#c: egon

[sigmasoyboy]

tfw the weird kid you pulled out of a basement window turns out to be a bratty stubborn dumbass who refuses to go to the hospital despite the fact he's completely incontinent, there's blood in his urine and he needs to eat ibuprofen like candy to not be doubled over in pain (but you keep him around because it feels so nice to not be alone after all this time)

[🔥Jasper/Egon🔪]

[finniestoncrane]

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[incorrectghostbustersquotes1984]

Egon: I’m sorry! It was a knee-jerk response!

Peck: WHO LUNGES FOR SOMEONE'S THROAT AS A KNEE-JERK REACTION?!

[ghw-archive]

Female nude, Egon Schiele, Date: 1910

[chaigirly]

Egon Spengler

Oh my good looking boy ⬅️ Link

Preview ⤵️

Saying you loved Egon was an understatement.

You adored this man with your whole heart, even if you didn’t understand most of the things he’d talk about it.

“So how do the ghost trappers work exactly?” You ask, walking with Egon downstairs to load todays catch into the containment unit.

You knew that would spark one of his rants, going on about things you couldn’t even repeat due to the complexity of his vocabulary.

You didn’t care though, it was intentional.

Just because you didn’t get it didn’t mean you couldn’t listen and try to understand.

Plus you loved his voice and the little glimmer in his eyes whenever he talked about something he was passionate about.

“When they’re activated by spiritual energy, they generate a localized electromagnetic field that attracts and captures spectral entities.

The trap opens to create a containment vortex, which, assisted by our proton streams, draws the ghost inside.

Once captured, the trap seals automatically, securing the ghost within a stable containment grid to prevent its escape,” he says as if it was common knowledge and you hadn’t zoned out while staring at him.

Oh he was so cute when he talked about anything to do with spiritual activity.

This hadn’t been the first time you had asked him about it and it certainly wouldn’t be the last time either.

How could you not?

He loved talking to you about it even if he knew you didn’t completely understand.

And you loved listening to him.

Well, staring at him and daydreaming would be more accurate.

———————————

[threadpull]

put the gun down. - for Jervis pls?

There are plenty of fools working in Arkham. The staff there come and go like leaves floating along a stream. The training is minimal before they are ushered into their work, as the need for replacements is high. The standards of who they hire are low.

The unfortunate fool today is a guard escorting one Jervis Tetch. The problem: he thought it necessary for his own safety to bring a gun to the job. Indeed, there are plenty of inmates who may cause trouble for him, but he doesn't take into account how observant they are. How observant Jervis is. How crafty.

This is how they got here. Jervis has managed to pilfer the gun off of the guard's person, and he is shouting wildly at any staff nearby to not come near, to let him go, to let him free. Egon, unfortunately, is very close by when this all occurs.

This all isn't very well thought out. Frankly, this isn't like Jervis at all, for anyone who is vaguely familiar with him. He's sweet, sometimes even innocent or naive, and he certainly doesn't wave a gun around even when he's free from Arkham. This is something that can't be said of many other inmates.

"Please just let me out," he pleads. His handcuffed wrists are shaking badly, and it begs the question: could he even hit his target if he were to fire? He's frantic, turning this way and that, looking to different staff members - it's almost more like he's searching for help rather than trying to intimidate. "Somebody. Anybody." No one moves.

"Put the gun down."

He falters, his aim lowering as he looks to Egon. His eyes are wide, and it's really only setting in now just what he's doing. "I don't— I just—" And those wide eyes of his start to water, tears begin to streak down his cheeks. In one sentence, with just his tone, Egon has managed to deflate him. Jervis doesn't want to hurt anyone. That's not what he attempts - no, he thinks that what he does is his best to bring happiness to others. It's illogical, sure, but that's why he's here.

He stumbles on his words as he continues: "Y- you don't understand! Why does no one understand? I- I keep saying it's not working, the medication's not working, but no one's listening!" He has to pause, breathless. "I- I feel insane. How does that happen? That's why I'm here, and this is supposed— I'm supposed to be getting better, so why do I feel worse? I can't stay here, I can't stand it, I can't take it, I can't do it anymore."

He's weeping now. His shoulders sag, gun now pointed fully down, and he looks so defeated. Still, no one dares to go near him. "The sights, the sounds, the smells - it's awful, it feels all wrong now, and I don't know what to do," he explains through sobs. It's like he's trying to plead his case. Don't hate me, please. "And they—" he gestures to some particular staff members down the hall, who all step back and raise their hands. Realizing he's pointing the gun again, he drops his aim again rather hastily, now frightening himself. "Why haven't any of you helped me? Tried? I—"

He stops there. Jervis feels hopeless. This isn't going anywhere. This isn't something he wants to do. There's no point to any of this. If anything, he has just made it worse. Who would help him after a move like this?

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I don't— I don't know what I'm doing." He transfers the gun from hand to cuffed hand, now dangling it from his fingers like it's something contaminated. Cursed. "I— I don't know. I'm not myself. I'm not me? Am I even here? What is wrong with me? Wh— what do I do?"

There's a beat. He lowers himself to the ground and finally sets the gun on the floor before sliding it away. And he just sits there, hugging his knees tight. Hands cover his face. "I'm sorry. I really am. Please don't hate me."

[shakespearesdaughters]

'The Embrace' (detail) by Egon Schiele, c.1917.

[leatherandmossprints]

‘Dead Mother’ by Egon Schiele, c. 1910.

[bebs-art-gallery]

Dead Mother (c. 1910)

— by Egon Schiele

[arte-e-homoerotismo]

Egon Schiele

Egon Leo Adolf Ludwig Schiele (12 de junho de 1890 – 31 de outubro de 1918) foi um pintor expressionistaaustríaco. Seu trabalho é conhecido por sua intensidade e sexualidade crua, e pelos muitos autorretratos que o artista produziu, incluindo autorretratos nus. As formas corporais retorcidas e a linha expressiva que caracterizam as pinturas e desenhos de Schiele marcam o artista como um dos primeiros expoentes do expressionismo. Gustav Klimt, um pintor figurativo do início do século XX, foi um mentor de Schiele.

Estilo

Jane Kallir descreveu o trabalho de Schiele como grotesco, erótico, pornográfico ou perturbador, com foco em sexo, morte e descoberta. Ele se concentrou em retratos de outros e também de si mesmo. Em seus últimos anos, embora ainda trabalhasse frequentemente com nus, eles eram feitos de uma forma mais realista. Desde jovem, Schiele desenhava com ‘fluência maníaca’. 

O crítico de arte Martin Gayford escreveu no The Spectator : ‘Ele [Schiele] encontrou seu estilo distinto muito cedo. Toda a sua obra é a de um jovem; a maior parte do trabalho na primeira das duas salas desta pequena exposição densamente lotada data de 1910 a 1911, quando Schiele (1890–1918) tinha apenas 20 anos. Isso ajuda a explicar algumas tendências: uma preocupação meio enojada com a sexualidade e um fascínio igualmente enjoado em examinar seu eu nu. As figuras masculinas parecem ter sido modeladas principalmente pelo artista, embora seja difícil ter certeza, pois a cabeça geralmente não é incluída.‘ 

Kallir e o acadêmico Gerald Izenberg consideram Schiele fluido em sexualidade e gênero. Kallir diz que Schiele estava “lutando com seus próprios sentimentos sexuais e normas de gênero” durante um período histórico de mudanças nas expectativas de gênero, o movimento feminista inicial e a criminalização da homossexualidade . Alguns críticos do século XXI leram sua arte como queer . 

Um fato menos conhecido sobre a carreira de Schiele é que, durante seus estudos na Escola de Artes e Ofícios de Viena, ele explorou a escultura e criou uma série de esculturas de argila e gesso em pequena escala. 

“Portrait of the painter Anton Peschka”, c.1909 by Egon Schiele (1885–1918). Austrian Expressionist lithographer, photographer and architect. Vienna, Austria. oil on canvas

[sigmasoyboy]

You won't age a day In freeze frame

[Egon🔪]

fried version extra

[spirit-of-art]

Egon Schiele, Trude Engel, c.1913

[gacougnol]

Egon Schiele

c.1905.

[ghw-archive]

Harbor of Trieste, Egon Schiele, Date: 1907; Vienna, Austria

[agaypanic]

I'll be honest I just want Egon smut lol. Maybe it could be them doing it in the lab after hours?

After Hours (Egon Spengler X Reader Smut)

Masterlist

Request Something!

Summary: With the uptick in ghost sightings, you and Egon rarely get to spend time together. But when the boys go out to get a late dinner and you find your boyfriend hunched over his desk in the lab, you see the perfect opportunity to make up for lost time.

A/N: porn without plot bc i couldn’t think of a plot sorryyyy

C/W: p in v sex, unprotected sex, blowjob, sex in lab duh

***

Egon shuddered, gripping the edge of his desk with intense force as you sucked him off. To say that your mouth engulfing his stiff cock was more effective in waking him up than coffee was an understatement. When you found Egon in the lab, he was slumped over, almost dead asleep.

But now, he was more alert than ever.

“Fuck…” Egon bucked his hips ever so slightly, reveling in the way your lips wrapped around him while your hand took care of the length you couldn’t fit in your mouth. But when his tip nudged the back of your throat, and your moans sent vibrations up his spine, he knew he was about to lose control. “You’re so, ah, doing so good.”

The compliment encouraged you to speed up your ministrations. Egon was slowly melting from your touch, and you wanted to see how long it would take to turn him into a puddle.

But Egon seemed to have different plans. “If you don’t stop now, I’m gonna come.” He let go of the table and caressed your face, practically covering you with how giant they were. To be fair, though, everything about him was giant. It took everything in him to not push your head further on him, but he managed to pull you away.

You looked like a mess. Lips and chin covered in spit, hair tussled, eyes lustful and tired. Egon may have been a man of science, but in the low light of his workstation, he was sure you were an angel. “That’s kind of the point, Eegs.” Your voice was low and sultry, only turning Egon on more. 

Despite your protests, he managed to get you up on your feet before lifting you up to sit on the desk in front of him. Thankfully, Egon had only been taking notes when you found him. If he had been working with ectoplasms or fungi, he never would have let you get as far as putting your hand over his clothed crotch. 

“Unfortunately, my refractory period is too long for my liking.” With the hand still on your face, Egon pushed your hair back before gliding his thumb over your swollen bottom lip. “If I had to choose, I’d rather come in your pussy than your mouth.”

You sported a wolfish grin, escaping Egon’s hold to lean back on your elbows. “Then get to it, Doctor Spengler.” He watched as you spread your legs apart, the hem of your nightgown raising up your thighs.

You didn’t have to tell him twice. In a matter of seconds, Egon was fully sheathed inside you, forever grateful that you decided not to wear panties before coming to find him in the lab. The pace he set was erratic and forceful, drawing out every moan and whimper that he could from you.

Egon knew he wouldn’t last long. He was already close to the edge when he first thrust inside you, so he put all his mental power into making sure he didn’t come before you. But luckily, it seemed like you were just as close. Your body writhed and shook with every hard thrust.

Exhaustion seemed to catch up with your boyfriend, who bent over to rest his head on your chest. He scattered kisses around your breasts, smirking when your nipples stiffened at the stimulation.

“Eegs!” You whined, hands reaching out to grab onto the back of his neck. “I’m so close.”

As if those words were a trigger phrase, Egon’s hand slithered down your body to where the two of you met to play with your sensitive clit. Your chest arched into him, and it wasn’t long before you were falling over the edge. Your cunt spasming around Egon’s cock triggered his own orgasm, and he huffed and panted as he fucked you through your highs.

When you both came down, everything felt still and peaceful. You weren’t exactly used to peaceful, so you did your best to savor the moment. 

After a few minutes, Egon finally moved. He lifted his head from your chest, and you giggled at his askew and foggy glasses. You straightened them out for him before running your hands through his hair, the tall man almost purring at your touch. 

“The boys are gonna be home soon.” You finally say, trying to give Egon the hint that maybe the lab wasn’t the best place to stay in the position you two were in, Egon practically laying on top of you, dick still inside you with his pants and boxers around his ankles.

Egon huffed like a child being told to stop playing with his favorite toy and go to bed. He looked at you for a moment, seemingly deep in thought. He didn’t want this moment to end, not when you rarely had time for each other.

“I’ll lock the door.”

[eebydeebyderby]

Can We Talk?

A one-shot in which reader tries to comfort Egon after a lab accident leaves him shaken and a bit injured.

Inspired by this post for Whumptober for Day 1: Apology, but it leans much more towards hurt/comfort than true whump. Thank you for your patience as I start getting back into writing <3

General info:

Egon x Reader, established romantic relationship, hurt/comfort (Egon gets got), minor injuries, gender neutral reader

~1.8k words

The trap clatters to the ground when you regain consciousness, smoking and hissing at Egon's feet. You shake your head a bit, trying to clear your head, regain your bearings as you slowly look around. The lab is in complete shambles around you: papers scattered and fluttering about, tables turned over, equipment thrown on the ground, an overhead light is shattered and sparking.

You turn around to find Egon looking intently at you from just a few feet away, proton gun still buzzing in his hand, the trap still smoking at his feet. He's completely disheveled, his glasses askew and his hair a complete mess. His face is expressionless, completely blank except for the tears burning in his eyes as his fingers slowly ghost over the side of his face, the stinging handprint on his cheek painfully red and already beginning to swell into an aching bruise.

Your heart sinks into the pit of your stomach and you gasp. “Egon, what happened?”

He stays quiet.  

You start moving towards him but freeze when he sharply recoils away from you, backing into a bookcase and knocking several books to the floor around his feet, startling you both. 

Your heart starts pounding in your ears and your chest tightens, threatening to stifle your breath. “Egon, I'm scared. What happened?”

He just stares at you, blinking rapidly. 

“Can you tell me what happened?”

             Nothing. 

Then, finally, he shakes his head. His breath catches behind the lump in his throat and he struggles in vain to try and swallow it down, his entire body trembling from the tension building in his chest, threatening to burst.

You slowly, very slowly, walk towards him, broken glass and equipment crunching beneath your shoes. He all but flattens himself against the bookcase, but still lowers his proton gun as you approach, halting just a few feet from him.

With delicate, deliberate movement, you reach towards him, making sure he sees and knows your intent.  

When your hand is about an inch from him he squeezes his eyes shut. Your hand grazes the uninjured side of his face and he sucks in a breath. His eyebrows knit together and he tries to keep his breathing steady, but he's unable to bear it and flinches from your touch. You yank your hand back, accidentally knocking a large thermos off a table. It hits the ground with a harsh, resounding clang, startling you both once again. His gaze fixates on the thermos as it rolls along the floor behind you. You keep your eyes on him.

“I'm sorry; I didn't mean to scare you. I'm sorry,” you sputter. 

Complete silence falls between you two. The only noises you hear are the sparking of the broken light fixture and your own heart pounding in your ears. 

"Egon, whatever happened—I'm so sorry; I would never want to do anything that hurt you. I'm sorry. Whatever I did back there, I’m so sorry." The words spill from your mouth before you can process them. You open your mouth for a split second as your mind scrambles to find something else to say, anything, but it draws a blank and you remain quiet. Then, you mutter, “I love you. I never want to hurt you.” 

His gaze snaps up to lock onto you, and it breaks your heart to see the tears welled in his eyes, so close to spilling over as he uses all of his willpower to hold them back. Egon is never one to express emotions openly, always keeping them guarded behind a shield of polite detachment. But, here you can fully see the sorrow etched on his tired face, the hurt and vulnerability and conflict and, something else, something you can't quite place—

He breaks eye contact and swallows. "I th—” His voice cracks and he clenches his jaw for a moment. “...I think it would be best if we separate for now." His voice is strained and unsteady. He swallows again, avoiding your eye. Then, he manages to eke out, “I…I need space. Please.”

His request hits you hard and you feel your own emotions swelling in your chest. You force yourself to take a deep, slow breath and you're grateful that your wildly beating heart calms down a bit.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “I'll be upstairs in the bedroom.”

The room is dark and quiet when you walk inside. The sky outside is beginning to lighten with the dawn approaching over the city skyline, bathing the room in a faint blue glow through the window. You sit down on the foot of his bed and think, think, trying to recall what happened before you regained consciousness in the wrecked lab. 

The two of you were alone in the firehouse. You remember helping Egon tinker with a live trap—the mechanism for releasing the entity into the containment unit was malfunctioning, and the two of you were trying to fix it. There was a loud bang, a flash of light. You remember yelping, then dropping your screwdriver, then crumpling to the ground, then—

Nothing. 

There's a tentative knock at the door, tearing you from your thoughts. “Come in,” you say.

Egon slowly opens the door and walks inside, his entire body still trembling. The bruise across his cheek is swollen and darkened into a splotchy red. “Can we talk?” he asks quietly, his voice thick with congestion. 

"Of course."

He sits down on the bed next to you and you have to suppress the urge to wrap your arms around him. You're facing him, but he faces the floor, arms slung over his knees and his hands clasped tightly together, trying not to meet your gaze. He sighs, unable to keep himself from shaking with nervousness. "I…don't know where to start."

"Can you tell me what happened?"

“It…The entity, it…” The lump in his throat seizes up and he quickly becomes overwhelmed. He sighs, starting to get frustrated with himself, and shakes his head. 

“That's alright,” you mutter. “It's alright.”

Silence falls between the two of you. You stay quiet, wanting to give him as much time as he needs. Your gaze wanders over to the window; the horizon over the city skyline now glows with the faintest hint of pinkness beneath the cool blue dawn. The street outside the firehouse is quiet, but you still hear the faint noises of traffic from the city. It's still too early for the birds to be awake, and you wonder if—

"I know it wasn't you.” His voice nearly startles you, and your attention immediately snaps to him. “It wasn't. I know it wasn’t, but I just…” He lifts his head to look at the ceiling, hands clasped firmly together in his lap, and you see the tears burning in his eyes. He clenches his jaw, trying to stay grounded. 

“Egon, can I touch you?”

He nods hesitantly, still shaking like a frightened dog. 

You stand up and slowly bring your hand up to the uninjured side of his face. He braces himself, squeezes his eyes shut, fearing a strike he knows isn't coming. “Hey, it's okay,” you coo. “It's just me.” Your fingers graze his face and he tenses, clenching his jaw as you gently stroke his cheek with your thumb, feeling the light scratch of his stubble. Your hand gently cups the side of his face and you delicately tilt his head up to plant a kiss on his forehead. 

The tension gripping his entire body finally bursts. He exhales sharply and gasps as tears flood down his face and you immediately pull him into a tight hug, cradling his head against your chest. Sobs spasm in his throat and he wraps his arms tightly around you, trying to pull you as close to himself as he can, despite his glasses going askew and digging sharply into his skin. His breath comes in short, abrupt gasps that rack through his entire body. 

“Oh, Egon…” you mutter, running your fingers through his hair. “Oh, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

“I-I know it…it w-wasn't you,” he sputters between gasps. "It—...You would n-never say th-the things it said,” he swallows, struggling to force down the lump in his throat that’s stifling his words, and his voice steadies a bit, “or raise a hand to me, but it...it weaponized things that…that only you would know, things that I-I confided only to you and it—...I know it wasn't you attacking me, I know it wasn't.” 

His voice thickens as emotion swells in his chest and fresh tears drip off his jaw. He pulls away and looks up at you with red, swollen eyes, absolutely exhausted, markings dotting the areas around his eyes and on the bridge of his nose where his glasses were digging into his skin. You slowly bring your hand up the side of his face again and this time he leans into your touch as you stroke his cheek. He sighs and closes his eyes, relishing your touch, allowing himself to start gradually relaxing, fatigue weighing heavily on him. 

You look intently at him, reading the emotions etched plainly on his face, and you recognize the one from earlier that you couldn't quite place. You scowl a bit. “What's the guilt?”

He opens his eyes and looks at you, a bit befuddled. 

“Egon, come on. I've done things to you that would patronize Babylon the Great. I can tell when you're keeping something.”

He smirks briefly through his tears, the half-smile that is so delightfully Egon. It quickly fades and he sighs, trying to keep his breathing steady. “I should've been more cautious. It's my fault the entity broke containment.” 

Your brain scrambles between saying, ‘why do you say that?’ and ‘no, it isn't’ and you blurt out, “Why do you isn't?”

“I knew you'd disagree.” He pauses,  and you see a slight glimmer of humor return to him. “At least, I think that's what you're attempting to do.” He lies down on the bed and gestures for you to follow. You're more than happy to oblige and lie down with your head on his chest and your hand on his collarbone. He slings an arm around you and sighs deeply, sinking into the bed and allowing drowsiness to start taking control. 

“I think we should put some ice or something on your face,” you say, curled up against him.

He shakes his head. “Ice only works to temporarily replace one form of discomfort for another. It does nothing to actually aid healing.” He’s quiet for a moment and yawns deeply. “The lab is in complete disarray,” he mutters. 

“It's always in complete disarray.” 

He snickers. “You know what I mean.” 

“How about we worry about it later?” 

“Alright. We'll worry about it later.”