/ if you can tell me exactly which poem I'm referencing here, I will literally spontaneously die for you
Little could be said to the affection with which V was daily showered, it had become so everyday, habitual, even ritual without need for arrangement nor prompt. Committed kisses shared at close of day, a caress of the cheek at daybreak, the inappropriate but wholly intentional, sometimes mutual grope behind the bar, behind closed doors, and anywhere problematic eyes were turned away from them: these and more were all part of the norm, but when it came to art—poetry—there was a richness of imagination and a depth of feeling that transcended even the much loved norms that came like second nature to lovers as fiery and as devoted as Garrett and V. Simply, they took romance and made it romantic.
Perhaps effusively, egregiously, sickeningly so to some, but...
Weakly, sleepily, the fiend's handsome face was gathered in spindly hands, and a gentle tug brought him close for a peck on the lips. V could barely keep his eyes open; and while he loathed waking up at all, he found it difficult to keep cranky when his husband had artful sugar on his tongue. I've heard this before... It was a lazy day, more than likely a Sunday: wedded mates could afford to idle in bed, and V was happy to be awake for something stimulating that wasn't sex.
Not that he'd complain, much, otherwise.
"Sometimes," he said quietly, "I think you're worse than I." He let his arms drop from weakness alone, one to his left and the other over his stomach. "Now you've got me thinking." Because of course he had to meet Garrett there, to match him for poetic spark. This early in the morning (it wasn't, it was nine), his creative mind was not at its strongest, but he knew it also to be reliable. While he thought, he briefly brought up a hand to twist round his finger a tuft of Garrett's hair, and then tugged and brushed so long as his mate was above him. Seeking inspiration was not so hard; forming the thought and the structure was. And, by Jove, the sleepy warlock had done it!
"In my veins you live eternal... Something, something."
Partially. Only partially, of course.
"My every breath— Hm. Blood and breath..." He made a mental, though audible, note, there. His eyes were fleetingly distant before they were recaptured by the blue in Garrett's, and it seemed whatever spark was ignited did not die suddenly. A poet shan't allow his ideas to slip free! For his dearest and most beloved, and perhaps his favorite muse, he smiled enough to show teeth. "I'll have to figure it out. I can't, without writing." Ah, but poor Garrett if he'd gotten curious now. He would have to await V's fresher mind and time spent at a writing desk, but all the better to impress him. The longer V's consciousness recovered, however, the more strength he regained in his body, and that was proven true in the keen, firm way in which stick-thin arms wrapped around the demon's inked shoulders, all in the name of pulling him closer for that everyday, habitual, even ritual exchange of affection they could not hope to live without. They kissed again, longer, softer, with more of everything in it.
V had to have been in a delightful mood, because he found more than a spark of creativity within himself: he found one of humor, and he exercised it mildly when the kiss was through. Sleep faded not only from body, but from mind. "If we go on like this, I may think of more. Do inspire me, Garrett."