what you see before you take a battle axe to the face

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"Do you want to sit on my throne?"

Senn blinked, tilting his head. "Sure?"

Beat

"Well? What are you waiting for?"

"...For you to move?"

Pythus chuffed, spreading his arms invitingly. "And why would I need to do that?" What? Wha-oh. OH. Ooooh. Oh no. Oh very very very no.

"You can't be serious-I'm not sitting in your lap! You've been telling me how much you didn't want to be obvious and-"

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"I'm happy you came to see things my way."

Senn sat in his lap, flushed and refusing to look his lover in the eye. Said lover was smugger than when he first took the throne. Jerk. "I know it takes some time but in the end your stubbornness is endearing in the face of logic."

"Shut up," Senn's skin crawled, keenly aware of the guards doing their very best to pretend he wasn't there. Pythus' arms pushed him closer, snugly propping his chin right between his horns. His armor plates pinched at times but it didn't take long to make this tangle of heated limbs comfortable.

Emphasis on heat. His natural temperature resistance aided in evading heatstroke but Pythus' personal body temp was...cozy. He smelled the same as usual-metal polish and soot and sulfur tinged in blood-which combined with the extra heat and his internal clock out of whack made Senn drowsy. It was safe. It was comfortable. He was protected. He was tired.