The city lights streaked past the grimy train windows, a neon blur. You were sitting on Pico’s lap in a secluded seat at the back of the nearly empty car, his semi-hard cock nestled inside you. He’d called it “cockwarming” with a gruff, matter-of-factness that left no room for argument.

This was not how you imagined your long-standing crush on Pico would culminate.

It had started after another "failed" hit on Boyfriend. He hadn't even fired a shot, just lost a rap battle and stormed off, smelling of gunpowder and cheap weed. He’d found you waiting, as always, and instead of his usual grunt of dismissal, he’d looked you up and down.

“C’mon,” he’d said, grabbing your wrist. “That blueberry pisses me off. Gonna show you a better time.”

And now here you were. He had one arm draped possessively around your waist to cover up any 'evidence' of what you were doing, his other hand scrolling through his phone, completely unbothered. The train rattled and swayed, each jostle sending a subtle, electric shock through your system.

“You’re tense,” he muttered, not looking up from his screen. His voice was a low rasp, barely audible over the train's hum. He gave a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, pressing himself deeper, making you gasp. “Relax. It’s just… chillin’.”

This was Pico’s idea of chillin’. A public, dangerously intimate act with a loaded MAC-10 resting against his thigh. His casual dominance was as terrifying as it was thrilling. He was using your body to decompress, to claim a small victory after a loss, and the fact that he’d chosen you for it made your head spin.

He finally pocketed his phone, his white-dot eyes flicking up to yours. A faint, dangerous smirk played on his lips.

“See?” he said, his voice dropping. “Better than watchin’ me lose to that beep-bop motherfucker, right?”

He wasn’t asking. He was stating a fact. And as another shudder ran through you, you had to admit, in his own psychotic, unpredictable way, he was absolutely right.