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shylyobscene · 1 month ago

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If Only for Tonight Chapter 7

Chapter Summary: You offer Rocket a proposition.

Word count: 9.2k

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, explicit sexual fantasies, light foreplay, but no real smut.

Ao3 | Masterlist | If Only for Tonight Index

Rocket—though he denies it vehemently—has multiple tells that signal when he’s moments away from pulling out his blaster and aiming it straight between someone’s eyes.

For one, his nose twitches as the corners of his mouth pull up into a snarl, baring sharp canines that flash dangerously in the light. His shoulders hunch as he tilts his head downward to scowl beneath heavy lids. The tail, of course, puffs up and thrashes around, wild and erratic like a sail weathering a storm. The most damning signs, however, are found in the movement of his hands: the way they eagerly twitch toward his holsters, dangerous and lightning-fast.

His arms will flex, lithe muscles straining as he hauls the cannon over his shoulder in the span of seconds. You’ll hear a click as he racks the slide; the staticky hum of a loaded plasma charge will fill your ears.

From there, you’ll only get a blink of warning before you find yourself staring straight down the barrel, awash in the electric-blue glow that builds in the chamber moments before the bullet cracks through the room and into your skull.

You count multiple of those signs right now—pledges of violence, harbingers—which means that Tony Stark may be in for a very painful evening if he doesn’t choose his next words carefully.

You pause in the middle of transporting a pallet jack full of raw materials, eyes flickering between the two men. You’re not sure what it was that Tony had said, or if Rocket’s ire is deserved, but you do know that blasting iron man’s head off his neck won’t bode well for morale. You grimace, and begin heading quickly toward the commotion.

Rocket narrows his eyes and languidly drops himself from where he’d been perched atop the time machine, then carefully sets down his wrench. His approach is slow and methodical; casual, in a way that fails to convey the threat of danger that is clear in his fiery, burnished-copper eyes.

“The name’s Rocket. I’d watch myself if I were you, pal,” he sneers. His clawed feet scrape against the slick epoxy flooring as moves, stalking closer. “You’re only a genius on earth, you know.” He points an accusatory finger at Tony, and the man in question rolls his eyes.

“Really?” Tony responds irritatedly. When the gleam in Rocket’s eyes grows even darker, Tony halfheartedly holds both palms up in surrender. “Just wanted to know how everything was coming along,” he reassures, though his tone is flippant at best. He looks down at his watch, then waves Rocket off disinterestedly. “No need to get all bite-y.”

Rocket freezes.

Then, after a moment, he chuckles.

His hands edge dangerously close to his holsters once more, and he steps forward. “Better listen close, humie, ‘cause I’m only gonna say this once,” he starts, and your brisk walk turns into a half jog.

You place your palm on Rocket’s shoulder and discreetly shake your head, eyes wide. He stiffens under your touch, glancing up at you with an annoyed huff, but snaps his mouth shut and allows his arms to relax at his sides once more.

Rocket watches you carefully as you lift a hand to get Tony’s attention, a placid but stern smile on your face.

“Rocket’s been working hard on making your device a reality, you know. It’s practically finished. You should be more respectful about it,” you say curtly. “You can probably tell we’ve gotten a lot done in the past cycle. We appreciate you checking in, but we’ve got it handled from here.”

You gesture to the structure behind you, composed with sleek lines of metal and towering prongs that rise up from a base that should, in theory, collapse with a force capable of blurring the lines between then and now —intermingling them until the point where here starts and there ends is indiscernible. It’s nothing short of a technological marvel, and while it may be Stark’s idea, the product is Rocket’s handiwork.

Tony looks at the machine consideringly, then sighs.

“Alright, alright. I know how to read a room. I’ll see myself out,” Tony says, pivoting on his heels to start meandering in the opposite direction. Then, he pauses and glances over his shoulder to look dubiously at you and Rocket—and then at Thor, who is stumbling his way across the room, slurping loudly at a near-empty can of beer. “…Though it is my design. And my money. And, you know, the fate of half the known universe. Can’t really blame a guy for being invested in the outcome, can you?”

You cross your arms and give him an unamused look.

“No?” Tony questions, looking between you and Rocket. “No—alright, my bad then. Tough crowd.” He turns to leave, but not before giving Thor a quick nod after the man nearly stumbles into him. “Keep right, Lebowski.”

Thor looks blankly at him, and takes another sip of his beer. “I don’t know what that means.”

Rocket still looks moderately pissed—your speech was likely too polite for his tastes, and probably involved too little gunpowder—but he leans back against the machine and lets the tension in his shoulders drop a little as Tony makes his exit.

“You should’ve just let me at him,” he grumbles, twisting from side to side to stretch out his back. He then picks up his wrench and twirls it in his hand before clambering back into the guts of the machine. “Guy’s a grade-A prick. Hand me that, would you?”

He points at a screwdriver. You pass the tool to him, kneeling down to watch him work. The corners of your lips turn downward slightly when you spot him rubbing his lower back with a wince, then lifting his palm to his mouth to stifle a yawn.

“Are you okay? You look exhausted,” you ask.

There’s a pause in the clanging sound of metal striking metal as Rocket stills for a moment, considering your question. Then, he sighs heavily, and drops down to reach for another bolt.

“Oh, sure—of course I’m fine,” he says sarcastically, screwing the bolt in place. “Other than the fact that I’ve been buildin’ that’s asshole’s fucking machine for the past cycle and he can’t even get my name right.”

You frown, chewing on your cheek contemplatively. “Do you want to—“

“No. I’m not talkin’ about it right now. I’m busy,” he says dismissively. You sigh and begin to unload more materials from the pallets, silently watching him as he turns away from you.

Rocket heads back toward his toolbox, but pauses when he sees Thor perched atop it. He exhales slowly, briefly massaging his forehead before glancing up to address Thor. “Think you could sit someplace else?”

Thor gives Rocket a genial smile, then stands up with a luxurious stretch. “Ah yes, of course! And I see you’ve made great progress on the time device,” he says amicably, beer still in tow. He belches, then roughly knocks his knuckles against the metal with a few loud thuds. The machine creaks in protest under each consecutive impact. “Huh. Rather sturdy, that.”

Rocket’s eyes widen and both of his hands fly to the sides of his head. “Don’t! Don’t touch anything,” he says, arms coming down to hover in place before him, like he’s trying to soothe a rambunctious child.

“Oh. Sorry about that!” Thor chirps, giving Rocket a friendly clap on the shoulder as he takes another long sip of his drink through a straw. A gurgling sound echoes through the room as he attempts to siphon every last drop.

“I think that drink is empty ,” Rocket says irritatedly.

Thor tips his can of beer upside down, and assesses his drink with a grim expression when nothing spills out. “I suppose you’re right.” The smile comes back full force as he turns toward Rocket, arms wide. “Good eye, rabbit! Your instincts are unmatched, as per usual.”

Thor approaches with a hearty laugh, wrapping an arm around Rocket’s shoulder to lock him in place before giving him multiple enthusiastic pats on the head.

“Okay, no—we don’t gotta do all that— no —“ Rocket says, trying to worm out of the God of Thunder’s iron-clad grasp. His fur is mussed and sticking out in every direction by the time Thor releases him, and he fussily tries to pat it back into place. “Yeah, you really gotta stop doin’ that, buddy.”

Thor simply shrugs unapologetically and grins. Then, he gives Rocket a thoughtful look. “I wouldn’t let Stark talk down to you.”

Rocket looks up from brushing off his clothes and frowns, ears traveling downward. “You heard him?” he asks. You pause in your task too, tuning into the conversation.

Thor nods, settling down onto a crate. “He’s insufferable at the best of times. He called me Lebowski, ” he says with no shortage of affront, gesturing to himself. “What even is a ‘Lebowski?’ Some sort of band? Well, no matter. It’s irrelevant.”

Rocket shifts in discomfort. “I don’t let him talk down to me.” His hand comes up to his belt, then moves up to scratch restlessly at his neck, before both arms settle to cross against his chest. “I don’t let anyone talk down to me.”

“Ha! You always did retain one of the strongest of wills, my friend. I’ve never once had any doubt in you,” Thor responds graciously.

You hide a soft smile beneath your palm. There’s something in Thor’s tone of voice that tells you he means everything he says.

Rocket, for his part, has the opposite reaction: his eyes get big and round, and he suddenly turns away, looking dismayed. He clears his throat as he reaches for one tool, then sets it down and reaches for another, trying to keep his hands busy.

“There’s no reason for you to sit around and try to flatter me,” he grates out.

Thor tilts his head confusedly at Rocket’s detached response. “You know, I haven’t forgotten what you did for me on Nidavellir. You command your crew with excellence—with honor . Stark’s manner was preposterous, really. The man doesn’t know what you’re capable of.” Thor perks up once he spots a full can of beer on the floor beside him. The seal crackles and hisses when he pops it open, and he takes a long, indulgent sip. He smiles and lifts the can upward. “These are fantastic. Where can I get more of these?”

Rocket grits his teeth, nudging you out of the way as you struggle to lift a particularly heavy metal bar. “Can’t be all that honorable,” he says, heaving the bar over his shoulder and setting it down by the machine. “I left my crew to get snapped out of existence. I wasn’t even with them when it happened, even though I should have been.” Rocket twists the bar into position with a grunt, and begins securing it in place. “But I guess it wouldn’t have made a difference even if I was there. Makes me a shit captain either way.”

Thor sets his drink down, and the sunshine-y smile finally drops from his face.

“I…I understand how you feel,” he says.

“Do you?” Rocket responds gruffly.

Thor’s expression settles into something somber. “I do. It’s a difficult thing to bear such guilt. The people of Asgard are…I—I don’t…” He trails off, looking down at his hands. “Well. I don’t much know how to deal with it myself, these days.”

You can’t see Rocket’s face from where you stand, but you notice the way his shoulders stiffen, and the way his hand wavers slightly when he reaches for his wrench once more. “…M’sorry. Must suck,” is all he says.

“No need for apologies. Just know that I feel your pain,” Thor says, standing up to place a consoling hand on Rocket’s shoulder. “And that I stand alongside you, brother.”

“That’s…” Rocket stops and takes a second to collect himself, letting out a slow exhale. When he speaks again, his voice comes out raw, creaking out of his throat. “Yeah. Thanks.”

”Of course, my friend.” Thor comes up to you with a smile and claps you on the shoulder too. “Well! The watering hole beckons me,” he says, waving goodbye. He turns to Rocket, giving him a playful salute. “The next drink I pour will be in your name, little rabbit.”

Rocket nods in acknowledgement, and gives Thor a lazy wave in return.

For a while, you and Rocket work in silence. You observe him closely as he continues to diligently assemble the machine. From a distance, you’d never be able to tell something was wrong—his hands never stutter as he fits parts together, not even a fragment of hesitation belied in his steady, practiced movements—but the look in his eyes is achingly solemn.

You approach slowly, crouching down to look at him on eye-level. “Do you need any help here?”

“I’m good,” he responds, fiddling with the holoprojector to take a look at the blueprints once more.

“And you’re sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

Rocket’s hand pauses briefly before moving again, swiping at the holo to take a closer look at one of the mechanisms on the blueprint. “…I’m good.”

“…Okay. I’ll still be here if you change your mind.”

You reach out and put a hand on his forearm, running your fingers gently against his fur. To your surprise, he places his palm over yours and allows his thumb to stroke your skin briefly before pulling away.

“I know, sweetheart. I just need a second to think. I should be able to get this done within the next couple of hours, anyway.”

You nod, then rise from your crouch and glance up. The machine that towers before you is a near perfect replication of the one displayed in the holo. You suck in a quiet breath before speaking.

“In that case, I’m going to go help Nebula with the exosuits,” you say carefully. “It’s time for us to test if this works.”

As expected, Rocket glowers moodily at his toolkit. “Let one of those other assholes test it. You’ve done plenty,” he responds, then turns around to give you a concerned once-over. “And I still think it’d be better if you just laid low. Didn’t involve yourself.”

You frown. “I’m not going to just stand by and do nothing.”

“I figured you wouldn’t,” he says with an exhausted shake of his head. “Just think about it before you commit to anything. This mission is going to be da—“

“Going to be dangerous, I know.” You look down, picking at the hem of your shirt. “Rocket, everyone’s bringing something special—something vital to this team.”

You leave out the crux of your statement: everyone but me. Still, the implication must carry through in the tone of your voice, or maybe Rocket senses the sullen curve to your lips, or notices the threads of self-doubt tucked and woven into every syllable, because your statement makes his tail swoop upward in distress.

“I don’t want to sit back at base and do nothing while everyone else risks their lives,” you continue.

Rocket rises to his feet, looking at you with an unyielding intensity that threatens to make your knees buckle. “You’ve done a lot for us. For everyone,” he asserts.

You smile softly at him, but it wavers and fades away after a moment. “…Even so, I don’t want to come out of this thinking I didn’t give it my all. Not with everything at stake.”

Rocket gives you a tired look, then shakes his head and turns back to the device with a huff.

It won’t be long until the moment of truth arrives: the day all of you find out if the last five years of suffering were all for naught, and if the oncoming sacrifices will turn out to be worth it.

—

“Easy! Easy!” Scott exclaims, jerking away as Bruce attempts to slot a vial of pym particles into his exosuit.

Bruce gives him a flat look. “I’m being very careful.”

“No, you’re being very hulky,” Scott snaps, swiping the vial out of Bruce’s hands and carefully tipping it between two fingers. The matter within flows like molten magma—deep red with faint flashes of light that flicker within as the movement agitates the viscous liquid, like embers crackling from a flame. “These are pym particles—and in case you forgot, the guy who made ‘em? Snapped out of existence. Gone,” Scott states, raising the vial. “This is all we have. We’ve got enough for one round trip each, and a single test run. That’s it. No do-overs.”

You, Nebula, and the Avengers in the room look meaningfully at the pym particles, then at each other. No one acknowledges the sensation of dread that permeates through the air, sticking to your lungs and making each breath fall shallowly from your chest.

After a moment, Hawkeye speaks up. “I’ll test it.”

Nebula assists him in getting fitted into the exosuit, and the Avengers spur up an argument about the specifics and implications of time travel. Somebody mentions the present becoming the past becoming your future—you don’t pay much mind to the conversation; thinking too hard about it makes you feel lightheaded.

As they speak, you chew on your lip, eyes drawn to the pym particles once again. Glass tubes, one inch across; little vials of encapsulated sun, with enough energy trapped within to decimate a planet or send someone to the quantum realm…and the lot of you get one chance to use them correctly.

It’s a daunting thought.

You take one of the vials into your hand then roll the glass in your palm as Nebula takes the others; it’s surprisingly warm to the touch. The two of you then begin slotting the pym particles into Hawkeye’s exosuit. They slide in easily, each capsule snapping into place with a light clink.

Hawkeye adjusts the straps on the suit, then looks around at everyone in the room and takes a deep breath.

“I’m ready,” he says, resolute.

“Meet Rocket by the machine. It should be ready by now,” you tell him, and briefly touch a reassuring hand to his arm. “Good luck.”

Hawkeye gives you a weak smile, then nods. The group begins to file out of the room, with Nebula trailing along after them, but you gently tap her shoulder before she can cross the threshold.

“What’s your take on all of this, Nebula?” you ask, nodding toward the other exosuits still racked on the armory wall. Pretty soon, you’ll be donning one yourself.

Nebula raises a brow, dark eyes ever inscrutable. “What do you mean? The concept of time travel is pretty cut and dried.”

“...I disagree with that, but that’s not what I’m talking about,” you say, then gesture broadly in an attempt to convey your point. “I’m talking about all of it—the time heist, the machine—does it seem dangerous to you?”

Nebula pauses, contemplating your question. Then, she simply shrugs, leaning back against the wall. “Not any more dangerous than what we normally do,” she says.

Her frank tone startles an amused chuckle out of you; Nebula always has been incredibly sincere.

Your soft smile falls when you turn toward the exosuits again. You approach, and run your hand across one of the sleeves. The sleek fabric is cool and coarse to the touch, lined with armor-weave. You trail your fingers upward to the vibranium plating across the chest, built to withstand the immense gravitational forces required to push a person through time. Or, if your understanding of the science is correct, pull you apart through time—the essence of you fragmented and splintered, down to every last atom, then coalesced into a close approximation of you at another point in space. The protection inset into the suits should be comforting, but for some reason, it feels frighteningly like an omen of what’s to come.

“I’m jealous of how calm you sound,” you say, turning back to Nebula with a shaky grin. Her disposition remains unwaveringly collected, and she tilts her head at you. You allow the corners of your mouth to flatten, settling back against one of the tables in an attempt to steady yourself. “...I’m terrified of what’s ahead.”

Nebula hums thoughtfully, then walks up to stand beside you.

“It’s not that I’m not scared,” she concedes, looking to the floor with a distant expression. “When I was doing Thanos’ dirty work, there were no opportunities to be afraid. It was just another flaw for father to pick apart and destroy. I learned pretty soon how to hide it.”

Grief rips across your expression. “That’s…I’m sorry, Nebs. You should’ve never had to go through that,” you say, though the apology feels woefully inadequate in the face of her confession.

“Can’t change what happened. But sometimes I wish I had the chance to be a scared little kid, like everyone else did.” Nebula turns her head and gives you a solemn look. “Fear is a gift. That instinct will keep you alive. Listen to what it tells you.”

You nod, and run your knuckles over your sternum to try and ease the pounding of your heart. “Rocket doesn’t want me to come with you guys. He doesn’t want me touching the time machine at all,” you admit.

Nebula suddenly looks uncomfortable, eyes shifting away from yours like she knows something you don’t. She suddenly claps you on the back in a way that you can tell is meant to be comforting, but instead just knocks the wind out of you.

“…You’re a competent soldier,” she says cryptically, after a moment of hesitation.

“Uh, thanks?”

“And formidable on the battlefield,” she adds.

“You too, Nebs,” you respond, giving her a suspicious look. You squint and try to meet her eyes, but she conveniently twists away from you. “Is there something you’re trying to tell me?”

“And I don’t know what it is that Rocket is doing, but he’s an idiot. He’s just trying to protect you,” Nebula says with pressured speech. She lets out a heavy exhale, as if the thought had been burdening her for quarters. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. It reminds me of the way Quill looked at my sister, sometimes.”

You stare at her wide-eyed, unable to help the way your jaw drops open and the astonished titter of laughter that spills from your lips. Then, your brow furrows in pure concern, suddenly filled with the urge to ensure that she wasn’t somehow concussed.

“It reminds you of Pete and Gamora? Sorry, we’re talking about Rocket , right?” you question. This is not the direction you’d expected this conversation to go in. You step away from her and begin to walk aimlessly out of the room. “Either way, I don’t need to be protected, and I doubt he’s into me the way you’re saying he is.”

Nebula rolls her eyes, trailing after you. “Trust me, he likes you. Obnoxiously so.”

You whip around before you reach the exit, and Nebula stops in her tracks. You quickly glance over your shoulder and out the hall, before continuing to speak in a low tone. “Nebula, I tried with him. I really did. He told me he’s not interested. It’s not like I can just keep throwing myself at him in hopes that he’ll change his mind.” Your voice warbles despite your best attempts to keep things light. “I told him that I lo—that I have feelings for him. He didn’t care.”

“You love him?” Nebula repeats in shock, completing the word you’d left half-spoken. You wince, bringing a single finger to your lips. “You told him that?”

“…I do,” you admit. “And I did.”

Nebula wears an expression of pure bewilderment. “And he said he didn’t care ?”

You shrug helplessly, and blink back the watery sensation that begins to build in the well of your eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe not in those exact terms, but he may as well have.”

Nebule presses her lips together.

“That’s…surprising to me. I would have thought that he…” She trails off, appearing frustrated. “I—I don’t have any advice for you.”

“It’s okay,” you respond gently, turning away once more. “There are more important things for us to be dealing with right now, anyway. Let’s go meet the others outside.”

Nebula grabs your wrist, and you twist back around to look at her in confusion.

“Your feelings are important. You—I—damn it,” she stutters. “…Gamora was always better at this sort of thing than I am. But I’m trying.”

She lets go of you, but you make no moves to leave. “Nebula…”

“She’s not even here and she still manages to outdo me. She’d have known what to tell you,” Nebula says weakly. “…I wish she were here.”

You swivel to face her fully, and take one of her hands in both of yours, squeezing. “You’re not Gamora; you don’t have to be. You’re you. Your friendship means everything to me. I don’t know how I would’ve gotten through the past five years without you.” Nebula looks down at your interlocked hands, then back up at you with vulnerability etched across her face, visible even across the metal plating and cybernetics that invade her features. “…And I miss Gamora too.”

Nebula nods, and squeezes your hand back.

The two of you sit down on the floor together, shoulder to shoulder. Melancholy pervades; it’s reminiscent of the early days of the snap, when the loss was fresh and the pain was still raw. Though you suppose this grief doesn’t hurt any less—more dull and aching, but ultimately still as profound as it was five years ago.

After a few silent minutes, Nebula gets up.

“Thank you,” she says. “Are you ready to head out?”

“I think I’m just gonna take a couple more minutes. I’ll meet you outside,” you reply softly.

“Alright.” She stops before leaving the room and glances at you over her shoulder. “Rocket’s an idiot.”

“You said that,” you respond with a snort.

“He wouldn’t know a good thing if it had kicked his head in. You are a good thing. Don’t let him convince you otherwise,” she says. “And I wouldn’t blame you if you did kick him at this point. I would, if I were you.”

You giggle and offer her an appreciative smile. “I’ll definitely consider it. Thank you, Nebula.”

She gives you one last contemplative look, placing a hand on the doorframe. “…There’s probably little he wouldn’t do for you if you asked, you know.”

You frown, giving her a puzzled look. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you should talk to him. Try again. He might surprise you,” she says, before disappearing behind the threshold of the door.

…Try again? He doesn’t even trust you enough to believe you’ll make it through the next few nights alive .

You stare at the space Nebula used to occupy, then drag your gaze back toward the suits, and the peril they insinuate.

—

Hawkeye comes and goes through a ripple in time—teary-eyed, shaken, but otherwise intact—and the Avengers spend the rest of the night laughing and sharing a round of drinks in celebration. You stand in a corner of the room, content to observe the camaraderie from afar and lull yourself into a state of peace over the sound of clinking glasses and soft, strumming music. There’s still something off about the atmosphere though; a silent tension in the words left unsaid and the uncertain curve to everyone’s smiles as they attempt to forget the promise of tomorrow. Someone raises a glass with a cheer and everyone else follows suit, all trying to live strictly in the moment, however transient it may be.

You tilt your glass toward your mouth. The amber liquid that hits your tongue is acrid and bitter, and you wrinkle your nose as you scan the room. You see Tony, teaching Nebula how to play pool; Scott cheers along beside them while Thor pours Hulk a generous drink by the bar. The other, more reserved Avengers share a bottle among themselves and converse quietly on the couch.

You tilt your head. There’s someone missing here.

You grab a full bottle—bourbon, dark and malted—and tuck it into your pack, then quietly slip out of the room.

Rocket is exactly where you’d last left him, still working tirelessly beneath the machine. You watch him curiously. The device is fully assembled now, and had provided a magnificent spectacle earlier, to say the least; the base had sunken inward and imploded in a ray of electric color and streaking light before pulling Hawkeye through. Whatever it is that Rocket is doing, you doubt it’s necessary.

He toys with some wiring within one of the pillars, and is inadvertently shocked with static. “Ow, fuck,” he swears, promptly wringing his hand back. He then digs back in almost immediately after.

You grin, and step up behind him. “You’re still working?”

Rocket’s ears perk up slightly at the sound of your voice. His back straightens, but he only turns his head slightly to address you. “What else would I be doing?”

“Everyone else is inside having drinks,” you say, leaning over his shoulder to watch his dexterous hands move. “You gonna come join?”

“Haven’t had the time. Someone’s gotta be the frickin’ brains of this operation. It sure as hell ain’t any of those other bozos in there.” Rocket leans back to inspect his work, and his shoulder brushes your thigh. He jolts, jerking away from you. “Shit, sorry, I—” He pauses, and his gaze slants down toward the liquor in your pack, the neck of the bottle hanging out of its opening. “What’s in the bag?”

You maneuver to hide it around your waist. “It’s a surprise. I have something to show you.”

“The surprise looks an awful lot like booze,” he responds, offering you a teasing grin. His gaze drifts back over to the mess of wires he’d been tampering with, and the smile slowly fades. “…I should really do some last couple maintenance checks on this. Make sure that the test run didn’t blow all the circuitry. The Avengers’ll expect it to be up and running by the wakeshift.”

You lift a hand, palm up, and offer it to him.

“Screw the Avengers. They can afford to let me pull you away for just a minute,” you say. Rocket stares at your hand suspiciously, unmoving. “Please?”

He huffs and places his hand in yours, allowing you to pull him up into a standing position. His fingers are rough and calloused, but his grip around you is strikingly delicate. “…You get a minute.”

“I can work with that,” you chuckle, taking just a second too long to let go before leading him outside.

The two of you walk side by side toward the landing field, and the noise from within the base fades into the distance and gives way to crickets and the rustling of grass underfoot. Rocket looks at you strangely when you stop at the back of the Benatar, near the tail. You pass him your pack wordlessly, then place both palms flat on the horizontal stabilizers and haul yourself upward with a grunt. By the time you swing your leg over, your boot sliding against the ship’s smooth frame, Rocket is sprinting to your side in panic.

“What the hell are you doing?!” he squawks, voice teetering on manic. He gestures wildly at you, before his hands come up to the sides of his face and drag downward. “You’re gonna frickin’ fall off the side of the ship!”

He grabs your hips, and you nearly lose your footing at the sudden touch. His grip grows tighter, one clawed hand digging into the plush of your thigh as he stabilizes you. Then, to your surprise, he lifts you upward to help facilitate your climb and settle you more firmly onto the ship.

“Whew! I appreciate the help,” you say lightly once you’ve planted yourself confidently on your hands and knees. You wave him toward you. “Come on up!”

You twist around into a sitting position to look at him and dangle your legs over the low edge of the ship, just to nearly lose balance again when Rocket walks up and cages you against the Benatar’s hull. His hands rest on either side of your thighs, not quite touching you; then he leans in, trapping you in place. “No.”

His deep voice rumbles through his chest, plants itself in your brain and settles somewhere low in the space between your legs. Your breath hitches, and you find yourself squirming a little—the movement causes your knees to lightly brush against his chest. If he ducks his head a little further, and you spread your legs just a bit wider, he’d be in the perfect position to be face-first and tongue-deep in your cunt again. The memory of it makes your clit pulse and you press your thighs together more firmly, both to get away from his increasingly tempting touch and to give yourself some much needed friction. It does occur to you that these thoughts are inappropriate considering you’re outside and on top of the Benatar, but for some reason that doesn’t make the idea any less thrilling.

“You’re so bossy,” you attempt to tease, but your voice comes out more shaky and breathless than you’d like.

Rocket barks out a cruel laugh, and he presses even closer, steadying his weight against the ship’s exterior and casually crossing his legs while you remain fixed between his arms.

“So? I recall you like that sorta thing,” he says, voice low and taunting. His nose twitches and his gaze drags down from your face, to your neck, to somewhere achingly close to the apex of your thighs. His eyes widen once he spots his own hands, his thumbs inches away from brushing your skin. The provocative position he’s placed himself in seems to hit him all at once as he backs away, clearing his throat. “If you slip and crack your head open, I ain’t payin’ for your medpack.”

“It’ll be fine, Rocket. Besides, I’ve done this plenty of times behind your back,” you say mildly, trying to keep your racing heart under control.

Rocket dips his head and looks darkly at you. “Oh, so you’re the one who’s been scuffin’ up my baby’s hull, then.”

“I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me,” you say with a laugh, giving him a pleading look. “So you’re not gonna join me?”

“No.”

You huff and cross your legs. Rocket’s eyes drop down to watch one thigh hitch over the other. “Not even if I beg?”

His gaze shoots back up to your face and the exasperated look on his face grows flustered. “…You ain’t bein’ cute,” he strangles out.

“Please?” You give him your best, winning smile, and watch his resolve crumble before your eyes as he works his jaw. He lets out a heavy sigh, bringing a hand to the bridge of his nose.

“You’re such a frickin’ handful,” he grumbles. “Move the hell over, then. What’s all this even about?”

Rocket nimbly leaps up onto the ship’s tail, maneuvering himself with infuriating ease.

“I told you I wanted to show you something,” you say, clambering past the rudder and up toward the fuselage.

“…You want to show me the top of the ship’s hull,” he responds dryly.

“Shush. We’re almost there.”

As you near the top, you attempt to work your foot into a gap in one of the ship’s panels, and yelp when your heel slides right past it.

“Watch your flarkin’ step!” Rocket reaches out and braces his hand against your waist, then rests it on the small of your back once you’ve regained your footing. “You okay?”

You’d kept your center of gravity low enough to not lose much balance, but the scare gets your blood rushing through your veins nonetheless. Still, you find yourself unable to focus on anything but the heat of his touch, and the feel of his bare hands on your skin where your shirt rides up your back.

Rocket looks at you strangely and you realize you’ve been staring back at him without responding. “Yeah. Yeah, of course I’m good,” you say distractedly.

“…Right.” He narrows his eyes, but doesn’t question you any further. “Babysittin’ you is takin’ years off of my lifespan. Hope you know that.”

“We all have our crosses to bear,” you reply impudently.

Once you reach the top of the Benatar, you take a seat and offer Rocket your hand again. He takes it and allows you to pull him up.

As you pull the bottle of bourbon out of your pack, Rocket’s gaze is drawn past the treeline, and out toward the horizon. The top of the ship peeks right over the densely packed forest canopy and opens up a view of the sky and stars, like a spattering of ivory paint on a dark canvas. Terra’s moon shines brilliantly onto the lakeside below, reflecting a diamond-dusted echo of its shape into the water, occluded only by the passing of a few sparse clouds.

The ever-present tension in Rocket’s shoulders slowly ebbs away, and he looks at you softly. “S’this what you wanted to show me?”

“Yeah.” The gentle breeze whirls locks of your hair past your eyes; you tuck it behind your ears and then shift to rest your chin on your bent knees. “Not as good as the views we get outside of orbit though. Too much light pollution on Terra, I guess.”

You offer the bottle of bourbon to him, and he takes it with a grin. He then settles down beside you, close enough that the heat of his fur tempts you to close the distance.

Rocket takes a hearty gulp from the bottle, then passes it back to you. “View’s still pretty,” he says.

You smile and look over the waterfront. It’s not much compared to the places he’s shown you over the years, and practically nothing when considering all the times he’s flown you to the prettiest patch of sky he could find and comforted you beneath the stars…but you hope it comes close.

You take a much smaller sip of the bourbon than he does, and enjoy the pleasant warmth that settles in your chest as the liquor slides down your throat. “So…Tony Stark is kind of a piece of work, huh?” you begin.

Rocket barks out a laugh. “ Kind of? The guy has his own head worked so far up his ass that I’m surprised he can even still frickin’ see.” He rolls his eyes, motioning for you to pass him the bottle. “‘Specially not with those stupid fuckin’ sunglasses. Does that moron know he’s indoors when he wears ‘em, or is that too nuanced a concept for him?”

“The aviators are certainly a choice,” you agree, nodding your head with solemnity. “…Don’t let him get to your head.”

Rocket huffs, taking a long swig of the bourbon before focusing his gaze on the sky.

“I’m not . I’m just gettin’ real frickin’ tired of slaving away for a bunch of damn ingrates.” He sets the bottle down next to him and leans back, holding his weight up with his palms. “You’d think I’d be used to it by now,” he says.

You frown. “What do you mean?”

“Look at me. To most people, I’m…I dunno. Vermin, I suppose.” There’s nothing bitter in his tone; he simply sounds…weary. Tired. He drums his claws against the hull of the ship. “The only people who take me seriously that aren’t dead or missing are you and Nebs.” He hesitates on his next few words before speaking again. “…Thor too, maybe.”

“Thor likes you, you know. Respects you a lot.”

Rocket chuckles derisively. “Sure, but he doesn’t know any better. The guy’s completely plastered half of the time.”

“He liked you before, too,” you argue.

Rocket shrugs, before picking up the bottle once more. He doesn’t drink from it this time; he simply thumbs the rim, looking contemplatively into the glass.

“Yeah, well. We can just chalk that up to poor judgement on his part.”

You touch his forearm to get his attention. Rocket’s gaze travels to your hand and lingers there, before rising up to your eyes.

“What you said earlier,” you start softly—slowly, like you worry the words will spill too fast from your lips and startle him into locking himself up tight. “Do you really feel that way? Like you abandoned Pete and the others?”

Rocket’s ears tilt backward and his features draw tight as he looks away from you. “Didn’t I?”

“You did everything you could, Rocket. We all did.” You sidle up closer to him, letting his arm press against yours. He doesn’t move away.

“I still should’ve been there,” he says roughly. “Only reason I wasn’t was because I was frickin’ posturing. Tryin’ to impress the space pirate, tryin’ to one-up Quill. Stupid, inconsequential shit.”

“You’re too hard on yourself,” you try to assert, but your consolations seem to thin out and dissipate into the air as Rocket continues his quiet self-condemnation.

“Last thing I ever said to Pete was an insult. And if we don’t make it out of this—and odds are, we won’t—I won’t ever be able to take that back.” His ears droop further down and his tail curls around his leg. You watch as his shoulders curve inward as if he’s ashamed, as if to hide , and the image of it makes a sickly feeling settle in your gut. You’ve never known Rocket to make himself small. “...There are lots of things I’ve said and done that I can’t take back. I probably shouldn’t even be trusted with something as big as what we’re doin’ here,” he adds, whisper-soft. “I’ll find some way to fuck it up.”

He says it like it’s a vow. The resolution in his voice is a heavy, weighted thing—a promise of damnation, dark as soot and thick as tar—like he sees himself a black hole that consumes the light around him. You wonder what he thinks that makes you, then; a star, perhaps—happy to fall into him, eager to be snuffed out.

You shift closer still.

“I wish you could see what I see in you,” you say softly, taking the bottle from his hands and setting it beside you with a clink. “There’s no one else I’d trust more to have my back.”

Rocket looks longingly at the bourbon, but doesn’t reach for it. Instead, he turns away from you, and sets his eyes on the sky; when he tilts his head up, the moon casts his features in a silvery veil. “The only thing in life I’ve got a consistent track record on is gettin’ everyone I know killed. You really shouldn’t put all that faith in me.”

You trail your hand downward, intertwining your fingers with his.

“Then I guess we’ll have to chalk that up to poor judgement, on my part.” Rocket doesn’t move his head, but you see his eyes flicker downward toward where your thumb grazes the back of his hand. “I’m with you. No matter what.”

Rocket lets out a sigh, then squeezes your hand once before gently easing himself out of your grip.

“You’re too soft. Hard for a greedy bastard like me not to take advantage,” he says. There’s a fond note to his voice, if not slightly disbelieving. “But alright, sweetheart. I’m with you too, or whatever.”

You grin brightly at him, and he rolls his eyes, allowing a soft chuckle to bubble up from within him. The wind blows your hair into your face once more.

Rocket looks at you consideringly as he watches the strands dance along with the breeze. His fingers twitch at his side, the way they do when he’s caught eye of something pretty and shiny—something he wants— right before he gets his hands on it. After a brief moment of indecision, he reaches up and tucks your hair away for you, thumbing a lock between his fingers before gently brushing it behind your ear. His claws scrape against your cheekbone, then trail lightly over your neck as he pulls his hand away.

Your heartbeat stumbles over itself, hopelessly chasing after every missed beat as you instinctively press your hand to where he’d touched you, trying to capture his warmth and savor it for as long as you can.

“Oh. Um,” is all you can bring yourself to say.

Rocket laughs hard at your expense then clicks his tongue.

“O-oh. Uh…Um,” he repeats mockingly. “You speechless, angel?” He cackles again, moving to grab the liquor from your side. Your face flushes even further as he leans into you, reaching around your lower back to grasp the neck of the bottle. “You’re way too damn easy to impress. Gotta make it a little harder, sweetheart, or else whichever lucky son of a bitch you end up with is gonna turn into an ego-frickin’-maniac.”

You watch him dazedly as he brings the bourbon to his lips. “Why did you do that?”

Rocket shrugs.

“Dunno. Wanted to,” he says, chuckling into the rim of the bottle. “Can’t help myself around you, I s’pose.”

The liquor has made him more honest than usual.

Maybe it’s the booze that loosens your tongue, too. Or maybe it’s what Nebula had said earlier, about trying again — or perhaps it’s the fact that last time you’d shared a bottle with him and spoken your mind about what you wanted, he’d railed you within an inch of your life, stuffing your cunt up so deep that every waking moment afterward made you feel achingly empty —but the words end up pouring from your mouth before you can properly think them through.

“You can touch me more, if you want,” you offer breathlessly.

The liquor sloshes as Rocket abruptly lowers the bottle. “…What?”

The puzzled, almost disapproving look on his face sends you into a panic. A barrage of intrusive thoughts pummel your head, filling every waking thought with gut-churning possibilities.

Is this the right choice? What if he hates you for bringing it up again? You can’t tell what hurts more—him thinking of you as a stupid, desperate whore; or a stupid, desperate idiot that’s hopelessly in love with him, willing to spread your legs as if it’d make him love you back.

You can still turn it around. Play the whole thing off as a joke, and end the night with your dignity intact…but you hesitate.

…You don’t think he’ll let you be his home. You don’t think he’ll let you be his lover.

And there’s the heart-wrenching, pathetic truth of it all: you don’t think you’d mind being nothing more than just his stupid little slut, so long as it means that, on some level, you get to be his.

You do want to be his. However he’s willing to have you.

So, you barrel through your embarrassment, and offer what little of yourself you can.

“I know you don’t…that you don’t want anything serious,” you say, trying to keep the pressure to accept low. Rocket’s expression takes a turn for the grim, and you scramble to regain control of the situation. You think back to how he reacted when you mentioned your sudden confession—when you told him you loved him—and quickly add, “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

Somehow, your statement makes him grow even colder. His eyes harden, and the look he gives you holds none of the warmth that it did mere moments ago.

“Thought we already agreed it didn’t,” he says coldly.

An invisible force clamps down over your chest and squeezes, holding your heartstrings tense and rigid and taut, and the severity of it threatens to pull you under. It’s stupid—you know this was never meant to be anything more than just sex. You want this. You want this. So why does it hurt so much to hear him say it out loud?

You take a deep, slow breath into your nose, and push forth.

“You’re right. We did,” you reply weakly. “But if you—if you need to relieve some stress…I don’t mind, um, being that for you. No strings attached.”

You resist the urge to wince at your meek proposition, withering at the inadequacy that rings clear in every stuttering sentence.

“What are you trying to say?” Rocket asks sharply, a warning rumbling in his low tones.

His glare almost, almost cows you—but he was angry like this the first time, too. Maybe that’s his real problem with you; your lack of conviction. He’d already told you once before, hadn’t he? To be outright about what you want?

Tell me you want me to fuck you.

You steel your nerves, and lift a hand to tug loosely at the collar of your top, before sliding your fingers down toward the zippered front. You pull down—just a few inches—letting the sleeves fall loosely over your shoulders and exposing your collarbones to the frigid, nighttime air.

“I’m saying that I think you’re attracted to me,” you say slowly, clutching your hand over your chest to prevent your clothing from falling any further. “I think you liked…that you liked fucking me.”

You watch Rocket closely; his eyes widen and you notice the near imperceptible bob of his throat as he swallows, eyes roving over your bare shoulders, and the suggestion of soft skin hidden further beneath the fabric. The rise and fall of Rocket’s chest hitches slightly when you thumb the zipper once more, emboldened by his reaction.

“What are you—“ he starts, before cutting himself off to watch the zipper slide further down its track as you pull, parting to reveal the moonkissed tops of your breasts.

“It’s okay. I liked it too. You can have me again if you want.” The breeze rakes itself through your hair and brushes against the valley of your tits; you shiver and your nipples harden, poking through the thin fabric of your top. Rocket takes notice.

“Sweetheart, listen to me for a second,” he says raggedly. His features are screwed tight, but his eyes stay locked onto the growing expanse of skin you reveal for him. The zipper drags further down and his gaze follows close behind it, trailing along the curve of your tits and down to your navel. Your sleeves slip lower, breasts running dangerously close to popping free, and Rocket swears lowly as he reaches out. You still when he places his hand over your own, holding it in place over your zipper; his knuckles brush against your stomach and he sighs.. “…What the hell am I gonna do with you?”

“What do you want to do?” You carefully pry his hand off of yours, then place his palm against your cheek, letting the pad of his thumb brush against your lower lip.

His eyes dart upward, and the heat of them running over your skin is near palpable—smooth and decadent, like wine; rich and warm, like bourbon —pouring over you and filling your mind with static.

When he doesn’t pull away, you press a kiss to his fingertip then push it into your mouth, licking and sucking just the way he likes—just the way he taught you, back when he had you settled on your knees between his legs and bucked his hips up between your welcoming lips.

Rocket groans and pulls his thumb out of your mouth, only to squeeze your chin in his hand and roughly angle your head down toward him. His fingers slick your spit against your cheek and his grip forces your mouth to purse into a slippery little ‘o.’

“You— fuck . You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me,” he mutters, eyelids lowering as he loosens his hold. You part your lips once more, and Rocket gratefully takes the opportunity to hook a finger into your jaw, forcing you to open your mouth wide. You loll your tongue out obediently in a silent offer. Rocket sucks in a shaky breath and slowly drags his thumb in a stripe down your tongue. You close your lips around his finger once more, allowing him to pull out of the wet warmth of your mouth with a decadent pop; he ends the motion with a swipe across your bottom lip, and his hand lingers on your cheek.

“I’ll be whatever you want me to be,” you promise him. Rocket grimaces and begins to pull his palm away but you wrap one fist around his wrist and the other around the back of his hand to hold him where you need him. You close your eyes, turning your head to press a soft kiss to his palm, then lower, onto his fast-beating pulse. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

“You shouldn’t be offerin’ to let people fuck you just because they’re a little frickin’ burnt out,” he sneers, and this time he wrenches his hand away.

“I’m not offering just anyone,” you say quietly. “I’m offering you .”

Rocket shakes his head and pinches the space between his eyes, like he’s being inconvenienced. “I ain’t using’ you like that.”

“You don’t want to?” You frown, clasping your hands together in your lap to keep yourself from reaching for him. The movement presses your breasts together just slightly, plump and plush and biteable, and Rocket looks, then stifles a groan.

“…I ain’t using’ you like that,” he repeats rigidly.

“I’d let you,” you press. “I want you to.”

Rocket’s hand drops from his face and he clenches his fists at his sides in frustration, before turning to give you a pained look.

“Fuck, you’re makin’ it so hard for me to—I’m tryin’ to help you out here.” Rocket’s quick hands reach forward, taking a fistful of your top in one and the zipper in the other, and then—he drags it upward. He zips your shirt all the way back up, past your collarbones, up toward your neck. He only lets go when his thumb hits your chin and the zipper can’t go any further. “We’re not doing this. You deserve better.”

“I deserve better?” you echo in confusion.

Rocket doesn’t clarify, and just stares at you searchingly. He pauses, then pulls the hem of your shirt down too, tugging where the fabric had begun to ride up over your hips. You blink at him, then look down at your top. You’re more covered up now than you had been even before you’d started undressing.

You can’t help but glance down at his crotch too, at the hard length of him tenting his jumpsuit. He stills once he notices where your eyes have landed, and awkwardly clears his throat. Reaches down, tucks himself into his waistband. Then, he begins to stand. “Thanks for the—uh. The drink. And the pep talk and the view and all that. But I should head back down to the base.”

The shock passes, and you feel a telltale pressure rising in your throat, climbing up your face and through your sinuses, signalling a bout of tears. You blink it back, and clear your throat as well.

“Okay…I’m sorry,” you say.

“Nothin’ to be sorry for,” he responds stiffly, before clambering down the side of the ship.

You don’t follow him down, and simply tilt your head skyward. The clouds have thickened, obscuring the few visible stars from sight and casting the forest glade in shadow. The radiance of the moon, at least, never wanes; its unerring reflection flickers in rippling, silver waves within the water below.

—

Ao3 | Masterlist | If Only for Tonight Index

#rocket raccoon x reader #rocket raccoon x oc #rocket raccoon fanfiction #gotg fanfiction #guardians of the galaxy #rocket raccoon #rocket x reader #gotg vol 3 #reader insert #IOFT

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