( gentaro is absently writing poetry. he doesn’t do it often — he’d rather rap, when he’s in the moment and feeling the flow. poetry has always alluded him.
but this? this is flowing so well, as if dice is his muse. maybe dice really is his muse. god, he wouldn’t be upset if that was the case. he’s been writing so much since dice arrived and they’ve been dating.
his hand absently finds a home in dice’s hair as he reads. he’s grown quiet so gentaro can’t help but try and peek at where he’s at. his nails idly scrape along dice’s scalp, in lazy half circles. )
no subject
but this? this is flowing so well, as if dice is his muse. maybe dice really is his muse. god, he wouldn’t be upset if that was the case. he’s been writing so much since dice arrived and they’ve been dating.
his hand absently finds a home in dice’s hair as he reads. he’s grown quiet so gentaro can’t help but try and peek at where he’s at. his nails idly scrape along dice’s scalp, in lazy half circles. )