Roasts For Rap Battles Novels & Stories

“C'mon dwarf man, speak!” Roach coughed blood, muttering something unintelligible. Jordan hit him again. And again. And again. I couldn’t look away. The punches didn’t slow—they got faster. More brutal. He wasn’t just fighting Roach. He was destroying him. Painting his damn face with his own blood. Every strike landed with the kind of rage that had been simmering for years—centuries maybe. The inmates left their business to partner with the one stewing, gathered like it was some gladiator spectacle. Some cheered. Some laughed. Some egged him on.

Most people only ask about the topic or theme. “How about a regular battle with three guest judges, three rounds each person of sixteen bars per round? I’ll start first, and we let the best of three rounds win the battle?” Zen had no idea what it was, but he liked the idea of a blood-free battle for his ingredients. Those shades were the only things he needed from this weirdo, and he would explore other options should he lose this rap battle. “Deal!” Zen declared. “When will we host the battle?” Excited that there would be a new reason for him to perform again, the rapper declared that it would be held in two days.

“What do you mean, ‘sabong’?” The young man scratched the back of his neck this time. Yrah was tempted to ask him if he was allergic to something or needed flea powder. “You know, like a cockfight. Two roosters tearing away at each other until the other one can’t fight anymore. People bet on which rooster wins. A cockfight, doktora. This was just a circuit fight, not a big night. You’d know if it were a big night. So try not to worry, doktora.” He looked very ill at ease. “You might have nightmares.”

She laughs a little as she says, "I would have thought that was obvious! You pushed my boundaries, so I thought I would have a try at yours..." "You are going to make me lose control soon..." I growl as my hips move slightly with the rhythm of her mouth. "What if they are looking for something?" Brett asks. "They could be, but what? What would rogues be looking for?" Raphael taps away on his laptop before saying, "Rogues are not interested in much unless it's a good fight, free food, mischief or..." I growl a little not hearing the rest of what he was saying, the next thing I hear is from Brett,

The wall behind it mirrored, glass shelves held various bottles of liquor, stools sat lined up like soldiers in front of the slab of timber that had been painstakingly sanded and stained. A jukebox glowed in one corner of the room, and on the other side, a pool table whose green felt had seen better days. The stains of blood and drinks covered the once vibrant surface. A large oak table took up the middle of the room, twelve heavy chairs surrounded it. One word carved into the middle to remind anyone who was lucky enough to have a seat at the table why they were there “ROGUES”.

A howl sounds some distance in the front, just at the same time a group of rogues leap out of the bushes. I spring into motion immediately, all my training kicking in. I knock the first one down just before he shifts into his wolf, wrapping the wire around his neck and pulling hard. Suddenly, the clearing is a battlefield. Weapons clash against weapon, rogues fall down. I roll to the side, avoiding the snapping of fangs as a wolf lands where I stood a second ago. From the corner of my eye, I see Ragnar watching it all from the sidelines, like a messenger of death himself.

One of the other fighters, a tall Black futa named Jax grabbed Roxy’s sports bra and ripped it off in one brutal yank, exposing her firm breasts and hard nipples. “On your knees, loser,” Jax growled. Before Roxy could protest, Carla stepped in front of her and wrapped one powerful hand around her throat, squeezing just enough to make Roxy’s eyes widen. “Lesson one,” Carla purred, tightening her grip until Roxy’s face started turning red. “Losers don’t talk back.” She shoved Roxy down hard onto her knees on the cold concrete floor. The other fighters circled around, already pulling down their shorts. Thick, heavy futa cocks sprang free, all of them bigger than Roxy’s, veined and already leaki

Rocky scoffed Frankie started playing a rapping beat with his mouth and immediately Trent started a freestyle rap while the boys dance crazily 🎶Yo,Back in the day I was a lunch line rapper, 🎶After that I guess I was a punch line rapper, 🎶Then I got saved and sometime after, Ya boy came back as a frontline rapper. 🎶And when I say the frontlines, that's not a frontline, I'm out here preachin' Christ on the frontlines, And no it ain't about rockin' stages, 🎶'Cause some of my engagements are out on the pavements, yeah. I'm out to take the bible, create disciples, Who make disciples, disciple-cycles, 🎶That's why I want the beats to knock

“Don’t talk to this guy anymore, we don’t know who he is.” “But he’s probably the main attraction,” she whispers back. “And unless we start sniffing a line off each other’s shoulders, all we can do is bet, or we’ll draw even more attention. I don’t trust him, but it doesn’t hurt to hear what he has to say.” Camile looks at him again. “So? Who should we bet on?” He nods toward the sign above the cashier’s booth: ROCHA vs PITBULL — 12:40 AM

I get scared, fuck this shit, this is going to end up in a fight, Adam gets even closer to his face and growls. “Take care of your life, you bastard son of a bitch.” The bartender signals Adam to get even closer, showing some indignation. “Did you call me a bastard?” And he completes it making fists: “And son of a bitch? Was that really what I heard?” Adam nods and with a dash of mockery. “You always say the right thing, Damy Boy.” And them both laugh, banging their fists on the counter, the bartender kisses Adam’s forehead and smiles to calm me down.