Twilight
lingered in April, drawing out the coming of night to confuse those that prowled
after dark, giving the young and in love a chance to find shelter for themselves
and their progeny before releasing terrors from their shadowy cages. Predators,
however, walked along both sides of the streets; some preying on the defenseless
and innocent, while still others turned the hunters into prey in their turn.
Thus,
the Ghostbusters could be called predators of the Light, trying to aid against
the Darkness, helping those in need whether living or not. They hunted and
snared their prey, then trapped and disposed of it. Whether that disposal was
humane or not, well, few bothered to wonder, considering what they imprisoned
was rarely anything remotely human to begin with.
That
afternoon, in fact, they’d hunted down a particularly nasty little specter
with more than the usual number of claws and teeth, and an ambition to move in
on the vacant territory left by the Boogeyman. Unwisely, it had chosen to start
by haunting a childcare facility geared towards parents that worked nights.
Sated by a night’s worth of terror, it had almost been too easy for the four
men to trap.
Unfortunately,
Peter had gone one quip too many, and ended up bouncing off the ceiling. On the
up side, he pointed out once he stopped wheezing for breath, the creature had
been an easy target for the other three. Once assured there were no injuries but
bruises, Ray and Winston had rolled their eyes at each other and gone to stow
their gear in the back of Ecto.
Egon,
on the other hand, had seen how close Venkman came to being disemboweled by the
spirit, and was less than pleased with his comrade, something he didn’t fail
to bring to Peter’s attention. Continuously. For the entire trip to the
hospital, while waiting in the ER, and all the way home from there. Without once
repeating himself.
The
other three had been impressed.
So
this particular twilight found Peter Venkman alone in the firehouse, a state he
was not overly fond of. It gave him too much time to think.
“Friday
night, and I’m sitting at home. Alone. How unnatural is that?” he asked
himself from his spot in the corner of the couch, absently flicking through
cable channels faster than he should have been able to determine what was on.
Not that he cared.
“Really,
Peter, I didn’t ask that you remain alone, simply that you refrain from going
out.” Egon spoke from his spot at the foot of the stairs, settling his bowtie
before carefully easing into his tuxedo jacket. “I’m sure you could call one
of your delightful female acquaintances to keep you company in your time of
need.” He tugged at his sleeves, settling his cuffs just so, and making sure
he had everything he needed in the correct pockets. "I'm sure last
Friday’s flavor du jour; was it Taffy or Tiffany? would be delighted to renew
your acquaintance."
So
occupied, he missed the dumbfounded look on his friend’s face at the sight of
Egon Spengler in a tuxedo, but before he could look up Peter had recovered from
the shock and now scowled at him, the first expression he could come up with
that wouldn’t set Egon off.
“I
did. They’re all busy or unavailable. It is Friday night Spengs, in dating
circles it’s generally considered rude to ask somebody out this late for
tonight.” Peter snorted and stood up to better take in the other’s
appearance. “Not that I expect you to know these things, dating etiquette not
being your area,” he added kindly. “Your collar’s off in back. Turn
around.”
Obediently
Spengler turned to let Venkman at the back of his jacket.
"And remind me again, which of us is going out tonight?" he
asked innocently. The sensation of Peter’s hands working at the edge of his
collar, brushing against his neck then across his shoulders and down the length
of his jacket was starting to affect his breathing. It was an effort to sound
normal, but one he’d become used to over the years.
“Oh
not fair, Spengs. I'm only home tonight because of an executive order. Turn
around again boss.”
Clamping
down firmly on his body’s reactions to Venkman’s nearness he did, looking
down to find Peter kneeling in front of him. The view, Peter’s brown hair
flopping into green eyes that looked up at him from just belt level caused him
to shiver. He had the sudden vision of himself grabbing handfuls of that thick
brown hair and pressing Peter’s mouth to his groin, could almost feel the hot,
moist breath through the layers of clothing. Stop that right now, he
thought. If the psychologist ever caught on that Egon thought of him as more
than his best friend, he was quite sure the results would fall in the category
of Very Bad.
Peter
rose from the floor and brushed at some imaginary lint on Egon's lapel, hiding
his need for contact, feeling the silk tingle on his fingers. One long fingered
hand finally grasped his, shaking it back and forth, drawing his attention
upward to Egon's soft smile.
"Peter,
Winston and Ray are gone for the weekend, but if there’s something wrong I
wish you’d tell me, I can cancel tonight.”
Venkman
smiled back, but the effort didn't reach his eyes, still reflecting a deep
unhappiness. "Yeah, I'll be okay, Spengs. You enjoy yourself with your
fellow opera buffs." He shuddered. "Yuck, I can't begin to imagine an
entire group of supposedly educated people going out of their way for
this."
"Well
Dr. Venkman, you're a supposedly educated person, perhaps you should join
us."
For
a moment Egon thought the younger man would agree, but then he grinned
brilliantly and shook his head. "Nah, I'm too smart for that, Egon.
Besides, there's a John Wayne marathon on, something the truly gifted
watch."
The
physicist studied his friend, seeing that the shadows had been lightened, if not
entirely banished. One of Peter’s eyebrows quirked and Egon braced himself for
anything. Suddenly Peter's hand shot out, and pushed Spengler's glasses back up
his nose.
"Peter!"
Three
hours later a much more relaxed Peter Venkman left the bathroom, preceded by a
roiling cloud of steam, having used nearly every drop of hot water in the extra
large tank. His skin was flushed pink, hiding a great deal of the lesser
bruising from his earlier fall, one of Egon's favorite fluffy towels wrapped
around his waist, a second over his head. He scrubbed vigorously at his hair
while he padded into the bunkroom, and paused at the doorway to nudge the heater
up a couple more degrees.
Peter
started towards his own bed, then stopped and looked over at Egon's. Checking
the clock he decided he had time for a short indulgence and made a quick detour.
He sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, running a hand over the soft coverlet.
The feel of the smooth cloth made his hand tingle and clench tightly in the
bedclothes, remembering the sensation of Egon’s tuxedo, warm with body heat.
Closing his eyes tightly he could feel everything again; crisp edge of starched
linen and silk, the feathery tickle of Egon’s rattail against the back of
Peter’s hands, the hint of the muscled body under the formal wear.
With
a moan he threw the towel on the floor and stretched out full length on the bed,
burying his face in Egon’s pillows. Soap and aftershave, the slightest touch
of male musk, he breathed deep and felt his body harden with a shiver. Almost
convulsively he ground his hips into the blanket then stilled, concentrating on
breathing the smell of his best friend deep into his lungs, branding his memory.
His hips flexed again, thrusting his cock with painful friction against the bed.
Rug
burns,
he thought hysterically. There’s something even I’d have trouble
explaining.
He
clawed his way under the bedclothes, twining himself in the cool sheets, kicking
the blanket off the side. His eyes closed against the moonlight pouring in; he
could imagine himself wrapped in Egon’s arms, held as tightly as he’d
wrapped himself, silky smooth skin and slightly spicy scent drowning him.
Finally
he relaxed with a sigh, rolling to his back, sheets sliding off. His erection
pulsed in time with his heartbeat. Egon’s heart, the thought came out
to play. Peter knew that if anything fatal ever happened to the physicist that
he wouldn’t be far behind, the sheer apathy would make him careless.
He
flexed his hand, remembering every time he’d ever touched Egon, starting with
the first time he’d tapped the back of Spengler’s wrist to attract his
attention in class. He ran his hand through his hair; then again, slower,
imagining it was Egon’s hand, his long, agile fingers combing back Peter’s
forelock. Slowly he traced across his face, fingers touching his lips, rubbing
softly back and forth.
Eyes
closed tight against the bright moonlight, he breathed deeply through his mouth,
rolling the faint scent as a taste, a fine wine.
Peter
flicked his tongue out and curled it around the tips of his fingers, then pulled
them down his chest to tease a small nipple. He felt the slight pinch arc
straight down to his balls and he couldn’t stop a whimper, his head jerked
back sharply. His right hand continued its journey down, stroking across his
stomach, rubbing lightly in the crease of his thigh.
His
legs fell open then, left hand getting into the act, softly cupping his balls,
tugging on the scrotum, pressing down behind it gently. His right hand wrapped
around his hardness, stroking the length of it slowly at first then gradually
faster. His eyes stayed closed and Peter began to pant with the effort, pulling
in Egon’s scent with each breath, increasing the depth of his fantasy, the
tall blonde’s hands on him, Egon’s thumb running across the crown, stroking
the slight dampness down the vein.
Unexpectedly
his body clenched tight, knees to chest, nearly fetal when he fell to his side,
completion pouring hot over his fist held tight and still. Shuddering into
stillness, Peter felt his tears close to the surface, a moan of pain starting in
his stomach and coming out quietly as his fantasy’s name.
“Beautiful.”
The word whispered to him from the
doorway behind him, the deep voice rolling like distant thunder.
Peter stiffened and raised his
head slightly; determined to bluff it out, but a faint tease of hope wove
through him. “’gon, that you?”
Footsteps were his answer,
followed by the other man moving into the light from the window. If he hadn’t
been so distracted Peter might have found the humor in Dr. Egon Spengler
returning home from the opera after being mauled.
“You
look like Janine finally had her way with you,” green eyes roved over the
scientist that had left not four hours ago in pristine condition. Now his tie
hung from his neck undone, shirt loose, belt and pants unfastened. Peter
squinted and started to reach up only to snatch his hand back, realizing at the
last moment that it was still sticky.
Egon hitched his pants up slightly
at the knee and squatted down at the side of his bed. Before Peter could stop
him, Egon snagged Peter’s retreating hand in his own, the other slowly coming
up to comb through brown locks now sweaty as well as wet. Every move was slow
and gentle, the way a man would approach a wild animal he was trying to catch.
“No, just you,” Egon
whispered, and Peter caught the very slight smile on the other man’s lips just
before they covered his own.
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