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ask-train-trio · 5 months ago

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~.~.~𝐀𝐒𝐊 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐎 ~.~.~

INTRODUCTION MASTERPOST!!!!!

(ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs ɴᴏ ᴀᴜᴅɪᴏ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠɪᴅᴇᴏ, ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs sᴜᴘᴘᴏsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀ ɢɪꜰ ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʟᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴛᴏᴏ ʙɪɢ ᴏᴏᴘs)

This is an askblog for @lunozapp 's Indigo Park OCs! This post contains everything you need to know about this ask blog/AU and its characters! Context, boundaries, references etc. Asks are contextualised a little differently here, so check the blog description for the tl;dr on the context.

Check out issue 1 here!

CONTEXT:

This is DappleTilez24, also known as Tilez. He's a relatively small streamer in his universe's indigo park community, and is known for tirelessly completeing run after run, trying to beat his personal records (with.... varying sucess).

One day, he tries to speedrun a build of the game that he's never seen before...

...and stumbles across 2 MORE Rambleys than usual, much to the surprise - and confusion - of the Rambley we know and love!

Naturally, our hero Tilez is pretty damn confuddled... so he (mistakenly) asks his live chat for an explaination.

This is where YOU fantastic askers come in!

You act as Tilez's live chat. This means you don't even have to answer his queries, just say whatever you want to this interdimentional triplet of trash pandas, just like a REAL insufferable livechat would!

...within reason, of course (jokes aside, please read the boundaries)

[updated as of 04/07/24] CHARACTER REFERENCES: (in the animation i forgot twimbly's GT badges lol)

CHARACTER BOUNDARIES:

I want to make it entirely clear that i see the raccoon trio as brothers, especially with their very similar origins.

This is to say that I would not feel comfortable with any of them being shipped with eachother and I forbid the public sharing of that kind of content. If you see that kind of stuff around, please just mention this to the OP and block them if they refuse to respect it.

FURTHERMORE, please keep in mind that I ( @lunozapp ) am a MINOR. SO DON'T PUBLICLY POST NSFW/FETISH ART OF MY CHARACTERS, PLEASE AND THANK YOU.

However, shipping Twimbly, Ranglore, Rambley and Tilez with other characters that aren't related to them is fine by me (e.g. any of the original indigo characters x any of them, since they're not related)!

Again, please just keep it sfw.

ASK BOUNDARIES:

Pretty basic criteria, really. Just please don't spam the same ask over and over, I will guaranteed see them all unless this thing gets an explosion of attention out of nowhere lol

if i don't answer, its probably because either the question doesn't really fit the kind of story i have in mind for these characters or i just don't feel comfortable answering it. please respect that.

If you have a question for me specifically, start your ask with '[OOC]' (Out Of Character) or just ask me directly: @lunozapp

FURTHER INFO:

Asks are moreso used here as a prompt for conversation rather than the basis of an entire issue. More often than not there will be more than 1 ask in an issue, so going forward I'll make sure to tag everyone who asks without annonymity.

Also, please TRY to keep them as actual questions and not goofy 1-word sentences, the asks help me actually formulate a coherent premise for an issue

I don't OWN the concept of making ocs based off lore.mp4 and the GT thumbnail. if u see someone doing the same, try not to be all like 'OMG TWIMBLY/RANGLORE!!!! THEY ALREADY EXIST THIS IS PLAGARISM YOU CAN'T DO THAT!!!!!11!!11' unless it is blatant plagarism. Just use ur common sense ig

In terms of fanart/other fanworks, A MILLION THANKS IF YOU FEEL CALLED TO MAKE THAT!! The stuff i've gotten so far is genuinely so awesome, make it all you want if you feel called to do so. I'll try to reblog any fanart I find on here. If you want to go straight to asks, just click on the tag '#train trio asks'

alright, that's everything. Now what are you still doing here? Throw 'em a question! Or a compliment!! Or an insult.

or don't idrc just have fun here haha

fun fact!! putting everything together for this took a WEEK

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raccoonfallsharder · 5 months ago

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ᯓ⋆｡°✩ practice

for a nonnie who asks the important questions main masterlist | oneshot masterlist

spice | no use of y/n | gn reader | oneshot | word count: 1,684.

you're not quite as good as rocket when it comes to braiding. luckily, he's a kind and benevolent soul who just wants to give you the chance to improve. or, you accidentally seduce rocket. he intentionally seduces you back. WARNINGS: general suggestiveness, lil bit of pining on your part. eidos-rocket is a bossy little shit and calls you buttercup x2. this is pure lighthearted fun & doesn’t delve into the inner workings of rocket’s trust-issues and angst.

brave nonnie asked, do you have any headcanons for Eidos Rocket with an S/O? and the answer is too many and also why am i like this.

initial ask | the beard | rocket smells like eidos-rocket-headcanons | main masterlist | oneshot masterlist

“Hey.”

You’d looked up, startled that he was talking to you. You’d been curled up on the mustard-yellow sofa, catching up on one of drax’s favorite dramas on a holopad, and you’d been careful not to look up when Rocket had entered the space and plopped down on the couch across from you. The fact that he’d been out here at all — willing to share space with you — had seemed like something of a miracle, and you’d had to fight every instinct to not steal surreptitious glances out of your periphery. He’d been in a suit — broad shoulders and a narrow waist, the plume of his tail as ridiculously thick and fluffy as always — carefully rebraiding his beard.

“How’s this look?”

You’d hesitated, squinting one eye and screwing up the corner of your mouth. “You look good,” you’d admitted, and he’d preened.

“Got a hot date,” he’d informed you smugly, and it had made something in your belly plummet low. It hadn’t even been anything new — Rocket had been going out as long as you’d known him, whenever the Milano had docked somewhere that had allowed for it. Still, the prospect of dealing with him the next day, after he’d thoroughly enjoyed yet another apparently-meaningless one-night-stand? The idea of watching him smirk smugly for hours while he accused everyone else of needing to get laid? It had made your vagus nerve twist miserably. You’d wished you could roll your eyes at yourself without him misinterpreting the look.

You’ve got to get over this stupid crush of yours.

“Cool,” you’d said aloud, weakly. “Have fun.”

He’d been the one who’d ended up rolling his eyes — still at your expense — and you’d decided to live vicariously through his disdainful expression. "The beard okay?” he’d asked, persistent.

You’d leaned forward, hinging at the waist to see better. It had looked a bit asymmetrical — like one side had been braided a little more tightly than the other — and once you’d begun studying it, you’d been able to see a few threads of glossy fur that had crimped up and escaped between the beads. You’d gestured with your own hands to your chin.

“It’s not quite as neat as it usually is,” you’d admitted, and to be honest, it had given you a frisson of concern. He’d always been obsessive about his fur: brushing out his tail with quick deft fingers whenever he thought there might be a bit of debris in it, making sure his goggles didn’t damage the soft velvet pile at the base of his ears. Distractedly finger-combing the ruff at his throat and cheeks throughout the day, probably without even realizing it. He’d been particularly meticulous about the goatee — intentional in a way that had immediately endeared him even further to you. He’d always kept the silky-looking beard immaculate, and you can’t remember ever seeing even a hair out of place on it, outside of the occasional firefight — and even that had been rare.

His lip had curled in something between a snarl and a grimace. “Mirror in my room got broken in that last tangle with the Badoon,” he’d admitted. “I’ve been trying to do it without seeing.” He’d begun loosening the little braid, about to make another attempt.

You’d hesitated, then cautiously set aside the holopad. “Let me?”

You’d braced yourself for some loud, derisive comment, already wincing — but he’d been silent. When you’d dared to look across at him, he’d been sizing you up, one eye half-squinted and both of them dark and inscrutable.

“Okaaay,” he’d said slowly. “Yeah, okay.” A scowl and a dismissive wave of one clawed hand. “Don’t flark it up.”

You’d risen cautiously, keeping your eyes on his chin — afraid you’d lose your nerve if you’d looked anywhere else. Without thinking, you’d gently nudged his knees apart with your own, and dropped down between them. The foam pad on the floor had given you a little bit of protection from the duranium plating underneath, but you hadn’t bothered trying to get comfortable. Instead, you’d focused on sliding your hands between his own, gently loosening them from where they’d gone still in his beard. You’d slid the beads aside and placed them carefully in his palm, trying to ignore the heated-leather of his hand brushing your fingertips. Then you’d gently — almost reverently — unlaced the braid. The strands had been so silky and glossy, cool as water flowing over your fingers. This close, you’d been able to smell him: the gingery scent of burnt everbloom, a whiff of iron. Something like cedar and black pepper.

Oh, you’d thought, trying not to pout. He's going to make his date drool.

You try not to be the jealous sort but, it had seemed so unfair. You’d gotten butterflies just because he’d been willing to tolerate your presence enough to be in the same room with you. Meanwhile, he’d seemed unmoved by you in any way — vacillating only between a distant acceptance of your occasional accidental displays of affection and admiration, and utter, debilitating annoyance.

Debilitating for you, anyway.

It hadn’t been that you hadn’t wanted him to go out — not exactly. You’d wanted him to have fun, to be happy, to enjoy people and drinks and whatever. You’d only wished that the prospect of him spending the night with someone else hadn’t made your heart turn over so forlornly in your chest.

The stupid organ had thought it was an abandoned kitten at a shelter, mewing for a home.

God, you’d thought suddenly. What if he brings his date back to get laid?

You’d released a miserable little sigh without meaning to, your breath fanning gently over the silk of his beard and his mouth. You’d seen his lips part over a brief flash of sharp teeth — then close and tighten — and you’d tried to ignore the knot of misery in your belly while you’d smoothed the strands into three sections, stroking them until they’d been sleek as satin ribbon. Tenderly — careful not to pull — you’d begun to weave the sections together, nice and even.

You’d braided it all the way to the end, to help the beads slide on more smoothly — a wooden one that looked remarkably like Groot, a red sphere, and two black nuts. You’d plucked them like berries from where he’d set them on the cushion at his side. Tying the tail with the tiny clear elastic had been the most difficult part — you’d been so worried about tugging too hard — and then you’d eased the bottom two nuts down to cover the tie before carefully combing out the ends with your fingers, rumpling the loose strands free of the braid. Leaning back, you’d braced your hands on his thighs and eyed your work critically.

“It’s not quite as good as it usually is,” you’d admitted, ribs all tight and guilty on your lungs, “but it’s better than what you had just now.”

When you’d glanced up at the rest of his face, your breath had tangled into a gasp. His eyes had been hot and dark, roving over you. The ghost of surprise had still been gleaming in them, but if he’d been stunned when you’d dropped yourself to your knees between his thighs, that shock — along with the tooth-gritting frustration and confusion and conflict that he’d been silently grappling with since the first mission he’d shared with you — had mostly faded in the wake of something infinitely more focused and intent.

After all, an opportunity had fallen — well, not in his lap so much as directly between his thighs — but he’d never been one to check a free ship for a serial number.

“Well,” he’d said, his voice low and drawling, dripping like half-crystallized maple syrup all over your skin, “maybe you just need more practice, buttercup.”

Which is probably how you find yourself a few cycles later, tucked inside Rocket’s bunk, sprawled over his belly in the curve of his hammock: trying to comb through the satiny threads while his claws prickle against the skin of your shoulderblade.

“Focus,” he says, and snickers when you jolt under the sharp tickle of his claws. He’s leaning back against his other hand and forearm, tilting his chin up while he looks down the sides of his face at you with glinting, teasing eyes.

“You’re distracting me,” you protest, fingers shaking as you try to divide the lengths of silken fur into even sections. Your eyes blur when the leathery pads of his fingers slip delicately under the edge of your tanktop, coasting against your skin. It’s a struggle not to squirm against him — a fight that you must be losing, based on the growing grin in the corner of his mouth.

“You’re distracting me,” he mimics, pitching his voice into something far more whiny than is fair. You scowl. “How are you gonna get better at this if we don’t increase the difficulty-level? C’mon,” he adds, finding that spot next to your spine that always makes you arch when he presses insistently against the muscle, “M’not even using both hands.”

You glower at him, but the look falls apart when he massages his fingers into that spot again. A shudder runs from the nape of your neck to the small of your back — an inhale catching and rattling in your lungs, so sudden you feel it in the back of your throat — and your hips buck against him without your conscious permission. Heat pools in your abdomen and your cheeks, radiant. You wrangle up all your self-control to attempt a glare.

“Aww,” he jeers. “You’re flarkin’ cute when you pout.”

“Be nice.” You try to sound firm — commanding. “I’m the one with the power, here.” To make your point, you tug gently on the silk strands woven between your fingers.

But Rocket just grins at you lazily, whiskey-dark eyes hooded and warm. “That’s a laugh.”

His fingers dive deep into that muscle again, making you gasp and crumple against him. He doesn’t seem to mind that you’ve just pulled harder than intended on the lengthy strands of fur at his chin. Then his hand is coasting up the valley of your spine — claws dancing and teasing, leaving threads of fire and chills in their wake. The hot ribbons of desire in your abdomen suddenly feel braided themselves: twisted together and tightening, beaded with arousal.

“Just ‘cause you’re on top doesn’t mean you’re in charge,” he gloats. “And I got it on good authority that you like it when I’m a little mean.” His hand sweeps up to anchor to the back of your throat: not squeezing, just resting the warm weight of his palm there, fingers collaring the sides of your neck in a way that makes a shiver run the length of your spine again. His grin widens and his eyes grow smoky and heated.

“Now get back to work, buttercup.”

initial ask | the beard | rocket smells like eidos-rocket-headcanons | main masterlist | oneshot masterlist

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