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Animal Instinct

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If they make it out of this alive, Rocket is going to murder Quill.

“If you kill him, that makes yet another body we have to dispose of,” Thor says under his breath. Whatever he’s doing probably passes for whispering on Asgard, but his voice is too big for the junky little service elevator they’re crammed into, shoulder to thigh. Rocket’s ears flatten.

“Fine, I won’t kill him. I’m just gonna shoot him a couple of times.”

Thor chuckles. Rocket can feel it where their bodies are pressed together, his leg hot against Rocket’s side. Too bad Rocket’s too pissed off to really appreciate it. Thor even snagged one of the outfits all the Xirillian servers are wearing, all clinging, shimmery fabrics in shades of cream and white to indicate his low-born status. It’s an outfit designed to show off more than it conceals, and it doesn’t help that Rocket has a front-row seat to the way it molds to his bulge and thighs –

Okay, so maybe he’s appreciating it a little bit. It’s not his fault that Xirillians are even bigger sex freaks than Terrans.

Focus, idiot! He has bigger problems than Thor’s body right now. Like a different, much-less-alive body in the Ambassadorial suite upstairs. The elevator dings. The service hallway is clear when they poke their heads through the door, Rocket’s hand ready on the grip of his blaster.

“Wait here,” Thor says. “I won’t be long.”

Rocket hates being sidelined, hates waiting, but they don’t really have a choice. Thor’s bound to draw a lot less attention. He crouches just inside the doors, breathing through his nose, and tries not to think too hard about Thor’s ass in those stupid pants as it jogs away from him.

It takes an eternity – or at least, it feels like one. In reality, it’s only a few minutes, but he’s still relieved when Thor comes strolling back down the hall from the kitchens, two glasses and a bottle of some fancy booze Rocket’s never seen before in hand. He steps back onto the lift, and Rocket slams his fist on the button to get them moving before anyone else comes along.

“I told them Ambassador Kymheri was entertaining a guest and asked that he not be disturbed,” Thor says as the elevator ascends, cables rattling beneath their feet. The main lifts, the ones the guests use, are sleek glass boxes that ferry them to their rooms from the lobby. The staff elevator is opaque and remote, more suited to their purposes, but Rocket still mourns. He could have picked so many pockets. This one, he just hopes it’ll hold until they get back to the top. “That should buy us some time.”

“It’d better.” Rocket sniffs curiously at the bottle. The liquid is such a pale shade of gold that it’s almost clear, and little pink pearls float around the bottom, each one no bigger than the tip of his claw. “What is this stuff?”

“I do not know.” Thor glances down at him, and he catches the edge of a grin, Thor’s cheeks bunching up around his eyes. “I thought we might find out.”

After the mission,” Rocket warns him.

“After, sweet Rabbit,” Thor confirms, looking entirely too pleased with himself, and Rocket scrubs at his muzzle so Thor can’t see his dopey grin.

“You know what, Thunder? You’re alright.”

Thor is alright. That’s the problem. He’s more than alright. He’s Thor. From the first time he’d come crashing onto their ship, a lost god looking for revenge, with his bravado and fake smiles and one weary eye, something in Rocket’s gut had warned him that he was in trouble. That if he kept trying to get closer, he was going to walk right over the edge. And of course, he hadn’t listened, which meant that his morons really were rubbing off on him. He’d thought it might fade after Thanos and Thor’s time away on New Asgard, but if anything, it had only gotten worse. How was he supposed to live in such close quarters with the guy when he felt like this? At first, he’d told himself that it was okay to look, that looking didn’t mean anything, but even that didn’t last. No, the real problem is that Rocket wants to do a hell of a lot more than look, and he’s never going to be able to, no matter how many weird nicknames Thor gives him. It’s enough to make him want to blow himself out the airlock.

So, yeah. Rocket’s got all the important stuff – his own ship, his family back, a steady stream of guns and cash – all the things he never thought he’d have, but there’s something else he wants now, and he can’t steal it or shoot it or buy it, so he can’t have it. Simple as that. It’s not that he’s not used to it – shit, if anyone ever had been into him, he probably would have told them to beat it. He doesn’t want to get mixed up with the kind of sick fuck who’d want a piece of him. But Thor, Thor keeps smiling at him and touching him and calling him things like ‘sweet Rabbit’, which, if it was anyone else he’d jam his blaster straight up their dickhole, but coming from Thor, he doesn’t really mind. The problem, the actual, real, bonafide problem, is that it’s starting to give Rocket false hope, and that’s what he can’t live with.

He'd come up with a plan. Might’ve taken him longer than he wanted to admit to formulate it, but the point is, it's a solid plan. A great plan! Or was, until Quill blew it. It was supposed to be an easy mission: prove that the Xirillian diplomatic ambassador had forfeited his immunity by selling classified political documents to the Eucredians, and bring him back to his homeworld to await trial. A clean mission with a mega-cash reward, and when they went to deliver the guy, it was going to be just him and Thor. He’d set it up like that on purpose, so they could talk on the way back. He still doesn’t know what he would have said, but he could have figured it out. Not that it matters now.

“I told you, I thought it was set to stun,” Quill insists on the other end of Rocket’s comm as they slip back into the suite, his face blurry on the screen. “It misfired or something. Piece of – “

“Idiot!” Rocket barks. “How did he get the drop on you in the first place?”

“I told you I should have handled it alone,” Gamora says from somewhere in the background. Quill shoots her a look.

“Look, I’m telling you, it was either him or us. He knew something was up from the jump.”

“You should have had the threesome with him, as promised,” Drax rumbles off-screen. “Maybe then he would not have tried to shoot you.”

“Whatever. Now we have a dead body, and no proof.” Rocket kicks at the dead ambassador’s knee, which flops limply with the movement. There’s a ragged hole in his chest, sluggish blue blood staining his fancy clothes and violet skin. “Good going.”

“Thank you,” Drax says.

I am Groot.”

“Watch your mouth, kid.” Rocket glances out the window. It’s impossible to tell what time it is, three moons still round and full in the deep green sky, which means they have anywhere from thirty seconds to several hours. They’re wasting time. “Alright, look. Me ‘n Thunder are on clean-up duty, so we’ll handle it. Just sit tight and try not to screw anything else up.”

“I can help – ” Quill starts to argue, and Rocket shuts off the comm, the air going dead. He went on a freaking time heist to get them back, not that long ago. He’s not losing them again.

“C’mon, let’s figure out what to do with the stiff and get out of here.” Thor doesn’t move. Rocket squints up at him, snaps his fingers. “Thor. You with me?”

“Yes,” Thor says, but his voice sounds strange. He clears his throat. “It’s become… quite warm in here. Do you not feel it?”

Now that he mentions it, it is warm. Warmer than it had been a minute ago. Rocket tugs at his collar. “Yeah.” His voice sounds weird too. Rougher than usual, the word scraping his throat. “Yeah, I guess it is kinda hot.” There’s no reason for it to be this hot. He’s all prickly under his skin, but it feels good too, like dozens of fingers running through his fur, combing behind his ears and scratching the base of his tail. He swallows. His mouth is wet, tongue thick in his mouth. “We have to,” he starts, then stops, blinking with heavy eyes. He’s supposed to be doing something with a body. Something important, but –

Fuck, maybe it’s Thor’s body. That would explain why it's so important; Rocket can’t imagine anything more important than that. Thor takes a few unsteady steps backwards, sinks down onto the enormous bed in the center of the room. His face is flushed, thighs parted, and Rocket should probably be worried that there’s something wrong with him, but right now all he can think about is climbing between those enormous thighs and doing everything he’s dreamed of doing for the last six years. At this angle, the pants leave nothing to the imagination. He can see Thor’s cock, huge and heavy, jutting uncomfortably towards his belly, and Rocket is hard now too, swollen against the front of his jumpsuit. Normally he ignores the weird little dick his makers gave him, as much as he can ignore something that’s attached to him, but right now it’s demanding all his attention and then some. He adjusts himself without thinking, grinding his palm against the head to relieve some of the pressure. Thor’s eyes follow the movement of his hand – one blue, one gold.

“Rabbit,” he murmurs, and it sends a helpless shiver down Rocket’s spine, drives him a half-step closer to the bed. A look he’s never seen before flashes across Thor’s face, like he’s hungry and in pain at the same time. “Please.”

It’s jacked that hearing him say it like that only makes Rocket harder, dick twitching. “Please what?”

“It wouldn’t be wise to approach me right now.” The pants have a wet patch from where he’s trapped against them, leaking slick. Rocket has no idea what he’s talking about. Going over there sounds like the best idea he’s ever had.

“Why’s that?”

Thor’s brow furrows like he doesn’t understand the question. Maybe he doesn’t. He already looks pretty far gone, his one blue eye glazed over and his nostrils flaring with each labored breath. “You don’t want to do something you’ll regret.”

Rocket laughs. He doesn’t mean to. It punches out of him, a short, surprised bark. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“If you come near me,” Thor says, then stops, fingers digging into the edge of the bed. His knuckles bulge bone-white against the skin. A frustrated growl rumbles in his chest. Rocket’s never heard Thor growl before. There’s really no reason why it should be so damn hot. “I won’t be able to stop myself,” he finally says, swallowing hard. He lets go of the bed, hands opening and closing on nothing like he doesn’t know what to do with them, and when he looks at Rocket he looks lost, overwhelmed with something Rocket is almost afraid to name. “And that is not a burden I wish for you to bear. To ask you to indulge me in such a way, now – “

“Thor,” Rocket says.

Thor’s breathing hitches, like even just hearing Rocket say his name feels good. “Yes?”

“Shut up.”

It only takes a few steps to close the distance between them. The bed is tall, the mattress dipping gently beneath Thor’s bulk, and that puts Rocket just above eye-level with his dick, straining against the gauzy fabric of his pants. He braces himself against Thor’s thighs, skin hot beneath his palms, and leans in so he can rub his cheek against the head. He likes the way it smells, musk and adrenaline and sweat, but he likes the noise Thor makes more. The fabric is slippery, damp with precome. Rocket turns his head so he can taste it, dragging his tongue up the side. Thor’s entire body jolts, hips almost coming off the bed, and Rocket swears he hears the faint sizzle of lightning.

“You taste good,” he says, and Thor grabs him by the waist with a snarl and hoists him up onto the bed like he weighs nothing at all.

Kissing isn’t really something Rocket understands – he’s seen Quill and Gamora do it plenty, and it looks more gross than hot. But that’s before Thor presses him into the pillows, heavy limbs bracketing him on both sides, kissing his muzzle, his cheeks, his throat; he kisses the corners of Rocket’s mouth like he’ll die if he stops for even a second, and Rocket sinks his fingers into Thor’s hair, breathing hard. Thor’s beard catches on his fur. Something nags at the back of his mind, the feeling that there’s something important he needs to do, but then Thor bites the side of his neck and the feeling drowns beneath a flood of want.

Clothes. They’re both still wearing clothes, Rocket realizes, and that has to be a crime. Not even the fun kind of crime, just a regular one. Thor should always be naked. He shreds the shirt and pants in his hurry to get them off, thin fabric ripping beneath his nails. Not that Thor’s any help – he’s too busy trying to tear Rocket’s jumpsuit open. Rocket bites his shoulder, scratching long pink lines down his biceps, and Thor’s big hand yanks the suit the rest of the way off, his breath stuttering. His one good eye is wild, pupil huge and dark. He slithers down Rocket’s body to lay flat on his stomach, sheets and comforter bunched up underneath him, and Rocket’s dick jumps just from his face being that close. It’d be embarrassing if he wasn’t so horny. He’s already harder than he’s ever been, aching, the tip wet and red where it’s poking out of his sheath. Thor’s hands curve around his hips, lifting them off the bed, and when his fingers dig into the thick fur just above the base of Rocket’s tail, a wave of heat drips down Rocket’s spine, so unexpected that all he can do is melt into the bed, toes twitching.


“Oh,” Thor says, like he’s discovered something rare and precious, and massages the spot with his fingertips. Rocket’s entire body goes limp. It’s like gambling and money and expensive booze, like every good thing he’s ever felt all rolled into one, and there’s nothing he can do except fall apart in Thor’s hands, clawing at the sheets. The tip of Thor’s tongue dabs at the head of his dick, wet and shockingly hot, and Rocket yelps, back arching. “You taste even better than I hoped you would,” Thor murmurs, and then his mouth envelops Rocket’s dick from tip to base and Rocket’s brain short-circuits. He’s not gonna survive this. Maybe he’s already dead, and his brain has conjured up a vivid hallucination to ease his final moments, send him off with a metaphorical bang. Thor’s tongue is soft, flickering against the underside of his dick where it emerges from the sheath. He buries his nose in the fur on Rocket’s belly and sucks, and Rocket’s eyes damn near fall out of his head, they roll so far back. If this is a hallucination, he never wants it to end.

It's too good. It hurts, how good it is. Thor’s hands keep him suspended, spread open; he bows his head and drinks from the cradle of Rocket’s hips. Rocket thrashes, cursing. Thor’s tongue skates over his dick, lips mapping every inch of him they can reach, easing back every time Rocket feels the beginnings of an orgasm sneaking up on him until his tail is lashing against the sheets and he’s half-delirious and aching. Words are beyond him. He drifts, feels the mattress shift beneath them. Thor’s head dips, shining gold, and his tongue –

His tongue –

“Shit,” Rocket hisses, frantic, and makes a grab for his dick, but Thor bats his hands away easily. “Hey, fuck you, Thunder!”

“Next time,” Thor says. He lifts Rocket’s hips higher, breath hot against his exposed hole, and when he speaks his voice is little more than a rumble. “I’ve dreamed so many times of you like this. Hard and eager, spending from my touch alone.” A flicker of tongue, a barely-there touch that makes him twitch. “So many, many times.”

“Shit,” Rocket says again, voice gone weak. “Thor – “

Another lick, another brush of lips that makes him writhe. Thor’s eye goes glassy, half-lidded with satisfaction.

Nobody’s ever done this before. Rocket’s never wanted this before, until now. He yanks at Thor’s hair, kicks at his shoulders, metal implants grinding when his body twists, and all the while Thor’s mouth never stops, never relents, kissing and nibbling and lapping at him until Rocket curses him between moans. He’s looser now, pliant beneath Thor’s tongue with his dick throbbing against his stomach, and when Thor works one thick finger into him, it only takes a few strokes before his back arches and he comes so hard his vision goes to static, blood rushing in his ears. There’s nothing but sensation, nothing but Thor, Thor touching him and kissing his thighs and nosing into his fur until Rocket shoves his head away, gasping for air. His entire body seizes when Thor slips his finger free, and then it’s out and he’s left panting and feeling strangely empty. His dick is still hard. He kind of wants to tell Thor to put it back in, to give him a second to breathe and then go for round two, but then Thor groans, eyelids fluttering, and Rocket realizes he’s grinding his hips into the mattress.

“Hey.” It comes out hoarse. He kicks Thor’s shoulder to get his attention. “Get up here. C’mere.”

Thor slinks up to join him, reclining into the pillows, and Rocket manages to get his limbs working again so he can roll over and crawl between Thor’s thighs, still shaky. Thor’s head lolls back, his breathing heavy. He looks all fucked out, like he’s the one who just came all over himself, face flushed and muscles lax. His dick curves towards his belly, slick at the tip. Rocket’s mouth waters. When he drags his tongue up the shaft, Thor grabs at the bedsheets, and a moan rumbles in his chest. It sounds like a storm moving in.

There’s no way he can do what Thor did to him – his muzzle isn’t designed for it. That’s fine, Rocket tells himself. If there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s improvising. Thor’s dick is so big that he has to use both hands, doing his best to keep his claws out of the way, and even then, his fingers barely meet in the middle. Thor exhales, lips parted. Rocket imagines trying to take the whole thing, easing down onto it with Thor’s hands steady on his hips, filling him up inch by inch. His own dick throbs. He spits into his palms and starts jerking Thor off for real this time, lapping clumsily at the head, and Thor’s hips snap into him on the downstroke, a sheen of sweat on his forehead and chest. He fucks Rocket’s hands, Rocket’s rough tongue coaxing more and more slick from the tip until it’s dripping all over his fingers and Thor is panting with each thrust, the muscles in his thighs flexing. His head tips into the pillows, eyes screwed shut and teeth bared when he comes, pulsing in Rocket’s grasp. Rocket swallows what he can, but most of it spatters his muzzle and chest, matting his fur. He doesn’t care – it’s proof that the whole thing actually happened. He shoves a wet hand between his legs and comes for the second time that night, pinpricks of light flickering behind his eyelids when it washes over him. They look like stars.

Somehow he ends up curled in the crook of Thor’s arm after that, half-unconscious while blunt fingers scratch his ears. Rabbit, Thor says from somewhere above him, but Rocket barely hears him. His entire body feels like an overfull cup – if he moves, he’s going to spill all over the bed. Rabbit? The stroking stops. He growls, struggling to open bleary eyes.

“What? What the hell is it?”

“Forgive me if I’m wrong,” Thor says, and he’s starting to sound less sluggish now, like he’s coming out of a trance, “but isn’t there something we were supposed to be doing? Something…”

“Important,” Rocket finishes, and it hits like a bucket of ice water. He bolts upright. “Shit!”

“What,” Thor starts, only for his good eye to widen in alarm. “The ambassador.” Rocket is already scrambling out of bed. His jumpsuit is dangling from the nightstand, collar caught on a drawer handle, and he snatches it free, fumbling with the zipper. Idiot, idiot! Quill’s never gonna let him live this one down. None of them are. He hops on one leg, yanking his suit up the other. From the other side of the bed, Thor clears his throat.

“We might have a problem.”

“Yeah, no shit. What are you, the god of stating the obvious now?”

“A bigger problem,” Thor says. Rocket zips the suit up partway, enough to cover the important bits, and ties the arms around his waist while he scurries around the side of the bed to assess the situation. Then, he stops altogether.

“Where the hell is the body?”

“I… don’t know.” Thor still looks dazed, leaning against the bedpost. There are smears of neon blue blood on the luminescent floor, smaller flecks and dribbles staining the rug at the foot of the bed, but the ambassador himself is gone. Rocket scans the room on instinct, sniffing the air. No other disturbances, as far as he can tell. No signs of a struggle, or anything to indicate that anyone else entered the room. The air reeks of him and Thor, sweat and sex and something else he can’t place, but it makes his nose itch. He sniffs again, sneezes. There’s something vaguely familiar about it, the way he remembers the Terran forest surrounding the compound smelling: woodsy and damp, richly floral. A curl of warmth nuzzles between his legs, like a hand cupping him, and his exhausted dick twitches.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Thor instantly goes on alert. “What is it?”

Rocket laughs. He doesn’t really know why. “I shoulda known.” He can’t believe he forgot. Now that his head has cleared some, he kind of wants to shoot something, because it was right there in front of him the whole time, and he forgot. A ship full of morons, and Rocket’s the biggest one. Long live King Moron. “There wasn’t enough blood.”

“What do you mean?”

“Somethin’ Groot told me a long time ago. Not this Groot. The first one.” His chest twinges. “He’d had run-ins with Xirillians before. They’re real good at surviving. It’s kinda their specialty. That’s why they have two hearts, even though they only need one.”

Understanding dawns. “We have to go after him,” Thor says, and makes it about two and a half strides from the door before Rocket calls after him.

“Hey, Thunder?”

Thor glances over his shoulder, impatient.

“You’re naked.” Rocket waggles his blaster. “And unarmed.”

“I could still apprehend him,” Thor says, apparently unconcerned with his own nudity. Rocket snorts.

“Oh yeah? What are you gonna do, club him over the head with that thing and drag him back to the ship?”

Thor glances down at his dick, soft and heavy between his thighs, then back at Rocket. “Speaking of which. What exactly – “ He gestures at the bed. “Why did we – “

“Xirillian pheromones. Crazy-effective on anything with a sense of smell.” Some of the black markets in the nastier corners of the galaxy traded in Xirillian glands, or so the whispers went – the freshly-harvested ones were worth millions. Rocket’s not picky about a lot of things, but he’d rather go a couple more rounds with Thanos than set foot in one of those places. “Groot told me that’s why the bounties on them are always so high. They play dead and spew sex junk everywhere, then make a break for it when everyone’s good and distracted. Fuckin’ impossible to catch.” He scrubs a hand over his eyes. “Shoulda remembered.”

“I’m sorry, Rabbit,” Thor says, grave now. The dull ache in Rocket’s chest spreads. “Truly, I am. I should have been able to control myself.”

“Nah, man. It’s what that shit is designed to do.” Designed to force Thor to do all those things with Rocket, designed to force him to act like he’d wanted it. It’s not Rocket’s fault, but there’s still something oily swimming around in his guts, something that feels a lot like guilt. He checks the settings on his blaster just so he has something to look at besides Thor. “Anyway, I started it. Ain’t your fault.”

“You weren’t yourself.”

“Neither of us was himself.” He jams the blaster back onto his belt. “Don’t rub it in.”

Thor’s brows knot together. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m just saying, I get it. You never would have touched me if it weren’t for the freaky alien pheromones. We don’t gotta keep talking about it.” Personally, Rocket would be thrilled never to discuss this particular humiliation again, and hopefully Thor will feel the same. Once they get back on the ship, it’ll just be another shameful memory. One he jerks off to sometimes, when he’s feeling really low, but Thor doesn’t need to know that.

“Rocket,” Thor says, and Rocket starts when he kneels down, bare and unashamed. He can’t remember the last time Thor called him by his real name. It shouldn’t make him feel as warm as it does. His lips draw back from his teeth when Thor reaches out, but Thor is apparently gunning for the title of King Moron, because he doesn’t seem to care he’s a half-second from getting his fingers bitten off. His palm cups Rocket’s cheek, fingers settling into the fur behind his ear. Rocket doesn’t want to lean into it, but it feels too good not to let it happen. Thor sighs. “I was apologizing because of the circumstances, not the activity.” He rubs his thumb across Rocket’s cheekbone, smoothing his fur. “That isn’t how I wanted things between us to begin.”

“You wanted… things,” Rocket says. “To begin.”


“With me.”

“Who else would I be talking to?”

“You’re crazy, Thunder,” Rocket says. His fur is hot where Thor’s touching him. His heart is beating way too fast, making his hands shake. They curl into fists at his sides. “Balls-to-the-wall, certifiably insane.”

Thor shrugs one shoulder, eye clouding over, and there’s that slippery, guilty feeling again, eating away at Rocket’s insides. “You never seemed to return my affections, so I kept them to myself. I didn’t want to place undue burden on our friendship.”

“Your affections,” Rocket says.

“If it’s not something you want – “

“Shut up,” Rocket snaps, and Thor does, his eye sparking with renewed interest. It’s weirdly embarrassing, to be looked at like that. Rocket clears his throat. “What I mean is… yeah. I do, uh. Want that. Assuming the offer’s still on the table.”

Thor’s smile near splits his face in half. He leans in and rubs his cheek against Rocket’s, nosing into his fur. “You like me,” he purrs, sounding helplessly, utterly pleased, and Rocket ducks his muzzle so Thor can’t see him grinning like a fool.

“You’re a fucking freak, you know that?”

“You like me,” Thor says again, lips brushing the shell of Rocket’s ear. That close, his voice sends a tremor down Rocket’s spine, but it’s not enough to drown out the faint sounds of approaching footsteps, and the fur along his back prickles in warning.

“Yeah, yeah. Look, when we make it back to the ship I’ll like you until you can’t walk, but right now we have bigger problems.” He unhooks his blaster, thumb cocking the switch to the highest setting. “Hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“The security team that’s going to be crawling up our asses in about sixty seconds if we don’t move.” He hoists the gun, and when Thor extends an arm, he doesn’t hesitate to climb on. His tail drapes around Thor’s neck, weight settling on his shoulder. “Window’s not an option, so I think we’re just gonna have to use the front door. You cool with that?”

Thor’s good eye goes white, static crackling through his hair. Lightning spikes between his fingers, sparks popping in his fists, and Rocket’s fur bristles in response, the atmosphere rising around them. “The front door will do just fine.”

“I’m gonna fuck your damn brains out when we get back to the ship,” Rocket tells him, and the first of many bodies slams into the door, followed by the stomping of boots and the distant whine of a laser warming. Thirty seconds before they cut the door open, he estimates, and his finger twitches on the trigger. Thor chuckles.

“All the more incentive to make it back in one piece, then.”

He’s half-naked with a handgun, Thor’s letting it all hang out, the mission’s fucked, and they’re a half-step from being vaporized by one of the most expensive private armies in the galaxy, but in that moment, Rocket’s pretty sure he’s having the time of his life. He fires up the blaster, and the door begins to bubble and melt, a red-hot line forming in its center.

“C’mon, Thunder. Let’s give ‘em somethin’ to talk about.”