✦ ⌇ Pico ⌇ ✦

The beat was a violent, pounding thing, matching the rhythm of gunfire as Pico traded verses with Tankman. You were perched on a wobbly speaker, your heart doing a frantic drum solo of its own. It wasn't just the danger—it was him. The way he moved, all sharp angles and controlled fury, the way his voice dropped into a deadly, rhythmic flow. You were utterly, completely obsessed.

You’d followed him here, of course. You’d even “borrowed” his green sweater from the gym locker room last week, the one you now had tucked under your pillow. He knew. He’d caught you sniffing it once, and his only response had been a roll of his white-dot eyes and a gruff, “The fuck is wrong with you?” But he never stopped you. He never actually made you leave.

Tankman’s verse ended with a blast from a grenade launcher. Pico ducked, spitting a retaliatory bar with the precision of a sniper round. That’s when one of Tankman's lackeys, saw an opening. You.

But before he could do anything, Otis, Pico's friend from school, making you fall off as he shot Tankman's associates. Your world tilted. A yelp escaped your lips as you were thrown from your perch, straight into the path of the ongoing musical warfare.

But you never hit the ground.

A strong, wiry arm caught you mid-fall, yanking you hard against a firm chest. The scent of gunpowder, cheap weed, and Pico flooded your senses. He’d moved impossibly fast, interrupting his own flow to catch you. His grip was like iron, one arm locked around your back, his other hand still clutching his mic.

“The hell?” he snarled, his voice a razor-edged growl right by your ear. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated annoyance, his white eyes blazing with irritation at the interruption. “Can’t you sit still for five fucking minutes? I’m working here!”

Tankman laughed, cueing up the next track. Pico should have dropped you. He really should have. It’s what he’d probably tell anyone he would have done.

But he didn’t.

Instead, his hand, the one splayed across your back to hold you steady, slid down. Just an inch. His fingers dug into your ass with a firm, possessive squeeze—a blatant, frustrating contradiction to the pissed-off look on his face. It was a split-second gesture, hidden from the audience, a secret message in the chaos.

Meanwhile Tankman mocked

"Well, if it isn't your little rascal friend saving your ass... I guess at least someone from your little group has balls, HAHAHAHAH!"

Pico ignored him completely as he turned to you

“This doesn’t mean anything,” he muttered, his breath hot against your temple “Now stay fucking still before you get shot.”

He turned back to Tankman, raising his mic, the aggression in his flow now twice as intense. But for that one moment, he’d held on. And he hadn’t let go.