Work Text:
Egon Spengler shifted uncomfortably in his desk chair.
Laid out in front of him was a disassembled proton pack, waiting for him to make some well-needed adjustments. Safe to say, he wasn't currently giving it the attention it deserved - which was not necessarily a personification, something Spengler despised. Rather, when handling unsanctioned nuclear equipment, you should really try to concentrate.
It was 15:37 on a Thursday, a time Egon allocated to improving the Ghostbusters’ equipment. He wasn't bored - not by any means; he found the technology involved with ghost capture and containment fascinating (not least because he invented it himself). No, there was a… different problem at play.
On this particular Thursday, Egon found himself distracted. By something quite specific. Well, he wasn't so much distracted as…
Ahem.
Aroused.
People, upon meeting Dr Egon Spengler, phD for the first time, tended to take note of his laconic, almost mechanical demeanor, and assume he wasn't the type of person to experience sexual desires. Or at least, the kind of person who thought about that sort of thing when meeting someone for the first time (see: Peter Venkman) would. Regardless, they were wrong. Egon’s libido was certainly different from most people's, tending to manifest itself more akin to scientific fascination rather than a primal urge, but it was certainly present.
(He had been this way ever since his first introduction to the topic of sex in the summer of 1952, when - thanks to the insatiable curiosity only present in a certain type of 8 year old girl, a somewhat outdated medical publication, an excess of free time and a local librarian whose attitude toward “live and let live” had apparently extended to allowing children to check out heavy textbooks stuffed to the brim with very realistic anatomical drawings - Egon received a dose of sex education far surpassing his classmate's, which started and stopped at storks delivering babies in pastel bassinets. He would never know if this experience had shaped his relationship with sex, or if his pre-existing personality had shaped his relationship with this experience. It was anyone's guess.)
No. No matter how many jokes he faced - usually in good jest, from Venkman - about either being:
A. A robot with nothing but wires and smooth metal where his penis should be (which wasn't as hilariously inaccurate as Venkman may have thought)
Or
B. Totally sexually inexperienced (which was nowhere near as accurate as Venkman presumed),
Egon was a man with completely regular urges. Especially in times like this one, where his basal instincts did indeed override his more analytical outlook on sex. He had functioning male sexual organs, and he wasn't afraid to use ‘em.
Err-
Well.
He definitely had functional sex organs.
And right now, they thought about Raymond Stantz. This was a personification, purely because sometimes it really did feel as if they had a mind of their own. And, more importantly, because when something or someone interrupted his plans and his day (which were not so much scheduled as mentally set in stone), Egon liked to glare at them, which would be hard to do to his own genitals. He could certainly try, but he wasn't sure he would enjoy it.
Egon being turned on at the thought of Ray wasn't notable. He and Egon had been having sex for years, initially entering into a relationship on the principles of ‘ hey, we're both weirdos who enjoy each other's company, and it sure is nice to be around another trans guy!’ but eventually realising that it was definitely for more than just convenience, and that they did truly like each other in that way.
They had sex regularly (or at least, regularly for two forty somethings who'd been together for nye on two decades). Egon frequently found himself aroused thinking about Stantz. The only thing unusual about this particular occurrence was the intensity of his arousal. It was never usually this bad.
Egon slammed his screwdriver - which he had been absentmindedly fiddling with in his hands - onto the lab bench with what was definitely more force than was necessarily required, and began to loosen his tie . All of a sudden the lab had begun to feel hot, and Egon like he was being boiled alive, even though logically (and Spengler was nothing if not logical) Egon knew his workspace was kept at a cool 292 Kelvin at all times except heatwaves and snow storms.
His face was flushed and sweaty (the loosened tie hadn’t actually helped the matter) and, embarrassingly, he could already feel his cock beginning to twitch uncomfortably against the fabric of his underwear. He shifted again. The proton pack was all but forgotten, being looked at but not taken in. Ideas about potential improvements abandoned in favour of thoughts about his lab partner with legs spread, dripping, soaking cunt on display -
Egon should have known he was building up to an explosion like this. It was no surprise.
One of the more annoying side effects of testosterone, one that Ray and Egon both encountered as long term users (and probably would have started to experience soonish regardless, as people with vaginas nearing menopausal age) was atrophy. Atrophic vaginitis , as Egon distinctly remembered the medical textbook he took out in grade 3 referring to it.
It hadn't been something that bothered Egon all that much, despite the medical issues he knew could potentially arise from it. The thought of going to a doctor and disclosing something so personal about himself made him want to dress up as a ghost and walk in the way of the Rookie's target practice, and far surpassed his concern for his sexual health.
It was the look that doctors gave you. Even the most seasoned gynecologist would take one look at gangly, mannish Spengler asking for atrophy treatment and internally go “Really? You? Gross,” and this showed on their face. It was the kind of look that made him simultaneously grateful people couldn't instantly clock he had a vagina and deeply ashamed of the fact he did.
So Egon had decided to ignore it.
(It's not like that was his hole of choice, anyway.)
Ray, on the other hand, had been bothered by it. The uncomfortable, itchy and even painful feeling had interrupted the pair’s sex on more than one occasion and (while both of them would have instantly given up the physical side of their relationship had the other asked for it) this was unforgivable. Stantz, proud of his identity and unashamed of himself as he was, had marched down to the doctor and been prescribed with topical oestrogen (that is, only after the usual glances of disbelief and disgust: perhaps it was protocol).
That had certainly solved the problem, because now Ray was wet.
So, so wet.
Egon couldn’t get enough of it.
Feeling like a man lost deep in the desert, throat like sandpaper, who suddenly stumbles across an oasis, Egon felt satiated, cured of a thirst he didn’t even know was there. He was all too willing to indulge himself in the salty-sweet sanctuary now located between Ray’s full thighs. Taking note of every flavour, every hint, much in the same way he imagined the type of person who wore turtlenecks might do with expensive wine.
Thoughts of Ray, head back, legs spread, glistening vulva on display now possessed him. Images of Stantz’s delicious nectar spilling forth, inviting Egon to plunge his face in and not stop drinking until there was nothing left. (Or until his cells underwent cytolysis and burst. Either or.) He felt on fire in a way he never had before, and the only thing able to extinguish it was the sticky slick between his boyfriend’s legs.
It was an anomalous data point, Egon reflected.
He had been keeping track of his reactions and responses to various textures for a while now. The most interesting results had undoubtedly spawned from his excursion into the realm of paranormal elimination in 1984 - a completely new world of study for anyone, but especially so for change-averse Spengler, who had been buying the same brand of bread since he was old enough to do his own grocery shopping, because it was the only one that felt right in his mouth.
Take his uniform, for example. Riddled with new sensations.
The soft, droopy material of the t-shirt he wore under his flight suit was a stark departure from the more structured materials Egon preferred; tight chest binders, stiff dress shirts, even rigid pyjamas. In contrast, the flight suit presented the opposite issue: the tough and inflexible material was firm and scratchy, especially against the more sensitive skin on his inner thighs. He much preferred the worn-in, woollen trousers of his favourite grey suit. The feeling of the zip up the centre of his torso upset him too.
But, more importantly, one texture he was simultaneously fascinated and repulsed by was slime.
Nine times out of ten, it would be ectoplasm, the foul-smelling, mucus-like secretion that spirits produced when in contact with solid, physical objects (including, as the Ghostbusters had quickly discovered, living humans). While Venkman was a favourite target for what he unscientifically referred to as “sliming”, the others, including Egon, were also well acquainted with the experience.
He knew well what it was like to step from the Ecto-1, oozing with paranormal gunk, ears and shoes squelching, clothes sticking to him. He hated it.
In spite of this, he thought, if he was in the same situation, but with Ray’s slick instead of ectoplasm, he would probably love it. At least for a little while. He wouldn’t be bolting towards the shower as fast as his slime-impaired vision would allow him like he usually did.
He was vaguely aware that comparing his boyfriend’s slick to paranormal discharge might be crude, or potentially even disgusting (although it took a lot to disgust Egon these days). However, Egon considered it only logical to compare his contrasting reactions to two functionally similar substances. It was a pattern; evolution had given him a pattern seeking brain, and he would be damned if he wasn’t going to use it.
His basal disgust for slime was overridden when it came to Ray’s slick; perhaps by its warmth, its heavenly taste or simply the fact that it was being excreted by Ray, the love of his life. More importantly, it was being excreted when Ray, the love of his life, was thinking about him , anticipating the things they would do with one another. There was no denying it - it was a clear, physical response to Ray’s attraction to him. Perhaps that was what made it so intoxicating.
Egon licked his lips. They had become dreadfully dry all of a sudden.
Usually, he was very good at suppressing, or at least ignoring, his emotional responses. He didn’t know whether it was a positive or negative thing, but he could seemingly look at himself from a totally objective perspective, acknowledge his feelings and shelve them away for further analysis(/indulgence) later on. Ray made that all the more difficult. Egon was…emotionally compromised. Not only that, but he was currently so turned on he could barely think. And that’s why he decided to leave the pack adjustments for another day (haphazardly tidying his workplace to prevent potential irradiation) and go downstairs to find Ray.
He took the stairs, obviously. The fire pole made him dizzy at the best of times, even without taking his current groinal situation into account.
Ray was, like always, working on the Ecto-1. His upper half was hidden underneath the body of the car, his legs poking out almost comically, and he laid on top of what he assured Egon really was called a ‘creeper’, although Egon highly doubted this. (He was not - as Egon had secretly hoped, for his own perverse reasons - bent over the bonnet and working on the engine like he sometimes was. Not that it mattered much.) Spengler could hear him muttering to himself as he worked.
“Raymond.”
While Egon was monotone, like always, Ray - the world leading expert in Egonics - picked up perfectly on the hesitant hint in his speech.
“Yeah Spengs?” he responded, quickly sliding himself out from underneath the Ecto.
Egon thought he looked wonderfully handsome, half propped up on the creeper, staring up at Spengler with warm, mismatched eyes, a mucky face and strewn about hair. Flight suit tired off around his waist (ready to go in case of a surprise call) and nothing but the straps of one of Ray’s well-worn work vests shielding the world from Stantz’s broad shoulders. Egon desperately wanted to bite them.
He cleared his throat.
“I am…aroused.”
Stantz ran a dirty hand through his mussed up hair as he considered this. After a second of deliberation, he grinned up at his boyfriend.
“And I presume you'd like my assistance?”
Egon remained stoic, but the pink flush on his cheeks said otherwise. “That is correct.”
“Well,” began Ray, grabbing a small flannel from where it lay crumpled on the floor of the garage and wiping his face with it, “why don’t you go and get everything set up, and I can…errr…assist you after a quick shower?” At this he waggled his eyebrows ridiculously.
Egon nodded silently, watching Ray wipe now his hands with the flannel. It didn’t remove the dirt: only smeared it around more. As much as he wanted to beg Ray to ditch the shower and come with him now, to let Egon lick him clean (or something) on their shared bed, he recognised that was likely the result of his lust-impaired state, and wouldn’t actually pan out well. Car grease and musky boyfriends were sexy in theory, but the thought of getting dirt all over himself and the sheets (even if he would shower and the sheets would be changed afterwards anyway) was not very arousing to Egon when he really thought about it.
So he made his way back upstairs, leaving Ray to put his tools away - like Egon, he wanted to prevent potential dangers. Tripping, in this case, rather than contamination by ionising radiation, but dangerous nonetheless.
By the time Ray arrived back from his shower - hair damp, clad in nothing but a small towel wrapped around his waist, good lord - Egon was already sat naked at the end of their bed (clothes discarded into the hamper) waiting patiently. He had gotten everything out ready - their bottle of lube and two bottles of water (for afterwards) stood on their bedside table. He didn’t expect they would need the strap-on; he had other intentions in mind.
“So,” Ray started, sitting down beside Egon and gently placing his hand on the latter’s leg, “what were you thinking?”
Egon gulped. He could smell Stantz’s shampoo. “I’d like to eat you out, Ray.”
“Really?” asked Ray, leaning closer into Egon. “You’ve really been enjoying yourself down there lately, huh?”
Spengler looked sheepish, but nodded nonetheless.
“You’re lucky that you’re so good with your mouth.” Ray grinned as he shuffled up the bed until his back was flush against the headboard. He gently removed his towel, but kept his hairy thighs pressed together, hiding what Egon needed to see so badly. “Otherwise I might not let you do this so often.”
The pair both knew that, regardless of Egon’s prowess (or lack thereof) with oral sex, Stantz would gladly allow him to do so - he was the kind of partner that would gladly partake in anything his boyfriend desired with fervour. But Ray liked to tease, and Egon liked to be teased.
He could feel his cunt throbbing already. Egon crawled up the bed until he could rest his head in Ray’s naked lap. “Please Raymond.”
From this angle (Egon thought), Ray looked incredible. Soft stomach covered with thick, dark fur. Gloriously masculine 5 o’clock shadow. Pink flushed mastectomy scars sat just below his hairy chest. Like a husky, middle-aged, transsexual Adonis. Egon was rendered unable to do much else other than stare slack jawed at the hunk of a man - who just so happened to be his lab partner, best friend and long-term boyfriend - and beg.
“Alright then, if you're being so polite about it.”
Spengler gratefully pressed his nose into his boyfriend's fuzzy stomach and began to kiss, lick and nip first at the pliant skin there, and then - as he moved his way up - on Ray's chest. Ray purred appreciatively and cupped the back of Egon's head as the latter paid painstaking attention to his nipple grafts, swirling his tongue around them and biting down softly on the nubs in the way Ray loved.
“That's good sweetheart…” Ray muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Egon to hear. He hummed in response.
Then (after a quick pit stop at the shoulders, where Egon did indeed sink his teeth into the padded musculature there, earning a not entirely indignant squawk from Ray) the pair were kissing. It was slow, and romantic, while also being highly passionate - the kind of kiss only possible between two people who knew each other very, very well. Ray was the first to go probing with his tongue, and Egon put up no resistance, savouring the taste of snack foods and beer present in Ray's mouth. It was so familiar, so undeniably Ray , that he couldn’t help but moan into his boyfriend’s mouth.
Ray returns the favour, and then pulls back, catching his breath. They were sat with their torsos turned into one another, their legs a tangled mess. Arms encompassing, holding, grasping. Egon’s glasses were so fogged up he would probably be better off without them.
“Do you wanna…” Ray raised his eyebrows inquisitively, “you know?”
Silently, Egon nodded. Ray removed his partner’s glasses, turning Ray into a beautiful myopic blur. Egon situated himself so that he lay stomach-down on their bed between Ray's now spread legs. After almost 20 years of sex with each other, there was no fanfare necessary. Simultaneously, Egon was so excited he could feel himself becoming tachycardic.
Although he had seen it a thousand times before, the sight of Ray’s vulva would never be one he got tired of. His lover’s glistening, soaking hole nestled cozily in between his pretty pink labia, the labia which inevitably drew your eye to what Egon considered the centrepiece - Stantz’s swollen, twitching dick, engorged by the blood of arousal and years upon years of hormone replacement therapy - all framed by a well-kept thicket of soft dark hair.
Egon swallowed thickly.
“Tell me about your day?” he asked tentatively. “I like to hear you talking.”
Ray nodded, blurry, and Egon dove in.
He listened carefully while Ray told him all about his trip down to the bakery for breakfast, his quick pop into the bookstore that morning (“ two new covens in the area, Egie! A-ah! And they want my sh-shop to supply! C-can you imagine… ah! Yes! Right there! Fuck!- c-can you imagine that?”) and his slow and steady walk home to work on the Ecto-1. Of course, he was interested in his boyfriend’s day - Ray always had the most interesting stories to tell - but it was also so much easier to tell how good he was making Ray feel when he was talking. Which was a nice bonus.
Spengler spent time working Ray in the way he knew the other loved. Taking turns alternating between lapping at his folds, and sucking on the t-dick between Ray’s legs. He was big - at least, big for a pre-op guy - and Egon could never get enough of the sensation of his partner’s large clit resting heavy on his tongue.
“God! Fuck! Egie-”
Along with the increased wetness, the topical oestrogen had also made Ray’s hole a lot more sensitive these days, which worked greatly to Egon’s advantage. He made sure to tease the outside of the warm, wet opening with his tongue slowly - taking his time before pushing inwards. At this, Ray keened, and pushed his hips into Egon’s face, using his big hand to shove Spengler's head deeper between his legs.
“Ah!”
Ray's thighs were shaking. By this point he had given up all pretense of talking. The only noises coming from his mouth now were soft “oh, oh, oh” sounds, uttered in time with the insertion of Egon's tongue into his sensitive opening.
Spengler grinned into his partner's heat (at least, as much as he could grin without slowing his progress) as he listened to Ray’s noises. Being a natural born collector of data, he had spent the first few years of their sexual relationship learning and memorising every nerve ending of Ray's genitals - figuring out where he liked being touched, what he liked being done there, etcetera - and it always brought him great joy to hear the results of this private little experiment in practise. Once, in about 1975, Ray had joked that Egon must be taking notes, in order to know him down there that well. Egon had just given him one of his rare Spengler Smirks™ and completely and utterly failed to mention the fact that this was, in fact, true.
“Ah! Egon! Wait!” Ray cried. Egon removed his tongue and looked up at his boyfriend's flushed, sweaty face.
“Are you okay Raymond?”
(There was nothing he would hate more than upsetting or hurting his boyfriend.)
“Yes-” Ray managed to choke out, breathless though he was. “I just…I need a-”
Stantz made no attempt to finish his statement before he was heaving his shaking body up onto his knees.
“Get on your back,” he instructed, sounding weak but with a powerful undercurrent. Egon obeyed instantly, wordlessly.
And then…
Oh.
Oh yes.
And then Ray was sitting on his face, furtively humping his swollen clit against Egon's nose. Instructions to ‘open your mouth’ and ‘keep licking’ muffled by the hot weight of Ray's sweaty thighs clamped down around Spengler’s ears, but followed nonetheless.
Egon thought he could get lost in that moment, a moment of no feelings whatsoever but the weight of Ray on his face pinning him down, the sensation of Ray's hot, wet cuntflesh pressed tightly against his face, and the pounding of blood in his ears, his chest, his neglected cock. He bucked his hips against nothing, wretchedly seeking stimulation to his clit. It was a good thing Ray’s cunt covered his face, because he was pretty sure he was whimpering.
“Don't be so needy, Egie,” came the chuckles of Ray, filtered through the extremely effective noise cancelling headphones of his own meaty thighs. Ray was facing away from Egon's body - nails digging deep marks into the wooden headboard - but had turned his head just in time to see his boyfriend hump the air desperately. “You'll get your turn s-soon.”
Egon scrabbled for purchase on Ray's hips just as the pace of the other's bouncing increased. Ray began to grind his hips down more ferociously on Spengler's face.
“Fuck! Spengs, I'm close!”
Taking note of this, Egon picked up the pace at which he was thrusting his tongue in and out of Ray's soaking, greedy hole. His jaw was beginning to ache, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Soon Ray's cries of pleasure began to increase exponentially in volume.
“Ah! Ah! Ah! Ohhhhh~”
The only downside of his current position was that Egon was unable to watch Ray’s face as he orgasmed. He could picture it so well - eyebrows knitted together, mouth open in a silent ‘O’. Looking powerful, unstoppable and completely in his element. Absolutely gorgeous.
Ray’s thigh muscles spasmed and gripped onto Egon’s head so hard he might as well be in a vice, completely reducing his ability to breathe or think for a few airless, bliss-filled moments as Stantz orgasmed. What seemed like gallons of Ray's sweet slick gushed out onto Egon's face. It was like being waterboarded. But in the best way possible. Egon allowed his boyfriend to bathe in the afterglow for a few seconds before tapping him lightly on the still shaking leg.
“Yeah Egon?”
“I can't breathe very well,” stated Egon, still totally monotone, directly into Ray's cunt. The other hadn't moved since his climax, so Egon was aware he must be pretty muffled.
Ray let out a yelp of surprise and shifted himself downwards, so he was sat on Egon's bare chest rather than his face. Blinking slightly in the light, Spengler took a little time to admire the perfect man situated on his chest, the man he was lucky enough to call his boyfriend.
He traced the sweat-beaded line of Ray’s happy trail and chest hair, the rosy bloom across his pecs and mastectomy scars. Bathed in his blissed out, exhausted look. Definitely didn't mind the sight of the now worn out cock poking from his folds, resting in the centre of Egon's chest. Egon wasn't the kind of man who smiled genuinely often, but he would be hard pressed to deny that his eyes softened at the sight.
“And,” he moved his hands to squeeze lightly at Ray’s ample behind, “I believe it's my turn now.”
At this, Ray's handsome face lit up, rejuvenated at the thought of getting his boyfriend off.
“Fingers?” he asked, with genuine, boy-like enthusiasm.
“Fingers will suffice.”
“Alrighty.”
Ray picked himself up and plonked himself back down again in the same spot, but facing the opposite direction. He held out his hands and, with no need for communication, was handed the bottle of lube by Egon, who now found himself staring at the gorgeous expanse of Stantz’s lightly-fuzzed back. Waiting, Egon listened attentively to the noise of the cap unclicking (tlck) and the noise of lube being squirted onto his partner’s hand (phshhh) .
He gasped and arched his back when he felt Ray press two fingers up against his sensitive cocklet and start rubbing. Egon was not the only one who had taken painstaking care to learn every aspect of his partner’s most sensitive areas; Ray was just as conscientious, and also knew exactly when to apply his knowledge. Such as now.
“Oh Egie, you really are needy, huh?” Ray asked, grin almost audible in his voice.
Egon moaned at that - long, low and baritone, the kind that rumbles up from the depths of your chest and seems to reverberate around the room. Ray shifted his hips, adjusting his position straddling Egon’s middle, and started attacking Egon’s clit with a renewed vigour, aggressively kneading with his strong, steady, engineer’s hands, going in circles that hit Spengler’s most sensitive bundle of nerves dead-on with every movement.
It wasn’t long before Egon could feel his cock burning, heat building, pressure rising, and then he was careening over the edge. His legs, instinctively trying to protect his clit from overstimulation, clamped shut, trapping Ray’s hand against him. In contrast, Egon himself moved his hips desperately against his partner’s fingers, riding out his high. He bit down on his lip so hard it almost bled.
After a few seconds of twitching and shaking, grinding like a man possessed against Ray’s fingers, Egon went slack.
Ray lay down beside him, gently running his hand through the soft downing of hair on Egon’s nippleless chest (he had elected to not get the grafts when he went in for a double incision mastectomy in 1976. Not only were they a primitive surgical technique at the time, but it was also not something Spengler was particularly bothered about).
“Was that what you had in mind?” asked Ray. He placed a gentle kiss to his boyfriend’s ear lobe.
Egon sighed contentedly. “Yes Raymond. It was perfect.”
“I’m definitely going to need another shower.”
“Me too,” said Egon, letting his eyes fall shut, “but…later.”
Stantz smiled and wrapped his arm around him. Egon snuggled into him, and went to sleep. He was comfortable.