Work Text:
Okay. There's no need to panic
Or… or maybe there is.
Laying there on his bed panting, anxious, and nearly defeated, Peter Quill gave a pleading look to the ceiling above him. This really can't be happening.
Except that it is.
Now, he might admit that on nights when he and all the other guardians spend celebrating a mission well done, spending all of the units they were given, Peter may go a bit overboard with the festivities. It wasn’t his fault!
And wasn’t it his fault that he tends to reach for the closest thing that may be considered a snack when he’s anxious about something. Or if he’s working… or bored. Or listening to music– No!
But damn it, he wasn't aware of how much of it stuck to his figure.
Peter breathed sharply through his nose as he lay there, neon red glow sticks that decorated the area above his bed beat light onto his face and emanated a distracting hum. This was embarrassing, these pants had fit him a few weeks ago, he swore to himself.
His weight had always been a point of jokes in the past, either from a foe who woefully underestimates him before getting blasted in the face, or even from his closest friends. He accepted being a chubby guy eventually, and didn't mind it entirely, he always loved eating, but the acknowledgement still caused his face to heat up.
But now, he could definitely be considered fat, and Peter had somehow managed to ignore it for a while now, until he decided to put on a pair of his older jeans, he had tossed them to the side when he realized how snug they'd gotten and didn't want to think about it, favoring his more comfortable, stretchier articles of clothing that felt better in combat. But, he wanted to humor himself, and instead got stuck in a crisis of his own making.
It wouldn't be half as bad if they actually made it past his thighs!
Normally, he loves how his legs look, they're a bit pasty, sure, but his thigh muscles were the stuff of legends, so says Peter Quill himself. It takes quite a bit of power to maneuver himself around in the air like that!
Now, though, he felt ridiculous, the softness of his legs squeezed further by his jeans. He sighed, and made the horrible mistake of looking down at himself.
The culprit of his misfortune rose and fell with his frantic breaths, he lay a hand on the very round curve of his pudgy stomach, gripping it with malice, “The others were right, I am turning into a fat slob.” Peter lamented his situation, but more so using it as an opportunity to catch his second wind.
“After this I’m- ngh- laying off the midnight snacks.”
He struggled further, inching his jeans up his doughy thighs until finally they made it past their first blockade.
He paled, groaning and forcing himself up until he was standing, pulling the waistband from behind his back to try and force it over his ass. It offered just as much resistance as his thighs, leaving Peter red in the face as he remembered a little incident with him plastered and breaking a barstool just from sitting on it. Blamed it on bad design at the time.
It took an impressive amount of tugging, but finally the waistband cleared the second hurdle, leaving Peter out of breath and stuck in uncomfortably tight pants. And it was between him and whatever cosmic force existed that he had to actually lay down to even zip them up as much as he physically could, with the button pressing sharply against the underside of his belly, hoping no one notices. He ignored his reflection in the mirror as he zoomed past it to exit his bunk, the mechanical doors sliding open freely. Peter stuck his head out into the hallway to see if anyone was awake, or even around inside the ship at this hour, thankfully they weren’t and he could quietly walk into the ‘kitchen’ that seated itself in the middle of the Milano.
No signs of life it seems, lucky for him. The crew had taken a “mandatory vacation” as Quill put it, since their last job had nearly taken out the entire left wing and part of the cockpit, a couple thousand units out of their pockets, sure. But they still had plenty left over, enough to dock at a relatively calm planet orbiting a white dwarf star on the outer rim of the galaxy, while their local engineer, Rocket, made repairs. The Milano wouldn’t be space-faring for a few days which gave everyone time to ‘relax’, including raiding the local bars and, for the more active and combat-ready among them, hunting. The planet was much more rural in nature than the cities that plunged themselves into the skies of most planets they visited, so hunting was still a regular sport. It reminded Peter a bit of home in that sense, minus how dim the daylight hours were.
While Peter’s thoughts wandered, he padded softly into the galley, heading directly to the fridge that was kept shut by one of Rocket’s gizmos, a prototype for a new gravity gun that he assures the crew will ‘totally fire mini-black holes, trust me.’ Peter rolled his eyes imagining his tiny friend wielding such a silly weapon, pushing it aside with his foot to open the fridge door.
And he would have bent over to get himself a cold can of soda if it weren't for a sudden creaking from the fabric of his jeans. Shit. Right. He has to be careful. The tightness didn’t phase him when he was moving around, he hoped he could just break them in a bit and they’d be right as rain. Instead of just bending over, he opted for grabbing hold of Rocket’s workbench that was next to the fridge, kneeling down slowly and grabbing a can of his favorite carbonated beverage, letting out a defeated huff as he pulled himself back up until he was standing.
Okay. Crisis averted.
He popped the top and took a generous gulp of it, the sound of the carbonation fizzing and a few instruments making clicks and beeps in the cockpit filled his ears. It wasn’t usually this quiet, which meant that maybe the others aren’t even on the ship, Peter felt a little relief in that knowledge given his current wardrobe malfunction, but too much silence made him anxious. He couldn’t use the Milano’s sound systems currently due to the intense damage of the ship, which bummed him out tremendously.
He sighed, and strode towards the tacky yellow couch that situated in the middle of the room surrounding a table, something caught his eye.
Ah. right. He completely forgot about his rocket boots.
How did he even- never mind, Peter thought, his memory lapsed all the time and it didn’t serve him well to berate himself about it.
The mission before their last one involved being stuck on an ice moon, the lower gravitational field making it even more difficult to traverse. Peter bragged and bragged about how he can maneuver just fine across the slippery ice, hovering above it and his crew for a bit before the thrusters suddenly sputtered and gave out, causing him to fall flat on his ass on a dense ice sheet. Rocket at the time had made a jab at him, ‘Look who finally got too fat to fly, Quill!’, which forced an absolutely cacophonous laugh from Drax. Peter rolled his eyes at the comment and assured his furry friend that they were definitely out of fuel.
His combined forgetfulness and potential need to give Rocket the cold shoulder after that joke had him leaving his boots here, where he probably, no, definitely, needed them on this last job. Would’ve definitely saved at least most of the cockpit from utter disaster if he had them.
Peter sighed, chugging the rest of his beverage and letting out a belch that would have garnered at least a ‘Nice one!’ from one of his friends. He wasn’t totally sure if Rocket was still on board, but it wouldn’t hurt to check. He needed these fixed one way or another, his own personal gripes aside.
Grabbing his boots, he rounded the corner to Rocket's room, situated next to his, giving it his secret knock.
There was a bit of commotion inside, Peter's heart started beating quickly, he hoped his friend didn’t hear him struggling earlier, he would never ever live that down.
Finally the metallic doors slid open with a small beep, Rocket stood there with earbuds in his furry little ears. Oh, good, that meant he didn’t hear him, then. Peter relaxed himself and gave his friend a little awkward smile and wave, knowing he was probably intruding on something important given how many of Rocket’s machines lay scattered around his controlled chaos of a room.
Gingerly taking out his earbuds, Rocket's expression was unreadable, cocking an eyebrow up at his much taller companion, “You’re up early, Quill.”
“Uh… yeah! I didn’t… think I was, honestly. Just got restless, I guess.” Peter’s smile faded a bit, eyes not making contact with the raccoon as he stammered, “You uh, you busy?”
Rocket’s eyes rolled dramatically, “Quill, that’s a stupid question. I’m always busy and you know that well enough, now what do you need fixed? You got that ‘I’m too scared to ask for help’ look you always get.” he crossed his arms and gave his friend a sly smile, he knew how to get Peter to open up.
Peter took a deep breath, wincing a little when he felt the zipper of his pants dig into the underside of his belly, causing Rocket to tilt his head at him curiously, “Yo, Quill? Somethin’ wrong?”
“Uh- ow. I’m fine! It’s just… um…”
“I can shut this door on you at any time, y’know.”
“Flark! Okay, Rocket I reeeeally really need you to fix uh, my boots. Y’know how they-”
Peter was cut off by Rocket grabbing the jet boots from his hands, “Yeah yeah, that fuel issue right?” the raccoon snickered to himself, “Don’t let all the cold air in, half my damn ship is missing, remember? And this stupid planet you picked to land us on is so chilly it makes my fur stand on end. No clue how these people can bother living with a star that tiny.”
Peter grunted at Rocket’s comment and let himself in, assuming that’s what Rocket meant, letting the door close behind him, “My sh- …” he thought better about his words while his personal belongings were in his friend’s hands, “Right, sorry.”
He stood there awkwardly, the room was much too cluttered for him, and he felt huge in it, even if the entire crew’s living quarters were the same dimensions, Rocket’s were just so… cramped. It didn’t help that his jeans were still digging into his waist. What a dumb mistake he made.
Rocket heard Peter shuffling behind him, ears twitching towards his direction, “Uh huh. Well, we ain’t gotta imagine livin’ with a tiny star, right?” he huffed a laugh and shook his head, taking apart the soles of the boots where the thrusters were housed. A few years ago Peter had upgraded from the measly little propulsion attachments that were clasped around the ankles of his boots, courtesy of Rocket, to a pair with much more controlled movement and power. But it was clear to Rocket that they needed a bit more, oomph to them, as Quill would have put it.
Especially since, well…
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Peter bristled and crossed his arms, giving the back of Rocket’s head a severe pouty look.
Rocket paid no mind to him, grabbing at a few copper wires and a soldering iron, making his work look so simple and easy with his deft hands. He chuckled at how annoyed Quill sounded behind him, “Hah, nothin’, nothin’...”
Small paws grappled a tin filled with oil, lubricating the more rusted parts of Peter’s boots wasn’t anything unusual for Rocket, but he wanted to make sure the job was done right before he fiddled with the electronics of the propulsion system. Pete’s shifting around made him a little antsy though, “C’mon, bud, find a seat, this won’t take more than ten minutes.”
Peter huffed, looking around at the raccoon’s cluttered room, “Where?... “ he mumbled to himself as he walked over pieces of scrap metal, trying his best not to knock anything over or step on anything sharp while he had only a pair of socks on, until he found the one seat that existed. It was a medium sized box, filled with spare gun parts and ammunition but sealed with a heavy lid, he figured it’d be fine.
Well.. it was fine, until the moment he tried to actually sit.
Rocket dropped the wiring when there was the loud sound of fabric tearing, or more accurately, ripping. Both him and Peter froze up, and Peter felt his face get terribly hot as his jeans felt slightly more roomy now than they did before.
“R-Rocket you, you uh. I … that- that wasn’t me!” Peter fumbled with his words, going to quickly sit down to hide the damage of the torn seam on the back of his jeans, right where his ass was, but the moment he heard even more tearing, he tried talking over it until he was completely seated, “That wasn’t anything!!”
Great! Good going, Star-Lord! Embarrassing yourself from how much you let yourself go, again!
Rocket’s mouth hung open as he turned, giving Quill such a bemused look that he couldn’t tell if his friend was in shock or about to laugh his head off.
It was the latter. Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?
“Hah! Haaaahahaha!!” Rocket banged his small fist on the workbench, as if this was the funniest thing he’s seen this year, “Holy– Quill… I-...”
“Okay, okay catch your breath, funny guy.”
“Did you seriously rip your pants?” Rocket did manage to catch his breath, wiping a tear from his eye and hopping down from his workbench to pad over to the embarrassed half-human.
Peter's face was screwed up into a look of pain and embarrassment, looking away from his companion and stuttered to offer a half-assed excuse,“Okay, look, jackass. I was… trying to see if these nice pants of mine still fit–”
Rocket quickly interrupted him, “Quill, you hadn’t worn those in a month, gettin’ them over that big ass of yours is a miracle in itself.”
Peter inhaled sharply, trying to keep himself from shedding tears of his own, though more so out of shame than humor. He hated how emotional he can get sometimes.
“As I was saying. I wanted to see if they fit, and they didn't. Are you happy? Wanna laugh some more?”
“Nah.” Rocket scoffed, padding up to him, putting a paw to the hem of Peter's shirt and suddenly lifting it, initiating a startled sound from the taller man.
Rocket shook his head, “Quill, you ain't gotta hurt yourself just to prove somethin’.” he prodded Peter's soft love handle that the waistband dug into, “It's just stupid.”
Peter swatted his hand away, not really expecting the sudden words of encouragement his friend offered when he was just making fun of him just a few seconds ago.
“It doesn't hurt that much…” He readjusted himself and winced. Okay. It hurt a lot.
With a playful roll of Rocket's eyes he backed away a bit from Peter, “Fine, be stubborn, don't get mad at me when it cuts your circulation off.” he dismissed the bewildered look Quill was giving him, heading back to his workbench and hopping onto his chair.
Unfortunately for Quill, the circuitry needed a numerical input to adjust fuel consumption, and Rocket totally didn’t get a massive smile on his face when he posed the question: “Say, Quill, how much you weigh now– ?”
Peter bristled at the question, still burning red, “If this is another way for you to call me fat, think again.”
“It’s for the thruster calibration, you numbskull.”
“Oh… right.” He rubbed the back of his neck, though he couldn’t dismiss the funny feeling in the pit of his stomach being asked that question.
“So, what is it? You gonna tell me or am I gonna make these things shoot you into the stratosphere next time you use ‘em?”
Peter … hesitated, he felt disheartened and ashamed enough, and these jeans were making it difficult to think straight. He just wanted this over so he could lock himself in his room and curl into a ball for the remainder of their time on this planet, then he could get back to doing missions and maybe actually shed all these extra pounds.
“Uh… last I checked, 175 pounds?” Okay, he lied. Kind of. That’s what it was when he was 20-years old at least!
Rocket looked at him with a flat expression, “Funny joke, what is it actually? I need to be precise here.”
Peter sighed, his chest felt tight, and he was getting a little lightheaded.
“Flark, okay! I… “ he stopped himself and thought for a moment, he had looked recently, when he was poking around in Drax’s room for some weights he was able to use without getting tipped over, and the number he saw on a digital scale made his heart sink into a pit at the time.
He sighed, staring down at the messy floor while his foot poked at a wrench. Peter did manage to remember the precise number because it echoed in his head when he was feeling particularly down on himself. Like right now at this very moment.
“It’s… it's 305.” He bit his lip and shut his eyes, expecting howling laughter from the raccoon.
Rocket’s eyes had widened, whiskers twitching a little. “Alright.” Him and the other guardians were always jovial, teasing, or even a bit supportive of the half-human’s much softer body and gluttonous eating habits and how he just seemed to get a little bigger each week in some respect. But somehow, hearing it out loud, that Quill had gotten a whole hundred-some pounds fatter since everyone’s first meeting with the outlaw just felt... real, and interesting.
When the laughter didn't come, Peter felt more confused than relieved, but he didn't want to pester his friend further, still shuffling small tools around in an attempt to entertain himself while waiting. In that moment he kind of hated how he was just a little bit peckish, mostly from being anxious.
It only took a couple minutes later, Rocket made sure to work fast, but smart. He admired his handiwork and oiled the last fuel injector before clasping his paws together, “Allllrighty, one pair of jet boots for the big guy.”
Peter perked up, looking at Rocket curiously.
“...But before I hand these off to ya, those pants are clearly hurtin’ you, you’ll definitely need to throw ‘em away.”
“Wh-what?!”
“I don't want my space cadet loosin’ all the blood to his legs, take those flarkin’ things off.”
“Hah, Rocket, I don't think-”
“Yeah, you're right quill, you don’t think.” Rocket hopped off the stool, interrupting Peter and padding over, “Take them off, or I'll shred them myself.”
Peter opened his mouth for another retort, but thought against it and actually gave in, these were really starting to hurt. “Okay… I need a lil help though.” he said with a whine, leaning back so his waistband could be easily accessed.
Peter's shirt rode up his pudgy stomach a bit, and it rolled over his waistband like soft dough, red stretch marks dotting his belly could be seen, he felt way too exposed in front of his friend, this was awful.
Rocket’s hands felt warm against Peter's belly as Rocket pushed up, moving his gut out of the way so the other man could unbutton his pants, and once he did his stomach forced the zipper open, his gut flooding into his lap in a way that gave Peter goosebumps.
“Shit, Quill.”
“What, Rocket? Got any more jokes for me?” Peter felt like he was going to faint.
“No, it's just-” Rocket paused, putting his fingers into the belt loops and tugging, “Help me out here, bud.”
Peter and Rocket tugged with all their might, both grunting as the waistband slid slowly down past the man’s ridiculous heart patterned boxers, blubbery fat thighs, until finally it came off and left Peter breathless and groaning.
“Ugh, finally…” Peter sat in his underwear, the waistband leaving a hot red mark all around his hips, big thighs on full display and his stomach hanging heavily between them.
Rocket assessed the damage from his friend's ass, a massive hole at the seam, whistling as he shoved his head in it, “That huge ass of yours can cause some damage, ever thought about weaponizing it? Maybe a buttslam–”
“No, Rocket. And stop… playing with my pants! I gotta throw those out…" Peter felt utterly demoralized, a massive headache forming behind his eyes as he stared at the ceiling, trying his best to ignore Rocket’s teasing, but it wasn't working terribly well.
Though… he never asked for his friends to stop whenever all of them teased him in this way, and every little insult and jab only served to make Peter blush in a way he could never understand the processes behind.
“Oh you're no fun.” Rocket sighed and balled Peter's jeans up, tossing them to the floor, “Now don't you go screwin’ around like that again. Coulda got yourself hurt.” he turned and padded back to his workbench to grab the boots, returning them to their original owner.
“Here ya go, now I calibrated these a bit higher than what ya said, gotta predict the future n all–”
Peter interrupted him and pulled the boots away from his paws, “I'm not getting heavier, Rocket.”
“Sure ya aren't,” Rocket squinted at Peter's rudeness, sneering in a playful manner, “and I won't help ya again if you're gonna take stuff from me like that, tons of fun.”
“I mean it!”
“And I do too.” he sauntered up to Peter, crawling on to the area of the metal box Peter sat on that still had space, “I know you, Quill. Only reason you stayed skinny as long as you did was ‘cause of the Ravagers. They needed you tiny for stealin’. Told me so yourself, buddy.”
Rocket pointedly stared at the pudgy stomach that was exposed from how small Peter’s shirt was, “Then I came into the picture and you saw how I can fit into even better places your bulky humie body couldn't, and started lettin’ yourself go, just like that.” He knew full well that Peter had muscle, a lot of it, but it was buried now from a few years of partying and his irresponsible eating habits.
Peter's heart raced, he felt helpless and humiliated and could barely speak, “I’ll lose the weight if you really want me to, Rocket, seriously!” he blurted out finally after having the sentiment echoed in his own head, face completely red from listening to the string of Rocket’s jokes.
Rocket’s face was forced into a frown, looking up at him, a bit confused, “Where'd you get that from? Just cause I like callin’ you tubby don't mean you suddenly gotta go on a diet."
Okay, that threw Peter off.
“Whoa, wait, what?” He floundered a moment, fidgeting a little under Rocket’s gaze and wondering where that came from. Rocket always poked fun at him for being fat, for years, and all this time he was… actually fine with that part of him? Were the others the same? It was kind of too good to be true, especially coming from his snarky little friend. His nervousness did melt a little, but Peter's ego was always easily shattered with only a few words, and he knew that much about himself as much as he hated to admit it.
“You got ears don’cha? Maybe I like you bein’ a big fat idiot. Certainly makes me look good at least.” Rocket huffed a laugh, but his expression fell when he looked into Peter’s big blue eyes. He could tell Peter was crestfallen, even with that big blush on his cheeks. There was that glass cannon ego of his.
“Hey, Pete. Look at me.”
Peter hesitated, glancing up at Rocket, a softer than usual expression on the raccoon’s face, making him feel a little less tense.
Rocket placed a paw delicately on Peter’s cheek, the man never had the ruggedness of his father. He always looked soft, emotional, even with the messy, scruffy beard he sported, especially now as he was. Peter’s face was fuller, rounder, accentuating his usual pouty expression, sporting a cute double chin.
Then Rocket took a deep breath, sappy shit was never his forte, but he had to try for his friend’s sake, “You’re my friend, Quill, don’t get all in your head thinkin’ you should change how you look ‘cause of a little teasing. You’re stronger than that.” he gave Peter’s chubby face a pat.
Now, Peter just felt like melting in Rocket’s hands, lapping up the attention the raccoon was giving him, especially after such a crummy day, the knot in his stomach dissipating with only a few words.
“Th…thanks, dude. Guess I got too into my own head, huh.”
“If ya keep that up, you might end up formin’ an actual plan for once.” Rocket grinned, more menacing than he intended. Peter rolled his eyes at him.
Peter intended on just getting up and keeping himself in his room for a while once Rocket was back to his own work, but the sudden growl from his stomach betrayed him, and Rocket glanced back to give Quill a snarky grin, but held back any particularly biting words after the little bit of vulnerability both of them showed.
Peter was glad they did as he left, making a beeline for the fridge to grab an immense amount of leftovers to take into his bunk.
Eating always did make him feel better after all.