in which ideas rush in and the otp muse works miracles
Because I’ve seen a possessive starters post on my dashboard, and just couldn’t resist the Vanishipping call. :PPrompt — “You belong to me”
xTheana was a rarity, this he knew.
It was not because of her looks. Yes, she was beautiful; just as all the spouses in the Royal Harem. But her charm — there was something more to it.
Perhaps, the Pharaoh reasoned as he drinks a sip of freshly imported and quite delicious wine, was this due to her bright personality, her dry wit and fire. Standing among the crowd of guests, a few miles ahead of him, she was talking with one of the noblewomen, chuckling at some joke told to her. The late afternoon glow of Ra was glistening on her pale skin, tinting her hair golden.
Was it her smile? Or perhaps, the way she strode elegantly in that trademark red dress of hers — the one she apparently chose not to bear today for the Nile flood celebrations, much to the King's regret, favoring instead something more elaborated and longer for the occasion. But then, beige tunics suited her well, too, giving the woman a regal look... Another sip. His gaze lowered on her (sadly) covered legs, remembering fondly the pleasant spectacle of them whenever she danced, enhanced by the soft twirl of a scarf in her hands.
But those hands, those hands which so deftly handled scarves, also loved to manipulate astrolabes and abacuses. She was quite the mystery, but then, the King still had the rest of his godly life to uncover the enigma that lingered underneath those blue eyes.
...Him and only him, that was. Not the General, not the Priests. Not the nobles whose eyes raked more often that not their lenghts over his wife's body during the feast — no doubt wondering which wonders hid beneath that beige dress of hers.
As he joined his wife in the group conversation, “You belong to me,” was the message his hand said, discreetly placed on the small of her back. Still smilng and telling jokes at her entourage, Theana didn’t comment on the possessive gesture.
She didn’t need to.
Her smirk and the way she tangled theirs fingers together when no one was looking; the sigh she happily let out once he seized her waist, later in the evening, to begin their own private celebrations in her — no, their bed. The way she almost purred when he traced the contours of her back, was well enough to tell of her opinion on the matter, and Atem was content with that, relishing, before sleep claims him, the soft echoes of her heartbeat just beneath the plane of her neck.
