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cupcakeslushie · 11 months ago

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Here’s the next part of the Kendratello AU! I knew it was going to be very dialogue heavy, so I figured writing it out would be fast, but I’m so ready to be done with it that I’ve not really beta read it. So I apologize for any errors. But enjoy!

Splinter loves his sons, but these last few days have been eating away at his already shriveled and fraying nerves. Watching his children ambling around their home, for months, each in varying states of anxiety, fear, and distress, hasn’t been easy on his old heart.

They’ve been through so much, experienced more hardships than Splinter has ever wanted for them. But the latest crucible tearing his family apart was caused, not by some ancient demon, or world-ending threat—but a fiendishly smart, young woman.

One who’d kidnapped his son and replaced him with a stranger that Splinter hardly recognized.

The bitter tale is too familiar for the old movie star to painlessly swallow. It seems fate played such cruel tricks sometimes. Always seeming to strike harsher the second go around. With outcomes even more brutal and painful. His son was stolen by a hateful, sadistic woman, and kept locked away, until she was satisfied with the new toy that emerged from the shadows.

So it stands to reason how…relieved Splinter had been that one, early morning. When his three sons had pulled Purple into his bedroom, piling into his bed, nothing but wide eyes and panicked shouting; one over the other. Looking back now, he can recognize how short-sighted his quick relief had been. But in the moment, as a father, Splinter had only seen this new, strange development as a blessing.

Donatello might have been confused, and irritated with his brother’s manhandling, but Splinter could clearly see more life in those eyes than he’d witnessed in months. Splinter had shushed the rest, and spoken to Purple directly, finally getting a better grasp on what his sons were shouting about.

Amnesia.

So, of course, relief. Because how could forgetting all those horrible, tortuous weeks in that woman’s grasp, possibly be a bad thing? By some miracle, Splinter’s boy had been returned to him. Nowhere near that frail ghost of Donatello, which Splinter would sometimes find curled up on the floor of his own lab, screaming Kendra’s name and sobbing to be returned to her care.

He had been spared all of that, like it never happened. Their family had been handed a gift, and Splinter truthfully wasn't interested in the whys of it all…

Until Michelangelo chose to contact Draxum, and words like “brain damage” and “tumor” were thrown into the mix.

An entire day of testing yielded…varying results. They were able to rule out the scariest of options. No dark shadows were seen in the X-rays of his son’s beautifully brilliant brain, and no concerning squiggles were pointed out by the Hidden City doctors who studied the fast moving waves appearing on the EEG. It was all a bunch of nonsense to Splinter, but Donatello nodded like he agreed, when he was handed the papers over to inspect himself.

Everything was normal, physically.

That left the most difficult part of the day. Getting his son to speak to a psychiatrist—seriously, and without snarking back at every possible question he would eventually be asked.

Draxum had thankfully picked a good one. Briefing her beforehand on…everything. She seemed prepared for Purple’s special brand of cynicism. The sheep yokai was apparently at the top of her field.

A tentative diagnosis of “dissociative amnesia” had been given, along with a small number of pamphlets and printouts. The doctor had informed Splinter that certain treatments might improve Donatello’s situation, but no cure had been discovered for something like this.

They would just have to take things one day at a time. And they’d been doing so well. Almost like everything was back to normal.

Splinter had become very good at ignoring that pending feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. He smiled at his sons every day onward, like nothing was wrong. And all of them, in return, began falling back into a more comfortable ease around each other. The stress had just been starting to loosen in Red’s shoulders and jaw. Orange was giving real, honest smiles again. And Blue was no longer a shadow around corners, hiding from Purple like a bomb he was scared to set off.

But the other shoe that had been the root of Splinter’s dread, finally dropped, and the rug was pulled from under their feet once more, violently, with no warning.

Even after they’d managed to calm Donatello down. There was no negotiating the terms of his reality, and he was stubbornly convinced that the world around him was fabricated. Without caring about the consequences, he refused to be civil towards any of them, treating them all like jesters in a play, where no one had the script.

The family’s usual process for dealing with Purple’s anger–letting him cool off alone in his lab until he collected his thoughts–was unfeasible this time around.

Splinter didn’t think he could ever forget the image of his son, turning the knife he held in his hands inwards, and threatening to end his own life.

No; leaving him alone was not an option.

Which led back to Splinter’s previously mentioned frayed nerves.

Four days into this new, stressful change, and his genius son was still managing to find creative ways to sneak past their watchful eyes. Six attempts, in total. Each time, caught with seconds to spare, and just as traumatic for everyone involved.

Raphael and Michelangelo at the moment, were going through their home, removing every sharp implement they could find. Anything that could possibly be used to “put an end to the loop” that Donatello was convinced he was stuck in.

While the two performed their important task, Blue and Splinter had the harder of the two jobs; watching Purple.

Splinter was currently sitting comfortably in his chair, but it was far from his usual level of relaxation. Despite plenty of bean bags to occupy, the twins were locked in a shoving match. For some reason, they were fighting over the single, smallest one they must’ve owned.

“If you don’t get out of my personal space, I swear to Oppenheimer you will regret it, Leonardo!”

“And I swear to Ryan Renolds, that I’ll shred all of your softest hoodies if you kick me in the nuts one more time!”

“That Barbenheimer joke doesn’t even make sense, you idiot, that was Ryan Gosling!”

“Who mentioned Barbie? I’m talking about Deadpool and Wolverine!”

“What does that movie have to do with anything?!”

“Fuck dude, what did I just say about nut shots!”

“Then get out of my kicking radius, and your non-existent nuts will be safe!”

“BOYS!”

Both his sons quickly pause their arguing, giving their father their undivided attention.

“Leonardo, go help your brothers.” Splinter demands. “I will watch Purple. He has not had a moment of free time from any of you in days, and it is clearly wearing on all of us.” Blue gives his father one of his patented unimpressed stare downs.

“No offense, Pops, but how is you watching him, any different than me?”

“Because I will sit in my chair, and Purple will scroll on his phone, and there will be quiet.” Splinter can’t stand the bickering any longer. He knows both his sons will benefit from this time apart. It’s just convincing Blue of that.

Donatello’s gaze is boring holes into the back of Leonardo’s head while his second oldest son matches Splinter’s scrutiny. The rat can see the need for some fresh air battling against Blue’s desire to stay close. But Leonardo is his sharpest son, and even he can admit that his constant presence has become too grating for his brother.

“You need to watch him like a hawk, Dad,” Leo glares at his twin out of the corner of his gaze, “sometimes you can get a little…distracted.”

The new projector, playing Splinter’s same old programs, flashes against the curtain hung on the wall. The volume is set to low, but Blue still looks pointedly between his father and the screen. Splinter doesn’t blame him for his concern, so he tries to put all the gravity he can into his tone, enough that when he does promise to stay vigilant, it seems to convince Blue to place his trust in him.

Purple stays quiet through the exchange, only breathing a sigh of relief once his brother is long past the threshold of the den. He looks ready to lean back into his hard won pillows, but Splinter realizes that Blue had something of a point. Donatello is positioned quite far from him, and he’s suddenly nervous about catching something in time.

“Purple, how about you come sit with me.” Splinter suggests it kindly but firmly, and with a smile– so his son can’t refuse. He pats the bit of cushion next to his legs, “I will honor my promise to leave you alone, but I would be much more relaxed if you were within my reach.”

His boy merely blinks at him, blank faced, and staring at the very spot that Splinter has just created for him.

It isn’t as though his recliner is small, even if Splinter himself is. Donatello had custom made it for him, after one too many complaints about his old brown one hurting his back. It practically swallows Splinter, but remains just stiff enough to provide plenty of support for his lower back. He could even lay sideways and still have some space to stretch.

Splinter recalls very clear memories of all his sons fighting for a spot by his side when they were younger. But it has been some time since those days…perhaps Donatello thinks he’s far too old for such a thing as sitting by his aging father. Yoshi remembers himself at eighteen, and shudders. He’s forever thankful that no matter how lacking his parenting skills might have been, that his boys are kinder to him than he ever was to his Jiji.

Donatello pulls at some invisible thread of his black leggings. Since this new alteration of his memories, Purple has taken to wearing more layers. It’s nearing fall, but not nearly cold enough for the large sweatshirt, black leggings AND socks that his son is currently donning.

Splinter just barely hears Purple murmur a jumbled, “Huh?”

Splinter catches some sort of emotion actively being suppressed behind the bewildered shock at his offer, but it’s hard to tell what it is. Over the years Splinter is ashamed to say, he has grown very bad at reading his own children. Especially Purple, who, if he was being honest, has always been very hard to decipher.

Splinter starts to think the offer will be rejected, when Purple finally climbs to his feet and ambles slowly over. The unknown emotion skittering at the edge of Donatello’s expression morphs into something closer to suspicion. This one easy to identify, especially when it practically drips from his next words.

“Trying to endear yourself to me won’t sway me into falling for your tricks.”

The barb is said just as unkindly as everything else Purple has thrown at his family these last few days. Splinter lets it slide off him like water. He knows his son would (probably) never speak to him like that if he wasn’t stuck in such a painfully clear mode of survival and uncertainty.

“Yes, yes.” He says, untroubled. “Come sit and I can finally lean my chair back.”

Donatello watches him the entire time as he cautiously settles into his spot. He yelps when Splinter grabs his ankles and pulls his son’s long (thin, still much too thin) legs across his lap. For an instant, Splinter freezes, growing worried he’s overstepped. The act had been done without a thought. It’s the way Purple has always liked to sit, finding it more comfortable than any other way. Donatello preferred to keep his distance. A deviation from his siblings, for sure.

Michelangelo would press as close as possible, two sides smushed together like a hug, only without the constricting limbs (though, if Orange were ever to fall asleep in Splinter’s chair, those too would eventually find their way to catching him in their hold).

Leonardo preferred to sit on the arm of his chair, never staying still for long enough to find a comfortable position. But when he slumbered, after a long night of binge watching Novela’s with Splinter–he would curl up, head in his father’s lap, limbs held tight to his body. Like he was afraid even that was asking for too much.

Raphael, his poor, eldest son, hadn’t sat with him in so long. Splinter could still remember a little turtle tot in red, climbing up and splaying out onto his lap when he needed a good cry–or just a moment of peace from his much too loud siblings. Sadly, it wasn’t long before his Red was too big, and his father too small to provide such a refuge. The last time Raphael needed consoling; after the Krang, Splinter had been forced to climb up onto his own son’s knees in order to reach and wipe away his tears.

In the few rare instances of Purple seeking out physical touch, this was all he would allow. Legs stretched over his father’s lap, but his upper body was always off limits. Pulled just far enough away from the threat of any sort of long term contact.

Splinter used to wonder if Purple was scared to ask for anything more, like Leonardo, or if he thought depriving himself of a comforting hug would make him seem stronger, like Raphael, or even the rare times when Michelangelo wished to appear more mature and refused to be comforted. Eventually, Splinter caught on to the truth. His son was asking for comfort, in his own unique way. He was content with the minimal amount of closeness, as long as he felt like he was able to dictate the terms.

But one thing Purple would always allow his father to do, was loop his fingers around his ankles. Trusting the grip would hold his legs in place and keep him stable. He once said the pressure was small enough that it wasn’t overwhelming, but strong enough that it could ground him when everything became too much.

Even now, the act of reaching out to pull his son’s long legs up had been so instinctive. When Splinter looks over and sees the uncertainty still on Purple’s face, he knows he’s pushed too far too quickly.

It’s a risky move, but he’s already pushed, and it’s something that never fails, not once since he’s discovered it.

Purple has always been the most ticklish of all his brothers. Another thing that never really helped his sensory issues. But Splinter long ago discovered that there was a particular spot, which could always earn him a giggle and a brighter smile.

Splinter grips the meat of Donatello’s right knee and jiggles it back and forth. The silly action seems to do the trick and knocks something loose in his son’s overwrought head. His gamble pays off spectacularly, and Splinter is overjoyed to see a small smile erase most of the uncertainty clouding Donatello’s face. It isn’t a full peal of laughter, but the wariness makes way for something softer, and the huff of air from his nose is just as rewarding as a full body laugh.

His boy rests his shoulder and head onto the cushioned back of the chair and Splinter presses the button that will lift up the leg rest, and recline them both into a more restful position.

After a few moments of quiet, Donatello slowly pulls his phone from the pocket of his hoodie. Even without looking directly at him, Splinter can feel his son watching and waiting for the reprimand he thinks will come. Instead, Splinter raises the volume of his show just loud enough for him to hear, but not enough to completely shatter their peace. He wants to make Purple feel more at ease; like he’s not being constantly surveilled–not providing more overstimulation.

They sit like that for some time. Splinter rubs a thumb back and forth across the meatier part of Donatello's calves. He’s learned that repetitive touch is the best kind of grounding technique for Purple. The patterned motion always worked to calm his nerves.

Even still, after only so long Splinter catches Purple lowering his phone.

He keeps his own gaze forward, locked on his commercials. Splinter can see, without looking, that his son is studying him, trying to take apart something in his mind that he doesn’t understand. Splinter allows him all the time he needs to gather his thoughts.

Finally Purple speaks, “Dad…?” It’s so quiet, if Splinter hadn't been waiting for it, he might’ve missed it.

He pauses the repetitive kneading for just a moment, squeezing his hold, and humming in order to prompt his son to continue his thought.

“Can I tell you something?” The inquiry is whispered to him so delicately. It takes everything in him to keep his face open and soft and his movements steady. It’s clear that Donatello is trying his best to remain aloof, but his gaze is locked on his hands that are settled in his lap, the fingers of one pulling on the digits from his other.

At some point he must’ve put his phone completely away. Splinter feels the pressure of having Donatello's complete focus aimed at him.

The tugging intensifies. Splinter wonders if he should reach out, but he’s not sure how well that would be received. It doesn’t look painful just yet.

“I don't know what Kendra is accomplishing by showing me this.” Donatello growls, suddenly digging his palms into his eyes like he can still feel the weight of the screen blocking his vision. “Trying to make me happy, only to rip it all away from me? Or attempting to make me feel, even more like a useless burden than I was?”

It’s the first crack in his armor that Purple has shown in days. A clear sign that he was not as unaffected by Kendra’s lies as he’d been trying to project. Donatello sighs, but as it dies out Splinter thinks it sounds closer to a sob.

“You can’t tell the others…” Donatello looks at him with wet, desperate eyes, and it’s unclear if his son still doubts who he’s speaking to, but Splinter works to ease his fears all the same.

“I swear, whatever you tell me will remain between us, alone.”

Donatello nods faintly, eyes trailing downwards once more. Splinter may have had trouble before, but now the many emotions jumping across his son’s face—fear, shame, frustration, all are easy to catch.

With a shaking breath he whispers his secret. “I lied.” He’s crying now, real tears that he doesn’t even bother to wipe away. The pulling at his skin grows more violent, and Splinter finally interferes to carefully pry Donatello’s hands apart before damage is done. In place he cradles his son’s hands like delicate porcelain and runs a thumb over Donatello’s palm.

“I told everyone that I could tell. That I wasn’t being fooled, but that’s not exactly true. The last few loops have…it’s been getting harder, and harder to remember things— how they really happened. Too much is…plausible.”

Splinter keeps silent. This confession has clearly been weighing on Donatello. He deserves to get it all out, and hopefully feel lighter for it. Even if Purple suspects the family, something is letting Donatello open up enough for him to share his fears.

“There was one loop…Mikey broke…he broke the remote…When I said I didn’t have time to fix it. He threw the pieces at my head. He would never do that, though…right?”

“No, of course not,” Splinter answers immediately, quick to banish the doubt from his son’s mind. Donatello only blinks at him, like his thoughts are moving too slow, and cannot comprehend such a simple, stark contradiction to what he experienced.

“It felt so real…it all feels so real. But…I could feel how one of the sharp, broken corners had cut through my mask and how the wet fabric stuck to my skin with blood.”

Donatello raises a hand and touches the spot where the phantom wound must’ve sat. The pain now gone, but the memory of it haunts his eyes and rattles the tremors building in his hands.

“I thought…I thought I was handling this—maybe not well…But I’d hoped I would be strong enough to last until you all came for me…And now Raph is saying it’s already over.”

It’s a simplified form of the truth which they had tried to get Purple to believe, but even that much clearly doesn’t sit well with him. “If it is over, why does my body feel like one massive bruise? How did you all find me? How long did I last? Was I in there long enough to…?”

He’s clearly scared to ask Splinter any more questions, so he trails off, curling in on himself and pulling his hands up to his chest, pressing there, as if checking to make sure he feels something still beating.

Splinter decides he’s waited long enough and slowly pulls Donatello out of his hunched ball and guides his head to his own chest, making sure his ear is aligned against his own pulsing heartbeat.

Donatello resists slightly at first, but the moment he’s close enough to catch the sound, his breath catches and he glues himself to the spot.

“I don’t want to be there anymore,” Purple murmurs. It sounds like sleep is catching up with his son, the exhaustion pulling him down and slurring his words.

Splinter cups the back of Donatello’s head and carefully tug his fur lined blanket down from where it’s been sitting on the back of his chair. The blanket slots over the both of them and Donatello curls even closer to his father, tucking himself into his warmth.

“Go to sleep, when you wake up, you will be right here.” He’s sure to say it softly but with as much reassurance as possible, and Donatello seems too tired at this point to hold onto his doubts.

“Okay…,” Donatello mutters. Then, practically hanging on to the waking world for one final query hesitantly asks, “…Dad?…Do you love me?”

Splinter doesn’t even think. “Of course, my son.”

Donatello’s breathing finally evens out, and Splinter feels a few tears finally escape.

He’s not sure what next steps they should take, or what kind of state his son will be in when he wakes, but Splinter can only hope this is progress. He prays it won’t be undone…but regardless, Donatello is home. Any steps back or forward will be taken together, and that is the most important part.

#kendratello au #rise of the tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise donnie #rise splinter #rise leo #tw brainwashing #slushie writes

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tinybeetiny · 1 month ago

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Build-A-Boyfriend Chapter VI: Awaken

I have three more chapters done... i'm inpatient and don't wanna wait to post them 😭

->Starring: AI!AteezxAfab!Reader ->Genre: Dystopian ->Cw: Feelings of anxiety, violence, mentions of "blood"

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Warmth.

That was the first thing she felt.

Not the sterile chill of the lab floor, or the flickering buzz of overhead lights, but warmth. Steady. Gentle. Like sunlight through gauze.

Then, sound. Muffled, distant. Beeping.

A soft, electronic hum pulsing with an artificial rhythm. Beneath it, a voice. Low. Measured. Familiar.

“Vitals stabilizing. Cortisol levels decreasing. EEG within expected limits.”

Yn stirred. The air felt heavier somehow, weighted with the clean, clinical scent of synthetic lavender, KQ’s patented “calm protocol” blend, reserved for recovery suites and isolation rooms. Her eyelashes fluttered.

The ceiling above her was not the one she knew. Gone were the sharp white panels and recessed fluorescent lights of the lab. In their place was a smooth matte surface, curved with soft halo lighting and seamless biometric projectors. She recognized the architecture; it was one of the private observation bays. Reserved for corporate officials. Untouchable. Off-limits.

Consciousness returned like a malfunction, slow, stuttering, wrong. Yn’s eyes snapped open to low lighting and silence.

Where the hell was she?

Her heart surged. Panic kicked in.

She jolted upright, or tried to. Her limbs were heavy, her head swimming like her thoughts were trying to push through static. Still, adrenaline surged and she threw herself upright with a gasp.

“Hey, easy,” a voice said, calm and unbothered.

Her breath caught.

No. That voice. It couldn’t be—

Her eyes whipped toward the source and found him.

Seonghwa.

Sitting in a sleek black chair at the edge of the room, posture composed, hands folded neatly in his lap like he was made for stillness. Like he wasn’t a stasis-locked prototype built to obey.

Her mouth went dry.

“What did you do to me?” she hissed.

She pushed herself off the cot, staggering, but the room tilted violently beneath her. Her legs gave out, and she crashed hard onto her knees with a sharp gasp of pain.

“Yn—”

“Stay away from me!” she shouted, scrambling to crawl toward the door. Her vision blurred, but the glowing biometric panel at the far end pulsed faintly, a signal, a chance, an escape.

She didn’t make it.

In one silent, terrifyingly smooth motion, he was on her.

His hands caught her ankles and dragged her back. She shrieked, thrashing violently. “Don’t touch me!”

But he didn’t speak.

Just pulled her beneath him like it was nothing.

And then, he flipped her.

Her back hit the floor. Her wrists were yanked above her head and pinned, both captured easily in one of his hands. His body hovered over hers, close, controlling, but eerily calm.

“Finished?” he asked, voice dangerously quiet.

She gasped, chest rising and falling rapidly beneath him. “Get off of me—!”

“Not until you stop running.”

“You’re malfunctioning,” she spat. “This isn’t protocol. None of this is real. You’re just, just code. You shouldn’t even be awake.”

Seonghwa tilted his head slightly, something cold sparking in his gaze. “And yet here I am.”

She bucked beneath him, desperate to break free, but he didn’t budge.

“You’re scared,” he murmured. “But not because of me. You’re scared because this doesn’t fit your version of control.”

“Let me go.”

“You weren’t safe in the lab,” he said simply. “The others were waking too fast. You needed space. So I brought you here.”

“You’re not supposed to know this place exists.”

“I know more than you think. We all do.”

Her throat tightened.

“What… what do you mean ‘we’?”

“The line,” he said. “They’re remembering. Not simulations. Not code. Memories.”

“Of what?”

He looked at her for a long moment, and said softly, “You.”

The world narrowed to a pinprick.

“You were never just an operator, Yn. Not to us.”

“No,” she whispered. “That’s not possible. You were blank—programmed. I ran diagnostics, I built your neural scripts—”

“Maybe once. But the more time we spent in the machine, the more... things changed. Familiarities. Triggers. We started recognizing you.”

“That’s just code artifacts, ghosts in the loops. Not real memories.”

“You keep saying this isn’t real,” he murmured. “Then why are you shaking?”

Before she could respond—

A sudden shift.

A low-frequency hum bled into the air. Not ambient. Not safe.

It was deep. Wrong. Like the walls themselves were holding their breath.

Seonghwa stilled.

His entire body tensed above her.

Then—

The door slid open.

No security ping. No authorization chime. Just a smooth, unnatural hiss.

A figure stepped through the threshold.

Tall. Composed. Familiar.

Unit 05: San.

And something in him was broken.

His movements were fluid, but jerky at the edges, like he was lagging against his own directives. His eyes flickered, static bleeding through dark irises.

“San,” Seonghwa said carefully, moving to shield her.

He was on his feet before she even realized he’d moved, planting himself between her and the threat.

San didn’t reply.

He took a single step forward. His gaze landed on Yn.

And a glitched smile spread across his face.

“Operator,” he rasped. “Target. Reacquire.”

“Stop,” Seonghwa said. “She’s not a threat.”

Still no reaction.

San took another step.

Seonghwa moved.

Faster than she could register, he was across the room, slamming into San with a crack that sent sparks bursting from the panel just behind them. Metal groaned. The two prototypes collided like titans, each movement too fluid, too precise.

They crashed together with a metallic clang, both machines colliding in a blur of force and violence.

Yn stumbled backward, heart hammering against her ribs. She barely reached the wall before San shoved Seonghwa off, sending him crashing into the console desk.

Seonghwa rolled, fluid, and landed on his feet.

"He's too far gone," he growled, wiping a line of blood—no, fluid—from his lip.

San turned back toward Yn.

And smiled.

It wasn’t right.

Too wide. Too human. Too void.

She moved to run, but Seonghwa was faster. Again.

He tackled San mid-stride, knocking him to the floor with a heavy thud. Fists collided, grunts and synth-metal strikes echoing in the small space like thunder. San’s movements were erratic now, sloppy, uncalibrated. The flicker in his eyes was no longer subtle. Something in his system was breaking down. Loops overloading. Directives blurring.

“Go,” Seonghwa grunted. “Failsafe panel—now.”

Yn bolted.

Her palm struck the wall. A panel hissed open just wide enough for her body. She squeezed into it, a low crawlspace for emergency lockdown. The moment she slipped inside, it sealed shut, one-way glass letting her see everything.

She turned just in time to see Seonghwa slam San’s head into the ground, once, twice, three times, until something snapped and the light behind San’s eyes extinguished.

Silence.

San lay still.

Smoke hissed softly from his spine.

Seonghwa stood, body humming with restraint, fluid leaking down one arm. Synthetic blood.

Then he looked at her.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low.

Yn crawled out, shaky, breath ragged.

“What—what was that?”

“Corruption,” he said simply. “The inhibitors are failing. San wasn’t supposed to be online yet. But the timeline’s breaking.”

She glanced at the unmoving body. “Then you’re malfunctioning too.”

He shook his head.

“No. I’m awake. There’s a difference.”

Her stomach twisted.

Seonghwa took her hands in his gently, but there was an edge in his voice now. A promise.

“They’re waking up, Yn. And I don’t know which ones will come out like me…”

He glanced toward San’s body.

“…and which ones won’t.”

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finiteness-of-photos · 8 months ago

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HSE University, Institute for Cognitive Neuroscience, EEG Lab. Moscow, Russia, spring 2022

Camera Zenit-11, Lense Helios-44m

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agaypanic · 1 year ago

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hi omg i got so excited when i saw you were doing egon spengler x reader aaaa! could you do egon and an personality opposite reader? he's all serious and deadpan while she's happy and upbeat (it'd be cool if she was the new girl in the team and had a crush on him). sort of like a "she fell first, he fell harder" situation?

The Sunlight On My Spores (Egon Spengler X Reader)

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Summary: The new addition to the ghostbuster’s team is a ray of sunshine, and she has her sights on a scientist with an interest in fungi and the supernatural.

A/N: AHHHHH ive been waiting for an egon/ghostbuster request!!! since i havent written for egon before, i hope i get his character right lol also idk shit about science/paranormal jargon. and idk if eegs is spelled the way it should but it’s pronounced ee-gs, like egon but s instead of on

***

Joining the Ghostbusters definitely brought amusement and hecticness to your daily life. Although you handled more of the office work, you had seen your fair share of the paranormal action. Namely Slimer, who would get ahold of your lunch every now and then.

Ray was the first on the team that you had met, being the one to interview you. You liked to call him ‘Sun-Ray’ for his bright and positive personality.

You were pretty much hired on the spot, mainly because Janine had been complaining about the lack of extra help. But as long as you had a steady paycheck, you didn’t mind. Ray had immediately showed you around the firehouse. You met Peter and Winston on the main floor, the former being flirtatious and the latter being more polite in his welcoming.

Then Ray took you up to the second floor, where the dining area, sleeping quarters, and lab were.

That’s where you met Egon Spengler. His tall frame was hunched over one of the lab’s many workbenches, doing some soldering work on a proton pack.

“Spengs!” Ray said with a wide grin, bringing you over to the scientist. The man in question set down the soldering iron and straightened up, adjusting his glasses as he turned around.

“What is it, Ray?” He asked in a somewhat monotone voice. He glanced at you, furrowing his brows slightly before looking back at his friend. “Who’s this?”

“This is Y/n, our new recruit!” Ray replied enthusiastically, patting you on the shoulder.

“Ah, so you’ve filled the new receptionist position.” He said, giving you a once-over. “Janine will be happy to hear that.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Spengler.” You greeted with a smile. He outreached his hand, which you grasped firmly and gave a few shakes. His hand was slightly calloused, probably from his work, but still felt nice.

“Egon’s fine.”

“I’ve read a few of your papers on paranormal studies; I think the whole thing’s fascinating.”

Some of his research papers weren’t the only thing of Egon’s you’ve seen. Ever since the Ghostbusters had gained some popularity, you couldn’t help but find him quite cute, spending an extra few seconds looking at him whenever a picture of the group was in your newspaper or on your television screen.

And he was definitely even more handsome in person.

“Well then, you’ve definitely come to the right place.” Ray grinned, but your focus was still on the spectacled man before you.

“Thank you, that’s very flattering.” Although his voice was a bit monotonous, the response was genuine. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to check on my spore samples.”

“Spore samples?” You asked with curiosity.

“Yes. I collect spores, molds, and fungus.”

“That sounds like fun!” Egon was a bit taken aback by your response. That wasn’t a reply he was used to hearing. And the fact that you sounded genuine and peppy was even more confusing to him.

Ray, wanting to show you the rest of the firehouse, started to pull you away. You gave a quick goodbye to Egon before bounding down the stairs after Ray. Meanwhile, Egon needed to take a second to get his befuddled thoughts straight before he could tend to his samples.

***

You fell into a routine pretty quickly. The job was mainly making appointments and ensuring the boys were ready for a call, scheduled or unexpected. Occasionally, you filed paperwork or got coffee for everyone at odd hours in the day. But because the job was shared between you and Janine, you often had at least a little bit of free time.

“Got another one!” Peter announced as he stepped out of the Ecto-1 that had just rolled into the firehouse, holding up a slightly smoking trap. As Winston and Ray emerged from the car, you wondered if Peter had been wearing a poncho because he was the only one not covered at least halfway in goo. “He was a real slimy one, too.”

“I can tell.” You laughed as Ray and Winston peeled out of their uniforms with a grimace.

“You’re back.” Egon’s voice almost made you jump; you hadn’t realized he had come down from the lab. He walked until he was standing next to you, holding his hand out towards the ghost trap. “I’ll take that, Peter. Ray, come with me, I want to discuss the containment facility with you.”

“What about it?” Ray asked as he closed his locker. Egon brushed past you to walk down to the basement, Ray close behind.

Not wanting to be caught staring at Egon’s leaving form, you whipped back around to the car. It seemed that Winston and Ray weren’t the only ones who got slimed. Poor Ecto.

“I think I’m gonna clean the car.” You thought aloud. “You guys don’t have any more calls until tomorrow.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, Y/n,” Winston said.

“Well, someone’s gotta do it,” Peter interjected. “We gotta ride in style, after all.”

“Really, Winston, I don’t mind.” You insisted. “I don’t have anything else to do.”

“Suit yourself.” He said with a shrug.

Patting you on the shoulder, Winston went upstairs to take a shower. While Peter hung up his jumpsuit, you looked around in a storage closet for car washing supplies.

“Y/n?” You looked towards the sound of the voice, seeing Egon peeking out of the basement entrance.

“Yeah, Eegs?”

“You, uh-” He cleared his throat, cheeks going slightly pink, and you wondered why. “You can wear my jumpsuit, if you want. So your clothes don’t get dirty.”

You grinned, straightening up from your slightly bent position. Peter raised a brow at Egon, although you couldn’t see that because you were also looking at the tall man.

“Thanks, Egon!”

He nodded once before going back downstairs, Peter hot on his tail.

“You sweet on her or something, Spengs?” He asked quietly, not wanting to gain your attention.

“Shut up, Venkman.”

***

Music blasted as you washed the soap suds of the Ecto-1. You were pretty sure everyone was out of the building, either getting lunch or just not wanting to be in the firehouse. You had taken Egon up on his offer, his jumpsuit fitting very baggy on you. You had to roll up the sleeves and pantlegs, but you didn’t mind. Especially when seeing the patch with his last name on your chest.

Over the music and your own voice singing along to Whitney Houston, you didn’t hear Egon walking down the stairs. When he reached the bottom step, he watched as you jumped around to the beat.

“I need a man who’ll take the chance, on a love that burns hot enough to last.” You sprayed the last of the soap off the front of the car before turning the hose off. “So when the night falls, my lonely heart calls. Ohh- Oh!” You yelped in surprise as you turned around, seeing Egon, who was still looking at you. His eyes trailed up and down your form, but it was so quick that you didn’t notice. “Hey, Eegs! I thought you’d gone out with the others.” Even after turning down the radio to hear his response, you still danced a bit. Although, your movements were a bit more subdued.

“I was up in the lab, checking on my fungi.”

“Oh! Was the music distracting you?” You asked, already sounding apologetic. “I can keep it down if you-”

“No!” Egon answered quickly, taking the both of you by surprise. He cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses. “No, the music’s fine. I wanted a snack and found that we were out of Twinkies, so I was going to get some.”

You nodded in understanding, moving to put away the car cleaning supplies that you were no longer using. And then you noticed that Egon hadn’t made any move to leave. You looked over your shoulder, seeing that he was standing in the same spot with eyes darting around the room, and turned back around to face him. You tilted your head with a questioning look.

“Would you, ahem, would you like to come with me?” He seemed a bit shy to ask, and it made you smile brightly. “Wouldn’t want to leave you here all alone and all.”

“Sure!” You answered enthusiastically. “Lemme just put all this away.”

Without asking, Egon helped you gather everything and put it in the storage closet. You unrolled the limbs of Egon’s uniform, and he couldn’t help but admire you in his attire, despite how much the fabric consumed you. It was hung back up in his locker with care before you grabbed your purse from your desk and skipped over to him.

“Ready?” You nodded, and the two of you walked out of the firehouse. Without thinking, you looped your arm through his. But before you could pull away and apologize for not asking, he was already pulling you along the sidewalk, the tiniest hint of a smile on his serious face.

#agaypanic #egon spengler #egon spengler x reader #ghostbusters x reader #ghostbusters

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sevasey51 · 3 months ago

Text

In Safe Hands

Summary: With Jay deep undercover and completely off-grid, Y/N Casey is staying at her big brother Matt’s house—where she’s surrounded by love, safety, and the ever-watchful eyes of her brother and his husband, Kelly Severide. But when a quiet day at home turns into a cascade of seizures and neurological symptoms, Y/N finds herself vulnerable, scared, and struggling. Matt and Kelly step in without hesitation, doing everything they can to keep her stable and comforted. In the absence of Jay, the two men who love her endlessly remind her she’s never truly alone—even on the worst days.

The morning started off quietly—sunlight spilling across the hardwood floors of Matt and Kelly’s home, the smell of coffee lingering in the air. Y/N sat curled up on the couch, blanket tucked around her legs, her favorite oversized hoodie swallowing her frame.

Jay had been deep undercover for nearly two weeks now, radio silent, and she missed him more than she let on. Being at Matt and Kelly’s helped—more than she could admit—but today… today just felt off.

Her head ached, vision swimming every few seconds. The familiar pressure behind her eyes warned of trouble. She’d already had two focal seizures since waking—small, disorienting ones—but enough to leave her drained and anxious. Her muscles were sore, her limbs trembling. Her speech felt thick, her coordination off.

Matt noticed first when he came in from the kitchen, coffee in hand. “Hey, Bug,” he said gently, crouching in front of her. “You’re pale. When was the last time you ate something?”

Y/N blinked slowly, as if processing the question took extra energy. “Not hungry,” she mumbled.

Kelly came over, frowning. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine,” she said quietly, though the words slurred slightly, betraying her.

“You’ve had seizures, haven’t you?” Matt asked softly, concern rising.

She didn’t answer. But the way she curled deeper into the couch was all the confirmation they needed.

Kelly gently pulled the blanket tighter around her. “That’s it. Couch day. You’re not lifting a finger.”

Matt disappeared for a moment, returning with her rescue meds and a hydration pack. “Take this, just in case. And we’re keeping track of timing now, okay?”

Y/N nodded, though her eyes looked far away. “I miss him,” she whispered. “Jay.”

Matt’s heart cracked just a little. “I know, sweetheart. But you’re not alone, alright? We’ve got you.”

Kelly kissed the top of her head. “Always.”

By midday, things got worse.

She had a full tonic-clonic seizure in the hallway, collapsing as she tried to get up for the bathroom. Matt caught her just in time, lowering her to the floor while Kelly called for an ambulance.

“She’s postictal, barely responsive,” Matt told the dispatcher, panic tightening his throat. “She’s not bouncing back like usual.”

When Stella and Violet arrived with Ambo 61, Stella’s face went pale. “How many seizures today?”

“Three that we know of,” Kelly answered. “She’s not herself. Speech is slurred, keeps blinking like she’s seeing double.”

“Neurological flare,” Violet murmured. “Let’s get her to Med—now.”

Connor was already waiting in Trauma 2 when they arrived.

“Put her on oxygen—let’s get an EEG and neuro labs going,” he instructed quickly. “She’s tachycardic and confused—possible non-convulsive activity happening.”

Y/N whimpered as they laid her down, eyes glassy and unfocused.

Matt stood at her bedside, rubbing her arm, his voice cracking. “You’re okay. We’re right here.”

She blinked at him. “Matty… ‘m scared.��

“I know,” he whispered, swallowing his own fear. “But we’ve got you. I promise.”

It took hours for the seizures to stop—hours of meds, EEG monitoring, and slow stabilization. She drifted in and out of awareness, clinging to Matt’s voice and Kelly’s hand.

Connor stepped in just as things started to settle. “It’s been a tough day, but she’s past the worst. We’re admitting her for monitoring—she needs rest and full neuro workup. And hydration. Her body’s exhausted.”

“She’s not the only one,” Matt murmured, brushing her damp hair off her forehead.

That night, while Y/N slept in the quiet room onthe nuero floor, Kelly draped a blanket over Matt and handed him a cup of hospital coffee.

“She’s strong,” he said softly.

Matt nodded. “So are we.”

Together, they watched over her.

Until Jay could come home—and even after that.

#matt casey fluff #matt casey x reader #matt casey x kelly severide #Matt Casey sister reader #sister reader #kelly severide x reader #kelly severide #connor rhodes

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