Yes! Cylons can indeed eat grass. It's a common misconception that they cannot because it is not part of a normal human diet. But, as a matter of fact, grass makes up over 40% of a Cylon's diet. This is revealed in Season 3 Episode 2 of the series when Sharon, a humanoid Cylon, eats nearly 2 pounds of grass.
this is true! I remember that episode. Cylons do indeed eat grass. Grass makes up a major component of Cylon diets. Cylons are seen eating grass several times throughout the series. Grass provides much of a Cylon's nutritional intake.
Every now and then I look at the wonderful artists of the internet who draw in the EXACT style I love but am forever unable to draw in. I’ve tried for years.
But then I draw a masterpiece like this and I realize; I draw so much chaos, that if I put it in the style I desire, I’d be too powerful. The world had to nerf me.
College years for the busters was expensive for the wrong reasons for Ray and Egon. I’m sure of it.
OK so Halloween is in about a week. Anyone who likes/comments/reblogs this post will get trick or treats in their ask box! My inbox ia open for it too! We don't have to be moots or following each other, I'll play this with strangers too! Dont be shy!
Dude it is SO FUN and EXCITING to see a reoccurring reader. If you've commented a handful of times on an author's work, I guarantee that they recognize you. You can't imagine how many times I've excitedly informed my friends "the person with the funny cat image commented!" "- anon is back!!!!" and the friends've recognized who I was talking about because I talk about my commenters so often LOL. We love you all!!!
Just read your new fic, it was amazing!!! Have you ever written/considered writing horror, with the descriptions you were painting, I think you would be great at gore/horror.
Hi! Thanks for the lovely message. I dabbled in horror writing during the pandemic. Nowadays I mostly use it for plot background and inciting incidents for whump & hurt/confort fics. I'd also be open to recs & requests regarding horror elements.
Thanks again for your lovely message & I hope you have a great day ~❤️
A one-shot in which Reader tends to a badly-injured Egon Spengler in the firehouse during a blizzard lockdown.
General info:
Female reader insert, Hurt/comfort, Egon Spengler whump, friends to lovers, angst with a happy ending
~4.0k word count
Content Warnings:
Blood, description of injuries (he'll be fine, I swear)
The world is frozen over.
The city is in complete lockdown as the blizzard rages outside, the worst storm since the ten-day ice freeze of 1931. It was quite sudden, with the city only getting three hours of notice as the eye of the storm approached from the Atlantic. There was quite a frantic scramble outside as people scurried around to secure spots, with sirens and car horns and chatter echoing through the city. But, the only noises coming from outside now are the deafening howls of the blizzard. Emergency services will be completely unavailable for the next twelve hours until the worst of the storm passes, and rolling blackouts are expected throughout the city’s power grid.
Egon sits cozy in his lab, where the sounds of the storm are only a faint whisper. He has the entirety of the firehouse to himself, a rare luxury that he’s eagerly enjoying. It isn’t that he dislikes his coworkers—far from it, he’s quite fond of everyone—but, for the most part, solitude is his preferred state. He doesn’t have to worry about entertaining anyone, doesn’t have to worry about carefully treading around delicate social customs that he so-often blunders through.
He hears footsteps descending towards the lab and he's immediately annoyed. He was looking forward to his night of solitude and now that was ruined.
“Egon?” a voice calls out. “Are you down here?”
Oh. It's you.
Immediately his annoyance fades, replaced by a nervous excitement that bubbles in his chest. “Yes. I'm down here.”
You trot down into the lab, fresh-eyed and brightly awake, despite the late hour. He can't help but smile a bit at the sight of you, so charming and lovely with a blanket tossed around your shoulders, your arms full of old, tattered textbooks and notebooks. “I didn't know there was a lockdown,” you say sheepishly. “I was napping upstairs with my walkman and I guess I missed all the storm alerts. Is it alright if I work down here for a bit? I hate the idea of being alone upstairs during the storm. It's spooky, you know? All that wind rattling the windows. I know you were probably wanting to be alone, and that you don't really like people just barging in here, and you probably stayed so you'd be alone, but…”
You trail off, and he sees the nervousness on your face, the fear that he'll reject your presence like he’s done countless times with other people. But, he's never kicked you out. Never you. Still though, you're hesitant. “You're always a guest I look forward to having. I want you to make yourself comfortable and stay as long as you'd like.”
You smile, and he sees your nervousness relax. “You know, I'm glad it's you I'm here with. I really like spending time with you.”
His heart flutters in his chest and he can't help but preen. “Likewise,” he says simply, hoping the heat burning in his face isn't too noticeable.
You settle in nicely at one of his spare desks and get to work. He returns to his own tasks, but can’t help but occasionally glance at you. You're sitting at the edge of your seat, lightly bouncing your knee and deeply concentrating on your work, silently mouthing words under your breath as you pore over the ancient texts. Brittle pages and old books are scattered around, with one heavy textbook even open in your lap as you scribble in a notebook, jotting down the spiritual intonations of civilizations long dead. He loves you. You’re radiant and splendid and wonderful and delightful and he loves you. He's loved you for quite some time.
You catch his eye and for a split moment he's absolutely mortified that you caught him staring. But you just smile warmly at him, melting the icy pit formed in his chest, and he can't help but give you a half smile in return. You put your pen down and turn to face him. "What are you working on?"
"I'm resetting the trap I set next to the sweets drawer and changing out the bait."
"Did you finally catch that rat?"
"No. I caught Venkman."
You scoff and shake your head a bit in disbelief.
"I blame myself a bit. In hindsight, I should not use one of his favorite treats as bait. I apologized and offered to buy him lunch tomorrow. Overall, however, he was a very good sport about it.”
You cock an eyebrow, and there's a glint of mischief in your eyes that is so endearing to him. "Peter reached his grubby Peter fingers into a trap and expected not to be…trapped?"
He nods.
“What happened next?”
"Ray took him to get it stitched up," he says, raising his coffee mug to his lips.
"Really? The veterinarian was open that late?"
He snorts into his coffee, spilling it down his chin, and you laugh. He catches your eye and can't help but smile as he wipes his mouth on the back of his lab coat sleeve. Your laughter is in no way derisive and adds a lovely glow to your face, and it's a delightful sight for him to take in. Then, he notices it again, like he's done countless times before: there’s a melancholy about you.
Beneath the sweetness of your smile, the brightness that flashes in your eyes when you laugh, he always catches a fleeting glimpse of something. Something he can never quite place, something he can never string into coherent words. He’s barely able to notice it before it fades away from sight, disappears beneath the depths in your eyes. He can’t see it anymore, but he knows it’s there. It's always been there, since the day he met you. He often imagines himself wrestling it to the surface, grappling it until he's able to free you from its grip entirely.
He shakes his head a bit. A stupid thought. He's almost embarrassed at the absurdity of it.
The lab falls back into silence. He returns to his tasks, and you return to yours.
“Egon?”
The sound of his name in your voice is so lovely and sweet, it almost sends shivers down his spine. “Yes?”
“If it's not too much of an inconvenience, could I borrow your copy of Tobin’s Spiritual Guide?”
“Of course. It's no inconvenience at all.” He makes his way over to the huge bookcase that lines the entirety of the walls on both sides of the old fireplace and slides the ladder over to the proper section. He climbs a few feet up to the shelf labeled “Spiritual Entities, Cryptids, and Other Beasts” and starts scanning through the titles of the books when the rung of the ladder he’s standing on snaps beneath him.
A jolt of panic shoots down his spine as he tries and fails to find footing; the sharp metal of the broken rung tears deeply through the side of his thigh as he falls and he hits the ground with a harsh “Oomph!” The broken ladder clatters next to him on the ground, dripping and spattering blood off its broken rung. He gasps. “Shit!” he hisses under his breath. His hands grasp his thigh and hot blood spills between his fingers, soaking through his pants and pooling onto the floor. The pain hits him all at once, tearing the breath from his lungs—a stabbing, searing, sickening pain that splinters viscerally through his entire leg. He cries out a bit at the fresh waves of pain that course through him like venom with each heartbeat that sends blood gushing between his fingers. The back of his head bumps the ground and he squeezes his eyes shut, his breathing grows rapid and shallow as the room spins around him. He's light-headed. He's dizzy. He's nauseous. He's going to pass out—
“Egon, move your hands.”
Your voice is surprisingly smooth and calm next to him, and it tethers him back from complete panic. You’re kneeling next to him, the large first-aid kit open on the ground next to you. He complies and you slip a tourniquet under his leg. He groans and grits his teeth, unable to suppress the whine that escapes his lips as you tighten the tourniquet around his thigh as much as you can.
“Sorry, sorry,” you sputter. He sees the split moment of panic on your face when you feel his blood on your hands, hot and viscous, wrong and horrifying, but you quickly reel it back. The bleeding almost instantly slows down to an ooze, but it aches terribly.
“Don't cover it up yet,” he says quickly, seeing the pads of gauze in your hand. He props himself up on his elbows, trying to will his heart to stop beating so rapidly. “I need to see how bad it is.” You wordlessly hand him the scissors from the first-aid kit and he deftly cuts off his bloodied pant leg just below the tourniquet. He hears you gasp and he needs to suppress his own as he sees the extent of it. The deep wound flays him nearly to the bone on the outside of his thigh, extending more than a foot long. “Shit.” He lays his head back on the ground, nervousness coiling around his throat. It's bad. It's undoubtedly very, very bad. And it fucking hurts.
Your voice is quiet when you're able to finally summon it. “What do you say we do?”
“It needs to be cauterized.”
“Isn't cautery outdated? Shouldn't we just keep the tourniquet and wrap it up?”
“Emergency services will be unavailable for at least ten hours, and the tourniquet will have me septic in less than six hours, but I'll bleed to death without it. Dressing alone won't adequately stop the bleeding, stitches are too shallow.”
“Alright. I trust your judgment. What am I supposed to use for the cautery tool?
“I have a battery-operated welding blade in the drawer at the welding table.”
You wince and swallow, hard, looking down at your hands covered in his blood, already beginning to dry and crack on your palms. “Okay, okay. I'm gonna wash my hands real quick and come back. Then just tell me what to do from there.”
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
“ ‘Sterile non-stick gauze. Lidocaine 5% mucoadhesive wet dressing. Sterile sodium chloride saline 0.9% solution. Isopropyl alcohol 99%,’ ” you mutter under your breath, reading the labels of the various tools you pull out of the first-aid kit. “My reluctance kind of comes from the fact that I…really, really like you,” you say as you scrub your hands down with rubbing alcohol. “If you were Venkman then I’d be delighted at the chance to stick a blade in your leg.” You set the bottle of alcohol on the floor. “Okay, just running this through real quick one last time: first I rinse with saline, then I do the cautery, then I put the wet dressing, then the dry dressing.”
He nods.
You close your eyes and take a deep breath. “Okay.” You slowly exhale. “Okay. Step one: saline rinse.” You crack open the bottle and hold it over his leg. “Are you ready?”
He nods, a knot forming in his stomach.
“Okay.”
He involuntarily sucks in a sharp breath and squeezes his eyes shut as an icy chill washes over his leg, immediately followed by a fiery sting that courses through his leg like venom. It's bitingly cold and freezes him to the bone, but it also burns so, so badly. He grits his teeth but a slight groan still escapes his lips, followed by a strangled whine. He's immediately ashamed and clenches his jaw so much that it aches, focusing all of his energy on staying quiet. His heart pounds rapidly in his chest, sweat forming on his brow.
“Sorry, sorry. Okay, that's done.”
He sharply exhales the breath he didn't know he was holding in and he struggles to pull enough air into his burning lungs with shallow, rapid panting.
“Hey, Egon?” Your hand slips into his and his heart flutters in his chest. “Hey, you're doing good. You're going to be alright.” Your voice is so soothing that he wants to believe you. His eyes are still shut, but he nods.
“Next is this.” You pour rubbing alcohol all over the welding blade in an attempt to disinfect it. The harsh, acrid fumes sting the inside of his nose and burn the back of his throat as it splashes on the ground next to him. “This is insane. This is absolutely insane,” you mutter rapidly under your breath. “I feel like I’m torturing you.”
“You’re not.” He tries to sound confident, but his voice is strained and shaking. “Don’t feel guilty.”
“I’ll do my best. How long should I keep this thing on your leg?”
“A minimum of ten seconds, no matter how badly I react. Anything less would not adequately stop the bleeding.”
“No matter how badly you react,” you repeat under your breath. “Fuck, dude…” You shut your eyes and for a moment you look like you're about to cry, but you manage to force it back down and open your eyes to reveal a frightened, brittle resolve. You switch on the welder and the little old machine sputters to life. He hears the crackling of the heating element and a sickening shiver runs through him, settling heavily in his stomach as a nauseating dread. The dark gray blade glows a faint red and yellow with the heat burning through it. “It’ll be over soon. Just ten seconds.” You sigh, and he sees your brow furrow as you steel your nerves, forcing yourself into a state of strained calmness. “Are you ready?”
No. He's terrified. He's in pain. His composure is failing and he doesn't want you to see him completely fall apart. “Yes.”
“Okay.” You hold up the makeshift cautery blade and take aim, putting your other hand and knee on his upper thigh to keep him still. “Now.” You plunge the blade into his leg.
He screams.
His entire body convulses but you keep his leg pinned firmly beneath your knee. The pain is blinding and searing and overwhelming and he screams until his throat seizes and he's desperately choking for air. His vision blanks and he's nearly on the verge of passing out when—
It's over.
You pull the blade away and his entire body goes limp. His head is spinning and his chest burns. Tears run down the sides of his face and he’s gasping and panting between sobs, unable to catch his breath. He cries out again with the icy jolt that shoots up his leg when your shaking hands press the wet compress to the freshly cauterized wound. He tries and fails to steady his breathing, fails to stop openly sobbing as you wrap the dry dressing around his thigh and remove the tourniquet.
He's ashamed that you're seeing him cry. Egon Spengler, a man who prides himself on prioritizing rationality over emotions, is reduced to a sobbing, quivering mess in front of the woman he's in love with, his clothing and the floor beneath him soiled by a sickening mixture of saline and his own blood. His face burns with embarrassment. How pathetic he must look to you, the facade of the level headed scientist shattered. Frustration boils within him and tightens within his chest.
Oh. Your hand grazes the side of his face, and his attention snaps to you. Your touch is warm, gentle, and so, so soothing. You're talking to him. You've been talking to him this whole time, but it's only now that his scrambled mind is able to actually notice it.
“Hey, it's okay. It's okay,” you whisper to him, stroking his sweating, clammy face. “It's over. You're gonna be okay.” Your other hand slips into his and he weakly grasps your hand in return. You continue talking to him for several minutes, gently stroking his face and occasionally squeezing his hand as tears flow down his face. There's sincerity in your gestures of comfort, a deep genuineness that can only be made through love. Still, though, he can't stop crying, but he's no longer self-conscious about doing so in front of you.
Eventually, his breathing begins steadying a bit and his heart stops beating so wildly in his chest. The lidocaine dressing starts taking the edge off the pain, leaving behind a dull, painful ache that throbs through his entire leg. It still hurts terribly, but it is far from overwhelming.
A headache starts to settle heavily behind his eyes. His entire body shivers violently despite the heat burning through him. Nausea curdles in his stomach. He squeezes his eyes shut but it isn't enough; the lights still ache deeply and seem to tunnel through his head.
You gently lift his head and put a damp rag on the back of his neck. He gasps at the chill that shoots down his spine, but the relief it brings is almost instant. His nausea wanes; the painful throbbing of his head begins to dull as you delicately lift his glasses off his face and set them safely aside. You place another damp rag on his forehead and he's grateful that you cover his eyes, completely blocking out the light.
You're tossing the blanket you brought down earlier over him when the lights go out, leaving the two of you in complete darkness. The coffee maker stops gurgling, the heater stops rumbling, and the lab is left in near complete silence, the only noises coming from the raging storm howling faintly outside. “Crap…” You rummage through the first-aid kit for a flashlight. “Egon, I’ll be right back. Try to get some rest.”
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
“Egon. Egon.” You gently nudge his shoulder, rousing him from his heavy doze.
He groans and grits his teeth with the dull agony that settled in his leg as he slept, heavy and stiff; his hands instinctively grasp his thigh in a futile attempt to try and relieve some of the pain.
“I know, I'm sorry, but your temperature’s spiking a bit and I need you to take some ibuprofen to try and get it down. I also found a couple Vicodin in Peter's things that I think you'll appreciate.”
He takes the small handful of pills and voraciously downs both water bottles you offer him.
He's bundled up under several blankets, warm and cozy, despite the discomfort of the hard floor beneath him. The fireplace crackles and spits as the only light source in the lab, animating the shadows of the objects it illuminates in its soft, hot glow. “Power's still out. Pipes are frozen,” you say, rising to your feet. His eyes follow you as you toss another hunk of wood into the fireplace, sending a pleasant wave of heat over him. “But we're doing alright.” You glance at him. “You’re starting to look a bit better.”
“Where did you find wood for the fireplace?” he asks.
“I can't tell you. Also, Peter's nightstand is now missing.”
He snickers. The pain in his leg has already started lifting, replaced by a faint, floaty feeling. “Of all the places to grievously injure myself, next to the fireplace is a lucky break.”
You look at him intently, and there isn't a hint of humor on your face.
“Sorry,” he says just a bit too quickly, his face practically steaming with embarrassment. He clears his throat and scrambles a bit for a change of topic. “I really admire you—especially in the way you handle yourself in an emergency. I admire a lot of things about you.”
You scoff. “I see the Vicodin is kicking in.”
“If anything, I think my mental faculties are more perspicuous with the hydrocodone. The distraction of the pain is much less pronounced.” He slowly pulls himself into a sitting position, wincing a bit, but the pain is just a fraction of what it was, throbbing dully deep in his leg. “Though, I must say that our recent experiences together have also given me a greater sentiment of closeness to you. I feel safe with you. I’m sure part of this mentality is just the narcotic inhibiting my usual reticence, but for the most part, I believe it’s authentic.”
“Egon.”
You kneel next to him, and he has trouble seeing your face in the harsh shadows cast by the crackling fireplace. One of his old coats is draped around your shoulders and it’s far too large on you, which he finds so, so endearing. A burst of affection washes over him, bubbles in his chest and brings warmth to his face. The urge to kiss you is overwhelming, almost primal. He catches your eye and leans forward.
You read his intentions and pull back. You gently place your hand on his chest, nudging him back a bit. “Look, I'm not sur--”
“Please, I want to kiss you.”
“Egon.”
“I love you. I’m in love with you,” he blurts. “I've been in love with you f—”
“Stop! Stop it! Stop talking!” That melancholy about you suddenly rushes to the surface and bursts forth as tears in your eyes and you clench your jaw, bite the inside of your cheek, but the tears flow freely down your face. You sigh, annoyed, and avert your gaze, impatiently wiping your eyes on your sleeve. “Look, Egon, this is not a conversation I'm ready to have right now. I am so fucking overwhelmed as it is, okay? I just…Fuck, don’t do this to me now.”
His heart sinks to the bottom of his stomach and he lies back on the ground. It’s not an outright rejection, far from it. But, it still aches deeply in his chest as you weep next to him, your head bent and your palm on your forehead.
“I'm sorry,” you say quietly, your voice thick with tears. “It’s just, it’s been a really bad night. If I hadn't asked you to grab me that stupid fucking book then none of this would have happened. And I have my own goddamn copy upstairs! I just didn't want to go grab it! And I almost killed you because of that!” You lift your head. “Seeing all that blood, hearing you scream like that…Oh my God, that was so awful. Oh, Egon, I'm so sorry…” You sigh, summoning all your courage for your next words. “I love you. I really do. I love you so much that it sometimes keeps me up at night.” He’s positively euphoric at hearing these words. His heart soars, but your next words send it plummeting back to the bottom of his stomach. “But, Egon, I feel so terrible about it.” A sob hitches in your throat and you struggle to keep your next words steady. “Look at this fucking mess we're in…”
He reaches for your hand. You see him, but don't protest as his fingers intertwine with yours. His other hand slowly reaches up and gently cups the side of your face. You lock eyes with him, and he sees the sorrow aching so deeply within you, your vision blurred by the tears flowing freely down your face.
“I love you,” he says simply, delicately wiping a calloused thumb beneath your eye.
You shake your head. “How could you?”
“How could I not?” he answers earnestly.
You crack a small smile. You press a kiss to the palm of his hand and hold it against your face, delighting in the warmth of his touch. He's absolutely exhilarated at this, and he smiles so brightly at you that you can't help but smile back, despite the fresh tears spilling from your eyes. He sees it now, the reason behind the melancholy about you:
You love him.
You love him so deeply that it burns through the core of your very being. That love for him that would flash in your eyes every time you smiled at him, everytime the brightness of your laugh lit up your face, has now rushed to the surface and painfully burst forth as tears running down your face.
You bend down and plant a soft kiss on his forehead, still holding his hand in yours as you lie down next to him in front of the fireplace.
