A/N: Warnings for sexual content, unfortunate views of sex work and sex workers, swearing, self-disgust, self-projection and a lack of editing.
Despite what they'd have you believe - what they'd have you believe was outrageously authoritative at best - Xandar had slums and dark alleyways and seedy spots all over its shiny utopian city. You had to know where to look, first, but Rocket was never one to miss details. He made quick work of the winding turns from one lowdown building to the next poorly-lit street, working with the daylight that was waning too slowly.
It wasn't a hazardous trip by any means. He'd been around these parts before with the Old Groot and had been confident among strung-out lowlifes and scumbags then.
Yet, it wasn't as easy when you had to stifle your usual range of motion while dealing with a very obvious issue in the way.
When Rocket returned to their rundown Quadrant just before the sun set on Xandar, he was greeted with the sight of Kraglin twirling his arrow between his fingers.
The lanky Xandarian occasionally threw his weapon in the air and caught it as though it was no more than a child's plaything. He was so casual, and despite the urgency that had Rocket scaling buildings to get back, the raccoon was angered by the sight. He'd taken time out of his life to salvage the Yakka arrow and reconfigure the artificial fin onto the much taller man's head. Rocket had gone out of his way, feeling uncomfortable when he'd had to take it off its previous owner, and to see the former first mate be so noncommital with his gift was insulting.
Though seeming not to notice him stomping through the entryway at first, Kraglin spun on his heels with wide eyes and barely managed to keep the arrow from slipping through his fingers in shock. Obfonteri stared at his teammate blankly, mouth ajar.
He gulped. "Is somethin' wrong?"
Rocket felt the dryness of his throat moreso now than the entire trip back to the ship, then. It was until he closed his maw and remembered to curl inward until he was hunched that he realized he'd actually been growling.
He forced himself into stillness, muscles taut and flexing with the exertion. Rocket swallowed hard and shook his head slightly; for once, he tried to right himself and retract the boiling rage inside of himself.
"No." His voice was surprisingly steady. "So quit starin', idiot."
Kraglin's brow creased, and a little frown formed on his face. He looked somewhat boyish as hurt clouded his gaze and it made Rocket itch.
For a bloodthirsty space pirate, the gangly man was strangely sensitive in many ways and this forever perturbed Rocket. Neither Yondu nor his Ravager clan had been knitting old bitties, but the two survivors they'd left behind were fairly immature and soft despite that.
The lift was still open behind the mechanic, and Kraglin looked over him. "Are the others comin' back?"
With a low and heavy sigh, Rocket began to make his exit, scuttling deeper into the quadrant with one place in mind. He could feel his teammate's eyes return to his receding figure and stare into his back, but trying to explain anything at that moment wasn't worth the trouble.
"It don't matter." Rocket was trying not to jog. Not obviously. "Just stay the hell outta my way."
"But I wasn't in - "
Rocket smacked the manual button to close the hatchway behind him, separating himself from the babbling moron before retreating into the deeper recesses of the Quadrant.
The first thing that he did after stabbing the button to let himself in the washroom was stand up straight. He gripped his belt, digging his claws into the material as he tugged at it and began to unbuckle, mindlessly tossing his blaster and a few hidden grenades along the way.
Deciding to wear this jumpsuit was the worst decision in the galaxy.
Rocket angrily spat, struggling to not rip (one of three) suits in his to drag the sleeves from his shoulders and tighter band around his hips. The desire to keep things moderately intact was making this agonizing wait even longer.
Several times, Rocket fidgeted with the buckles and straps. When everything was loose enough to pry off, he said to hell with it all and shoved everything downward less than delicately.
The hardness that he had been hiding sprung free, and Rocket groaned melodramatically at the feeling of freedom before eyeing himself. The corners of his mouth pulled back, a hint of disgust souring the formerly hot fluttering in his chest. Hesitantly, Rocket reached out and wrapped a hand around his dick.
The mechanic slumped against the wall as he let his clothes bunch up around his ankles. Rocket's stomach was flip-flopping madly, but that edge of awkwardness had disappeared. He began to grope his still straining erection and hissed at the contact while his other paw dug into the wall for purchase.
Rocket bent over, one hand clutching his knee while the other worked up and down his shaft.
He shook, gritting his teeth over the misfortune of having rough and calloused paws. Momentarily pausing, Rocket spat into his hands and tried again, feeling sweat start to cling to his fur.
"Hrk!" He was already breathing hard. This wasn't the first time he'd ever jacked off in his life, but the problem had been painful. A single touch was a relief, and that little bit of fluid was enough to make him feel as blessed as if he was entering the gates of fucking Valhalla.
He groaned openly, leaning back again until he banged his head against the wall, trying to keep that feeling. Trying not to think. This was a quick fix, even if it'd been caused by one of the worst moments in recent memory.
It was all that bug girl's fault.
(It wasn't. He knew that. He couldn't admit it to himself.)
Rocket's eyes rolled back into his skull as he damned her existence.
She didn't fit in with the rest of them in the first place. Even Dey had called it. And now everyone around her was paying the price.
(Fuck, but if the memory of her gasping like that when she was practically dry-humping him didn't make him cum faster than the speed of light.)
Time had passed since Rocket had returned, but how much was uncertain. When he was able to drag himself up to the deck and survey the planet through the viewfinder, he noted that it was well and truly nighttime now.
The moment he'd stepped out of the cubicle, Rocket had felt a heavy blanket of exhaustion fall over his shoulders. It was overwhelming, unpleasant (better than the self-disgust he'd felt in his bones after what he'd just done), causing his arms to fall lifeless and heavy and his padded feet to drag over chromatic floors. If the scraping of his claws against the metal bothered the only other occupant of the ship, Rocket heard none of it.
In fact, as soon as he'd come back out, Kraglin was nowhere to be found.
It made little sense, but a shred of something that was, maybe, possibly worry awoke twinged Rocket inside. Xandar wasn't exactly a favorite for their ex-Nova corpsman recruit. Kraglin wasn't shy about how he held little to no love for his origins, and was relatively tight-lipped over most of the details. Peter was even exempt from a lot of information that filled in some of the gaps, but it didn't take a genius to realize that whatever had happened had made one hell of an impact on the Xandarian. So much so that Kraglin outright refused to leave the ship when they disembarked.
Rocket respected that in a way: even if he was a complete doofus, Kraglin still had standards and beliefs he was willing to own up to. There was probably something to that that Yondu had gleaned as well.. Rebellious bravery or loyalty to your cause or some shit like that.
As soon as Rocket found his seat in the cockpit however, that inkling of worry melted away. He stretched, listening to the sound of his back cracking and his toes popping as he spread them apart. Little clicks and whirrs sounded at the scruff of his neck, but Rocket had long been able to tune out those things. If he didn't focus on them, he wouldn't be bothered and that was that.
Learning to ignore unimportant crap like that was how you stayed alive and kicking, and Rocket had taken it into account as one of his best assets. He wasn't a philosopher by any stretch, and he preferred it that way. Being moony-eyed and airheaded didn't suit Rocket, and mainly existed to get gullible people killed… or like Quill, to make them act as stupidly and embarrassingly as possible.
Scooching down to get more comfortable in his favorite chair - the Captain's chair - Rocket let himself feel smug. Now that all the kinks were out of his system, and he was able to enjoy some actual peace, coming straight back to the ship hadn't been a bad idea.
He knew just where and what to push to pull up the songs that he'd backed up from Quill's zune. Rocket pushed to shuffle.
'If you start me up
If you start me up, I'll never stop'
'If you start me up
If you start me, I'll never stop'
When he shut his eyes, the total blackness that came with it turned to visions of bare and supple skin. Inky strands of hair, soft and slightly curled, settled upon his face and Rocket swore he could still smell hints of sweetberry cookies and the sands of Satno.
'I'll never stop, never stop, never stop, never stop'
Eyes snapped open as the music stopped.
"Fuck that." He deadpanned to no one.
The night yielded very little in spite of Rocket's weariness. He woke up in the middle of the night twice, always the littlest bit coated in sweat and feeling irritation in overworked muscles. Rocket didn't know if he waking from dreams or nightmares, or if it was the spiced wine he'd drunk at the Dey's home, but it made him itch.
There was reluctance in everything he did when early morning light finally pulled him out of his seat. Getting up was a pain, walking back to the washroom to take a piss was a pain, scavenging their cabinets for food was a pain. Rocket was beginning to feel like an old man by the time he had double-checked the blaster on his utility belt before heading out.
Kraglin had appeared in-between his raids, snoring softly at what was the guardians' equivalent of a dining room table. He'd wrapped his overly-long around himself in a hug, likely trying to warm himself through the cold night.
Rocket couldn't say he wasn't relieved (not out loud, but whatever) to see him there. He wasn't responsible for the man, but Rocket was loathe to imagine looking for him like he was.
Judging by the deep sleep he'd been in and the stink of alcohol over his getup, Kraggle Rock had left just to booze it up. Maybe he'd gone to a brothel, somewhere that peddled actual female flesh instead of synthetic imitations. Ravagers were known for their whoring, after all.
Rocket didn't really get how it mattered whether she was organic or not. He wasn't exactly the type to waste time hunting intergalactic pussy, but it seemed like the overall design was commonplace for hundreds of species. Nevertheless, the lust for it permeated the underbellies of cities like Xandar, the very places that Rocket relied on to keep away unwanted attention. And though it was likely just as desirable (and more attainable) for upper class citizens, the prostitutes that lingered around clubs and bars were a dime a dozen.
Women and men and everyone in-between in skimpy outfits, ready to prostrate themselves for dirty strangers and exchange their dignity for units.
Rocket wouldn't debase himself like that for anyone. And really, he couldn't see any of the women on his team doing so either.
Drax was a hard maybe, and Peter was a hopeless yes, but imagining Gamora being told to strip for somebody was sure to result in that somebody having every bone in their body shattered.
Nebula counted, though she was less of a guardian and more of a nomad. God, she'd probably rip that somebody's entrails out of their body with that chance.
Even Mantis, with her dewy-eyed stares and tendency to sway from side to side on rounded hips that were visible with or without less clothes, as she tried to learn how to dance or how to fly the Quadrant with minimal help… even with her very real, very soft flesh that he'd accidentally gotten a handful of yesterday…
She'd probably be so eager to please, probably the perfect person for a sleazebag to take advantage of. A woman that was the definition of an adorable waif, smiling in excitement as she complied with undressing herself for that sleaze. She'd be nervous (maybe ticklish) but would become engrossed in the wonderful way they could make her feel. A sleazebag like that would be (absolutely) greedy, leaving no span of skin untouched, in awe over how she could want him to touch her.
She'd want him, need him, try in vain to keep herself from crying out for more of him.
Stopping in his tracks, Rocket stared blankly at the field of blue grass he'd been shamelessly uprooting as he trudged through a mostly empty park. A Xandarian woman thankfully jogged right past him, but there was also a couple a few yards away looking directly at him. They must've been debating amongst themselves if he was actually one of The Guardians that had saved their asses a year back.
A familiar and painful throbbing between his legs brought Rocket's attention back to reality.
His brown eyes widened to the size of saucers. "Are you fucking kidding me?!"
The couple had been coming closer, but jumped back at his exclamation. That, and the sight in front of them was enough to make them flee like they were on fire.
"Dude, where have you been?"
Rocket didn't want to even look at Quill, but it was second-nature now to insult him while making direct and purposeful eye contact.
"None of your business, Starboy." The usual glee that came from insulting their 'leader' was replaced by a more gravelly rasp. He was beyond tired.
Peter's back straightened, lips thinning until he looked like he was sucking on a lemon. "It's not Starb - No. No, don't change the subject. Dey and Karma said they saw you storm out of the house last night!"
The hybrid man crossed his arms. "And you never came back. Why?"
"You're not my mother, Quill." Rocket grumbled. "You don't need a log of what I do every frickin' day."
"I'm your captain." His inflection turned up, as though he was demanding confirmation.
"Even a captain doesn't watch his crew 24/7, smartass!" Rocket bit back. His paws balled into fists at his sides as he stared up at Peter's smarmy face. "We don't need ta answer to you all the time about every little' thing!"
They had flown over to the dealer that Dey had suggested was "best" for them, but the journey from the ship to their destination was dragging. Groot had stayed behind because, despite being happy to see Rocket returning, he had wanted to continue playing with Danna. Rocket had been close to persuading the kid otherwise with some handy reverse-psychology, but then Groot had pulled out those big eyes and that pouting face. The promise was quashed in seconds.
Groot would've been a great distraction from it all, but regardless, Peter had been sending dirty looks his way since Rocket had re-joined them out of the blue.
It was like Rocket had personally insulted the Terran's mother or something. The others - Gamora, Drax, Groot, too - they wore frowns and asked after him but didn't persist. That he was there and in one piece was enough for everybody except Star-Munch.
Still.
Peter being an tantruming toddler was small parts to seeing that Mantis was right there, caught between trying not to look at him directly and sending wistful looks in his direction.
(He hadn't made eye-contact with her. He wouldn't. It was pitiful and impossible but if he looked, Rocket knew that, with a chill running down his enhanced spine, she would see everything he'd done since their last encounter.)
"Yes, you kinda do!" Peter glared. "You think everybody on Xandar believes we're god's perfect angels? If you needed help, we wouldn't know where to look first, stupid!"
Rocket scoffed. (Not true).
"You also think scaring Mantis and then walking off is okay?" Peter grew somewhat sober. Rocket's feet didn't stop, but his ears twitched. "She was panicking after you went, and she hasn't said anything since."
"What did you do to her?"
"Nothing." Rocket snapped, too quickly. "The bug is just a big klutz. She fell on her ass and got all sensitive about it. I told her to knock it off and she took it too hard, that's all."
Peter's arms drifted apart, falling to his sides. "That's not what Dey said."
"Guys!" Ahead of their group, Rhomann Dey managed to curb his irritation with how slow they were being as he held the door open for them. It was dysfunctional; closing in and out, and no doubt cutting circulation from Dey's hand to his arm. (Social etiquette really didn't win you anything, did it?)
"Can you hurry up? Please?"
Rocket let out a long breath. He made strides to follow Rhomann and left Peter behind with a patronizing wave. "Listen to what Dey's sayin' now, Chief!"
Big surprise. The place that Dey had raved about was just as blandly designed as everything on this cruddy planet. Blue and silver walls with silver standing desks that looked about as useful as those bulky old holovid machines (VCRs!) that Peter had shown them during space charades.
Geezers in suits proliferated about these useless things, staring at screens and typing as fast as their fingers allowed on their tablets. Not all were Xandarian, and Rocket got a bit of a kick out of seeing a Yarkora man in an ill-fitting suit stumbling around all these greasehead Xandarians. Dude was probably on the lowest rung in their business hierarchy. He seemed to be pretty damn fidgety even sitting still for two minutes.
Hell, Rocket would be fidgety too if he had to stay in this office for days on end, waiting on pricks.
Dey turned to the group and raised his hands amicably. "Wait here. I'm gonna go get Elak and then we can head back out into the lot."
Naturally, as soon as the corpsman turned his back, they split up.
Rocket turned his attention to one of the enormous windows leading out into the sea of ships that they'd come there for. He was soon close enough to press his nose to the glass and analyze as much as he could from far away.
Everything was sleek enough to make you drool. Rocket pinpointed one with a visible, burning red-colored interior through its tinted viewfinder. The cockpit was too small, but for the moment it didn't matter. The wings were practically vertical slats connected by u-shaped rungs at their tail, fanning down to surround its bulk like a bat's wings.
Beside it was a shorter, more rounded design with bolts of yellow encasing its burners. It ranged on the expensive side from sight alone, since those babies had to be extraordinarily nuclear heat-resistant. It was also too small, but tapped one claw against his maw, thoughts turning.
They were going to be leaving Xandar as soon as they found The ship, but Rocket was quick and easy to forget when he wanted to be. Maybe those thunderbolts need not be ignored for the sake of practicality.
"Don't even think about it." Rocket was caught off-guard as Gamora's hand swatted the back of his head.
Rocket twisted around, snarling viciously. But Gamora only raised a hairless brow.
She stared him down, willing him to make a scene and… and it was no fun going against Gamora. (Almost) nothing got to her.
"... I wasn't really gonna do anything…" Rocket said.
Gamora's arms folded. "You forget yourself, Rocket."
She shook her head once before turning her back on him. In return, he stuck his tongue out at her in spite.
Pfft. You forget yourself. Rocket complained internally. Yeah, sure, not like you've ever done anything that you were told not to a hundred times, assassin to Thanos.
Already having been in a lousy mood prior, Rocket's steam faded quickly. He scanned the rest of the building with disinterest, and found his gaze gravitating from Drax crushing a purple-faced Peter with a side-hug in front of a crowd of yes men to a certain insectoid.
She was detached from Drax for the time being, for once a loner as she peered at shifting images framed upon the walls.
Most of it was advertisement for the dealership, and Rocket didn't need to look too deeply to see the schmaltz and the overly-happy actors posing in front of popular brands. That crap was best ignored, since most of what was promoted was flashy, useless additions to ships nowhere near as good as marketed.
It didn't surprise Rocket that she would be drawn to the bright images however. Mantis was a fan of shiny and bright things, in general. Whether it was from her upbringing being mostly barren of technology that wasn't under Ego's thumb or if it was some sort of hereditary thing from her mother's gene pool, it was bound to dumb the chick down.
She already had Drax for that.
Rocket watched for a little bit, though his eyes glazed over while waiting for Dey to get back from wherever he was so that they could get this show on the road. Idly, he wondered why the hell smalltalk had been invented when something moved just outside his line of vision.
A dealer was walking toward Mantis, hands folded together like a cartoon villain. This man was just as greasy as his coworkers, but he was considerably younger with lilac-colored tentacles for hair. His eyes were so pale that the most you could make out in them were the black pupils within.
Was he acting prejudiced? Maybe. But the weird eyes and the hunching shoulders of this man, whose species Rocket couldn't quite identify, were red flags.
Gaze narrowing, Rocket continue to watch from afar. He picked at a claw, following the action beat by beat. It looked like tentacles simply saw what everyone with more than one braincell would: a vulnerable, ignorant woman to easily be swayed into buying something.
But he stopped short, making Rocket perk up, nonchalance thrown out the window while zeroing in. It took a moment, a second, half of a second, but reality hit as the guy not-so-subtly stared at Mantis's ass.
Fuck not subtly. He was grinning lecherously like a predator, the kind that knew just how to get what he wanted.
And fuck red flags. Rocket saw only red when he started moving.