.
“C’mon, Rocky,” Pete tries again, sitting up in his chair to appear less nervous. “Y’know we’d never—“
Rocket snaps, feeling nauseous as five pairs of eyes all fall on him at once, their gazes heavy and expectant. “Shut the fuck up and mind your damn business, ya nosy-ass bitch!” He yells, relishing the way the human flinches and cowers away from him. “No one asked for your stupid-ass opinion, did we? No! So shut the hell up and focus on the fact that it’s all your flarkin’ fault for how much time we’ve been wasting. Cuz all you wanna do is,” Rocket mimes the movement of speaking with his hand, “yap, yap, and flarkin’ yap!”
The room tenses immediately, a palpable shift in the air as Rocket’s words sink in. Everyone exchanges uncomfortable glances, unsure if stepping in would diffuse the situation or escalate it further. But Rocket, fueled by a volatile mix of frustration and despair, isn’t done yet. His lashes behind him like a whip, unconsciously demonstrating his inner turmoil.
The room crackles with unspoken tension as Nebula shifts, her lean frame moving with a deliberate caution that betrays her usually unshakable exterior. Her eyes dart to the others briefly before settling on Rocket, her lips pressing into a thin, determined line. “Rocket, stop that—“ Nebula begins, a cautious gleam in her eyes as she steps away from the wall and approaches his desk. Whatever she was going to say is immediately interrupted by the biped’s nasty response.
“Don’t ‘Rocket’ me, bitch.” He says cruelly, his frown deepening when he sees how stricken Nebula appears, visibly faltering in her movements towards him. “I don’t know what’s up with you thinking that you got some right to always be interrupting me when I’m speaking. My son’s flarkin’ missing, and yer all just standing around doing jackshit.”
For a moment, the only sound in the room is Rocket’s ragged breathing, each exhale laced with fury. He looks around the room, his sharp gaze dissecting and judgmental. He nonverbally challenges anyone to respond, daring them to defy the pain he’s wielding like a weapon. His words sting not because of their volume but because of their toxicity, cutting into unspoken hurt and shared grief among the group.
The accusation hangs in the air like a poisonous cloud, its weight settling on the shoulders of everyone present. A flicker of guilt crosses Pete’s face, but it’s quickly replaced with a defensive grimace. Drax glances at Kraglin, his brows furrowed as though trying to piece together the depth of Rocket’s frustration. In an instant, a slew of offended and defensive responses flow from the mouths of the Guardians, uncomfortable with the hybrid’s accusation.
“Cap’n, now you know that ain’t—“ Kraglin starts.
“How could you say that, Rocky—“ Peter tries, stuttering over a mouthful of clumsy words.
“Rocket, you need to calm down—“ Nebula mutters, struggling to control her own frustration.
Rocket screams, slamming his paws over his ears in an attempt to block out all the noises that were assaulting his senses. The sound pierces through the noise like a projectile, silencing everyone mid-sentence. For a brief, breathless moment, no one dares to move or speak. Rocket lowers his paws slowly, his chest heaving as if he’s just run a marathon, his body trembling with the force of his emotions. The air grows heavy once more, the tension thick enough to choke on.
Rocket’s carmine eyes flared with obvious aggression, narrowing as he scanned the room like a trapped animal searching for an escape route. “None of you would understand,” he barked. “You never do!” His voice cracks at the edges, betraying a level of vulnerability he’s desperately trying to mask. His fists are clenched as he steps forward, bristling with a kind of rage that comes from fear, the kind that makes even friends seem like enemies. The silence that follows isn’t one of peace but of quiet resignation. Everyone knows that pushing any further would only make things worse, yet no one knows how to defuse the ticking time bomb that is Rocket.
The words cut through the quiet like a blade, each syllable sharpened by bitterness. The raw emotion in his voice momentarily halts any further objections, but it doesn’t quell the unease rippling through the group. Despite their attempts to reach him, the hybrid’s anger and hurt overpower him, leaving him feeling as raw as an exposed nerve. His feelings of fear and guilt cloud his ability to think clearly, and he lashes out with venomous rage, heaving painful-sounding breaths as a bout of awkward silence fills the room. Kraglin looks incredibly uncomfortable, shifting uneasily on his feet as he glances around the office and chews on the inside of his cheek. Peter’s still cowering, thoroughly chastised while he glumly picks at his cuticle and pouts.
Drax, oblivious to the rising tension and thick emotional undercurrent, breaks the silence with his usual bluntness. “What are you talking about, rat?” Drax asks cluelessly, splitting the silence with his deep voice. Kraglin winces while Nebula sighs in disbelief, covering her face with her hands as they prepare for the raccoon’s inevitable outburst.
In a rush of cortisol and enhanced adrenaline, he bares his teeth in a sudden growl and launches himself out of his seat, pulling the gun from his back and pointing it at whoever even breathes. The movement is so swift, so feral, that for a moment, no one reacts, the sheer shock rooting them in place. “ARE YOU ALL FUCKING WITH ME?!” He screams, switching the gun from stun to projectile mode. Instantly, everyone except Quill reaches for their own weapon, backing away and shouting at the biped to calm down.
“Flark! Rocket!” Peter shouted, “What the fuck are you doing!?”
Rocket’s face twisted with a mix of anger and rage, his hands trembling as he swiveled from left to right, claws digging deeply into the grip of the blaster he was holding. His chest heaved with erratic breaths, each one more desperate than the last. Peter’s frantic demeanor seemed only to fuel the fire consuming the hybrid’s insides. “You think I’m just being dramatic,” Rocket sneered, his voice dripping with resentment. “That’s always how it is with you all. None of you ever flarkin’ take me seriously!”
Nebula’s expression softened for a fraction of a second, her mechanical hand twitching at her side. She was no stranger to misdirected fury, to feeling like her pain was dismissed or minimized. Her cybernetic heart calms down artificially against her will, and she takes a deep breath, lowering her weapon in an attempt to appear less threatening. “We’re not dismissing you.” She tries, wincing when it immediately falls on deaf ears, “We’re trying to understand. But you keep pushing us away with this behavior of yours. We want to help find Groot just as much as you do.”
Rocket’s eyes burned with fury. “Help? You want to help? None of y’all would understand even if it slapped y’all in yer flarkin’ faces.” His voice cracked slightly, the pain breaking through despite his best efforts to smother it with anger. The blaster trembled in his grip, his focus wavering as a flash of pain shot up his spine, sharp and insistent, forcing his small frame to stagger slightly.
Flark! Not now! Rocket winced, hating his body just a bit more than usual. He gritted his teeth, trying to steady himself, but the tension radiating from his clenched jaw betrayed just how fragile his control over the situation was becoming. It was unraveling all because Peter couldn’t keep his flarking mouth shut. The urge to shoot the man becomes painful, but Rocket manages to withhold.
Nebula’s patience was starting to wear thin, a tightly coiled spring of frustration threatening to snap under the mounting tension. She had spent a lifetime mastering restraint, controlling her impulses, and forcing herself to endure situations that grated on her every nerve. But even she had limits. Her sharp eyes darted between the trembling hybrid and the others, taking in their uneasy stances and wide-eyed uncertainty, her jaw tightening as she wrestled with the urge to snap back at him. Still, she knew better than to let herself fall into Rocket’s trap. He was poking and prodding, looking for someone to lash out with him. She wasn’t about to stoop to his level.
Keeping her tone steady, she tries once more to defuse the situation. “Rocket, I don’t—we don’t understand how you want us to help because you’re not telling us anything! None of us are mind readers, last I checked.” A flicker of frustration briefly colored her voice, though she disguised it with a measured calm.
Well, a little snark never hurt anyone, she thought, shooting a glance at Peter, silently willing him to intervene.
Peter, feeling that the temperature was beginning to cool a little, reached out to Rocket despite the gleaming blaster threatening his safety. The raccoon glances at him and moves away from the offending hand, looking at the Terran as if he were the most disgusting thing he’d ever seen. “Don’t flarkin’ touch me, f*ggot. That won’t work on me. I’m not that fucking easy!”
The room froze, the air suddenly sucked out by the sharpness of Rocket’s words. Pete flinched but remained where he was, trying to bridge the chasm between them. His fingers curled slightly inwards, but he forced them to relax, keeping his posture open. “Rocket, we’re on your side. What the hell is going on?”
The plea was earnest, his voice quieter now, but tinged with desperation. Rocket’s face contorted with anguish. He leapt from the desk and onto the floor, huffing angrily as he put distance between him and Pete before turning around and using his gun as a pointer, pointing an accusing paw towards him. “I don’t need you all to be on my side! I need you all to be real, to see me for once!”
Peter, struggling to maintain his calm in the face of such vicious rage and contempt, approached slowly, hands up in a non-threatening gesture. He got down onto his knees to put them at eye level, more than aware of the fact that Rocket despises being looked down upon. “I am seeing you, Rocky. I’m here, and I’m trying to be real with you.”
Rocket turned away from him, eyes wild with emotion. The combination of anger and anxiety was an intoxicating cocktail of emotions, consuming him in his entirety. He stumbled towards Quill, once again raising his gun as if to emphasize his point. “You’re not flarkin’ listenin’ to me! You never pay attention to a single word I say!”
Peter breathed deeply in once again, concern evident in his shaky voice. He glances sideways at Nebula, trying to make his worry clear to the cyborg. “I’m listening. I’m right here, Rocky. Stop this temper tantrum of yours, there’s no reason for you to be waving a gun around like that. W-we can talk this out, okay?” His voice faltered slightly, the pressure of the moment beginning to erode his usual confident tone. Rocket’s gaze narrowed, but he didn’t interrupt, the tiniest sliver of acknowledgment flashing in his carmine eyes.
Peter tried his best to maintain his faltering composure, beginning to crumble under the pressure of his partner’s neuroticism. His breaths came unevenly, his usually confident demeanor now a fragile mask barely holding together. He wiped a hand quickly across his forehead, catching beads of nervous sweat. “Rocky, please—“
Rocket’s voice cracked as he screamed, “Stop fuckin’ talking! I hate you! I flarkin’ hate you! Why can’t you flarkin’ understand that?!” Each word was fueled by the depths of his inner torment, dragged out of him painfully. It felt as if his innards were being pulled out from his mouth and dropped in front of everyone to see, for everyone to judge. The vulnerability in his anguish lay exposed, a terrible contradiction to the furious defiance etched on his face. They look at him as if they were seeing his heart and lungs for what they were—ragged, ruined, and broken.
Peter’s eyes filled with tears, a hurt grimace pinching his face into a heartbreaking display of his emotional hurt. “Rocky,” he managed through shaky, panicked breaths, “You don’t mean that, I know you don’t.” He says as if assuring himself, “I’m not going anywhere. We’re gonna get through this, you and I. I want to understand, but you need to talk to me. If you don’t talk to me, how will I get what you’re trying to tell me?” His voice cracked under the weight of his emotions, wavering between pleading and resolute. For once, his usual air of bravado and humor was entirely absent. He was a warbling mess, hating how much Rocket’s words were affecting him. He used to be so much stronger than this. So much hardier than falling apart at the mere words of a person.
Nebula, standing there awkwardly, crept around Quill and put herself within reaching distance of the blaster the biped was still waving around like a toy. Her movements were slow and calculated, as if trying not to provoke Rocket further. Her eyes flicked from Rocket to Peter, the tension making her mechanical joints feel stiff. She sent a pointed look towards Kraglin to support Peter in his attempt to de-escalate the situation, sighing in disappointment when the Xandarian just gave her a thumbs up and goofy smile. Her lips pressed into a thin line, barely containing her frustration. It was moments like these where she questioned why she put up with this ridiculous group. She would’ve tried it with Drax, but the Kylosian was just idly leaning against the wall, picking at his nail with a knife. Casual, unbothered, and wholly disconnected from the fragile scene unfolding in front of him. If this weren’t such a dire moment, Nebula might have lashed out at him instead.
Rocket stepped towards Peter, thankfully putting his gun away, but soon had his claws digging painfully into the human’s chest, dragging them downwards in an agonizing show of abuse. The sharp sound of claws tearing fabric and flesh echoed in the room. Nebula could only stare in shock, watching as Quill simply took the pain with a wince. Rocket’s agony was being mirrored back at him through his piercing claws. “I hate you!” His voice was a tortured shout.
Peter grunted but smiled around the pain, grabbing Rocket’s hands with his and rubbing his wrists with a comforting touch. The motion was steady and deliberate, like trying to calm a frightened animal, though Peter’s own pain was evident in the way his fingers trembled. Through clenched teeth and sluggish trails of blood tracking downwards on his shirt, he forced a strained, teasing grin. “Hey, this is some messed-up way of saying you’re mad at me, I get it. I do a lot of dumb stuff, but let’s talk this out like civilized people, yeah?”
Rocket’s face was a tableau of anger and hurt. “You always do this! You’re not even taking me seriously!” He spat, his voice trembling.
Peter’s face was turning pink from exertion, grimacing as the biped dug his claws in even deeper. The pain radiated through his chest, sharp and unrelenting, yet he refused to flinch away, meeting Rocket’s gaze with a mix of stubbornness and compassion. Nonetheless, he tried to mask his pain with humor, raising an eyebrow goofily. “I’m not the one throwing claws around, am I? He paused, trying to get a reading on Rocket’s emotions. His eyes searched Rocket’s face desperately, looking for any sign that he was breaking through the wall of anger. Wasn’t exactly the easiest on the account he had the face of a raccoon. “I’m not going anywhere until we figure this out.” His voice softened slightly, the humor fading into an earnest promise.
Rocket’s rage fueled his attacks, but Pete’s persistence didn’t falter. Each attack felt less like an act of malice and more like a cry for help, the anger burning brighter even as its fuel ran out. His attempts at humor had fallen flat and, if anything, only contributed more to the raccoonoid’s ire. Hoping for a better outcome, he replaced his stereotypical unseriousness with genuine concern, pumping as much understanding and empathy into his voice. The shift in his tone was subtle but intentional, his words laced with sincerity that cut through the tension. “You can scream and fight all you want, but I’m not stopping until you tell me what’s really wrong. I’m right here, Rock.”
For a fleeting moment, the air shifted. Rocket’s movements stilled, and his red eyes softened, showing something other than anger—regret, perhaps. His shoulders slumped slightly, the rigid tension in his frame loosening by a fraction. Quill’s determination to reach him, even through the excruciating pain, reflected his deep care for Rocket, revealing a layer of sincerity beneath his usual goofiness. It was a crack in Rocket’s armor, small but undeniable, and Peter clung to it like a lifeline.
But the heat of his anger boiled over, and Rocket twisted his claws, pulling an injured cry from the Terran. “Do you feel it?” He spat, “Do you, you flarkin’ blabbermouth?” His voice was gravelly and strained. The words carried more than just anger—they were soaked in betrayal, each syllable dripping with hurt as if they weighed him down further.
—and then Peter realized where this was all coming from. The pieces clicked together with startling clarity, and the guilt hit him like a physical blow. A little admission, a few words he said and forgot. Their private conversation he told Nebula about. Flark.
He tightened his grip on Rocket’s wrists, tugging the hybrid closer to him. “Oh, Rocky, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to tell them that.” That must’ve made the difference because Rocket’s eyes squeezed shut, his jaw clenched, and his paws began to tremble despite being dug deeply in Peter’s chest. The anger in his face gave way to a pained grimace, his breathing shaky as he tried and failed to push the overwhelming emotions back down. “Just—just remove your claws, okay, Rocky? I promise not to do it again. I promise, Rocky.”
With a pained whispered, “Flark,” Rocket jerked back, removing his claws from the mess of ragged flesh and blood. The withdrawal was hesitant, reluctant, like he was letting go of more than just his hold on Peter. He looked away, unable to meet Peter’s, or anyone’s, gaze. He remained silent as the human cautiously wrapped his arm around the biped and placed the other hand gently on his head, delving his fingers into the wiry fur. The gesture was slow, tentative, as if Peter were afraid Rocket might bolt or lash out again. But Rocket didn’t move—he just stood there, his small frame shaking slightly under Peter’s touch.
Rocket sniffled and leaned into the embrace, his distress evident. His breaths came out uneven, each one accompanied by a faint shudder as the weight of his emotions began to subside. For once, he didn’t pull away or fight the comfort being offered. “We’re all worried about Groot, Rocky. We all want to find him as much as you do, don’t think we don’t.”
Peter felt Rocket shake his head in weak denial, still latched onto his receding anger.
“Just hear me out, Rocket. You think we’d abandon Groot like that? That we’d lie to you? After all that we did to raise him from a sapling to the big, grown tree he is today?”
Rocket listened, taking a moment to breathe in deeply and exhale, leaning more into Quill’s hug. The pain and frustration slowly melted away, giving way to a fragile, rare glimpse of vulnerability. Peter held him tightly, offering a steady presence that contrasted sharply with the chaos and terror of the last few moments, and if they were being honest, the last few months.
Knowhere’s situation wasn’t getting any better, and it seemed that the path they were charting was one of ever-increasing scarcity, tension, and, god forbid, destruction. Nebula hadn’t been wrong when she told Rocket that the desperation caused by starvation could tear apart the fabric of civil society, and once that was gone, barbarism would prevail. Millions of people, all hungry, cold, and terrified—fighting tooth and nail to survive another day. If they didn’t find a solution soon, Knowhere’s problem would solve itself. It just wouldn’t be pretty.
Peter’s voice was soft and reassuring, barely hiding his internal turmoil. “Come on, Rocky. We’ll find Groot, okay? We’re not giving up on him. Never, you hear me?”
“Das right!” Kraglin piped up, thumping his fist against his chest. He looked around at the others, smiling encouragingly as if to get them to do the salute as well. His enthusiasm felt misplaced, but it did lighten the mood, if only marginally. Drax just returned his look with a confused tilt of the head, not entirely sure what they were cheering on. Nebula, on the other hand, was as silent as ever, quietly analyzing the scene Rocket and Peter painted together with narrowed, dissecting eyes. Her sharp gaze lingered on Rocket, taking in every tremble of his frame and every twitch of Peter’s bloodied hand.
For a moment, her gaze lingered on the way Rocket stared into Peter’s eyes so intently, the way Peter caressed the fur on the back of the hybrid’s head, before she just hummed noncommittally and put away her own weapon, deeming the situation sufficiently calmed down.
Seeing that their recess was all but over, Nebula clears her throat to get everyone’s attention. The sound is sharp and deliberate, cutting through the lingering tension like a blade. Her piercing gaze sweeps over the group, ensuring she has their focus. “It’s time to return to the emergency convention. We have our proposals done, but I do expect there to be some pushback. Rocket, I understand that you’re worried about Groot’s whereabouts, so I’ll be putting in an initiative to gather an audience with Nova Prime. Should it pass, it’ll give us the opportunity to speak with Nova Prime and see if there are any potential avenues for a peaceful resolution to this blockade.”
Her voice was measured but firm, with an undertone of urgency that was impossible to ignore. The mention of Nova Prime drew a flicker of hope across Rocket’s exhausted face, though it was quickly buried under layers of weariness.
Rocket, appearing exhausted and weary, sighs. “Yeah, sounds like a plan. I’ll just, uh, I’ll just take a quick refresher if y’all don’t mind.”
His voice was quieter now, almost timid compared to the venom he’d spat earlier. The anger seemed to have drained from him completely, leaving behind a raccoon who looked smaller, more fragile than usual. His ears drooped slightly, his usual defiance replaced with a reluctant acquiescence.
“There’s absolutely no problem with that, Rocky.” Peter beamed, standing up but maintaining a solid hand on the raccoon’s head. His smile was lopsided, tinged with relief and a faint trace of pain, but it was warm enough to coax a faint twitch from Rocket’s whiskers. “My apartment isn't too far from here, so we can go there and get fixed up.” Rocket didn’t respond verbally, but the subtle dip of his head was enough for Peter to take it as agreement.
And so, with their time officially up, the Guardians split up. The shift in atmosphere was palpable, the earlier intensity giving way to a heavy, awkward silence as they moved in different directions. Nebula, Drax, and Kraglin head back to the conference room, where they explain the sudden absence of the Captain and Peter. The room buzzed with subdued conversation as delegates discussed the mounting issues, but their entrance drew immediate attention. Nebula’s icy demeanor and sharp words quickly set the tone, cutting off any questions before they could fully form.
Drax, ever the dunce he is, almost reveals Rocket’s breakdown, but Nebula is quick to shut it down with a loud cough, her cybernetic hand subtly tightening into a fist at her side. She quickly realizes it was useless when the Kylosian simply starts to speak louder.
“Rocket was crying—” Drax began, only to be met with an audible groan from Nebula. When her attempts to stop him from revealing too much fail, she ends up kicking him out of the convention in its entirety, her patience snapping with a bark of frustration. She tells Kraglin to stick beside him and keep an eye on the unruly hunk of muscle.
Meanwhile, Rocket and Peter take their time while walking to Peter’s apartment. The city lights of Knowhere glowed faintly above them, casting long shadows on the cracked pavement. The ambient hum of machinery filled the silence between them, but neither seemed to mind. The human, drenched in blood and still somewhat shaky from the whole getting a gun pulled on him, looks down at Rocket with a lovesick smile. There was no anger in his gaze, no resentment, just a strange and unshakable affection. It was the kind of look that only Peter Quill could manage after being physically clawed and emotionally battered.
Rocket, on the other hand, kept his eyes forward, his ears twitching slightly at the sound of Peter’s uneven steps. He knew he should feel guilty—hell, he did feel guilty—but something about the way Peter smiled at him made it hard to fully process the weight of his actions. He doesn’t care that the hybrid hurt him in front of the others, and he can’t find it in himself to blame the raccoon for his actions. After all, Peter thought, pain was temporary. What mattered was keeping Rocket by his side. It didn’t matter how many guns were pointed or claws were dug in, Rocket was going to be with him forever. Peter knew that, and he was pretty damn sure the biped knew it as well.
As they approached Peter’s apartment, Rocket finally let out a low, grumbling sigh. “Yer a weirdo, Quill,” he muttered, his tone lacking the usual bite. Peter chuckled, wiping at the drying blood on his chest with a shrug. “Yeah, but it’s why you love me, right?” Rocket didn’t respond, but the faintest flicker of a smirk crossed his face as they stepped inside.
Notes:
peter on his "no, look at me, this isn't you" era <3
Also, Happy New Year's Eve!!
Chapter 17: Update
Summary:
STORY IS NOT BEING ABANDONED!
Chapter Text
hey y'all. it's been some time since I last updated this story, huh? a lot has happened in my life since the last chapter went up last year, but don't worry, I never stopped writing. I've been stuck in quite the writer's block for some time and haven't been satisfied enough with what I've written to publish it. I'm not trying to be like the stereotypical ao3 author who had their house blow up, their whole family die, and develop kidney failure, but shit be happening lmfao. I do have major chunks of the following chapters written and an end in sight, but I'm thinking of reworking where I want to take this story. I'm not sure when I'll publish the next chapter, but it'll happen sometime soon. thank you all so much for reading and all the wonderful comment <3, I do truly read them all and geek out over them.
Chapter 18: Death in the System
Summary:
Nebula has to hold her own against the convention until Rocket and Peter return from their extended break. Knowhere, as a result of its past, is distrustful of authority--especially when that authority is unreliable. Nonetheless, decisions have to be made and risks have to be accounted for.
Notes:
make sure to check the content warning! you've been warned :)
Content Warning
Dubious Consent
Substance Abuse
Violent Imagery
Vomit
Injury & Blood“Nothing compares to feeling of needs, such moral sadist, repent to me. ‘Cause this affection is temporary.” - Society by Pathetic
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“You sure we got enough time for this?” Rocket asked, sniffing the little celluloid slip of allsee Peter held in his trembling hands. His sharp nose twitched at the faint, acrid tang of the chemical coating—a smell that promised bliss. Pete hadn’t been able to drink in the hours since they’d been so abruptly awakened, and the stress of their situation was starting to grind down his already frayed nerves. It wasn’t usual for his withdrawals to hit this fast, but Rocket wasn’t surprised. He hadn’t seen the humie ingest or inhale some form of drug once since they had convened the emergency session, and it was starting to become startlingly clear he was bordering on desperate for some sort of escape.
Peter’s hands, usually steady in their cocky bravado, trembled slightly as he held the slip, fingers twitching with barely restrained anticipation. “Has my extensive knowledge of biologics and drugs ever failed us, Rocky?” Peter smirked, looking down at the hybrid with lidded, lurid eyes. The grin he wore was cocky, but his green eyes told a different story—unease flickering in the depths like warning lights on a malfunctioning panel. He eagerly leaned closer, licking his lips and chuckling softly as he teased, “You not gonna question how I got my mitts on some allsee?”
With a dramatic flourish, he popped a colorful tab off the slip and held it at Rocket’s eye level. The motion was deliberate, almost taunting, as if daring Rocket to question him. The hybrid’s sharp eyes tracked the tab with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion, though his expression stayed neutral.
Rocket hummed, taking the bluish tab between his fingers and inspecting it, turning it around with the tip of his claws. “Not doubting you, Pete,” he admitted, though there was an edge of reluctance in his voice. “Just wanna know if we’ll have enough time to take this scut, trip balls, sober up, and return to the convention, all under an hour? ‘M not exactly trying to show up with our brains halfway across the galaxy and melted into mush.” He said sneeringly, though a wry grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. They had a stellar track record of getting sidetracked at the worst possible moments, after all.
As he was speaking, a telltale sign of nervous energy began buzzing under his skin—a pulsating, crawling sensation prickling along the seams and scars that lined his every limb and organ. He didn’t trust Peter’s timing for a second, but the promise of escape was too enticing to ignore.
Peter laughed, low and easy, though it sounded a little too forced. “You know me, Rocky. Timing’s my specialty,” he shot back, leaning casually against the wall and flipping the celluloid between his fingers. The slip danced across his knuckles in a practiced motion, weaving from pinky to index and back. “Also, you and I both know allsee only lasts, what, fifteen minutes? Sure as hell don’t feel that short, but we’ll be done in less than half an hour. C’mon, Rocky, don’t be fucking lame. This scut wasn’t cheap, y’know.” He goaded, his green eyes dark and heavy as they prodded the hybrid’s soft spots with calculated persistence. Peter was always quick to use his manipulative silver tongue when it seemed he wasn’t going to get what he wanted.
Rocket gave the human a flat, annoyed look, still rolling the bluish tab of allsee between his claws as he debated taking the drug. “Right, ‘m sure it was very, very expensive for ya. Not like I don’t have access to the crew unit account or anything.” He growled, his tone dripping with mockery. Sometimes, the Terran made it frustratingly easy to catch him in a lie, which was remarkable, considering how conniving and sleight-handed Peter could be.
Peter shrugged, feigning nonchalance, though the faint flush creeping up his neck betrayed his embarrassment at being caught. “Do you? Ha, I sometimes forget you check those things all the time like a weirdo,” he said, grinning again. But there was a tightness in his smile now, a hint of the desperation he was trying so hard to mask. Subtle manipulation had failed, but he wasn’t above outright begging the raccoon to join him. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d resorted to that, much to his own dismay.
Rocket rolled his eyes, though the gesture lacked real malice. Despite Peter’s failed attempt at manipulation, he couldn’t help the grudging fondness he felt for the idiot standing there, looking all kinds of stupid. His face had flushed that beautiful shade of red it took on when he was embarrassed, and he was nervously biting his swollen lower lip, glancing away to avoid Rocket’s gaze. Quill was looking for an escape and he just wanted someone to be there with him. If Rocket was being honest, so was he. They were two peas in a pod—two messes trying to hold it together in a galaxy that didn’t give a damn.
“Well, if we end up missing the whole damn meeting, you’ll be the one dealing with Neb,” Rocket muttered, flicking the tab into his mouth with a sharp flick of his wrist. He grimaced as the tablet dissolved almost instantly, leaving a faintly sweet taste on his tongue that did little to mask the overwhelmingly bitter flavor.
Eugh.
Peter, visibly relieved, chuckled as he followed suit, popping a tab from the celluloid slip and placing it on the tip of tongue. He tilted his head to show Rocket the little smiley face printed on it. “Not a problem,” he said, his voice lighter now, the edge of desperation replaced by a flicker of reckless enthusiasm. The sensation felt almost nostalgic, like being a teenager again, experimenting with unknown drugs given to him by adults three times his age.
At least now, he was the adult in the situation who had control over what he was taking and how much.
And he was sharing something he’d bought with Rocket! His Ravager customs had never truly resonated with the Guardians, often met with confusion or outright dismissal, but Peter still clung to them despite all these years removed from the Udonta clan. You could take the man out of the Ravagers, but you could never take the Ravager out of the man—a saying Peter found rang true time and time again. People might mock him for being “uncivilized” or a “pirate,” but he knew exactly who he was.
Rocket let out a low grunt as the bitter taste lingered on his tongue, scrunching his nose in distaste. “You sure this scut’s supposed to taste like flarkin’ engine coolant?” He muttered, smacking his lips before brushing past Peter and heading deeper into the apartment. He pulled open a closet built at his height and began rummaging through the clutter for a fresh jumpsuit. The one he was wearing wasn’t particularly dirty, but the sharp, musky smell of a distressed animal clung to the fabric, and it made his skin crawl. It was his scent, sure, but compartmentalizing his earlier outburst was easier if he pretended it was someone else’s.
Peter trailed after him and collapsed onto the couch in the center of the room, sprawling out as he waited for the drug to kick in. He stretched his legs and leaned his head back, shooting Rocket a lazy grin. “Yeah, well, that’s how you know it’s the good stuff.” He quipped, his voice laced with smug amusement. “Grab me a new shirt while you're at it. God knows this one is done for.” He plucked at the blood-soaked fabric clinging to his chest, his nose wrinkling slightly at the sight.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get it. Just hold your flarkin’ horses.” Rocket shot back distractedly, his tail swishing lazily as he tugged an orange jumpsuit free from the chaos of the closet. He only had a few minutes before the allsee took over, and he wanted to be as prepared as possible for when he came back from the high. It was already starting to creep up on him—subtle but unmistakable.
He blinked unsteadily, clearing his throat as faint, swirling patterns began to form at the edges of his vision.
Flark.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“What do you mean that our proposal was deemed ‘too extreme’? The third plan was quite literally the most conservative and pared-down version of all the contingency spreads we ran.” Wan Rol spat angrily, slamming his holo-pad onto the table between them all. “And was this closed session of y’all’s recorded in any way? The convention should be privy to this conversation y’all had behind closed doors. Or, are we barred from it because of ‘partner confidentiality?’”
It was obvious the Hrktal was referencing the time when Knowhere was governed as an unofficial corporate territory. For most of its existence, the colony had been ruled by a board of investors appointed by Tivan to manage the daily operations of the bustling industrial city. In theory, the corporate structure was meant to create an efficient, means-tested, and highly profitable enterprise that benefited shareholders and stakeholders alike.
Unfortunately—or rather, predictably—the reality of such a model was the complete commodification and exploitation of life’s basic necessities. The denizens of Knowhere were reduced to yet another resource to exploit, as the promises of profit-sharing and equitable ownership were discarded in favor of relentless extraction. And to add insult to injury, as Wan Rol was making a mention of, the workers had once been granted a single seat on the board of investors for representation. However, instead of collaborating with their supposed colleagues, the lone worker representative soon found themselves shut out of every meeting under the pretext of ‘partner confidentiality.’ The phrase became shorthand for the corrupt, authoritarian system under which the denizens suffered—an insult used to brand someone as untrustworthy, secretive, and dishonest.
Nebula, fully aware of this history, wasn’t pleased to have such an accusation hurled at her, especially given all that she had done to distance her leadership from that of Tivan’s. She prided herself on the fact she could say her rule of Knowhere had created the fairest conditions possible for Knowhere’s workers, as well drastically improving the standard of living. But those achievements seemed to matter little when said conditions were now slowly unraveling—deteriorating in the face of a stifling blockade and debilitating resource shortage.
“Of course it wasn’t recorded.” Nebula replied, her irritation barely concealed. “ It was a private conversation during a time of recess, allowing us to analyze and discuss your findings. And after much consideration, we determined that an even more restrained plan is necessary, given our current resources and material capacity. We’ll still reinforce the critical anatomical areas you and Soran identified, and we’ll still make those jumps. But it will have to be far, far fewer.”
Wan Rol’s face flushed a deep red, his anger becoming increasingly evident. “What the hell do you mean by ‘far fewer’? How much are we talking about?” Soran, equally upset, placed one of xirs four hands on the man’s shoulder once again, tracing a soothing pattern with a clawed finger.
“Using a modified version of your simulation models, we found that eighty-five jumps is the absolute maximum Knowhere can withstand. Any more and we risk catastrophic damage.” Nebula explained as she adjusted the projection table to once again allow community sharing. She messes around with the broadcast settings briefly before finalizing the connection, a wave of chimes filling the room as everyone’s devices synced with the projection table. Forgoing the Guardians logo Rocket typically displayed, she immediately began sharing the results of her simulations. “Your survey inputs were optimized for maximum outcomes, assuming an abundance of every resource needed for the project–which we simply don’t have. That’s where our results diverge. Using a preliminary data capture—since we haven’t done a full audit in quite some time—I adjusted your numbers to better fit the current projections. These,” she said, motioning to the holographic data diagrams, “are the results we’re working with right now.”
Wan Rol leaned closer, carefully scrutinizing the display. He pinched the air to zoom in on a graph depicting the nonlinear, higher-order acceleration curves of the thruster engines lining the exterior of Knowhere. The dim blue graph illustrated the relationship between repeated jumps and their cumulative impact on structural integrity. His dull red eyes narrow. “May I ask what method you used to solve these? I’m not familiar with this technique of solving nonlinear jump-acceleration curves.”
Nebula huffed, tilting her head to the side to relieve some of the tension building in her shoulders. “I used a hybrid approach combining Shi’ar integration with Artruscan derivative theorems. The Shi’ar framework handles the nonlinear parameters, while Artruscan calculus accounts for the recursive energy bleed-off from successive jumps. It’s a more precise method than the standard equations Xandar likes to use.”
Wan Rol clicked in agreement, nodding his head. “I’ve always had an appreciation for Shi’ar calculus. Simple yet as accurate as possible. But aren’t these calculations unnecessarily complex for what’s essentially an infrastructure problem. I’m not sure there’s a need for such exotic methods when our models, as they stand, have worked just fine for decades.”
Someone beside him bristled, her voice sharp as she took a turn at the pulpit. “Fine for decades?” She mocked vehemently. “Decades under Tivan, maybe. Forgive me if I’m not inclined to trust a methodology designed for profit maximization over safety. These are people’s lives we’re dealing with Wan Rol, not just thrusters and metal! Your models severely overestimate Knowhere’s structural tolerance by a wide margin, and acting Captain Nebula’s method accounts for realities your equations ignore. It’s needlessly dangerous!”
Soran, offended on xirs friend's behalf, turned away from the table and glared at the woman. “Our models may be slightly off in resource assumptions, but at least they’re achievable, Yoro. Eighty-five jumps? That’ll put us smack dab in the middle of the war between Rafi’s Kree remnants and the Desērrich Republic! If we follow Captain’s approach, we’ll be left vulnerable and driftless—perfect pieces for Ravagers to pick apart. Stars know well enough the prior captain was lenient enough with those wretched psychos.” Xe said, sneeringly throwing a jab at Peter who wasn’t in the room to defend himself.
Yoro only scoffs in response, crossing her arms over her chest. She looks over to Nebula expectantly, pink eyes demanding an answer from her.
“If we follow your approach, we’ll rip this station apart before the first twenty jumps are done.” Nebula said, her expression stony. “This isn’t a debate about ambition, Soran—it’s about survival. We can’t afford to push this any further.” She tried to hide it, but Soran’s jab at Peter’s origins had visibly bothered her. Nebula really, really tried but it resurfaced decade old insecurities she had about the violence and cruelty she used to wield so easily as Thanos’ plaything.
If they’re so judgmental about Quill’s past. She thought. What must they think of mine?
The room fell into tense silence, the air heavy with the weight of their standoff. Just about as Nebula was going to call for another period of recess, the quiet was broken by a dry, accented voice from the corner. It was a Kreemen, tall and gangly as he brushed by Goro Han and Herthel and leaned onto the projection table with an amused expression.
Clar-Lak Farius.
He was one of the few resident Kreemen present on the colony, and one of the exceedingly rare political refugees from Hala. Once a well renowned lawyer who defended the Kree Empire from United Galactic Federation probes into their blatant personhood minimum violations and genocidal war profiteering, Clar-Lak had a stunning fall from grace when, during the chaos of the Snap, he filed for armed UGF intervention into the debilitating political violence roiling the empire. He tried to defend his decision before a hastily assembled tribunal, but the judges were hellbent on his persecution, leaving him with no choice but to flee Hala and seek political asylum. The Shi’ar were reluctant to accept him and Xandar steadfastly refused, suspecting he was a Kree informant. Ultimately, his journey led him to Knowhere—the only place in the Galaxy with lax enough laws he could get by relatively well.
Nebula didn’t like the man. She could admire his expertise in intergalactic relations and law, but she couldn’t help but suspect he was up to something nefarious. He had gathered all the Kreemen and women he could find and created an ethnic enclave similar to that of the Xolcarians, except they were vocal proponents of the racial and genetic eugenics the Kree were so well known for. It didn’t help that they were pink-skinned Kree—further fueling their intense racial superiority complex.
She didn’t have much dirt on him, but she had Drax and Kraglin keeping tabs on the man’s finances and movements. Definitely not her best choices for espionage work, but she didn’t have many options. Adam’s still too immature and Phyla-Vell is but a child. No good choices all around if she’s being honest, but they all had good hearts.
Nebula blinked in an effort to refocus her attention on the Kreemen talking, heavily disliking the easygoing smile on the man’s face.
“Enough,” Clar-Lak said, his voice awkwardly chewing the vowels in the Xandarian Standard Knowhere used as a common language. He leaned further in, smiling sharply as Nebula frowned. “If we’re going to keep arguing like this, we might as well enter a formal period of debate. At least then, we can structure this bickering into something productive.”
They all turned to face the man, their expressions a mix of annoyance and frustration. Nobody said anything, leaving the floor open for anyone to make a motion. Seeing this, Clar’Lak took the opportunity to continue speaking. “We’re not going to solve anything like this. If we’re at an impasse, let’s hear all proposals in full detail, debate them, and vote. Until then, you’re both wasting energy on what’s just plain old posturing.”
Nebula found herself agreeing with the man’s judgment. “Fine. A debate it is,” She said, waving her hand in order to catch Clar’Lak’s fleeting focus, “One of you will have to make the motion though. I am only the acting Captain, after all.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Rocket stared at his paws, blinking slowly as they morphed and stretched into an unfamiliar shape, each fur-covered finger elongating painfully. His fingers, once short and nimble, contorted into large, uncomfortable sausage-like hands, his claws flattening out into blunt, useless nails. His breath hitched, disgust rising in his chest like a tidal wave, and he gasped, swallowing the last bit of saliva in his dry mouth. He quickly looked away, affronted, tucking his humie hands under his thighs and focusing instead on whatever Peter was doing.
Peter was kneeling in front of the closet Rocket had just been digging through, searching for something with a fervor that admittedly terrified the hybrid. His green eyes glowed radioactive, shining toxically neon as a droplet of sweat fell from the tip of his nose and onto the floor, exploding on impact in a wonderful display of chemically charged colors. In what felt like both a microsecond and an eternity, Peter found what he was looking for and turned to Rocket with a wide, shaky smile. He scrambled on his knees to present the object he’d worked so hard to find, as though it were salvation itself.
Peter’s hands wavered in and out of existence, blinking in and out like a glitch in the very fabric of the universe. Rocket squinted, trying to steady his own vision but his pupils were dilated to the point of near blackness. The colors around him bled and pulsed, rippling through his field of view like an oil slick on water. Even focusing his eyesight was a monumental challenge, each blink resetting the surreal canvas before him. His efforts at centering his gaze on the object in Peter’s hands failed, unable to ignore the rotating fractals at the edge of his vision.
The Terran’s face was no better—grotesquely distorted by the effects of the allsee. His hair, however, was luminescent—a beautiful, bright luminescent gold as Peter showed him what he had worked so hard to find.
Oh.
It was the first thing he’d ever given to the man, a thank you gift from a person who’d never said thank you to anyone in his free life. Rocket remembers how he felt in those days, holed up on Xandar recovering from the battle with Ronan. He remembers watching Peter closely, hating how pretty the man was, despising how he was so effortlessly attractive as he tripped over his knees to appease everyone in an attempt to desperately keep this fledgling family of his together. Peter had just deprived himself of a night’s sleep in the name of helping Rocket deal with a sapling Groot’s unending tantrums, doing everything that he humanly could to take a burden off of Rocket’s ungrateful shoulders.
And how did he repay the human?
By snapping at him and calling him a pervert after Rocket caught him babying Groot. Peter was obviously hurt by the comment and he retreated to his room, shooting Rocket this heartbreaking, green-eyed pout. At the time, Rocket hadn’t given a damn, but after a few hours, he was regretting his callous words. So he did the only thing he was good at. He built a miniature copy of the human’s thigh blasters and slid them into the man’s pocket when he wasn’t looking. It was obvious who had made such a stupid object, Rocket thought with embarrassment burning him from inside out as he spent hours tinkering away on something that Quill most likely wouldn’t have even appreciated.
He was wrong.
Come morning, the tension between the two of them was completely gone, and Peter was walking around like he was on cloud nine. He was so happy about it, wearing a bright smile every time his green eyes met Rocket’s. Without having to be said—bygones were bygones—and it seemed the humie was more than happy to wave away the biped’s bitchy behavior. And, however unintentional, it set a sort of precedent for how Rocket would interact with Peter. It started a push and pull, an off and on as they practically danced around each other. Rocket, even all those years ago, couldn’t help but feel a perverse sense of pleasure knowing he was responsible for Pete’s joy and pain—that he was capable of causing such ruin and desperation. It was power, pure and simple.
In the present, the hybrid subtly adjusts himself as he watches Peter glean at the little gun in his palms.
He thinks about how pretty his golden hair would look soaked in red.
That’s what goes through his mind as he stares at the top of Peter’s skull, picturing a sticky mess of dark, clotted blood and oozing brain matter. Rocket smiles.
As if Pete isn’t pretty enough already.
He has to actively fight the urge to grab the humie’s oily curls and pull them right out his head, wondering what sort of sound he’d make. The intrusive thought isn’t unusual. There has never been a time when Rocket hasn’t been plagued by these urges. Most people barely sparked anything other than annoyance, with hostility essentially being his default, but Peter on the other hand… Peter drove him insane. He filled Rocket with a feral, irrational need to destroy, consume, hurt. Urges that were born the moment he’d shot the human in the back with a stun gun and watched him writhe in agony. This need—this painful desire—metastasized over the years, evolving into a never ending montage of depravity so intense it occasionally scares Rocket himself. He’s thankful that he’s been able to hide his degeneracy for such a long time, but sometimes the mask just slips off. Peter looks at him with such joy. He hasn’t looked this happy and relaxed in months.
He looks good. He looks beautiful.
Rocket wants to fucking ruin him.
He’s not in his body as he watches his hand, now looking normal rather than distorted, dive into Peter’s hair and yank, pulling with such strength he wouldn’t be surprised if he yanked out a whole lock. Pete’s smile is instantly replaced with hurt, wincing as he’s pulled upwards and forced to make eye contact with the hybrid. The distance between them shrinks and there’s no effort on Peter’s part to get away from him. If anything, he’s leaning in closer, their faces inches apart, so close he can smell the human’s unwashed body odor and traces of alcohol and drugs.
The top of Peter’s tac-shirt is undone, revealing a patch of hairy chest, tightly coiled little hairs glistening with sweat. Rocket wants to lean down and lick it, rip his shirt open and make the zipper irreparable. He tangles his other hand in Peter’s hair and yanks at it until the man is crying. He’s so hard it feels like his dick is about to fucking snap in half.
The miniature gun clatters to the floor as Peter goes to grab at Rocket’s hands. “Rocket, what’re you—”
He cuts him off by forcing their mouths together, licking deeply into that unwilling warmth. Peter is too shocked to kiss him back, but he doesn’t push him away either, just holds onto his wrists and squeezes hard. Rocket pushes his tongue into his mouth, forcing it open. He tastes Pete’s gums with an aggressive swipe, then bites his bottom lip so hard he punctures it, making Pete squeal and struggle in his hold. Blood wells to the surface and Rocket’s instantly lost in the mire of the man’s musky, bloody taste.
“Mphh,” Quill protests around his long tongue and tries to pull back, but Rocket follows and only licks deeper into his mouth, past his teeth, deep enough to feel his molars.
When he starts fumbling with the zipper to Pete’s tac-shirt and shoves his clawed hands down his shirt to grope at his chest, Peter tenses up and grabs at Rocket’s wrists with a hesitant touch, weakly attempting to reject the attention as best as he can with the allsee tearing its way through his neurons.
“Flarkin’—hold still, bitch.” Rocket growls against his lips, slapping away the hands on his wrists and all but tearing the man’s shirt down the middle with the flick of a talon. “Stop acting like you don’t flarkin’ want this.”
The words have an immediate effect on Peter, his face flushing a blotchy red as he stammers an attempt to defend himself. “I—I don’t… fuck, Rocky, you’re hurting me,” Peter mumbles, trying to turn his face away, but Rocket’s hands don’t let up their grip on his curls, forcefully keeping his head in place. His green eyes are dilated beyond belief and there’s blood weeping from the love bite Rocket left, a trail of crimson droplets traveling down his chin.
“What? You suddenly a flarkin’ prude or something? I swear you never had an issue throwing yourself at anyone.” Rocket spits, shaking the man’s head harshly. His insulting tirade was going to continue when, suddenly, a putrid, rotten thought entered his drugged up mind. “Is it because it’s me? Do you find me fucking ugly? Am I that unfuckable?” Rocket asks out loud, a dawning horror coming over him as Peter’s eyes widen as the man hastens to form a coherent response.
“N-no, wh- uh, eh. F-fu—” Peter’s mouth trips over itself like it can’t decide whether to apologize or scream, his breath hitching under Rocket’s grip. The air is thick with heat and shame, the moment too tangled to unravel cleanly.
“Say it,” Rocket slurs, demanding and terrifying. “Look me in the eye and tell me what you think of me. That I’m just some fucking hideous beast! You think I’m stupid, Pete? Huh? Do you think I’m flarkin’ r*tarded?”
Peter shakes his head, luminescent tears pearling at the edges of his red-rimmed eyes. He refuses to look at Rocket, pouting with consternation written all over his face as he doesn’t meet his eyes. Rocket can’t help but think about how pretty he is like this, bleeding from his fang bitten lips, face and neck flushed a splotchy red from the alcohol, and his eyelashes sticky with tears. And all the incessant begging and whimpering does something messed up to Rocket, something ugly and pleasant. The fire burning underneath his skin is roaring, brightly aflame as it burns his insides to smoldering ashes. Rocket loves it as much as he hates it.
Peter sniffs and glances around the room, a single, golden tear falling to the floor. “You know that I know that you're the smartest person I’ve ever met in my life.” He still doesn’t look at him. “You’re so much smarter than me that I sometimes feel like an absolute idiot standing beside you. I’d call it unfair if it wasn’t just meant to be that way.”
Meant to be that way?
Rocket frowned, immediately bristling at the way Peter belittled himself. Sure, call him a hypocrite, but Rocket hated when Peter took the initiative to lash himself with verbal abuse—calling himself a dumbass or a fuck-up. When he did it, it was hot and turned both of them the hell on. When Pete does it, it hits differently. It was pathetic in a way that scratched something raw inside him, and not in the fun, flirty way.
“Oh boo hoo, now you’re the flarkin’ r*tard, huh?” Rocket spat, emphasizing his annoyance with a shake of the hand still tangled in Peter’s curls. “You ain’t the one who looks like a flarkin’ freak! You ain’t the one who’s been torn apart just as many times as he’s been put back together!”
The allsee, potent as it had been just minutes ago, was already sputtering out. The golden glow of Peter’s hair was bleeding away and being replaced with its usual oily mess of reddish-brown strands. His eyes weren’t vibrating with explosive energy anymore, rather, they had weakened to glowing softly with dried up tears and an agonizing emptiness. The swirling display of colors and patterns at the edges of his vision was dying, replaced by a sluggish pulsing throb in Rocket’s temples—a misery of the once spectacular visual hallucinations.
Rocket was beginning to realize he felt fucking awful.
His mouth was bone-dry, his tongue a fat lump in his throat. No amount of swallowing made the dryness go away, and every shift of his body made his fur feel like it was scraping against burlap. The euphoria was gone—ripped away like a rug beneath his feet—and all that was left was his body, raw and overstimulated.
His scathing expression falters, and he lets go of Pete’s hair, breaking into a painful coughing fit as he’s jarringly thrust back into reality. Any nice feelings he had vanished in an instant. He was right back where he was twenty minutes ago—miserable, hurting, and furious.
Then he threw up all over himself—and Peter.
The sound was wet and violent, the stench immediate. A nauseating mixture of half-digested orloni, noodles, and beer. Rocket heaved again, shuddering as the bile soaked through his jumpsuit and wet his fur. Peter’s face twisted in horror just as the puke splashed across his chest.
“Dude—!” Peter cried, scrambling backwards hastily in revulsion. In his rush to escape the cooling mess, his foot skidded across the slick puddle, slipping out from under him. A panic-stricken frown crosses the man’s face as his arms flail for balance, but it’s too late. He goes crashing down with a sickening thunk, the back of his head smacking against the edge of the table. He hits the floor hard, blood instantly pouring out from the gaping wound on his scalp.
The smell of rusted iron joins the atmosphere, and Rocket’s fighting to not throw up again as his heart stops in his chest at the sight of Peter sprawled out on the floor, unconscious and bleeding profusely.
“Pete?” He chokes out, stumbling off the couch, bile still dripping from his maw and jumpsuit. He kneels beside the man, panic rising in his throat. “Quill? Flark, come on—don’t do this, man. Don’t fuckin’ die on me.” Rocket thinks he might be exaggerating, but the way Peter remains still and unmoving fucks with his head, images of his dead friends clashing with present.
Peter, thankfully, groans softly, finally turning onto his side with a low grunt of pain. His arms quickly move to cradle his stomach, his face crumpled in queasy agony. “…M’gonna hurl,” he mumbled, breath hitching as his mouth filled with drool.
“Oh thank fuck,” Rocket muttered, just as Peter let out a weak, garbled noise—then prompt vomited onto the floor. He winces, staggering backwards as a throbbing headache pulses behind his eyes. Every inch of him ached. He stared down at the mess, then at Peter, then at himself—dripping, shaking, and absolutely miserable.
Then he kicked him in the head.
“Flarkin’ dumbass!” he snapped. “This is what you spend our money on? Shitty-ass laced garbage? A total waste of our time, money, and brain cells!”
Peter groaned again, still too out of it to respond, and Rocket turned away with a snarl, fur standing on end as the comedown clawed its way through his nerves like broken glass. Rocket stood there for a moment, just seething—hands clenched, fur damp and matted, ears flat against his skull. The headache pulsing behind his eyes was turning into a full-on skull-splitting throb, and the sour stink of vomit, blood, and whatever god awful chemicals were in the allsee was making his stomach churn more than it already was.
He looked at Peter again, curled up on the floor, moaning softly like a hungover idiot. The sight of him—pale, bleeding, and utterly useless—sent another wave of frustration straight to Rocket’s gut. Without thinking, he gave the man another quick kick in the ribs—not hard enough to break anything, but enough to definitely leave a bruise.
“Stupid flarkin’—this is why I don’t let you plan shit,” he hissed, pacing a tight circle. “Should’ve known better, should’ve just stayed in my office or gone to the damn meeting without you—” He trailed off, panting through his teeth as the edges of his vision buzzed like a broken screen. He wanted to keep yelling, keep kicking, but his chest was heaving and his heart was hammering too loud to focus.
Then he remembered.
The convention.
“Oh, shit—” Rocket swore under his breath, eyes snapping wide. “The meeting.” He scrambled toward the coffee table, slipping slightly on the slick floor before catching himself and swiping up his nav-pad with shaking fingers. His claws fumbled against the glass as he tapped it awake, eyes scanning the glowing numbers.
“Forty flarkin’ minutes?!” he barked, tail puffing out in alarm. “We were supposed to be on the way there ten minutes ago!” He spun back toward Peter, who was still groaning on the floor, one arm now sloppily dragging toward his head like he was trying to remember he had one.
Rocket exhaled sharply, clutching the nav-pad tight in both paws. “…You better be able to walk in five, Pete,” he muttered, more to himself than anything. “Or I’m leavin’ your dumb ass behind.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
By the time they were past the doors to HQ and rushing towards the convention room, the tail end of a discussion was echoing through the hall. Rocket’s fur was still damp in places, his jumpsuit stained with what he hoped others would see as sweat, and Peter… Peter looked like he’d lost a bar fight and barely stumbled out with his dignity intact. The blood on his scalp had for the most part been scrubbed out quickly under the sink, but his hair was still stained an ugly carrion. The serrated cuts on his chest from Rocket’s claws had been healed with a Med-Pak on their way out of Peter’s apartment, but for some reason the man had decided against swapping out the vomit-covered shirt with something less disgusting. He simply ran the shirt under some running water and called it a day, saying something about a Ravager hack he had learned as a kid.
“You seriously couldn’t change out of that flarkin’ nasty ass shirt?” Rocket muttered as they stepped into the room where all the representatives were still meeting. His eyes flicked toward the wide central display table, already tracking the voting results of a motion he hadn’t even heard spoken. His headache throbbed anew. “We’re thirty flarkin’ minutes late and they’re already making big decisions without us.”
Peter offered a crooked, tired smile. “Better late than never?”
Rocket didn’t dignify him with a response.
Notes:
we're so back (maybe)! I'm not too proud of this one, but it's been way too long since I've fed you all. I hope y'all enjoy! kudos and comments feed me, so pls don't hesitate to say or ask something, I'll always respond!
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