#ghostbusters reader insert

It was a regular, snowy day in downtown New York. Ray was in the downstairs of the firehouse, fixing whatever new problem the Ecto-1 had come up with. Janine was reading some magazine with smart shopping tips while Louis was on the phone discussing taxes, the latter having piles of paperwork on his desk. Business during the holiday season usually slowed down, and that meant getting to spend more quality time with the guys. Peter and Winston were engaging in a friendly but competitive game of pool, and Egon was nowhere in sight. He mentioned something about “bringing a surprise” to the station, baffling everyone since Egon certainly wasn’t the surprise type. You sat on the couch, head propped up by your hand, watching as Peter lined up his shot.

"I never understood this game," you said with a yawn.

Winston had a small laugh and shook his head. "It's alright, kid, neither does Pete."

"Hey!" The other man said as he thrust his cue stick, completely butchering the shot in the process. "I just don't play this game often enough, alright, Z? I got no practice,"

You and Winston share a laugh at the expense of your colleague, Peter placed his hand on his chest in feigned offense. Winston took his shot, clearly doing a better job than Peter as the other man had scowled as the ball went into the hole. As the two continue playing, the sound of familiar footsteps enters the second floor. Turning your head, you smile brightly as you finally see your boyfriend Egon. His back was turned, preoccupied with refilling the snack cabinet in the kitchen. As he rummaged through the seven eleven bag, you took the chance of slowly sneaking up behind him to give a surprise hug. The two men playing pool had paused their game to watch you, amused from the sight of seeing you crouch up behind their friend.

“Gotcha!” You yelled as you wrapped your arms around Egon’s torso and chest, placing your chin on his shoulder. Unexpectedly, he was completely frozen, unlike how he would usually turn around to return the hug. Your expression quickly morphed into one of confusion as the seconds passed and he stayed completely still.

“Anyway, Elon, I want you to meet-” You whip your head to the left to see Egon standing next to Ray, both the men having mildly concerned looks on their faces.

“...(Y/N)?” The man you were hugging spoke, his voice only slightly different from Egon’s but you could tell it wasn’t your boyfriend. Hastily taking your arms off him, you spew out apology after apology, face fully red.

“I’m so sorry! God I- I should’ve known the second you didn’t hug me back I-”

Elon waved his hand with a laugh, the other guys in the room except Egon cracking up as well. “No matter, no matter, at least I know my little brother is well loved,” Elon took the liberty of pulling you in for a hug this time, and just like Egon he was surprisingly good at giving them.

Egon’s cheeks turn a light pink color from his brother’s statement as he pulls you in for a hug and forehead kiss. Elon had headed over to the billiard table to greet the two men who ended their pool game. The mood in the room turned joyous as all the guys had not seen Elon in a while, making this occasion a real treat.

“Sorry, Eggs, he really does look a lot like you,” you whispered. He smiles before putting his lips on yours, causing your face to go red once again. Getting kissed by Egon certainly did not get old no matter how many times it happens.

“It’s alright, (Y/N), I missed you too.”

Ray called out, “Hey, lovebirds! Get over here before we finish all the pizza.”

The first thing you take note of is the low modulation of his voice; an unusual pitch that seems to vibrate directly out of his chest. The second is his wide, rigid build. From your chair, he towers over you, and your neck is starting to hurt from stretching uncomfortably (it might just be your overall terrible posture.)

You’ve been staring a little too long so you clear your throat and get up. “And you are? Not that I’m unwilling to lend you a soldering iron but I can’t just give my tools to strangers–”

“Dr. Spengler, I work at the psychology pole of this university,” he interrupts.

He looks at you like you’ve got a stain right in the middle of your forehead. You glance away.

“Psychology? What do you intend to solder? A loose neuron?” You stand up, cracking up a joke nervously.

“I assure you I don’t conduct any dangerous experiments on unwilling subjects.”

Despite the tension, it’s the ‘unwilling’ that does it for you and you let out a chuckle. Finally meeting his eyes, the light frown he adorns is either one of incomprehension or irritation, making you drop the smile immediately.

“Uh–” you croak out before you decide better not to say anything. You both end up looking awkwardly at each other, and time seems to be stretching to amplify your discomfort – and probably his as well. It feels like orbiting a black hole while he’s rushing through the universe at 18.5 miles a second.

Smart enough to be a researcher, stupid enough to ruin a simple conversation.

Fingers fidgety, you walk away to rummage through your closets, taking out the tool and handing it to him. “I do intend to have it back soon, Dr. Spengler.”

There’s a slight hesitation in his hand before he takes it, nodding curtly. In your defense, you do try to smile, even if it’s an uptight, embarrassing attempt. Oddly enough, he doesn’t leave, staring at the iron for a couple of seconds.

Abruptly, he clears his throat, looking intently at your face. “I’m improving a prototype that detects the presence of paranormal entities and directs me to them using a boron-trifluoride counter tube and a platinum electrode.” He doesn’t even take a breath. “A component of the rate meter I installed seems to be defective, and the cable of my soldering iron broke while I was working.”

He comes to a sudden stop, mouth half-opened but doesn’t resume his explanation. At a loss on how to react –and surely gaping at him considering you weren’t expecting to be slapped across the face by a presentation on neutron detectors, you whisper a small: “I see.”

A nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth makes your stomach drop.

“Uh, I mean; you can borrow mine!” You let out a tiny laugh. “I didn’t know psychology doctors also specialized in particle physics, is all.”

What you meant as a light joke to relax him did quite the opposite. He straightens, righting up his glasses one more pointless time. “I have a degree in nuclear engineering,” he states before walking out, leaving you confused and feeling like you’ve spent the entire time offending him unintentionally.

Ground control to Major Tom, your circuit’s dead, there’s something wrong, screams your forgotten Walkman.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Dr. Spengler didn’t come back to your lab after your disastrous first meeting. He did return the iron, though. You simply found it on your desk one morning at seven o'clock, electric cable neatly wrapped around the handle.

You were secretly hoping for the doctor to come back to your lab to hand the iron back, so you could have apologized and asked more about his work, about his degrees… anything really. You had planned the interaction at least thirty times, going through a series of ice-breaking sentences that all relied on the fact that he would be back. He had preferred to avoid you, which couldn’t compel you to go see him yourself. Clearly, you had left a bad impression, and anxiety wouldn’t let you go look for him to apologize.

In the meantime, intrigued by his academic history, you started going through published papers by Dr. Egon – you quickly learned – Spengler. And if you thought you couldn’t get more curious about this mystery of a man, you browsing through numerous seemingly random articles – like ‘Quantum tunneling in anastomosis formations and nuclear exchanges’ – made you raise many eyebrows. Your fascination reached new heights with his brilliant article on ionizing radiation, written in M.I.T. no less. Egon Spengler had become the person you wished to chat with the most yet the most inaccessible.

You can think of a million questions to ask him, a million conversations to have. Why ionizing radiations? Did he have an interest in cosmic particles? Were his studies on gamma radiation related to his microbiology degree? How did he end up working in the psychology aisle of Columbia? Could ectoplasms really be quantified as a network of negatively charged particles?

Your life became filled with thoughts of the doctor, so you blamed it all on professional curiosity and you pushed yourself back into your work. Labs have been deserted by most researchers, preferring to treat themselves to a well-earned vacation. Nothing you can’t agree with in essence but previously attempted vacations had instilled a strong feeling of dread in you: you showed yourself incapable of not visualizing the amount of unfinished work. It’s not as bad as it sounds, really, to be work-obsessed; you love your work. Summer in Columbia is peaceful, solitary but also desperately unstimulating. Researching alone is undoubtedly slower, especially in your field, and knowing there’s an ideal candidate for some great brainstorming a few buildings away is nerve-wracking.

After an entire month going by with no new interaction with Dr. Spengler – not even sighting him at the corner of a corridor, the awkwardness that made him run away fuels your guilt. However, the opportunity of meeting again with Dr. Spengler comes unexpectedly. It comes with a mandatory meeting with the dean of the academy.

“You’ve been summoned as well, uh?”

You snap out of your social distancing trance. “Sorry?”

Next to you stands another professor with an easygoing smile and a relaxed stance. “Dean Yaeger. He likes to summon us like he’s royalty,” he jokes followed by a low staccato of a laugh.

“Oh,” you pointlessly say. “Yeah, he tends to do that.”

He offers his hand, showing another pearly-white-toothed smile. “I’m Dr. Ray Stantz, department of psychology.”

You offer your name back as you shake his hand. “Department of Physics.”

“Neat.” Dr. Stantz grins. “You should drop by our aisle sometimes. Spengs has a degree in physics; I’m sure you’ll get along well.”

“Who?”

“Dr. Egon Spengler, my colleague and friend.”

“Oh.” How you despise idle chatting. “I know him. He came to my lab to borrow a soldering iron about a month ago.”

“Venkman – our other colleague, forced him to go ask; he was so grumpy after being stopped in the middle of his experiment.” Dr. Stantz sure does enjoy making conversation. “He returned it, right?”

You have the impression he already knows the answer. “Yes, he did.”

“What field of physics do you specialize in by the way?” he asks excitedly. You have to say his jolly attitude is endearing, slowly getting you more at ease.

“High-energy physics.”

“That’s amazing, man. ‘actually wish I knew more about it. You should definitely swing by our lab soon. You can take a look at what we’ve–”

“Ah. Dr. Stantz.” Dean Yeager has the most distasteful expression on his face. “You may come in.”

Dr. Stantz gives you an apologetic look as Yaeger nods at you. You remain standing in front of the door, anxiety spiking up. Now you have no other choice than to go, or it’ll be rude, right?

Shit.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It took you more than a week of conditioning to get your ass moving, leading you, once more, in front of a closed door. You have to say, this part of the psychology department is far from what you’ve imagined. You wonder what Dr. Stantz, Dr. Venkman, and Dr. Spengler did to offend Dean Yaeger to the point of being located in the university equivalent of a demilitarized zone. No wonder they need to borrow equipment from the physics department. The bright red ‘Burn in hell Venkman’ tagged on the door isn’t the most welcoming sight either.

You reluctantly raise your hand and knock four times. The shuffling you hear inside almost makes you run away. But thankfully – or miserably you’re still unsure about that one, an unknown man opens the door. Dr. Venkman, you guess.

A lazy smile stretches on his face. “Can I help you?” There’s a low edge to his voice, something that’s intended and practiced.

You try not to come out as too appalled. “I’m looking for Dr. Spengler.”

Dr. Venkman raises an eyebrow, and you immediately chastise yourself. At that moment, you see Dr. Spengler popping his head behind him and you lose your train of thought… and your words. “Uh, Dr. Stantz told me to–”

Dr. Venkman opens his eyes almost comically wide, pivoting slowly between Dr. Spengler and yourself. “Aaal-right. You know what; I have to meet up with Veronica of the literature department so– I’ll leave you guys to it.” He claps obnoxiously on his friend’s shoulder before departing, sliding past you while whistling some tune.

You watch him go, slightly distracted when Dr. Spengler grabs your attention again. “Dr. Stantz isn’t here today.”

“Ah, I see…” No wait–

“He’ll be here tomorrow at 8 am.” He angles his body towards the inside of the room like he’s wanting to go back to what he was previously doing.

“Actually,” you force out, heart at the edge of your lips. “I wanted to apologize to you.”

Only the small widening of his eyes behind his frames indicates his surprise because his voice remains soft-spoken. “Apologize for?”

Better to be honest than invent a stupid excuse he’ll probably spot immediately. “Yes, I clearly made you uncomfortable last time. I was only trying to idle-chat, but I’m terrible at it.”

“What makes you think you made me uncomfortable?” Dr. Spengler asks.

A few seconds pass. “…because I went out of my way by questioning whether or not you had the knowledge to speak about particle physics?”

“Did you?” You realize he’s probably genuinely asking, not as a way to rile you up but as a way to understand. Somehow, it calms your nerves. Just a little.

“No,” you say. “I’m sorry… you just looked upset when you left.”

He faces you completely this time, taking his time to answer. “Then I’m the one apologizing. I was grateful for your help, but I failed to show it.”

Some part of you wonders if it’s entirely true. You brush it off. “It’s alright. I guess we’re not good at understanding social cues, uh?”

He seems to be pondering something. “I’ve been told that before.”

You chuckle. There’s a tension off his shoulders, and you thank Dr. Stantz internally.

“I’m actually working on a prototype of particle thrower. Your input would be appreciated.”

I bite the eraser end of my pencil as I continue to look at the morning crossword, "My cousin's wedding is next week."

Janine perks up, her morning coffee seeming to hit her all at once, "You still haven't found a date? I thought you were going out with that journalist guy."

"I was! But he was--" A complete jackass. "He wasn't the one."

Janine rolls her eyes, "You weren't looking for 'the one', (y/n). Just a date for one night."

I sigh, shoving the blasted newspaper away from me. "I know! But I would love to show up to a family event with a man I like for once. I'm sure my extended family all think I'm hopeless at this point. You know, I haven't taken the same guy to any event I'm permitted a plus one? It's pathetic..."

Usually, I didn't care too much about being single. I wasn't afraid to go alone to dinner or the movies... I didn't really think about it that often unless I was invited to something and had to scramble to find a date. Then it mattered a whole lot!

Dating wasn't something I bothered with often outside of events anyways... but it would be nice for once to be with someone who actually liked me! 

The men I went out with were all interesting on a surface level sort of way, but none of them seemed to see me as much more than a... date. I wanted someone who wanted to know about my day, wanted to know about my stories! Who wanted to be a friend alongside being a lover.

Maybe, it was silly to think I could find this perfect guy; maybe it was a concept only found in romance novels. But, part of me wanted to believe this perfect man, perfect man for me, existed.

Janine puts her hand on mine in an attempt to comfort me, "You're preaching to the choir."

Laughter escapes my lips, "I'm being silly. I'll just call Paul, the journalist, and ask if he wants to go..."

"If you don't like the guy, don't invite him. I'm sure you can find someone else before next Friday."

"You're probably right. He was such a jerk last time I saw him. I can't imagine introducing a man like him to my parents. They'd be impressed for a moment, with his job and all, but by the end of the night, they'd think I was crazy for inviting him to Chrissy's wedding."

"What did he do? If you don't mind me asking." Janine leans forward, interested in the little tidbit of information I'd give out about my love life.

I shrug, "It's silly, but he made fun of my job. He just thinks the whole 'ghostbusting' business is silly. A non-believer. I told him to bother someone else if he ever encountered a spirit. He didn't like that, you know?"

Janine laughs, "You'd think after the boys saved New York City, more of the non-believers would have given that up."

"I swear some of these men are just jealous, though. Paul may have a good job, but he doesn't get to be the hero. It's gross how insecure they can get over silly jealousies."

Taking a sip of coffee, Janine nods her head, "Say, maybe one of the guys will go with you."

I snort, "I don't think they want to go to a family wedding with me, Janine. Besides, I think I'd be stepping over some sort of line asking my employers out."

Janine rolls her eyes, "Oh (y/n). You don't see so many things that are right in front of you."

What the hell did that mean?

"Pardon?"

She shakes her head, "Nevermind. I just remembered I said I'd file some stuff for Peter." Janine gets up with her coffee in hand, leaving me at the kitchen table with my thoughts.

What could she have meant by me not seeing things in front of me?

***

The day draws on slower than usual. The only call of the day ended up being a dud. Just an old woman who believed her meddlesome cat stuck in her attic was a spirit.

I'm about to pack up my stuff to leave when I get the feeling that I'm being watched. Looking up, I see Ray at the bottom of the staircase.

Setting my bag back on the table, I ask, "Ray? Do you need something? I was just about to leave, but I'm sure I can help."

He hesitates before walking up to my desk, "No, I don't need anything."

"Oh," I smile, "Well, good night then."

"Wait--" He looks at me with desperation in his eyes.

I pause once again, "Yes?"

Ray's cheeks are suddenly pink, "I overheard you and Janine in the kitchen this morning."

My eyes widen, "Oh--"

"Wait, let me speak," Ray doesn't look me in the eye, opting to look down at the desk in front of him, "I wanted to know if you'd be interested in letting me take you to your cousin's wedding."

I blink at him, "You want to be my plus one for the wedding? Are you sure--? My family's overbearing, and they may think we're dating if I brought you--"

"Would that be so bad? If they thought that?"

No. It wouldn't be the worst thing if they thought I was dating Ray. He was smart, funny, and very charming. He would be an excellent boyfriend... Wait--

"Um... would this be a date to a wedding or a date to a wedding?"

He scratches the back of his neck, "I was uh--" he clears his throat, "--hoping it would be the latter..."

A small smile creeps across my face, "You're asking me out. How long have you... I mean, I had no idea."

"A while now. So is that a yes--?" He looks at me with hopeful eyes.

I'm interested, I really am. I just didn't think Ray would be interested in someone like me. He was well educated, and I dropped out of college after one semester! Besides, women seemed to flock to him whenever we went out. He could really have anyone.

Why shouldn't I try to catch an intelligent and wonderful man like Ray? "Pick me up at four on Saturday? The reception starts at five."

He smiles. I feel warmth fill my chest. Maybe, this was the start of something wonderful.

***

Nerves fill me as I apply my makeup in my bathroom mirror. I shouldn't be nervous! I was going out with Ray. Ray, who was sweet and funny. He would be a great date. And maybe that's why I'm so nervous! What if I'm the terrible date? What if he finds me boring or stupid? I can never keep up when he and Egon get to talking about whatever science thing they're obsessed with. 

I'm completely out of my league here!

The ringing doorbell breaks me from my panic.

Taking one last glance at myself in the mirror, I walk the short distance to open the front door.

Ray's standing in the hallway dressed in a light grey suit, holding a small bouquet of pink carnations. He, unsuitably, racks his eyes down my figure. "Hi, these are for you."

I take the flowers from him, "You didn't have to--"

"Please, (y/n), I wanted to. I hope you like carnations."

"They're beautiful." I'm sure I have a goofy smile plastered on my face, but hardly anyone has ever bought me flowers. "Let me go put them in a vase, and then we can leave."

***

The wedding is beautiful. Chrissy and her new husband Rick look deliriously happy as they greet their guests. It makes me hopeful for a future where I can look as lovesick and happy as them.

Sneaking a quick glance at Ray, I wonder if that future would involve him. I'm getting ahead of myself. This was the first date, after all.

"Do you want something to drink?" Ray asks when we find our assigned seats.

"A glass of the white wine, please." I watch as Ray walks towards the bar. So far, none of my family have ventured over, which is good! 

I'm pleasantly surprised over this revelation until I see cousin Laurie walking towards me. 

Drat--

"Who's your date, (y/n)?" My cousin Laurie sits down in Ray's seat. She's heavily pregnant with her third child and absolutely glowing as always.

"Uh--" How should I introduce him? "Ray Stantz."

She frowns, "Wait-- The one you work for? The Ghostbuster?"

I nod. I was afraid this would become a sort of spectacle... The Ghostbusters often attracted admiration and interest when brought up, never mind one actually being in a room full of curious people.

"Yes, the Ghostbuster." I leave out the bit about working for him as it sounds sleazy, me taking the boss out. Oh, jesus christ--

Laurie gives me an impressed look, "Your boss, eh? I didn't know you had it in you--"

"Don't you dare, Laur. I am not sleeping with the boss. This is strictly a first date."

"So it is a date then?"

I want to smack myself, "Don't go around telling people he's a Ghostbuster, please. I just want to have a normal night and see where this goes."

Laurie nods, resting her hand on her belly, "Who knows. Maybe next year, this fuss will be all about you."

"Laur! Please!" I want to hide. I knew they'd get like this, my family. Always interested in my personal life.

"Sorry, sorry. Looks like Mr. Ghostbuster's on his way back here. Say, could you introduce me to my future cousin-in-law?"

"I swear to god, Laurie--"

Ray's standing in front of us before I can threaten her properly, "Here's your wine."

I grin up at him, "Thank you." We sit for a moment in awkwardness.

"Aren't you going to introduce me?" Laurie asks, face full of fake annoyance.

"Sorry," I turn to Ray, "This is my cousin Laurie. Laurie, this is my-- date, Ray."

"It's a pleasure," Ray smiles politely at my obnoxious relative. I did warn him. It's really all I could do for him.

"It's a pleasure to meet you as well, Ray." Laurie smiles at him like he's prey. Oh, you evil thing. What on Earth were you planning on saying? "You really must meet our auntie Penny, Ray. She's such a delightful old woman, and I'm sure she'd love to meet you."

Ray looks at me. "I'm sure that can happen later, Laur. But, I think they're about to serve dinner."

Laurie stands slowly from the chair, "I ought to find my husband and kids. More like wrangle them into their chairs. It was so nice to meet you, Ray."

"Likewise."

When Laurie's made her way back to her table, and we've settled into our seats, I apologize, "She's a handful. But, she's really wonderful once you get to know her." I realize how presumptuous I sound after the words come out of my mouth. Why am I talking to him as if he'll even want to know my family in that way? "I mean--"

"I look forward to it."

I smile into my glass of wine, feeling that sudden rush of giddiness overcome me.

Dinner is served, and our conversation dies down a tad as we eat. The food is magnificent. Chrissy had gushed about Rick's restaurant plenty of times. If this was Rick's creation, he really was a magnificent chef.

"Chrissy's husband Rick is the head chef at Arch. You know, the new place everyone's raving about recently?"

"The place Peter couldn't get a reservation for himself and Dana at?"

I laugh, "The very one."

Ray raises his brow in amusement, "You're telling me you know the head chef, and you didn't offer Pete any help?"

Waving my hand dismissively, I laugh, "He gets perks everywhere in life. He doesn't need my help."

"But, you could, let's say get us a table at Arch next Saturday at seven?"

Avoiding his eyes, I say, "I could talk to Chrissy. That is if you still want to go out with me after you meet my auntie Penny."

Ray chuckles, "Your relatives can't scare me off that easily."

He sounds so confident now, but wait till he meets Auntie Penny. If she doesn't scare him off, I'll be both surprised and immensely pleased. This could be the real deal.

***

After the bride and groom cut the cake, I reluctantly take Ray over to meet Auntie Penny, who has been eyeing me for the past hour. I know the woman is curious about this new man. She's always curious about the new man. Never once has she liked or approved of the men I brought to our family events.

She means well, I know she does, but I wish I didn't care about her opinion as much as I do. It would make my life easier for sure.

"Auntie Penny?" I say semi-loudly due to the music that's begun to play on the dance floor.

"Oh! Hello dear," she lets me hug her, "How are you dear?"

"I'm fine, thank you. How are you?"

"As good as I've ever been." She eyes Ray silently, "Who is this dear?"

"Doctor Ray Stantz. It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am." He takes her hand, shaking it politely.

Auntie Penny looks pleased before instructing us to sit down with her. We oblige, with me sitting the closest to my aunt and Ray in the chair to my left.

"So, Ray, tell me what do you do for work."

Oh, jesus. Of course, she's asking this question. 

Without missing a beat, Ray explains his job as a Ghostbuster. I'm surprised that Auntie Penny doesn't look dismissive, only listening intently. She hadn't given the same sort of reaction the last time I introduced a man who worked for the New York Yankees marketing department. Apparently, ghostbusting was a much more appropriate career than marketing in Auntie's eyes.

"Forgive me for the asking, but didn't you introduce yourself as a doctor? If your job is capturing ghosts, where does the doctor title come into play?"

"I obtained a Ph.D. in parapsychology from Columbia. The ghostbusting is more of an interest that became a career."

If I wouldn't look ridiculous, I would applaud him for that answer as my aunt doesn't look like she finds him absurd. 

"Interesting."

***

I send Ray off to get another drink so I may talk to my aunt in private for a moment. 

When he's well out of earshot, I ask the question that's been sitting in my stomach uncomfortably, "What do you think?"

"About what, dear?"

Pesky old-woman... "About Ray. Do you-- like him?"

Her face betrays no emotion, letting me stew in my nerves for a beat, "I do. I think he's very nice. I'm not so sure on the whole ghostbusting thing, but he's the one with a P.h.D., so who am I to judge."

"Do you really?" I grin, holding onto her boney hand.

"Yes, dear. Are you planning on marry--"

"Auntie! I've only just begun to date him!"

She brushes off the comment, "It's never too early to know these things."

I fight the urge to look away, "I don't want to get my hopes up so soon."

Auntie Penny pats my hand, "If you want my input, I think we'll be planning another wedding very soon."

***

Ray holds me tight as the DJ starts up a slow song.

Fingers tighten at my waist, "So did I pass the tests?"

"What--"

"Your cousins, you aunt... I'm assuming they do this to every guy you bring around."

I laugh, "They're horrible, aren't they? Always prying..."

"It's just because they care."

I adjust my hands around his neck, "They do."

"Did I pass your test?"

Tilting my head, I say, "I wasn't testing you."

Ray grins, "But if you were, would I have passed?"

"We'll have to see how the rest of the night goes, I suppose." My smile gives me away, though, I think. If I were testing him, he passed with flying colors.

My heart pounds in my chest as his gaze flickers to my lips. Was he going to kiss me? I really wanted him to kiss me. I have half a mind to tell him that kissing me would significantly help his odds of 'passing my test'.

His voice is just above a whisper as he finally asks, "Can I--?"

"Yes, yes," I lean up, pressing my lips against his. It feels like coming home, like I've been missing out on something that was right there in front of me the whole time, and I've finally found it.

Ray's hands press me closer as the kiss deepens. I've kissed plenty of men before, but this was magic. 

It was perhaps rather ridiculous to the outside view that you and Erin Gilbert had yet to get together. From the point of view of those around you such as Holtzmann it was very obvious to see that you both liked each other.

Erin was even more awkward than usual and not in the simple way she acted around Kevin out of sheer attraction, with you it was more awkward due to an over thinking of everything she did. She constantly questioned what she did, what she said, how she looked around you, it was an ever present need to impress you because you were great...like really great and pretty and funny and just...she liked you and her ability to fumble around you was obvious to everyone but you. 

On your end you found yourself trying your best to hide how you felt, to keep the giggles and long looks hidden, to pretend that she wasn’t wonderful and didn’t have a ridiculous effect on you despite the fact you were an adult woman. It seemed ridiculous to you that you had a crush as if you were 12 all over again when you were a fully grown adult. You didn’t hide your feelings that well, however, the others noticed, constantly teased you usually around Erin which was far too close for comfort. 

The others had tried everything the time they locked the both of you into a closet, the time they made sure they were all unavailable to leave you two alone to eat food together, the ‘accidental’ shoves, the fake love letter...really they’d tried most things in an attempt to get the two of you to admit your feelings and just go out on a date because it was getting really annoying at this point to watch.

“Look i’m just gonna say it.” You and Erin were walking towards the ‘lab’/work area you guys had set up above the Chinese restaurant when you heard Patty and the others whispering or rather stage whispering.

“It’s not ours to tell!”

“Abby! We’ve been dealing with this for months just let Patty tell them. It’s not like it’s going to end badly!”

“You never know!”

“What are you three talking about?” You asked as you entered the room, bag of takeout in your hand. They all stopped still before Holtzmann pushed Patty forward with a shove. 

“So...uh, we just...you see, you guys...” 

“Patty?” You watched the other woman take in a deep breath before letting out everything in one go, surprisingly clear enough for you to hear. 

“Y/N Erin likes you! Erin Y/N likes you!” You’re first response was to question whether or not you’d actually heard what she said right, it wasn’t until you looked at the shock on Erin’s face that you realised she had actually said that.

“You...you like me?” You turned your attention to Erin, it didn’t matter that Patty had said it. Patty wasn’t Erin. Erin was the only one who could tell you the truth and have you genuinely believe it. 

“Um....yes...and you?”

“Yeah...”

“Oh, well that’s...that’s great...” The two of you stared at each other for a beat before grinning. It was ridiculous that it had taken Patty opening her mouth for either of you to notice the other’s feelings, to even say anything. The whole situation was ridiculous.

“Do you want to get coffee? Like now?”

“Yeah, and Patty we’re going to have a discussion later about letting out sensitive information!”

Why you ended up at Egon’s place you have no idea. Well, you do know how – most of the files were his after all and you couldn’t let Dr. Stantz handle the walking up five flights of stairs on his own. Plus, Egon wanted to look back at some old papers of his; something about a new plan of approach concerning the storage facility issue. So, there you stood, looking around awkwardly as Dr. Stantz retrieved the last box downstairs. It was a simple apartment, messy and not intended to be anything more than an occasional place to sleep – or, surprisingly, a fungus breeding farm.

Your questioning gaze certainly didn’t go unnoticed. “I collect spores and fungi,” he explained.

“Neat.” You didn’t really think before you carried on, “Is that why you studied microbiology?”

“…amongst other things,” Egon said, looking slightly surprised. “I didn’t realize you knew.”

“Uh,” you trailed off. “I’ve read your papers.”

“All of them?”

Can it get any more embarrassing than that? “…might have.”

He didn’t answer and you thanked him internally for it. The visit was short and to the point, Egon clearly looking uncomfortable having other people trespass into his space. That’s what you kept telling yourself anyway, not especially fond of diving back into the whole ‘I’m an embarrassment to myself, him, and society’ spiral.

In itself, routine didn’t change much. You kept doing most of your research at the university, exchanging with the different professors of the lab, giving your opinions on the students’ ongoing thesis and avoiding Dean Yaeger. Then, you’d meet with the doctors after work to discuss the improvements of the containment facility. But the more the days went by, the more Egon’s temper seemed to flare. Not in the usual, explosive or passive-aggressive nature but in the dwindling of words, and the psychosomatic tremor of his eyelid. You hadn’t been truly able to understand why, when, or how.

Which led you to your actual predicament.

“I don’t think it’ll work, Egon.”

Sitting at a desk, you scratch an equation, staring dejectedly at the example of ‘ionization radiation decay meter’ Egon sketched. The man himself has taken his glasses off and pressed his eyes to alleviate his migraine. “We’ll have to include the system later,” he concedes, looking crossed. “I have to analyze today’s samples.”

After downing the cup of cold coffee you forgot on the desk with a disgusted grimace, you slouch on your chair. You watch Egon from the corner of your eye, busy staring and typing on his computer. He lets out an uncharacteristic annoyed noise.

“Not good?” you ask.

“Like I thought, it’s exponential.” He sighs. “Two days ago, PKE was three times less important than today.”

“Something big on the horizon.”

“Yes,” he says.

This tense atmosphere has you overly cautious as if one wrong word could make this artificial veil of normalcy shatter. It makes your skin crawl, inadequately feeling like your mere presence is making things worse. Leaving his computer behind to sit on the couch, he browses through the results he printed. His tiredness is noticeable even from where you are. You’re about to say something when Venkman comes waltzing in, his energy clashing with the general atmosphere of the room, which he notices immediately.

“Well, well,” he says in a singsong tone. “Who are we burying today?”

Egon doesn’t grace him with an answer, only with a glare before looking back at his results.

“It’s been a long day, I guess,” you answer truthfully to loosen the tension.

Venkman, always in theatrics, opens his arms wide. “Look who we’ve got here! Hello there.” He has his usual smirk on. “You’ve been hanging ‘round here more often.”

“Hello, Dr. Venkman.” You smile. “Just trying to help Egon.”

“And why aren’t we on a first-name basis?”

You certainly don’t voice aloud that you don’t want to give him any ideas, which he gets well enough on his own. Egon, for its part, is frowning so hard his eyebrows have merged with the frame of his glasses. You can almost imagine a big molten hole where his eyes are boring through the paper.

“Egon kindly proposed,” you explain.

“Wow, you guys,” Venkman exclaims. You frown at him, confused. “Congrats, Spengie! Don’t forget the invitation.”

This snaps Egon out of his sulking trance, face hardening at Venkman’s inappropriate comment.

“He kindly offered,” you interject, trying your best to look unfazed at the innuendo and to avoid an act of crime against humanity. “You, however, take everything for granted.”

Venkman whistles – which makes you want to strangle him – but at least Egon doesn’t look like he’s going to jump at his throat from across the room anymore.

“Damn, snarky today, uh? Let’s start over then.” Despite his mocking tone, he walks near you and extends a hand that you look at dubiously. “Hi, the name’s Peter.”

A small part of you doesn’t want to shake his hand, just to rile him up but you still do. Strangely enough, there’s an endearing quality to his man, when he wants to.

“Nice to meet you, Peter.”

The man lets out a pleased chuckle. “Now, now, I’m not trying to get you two to leave but this man–” He tugs at his collar. “–has a date tonight and he will be singing in the shower. So, if you want some peace and quiet, now would be a good time to go play in the basement.”

You scoff. “You’ve got a date.”

Venkman seems either completely oblivious or completely disinterested in your tone. “With a sweet creature called Dana Barrett.”

“Don’t forget to ask her about Zuul, Peter,” Egon says, snapping out of his good ten minutes of selective mutism.

Venkman disappears into their common room. “Did I say date?” he shouts. “I meant work meeting.”

True to his words, he starts singing a bad rendition of Queen of Hearts, making sure to annoy the whole building. Even if it grates on your nerves, it’s fascinating to witness this clutter of a place, with such different personas stacked on top of each other. You’ve never heard the story of how the three of them ended up being best buddies and judging by Egon’s closed-up face, today wouldn’t be the day you ask.

After five minutes of excruciating vocalizations, he puts down his results, standing up from the couch. You eye him curiously. “Where’ you going?”

“The basement.”

You frown, standing up. “You know; I don’t think he was serious.”

“I have readings to do downstairs,” he answers shortly.

He walks towards the stairs but stops, pivoting slightly towards you without meeting your eyes. The prickling sensation at the back of your brain is back. You can’t wrap your head around the contrast between his high-strung demeanor and his unspoken invitation to follow him. The confusion suddenly feels too heavy.

“Egon.” He looks up and you’re not expecting the flatness of his expression, how detached he’s looking. “Are you angry?”

It sounds stupid in your own ears, a ridiculous childish question but it’s out of your mouth before you can think about it. Words are wonderful incentives, you think, but sometimes, they just end up pushing people away.

Egon frowns, still not entirely facing you. “No.”

“Then–”

Venkman comes back into the room, whistling loudly. “Still there, lovebirds?”

You turn to answer him but you’re cut off by the loud steps of Egon hurtling down the stairs, leaving you staring dumbly at the invisible trail he left behind. There’s an uncomfortable silence as you frown, heart beating loudly for a reason you can’t really pinpoint. Venkman stands there, undoubtedly conscious of having said the wrong thing.

“Don’t worry, he’s cranky when he doesn’t have his nap.”

You decide to simply gather your belongings and leave. “I’ll come back in a few days.”

Even if Venkman offers to buy you a taxi, you decide to use the subway and as you stare without seeing at the dirty walls of New York’s underground tunnels, you realize that perhaps you’re starting to care a little too much.

Just a tad too much.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Awakening of Gozer

Perhaps you shouldn’t have gone home that day.

For when you heard that in less than twenty-four hours, the Ghostbusters headquarters exploded and that a cloud of psychokinetic energy appeared above Manhattan, you felt that ‘are you angry’ were stupid words to say to somehow you might never see again.

You stand in front of your TV as journalists follow the Ghostbusters’ car through the streets of New York, crowd in a standing ovation. You feel restless as you look through your window, watching the sky turning dark and the full-blown light show the ghosts seem to be throwing downtown. Even when the black clouds dissipate – reminding everyone that it was barely three in the afternoon, you stare, left leg bouncy, at the screen for the final cry of the crowd, hoping, praying, that it’d be of joy.

You’re not truly sure of the feelings rushing through you when they leave this building, dirtied but alive. As soon as you see their proud faces, you turn off the TV, and lay down on the couch, breathing deeply. You close your eyes and contemplate the labyrinth of paths life could have taken in the last two hours. When ten p.m. rolls out, you stand up, driven by some unknown force out of your apartment. Somehow, the sky still holds the purple hues of the paranormal manifestation that plagued New York this evening, ribbons of ghost energy glowing like winter lights and casting discreet colors on the buildings. Tomorrow, you’ll look back at the usual grayish streaks of pollution and everything will feel like a long fever dream.

It’s silly the way the heart and the brain latch on to these human connections like they’re starving. It’s unfortunate, truly. Unfortunate how walking through the chill of the busy streets leads you to his place; a sanctum at the top of a dirty building. And it’s scary how unable you are to stay away, – now and every day – especially when emotions are all over the place; fear in your stomach, anxiety in your loins, need – this unshakable need — in your heart: terrible, voracious, heavy in your limbs as you drag your exhausted body up the stairs. Knocking on the door is, weirdly enough, more nerve-wracking than having witnessed their improbable excursion on television. Egon opens the door, all intrigued eyes and furrowed brows; dressed so casually it seems unreal.

“I know it’s not the time, and that you don’t like people in your space,” you mumble. “But I was— “

Egon steps away from the doorway, inviting you in silently, and it’s almost reluctantly that you step inside. It’s dimly lit but you notice opened notebooks on his table next to three empty mugs.

“Was I interrupting?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

“No,” Egon answers to your surprise. “I was only writing down what happened tonight.”

You hum. “I saw it on TV.”

He gestures to you to take a seat. From your chair, you can see Egon busying himself with his small fungus farm, touching the caps of his mushrooms with the tips of his fingers. “You know; I think you deserve a rest, after saving the city and all.”

“I believe we saved the world.”

The emphasis doesn’t go unnoticed. You chuckle nervously, having found a deep interest in a stain on the floor. “I wonder if your Sumerian God would have been able to conquer the world as a hundred-foot-tall marshmallow man.”

“Gozer is a powerful entity,” he says. “They would have brought the apocalypse on our world.”

“But now it’s gone, eh?” The unusual silence makes you look up at him.  

“We’ve only destroyed a vessel and a portal. There might be more somewhere.”

“Well…” You try to rationalize. “Good thing the Ghostbusters will always be there.”

Egon stills, staring without looking as if he’s debating inside: is it true? Will it be true? Will I do anything to honor this promise? You decide to drop the subject.

“So, how does one destroy the portal of a God? ’Sounds like a lot of molecular bounds to break.”

“We crossed the streams.”

You freeze.

“…I thought you shouldn’t do that, like ever.” It’s easier to fake some lightheartedness in your tone than to face how a simple slip of fate could have made this improvised late-night meeting impossible.

“It did work.”

It’s harder to swallow as if he could suddenly vanish in front of your very eyes, taken away by some dark entity; as if every single particle of his being could disappear forever as they annihilate their counterpart. A total protonic reversal, that’s what Dr. Stantz had said. You unwillingly explore this possibility: how you, safely at home, wouldn’t have known about their utter and complete destruction until the ridiculous vessel of a Sumerian God turned on the city and brought the apocalypse upon the world. Perhaps after a few hours, perhaps after a day, you would have accepted the fact that they had lost. Or you’d have watched an explosion of unimaginable scale, staring blindly at the death of thousands of people and the loss of what became a constant in your life.

You stand up, trying to get rid of the restless energy that has been buzzing underneath your skin for two days now.

“Oh yes, proton-antiproton collisions are usually effective at killing everything around.” You sigh, trying to squash down the trembling in your voice, leaning against his desk. “Even if you weren’t already dead by the annihilation of your own molecules, the explosion would have finished the job.”

But it’s pointless to remind him of what he already knows. Egon still faces his farm but his mechanical movements have stopped. You say, “You’re more of a jackass than I thought.”

“The chances of surviving were low, I’ll admit.”

“No shit,” you mutter lowly. “Bless the uncertainty principle.”

His small cocky smile is an unexpected but welcomed sight. “Quantum theory has never been truly challenging for me.”

It startles a laugh out of you. “You might want to revise your judgment, then.”

Putting down whatever kind of instrument he has been using, he walks closer and leans on the spot next to you; an unusual decision, perhaps even an unspoken attempt at consolation. It’s funny because you’ve never stood this close, ever. There’s always been something between you: a room, a desk, Venkman, your apprehension, his awkwardness… As his shoulder brushes against yours, your heart soars with uneasiness but as soon as you let your bubble of comfort merge with his, it becomes the most natural thing in the world. Only then, at this very instant, does your heartbeat finally slow down, does the gnawing sensation at the pit of your stomach dissipate… leaving you to wonder when it’ll all pop.

“You haven’t told me the purpose of your visit,” Egon says after some time, always traveling the universe at the speed of light.

“Ah yes.” There it is. “I was restless.” He looks at you intently. “It just occurred to me that our last meeting hasn’t been entirely— agreeable.”

You stare at the ground. “I would have preferred not to have left on bad terms.”

“You were worried I wouldn’t come back.” It sounds like an epiphany.

He says ‘I’ and not ‘we’, and you would have liked for his social ineptitude to take a step forward for once, and not his ridiculously sharp sense of observation.

“Well… It’s normal, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t answer. You wish for the world to be ‘normal’ again, or at least the isolated system of your mental landscape. The disruption in the former entity of your thoughts morphs your behaviors, your habits, making you a slave to the random bursts of emotions you’d like to see buried. This energy stays right there, bound by thermodynamics and your fixations. Perhaps this PKE, this conscience energy is the reason for it all.

“I’m afraid that all of this–” You make a half-hearted movement of the arm. “–will disappear.”

“The world?” He asks.

“No. Yes. I mean…“ You swallow. “Here, right now. I’m afraid I’ll wake up in the morning to realize that it’s all gone.”

“I don’t think reality will end during the night.”

You don’t feel like expanding on those uncomfortable feelings so you entertain the idea. “We were about to be wiped out by a God from distant times. If ghosts are proof of anything, it’s that time is meaningless. It could very well end in a few hours.”

Egon doesn’t answer. You let out a sigh. “It’s irrational.”

“Perhaps,” he says after some time. “But fears usually are.”

“People usually fear tangible things, like, I don’t know, ghosts.”

“Ghosts aren’t material per se–”

You chuckle, looking at him. “I knew you’d say that.”

It’s complicated, this situation; how his literal words comfort you in unsuspected ways. It should be annoying, saddening even, to harbor such feelings for someone who lives miles away in his own head of equations, schematics and paranormal theories. You question your behavior, wondering if, in the end, he’s not just another new thing to fixate upon, if he’s not just another unanswered question on your long list of interrogations about life, the universe and everything. If that’s the case then, you can just move on.

“It’s late,” he states.

Perhaps, you can move on. “Yes, I’m gonna go.”

You gather your bag, breaking the fallacy of closeness you had. If the painful torpor your heart is in is any indication, is that it – whatever it is – goes beyond a fixation, but you don't want to confront any of this...

“Goodbye, Egon.”

…unless it’s to run away.

It’s a goodbye, you convince yourself, pushed closer by a disillusioned thought and a hint of desperation. On his face, you can read a plethora of interrogations, each for one flicker of a lid, for one shift of an eye; unique movements as his body stays right in place. It spurs you on, makes you cross the remaining distance between you. And as you place your hand on his arm to not buckle under the pressure, you give a single kiss; a furtive indulgence at the corner of his lips. Something that could be more, something that could be nothing.

You haven’t meant to meet his eyes, but it all seemed inescapable when he didn’t even close them in the first place while you hid safely behind the opaque screen of your lids. It’s confusion, likely a little bit of recoil… You burn brighter from a single kiss, a torch shining a little light on him too, but as adrenaline slips away, you’re faced with darkness again. There’s nothing you can fault him for as it’s your own two legs that took you there in the first place. It’s your own weak heart that pushed you up those stairs as everything else was dragged down by gravity.

You’re out of his apartment as quickly as you can. You know that if you abuse this kindness, your wider smile and warmer face will be the devil’s work; the consequence of pillaging of benevolence you wouldn’t be able to bring yourself to stop. Even with genuine motions, his telltale beat will never follow yours, and even the strongest, wildest embers won’t alienate it faster. You will be a parched man facing a mirage, a moth to an ephemeral flame that will love everything until it’s consumed. But a flame doesn’t love back and love is a sin for the ones that feel it the most.

Putting down a box labeled ‘Electronics’ on his trolley with a loud crashing noise – which makes you wince, he starts making his way out of the room, smacking your flank in the process.

“You do know those items partially belong to the researchers working here,” you argue, clutching your side and standing in front of him. “You can’t just take them without permission.”

“Listen, I’ve been asked to remove this stuff, ok? So move out of the way.”

You swallow back your irritation, ready to conjure up every ounce of antagonism, but you’re halted in your need for confrontation by a giddy tone.

“Ah, Professor.”

You turn back to face an uncharacteristically smirking Dean Yaeger: a self-satisfied smug that would deserve to be wiped right out of his face. It makes you fear the worst.

“I’m sorry to announce to you that Dr. Stanz, Dr. Venkman, and Dr. Spengler have departed our university,” he declares, voice devoid of any empathy.

“Departed?” you ask. “Did they quit?”

“Oh no,” he laughs. “We’ve terminated their contracts. The psychology pole deserves better than three frauds ridiculing our university.”

It is, indeed, the worst that could happen. Baffled, you watch as the dean gives directions to the workers with a large smile. You’ve never wanted to hit someone more.

“Frauds?” you scoff, trailing behind him. “Dr. Stantz has a doctorate in parapsychology, so does Dr. Venkman. Dr. Spengler graduated from this very university and possesses several diplomas notably in nuclear engineering and psychology. What makes you possibly think they don’t deserve their places here?”

Another worker almost bumps into you. You glare at them.

“While I admire your lovely attempt at defending the undefendable, the decision is taken. This room will be emptied and used by actual scientists.”

The dean has started making his way out of the room, radiating self-satisfaction and throwing prideful looks at everything his eyes come across. You run after him, pushed forward by this revolting sight.

“Those files are their own research! You can’t take them away without consulting with them first! Yes, they were working for this university, but it’s still years of their work that you’re just confiscating.”

The smirk he gives you makes you regret your words instantly. “Since you’re so willing to maintain your questionable relationship with the three of them, you won’t see any problem with being entrusted with those files? I’m sure you can return them in person.”

“Questiona–” you stutter, but Dean Yaeger claps his hands obnoxiously.

“It’s settled then.”

Shit.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Accepting to take care of Dr. Venkman, Dr. Stantz, and Dr. Spengler’s stuff had been both your good deed of the month and a middle finger at the face of Dean Yaeger. Stuffing piles of boxes in your tiny car hadn’t been easy. Especially since the dean had decided to dump everything in front of the university, grinning all along, savoring his cruel little prank. It says a lot about the actual interest Columbia University has in the work of its researchers.

There were at least over thirty different boxes, filled to the brim with research papers, littered all around your apartment. Obviously, Yaeger had made sure to take back all equipment – broken or not, leaving you with pounds of paper stored in their cardboard containers.

That is to say, after a month, you're starting to regret it.

The cluster of your home is slowly but surely disrupting your peace of mind. It’s almost as if the air has been saturated by dust and cardboard specks, the lack of luminosity not helping. Browsing through research papers and ordering everything has been fun at first, your curiosity satisfied, but you couldn’t decently keep digging through personal stuff. Therefore, you stopped, and now you loathe the view of these boxes.

The problem is that you have absolutely no idea where the three men went, and even on your deathbed, no one would witness you ask the dean for information. You simply can’t believe they would just switch universities, despite it being the ‘logical’ course of action. Mainly because Yaeger would behave like a goddamn leech and talk shit about them ‘till all universities in the country know about their turbulent history. You hoped for one of them to drop by your department but no one ever showed up.

Opening the door to your apartment and immediately feeling dejected at the view of the stacked boxes, you let out a sigh, getting rid of your work clothes and falling head first on your couch. You grab the TV remote, zapping mindlessly before deciding to let the device run in the background as you stand up to prepare something to eat.

During the small amount of time you’ve spent with the doctors this month, you’ve learned more about spooky theories and proton cages than about their actual life stories. Well, sort of. Dr. Stantz was certainly the most open of them all.

“Have you ever experienced a paranormal experience before?” he had asked, one morning, as he leaned conspiratorially towards you.

“I don’t think so?” you replied.

He had then talked extensively about a plethora of incidents, most notably a sponge migration which he’d assured was clear proof of paranormal activity. You had simply nodded, not wanting to question nor deter his enthusiasm. You quickly noticed – despite Dr. Spengler’s eclectic choices of study which could testify about his interest in science in general, Dr. Stantz remained the most passionate of the two; his obsessions towards specific subjects going further than a simple craving for knowledge on a Sunday afternoon. He kept lending you books on the supernatural which you had to decline after a fifth one joined the pile on your bedside table. It made wonder if the man didn’t own a secret bookshop somewhere. It left you with a sour aftertaste, knowing you had some of his prized possessions in your bedroom but couldn’t return them.

Dr. Venkman was– well… he was something else entirely. If Dr. Stantz was eager to share clever insights, Venkman was eager to share made-up stories. The diplomas on the wall did attest to his title of ‘Doctor’ but he couldn’t be more detached from it. Oh, he was researching psychological phenomena alright, but never knowledge for knowledge’s sake or even out of pure professionalism as you could expect from a researcher. If psychology books were leafed through, it was for manipulation tactics and to weaponize the uses of sugary words. In that, he was talented.

“Is it my time to interview the case subject?”

It was your third time in Weaver Hall. Both Dr. Stantz and Dr. Spengler had looked up from their ‘ghost trap’ schematics as Venkman took place in the chair in front of you.

“You never do interviews,” Dr. Stantz had said, deadpan.

“I feel magnanimous today.”

Venkman was a case study on its own, a study you weren’t willing to commit to. You had trouble understanding his true intentions most of the time. In the end, he remained the most enigmatic of the three, despite a boastful, overly dramatic persona (All the world’s a stage!). In the end, you couldn’t genuinely despise the man when he was driving away nosy students and even nosier teachers with phlegm, or when, during his rare excursions in the lab, he would bring sweet treats and coffee.

As for Dr. Spengler, well… he was brilliant and devoted to his work. Alike Dr. Stantz, although sporadically, he would sometimes get caught in a tirade of explanations and postulates. Every day, you resented the apprehension that staved off your second meeting for he could make your neurons flare and burst into ideas that’d spin in your head fast enough to weave entirely new conceptions. You were somewhat drunk on the feeling, making you distracted which even your colleagues noticed, embarrassingly enough. It all ended up in a self-deprecating mantra that led you away from Weaver Hall and back to the arms of your students and lab partners.

Now, they are gone, and you have no idea how to reach out.

“Are you troubled by strange noises in the middle of the night?”

You know Dr. Spengler has spent his entire life either studying for new degrees or researching. Universities are probably all he has ever known, and that makes you wonder how he’s managing the whole thing. Maybe he was hired by another university; with his degrees, it shouldn’t be too hard, despite what happened. Damn it, you should have given either of them your number. What if he’s already halfway across the country by now?

“Do you experience feelings of dread in your basement or attic?”

 What the–

You glide out of your kitchen, spatula in hand, almost falling as your sock-clad feet slide on the wooden floor.

“If you or any of your family ever seen a spook, specter–”

“You’re fucking with me.”

As the three of them stand inside your TV offering ghost-hunting services, it makes you wonder if they didn’t take things a tad too far – or too seriously, this time.

“Call the Ghostbusters! We’re ready to believe you!”

Well, you certainly don’t believe it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Phoning the place has been like stepping into another dimension. You’ve been bombarded with words you’ve never heard in any discussion, except in Dr Stantz and Dr Spengler’s endless chatter about compendia and other mystical publications. 

“Is your haunting an apparition, poltergeist, phantasm, wraith, banshee, demon, specter, tortured soul, or–”

“Excuse me but–”

“For your information, we do not summon dead family members.”

“I’m not calling for that–”

“Wait, hold, please. No Dr. Venkman I haven’t–”

And that was the end of the conversation. It left you with a strong puzzling sensation and a definitive confirmation of your aversion to discussions happening over the phone. The secretary never called back and you were secretly glad, leaving you time to summon all of your courage and go there directly. Which you did… eventually.

Funny how when you’re not searching for something, it comes to you from every angle. After discovering the strange choice of reconversion the doctors took, you were bombarded by advertisements, radio talks and covers of magazines. The men have managed to put all of New York in their pocket, and half if not as many ghosts in their traps. You’ve never been a firm believer in specters but Dr. Spengler and Dr. Stantz had talked extensively about them and their prototype to finally be able to catch one. You’ve been more interested in the physics aspect of it all; Dr. Spengler has been more than willing to explain and you’ve been more than willing to add your own theories.

You now stand in front of their headquarters, preparing to face them. And once again–

“Hey, it’s you!”

–it’s Dr. Stantz who nudges you in the right direction. The man smiles widely, face darkened by car oil and dirt, a crooked cigarette hanging from his lip. His uniform is equally as dirty, and he looks more like a mechanic than a ghost hunter… but no one has ever been a ghost hunter before so, what do you know?

“Hi, Dr. Stantz.” You smile. “It’s been a while.”

You can see he’s struggling to not pat your shoulder in a welcoming gesture. “Man, we thought we’d never get to see you again! Spengs’ gonna be so happy to see you!”

Somehow, you have trouble imagining Dr. Spengler overjoyed or overexcited. It’s not in his character.

“Come on!” He gestures for you to follow him. You’re barely inside that he has already strode through half the hall. “Sorry for the mess! It’s so hectic these days.”

“I saw the articles,” you say, taking in your surroundings.

At the front desk sits a fashionable lady whom you guess to be the secretary. She’s busy answering the phone, munching at her pencil and looking exhausted. She barely acknowledges your presence as you follow Dr. Stantz up the stairs.

The man never stopped talking. “Venkman is out right now; he wanted to check on one of our clients. The woman had blood dripping from her chimney, can you believe that?”

You clearly have trouble to. The blood part, not the seducing clients part.

Upstairs is as messy as the hall if not worse. It rivals the state of Weaver Hall. Dr. Stantz throws his extinguished cigarette in a nearby bin before grabbing a paper napkin to wipe his oily hands.

“Egon!”

Dr. Spengler appears from behind a desk, light on his forehead, and invested in organizing a large number of electric cables. “Ray, I found the problem with the Aura-Analyzer–”

He pauses when he sees you, which you can’t say that you did, blinded by the light of his lamp. “Hi,” you say, smiling while protecting your eyes.

“Oh,” he answers, turning it off. “Hello.”

The uneasy silence that follows throws you all the way back to your first meeting as if a month of socializing had suddenly vanished in the span of four tiny weeks.

“Do you have issues with a ghost?” he ends up asking, putting down his torch.

Your eyes widen in surprise, unsure of how to react. Dr. Stantz, however, lets out a strong laugh so you chuckle awkwardly to echo him. “No, no ghost.”

“It’s crazy that you came in today,” Dr. Stantz says, throwing away the dirtied napkins. “We have to improve the storage facility and we need to be able to boost the grid while saving as much power–”

As he speaks, he disappears behind a wall, the sound of running water overlapping his words. You stay silent, watching Dr. Spengler rearrange electric cables until his friend emerges from the bathroom, clean-faced.

“But anyway, Spengs can give you the big tour,” he declares, grinning. “I have a check-up to do at Tai Hong Lau! If we’re lucky, I’ll come back with dinner as well.”

This time, he gives you a clap on the shoulder before running to the stairs but turning back at the last minute. “You’re staying to eat with us right? The owner has the best Peking duck in town, I’m sure you’ll love it! See you later!”

And then he’s gone, leaving you alone with Dr. Spengler. The distance separating you makes the room feels even bigger. You clear your throat. “I see you were able to create your ghost trap after all.”

He nods. “The day we were… dismissed, we managed to have enough readings on our first supernatural encounter to finalize the prototype.”

“Incredible,” you praise before realizing how uncaring you might sound. “I mean, I’m sorry about the whole Dean Yaeger situation.” 

Dr. Spengler shrugs, stepping out of the corner of the room he crammed himself in. “There’s nothing you could have done to change the outcome.”

You decide not to comment. There’s a certain tension behind his words that makes you think he might truly have been upset about the situation.

“So, what’s up with the… grid?” you ask, looking at the different types of equipment stacked in the room.

He does sound relieved by the change of subject. “The Containment System is the storage facility we use for paranormal entities. Lately, the growing number of stored entities has put a strain on the main chamber.” As he explains, he searches in a pile of paper, extracting a large sheet. “The simplest course of action would be to enlarge the room but in case of an exponential increase in psychokinetic energy, it wouldn’t be possible to expand indefinitely and I’m not even addressing the energy consumption problem.”

You saunter closer to him. Half of your brain is focused on how easily he slipped back into his rambling habits. Perhaps not all socialization has been lost, you muse delightfully.

“What’s the worst that could happen? An explosion?” you joke, hands on your hips.

There’s a moment of hesitation. You stare at him in disbelief. “Don’t tell me–”

“The system has a high-voltage laser grid.”

You gape at him for a second before clearing your throat. “Uh, you’ll have to tell me more I’m afraid.”

On the table, he puts down what seems to be the blueprint of the storage chamber. You study it from the side.

“PKE bounds together the negatively charged particles composing a ghost. Our two laser grids…“ He ignores your bewildered expression. “…prevent the entities from escaping.”

He continues, “But we’re completely dependent on the city’s power grid.”

“No redundancies?” you ask, starting to see the problem.

He shakes his head. “We had no way to generate our own power supply when we moved in – we still don’t, and we weren’t planning on a strong surge in PKE.” There’s a tremor at the corner of his eye, perhaps from tiredness. “It makes us vulnerable in case of a power outage.”

It all sounds very hazardous. “I’m surprised you still haven’t had Public Services knocking at your door, with you powering high-voltage grids and…” You throw another look at the blueprint. “…a penning trap of this size.”

Dr. Spengler looks up solemnly. “We have been drawing attention.”

That’s one way to put it, you think. “Won’t you also have problems with your… residents in there?”

“It’s complicated to assess the level of ionization inside the chamber,” he explains, lost in his musings. “I do daily samplings to monitor psychokinetic energy but it’s a time-consuming process and as minimum as it is, there’s still a risk of slippage. Stronger entities could attack the grid from the inside, despite the threat of–”

He comes to a sudden stop. “...perhaps I can just show you. If you’re willing to.”

Blinking away the feeling that is suspiciously looking like infatuation, you smile, trying to convey what you hope is a convincing agreement. “Of course.”

Dr. Spengler nods, putting away the scheme of the Containment System as you stare, unable to stop yourself. Funny how history repeats itself, you think, already picturing how you’re going to neglect your work just to hear him talk more. You can’t bring yourself to care the right amount. The concretization of it all – this whole Ghostbusters thing – is exhilarating. It was fascinating when it was mere speculations but now it’s all real. Right here, in an old firehouse in the middle of New York, are new forms of life; new not in age but in terms of discovery. Your work has always been focused on the future, so this is just another step toward it. It’s – funnily enough, all thanks to the past: the dead, the undead and the spiritual.

“Say, Dr. Spengler.” He turns back. “Have you been able to learn more about that psychokinetic energy?”

“Ghost energy can take various forms. I don’t have a clear idea of what it could be yet.” He frowns. “Which makes the improvement of the unit even more complex.”

“If you and Dr. Stantz are ok with the idea,” you say, heart beating faster. “I’d like to study this matter further. Apart from the effect on the valences, there could be laser-nuclei reactions that are worth looking into, as well as interactions between the entities themselves. Perhaps, it’s too soon to theorize about potential ‘ghost particles’ though...”

Dr. Spengler looks pensive for a minute, and you’re afraid he’ll chastity you – gently, but he just walks closer, extending an arm. “I’ll show you the unit, and we can talk about a new schematic.”

The ‘we’ is a heartwarming promise. “Lead the way, Dr. Spengler.”

As you approach the stairs, he has a small smile on his face. “Egon, please.”

Your eyes flutter open, your tongue cautiously lapping at his lower lip. His eyes are fixing something behind you, not even aware that you’re looking at him. You chuckle internally, your hands sliding inside his lab coat, feeling his ribs through his woolen sweater vest. Egon, still focusing on his unknown task, gasps softly when you grab his lapels and force his attention on you.

Throwing an eye behind your shoulder, you arch an eyebrow, smirking: “I knew you had something else in mind.”

Next to you, innocently sits a beaker, half-filled with a pink substance.

You hop on the bench. “What is this then? Slime?”

Egon nods, jaw tensed. You cock your head to the right, unbuttoning your shirt slowly, noting with delighted amusement his following gaze.

“Am I part of your newest experiment, Dr. Spengler?”

You can’t help the breathlessness that accompanies your statement. Your fingers graze against the newly exposed skin of your stomach and those brown eyes follow.

“Slime is a psychomagnotheric substance,” comes the technical explanation, a slight rasp at the back of his throat. “We’ve already performed several tests with Ray to assess its reaction to positive stimuli and—“

“You want to observe the positive influence of sex on it.”

His gaze finally jumps back to your face and you’re having a hard time hiding the fondness at the corner of your mouth.

“I do apologize if I overstepped,” he says, pulling away just a fraction.

Straightening up, you wrap both your arms behind his neck.

“Don’t we both have to be, uh, positively emotionally engaged in the activity for it to work?” You ask, sliding your fingers in his hair, fondling gently at his neck.

You physically feel the tension slowly leaving his body. Egon is all subtlety, discreet displays of emotions that you learned to observe and understand.

“Stimulating you enough should not be an issue.” The smirk that adorns his face is painfully attractive, it sends a thrill that travels to your loins.

He lowers his face, lips grazing on the sensitive skin of your neck, the hot tide of his breath on your skin makes you dizzy. “For my part, I have to be extremely focused on the experiment.”

You feel yourself being leaned backward on the working bench as his mouth continues its slow descent along the column of your neck. When he kisses your neck, something exciting runs underneath your skin: something akin to tickles and goosebumps all in one. Something that makes you want to either curl yourself up or expose your throat for more.

On your left, your eye catches something. Shoving Egon back gently, he straightens up, intrigued.

“Better keep track of everything then,” you smile, pointing at the tape recorder he uses to record himself tinkering with the experiments at hand.

You see the slight confusion in his eyes before the thought finally settles.

“It’d be for the best, yes.” It’s now painfully obvious that he’s hard in his neatly pressed pants.

He strolls to the device and turns it on as you shed your shirt, baring your chest completely. His eyes are boring holes into you behind his glasses that he pushes up his nose before starting the recording.

“Experiment number thirteen on generating a positive reaction from the slime.” Egon motions you closer with a curved finger and you happily sauntered toward him. “Today, I have an assistant.”

Oh, that mischievous twinkle bears heavy consequences. “I’ll have to ask you to comment on our future tests.”

“You’re the scientist here, Doctor,” you try to deflect.

“As this experiment relies heavily on your impressions, I’ll have to ask you to be vocal.”

Bastard.

Hands are soon back sliding up and down your still-clothed thighs. “Shall we begin?”

Any retort genuinely dies in your throat as he presses against you, his pelvis delightfully grinding against your lower stomach. That stunt with the tape recording was fruitful both for immediate results and for the long-term satisfaction of knowing Egon Spengler’s a kinky fucker.

Always the quiet ones, you muse.

For an instant, you could have been in your apartment, a blissful evening with Dr. Spengler on top of you. All roaming hands on your skin, slowly going down, down to business. Quick and efficient, that’s the way you both like it. But right at this moment, if you hadn’t memorized all their calluses and crevices, those hands could belong to someone else. Those hands that barely caress a nipple, enough to make your breath catch.

The deliberateness of how his knuckles rack over the sensitive area, pads of his fingers pinching, rolling, spreading this tightness in your guts. The more it goes on, the more you can feel yourself clenching around nothing.

“Stimulation of erogenous zones, specifically the areola area.” His voice is so even. “Your impressions?”

You frown. “It should be obvious.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t plug in the camera.”

The scoff shamefully turns into a soft moan thanks to a deliberate hard pinch on your right nipple.

“Specificities, please.”

“Damn it!” You sigh. “It feels good, all right?” You don’t like to talk during sex and he usually doesn’t either.

“Is slight pain enhancing the experience?” He asks, pinching both your nipples hard.

“Ah!” You don’t expect the surge shooting through you, your chest skin tugging almost uncomfortably as more wetness spreads in your underwear.

“Yes?” Egon asks.

“Yes!” You hiss through clenched teeth.

“Conclusive experiment then.” He dips down, sticking his tongue out to lap at the reddened skin, deliberately avoiding your nipple. “Although your slight irritation might be a predicament to our progress.”

No shit. “I wonder why.”

His mouth encloses the tip of your tit, suckling softly, swirling his tongue as a reminiscence of your kiss. You don’t even bother to suppress the gasp that leaves your mouth, getting lost in the moist entrapment, in the way his long nose nuzzles your supple skin, in the soft brush of his hair raising goosebumps in its path. Your fingers fully tangle in it, holding him close to you, pushing him into your chest so he can feel your heartbeat.

Perhaps a wonderful part of Egon’s brain will decide that your BPM is important data to collect.

You have a moment of awareness, registering that the only sounds that will be heard in the recording are your gasps and soft moans and the indecent slurps of Egon’s tongue. It makes your face flame up, your cheeks so hot you feel the perspiration on your skin.

What would be more embarrassing, you wonder, one of the boys finding the recording or getting caught right here right now?

“Focus.” The sound of Egon’s voice startles you. “It’s supposed to be positive reinforcement.”

“Uh,” you battle your eyelashes.

Egon straightens up, righting his glasses on his face. “Let’s move onward.”

“You—“ Agile fingers take hold of your pants’ button and pop it off, unzipping them before silently asking you with a tug to shimmy out of them. “He’s forcing me out of my clothes,” you say, directing your words at the tape.

“A necessary part of the experiment.”

Your pants are halfway across your thighs when he grabs hold of your waist and hoists you on the bench.

“Holy—“ You gasp, naturally wrapping your arms around his neck. Who would have thought you had a thing for displays of strength?

“Would you mind getting rid of your garments?” Egon smirks knowingly.

Grumbling, you untie your shoes and take the rest of your pants and your socks off, throwing them across the room. You now face Egon almost entirely naked while he still stands in his button-down and sweater vest, lab coat on top, with his pants slightly wrinkled – although unmistakably tented. Oh, and how could you forget the goddamn tie… You would have also gotten rid of your underwear if he hadn’t pressed his palm on your mount.

“Right down to business I see,” you pant.

He arches an eyebrow. “You’re burning up here.” The pressure of the heel of his palm squishing down your outer labia against your clit feels beautiful. “Your underwear is soaked.”

You’re torn between the rush of pleasure and the urge to slap him for how unaffected he sounds.

“This doesn’t soun—ah, very professional, Doctor.”

The alternating amounts of pressure have you moving your hips, searching for more, demanding a faster pace, a harder push. He remains desperately steady.

“Copious amount vaginal discharge,” Egon notes, and a huge rush of shame shoots through you. “More than average I’d say.”

“You’d say?” You choke out.

“You do appear to be wetter than usual although we’ve barely started our activities.” The bastard smirks.

Why is that, lingers in the air, a loud but unspoken question. And you’re now certain Egon takes his own immediate and long-term satisfaction knowing you’re a kinky fucker as well. You’re just a couple of degenerates and doesn’t that turn you on more than it should.

His palm presses more firmly against you and you can’t take it anymore, you need his finger on you, in you, anywhere but separated by this stupid piece of fabric.

“Stop— stop spreading it!” You cry out stupidly. “You’re ruining a very decent pair of underwear.”

Egon scoffs. “I am?”

The squish that follows is a betrayal from your body you’ll never forget. “Take it off,” you mewl.

So he steps back, stops touching you altogether, and raises an eyebrow at you. Groaning, you get rid of your soaked underwear, throwing it at a random place in the room, quickly forgetting about the uncomfortable wet sensation because Egon sheds off his lab coat in a swift movement. You are captivated by the stretch of his sweater vest against his chest, and even more entranced by the slow teasing appearance of his forearms as he rolls up his sleeves.

“Isn’t having a lab coat an essential security guideline?”

You keep spewing teasing sentences but you know that your sanity is hanging by a thread.

He hums: “When manipulating hazardous substances, yes.”

He finishes securing his sleeves in the curve of his elbows and steps in front of you once more. Your treacherous heart skips a beat; you don’t even understand why.

“Having your way with me right next to an unknown paranormal substance isn’t considered a hazard?”

“The slime is neutronized, there’s no risk of causticity for your skin,” Egon answers in all seriousness.

Right now, it’s his big callused hands that you want on your skin.

And he delivers by grabbing each thigh in each hand, spreading them almost uncomfortably. Fuck, you think because you can feel how wet you are as the cold sensation spreads from your core to the cleft of your ass cheeks. By the end of his experiment, you’ll have dribbled all over the table.

He leans to you and captures your lips in another searing kiss. The curve of his nose fits perfectly next to yours, as both your mouths mold into a new shape. All your senses are awake and aware: your taste buds sweet from the teeth-rooting chocolate bars he loves to eat, your skin shivering from pleasure, and the always-too-cold air of the lab. Your muscles are quivering from being all crooked, folded over a flat surface in that way.

Even at an even level, he towers over you with his height and the wide square-ness of his frame. You want to press against him, squish your very self on his body. Although he might not like his clothes to be ruined by your moistness, you entertain the idea in your head because nothing turns you on more than seeing Egon Spengler messy and disheveled.

“As I won’t be able to, I’m counting on you to voice out your comments,” he says against your lips.

You don’t have time to ask why, his face is already down between your legs. Your breath hitches, stops, leaves your body entirely.

Down to business, you reminisce.

He starts by peppering small kisses inside your inner thighs but it’s not worshipping, it’s edging. You sometimes feel his tongue lap out at your skin, you also shiver when he gently blows against your core, sending another wave of chills on your body.

“Egon…” you sigh.

As on cue, he decides to spread your labia open with his fingers, and dear God, you can feel his breath tickling your clit, an inch away from any real pleasure. An inch he soon reduces to nothing as he licks a long, fat stroke all the way up your sex.

It’s a real moan that escapes your mouth this time, already thirsty for the next move. He keeps lapping, up and down, flattening his tongue completely against your opening, drinking more of the wetness amassed in his median sulcus.

You’re slowly but surely being driven to the edge, just hovering over the precipice but there’s still so much that you need to finally accept to let yourself fall. So he takes your metaphorical hand and leads you closer by finally pressing his nose in your pubes, jaw slacking open as he delivers a strong suction right on your clit.

“F-Fuck!” Your hand grabs his hair, instinctively guiding him closer.

It went through you like a zap, a single strike of lightning. Your clit is tingling, your cunt dripping and your whole body shivering. But it doesn’t stop there as the very tip of his tongue teases you, a quick succession of round-way trips, delivered with accurate frequency.

His brows are furrowed; you can feel the crease in his forehead as you gently pass your hand in the hair at the base of his cranium, flattening his curls. The action makes his eyes snap up at you. You feel stupid for staring at him without saying a word but you lost all vocabulary with the simple sight of such a special man pleasuring you so unapologetically.

He draws back a little, the corners of his mouth and his chin are glistening.

Filthy, so fucking filthy.

“Any comments?” His voice is deeper than usual, slightly scratching.

“I’m kinda at a loss of words right now,” you say genuinely.

Egon nods and, as if endowed with an important life-or-death mission, dives in once more, this time ignoring your throbbing clit to focus on your opening. The feeling of his tongue breaching in, squirming inside is everything and nothing at once. You do openly moan, trusting your hips to his face, again and again, chasing this half-sensation of fullness. The pleasure is not a spike of hormones like having your clit sucked and suckled. It’s a diffuse sensation of pleasure, the simple erotic feeling of his slippery tongue massaging your walls.

He trusts in and out, everything around you is just blurred lights behind your eyelids but you snap them open when he starts rubbing your clit with his thumb without stopping his previous activities. You know this instant that you’re going to come on his face if he keeps delivering the most perfect movements to all the right places.

“Egon, please…” You squeeze at his curls. “You’re gonna make me cum.”

It’s with a raised eyebrow that he finally quits the warmth between your thighs. “Wouldn’t that be the desired ending point of our experiment?”

He grabs a paper napkin that was innocently left there by Ray when he brought food earlier and wipes his mouth off your juices before throwing it in the bin.

You watch his movements, catching your breath and your trail of thought. “I need more than that.”

“Please do specify what is that and how can I give you more of it.”

A gentleman and an asshole, all in one. You want so much to tell him to go to hell but you’re so far gone in preliminaries you don’t think yourself able to delay your primal need to be fucked.

“I’ll show you,” you say, motioning him closer.

He has this look where he’s slightly apprehensive of the logical pursuit of things but he steps in between your legs once more. Your left-hand slides behind his neck and beckons him closer, close enough for you to press your other hand to the front of his pants. His mouth opens slightly but he doesn’t move away so you keep palming him, feeling how he hardens against your fingers. Even through his loose-fitting pants, the hard line of his cock is flagrant.

Stopping your neck petting, you unbuckle his belt, lowering his zipper, and finally putting your digits on something more palpable.

“I thought we agreed that I had to focus exclusively on the experiment,” he sighs.

“Actually,” you slip your hand farther in between his pants and the tight fit of his cotton briefs. “I never agreed to anything.”

The hotness is making your hand moist but you reveal in the sound he makes when you push harder, full hand flat against the entirety of his dick, the tip of your fingers grazing the beginning of his balls.

“Remind me to have you sign a written contract next time.”

Despite his tone-down exterior, you notice his eyelids dropping, the small exhales leaving his parted lips because your eyes are fixed on his face, registering.

“Next time?”

There’s definitely a joke underlying your question but his dark gaze makes you question everything. Damn, he’s really into that, isn’t he?

Into you, displayed on his working bench to be examined.

“Egon, I need you to fuck me—” you choke out. “—right now.”

Strangely, there are no dry comments anymore. Only the hard click of his shut jaw and the slight fumble of his hand slapping yours away, diving into his briefs and finally – finally, getting out his cock. If you had more time, you’d put your mouth on it, just to have a taste of the glistening circumcised head. But for now, you stay perfectly content watching it disappear in the tight ring of his fist.

Realistically, you’ve stayed perfectly content for exactly five seconds.

“Come on,” you whine, spreading your legs. Ah, there is the aforementioned puddle.

“Yes,” he huffs. Yes, ok.”

With one hand, he grabs your left thigh, the other guiding his length closer and closer to your core, your heart beating furiously in your chest. His gland makes contact with your entrance. With it, he traces an unknown pattern on your lips, pushing its slit on your clit and mingling both your fluids together. Definitely driving you insane.

“E-gon—“

So he pushes inside, in one, unstopping, hard push until he’s sheathed, your body just a pliant scabbard. You choke on any retort, hissing, the stretch is obviously tight. Yet, deliciously aching, you engulf his length entirely and the sole sensation of your walls rubbed in that perfect way is almost too much. You tug him closer, finally pressing your sweating body to the unruffled surface of his clothes.

His big hand return to your other thigh and he fucks into you. His snaps are precise and strong; he completely erases any traces of pain with the fluid movement of his hips. You’re definitively panting, your hot breath bouncing back from his cheeks to yours and you forget about the weird twist of your body. Your squished position is making the column of his dick rub perfectly at the top of your entrance.

“Ah— oh fuck,” you close your eyes, lost in the heat.

Egon hums and hides in your neck once more, seemingly conflicted between kissing and teasing your skin with his breath. So close to your ear, you can discern the hitch in his pants, his hidden soft moans, and your heart sores.

“Can I—“ he whispers.

You turn your head to look at him, at his open face and big brown eyes and you know he could ask anything, you’d say yes. So, you nod.

He pushes you back gently on the bench, pushing away pencils and cables in a broad swipe of his arm. Some clatter on the ground and his impatience startles a laugh out of you. There’s a small rictus at the corner of his mouth that could either be a grin or a scowl; it only makes you smile more. Impatience is also starting to run wild underneath your skin. You spread your legs wider, your fingers lazily grazing your stomach up to your chest then dipping all the way down.

It’s indecent how you stretch around him; you love to feel it with the tips of your fingers. You’re stretching so wide your clit feels tight when you tug at it. It’s dry but it still grants you with a few shots of hormones. When you throw a look at Egon, you realize he’s watching, alternating with your face, the sight of his dick buried inside you and your self-pleasuring display. He sucks his thumb in his mouth, efficiently coating it before pushing your hand away and rubbing circles right on top of the bud.

The lubrication makes the action more pleasurable; reviving your calmed-down orgasm. Except, this time, you can feel yourself contract around his sex, as if wishing to suck him impossibly deeper. This small moment of trance, the calm before the storm, stops when he withdraws his hand, anchoring himself again to your legs.

From then, you don’t have to tell him anything: he snaps his hips forward hard. Your body pushes into the bench, your hand pointlessly grabbing the edge to keep you from slipping. From there, it doesn’t stop. He fucks into you ruthlessly, the position connecting him to you from tip to base. The buckle of his belt whacks the tender skin of your ass cheeks contrasting with the soft cotton of his pants. His right-hand pushes your thigh onto the flat surface of the table and your muscles are screaming with the stretch but they’re quieter than your moans.

“There— ah, please—“

He listens. The tip of his dick is lodged deep in your loins, the back-and-forth movement stimulating all the right nerves. You’re squeezing him, your folds moving with his cock, sucking him inside and locking him in, even when he pushes back. Sometimes the ridges of his head catch on your tight opening before plunging back inside, making you yelp. You wonder if you’re going to cum on his dick, too stimulated to prevent it.

You moan to the sounds of his slaps, to the rhythm of the bench creaking. Your eyes roll back when he aims a perfectly good shift and your free hand plays with your nipple, fueling the fire in your body.

“Shit,” Egon huffs out, his gaze glazy behind his glasses.

You understand. “Close too— just a little—“

He nods and aren’t his motions the best, the most precise… more erratic, quicker and shorter yes, but oh so good. You can feel the tell-tale tightening in your guts so you chase your own orgasm by pushing back, meeting his hips. His ball-sack slaps against your ass and your skins meet in loud smacks, definitely resonating in all the firehouse.

“Do you need—“

“No, no, just—“ you mewl. “Keep doing that, you’re perfect.”

The little moan he lets out travels through your body like wildfire. And there, you feel it: the hot spill of his semen inside you, coating your walls and it’s the mere sensation alone that finally pushes you over the edge. Your vagina cramps around his cock, your own ejaculation milky, dripping at the base of his dick and the noise is vulgar, loud and so fucking hot.

For a little while, he keeps trusting in, making sure everything belonging to him got stuffed inside you. It makes you clench harder, divided between chasing this almost-unbearable tightness or crying for him to stop. You have no idea if you’re actually crying but your cheeks feel hot as your body spasms, mouth lewdly hanging open, could you truly cum a second time from overstimulation alone?

But thankfully, he slowly slides out, both of you sighing. You immediately stick your hand down, feeling the dribbles of cum coming out of you, trickling down in the crack of your ass, on the table and on the ground.

Your breath finally settles down after a few minutes. Your eyes have drifted closed without you noticing. Your heartbeat is slowing down and you feel a deep wave of contentment replacing the past hunger.

“Hey,” his voice is back to its even self.

You crack one eye open. He holds one of the napkins, motioning you to sit up as he diligently wipes out most of your spend. The napkin is rough on your skin but you silently thank him nonetheless.

You throw a glance around you. You made an absolute mess. “Ew,” you scowl.

The little smile lightening his face makes your heart throb for an entirely different sentiment than before. You notice he’d already tug his cock back into his briefs like nothing happened. On the front of his pants however…

“Oops,” you chuckle. “’Guess you’ll have to keep working with your lab coat closed.”

Egon’s scowl of disgust is barely concealed as he unsuccessfully tries to wipe the remains of your self-lubrication on his cotton pants.

“I should change,” he states bluntly. One of his sleeves has slid along his arm during the act and his hair is truly a sight; you take great pride in his actual state.

“I think you look amazing.”

He stares at you for a couple of seconds before a beautiful crooked smile stretch on his face. You blame it on post-coital bliss but your whole body is screaming your adoration for this man.

“So,” your own voice cracks but you ignore it. “Successful experiment?”

Egon clears his throat. “I think more testing is required.”