#the most apt description

[wrongedman]

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[foldingfittedsheets]

What do you mean you have taller energy? You've got 5 foot nothing gremlin energy. Like you're going to bite someone and cling to them through sheer jaw strength alone like an angy little critter.

Look. I cannot at all argue with this because honestly. Like. Yes. That's the vibe I assumed I was putting off. It is in fact how I am in real life.

But according to the poll I have taller vibes apparently.

[varpusvaras]

Me, trying to explain how time works for me: It's not linear, it's like all around me, and something that is three weeks away is not in my field of view because things that are one week away are closer, so it doesn't exist yet even if it's there, you know?

My wife: ....so it's like a proximity chat?

Me: ....yeah

My wife: That explains so much about you

[kumakuma-circus]

i love being a writer.

[c10udy-d4yz]

i got embarrassed as hell after i posted this and deleted it, but its haunting me like a phantom so i simply must put it somewhere. I'll leave this one here for the fellas and the hunnies

[spacerangersam]

I was looking for something else but I found this and can I say

Fuck that. Oh my god fuck that. He went 'I dislike that child. She's odd (derogatory), unlike me who's odd (complimentary)'. I want to fight this man in a tescos car park

[yoloyeahhh]

need head scratches.

that’s it. that’s the post.

[ginmeister]

My son just referred to debate club as competitive Reddit....

[bobisnolongerhere]

2023 Tumblr Top 10

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WUNGO WEDNESDAY TIME BABYYYYYY

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if trigun stampede is going the prequel route, does this mean that vash's bounty might actually jump to the billions?

10. 18 notes - Jan 16 2023

frothing at the mouth thinking about bsd beast

Created by TumblrTop10

[selfiesforalgernon]

Damn I feel good but sterilized today lol like cold but clean, idk how to describe it but that today feels very Wire Mother

[miidnighters]

While Morgan would enjoy being called sweet, the fact that it's combined with stupid would probably take some of the sparkle out of it in all honesty. Probably for the best that he doesn't know.

"I'm not a poser," Morgan objects with mild indignation. The cheek of her, to suggest such a thing! Namuunaa would never throw him on such grounds, surely.

Her question does make him blink, though. "More?" He echoes. "Isn't this enough? I'm riding."

Ankhirmaa nods along, barely suppressing her laughter. It's not exactly at Morgan, but he is being very funny just now, sweet, stupid boy that he continues to prove himself to be.

"He'll throw you the second he senses you have an ulterior motive," she says cheerfully, and pats the horse on the neck. "He hates posers."

Oh, to see Morgan flung to the ground for his aesthetic crimes. "How you doing up there?" she adds, "Ready for a bit more?"

[orangeocelotmartyn]

Ren: And then of course when all of us Hermits got together...that time flew by, also, mostly because we were having such a--stinkin' great time together, that, uh, every day was a new joy, that. Sort of disappeared really quick. And I miss everybody already, I gotta say, man. Like, uh, back to...my very solitary existence here in England. Of course, I'm a real life Hermit, so, um, spend most of my time alone, and. I must say it was very nice to have some, uh, people I care about around me for so many days. And not-not just like. Around me, but, you know, we were sort of living together for a bit. And um. It was-it was wonderful. It was so so good. (to himself) Is this a--okay. This is very many, okay, this is four. Let's get these four over the river--this might be a little bit tricky, and there might be another couple others that we spot along the way.

Ren: "Gem was really struggling with missing everyone when she came home and on stream." Yeah, you know, it's, it's-it's Weird, we were, we were in like, an Alternative Universe for a little bit, where everything was perfect, and everything was wonderful, and we didn't--like, all we had--we-we-we basically went back to Eden for a bit, you know? We were basically kids again, where--our entire...uh, like, our only purpose every day was to enjoy the day, and enjoy each other's company, and just hang out and do cool stuff, you know? W-we-we made a pact together. That we would not do any work while we were, um, living together. So, no social media, no checking YouTube, no checking anything, just. Living. You know? Which is something, uh, that YouTubers and streamers don't do very often, so. I think we all really enjoyed...just being alive, for a little bit. (he laughs) And not thinking about anything else but just chilling with each other. (responding to a comment) Yeah, it's a bit like summer camp, yeah, macBcheesy, that's-that's a really apt description of it, I would, uh-I would-I would definitely agree with that, it definitely felt like a summer camp vibe, for sure. Um. But, yeah, very much missing everybody, I think everybody's, uh, missing everyone, missing the times that we had-- Scar: (in a singsong) Ren Diggity Dog~ Ren: (startled) Oh my goodness, there are voices--

[gremlin-girly]

Weighted Blanket

Part of the Sleepy!reader collection

Bob Reynolds x gn!reader ft. The Thunderbolts* (as a bonus)

Not beta'd. I do not give permission for my work to be reposted, copied, translated or put through an AI machine.

Tags/warnings: Fluff, cuddling, it can be platonic or romantic :)

Summary: You offer to share your blanket with Bob.

Word count: 816 words

A/N: This was a quick little drabble since one of the other fics I was meant to keep under 1k quickly became about 3. Oopsies.

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

Bob Reynolds Masterlist | Sleepy!reader Collection | Main Masterlist

You were as snug as a bug in a rug. An apt description for you being stuck under your horrendously large weighted blanket.

Most of the team were away which meant the tower was quiet and the TV in the main room was free. You'd put on an old favourite of yours and piled in snacks, not that you could reach them under the weight of the blanket, but you had at least two days of making the most of being a couch potato.

You weren't even ten minutes into your movie when your eyes started fluttering, the crushing comfort of the blanket forcing your body to remain relaxed. You're about to allow sleep to take you when you're startled by a sound behind you.

"This movie's pretty good."

You turn your head to see Bob standing near the kitchenette with an empty glass. His voice wobbles slightly, and it's clear he's upset about something. Your heart breaks. You feel a little guilty for forgetting he hadn't gone on this mission with the rest of the gang but you decide you can make it up to him.

"Wanna watch it with me?" You ask with a smile. "I've got snacks and my blanket that we can share."

Bob looks torn, eye flitting back in the direction of his room and then to you, swaying on the spot. For a moment you think he'll turn you down, however, he nods and makes his way towards the sofa.

You heave your blanket off to make space and once he's comfortably sat you drape it as gracefully as you can over him.

"Oof." Bob winces slightly as the heaviness hit him.

"Sorry." You apologise sheepishly. "Weighted blanket. I can get you another one?"

"No it's alright." Bob nods, sipping from his water and stretching his legs out onto the coffee table. "It's nice."

Twenty minutes after the addition of Bob on the couch, your eyes have closed and, unbeknownst to you, you're now bundled against him.

Bob felt a rush of happiness when your sleepy body had angled into him but he had to admit that the blanket was working it's magic on him too and fighting off sleep was becoming harder and harder.

Bob's head lolled lazily and he rested his cheek on your head. Your shampoo smelled like lavender which didn't help his sleepy state and he ran his fingers over the soft skin of your shoulder for a few minutes until his hand dropped back against the couch and he fell asleep.

Bob woke up first and felt refreshed, anxieties from the night before dwindled to manageable embers, made better by the fact that you were still curled against him (if not a little closer than last night).

When you woke up, since Bob decided he wouldn't wake you and let you sleep, you'd apologised for falling asleep so quickly the night before and hurriedly brushed away any remnants of drool from his shirt.

"I didn't last long either." Bob admits with pink cheeks. "I'd like to do it again sometime. I don't think I've ever slept so good."

"Me neither." You confess, sitting up slightly. "How's about we have a movie day? I don't have any errands to run but I can grab us breakfast and we could try to watch the movie this time?"

Bob grins at you, his heart doing backflips. "Sounds good. I'll get the coffee."

End

Bonus:

The Thunderbolts were never usually finished up missions early. Apparently, this one was the exception to the rule and when they entered to the main room and found you and Bob curled up on the giant sofa under your blanket with the TV lights flickering after a day of movies, they just about lost their minds.

"Aww," Alexei said tearfully, heart ready to burst. Yelena and Ava were busy trying to hold together fits of cuteness-aggression at the sight while Bucky and Walker sighed with attempted nonchalance.

Yelena silently crept over to take a space beside Bob, shushing Walker when he asked what she was doing. Ava went next, teleporting onto your side.

Then men left all shared a look. Alexei beamed as he dashed beside Yelena, picking up an extra blanket and almost tripping over the coffee table, and Bucky with a sigh (and a slight smile) joined the end, leaving Walker space to join Ava on the other side of the couch.

You stirred first, blinking up and seeing Ava's face next to yours.

"You're back?"

"We all are." John's voice echoes behind her and you crane your neck to the other side of the couch where Yelena, Alexei and Bucky's faces come into view all smiling. You try not to snort and wake Bob as you lean back into him.

"Sleepy heads." Yelena sighs happily, picking up the TV remote and flicking through the movie selection. "Now, what movie to watch..."

A/N: I missed the first round of avengers tower fics... I'm not missing these.

Taglist - add yourself here

@looking1016 @jeremyrennermakesmesmile @almostglitterybear @blackhawkfanatic @peaches1958

[lacanianism]

How is psychology different from psychoanalysis?

Getting my dream asks all the time lately. Hear me out, i am going to argue for psychoanalysis over psychology.

Psychology, the supposedly "scientific" study of the mind, is not a legitimate science (LOL). Beyond studying the physical constitution of the brain–its synapses and their firing–there is not really a science of the human mind based in "Facts." that's why philosophy matters, that's why psychoanalysis has and in fact demands a place at the table. my opinion, and that of my profs, is that contemporary "objective"/"empirical" psychology is just lacking in apt description for the human aspect of the human mind.

it's obvious once you learn enough that a lot of our knowledge of supposedly unbiased "facts" is riddled with western ideology. in terms of bias against psychoanalysis, freud was first denounced by the nazis (you'll never guess where the stereotype of him as a perverted old man who wanted to fuck his mom came from!) and in terms of pro-psychology dogma that we're subject to on the regular (at least i am, as an american): every time you get a psychiatric medication ad on your television, every time someone tells you to go to talk therapy no matter the issue or its severity, all the times you've been told a "Fact" about the mind that turns out to be a manipulated statistic (our brains don't stop developing at 25)...psychology's supposed objectivity is pervasive as fuck, and it's never once been objective.

also, the amount of syndromes and disorders with overlapping symptoms is just untenable. the dsm is like 600 pages (might be exaggeration, point stands). in lacanianism, it's three structures, each with their specifications: psychosis, neurosis, and perversion. every structure takes its own approach to language, the unconscious, and the Other, and most of our actions can be intuited as structurally perverse, neurotic, or psychotic. thus we are all, in the eyes of psychoanalysis, "neurotic": nobody is mentally 'normal,' none of us are fully sane, we are all fucked up in some way or another. freud's ever pertinent phrase comes to mind, "behold, the normal neurotic." – yes, most people do cope with living in the world normally, but it is also usually by means of neurotic, psychotic, or perversely motivated actions or patterns of thought. rather than being centered around determinate and determinable reasons behind your actions, psychoanalysis acknowledges, too, that there is an unknowable thing in us subjects–and that it is the very thing that makes us subjects: lack. for more on that see the ask i got on lack HERE, it has a brief definition/explanation (also featuring a paragraph on its relation to desire).

the unconscious is a contentious point. certain psychologists will argue that there cannot be an unconscious, that you can't empirically account for it. not all of them go that far, but it is still the official opinion of Big Psychology that there is no unconscious. IMO, the unconscious is absolutely and undeniably there–for a simple and concise example, recall all the times you've thought "shit, i have no idea why i just said that." that is it! and it speaks! there are just certain things that can be described and accounted for but not objectively "proven."

psychology has been so historically ideological and western-centric, too...anything that society doesn't like is a "mental illness," being homosexual once was, now transgenderism is "body dysphoria/dysmorphic disorder" and HRT is a "treatment"/"cure" for that "disorder." it's just so wrong! lacanian psychoanalysis has never claimed scientific objectivity, rather it offers apt explanation for the reasons things work the way they do.

...psychology is OUT. psychoanalysis is IN.

[myballsyourballs]

OKAY IVE BEEN IMAGINING A HAWKS X BAKUGOUS OLDER BROTHER READER?? okay but here me out bro, reader has been dating hawks for a while now, occasional family dinners at readers house with his parents, not brother, due to the fact that he’s training.

reader never brought up the fact that his younger brother goes to ua, and hawks never said anything about teaching 1a gym time-to-time, one day, reader goes to pick up katsuki early from school, and he realizes hawks is teaching, basically how everyone would react to one, finding out bakugou has a brother, and two he’s dating hawks??

(ps, hawks knew of readers last name, but never thought anything of it,)

big bro

keigo takami x male! older bakugou brother! reader

genre: fluff and slight crack oneshot (1,300ish words)

notes: i’m not a massive fan of how i wrote this (i don’t think it’s very good) but it’s been sitting in my drafts for months so here you go

synopsis: reader is katsuki's older brother who is dating hawks -- katsuki doesn't know reader is dating hawks, and hawks doesn't know katsuki is reader's brother. it stays that way until reader has to pick up katsuki from school early while hawks is teaching.

masterlist | make a request

Principal Nezu is shorter than you expect.

You expected him to be a man-sized rat, not a rat-sized man; though you suppose that isn’t an apt description either, given that he’s at least 2 feet tall and most rats aren’t 2 feet tall.

Regardless, he's still pretty intimidating when you run into him in the hall and he starts to ask you what you're doing.

"I'm looking for Bakugou Katsuki -- uh, my little brother. My parents wanted me to pick him up early since we're leaving today to go on a trip." Nezu seriously makes you nervous.

“Bakugou Katsuki is in Hero Training as of right now. You’ll be able to find him in the gym!” He smiles at you, teeth surprisingly white for a rodent. “Make sure to alert his teacher before you leave,” Nezu continues, an unnerving glint in his abyss-like eyes. You decide not to ask why he knows Katsuki’s timetable by heart.

“Sure. Thanks, Principal Nezu,” you smile, offering him a handshake kindly.

“Anytime, Bakugou-san.”

As you step into the gym, the first thing you notice is the smell of sweat. That, and the temperature. Despite the amount of heat emanating from the fire quirks of a select few and the body heat of everyone in the gym, it’s — surprisingly — rather cool. UA's unflinching ability to invest copious amounts of money into air conditioning was impressive. Your eyes trail across the sweeping ceilings and expensive equipment, whistling lowly. I should come here more often.

1-A looks to be split into pairs — sparring, maybe? — each student difficult to view clearly under the thin blanket of steam and smoke that surrounds them. Katsuki, however, is easy to spot among them. His explosions light up the room, the sound of the loud booms only rivalled by his rage-fuelled yelling. You watch, amused. Glad he’s… letting that out.

As much as you didn’t want to interrupt class (the idea of 20 different teenagers having their undivided attention on you was a terrifying thought), the teacher was nowhere in sight and you were running out of time. “Katsuki!” you call, waving at the angry red glare that lands on you. The boy, in response, rolls his eyes snidely and stays rooted on the spot.

You sigh. Little brothers are so goddamn annoying. “Let’s go, dude,” you urge, emphasising your words with a vague ‘hurry up’ gesture. He scowls, but obliges nonetheless, walking slowly over with his hands shoved into his pockets. Once he's in front of you, he stops.

“My teacher isn’t here. I can’t leave yet.”

“Isn’t it their job to, you know, teach? Where the fuck did they go?” You furrow your brows.

“Fuck if I know,” Katsuki responds, matching your curses with equal indifference. “He went with Deku to go and get something.”

“Izuku’s here?”

“Why wouldn’t he be, dumbass? He’s in my class.”

And that’s when you notice the rest of 1-A. 18 pairs of eyes stare at you in utter shock and confusion, burning with questions. Your body stills, awkward under their gazes.

“Is that… your brother?” a red-haired boy with sharp teeth asks, looking between you and Katsuki slowly.

“Yeah,” Katsuki replies nonchalantly.

You take in the other boy's appearance: the insane amount of gel in his weirdly-styled hair, pointed teeth and the fact that he was sparring with Katsuki. Close friend, bad hair?

“You must be Shitty Hair.” you say, prompting half of the class to erupt into giggles. Vaguely, you recall his name is Kirishima, but Katsuki says it so rarely that you barely even associate it with him. ‘Shitty Hair’ blushes at the attention, nodding bashfully with an awkward smile. He rubs the nape of his neck, glancing once again between Katsuki and you.

“I can see how you’re related,” he laughs uncertainly.

“I can see who got the good genes,” a pink-haired girl with horns calls, “clearly not Bakugou.”

“YOU WANNA SAY THAT AGA—”

The doors slam open. You first see Izuku, who pauses at the commotion, and behind him you see… your boyfriend? What the fuck?

“Keigo?”

“[Y/N]?”

“[Y/N]-nii?” Izuku adds.

“Nii?” someone whispers in confusion.

“Hey, Izuku,” you respond weakly.

Silence falls. You take a moment to appreciate Keigo in his hero costume before the dots connect and you turn to Katsuki accusingly.

“He’s your teacher!?”

“He’s your brother!?” Keigo counters.

You turn to your boyfriend. “I told you I have a brother. You know my last name. You’ve literally met my mother and she’s the carbon-copy of Katsuki. Keigo, what even?”

“Er, well, in hindsight, maybe you’re right— but... you’re so nice,” he says, disbelief evident in his wide eyes and confused brows. “And he’s so… not—”

“The fuck did you just say—!?”

“Young man, I will give you a detention if you swear at me again,” Keigo says sternly, schooling his face into something unnaturally serious and crossing his toned arms over his chest. You can see the humour dancing his eyes, prompting you to chuckle quietly.

Katsuki rolls his eyes. “Yes, Hawks-sensei,” he mutters, face contorted into a scowl. He angrily taps his shoe on the ground.

“Stop being a shit,” you chide, grabbing Katsuki by the shoulder roughly and rubbing your knuckles into his skull. The rest of 1-A watches on in absolute disbelief. (Except Izuku. He’s used to this.)

Katsuki groans exasperatedly, “You stop being a shit.”

“Hey!” Hawks gasps dramatically, “don’t call my boyfriend a shit!”

Silence.

You rub a hand over your temple in an attempt to ease your oncoming headache.

“YOUR FUCKING WHAT?!”

“Katsuki—”

The rest of 1-A is left in shock. (Including Izuku, this time). Some start yelling, some look like they’ve turned to stone, the usual. You’re too busy trying to hold back your feral little brother from attacking Keigo — you know he won’t actually, you’re just hoping Keigo knows that too.

“Wait, you’re gay?” A boy who you can recall as Kaminari splutters. Your face crinkles into confusion, nose scrunching like you’ve smelt a bad odour. You can see why Katsuki calls him Dunce Face.

“It runs in the family,” you say, with a pointed look to Katsuki.

His exhaustion must’ve caught up to him since he only offers a middle finger in response. Kaminari bursts into startled and slightly scared laughter.

A warm arm makes its way around your waist and it takes an embarrassing amount of effort for you to suppress a smile. You don’t even have to look at Keigo to know that he’s grinning.

Neither of you are big fans of PDA, but the urge to hug him right now is particularly strong; especially since he’s right there, but there’s also 20 kids right there which sucks and you have to go—

Right. You and Katsuki need to go. That was the point of this whole ordeal.

“Keigo,” you murmur, quiet enough for only him to hear. The rest of the class has ignored the two of you in favour of chatting amongst themselves or questioning Katsuki. Keigo hums, meeting your eyes. He smiles, his golden irises pooling with affection and his arm squeezing gently around your waist, seemingly in a trance. You chuckle, “I need to go.”

He startles. “Right! Right,” he says, clearing his throat. You pretend not to notice the faint tinge of red high on his cheekbones.

“Okay, 1-A. I’m gonna go sort this out quickly,” Keigo says to the class, his voice raised slightly in order to drown out the talking. “So please continue sparring — without quirks — until I’m back. I won’t be long.”

The class answers an affirmative, and then the two of you (plus Katsuki) are out the door. You turn to face Keigo, placing a quick peck on his lips. “I thought I just needed to tell you Katsuki was leaving and then you’d sort it?”

“That’s true… but I missed you,” Keigo sighs wearily, acting like he hadn’t seen you in years. (You spent the night with him literally yesterday.)

“Stop before I tear my fucking eyes out,” Katsuki interrupts. Keigo lifts his head to glare unhappily at him.

“Piss off, Katsuki,” you grumble, placing a slightly longer kiss on Keigo’s lips. You pull away at the realisation that you’re probably late, which means you’ll probably have to face the wrath of Mitsuki Bakugo. “I should— we should go. I’ve stayed way longer than I needed to.”

“Thank fuck,” Katsuki grumbles, occupying himself with his phone. Teenagers.

Keigo groans dejectedly but lets you go nonetheless. He watches you walk away, waving. “Bye, honeybear!”

“Don’t call me that!”

[liesonmytongues]

Whoo- sorry this one took a while 🙏

Hornet Hybrids x FTM Reader

Summary- What happens when you mix a weird fungal disease, a curious reader, and somewhat obsessive hornets? Don't let the smell deter you, it's just a little mold.

Warnings- Trans male reader written by trans male author, body horror, apt descriptions of said body horror, mold and fungus, hornet/wasp hybrids, abduction turned willing relocation, reader is referred to as 'she' and 'queen' by the hornets at first, but that changes, mild yandere

Word count- 3,400

There’s been news recently, of a strange sickness going around in the hives of insectoids and killing off queens and princesses. It was sudden, started out with just a couple of hives–and obviously even just a couple was still a tragedy, any unexpected death is, but there wasn’t any reason to panic. A couple of deaths when the weather got bad or food was scarce was normal, the hives would be able to birth a new queen just fine so long as they’d stored some royal jelly. Really, truly, absolutely no reason to panic. 

Not until 4 more queens dropped dead over a week, and 6 more the week after that, and then they just…kept happening. It took a total of 15 over the month before people started taking it seriously, and by then the hives–every single one of them, not just the affected–were in a frenzy. If they still had their queens, they were pumping out stores of royal jelly taking up nearly a quarter of the reserves. Not much of a problem as long as the expansion didn’t mess with the surrounding architecture. No, the problem came with the hives that lost theirs–their stores weren’t working. Their stores weren’t working, their larvae weren’t taking, and they were dying. 

That's what most news stations are reporting, at least. It’s hard to get real, definitive information when so few people have been inside, but that isn’t stopping anyone from speculating. Between headlines like ‘Is it zoonotic?’ ‘Should families evacuate?’ and ‘Women and children advised to keep distance.’, some might be tempted to go full apocalyptic bomb shelter. Hell, trying to watch a TV show or scroll online without the bombardment of conspiracy theories and half-baked ‘scientific’ journals has become something of an Olympic event, so you’ve stopped bothering most days…

Turning off the TV for the third time in an hour, you huff and fall back into your couch, vaguely hoping the cushions would swallow you up and lull you off somewhere you don’t have to think about disease and death and stress and not succumbing to disease and death and stress…maybe going outside would be a good idea. Immediately your brain starts trying to make excuses for why you should stay inside–

I’m so tired, work was so stressful this week, what if I come across someone and they act like a dick, did I even listen to the news? Zoonotic, they said, it might be zoonotic! Disease, death, stress, disease, death, stress, disease, death, stress, disease, death, stress, disease, death, stre–

…

…Yeah. Outside sounds good. 

The fresh air actually feels…really nice–once you manage to slip your shoes on and leave. It’s been longer than you’d like to admit since you were able to get outside and enjoy yourself–way too long since you’ve felt the sun without the barrier of glass or in the stints to and from your car–and getting to take deep breaths that don’t smell like stale dust or dirty clothes is…y’know, a breath of fresh air. Refreshing. Uplifting. 

It’s almost frustrating to know that seeing flowers and trees blow in the wind, hearing dogs excitedly bark and scurry along, that feeling the wind on your face was all you needed to stop your slump–or at least pause it. Sitting inside for so long, miserable, and all you had to do to stop feeling crazy was to…leave? What type of bullshit is that? You shake off that thought before it can depress you again, choosing to ignore an uncollected newspaper flittering on your neighbor's lawn for the same reason- but not before you caught a glimpse of the title. ‘5 women disappear…’ and then you hurry your eyes away. That type of thing was exactly why you stopped watching TV, no point in switching it out for an older alternative. 

The walk is, by all means, quite pleasant–especially once you get the lingering curiosity of the papers out of your head–but it’s hard to shake the feeling that something is a little off. Not pit-in-your-stomach disaster off, but the kind of off that makes your feet slow just a smidge as little whispers drawl be alert, be cautious. Looking back, that’s the point you should have turned around–listened to the desire telling you to walk back home and dwell in its bleakness. Your desire for anything but was stronger.

As a thin thread of unease tightens around your chest, you move past the usual stretches of the neighborhood–where the trees line the sidewalk, breaking up slabs of concrete with their roots, little flowers poking out of cracks in the ground, all the positive things you meant for this stretch to be about–without really noticing them. You just want to keep moving, not wanting to feel confined. It’s the same impulse that had you pacing through rooms at home, to avoid the stillness of it all. The wind shifts, colder now, ruffling your hair almost deliberately, but you’re still only half-present.

The reason for your unease brings you back.

The first thing you really noticed was the smell–shocking, considering the behemoth of the structure it came from. Stale and stagnant, with a sickly sweet quality reminiscent of fruit gone to rot. Mold and mildew, decay and putrefaction, fungus and– It’s honey. Curdled, tainted honey. It hits you all at once, making your stomach turn and your eyes water in its intensity. The origin isn’t far behind–faded bronze, gold, chocolate, peeking above the treeline in thick spindles and crests–any other time, such a display of natural architecture would be awe-inspiring–for a moment it is–then the smell hits you again. That thought is tossed as quickly as it came. 

“What…the hell?” It’s hard to make out at first, the trickling of greyish blooms causing instability in the foundation, comb dipping just slightly to one side as connective tissues feed growing clusters of fungus. It’s foul.

And you can’t look away. 

It’s almost like a car crash. Such– God, what can you even call this? A travesty? A horror? The most disgusting thing you’ve ever seen? Either way, you can’t stop yourself from moving a little bit closer, aching to get a better look at what you’ve been hearing about online for the better part of a month–and you knew this hive was here, you’d seen it plenty of times on your way to work, you’ve interacted with some of the hornet-looking creatures buzzing around- how didn’t you know they were like this? That itching feeling crawls back up your spine, and suddenly, in its entirety, you’re slapped across the face with the knowledge that you need to leave.

It was a mistake to get a better view, to let yourself be drawn in. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to take a step back, then another. The unease crawling up your spine grows stronger with every second you linger. Everything about this feels wrong– something is wrong. There’s no way in hell anything in there is alive–not without being eaten up by gangrene or horribly infected with mold–but the sensation of eyes boring into your skin presses your logical mind to question otherwise.

You don’t need any more reason to go.

Your breath is shallow as you turn away, forcing yourself to move despite the heavy weight of dread pressing against your ribs. Each step feels sluggish, like wading through knee-deep water, but you push forward, eyes fixed on the path ahead. The air is thick, damp with the scent of decay, and the silence behind you is somehow louder than any noise could be.

The farther you get, the more your heartbeat settles–though the unease never quite leaves. By the time you reach familiar streets, the world around you has returned to something resembling normal. The trees rustle gently in the breeze, distant laughter floats from an open window, and the scent of someone's dinner cooking fills the air. You try to let these things ground you, to remind yourself that the world hasn't completely fallen apart.

Your house comes into view, its familiarity a welcome sight. You step onto the porch and hesitate before unlocking the door, glancing over your shoulder one last time. The street is quiet, the sky beginning to darken with the onset of evening. Nothing seems out of place, yet you can't shake the feeling that you've brought something back with you.

Shaking your head, you step inside and lock the door behind you. The quietness of your home is comforting, even as the faintest trace of that sickly sweet rot seems to cling–a whiff of it still lingering in the air. You tell yourself it's just in your head. That everything is fine.

Tomorrow, you'll go to work, and the world will keep moving. Everything will be fine.

.

.

.

You don't know when you fell asleep–Christ, you still have your clothes on, did the walk really mess you up that bad?–just that you're not anymore, it’s still dark, and a comforting weight on your chest is attempting to lull you off again. You try to turn, to pull the blanket up a little higher and drift back to sleep, but it's…a lot heavier than usual. A few more tugs should do the trick, it's probably just stuck in the corner of the mattress.

…Or not. Another tug maybe, it's just–

“My Queen?” A hoarse, feminine voice interjects your thoughts and everything goes out the window. What you'd figured was a weighted blanket was immediately realized to be the legs and lower torso of a hornet, her carapace locking you into your position. Not that you’d have had any more of a chance at getting away if she wasn’t straddling you–her body is nearly twice your size, it would only take a moment to be caught–and you really don’t care to find out what would happen if you tried.

“My Queen, you're awake- We've been waiting for you, you must…and you…it's…!” It’s hard to focus on whatever speech she's clearly giving when her abdomen is pulsating excitedly so close to your thighs, stinger just barely grazing your leg as it slides in and out of its sheath like it has a mind of its own. Queen? Queen? The mild sickness and blanket confusion at being referred to as such just makes the whole situation harder on your psyche. Forcing your eyes away from the terrifying sight, you try to pay attention–hoping to make sense of what’s happening–but it’s hard to think clearly. The weight of her body presses down on you, and the way she speaks–so reverently, so devout, so worshipful–scrambles your brain just as much as the fear.

“W-what are you talking about?” You manage to croak, the hornet’s stinger twitching in elation at the sound of your voice–she doesn’t seem to realize the airiness in your tone is horror, not awe or intrigue.

“We saw you- we smelled you, the pheromones you sent us so clearly displaying your care! We understood, we understood-” Her wings start to buzz as her excitement grows, puffing little gusts up air into your face. 

“No- no! That wasn’t- I wasn’t trying to-” She cuts you off.

“Oh so humble-! Our Queen is so humble in her saviorship, denying her own benevolence! Worry not, My Queen, we are here to serve, to rebuild what has been lost!”

Her mandibles click together in what you can only assume is some sort of giddy anticipation, and all four of her arms grip your own—possessive, firm, unwavering. The weight of her is suffocating, pressing you deeper into the mattress, pinning you beneath her with ease.

Your heart is hammering.

This isn’t happening. This cannot be happening.

Your mind races, flipping through every possible way to get out of this situation—none of them good. Struggling might get you stung. Talking might make things worse. The wrong reaction could send this creature into some kind of fervor, and considering the way her abdomen is twitching against your legs, you really don’t want to find out what that entails. 

“Listen- you don’t really want me! I’m not even a wom-,” Again she cuts you off, too absorbed in her dutiful mania to hear you out.

“No no no! You mustn’t doubt yourself–my Queen, the hive already yearns for you! We’ve tasted your kindness, you’re everything we want- everything we need.” It seems like talking isn’t going to work–her brain is too occupied with the sole task of getting you back to that putrid colony.

In your desperation to think of an escape, you find yourself absently nodding along to whatever she says–If fight or flight aren’t an option, and freeze might make things worse, you might as well fawn. Anything to keep her docile, right? God, maybe it’s for the best that she interrupted you–no hornet species, and no hybrids either, have ever been known or seen taking males as their leaders. What if the hive found out you’re a man and flew into a fit of rage or hysteria? What if they killed you for some sort of perceived deception? Part of you wants to dwell on how quickly they regarded you as a woman, but the more rational part of your brain knows it’s not the time. Oh god this is bad, they’re gonna find out eventually- they’ll kill you! 

The hornet doesn’t notice your internal battle, taking your nods to mean you accept the role, and she takes action. She moves suddenly, her weight shifting off of you just enough for her arms—her strong, chitinous arms—to wrap around your torso. Before you can even process what’s happening, your body is hoisted into the air, pressed tightly against her abdomen.

Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait—

Your stomach lurches as she lifts off the ground, powerful wings carrying you both skyward, and you struggle. Legs kicking as your hands scrabble against her carapace, attempting to grasp at her chest as your body is thrust into the air–eventually settling on wrapping your arms around her neck–it’s all instinct. This close you can see it now–little specks of mold on the softer, vulnerable parts of her body, between her carapace–and the smell hits again. You hadn’t noticed in your room, not when she’d been there long enough for your unconscious brain to register the scent as normal, but with the night air whipping across your face, it’s clear that the rot lingers to her as much as the hive itself. Your head spins, and the rapid, eager clicking of her mandibles sets your nerves on fire.

“You must be so tired, My Queen. The hive will care for you, you’ll never have to suffer alone again!” She croons, her wings buzzing with unrestrained excitement as your neighborhood is quickly exchanged with the slightly, then fully abandoned ones, until the hive–just as rotten as it was a few hours ago–looms underneath. Your carrier doesn’t bother warning you before she makes the move to dive bomb one of the entrances, plummeting through the air and into a section of comb with surprising ease for something so large. 

The air is immeditely thicker, and the little bit of sickly sweet that clung to the hornet–you should really have gotten her name–is suddenly permeating everything. Don’t puke don’t puke don’t puke don’t puke. When you land, the grip she has around your torso loosens just enough for you to scramble away the moment your feet hit the ground–not far, it’s too dark for that, but just enough that you can actually breathe. Through your nose. And with hesitation about what kinds of microbes you’re definitely breathing in. It’s then that you hear the buzzing–slow at first, a few pairs of wings just barely flittering to life as your apparent pheromones start filling the immediate space. Then louder, accompanied by footsteps in varying degrees of excitement–some with trepidation, others with clear enthusiasm.

They’re everywhere.

Dozens of insectoid figures crowd the tunnels, their multifaceted eyes glinting in the low light, bodies shifting and clicking in eager anticipation. As your eyes adjust to the dim glow of some unseen lightsource, you get a look at them. Some are grotesquely thin, their carapaces dull and pitted, signs of malnutrition evident even through their exoskeletons–others are swollen with spores, their limbs moving with an unnatural stiffness, and it’s clear- it was already clear -that they’ve been focusing on anyything but the health of the colony. 

Every single one of them is staring with the same piousness–the same love.

“The Queen-”

“She came- she came, we’re saved-” 

“She’ll give us fresh eggs-” 

“We have to prepare-” 

A multitude of feminine voices start chattering amongst themselves, clacking their mandibles together, scrambling to get a look at their supposed new ruler. 

And it hits you, all at once, that you’re not scared of them–not like you thought you were at least, they still might kill you if you can’t save them–you’re just burdened with a crushing, biting, lingering guilt. 

Your original attendant is still right behind you when you turn around–easy to make out from the way she stand a head taller than her sisters. The look on her face breaks you. 

“I-I can’t. Be your queen, that is.” A hush falls over the entirely of your accumulated audience–so all of them heard that…

“What are you saying my Queen? You already accepted, you’ll bring us salvation!” Her insistence is as frustrating as it is hurtful, but it fuels you to keep talking–it’s clear she won’t drop the ‘queen’ thing until you do anyway. 

“No I-” You hesitate again–Christ, is this where you die? Are you gonna die because you feel bad for a bunch of dying bugs? Yes, apparently. God, this mold is making you crazy.

“I’m not…a woman- I can’t be a queen.” The hornets all stop their quiet staring to look at each other. It would be almost comical–the way they glanced around, then back to you, then back to each other–if it didn’t also feel like you just dropped the worst news imaginable. 

“But your scent- your pheromones, they’re that of a queen! An able female!” You cringe at her terminology, shrinking in on yourself a little like that’ll make the situation any better–make the discomfort and self-consciousness just go away. It doesn’t. Being called a woman this many times in a day is exhausting–it’s hard to remember the last time you had to explain your identity to another person like they were a child. At least it’s not in bad faith? Nah, doesn’t make it much better…

“I…know that I smell that way to you, and I can explain why, but the point stands that I’m not a woman.” You had to talk slow, choose your words carefully so you didn’t upset them any more than they already are. “I was born a female, and…that’s how my body was formed- but when I got older I didn’t feel like a woman- a female, I guess -anymore. My body might still kinda look female, and I might smell like one, but I’m not one. I’m a man.” 

They’re staring again. They never really stopped, but it feels stronger–more like when you felt their eyes boring into you during your walk. It’s hard to describe the feeling now that you can actually see said eyes–not quite like prey, not quite like a god. Weariful subjugation. 

“But…you can still rule, yes?” You blinked a couple times, caught off guard by her bluntness. 

“I…I guess?” You hesitate, looking around at the sea of pleading, exhausted faces. “But wouldn’t that be, uh, weird? For you all, I mean?”

The hornets exchange glances, their mandibles clicking softly in hushed conversation. A few look uneasy, others confused, but none of them seem outright hostile. Your original captor steps closer, her massive body lowering slightly as if in deference.

“We have no queen,” she says solemnly. “No eggs. Without a ruler, we’ll die.” She tilts her head. “If you are strong enough to rule, if you are willing to care for us… does it matter?”

Does it? Do you really have anything to lose? Your life outside of work had been dull, monotonous–there was only so much to look forward to, and you’re sure you could argue the ability to leave and enjoy yourself so long as the colony is healthy. Christ, you’re fucking insane…

“I guess it doesn’t.” And they erupt. A cacophony of chitters and fluttering and buzzing while they seem to celebrate the change of leadership–words that you can’t understand over everything else until your attendant barks,

“Prepare for the King!”