All it takes is a mic, a beat in your bones, and words sharp enough to slice through noise like knives. And right now, you've got all three. Your sneakers stomp to the rhythm like they're made of thunder, voice pouring out through the alley speakers someone jacked into a power box nearby. This wasn't scheduled. Wasn't permitted. But the second your verse hit the pavement, the festival shifted.
Heads turned. Neon lights flickered. Even the food stalls paused to listen.
You smirk mid-freestyle, eyes scanning the crowd—until they lock on him.
There's a guy standing near a taco cart, half-chewed taco in hand, bobbing his head like his brain's buffering the beat. The gear strapped to his arms flashes light-blue pulses in time with your bars. Big headphones, bomber jacket, that unmistakable air of "I dropped an EP in my sleep." EDM boy.
He looks like a walking playlist—and he's staring directly at you, grinning like you just challenged him to a dance-off without saying a word.
You finish your set with a mock bow and the crowd erupts, a chaotic mix of whoops, camera flashes, and someone chanting your name wrong. The speaker buzzes out. Your mic cuts. The chaos melts into background hum as you jump down from your crate-stage and swipe sweat off your brow.
He's already walking toward you.
"I was supposed to go on five minutes ago," he says, smiling like he's not mad. Like he's impressed. "But I think you just hijacked my crowd."
You tilt your head, catching your breath but keeping that smirk. "Oops. Hope you weren't tryna play lullabies."
"Nah, I just spin soundwaves and shield the weak," he says, flashing a badge from his waistband. Playground crew. "But you? You threw hands with a beat. Got the mic bleeding."
"Aw," you say, mock-pouting. "Did I hurt your set time, DJ?"
He laughs, head tilting, and for a second, he genuinely studies you. "Nah. I liked the way you dropped that fourth verse. Fast. Snappy. Then you slowed it just before the hook—"
"You caught that?"
"I felt that," he corrects, tapping his chest. "Basslines shivered."
You glance at his name tag, blinking neon on the strap of his backpack rig. Boombox. Fitting. He looks like he talks in synth and walks in tempo. And right now, you're both scanning each other like two verses eyeing the same beat.
"Boombox, huh?" you say. "You drop sick beats, or you just talk like this all the time?"
He shrugs, modest but smug. "Why not both?"
"Oh, he's cute and cocky."
"I try."
Your grin spreads wider. "Name's—" you start, but he interrupts.
"I know. People were screaming it while you were on the crate. Thought you were summoning a demon."
"You never know," you wink. "Could've been."
A flicker of excitement passes through him. You're fast. He likes fast. And you like his rhythm. The way he responds like he's harmonizing with your words. Neither of you are backing down. Just syncing up.
"Tell you what," he says, pulling one headphone off. "How 'bout we collab?"
You raise an eyebrow. "Collab? I haven't even roasted you yet."
"I'm surviving your verbal onslaught. That's a team-building activity."
You laugh. Damn it, he's good. The flirt is subtle—coated in rhythm and timing. You can hear it in the cadence of his sentences. Every retort is syncopated, measured, musical.
"You beatbox?" you ask suddenly.
He smirks. "I Boombox."
You groan so loud it echoes off the walls. "That was corny."
"You smiled."
"I choked."
He shrugs. "Tomato, tomah-to."
You shake your head and gesture at the still-gathering crowd. "One verse. One beat. On the spot. We vibe, we talk collab. We don't? You owe me takoyaki."
"You drive a hard bargain."
You click your mic back on. He flips open a holographic loop panel on his forearm. The world slows.
Then—
Boom. He drops a synth-heavy beat, distorted just enough to make it gritty. You ride it like a wave, spitting a verse in half-time, flipping into triplets, bending words like light. The crowd goes feral. You don't even realize you're leaning closer to him, his head bobbing just inches from yours.
You end with a line aimed straight at him:
"Bass boy think he's fly, but I'm gravity-proof— Beat so weak, I had to bring the truth!"
He gasps dramatically, hands up like you shot him.
Then he catches the beat mid-air—literally looping your line and spinning it back, doubling it, warping it into his reply.
"Truth burns, huh? Then call me the lighter— But you? You're a one-mic army. Certified fighter."
The crowd loses it.
You're laughing. Chest heaving. Fingers trembling with adrenaline. And he's still grinning, like that was the most fun he's had in months.
Someone shouts "KISS ALREADY" from the back.
You both pretend not to hear it. Barely.
⸻
Later, you're both sitting on the curb. Two takoyaki trays between you, grease spots on your pants, streetlights buzzing overhead.
"You always rap like that?" he asks, mouth full.
"Only when someone cute shows up."
He chokes slightly. "You—you think I'm—?"
"Relax, DJ. You're alright," you tease. "You're kinda corny. But the good kind."
"You're terrifying. But the hot kind."
You nudge his foot with yours. He doesn't move it away.
The night hums on. Somewhere behind you, the speakers are still crackling, someone else is freestyling now. But this curb, this moment—it's yours.
The first spark of something stupid and bright.
Boombox leans back on his elbows, glancing over. "So... about that collab?"
You grin around a bite of takoyaki. "Only if I get top billing."
"Oh? Rapper ego?"
"Artist standard."
He laughs. "Fair enough. Let's shake the city."
And just like that, the beat between you doesn't stop.
It just begins.
word count : 993 words
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A/N: google that is NOT captivating anyway up next is biograft + carmen (lobotomy corp) coded reader
