#Sekhmet x Ptah | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yeyinde · 8 months

Note

This might sound so cringe and cliche, but I wanna be of help in some way-

how about price faking injuries to see a specific nurse he has a crush on but won’t admit.

Cringe and cliche are quite on brand for me, tbh.

It starts as a concussion, a stiffness in his neck. A pinch in his shoulder.

Then it changes shape, shifting, evolving, into something more. A tenuous dance held together by silken threads. He tugs on the ends sometimes, just to watch little pieces of you begin to unravel. Raw skin, untouched and new bared to his curious eyes.

You’ve thrown him off-kilter, left him feeling strange. All asunder.

He shouldn’t be too surprised by the way you unmoor him so easily. Your eyes swallow the atmosphere around him, eating through gravity. Weightless, he’s left to drift in the aether until you snatch him from the air, leaving him wing-clipped, and kept cupped in the soft swells of your palm.

It’s greed, he thinks. That awful little thing that makes him keep coming back for more.

The helicopter crash did a number of things on him—mild concussion, a fractured rib, sprained wrist; it seemed to have flipped his insides all askew for a moment when he plunged to the earth before somehow righting themselves when he'd landed—but in retrospect, hindsight, whatever, it could have been a lot worst.

A fact Gaz seemed to have picked up on quicker than he had when they'd met in the medical bay together, holding their broken bodies with trembling hands.

(Or maybe threaded together by a statuette of Nefertem laced in the fibres of their hearts.)

"What's this now," Gaz asked when he limped in, knee smarting without the surge of adrenaline keeping him upright. Mirth rolling through his teeth, ge offered Price a fractured grin that very likely might have been a grimace. "Two for two? Might be a sign, cap…"

"A sign for what?"

Gaz shrugged, pressing tender fingers against the gash on his forehead. "Stay the fuck out of helicopters. Take the bloody bus instead."

There's a retort in the back of his throat, but it's swallowed when you walk in, hands gripping a medical bag between blanching knuckles. He's closest to the door, and you turn to him with an air of pensive uncertainty that nudges the spot inside of him that preens under authority. That likes law, order, and the simplicity of life. A natural-born leader. He plays the part, of commander and captain, and dips his head toward Gaz, a silent motion meant to convey him first.

The always in that is ironclad, he thinks. Brassbound. Even if he was bleeding out on the pavement. His men, his boys, first.

Except, he catches Gaz doing the same thing toward him. A stalemate, then.

You're new, he notes; ears still wet, face still green. He braces himself to step in, to lay down the authority you need before you flounder, unsure what to do, but instead of being met with uncertainty, he finds himself breathing in your ire.

"Well, heroes," you snip, brow pinching together in displeasure. "One of you has to go first, don't you? So while I put my stuff on the table, I expect you to have figured it out amongst yourself, yeah?"

And it's—

It's something.

A strand of static in the air. Direct current to his heart. It thuds in a strange murmuration, off rhythm, off balance. But it makes sense. You'd thrown him so wildly off kilter.

He clears his throat of the soot that congeals the back, and nods once. Sharp and jerky.

"Right, yeah…"

Price turns to Gaz, brows pinched in the middle. A messy bow.

It isn't like him to be so askew, but you turned everything upside down before he could familiarise himself with the world in its right state. He's adrift for a moment. Floundering, he notes, tasting something sweet behind his teeth.

Gaz meets his eyes somewhere in the fog, the furrow in his brow asking the questions he won't voice aloud—you alright, cap?—but he isn't sure what he's meant to say. Everything feels like it was knocked loose inside of him, left to roll off shelves and clatter to the floor. Disorganised chaos. Awash. Lost in tangled webs. He isn't used to this. To feeling so useless, so askew.

He later finds it just the concussion warping the edges of his mind, turning his thoughts into a slurry. That the mild part was an oversight, one that was immediately corrected by you—firm fingers holding his chin still, nails scratching against his beard as you peered into his eyes with a clinical air of detachment that shouldn't have made his heart beat as loud as it was.

You smell of summer rain. The musk of water on a hot pavement. He breathes it in until it's clogging the back of his throat, so thick he can almost taste it. So heavy, so heady, his head swims. Ozone. Charred wood. War tucked in a bottle.

The soft fingers against his pulse was a shock, made potent by the little curl of your brow when you counted the beats per minute and found they were much too fast. He isn't embarrassed. Doesn't think he has it in him anymore to feel that way, but there's a sense of frustration in the back of his mind as you move around him, commandeering him with an ease that leaves him feeling a little breathless.

"You're concussed," you say at last, lips pitching downward as you read his charts, the scrawl left behind by the nurse who'd seen him earlier. The one who promptly sent him to you. "And it isn't mild."

With that, and a list of things he ought to do (non-negotiable), you send him on his way. Gaz, too. Fixed up with gauze and made shiny and new.

Soap asks why he's so quiet later when they meet for a debriefing later on (one that he knows is definitely on the list of things you told him not to do), and has to stop the rip current from spilling past his lips.

"He's concussed," Gaz supplied, narrowed eyes clipping the side of his face when it lands; a physical blow. "Doc said he needed rest. But good luck telling him that."

"Don't need rest," he grumbles. There's a blossom of pain in his temple. A little sapling that flourishes under the waning sunlight. "'M fine."

They don't believe him, but the debriefing is too short to push him to lay down, and he spends the next hour pretending he's not seeing shadows in his periphery. That the words on the pages don't bleed together.

(That the scent of Petrichor doesn't glue to the back of his throat.)

When the hurt in his head dims, he finds his thoughts drifting back to you. Meek and unassuming. A wolf in sheep's clothing. It lingers long after the meeting has ended and he's ushered to the barracks for rest. Home tomorrow, Gaz promises on the tail end of yawn. Gonna sleep for a whole year, I think.

Aye, gonna head home in the morning, Soap murmurs, but his eyes don't stray from the corner where Ghost leans, chin dipped low to his chest.

(Price wouldn't put it past him to be asleep already.)

They tell him to get some sleep, dressing the worry in their voice as a friendly admonishment, and he takes it as it is.

But rest doesn't come.

He's curious about you. The little hellion that managed to snatch him clean from the air, and cup him in the palm of your too-small hands.

(He wants to feel it again.)

It begins as idle curiosity.

Price is a large man full of bulk and grit. The snarls in his throat command authority, respect. He isn't used to feeling so wing clipped, sidelined, and he blames that on why he seeks you out.

A pinch in his shoulder. His chest feels swollen around the broken rib. His knee hurts. There's an ache in his throat. A throb in his kidneys.

Each time is met with the same stern expression, firm hands. You commandeer him around the room, dragging out the ailments with ease that always seems to leave him off-kilter and breathless.

He realises what it is the fourth time he comes to your office, exacerbating some mild pain.

You take up space. All of it. Any crevasse, or corner is immediately filled by you. You have this presence about you that is so at odds with the meek façade you carried on your countenance like an ill-fitting mask when he'd first laid eyes on you.

You're an enigma, a paradox. A riddle begging to be solved. He wants to take you into his hands and pull you apart until your insides are bared to him, true and real, and known.

He's met people like you in his lifetime. Leaders in roles that don't fit them. He thinks you belong in worn pages of history, tucked behind a desk as you commandeer the world around you with firm hands and a gnarled smile instead of standing before him, musing softly at whatever ailments he throws your way.

Despite his plethora of issues, you tackle them all with an air of severity and seriousness that he finds kinship in, touching softly at the twined mass that writhes before him. The cuts in your gaze are made from the same shorn razor as his, and he wants to see what's behind that ill-fitting mask.

He wants to see you slip.

But you don't.

Tongue between teeth, clenched so hard that blood blooms and swells in the tip, you keep everything locked tight to your chest, and usher him out with pantomime remedies to heal his farcical hurts.

Price isn't sure why he keeps going—curiosity, maybe. An attraction that cracks like lightning striking through his chest. A gale of turbulence that leaves him seaswept and standing on shaking knees. He doesn’t know what to do with the kinetic energy that buzzes in his veins, begging to be free, and so he tests. Pulls and tugs at the seams that keep you spooled tightly together just to see that fissure that once split across your face, leaking fury and fire into the air until it ripped through his nerves, an electrical fire, and set him alight from the inside out.

(He finds he likes the way it hurts.)

As much as he tugs, he finds he likes it when you pull back.

"Should be careful," you coo, and the syrupy sweetness of your voice sparks against some dormant part of his mind. "You seem to have a lot of bad luck when it comes to ailments."

He shrugs. "Just unlucky."

"Or you're being cursed."

"Oh, yeah?" He hums. "Could be."

You offer a flimsy smile, but it’s enough to soothe the ruffle through his plumage.

"What's your name?" He asks, fingers plucking at the gossamer that sits between you, unsettled by the quiver in his chest.

The smile you flash at him is all teeth. "Sekhmet."

Laswell doesn't ask why when he requests your records, but he senses the confusion in her voice when she calls.

"All of them?"

He grunts in response.

"I vetted them personally, John… but," there's a shuffle in the background. Boxes sliding on linoleum. She's overseeing the tearing up of Shepherd's office, and this minute request suddenly turns his stomach sour. "Fine. If that's what you want."

"It's just—"

He isn't quite sure what to say. He was weakened and flummoxed by the world around him. You turned the tipping axis on its head, leaving him feeling asunder.

"Heard they were quite rough with you," she teases, an olive branch. An excuse. "Bossing around the boss. Is this what it's about?"

He scoffs, then, and only feels an inkling of pain. "No, Laswell. And I wasn't bossed around."

"Manhandled?"

It gives him pause. That feeling from before swells in his chest. Soft hands against his talons, clipping his wings.

"No," he mutters, but the airiness of his voice gives him away.

Laswell, in a feat of mercy, just hums. "They're good, John. Good for this team."

Good for you, she doesn't say. John thinks she doesn't have to. He hears it, anyway.

There are cracks inside of him, ones made from the chipped clay that once concealed an unslaked black hole.

You fill space, he thinks.

He isn’t surprised to find you fill the gaps inside of him, too.

He goes again, but this time it’s real. A bullet grazed his shin, deep enough to warrant stitches, and finds you waiting for him with that clipboard pinched between your hands.

The look on your face gives him pause. It’s pulled taut, coiled like a defensive viper, but where he expects the same clinical efficiency and detached airs, he instead is met with a palpable sense of uncertainty—too much, he thinks, like the first time you walked into the room, unsure and wobbling on unsteady feet.

His heart thunders under your prying gaze. “Need some stitches,” he says, if only to fill in the terse silence that settles over the room, hushed and aggrieved.

“Right,” you echo, eyes dropping to the blood that runs in streaking rivulets down his leg.

And you say nothing else after, working quietly as you knit skin back together and sponge the drying blood from the wry thatch of curls that blanket his shin.

Price takes in the paleness of your lip, pinched tight against your clenched teeth. The deep ravine that cuts a line between your brows, heavy with shadows and flooded in some strange amalgamation of anger—potent enough that he can catch the embers in the air on his tongue—and this uncharacteristic sense of disquiet that makes your shoulders tense, your hands slacken. The firm, sure touch is gone—replaced, instead, with clouded unease—and you no longer commandeer him around the room, catch him from the air and manoeuvre him to your fanciful whims. You nudge, now. Soft utterances; requests.

You don’t move space to fit yourself between the brackets. You linger in the periphery.

He isn’t accustomed to this, and the hesitancy in your brow needles behind his ribs, pinching and pushing until he’s left feeling that same, strange sense of weightlessness as before. But where you led him around by the tip of his ears, he finds himself unmoored.

(He likes the loss of control, but only when it’s tethered to your hand.)

His wound is patched up, skin knitted together with silken black lines that cut a neat crisscross through his tumid skin. There is no reason to linger, despite the weight on his tongue urging him to speak.

But you strike first, catching him at the door.

"Is there a problem?" You ask, words stripped bare, and masticated between clenched teeth. Reluctance is a heavy weight on your brow when he turns to you, as if you don't want to ask, but are compelled to. Forced to.

It's the first time he's felt any sense of control around you. He stretches his wings.

"Problem?" He echoes, and tucks his hands beneath his arms. Steadying his stance. Preparing for the fight.

You mimic his pose, but grab the knobs of your elbows between tense fingers instead. There's fire in your eyes. The room fills with smoke.

"You asked for my papers."

The meagre file tucked away in his cabinet spoke of your accomplishments in the same detached, clinical distance as one of the many façades you adopt. It listed your education, your former employment, and your accolades in Times New Roman, all standard affairs. Impressive, of course, but he found it all to be quite lacklustre.

It didn't mention the firmness of your fingers when you take his pulse or commandeer him to your liking. It said nothing about the paralysing weight in your gaze, vipers tucked in the corners of your eyes when he meets your stolid authority with his own fiery wrath.

(Or the softness of your cheeks when you try to hide a smile. The admonishing pinches made in jest when he says something that distracts you from your task.)

"I did."

"Okay," you breathe heavily through your nose. "Why?"

"Is there any reason why I shouldn't?"

"You just—" another breath. He has the peculiar urge to syphon the next directly from your lungs, to taste your air on his tongue. "You come here, week after week, with some—illness, and just—"

"Just what?"

"If you have a problem," you say at length, eyes flashing. "You could have come to me? One on one. I would have—"

"A problem?" He singles the word out, tossing it back at your teeth. “I don’t have a problem.”

You laugh, but it's scathing. "Are you undermining me? Is this—hazing?"

“Hazing? No,” he shakes his head, chasing the tail end of your derision. “Consider this vetting.”

And there it is—that fissure. Heat pops from the lavascape, spilling down the split of your lips.

“Right.” You snip, shaking your head. “Well, I hope I met your expectations, Price.”

He huffs, then. The noise is a broken facsimile of a laugh forced through crooked teeth. “Of course you do.” The pinch in your brow wobbles. “Wouldn’t be here if you didn’t, love.”

He rents the air with his admission, splits the seams of this tenuous dance you make each week he shows up, speaking of some phantom pain ripped the pages of the textbooks that sit, worn and well-loved, on the shelves behind your desk.

You say nothing when he leaves.

(Or when he rests a piece of himself on the doorframe—a glossy feather from his primary remiges just for you.)

He doesn’t go for the next three weeks, but it isn’t cowardice that drags him away from this oddly shaped choreography. He’s caught in a storm halfway across the world with sand in his hair, and the curve of your confusion nudged between the fibrils of his chest.

In the softness of night, he wonders what you've done with his clipped feather.

Price meets you at the beginning, but this time, he stands in the medical bay with firm knees, and a clear head. Searching, seeking.

The thread vibrates, and he finds you with your back to him, doling out gentle, firm, commands to the medical staff congregated around you. Clinging to your breathy orders with the same listless uncertainty that makes his chest swell with the urge to lead whenever it's rested on his shoulders.

He isn't sure if you can feel the reverberations through the thread, the leftover sutures from when you weaved a needle over the cut on his forearm, and accidentally sewed a piece of yourself into his skin, or if it's just the heavy weight of his gaze burning brands into your back that draws your attention.

(It certainly garners enough from the staff around you, their flighty eyes flickering from the mountain of a man seething at your back, to you—feigning obliviousness as he strips you bare beneath his glacial gaze, cutting a path to your membrane where he knows he'll find the piece of himself that you snipped off months ago.)

When you finally turn, you give a peculiar look over your shoulder, eyes clouded over, gaze inward. He watches you for a moment, taking in the curve of your cheek, the slope of your nose. Foreign, of course; but familiar under the cloak of darkness and the hail of gunfire.

The fire still burns in your unreachable depths, but the embers are smouldering. He feels the heat even from this distance, but when you return from whatever thoughts were racing through your head, he finds the look that fixes itself there to be strange. Pensive.

A quiet contemplation as you take in the length of his shoulders, the width of his chest.

His heart hammers against the cages of his sore ribs, leaping to the base of his throat where it pulses like a raw wound.

The whole of his body smarts like a massive contusion—muscles bending at odd angles, bones brittle—but he knows in an instant that he won't mention it to you. He'll tuck the hurt aside. Let it moulder. Let it rot.

This thing between you—crafted from the design of his heart—has been pulled and pinched, flexed and stretched too taut. It's ready to snap. To break.

He waits for that moment, bracing himself for the inevitability of the recoil clapping him against the chest, but it doesn't happen.

You give a small dip of your chin.

Then, you're gone.

You've been moulding him between form hands since the beginning, moving him around however you please.

So, it just feels natural when he follows.

This time it's his chest.

You go through the same dance, steps known. Ingrained in muscle memory. Your hands are firm, authoritative as you lead him on this little chase, pushing and pulling, tugging on the threads that keep him sewn up and whole.

But an incipient path is born. A new routine. The hand on his cheek, as you read his temperature, lingers, thumb brushing over the dividing line that separates skin from wry curls.

The touch is familiar. You’re no strange to feeling around the phantom aches and pains he presents to you, but this is an electric shock that rattles through his nerves. The trail your thumb leaves behind as it strokes idly at his skin prickles and burns. Goosebumps rise, creating cresting hills and peaks along his topography. You map it all with nimble fingers, firm and sure.

You take the thermometer out of his mouth after a moment, not even pretending to read the results (thirty-seven degrees, always), and it’s tossed back on the tray quickly before your hand returns to his skin, drawn there by that same innate pull he feels in his iron bones. The warmth of your palm threatens to suffuse his skin, mated together in ferromagnetism.

His chin rests, plinthed in your palms, and there’s a sudden swell, a rush, that gorges on his heart. The façades fall, clattering to the ground. The broken pieces lay in remains by his feet.

Price doesn’t spare them a glance.

Can’t, maybe, because in azimuth he finds that solidary feather he plucked for you resting between your teeth.

Wonderment. Awe. He feels the surge of something ripping through his body—a paroxysm—but he can’t look away from the shapes of your bare face; the imperfect asymmetry, the wrought iron lines, the convulsing atoms. It’s mesmerising.

And maybe it’s an electrical phenomenon—no let go—but he doesn’t spare it a single thought, even as the current burrows deeper into his chest, igniting his tissue until red-hot, blistering, charred. Even then, even with the scent of smouldering, necrotising flesh brimming cloyingly into his scenes, the absolute apathy he feels for himself at that moment is a testament to the unshakeable draw, that primal magnetism that glues him to you; met in perfect equilibrium in the middle.

It’s you who moves, who splints the poles until they fall apart when you let your hand drop.

But you’re not finished. The tips of your fingers move, a long peregrination down the twisting, sloping topography of his visage; snaking down his temple, the dip of his nose, the rough bushel of curls, the soft pout of his lips, the ulotrichous hair along his cheek and jaw, the long decline of his check, the ridged of his collarbones, the swell of his chest. It’s there where it lingers, fingers spreading like webs along the birdcage of his thundering heart.

Price watches you, rapturous and nearly choking himself on the avarice that spills from his heaving lungs.

You rest the flat of your palm there for a beat; lost in perambulation. Feasting on the thud of his heart.

He thinks you’ve had your fill. Quenched yourself.

But when you look up from the slight tremor of your hand, pulsing in time with his hurried beats, the look in your eyes is distinctly unslaked.

(—and he can’t stop the rumble from spilling out of his chest at the sight.)

Price isn’t sure how long you stay like that. Minutes, seconds, hours. Aeons might have passed since you let your mask slip. Since he plucked at threads keeping it upright. But he shakes back into cognisance when you pull away, cutting through space and time, and filling the gaps once more with the heavy weight of your presence.

“You’ll be fine,” you say over your shoulder, reaching for your clipboard. “A little rest is all you need, captain.”

There’s an insurmountable number of things he can say, but you press on his throat, and he swallows them down, nodding at your back instead.

The cloven strands fall around him, broken with distance. There’s an urge in his bones to sew back into his skin, to press them like drying flowers into the folds of his heart where they’ll say, nurtured on his blood and suffused into his being. He rests his laurels on it for a moment, feels the weight of his want, his desire, and compares it to the fraying wisps dragging along the linoleum.

But he doesn’t reach for them.

He is wing clipped and flightless. You hold the only feather that gives him lift between the monoliths of your teeth.

A fine place to keep it, he thinks and turns around, ready to leave on unsteady feet, but—

"Seven," you say, firm and sure. No nonsense. But when he turns, he catches the pallor of your knuckles gripped tight around the clipboard. You hold it to your chest like a shield. The vipers in your eyes quiet their hissing, tongues lashing out to scent the air. "There's this place in Manchester that makes the best Beef Suya."

You're not asking him.

(But you don't really have to, do you?)

His lips pull up. He catches the drifting threads in his bare palm. "Manchester, mm?"

"I hope you like a little bit of spice."

"I can handle the heat."

You swallow thickly, and he thinks the action on anyone else might be easily mistaken for nerves, but the livewire that pulls taut between you thrums with a heavy sense of anticipation.

"I hope so, John," he startles at the mention of his name. It makes your lips curl back, and he shouldn't find it so mesmerising when can't tell if it's a smile or a sneer. "Otherwise I'd be quite disappointed."

His chin dips to his chest. It renders his voice to little more than smoke and ash, but you shudder from across the room at the growl.

"Wouldn't want that, now, would we?"

It isn't breathless when you speak, but he licks his lips and tastes the pulsing excitement that sparks in the air. It curls in his lungs. Saltwater on burning coals.

"Don't be late."

It's a promise, he thinks; a warning, too. A threat. "Wouldn't dream of it, love."

He turns away from you, shielding the growing smile from your searching gaze, but your voice stops him short at the door, fingers curled around the frame.

“And Price?”

“Yes, love?” He calls, featherlight in a way he hasn’t felt since he was eighteen and free. Ready to soar, to fly.

"You know," you say, brows knotting together. Despite the severity of your expression, there's a note of playfulness between your teeth. "If you wanted to see me, you could have just asked."

After dinner, they fucked so nasty that Qadesh could be heard gagging across the aether.

#u ever just write a thing and then realise there's something fundamentally wrong with u on an atomic level? cause hey that's me #no one asked for Sekhmet x Ptah but my god did i tackle that task as if my life depended on it #John Price x Reader #Captain Price x Reader #Price x Reader #ughghghghg #i feel like that kid who just stares point blank at the barrel of a gun and says “shoot me”#i kinda just wanted an mc who was like #oh you big man lemme manhandle YOU #and i did it #maybe

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zepskies · 11 months

Text

Never Say Goodbye - Bonus Track #2

Pairing: Dean x Female Reader

Summary: The first time you and Dean sensed each other’s thoughts and feelings, you were just kids. It would take years to realize that you both were bonded for life, and even longer to finally meet. [Soulmate AU] (18+)

AN: Did I say two parts? I meant three lol. (It got too long, I’m sorry.)

Word Count: 4,300 Tags/Warnings: Angst, supernatural shenanigans, death…

Bonus Track #2: One Last Hunt

“Okay, try not to panic,” Sam said. Dean had him on the phone while he sped through town in the Impala.

“I’m coming now, but I won’t get there for a few hours,” Sam said. “My flight leaves in 20 minutes.”

“Thanks, man, but I can’t afford to wait,” Dean said. “She fucking disappeared. I don’t see her anywhere…I’m gonna have to start at her job. That’s where she first took off from.”

“How did she seem this morning?”

“Fine, I guess. I left before she woke up,” Dean said. He still felt guilty about the fact that he didn’t bother waking you up to say goodbye.

“Okay, yeah, start at the museum,” Sam said. “Let me know what you find, and I’d loop in Bobby. Probably Jack too.”

“Bobby’s meeting me there…but we don’t need to bring in Jack yet.”

“Dean, he’s her dad—”

“This isn’t his thing. It’s ours,” Dean said firmly. “If it’s a demon, I’m gonna find her and exorcize that son of a bitch.”

Sure enough, Bobby met Dean at the museum where you worked. The old man was worried, Dean could tell, even if he wouldn’t say it. But he knew the drill: now they had a job to do.

“I’ll go in first, flash my badge,” Dean said. “Meet me in the library.”

“Roger that,” Bobby agreed.

Dean had a decent rapport with your boss, Jerry. When he explained that you were actually missing, Jerry was concerned for your wellbeing instead of irate that you’d taken a very valuable book from the museum.

It gave Dean a theory to lie about on the fly: that you’d been mugged and taken hostage, presumably by someone who might’ve wanted to steal the ancient text.

“How ancient are we talking exactly?” Dean asked.

Jerry gave him a look. “Ancient Egypt.”

He showed you the inventory log on the new shipment you were supposed to compile into the system. The title missing from the rest was called The Eye of Ra.

“All right. Thanks, Jerry,” Dean said. “Anything else you can tell me about this book?”

“It’s a recording of the great deeds of the Ancient Egyptian gods and goddesses,” Jerry explained. “It was said to be touched by Ra himself.”

Touched by Ra, Dean mused. Ain’t that just fucking swell.

Whatever happened to you, Dean knew it was because you touched that book.

For the next few hours, Dean and Bobby worked together on deeper research in the library. Now that they had a starting point, Bobby was able to find some intel.

“The Eye of Ra was actually a nickname,” he said, earning Dean’s attention. “For Sekhmet, their goddess of war.”

Dean’s brows furrowed at that. “Why’s it never the goddess of peace and fucking tranquility?”

“Among other things, she was the daughter of Ra,” Bobby said, raising a wry brow. “And she was known as the bringer of plagues and death…and sometimes healing. Go figure.”

Fucking hell, Dean thought sourly. This was getting worse by the minute.

“Okay, what does this have to do with the book?” he asked. Though he had some idea.

“Well, she ain’t been alive in a millennium. But she had a husband. The god Ptah, a craftsman,” Bobby said. “According to this, when he was eventually killed, she sealed her soul away until she could find a way to rescue him from the underworld…I’ve gotta think she sealed it in that book.”

Dean sighed, rubbing the now aching spot between his brows. An ancient Egyptian goddess was most likely possessing his fiancé.

And it was much worse than it sounded on paper.

“Okay, which means she’ll be looking for a way to bring back her husband,” he said. “So how do we find her?”

Just then, the police radio buckled to Dean’s belt sounded off. When he listened closely, his eyes grew wide. It was a report of five murders committed at a nearby gas station.

Dean pulled up to the local 7-Eleven. Bobby was on the way, but he’d been caught up in traffic while Dean was allowed to use his police siren to his advantage.

He then used his badge clearance to get behind the yellow tape and over to Jack, who was still on duty.

Dean stepped inside the gas station and surveyed the brutal scene: the nice old man who owned the place, plus four patrons were lying dead.

Their skin was covered with boils.

Jack wore a disconcerted frown along with his crossed arms in his police jacket.

“It’s almost…biblical,” he remarked.

Dean knew just how right he was. Jack seemed to know that too when he glanced over.

“Is this your kind of thing?” he asked.

Dean nodded. “I might know what’s going on here. Let’s check the security footage…but no one else can see it but you and me.”

Jack nodded, leading Dean to the back of the store. Jack was shocked by what he found in the footage. Dean watched grimly, but not surprised as you came into the frame. You tilted your head at the owner, who seemed to ask you something.

You raised a hand, and with a flare of magic, everyone in the station was cowering and screaming as a plague of boils covered their bodies, and eventually ended their lives.

“Christ,” Jack gasped. “What the hell—”

“It’s not her,” Dean told him. “She’s being possessed. I’ll handle this, Jack. Just make sure this footage gets buried, along with whatever prints she might’ve left behind.”

Jack barely had time to agree. As if that kind of thing was so easy. He called after Dean as he took off out of the station.

Dean didn’t see Bobby yet when he got outside, but he didn’t have time to wait.

However, he did spot someone familiar hanging out in front of the department store across the street. Dean jogged across and raised a hand to flag down Jessie Deluca.

The kid was gnawing on what looked like a melting Butterfinger. He groaned in annoyance when he saw Dean coming.

“Not you again,” he muttered.

“Yeah, me again,” Dean said. “You been standing out here long?”

“Look, grandpa. I’m just chillin’ here,” the kid sassed. It sparked Dean’s irritation, as well as his impatience.

“I don’t give two shits if you’re contemplating the great Butterfinger Heist of 2008, all right?” Dean pointed back to the gas station. “You see that?”

Jessie’s expression faded from some of its assholeness, becoming more solemn. “Yeah, I heard someone died or something.”

“That’s right,” Dean nodded. “Did you see anyone walk out of the station?”

“No,” Jessie said. But Dean could tell it was a reflex, not the truth.

“Listen, Jessie. I need your help,” he said, more earnestly. “I’m trying to find someone. So if you know anything, I need you to tell me right now. Please.”

Dean stared down in the kid’s brown eyes. Eventually, Jessie relented.

“When I came out of the store here, I saw some business lady walk out. I think, after it had all just gone down,” Jessie confessed. “She looked fine.”

Dean sighed and nodded. “Okay. What’d she look like?”

“Uh…black skirt. Great legs,” Jessie said, his lips curving a little. Dean raised a brow.

“Anything else?” he asked wryly.

“White blouse, heels…actually, she kinda looked familiar,” Jessie added as he thought harder about it.

“Good. Now tell me what direction she went in,” Dean said. Jessie nodded and pointed him down the street.

“I think she went down there. I saw her turn the corner.”

“Where? What street?”

“Dude, I don’t know!”

“Then show me,” Dean insisted. He grabbed Jessie by the shoulder and guided him forward. The kid looked annoyed, but he begrudgingly agreed to lead him down the street. The two of them walked brusquely, with Jessie trying to match Dean’s longer strides.

Dean glanced over at his companion, who was still working on his Butterfinger.

“When’s the last time you ate something that wasn’t covered in chocolate?” he asked. Jessie didn’t look at him when he shrugged. His winter jacket hung off his skinny shoulders, making him look ten rather than thirteen. Dean’s heart twinged.

“Listen, next time you’re itching to knock over a department store for KitKats, come by the station,” Dean said. “Find me or my partner Jody Mills. Or even my boss, Jack. We’ll get you a burger or something.”

Jessie briefly looked up at him, but all too soon, his gaze returned to the ground.

“What do you care?” he said.

“Maybe I know something about having to fend for yourself,” said Dean. “Sometimes going hungry, not knowing when somebody’s gonna come back for you.”

Jessie’s jaw clenched. He didn’t answer, but Dean hoped he’d gotten through to him.

Jessie led him around the corner at the street he thought he saw you turn down. He and Dean didn’t have to walk too much farther before he found you through the window of a bakery, of all things.

“What the hell?” Dean muttered.

He pulled Jessie to the wall by the window for safety, but both of them snuck a peek inside.

You were once again wielding magic to spread a plague of boils across an entire room of screaming, agonized patrons just trying to get their donuts and cream pies.

Jessie started to utter a cry of alarm, but Dean quickly covered the kid’s mouth with his hand and pulled him back to his side. Dean waited, stock still, until the screaming inside the bakery subsided.

He looked down at Jessie and raised a finger to his lips. Though he was scared, Jessie nodded. Dean led him around the corner into an alley beside the bakery.

“What…the fuck was that?” Jessie hissed.

“Keep your voice down,” Dean warned.

Then suddenly, it donned on the kid as he looked up at Dean. “Oh, shit. That’s your freakin’ girlfriend.”

Dean let out a sharp sigh. “It’s not her…exactly.”

He knew Jessie didn’t understand. Dean sighed again and grasped Jessie’s shoulders.

“Look, you’re right to be scared. There’s something evil in there…that’s why I’ve gotta save her,” he said. “Now you, you’re gonna run. And don’t look back until you’re home, got it?”

After a moment, Jessie nodded shakily. Dean nodded back, patting him firmly on his shoulders.

“Good man,” he said. “Okay, scram.”

Jessie seemed reluctant, like he felt some type of way about leaving Dean behind. But at Dean’s encouraging look, Jessie took off running. Dean hoped he headed straight home.

Then, rolling his shoulders, Dean braced himself. He drew his gun, which was filled with silver bullets. He didn’t think it would work on an Egyptian goddess, nor did he want to pull a gun on you. But for the threat of it alone, he would have to draw it with the safety on.

He entered the bakery, where you were perusing the selections with a dispassionate look. All around you was death.

But you perked up when Dean entered, eyeing him curiously in recognition.

“Feelin’ a snack?” he asked.

“I have been asleep for a very long time,” you replied, holding up a pastry. “What is this confection?”

“Cherry Danish,” Dean supplied. “You’re Sekhmet, right?”

Your lips twitched. “You know of me?”

“I do now,” he said, carefully stepping further into the bakery with his gun pointed down, avoiding stepping on the bodies. He noticed the book you left closed on the counter. The goddess saw him noticing. Her gaze cut to him in amusement.

“Why’d you kill these people?” Dean asked. “Didn’t bow down at the right angle?”

“Among all of my brothers and sisters, I alone was favored by my father,” she said, “because my job was to balance the world, between life and the afterlife.”

Sekhmet brushed her fingers against a glass case, and with a small spark of magic, the glass cracked into thousands of fractals, but didn’t shatter.

“And I did exceedingly well at this,” she said. “Though I see that my work has been undone. This world is rife with imbalance.”

“Mass genocide. Nice,” Dean quipped. “But that’s not all you want, is it?”

Sekhmet’s head tilted at him with reluctant interest.

“I heard you’re looking for your husband, who went an offed himself,” he added.

The goddess’s lips pursed and she slapped a hand on the glass counter, making it shatter. Dean turned and shielded his eyes with his arm. By the time he recovered, Sekhmet was coming around the counter. He took a few cautious steps in the opposite direction.

“My husband was unjustly slain by the very people who once worshipped us in droves,” she said, her tone exacting and harsh. Her eyes, however, were heavy with fury and pain.

“He was an artist. A creator in purest form…his talents were wasted on this abomination of a world,” she said, with disgust at her surroundings. But as soon as her anger came, it diffused into exasperation.

She picked up a glazed donut and took a bite, crossing her arms. She hummed in delight, making Dean’s brows raise.

“Well, I can help you find him,” Dean said. It was a bluff, to be sure, but it still earned Sekhmet’s attention.

“Can you?” she asked in amusement. She didn’t believe him. Yet. But she drew closer to Dean, tilting her head just so. All the while, Dean inched towards the far end of the counter where The Eye of Ra had fallen to the ground.

“And after, you let my girl go,” he said.

“You know of a way to reach the Underworld?” Sekhmet’s gaze roamed over him in disdain. “Unlikely.”

“Well, I’d call it a gate to Hell. But same difference, right?” Dean quipped.

The second he tried to reach down for the book, however, Sekhmet pinned him in place with a vibrant amber coil of magic. Dean grunted as she forced him to the ground, onto his knees between the bodies of a young man and woman, likely a couple.

The goddess stopped in front of him, looking down at his face with interest.

“Dean Winchester, as you are called. I understand why you continue to display such reckless judgment, all but throwing your very life at my feet,” she said. Her lips curved knowingly. “I hold your lover, correct?”

She harshly grabbed his cheek in her hand, and Dean glared in response. She seemed to ponder something as she considered him.

“Soon to be your wife,” she realized.

And Dean had a feeling she was in your head, sorting through your thoughts and memories like any demon would. He didn’t know what was worse: the thought of you being awake in there, unable to fight this bitch’s hold, or if Sekhmet had completely taken over your body and shut you away.

“Just let her go,” Dean said, almost pleading. “You can have me. I won’t even fight you.”

“Such self-sacrifice,” she said. “The only noble act humans are capable of.”

Before she could decide whether to kill him, or keep him for further amusement, the front door of the bakery swung open.

Bobby came in first, followed closely by Sam and Eileen.

Bobby was holding a damn crossbow, which he aimed and shot off at Sekhmet. It was a warning shot, just grazing her shoulder. But it burned her with a sting of flesh that made her hiss in pain. She glared up at Bobby, and after grabbing the book before Sam could, she disappeared in a whirlwind of magic.

The coil holding Dean in place shattered, allowing Dean to catch his break and get to his feet, with Sam’s help. Dean had to admit, it was good to see his brother.

“You okay?” Sam asked. Dean reached over and pat the other man’s shoulder.

“I’m good,” he said, though with a sigh that belied his weariness. “Hey, Eileen. Thanks for making it to the party.”

The pretty brunette offered him a sympathetic smile, rubbing his arm. “We came as soon as we could.”

Dean nodded and turned to Bobby, who still held his crossbow. He wasn’t happy about the old man shooting at you, but he recognized that it had saved his life.

“Why’d that thing hurt her?” he asked.

“The arrow’s dipped in a potent mix of salt from the Dead Sea…and Egyptian wine, among other things,” Bobby replied.

Dean frowned in confusion. “Why the fuck?”

“According to the lore, Sekhmet could be subdued with alcohol,” Sam explained.

“Great, we’ll just get her drunk and all our problems will be solved,” Dean quipped dryly. He grabbed the radio from his belt. His gaze returned to the dead bodies on the floor with dismay.

“I’ve gotta call this in. Bobby, get the security tapes.”

After Dean finished calling in the deaths to his precinct, he shared a disheartened look with Sam, who grasped his shoulder in support.

“We’re gonna find her, all right?”

They regrouped at Bobby’s house once Jack took over at the bakery. Now the three men and Eileen were congregated in the living room, trying to decide on their next move.

“You told her about the Hell gate?!” Sam said incredulously.

“Damn it, Dean!” Bobby slapped the coffee table in exasperation.

“All right, lay off! I was improvising under fucking duress,” Dean snapped. “At least we know where she’ll probably go next, assuming she finds out where the gate is.”

“She’s a goddess, Dean. One of the oldest and most powerful in ancient history. I’m sure she can figure it out,” Sam said, rubbing at his tired eyes.

And, as Dean remembered, Sekhmet was rooting around in your head. She’d find the gate for sure.

Eileen looked between the brothers, clearly worried. Sam had told her about what you, him, and Dean had gone through to close that damn gate to Hell last year.

“So how do we stop her?” Dean asked. Without hurting you, was implicit. Bobby heaved a sigh.

“We gotta burn that damn book,” Bobby said. “But we’ll need to be smart about it.”

So that was how the four of them ended up driving to southern Wyoming. They stopped along the crossroads by the train tracks, and ventured in on foot into the very clearing where their final battle against Yellow Eyes took place.

Dean thought he’d be able to put his past behind him, but the universe clearly liked to kick him in the balls.

Evidence of this came when he saw you standing at Samuel Colt’s gravestone. Or rather, the goddess Sekhmet.

She was expending large forces of magic to try and open up the gate to Hell. The book that bound her soul lied on top of a nearby headstone.

Dean gestured for Sam, Eileen, and Bobby to hang back and fan out, while he stalked forward. He’d changed out of his police uniform in favor of his familiar jeans, shirt, and a red plaid shirt, hoping that at least would help you focus on him, wherever you were deep inside your mind.

But he called out to Sekhmet from a (relatively) safe distance away.

“Are you stupid or something?” he mocked.

Sekhmet paused in her magic wielding. She craned her head over her shoulder at him in annoyance, with amber rings illuminating her eyes.

“There’s only one thing that can open up that gate, and I’ve got it right here,” said Dean.

He pulled out the Colt from behind his back.

Sekhmet’s gaze narrowed on the gun, then at Dean with a slow smirk.

“Why, by the gods, should I trust your foolishness?” she asked.

“Because we’re about to make a trade,” Dean said. “The gun for my girl. You let her go, or you’ll never see your husband again. In this world, or the next.”

Dean pointed the gun at her and cocked the safety back. She didn’t have to know the barrel was empty.

“You cannot harm me, even if there was ammunition in that weapon,” Sekhmet replied knowingly.

She turned to him and reached out with a magic-fueled hand, but before she could grab Dean, Sam shot his own gun.

It deployed a net of rope that twined around her frame and held her in place. It was soaked with the same concoction Bobby shot her with in the bakery, and it made her fume with outrage.

It didn’t completely weaken her though. Her hands were still free to fling Sam and Bobby away from her with magic.

She then turned to grip Eileen, who was nearly able to steal the book. And the goddess sent Eileen across the clearing, breaking a headstone as she fell.

Sam had been trying to pick himself up from the ground, but he gripped at his chest, feeling his soulmate’s pain. He scrambled over to her prone form on the ground and checked the cut along her hairline.

“Eileen,” Sam called, pressing his hand to her cheek. He had one eye on her, and another on his brother.

Because meanwhile, Sekhmet had broken free of the ropes holding her captive with a cry of fury.

Just in time to grab Dean by the throat when he tried to surprise her from behind. She forced him down to his knees and smirked in satisfaction as Dean struggled against her hold.

He called your name, trying to reach you through the goddess’s hold on your mind.

“She is gone from this world,” Sekhmet taunted. “This is but a vessel for my eternal soul.”

“I don’t fucking believe that,” Dean choked. “If she was gone, I’d know it. Deep in my bones I’d know it.”

Her mouth twitched, but she seemed to enjoy the idea of slowly choking him to death. Or maybe, something was holding her back. Dean could only hope it was you, trying to break through.

He looked into your eyes and tried to find you through the cold disdain of a goddess.

“Whatever happens, I’m not letting go,” he gritted out. He held tight to your wrist, on the hand wrapped around his throat.

“I love you, you know that?” he said. “From the start…you closed the door in my face when I tried to kiss you. Teased me. Never took my shit. But you never left me either. No matter how hard it fucking got, you kept my feet on the ground. You never called it quits…‘cause we never say goodbye. Right, baby?”

Slowly, slowly, Sekhmet’s hard exterior faded. The amber rings of magic receded from your eyes, and the woman he loved was there again, softening your face into shock and horror.

You released your grip on Dean. He stumbled to the ground as he coughed and gasped for precious oxygen.

He straightened enough to grab your hand. You reached out for him instinctively.

“Dean,” you said with shaking effort.

“I’ve gotcha, sweetheart,” he said. He turned back to see his brother helping Eileen to her feet. “Sam, the damn book!”

Sam snapped to attention and quickly looked for The Eye of Ra. It had been knocked over from the headstone onto the ground. He grabbed it and fished out a lighter from his pocket.

Dean’s attention turned back to you when you squeezed his hands.

“I can’t hold her for long,” you said tremulously. Your whole body was shaking. “She’s so damn strong…”

“It’s okay, we’re gonna fix this,” Dean said, brushing your hair back from your face.

You closed your eyes and gasped. But when you opened them once again, they were hard, and glowing with magic.

Sekhmet tossed Sam away from the headstone.

Dean tried to hold her back, but she backhanded him hard. Sekhmet followed where he fell. She reached out and gripped him by the neck again, this time choking him with a vengeance.

But then she gasped, as if in pain. She turned her head and found Sam with the book in one hand, and a lit match in the other. As the book started to burn, Sekhmet weakened.

Dean caught her before your body could hit the ground.

Sekhmet released a shaking breath; she gazed into the dimming sky, painted in its golden, amber hues, and knew that her soul was dying. Hot tears slipped down her cheeks.

Dean almost felt sorry for her. Or maybe it was the sight of your pained, weeping face that tugged at his heartstrings.

“You’ll just have to join your husband this time,” he said.

Sekhmet’s lips trembled, but she nodded. “This world was never made for us…but we shall soon be together for all eternity.”

She looked up at him with a rueful smile.

“You understand,” she said. “A soul bond can never be destroyed.”

And with that, the haze of magic drained from your eyes as your body went limp.

Dean’s brows furrowed with worry as he called your name. Behind him, Sam helped Eileen draw near with a limping Bobby. All three watched with worry at Dean’s side…until your eyes opened, revealing their natural hue.

You took in a tremulous breath. “Dean.”

His eyes burned with emotion, but he closed them as he held you tight. All he could do was press his lips against your forehead in relief.

You clung to him right back, for as long as you needed to.

AN: Fun fact — According to Egyptian mythology, the only thing that could stop the goddess Sekhmet from ending humanity with bloodshed was by getting her drunk on beer, which had been dyed red to simulate blood (which she also liked to drink, apparently).

Egyptians (the survivors) would drink beer mixed with pomegranate juice and get drunk to celebrate not being killed dead. (Woo!)

Anyway, let me know if you enjoyed Part 2! All the fluff is coming in the finale of Part 3, very soon…

Next Time:

Dean brings you home. The two of you figure out how to move on from here...

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ben-the-hyena · 2 years

Text

I absolutely love Sekhmet/Bastet (they are the same goddess with 2 different aspects ; basically Bastet when happy and horny and Sekhmet when violent and blood thirsty) X Ptah for all it implies

A myth says that they met after Sekhmet woke up from being drunk from all that red colored mead (long story short for those who don't know Ra created her from his eye when humans started to rebel against the gods so that she could kill the rebels but she loved killing and eating so much she kept on and on and they feared she would off humanity so they had all the women make beer and color it red to lure it as blood and she got drunk as shit and passed out and that's how humanity was saved) and that he was the first person she saw at this moment and they had a love at first sight. That's already adorable

Ptah and Sekhmet/Bastet are almost always depicted as one another's spouses, essentially the myths in which they were with others were the most ancient and got retconned, no infedility, Ptah had no harem despite the fact royalty and gods could have several wives, etc just themselves for each other

They also have only 2 children, Nefertem and Mahas whose father is always Ptah and the mother is always either Bastet or Sekhmet, but no one else after the "retcon" (I know it's not called like that for religion but bear with me). Kids between each other. And Bastet being a goddess of maternity and described as a good and tender mother, it means she cherishes the sons she had with the man she loves

They often are seen together, notably in the places were both were adored. There are temples dedicated to them both or to one of both sons too

Love how they are complementary, she is in both aspects a solar goddess while he is a lunar god, plus both can heal

They are quite cotrasting which makes it hilarious, notably when she is Sekhmet. Goddess of war, death, blood, fire and diseases while he is just the god of craftmanship, and he is pretty much a chill god. Malewife and girlboss, even funnier since he is a PRIMORDIAL GOD often said older than her father Ra himself but he is one of the chillest gods he just wants to build stuff

Bastet is the goddess of music, dance and joy. Who knows, maybe she is curious and playful about what he creates and that makes him happy to have finally someone interested. Heck maybe he makes her instruments, and weapons as Sekhmet

Bastet is also a goddess of carnal love, lust and desire. For her to be happy in her marriage, it means dude must actually fuck a litteral sex goddess like a pro and like nobody before and must satisfy her perfectly. Ptah and his mummy looks plays his cards close to his chest

And Ptah doesn't just want Bastet, he loves her as scary and violent Sekhmet too, claims he is married to both etc instead of just preferring the sexy happy aspect of her, he loves her under all her forms and aspects and she must be moved by that, heck who knows maybe he is the one to help her calm down and reassure her during her violent outbursts/crises into becoming her gentle again

In conclusion, mythological OTP

#love is here #i ship it !#moi #marriage #lol #egypt #mythology #legends #Sekhmet #bastet #ptah #parents and children #family #maahes #nefertem

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godsofhumanity · 3 years

Conversation

Ptah: So, you like cats?

Sekhmet: I love them!

Ptah, trying to impress Sekhmet: [pushes her drink off the table]

#nice one #ptah #sekhmet #sekhmet x ptah #egyptian gods #egyptian mythology #incorrect egyptian gods #incorrect egyptian mythology #incorrect mythology #s: tumblr #queuetzalcoatl

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captain039 · 2 years

Text

The gods with us

Moon knight x reader

Warnings: Spoilers, cursing, violence, god and goddess things, anxiety and depression, mental issues, eventual smut, tension, intimacy, age gap.

Bastet: Bastet was the goddess of protection, pleasure, and the bringer of good health. She had the head of a cat and a slender female body. Bastet was the daughter of Ra, sister of Sekhmet, the wife of Ptah, and the mother of Mihos. Since the Second Dynasty, Bastet was worshiped as a deity, most commonly in Lower Egypt.

When the voices started you swore you were officially going crazy, you began to panic in the dark at the womanly voice calling to you. You shut off from the world, worrying your mother who you lived with. You didn’t talk to your best friend about it either to scared she’d call you insane despite the many years of sharing everything. The voice would sing sometimes, a beautiful melody in a language you didn’t know, soothing and calming despite everything. You noticed the glow first also, your body began to clear of simple blemishes, your pimples and dark under eyes disappeared. You skin was clear and surprisingly smooth. You didn’t know what it was, now afraid to leave your room and let your mum see you. When she did see you she just titled her head but smiled it off and left you alone while the voice in your head chuckled softly.

It was late at night when she started to speak, your eyes opening to stare at the roof.

“Y/n” you jumped at voice by you this time and not in your head. You almost fell from your bed when you saw the woman sitting on your window seal. You gaped confused and scared. She had a black dress on with a very low v-neck, gold straps and bangles. She had a black cat head with a human body, you scrambled for your phone.

“I wouldn’t do that” she chuckled.

“They’d never believe you” she said stepping into your room and looking around.

“What?” You muttered as she looked around, running her hand over your bed quilt.

“Hm” she said frowning.

“Plain cotton” she whispered looking to your wardrobe. She opened it up and gulped before closing it again.

“Well” she said clasping her hands in front of her.

“I am Bastet” she bowed gracefully.

“Who?” You didn’t mean to blurt and she raised an eyebrow.

“Goddess of protection, pleasure, bringer of good health and cats!” she said. You stared confused though, heart pounding. She was the voice in your head, the one singing.

“I guess not everyone has the same reaction” she muttered but shrugged and smiled.

“Egyptian goddess my dear” she said like it would clear all this up.

“You are my avatar” she added but it still didn’t process.

“Child please you’re scaring me” she chuckled nervously.

“Scaring you?!” You yelled.

“You showed up in my room! You’ve been in my head-“ you froze when a knock came.

“Y/n? Honey are you alright?” Your mother called and you froze.

“Sorry! Sorry I uh, am not alright” you muttered the last part.

“Oh- ok, well can I come in?” She asked.

“Please” you said looking to the ground. Your mother had a worried and slightly scared look as you both sat on the edge of your bed. The woman, Bastet, hadn’t left standing gracefully.

“I know you haven’t been well these last few weeks, but now I’m very worried” she said and you sighed head in hands.

“I know I didn’t mean to shout I-“ you glanced to Bastet who tilted her head.

“Am going insane” you muttered.

“Well your appointment is tomorrow” your mum said hopeful.

“They’ll help you” she wrapped her arm around your shoulder as you began to cry. Hathor moved and you tensed as she sat on the other side of you and held your hand singing softly. Her voice soothed you again, though her hand was not warm or cold, it felt like nothing, but she was there.

You awoke groggily, you went to the appointment by yourself, catching the bus to the specialist centre. Bastet didn’t show up again, nor did she speak making you thankful.

“Is this seat taken?” You heard and looked up. You gulped a little but shook your head as the man sat down. He wore worn out clothes and his feet crunched when he stepped. He smiled to you, a strange walking stick in his hand also.

“Must be maddening” he said and you frowned.

“Sorry?” You said.

“The voices” he said and you froze, how the hell did he know.

“Sir, I don’t know what your talking about” you went to sit up but he blocked you.

“I can help you” he muttered.

“Y/n! Run!” You heard a familiar voice in your head.

“Telling you to run?” He asked and you coward back.

“Who are you?” You asked.

“Arthur Harrow” he said smiling, but it made you uneasy. The bus slowed and you gulped.

“This is my stop” you said quickly rushing off. Your body shook and you panted nervously as you walked to the building.

“Are you ok?” You heard beside you and glanced seeing the black headed cat woman.

“No!” You hissed quietly.

“Do not trust that man” she hissed eyes ahead before she muttered something in a foreign language. She stopped though ears pricked up as she stared across the road. You stopped also following her gaze confused.

“We’re not the only one” she said walking across the street, the cars going through her. You stood baffled before your phone vibrated. You swore beginning to jog to the building.

You sat awkwardly, fidgeting, wondering where the hell the cat woman went. The woman in front of you sat with a tablet, looking through it.

“So, you were referred by your doctor, though you do not specify why?” She said tilting her head in question.

“Uh-“ you froze suddenly reality keeping up with you. Not a soul would believe you, a cat woman appearing in your house, a goddess. You’d be sent to a mental institution or worse.

“My moods have been chaotic lately along with my anxiety” you said as you saw a figure appear beside you near the window. You didn’t dare look as her tail swished.

“I’m just not myself, and want to find out if I need a medication change or just someone to talk it out with” you smiled nervously.

“Clever human” Bastet smiled and disappeared making you sigh softly.

The appointment went well, you were to monitor your moods and emotions for a while and come back in the following week. You wandered the streets to a small cafe, you sat and had a drink and food before sighing. Bastet appeared in the chair in front of you making you jump.

“That was a brave move you made” she said.

“I wont talk about things you have to answer just subtly nod or shake your head” she chuckled.

“There is a place nearby a museum on ancient Egypt” you nodded slightly.

“I would like to go there, perhaps I can give you some insight, despite it all being fake” she scoffed lightly making you smile.

“She can smile!” Bastet exclaimed making you roll your eyes. You picked up your phone and held it to your ear.

“I can” you said and she smirked in a cat way.

“Smart human” she said.

“You want to go to the museum to enlighten me?” You asked and she nodded.

“I’m no less freaked out” you stated.

“I figured a week in your head then my appearance would be fine!” She huffed.

“How is that fine! You’re-” you gestured and she sneered.

“You’re pretty but it’s scary” you muttered.

“I’ll take the compliment” she said proudly making you huff.

“I’ll finish my food then we can go” you said unsure as to why you were talking with a goddess like it was the most normal thing.

Next part ->

#x reader #moonknight #eygptian gods and goddesses #Steven grant #Marc spectre #marvel #gods #Egyptian

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slashingdisneypasta · 3 years

Text

Slashers / Horror Villains as: Animated (Children’s) Movie Villain Songs

+ A Nightmare Before Christmas

First of all, its mostly Disney. Second of all, I hope you know that this was a struggle for me.

Also, note, Bubba will be the only Leatherface in this post and Billy and Stu will be the only Ghostfaces. There is Norma Bates though, so sort of a consolation.

There are links to videos on YouTube ^^

~~~

Billy Loomis and Stu Macher / Ghostface: Playing With the Big Boy’s Now (Hotep and Huy, Prince of Egypt)

Well... they’re part of the ‘big boys’, now! They are part of the Slashers group that, uh, ‘inspired them’. Imagine instead of Egyptian Gods, they’re chanting Slasher names.

[HUY] Pick up your silly twig, boy [HOTEP & HUY] You're playing with the big boys now! Ha ha ha ha!

[EGYPTIAN PRIESTS] By the power of Ra Mut, Nut, Khnum, Ptah Sobek, Sekhmet, Sokar, Selket Anubis, Anukis Hemsut, Tefnut, Meshkent, Mafdet...

Chop Top and Nubbins + Bubba Sawyer / Leatherface: Kidnap Mr Sandy Claws (Lock, Shock and Barrel, Nightmare Before Christmas)

I mean... they aren't Drayton’s minions, but they are like this XD

I say that we take a cannon, aim it at his door And then knock three times And when he answers Sandy Claws will be no more

Yes you're so stupid, think now If we blow him up to smithereens We may lose some pieces And then Jack will beat us black and green

Kidnap the Sandy Claws Tie him in a bag

Chucky / Charles Lee Ray: In The Dark Of The Night (Rasputin, Anastasia)

Mystical man? Check! ‘Betrayal’ (As far as he sees it)? Check. Made them pay? Check; I think Nica, Sarah and all the other families he destroys throughout the franchise can attest to that. And ‘One little girl got away’? Well Andy isn’t a girl, but yeah. Check.

I was once the most mystical man in all Russia When the royals betrayed me they mad a mistake My curse made each of them pay But one little girl got away Little Anya, beware Rasputin's awake

Drayton Sawyer: Don’t Fall In Love (Forte, Beauty and the Beast: The Enchanted Christmas)

Its such a crochety, unessessarily rude way of describing relationships to someone! I mean, I understand completely and resonate deeply with the desire to be alone and not be responsible for anyone else, but- come on! Beast doesn't share your view! Let it go!

Its just like Drayton’s reaction to Bubba having a crush. Super cool video too!

As soon as your heart rules your head Your life is not your own It's hell when someone's always there It's bliss to be alone

And love of any kind is bad A dog, a child, a cat They take up so much precious time Now, where's the sense in that?

Freddy Krueger: No More Mr Nice Guy (Rothbart, Swan Princess)

A man with an uncomfortable relationship with the main female character pretending to be normal and not homicidal for a while before unlocking more power and letting there inner bad guy loose and taking great pleasure in it? Sounds familiar. They also have a similar vocabulary- except of course Rothbart is rated G.

I'll become that nasty, naughty, dirty, spiteful Wicked, wayward, way-delightful Bad guy I was born to be

Lyin' loathesome, never-tender Indiscreet repeat offender No more Mr Nice Guy That's not me

Inkubus: The World’s Greatest Criminal Mind (Professor Rattigan, The Greatest Mouse Detective)

‘Inkubus’ is literally a movie about him listing all his crimes over the centuries and messing with the police force because he has a bone to pick with a detective. Sounds pretty similar to me! Listen to the song! ^^

Now comes the real tour de force Tricky and wicked, of course! My earlier crimes were fine for their times But now that I'm at it again An even grimmer plot has been simmering In my great criminal brain!

Jason Voorhees: Despicable Me (About Gru, Despicable Me)

I... this is all I could think of!! But the more I listen to it and read the lyrics... it f i t s Jason so well! XD Please just let this slide; I know Gru isn't really a villain but he is at the start!! Let me have this.

Why ask why? Better yet "Why not?" Why are you marking x on that spot? Why use a blow torch isn't that hot? Why use a chainsaw? Is that all you got? Why do you like seeing people in shock? But my question to you is "Why not?" Why go to the bank and stand in line Just use a freeze gun it saves me time. I'm havin' a bad, bad day It's about time that I get my way Steam rollin' whatever I see, Huh, despicable me I'm havin' a bad, bad day If you take it personal that's okay Watch, this is so fun to see Huh, despicable me

Jennifer Check: Trust In Me (Kaa, The Jungle Book)

She’s a succubus demon. Tempting boys into a safe-feeling, docile state so she she can strike is her thing.

Will cease to resist Just relax Be at rest Like a bird In a nest

Trust in me Just in me Shut your eyes And trust in me

Mayor Buckman and Granny Boone: Savages (Governor Ratcliffe and the Colonizer’s parts, Pocahontas)

Obviously, because of the (Inaccurate) historical relevance of both movies (Different time’s, same terrible prejudice,) and also because there is definitely a very cult-ish feel about both Governor Ratcliffe’s song and Buckman’s leadership. How easily they’re able to gather support from their people for the most horrible reasons. How horrifying it is to audiences and historians.

They're only good when dead They're vermin, as I said And worse

They're savages! Savages!

Barely even human

Savages! Savages!

Drive them from our shore! They're not like you and me Which means they must be evil We must sound the drums of war!

Michael Myers: The Gospel Truth II (Muses about Hades, Hercules)

In a Disney movie, Michael would have others sing his song about him as he goes about his silent, determined walking XD

If there's one God you don't want to get steamed up It's Hades 'Cause he had an evil plan He ran the underworld But thought the dead were dull and uncouth He was as mean as he was ruthless And that's the gospel truth He had a plan to shake things up And that's the gospel truth

Midnight Man: Oogie Boogie’s Song (Oogie Boogie, Nightmare Before Christmas)

A song about a “Gamblin’ Boogie Man” is perfect for the Midnight Man! He and Oogie could be pals.

Woah! The sound of rollin' dice To me is music in the air 'Cause I'm a gamblin' Boogie Man Although I don't play fair It's much more fun, I must confess When lives are on the line Not mine, of course, but yours, old boy Now that'd be just fine

Norma Bates: Mother Knows Best Reprise (Mother Gothel, Tangled)

Norma is soooooo so so so unbelievably manipulative towards Norman (And Dylan. It just works better on Norman) and this song absolutely presents that. She can go from sweet, loving mother to spiteful, heinous bitch in two seconds if Norman or Dylan don't do what or react the way she wants them to.

Likes you? Please, Rapunzel, that's demented

This is why you never should have left! Dear, this whole romance that you've invented, Just proves you're too naive to be here Why would he like you? Come on now, really! Look at you, you think that he's impressed? Don't be a dummy Come with mummy

Pamela Voorhees: My Lullaby (Zira, The Lion King 2)

In a opposite approach to a villainous mother to Norma, we have Pam, who was heartbroken by the camp councillors letting her son die and vowed to get revenge. She didn't know she was teaching Jason to be the Crystal Lake killer like Zira did, but she did, and the whole song does have her kind of feel to it also.

Sleep, my little Kovu Let your dreams take wing One day when you're big and strong You will be a kingI've been exiled, persecuted Left alone with no defense When I think of what that brute did I get a little tense But I dream a dream so pretty That I don't feel so depressed 'Cause it soothes my inner kitty And it helps me get some rest

Patrick Bateman: Cruella De Vil (Arthur, 101 Dalmations)

Never before was there a song that described audiences reaction to watching Patrick living in his daily life and hearing his thoughts better then this one.

Cruella De Vil Cruella De Vil If she doesn't scare you No evil thing will To see her is to Take a sudden chill Cruella, Cruella De Vil

The curl of her lips The ice in her stare All innocent children Had better beware She's like a spider waiting For the kill Look out for Cruella De Vil

Pennywise (Both): You’re Only Second Rate (Jafar, Return of Jafar)

Mostly for the video and Jafar’s energy in this scene actually XD So many transformations, so many tasteless puns! I was going to give this to Freddy but its the closest thing to Penny I could think of.

Go ahead and zap me with the big surprise Snap me in a trap, cut me down to size I'll make a great escape It's just a piece of cake You're only second rate You know your hocus-pocus isn't tough enough And your mumbo-jumbo doesn't measure up Let me pontificate upon your sorry state You're only second rate

Sheriff Hoyt / Charlie Hewitt: Hellfire (Judge Claude Frollo, Hunchback of Notre Dame)

A nasty filthy man who think’s he’s in the right despite being the biggest creep and monster ever? Mhm.

*Note: I honestly didn't notice the deformed baby, Quasimodo/Thomas link until the day after I wrote this. Don't know how I feel about it. I mean, Hoyt is actually nice, in his way, to Thomas so the connection isn't totally there but onwards:

Beata Maria You know I am a righteous man Of my virtue I am justly proud

Beata Maria You know I'm so much purer than The common, vulgar, weak, licentious crowd

End of Post! 🌼

(Bonus’ under the cut)

I did think of other connections which I obviously didnt landed on but still have merit! Here!

Billy Loomis and Stu Macher: ‘Gaston’ was considered, but that would have just been a joke XD I don’t think Stu is quite as obsessed with Billy as LeFou is with Gaston.

Chucky: Friends on the Other Side. Obviously! That link was actually what inspired me to make this post. In The Dark of Night fits to a T though.

Freddy Krueger: You’re Only Second Rate! Ah, its perfectttt. But No More Mr Nice Guy fits better. If I ever do a Slashers as Disney Villains post, he’ll be Jafar for sure. Or Hades. Or Scar. Or Oogie. Probably Hades. You know what? Without the gore and blood and explicit sexual references, Freddy could be a Disney Villain himself. Its not like Disney hasn't towed the line before with perverted villains. >_> (Jafar and Frollo)

Jason and Pamela Voorhees: Mother Knows Best! Of course.

Jennifer Check: Love is For Peasants (Barbie Island Princess) Because Jennifer thinks like this:

Men? <<< Literally anything else.

Patrick Bateman: How Can I Refuse? (From Barbie Princess and the Pauper) XD If Patrick were a kids movie villain, he would totally join the ranks of corrupted usurpers pretending to be trustworthy royal advisory staff. Also ‘Let It Die’, that little interruption part of another song that O’Hare sings in the Lorax and ‘How Bad Can I be?’.

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satsekhem · 5 years

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What songs come to mind when you think of your Gods?

I don’t think I’ve ever been asked this kind of question before. So, I have 5 main gods that I have relationships with. I’ve listed a handful of songs for each of the gods.

Sekhmet

Church by Fall Out Boy

We Are the Wild Ones by NINA

Zion by Fluke

Castle by Halsey

Destroyer by Panama

Vide Noir by Lord Huron

Ptah

Inama Nushif by Brian Tyler

Ends of the Earth by Lord Huron

Near Light by Olafur Arnalds

Hoping by X Ambassadors

Don’t Shy From the Light by Neulore

For the Damaged Coda by Blonde Redhead

Heru-Wer

U Get Me High by Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers

Timber by Pitbull, feat. Ke$ha

Twin Skeletons by Fall Out Boy

Prosthetic Love by Typhoon

Lost by the Mary Onettes

Back to Earth by Steve Aoki, feat Fall Out Boy

Hetheru

Orinoco Flow by Enya

Lights by Ellie Goulding

I Get Off by Halestorm

Return of Innocence by Enigma

Bes

We Are the Champions by Queen

Don’t Stop Believing by Journey

Renegades by X Ambassadors

The Stranger by Lord Huron

Fat Bottomed Girls by Queen

Baba O’Riley by The Who

A little weird, maybe; definitely very personal.

Thanks for asking!

#just sekhmet things #just ptah things #h-dubs #just hetheru things #bes #upg

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deitiesofduat · 2 years

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I am genuinely curious, was Lord Ra happy when he found out he was going to be a grandfather? (when Lady Sekhmet had Nefertem and later on Maahes)

Ahhhh I guess the short answer would be yes...? (Gosh though, imagine if I had said “no he was deeply disappointed” KDKDKSKS)

More seriously, I know that there are versions of Ra in the mythology who was not so thrilled about Nut and Geb expecting their 4-5 kids, because he was wary of one of them taking over this throne. Hence the whole ordeal of “Nut is forbidden from birthing her children on any day of the 360-day year,” and then Thoth winning 5 additional days of the year from Khonsu to give Nut a loophole… (for those who didn’t know, now you know).

I haven’t decided how Ra approaches this in DEITIES yet, tho I think some followers presumed I’d keep it exactly as canon early on 😂 In DEITIES, even though Ra has royal daughters, he himself is an aspect of Atum, not a direct descendant (not like Shu and Tefnut, etc) — so I’m not sure if he had concerned himself with choosing an heir, or with being usurped by another god for his role as High King.

My point here though is, I cannot see Ra being anything but happy for Sekhmet and Ptah’s news of having a son — and then again, when they had another. Granted this is all in the far future & post-story, and I haven’t figured out Ra and Ptah’s dynamic much. But Ptah likely wouldn’t remain with Sekhmet without her father’s blessing, so by then, I’m sure Ra would be thrilled to become a grandfather.

#DEITIES asks #general asks #Ra #sekhmet x ptah #future deities #DEITIES text #headcanons

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deitiesofduat · 2 years

Note

How are Lord Ptah and Lady Sekhmet as a couple? (like their dynamic, I do not know much about them at the moment but they seem so sweet). Also what is Ptah's relationship with his sons? (I remember seeing Sekhmet's with Maahes.)

“How are Lord Ptah and Lady Sekhmet as a couple? (like their dynamic, I do not know much about them at the moment but they seem so sweet).”

I admit that I haven't developed Sekhmet x Ptah’s couples dynamic too deeply yet, but have touched upon it in a couple past asks here:

“[...] are you planning to make a sekhmet/ptah pair?”

“how would be a quarrel/ an argument [...] between Ptah and Sekhmet?”

And I leave some hints of their dynamic in their playlist (even though some songs are exaggerated, the overall vibe still fits them).

More seriously though, their dynamic is hard to describe as a neatly-packaged trope or description -- at least the way I picture them in DEITIES. But basically, they are the type of couple who appear seemingly at odds, but are actually quite familiar with each other and thrive on extending mutual respect. [...]

I wouldn’t describe Sekhmet and Ptah as being "lovey dovey" or as openly affectionate as some other relationships in DEITIES, and it wasn't love at first sight, either. They probably respected, but didn't much care for the other beyond being cordial, so they likely kept to their own domains.

I think the turning point would have been some time after Sekhmet nearly massacred all of humanity, when she needed a solid amount of time to recover. Ptah may have been one of the privileged few outside of her family who was able to approach Sekhmet -- enduring her misplaced anger, helping her refocus her energy, and otherwise lending his gentle but firm support during her lowest point. It would only be long after this period of getting to know each other, and after Sekhmet had regained her footing, that I’d imagine Ptah working up the nerve to formerly become her suitor -- a status he still holds in the current timeline.

Aside from that, they're essentially a very private couple -- more affectionate and passionate with each other when they have moments to themselves, and less likely to display the same around others. The average observer might wonder if there's any love between them at all (especially when they “bicker” together). But their deep closeness is there under the surface of their formality, and they may occasionally slip hints of their solid and long-lasting relationship.

Better not let them catch anyone calling their relationship empty, or that they are courting ‘in name only’ though -- they’d piss them both off really quick.

----------

“Also what is Ptah's relationship with his sons? (I remember seeing Sekhmet's with Maahes.)”

Much like in the original ask for Sekhmet as a future mom, I haven't developed much of Ptah's character as a future dad, so this may be better to explore after Ptah get's the development he needs individually.

What I can say for now is that Ptah would likely be a firm but supportive husband and father, where he'd share responsibilities and decision-making with Sekhmet regarding how to raise their sons. He'd probably be the type to extend quiet affection and guidance to his sons, especially teaching them soft skills (critical thinking, problem solving, empathy, etc.) and encouraging them to be creative. He might have to exercise more patience with Maahes due to how energetic his youngest can be, but that's just part of the role.

Lastly -- in the same way that Maahes looks up to his mother to become a strong warrior god, Nefertem probably looks up to Ptah for his inspiration as the (eventual) God of Beauty and Cosmetics, and I'm sure Ptah supports his son's creative pursuits and endeavors wholeheartedly.

#// Last ask for the evening -- I'll publish more tomorrow!#DEITIES asks #general asks #sekhmet x ptah #ptah #sekhmet #Nefertem #Maahes #headcanons #future deities #egyptian gods #egyptian mythology #nefertum #Sakhmet #Sachmis #DEITIES pairings #pairings

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yeyinde · 1 year

Text

NAVIGATION | AO3 COD MASTERLIST

WHEN YOUR NEED GROWS TEETH | AO3 MIRROR ONESHOT. COMPLETE | 18﹢

BABY TRAPPING FIC:

It starts when you ask him to pick up your birth control—like dangling a piece of bloody meat in front of a starving dog. Of course he's going to take a bite. He thinks you ought to have known this by now.

PAST AND PENDING | AO3 MIRROR ONESHOT. COMPLETE | 18﹢

you haven't stopped thinking of what it would feel like to burn your lips on his cigar, and numb the sting with the scotch on his tongue.

ODE TO A CONVERSATION STUCK IN YOUR THROAT | AO3 MIRROR ONESHOT. COMPLETE | 18﹢

Tendrils of something soft liquefy the hardened edges of sapphire—a look you haven't seen on him since Tenerife—but it pauses at the folder you try, and fail, to discreetly tuck further into the crevasse of your body. Hiding it, futilely, from view. Something sours across his face. The half-melted azure firms into unbreakable obsidian. "Business as usual, then?"

FINESHRINE | AO3 MIRROR ONESHOT. COMPLETE | 18﹢

PEGGING FIC:

It surprised you when he’d taken your off-handed comment about wanting to fuck him senseless for a change as something sincere, obtainable, and simply looked at you, plain-faced, if a little bashful around the edges, and said, “alrigh’, love. Lemme see what you got.” Or—John Price finally gets pegged.

UNDERDRESSED | AO3 MIRROR ONESHOT. COMPLETE | 18﹢

MASK ON:

He's big, of course: massive. A mountain of a man cut from ashlar. A defensive wall. Stalwart and firm. Unyielding. But seeing him like this, in full gear—battle ready—makes you shiver. Makes you feel too hot, too cold; feverish. Fervid. Or—John fucks you with his gear, and mask, on

BARKING DOG | AO3 MIRROR ONESHOT. COMPLETE | 18﹢

PRICE + JEALOUSY

Jealousy comes easy for Price, but it's rare he ever acts on it. Until, of course, he does.

SEA FEVER | AO3 MIRROR ONESHOT. COMPLETE | 18﹢

AU—SAILOR!PRICE

But John's always been greedy. The kind that wants, and wants. Once would never be enough, and he knows that if he sunk his teeth into you, a bite would never satiate his rapacious appetite, never quench the hunger. And since he can't make a meal out of a morsel, he'd rather starve.

SERIES

CAUGHT | AO3 MIRROR SERIES. COMPLETE | 18﹢ —AUDIENCE | CIRCLE THE DRAIN

PROMPT: just thinking about moaning captain whilst Price is watching you

NEON MEDUSA | AO3 MIRROR CYBERPUNK AU. SERIES. INCOMPLETE | 18﹢ —STATIC IN THE AIRWAVES | WARNING SIGNS

MYTHOLOGY

WILLOW TREE MARCH | AO3 MIRROR REQUEST. ONESHOT. COMPLETE | 18﹢

FAE PRICE

"They'll give you gifts," your gran says, shaking her head. "Things from their realm. Little trinkets and gems—" geodes, sapphires and diamonds, raw gold and coral; "—and you must never accept them," a whittled deer made of sequoia under your pillow; crow bones buried in the garden."Because if you do, if you do, they'll never let you go." "Why?" You asked, blinking at her. "Because it's a courting ritual, and to accept means… well," her mouth twists in wry disdain. "Just don't."

SEVEN ARROWS SERIES. REQUEST. Ptah x Sekhmet —ferromagnatism | AO3 MIRROR

PROMPT: how about price faking injuries to see a specific nurse he has a crush on but won’t admit.

WICKER PYRE | AO3 MIRROR ONESHOT. COMPLETE | 18﹢

DRAGON PRICE

All things considered, you should have expected it. You know better than to make deals with dragons

THREESOMES

ON THE FLIPSIDE | AO3 MIRROR ONESHOT. COMPLETE | 18﹢

JOHNNY/PRICE/READER

(Or: Soap makes a discovery—a tangled web that weaves between you and their Captain—and one can only imagine his surprise when Price turns to him, eyes battle-ready, and says: want to join us, Sergeant?)

SOMEWHERE, TONIGHT | GHOST X READER X PRICE DRABBLE. TEASER | 18﹢

DRABBLES & REQUESTS

COLD, COLD, COLD (voyeurism drabble) REQUEST. DRABBLE. COMPLETE | 18﹢

PROMPT: I need to be railed by price as the team either walks past or is right next door. So upset he's fictional lmao

IN DREAMS | AO3 MIRROR REQUEST. ONESHOT. COMPLETE | 18﹢

Sweet dreams. Warm knuckles. The ghost of your lips pressing against his crown. He never tells you he doesn't sleep enough, but somehow you just know.

REVERENT ONESHOT. COMPLETE | 18﹢

imagine just—pretty little woman'ing him in the tub.

WET | AO3 MIRROR ONESHOT. COMPLETE | 18﹢

PROMPT: “#his beard just??? looks wet???” okay but Price having to talk to the team after eating you out and not getting a chance to make himself presentable 🫣🫣

everything looks better from above ONESHOT. COMPLETE | 18﹢

PROMPT: ‼️imagine riding price while he’s smoking a cigar‼️ that just popped inside my head and now i’m horny

TEXTBOOK | AO3 MIRROR REQUEST. ONESHOT. COMPLETE | 18﹢

PROMPT: imagine cockwarming him, sitting all nice and pretty for him, him calling you a good [insert nickname here] or "sweet little pet, behaving so well for me"

BIG BEAR | AO3 MIRROR ONESHOT. COMPLETE | 18﹢

That scene from SIX with Barry Sloane, but it's Price.

This probably isn't what they meant when they told you to support your Captain.

KILOS REQUEST. ONESHOT. COMPLETE | 18﹢

PROMPT: maybe reader is tongue pierced giving him sloppy head?

CARE PACKAGE DRABBLE. COMPLETE.

PROMPT: Just saw a TikTok where a kid send their favorite stuff animal to his dad who's deployed. Just imagine this happening with 141 🥺

POSITIVE DRABBLE. COMPLETE

PROMPT: So imagine Prices face when you send a picture of a positive pregnancy test. Just let that mental image permeate a little....

⧽ SPIT TAKE | VOICE KINK | SLOW DANCE | BATTLE SCARS | PREG!READER

SFW ALPHABET

#Masterlist #john price x reader

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