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Sitting here in Morax’s little chamber of contracts, surrounded by scrolls of endless terms and agreements, one who loves to cruise upon the wandering breeze would understandably feel stifled by even just the dust of jargon lifting off the pages. He doesn’t know how Morax can breathe it in.
The god is swathed in his divine garments, covered with white draping silk and appearing as ethereal and pure and focused on the duties he is bound to. As he should be. But, see, there is something very wrong with such a picture. For where is there a gap for a bard’s fingers to slip through to caress the skin beneath the fabric? Why must he struggle to lift his husband’s head to meet his lips with a kiss, to catch hold of the strands beneath the hood and run his hands through them like the best of his stringed instruments?
He cannot help but let his hands wander against the folds of Morax’s clothing in an effort to unravel him. Seated on his husband’s lap, he is comfortable, yes, but comfort does not satiate hunger. For all the boredom he claims to feel when Morax is entrenched in his work, paying little mind to his wonderful presence, there is something admirable in his attention and dedication to his duties. The furrow of his brow as he reads, the relaxed posture of his shoulders, the simple stillness and calm that he radiates. The wind could never be as static, he knows. But, arguably, that was the best part. For who better for the dancing breeze to toy with than the rock that can adamantly, consistently remain in its place, steady as the earth even as the world continues to spin on its axis? He had been making this argument for the past hour and a half.
Only now did Morax breathe a sigh.
‘Are you not satisfied, Barbatos?’
The Geo Archon utters, but his eyes are tracing the lines on the contract before him, head bent.
Barbatos turns petulant then, slightly put out. And whilst he has been as bratty and whiny as he could be for the past hour, his upset for being neglected deepens enough to turn his voice a tad quieter.
His hands fall away from Morax’s shoulders, settling instead in his own lap. Softly, he plants a light kiss on his god’s cheek, as far as he is allowed to go.
‘You look divine, my love,’ are the words that leave his mouth, feeling like ashes.
Perhaps it is the melancholy Morax finally senses and takes note of, for rarely is the Anemo Archon seen visibly downtrodden and this time, the smile that lights his face even as a facade has been dimmed by no other than himself. The pen is lowered.
He lifts alabaster thighs higher onto his lap and Barbatos glows. Skin, as smooth as ever and so much of it, bared to him freely as Barbatos has never known shame, does not know how to string the word into a sentence even for a song.
‘Leaving nothing to the imagination as always.’
Sea-green eyes laugh at him, long eyelashes framing them beautifully. It is this look at this angle that Morax dreads and yet simultaneously anticipates every time it surfaces. Head downturned, Barbatos knows to make himself look almost meek, something akin to a leaf curling around the stem of a flower, with eyes that gaze upwards adoringly, faithfully. A moon waiting for the warmth of its sun.
‘If you have such a problem with it…’
Slender fingers reach out to cup Morax’s jawline and the touch is so tender, so reverent and silently wanting, that it takes his breath for a moment, breaks the stern gaze that Barbatos loves, the one filled with concentration when Morax is ready to drill him into a wall or any available surface.
‘…You can take these off, my love.’
The words are whispered into the Geo Archon’s ear, sultry and sly, accompanied by feather-light kisses that run a path from his collarbones to his neck, breathing a song into the strands of hair that settle there. Whilst the wind god’s lips travel, so do his hands that have flitted away from his beloved’s face to the garments that smother him, slowly and torturously uncovering the skin that lies beneath, layer by layer.
‘…and you can put them on me.’
Barbatos’ eyes are bright and gleaming, the dewdrop tears gone and replaced by a mischievous glint.
And though it is heat that rises to the surface for Morax - hands finding their way to the small of the anemo archon’s back to spur him forward so that his hips slide against his own in ways that make certain that the documents on his desk can remain forgotten for the night, perhaps even days - a tinier warmth glows in his chest, lets his lips fall against his lover’s forehead softly.
‘You would want that wouldn’t you,’ he breathes, exasperated, in love, wanting, oh so wanting, just as his husband demands and deserves.
Barbatos’ eyes are laughing again, and they laugh still as Morax gives in to ruin, puts aside the policies and terms, and brings to him the rays of sun that no sky could offer.