{ VIRTUAL DELUSIONS | PHIGHTING & BLOCKTALES X READER | ONE SHOTS. }

' DA SHOP, DA GUARD ' - PROTECTIVE!ROCKET X READER

(hi DIVAS💜)
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The walk to Da Shop never feels short. Maybe it's the way the streets stretch on forever, metal plates underfoot ringing with every step, the echo of other phighters moving somewhere in the distance. Maybe it's because you always find yourself rehearsing what you'll say when you see him — not because you need to, but because Rocket has a way of throwing you off-balance.

Not the clingy, explosive reputation people whisper about him. That Rocket — the hyper Playground troublemaker — doesn't really exist anymore. The real Rocket, the one you know, is sharp edges honed into discipline. Controlled. Always a hair-trigger away from irritation, but not out of recklessness. He's learned to bottle the fire. You suspect Zuka's had something to do with that.

Still, when it comes to you, the bottle cracks just enough to let warmth slip through.

You pass a broken gear sign rattling in the wind, then the sight of Da Shop's glowing windows hits you. Relief trickles in. The errand's simple: pick up supplies, maybe linger a little, trade words with him before heading home. It should've been easy.

It doesn't go easy.

Halfway across the plaza, you notice him. A man leaning against the wall near Da Shop's front door, arms folded, jaw set like he owns the place. He doesn't notice you at first, but when his eyes snap up, the attention lands heavy.

"Hey," he calls. It's not friendly. His voice cuts sharp, weighted. "You headed in there?"

You slow. "...Yeah. Why?"

The guy pushes off the wall, grin twitching in a way that isn't humor. "You look like the type who doesn't belong. Shop like that isn't for tourists."

Something in your chest prickles. He's not blocking the door, but his posture makes it clear he could. It's not sexual, not mocking — just threatening, the kind of bravado meant to keep someone small.

Your pulse kicks up, but you square your shoulders. "Funny. Last I checked, Da Shop sells to anyone who can pay."

He chuckles low, stepping closer. "Sure, sure. But sometimes it's not about bux. Sometimes it's about knowing who runs the place." His eyes narrow. "And I don't think you do."

The hairs on your arms stand on end. You debate brushing past him, but the weight of his stare makes you hesitate. He's fishing for a reaction, maybe worse.

Then the door opens.

The shift is immediate: hinges creak, warm light spills out, and there he is. Rocket. Goggles pushed to his forehead, cropped leather jacket perfectly fit, necklace catching the glow. His prosthetic arm gleams under the shop lights, crystal inlays sparking faintly as if reacting to his pulse.

His gaze flicks to you first. Then to the man standing in your way.

You've seen Rocket irritated before — at broken parts, late shipments, even at Sword when he's being too smug. But this look? Cold. A sliver of barely-leashed anger.

"You lost?" Rocket's voice is smooth, level, but there's no softness. No playfulness. Just steel.

The guy straightens. "Just talking."

Rocket steps forward until he's close enough that the faint hum of his prosthetics fills the space between them. His posture is relaxed, but there's nothing casual about it. "You're blocking the door."

"Not my fault they walked up," the guy mutters, but the bravado wavers under Rocket's stare.

"You got about three seconds to move," Rocket says flatly. "After that, I stop asking."

The air tightens. You catch the flicker of temper in Rocket's eyes — not wild, not uncontrolled, but sharp and purposeful. He's serious, and the weight of it is enough to make the man hesitate.