welcome to my coping mechanism

29 yo ✨️ female ✨️ ghostbusters + a bit of other stuff

[tinyvesselhearts]

Thing Is: Chapter 14/14 (Egon x You)

It's finally done! Sorry for the long wait. I highly encourage you to re-read the fic if you want to enjoy the payoff ;___; again, sorry for taking forever

LINK: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44586838/chapters/171778174

If you prefer reading here, I'll post the whole chapter below. Enjoy!

It’s not like there were any signs of the circumstances being better than dire to begin with but the sight ahead is an absolute eyesore.

As soon as Egon stands besides Ray in (what seems to have been) a great hall, his assessment checks out. The walls are overgrown with signs of neglect and exposure. Piles of rubble and gunk are covered in dust so thick it’s coated in sticky clamps of grey ooze and granules, molding together as a heavy sediment of old fibers and rot. Its particles hang in the air. Erode the wooden floor. Gnaw at the old carpet.

The carpet is what catches Egon’s attention. It’s entirely inconspicuous but upon closer inspection a large eldritch symbol peers from underneath. It’s different to the ones from upstairs— the shape is darkening and a black smoke hovers over the floor— as if someone was pressing a burning seal there.

This is what it looks like, Egon thinks, the symbols being made. Fascinating how the process requires no cultist to physically draw the circle. Usually there’s at least one crazed shaman who initiates a ritual like this. The chanting must be an instigator enough— and that only proves how unusual this setting is. The whole thing must have been preplanned by a long-dead ancestor.

The boys are already standing there, surrounded by multiplying voices of fishfolk. With fewer damp planks in the way, the noise sounds raspier, almost hostile.

Egon lets you in, then takes a look at Ray. He’s staring at the sigil, cheeks clouded in thick cigar smoke, face scrunched.

“I don’t know what it is”, he mumbles. “But I don’t like it one bit.”

Peter uses his proton rod to fold the corner of the carpet, revealing more of the image. It’s a big illustration branded in wood. The biggest defined shape is a circle filled with inscriptions in an unintelligible language— or various dialects— judging by the sparse (but patterned) placement of individual symbols.

Egon crouches down at the rim. He knows it’s the voice of the hive, the dialect belonging to the Great Old Ones and their offspring— but his translator is only capable of processing auditory input. It’s an oversight on his part. He should’ve been prepared.

“Do you mind?”, he asks, waving at Peter’s rod.

Peter stares at him for a few long seconds before going “ah” and pushing the rest of the carpet away.

The circle, as it turns out, is but one of sixteen. Each of them same size, framing a massive, intricate artwork: a huge oval, enclosed within the confines of floating words and curved lines. There’s a figure there— a well-dressed human with a distinguishable face devoid of emotion. His glassy, bulging eyes stare back at whoever dares to challenge them, captivating the viewer with unexpected reciprocation.

Egon’s impressed. Whoever had burned the portrait, must’ve been a great artist. These lines are sharp and purposeful, they emphasize just as much as they leave unsaid. The rest of the sigil could be some cultist’s job, simple shapes and symbols easy to recreate… but this? This is a masterpiece.

“…Hey, I know that”, he hears your voice from beyond Winston’s shoulder. “It’s a portal.”

“You sure about that? Looks like a regular seal to me. A huge-ass one but a seal nonetheless.”

Egon fixes his gloves, stands up and turns to Winston.

“Maybe”, he affirms. “But there is no need for a seal to be this big. Besides, their continuous effect is like a steady beam of radiation, they can’t suddenly change their properties and start exuding smoke after decades of dormancy.”

“…Are we sure about that?” Ray interjects. “Eldrich horrors have been around for millennia and we’ve only started cataloguing them, like, a hundred years ago? I mean, at this rate, anything’s plausible.”

Egon must admit that Ray’s point makes sense. Despite having studied arguably everything there was on the topic— heck, analyzing your father’s journals!— he can’t be sure. Your father was a cultist for a little more than twenty years and while it sounds impressive in human standards, it objectively isn’t. In all his knowledge and even he couldn’t have known what kinds of cosmic forces had been brewing for millions of years. It’s a terrifying concept, how small and insignificant humans are in comparison. Simple minds, weak cognition. Whatever glimpses of Yog-Sothoth have seeped through the veil, human brains were unable to process. Ancient truths have been shrouded in myths to make them a bit more palatable for the average person. If these scraps of knowledge are the only straws people grasp for, how impossible is it to uncover the full extent?...

“No, no”, you wave your hands. “Egon’s right. They’re trying to wake him up, I’ve seen this thing before.”

“Wake who up?”

When everyone looks at the portrait, the answer is terrifying.

Egon knows what’s about to happen. The chanting will get loud and oddly unanimous, sealed with a loud command. Then— silence— and amidst the deafeningly mute crowd, a disfigured monstrosity will emerge from the portal, solidifying its shape, gaining autonomy and speaking to the Collective while crawling out to the world. Whatever happens then is going to be horrible and affect everybody. He’s at a loss. Time’s running out.

He opens his mouth and turns to you but your stare takes him off-guard. Your eyes seem to plea for guidance and in that moment he knows only one thing: you’re under his protection. There’s a future ahead and he’s determined to take you there.

“Your father mentioned a summoning ritual in the diaries but did not describe it in detail”, he says in a soothing voice. “How did it go?”

“Well… the last time it burned my house to the ground and that’s when it was over.”

“Why did it burn?”

“I don’t know”, you worry your lip. “Some candles, perhaps? I can’t think of a reason fish people would utilize fire in their practices, nor generate it.”

“I may have an idea”, comes from Peter’s mouth and both of you look at his eerily glowing face which— as Egon quickly gathers— is lit by flames emerging from the markings on the floor.

All of you step back. The portrait is burning.

Flames engulf the gentleman’s eyes. Thick tongues of fire are bleeding from a pair of bulgy pupils onto his face, deepening sickly sunken cheeks and pouring ash down his chin. The circles around him catch a spark in an instant— spreading like a disease, gnawing into the deeply carved ridges, devouring carefully drawn lines, leaving nothing in their wake.

Peter aims his proton rod and shoots straight into the man’s face, scribbling over it. It’s wishful thinking— as if an act of vandalism could prevent the impending doom. In a typical ghostbusting fashion, though, Venkman  wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t try demolition first (it also requires very little forethought and may give instant results) but to nobody’s surprise, it changes nothing.

“Worth trying though”, Peter exclaims, doing his best to outshout the chanting crowd. “Let’s stick to the plan!”

Egon takes the yap-cap from Winston, while the others (you included) adjust their proton rods and aim at the sigil. Presumably that’s where the creature will emerge but Egon’s studied enough mythos to stay vigilant. These beings are unpredictable. They’re sentient. Dangerous. A mere assumption that a man is able to control what he summons borders on insanity.

The swarm outside seems to move in an organized manner now. They’re approaching. This cannot be a good sign.

The fire consumes the portrait within seconds but doesn’t spread any further: the circles and symbols surrounding it are intact, save for an eerie glow which seems to come out of them. Ash sticks to the wood in an ungraceful bile of sop. The shoved carpet soaks sparks and cinders falling from the flames— and they go out with loud hisses, amounting to yet another layer of noise.

When dozens of wet palms slide across the ruined walls, the voices become grinding. They hit all registers at once. What’s worse, Egon observes, is that they seem to be fueling the pillar of fire, now reaching half-burnt ceiling supports. Any moment now.

“The command is ready”, he states, firm. “When the monster comes through, shoot him and hold in place until I put the helmet on its head.”

“What if it doesn’t have a head?”, yells Peter, grinning because that’s, apparently, hilarious.

Exactly like Egon’s predicted, the ritual’s done in half a minute. The tongue of fire escalates until it licks the ceiling, its hue turns green and that’s when chanting abruptly stops. Egon glances at your team. Winston and Peter are wielding their proton rods in front on them, ready to shoot— Ray does too but his facial expression betrays worry. You stay behind the guys and though you’re holding the charged weapon, your grasp is tentative.

You’re scared. Uncertain. You’re in the back and that’s a good thing from a strategic point of view but Egon wishes the two of you were closer. He wants to reach for your hand. He wants to calm you down. He wants—

“It’s coming through!”

A large tentacle shoots through the portal. The pillar of fire bleeds with green blotch, as if a ghostly force was turning it into an unholy veil. The sticky limb raises as high as it can, stretches and slams into the wooden panels. The floor is old and frail. It cracks. Splinters dash around.

The monster’s suckers stick to the floorboards and the a wall. It folds and squeezes into all nooks and crannies, fills the crevices with slick tissue like a heavily kneaded, oily dough would fill a form. Except it doesn’t stop there— doesn’t sit still— it squelches, pounds, gurgles, breathes.

After one limb comes another. Then two, then three more. Each of them pierces the wood further until the floor is reduced to a cracked frame, supporting the boys and you on a few broken planks and sheer willpower. The tentacles squeeze through the hole until the eighth (last?) of them comes out with a pop— and in that moment Egon’s skin turns pale.

He liked being prepared. He knew the creature would emerge in its entirety. He should’ve known better than to construct a human-sized helmet and expect it to fit. Thinking about it now, it’s an entirely foreseeable problem— we’re talking the Queen of the hive, not some random pre-infected half-fish humanoid whose size would fit within the US measuring standards.

The creature is massive. It’s huge. It’s gargantuan and slick and moving, which makes it almost impossible to climb up to reach its head.

He’s about to die from embarrassment at the incriminating level of stupidity when Ray’s weak gasp slaps his other cheek.

“…There’s no head.”

And— fuck— of course! Of course there wouldn’t! Of course a literal extraterrestrial eldritch entity with stupefying anatomy would develop No. Fucking. Head! Why would it?!

Perfect. Everything’s perfect, the whole setup is perfect, the circumstances are ideal.

“Hey, Spengler!” Peter yells with that idiotic half-smile. “No head! Who would’ve guessed, right?”

“Eat shit.”

Winston, as per usual, is the sane one. He nudges Egon with an elbow.

“What does your device need to access, exactly?”

“Brain”, Egon says. “Well. The subconscious.”

“Don’t octopi have some brain in their tentacles? We could strike one of them and put it to the…”

Winston looks at Egon’s hands— at the yap-cap’s egglike shape and its, frankly, pathetic size— then says:

“…nevermind.”

Egon deflates a bit. He considers allowing himself to feel an emotion (rage, anxiety or irritation) but there’s no time for that. He’ll have some time to process everything afterwards, either back at the station or in jail.

“Venkman?”

“No stupid ideas, boys!”

The four of you exchange looks because at this point all ideas are equally stupid— but Ray seems a tad more excited (and alert) so he’s your best chance of survival. No time like now because one of the massive tentacles lifts from the ground, then smashes a window and slams into the floor with full force. Peter and Winston leap back and hold on to the windowsill. You manage to grab the latter’s hand and he pulls you towards his chest. Egon only catches a glimpse of your hair protruding from under Winston’s glove. That’s good. That’s safe. Now, where’s Ray?

Ah.

As it turns out, Doctor Raymond Stantz is currently sliding downstairs through a gigantic hole in the floorboards.

Egon doesn’t think too much. Ray is his best buddy after all, the only person on Earth who’s allowed to freely snack on Egon’s Cheez-Its. He tightens the hold on the yap-cap, pins the translator to his belt and leaps after Ray.

A sleeve rips on a nail, a knee bumps against an old wooden panel and an elbow hits a pipe but overall, Egon somehow manages a happy landing. Ray’s even luckier— a burnt remnant of a dining table broke his fall and offered just the amortization he needed.

“Ray?”

“I’m okay”, he coughs, “better than okay!”

They stand up. Pat their sooty jumpsuits. Thick clouds of ash fill the air.

“It’s the adrenaline”, Egon informs. “Don’t get comfortable.”

Egon assesses their surroundings. They’re in the middle of debris in a dim room— two walls are gone so the chill and murmur of the crowd outside pushes through the rubble. They’re a whole four-meter gap from the rest of you and the hole in the (now) ceiling is dripping with slime. There’s no chance they’re gonna make it back up there unless they go all the way back to the main staircase. It’s impossible. Not with the tentacles filling the corridor.

They’re screwed. They’re so screwed…

“No, no! Seriously, I’m okay!” Ray has that full-blown teeth-showing grin and a spark in his eye. “I know what we gotta do!”

Egon looks at him. Ray’s fall might’ve been more severe than he thought.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    “Let’s plug the cap into Ecto-1’s siren”, he beams.

…or?...

“Look: how do you normally convey a message?” Ray continues. “It’s not through some elaborate coding or inception, it’s literally by talking! And talking is one person speaking while others are listening! Why don’t we…”

“…transmit the command into all of their heads…”

“…by simply announcing it? I mean, even the blob-mother must have ears somewhere if she responded to their calls.”

Egon smiles. Raymond is a genius.

The crowd is standing outside. Some of the fishfolk are in the way to Ecto-1 but there’s no time to overthink it: Ray leads through the piles of burnt wood and rusty piles towards the car and Egon follows. They pass the dirt and junk, their boots squelching in pools of leftover slime until they reach the corner— a hole— a passage outside.

The swarm is there. Ray gulps as large groups of people are not his forte. Peter would know what to do.

Ray approaches the line of people, lifts his hand in a terribly unconfident manner and says:

“…Um. Excuse me?”

They don’t even turn to face him. Their eyes are glued to a flailing set of tentacles which are now, somehow, twice as big as Egon’s assumed upstairs. They’re straightening up. They’re stretching above the mansion, uncurling their tips and that means preparation for another attack.

Ray and Egon dash through the crowd. The creatures don’t pay attention at all and that’s perfect— the boys are sliding through the masses straight towards the car. Egon’s already untangling the wires, preparing the tips to fit into Ecto-1’s radio. If this works, they’re going to get rid of everyone, no casualties, no more damage. If it doesn’t…

Egon opens the door and slides in. He doesn’t fumble with the jacks, his dexterous fingers move across the slots with ease and precision. The power is on, the loudspeakers maxed out Ray’s outside, setting the siren towards the aliens’ general direction. Egon takes out the translator, types a simple command, then triple-checks for mistakes. Meanwhile, Ray takes out a walkie-talkie, summons Peter— then waits. Egon closes his eyes. Let it work, let it work, let it work…

“Cover your ears, NOW!” Ray yells into the receiver.

Egon presses a button.

Bug wgah'nagl.

The tentacles freeze. The crowd’s stuck as well. For a moment, everything’s still.

Egon holds his breath.

Then, like from one organism, a thick line of ooze evaporates from the fishfolk. The people wake up. Their faces change. Features soften. Eyes go back to their usual size, cheeks rose up and the sheen of slime previously covering their skins seem to disappear altogether. The cloud flies towards the tentacles, forms an elaborate symbol above it and opens a door— a portal— a swirl.

The ancient eldritch entity levitates. Its limbs form a cord, as if it was trying to take as little space as possible. It rises up and disappears in the gaping hole in the sky.

The cloud follows and seals the portal shut.

Egon exhales.

Ray knocks on the windscreen.

“Did it work?”

“…It worked.”

“It worked?!”

“They…” Egon nods, “…went home. I told them to go home and they went there. They actually bought the idea.”

Ray bursts out laughing. The sound is so clear and loud, it warms Egon’s heart.

The crowd looks entirely normal now. Humans are back, looking at each other, making eye contact, scared, confused. They aren’t controlled by any higher being. They’re free to make their own choices. They are…

…leaving?

“Where are they going?!” Asks Ray but before Egon’s able to say anything, three familiar figures emerge from the crowd, dirty, sooty and slimed. Winston’s leading you (alive, unscathed) with a hand on your upper back, while Peter saunters like a common drunk and blurts:

“I’m not sure why but I really wanna go home, pronto.”

___

You load the sooty suit you wore into the machine.

“I feel like this past week’s just one criminally long day”, you hum, tying up a neat blue apron around your waist. “I’m so ready to start fresh. You have no idea.”

Egon observes you. Shades under your eyes are present again but you’re relaxed: motions light like a breeze, gaze soft and warm. Despite exhaustion you climb to your tiptoes every time you lift a garment, as if you were celebrating the victory and freedom in a language you’re fluent in. It’s a dance and you’re a ghostbusting fairy.

“I’ll do the laundry. Go to bed.”

“Not a chance”, you scrunch your nose. “You’re the one who’s just expelled a whole alien species from Earth. The least I can do is clean up, lemme.”

“You’re likely exhausted after the past few days. I, on the other hand, am still running on leftover adrenaline. Since I won’t be able to sleep for a few more hours, I may as well do something productive with my time.”

“Pfft. Whatever you said is probably reasonable but sounds like blah, blah, blah.”

Egon smiles.

“That’s exactly what I’ve said.”

You’re still you. Languid eyes linger on his face for a few seconds, as if trying to figure something out through the thick fog of weariness— until you make a funny face and reach for your apron. You untie the bow, take off the strap and slide the garment onto his neck.

“Here you go. Oh no, wait.”

You reach for his locks and help them fall onto his forehead. Fluffy fringe hangs loose. You comb your fingers through the strands and he doubts it’ll smoothen them out but he allows the contact— you’re close, skin’s warm and the scent of his soap is like an invitation.

“There. I like… It, uh.” You say, take a breath and whether you want to add something playful or sincere, it gets stuck in your throat.

“Noted. Now go to bed.”

“I don’t wanna leave you—”

“I’ve gathered. It’s flattering.”

“Uh, no! I mean— here, with the laundry—”

“Sure, sure. You aren’t even able to maintain a conversation. Go to bed. I’ll come upstairs as soon as I finish up here.”

“Egon...”

The washing machine’s unapologetic rattle fills the silence. Egon ponders. You were so brave earlier today— but the stakes were high, the noise was everywhere— and it’s easy to muster up the courage when time is of the essence. Everything’s different now. You’re almost shy, unsure. It’s a stark contrast to how vehemently you professed your love for him earlier today— and yet, the love is here— palpable but quiet— like a warm breeze on a summer night— like a patient glow of a lantern on the porch.

He lets out a small sigh. Takes a step. Presses his forehead to yours. He lets you ease into the touch, waits for you to take a few breaths— to feel the locks you like so much tingle your skin. Rubs the tip of your nose with his. Dips down. Tastes your lips.

It’s merely a press but you shudder.

The quiet of the station keeps the air warm. The rattling noise morphs into a low, pleasant hum. Your skin smells like his whole world and Egon fights an urge to ease further.

He takes a deep breath, then feels you move away an inch or two.

“Wait, I…”, you sigh, “…I need to make sure. I’m sorry but… If this is just a fling, I don’t want… I can’t…”

Egon straightens to take a proper look at you. Your eyes are glued to the floor because the tension is too much to handle. This isn’t the time for playful exchanges, this is a plea for honesty— a wound that scarred in an ugly way and threatens to tear when pulled.

The light is dim. It tickles your hair and skin but the shadow creeping from behind waits is there to swallow you whole. He weighs his words.

“The Ghostbusters have always operated on borrowed time”, he states. “Soon we’ll face another lawsuit for vandalism, trespassing, collateral damage and the mayor will do everything in his power to shut us down for good.”

A flinch crosses your face. You nod, defeated— but Egon’s not done yet.

“I’ll tell you what happens then.” He leans closer. “I’ll ask you an important question and if you say yes, we’ll buy a house. Somewhere quiet, preferably a ranch so that you can overwrite your father’s imprint with a whole new chapter— this one built on loyalty and genuine affection. I’ll keep teaching you, if you want. I’ll set up a lab in the basement so that I can continue my research and I’ll ask you for assistance during busts and sample collection.” He takes a small breath and adds: “We can be a team. We’ll be taking our kids into the fields and teach them how to aim, out into the wilderness to have s’mores, and maybe even our gigs. We’ll investigate urban legends and see if we can help any.”

You stare at him, searching his eyes. Your lip wavers. It’s a reaction of some kind but whatever you’re feeling seems too complex— he needs to reduce it to something he can label— something he can understand.

He decides to go on.

“We’ll spend our evenings together. Indulging in touch, if you please. You’ll embroider your clothes. I’ll build a few really cool toys. You’ll make sure they actually look the part and that they don’t break down after one use. I’ll keep replacing your terrible cheap soap with my own nurturing, skin-softening mix and add that mint-raspberry scent you like, so you don’t notice—”

“…You what?!”

He halts.

“…Ah. I might have failed to inform you.”

“You’ve been swapping my soap?...”

“Your skin was irritated after washing the dishes. I couldn’t let that slide.”

“How long?”

“One hundred and sixteen days”, he states and suddenly tenses up. “…Have I overstepped?”

You seem amused— good?— but your eyes are glossy— bad?— and he quickly ponders whether invading your sanitary life was his first and last nail to the coffin.

But then…

But then.

Your palms press against his chest like feathers— then gently hook some woolen creases, too shy to clench, too desperate to flee. You stand on your tiptoes. Rest your cheek against his neck. Your skin is soft to the touch and he almost crumbles when your entire body presses against his and— oh dear— you’re sinking into him— for the love of God— you’re warm and tender, and beautifully hopeless— and he can barely think straight.

Curious thing. You nuzzle deeper, until he feels the graze of your lashes as you close your eyes and hears you breathe in his scent. You’re his now, needy, pliant and unabashedly cradled into his shape. He glides a thumb along your jaw and feels your body tremble and— oh, If a mere caress makes you so weak, what else is he capable of?

He backs a little, lifts his hands and laces your fingers together— guides yours between his— his tips slide past your nails, along the phalanxes, down to the crevices. You’re painfully still and he lets you adapt because touching and touching are two different things.

The shortening breath on his skin is intoxicating.

“Egon”, you breathe into his neck and when he steps back to look at you, your face is flushed, eyes dazed.

You’re absolutely gorgeous.

You poor thing, he cradles your cheek— and you melt into the touch, languid eyes pleading for as much as he’s willing to give. This, he thinks, I understand.

“I’ll be upstairs in a few minutes.” His whisper tingles your lip. “I’ve missed you for longer than I’d been aware.”

___

Tonight is the first time Egon sleeps for eight hours straight.

Maybe tomorrow you’ll finally bring in your stuff.

Maybe in a year you’ll proudly wear his surname as officially yours.

Maybe in two years, you’ll move to a beautiful ranch house in Summerville, where you’ll host a heartwarming get-together with all the boys. It’s there where you’ll be raising your beautiful daughter, Callie for another twenty years— crafting her costumes for school parties, rejoicing her resounding success at a swimming championship and sharing campfire stories on chilly nights under the starry evening skies while eating s’mores and playing with a bunch of little Stay-Pufts.

(And if an ancient power ultimately takes your life—

(And if grief and horror consumes the world one day—

(And if Egon is forced to use the yap-cap on his beloved daughter to make her forget everything about the years they’d spent together and save her life from certain death—

—is yet to be seen.)

For now, only one thing is certain.

Starting now you’ll walk together— every day, every month, every year — and into the Afterlife

[starchaserdreams]

Sure, sex is great and all, but you ever have a really bad day and then you get home and there's an email from AO3 saying your favorite fic was updated and you can just melt into it and it makes everything better?

[tinyvesselhearts]

EVERY SINGLE TIME.

[tinyvesselhearts]

THIS IS NOT A DRILL, I REPEAT: THIS IS NOT A DRILL

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[tinyvesselhearts]

All I'm saying is:

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

✔️The guys who came up with walkie- talkie coined the name for Egon's new invention ✔️Egon knows what love is ✔️Gentle voices and soft touches ✔️Ends on a positive note ✔️Let's put our Reader back on track, shall we?

NEXT CHAPTER INVOLVES THE SPENGLERS GOING BUSTING AGAIN *CHEERS*

[tinyvesselhearts]

(Egon x You) Thing Is: Chapter 12

“Oh, shit. It’s the Mayor.”

Your eyes snap open.

You sit up in an instant, hypervigilant, surrounded by dust particles lit by soft sunlight. It takes a minute before you realize that everything’s actually okay. The sheets are a crumpled ball of warmth, the sun seeps in through the window. It’s the station again, the sightly ashy ceiling and the familiar siren wailing from downstairs. All you remember from yesterday are scraps: an emotion, a fear, an ache. And yet, here you are— safe, dressed in your own pajamas, all alone in Egon’s bed. No reason to panic. No reason at all.

Your heart’s still racing. Breaths are heavy. Something’s changed, something’s off. You can’t put your finger on it and that’s enough to take your peace away.

You lay back down. Bury your face in the pillow. It’s fine, it’s alright. Maybe you’re experiencing some ghostly haziness— it’s not like you’re taken over by an ethereal alien every day, after all. A quick nap should iron it out. Just a few more minutes and you’ll be as good as new. They boys will understand. Just this once…

You’re just about to drift away when familiar blurry silhouette approaches your cot.

“Thank God you’re awake”, Ray whispers, leaning over your bed. “The Mayor’s here. Pete’s trying to talk him out of a lawsuit. Stay here, alright?”

You prop on your elbows and turn your head around, then squint— because, heck, if he’s trying to wake you up, why is Ray whispering? It’s late morning— must be around nine, nine- thirty or so…

Wait, what?

“The Mayor?”

“Yeah, yeah”, says Ray. “Don’t worry, He comes and goes. Peter’s got a way with politicians.”

A heated conversation rumbles through the walls. Pete’s voice sounds as confident and cheerful as ever but the Mayor— presumably— doesn’t seem pleased at all. New Yorks’ representatives stop by from time to time so it’s not unusual but dread creeps up your back the moment you realize…

“…Oh, shite. Is it about the mansion?”

“Yeah, we’re kind of screwed. Too bad we didn’t get a chance to get a second look but hey, you weren’t officially there so we’ve got you covered.”

You frown, blink a few times, then sit up.

Shouldn’t he be more bothered by this? Right, the boys get in trouble with the law on a regular basis. Ray’s probably used to it by now, that he’s entire demeanor is relaxed, casual— if only slightly annoyed (ah, yes, authorities, how convenient). They always wiggle their way out somehow. That’s what they do. But if their luck runs out one day, the charges will snowball into life behind bars— and the mere thought makes you flinch.

“But I was there”, you look at him. “Saw what happened. You were doing your job! Can’t I testify?”

“No. Zip, zip, I mean it. We were all seen at the hospital that night, you didn’t even go to the emergency room. And that’s good! It’s great! That means you’re in charge of the case if we get incarcerated.”

Your face falls.

“You must be joking.”

“Hah! I wish I was.” Ray laughs, hands on his hips, then immediately turns sheepish. “Hey! Not that I don’t believe in you, no offense—”

“No, no, none taken!” You wave your palms. “I agree. Let’s hope Peter saves the day.”

A bang of some distant door is followed by Peter’s loud voice. You look at Ray with wide eyes but he shrugs.

“Meh, he’s doing alright. The Mayor failed to maintain the mansion for decades. It’s somewhat on him, too.”

Ah, that’s why Ray seems so casual about this. That’s understandable— the guys are recurringly raided by a variety of government officials so today must feel like a regular workout. For you, however, it’s a lot. You have no idea how long you’ve slept but it feels like a giant leap in time. It’s refreshing, yes— the lightness in your heart, as if yesterday’s events happened a lifetime ago— but a shadow is hanging over your head. A foot in the door to newfound peace.

“Nah. I gotta dress up”, you say. “I’m hungry. I need to do… something. Anything. Everything.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Ray pats your arm with a wide, warm hand, flashes a genuine smile and leaves the room. There’s some yelling coming from downstairs, some door slamming, screeching of wheels, and then— expectedly— Peter adds his two cents because there is no possible way he’d give up having the last word.

It takes you two minutes to get out of bed. Six to freshen up. Three to determine whether you should or should not change into Egon’s clothes (because it’s been okay so far, it’s a thing) but ultimately, you decide that no— not this time, you should really get out of his hair. Your crumpled sleeping two- piece has to do. It’s decent. Ray didn’t comment on your sleeping circumstance, maybe Peter won’t either.

The very instant you leave the room, you see him— Egon— he’s alright, he’s okay— who climbs the stairs and freezes the moment your eyes lock.

His face is blank. He’s quiet. All the courage you’ve mustered evaporates in a snap.

When he finally speaks, it’s as casual as ever.

“You’re awake.”

“You’re alive.”

“As I said, it’s difficult to die”, he states. “Extraordinarily so.”

“Yeah, sure, but nothing about yesterday was ordinary. It’s—"

“…in the past.” He approaches you, lifts your chin and smirks. “We’re moving on.”

You keep looking at him as he inspects your features. The touch is gentle. Systematic. Careful and you know it all too well: it’s exclusive to his tinkering, the machines and inventions, only present when he’s left to his own devices. Toprecious things. That’s new. Whatever happened while he was busting the ghost out of you must’ve shaken him up.

“Mhm. As I suspected. Beautiful.” He straightens. “You may experience headaches, fatigue, dizziness and muscle pains but otherwise you’re perfectly fine. I recommend aspirin with your breakfast.”

“…I’ll take some. Thanks.”

“Do you have a moment? I would like to show you something in the lab.”

You nod, absent- minded, rubbing at your chin where his fingers lingered a moment ago. That’s unusual. Egon’s never been so direct with physical contact… has he?

Whatever your mind is trying to push through, in reality it’s probably nothing. You must be experiencing some spiritual jetlag: slow thinking and clouded judgement, all spiced up with a throng of unanswered questions and guilty conscience. Egon’s right though. You’re all moving on and it’s high time you caught up.

You walk past the garage, where Ray and Winston are leaving in Ecto- 1. Peter’s guiding them out, gesturing to let go of the siren for once— the Mayor’s people must still be in the area. Janine’s on the phone, rummaging through the drawers with such urgency she doesn’t pay attention to you walking by. That’s what it looks like: another day at the Ghostbusters’. There’s nothing out of the ordinary, to the extent you’re forced to question whether the spiritual influence you experienced the day prior wasn’t a dream.

“Ray wasn’t surprised to see me”, you say at the last flight of stairs. “Do the boys know?”

“All things pertaining to the case, yes.” Egon admits, eyes down. “I apologize for taking such liberty. It’s a major turning point and I couldn’t withhold this information. It’s the sixth time we’re getting called about amphibious ghostlike creatures roaming through New York. It’s a plague.”

“Mm. The Mayor was unwelcome, I take it.”

He throws you a brief look, then proceeds. “Do you feel any different?”

You ponder, tailing Egon descending the familiar stairs. The door to the lab is ajar, which never happens: an undeniable proof of how thrilled he is with the discovery.

“Yes. It’s quiet in my mind, for once. No whispers at the back of my head, no need to burst out crying for no reason. It’s something.”

“Feelings of uneasiness? Anxiety? Existential dread?”

“No. I’m just grateful to be alive.”

“I share the sentiment. In a day or two, we might purge the mansion for good. What we have at our disposal now is powerful. Needless to say, I’m thrilled beyond what my hormones usually allow”, he pauses at the door. “After you.”

You enter the laboratory. The cool light enveloping tools and papers is refreshing, clean air clashing against the heat and steam clouding in the garage. On Egon’s desk, far away from the microscope, there’s a huge, ugly helmet you recognize— the wires tangled in a knot only Egon himself can understand, odd antennas protruding from its top. You walk up, reach and touch the glowing tips.

A pillar of warmth stands right behind you. Egon’s breath tickles the hair on your neck. Dust particles hang still in the air between your bodies, so close you almost touch— like when he helps you gear up— when you use his microscope— like so many times before. You can’t see him at all now. Your eyes are focused on the weird, pointy device but when Egon’s forearm brushes yours, your stare shifts just enough to observe his hand rest on the contraption.

This dance between you two has been going on for a long time. It’s not like this, it never is, but you struggle to keep your breathing even.

“Remember the Collective?” He murmurs. “Turns out their consciousness, being shared through the ether, is prone to alterations. Removal. Addition. Substitution, in an almost surgical manner. I made this device for that specific purpose. Peter called it a yap- cap but it’s more nuanced than that. Take a look.”

He switches on the translating pad. Some symbols appear on the screen before a thin, vertical line pulses on the far right. To your surprise, he uses the buttons to type: I want to go home now and all it takes is one press of a single green key to translate the phrase into Eldritch symbols. Just like that, an electric wave pulses through the antennas, the helmet charges with power and glows with blue light. It’s that simple.

“The message is transmitted through the ether to the helmed recipient and travels until it finds an ectoplasmic structure. A ghost can’t distinguish it from the Collective so it builds a narrative around the inserted thought and accept it as a fact.”

Unbelievable.

“You literally made the ghost think it wanted to go home.”

“Correct.”

“And… it just left home.”

“Exactly.”

“Egon… that’s fantastic.”

“I’m wildly aware”, he grins.

You bark out a laugh. The helmet looks like a giant jellyfish. The pad is a literate calculator. All the mystery, the horror, the haunting— all the destruction and pain brought by Eldritch horrors— everything undone by a designer’s worst nightmare: a glowing sea urchin hat. The yap- cap, as Peter calls it. Ah, that one’s going to stick.

Egon is a genius. The simplicity of it disarms you. In this rapidly changing world, the cybernetic reality where every technology requires a cascade of complex developments just to come up with a novelty, Egon thought the simplest way to deter some ancient ghosts was to talk them into defeat. It couldn’t be more straightforward. All data were copied and transferred, every bit of the Eldritch language, the translating software and the device itself was made here, in this lab. He’s done it all with Ray’s help. This man is a genius but chooses the simplest solutions.

The simplest solutions.

“…Can it be used on humans? To… Hack us into thinking differently?”

Egon is silent and you can feel his stern eyes on your back. You realize how that sounds and God it’s awful— but that’s not what you meant so you rush to clarify.

“I mean, is it possible to erase some memories? To change what we’re susceptible to?” You swallow. “To let go of… destructive tendencies?”

“Technically, yes. But the outcome is unforeseeable. Whatever ends up happening, one change could affect your entire life. Mistakes, however unwanted and painful, shape who we are in the end”, Egon’s voice is serious. “Thankfully, you were not affected.”

“What if I wanted to be affected?” You turn around, not daring to meet Egon’s eyes. “You were right when you said I was attracted to the paranormal. And I hate it. My uncle is the closest I have to a dad now and I can’t keep doing this without feeling guilty about it, about betraying him. He’s never going to approve of me getting involved with you, guys. I just… I could fix this. I—"

“Look at me.”

You do.

His eyes are warm. Steady, understanding. Pupils are wide, graced with the dim light surrounding you. Some distant shadow blurs his locks into a dark cloud. Your own reflection lurks in his glasses. The sight takes your breath away.

“You don’t need to be fixed because you’re not broken”, Egon murmurs. “Don’t expect him to approve your every choice. Love doesn’t work this way.”

“But I want it to”, you whisper like an absolute fool and a single tear rolls down your cheek because your wish— so pure, so simple— doesn’t hold merit. It’s pathetic, a lost cause. He’s right and you know it.

Egon raises an eyebrow, eyes warm and playful.

“Do you, really?”

You blink a few times, bow your head down and laugh. It’s quiet and breathy. It’s full of grief— and pain, and sadness, and acceptance, and joy. You wipe the stray tear with the back of your hand. Only then, broken and mended, are you able to lift your gaze and meet Egon’s unwavering stare again.

“No, you’re right. I’ll give you that one.”

He smiles.

“Do you want to raid the mansion with us tomorrow? Ray’s setting up the car, we’ll gear you up.”

“Won’t I become an offender as well? Ray said…”

“We’re the Ghostbusters. We’ll cover up for you.”

“You’ll get in trouble.”

“It’s worth it.”

Words get stuck in your throat. The circumstances are different but intimate enough so before you have the chance to overthink every little gesture, you lean in and press a gentle peck on his jaw. He inhales— good?— frowns— bad?— so you step back with a tight smile.

“Thanks for everything. I mean it. I owe you.”

Long fingers wrap around your hand. Egon’s stare doesn’t waver— not now, not yesterday, not ever— as he lifts your fingertips with a gentle motion and (in a mind- boggling, unprecedented turn of events) presses his lips to your skin— and it lingers— it lingers— it stays.

It’s a kiss.

He pulls away. The air he breathes is warm.

“You owe me nothing.”

_____________

HOPE I DIDN'T MAKE ANY MAJOR MISTAKES- IF I DID, I AM TERRIBLY SORRY!

[tinyvesselhearts]

Thing Is: Chapter 12 bit before I post the whole thing

The very instant you leave the room, you see him— Egon— he’s alright, he’s okay— who climbs the stairs and freezes the moment your eyes lock.

His face is blank. He’s quiet. All the courage you’ve mustered evaporates in a snap.

When he finally speaks, it’s as casual as ever.

“You’re awake.”

“You’re alive.”

“As I said, it’s difficult to die”, he states. “Extraordinarily so.”

“Yeah, sure, but nothing about yesterday was ordinary. It’s—"

“…in the past.” He approaches you, lifts your chin and smirks. “We’re moving on.”

[tinyvesselhearts]

I'm away abroad with ultra poor Internet connection 😢 but another bit of Egon x Reader fluff is almost ready! Stay tuned for Chapter 12 of Thing Is in a week TOPS

[tinyvesselhearts]

Update on Egon x Reader

TL;DR: TONS OF FLUFF AND HUMOR INCOMING

Hello there~

We're 11 chapters into Thing Is and as you've probably noticed, it got a little heavier over the past 3 chapters or so. I wanted to build up the "shift" in both Reader's and Egon's demeanors so that their relationship could run deeper and grow from there. I honestly thought I've run out of steam and wanted to clumsily wrap it up in 12 Chapters BUT the unthinkable happened and I fell in love with this story again. I want to give it the good development and resolution I'd planned.

The worst of the angst has already happened, we're past the "low" point of this story so if you're up to domestic/ ghostbusting fluff, neurodivergent humor, awkwardness, old- fashioned getting together, chivalry, mirth and our beloved middle- aged men, I highly encourage you to stick around as I'm going to deliver lots of good vibes with this story again.

SUMMER! SUN! VIBES! 80'S MUSIC!

School's over so I'M BACK BICHES!!!

[skeletaltumbleweed]

my favourite ship dynamic is “me and the bad bitch i pulled by being autistic” but you can’t tell which is which

[tinyvesselhearts]

No no y'all don't get it,

HE IS SMOKIN'

[witchy-self-shipper]

Just thinking thoughts.

[tinyvesselhearts]

YESSSS CRINGE ADVERTISING YESSS

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[tinyvesselhearts]

(Egon x You) Human after all

(Thing Is: Chapter 11) Based on request for "Reader's possessed, Egon saves you, Hurt/ Comfort".

SFW but hot like my laptop right now.

From the journal alone, Egon is about to learn the following:

One: your father was a curious man. A scientist of sorts. He was fascinated by the concept of cosmic forces. Since he deemed humanity insignificant, only thing that mattered was a giant portal he was building in his barn: a door to humanity’s progress— or, as he called it— Compliance CH2. He used some restored scribbles found in the Marsh chronicles to design the gate. It took him ten years. He built it. It worked.

Two: your dad wasn’t summoning spirits per se. The creatures were alien, of all species. There’s a pattern: every time an alien (one of Yog- Sothoth’s children) was summoned, they would need a host. Like parasites, they needed to infest an organism adjusted to Earth’s conditions. Once they did, they preyed on the organism and slowly regrew it in accordance with their DNA. See, their bodies constitute loose ectoplasmic bonds which leads to another conclusion: while their hivelike minds were powerfully connected, their physical forms were weak. That’s why the PKE meter detected their presence but the proton streams didn’t work.

Three: if love means priority, your dad was shit at it.

---

Egon decides it’s for the best to stay the night at the station. There’s the issue of the mutant guest in the basement and staying within reach if somebody calls. He half expects you to change your mind and dial their number— but time flows, minutes merge into hours and the phone remains painfully quiet.

He dedicates every second to reading your father’s notes. It’s productive, informative. Fascinating, truly— but he soon realizes it doesn’t put his mind at ease. A stray thought keeps reaching to the conflict from a few hours back. He fights it. He tries to. He fails.

There’s a pressure in his chest he’s never felt before. It’s heavy, unrelenting. The cold night air must've pushed some pollen through the city. Allergy always seems to come unannounced. Thankfully, he’s aware of how his body works so— while far- fetched at best— he decides to trust this self- diagnosis and ignore the pain.

He needs to focus. He keeps reading.

~Do you honestly think I’d ever commit to someone who takes interest in ghosts?~

He's almost a hundred and seventy pages in when everything clicks. The hybrid intruder in the basement is an infected specimen, who’s grown into a semi- functioning symbiotic organism. While Egon can think of a person who would be enthralled by giving up their body for research, he doubts any reasoning would push him this far. The infected man has no ID. No records, no publicity— a recluse or a tramp. Regardless, there must be a way of helping him. To save the human and send the alien away…

~Do you honestly think I’d ever commit to someone—~

He’s on his fifth mug of tea and a third chocolate bar when he hears a loud bang downstairs.

Egon stands up. Frowns. Waits a few seconds and listens in.

There’s a muted echo of footsteps, shy and wary, then complete silence for a moment and then…

“…Hello?”

…You’re here.

Egon runs to the stairs. Hooks the rail, swings and dashes down to the garage in long strides. He looks around and there you stand, right beside the car, unsure, agitated, still. Something’s wrong. Something’s terribly off— your coat’s unfastened, pajama shirt peeks from underneath— you’re shivering, trembling, cold. It’s late at night and you didn’t even bother to grab a scarf. You must be in shock or in danger.

He wastes no time— runs the distance and stops right in front of you. You look worried, breaths are shallow and they fill the air as clouds of steam.

“What’s wrong?”

Your eyes are glossy.

“…It’s here”, you whisper, shaky. “It’s with me.”

Egon already knew— he knew the moment he saw you— he just didn’t want to believe it. He should’ve stayed. He shouldn’t have left you unguarded—

The PKE meter in his hand scans you head to toe. The contraption is beeping wildly, condensed spiritual presence detected, unmistakable and progressive. Egon shakes his head— not in denial but disbelief.

“…No. Not you”, he says. “Anyone but you.”

You let out a sob— and a laugh— tilt your head backwards and struggle to hold back tears.

“I hate everything about it. Ah… Why don’t I ever listen to wise people?... I should’ve stayed away from ghosts, the stupid books, this job, the journal—”

“Do not confuse avoiding a problem with solving it. I should’ve never left you on your own. Should’ve been wiser about the dangers, I…” Egon’s brows knit, blood threatens to simmer in his veins. “Stupid. Stupid! How could I—”

He needs to throw something on the ground because, seriously— why did he think leaving you in a vulnerable position was ever a good idea— it’s all his darn fault!— Had he urged you to stay the night here, none of this would’ve happened. He didn’t want overstep but seeing you in this state now is torture. You’re exhausted to the point of crying.

“Come with me”, he says, extending an arm. “I’ll fix it. I know what to do.”

You can’t answer but a step towards him ensues. Your hands are clenched into fists, knuckles white out of fear, pain and determination— but they’re also trembling, which Egon picks up on in an instant. You’re horrified. You’re a hostage in your own body. He takes your hand. Tugs at it and you follow.

Mid- way to the basement, your mouth forms a string of words.

“Ymg' lloig ah mgn'ghft”.

Egon whips his head around. Pulls out a translator from his pocket and it immediately spurts the translation: Your mind is worthy of Him.

Ah, yes. It’s the glorious full- blown takeover stage. That was to be expected.

Egon’s too old for this. He’s seen it all. An imposter is a lowball, truly, he’s dealt with those more times than he cared to count.

“You aren’t staying for long. Don’t get comfortable.”

She is our vessel now.

“Fallacy”, Egon’s tone is casual. “She does not belong to anyone.”

And yet you wish she would.

Egon stares at the translation. His mind is blank.

The pressure in his chest again. It’s there— it’s prominent— his palms are sweaty, air feels hot and an unpleasant cold runs down his spine. How can an Eldritch horror guess… How does it—

Your love for her clouds your judgement.

Oh. Oh.

…Is that what that is?

Eyes wide, arms stiff, Egon glances at you. Your face is distant, entirely unfazed, muscles slack, eyes barely open— but there’s something about your inexplicable awareness that’s almost unsettling. It’s not you. It’s all a trick, he knows but your mouth opens again and a string of freshly translated words appear on the screen.

Good scientists should rely on their brains, not hearts. Yours is worthy of the knowledge we offer.

No, he shouldn’t listen. Staying in place won’t help any.

In a practiced movement Egon leads you by the hand to his lab. He opens it and lets you in, then helps you sit in your chair, in relative distance from any dangerous chemicals. Once sure you’re still, he proceeds to prepare the equipment.

Whatever horror is currently inhabiting your body, it’s suspiciously obedient.

Egon rummages through his desk. There’s a distilled sample of that Class 2 Free- Floating Vapor who attacked you a while back— the one he was pissed about when you got slashed— but now that you’re merged with a similarly complex creature, Egon’s thankful he’s already went through a successful separation process. Ah. Silver linings are always clear in hindsight.

While he’s assembling the set, you keep spilling strings of unintelligible gurgles. He shouldn’t be interested in checking the translations (curiosity killed the cat) but he’s sure he can take it— no temptations could affect him at this point.

Just a peek, you know. Besides, it’s all for research.

The translator shows just one sentence:

You want her. We can make a deal.

“We have strict policies concerning fraternization with paranormal creatures”, Egon replies. “I’m not interested.”

You are. She is human, is she not?

“Not at the moment, no.”

Her mind is here no longer but the body is human. She’s too weak to understand. You aren’t.

His eyes divert from the translator. Your mind is…?

No, you’re still there. It’s all reversable, it surely is— he’s just read all about the procedure, it’s an early stage, it’s not too late. He’ll save you. He can fix this. He has to.

“What is it that you do?” Egon calmly inquires, pulling a wired helmet out of a drawer. “Are you a mind- reader? An empath? How do you collect data?”

What Yog- Sothoth knows, we all know. None of us matter in the grand scheme of things.

The Collective, then. Classic.

Egon switches on the helmet and fuels it up with a luminescent liquid. It pours underneath a plastic egg- shaped shell, sinking bunches of electrodes in the glowing goo. Great: the only thing that’s left is placing the contraption on your head, pushing a few levers and a nice, clear form of the intruder should pop right out. Capturing it would be more problematic (regular traps aren’t adjusted to this level of molecular differences) but he’ll think of something. The priority here is to make sure you’re safe.

He plugs the last wires, ready to go.

You keep talking and right when he’s about to turn to you, he glimpses at the screen.

The burden is light because our sole purpose is to die. See what we see. Have a look.

Ah, crap.

Egon hesitates— and despises himself for it. There’s no way a deal with Eldritch horror could end well— it’s a bait, a classic one, a lure meant to pull new cultists in and spread the extraterrestrial tentacles over humanity— but the possibility of getting to see how they operate first- hand is almost too good to be real.

He’d be the first paranormal researcher to maintain his consciousness throughout the ordeal. He’d witness it, feel it. Describe it in detail. Provide facts. This… Ah, it could be groundbreaking. Revolutionary. His name would ascend to an almost godlike status…

Yes. He’s strong enough. He could take it. Just a peek into the cosmic knowledge and everything changes for the better. The creature is cunning— but so is he.

His mind is set. He turns around, almost prone to sealing his fate— but he looks at you.

Your body is nothing but a physical shell. A wilted form, a stranger. Your face is lax in a way reminiscent of cadavers he’d seen during his coroner years: foggy eyelids struggle to stay up— lips are tilted, brows too low and no— no, despite the body, it is not you. The features are there but they are misplaced, devoid of emotion. They don’t fit. The beauty, the light from within, all gone.

A realization serves as a wake- up call: you’re being abused. All of a sudden, the whole shtick is too revolting to fall for.

He approaches you, scrutinized.

“Puts things into perspective”, he says, easing the helmet onto your head, “but not good enough to risk losing my sanity over. I’ll have to decline.”

He will consume you regardless. Your only choice is whether to accept the knowledge we offer—

“Pleasure to meet you. We’ll end it here.”

The moment he pushes the lever, you lash out at him.

He screams in shock. A familiar hand grabs him by the throat and pushes backwards. A wire rips.

Ah, damn it, no—

Egon smashes against the desk. Your body presses against him. Fingers are clenched around his neck— and it doesn’t hurt but the grip is firm. Piercing stare pins him to place. Your hips and chest press against his, blocking his movement and Egon feels it: every inch of you, every friction. Your breath is warm. You’re so close he could kiss you by merely dipping down his head.

He tells himself that it doesn’t affect him, it’s not you, you’re not yourself, all while seeking something of use on the counter.

He feels a screwdriver with his fingers. That’s a weapon against the body but you’re not responsible for the attack— and the ghost within uses you as a living shield. No use. There must be something else…

Before he has the chance to look, all lights go dark. An unsettling noise invades his ears, horrid chanting of a thousand voices. It’s relentless, intrusive, drilling into his head. His teeth clench but it doesn’t help any: it’s the hallucinations, this is how the Collective operates. He has to act— and act fast…

A sedative. A sedative. The vial, it should be…

Through the fog of erratic stimuli, he reaches a desperate hand into his pocket. There it is: a thin, elegant glass bottle filled with poignant liquid. He curves a thumb. The lid comes off. He presses it to your nose in a swift motion.

He can’t tell which of those are real: the sudden growl, a swirl of lights or hands sliding off of his chest. It’s all mixed with a head- blowing cacophony of screams and the incessant chanting. All Egon knows is this: he keeps clenching his teeth, shoving the chemical right at your face until your tossing about abates.

Your body weakens. Limbs go lax. Knees give in, head falls sideways. Your chest slams against his— and Egon’s still trapped in the cosmic mess— but he catches you, head, back— secures your fall as you slowly ease onto rows of white tiles.

He lays you down.

The exposure to the sedative was short. It wasn’t concentrated either. He has to act fast.

The helmet needs a quick adjustment but Egon knows what he’s doing. Wires plugged, straps fastened, he pushes the abominable lever. There’s a few sparks, a smoke from somewhere and an otherworldly glow of the luminescent goo and— just like that— a massive glob of ectoplasm evaporates from your body.

Egon can’t tell what shape or size it is. It’s unlike anything he’s seen so far. It looks incomprehensible, as if it didn’t have a form: a giant mass of eyes and limbs, a pile of half- physical slime, a stack of unstable tentacles materializing and evaporating in random places. Truly, a marvel in itself. A phenomenon to investigate. It gathers above your head. Escalates. Then disperses and dissolves into thin air.

Everything’s quiet after that.

Egon waits a moment. There’s no chanting. No distortions. His senses come back to reality: shapes, lights and colors he’s familiar with. A minute passes until he’s able to map the place. There’s his desk, the chair and the helmet. Smoke and sparks surround it.

And here, right beside him: it’s you.

You poor, poor thing…

He crouches. Gently lifts your head and arms. Places you on his knee. Waits.

He unties the straps around your head. Unplugs the wires and takes the contraption off. There you are. You’re safe. Your face looks soft and relaxed— no indication of the paranormal. You’re yourself. You’re back, you are. You could wake up any moment…

He hesitates for a split second, then wipes your forehead with one gentle stroke. Skims over your face, checking for wounds. Touches your scalp to make sure you’re not bleeding. His large, warm hand slides down your locks a few times, a thumb softly touches your chin. The movement is attentive, slow and caring— coarse because his palms are rough— but he pours every ounce of his willpower to envelop you (because you’re alive and scared—need to feel safe—have to know you’re being cared for)—

“…Egon?”

His body freezes.

Your eyes are half- lidded, brows knit, fingers hooked at his scrubs— but somehow you manage to offer him a small smile.

And— God Almighty— this is what it’s been all along— he is in love, he’s been in love for a good while now and it’s too late to snap out of it. It’s bad, blatantly obvious, overwhelming. He hasn’t realized the extent of it until he heard it from your own lips, seen it on the screen— and now that he has…

“…Hi”, he sighs, retracting his hand. “You’re back. Splendid.”

There’s a small scar right below your lip. Another on your cheek. Above your brow. An uneven line along your jaw. They’re ordinary, pretty shallow— the kinds every person has so nobody pays attention— except now, he does, because he’s thinking of ways they could’ve been prevented. He wants all of them to disappear. He wants them to heal— to kiss them away, as if sheer wishes ever worked out…

“What is happening?” You whisper trembling, voice shaky.

Egon watches your face: eyes shy away to hide dilated pupils— a forced, dry swallow attempts to calm your nerves. He’s become so good at this, at reading you. The proximity affects you and his heart aches again: the way you try to ignore it but can’t— the way your body’s anxiously shivering— it’s unbelievable how every bit of you that’s usually so outspoken and confident transforms into some startled prey.

It’s intimidating how fragile you are now that he’s close. As if mere step in the wrong direction could shy you away.

He wants to take care of you. Envelop in his adoration. You’ve been hurt, taken hostage and he doesn’t have the willpower to hold back. In a spur of the moment (and hormones, bloody mess—) Egon leans forward.

Foreheads touch. Against all reason, Egon brushes your nose with his.

Your breath catches and his entire body aches to dip down. A shuddered sigh you let out lands on his lips. It carries your scent. It tastes like tea.

He desires this kiss. Aches for it. He’s been denying himself his whole life but this time everything’s different. You seem to want it too. The eyes, the breath, the shiver. He hopes he’s right about it. He hopes it’s not fear, exhaustion or stress that makes you react this way. He hopes it’s him. Ah, he hopes—

A distant echo of your words pops in his mind:

~Do you honestly think I’d ever commit to someone who takes interest in ghosts?~

…He winces.

His eyes squeeze shut. He forces himself to pull back.

“Are you hurt?”

“I don’t know”, you manage. “I’m… it’s hazy.”

“What do you need?”

Your voice is barely a whisper.

“Closure. Egon, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I said yesterday.”

“Ah. Chamomile tea, then?”

“Egon…” Your eyes are set but a smile cracks on your lips. “I’m serious. It’s all my fault. I never meant to hurt you, or walk away, or leave you there. It was shitty of me. You deserve loyalty, respect and appreciation, and I behaved like an entitled brat. Please, forgive me.”

“But there’s nothing to forgive. We’re here now, aren’t we?”

“Does it mean…?”

“…you should stay here for protection.” He says. “Your bed is made. I’d say you’ve dressed for the task.”

He watches you realize you’re in crumpled pajamas, then let out a soft laugh— a stark contrast to the remnants of sadness in your eyes. If he’s great at something, it’s antics and he’ll gladly exploit this talent until you're pure sunshine again.

“Even after yesterday?” You ask.

“Especially after yesterday.”

You look like you want to get up: back straightens, your weight slides off Egon’s lap. But then, just as he thinks that’s it, you hesitantly lean forward and nuzzle into the crook of his neck.

“I should really bring my stuff here for the long run, huh?”

It’s meant as a joke but Egon thinks that yes, indeed you should. Preferably under different circumstances.

Oh, boy. What a day. What a night. What a revelation.

You’re cradled in his arms. He’s read half of the forbidden journal. The boys are coming in a few hours.

Somehow Egon’s got a feeling tomorrow is going to be even wilder.

[tinyvesselhearts]

Egon x You bit before I drop the whole thing

He’s on his fifth mug of tea and a third chocolate bar when he hears a loud bang downstairs.

Egon stands up. Frowns. Waits a few seconds and listens in.

There’s a muted echo of footsteps, shy and wary, then complete silence for a moment and then…

“…Hello?”

…You’re here.

Egon runs to the stairs. Hooks the rail, swings and dashes down to the garage in long strides. He looks around and there you stand, right beside the car, unsure, agitated, still. Something’s wrong. Something’s terribly off— your coat’s unfastened, pajama shirt peeks from underneath— you’re shivering, trembling, cold. It’s late at night and you didn’t even bother to grab a scarf. You must be in shock or in danger.

He wastes no time— runs the distance and stops until he can see your face clearly. You look worried, breaths are shallow and they fill the air as clouds of steam.

“What’s wrong?”

Your eyes are glossy.

“…It’s here”, you whisper, shaky. “It’s with me.”

Egon already knew— he knew the moment he saw you— he just didn’t want to believe it. He should’ve stayed. He shouldn’t have left you unguarded—

The PKE meter in his hand scans you head to toe. The contraption is beeping wildly, condensed spiritual presence detected, unmistakable and progressive. Egon shakes his head— not in denial but disbelief.

“…No. Not you”, he says. “Anyone but you.”

You let out a sob— and a laugh— tilt your head backwards and struggle to hold back tears.

“I hate everything about it. Ah… Why don’t I ever listen to wise people?... I should’ve stayed away from ghosts, the stupid books, this job, the journal—”

“Do not confuse avoiding a problem and solving it. I should’ve never left you on your own. Should’ve been wiser about the dangers, I…” Egon’s brows knit, blood threatens to simmer in his veins. “Stupid. Stupid! How could I—”

He needs to throw something on the ground because, seriously— why did he think leaving you in a vulnerable position was ever a good idea— it’s all his darn fault!— Had he urged you to stay the night here, none of this would’ve happened. Yes, you explicitly rejected his offers— and he tried not to overstep because you’re precious and fragile, and he’s nothing if not a gentleman— but seeing you in this state, exhausted to the point of crying is torture.

“Come with me”, he says. “I’ll fix it. I know what to do.”

----

The whole chapter drops today/ tomorrow! I'm revising it <3 Cheers

[lilysketchingsth]

Oh my~ 🫣

[tinyvesselhearts]

this man is my beauty commercial

[tinyvesselhearts]

Egon x Reader coming next week and here's what to expect

👻 Egon's POV

👻 You"possessed" by an Eldritch Horror and scaring him shitless

👻 Protective BAMF Egon who finally realizes his feelings and he's not OK

👻 LOADS of hurt/ comfort

👻 seriously he fell so hard I almost feel sorry for him

I know it's been a long wait but the Chapter's coming up nicely!

[spook-spectre-ghost-deactivated]

Ghostbusters Memes | Part 1/??