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    (Note that Aziraphale is called Ambrose in this fic)

    Ambrose watched Crowley stir into wakefulness just after the sun had fully risen. Ambrose was wearing a robe, sitting at the desk in his bedroom, scribbling out lines and phrases and sketches, trying to somehow capture Crowley on paper.

    Ambrose had never recited poetry during sex before, let alone written poetry while holding someone in his arms. He had, on occasion, stayed up all night frantically filling a notebook with ideas. Just not while staring at the man who’d fucked him the night before until he’d seen stars and all manner of other visions.

    Ambrose realized what had happened around three a.m., when he was in the middle of a series of drawings focusing on the line of Crowley’s neck as it curved up from his shoulder and then met the pillow. Ambrose had fallen into using "the poet’s eye" during sex, and he was still using it now, unable to stop seeing Crowley as a living work of art. It was the way he’d first glimpsed Crowley in the park, and here, with the beautiful firefighter lying naked in his bed, Ambrose was filling notebooks about him. The poor man had become his muse.

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    15 Sep 2023