Everyone seems dead-set in the belief that Rocket is a different person behind closed doors. That somehow, he's like the rest of them, that he has a different side to him he keeps hidden.
But the truth is, when no one is looking, he's the same disgusting creature he ever was.
They fail to see what kind of person he really is, dismissing the drunken, self-loathing remarks he means every word of, insisting they know better. Only Groot knows the half of it, but it never bothered him.
If only he knew the rest.
The thoughts that keep Rocket up at night, the uncontrollable urges that drive his hand, time and time again, to touch himself. The faces of all those insects he stamped out, who will never get a headstone. The finger that pulled the trigger slips into his mouth, he swears he can still taste cold metal and blood. He arches his back, closing his eyes, he can practically see it, their eyes wide with that last moment of fear before he splatters them all over the pavement.
They were evil. They needed to be exterminated. He is ridding the world of...dare he say...vermin.
Narcissistic? Perhaps.
But also a saint, a hero.
And he was content with these thoughts and these feelings.
And only these.
The rest, the things that even he wanted to drive out of his mind, were what really bothered him.
With that poisonous hand still moving, he thinks of Groot. How it was to watch him splinter into millions of tiny pieces. So beautifully violent and tragic, and with a bit of imagination it was gruesome as well. It blazes his senses with heat, and the kicker; sometimes he wants to hurt him. Sometimes he pictures Groot, betrayed, confused, and hurt, looking right at him with a hole blown through his chest. It wouldn't hurt him physically, of course, but mentally, it would feel like just that. A giant hole.
And Rocket would laugh.
Yet, other times the idea that he'd consider it makes him suck down enough alcohol to put him into a coma.
That's what's most fucked up about it; he's not just some sadistic dude with really morbid fantasies, he feels guilt and remorse too. He's mostly manic with periods of sobriety that last just long enough for the weight of his thoughts to crush him. He can't tell which of his thoughts are his true feelings.
But on both ends of his mind, there's always that undeniable fascination with Groot.
His more sinister side craves the middle ground. That is, a confession of love, a darker confession of a fetish, then willing abuse. He knew Groot wouldn't say no, too. He practically had him wrapped around his finger already, a love confession would seamlessly seal the deal. How easy it would be.
But his diminishing rationale always came back with a vengeance, calling him sick, selfish, unworthy. Funny, how sober he could be while drunk. He bit his tongue, always, because the one thing he would not be, was vermin. The day he became that was the day he'd eat a bullet for breakfast.
I literally never even thought of making an excuse. There is not one conceivable thing I can come up with.
Badly written, generally disturbing and decidedly non-apologetic. Yeah, that about sums it up.
So I'll just be going now...