Guys, This Was So Fruckin’ Good. The Comfort, The Angst, The Panties. All Of It.

Also hyperventilating… in French.

Themed nights at Sister Margaret's.

Fuck me gently with a chainsaw. That filthy fucking raccoon talks some seriously good game. I would die of happiness to be talked to this way.

an excerpt from Part Three Candied Apples. 𖤣𖥧𖡼⚘.˚⭑

thievery in the garden.❤︎❤︎ ⭑˚.⚘𖡼𖥧𖤣 windfall masterlist | main masterlist

finally finished drafting the third (and final) part of ⭑˚.⚘𖡼𖥧𖤣 windfall 𖤣𖥧𖡼⚘.˚⭑ (a meetgroot), currently clocking in at 37 pages and 17,251 words of teasing, smut, and sentimental nonsense. is any of it good? who knows? but i should be done editing it and have it posted sometime next month (you can check the monthly forecast on july 1 and i should have a semi-concrete posting date by then). in the meantime, to whet your appetite...

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

18+ only MDNI | no use of y/n | f!reader | 2/3 parts | wip | word count: pending.

“All right, sweetheart,” he croons, his mouth still just a breath from your jaw, from the soft needy flesh of your throat. You feel yourself sway toward him, but he shifts at the same time you do: pulling back, keeping himself just a whisper out of your reach. “Go on. Tell me what you’ve been thinking about, so I know what you like when I put my hands all over you.”

“I — I think about a lot of different things,” you manage to choke out. Your eyes flicker: catching him in your periphery, then casting back out over the city and the sparkling of its lights. You can see your rooftop community garden from here, and the ropes of plasma orbs draped like glittering diamond necklaces over the rows of growing things. You concentrate on it. Your breath feels shallow and thin, lungs straining with the weight of your need. “Sometimes I — sometimes I think about you being rough with me.” Maybe you shouldn’t say that. Maybe you should ask for gentle, for light touches and sweet words, for something romantic and soft. You do like romantic and soft, sometimes. But right now you’re so desperate — for touch, for his touch — right now you’re so greedy and needy and wanting — that any softer fantasies turn instead into bruising hands and welts left by claws, and thrusts so hard that your teeth click together in your dreams.

Admitting it aloud, though? You’re not sure you’ve ever been so humiliated in your life. Your eyes flutter closed in a wince, and your thighs clench under your ruffled skirt.

“Oh, yeah?” The drawl of his voice is low and entertained. He tsks. “Just like I thought — gettin’ yourself into trouble here, and too shy to do anything about it. You’re gonna have to be more specifical than that, princess.”

You bite your lip and hazard a sideways glance at him. “What — how—”

“What’s it like when you think about me—” His voice drops, turning predatory. “—being all rough with you?” 

“I — I don’t know.” Your breath feels even more tattered and frayed. “You seem — strong. I think you could maybe — throw me around if you wanted to?” God. You press your fingertips back into your cheeks, giving up the charade of pretending to being anything but mortified. “I guess — I’m not really sure how that would work since I’m so much bigger than you?”

He tilts his face in closer to you — a whisper of his fur against the back of your fingers. “Oh, I think I can figure it out.” Each word is bitten around a sharp-toothed smile. “So tell me more, shy girl. In these damp little daydreams of yours, do I got you on all fours?”

You hiccuping a gasp, knees suddenly wobbling at the image that flashes to the forefront of your mind. “Uhm, sometimes,” you whisper. “Other times, uhm — on my back? With, uhm, my knees folded up against my chest?”

He makes a sound in your ear — a sort of low, rumbling clicking noise. The edges of his fur vibrate against you. “Uh-huh. That sounds nice to me, angel. A real nice little thing you’re just aching to give me.” 

You swallow. 

“Anything else, when I take you rough?” It’s a purr, you realize — a true purr. You hadn’t known a purr could sound so dangerous. “You like getting your ass slapped, angel?” The endearment sounds like a taunt, now. 

You lick your lips. “I — I’ve never tried it before, but…” You trail off, everything in you furling so tight you can’t get the words out.

“But you think about it,” he finishes with a grin — so smug, so self-satisfied and sharp that you can feel it cramping your abdomen. Your eyes are wide on him when you nod, before they swerve away — trying to retain some last scrap of self-preservation.

Still, you can hear him chuckle — can feel it, teasing against the skin that’s crying out for him.

“You open to us trying a little bit of that, then?” he rumbles against you, tilting his head and dipping his nose deeper into the space between your neck and your shoulder — like he wants to nuzzle in, but won’t. He’s taunting you — maybe taunting himself too — and he’s close enough that you can pick up on the scent of him: something like juniper, and something like blackberries. Leather — probably from his uniform — and something sharp and smoky. You breathe it in greedily — take it into your lungs like you’d plant a garden of it if you could.

“M’not interested in smacking your face around,” the Captain adds, “but I’d slap just about any other part of you if you let me.” He pulls back, and from the corner of your eye, you can see his tongue run over his teeth — like he’s imagining tasting the warmth of your skin after it’s been struck a few times. “I’d frickin’ love to see you bounce, sweetheart.”

Your breath stutters out of your lungs in a shaky stumble that you try to crush back. Your fingers clutch rigidly at the edge of the wall. “I’d be okay with that,” you manage to squeak out, trying to reign in the thump of your heart on your breastbone.

His hand snaps out, black skin on black shadows, and he grips the line of your chin and turns your face abruptly toward him. It’s sudden, and maybe a little scary — your heart and belly both tumble inside you and you choke on a gasp — but it’s also the first time he’s really touched you beyond his knuckles teasing under your sundress-strap, and the featherlight bracelet of his fingers on your wrist. You immediately melt into his grasp. Everything inside you leans into him, until you dazedly think that he’s holding you up, just by his fingertips kissing your face. He startles at the way you sink into his demanding grasp — then lets another pitying smirk curl the corner of his mouth. 

“Needy little Terran pet,” he muses, stroking his thumb just once, back and forth along your jaw. You struggle to hold back the little whimper wisping up over your ribs, and you think at first that you’re successful — but he must see your throat working, because he laughs again: softly, this time, but meanly. 

“Gotta say though, angel, I’m not interested in what you’re okay with.” 

For the first time, his voice drops from a quiet, mocking sort of laughter and into something closer to a growl. It sounds dangerous, but your body doesn’t seem to realize that — or maybe it doesn’t care. Your skin prickles deliciously: every muscle straining for him, every cell lighting up and begging. 

“M’only interested in what’s gonna make you wet. And what’s gonna make you whine for more.”

Your mouth pools with saliva and you have to swallow. “W-what about you?” you whisper, and your voice is as shivery as new leaves in a manufactured Knowhere breeze, trembling on the play of shadow and soft glow, filtering over the rooftops and glimmering between the branches of Groot’s trees. “What did — what do you think about? What do you like?”

The threat in his voice drops away, but you’d be a fool to think for a moment that he isn’t still a predator in his own right. The smirk grows wider: unrepentant and leering. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” he purrs. “I like to run my frickin’ mouth.”

wind·fall /ˈwin(d)ˌfôl/ noun. an apple or other fruit blown down from a tree or bush by the wind; an unexpected piece of good fortune.

semi-shy touch-deprived reader tries to avoid meeting knowhere’s intimidating captain. is profoundly unsuccessful.

based on a prompt by @creativepromptsforwriting: The apartment she moved to has a beautiful, well-tended garden. After a while she finds out that her neighbor is the one tending to the plants and she decides to help him out one day.

⭑˚.⚘𖡼𖥧𖤣 windfall masterlist | main masterlist new! flower dividers & banners by @/saradika-graphics

The Great Reading...

It was Rocket Strange who greeted Rocket the Grey at the Doors.

"You're late!" the orange-robed, cyan-cloaked son of the Sorcerer Supreme snarked.

Clad in his grey hat and robes, Rocket the Grey took a puff from his pipe then cheekily replied, "A Wizard is never late, Mr. Strange. He arrives precisely when he means to!"

For a moment, the two looked at each other--and then, a little teary-eyed, they embraced! "Err... am I late? They haven't started the Reading, yet, have they?" the Grey Raccoon asked, worriedly.

"Oh, nah," Rocket Strange answered, nuzzling the apprentice of Mithrandir, "but you're the last to come here. So many made it tonight, come on!"

With that, the two opened the Doors and stepped into a titanic Colosseum that was full of... Rockets! Thousands upon thousands of Rockets from all walks of life, albeit they were mostly kind and good; those who were too cruel or were slavering beasts from the darkest of worlds weren't allowed here.

Thousands of Rockets, many accompanied by a Lylla or their Humies, but also many without. Jedi Rockets; Wizard Rockets; a Maori Chief Rocket and his Uplifted Racccoon Tribe; Purely organic or machine Rockets and all in between; a Rocket and Lylla who were ghosts united, a Rocket and Lylla whom were living stars; Time Lord Rocket and Time Lady Lylla; Rocket Knight and with him Kitt, the TransAm in a Berth at his side; Honourable Pirate Lord Rocket, and with him Pirate Queen Lylla; Egyptian Pharoah Amun-Ro-Khet I, his Queen Lylla, and his Terran Attendants; Rocket Raccoon but with him a Peter Quill who was also a raccoon; Native American Shaman Rocket the Medicine Raccoon with his Uplifted Raccoon Village... and on, and on, and on...

High above, upon a throne of metal - clad in orange armour and helm to contain the mighty Power Cosmic - Great Procyon ROCKETUS the Life-Bringer, the Creator of Worlds, banged his Staff upon the stone floor. "CALLING FOR SILENCE!' he boomed. "SILENCE, PLEASE!" When the noise of the great Colosseum hushed, Great Procyon Rocketus continued, softer, "Tonight's Reading is about to Commence, and it concerns one Terran Human we all know by the pseudonym... Raccoon Falls Harder..."

Almost immediately, utterly joyous cheering was heard as the Rocket Collective clapped, stomped their feet, whooped and howled and raccoon-called with sheer joy! The Great Raccoon smiled, let it all continue for a moment--but then, he cracked his Staff upon the ground again, "Silence, silence please!" he commanded, and all complied. "This beloved Terran has written a new work." Reaching for a beautiful, illuminated manuscript scroll, the Great Procyon unrolled it. "It is titled simply, 'Machinery'. Let the Reading now Commence!"

The Colosseum quieted, and - drawing gently upon the Power Cosmic - Great Procyon Rocketus used it to create the eerie, disquieting sound of a mechanical heart, Ka-chunk-hnk. Ka-chunk-hnk. With this as ambience, he started to read aloud from the scroll, his audience listening, enraptured,

"'Rocket scrubs his knuckles against the fur and flesh that have grown over his metal sternum. His ribs strain like creaky bellows, lungs splitting and bruising against the bones...'"

Quelquefois les ailes d'un papillon sont plus fortes que le squelette humain.

He put them in while they slept.

Cosmo: Rocket, where are the others right now?

Rocket: How should I know? D'ya think I put tracking chips on 'em or somethin'?

Cosmo:

Rocket: Yeah, okay, hold on. Lemme go get the tablet.

Cosmo: It is normal. I have one on Kraglin at all times.

Buy her more panties you naughty raccoon!

tiris.⋆☁︎:･꧂preview

[anticipated 8/16] ✩❤︎

18+ only | rocket x f!oc | 18/40 | wip | wordcount: pending. masterlist, notes, & moodboard. ART: pearl's character design | pearl & rocket's bunk | heartspur scene chapter one. nemotia. art by @/frostedwitch

rocket and pearl develop something of a tradition. the trio argues, and the kylosian has a request. see below for warnings & notes.

She stutters to a halt, feet nearly tripping over themselves in surprise once she realizes what they’ve walked into. Sparkling lingerie drips glitter from every wall and glass dais: shades of gleaming yellow and bronze, rose-gold, silver and champagne. Frothy ivory laces, sparkling with platinum threads and studded with iridescent Spartoi crystals — so tiny that the fabric twinkles. Gleaming, rippling silk panties layered thickly with ruffles, tied low on the hip by wide shining bows: flouncy and frilly, made from sleek fabric the color of iolites and dark honey. Rocket almost salivates on sight, imagining the silk under the ruffles becoming dark and slippery from pearl’s soft, dripping cunt. There are garters and bustiers and camisoles studded with fine sprays of sapphires and citrines, quarter-cup brassieres and ouvert knickers that damn near short-circuit his brain, and a whole line of lingerie made from filigreed gold metal-work that he immediately dismisses as too rigid and unforgiving to be allowed to come close to pearl’s flesh.  “What—“ “Special treat for me,” he repeats with a toothy grin. Her lips part, moonsilver eyes rounding out, a perplexed little noise curling in the back of her throat.  “I thought you meant a new firearm,” she utters, her voice breathy and uncertain. “Or something for the Dreadnought—“ “Nope.” He lingers on the n and pops the p, smug and drawling. “I’ve been thinking about seeing you in some of this fancy shit for a while.” He grins up at her. “I’ll be workin’ nonstop on the final model till it’s done, but I wanna know what you’re gonna wear for me on our first night in our new ship.”

from chapter nineteen. tiris. ✩‬❤︎ cicatrix masterlist.⋆☁︎:･꧂

a story about scars. two survivors learn about themselves, each other, hope, and the universe. a freakish little monster visits the high evolutionary’s bride on her wedding night. an adventure of intergalactic proportions ensues. aka raccoons make plans; the universe laughs.

WARNINGS for this chapter: rocket’s a degenerate. dirty-talk and teasing while panty-shopping, with the threat of being overheard. brief description of fantasies. angst.

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

banners & rose dividers by @/saradika-graphics pearl dividers by @/thecutestgrotto

Oh my god! That drawing is everything! She’s so beautiful and suggestive. Rocket is probably completely and happily at her mercy here.

Me: they deserve the best. To be happy. To have love and peace!

also me, writing them:

Seriously, wtf world.

I’m posting this every Wednesday. 

Please know you are important, lovable, and irreplaceable.

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