gentaro is barely able to catch his breath before he’s (softly) manhandled to the couch. honestly, he doesn’t even mind if this backfires and he ends up with new bruises and a bloody nose. gentaro hasn’t exactly told dice he often really likes when dice gets rough, when he feels it sting and makes him so damn grounded in the here and now that he couldn’t possibly think of anything else.
the words that come through the mic, loud and clear, have a different effect on him.
he isn’t on the painful end of a flow. no, it’s — it’s different. it’s engulfing and consuming and smothering, yes, as raps are when used with this power, but he doesn’t feel his bones and muscles aching or things threatening to crack. instead, he feels his skin heat, his throat dry, a wave of heat physically washing over him. the words are like hands, wandering along his skin, playful but never satisfying, bringing him to desperation. needless to say, this horrible idea is working.
and while it has a bit of heaviness that some may not like (that control, that sort of feeling of losing control to someone else and being weighed down and pulled down and held down), gentaro adores it. it makes him dizzy.
he lifts a shaking hand up and fists it loosely in the front of dice’s shirt. he reaches for his own mic with his free hand to activate it and then spills his soul in the only way he knows how: prose. and if it’s the wayward thief falling for his fallen king, utterly at the king’s mercy, so be it. )
no subject
gentaro is barely able to catch his breath before he’s (softly) manhandled to the couch. honestly, he doesn’t even mind if this backfires and he ends up with new bruises and a bloody nose. gentaro hasn’t exactly told dice he often really likes when dice gets rough, when he feels it sting and makes him so damn grounded in the here and now that he couldn’t possibly think of anything else.
the words that come through the mic, loud and clear, have a different effect on him.
he isn’t on the painful end of a flow. no, it’s — it’s different. it’s engulfing and consuming and smothering, yes, as raps are when used with this power, but he doesn’t feel his bones and muscles aching or things threatening to crack. instead, he feels his skin heat, his throat dry, a wave of heat physically washing over him. the words are like hands, wandering along his skin, playful but never satisfying, bringing him to desperation. needless to say, this horrible idea is working.
and while it has a bit of heaviness that some may not like (that control, that sort of feeling of losing control to someone else and being weighed down and pulled down and held down), gentaro adores it. it makes him dizzy.
he lifts a shaking hand up and fists it loosely in the front of dice’s shirt. he reaches for his own mic with his free hand to activate it and then spills his soul in the only way he knows how: prose. and if it’s the wayward thief falling for his fallen king, utterly at the king’s mercy, so be it. )