#lez just say it’s amon’s courting gift and gO

[worldsfromhoney]

This Godly Taste

Masterlist

cw: power imbalance

Prompt 20 - cool drinks @thepromptfoundry

They’ve finished the yakhchal and it’ll take a single night for the gathered water to freeze and turn into this ‘ice.’ That’s what his ministers and advisors say and Menes had simply nodded, letting their words pass through his ears like the whistle of stagnant air.

He knows he should be more excited. His people definitely were, with some even setting up stalls and tents in preparation near the yakhchal. He doesn’t fault them for it. This was one of the hottest summers Kemet had experienced in recorded history that the promise of this ‘ice’ was something everyone grabbed onto and weren’t too willing to let go.

Menes thought otherwise.

“Why the frowny face, my king? Heh, not too happy I’ve one-upped you again?”

Menes sighed and opened his eyes halfway. Half-lidded, he stared into the kohl-lined eyes of the bane of his existence and rule. As always, Amon’s form had changed from last time. For today’s visit, the god had retained the ram’s horns and kept the rest of themself as human. Well, as human as Amon could manage to be.

Menes sighed and flicked the god’s forehead. “You’re too close, O venerable netjer. Ever heard of personal space?”

Amon hummed as if they were really thinking about it. Menes wasn’t fooled. The god was still leaning into his space, their noses almost brushing. When Amon stopped, for a moment, all he could see was blue. A deep midnight colour as if the god had borrowed his skin from the night sky and Menes wouldn’t be surprised if they really did so. They were flighty like that—like the air one couldn’t see but always felt.

When he blinked, Amon was gone save for those eyes twinkling with mischief and the ram’s horns threatening to pierce right through the throne at his back. Menes blinked again and saw Amon in all their…blueness.

Menes frowned harder. “Don’t do that. You know I hate it when you do that, O most annoying netjer.”

“Ah,” Amon chuckled, poking at the furrow in his brow. “There’s my honest little king. And here I thought an imposter dare sit on your throne! The scandal there would be if they discovered their uptight king playing hooky—”

Menes had been king since he was ten. He’d met a god at eleven. He wasn’t afraid of retribution when he kicked said god (more of a leech at this point) in the stomach. Not when he knew Amon was going to catch his foot like they did now and cackling like a madman as they did so.

“Mean!” Amon said, still cackling. They brought themself even closer to Menes using the captured leg. “Mean! The king is so mean! Mean, mean, mean!”

Their voice echoed in the chamber and would’ve definitely reached the guards outside the doors. Menes chanced a glance at the doors.

Nothing. Like always, no one heard or saw this annoying god but him and his advisors and ministers all told him this was a blessing. They all told him it only asserted how his reign was blessed and he himself was to be god once he passed.

Menes looked at this cackling god, their blue skin and ram horns such a contrast to himself. He sighed and closed his eyes.

A god, huh?

Menes woke up sweating the most he’s ever had and knows Amon had a part in this. The servants with their fans were struggling between keeping him cool and not appearing like they wanted to blow their king away.

Menes pinched the bridge of his nose and waved them off. “It’s fine. I’ll be going off to the baths.”

He doesn’t need to say he’ll be going alone. The servants have been here long enough to know to leave him alone. One of the benefits of king—of power, of authority, and of…legitimacy.

The moment Menes entered the bath chamber, he knew to expect the gentle caress of wind against his eyes to make him blink. Then Amon was there behind him, fingers skating along his bare back.

It must be the heat that makes Menes forget to keep himself in check. What else would make him rest back against this silly god? What would make him, the king of all of Kemet, sigh, groan and even moan from the light graze of this ever present menace’s nails on his skin?

It’s the heat. It must be.

When Amon chuckles it’s breathy against Menes’ ear and a rumble he feels echoing through him. It’s enough to make him frown and look up at the god who’s undressing him.

“What?”

Amon chuckles again and noses his cheek. He’s completely human-like today. “Have I ever said you’re like a kitten, my adorable king?”

It is the heat that had made him lean into the god’s presence and touch but no weather can control a king for long. Not Menes. He keeps the frown as he steps away from Amon, untying his shendyt that the god’s made a mess off. The necklace had been the first to go but there hadn’t been a clanging sound on the limestone floor.

Menes rolled his eyes and stepped into the cool waters of the bath. “You better return that, O thieving netjer. I’ve had too many necklaces replaced from your slippery fingers.”

Amon laughed and soon there was a splash by his side, the waters lapping at his chest in evident joy. Even something simple as his bath water seemed to have its own thoughts about the company its king keeps, it seems. Menes glares at his wavering reflection.

“Ah, my frowny little king,” Amon sing-songs. “Is it because of the sudden heat wave you’re like this or your impatience to try out this ‘ice’ I’ve helped engineer, hm?”

Menes raises a brow. Despite the coolness of the bath, he still feels the heat in the air making beads of sweat run down his face. He follows the languid floating form of this god who could change the air and the wind however they like.

Menes closes his eyes from the sight. “I’ve no interest in whatever you’ve had your hands in, O most interfering netjer.”

A splash. The lap of water against his chest. A bead of sweat running down his face. A shadow blocking the light of the early day.

Menes doesn’t open his eyes or move when he feels impossibly cool fingers on his face. He doesn’t let himself react from the slide of those fingers to his lips, stroking them over and over. But he doesn’t turn away either and what does that say when he does open his eyes and see the gaze of a god on him and him alone?

“My little king,” Amon says, eyes soft and sparkling with mischief. “I’ll be sure to change your mind soon enough.”

Menes hears it from the streets than from his ministers the moment the yakhchal’s opened and Amon’s suggestion of an experiment shows its results. A success or fail is easy enough to surmise from what he hears from his people.

Silence, first. Then the pitter patter of the chosen servant’s sandals as they come out of the structure. There is silence again and this time Menes knows the outcome before the first cry rings out—

“A MIRACLE!!!”

He closes his eyes. He has lost and Amon, once again with his gifts of creativity and innovation, wins. His knuckles whiten and his sceptre trembles in his tight grip. In the midst of the roaring praise outside, there’s a gnashing of teeth, canines grinding against its brethren.

Menes is angry and he shouldn’t be.

A sudden gust of hot wind comes and there’s a weight against his legs, cool fingers wrapping around his ankle. Something of fur brushes against his uncovered skin.

“That’s another game lost, my grumpy king,” Amon says with a bleat to their voice. “Aren’t you gonna be a good sport and congratulate me?”

Menes keeps his eyes shut and turns his head away. He doesn’t move to get free from the god’s hold though and that says something he doesn’t want to hear. Not now. Not ever.

Amon laughs as much as someone with a ram’s head could. He feels the weight of those great horns by his legs, a pressure reminding him of a presence he can never be rid of. There’s still that hand on his ankle, fingers loosely wrapped around it like a too loose shackle Menes has the choice of simply stepping out of.

He doesn’t move. Instead he sighs because he has just lost and he is tired, really, of this game of push and pull for the last years.

“What do you want me to say, Amon?” Menes asks, desperation colouring his voice without consent. He is tired and it is showing. “Tell me, O netjer, and I shall—”

Amon kisses him. His mouth is open mid-sentence and this god—his god has moved like the wind, fast and relentless. It’s a struggle, at first. Menes moves to hit them with his sceptre and Amon shatters it with nary a glance. The god shoves him against the throne and those lips have never left his, moving and taking, taking, owning—

Something cold passes between their lips, Amon’s tongue twining with his and slipping in this proof of their victory.

It’s ice. A small piece and nothing like how Menes imagined it and it’s the sweetest, warmest thing he’s ever had in his mortal life. It slides across his tongue and he shivers, trembles, and holds on to Amon’s horns—to this god’s divinity.

His god pulls away once he’s swallowed it but stays close as they’ve always been prone to do. Amon noses his cheek and plants a softer kiss at the corner of his lips.

“There,” Amon says, breaking the moment because that’s what they do, isn’t it? “That’s a better look on you, kianga.”

Menes has been king since he was ten. He’d met a god when he was eleven. He is not afraid to hold his god’s face and drag him into another kiss.