starriidreams

[starriidreams]

Personally, I think that Fan Club is one of the best rhythm games in Rhythm Heaven franchise. But that’s not a very popular opinion, I suppose. - Submitted by fastman27

#FFFADB #8AFFF5 #5DD0F6 #CF5FD5 #D9256A

[starriidreams]

Me when I taste Rocket’s asshole

[starriidreams]

“hear me out” and it’s just like… a normal person. i don’t need to “hear you out” because you wanna fuck some sweet, middle-aged human who looks like you could actually meet them in real life. like… good job? you chose right? i swear the increase in overly-glammed entertainers continue really fucking with peoples’ sense of attractiveness.

anyway, unrelated, i wanna fuck a talking raccoon with c-ptsd

[starriidreams]

Hot summer on Knowhere…

At least one of them is enjoying themself!

[starriidreams]

me: i wanna talk about my ocs

someone: ok tell me about your ocs

me, suddenly convinced that every single thing about my ocs is stupid and cringy and probably offensive: i. have them

[starriidreams]

Rocket Collection

Hello! Yes, it is I!! The mysterious Rocket Raccoon fan that doesn’t ramble abt JazzyRocks!! I’m gonna change that!! (eventually…)

Right now I wanna show off my collection of Rocket stuff!! So it’s all gonna be under the cut just to prevent timeline clogging!!

👇🏽

Okay so first and foremost, my loud and proud ROCKET SHRINE!!

I definitely want to add more, maybe even expand? I’m more of a fan of actual figurines rather than pops and thrifted mcdonald’s toys!! So my favorite thing in the shrine is the figure on the right with his scarf 😁😁😁

Plus, I’m not sure if it exists but I REALLLYYYY want ANYTHING related to his white suit in Endgame… Because, fuck, he looked so attractive in that…

Next up is the Rocket painting on my wall!!

Huge fan of this!! My best friend got it for me for my birthday!!! He is SO fucking handsome… And ofc Groot is there 💕 I want to cover my room in Rocket posters ahahhaa but this is a start, at least!

Next are a few small things!

Ohhh LEGO Rocket how I adore you. I was searching for this one for a while! I should’ve probably prefaced that I hate shipping costs so I always try and find any and all merch locally! SO WHEN I FOUND HIM IN THE LEGO STORE I WAS ELATED!!

Then another lil Rocket thing I was looking for, the Rocket TY plushie!! Keychain version, but I do have the bigger one!! I actually lost my first one on the bus and had to replace him so I’m sad abt that but at least he’s in my possession once more 🥲

Pins and bags time! I have my lovely, lovely star ita bag with two Rocket pins!! The figural one with the jetpack was a diamond in the rough at Hot Topic lmao— I can’t remember when I got him? It was before I moved back to my home state so we’ll say around 2018? Mmmyep!

Then there are my two lovely Rocket bags! I probably won’t buy anymore Rocket bags because these are the only two I like design wise 💔 But yeah! The left I got for a GREAT price!! I was so happy to see it!! The right… um. I had to ask my sister to spot me because I was SEARCHING for that bag and I would not give up 😁😁😁 BUT I GOT HIM!! He’s my favorite bag overall 💕

And FINALLY!!

My Rocket plushies! + Bullfrog!!

Ohhhh my goodness I literally want EVERY Rocket plush, I don’t care, I want them ALL and that’s my goal in life!! My favorite one is the big one with his eyes closed cuz he is such a great cuddle buddy :>

So soft too!! I recommend getting him! He was originally $30 when I got him but now target increased the price so resellers are probably the best option 🫡

Then there’s my weighted Rocket that I posted abt! He was a lot smaller than I thought he’d be but also I believe he’s Japan exclusive so I guess the pricey price makes sense?

Cuutopia Rocket right under him! He’s so squishy and cute :>

Above the weighted one is Bigfoot Rocket!! He is so stinking CUTE!

To the left is Build-A-Bear Rocket in a Cinnamoroll onesie! I got him without the actual outfit so I just put him in that and I LOVE it!!

TY Rocket plush!! So, so soft… I adore official merch by popular brands and plushies are no exception so I was so HAPPY to find him!

Wishable Rocket right next to that one! He’s so flat but my sister got him and I love the chibi style!!

Then the talking Rocket!! He stays in my bed because he can’t stand on his own haha!! But sometimes I press him and he talks and I get startled LMAO

Okay end of post!!

I LOVE YOU, ROCKET!!

[starriidreams]

prompted by something my friend said

[starriidreams]

HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY 1 YEAR ANNIVERSARY TO “A FISTFUL OF SUNLIGHT”!!!!

I put it in my calendar because this fic means so so so much to me 🥹

Thank you to the loveliest Miss RFH!!

I was gonna draw something for the anniversary but so so very sadly my laptop is completely out of commission until the foreseeable future 💔

Trust and believe I’m not giving up on her yet tho… So SOMETHING WILL BE DRAWN ☝🏽 …eventually

This fic overfills me with absolute joy, appreciation, adoration, and love!!!! Thank you, thank you, thank you for the absolute MASTERPIECE that is this glorious piece of writing 💕💕💕

fistful of sunlight a fluffy lil domestic oneshot

short story masterlist | main masterlist

domestic fluff | no use of y/n | oc!reader | oneshot | word count: 3,832. for @starriidreams, based on their original character, jazper. check em outttt ♡

after a surprising day of work at the knowhere clinic, princess jazper returns to their home with rocket, only to find that the captain of knowhere has been working on a little surprise of his own.

WARNINGS: brief description of surgical procedure in sceond paragraph only. rocket says damn/dammit a lot; reader is referred to as princess 2x (because reader is literally a princess). some limited physical description of reader (most notably, having gold palms/fingerpads/facial markings and an adorable lil toothgap). i've never written for someone else's oc like this before so i hope i do them justice ๐·°(⋟﹏⋞)°·๐

Mister Kraglin had cut off his thumb.

You’re not even been quite sure how, but Mister Kraglin had cut off his thumb. It hadn’t been a job for a medpack — those are generally reserved for life-threatening injuries involving major trauma, and a medpack would have only healed up the stump anyway. No, Mister Kraglin had cut off his thumb and had shown up sobbing at the Knowhere clinic door, and it had been your job to soothe him and reseal every vein and artery, to string the nerves and tendons back together like loose threads on a sweater, and finally to laser stitch the skin in place, bandage it up, and brace it with one of the adjustable vibranium-and-vinyl splints that Rocket had made — per your request — for situations just like this one.

It had sent a stinging ache in your heart to see Mister Kraglin so upset. The former Ravager is more vulnerable in his pain than young Mister Adam or even any of the Star Children — at least while he’s safely at home on Knowhere — and you’ve gathered that this behavior might be due to the hollowing lack of any kind of person-to-person comfort he’d ever received as a child. You yourself are all too familiar with some of that feeling — emotional self-sufficiency and a wrenching desire for affection, bordering on need — in spite of the privilege inherent in being adopted into the Relvoith royal family. 

Or perhaps because of it.

And so, you had soothed him with the softest words you could dream up, worried they might’ve sounded stilted in the formality of the Relvoith tongue. But the universal translator must have worked well, or perhaps the overly-decorous language hadn’t mattered in the end, because Mister Kraglin had sniffled and dried his tears with the back of his uninjured hand. Then he’d given you a wobbly and tremulous half-smile, thanking you so fervently that an observer might have thought you’d saved his life.

Unfortunately, the result is that you are exhausted — feet aching and eyes tired, a dull headache starting to form behind your golden eyes by the time you reach the open casement leading to the door of the apartment rooms you share with Rocket. One of the raccoon kits — the smallest of the litter rescued from the Arête — is waiting on the threshold, grooming itself. It’s only the tiniest bit larger today than it had been on the day you’d inadvertently adopted it, and it lifts its head as soon as it breathes in your scent, ears and nose twitching. Its tail flips from one side to the other when it sees you, and it immediately begins to generate the fast-paced hollow clicking noise that you’ve come to understand means that it’s purring.

“Hello, littlest one,” you say, crouching, and it immediately launches itself onto one of your soft thighs, and then into your chest. You cuddle it against you as you stand, pressing your mouth to the crown of its head, and open the apartment door.

The apartment is a little tattered, but it’s home: the place you and Rocket have made for yourselves, carved out of a little patch of Knowhere. There’s a broad series of patchwork-windows made of frosted and colored glass, and they shine like jewels when the artificial lights outside slant into a manufactured sunset. In certain hours, they cast a glowing, muted rainbow glow onto the rest of the main room. One wall is lined with Rocket’s inventions and tools, and the ceiling is edged in strings of tiny gold plasma-orbs that he’d pinned to the wall while perched on your shoulders. The doors on the kitchenette cupboards had been falling off when the two of you had moved in, so you’d replaced them with miniature curtains made of patterned fabrics and gauzy muslin and a treasured panel of Spartoi lace you’d found in Sanna Orix’s shop. The sofa is a soft corduroy, the color and texture of a purple night-sky, velvety and only a little frayed at all the seams. It had been one of Rocket’s discoveries. He’d made Mister Drax carry it from the Bowie all the way to your little apartment, just because he’d thought you might enjoy it. One arm of the sofa is draped with the rumpled softness of an old quilt — a gift from the citizens of Knowhere to their new Captain and his princess. It’s patched with squares offered up from each of the Guardians, and others, too: red flannel and a dove-gray fabric from Star-Lord’s childhood shirts, a scrap of leather from Mister Nebula’s uniform. Another square had been thieved from an armored vest left behind by Miss Gamora, after she’d been stolen away and sacrificed by Thanos. A couple of rectangles of fabric, cut from the plush baby-blanket that Groot had kept in his pot when he was still small, and little pieces from a strained button-down shirt that Mister Drax had decided to wear for a cycle just so he could have something to contribute to the quilt. There’s a patch from Cosmo’s suit, and another from young Mister Adam’s singed Sovereign cast-off, and silver-threaded stars embroidered in sloppily by young Miss Phyla and each of her siblings. A few splashes of delicate floral prints from Miss Ssssaralami and worn yellow canvas from Mister Blueliver and even an intentional splash of cosmic-green gin from Mister Howard.

At least, you assume it was intentional. Mister Howard claims it was intentional, and you’ve never been particularly adept at spotting lies.

In short, there’s not an inch of your little apartment that isn’t brimming with the soft shadows and glowing warmth of memories that you and Rocket have made together.

Unfortunately, you don’t have long to enjoy the peace of the small space. You can already hear Rocket cursing and muttering inside the next room, and it makes your own ears twitch with concern.

“Shoulda just paid Ssssaralami to do it. No, no, I wanna do it myself. Moron. Like you forgot you were a mechanic, not a frickin’ artist. Frickin’ paint in my damn fur. Better come out—”

“Rocks?” you call softly, snuggling the raccoon kit in against your chest again. The raccoon’s purring never stops, and its coat is a plush and velvety spray against the underside of your chin. “Are you well?”

Rocket’s head pops around the side of the bedroom door: fur mussed and flattened on one cheek, a splotch of purple dripping into the fur between the base of one soft ear and the crown of his head. There’s a smudge of luminous yellow-gold on his nose, glittering and so vibrant and warm that it almost looks like a wedge of amber over a candleflame. His eyes, bright as red stars and sunsets — all the holiest things in the universe — narrow on you immediately.

“You weren’t s’posed to be home for another three hours,” he growls accusingly.

The raccoon kit pats the golden swirl on your cheek with one flat paw, then headbutts you under the chin for more cuddles. Its purring grows louder.

“Mister Kraglin cut off his thumb,” you tell Rocket, wide-eyed as you take in the violet and sunshine smeared into his fur. Most of him is hidden behind the doorframe, but one hand grips the edge, and you can see gold and purple crusted around his claws. “It was the most excitement the clinic has seen in a while,” you admit, “and we have closed early as a result.” You feel your head tilt. “Are you… painting something?”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment — eyes dropping to take in your white-and-red uniform — before he sighs: utterly beleaguered. “Trying to,” he mutters, and rolls his eyes. “Was supposed to be a frickin’ surprise.” He wheels back from the door, gesturing with that dark-clawed, paint-spattered hand. “C’mon in, Starlight.”

You carefully set the littlest raccoon on the sofa, and make your way deeper into the apartment.  

Your breath trips out of your lungs when you cross the threshold into the bedroom. It’s been utterly transformed in your few hours away.

It is, you think in wonderment, like walking into the heart of an amethyst. 

Layers of paint — from the ashen lilac of the sky just after the sun goes down, all the way to the richest midnight-purple — fold over each other in veils of haphazard brushwork, scraped across each other as if the painter were trying to create something deep and glimmering. It’s true that there are some splashes of color on the cracked bone-tiles of the floor, and little ripples where the purple had dribbled too thickly down the walls — but he’s covered the bed with a canvas that you recognize as borrowed or stolen from Miss Ssssaralami, and the plasma-orb lamps are similarly protected. A shabby box sits in one corner, full of wires and frosted glass, but you’re too entranced by the purple walls: the illusion of velvety, luminous depth — the sense of swimming in an endless night sky, or diving into the rift at the end of the universe. 

And against the purple — all misshapen and erratic, in clusters and lopsided sprays, different sizes and spaces between each one — shine a hundred golden stars. They’re gleaming and metallic, shimmering with the same crushed glitter-dust smudged across Rocket’s nose, sparkling and brilliant and warm.

You touch one lightly with the golden pad of your fingertip, awestruck.

“You are an artist,” you say solemnly, awestruck as your eyes travel around the room.

Rocket scowls and shuffles the fur of his forearm against the end of his nose — then looks down to realize he’s smeared more gold paint on himself. A strangled roar of outrage climbs in his throat and hisses between his teeth, gravelly and shrill, and you blink down at him over one soft shoulder.

He looks like he’s ready to pull out fistfuls of his own fur, panting.

“I’d call you a liar if I didn’t know how frickin’ bad you are at it,” he seethes, glaring around the room as if the walls have personally insulted him. “It’s a damn mess.”

You tilt your head. You don’t generally find his aggravation humorous, but it is often endearing — and you know him well enough now to understand that sometimes, a little gentle mockery will make him feel safer.

“Small One,” you tease lightly, letting a smile curve your full lips, flashing your white teeth and the slight gap between them at your beautiful Captain, “the imperfections are what make it so lovely.”

His eyes narrow at you again, distant crimson suns, and for a moment he continues to fume: fists clenched, sharp teeth gritted. He is flawless nonetheless: his casual Knowhere-clothes spattered with bright sparkling yellow, now, and streaked with purple. One whole whisker gleams gold in the artificial Knowhere light that streams through the circular window, open over the head of the bed. 

He sighs suddenly, his jaw and shoulders and hands all loosening, and you can see now that his palms are streaked with gold paint, too. 

You’re always soft for Rocket, but everything inside you suddenly feels even softer: more pliable, more tender. You let your smile shift from playfulness to pure, gentle wonder as you gaze around the room again: jewel-toned, sequined and filigreed with suns and stars made even more sacred by the fact that they’ve come from his own hands. He’s even included some lopsided versions of the holy constellations you grew up studying in the Ositamet sky, which you hadn’t even realized he might remember from your stories. That same place in your heart that had ached over Mister Kraglin’s tears suddenly trembles and heats, overflowing with sunlight. You think it might pour out of your skin. In fact, you can feel it: the warmth in your cheeks, the tip of your ears and nose.

“You’re blushing,” Rocket notes drily, and your brow creases.

“Relvoith do not blush,” you say sternly. Which is true, after all — it’s not as if you can lie, even if you’d wanted to.

Rocket only rolls his eyes. “Whatever. You’re — gold-dusting, then. Sunbursting.”

You touch the warm swirls in your cheeks, knowing they’re bright as the stars he’s painted onto the walls. 

“I am overwhelmed,” you admit to him softly. You can feel your eyes sting with tears as you turn slowly, taking everything in. Your voice is hushed. “I think perhaps this is the kindest, most generous thing that anyone has ever done for me, Rocks.”

Even though your eyes are on the skewed stars, you can feel the tension leave the little room when he sighs again. 

“Yeah, yeah, princess,” he gruffs out. “Just — got sick of hearing you talk about wanting to redecorate.”

Now you do look at him, tilting your head. “I think that is a lie.”

He scowls, but there’s nothing hard in it at all. His sun-ruby eyes have turned into something soft and melting. “Just a little one.”

You cast another smile at him before turning your attention again to the starscape painted all around you.

“Why did you choose purple for the sky?” you muse after a moment. “I like it very much, but I would not have expected that choice from you—”

“Reminded me of you,” he mumbles, and when you glance at him again, he’s shifting his weight from one foot to the other and looking away, scrubbing at his gold-dipped whiskers with the back of his wrist in the way you’ve come to recognize means he’s embarrassed. “Your uniform-thing, the first time we met. It was, uh, purple and white.” He clears his throat, and your smile turns into a delighted grin.

“You were feeling quite sentimental, then,” you tease.

“Whatever,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes and turning away to begin peeling the canvas drape off the bed, revealing the fleecy turquoise comforter underneath, rippled with velveteen stripes. It’s a bit faded and ragged, and the mattress dips in the middle, but it’s a far cry from the piece of scrapmetal Rocket had been sleeping on when he had still been staying in his own apartment, just off the Guardians’ main office down the street. “You’re such a pain,” he adds, tossing the crumpled canvas into the corner and picking up the box of wire and glass you’d only vaguely noticed when you’d walked in. He sets the dilapidated box on the bed. “Wanna help me hang these? They’re not frickin’... authentic or whatever. Too expensive to get the real ones, all the way from Ositamet. Consider ‘em… off-brand, or whatever.” 

He clears his throat again: a tell you’ve come to recognize; an indicator that he’s nervous. You lean over, peering into the box, and your heart catches in your throat again: full of sunlight, overflowing. 

“You’re gold-dusting again,” he points out drily.

“How did you get these, if not from home?” you ask softly, lifting up one handful of bright-copper wire. He shuffles in tightly against your thigh, leaning one cheek into the soft plushness of your hip. 

“Sketched ‘em up,” he admits. “Wove the wire and made the little plasma-orbs on my own. Had Steemie save the glass from that old building they tore down in Exitar. Cut it an’ soldered it myself.” He swallows. “Wasn’t that hard,” he adds, trying to downplay the time and effort you suddenly know he must have put into planning every inch of this creation. “With the ships, I musta had to patch glass at least a hundred times before.”

But these handcrafted string-lights are not just patched glass. They’re perfect star-shaped lanterns, far more precise than the celestial bodies spangling the walls. And though not every pane of glass matches in color or texture, they’re worth more to you than any import from the palaces and streets of Ositamet. 

“Yes,” you whisper. “Let us hang them.”

Rocket doesn’t wait: he leaps nimbly onto the mattress and then springs to your shoulders. He’s heavy with screws and solder, bolts and plates, but his weight’s  still nothing for your strength. You gather the strings of lights in your hands and they clink merrily against each other as you travel the perimeter of the room. When you hand him the end of the twisted copper wire,  he holds the cord to the edge of the ceiling and fastens it into the bone-plaster with the soft, hollow thud of a bolt-gun. 

The two of you continue around the room, skirting the pan of purple-and-gold swirled paint still on the floor, full of sopping brushes. A manufactured Knowhere breeze filters in through the round window, along with the artificial sunlight; it brightens the still-drying stars, making the room glimmer all around the two of you. You soak in the lullaby made by the measured timpani of the bolt-gun and the pleasant chime of the star-lanterns in your hands, feeding them up to your beautiful captain. There’s the comforting feel of his strong thighs braced between your palms and shoulders: a warm, welcome weight. Your eyes are drawn to a spray of purple on the claws of his left foot, like nail lacquer — it curls the corner of your mouth in a whimsical smile but you don’t dare breathe a word of it right now.

By the time the stringed lights are garlanded all around the room, the artificial lights outside have already begun dimming, and the room is dusky and softly-shadowed. Rocket leaps off of your shoulders, fleet-footed, and taps the sensor on the wall. It’s normally synced to the plasma-orb lamps, but he must have programmed the star-lanterns in too, because they brighten into a quiet glow: every bit of illumination magnified by the glass, refracted into the occasional spray of rainbow-flaked light scattered across the starscape-walls, the velvety bed, the paint-spattered floor. With one foot, Rocket drags the soft, shaggy rug from where he’d shuffled it under the bed, and the room is almost back to normal.

Almost normal, but transformed into something divine.

You stand for a moment, and take in the coziness of the room, the glints of far-off skies and dreams, the shimmering warmth in your heart and the knowledge of how much you truly mean to the beautiful Captain of Knowhere.

He must be able to tell your thoughts are shifting into sentimentality, because he breaks the quiet with a dramatic sigh. 

“Now I gotta get all this damn paint outta my fur,” he laments, looking down at his purple-streaked feet and the shimmering yellow smeared across his forearm. When he turns his palms up, he groans, his whole head leaned back so he can curse the ceiling. The dark leather of both hands are glazed with sun-bright gold, as if he had fingerpainted the stars. 

“Dammit,” he curses, as his fists begin to curl all over again.

But you catch one narrow wrist, watching the way he shines. “Look,” you say with a sun-bright smile of your own, and his knotted fingers loosen in your gentle grasp. You open your own hand next to his. The pads of your fingers and creased palm are ashimmer just like his, like you’d both been caught with fistfuls of sunlight and stars. You turn your hand over top of his, and you lace your fingers into the soft spaces between his knuckles: gold pressed to gold, so bright that it’s a wonder that sunshine doesn’t fan out from between your clasped hands in glittering rays. 

Rocket swallows, whiskers and tail and ears all twitching, his glowing sunrise-eyes going soft in the dusky evening glow. “Starlight,” he says, and his voice is a husky rasp. “I wanted to tell you — but I ain’t good with words—”

Whatever he had been going to say is suddenly broken by the sound of a mechanical chime: the doorbell. You both look up, and it rings again.

“Dammit,” Rocket snaps for what must be the third time in just an hour or two. He tugs his hand from yours, stalking toward the door and flinging it open.

Miss Cosmo and young Miss Phyla are there, the former sitting on the step with a nervously-wagging tail. You can see Rocket’s shoulders ease, and you know it’s because he’s secretly soft for children and animals. Well, he seems to think it’s a secret, anyway. The sight makes you melt even more. 

“I’m so sorry, Jazper,” the Star Child says, apology written all over her childish face. “I know the Captain was planning a surprise for you tonight, but—”

“But Adam has broken the ocular cannon,” Cosmo pipes up, and her tail begins to move twice as fast. 

“The — what?” Rocket repeats, and you can hear the tension rising again in his voice. “What was he even doing with it?”

Miss Cosmo tilts her head as young Miss Phyla winces.

“Messing around,” the cosmonaut says, and her mechanical voice lilts in such a way that it sounds like a quote.

You move to lean by the door, and Rocket pinches the bridge of his nose. “Unbelievable,” he mutters. “Can’t get a frickin’ minute a’ peace—”

“It is okay,” you say with a wide smile. “I will be here when you come home.” 

Rocket glances up at you, and his expression is pained. “I don’t—”

“Uhm,” young Miss Phyla interrupts hesitantly, teeth bared in a sorrowful grimace, “I hate to tell you this, but your — your guest is making a mess?”

Both you and Rocket turn to find the littlest raccoon kit meandering through the apartment living space, then between the two of you, and right out the open door. In its wake, from the bedroom to the front door, trail a ribbon of paint-slick pawprints sinking into the bone-floor forever: shades of purple, smeared with starlight-gold.

Rocket stares after the littlest kit as it ambles away. His mouth wobbles in something torn between bone-deep exhaustion, and a desire to bare his teeth and commit murder.

The corners of your own mouth curl, and your shoulders shake with feathery laughter. “Go,” you tell your Captain, and lean toward him. Young Miss Phyla and Miss Cosmo have seen the two of you together often enough to know that everyone will be happier if they turn their backs and pretend not to know that you’re dropping a kiss on the crown of Rocket’s paint-spattered head. “I will see you later tonight.”

You’re rising back upward when his gold-dipped fingers curl into the collar of the clinic uniform you’re still wearing. “Wait,” he mutters, tugging you back down and levying a quick, fleeting flick of his tongue to the fullness of your upper lip. “‘Fore I go.”

It’s a ritual, at this point: the soft kiss, the tug at your collar, the brief lick or nip at your mouth. And then the question, rumbling up from the bottom of his lungs, low and warm:

“Who’s yer favorite Guardian?”

You smile, your lips just a breath away from his nose — the answer the same now as it’s always been. 

After all, you cannot lie.

“You are.”

thank you for giving me the chance to write this! it was such a fun idea and it was so interesting to work with someone else’s oc in this context, and try to integrate the formality of jazper’s language into the writing without making it sound unnatural (i hope i accomplished it!). i’ve never written for someone else’s character like this so i hope i did jaz justice ♡ thank you for trusting me with them. it was truly a privilege and i hope it was everything you were looking for ♡♡♡

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[starriidreams]

What's a song you think Rocket hates? Like when it comes on he instantly gets irritated and has to leave the room or change it. Also, what's that song for you?

i LOVE this ask. thank you for posing it. i think you had mentioned rocket not being able to tolerate crazy on you in a previous and hilarious ask (which i'll link below). that said, i'm probably gonna give you an unsatisfying answer lol

personally? i think there are very few things rocket is nonjudgmental about. i mean, there is a list, but it's short.

and i suspect music is right near the top.

of course, there are songs he enjoys more than others — whole genres of music he enjoys more than others. but, in general, i think he's as excited to clone an olivia rodrigo album as he is to get his paws on some nwa or bts or billie holiday. i don't believe there's any song he dismisses out of hand. i think he considers music one of the most honest things in the universe, and there's something he values in that, no matter the style or artist.

there's only one genre he has a hard time listening to, and it's not because he hates it in its own right. on the contrary, it's the same music that originally inspired his love of the artform. but on the off-chance he comes across some hildegard von bingen or claudio monteverdi or palestrina, i think he experiences a visceral, gut-churning reaction. choral music from any place in the galaxy (including terra, mainly prior to the 17th century) makes him feel small, and naked, and vulnerable, and put right back on the high evolutionary's knee with his skull gripped in his sire's hands. it doesn't matter which song is playing: for a moment, all he'll hear is mo ergaste forn. and he still thinks the singing is beautiful and honest, and maybe that makes it even worse. so he'll either get up and stalk from the room, looking like he's about to be ill — or he'll snarl at someone to turn that off; it's givin' him a frickin' headache.

which is all to say that if you're the type to listen to gregorian chants, there's no shame in that. i'd just keep those songs off the main playlist, you know?

i am not as generous as rocket when it comes to music lol. as my sister likes to say, "if it has a single country twang in it, dae won't listen" (that's an exaggeration — but only a slight one). weirdly, my two "gotta turn this off" songs are not country. one is centerfold by the j. geils band and the other is the distance by CAKE. i fucking hate those songs — thinking about them makes me angry — and i would be perfectly at peace if every single copy was lost to humankind. to be fair, my reasoning is similar to rocket's, so perhaps my headcanon is a bit biased.

related: rocket enjoying pop culture | music & rocket, adam, pete, & jason all headcanons & imagines | navigation | fanfiction masterlist

raccoon & star dividers by @/thecutestgrotto | support banner by @/saradika-graphics

[starriidreams]

I love and appreciate and cherish you so so so much RFH you don’t even know how much this means to me!! Not just the beautiful, gorgeous, perfect art but your interest alone makes me so so so friggin happy!!!

princess jaz

navigation | let me love your OCs masterlist doodle queue | rocket art | my OCs

hello again it's princess jazper lunar solheart (they/he) by @starriidreams! i drew this a while ago but just realized i never posted.

i just fucken love jaz so much.

if you think you've seen jaz before, it's either because you're awesome and you already follow their creator, or because i drew another version of jaz previously. unfortunately i wasn't super-happy with it, and i wanted to work on a few things and now ~ ta-da! ~ here they are, looking as happy as i had wanted them to be. just imagine rocket said something silly to them.

anyway jaz's backstory is amazing. they were adopted into relvoith royalty on their home planet, and they have all sorts of cool powers, like shooting gold energy from their palms, minor healing, limited telekinesis, and a lil levitation/flying for good measure. they're also incredibly gorgeous and i love all the touches of gold in their character design (finger-pads, and the little swirls on their cheeks that turn gold when they "blush," which we in the biz refer to as "gold-dusting" or "sunbursting") (and by "we in the biz" i'm referring to me). i love getting to work in a shiny glow on characters, and getting to draw jaz's hair was so fun. plus their ears and lil happy tooth gap are so cute!!!

that said, jazper's personality is what absolutely won me over. adorable, top-tier, super-sweet, perfection. cinnamon-roll in most scenarios but also fiercely protective. i love them so so so much.

deepest gratitude to @starriidreams for letting me fixate on jaz, and letting me write about them and draw them again and again.

i am currently working on the last two people in the doodle queue lineup! finally, right? i am trying to decide if i am going to reopen the queue, or allow people to make requests one at a time. i feel like when there's a queue it always takes longer than i anticipated because i get distracted by side-projects. if you have thoughts, let me know!

navigation| let me love your OCs masterlist doodle queue | rocket art | my OCs

[starriidreams]

Going crazy I need more content of him

[starriidreams]

year five: dispersal snippet-preview

FINAL CHAPTER! [anticipated 4/30] ‬❤︎ florescence❀ | navigation | fanfiction masterlist

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

seeds of second chances.

He snarls a negation against your throat, his teeth snapping and skimming against the delicate skin, the arteries and tendons beneath. Your cunt flutters at the intoxicating swim of danger and desire. He always tries to hold back, you know — always tries to fight the instinctive urge to clamp his teeth deep in your muscle and skin, to hold you steady with his bite while he fucks into you hard and fast. But tonight, wild impulse has you furrowing your fingers deep into the velvet luxury of his fur, hands burrowing and twisting and tugging on the silken strands. “Bite me,” you urge breathily, and he rears back in your arms.

“What? Storyteller, no. I ain’t gonna hurt you—“ “Bite me, please,” you beg. “Leave me a mark that won’t disappear by the time the season’s over—“ He shakes his head, but you can see the magma-hot flash of his crimson eyes. His  nostrils flare and his ears tilt forward, lip peeling away from sharp canines. He wants to.  “I don’t wanna scar you—“  You pull him closer, garlanding his head with your arms — pulling him into the softness of your throat and your bare, silken breasts.  “Bite me a promise,” you whisper into the shell of his ear. "Bite me you’re coming back.”

florescence❀ chapter six year five: dispersal [anticipated 4/30]‬❤︎

WARNINGS for this chapter: angst, loneliness, grief, self-dout. more plot than smut, but the smut is there! sweet soft sex, pussy-slapping, light "punishment," biting, light dom/sub vibes.

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

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

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

[starriidreams]

more questionable headcanons.

navigation | headcanons & imagines | rocket doms & subs for you

i’ve always enjoyed writing about the different rockets and i think about them way too much. one of my previous posts ended up turning into a threaded convo with @hibatasblog and @mrwolfhare about the rockets and their recreational drug-use, and i promised to put my headcanons into writing, so here they are lol.

considering the topic and some of the implications i'm going to go ahead and label this one NSFW (mdni) with gn reader as well. read the warnings and, as with all things, consume responsibly. ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶

ROCKET DRINKS/SMOKES.

WARNINGS: alcohol & other drug use (varied). recreational (fun) substance-use, self-medicating substance-use, self-injurious (un-fun) substance-use. angst; violence, high-key suggestiveness/spiciness with reader but nothing explicitly smutty. mentions of aphrodisiacs, orgasms, occasional pet-names like sweetheart, and a plethora of intoxicants. universe-killer rocket is his own warning.

mcu rocket.

DRINKS: booze is actually this rocket’s drug-of-choice. almost every planet has some kind of fermented liquid intoxicant and since he’s willing to drink absolute swill, he can usually get it for cheap — not that he’s not perfectly willing to steal his alcohol. sometimes he wants something fancy that’s out of his price-range, and other times the barkeep’s being an asshole. either one is a perfectly reasonable excuse for some sleight-of-hand (or interfacing the cashiering program and looting the whole pub). if you were to ask rocket the purpose behind his drinking, he’d sneer at you and say it was a weird frickin’ question and that he drinks for fun. this is a lie. once he gets to know you a little more — trusts you with his old bruises and scars a little more — he might admit that he drinks to forget. this is also a lie. though to be fair, he probably doesn’t know it. like almost everything else he does, this rocket drinks to punish himself. he knows he ain’t lucky enough to forget jackshit, and frankly, he doesn’t deserve to. he knows he just sinks deeper into his memories the more intoxicated he gets. he knows he’s more likely to get mean and reckless and shoot somebody or blow up a bar — or worse, blow up a friendship. if rocket eventually starts drinking less around you, it might be because he doesn’t feel the quite the same need to be cruel to himself. look, we’re not at forgiveness yet, but this is a step in the right direction.

DRUGS: relatedly, this rocket doesn’t often use drugs to take the edge off his chronic pain. some part of him wants to feel it. it reminds him of how he failed his family, of how fucked-up the galaxy is, of how fucked-up he is. but he will occasionally use for other reasons, and not all of them are joyless. he’s not opposed to a buzz that sharpens his focus or helps him sleep or decreases his anxiety or makes certain things feel extra-good during 18+ activities, if you know what i’m saying (dude’s tried the synthetic version of the virgin’s calabash more than once, and honestly, it’s a good fuckin time). but if we’re talking about regular use…. well. sometimes he sits in the cockpit with his feet propped up on the flight controls with a wreath of smoke around his head. they say world tree root's good for seeing the dead,*1 and when he sips that cinnamon-peppermint haze, it burns and freezes all his thermoreceptors. two lungfuls is all it takes, and the constellations suddenly all look like lylla and teefs and floor and groot. and others, too ~ people who weren't even his fault, but seemed like they were probably decent enough before the universe snuffed 'em out. tibius lark, for instance. and garthan saal — even though rocket doesn't generally hold with cops. and yondu, who'd understood him better than anyone else before him. and that pink chick, too — the krylorian who'd worked for the collector. they all swim in the stars, happy and free and completely unaware of him, watching them like the galaxy's most miserable voyeur. he doesn't sleep those nights, no matter how heavy his eyes get — just stares at them and breathes in the ashes of yggdrasill, until his eyes blur and sting and all he can see are prisms and rainbows and splintered, watery light.

I IMAGINE as the two of you grow closer, he might share his smokes with you: seemingly reluctant, but so relieved to no longer have to go through this little ritual alone. it'll be rough the first few times. you don't always see what he sees — not till he shows you, like he's pointing out shapes in the clouds — and when you do, it'll make your vagus nerve clench and ache for him and the wistful twitch of his whiskers and ears, like he wishes he could join them. but over time — with your quiet presence — the vibe changes. the cockpit becomes a chrysalis and eventually, smoking no longer seems like a sentence that rocket carries out with a hollow gutted heart, but something the two of you share: quietly, in peace, in honor of and in communion with those who've returned to the stardust.

eidos rocket.

DRINKS: if this rocket is in the position to drink something straight from the bottle, he's definitely going for angargal's. it's classy scut, you know? but he's not above drinking whatever's local — not as long as it can peel the ceramic plating off a ship and give him a buzz without costing more than he wants to spend in the moment (the fact that he’s so good at stealing shit helps). he’ll toss back a fancier drink when he can — mostly ‘cause it's a way to spit in the eye of the rich chogs who look down on people like him — but asgardian mead and sovereign rum just don’t pack the kind of punch he needs to take the edge off.

DRUGS: speaking of taking the edge off — this rocket loves a j every now and then. he doesn’t smoke every day, but catch him perusing fresh blends whenever you stop for a lazy rotation on some new satellite or space-station. he's tried dried leafy concoctions made from everbloom varietals and world tree root, leaves from kymellian antigen-trees and embers of genesis — and countless cotati cultivars and asgardian herbs (including that one that made you all subby and sweet that first time he'd smoked with you). what can he say? he's always been partial to things that ignite. unfortunately, some drugs just don't come in the form of fire, and it’s worth noting that while asgardian booze may be weaker than the paint-thinner this rocket tends to prefer, asgardian elixirs are another story entirely. a drop on the tongue can have you seeing the secrets in-between the stars, or communing with the atoms in every texture your fingertips touch. rocket doesn’t like to admit it, but that last one works particularly well on a guy with such sensitive hands. he usually takes a drop or two right before he intends to pick up some sweet thing to bring home to his bunk on the milano — but he’ll just as often end up with his date waiting at mantlo’s, completely forgotten, while you find him crooning over the flight controls instead, or dismantling and reassembling all his favorite bombs and blasters, or purring and petting whatever tech he can reach when he’s shoulder-deep in the engine. either way, he figures, it’s a win. of course, he also keeps a vial more discretely tucked away in a little pocket on the underside of his hammock: an antidote for sleep-shifts when he dreams he’s stuck in the sensory deprivation chambers. those nights, when he wakes up certain that he’s not real, having an extra-enhanced sense of touch helps ground him. if he trusts you enough to let you into his bunk, you might notice that little pocket — and if you get close enough, you’ll find two other vials there as well: elixirs for recovery and renewal. those are for when the pain gets bad — or when he wakes up, sweating, certain he’s still in a spinal control unit: every nerve screeching and stuttering with the memory of bone-rattling, brain-melting electric shock.

I IMAGINE there are two other asgardian treats this rocket likes to keep on hand — specifically for bedroom shenanigans. as untrusting as this rocket tends to be in relationships, he does enjoy a good one-night stand — even the occasional “longterm arrangement” with interested parties. i don’t think he hesitates to bring in anything that he thinks will enhance pleasure, for either himself or his partner(s). so be prepared for him to offer you a lofn-kiss, purchased from one of his most-trusted dealers on knowhere. it’s a little hard-candy that tastes like sugared roses with a honey-flavored elixir inside, and oh, it’ll make you come harder and longer and more often and more frantically than you ever have in your life — for as long as it’s in your system. the other little thing he keeps in his cooler is a couple tiny bottles of his favored vintage of asgardian firefly-wine. it’s got a negligible amount of booze in it (enough to get you buzzed, though it doesn’t do anything for him). the real selling point for rocket is that it makes you glow all cutely when you’re about to come — and frankly, he just finds it gratifying to be able to see what a good flarkin’ job he’s doing. *2

cartoon rocket.

DRINKS: cartoon rocket consumes energy drinks by the gallon. he’ll drink coffee too — black and plain, or sludgy with sugar — but no cream. he wants nothing between him and that sweet sweet caffeine (plus whatever other panic-inducing poison the galaxy adds to its stimulants). he doesn’t drink alcohol all that much — though the energy drinks he prefers are banned in most systems and are often served under-the-table at intergalactic dive-bars as uppers — but when he does, it’s usually some kind of boilermaker: preferably with a dark beer, and a good half-shot or more of cream-liquor, just to make it extra-exciting.

DRUGS: this rocket thrives off caffeine pills and various space-amphetamines. he’s been known to occasionally break open the little capsules and add them to his coffee (which has usually already been… uh, enhanced by two bottles of whatever five-hour-energy equivalent he’s managed to pick up at the last space station). he hoards those little bottles like duct tape, friends.

I IMAGINE look, there are plenty of other stimulants, and this rocket likes ‘em all. i don’t take this incarnation for much of a chemical engineer himself, but i’m sure he’s got the hook-up to a self-proclaimed "pharmacist" who keeps him stocked in everything he needs to treat that undiagnosed ADHD (kids, don’t try this at home). the hyper-focus also distracts him from his depression and makes him feel so productive that he can convince himself he ain’t a worthless weirdo-runt, the only flarkin' one of his kind. unfortunately, this particular cocktail isn’t doing shit for his anxiety, and our little guy’s lucky that the unique process halfworld used to create him also strengthened his heart, ‘cause it would’ve certainly given up by now. every time you hug this rocket, you feel that vital blood-pumping muscle rattle in his chest like a goddamn drumroll on a snare. of course, that can only partly be blamed on the drugs and the coffee —at least when you’ve got him snuggled so damn tightly in your arms.

universe-killer rocket.

DRINKS: he'll drink whatever the fuck he wants — but to be honest, he's not that interested in alcohol. typical fermented beverages don't do anything for him anymore — not even the highest proofs in the multiverse. it's probably one of the reasons he's so damn cranky, actually. the poor guy hasn't had a satisfying buzz in more circs than he can remember. truthfully, he probably only drinks anything rarely. not all that gear he’s carrying around is made up of prosthetics and firepower, after all. i bet he's got a saline drip going, somewhere in there.

DRUGS: along with the saline, universe-killer rocket is on a steady dose of painkillers, chemically-engineered by himself and injected right into his bloodstream, thank you very fuckin' much. little crystal-armor vials — hidden in a cooled compartment somewhere in all that metal — slick his veins with juuust enough to take the scalpel-sharp edge off his constant twinges and aches without numbing him completely. this rocket runs a little hot, too — which he doesn't care about on his own; it's a negligible discomfort compared to everything else his poor body’s gone through. but once or twice, a bunch of vital life-support systems nearly overheated, and he couldn't let that happen again — not when he's still got so much to do. so there are some coolants, too — drugs of necessity rather than drugs of joy (or whatever passes for joy in this rocket's world). in terms of "recreational" use — if you want to call blowing up people and planets "recreational" — he's also got a little button somewhere in there that he can press for a particular stimulant. PRN, of course. gets all hyper-focused and his already-heightened senses heighten even further. bump that intuition up from .024 points of optimum grasp to .00035. when he's on this drug — his own brand of wundagorish everbloom, stolen from the high evolutionary's labs and synthesized to suit his needs, for once — it's like he can see the paths of all the planets and star systems and galaxies, glistening across the void of space like spidersilk in the moonlight: not where they've been but where they're going; not only their revolutions but right into the redshift. he can see the fuckin' future and he knows every move you're gonna make before you make it. *3 what more could a universe-killing cyborg want?

I IMAGINE the come-down is rough, man. losing access to all that practically-prescient perception leaves this rocket feeling vulnerable, and if you think other rockets hate feeling that way — well. buckle up, buttercup. if he's out in space or wreaking havoc on people he doesn't care much about, then their day is about to get infinitely worse, even if he does suddenly seem way more... well, sloppy. but if he's alone with his crew — and he does have a crew, though you wouldn't recognize most of them — he'll try to hide away and minimize fall-out. snarling and pacing in his quarters, his hair-trigger temper is already half-pulled. if you're lucky, maybe he's made you his coerced terran-consultant; if you're unlucky, you might be his collared humie pet — either way, it's not a good idea for you to stumble across him when he's like this. hopefully, he catches himself before he blows your brains out. if he does, keep your eyes down and back away slowly. don't make eye contact. hell, you might even want to bare your vulnerable belly or show him your pretty throat, just to be on the safe(r) side. that said, whatever you do: DON'T. RUN.

marvel rivals rocket.

DRINKS: there’s a dangerous drinking game at some of the underground clubs and raves this rocket likes to attend. order up “a full set of infinity stones” to get seated at a rotating tabletop — set with six brilliantly-colored shots per person, each one more reality-warping than the last. the goal isn’t just to slam your own six, though — nah, that’d be too easy. if you wanna play to win, you gotta shoot and steal as many drinks from everyone else in the game as you can, too. shooting and stealing ~ is it any wonder that this is one of rocket's favorite pasttimes? the winner is whoever finishes the round with the most infinity stones in their belly and hasn’t been laid out by them. it's a bit of a challenge, since most players will be swearing they can see time before they even get to the third glass. (spoiler: they can't see time. maybe if they could, they'd know rocket was gonna kick their ass ~ and then steal all their shit.) usually, wagers are made before the table is spun, and rocket makes sure to needle and bully his competitors into raising the stakes — again and again and again. then, thanks to his speed, sleight of hand, bonkers constitution, and willingness to cheat, he always wins. the only thing more interesting than his unbroken record is the fact that the intergalactic rumor mill claims he’s the one who invented the damn game. you’d think these morons would stop trying to win against him, but everyone wants a chance to beat the reigning champion. that's fine with rocket. it gives him a chance to do his other favorite flarkin' thing: gloat.

DRUGS: like i said in the previous post, i’m still figuring this rocket out. i suspect he’s the type to claim he’ll try anything once, though it’s only sort of true. he’s got a limited circle of people he trusts — mainly those who’ve been on his side in a fight — and he’s not about to take the newest synth drug on the market unless he knows he’s got a clearheaded ally watching his six — preferably one who can do some major damage. uh, the ally should probably also be able to hold rocket himself back, too. just in case. not that anyone can really hold rocket back. that said, i suspect rocket sees himself as that clearheaded ally for you. if you wanna try something new, he’ll grin and wink and flop his fur out of his eyes, and probably goad you into it if you're on the fence. i'll take care of you, sweetheart. don't you trust me? don't you remember how i had your back on klyntar? the minute he thinks anyone is even looking at you sideways, he’s already got the photon reaction chaingun out and is mowing them down. look at that cutie. he's so adorably vengeful when it comes to his friends. and you ~ well, you can decide for yourself whether or not that’s the kind of back-up you want when you’re high.

I IMAGINE unlike other rockets, who have probably all been banned in a laundry-list of dive bars across the galaxy (excluding universe-killer rocket, who goes wherever he wants and razes everything down), i suspect this rocket manages to charm his way into complimentary bottle service everywhere he goes. a flash of fang and earring, a smirky thanks sweetheart; you’re a doll to the server; a toss of the mane or a tip of the hat and a wink — well, anticipate getting the most attentive service you've ever seen plus free drinks every time he lures you into some shady club on digriz or conjunction. he’s always had these skills, of course — but recently, he’s decided to use them to impress you. so come on, sweetheart — join him on the mezzanine? watch the king kick these sorry losers’ asses at a round or twelve of infinity stones, while you sip that cute little low-proof drink you like so much. by the end of the night, he’ll probably win enough units to buy you a new ship of your very own — not that you’d wanna go off alone when you could stay with him though, right? that's what it means to be a team.

ewing/rosenberg/et al rocket.

DRINKS: a gargleblaster with angargal’s, neat. or maybe five. *4 like mcu rocket, this guy prefers to drink his intoxicants; unlike mcu rocket, he prefers to indulge himself when he does. it’s important to note that the gargleblaster is an established style of cocktail à la the hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy, wherein drinking one is described as “having your brains smashed out by a slice of lemon wrapped round a large gold brick.” yeah, that sounds right up this smooth fucker’s alley: bludgeoning himself to death in the most luxe way he can think of. what can he say? the guy just likes nice things, which explains the angargal’s too. that glarnack is smooth. not that this rocket won’t drink moonshine made in an unoxxian’s containment sock if it's the only thing on tap — he just prefers not to, unlike some of his counterparts. look, he might be a real dirtbag, but he enjoys the nicer, sweeter little luxuries in life when he’s got the chance, you know? rich coffee, good booze, well-tailored suits — and you. unfortunately, alcohol is a real depressant, which means that at the end of a booze-soaked night, this rocket’s always going to remember that he’s not particularly nice or sweet. which may be why he dislikes himself so damn much.

DRUGS: this rocket dips into recreational and practical usage now and then. certain sensory-enhancers, when his partner(s) are into it. a social cigar when he’s working a mark and the situation calls for it. maybe some low-grade stimulants when he’s the only one on the ship and trying to make it to the next rendezvous in good time. most often, though? this rocket indulges in the occasional cigarette when he’s sitting out on the flightdeck, all alone late in the sleep-shift. the brand he favors is a pretty clean-burning kind of indigarran tobacco — far less likely to put malignant growths in his lungs — and mentholated, too. of course, inhaling smoke is never without its risks, but the way the synthotine sands down all the sharp edges of his mood is worth it sometimes.

I IMAGINE it’s your first clue that he likes you, actually ~ though of course, you're a clueless little thing. air filtration systems on all rocket's ships are flarkin’ impeccable, and he doesn’t have to worry about lingering secondhand smoke for more than two minutes at any given time — but he also doesn’t rush to stamp out his cigarette if quill or gamora or drax happen to wander into the cockpit late in the rotation. it’s generally understood that after a certain hour, the flightdeck is his domain, and his alone — and anyone else intruding can deal with the d’ast consequences. but that first night you come wandering up to the copilot’s chair because you can’t sleep — adorably rumpled in your sleeping clothes, wearing cute little slippers, for flark’s sake — rocket’s choking on smoke like it’s his first time, lunging forward in his cocked-back seat to try and stub out his cancer-stick, flailing dark claws at the poisoned air to clear a fresh space for you to breathe. it takes you more than a few times to understand his reaction — at first you just assume he’s embarrassed, to be caught smoking late at night. never mind that you’d seen him at it once — off the ship on an abandoned planet, from a little ways away — and admired the way his dark hands had tenderly sheltered the cherry while he’d lit it. the embered tip had glowed as prettily as his eyes when he’d inhaled, head bowed and fingers cradled. it isn’t till much later in your, ah, friendship — palming his neck and muttering, using irritation as a screen to hide any softness — that he explains why he always rushes to put it out when you come on deck. it doesn’t matter how mild and barely-toxic these cigarettes are, he tells you vehemently. earthers got weak lungs. rocket’s sure he heard that somewhere. and why would he want you coughing up a storm when you could be snoozing so sweetly in the seat next to him all night? or worse, what if the smoke sickened your helplessly-unaugmented respiratory system? so take that in, and shower him with soft little thankyous and a light touch to his shoulder or the crown of his head. and for god’s sake — don’t remind him that he’s never seemed to care much about pete’s lungs.

skottie young rocket

DRINKS: acanti blubber ale, baby!*5 mostly because it's banned in an ever-increasing number of systems. if he's honest, it smells and tastes like shit (burnt rubber that slides down his throat the way hot grease slides down a kitchen sink) and when he thinks about the fact that it's made from the fat-reserves of a sentient, peaceful spacefaring whale — each one as naive and curious as a dumb little kid — he does feel vaguely guilty (he's even been known to get mopey if he thinks about it while he's drunk on it). but hey, he doesn't drink it very often! and he steals it anyway, so it's not like he's supporting the market with his hard-earned units! and besides, he makes it a point to blow the junk off every acanti poacher he comes across! which is — a surprisingly large number, now that he thinks about it. he always seems to attract the poachers.

DRUGS: if you ask this rocket, he'll tell you the best drug in the whole flarkin' universe is m'kraan. it's not really shaved off the shi'ar's mystical m'kraan crystal, but it might as well be, as far as he's concerned. fine and glittery as fairydust and sold (or stolen) in skinny paper tubes like the universe's most expensive set of pixy-stix, it comes colored and flavored and sugary-sweet — inducing even sweeter visions. everything has a halo when you're on m'kraan. you can feel the seams of the universe under your fingers. silk is more silky, sugar is more sugary. the stars are starrier and even pain feels like a lovesong. so yeah, this rocket will sing the praises of m'kraan, then probably wiggle his eyebrows and try to get you to take some too — just to see what happens.

I IMAGINE look, he's not a liar. at least not about this. he really does think that m'kraan is his favorite drug of choice (other than you, of course). there's just one thing this rocket has forgotten to factor in, and it's that he's huffing fucking engine fumes all goddamn day. this dude is gone on benzenes all the goddamn time. and when he isn't ears-deep in an engine — tail puffed up to thrice its natural size with pure euphoria — he's constantly canoodling with various explosives, and detonating bullets as big as your head: sucking in lungfuls of amyl acetate so strong that it leaves the sweet scent of bananas in his fur. it's just as well. this way you can cuddle him up for your own little candied contact-high.

SILLY NOTES 'cause i like to (loosely) base my silly shit on canonical silly shit

*1 the roots of yggsdrasill connect the realms of the living and dead.

*2 asgardian elixirs of recovery and renewal are mentioned in the comics, as is the elixir of lofn, which is a sort of asgardian love potion, if memory serves. and asgardian firefly-wine typically only makes moon elves glow i think, but we’ll call this is a special vintage.

*3 wundagore everbloom is technically native to earth, i think ~ but since the high evolutionary built wundagore ii in the stars, i feel confident that he experimented with lab-grown space-varietals. the flower allows people to see the future, but only after it has been "consumed twice", or, as i would phrase it, filtered through an intermediary. in this case, we'll imagine that the high evolutionary himself was likely force-fed the blossoms en masse, and after he was killed, rocket distilled and manufactured his synthetic everbloom “booster” from the contents of wyndham's stomach. ew. universe-killer rocket doesn't. fucking. play.

*4 gargleblasters with angargal's (neat) ~ Rocket: The Blue River Score (2017). Ewing, Gotham, et al.

*5 acanti blubber ale ~ Guardians Team-Up Vol 1, Issue 5 (2015). Lanning, Schmidt, & Duarte. acanti are sentient singing space-whales ~ one of the oldest and most-peaceful races in the universe.

animated star banner by @/enchanthings | excessive rocket banner by me lol

[starriidreams]

do you think rocket would like drawings made of him?

first of all, i love this question. thank you for giving me the opportunity to think about it, sweet nonnie! ♡♡♡

second of all, which rocket, babes?

mcu-rocket would be nonplussed at first, à la window across the galaxy. why are you drawing him? what's the point? are you trying to make fun of him? teeth bared, ears back, tail tucked: he's probably ready to rip it up if it's on paper, or chuck it across the flightdeck if it's on a holopad. but since i'm assuming your goal is not to make fun of him, he'll probably realize that too: that you've made him look, well, cute, or strong, or lovely, or fucken badass. his interpretation will determine the length and flavor of his bewilderment. maybe his spine will lengthen and his shoulders will broaden with a smug sense of satisfaction - that, or he'll be wondering what the fuck is wrong with you, that you seem to like him so much. either way, i think he'll start to soften toward you - if he hasn't already.

eidos-rocket and comics-rocket (the ewing, et al version, anyway) respond similarly. they're secretly flattered, though they play it off drolly. why wouldn't you want to draw such a fine-looking specimen? they're grinning toothily at every sketch he looks hot in; cackling at the ones where he's wielding cannons twice his size. eidos-rocket has a little more smug swagger about the fact that you've decided to invest time into drawing him (he's also probably nitpicking the way you drew his beard, though). comics-rocket is playing it a little more coolly, with folded arms and an arched brow, and a few dry comments here and there. you've peaked, kid. this is obviously the best-lookin' thing you've ever drawn. where could you possibly go from here?

as for skottie young's rocket? he might not recognize himself at first, and his reaction depends on his mood. if he's distracted or annoyed, you'll get a blank stare and a condescending pat on the head (or whatever he can reach). but if he's got the capacity to really look at it, he'll love it - preening, strutting, showing it to everyone else on board a billion times. he'll tape it to the barrel of his favorite oversized cannon, and try to sweet-talk you into drawing a new one every other cycle. make sure you keep your original copies, though, because. well. you know how people sometimes say "the art is so good i wanna print it out and eat it"? this rocket is the most likely one to.... do... that.

the only thing i'd caution you on is showing any of them art where they look.... sad. vulnerable. lonely. wounded. they all know that they carry that part of themselves, and it's the part they hide the hardest. i'm not saying don't share that with them. i'm just saying to think carefully about how you want to do that.

because when you draw someone, you're not just drawing them. you're telling them that you see them. and i'm not sure any rocket is fully prepared for that.

even though all of them want it.

navigation | headcanons & imagines

[starriidreams]

every time rocket is shown being happy an angel gains its wings

[starriidreams]

HE’S SO SMALL…

[starriidreams]

Raided Dagger's wardrobe 😆