Work Text:
.𖥔 ݁˖❆.𖥔 ݁ ˖
DECEMBER 31, 2023. 20:31 EST.
.𖥔 ݁˖❆.𖥔 ݁ ˖
You won’t see him this year.
You’re sure you won’t see him.
You ease yourself onto the barstool and try not to twist your hands in your lap. It’s hard to find a seat this year — the place is so crowded, so cluttered with people. You can barely hear the old Wurlitzer jukebox — propped against the wall like an elderly gentleman — thanks to the breadth and depth of voices ringing off the exposed brickwork. Everyone is either laughing or crying with half-drunken joy. The decorations shimmer and gleam. Someone blows through a paper party-horn even though there are hours to go before midnight, but nobody minds — other tables just laugh, and someone buzzes another party-horn back.
You should be happy, too. Celebrating. You are happy, really — in a distant sort of way. And at the same time, your list of regrets is so long that it might take you till next New Year just to recite them all.
You sift your fingers through the loose quarters in your coat-pocket, soothing yourself with the cold feel of them: picking one and overturning it between your fingertips — again and again — then smoothing your thumb over the etchings on the face of the silver coins. Each time the coin flips — like a small moon pinched gently between your knuckles — you’re reminded of something new to add to your list.
You regret telling him you’d loved him when he’d so obviously not wanted to hear it.
You regret not repeating it anyway, especially after he’d shared his secrets with you.
You regret that you’d only met once a year — that you hadn’t asked for more time between midnights. You regret your illness last midwinter, and the way the two of you hadn’t resolved anything — and you regret the lack of your usual toast to the dead.
And though you’ll always treasure the care he’d shown you and the ghost of his claws tracing your temple, you regret that you hadn’t kissed him that last time.
Most of all, you regret that this whole sweet, strange affair had been built on caveats.
I’ll see you next year, if nothing changes.
But of course, everything has changed.
Sooner or later, everything always does.
.𖥔 ݁˖❆.𖥔 ݁ ˖
DECEMBER 31, 2018. 22:27 EST.
.𖥔 ݁˖❆.𖥔 ݁ ˖
What the fuck is this?
Later, you’ll remember that this was the first thing you’d ever heard him say. Sure, you’d seen him on the news — in the background of some interview clips in the aftermath of the Snap. You’d known who he was — sort of — which was why you’d spoken up when the bouncer had been trying to throw him out. Maybe that’s what had endeared you to him — not that he’d seemed very endeared at first. He’d glowered: first, at the sad holiday decor, dangling limply from nails gritted into the exposed brick walls — bits of crumpled foil and creased tissue-paper. Then at the murky barlights, and the sullen patronage. The Wurlitzer in the corner, arched and haloed and grim. He’d even scowled at the drink in his hands — scoffing at it, and calling it weak — before you’d decided to splurge and put a whole bottle of Stroh 160 on your tab for him.
I’d order you Everclear if it wasn’t illegal in this state, you’d told him, with as much lightness as you could ever find in your voice these days.
What the fuck is Everclear? he’d asked, peering down the neck of the rum-bottle. He’d seemed slightly mollified by the higher alcohol-content, though you’d never seen anyone guzzle Stroh 160 like that before. He hadn’t seemed impacted by the overproofed rum — or maybe he had been. Maybe it had eased some of the bitterness, or helped pave the way a little further into that whole endearment process. Because somehow, the conversation had opened between you, blushing at the stem like a poinsettia: the first splash of color you’d seen all year. You’d asked about his home as an Avenger from outer space. He’d scoffed and grimaced and said he wasn’t an Avenger, he was a frickin’ Guardian of the Galaxy, thankyewverymuch — and his only home was his ship, which was currently on loan to someone called Nat.
Later, you’d learned that he’d been referring to the Black Widow, but in the moment, you’d only nodded your head, baffled by your own reaction to him. Something about him — the furious glower in his eyes, or the remarkable delicacy with which he handled the bottle of Stroh 160 — something had lit within you that you hadn’t recognized at first. Your hamstrings had tightened, almost to the point of trembling — something had coiled, lazy and silver, deep in your belly. Your nipples had recognized it before the rest of you, stiffening against the soft cups of your comfy old bra.
By the time you’d realized — oh, you’d wanted him — you’d already been knee-deep in the third round of a particularly mournful version of Auld Lang Syne that some ass-hat kept playing on the Wurlitzer. The Guardian — Rocket, you’d remembered from the news clip, an’ I ain’t a frickin’ rakloom — had been furiously describing how someone named Pete had told him that Terran New Year celebrations were s’posed to be celebratory, full of good booze and good music, and big fireworks and big explosions, and pretty girls in short slinky black skirts, and enormous diamond-studded crystal-balls just falling outta the frickin’ sky.
Rocket had just happened to be at the Avenger’s compound anyway, he’d said. On account of Nat wanting the damn Benatar. Someone had told him it was New Year’s Eve, and he’d gotten to thinking about it — dwelling on it. Pete had never had the chance to attend a Terran New Year as an adult, the last remaining Guardian had told you grimly. Rocket had thought — well, he’d thought maybe it would be nice to go for his lost friend. To honor him, and see what all the fuss was about.
He’d also thought the festivities might distract him from what he was currently referring to as the endless miseries of the frickin’ universe.
Instead, all I see are a bunch of sad-sacks, he’d growled, and you’d gone out on a limb before thinking about it.
But you’re sad too, you’d said. I can see it.
For a moment, you’d thought he might bite you. The rage had seared up inside him, defensive and mean — and just as suddenly, he’d deflated, those surprisingly-broad shoulders shrinking under the puffy child-sized winter-coat you’d been sure he’d stolen from somewhere.
Well, I got reason to be, don’t I?
Tell me, you’d urged impulsively — and just as impulsively, he had. He’d told you about Pete and his music, about Drax and his family, about Mantis and her tireless patience and curiosity. His gorgeous glowing eyes had squeezed shut when he’d described his adopted son — Groot’s games and his sullenness, his dead father — also named Groot —and even his childhood days, when he’d been smaller and more likely to break into spontaneous dance. The determination in Groot’s eyes as he’d grown back his arm after binding Thor’s axe, and then — Groot twisting into silver petals and smoke, sifting out of Rocket’s reach like gunmetal-gray sand.
We’re gonna get ‘em back, Rocket had snarled at his bottle of Stroh 160, as if it were Thanos himself. I dunno when or how, but we will.
And then he’d gone silent. His eyes had flicked to yours, and then around the bar at the other patrons — every single one of them woeful, and not a celebrant in sight.
What none of these losers understand, he’d muttered, is there’s some people who will never come back.
He’d swallowed another mouthful of rum and you’d felt yourself soften inside. You’d said nothing while he’d sat there silently, though — just waiting, willing to take in whatever weight he might want to share.
We lost Gams right before the fight, he’d admitted, offering the words up like a ghost or a prayer in the miserable darkness of the bar. It was a name he hadn’t mentioned yet, but you’d carved it on your heart. Nobody on this stupid planet even knows her. She’s saved the galaxy a dozen times at least, and nobody frickin’ cares but me and Nebs. Nobody mourns her. His voice had gone dark and furious. And no matter what we do about the people who Snapped, she ain’t ever comin’ back.
I can mourn her. Maybe you shouldn’t have said it — maybe you should have at least hesitated. But instead, you’d only slid the words gently onto the bartop: your whole hand, laid bare. He’d stared at you for a moment so long that you’d thought the New Year might have come and gone — and then he’d bitten back another growl.
What do you know about mourning?
At last, you’d hesitated. Sharing your grief with others hadn’t gone well when you’d tried — not in the chaotic aftermath of the Snap. Nobody seemed to have the capacity to see anything outside of their own clouds of ash and dust and ghosts and failure, all left in Thanos’ wake.
But he’d said, no-one understands. He’d said, some people will never come back.
So you’d told him — carefully — about your father, a victim of an unexpected aneurysm the week before Thanos had come. How it had happened right in the midst of his funeral: half the mourners, turned to smoke while your mother had wept. Your grief had been strangled by the crisis — smothered down, forced into ash itself — as if the world had forgotten his death, as if his life had never mattered in the first place.
And then: the immediate wasting of your mother, so sudden you’d been sure it was heartbreak that was killing her. Maybe, in some ways, it had been — half of her, broken apart into dust at your father’s funeral. The doctors had examined her ailing, and had told you both that new conditions were popping up all over the globe: rare, but enough to seem like a pattern. Sudden necrosis, new cancers, the mass extinction of gut biomes and white blood cells. Not to mention the impact that decreased oxygen output was having on respiratory conditions around the world as half of the plant-life — right down to the phytoplankton in the sea — had dissolved into nonexistence.
Half of all life apparently didn’t just mean multicelled organisms, they’d told you grimly. A body might turn to ash and leave behind a few billion neurons, or a quarter of their skin cells.
Someone, somewhere, will have to fill in the gap.
Your mother hadn’t been able to finish out the year.
The silence had clung so thick and heavy between the two of you that it had dragged your shoulders down with it. You’d been sure he’d snarl at you, and the empty spot behind your sternum had suddenly hollowed even further. After all, in some mockery of fairness, the Snap had left most of your loose social circle intact. Of course, everyone had lost someone — so when you’d called one of your closer friends to see if they could be with you for your mother’s burial, you shouldn’t have been so hurt and surprised by the response.
At least you have bodies to bury, your friend snapped, turning your grief into a shameful indulgence. You’d recoiled: from the phone, and then from your friends. And even though you’d kept to yourself since then — become something of a young recluse — you’d still buried your sorrow deeply: carrying it carved secretly into the weight of your ribs, never allowing yourself to let it surface again.
At least, until now. In this bar. On this night.
With him.
In those quiet moments, you’d felt your stomach clench and hollow. The space behind your sternum had twisted and ached with the certainty that you’d said something wrong, that you should have kept your secret grief hidden.
Then the last Guardian of the Galaxy had tipped his bottle against your rum cocktail, topping you off with his Stroh 160 and clinking the glass in a forlorn little toast.
To Gamora, he’d said. And to your mom and pops.
Your gaze had flared to his, and the sight of him had blurred into a silver wash before you’d even felt the sting in your eyes. His jaw had worked, like the sight of your tears was about to set off his own.
To Groot’s dad, too. And to Yondu. And —and to Lylla and Teefs and Floor, he’d added, the last three names all spilled out in a rush, like he’d been afraid of their sounds in his mouth. To all the people who were taken from us, and ain’t ever comin’ back.
Something you hadn’t known you’d been holding onto — something knotted and carved inside you — had suddenly loosened and floated out, wide and expansive and silvery. For the first time since your dad had passed, you’d been hungry for someone. You’d wanted to give this strange, alien, raccoon-shaped Guardian whatever he’d wanted — to fight back some of the damn oilspill-darkness with just one night, one little bite of heat and salt and happiness.
What would make things better for you? you’d asked, all impulse once again. He’d shrugged, taking another pull on the Stroh 160.
Everything frickin’ sucks, he’d muttered. I just wanna feel like I’m in control of something.
That hunger inside you had flared again: a beacon or a ball-drop-tower, lit up in the darkness.
You can be in control of me.
His eyes had burnt toward yours: quick as meteors, stunned — then molten. Galaxy-dark bourbon, glittering with sparks of strontium-red fireworks. You’d licked your lips.
For tonight, I mean.
The offer had been shy. Cautious. It had been silly: taking home a stranger. Dangerous, perhaps — for both of you. After all, other than the blue cyborg-alien — Nebula, he’d mentioned; not a friend but perhaps a cautious ally, an accomplice — there had been no-one on this planet to care if he went missing. No-one for you, either.
Still.
You won’t remember the exact sequence of events, later. Closing out the tab — ordering the ride. The quick trip to your apartment between a blur of grimy-glittering city lights and murky night-skies, and wet streets lined with filthy snow. You’d ushered him into the noisy, rickety elevator of your building — watching as, for the first time since you’d met him, he’d looked actually concerned about his safety while inside the rising metal box. Your door had stuck at first when you’d keyed in, and you’d been grateful you’d managed to clean your little apartment earlier when he’d swaggered in behind you. It had been an act, though, you’d realized: shoulders tense with wariness and caution while he’d strolled around the main entryway with a sort of studied casualness. You’d leaned back against the door as it had swept shut, engaging the deadbolt and hesitating over the chain.
Go ahead.
You’d blinked over your shoulder at him, but he hadn’t been looking at you: slipping out of his stolen winter coat while his eyes had scrolled over the dim shadows of your apartment, lit only by the small fluorescent light you’d left on just above the sink.
I’m guessin’ you usually lock that slide-chain, because even with it, this place has got a pitiful level of security. So lock it.
Still, you’d hesitated. It had been obvious he wouldn’t be able to reach it from his short height. He’d draped the puffy coat along the arm of the couch, unwinding a sleek red scarf from his throat and tossing that on the sofa too.
I don’t want you to feel trapped—
Something had eased in his shoulders, and he’d cut you off with a slanting grin. Sweetheart, I promise. If I wanna get outta here, there’s no way that little thing is keeping me in. Somehow, his smile had grown sharper, like a bite. But I appreciate the frickin’ thought.
Heat had flooded you: starting in your throat and then moving upward to your cheeks, down to your chest. Something inside you had fluttered. His ears had flickered and he’d tilted his head, studying you. A slow, toe-curling grin had spread across his mouth then, and his nose had flared — like he was smelling you.
C’mon, he’d said at last, and there’d suddenly been the edge of a taunt in his teeth. Show me where you want me to fuck you.
Anywhere, you’d thought, and it had startled you. You’d been so grateful the word hadn’t come out of your mouth, and you’d made yourself lead him back to your bedroom. Your cheeks had warmed again — with embarrassment this time — at the shadowy sight of your rumpled and unmade bed, and the open half-filled hamper in one corner with yesterday’s bra dangling over one side. A cascade of leaden light from the city outside had painted a gray and moonstone trapezoid across your carpet, and when you’d moved to flick on your bedside lamp, his voice had halted you.
Leave it off, he’d uttered into the grayscale shadows.
You’d turned to him, hesitant. I can’t see you very well—
I can see you just fine, he’d interrupted, and you’d been able to hear the mocking arch of an eyebrow in his voice. The weak light had outlined the shape of him, silvery and haunting — had caught on his fur and the opal-pale gleam of his whiskers, luminous and glowing. His eyes, too, had been lit up by that faint ghost of brightness: reflecting crimson and ruby shards, the red hearts of poinsettias and peony-fireworks. ‘Sides, didn’t you say I get to call the shots for tonight?
For a moment, your head had gone too light and airy for you to say anything at all: buzzing with heat, unrelated to the single rum cocktail you’d had earlier. You’d been too dizzy with want to recognize the weight in the lingering pause — not until you’d felt his tone shift into something cautious and wary.
Unless you changed your mind, he’d said, each word spoken with surprising gentleness — like he hadn’t wanted you to hear the bitterness clinging to his teeth; like the bitterness hadn’t been meant for you at all. That’s okay too, princess—
No. The word had burst from you, so sharp and fast it had cracked against the weak stars outside your window. Nerves had lit up your belly, adding to the warmth that suddenly seemed everywhere: flooded in the muscles of your thighs, in the tingling tips of your breasts and the buzzing of your abdomen and the dancing pulse of your throat — in your lips, and your cheeks, and deep in your pussy. Your thighs had pressed against each other, hips tightening with the desire to arch and wriggle. His eyes had snapped open wide at the sharp report of your voice — or perhaps, whatever other cues that his sharp ears and eyes and nose had picked up on from your body.
No, you’d repeated breathily, lungs suddenly straining within your ribs. I haven’t changed my mind. Tell me what you want me to do.
Those beautiful, firebright eyes had held yours, indecipherable — then he’d blinked. Slowly.
Take your clothes off, princess, he’d said slowly — as if it were a test, though whether it was a test for you or for him had seemed unclear. I wanna see you.
You‘d hesitated before peeling your sweatshirt over your head: thumbs curled into the soft holey hem, fingers clenched and nervous. You’d hadn’t expected to bring anyone home — certainly not an Avenger, or a Guardian of the Galaxy, as the case may be — and you would’ve dressed differently if you had. But then you’d seen the shape of his silvery ears flatten in the dim night — his mouth opening, doubtless to offer another are you sure? — and you’d sucked in a breath and yanked the offending garment up overhead, flinging it in the vague direction of your hamper. Your fingers had gone to work on the button of your jeans next, and you’d kicked your way out of them before standing still and self-conscious in a puddle of soft shadowy denim.
You’d wished you’d worn prettier undergarments. The ones you’d had on had been okay — simple mismatched cotton, clean and relatively unfaded. Pale bikinis with a little pleating at the seam on the hips, and a comfy bra with a tiny, lopsided bow nestled between your tits.
Sorry, you’d managed to squeak out, the cool air prickling goosebumps onto your thighs and belly. What had he said earlier — something about pretty girls in slinky black skirts? I know it’s not, uhm, sexy and glamorous or whatever. I — uhm, I wasn’t expecting company.
But those firework-bright eyes had snapped with hot cinders, singeing each stitch in the flimsy fabric till you’d thought they might burn away.
Think I like this better, he’d said at last, his voice dropping back into the purr that had scraped and rasped over your newly-bared skin. He’d loped toward you. Maybe it had been the charcoal-smudge of the near-midnight dim or the ember-red burn of his eyes — but somehow, despite his size, you’d felt like prey. You’d held your breath, heart thumping painfully against your sternum as those dark fingers had risen and skated against the hem of your panties. His claws had kissed your hip, and your goosebumps had doubled: nipples tightening almost painfully, pressed needily against the cotton of your bra. You’d felt his eyes jump to your breasts — seen the flash of his white teeth in the shadows as he’d eyed your peaked nipples through the lightly-padded fabric.
Cute.
Something about the word — the half-taunting, half-admiring approval sewn into it — had unfurled inside you: unfolding into the tension of your abdomen, suddenly turning everything liquid and sweet. You’d felt the tickle in your pussy — one drop of wetness sliding out of you and into your panties, and then another. It had been too dark to be certain, but you’d thought his nose had flared again. Certainly his eyes had flown wide and met yours, and something had flickered in his stare. Smugness, first — and then uncertainty. Curiosity and intrigue. You’d waited, breath shallow and reedy behind your ribs.
I never seen a Terran pussy before, he’d admitted at last. The words had still been lightly scraping — mocking, teasing — but there’d been something else in them, too. A barely-throttled note of fascination — maybe even apprehension. Why don’t you crawl in bed and show me what you like, princess?
So you had — the swallowed sound of your whimper making his ears flicker as you’d turned, unthinking, and knelt on the edge of your mattress. The soft fabric and cushion had dipped, plush beneath your palms and knees, and you’d been surprised to hear him make a strangled sound behind you. It had given a golden edge to the silver spiraling inside you: a wisp of confidence, twisting in with all that tinsel-bright desire. Together, the two sensations had hit you harder than the Stroh 160 he’d added to your cocktail. When was the last time you’d wanted anything other than sleep? Felt anything other than exhausted? When was the last time you’d seen yourself — for just a fleeting bright moment — as welcomed and wanted? The feeling had been heady enough to curl your spine into a deeper arch, propel your hips into a more seductive sway. When you’d glanced over your shoulder, you’d seen the sweep of his tongue over the sharp white of his teeth.
You’d leaned back against your pillows — parted your thighs. Hesitated.
C’mon, pretty thing. The words had been strained. Show me how you like to be touched. So I got a good idea when I come over there.
You’d slipped one hand down over your belly — cheeks heating when you’d found the cottony material of your panties already damp. Two fingers had skated over the soft wet cleft between your thighs, warm and waiting. They’d skimmed your folds — parted you through the cotton. Your clit had nudged needily against the cloth, and you’d circled the pads of your fingers against yourself: teeth pinned to glossy lower lip, eyelashes fluttering as you’d rubbed yourself through the texture of the fabric.
You don’t do anything else for yourself, princess?
Your eyes had opened, already glazed.
You don’t take those pretty tits out?
He’d sounded almost — concerned. Offended, on your breasts’ behalf. Your fingers had stuttered to a stop.
Sorry— You’d broken off, flustered: humiliation suddenly overtaking that golden-edged spiral of confidence. I haven’t — uhm. No-one’s ever watched me, before.
His eyes had burned brighter. S’that right. It had been more of a statement than a question. He’d plucked at the edge of your mattress. Let me up then, princess? Want a front row seat.
The heat in your chest and belly had licked higher and hotter, wrapping around every limb. Yeah, you’d whispered, round-eyed as he’d leapt nimbly onto the mattress. He’d been at your side before you could blink: claws prickling up your calf and thigh, followed by something so soft and silken — and unexpected — that you’d jumped, unable to hold back a little squeak.
His snicker had lit up the space between you like matches and tongues of flame.
Just the tail, he’d crooned, just a shade too smug to be soothing. The feathery thing had swept along your hip again: teasing the hem of your panties, following the elastic around to tickle the crease where your ass-cheek met your thigh. You’d shuddered, wriggling with the ripple of sensation that had teased up your spine. That okay?
God, yes, you’d spilled shakily, and his snicker had broken into something full-throated: maybe the first real laugh of the night, untouched by bitterness or sorrow. The sound had surprised you both, and he’d reeled back: wide eyes meeting wide eyes.
Whatever had been ignited when he’d first sat beside you at the bar, it had suddenly reached the point of complete conflagration. Every cell in your body had abruptly seemed alight: thirty-trillion tiny torches, each one burning hotter than the last. You’d shivered from the force of it, reaching for him even as he’d lunged into the open crux of your thighs. His mouth had been at the juncture of your shoulder and throat, teeth pressed into your skin just firmly enough to hold you — deft quick fingers sliding swiftly under bra straps, skating leathery calluses over the arches of your shoulders.
Lemme get this stupid thing off, he’d muttered against your throat, and you’d nodded frantically and shot both your arms in the air when his hands had dipped down past your flanks and swam across your scapulae. His limited armspan had crushed him against your soft chest — ricocheting heartbeats separated only by two thin layers of cloth and a thick pelt of fur. You’d hiccuped on a gasp when he’d rasped his tongue against the top of your breasts, squeezed and plump against his strange jumpsuit.
His hands had made quick work of the clasp over your spine. When he’d stepped back — flimsy brassiere already gone — your tits had bounced with the sudden return of gravity. The way it had felt — the way he’d looked at them, like he’d wanted to sink his teeth right into your flesh — had brought a moan tripping out over your lips before you’d been able to call it back. He hadn’t paused, though: just anchored his hands in the soft secret hollows behind your knees, stepped back, and pulled.
You’d squeaked again as you’d been hauled down onto your back — felt his smirk as much as you’d seen the flash of his teeth in the dark. Your breasts had bounced again, wobbling with the movement, but you’d been more caught on the sensation of his small warm palms already sliding up the outsides of your thighs, splayed thumbs and forefingers hooking into the sides of your panties. The cotton had clung as he’d peeled them off your legs, so brisk and quick and competent that you’d barely been aware of what had been happening.
Show me, princess. Lemme see. Another sharp flash of his canines. You don’t gotta worry about giving me a show — just don’t rush yourself the way it looks like you normally do. Take your time — play with your pretty self. I’ll help. I’m a quick learner.
Cheeks and throat and chest all glowing with heat, you’d fumbled one hand between your thighs: pressed fingers to your clit, showed him how you’d rub and stroke circles against yourself. His eyes had been so scalding and scorching, you’d wondered if he’d leave burnmarks: little glossy red kisses left behind by fallen firework-embers. Your thighs had trembled — more from his calculating stare than the work of your own hands.
Keep going. Can I play with these beautiful frickin’ tits while you work?
You’d panted out something like a yes only to immediately shiver under the light touch of his curious fingers, stroking featherlight across the soft, stiffened tips of your breasts. He’d prickled his claws along the sensitive curves underneath and watched you shiver — grin growing wider as you’d trembled under the silken roll of his furred knuckles across your nipples. Something greedy had lit in his eyes, like he’d started to collect each muffled squeak and whine that he could earn with soft plucks or mean pinches. The coil of heat in your belly had been so tight that your jaw clenched and strained with the effort of holding back.
One warm leather-soft palm had coasted against your chin, fingers gripping delicately and turning your bleary eyes toward his.
You hold back all your pretty noises when you’re doing this to yourself?
He had sounded so disappointed. You’d rushed to explain.
Thin walls, you’d gasped. Don’t want — the neighbors complaining—
His brow had furrowed. Just for me, then? he’d asked, and you’d seen the mischief curl the corner of his mouth. Just tonight? Wanna hear you sing for me, princess.
Then the mean clever fingers of his other hand had pinched, and you’d cried out, long and needy.
That’s my girl.
Your fingers had stuttered and faltered till he’d let you go — breasts bouncing freely again. He’d clicked his tongue.
Think I’m getting the hang of it now. Lemme try?
You hadn’t even been precisely sure what he’d been asking anymore, but you’d nodded. His fingers had laced between yours: rubbing against your soaked folds with you, the new soft-leather texture of his fingers grinding against your clit.
Oh, he’d uttered, sounding more startled than you’d heard him since he’d laughed. She’s all soft, princess. He’d paused, his voice shifting to something more thoughtful — more calculating. And so frickin’ wet. She’s gonna feel so good, hugging my dick later.
There’d been something about it — the way he’d been forcing your own fingers against you, watching you try to get yourself off for him — making you play with yourself under his guidance — that had your belly coiling so tight that your hips couldn’t help but flex and roll. Wet — dripping everywhere — you’d tried desperately to ride your hand and his, grinding against the fingers woven between yours.
Thaaat’s my girl, he’d drawled again, snickering. Letting me make you do this to yourself. C’mon, princess. Show me how you make yourself feel good — rub that pretty pussy—
With a strangled cry — long and loud and keening — you’d arched in a crescent against your clasped hands. Hot gold-silver sparks and strontium-red fireworks had burst behind your eyelids, deep in your belly, in your drenched and fluttering cunt. They’d sizzled through every cell, bright and snapping and sparking. And where you normally might have stilled — kept your fingers pressed firmly against your clit to give you some relief as you rode out your orgasm — his hand had kept going: forcing your fingers to keep scrubbing at the bundle of nerves, dragging more and more bursts and flares out of your weeping pussy. Tears must have risen to your lashes at some point. Now they’d spilled over and down your cheeks, and you’d begged him to stop. Your hips, though — your hips had begun rolling and bucking again. Every nerve in your body had been wound tight and pleading, not a single one of them knowing whether they’d wanted peace or explosions.
You sure, princess?
The words had been a mockery, smug and smirking in the shadows that had suddenly felt more silver than gray. He’d curled his fingers over yours: forcing your palm down over your clit, forcing your fingertips to tease shallowly between your swollen folds. Distantly, you’d become aware that he’d been fingering you vicariously, using your fingers to play with your pussy on his behalf. Perhaps, you’d thought nebulously — perhaps he’d been worried about hurting you with his sharp claws in your cunt.
Feels like you like it when I make you keep going, he’d taunted. Look at you, still trying to ride your fingers for me like a good, eager little—
He’d broken off the words like a snapped icicle, like he hadn’t been sure that you would be okay with him saying them — but it hadn’t mattered. Wherever they’d been heading had somehow been enough to sear another fistful of gunpowder from your bones, scorching along your skin with a crackle of blinding silver-gold, shot like a symphony of flares into a soot-dark sky. You’d wailed as your body had bowed up into your hands, still joined with his — trying to pull your fingers deeper inside of yourself, trying to keep that heavy pressure on your clit.
Stop, can’t, you’d sobbed when he’d kept the rhythm going. Not — I want to come with you next time—
Not that you’d been sure you were capable of coming a third time, but still – the desire had been there. No, the need — to try and share this with him. His fingers had stilled at the plea, and you’d tossed reckless legs against the mattress, squirming against him — against the blankets, against the want tangled with the overstimulation. He’d eased up then, gently releasing your fingers — giving your swollen pussy a little affectionate pat that had every muscle in your body clenching again, and a whimper bubbling out of your lips like silver champagne in the charcoal-dark.
Oh, he’d uttered with another sharp grin in the dark. That’s pretty. You know, I think I love that little pearl, princess.
I can already tell I’m going to wanna play with her all night.
.𖥔 ݁˖❆.𖥔 ݁ ˖
DECEMBER 31, 2019. 22:01 EST.
.𖥔 ݁˖❆.𖥔 ݁ ˖
You’d never been great at lying — which was why you’d never tried to convince yourself that you wouldn’t end up back at the bar next New Year’s Eve. The truth was, that night with Rocket had been — by far — the best sex of your life.
And you had been able to come a third time, apparently. And — after a break — a fourth as well.
Of course, you admit that it’s possible you’ve got on rose-colored glasses. That psych-101 class you’d taken years ago had been enough to teach you that the connection you’d thought was so profound might have only been an illusion, crafted by your own grief and loneliness. Any companionship might look like love if you were starved enough, you’d reasoned.
But still.
When you’d woken lazily on that first day in January after the Snap — still sticky between your thighs, with bite-shaped bruises littering your hips and breasts, belly and throat; all your muscles languidly sore — it had been to the sound of Rocket, cursing in the kitchenette. Sleepy and still-sated, you’d tugged on an oversized t-shirt and padded into the kitchen, only to find him already dressed and crouched on the countertop, wrestling with the coffee-maker while his tail had lashed furiously behind him.
Terran tech ain’t for shit, he’d growled at you — and it had been your turn to laugh, bright and clear and delighted, and unhindered by your sorrows for the first time in months. When your eyes had found his again — warm and sparkling — his mouth had been parted, something awestruck written into the slant of his brow and the tilt of his ears. The tip of his tail had twitched convulsively. Then he’d shaken his head — a rushed back-and-forth, like he was trying to rattle water out of his ears.
I mean it. What a frickin’ piece of garbage.
You’d shown him how to work the coffee-maker — cut up some fruit for both of you and offered him a bowl of oats, which he’d declined. And somewhere in between it all — the happy haze of the first night of good sleep you’d had in months, the coziness of the coffee, his brilliant pretty eyes — you’d realized that you hadn’t thought about your grief in hours.
We should do this again, you’d said impulsively.
He’d gone still, blinking up at you from across the table.
Next year, I mean. Like — a standing date. You’d swallowed, all the old uncertainty clawing back up your throat. If nothing’s changed, of course.
He’d still been staring, ears flat against his head. In the bright light of morning, he’d suddenly looked as apprehensive as you’d felt.
If only so I can teach you how to use the Wurlitzer — the jukebox at the bar, you’d offered desperately. You — you said you like music. When you were talking about Pete.
The silence had settled between you — somehow less heavy than the night before, but still sparking with nerves. Then:
Yeah. Okay. His words had been measured and slow. I’ll mark it on the multicalendar. An’ if nothing’s changed, I’ll meet you at that bar.
Still, you hadn’t really expected him to.
And the truth was, things had changed for you. Since that night, you’d found your heart resting just a little easier. You’d let yourself cry, loosening the knot around your grief until the ache had become only what it was, instead of a colorless void of shame and guilt. You’d started smiling more — lopsided and frail at first — and enjoying things again. Taking yourself out for coffee some weekends, and to the movies once a month. Walks in the morning, when the weather was nice. You’d even started using your vibrator again — the fancy air-pulse one you’d invested in a few weeks before your father had passed, then never looked at again. You’d charged it, chewing back moans as you’d played with yourself, trying not to imagine Rocket back in your bed — trying not to use your nails to duplicate the scrape of his claws, or an old clean make-up brush to echo the ticklish tease of his tail.
That’s my girl. Show me how you make yourself feel good.
I want a front-row seat.
When you’d inevitably think of him anyway — that’s when you’d come. Everything around you would splinter into a kaleidoscope of chrysanthemum-firework sprays, glittering and blossoming through your whole body, sparking everywhere in a cascade of tiny fires.
Life was still lonely, sometimes — of course — but you’d started to appreciate the solitude of it all, the quietness of your own company. It had been a slow unfurling, like something still stretching damp wings from its cocoon.
So when the New Year had rolled round again, you’d indulged in a day of body-pampering: polishing your skin with exfoliating scrubs and silken moisturizers, painting your toenails a pretty color. Adding just a touch of make-up to cheeks that looked fuller and warmer than they had last year. The bruises under your eyes had faded slightly over the last twelve months — your hair just a little glossier, your skin just a little more luminous. You’d picked out a matching pair of undergarments, too: nothing outrageous or uncomfortable — just some soft sheer panties with pretty lace panels, and a flimsy bralet of the same shade and filigree. Something you might have been able to convince yourself that you had worn just for you if he hadn’t shown up.
The bar had been littered with the same tired holiday decorations as the previous year, smudged and dusty; the same haunted gray halo of the Wurlitzer. Then the door had swung open and he’d come swaggering in, a shit-eating smirk already spread across his face. But somehow — in one night of knowing him, a full year ago — you’d learned enough to read the hesitation underneath. It had only been visible only in the tilt of his ears and the slight puff of his tail, but it had been there just the same — as if he were nervous too.
But your smile had lit you up like the Times Square drop-ball, and you’d been such a shiny lure in the dim shadows of the bar. The faint flattening of his ears — barely noticeable to anyone else — had pricked forward, and the sharp bite of his teeth had settled into something easier. Lazier. His shoulders had sloped comfortably as he’d strode toward the bar, and you’d welcomed him with warm hands and warmer eyes. He’d been wearing a different kid’s-winter-coat than the year before, but the same silken red scarf — more visible, this time, peaking out of the collar. The color of it had lit up his eyes, all crimson glints in dark-jeweled irises. You’d sipped your cocktail while he’d filled you in on his recent missions, both on Earth and out in space. He’d still denied it when you’d referred to Nebula as his friend, but he’d spoken about her with a kind of rueful gratitude tucked into the corner of his mouth. In return, you’d told him about the relative quiet of your own life, slowly blooming into something new. It might have been too much for either of you to have said there was hope on the horizon, but it had seemed like the misery had faded into a more wistful melancholia.
Of course, you’d made it a point to lure him to the ancient jukebox, as promised: showing him the coinslot and the modest pocketful of quarters you’d brought for him, the library of song titles and artists. He’d poured over the menu of songs before finally choosing one he’d wanted to hear.
One of Pete’s, he’d said, and the words had resonated with an ache you’d known — so very well. Your hand had found his shoulder in the grimy shadows, and you’d squeezed your acknowledgement into his coat like a miniature hug. For a moment, he’d stiffened — but then his hand had risen cautiously, and his fingertips had kissed your knuckles with something like gratitude before dropping away as if he’d never noticed your touch in the first place. Instead, he’d slid the quarter into the coinslot and pressed the sticky old button, and you’d lost him to the wonder of the Wurlitzer. His eyes had widened, ears twitching while he’d followed every moving part of the machine, fingers finding the sides of the cabinet like he could interpret the vibrations and tell what was happening inside. He’d been fascinated by the way the vinyl slid from storage and lifted to the needle — mesmerized by the whirring and clicking, the loud mechanical crunch of the moving arms and flywheels and cogs inside.
The two of you had taken over the old machine until your quarters had run out.
Last one, he’d said, spinning the final silver coin between two dark claws. Where’s that one song? The sad New Year’s one?
A soft chuckle had bubbled inside you like champagne. It’s not always sad, you’d told him. There are other recordings — happier ones. Someday I’ll make you listen to them.
If there had been a promise or a question on that someday, neither of you had acknowledged it beyond a soft ripple of fur and a slight falter of lungs. Instead, the two of you had found the crackling old recording, and repeated last year’s toast to the sad old tune.
To your mom and your pops. To Gamora and Groot and Yondu, and Lylla and Teefs and Floor. To the people we ain’t ever gettin’ back.
Then you’d closed the tab, and headed to your place.
But even though you’d spent the last three-hundred-sixty-four days hoping for him to come back — dreaming of him — you still hadn’t expected him to return. Not to you, or your little bar. So had it been any wonder that though you’d quickly picked up around your little apartment, you’d missed a few things?
What’s this, princess?
The question had been remarkably free of mischief — just a genuine curiosity at the sight of anything that had been plugged into a powersource. The hallway light had still been on, and when you’d glanced up, you’d been able to see the puzzled intrigue knitted into the crease of his brow.
Unfortunately for you, the item he’d been staring at had been your air-pulsing vibrator, charging next to your bed.
Panic had popped inside you like a handful of bang-snaps — hissing like a sparkler plunged into a bucket of water. Just a. Uhm. Personal item.
His brow had scrunched — an expression you would have found adorable in any other context — and he’d plucked it off the endtable before you could get close enough to unplug it and shove it in the drawer. He’d stepped away from you: quick fingers skimming the streamlined seams of matte-black silicone, edged in metallic gold. The soft button that had guided it through each intensity-setting, and the softer ring that had fit over your clit.
It’s nothing— You’d scurried around the bed, ready to snatch it from his hands, but he’d leapt onto the mattress and away from you faster than you could blink.
This is the fanciest piece of Terran tech I’ve seen outside of Stark’s place. He’d only sounded more enamored. What is it?
You’d thrown yourself across the bed— knees sinking into the mattress, arms reaching — trying to pluck the little toy from his hands. He’d skirted your grasp, snickering — and then the laughter had abruptly caught off, and you’d both frozen. In the immediate silence, you’d heard the whisper-soft motor, the soft pat-pat-pat of the little puffs of air.
His eyes had risen to yours slowly. The heat in your cheeks had you suddenly scrambling back: stumbling off the bed, hands pressed to your cheeks while you’d watched him put all the pieces together in his clever brain. His mouth had curved — so slowly — until his canines had flashed, bright and sharp.
Princess. The word had been a taunt — an admonishment. You don’t gotta be shy.
You’d watched him test the air pressure with the pad of one finger, pressing it to the hollow space inside the soft silicone ring.
This is the first time I been impressed with Terran technicalistic abilities, outside of the zune.
Your attention had snagged on the last word, but it had been difficult to focus on anything but your embarrassment. He hadn’t been looking at the vibrator in his hands anymore, even as his fingers had continued to explore and memorize its shape and functions. Instead, his eyes had held yours: shrewd and gleeful.
Your little pearl goes here, right?
Your tongue had glossed over your lower lip: face still heated, belly spun tight — pussy already trembling with need, so much more quickly than last time. So much more wet. You’d nodded — cautious and silent.
You know what I was thinking about, the whole time since I last saw you?
You’d shook your head mutely, watching with wide eyes as his finger had pressed the button again, and the pulse of air had tapped faster.
How easy it was to make your tight little pussy squeeze me, he’d drawled. Dreamed about making you wiggle and squeal on my dick again.
Your breath had caught in your throat as he’d triggered the button once more, and the air pulse had intensified for a third time.
This seems like a good way to make that happen. One eyebrow had arched. Do I still get to call the shots, princess?
Yeah, you’d breathed, a whine already poised and lingering behind your collarbone. If you want to.
A bright grin. He’d shifted his body toward the head of the bed, leaning against your pillows with his short legs sprawled, like he’d been settling in for some entertainment. Then lemme see that pretty pussy of yours again.
You’d rushed to strip, nearly tripping over yourself to tug off your leggings. He’d paused you when you were down to your undergarments, grinning delightedly at the lacey set.
I liked what you wore last time just fine, he reminds you with one brow arched and the tip of his tongue poised against one canine. But it’s real nice to be someone who you think is worth—
This voice had crackled off, like he’d surprised himself; like he hadn’t meant to say it quite like that.
It’s cute that you dressed up for me, he’d finished, but the leer in his voice had been fractured at the edges.
You’d known since last time that he liked to be in control — to tease you and bully you a bit. To your surprise, you’d relished it — had fantasized about it too many times to count over the past year, no matter how hard you’d tried not to. But no order he could’ve given you would’ve prevented you from the sudden instinct to comfort him — to offer him some reassurance in the face of that brief glimpse of wounded uncertainty under the bravado. Reckless — still buzzed on the excitement that he’d come back to you after all — you’d thrown your lace-clad body back onto the mattress in front of him. Playfully, you’d caged him with your forearms at his hips.
His ears had flicked, tail-tip feathering against your inner forearm in surprise — crimson-spark eyes widening at either the suddenness of your pounce or the earnestness of your expression.
Of course I dressed up for you, you’d told him, in another rare golden-shimmer-haze of confidence. I just wish I would’ve known what you liked.
He’d been so short that when you’d leaned in to brush your cheek into the ruff of his neck, the lace cups of your brassiere had brushed his inner thighs. Your nipples had already been peaked, aching for friction. You’d been surrounded in the scent of his citrus-silken fur, warmed by something like ginger and cinnamon, with a dash of overproofed spiced rum and pure jet fuel. Your nose had lingered against the furred juncture of his shoulder and neck, and you’d seen when his throat had bobbed: an almost nervous swallow. The sight had your confidence brightening again within you, because if there’d been one thing you’d known about yourself — one thing you’d learned in the year before you’d met Rocket — it was that you’d been good at taking care of others.
Maybe not so good at taking care of yourself, but still.
Last time I showed you what I like, you’d murmured against the soft fur of his throat. He must have set the vibrator aside because his clawed fingers had prickled along the backs of your upper arms, tracing the shape of your brassiere — cupping and squeezing the tips of your breasts through the lace, palms massaging your delicate nipples. Won’t you tell me what you like, too?
I like all of this, he’d purred against you. I think I might like it better than anything else in the galaxy.
You’d moaned while he’d palmed your breasts, then tugged you toward his body by his grip on your nipples. Your hands had flown to his shoulders, beginning to work at the countless buckles and straps holding his jumpsuit together. You’d felt his sudden stiffening and hesitation as you’d peeled away the fabric. Even though you hadn’t been able to see much last year, you’d felt him — the places where his plush fur had been sparse, his silken coat ripped along scarred seams, stapled together with metal prosthetics and ports. Your fingers had remembered his artificial sternum, half-buried in fur and flesh — his clavicle, remarkably cold against all his warmth. Even the rigid struts that had into his body like some kind of external ribcage, skin all swollen at the point of insertion. Despite the darkness of last year — when he hadn’t let you turn on the lights — you’d still caught the reflections on his body like medals of valor.
Now — in the muted light dripping into your bedroom from the hallway — you’d found yourself pressing reverent, soft-lipped kisses to each aching old wound. He’d gone shudderingly still while you’d done it: your hands finding each new hidden buckle to break apart, while your mouth had found each ragged scar to mend.
Then you’d gotten to the snap above his tail: loosening the waist and hips of his jumpsuit, peeling it down enough to find his narrow cock unsheathed and already damp. You hadn’t gotten a hand on it the previous year — it had only been inside you — and a ripple of excitement had ruffled inside you at the realization that you’d get to explore him this way now. Your careful hands had measured the short slender length of him, so much smaller than he’d felt inside you last year when he’d been so relentlessly slamming against the tender circle of nerves inside your cunt. Who could care about size, though, when he’d been so shockingly curved, and unforgivingly hard? When he’d figured out so quickly exactly what you’d liked, and had seemed so dedicated to destroying you with the knowledge? For a moment, staring at the shape of his cock and remembering the way it had lit fireworks inside you, you’d been overwhelmed by the desire to kiss it. Rocket’s breath had hitched quietly when you’d lapped at the shiny tip: curious, and then intrigued, when the taste of salt and skin had lingered sweetly on your tongue.
You’d jolted back when he’d snarled, so low and threatening you’d been afraid you’d done something wrong. But his clawed leathery fingers had only pinched on your chin and he’d lifted your head from his lap, pulling you up toward his mouth — then higher. His other hand found your waist and tugged on that too, till you’d been seated astride him on your knees.
These panties are mine, he’d growled. Before you’d even been able to agree, he’d sheared through the sides with his dark claws, whipping them from between your bodies so quickly that you’d cried out in surprise. But then his hands had found your hips and he’d guided you upward, notching the curved shape of his dick carefully between the already-dripping lips of your cunt.
You set the rhythm, princess.
Your head had tipped back and you’d focused on the heat of him, parting you sweetly — the sun-warmed leather of his palms and the prickle of his claws on your hips. He’d leaned forward, hands coasting your curves to cup your ass instead: kneading and scratching lightly, massaging the muscles and fat there as you’d begun to sink slowly down on his cock.
The year before, your sex drive had been all but dead, and you hadn’t had so much as your own fingers inside yourself. This year, you’d used your vibrator, but that had only been for external stimulation. Perhaps he had only felt so much larger than he was because of the relative emptiness your poor pussy had been dealing with for so long, or perhaps it had something to do with the curved shape of him forcing your body to accommodate him in ways that a human cock wouldn’t.
Or perhaps it had been some New Year’s Eve magic, or the champagne-sparkling chemistry that had seemed to exist just between the two of you.
Regardless — just like last year — the stretch in your pussy had been stinging and sweet. Your head had tilted back again: a soft keening moan rising from your lungs and lips — fireworks already waiting under your skin.
Oh, I like that, princess. His voice had been a broken rasp across your skin in the darkness. Nice an’ slow an’ sweet. A sharp pinch to your nipples had you jumping with a startled whimper, your lashes flying wide and your gaze jolting back down to his. Keep your eyes on me, though.
Your vision had already seemed blurry at the edges — sequined by starlight and snowflakes. You’d held his languid stare, all dark midnights flecked with amber and rubies, and it had made you feel languid too: almost hypnotized by the jewelled beauty of his eyes. You’d sunk all the way down, and the fur that tickled your vulnerable soft flesh had already been wet with your drippings.
Can you stay just like that for me, princess?
You’d nodded, too dazed and pleased to bother considering his question with any depth, still keeping your wide eyes locked on his as if they were lodestars and lifelines.
Then you’d felt the cool silicone nudge between your folds.
You’d gasped — hands flying to his shoulders — as the soft ring had found its way around your clit.
Missed this silly little thing, he’d gloated, eyes curving with a grin so devilish that it had called up a hellish wave of heat through your whole body. Wanna spoil her now.
The air-pulse had started soft as a butterfly-kiss, and you’d all but dissolved atop him: every halfhearted protest softening, every nervous muscle turning buttery. A breathy little sound had passed through your parted lips, like a wish or a love-confession whispered into the late-night shadows. Your eyelashes had drifted dreamily closed before you’d forced them open again, your gaze finding his and clinging.
That’s it, sweetheart, he’d purred, and his eyes had been so warm. Approving or admiring or affectionate, or maybe all of the above. Melt for me. Wanna feel you dripping all over my frickin’ lap.
Languidly, you’d begun to rock against him, only for him to levy a pinch to your ass that had made you yelp and jump.
Told you to stay just like that. No moving till I say.
The air-pulse had kicked up a level. You’d flinched at the sudden increase in speed and pressure, like a little tongue carefully flicking against your clit. How had he expected you that you could possibly stay still? But you’d done it — for a while at least — biting back whimpers while the unspooled warmth in your belly had begun to spiral into a tight tangle of need. You’d let your eyes turn pleadingly down to his.
Didn’t I tell you not to hold back your sounds with me? The fingers of his free hand had skimmed your jaw, then tweaked one nipple so viciously that you’d jumped and cried out.
Tsk. He’d clicked against his teeth, and pressed the button again. The tongues of air had begun to batter at your poor clit now, and the muscles of your thighs had started to tremble with tightness. What he hadn’t understood — or so you’d thought — was that if you allowed yourself the freedom to moan and whine and groan the way your body begged to, you wouldn’t be able to hold back its movements either. You’d be squirming all over his lap, trying desperately to ride both him and the toy he’d had pressed between your thighs.
Or maybe he had known, you’d realized. Maybe he’d known, and just wanted to taunt you with it.
It would have certainly seemed on-brand.
So you’d given in, loosening a little gasping sound. Your pussy had immediately clenched, a new wave of wetness glossing over both of you. You’d been unable to prevent the little wriggle of your hips against him — or your yelp when he’d punished you with another stinging pinch on the tender curve of your ass, and another press of the button. You could feel the suction between pulses now — tugging gently at your bundle of nerves while your pussy had clutched pleadingly on the dick nestled inside you. Your body had known that you could find the perfect friction if he would only let you ride that perfectly-curved cock — had craved it in a way that made sweat prickle out on your skin in a shimmer of stars.
Rocket, you’d panted. Can I move now? Rocket — please, can I move?
He’d grinned, then tongued the scalloped-edges of your bra — right at mouth level for him. His teeth had pinched delicately at one nipple through the lace, and the sight of it had your hips bucking against him, like a dazzled string of light had been tied from your breast right to your tortured clit. Inside you, the curve of his dick had bumped and pressed against the spongy spot of nerves just a few inches deep, and your vision had blurred as you’d cried out.
Didn’t say yes, princess.
And the vibrator had worked faster.
The pulses had been pulling at you now: battering your little clit, tugging and flicking. Your pussy was squeezing so tightly that your thighs had begun to ache with the effort of holding still, and every time you’d squirmed, his cock had scraped against that spot till you’d seen the glittering haze of fireworks, just out of reach. You’d managed to dredge up an accusing, pitiful glare for him, but he’d only chuckled and smirked, and pressed the button again. The mewl that spun out over your lips had been nothing but neediness, and your thighs had started shaking with the work of keeping yourself steady when all you’d wanted was to writhe and twist on him.
Please, you’d begged then, desperate. You’d known, instinctively, that don’t move had also meant don’t come.
Please what? His voice had been silky and amused, and a whine had pitched high in your mouth as the intensity of the toy on your clit had gone up another level. You must have been so swollen, you’d thought vaguely — so wet you could feel his fur sticking to your thighs, all the way down to where the dimples of your inner knees were pinched open by his hipbones. Please let you fuck me? he’d prompted.
Uh-huh. Your words had been a desperate, breathy warble. Please let me fuck you. Please.
His grin had been lazy and sharp in the dim light. Sure you can, princess. Go ahead and make yourself come all over me.
You’d bucked artlessly at his words, keening softly at the freedom before your thighs had lifted you: rolling your hips forward and upward, then backward and down in a desperate, arching motion. His free hand had lazily massaged your hip, as if he were interpreting your next move through your flexing and releasing — as if you were dancers, and he was benevolently letting you show him where you’d planned to take the next step. Maybe he had been, because despite the frantic pitch of your movements, the vibrator hadn’t stopped sucking at your soft, swollen clit. Your fingers had curled and knotted in the fur over his shoulders and you’d fought to keep your eyes open and on his.
C’mon, sweetheart. Despite the languid touch of his hand and the lazy way he’d kept the toy pressed between your folds, the words had been less of a purr than usual. Instead, he’d gritted them between his clenched teeth, as if he’d been struggling almost as much as you. You’d been distantly aware of him shifting — bending his knees behind you, bracing himself against his feet. His hips had bounced up against you as you’d ridden him: slamming deeper inside you, rattling the broken breath in your lungs, carving shallowly against that spot that kept bringing flares of sparks into your eyes. You don’t gotta hold back anymore. Come for me—
The heat inside you had flared, and then detonated: cascading strontium-red fireworks — as scarlet as rubies and fire and his eyes — and the gold and champagne sizzle of iron and titanium. Every cell inside you had sparked and scalded, scorching the edges of your vision, silvering it out with tears. Your thighs had clamped tight as you’d arched and keened, but he’d held your hips steady as he’d continued to drive up into you, forcing new sparks behind your eyes every time he scraped that soft spot inside you.
That’s my girl, he’d hissed through gritted teeth. Hang on, princess.
Your body had bucked and twisted with every pulse of the vibrator, and you’d hiccuped on a sob, tugging at his fur with pleading fingers as your clit twitched with overstimulation bordering on bright pain.
Please — Rocket — too much—
His hips had driven up against yours — narrow and unbelievably powerful, hoisting you up onto your knees as he’d come inside you, sticky and warm. The groan through his teeth had reverberated through his chest, up into the shoulders still pressed tight under your twisting fingers. Your thighs had hugged his hips as the toy had plucked and sucked and stung you, and another orgasm had been ripped from you: weaker than the first, but bright and sharp nonetheless, sucking all the air from your lungs, curving you into a crescent moon against him.
Rocket — please — take it away—
He’d eased his hips as you’d fisted his fur, tears spilling down your cheeks freely as your body continued to ripple and pulse with the vibrator’s pressurized air.
Rocket—
He hadn’t moved it from your body, though. Instead, he’d tapped the second button, taking the intensity down a few settings — and then a few more, until the toy was only purring gently against you: soothing you from the bright bite of overstimulation and into soft, comforting little kisses to your clit. You’d melted against him all over again. When your head had dropped in exhaustion, you’d brushed one teary cheek against the fur splayed at the top of his head, and he’d pressed his nose and the tip of his tongue and teeth into worshipful nibbles along your breasts. Slowly — finally — he’d eased the toy away, turning it off and tossing it gently to one side. Your hands had loosened from his shoulders, coasting up to his narrow jaw — tilting his face upward.
Can I kiss you? The words had been a breathy, sleepy plea, and you’d felt him go still — pulse pounding somewhere under your palms and all that fur. His eyes had turned up to yours, wide and strangely vulnerable.
I don’t — you mean, like humies?
You’d shaken your head. No. Like us.
His eyes had softened, and then he’d licked his teeth — nervously, you’d thought — and nodded.
Yeah. Okay.
You’d sprinkled tender, closed-mouth kisses against the tip of his nose and the soft velveteen fur at the base of his bristling whiskers. Your thumbs had stroked the corners of his mouth: his delicate dark lips, warm and thin. When his mouth had parted, you’d licked carefully over his teeth, tracing the trail you’d often seen his own tongue take. His whiskers had twitched against your fingers, and when his tongue had touched yours, it had felt more tentative than anything else he’d ever been willing to show you. He’d tasted like the ghost of his spiced rum, and the same vague citrus you’d caught in the fragrance of his fur. And beneath that, there’d been an alpine freshness, so clear and cool that you’d only wanted more. You’d made a tender little noise and let your own tongue tangle with his, opening your lips wider so he could curl inside and taste the silkiness of your mouth if he’d wanted.
It had taken a second of uncertainty, but he’d accepted your invitation — humming at the flavor of you, sweet and bright on his tongue. He’d licked carefully inside your mouth — delicate and rasping — and when he’d moved to retreat, you’d nipped playfully at him, and a low growl had rumbled up from where your palms had fallen lightly against his chest.
Don’t tease, he’d rasped out. Not unless you wanna be pinned under me with that toy on your little pearl for the rest of the night.
You’d laughed, and dropped another kiss on the edge of his mouth. Maybe that doesn’t sound so bad, you’d said lightly, and kissed his nose again. He’d sputtered something, his hands squeezing your ass again as you’d wriggled yourself off of him, squeaking and scurrying to snatch fresh towels when your combined fluids had begun slipping down your thighs.
Are you staying? you’d asked as he’d mopped his fur clean in the bathroom. His hands had stilled and stuttered briefly at the question, ears flattening. I mean, I’d like you to.
He’d blinked up at you, ears crushed downward against his skull. You want me to stay?
The incredulity in his voice had your heart half-stammering in your chest, and you’d tried to quell the sudden uncertainty.
You stayed last time, you’d reminded him gently, with a one-shouldered shrug and a wistful half-smile — perching yourself on the edge of the tub. There’s — we were too busy last time, but we can watch the ball-drop Pete told you about. I’m sure it’s streaming on something. You’d hummed a hopeful note, trying not to let your self-consciousness intrude on the moment. I mean — yes. Yes, I’d really like you to stay. If you want to.
You’d been surprised when his eyes had closed. His nose had flared softly and the flat line of his ears had softened, and something in the set of his shoulders and the sway of his tail had relaxed. He’d turned and tucked the towel in the hamper, then faced you. His carnelian gaze had trailed you from your toes to your hair, pausing to take in the shy clench of your knees and your fists. When his eyes had held your own, there’d been something soft in them.
I want to, princess. Of course I frickin’ want to.
He’d swallowed as if he were the nervous one, even while your eyes had widened and a delighted smile had unfurled in your lips.
Yeah, okay, he’d said, as if he were trying to convince himself that it was a good idea. I’ll stay. His ears had flicked. What’s a ball-drop?
The two of you had ended up making a nest of the living room floor: cushions pulled off the couch, pillows and blankets dragged from the bedroom and linen closet. You’d found a livestream of Times Square while he’d made you both drinks from the bottle of Stroh 160 you’d bought him again this year: just a splash of rum in coke for you, and the rest of the bottle for himself. He’d nestled into the cushions beside you, and you’d tucked the blankets around him before taking your drink from his hand. Still naked, you’d curled into him, garlanding one arm around him to stroke your fingers through the fur of his flank. The television screen had shown a modest crowd of people: reduced in numbers and cheers from previous years, perhaps, but there just the same. The jewel-bright ball had glowed like a ruby-studded sun atop its spire, and the light from the screen had painted both you and Rocket in shiny chrome shadows and gold champagne.
We could go in-person next year, if you want, you’d offered, your lips and breath stirring the soft fur on his belly as you’d snuggled into his flank. It’s not that far away.
You’d felt more than seen the upward float of his hand. Cautiously — hesitantly — it had hovered in the shadows for a moment before lightly coming to rest on your cheek. One claw — rounded now, you’d realized suddenly, as if he’d filed it before coming to see you — had stroked the line of your brow. Petted you. You’d shivered, and when you’d glanced up at him, you’d seen the brief flash of a perplexed curl in his brow, smoothed almost too quickly for you to be sure it had been there.
No need, he’d scoffed. Too many humies. He’d paused — lifted his other hand to take a swallow of rum straight from the bottle. This is fine, he’d added after a moment. I like this just as good.
Something sweet had fluttered inside you.
Did you mean what you said earlier?
You hadn’t meant to ask, but now it was out there: the words painted onto the late-night shadows. Somehow, they had seemed less gray this year, tinted instead with colors you’d never known could hide in the darkness before. Smoky violets; and smudgy wisps of blue.
‘Bout what? he’d asked, and for once there’d been nothing cagey or cautious in the question. Beneath the blankets, his tail had tickled lazy paintbrush-strokes over your bare breasts and belly.
About liking this better than anything else in the galaxy? A grin had curved the corner of your mouth. If someone had asked, you’d have told them how startling it was — to find yourself feeling so light. To be able to tease and play again. Or is that just something you tell all the people you sleep with?
He’d snorted. His hand had dropped from your brow so he could loop his arm behind your head and around one shoulder.
M’not exactly wasting time telling ‘em anything, he’d drawled, with a sardonic tilt in his brow.
You’d wondered if you would feel jealous — knowing he’d had other partners. But your rational mind had recognized that a once-a-year fling was hardly grounds for exclusivity — no matter the fact that your own pussy had decided there was only one person worth getting wet for. And besides, even if he had only been gloating about how thoroughly he’d been fucking those nameless others, something about the way he’d said it — as if you were the only person whose company he’d enjoyed outside of the orgasms — had felt strangely comforting.
Don’t much sleep with ‘em, either, he’d admitted — but this time, he hadn’t sounded roguish or teasing. If anything, his voice had come out with uncertainty at the edges. Most always — before this — it was just: get them off, get myself off, get out.
He’d gone quiet. His prickling claws had traced your shoulder in the dark, drawing constellations to little freckles or beauty spots or scars that only he could see in the midnight-dark and silvery television-glow. When he’d spoken again, the words had been chewed and reluctant — the corner of his mouth carving into a grimace.
To be honest, haven’t actually done a lot of fucking at all since last time, with you.
Your breath had stilled in your lungs, waiting behind your ribs. Every delicate bone in your body had been woven from trepidation and uncertainty — and something lighter. Hope, maybe. Though what you’d been hoping for had been a mystery, really. What, that this raccoon-shaped alien — this Guardian of the Galaxy — might want to become your monogamous once-a-year fuckbuddy? That you might become intergalactic lovers, sharing dreams and miseries and orgasms across the stars?
The truth is, he’d said slowly, every truth scraping up from his throat in a way that had sounded raw rather than just rasping. His claws had skittered anxiously against your polished skin. The truth is, I can prob’ly count on both hands the number of people who treated me like a person when they first met me, and not like some kinda — animal. Pete — I try to make allowances for him, on account of apparently there’s a Terran animal that looks a lot like me, but even most of my friends…
He’d faltered.
There’s Groot and his dad. Nebs and Yondu. Thor. Banner, surprisingly. Lylla, Teefs, and Floor. And —
His carnelian eyes had found yours in the darkness, lambent and quiet and thoughtful.
And you.
It had wrenched your heart — twisted it right into a knot behind your sternum, stinging and aching and at the same time, so very full. You’d wanted to be special to him, but not — not because so many others had been unkind, or slow to realize how wonderful he was.
You’d slipped from under his arm and pulled yourself up onto your knees, leaning toward him in the dark.
Of course you’re a person, you tell him urgently. You were the very first one to recognize my — my losses, and to honor them. You did it even before I did. That’s the most — the most profoundly personish thing you can do. That’s — connection. Compassion.
His eyes had widened on you in the dark. I ain’t—
You are, you’d interrupted. Plus, all the stuff you’re doing for the Avengers, and the galaxy as a whole—
Look, princess, he’d interrupted. That’s all purely mercenary. A guy’s gotta get paid to keep himself in food and fuel—
Oh, you’d interrupted right back, your voice wry and cynical. The Avengers are paying you?
He’d sputtered, and you’d allowed yourself a triumphant grin.
That’s what I thought, you’d practically crowed. You care, Rocket. About the whole galaxy. That’s a person-thing to do.
Well, he’d huff, it’s just ‘cause I’m— His voice had cracked. Softened. It’s just ‘cause I’m one of the idiots who lives in it.
You’d waved him off, wiggling on your hands and knees — eager, playful, and utterly unaware of how cute you were being. Unaware of how his eyes watched you — not only with uncertainty and bafflement, but also with a kind of longing, a kind of yearning disbelief.
But the strongest evidence I have for your personhood, you’d said, and your voice had taken on a teasing lilt. His eyes had been so wide — almost fearful, as if any additional kindness tumbling out of your mouth might undo him. —the reason I am most certain you are a person…
…is how annoyed you were at the bar that first night.
Your eyes had sparkled, all mischievous and light. You’d roughened your voice, trying to mimic him.
Where’s the frickin’ fireworks and explosions? The pretty girls in short skirts? Why is this booze so frickin’ weak?
Whatever tremulousness and tenderness had risen in Rocket’s chest like a breakable glass bubble had suddenly popped into a shower-spray of glitter and fizz, and he’d laughed. Not a snicker or a chortle or a cackle — just a genuine laugh, from deep in his belly. He could probably count on both hands the number of times that had happened — fewer still since the Snap — and almost all of them had happened with you.
Get over here, you frickin’ brat, he’d rasped, still chuckling. He’d tackled you around your middle, hauling you where he’d wanted you in the wreath of cushions and quilts: on your side, tucked between his legs — with your head cushioned on his belly, just low enough to protect you from the hard edges of his prosthetic ribs and ports. The light of the television screen had flickered out over you both, coating both your skin and his fur in a dense silver glow.
But you hadn’t been done with him. You’d nuzzled into the soft fur of his belly.
Of course you’re a person, you’d told him quietly as the ball began to drop over New York City. I knew it the moment I first saw you.
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DECEMBER 31, 2020. 21:27 EST.
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I’ll meet you there again next year. You know — if nothing changes.
When Rocket had arrived at the bar this time, he’d already been grinning — a smirk tucked into the corner of his mouth like he’d brought it just for you. Someone had replaced the rumpled gray holiday decorations with new ones: nothing fancy — just fresh new paper and foil along with some dangling styrofoam globes, sequined in champagne-gold, that had mimicked the mirror-balls in far classier joints.
You’d felt yourself brighten at the very sight of him, the bottle of Stroh 160 already waiting on the bartop and a half-drunk cocktail cradled in your hands. The crowd had been a little louder this year, a little more jovial: melancholy tempered by unseasonal blossoms of healing, like early crocuses pushing up through the snow.
The two of you had camped out at the old Wurlitzer again, with a pile of quarters you’d paid out at the grocery store for three days earlier. He’d filled you in on his adventures over the past year: outrageous stories that upgraded Nebula fully to friend-status, and sprinkled in a new stranger named Kraglin — and someone called Cosmo, and someone called Howard, and a loose federation of space-pirates called Ravagers. He’d surprised you into bursts of muffled giggles while he’d performed impressions of a snooty queen with skin like gold, whom he’d referred to in a pitchy sneer as the Her Royal Frickin’ Majesty, the High Priestess. Each character he’d smirkingly described had seemed more outrageous than the last, until you’d nearly spit your cocktail against the jukebox thanks to a mouthful of laughter.
He‘d gone on to recount all the silly things that Nat had sent him to deal with on Earth, and wildly outlandish things that Danvers had delegated to him in space — because, he’d claimed, Captain Marvel over here thinks dealin’ with the riffraff is frickin’ beneath her. He’d described the alien gambling dens and casinos he’d frequented with Nebula between missions. He’d told you about a planet caught within a network of wormholes where the ruler had forced everyone to play games to the death, and another where all the people were pink-skinned and gorgeous, and another that wasn’t a planet at all, but a giant floating skull in the stars.
But underneath it all — lacing it all together with champagne silk — are the little bits of story he doesn’t seem to dwell on: the lives saved, the aid given, the despots deposed, the food distributed, the oppressors overthrown. Power vacuums had opened up across the cosmos with the force of Thanos’ Snap, with new and worse villains stepping in to fill the voids — there’d been planets and space-stations and star-systems everywhere with people who had needed supplies or saving — and Rocket had stepped in. Rocket, and Nebula, and their hazy collection of sometimes-allies and occasional associates.
God. You’d thought you might love him.
It’s stupid — you’d told yourself that as soon as the idea had formed like a snowflake in your mind. You’ve only interacted with him three times, each a year apart. But you had both been so wounded and broken-apart in that first meeting — seeing each other at your lowest and most hollow. In some ways, you’ve healed together: parallel and in unity, intertwined but rarely touching — like spiraling comets and binary stars, drawn into each other’s orbits again and again, shining light into each other’s darkest places.
So you’d tucked the thought away — fleeting and lace-delicate, like an ice-crystal — and you’d laughed with him, and you’d sipped rum with him, and when he’d finally played your sad shared New Year’s song, you’d clinked your glass to his bottle of rum.
To mom, to dad, to Gamora and Groot. To Lylla and Teefs and Floor and Yondu. To all the people we aren’t getting back.
Safe in your half-shadowed apartment, you’d paused on your way to the bedroom.
Wait, wait, you’d told him, laughing as he’d tried to herd you down the hallway with quick slaps to your ass, watching it jiggle with a filthy leer. Wait, I got you something—
His ears had flattened — just a brief flicker, uncertainty chased by intrigue — and he paused before levying another quick tap to your ass-cheek, just because. Oh yeah, sweetheart? Show me.
You’d skirted him with a beatific smile, opening the coat-closet to pull out a sleek wool peacoat in plush midnight-blue. Warm, and far too fancy for the anonymous four-year-old that the store had intended it for. Certainly, it had been nicer than anything you’d been willing to purchase for yourself. But the expense had been worth it, because Rocket’s crimson-topaz eyes had gone wide at the sight of it — then greedy. He’d opened the coat on the hanger where you’d dangled it: palming the fancy satin lining, soaking up the luxury of the fabrics — memorizing the careful stitching in the seams.
Just in case you didn’t want to keep wearing the puffy one, you’d explained, glancing over at the small heap of nylon and stuffing, stained at the cuffs with engine-grease and tossed over the arm of your sofa. It should be just as warm, and I think it’ll go well with your scarf—
His eyes had flicked up to yours — then to the banner of red sprawled next to his old stolen coat. It had always seemed a study in contrast to you: how nice the scarf was — how preciously-guarded — compared to the ratty kid’s coat that Rocket had stolen before you’d reunited last year.
It’s — it’s Pete’s, he’d admitted. He left the — the scarf and the zune in his bunk. I ain’t — I haven’t touched anything else. Left it all exactly the way it was, for when they come back. But…
His voice had crumbled at the end, like old ruins and haunted pasts. Seasonal midnight, midwinter ghosts, tattered and chained. You’d hesitated, then reached out — fluttered your fingers lightly over the fur between his ears.
I’m sure he’ll be glad they’re being put to good use, you’d said softly. That you’re taking care of them for him — for when he comes back.
He’d stared up at you with those gorgeous jeweled eyes — suddenly set in silver, gleaming with unshed tears.
Here, you’d coaxed gently, taking the peacoat off the hanger. Let’s see if it fits?
You’d knelt and helped him into it, arm by arm. The cut had perhaps been a little too long — but the midnight-wool had hugged his shoulders perfectly, and the bronze-brindled silver of his fur had gleamed against the coat’s deep, plush blue.
May I? you’d asked him, reaching slowly for the scarf. He’d swallowed and nodded, and you’d lifted the swath of beautiful red fabric in reverent hands, garlanding it carefully around his neck. The cloth had been soft and sleek, like silk-woven cashmere — light and thin as pashmina, faintly glossy under your palms as you’d smoothed it against Rocket’s chest. The peaked lapel of his coat had made him seem even broader from shoulder-to-shoulder, and the scarf had lengthened the line of his body, too. His eyes had shone: still glassy with memories and wistfulness, and as glowing-garnet as the scarf itself. He’d dashed the back of his hand against his eyes, then scrubbed at the end of his nose.
Well? he’d demanded raspily. What’d you think?
Your lip had trembled. You’d wanted to wrap him in your arms — offer him some sort of comfort. But that clearly wasn’t what he’d wanted in the moment — and you’d figured that you would have all night to give him that. So you’d exhaled out all your worry, and let a soft huff of laughter tremble on your lips instead.
Oh, you’d teased, though your voice had been reedy and faint. I knew you were handsome, but this…
His eyes had darted back to yours, and he’d swallowed — all vulnerability — before wrangling up a smirk.
Well, princess — I just happened to bring you a present too.
He might’ve intended his gift to be used in your bedroom, but the two of you never made it that far on that night. Instead, he’d hung up his new coat and Pete’s scarf. His fingers had lingered over the lapel, possessive and savoring, before his eyes had floated to yours: soft, and strangely wondering.
Then something in them had shifted: turning so fierce that you’d thought at first that he was angry — that he was furious.
Get me a towel, princess.
You’d blinked at him, shifting nervously from foot to foot. A… a towel?
He’d nodded, teeth flashing in something close to a snarl. We’re gonna need one for what I’m about to do to you.
Dazzled — too bewildered to put it together but spurred on by his intensity — you’d gone and pulled an old bath-towel from your narrow linen closet. It had only taken a second, but by the time you’d returned, he’d already knocked his old coat off the couch and onto the floor. He’d taken the towel from your hands, draping it over the arm of the sofa and nearby cushions — then pulled a palm-sized device out of one of the pouches in his jumpsuit. You’d barely been able to track his fleeting fingers as they’d moved: snapping the machine open, unfolding it into something small and vaguely saddle-shaped that lay heavily atop the arm of the couch. It was another toy, you’d realized. One he’d made — too enticed by your air-pulse vibrator to not want to turn his own technological talents toward crafting something he could convince you to play with.
Got lots of ideas, he’d admitted with a smirking arch to his brow. This one’s just the first.
You’d stared at it, then at him — then run your finger carefully over the velvety material. It hadn’t been silicone, exactly, but made of something similar — and you had already been able to see how it had been meant to fit the contours of your body. There were a series of soft, sleek little bumps meant to brush and tickle your clit, and a ridge you’d been sure had been intended to sit snugly in the cleft of your cunt, taunting your pussy with friction. Finally, there’d been a softly-pointed little nub in back, which you’d realized after a moment would tease your ass.
He’d thought of everything.
Coasting your fingers over the toy he’d made — one perfectly, thoughtfully designed, just for your torment — had your thighs clenching desperately, pussy aching to be filled.
Strip, he’d purred.
You’d been wanting him since he’d walked into the bar — of course — but his order to undress in the living room had your panties dampening immediately. You’d rushed to slip out of your clothes, fumbling with the new set of inexpensive but pretty undergarments you’d bought for this year.
Rocket had leaned against the armchair, watching you with smugness painted onto his sharp teeth and glowing in his firework-eyes.
Well, princess? he’d drawled. His eyes had gleamed, predatory in the blue-violet night. Get on your frickin’ throne.
Hesitantly — heated already, with both the decadence and the embarrassment of stripping and straddling the arm of your couch, right there in your living room — you’d obeyed. The machine had purred to life beneath you, and you’d stifled a squeal when the sensations had rolled through you: the featherlight pressure against your clit, the rumbling vibration against your soft cunt — the quivering tickle against your ass. Your knees had slammed together with only the thin frame of the sofa between them.
Ride it for me, sweetheart, he’d drawled, and taken a long, lazy pull from the bottle of Stroh 160. He’d watched languidly through half-hooded eyes while you’d tentatively eased yourself into a small, sweet rocking motion against the arm of the sofa —one set of toes pressed to the ground and the other buried in couch-cushions as you’d tried to give yourself leverage. The grinder had purred beneath you, nudging against every sweet spot you’d had.
Nebs kept asking what it was, he’d told you conversationally, a curve in the corner of his mouth. Your movement had stuttered with self-consciousness — a wave of heat and embarrassment tangling within your belly, feeding off each other, swelling and tightening. You’d dripped down the toy he’d made you.
She — she saw you working on it? you’d stammered, your eyes finding his across the small room. He’d grinned indolently, swirling what was left of his rum in the bottom of his bottle.
She did. The grin had grown wider. I told her it was a present for the pretty Terran slut I keep visiting every three quarters.
You’d tried not to mewl your mortification, eyes wide and cheeks so hot that you’d been sure you’d glowed. He must’ve done something — had a controller in his pocket or palm, perhaps — because the thing between your thighs had intensified its rolling, rumbling vibration. Your mew had turned into a moan, palms anchored to the arm of the chair as your rocking motion had turned a shade more frantic.
You didn’t — you didn’t really say that?
The smirk had widened. Not ‘xactly — but maybe I should’ve, huh? His voice had turned dangerous and smoky. Maybe you want me to let everyone know how pretty an’ desperate you look when you’re fucking yourself on my hands, on my dick — on whatever I want you to fuck yourself on.
Maybe you want them all to know you’re my pretty Terran slut, who lets me play with her all night.
The heat in your cheeks and chest had been painful, and the bright coil of pure, silvery-hot gold in your tummy had been painful, too — tight enough to snap. You’d shaken your head: a feverish no.
Don’t know if I believe you, princess, he’d mocked, his eyes trailing you up and down. You know, I admit I’m not generally one to fuck-an’-tell — but d’you know how hard it is to not brag about you? I gotta tell somebody how your tits bounce when you’re riding my dick. Better yet, when you’re tryin’ to rub that needy pearl of yours on something. Go on, little slut. Keep riding.
You’d obeyed, lashes fluttering closed as your head had tipped back, clit pressed desperately to the vibrating nubs. Your pussy had convulsed, weeping with the ache of being teased but unfulfilled, riding the soft ridge of silicone-like material — and your asshole had clenched and quivered each time the toy had nudged against it. Stardust and champagne had started to gather at the corners of your vision, turning everything a pale silvery-gold. A long, low whine had escaped your lips and your hips had hitched and bucked, propelling you back and forth, desperate to find the perfect amount of friction — you’d felt your breasts jiggling and bouncing, just how he’d described—
He’d whistled, low and approving. That’s my girl.
Another swallow of rum.
Could sell tickets.
The tense knot of fireworks, waiting to be lit in your belly, had suddenly ignited all at once: bright hot blushing-gold burning across your cells; countless scintillating, strontium-scarlet meteorites as hot as his eyes. Each spark had scorched you — obliterated you. Your knees and knuckles had clamped — all your muscles stunned into a mindless, keening arch — as you’d rode out the simmering shower of embers and cinders and sparks.
By the time your body had swayed back into consciousness, you’d had to blink hazy, star-blinded, tear-sequined lashes at him. At some point, he must have dialed back the toy to a lazy, meandering hum beneath you, and you’d had to try not to whine and wiggle against it as soon as you’d realized it.
That’s my girl, he’d purred again. You’re so pretty when you’re all fucked-out. Now— He’d swallowed down the rest of his rum. You stay there. I’m gonna go find another drink in the kitchen.
He’d twitched a hand in one of his pockets and the grinder had roared to life, no longer just vibrating but jumping beneath you at intervals: thumping against your clit and asshole, shuddering against your cunt. You’d squealed, knees and hands digging into the sofa-arm as the toy had thudded against you relentlessly.
And don’t you dare frickin’ come without me, he’d added over his shoulder.
It had been something close to an hour before he’d finally fucked you, preferring — for tonight, at least — to watch you make use of the toy he’d made. And he’d been ruthless in the way he’d watched you, too: with a shit-eating smirk on his face, and an insolent amusement that had twisted your belly right up under your heart. When he’d finally decided you’d had enough, he’d unlatched his jumpsuit and rolled it down to his waist, then climbed up on the couch and gripped your hips — claws digging deep into the soft cushion of your flesh as he’d tipped you forward and kicked the toy out of the way. The grinder had thudded to the floor. Your hands had clutched frantically at the furniture as you’d tried to regain your balance in this new position, but he hadn’t been worried: hoisting your hips up easily while he’d planted one foot on the arm of the sofa behind you.
He’d rolled his jumpsuit down the rest of the way — For fuck’s sake, princess, you’re a frickin’ mess — and rubbed the head of his dick between your glossy folds, teasing you until you’d tried to buck back against him and had nearly tumbled off the couch. You’d squealed again when he’d finally plunged inside you, openly snickering at your desperation. Your spine had bowed at the sudden invasion, at the fear of gravity — at the feeling of your swollen, abused vulva, now being teased by his fur.
That’s my girl, he’d repeated, the words a dark-velvet scrape of teeth against the small of your back. Fuckin’ take it.
You’d been weeping when he’d finally come with a splintered roar, the hard hook of his cock swiveling deep inside you as he’d ground against you. You’d shattered apart in the aftermath: wailing, breaking into a hundred silvery-gold sparks set with rubies — no longer just a body full of fireworks, but the embodiment of an explosion yourself. It had only been Rocket’s quick instincts and preternatural strength that had kept you from crashing forward onto the floor. He’d wrapped his arms around your waist and hauled you with him to the side — rolling you both to the relative safety of the soft seats. Your head had still dangled off the edge of the cushions; legs tangled up against the back of the sofa, heels kissing the wall above you. The towel had been a rumpled, half-drenched mess beneath you. The two of you had both stared blankly at the ceiling — panting in unison, lungs strained and stunned and happy.
You’d cleaned yourselves with the towel before tossing it to the floor, neither of you willing to move enough to recreate last year’s nest of pillows and quilts. Instead, you’d fumbled for the remote while Rocket had pulled the oversized fleece throw off the back of the sofa, and he’d covered you both before you’d tucked him into your arms like your little spoon. You’d curled around him, fingers furrowed deep into his undercoat, and the two of you had watched the rest of the city countdown to midnight while you’d kissed in the champagne glow of the television screen.
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DECEMBER 31, 2021. 21:08 EST.
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What’s all this?
He’d looked so handsome in the blue peacoat and red scarf — and wearing something other than his usual jumpsuit underneath. His ears had tilted forward the moment he’d seen you, eyes widening before turning narrow and heated.
You’d felt your cheeks warm, but you’d only looked down at him innocently. I thought I’d do my best to give you a traditional Terran New Year.
It had helped that the bar was also clearly aiming for a more celebratory vibe this time around. Last year’s new decorations had been supplemented: little mirrored spangles and holiday lights added to the mix, gold-and-silver champagne-glass confetti sprinkled on the scarred bartop and tables. A few clusters of balloons in shimmery metallics.
But Rocket hadn’t seemed to care about the sprays of champagne and silver, glimmering in the aubergine shadows. He’d only had eyes for you — you, in your short slinky black skirt. It had been a gem of a find on clearance last summer, but you’d seen it and known that you had to have it for your annual date. Sheathed prettily in blue-black satin that squeezed and hugged your every curve, you’d shone in the bar shadows: somehow both darker and more dazzling than anything around you.
His hand had guarded your bare thigh all night: claws prickling along your hemline till your lace panties had grown damp; deft fingers pinching at plump flesh or digging evilly into the dimples of your knees from time to time. You’d flirted with him, and laughed — freely — and pulled two rolls of quarters from the pocket of your coat, and leaned against the Wurlitzer while its arched pearly glow had lit up the panes of your face, highlighting the shape of your satin-hugged breasts. Normally, Rocket would have been studying all the mechanisms inside — trying to read the internal workings of the jukebox by only the slightest of vibrations against his fingertips, kissing the cabinet. Normally, he would’ve been trying to commit every new song and sound to memory, right down to the slight skips of the needle, the soft scratches of age. But this time, his eyes had kept flicking and floating back to you — the vision of a black sapphire set against smoke-purple velvet.
The toast hadn’t lost its solemnity, of course — to mom and dad, to Groot and Gamora — to Yondu and Lylla and Teefs and Floor, and all the others we’ll never get back — set against the melancholy strains of Auld Lang Syne. But when you’d been out among the dirty stars — faint and misty behind the light pollution and the midwinter stain of clouds — everything had felt brighter than it had in a long time. Somewhere in the last few years, colors had become rich again. Your laughter had glittered on the wet pavement, trailing pristine diamond-white paths into the otherwise-dirty snow. Rocket’s light mockery had felt like home, and his low chuckles— genuine and warm — had made your palms and fingers cling to him. The old elevator had protested as loudly as ever, but neither of you had noticed it, too caught up in the sparkling haze of each other. When you’d finally gotten him in the door of your little apartment, it had been a champagne-sequined treasury of celebratory decor: last year’s decorations, purchased at a steep discount in March. Tinsel curtains had streamed from walls and doorways in rivulets of pale gold; black-sequined cloth had draped the table. You’d performed some minor surgery on the glittery chevron-banner that had swooped from the ceiling, updating it to show the upcoming year. Gold-tinted foil pom-poms had spun lazily from the lights, mimicking stars and fireworks; circles of sequin-confetti had gleamed like coins scattered across every surface. The nest in the living room had been set up the day before, topped by a glossy black chenille throw — an indulgence you shouldn’t have paid for, perhaps, but it had felt like silk midnight-clouds against your cheek. Rocket’s stare had flickered over the glimmering decor, something soft and wondering in his eyes — like they weren’t just foil and paper and glitter at all, but something profound. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the dazzle, not even while he’d slipped out of the midnight-blue wool, revealing form-fitting smoke-blue fabric below. The new clothing had hugged his body in a way his old jumpsuits never had — lengthening him, showing off the lines of his lithe muscles. You’d chewed your lip and forced your eyes away, busying yourself with pulling a homemade charcuterie board and a bottle of prosecco from the fridge. This is what fancy people eat and drink on New Year’s, you’d told him, feeling your smile blossom on your face and crinkle your eyes with stars. Sort of. The low-budget-version—
But as soon as you’d set them down on the table, he’d been pressed against your knees and thighs — herding you toward the den of blankets and pillows on the floor. A quick deft palm had struck the back of your knee and you’d stumbled, legs knocked from beneath you — but he’d slowed your yelping tumble with both hands locked in at your waist and lowering you to the ground. One booted foot had gently kicked your legs apart, though he’d snarled when they’d been restricted by the snug satin of your dress.
You hadn’t had time to adjust or wriggle out of it, though. He’d already had your skirt up around your waist and your bodice down around your ribs — straps pinning your arms to your sides — before you’d been able to so much as whimper. His shoulders had wedged themselves between your newly-freed thighs, and he’d scraped his claws against the gauzy panties over your cunt. You’d been able to feel the sharp points grazing your folds — heard the faint pop-pop of taut threads being sheared apart by his nails. Then his hands had fisted in the frail fabric and ripped — not tearing them apart at the hip like he had in the past, but shredding them right down the middle.
He’d dived into you, tongue already out and hungry. Teeth had scraped you while he’d feasted, nipping your clit again and again — squeezing dangerously while you’d begged and pleaded, trying not to buck and twist against him. He’d worked his tongue against you furiously — punishingly — until you’d curled your fingers onto the soft tufts of fur at the base of his ears, pulling his head against you — trying to ride his tongue. Your slick folds had trembled under the vibration of a furious growl.
That’s my fuckin’ girl.
You’d arched against his mouth at the words that had featured so heavily in all your fantasies over the past few years: muscles locking, pussy spasming, eyes all dazzled with sequined tears.
There we go, princess. That’s my pretty Terran slut, my good fuckin’ girl.
You’d moaned, even though your orgasm had been subsiding — restless with need at the pure admiration in his purr. He’d nuzzled against your inner thighs: tongue suddenly turned gentle and tender, laving careful, loving little licking kisses onto your clit.
Fuckin’ love this silly thing, princess.
You’d mewed, hips rolling weakly against him. I love you, you’d thought, chewing back the words just in time and tumbling them deep behind your ribs. You’d thought about it a number of times since last year — sometimes arguing with yourself over the brevity of your time together; other times, admitting just how deeply your feelings had set down their roots, despite the snow and seasons between visits. Now, the emotions — somehow hollowing and overwhelming all at once — had come shimmering brightly again to the surface, and you’d had to blink them back like tears.
Blind to the struggle going on under your skin, Rocket had leaned back slowly on his haunches, still holding your thighs wide — staring down at the mess he’d made of you between your shredded panties. Something smug had smoldered in his firework-red eyes as he’d studied you. Your knees had still been bent skyward — softly splashed with the dapples of light that had been reflected by all your foil decorations — and your tits had still been spilled out over top of your pulled-down bodice, nipples stiff and needy and untouched.
Stay there, he’d told you, and then his voice had cracked. Fuck, you’re pretty. Don’t — don’t frickin’ move.
You’d watched with hazy eyes as he’d backed up, muttering as he’d patted his hands over his new smoke-blue clothing, searching for pockets far fewer and flatter than his old jumpsuit had boasted.
Brought you somethin’, he’d muttered. Not a toy this time—
He’d spilled a small toolbox-worth of tech from a pouch that had no business carrying as much as he’d pulled out of it. You’d shifted to rise on your elbows — curiosity creasing your brow — but he’d slanted you a glare.
Told you not to move. The faintest twitch of a smirk. Want you waiting for me when I’m done.
Fresh heat had flooded your cheeks, and you’d shivered — thighs splayed and slippery, skin sheened with sweat and still-feverish. He’d opened your door — opened the door to the apartment hallway, with you essentially naked, lying half-hidden behind the sofa. You’d fought the urge to curl in on yourself, instead trying to peer over the edge of the couch. You could only see a sliver of the corridor and his dark hands as he’d unscrewed the lock-plate, slipping apart the deadbolt and the knob. Metal had clinked gently, and you‘d waited — stilled and stunned — as he’d installed something totally new.
There, he’d muttered, and the door had closed with a soft whirr and the heavy thunk of lock far sturdier than its predecessor. He’d stepped back into view in front of you — hands on hips, surveying his work. His tail had swayed behind him. Shouldn’t even need the frickin’ chain-lock anymore.
Did you just — replace my whole security system? you’d asked, awestruck and wondering. He’d turned to you — brow creased and nose twitching — as if you weren’t still sprawl and shiny-wet in front of him.
Well, it was a shit security system, he’d reasoned, suddenly sounding uncertain. Be better if we could replace the whole door. An’ the wall. I’ll show you how to work it. Another hesitant twitch of his whiskers. You upset?
Upset? No. You’d long ago resigned yourself to the unlikelihood of a return on your security deposit. No, something inside you was falling apart instead: a tumble of snowflakes, a scatter of fallen firework-ash. Your heart, you decided: crumbling and feathering away into a bright sparkle of crackling stardust and pyrotechnics, dissolved in the currents of his concern for your safety, his consideration — his thoughtfulness.
I love you, you’d thought, and realized — too late — that you’d said the words aloud this time. Lying there — naked and vulnerable, with your satin-black dress creased and crumpled around your waist; hair mussed and thighs glistening, breasts and pussy bare and waiting for him — you’d said the words aloud, and there had been no way to call them back.
Whatever had been left of your heart had plummeted.
His eyes had opened wide and he’d taken a step back — then another. You’d moved anyway, then — orders be damned. You’d scrambled upright, clamping your thighs so hard that your knees had knocked painfully together — tugging your bodice back over your breasts.
Sorry, you’d spilled out. I mean, I’m not sorry. I mean, I meant it, but I know you don’t want to hear—
You don’t love me, he’d interrupted. His voice had been so sharp that you’d thought his tongue might bleed. You’d flinched, and something in his voice had softened. Princess, you don’t. You don’t even know me.
You’d cringed — nodded, then shook your head. I know. I mean, I thought that too, at first. But then I thought — you don’t seem to know yourself that well either, if we’re being honest.
He’d reeled back at that, as surely as if you’d slapped him. What the hell do you mean by—
I just mean, you interrupted, your words rushed and tumbling, that you tell all these stories about yourself without seeming to realize what they mean. The kindness underneath them. The — the humble generosity.
He’d snorted — almost violently. I been accused of a lot of things, princess. Kindness and generousness and humblisticness ain’t any of ‘em.
They are now, you’d said stubbornly, a mutinous tilt to your jaw. But when you’d stared at him, he’d looked — tired, and torn, and nearly as mournful as that first night you’d met him. As if he’d just lost somebody new. Ice and dread had cut into your heart, hollowed your belly. I — look, you’d tried to reason. We can forget it. I’m sorry I said it. I knew you wouldn’t want — I’m sorry I said it.
His mouth had pinched at the corners, and you’d seen the skepticism in the narrowness of his eyes. You’d eased your voice into something even and quiet and calm.
Nothing has to change, Rocket.
His eyes had fluttered closed, and he’d pinched the bridge of his nose between his eyes, massaging the narrow ridge there. Unbelievable, he’d muttered, and his shoulders had sloped downward in a sigh. You’d been certain he was going to pick up his coat and go — or maybe even leave it behind, as if he’d wanted nothing more to do with you, not even some wool and thread and seams.
Instead, he’d dropped his hand — then taken a step toward you, cautious and wary. You’d gone still, holding your breath — waiting to follow his lead.
He’d eased down to his knees in the blankets beside you. Princess, he said slowly, I know I told you I’m a Guardian of the Galaxy, and all that… crap. But I haven’t always been — I mean, before that, I was nothin’. Bad news. A real selfish, piece-of-shit bounty hunter on my best days. A thief and a liar and a — a coward all the rest.
You’d stared at him, trying to read the flicker of his brow — the ways his eyes dropped, now, and the quiver at the tips of his whiskers. The straps of your dress had slouched halfway down your arms, and you’d kept one hand pressed to your breastbone to hold the bodice up — but you’d reached toward him with the other.
Come tell me, you’d urged him gently.
You’d read the reluctance in his eyes — no, the fear — but after one long, syrup-slow moment, he’d leaned toward you: melting into the cradle of your loose, one-armed embrace, letting you pull him down into the cushions and pillows.
You know, he’d started, and swallowed. You know, when we toast the people were never gettin’ back? And I always say — Lylla. And Teefs. And Floor.
Your heart had squeezed gently — sorrowfully — and you’d squeezed your arm around him in kind. Face-to-face, side-by-side in the soft clouds of fabric and fluff, you’d nodded.
In low tones, he’d told you the story of his brother and sisters: that they’d been born trapped, and innocent — oblivious to the danger they’d been in. How he’d learned of it, and tried to take them, and flee — and how he’d failed. How he’d run. Every word of his story had been more cracked and splintered than the last, like shallow ice on a deep pond. You’d listened — let the words carve themselves on your heart, in your bones. Solemnly accepted his truths into your blood, letting the rhythm of his speech find a home in your pulse.
And when he was done, you’d silently unwound Pete’s crimson scarf from his neck, and laid questioning hands on the latches and buckles of his new smoke-blue suit till he’d caught his breath and nodded. His firework-red eyes had clung to you, luminous, while you’d unfastened every button and clasp, opening the strange synthetic leather — stripping him till he was naked beside you. You’d pressed new kisses into each of his old scars, into the metal and furless flesh. He’d stared at you while you’d worshiped him, eyes haunted and aching and yearning, whiskers heavy with grief. Then he’d turned his eyes to the shadowy ceiling, and you’d slung your leg over him — body still wrapped in your slippery satin — and lowered yourself onto his cock. You’d kept the ride sweet and slow, surging gently over him — squeezing your muscles, massaging him lovingly with your pussy while you’d curled at the waist to press your reverent mouth against his forehead, his eyelids, the corners of his mouth. You’d drawn it out for him, long and lingering — trying to tell him with your body what you wouldn’t risk forcing onto him with words:
That his story had only made you more certain that you’d been right about him. That you’d loved him. That he was worthy of beautiful things.
That maybe you both were.
He’d come with a muffled groan — stifled through soft lips, eyes closed and head thrown back, throat bared. You’d curled up beside him, still tucking kisses against his bronze-brindled body. His wet eyes had overflowed onto his cheeks, creating silvery tracks under the silky-fine fur of his face, and you’d brushed your lips to those too.
For hours, you’d laid together in a honeyed dream of melancholy and memory, drifting in and out of consciousness. The pale gold streamers and garlands had floated gently in the shadows, shifting only thanks to the currents of your soft murmurs — and the quiet devotional of your mouths against each others’ flesh and fur, and the hushed whisper of your shared breaths.
.𖥔 ݁˖❆.𖥔 ݁ ˖
DECEMBER 31, 2022. 20:54 EST.
.𖥔 ݁˖❆.𖥔 ݁ ˖
You’d been waiting outside the bar in the midwinter-cold.
When your mother had become sick — a quick wasting, obvious to anyone who could bear to look — you’d worn surgical masks to protect her deteriorated immune system from your germs. You’d been wearing one tonight, too. It hadn’t occurred to you, before — to be concerned about shedding strange Earthling diseases that Rocket’s alien body might not be prepared for. But now — racked with muscle aches and chills and fevers, coughs and soreness and a squeezing, clenching brain — you’d suddenly thought how dangerous these last few years had been. You could have gotten him so sick. So you’d pulled out the half-empty box of surgical masks and strapped yourself in, intent on letting him know that you couldn’t hold up your end of the date this year, but that you’d be sure to be ready next winter.
Although — to be honest — you hadn’t even been sure he’d show up tonight. Not after your love-confession last time.
Idiot. The word had been muffled against your mask as you’d plopped on the curb, ears ringing, rubbing your fingers against each other. You should’ve worn mittens, but you hadn’t been thinking clearly since last week, when this flu bug had initially decided to make your life hell.
It’s true that your date with Rocket last year had seemed to end well, despite your massive fuck-up. He hadn’t mentioned it for the rest of the night: letting you continue your tender ministrations, then stripping you out of your black satin and tattered panties so he could return the favor. He’d seemed so strangely slow and worshipful that — days later — you’d suddenly panicked, wondering if he had intended it as goodbye-sex.
On better days, you’d convinced yourself that wasn’t the case. After all, just a few hours afterward, he’d helped you gather the charcuterie and prosecco from where they’d been abandoned on the kitchen table, and the two of you had shared prosciutto and cheese and grapes while you’d watched the enormous rhinestone-riddled ball lower itself over the city. You’d both sipped prosecco straight from the bottle, laughing softly and talking about anything but the secrets still spilled between you like a puddle of sparkling champagne.
See you next year, if nothing changes.
As if you hadn’t changed it already, by putting your silly love-confession out there. As if you hadn’t created a new vulnerability between you both — a new complication — one you’d been sure he’d never wanted to deal with in the first place.
Idiot, you’d muttered again.
You talkin’ about me or you?
You’d whipped around, startled, as he’d strolled up. The sudden movement had your head spinning, neck and shoulders aching. You’d closed your eyes on a flinch.
Me, probably, you’d said exhaustedly. You’d wanted your voice to sound warm and easy for him, as if this wasn’t a big deal. As if it didn’t wrench your heart that he’d come back after last year, only for you to turn him away. I — I’m sick. Really sick. And I don’t want to pass it to anyone in the bar, or to you. But I didn’t want you to think I just — didn’t show.
Tears had stung your tired eyes. Frankly, you should have been excited to find you still had enough moisture in your body left for it.
I’m sorry, you’d mumbled urgently, climbing fumblingly to your feet. I didn’t know how to reach you, to tell you not to waste your time this year. And — I am glad I got to see you. You’d chewed your chapped lip ragged behind the mask and swayed where you’d stood. Maybe — maybe next year?
It had sounded desolate and hopeless. What was this thing between the two of you, anyway? A bright spot to look forward to, once a year, on the caveat that it could change at any time? An unrequited love story? Something sadder?
In your better moments, you might have reassured yourself — had reassured yourself, in the aftermath of the New Year before. No matter what else — even if it had been over — your time with Rocket had opened something within you. Since the moment he’d toasted your parents on that first New Year’s Eve, he’d cracked something apart inside you. You’d been seen, and more than that — for the first time in months, you’d known you weren’t alone.
Somewhere in the broad spinning sparkling universe, you’d known someone had understood you.
Sure, you’d done the slow work of healing yourself. No-one could take that away from you, or give credit elsewhere. But you’re sure it would have taken longer if you’d had to do it on your own — assuming that it would have ever even been sparked inside you at all. And you’d tried to be the same thing for him: a haven where he could be understood, a friend who could share his grief until there was space inside him for something else.
You’re sick? The question had been sharp — sharper than you’d ever heard him, except for maybe that first night, before you’d shared sorrows at the bartop. What’s wrong? You okay?
He’d lurched toward you across the wet pavement, and you’d staggered back a step, waving both hands in protest.
Just a bad flu, you’d explained. I’ll be fine in another week or so. I have — meds and stuff at home. I just don’t want to pass it to you. I don’t know what kind of antibodies you have—
But he’d already cut you off with a snort. Any decent space-adventurer gets their universal vaccine updated once a multicalendar year, he’d said with a wave, his eyes narrow on you when you’d backed up another step. Standard Terran viruses are covered. He’d advanced again, and this time you’d held still — foggy brain trying to make sense of his words and actions.
If anything, he’d added with a grimace, we probably should’ve made sure to get you one, so you wouldn’t catch anything from me.
Bewilderment had risen around you like balloons, brow and mouth both perplexed as you’d stared down at him.
We keep extras on the ships, in case we gotta pick up refugees from some place, he’d explained. He’d been moving toward you now — looking almost cautious himself. Worried, even — as if he was concerned by your confusion, your dazed slow responses. You’d jumped when one of his dark-clawed hands had curled around your own.
Let’s get you home, princess.
Later, you won’t remember if he’d hailed the cab or if you had, nor will you remember riding up the rickety elevator together. What you will remember are the flashes of Rocket’s quick dark hands: unbuttoning your jeans and shimmying them off your legs — helping you out of your hoodie and bra. Folding your arms into an old t-shirt he’d apparently deemed soft enough for you to sleep in. You’d blinked hazily, confused at finding yourself horizontal — too tired to be bothered to figure it out when your head had been pillowed so gently in his lap, and his careful claws had skated delicately against your hairline, just over your temple. It had been the first comfort you’d felt in days, and you’d only wished for the strength to nuzzle deeper into his warmth and the rum-citrus smell of him. You’d melted in and out of dreams, only occasionally aware of the nest of blankets he’d built around you both.
Wake up, sweetheart. Gotta eat something.
He must’ve found the stash of juice you’d had delivered along with a bounty of flu meds, because when you’d finally blurred open exhausted eyes, he’d had a bowl full of broth perched on the endtable beside you, along with some crackers he must’ve discovered in a back-corner of your pantry. You’d nibbled out exhausted apologies, making more of a meal from your I’m sorries than you had from the crackers and soup. His rolled eyes and scoffing had been at odds with the light way his claws had lingered on you: sweeping your brow, brushing your shoulder.
Shut up. Keep apologizin’ and you’ll convince me to regret it.
Still, his fingers had kissed reassurance against your collarbone, then the back of your hand.
You’d drifted in and out all day, surprised each time you’d awoken to find him still there — knuckles skating across your cheek, or a new plate of light food and juice sitting in front of you. Once, you’d heard him talking to someone who wasn’t there.
I ain’t leavin’ yet, Nebs. Danvers can wait one frickin’ rotation — it ain’t that critical.
It hadn’t occurred to you — the impact that just not having to do everything for yourself might have. Your body had soaked up the extra time to rest: muscle aches slowly melting away, head no longer feeling like cotton. When you’d finally returned to full consciousness, it had been late in the dusk of January second. For a moment, you’d been certain that you were alone again. It hadn’t even hurt, to be honest — you’d been amazed he’d come home with you in the first place, taken care of you for so long.
But then you’d heard a soft clatter in the kitchenette — the same muffled cursing that had greeted you that first morning-after, years earlier. Even through your lingering congestion, you’d been able to smell something cozy and warm that you couldn’t quite place — but it had reminded you of old comfort foods from your childhood. You’d rolled yourself slowly off the bed, pausing to rest once you’d sat up. Your bare feet had flexed against the floor, anchoring you — then you’d padded slowly down the short hallway, till you could peek around the corner and into the kitchenette.
Rocket had been standing on a chair that he must have dragged over to the stove. Half-a-dozen opened boxes had been stacked on the countertop, like he’d routed through your inventory of cheap mac-and-cheese and canned soups to create something totally new. The scents of spices and broths had warmed each other — curled together deliciously, filling the little apartment.
And he’d been humming — a gravelly low melody, like salted blacktop roads and dark snowy nights. Like gunpowder and pepper. Something in you had hollowed and then refilled, overflowing with softness and adoration and tears. He’d been so wrong, last year. Of course he’d been wrong — too blinded by his own proximity to be aware of just how deeply lovable he truly was. And of course you’d loved him — probably for even longer than you’d realized.
The humming had rumbled to a halt, and his ears had swiveled back, but he hadn’t turned from the stove.
You shouldn’t be up, he’d said to the fragrant air. But since you are — d’you think you can eat somethin’ solid?
Your stomach had grumbled your response, and he’d shot you a grin over one shoulder.
Go back to bed. I’ll bring you food in a minute.
It had been a strange meal, but delicious and comforting. Cheesy and creamy, with noodles and just enough spice to warm your belly gently.
Used to make Groot something like this when he wasn’t feeling well, Rocket had admitted. Now it’s Nebs’ favorite post-hangover meal.
You’d snorted softly — your first laugh in days — and then sighed with contentment.
Thank you for staying, you’d breathed out. The words had floated between you, light and airy. You didn’t have to.
He’d palmed the back of his neck, eyes darting away — to the frosted window, collecting snowflakes in the corners. The layered January dusk — jewel-toned these days, and no longer as gray as you’d remembered from years past — had seeped into the edges of your apartment in a hundred shades of amethyst and ink-blue.
M’gonna hafta go in the morning, prob’ly while you’re still sleeping, he’d admitted from his perch on your bed. The words had been dragged from him, reluctant and scowling. Danvers wants our help with something. He’d grimaced. She’s already gonna be a pain-in-the-ass about me not dropping everything to come running this morning—
You can go now if you want, you’d offered, and meant it. You’ve already done so much. Heat had touched your cheeks — not a fever this time, at least. You’d toyed with the noodles in your bowl. Of course, you’re always welcome to stay, too. But I don’t want to get in your way—
Hey.
Your eyes had lifted, and he’d been staring at you with narrow ruby eyes, head tilted.
You’re a frickin’ moron if you think I’d rather be hangin’ out with Danvers over you.
In the haze of your tired mind, you’d had a hard time dredging up a true smile — but the words had warmed you nonetheless, and you’d instinctively snuggled deeper into the covers, peering at him cutely over the edge of your quilt.
I got you something, you’d said, changing the subject — wanting to hold onto the rosy coziness of his words a little longer. Perhaps being sick had been no way to start a new year — but warming yourself with his company? That could only be a good omen.
He’d blinked, his ears perking right up.
Another coat?
It had fascinated you, that he had sounded just as excited — as if he’d never received a gift before, as if he wouldn’t even have minded the repetition.
Bigger, you’d said nervously. You’d been worried, when you’d found it on ebay. How could he drag this thing back to his ship? It had been nearly half his own height — and likely an awkward carry for his smaller armspan. But you’d reminded yourself that he’d tossed you around more than once, and you were far larger and heavier than this fifteen-inch-tall machine.
Maybe it would be fine.
I’ll go get it, you’d told him, starting to untangle yourself from the bed. His finger had stopped you: the soft, leathery tip pressed against your forehead like he’d pin you to the pillows with it rather than see you get out of bed.
Tell me where it is and I’ll get it, he’d ordered. You try to eat some more.
So you’d sent him to ransack the narrow hallway closet, knowing he’d recognize his gift as soon as he’d found it. When he’d come back through the doorway, eyes wide and ears flat — with the miniature jukebox hefted in his arms — you’d wondered again if you’d made some sort of mistake.
Maybe he’d thought it was stupid. Maybe it had been too sentimental.
I — you said you liked music, you’d offered up weakly. It’s not — and you seemed so fascinated by the one at the bar. Obviously, I mean, this is smaller — and secondhand. Maybe thirdhand, actually. And — it takes CDs instead of vinyl but I got it all stocked up, with like fifty discs — which is something like five hundred songs? And we can change out the CDs with new ones when I get some more—
His eyes had grown even wider. Five hundred—?
But then he’d broken off the words, shaking his head — regret bitten between his teeth. You’d felt your stomach tumble and fall. It just have shown on your face, because the flatness of his ears had fluttered, and he’d carefully set the machine to one side, sidling up to the bed again.
You don’t gotta be all nervous, princess.
His voice had been quieter than you’d ever heard, edges softened into something like rough-textured velvet.
I’m gonna take it with me and annoy the shit outta Nebs with it.
Your own laughter had startled you: nervously bubbling up, tumbling over your tired lips. Still, his words had soothed over every raw nerve.
It’s not too cheesy? you’d asked at last. You’d been able to feel the corners of your eyes crinkle with warmth. Too sentimental?
Oh, it’s fuckin’ sen’imental all right, he’d scoffed. But his eyes on yours had been so warm, and you’d felt it in every curve and corner of your body. I’m gonna figure out how to make a bigger one. Put it on the Third Quadrant. He’d snickered evilly and rubbed his dark palms together. Make Kraglin transfer a quarter-unit everytime he wants to hear one of Pete’s old clones.
But for all his diabolical scheming, he’d snatched your bowl and silverware away when you were done eating, and washed the dishes himself, and then climbed into the bed with you and pulled your head back into his lap. In the darkness — lit by the rose-golden glow of the sparkling city outside — he’d traced the shell of your rounded human ear, the shape of your profile, the edge of your hair.
M’gonna bring you a universal vaccine next year, he’d promised. And a comm, so you can get a hold of me, if you need to. Or — whenever. So you can get a hold of me whenever you want.
Something about the offer had sent a thrill along your insides. The chance to talk more often? To be in contact more than once a year? Yes — yes, you’d wanted that. You’d wanted it with all your hazy, dreamy-eyed, sleepy soul. You’d melted under his light, careful touches, the warmth of his narrow furred thighs beneath your head, and you’d wrapped your arms in a loose wreath around his waist.
Hate to leave you like this, princess, you’d heard him murmur as you began to drift off again. Even half-asleep, you’d heard the regret pinched between his sharp teeth. Starting to hate leaving you at all.
But I’ll see you next year, s’long as nothing changes.
This time, when you’d woken up, he’d already been gone.
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DECEMBER 31, 2023. 23:29 EST.
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You smooth the quarters in your pockets, cold and shiny as oversized sequins. The decorations are so much better and brighter this year: the whole world, bingeing on hope.
Even this dirty, dingy bar.
Yeah. Everything’s changed.
The bar itself is transformed from years past. It’s still grimy and dim, of course, with ancient smoke stains on the ceiling and chips in the exposed brick wall. But it’s turned into something pretty, somehow: dusted in a riot of rose-gold and peach-silver shimmer. Every tabletop is a small lake of confetti: tiny laser-cut wine bottles and champagne glasses, stars and snowflakes and 2023 dazzled out in curling fonts. Foil fountains spray upward from each glimmering puddle, and shiny stars and lanterns and mirror-balls hang from the rafters and pipes in layers so dense and heavy that you’re certain they don’t adhere to local safety/codes. Bouquets of balloons — the expensive kind, sheer and full of blush-golden sequins as large as the coins in your pocket — bob like palm-fireworks in each shadowy corner and crevasse of the bar, and every single table boasts noise-makers and horns and poppers in an exciting new array of ways to violate public health policies. Even the floorboards boast their own spangle of decor: stray flakes of copper confetti sweeping into sparkle-snowdrifts against the edges of the dirty walls. The Wurlitzer is decked out in peachy-pink garland and somewhere outside, someone has already started setting off illegal pyrotechnics.
You thumb the quarters in your pocket again.
After last year, you’d promised yourself you’d make it up to him. You’d indulged in the sexiest set of underwear you could find — an open-cup longline bra in a peachy-blush lace, with straps that tie at the shoulders and a matching pair of peekaboo-panties that bare more of your ass than they cover. You’d hesitated before putting it on tonight — wondering if it would just make you feel more pitiful when he didn’t show up.
Because while you’re sure he’ll never forget Groot and Gamora and Yondu, Teefs and Lylla and Floor; while you think, perhaps, he might even remember you for a while — he does have his family back, now. His son, and his Drax, and his Mantis. His Pete.
There have been complications, of course, since the ashed-away victims of the Snap had been returned. Some people had come back like your mother, with important parts missing — wasting away in the months that had followed. Others had rematerialized miles above land and ocean, only to plummet to their deaths. There were billions of people who had been completely displaced over their lost five years, and countless children whose families had relocated in their absence.
Still, there’s so much more to celebrate than to mourn this year.
And you are happy about it. You are.
But surely, you can’t compete with that. You can’t compete with Rocket finally being reunited with his real, found family — can’t compete with his return to space, and galaxy-travel, and the whole wide, sparkly expanse of stars and floating skulls that apparently exist out there.
Nevertheless, you’d dressed yourself in the fancy lingerie anyway, and the slinky black dress he’d liked so much two years ago — a little more snug in the belly and thighs, now. You’d shrugged yourself into your coat like it was some kind of armor against heartbreak, and you’d filled your pockets with sacrificial treasure for the Wurlitzer. And now here you are.
Waiting like an idiot for almost three hours.
Someone turns on the single television over the bar, and you turn another quarter in your hidden fingers, and wonder if it’s time to go home after all. You don’t think you can bear to watch the stupid ball-drop without him.
You close your eyes and chew your lip — flip the quarters between your fingers and stare into the amber remnants of your cocktail.
“To mom and dad,” you murmur under your breath. “To Groot and Gamora and Yondu, and Lylla and Teefs and Floor.” You look around one last time at the bar, which seems so foreign with all its rosy-gold elation and high spirits. This is good, you tell yourself. This is good. And the empty barstool at your side — the one you’d fought to protect from other celebrants tonight — well. It’s sad, but it won’t break you. You’d grown back after the loss of your parents, after all, and you’ll grow back from this, too. Changed forever, but still yourself: capable of warmth and love and learning and living, even if it is all by your lonesome.
Even if he’d been the one to help you believe that in the first place.
A smile curves the corner of your mouth, half-sad and wholly-lonely. You lift the cocktail to your mouth.
“To everyone we won’t ever get back.”
You’re not sure how his voice finds you over the laughter and high spirits around you, but it does — licking over your skin like a rough tongue, soft and warm and rasping. You twist in your barstool, but he’s already leap up beside you, more beautiful and gleaming than all the glittering decorations around him: misty moon-silver fur, brindled with bronze. You’re sure your eyes are wide — so wide — the cocktail glass still perched against your lip, sleek and cool.
“You thought I wasn’t coming, princess?” His voice is dramatic — pouting. But something underneath it is raw, breathless — like he’s trying not to pant. You try to focus your glazed eyes on him: peacoat rumpled, no scarf. Tail lashing in agitation. Ears twitching and swiveling in every direction; whiskers trembling and eyes somehow caught between accusation and apology. “You were gonna leave?”
“I—” You have to swallow. Your tumbler makes a soft thunk against the scarred bartop when you set it down. “I thought—”
“You thought I wasn’t coming,” he repeats, brow furling. “It’s late, an’ you thought I wasn’t frickin’ coming.”
You flinch, but his hand is on your knee before you can even defend yourself: the soothing balm of sun-warmed leather on your chilled bare skin, like a touch of home — like it belongs there, and your skin had been waiting for him all this time.
“I get it,” he concedes, before you can point out how late it is — how much later than it’s ever been before. “I meant to be here. I did. We got stuck in a frickin’ — it doesn’t matter, really.” He peers up at you: eyes like strontium-red explosions in the sky. They call up the fireworks that live in your own belly, waiting to be ignited. Like tourbillons, the sparks spiral out across your belly, rose-gold and champagne and spinning.
“How—” You swallow again. Your voice drops, so low under the crush of bodies and laughter that even Rocket’s sensitive ears have to prick forward, straining to catch the words as they fall from your lips. “How are they? Your family?”
He stares at you, and something softens in his eyes — for them, or for you. Maybe for both.
“They’re a mess,” he admits. “Hard to believe that Groot’s currently the most well-balanced of the bunch. Drax keeps forgetting he was gone, Mantis is actin’ all cagey and weird, and Pete — well, Pete’s a couple guns short of an arsenal right now.” He hesitates. “He hasn’t — he’s been gone, right? So he hasn’t had the last five years to — to deal with Gamora’s death. It’s like he just lost her a few months ago.”
Your heart twists in your chest. You remember how hard it had been to find space for your own sorrow five years ago, and you can only imagine it’s just as bad for Pete. You glance around at the celebration surrounding you. Perhaps it’s even worse.
“Maybe — should you be with them, then?” You try to make your voice gentle. “I’d understand if—”
He snorts, and his hand tightens on your knee. It isn’t an affectionate squeeze, though — it’s almost a scramble of frantic claws, like he’s trying to keep you in your seat. Like he thinks he’d been too late after all, and you’re still trying to leave.
“Nah. Tonight’s just us, princess. I made sure of it.” He arches a brow, but you can see right through the pretense: the uncertainty lurking beneath the challenge. “Told you I’d mark it on the multicalendar and everything. Said I’d bring you a universal vaccine an’ a comm. Which—” He pats the pocket of his peacoat. “I did.” The corner of his mouth curls in a filthy leer, and it sets off a whole spray of new fireworks across your skin: gold crossettes and dahlias, pink diadems and willows. The lingering kiss of a silvery, diamond-dust time-rain, shivering slowly along your nerves. “Brought you something else, too. An improvement on that little toy I made a couple years back. Meant to give it to you last year, but—” He shrugs, clicking his tongue in mock-regret, but his eyes are sly and taunting. You feel your belly tighten, your thighs shiver. The flimsy lace panties dampen.
Still, you lick your lips. “I thought — because people came back,” you try to explain, the words fumbling clumsily on your glossy lips. “We always said, if nothing changes, and I thought maybe you’d be — I don’t know. Too busy, maybe. Or uninterested—”
“I’m gonna stop you right there,” he interrupts. “If I’d stuck to that shit, I’d never have come back." His eyes slide away, then flick back: holding yours. “Things’ve been changing since I met you. Haven’t had a single cycle that’s been the same at all.” He clears his throat, drops his stare. Snatches his hand back from where it’s been laid like a brand on your bare knee. “‘Least the changes seem to be for the better when you’re around.”
There’s a question etched into the delicate fur of his face — one he’s not asking, but it’s there all the same. Your heart twists again behind your sternum. Your eyes flicker to the clock on the wall.
“Do you want—” You fish in your coat-pocket for a handful of quarters. “We can—”
As if they’d been waiting for you, someone must slide their own coins into the Wurlitzer. The familiar strains of Auld Lang Syne crackle over the speakers. Somehow, it sounds less mournful than you remember.
But Rocket’s just watching you with soft eyes while you frown at the patron standing in front of the jukebox — as if the stranger had personally offended you by taking over the spot where you and your Guardian had been stationed for the last five New Year’s Eves.
“Nah,” he says quietly, and his hand comes back to your knee. Squeezes again — this time with intention. “I got what I want. Right frickin’ here.” He tilts his head toward the door. “Let’s go home, princess.”
You blink at him. Home. He hasn’t referred to it that way before. Of course, it makes sense that he hasn’t — he’s only been there five times — but the fact that he’s called it that now has those rose-gold turbillions sparkling over your skin again.
“I thought your ship was your home,” you say, your own voice soft and strained with something wistful. His head cocks to one side, ears flicking and one eye squinting, like he’s trying to puzzle through something too.
“It is,” he says. “It was. I dunno.” His lip curls back disdainfully, but his eyes skitter away. “Mantis would say something dumb, like home is people, so I guess I got more than one, now.”
Your heart stammers in your chest: something wistful and longing and achingly happy, all at once. Someone in the bar lets out a shout of recognition as the lyrics begin to croon out over the speakers, and there’s a mumble of voices before one or two patrons begin to sing along with the music.
“I’m happy for you,” you breathe. “And I’m happy to be a home for you, too. Even if it’s only once a year.”
He swallows. “So, uh. Since you mention it. That’s something I wanted to talk about.”
You blink. “What—”
“Tonight’s just us. Like I said. But I thought maybe—” His voice splinters — fractures like a layer of ice, stepped on in a street-puddle. You gaze down at him, feeling your brow knot with concern. “I thought you could maybe meet Pete and the others. Tomorrow. Or the day after. If you wanted.” He swallows. Clears his throat. Tries to sound sullen, and fails. “People don’t believe it, but I can be a nice guy. Thought I’d share my family, if you want ‘em.” He rolls his eyes. “Honestly, you’d be doing me a frickin’ favor. I forgot how annoying they were. Too frickin’ irritating to deal with ‘em all on my own, all the damn time.”
You can barely move. Every muscle feels frozen, and achingly tense. You stare down at him till the bright embers of his eyes blur through the diamond-glaze of your tears. Your heart is so soft and full — so cut open and overflowing — that it hurts. Your fist finds your sternum, knuckles digging into the bone like you can hold yourself together with bruises.
“And, uh. I guess that means prob’ly seeing each other more often. F’you want, I mean.” He scoffs. “F’you think you can put up with me more’n once a Terran-year.”
“I want that,” you breathe out, so quickly that he’s barely finished the sentence. “I do. I want that. All of that. To be part of a family again.” You close your eyes, and swallow, and hinge at the waist — swaying toward him in the bar, your breath feathering against his whiskers. “But especially the part where I get to see you more often.”
The whole bar’s singing now — belting out the lyrics of this old, sad song that somehow manages to sound triumphant and hopeful, set amongst the glimmer of tawny roses and silvery-peach. Rocket gestures to the bartender, and you settle out the tab. He slides from the barstool as you rise, and skates one hand along the back of your doughy, dimpled thighs — claws prickling, fingers pinching before he loops one arm behind your knee in a garland of languid, lazy possessiveness. You straighten your skirt, tugging the satin down — feeling the cool slick material stretch and slide over your bare, pebbled nipples, and your ass where the fancy lingerie doesn’t cover. Suddenly, the panties are more than damp — you’re dripping, and they’re drenched. The lace ruffle of the longline bra tickles along the top of your belly, the undersides of your breasts.
“I should tell you,” you murmur, in a voice just low enough that you know his sensitive ears will pick up on it beneath the drunken New Year’s Eve lyrics, “that I got you something too.” You peer down at him, and raise an eyebrow. “Try not to rip these ones,” you add primly, with a teasing tilt nestled into the soft corner of your mouth like a kiss.
Rocket’s eyes widen — then glitter with something so utterly predatory that your ankles wobble. His stare coasts over you like he can see right through your short, slinky dress, and it’s shimmering-hot on your skin: the tail-end of farfalle-fireworks, all sparks and spinning fire. You wonder if he can feel the shiver in your thighs as he steers you toward the door. You glance down at his sly grin — feel the teasing sharpness of his claws as they dance in the hollow behind your knee — and decide that of course, he absolutely can.
He presses his cheek into the side of your upper thigh: a brief nuzzle, like he’s snuggling his scent right into the blue-black satin of your skirt — marking you as his, right down to the skin underneath. You can feel it, hot and glossy, as certainly as if you’d been singed.
“That’s my fuckin’ girl.”
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