[If he hadn't stopped running, Dice may not have ever caught up. He might've slid back into shadows of his own making, wrapped up as just as much of an enigma as the secretive author. He'd have waited forever.
He never fucking has to wait again.
That's not what he's thinking about, though. This is a contest now, a gamble, and he's betting on a goddamn win. If he tells Gentaro how he sees him, what the guy is to him, then maybe he'll understand. The rap drives words in to the bone, slams down barrier Gentaro has up, and Dice doesn't give two fucks if that's what he came for; it's what he's getting.
He hooks an arm around Gentaro's hips, puling their bodies flush even with layers of fabric in between. Two-toned eyes are locked on Gentaro, a wild look on Dice's face, a grin of a man who wants to die like this, to live like this, to feel every single thing in creation all at once. And Gentaro does that to him. God, it's filth, it's perfect, it's what he needs, and he grunts low as he simply presses against Gentaro. No friction, no satisfaction from anything but words, but god does he want to feel it when this guy goes off anyway. The tension low in Dice's body is almost unbearable already, and his mind is fuzzy from the lyrics and flow. It's hot, hotter than the fucking sun.
A second, a beat, and his mic is back at his lips, a low, sensual sound, somehow the opposite of Gentaro's words, metaphor the author probably didn't think this guy could build. He wants to caress him, bring him around slowly, then devastate him. So he does. He builds up the intensity for a moment with beauty and heat, then flips a fucking switch and throws down just as dirty, just as raw, what he wants to do to him, things he'd never admit outside of rap or this, this, this.
His body tenses and twitches slightly as he tries to catch his breath, sweat forming on his brow, too. He's gonna come with another round of this, he's absolutely sure.
no subject
He never fucking has to wait again.
That's not what he's thinking about, though. This is a contest now, a gamble, and he's betting on a goddamn win. If he tells Gentaro how he sees him, what the guy is to him, then maybe he'll understand. The rap drives words in to the bone, slams down barrier Gentaro has up, and Dice doesn't give two fucks if that's what he came for; it's what he's getting.
He hooks an arm around Gentaro's hips, puling their bodies flush even with layers of fabric in between. Two-toned eyes are locked on Gentaro, a wild look on Dice's face, a grin of a man who wants to die like this, to live like this, to feel every single thing in creation all at once. And Gentaro does that to him. God, it's filth, it's perfect, it's what he needs, and he grunts low as he simply presses against Gentaro. No friction, no satisfaction from anything but words, but god does he want to feel it when this guy goes off anyway. The tension low in Dice's body is almost unbearable already, and his mind is fuzzy from the lyrics and flow. It's hot, hotter than the fucking sun.
A second, a beat, and his mic is back at his lips, a low, sensual sound, somehow the opposite of Gentaro's words, metaphor the author probably didn't think this guy could build. He wants to caress him, bring him around slowly, then devastate him. So he does. He builds up the intensity for a moment with beauty and heat, then flips a fucking switch and throws down just as dirty, just as raw, what he wants to do to him, things he'd never admit outside of rap or this, this, this.
His body tenses and twitches slightly as he tries to catch his breath, sweat forming on his brow, too. He's gonna come with another round of this, he's absolutely sure.
Orange you glad I didn't say banana.]