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Dessert Fit for Kings

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Samot sipped delicately from his glass of wine. It was his sixth bottle of wine, in fact. But who was counting, really.

Their dinner table is set, the roast and rolls Samot had made were starting to... not get cold, so much as solidify. Nothing really got cold when you lived in a volcano, but it did become inedible, after a time.

The clock above the fireplace rang again. Samot knew that miles below him, his husband could hear it too, and yet still he did not heed the time.

Samot opened another bottle of wine. And drank most of it straight from the bottle. And still Samothes did not show. He tapped his fingertips on the table to the beat of an old ceremonial song, watching the minutes tick down to the next hour. He had already been waiting far too long.

It was time to remind his husband what exactly he was the god of.

Samot took the elevator down to the forge, half-full wine bottle dangling loosely from his hand. The elevator rocked slightly as it stopped, the doors opening with a blast of heat that made Samot’s eyes flutter. The warmth of the forge sunk itself into his body, into his bones, in its old, familiar way, like an embrace.

Samothes was there. He was beautiful; he always is beautiful. He would always be beautiful.

Sweat dripped down Samothes’ forehead onto his workbench, his bare back bent over a small clay model that he was working on. Samot smiled softly at his husband, watching him as he busied himself with whatever he was working on.

Samot approached him slowly, his heels clicking on the rough floor. Samothes made no sign that he’d heard him, but of course he had. He always did. If Samot had wanted to sneak up on Samothes, well, there were ways he could have done that, but that wasn’t the point of this particular exercise.

He slid his hands up Samothes’ back, running them along Samothes’ broad shoulders to embrace him from behind, heedless of the slick of sweat from Samothes’ skin.

Samothes hummed, continuing his work without pause. “I’m late for dinner.”

“You are,” said Samot, pressing a kiss between Samothes’ shoulder blades. He could feel Samothes’ muscles shift under his lips.

“I apologise,” said Samothes.

Samot huffed a laugh against Samothes’s skin. “And yet you are not apologetic enough to come upstairs.”

“I’m still working,” said Samothes. “Dinner can wait.”

“And dessert?”

“That can wait. too,” said Samothes.

Samot tapped out the beat of the old ceremonial song against Samothes’s skin for a moment, feeling Samothes’ muscles move under him as he worked. He knew Samothes would recognise it, would remember it from the first night they’d danced together, the first night Samot had laid Samothes down on the leaves and dirt of the forest floor and taken him apart.

“I was waiting for you,” said Samot. “You know I don’t particularly enjoy eating alone. Especially dessert.”

“Just a little while longer,” said Samothes.

“We’re immortal,” said Samot, letting just a hint of testiness coloring his voice. “Even the end of eternity is only a little while longer for us. That does not mean I would like to wait that long to dine with my husband. You would think that a man married to the god of leisure would know when to put down his tools to take a break.”

“And you would think a man married to the god of invention would know that sometimes relaxation must be set aside to get work done,” said Samothes, his tone as warm as the air of the forge around them.

Samot leant his forehead against Samothes’ back. He ran his hand lightly through Samothes’ hair, letting his nails scrape along his scalp. Samothes shivered, a movement so small that you would not have noticed it unless you were plastered against him as Samot was. But still he continued his work, eyes fixed on his tools in front of him as he shaped and reshaped the clay into perfection.

Samot stepped back, considering him for a moment before trailing his fingertips down Samothes’ spine. This shiver was more noticeable. Samot smirked. He let his hands rest lightly on Samothes’ waist for a moment before he pressed close once more, sliding his hands down curve of Samothes’ body where hips met thigh.

“If you will not come upstairs for dessert, then I will have to bring it down here to you, husband,” said Samot.

“As long as I can continue my work, you can do whatever you like,” said Samothes.

“I always do whatever I like,” said Samot.

He teased his fingers along the hem of Samothes’s skirts, running his finger close and then away, his nails just grazing the skin of Samothes’ thighs before his hands would move away again. Samot could feel Samothes’ breath coming more quickly despite the steady pace of his hands. When Samot pressed kissing along his neck he could feel Samothes’ pulse quicken.

But still Samothes’ eyes stayed focused on his work.

Slowly, slowly, Samot crept his hand under Samothes’s skirt, the muscles of Samothes’ thigh jumping at his touch. Samot kept his movements slow and measured, feeling where the slick of sweat became the slick of Samothes.

Samothes inhaled sharply, the steady movements of his hands pausing for a moment before they returned to their work. Samot hummed again, kissing a trail down Samothes’ spine until he knelt by Samothes, his head just barely brushing against the underside of Samothes’ workbench. He could hear the sounds of Samothes’ hands above him through the table, working in time with the pulsing heat of the forge.

The sounds of Samothes’ hands stuttered as Samot carefully lifted his skirt away, letting his breath ghost over Samothes’ damp skin. Samot licked a stripe up the inside of Samothes’ thigh, pausing after to roll the taste of him over his mouth like a finer wine than he himself could vint before giving the same treatment to Samothes’s other thigh. His finger traced higher still, running lightly along Samothes’ opening, a touch just barely light enough for Samothes to feel it.

Samothes’ legs trembled, just once. Samot grinned to himself and leant up to mouth along Samothes’ opening. Better than the apple pie they had upstairs.

Samot heard Samothes gasp above him. He could picture the expression on Samothes’ face perfectly despite the table in-between them -- the flutter of his eyelashes, the flash of white teeth as he bit his lip to muffle a sound, the flare of his nostrils as Samot moved his tongue like so.

And still, he heard the sound of Samothes’ hands working. Slower now, but still working.

There were alternate tactics he could have tried of course. He could have taken Samothes’ work from him, playful, made Samothes chase him through their home until he was too worked up for work to be done. He could have stepped in-between Samothes and his workbench, as he had many times before, letting Samothes lift him up and focus on Samot with the practiced dedication he gave to all his projects. He could have gripped Samothes by the hair and dragged him down to where Samot was currently kneeling, driving work from Samothes’ mind by the sharp tug of his hair.

All tactics employed before to great success. Samot had found, though, that immortality is best lived when you try new things.

Samot eased a finger inside Samothes, working it alongside his tongue, keeping Samothes off-rhythm. He heard Samothes drop something on the table above him, his breathing ragged as he picked it back up to continue working, even slower now. Samot imagined the slight tremble to his hands, a trickle of sweat down the side of his face, the way Samothes’ lips would be bitten red with the effort to be silent. He grinned against Samothes, speeding up the motion of his tongue.

Samothes gasped quietly, and then stopped the movement of his hands altogether as he felt Samot laughing against his thigh.

“What!” Samothes almost shouted, breathless. Samot laughed again, chastely kissing Samothes’ knee.

“You’re just very beautiful like this,” Samot said, looking up at his husband.

Samothes rolled his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re beautiful, too.”

“On my knees?”

“It helps.”

“Harsh but fair, my king. May we go up for dinner now?”

“I’m unfortunately not quite done with this project, my lord. Give me another hour or so?”

Samot nodded, but did not rise from his knees. Samothes sighed again, and resumed working on the clay in his hands.

So did Samot.

Samot paused when Samothes did; hurried his pace when Samothes did; adjusted his knees, slowed down his hand, made noises all when Samothes did. Samot did not let up his tongue - or his three fingers now - as Samothes quickly pushed the finished clay tower into the middle of the table so that he could slam his hands down as he came.

Samothes was really the most beautiful when he tipped over the edge, Samot thought as he continued at pace; Samothes’ breath stuttered and he was brought to his second orgasm - his dark hair shooting out like sparks of fire - the lava behind him backlighting him perfectly.

Everything he did was perfect, especially when he picked up Samot in his arms, like on their wedding day, and carried him into the elevator.

“No, Samothes, please, you haven’t eaten dinner yet,” Samot said, as he felt the elevator move past the dining room and towards their bedroom.

“Nothing really grows cold in my domain, my love,” Samothes replied, stealing a small sip from the wine bottle in Samot’s hand.

“It really is quite unfair that you can still speak,” Samot said, an almost pout on his face.

Samothes kissed his cheek, and then bit at his husband’s lower lip.

“We have all the time in the world for dinner, and being too tired to speak, and-”

“And finishing work projects?” Samot cut in.

Samothes nodded. “I suppose you’re right.”

“It’s just nice to hear, sometimes,” Samot said, before being thrown onto their bed. His laugh echoed across Hieron, warming his people as surely as His sun.