hazardous waste of space

Omg omg so it's like...the most self-indulgent concept in my head rn so I'm just gonna ramble about being ghosts petplay bug(*≧∀≦)

I like to think it centres heavily around building you the best 'enclosure' so things like leafy or moss style blankets, plenty of places to hide. Pillows that look like logs or sticks, and tons og giant bug plushies!!

Ghost cares a lot about giving you "enrichment" such at a game console, or books, or even puzzles you can solve for treats to mimic bugs scavenging for food! You've got about five different bug accessories, mutliple headband and clip-on antennae. You even get a muzzle styled like a beetles mouth, with really sharp spikes so you can "bite" him for handling you too much.

Oh, and of course he's feeding you all the snacks you want. He lovingly assembles a snack board for you to eat each day and leaves it on your table disguised as a rock.

To me, it really boils down to ghosts obsession with bugs and his desire to care for you. There's no expectations for you to act a certain way or have a certain amount of energy for him to enjoy it. You could sleep all day and he'd love how cute you are in your leaf cocoon!

You knew it was bad when his method of warning you was text you received after he was already out the door. John isn't the kind of man to run from his problems. Strategically create distance? Sure. But to refuse to look you in the eye over a request to talk?

It didn't feel good.

You spent the whole day on autopilot, terrified. What the hell could he need to talk to you about? John isn't the man to cheat, you're sure of it. But...did you upset him? Is it bad news?

When john comes home, he looks terrified. Brings you to the bedroom, reaches for a box you didn't know was in the closet, and....pulls out...a...stuffed bear?

"John? What's this about?" You ask, carefully watching your husband. The bear looks like any other, except for the matting of its fluff and lumpy shape, worn down by years of holding. "Is that yours?"

John, your sweet handsome john, he looks near tears when he whispers "he's mine. I...i sleep with him every night. He...helps...me."

You nod, try to avoid any facial expression because you know this is sensitive for him. His body braced, you smile softly "okay. Does he have a name?"

"What?" John genuinely gasps, shallow and breathy like he nearly escaped death. "Yer...yer fine with it?"

"Yes, I'm fine with it. He can stay on the bed or wherever you want him, john." You gently reach out, and when price doesn't pull away you gently pet the bears fur "we can make room for him, yeah?"

Shocking, considering the guy wears a Halloween decoration everyday, but he hates all the social interaction. Strangers knocking on his door, begging for sweets. He'd rather decorate for a day or two, enjoy his night alone, and call it a day.

So why is he going all-out to try and attract the most trick-or-treaters this year?

Because you're participating this year. You, the single parent across the street who he maybe-kinda wants to invite on a date but hasn't figured out how yet. Thus...decorating. anything to get a conversation started, right?

"Alright sweetie, go ahead and knock," ghost hears your voice across the door. He's been hovering since he spotted you and your daughter three houses down. Three knocks, and he opens the door–

"Trick or treat!!! Guess what I am!!" Your little one squeals, holding her bucket decorated like an acorn up to him.

"Sweetie, you need to wait for treats first–" you try to tell her, knowing she'll get tok disappointed and forget to get candy if the stranger can't guess.

Ghost takes one look at her and nods "proper weevil, innit. Good costume, kid."

"Yes!!! Yes I'm a weevil! You got it right!!" She yells, hopping in place in pure joy, cheeks no-doubt hurting from the force of her smile. Finally, she looks around at his house, then back up at you "can I go look at the big skeleton?"

"Yes, yes, go ahead." You smile at her, checking that no one's waiting. Thin about having little ones is you always beat the Halloween rush. Then, you smile at ghost "thank you. No one's been able to guess her costume, and she was about ready to quit."

"'S a good costume," ghost nods to himself, "she a fan of bugs?"

"Oh, it's all she talks about!" You laugh, that fond laugh all parents have for their children "she's in love with all things crawly."

"....oi've got beetles, if she wants to see 'em."

Which is how a bowl with a hastily scrawled "take one" is left on the porch, meanwhile your daughter is about ready to explode when ghost lets her hold Betty, his Hercules beetle.

"You wouldn't mind if she comes back, would you?" You whisper, both of you stood back while she stares in awe at his centipede enclosure "you're the first person able to keep up with her bug talk."

it's hard enough being a bug hybrid, many people have certain prejudice against you as-is, but as a hybrid with a "pest" counter-part? you're no stranger to rude and downright mean comments even from peers.

Which is why you're absolutely dumbfounded by ghost of all people approaching you out of nowhere to ask "can I take you on a date?"

You should know better, having been the victim of many 'pranks' in your youth, but something about the open way he says it has you hesitantly agreeing. He's attractive, funny, hopefully nice...it seems like a good idea.

Only for you to end up at a salad bar with a bowl full of leafy greens and fruits while ghost eagerly watches with an untouched plate. He smiles, pushes more towards you "don't be shy, lovie, eat up."

Sure, it's really weird, but not once has he made fun of your antennae or your mouthparts or anything....it's almost...nice?

"Can i try some of your honeydew?" Ghost blurts out in front of your apartment after an eerily silent car ride.

For a second, you're convinced he's joking. You've never met anyone who likes aphid hybrid honeydew, no one. Most don't know what it is. Those piercing brown eyes stay fixed on you unblinkingly, dead serious.

You've never been good at managing impulse, so you chitter happily and tug ghost inside.

All that's left now is a thick blanket of scar tissue, gashes and cuts from when his wings were cut out and his back stitched back together. Finer raised lined from the subsequent beatings in places mean only for a mate. All of it often tight and irritated from neglect.

You know he doesn't have wings anymore, that his back is more of store of trauma than sensitivity with a lover.

Still, you had begged so sweetly for ghost to let you take care of him. Reassuring "you don't have to feel anything, si. I just...I worry about you."

After a warm meal and time spent cuddling in the nest, you roll simon onto his stomach and pull you the creams and ointments you bought months ago.

"Let me know if you want to stop." You remind, scooping some of the cream out with three fingers. You let it warm in your palm.

The first touch had ghost flinching, shoulders tucked to ears and a warning-chirp barely suppressed. Calm, you work in slow circles.

Always gentle, always deliberate. Nothing that can be misconstrued as anything similar to what he did to your simon.

"Doing good for me." Whispered into the dark, finally working up to his shoulders and pressing into the valley of his spine. The sudden, low croon almost makes you freeze. You hear that sound so rarely you almost don't recognize it.

Pleasure. His back may not be as sensitive as it was, but clearly having you touch it is doing something to ghost. His muscles contract in what would have been spreading wings, hips subtly rocking into the pillows and blankets.

"Good boy, simon, doing so well..." you know he's aware of your realization, but you don't want him to stop those sweet little chirps.

Moving from one cream to the next, you focus on treating the scar tissue as best you can, only pausing for a moment when his whole body seizes in an orgasm. Even cooing when he whines and flutters as the last ointment, overstimulated in just the right way.

Ghost can't stand to live without his wings, can't cope with everything roba took most days.

It's common knowledge that captive mers, especially ones kept in amusement parks, can experience deteriorated instincts. They lack social skills, hunting abilities, and most importantly reproductive success.

Meaning, when you're transferred into a mer sanctuary, it's expected for you to have trouble bonding. They place you with a formerly wild mer, id-tagged "ghost", as he's very forward. The hope, of course, that you'll be pupped come winter.

You clearly want ghost, you just...don't know what to do, it seems.

"What...surely not." Gaz, your main caretaker, whispers under his breath. Inside the tank, you chase ghost around, webbed hands grabbing at his face only for him to huff and turn away. At first it looks like some strange dominance display, but the longer he looks the more gaz realizes you're trying to kiss ghost.

Of course you learned your mating behaviors from humans. You probably saw enough PDA for it to imprint on you.

A quick consult with his supervisors, and gaz has you laid out in the shallow waters of the observation shelf. You blink up at him all docile, having grown up in similar positions during your husbandry work. You don't thrashi or growl like other mers, comfortable with you snout nudging Gaz's knee, licking at the wetsuit material.

"Okay, runt, let's help you out, yeah?" Gaz hums, signaling ghost over to slide onto the ledge like he would for an exam. "Ghost! Up here!"

It's easy getting you and ghost into the correct position, though it would be more natural for you both underwater. You chirp curiously up at ghost, completely oblivious with no instincts to guide you on how to feel about a mer lying on top and pinning your tail down.

"Okay, ghost, I'm sure you know what to do. Just let me–" gloved hands slip into ghosts slit, pulling his cocks out instead of waiting the extra time for them to emerge. Ghost grumbles a bit, knocking his head against gazs side before focusing back on you as gaz lines him up.

"Here we go." He smiles approvingly at the whine you let out on the first thrust. A bit shocked, a bit blissed out already. "Bet that feels real nice, eh?"

You squirm and chirp more, body wriggling under ghost. Clearly you want to participate, but every attempt to reach for ghosts face earns a corrective nip. Gaz, who had been too focused on ghosts cock rutting into you, didn't have time to react when you reached for him.

"What–! Hey! Mhhp–" a long, slippery tongue forces it's way inside of his mouth, thick and warm. To another mer, if kisses were at all normal, it would feel astonishingly tender. For gaz it feels like being face-fucked.

It shouldn't feel as good as it does, but he can't stop it, not when you decide to go deeper and he really has to focus on breathing through his nose.

Above the both of you, ghost rumbles approvingly. bracketing one arm around you and the other around gaz, he keeps what he now recognizes as two mates close together.

When ghost finally cums, gaz is mortified that the second cock is aimed directly at him. Milt splashing across his wetsuit.

Simon found a bug!

Without fail, the horror on your face followed by a gasped "what the fuck, ghost!?" Has him chuckling to himself.

"Loose spinach!! Cantaloupe in the same thing– is that raw meat?!! Ghost–!" You ramble on, scandalized by the thing he calls a meal.

And König resents you in a very special, petty way. He’s catty when you’re not around, snippy when you are. Very unusual, given how silent and professional he usually is around the base.

He hates that you’re doing what he wanted to do. But of course it’s much more than that— he doesn’t feel this way towards all of the snipers he works with. He hates that you have the job he wanted and he’s hopelessly attracted to you.

He can’t even claim that he acts so childishly because you don’t work hard, or you’re insubordinate, or that you lack discipline. He’s just a lonely, insecure man who cannot handle how much of your image in his mind is composed of that which he cannot have. You exist in perfect contradiction to him. Lovely, with subtlety in your precision and skill. He is a big, ugly thing used to break down doors. Your work is in adaptation, his is in being uncompromising.

He thinks about what you’d look like crying from his thick cock stretching you, breaking that well-trained composure of yours.

König is not a stranger to acknowledging the capabilities of his teammates, as rare as it is. He will not deny that there have been occasions in which you’ve saved his ass, bought him time, cleared his path to evac.

Body armor cannot save him from everything. The setting of this mission was woefully low on cover, forcing him to cross long distances in the open when moving through the area. The last stretch is the longest, and it’s nothing short of miraculous that he closes the distance without being shot down. He isn’t even seriously wounded. Bullets, from whoever has been charged with his cover, provided the miracle.

He makes it to the nearest high ground outpost, by no means a safe distance, but safer than before even through the smoke. He sees Horangi hauling you over his shoulder— evidently dragged from the base of a charred watchtower, only recently put out— or perhaps burnt through. Wheezing, dirty, singed sleeves and a nasty looking burn on your forearm.

“Smoke inhalation, mostly. Should be fine. But I don’t understand why she didn’t leave once the fire started. 바보야….” He trails, marching off to get you to medical attention.

König looks over the barricade and towards the horizon to see where your scope hade been pointed. Deep down, he already knows.

Thus, he is one of the few soldiers that dreads leave. Because the moment his mother catches word that we will have time away (from his big and important job she’s very proud to tell everyone) she sets him up to meet someone. Usually a young woman who’s terrified of him, his stature and scars, and can’t bring herself to make eye contact (not that he’s any better). She’ll laugh coquettishly and awkwardly at his one-word answers that he didn’t know were funny and politely say it was nice to meet him before running out as fast as her tasteful heels will allow.

He doesn’t know how his mother keeps finding these women. Do they make them in a factory somewhere? How can she possibly have so many friends with daughters that would be “perfect for him” and be wrong every single time in 20 years?

Until one day he sits down to yet another doomed coffee date at some very nice garden, across from you.

“Can I see your ring?”

It’s one of those ones that has a part you can spin— he had to get is custom made to fit him, but it’s kept him company on many of these failed dates. He plays with it, in a likely irritating fashion, whenever he gets nervous. He’s surprised it’s still in one piece.

He’s about to take it off for you to look at when you grab his hand, content to inspect it as it sits near the base joint of his thumb. Your hands are warm, and so much smaller… it would never fit you. But he has this strange compulsion to give it to you, seeing as you like it so much.

You spin and slide it around, asking him unassuming questions, answering when he gingerly returns with some of his own (mainly quite baseline, he’s rehearsed in his mind a lot). He’s surprised to find he isn’t so nervous— you’re not looking at him, and you’re also not clearly calculating the distance between you and the nearest exit. He’s never felt this… comfortable exchanging pleasantries. Having conversation of any kind with the opposite sex.

You talk for a few hours, and then hit him with a surprise.

“Can I see you again?”

He hadn’t even realized that you’d been out so long. He meekly agrees with his entire face flushed. He reaches hesitantly to take the ring from his thumb. “Do you, uhm, w-want the… the ring. You liked it.” He nearly smacks himself after managing to stutter it out.

“No. Keep wearing it— I want to play with it on our next date.”

You leave. Not awkwardly, but without the dodging niceties and fanfare he’s used to navigating like it’s a high difficult level on DDR.

And you called it a date. He’s a colonel in his 40s, so that shouldn’t mean anything to him.

Gaz plans out an entire day. From the moment you wake up to when you go to bed. Doing all of your favorite things, going to your favorite places, punctuated by snacks and meals at your favorite restaurants and cafes. And you get a teddy bear, that’s the rule. Every major gift occasion must come with a teddy bear.

Soap buys you something you had no idea you needed. Something you end up using every day. Something perfect. And on top of that, he makes you in insanely complex card. He’s one of those freaks who feel down the card making rabbit hole, so now he has a die cutter, embossing folders, about a million stamps and colors of ink, embossing powder in every color, etc.

Ghost becomes your personal chef for the day. Literally anything you want. As long as it doesn’t contain anything endangered, he will cook it. And he’ll take you with him to get all the ingredients— have a nice drive, buy you all your special snacks you can’t get at your usual store. He does require that if you want a stew or slow cooked meal, or something with marinade, you do have to notify him 24 hours in advance. He also gets you a children’s birthday card and crosses out the number on it with marker and writes your age. “Congratulations birthday girl, you’re 6 25!”

Price gets you a new charm for your charm bracelet, and a nice classy piece of jewelry. Something simple, beautiful, and personal. Engraved, of course. And a beautiful cake from the nicest bakery you know— even if it’s in another country (Nik owes him).

König gets you, first of all, an enormous assortment of chocolate. I think he takes a lot of pride in the quality of Austrian and German chocolate. Probably also commissions a custom medallion from his favored chocolatier. Besides that, he plans a getaway. Somewhere you can go and just not be bothered for a week or so. He often feels guilty about how much time you spend apart, so he takes every opportunity to try to make it up.

Nikolai just gives you a good old fashioned shopping spree. Anything for his gorgeous darling malýshka. And in any country you want as long as it has non-hostile airspace. You really can go shopping in Milan, Paris, and New York City in the same day if you want. That’s what you get for dating a pilot!

Rudy gets you the nicest version whatever it is that you use. If you like nail polish or lipstick, he’ll get you Charlotte Tillbury. If you like silver (in jewelry or houseware) he’ll get Tiffany. If you like pewter he’ll get Royal Selangor. It’s always something very nicely made and/or something that will last a very long time.

you've grown to hate this place, this castle gifted to him for war victories. The halls are barren, the garden yet to bloom. The maids are pleasant, but they keep their distance, as if you'll strike. Maybe your husband is the kind to hit. You wouldn't know.

When he looks at you, it's only in short bursts, his eyes suddenly low. There's a long stretch of silence between you and you consider introducing yourself, but decide against it. He knows who you are.

"The maid is drawing me a bath," he says suddenly and a sick feeling pours over you. This day was always coming, but you aren't sure you're ready to lay under a stranger.

"Am I expected to join?" you ask and his nose crinkles.

"No." He steps back and away. His departure is brisk and driven. You retire for the night by yourself and awake alone. Your husband is set to leave again in a few hours; a few soldiers have already gathered in the front garden.

"Don't you wish to give your new wife a goodbye?" one asks, unaware of your open window. "One night and you've already had your fill? Or has she been filled too much?"

"I refuse to believe she is real!" says another. "What kind of woman has worn down our brute and turned him into a family man? Should we expect a gaggle of children in the upcoming year?"

Your husband growls. "You will leave the poor lamb alone. She suffers enough."

That softens you. Just a bit. You rise from you bed and go to the window, leaning out enough to catch the men's attention.

"Until next time."

He watches you, expression caught between more emotions that you can count, then turns his gaze back to his mount. The two men share a look, wide, wide grins on their faces.

(he must have lovers, you imagine. He hasn't touched you; he must be getting his fill with women in other cities, maybe women he actually loves. these are trinkets to keep his wife amused while she wastes away.)

none of the gifts come with a note.

one day a bolt of fabric arrives, yellow and ornate. It's only a small amount, not enough to make a dress, but enough for you to unravel and admire. It's beautiful and clearly expensive, golden threads woven into flowers and vines. Your father was a silk merchant; while you never wore the silks, you can recognize their quality.

the following week, the delicious man rides up on his steeds and presents a letter. The handwriting is rough. Knights that come from the lower class do not have the schooling of highborns; as fair as you know, your husband was born a street rat and worked his way theough the ranks to glory.

-I have been told by my secund that I did not send you enuf fabric for a gown. I do not no these things.

The spelling mistakes screw a smile out of you.

"Wait a moment." You stop the boy before he can leave. "I wish to send something back."

You take your time and use your finest calligraphy, tucking your note in with a handkerchief you had spent the week on. It's fine work-- one that would please even the hardest of hearts.

-Dearest husband,

Please take this handkerchief as a sign of my thoughts.

Your patient and thoughtful wife

A second letter arrives within the week.

-are you cros with me? A scrap of fabric for a scrap of fabric?

The response is what makes you cross. The poor messenger boy has to stay the night while you percolate over a response.

-Dearest, sweetest husband,

A handkerchief is a traditional gesture of affection. I have embroidered the edges by hand, with your last name and your roses, and it smells of my perfume. It is a piece of me for you to carry. If you do not appreciate my kindness or if you think it will turn away your lovers, you may return it. I do not wish it wasted on you.

Your less than patient and less than adoring wife

The poor boy scatters off in the morning and returns a few days later.

tortured wife,

I wil cherish it. I am sory, pour lam. I wil do better.