#that would solve a lot of problems

[sugarandice3]

*side eyeing politics* I don't really know what's going on over there, but I sure don't like it.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

In the world of heavy metals, love is denser than hate!

[serpentface]

What does the yotici life cycle look like now?

Fairly similar, here's a generalized idea

I Did kind of drop the sessile+asexual polyp mobile+sexual fish alternating generations because it doesn't Really change anything besides sounding vaguely interesting. Fish reproduction is wild enough as-is.

Their eggs are laid in a stringy mass that requires a root to the sea floor (coral, tough kelps, rocks, sticks, etc) and light currents to keep them oxygenated. These egg masses are strong and can bend and sway fairly significantly without coming apart, but will be broken by strong currents and require a sheltered environment to survive. This is the basis of a Garden, an engineered ecosystem designed to protect the eggs, provide substantial and consistent nourishment for the young and resting places and shelter for adults, and additionally function as cultural and social centers.

Larvae are tiny and born with a yolk sac attached to sustain them. They metamorphose into a 'predatory' phase in which they feed on zooplankton and organic debris. These phases are tiny and poor swimmers, wholly reliant on the sheltered environment of the garden for safety and consistent food sources. Those swept out have very little chance of longterm survival. The VAST majority of yotici that hatch at all die in their larval stages.

Most of their anatomy is fully developed as a 'yotling', in which they are much stronger swimmers, school together, and are primarily predatory. Yotlings feed on plankton and other small animals, but their most important food source is their own species' eggs. This is a natural behavior for yotici, and much of the function of the garden is to provide this dependable, clustered food source for their young. The survival benefits of most of their reproductive output being sacrificed to these viable young with a fairly strong chance of survival vastly outweigh the loss, given the vast majority of yotici larvae who hatch to begin with die without ever reaching this phase. Yotlings have much lower mortality rates than the larvae, but a majority will die to predation. They're also frequent bycatch in fisheries and are widely eaten by landdwelling peoples. During the yotling phase, they're about 4-8 inches long.

Their beak starts to develop in the juvenile stage, during which they are 'weaned' out of predatory behavior and start consuming algae and marine plants. They instinctively school around adult yotici and follow them to food sources, usually eating algae that grows around the tougher foods the adults can handle. This tends to be the point in which active parental protection begins, but few yotici cultures conceptualize these juveniles as full people or develop personalized bonds with them, as their mortality rate is still fairly high. During the juvenile phase, they're about 8-14 inches long.

A yotici 'child' has all its base adult anatomy developed, including its tentacles, and looks like a miniature adult. They can eat tougher foods and join the adults in consuming seagrass. This is the point in which they are semi-equivalent to a human infant, rapidly learning and picking up on language and beginning to communicate. Fully active parental care and bonding will occur during this period (the Exact cultural marker of when this starts can vary) and they are conceptualized as people. Diminishingly few yotici actually survive to this phase, but those who do have a very good chance of lasting to adulthood. The child phase starts at about 1-2 ft in length.

At this point they grow steadily until sexual maturity, and will continue to grow (much, much more slowly) throughout the rest of their lives. Sexual maturity takes a VERY long time, usually about 20 years from hatching. An adult yotici generally ranges in size from 12-18 ft, with outstanding or very long lived individuals passing 25 (the World Record would be in the mid 30 ft range). A yotici who survives to reproductive adulthood has excellent chances at a long life, and yotici are by far the longest living sophonts. A lucky individual can crest 200 years.

[leslieiswriting]

vampires? Pirates? Vampirates!

*Queer* vampirates!!!

Coming to shores near you in a *month* !!!

Add it on Goodreads!

[rozesmiana]

He’s just mad that murder is actually morally wrong in Piltover

[nilefreemans]

as someone from the Midwest, they did not give Bobby Nash enough Midwesternisms

[toskarin]

miss Toskarin you’re not convincing me that Skyrim was the ruin of all western rpgs. In fact you’re convincing me that the issues began with oblivion.

I'd better be careful or else I might convince you of my less loudly-held beliefs

[tokyo-daaaamn-ji-gang]

Ok but was anyone else watching this bit like

[gooodomens]

I would just like there to be a quiet moment of introspection for Aziraphale where he acknowledges the fact that it must be tiring for Crowley to always be the one making the first move - to keep them safe, to keep them them. And for Crowley, in turn, to think on how his constant running away from problems only to be pulled into the fray again and again might have less to do with his need to save Aziraphale and their relationship, and more about wanting to do the right thing despite claiming to not care.

[nenoname]

honestly??? i still dont know what to do with the idea that there might be a bunch of clone fords out there???? it honestly makes me so unhinged??????

[highlyincorrect]

I’ve heard a lot of people chatting abt what sort of career Five would have if not what we got in s4 and I wanted to weigh in

Personally, with the way I thought s4 was gonna go, i figured he’d jump back to his assassin routes and maybe become a gun for hire (like he was in the comics). Even if he wanted to be on the straight and narrow path, I still don’t think the CIA would be a good fit for him (bros not a fed, ACAB🗣️)

I had a long lovely discussion with someone from ao3 on this very topic and I think they might have had smth with their response- investigative journalist

That way he can still live a very adventurous life, help people and fuck over corruption and criminals without being a part of the bureaucratic thing he doesn’t like anymore (like in the commission)

Idk tho. What do y’all think

[fangsandfeels]

It just occurred to me...

...that nothing was really stopping Cazador from Ascending aside from his lack of brain cells.

If the chamberlain guy was afraid that he'd become a replacement in the ritual to the point he tried to fake his suicide (and overdid it), it probably was technically possible.

The kidnapped victims weren't connected with their kidnappers through blood - none of the Cazador's spawns bit them. Cazador did. Cazador easily became a replacement for Astarion in the Ascension ritual - which meant there were no specific requirements for the sacrificial lamb aside from the runes on their skin.

So, technically, Cazador didn't need to catch Astarion to continue the ritual. He could have easily Turned any other person into a spawn, carved the runes, and proceeded with his plan. Only one piece of the contract was missing and it was rather easy to replace.

But he just had to be a little bitch about it. He just couldn't let it go even for a moment. He had to show who's The Boss. He had to Make a Point.

He spent tendays, months coping and seething over his bruised ego, refusing to proceed with the Ritual before Astarion came back -- and in his self-obsessed mind Astarion had no choice to come back because the opposite would be an insult to his Vampire Lord status.

The Ascension was literally at his fingertips. He could have Ascended, walked out into the sunlight, and used all that newly gained power to find Astarion himself.

But did he do that? Noo.

He chose to stomp off to his bitching corner and make an Astarion-shaped salt mine in his diary.

[lgbtlunaverse]

If yu ziyuan had been a character in a different story set when she was younger I'd be on here making posts about her like "she would NOT fucking have kids" because genuinely the worst thing you could do to that woman was make her a mother. Except in the story she's in she is a mother. And that's what's wrong with her.

[moscovium291]

y'know i just think it'd be cool if websites and services and apps had slightly better ui's so that i am not constantly being jumpscared by being one twitch of the finger away from sending massive sweaty fatfur ass to all of my friends and loved ones

[headphonemouse]

Tged ch. 384

Javier's clenching became tighter as he strengthened his resolve on one side to protect his idiotic friend, regardless of the adversity that came their way. The grandmaster was determined to keep his pretentious, cowardly buddy safe.

This is the biggest no homo I've seen in a while

[theaceace]

Hob is woken, not by the shrill cacophony of his alarm or the sunlight hitting his face where they'd forgotten to pull the curtains last night, or even the warmth of Morpheus' hands and mouth, but by the sudden dip in the mattress as another person flops onto the bed with them.

Several lifetimes' worth of instincts see him jolting awake in an instant, heart racing and sweat already beading on his back and brow. Hob may not be able to die, but he's been ambushed in his sleep more than enough times to be getting on with, ta very much, and he's not keen to do it again. Suddenly he's twenty-five, and exhausted after days of marching on Troyes, feet sore and heart sorer, waiting on a battle that never came. He's twenty-eight, and the knife that flashes in the darkness misses his throat only because Herry has ears like a bat and enough blind-foolish loyalty to leap on their attacker's back. He's seventy-three, and lying barely-conscious among the dead that need burying or burning, and he knows that he needs to rouse himself even with the arrow still in his chest, or he'll be burnt or buried with them. He's two-hundred and sixty-four, and they've come to the home he'd made for his family, to drag him from the bed he had shared with his wife some thirty years before, and haul him away as a witch.

He's gripped now by the same fear, and it has him up and moving, one hand fumbling at the bedside table for anything with enough heft to dent a skull before he realises that none of his attackers have ever smelt like peaches.

Beside him, Morpheus shifts just enough to free his face from the clutches of his pillow.

“That key was given to you for use in emergencies, my sibling,” he says, voice thick with sleep and the cotton pillowcase.

Desire stretches luxuriously between them and smiles, fox-sharp, at Morpheus. They roll their head to look at him – beneath the perfume and sweat and wet pavement smell of them, Hob catches a sour waft of alcohol.

“Oh but my dear brother, this is an emergency,” they say, and – look, Hob has been drunk enough to recognise the exquisitely deliberate care at the edges of their words. He huffs a little, pushes himself up so that he can slap a hand on the bedside lamp and blink furiously against the sudden light. It takes a few seconds for his vision to clear, and he rubs his hands over his face in a vain effort to convince himself that this is some new nightmare that Daniel is testing out, before he gives in to the inevitable and turns to examine their guest.

"And what could possibly be so pressing at –" Morpheus snatches Desire's wrist up to stare blearily at their watch "– two thirty-seven in the morning? That could not be expressed in a phone call or wait until a reasonable hour?"

"Do you know, brother mine, how many partners I found to dance with? Whose desire for me, once so integral as to be a given, I had to simply guess at? To read in the curve of a smile or the enticing lull of a question? I didn't know them, not a one, and can you guess, sweet Dream, how many of them took me to their beds?"

And Hob has heard quite enough of that. He stretches and tosses back the sheets, while Morpheus shoots him a filthy glower that softens immediately into a plea for respite with his sole visible eye. Desire either doesn't notice this silent communication, or doesn't care.

“None!” They crow gleefully, clasping their hands, and Morpheus scowls as he's jostled in place.

It's not that Hob wants to leave him to fend for himself against his sibling, only that he doesn’t fancy being in the firing line when Morpheus inevitably snaps and thumps Desire with a pillow.

Doing an admirable job of ignoring Morpheus' wounded expression, Hob groans and lurches himself in the vague direction of the kitchen. Might as well put the kettle on for this.

"Jasmine or apple tea, love?" He calls. No sense having any caffeine now. If they're lucky, Desire will wear themself out quickly and they'll be able to go back to sleep before the alarm goes off.

"Apple, if you would," Morpheus replies.

"Ooh, I'll have jasmine if you're making."

"Didn't ask you!" Hob shouts back, already adding a spoon of sugar to the third mug he'd fetched down for them. 

“Oh, so forceful! You know, if you ever get tired of my stick-in-the-mud brother here…” Desire trails off meaningfully, and Hob snorts, smiling a little to himself. They know full well it's not going to happen, however much or little they remember about his desires, and even if he were – impossibly – to change his mind about Morpheus, they'd get bored of him soon enough. 

He sets all three mugs on a tray, and grabs a pack of chocolate digestives while he's at it. Morpheus would never admit to being fond of them, but he doesn't need to. Hob's watched him absent-mindedly devour most of a packet while he pecks one-handed at the keyboard. Besides, Desire could probably do with something to line their stomach. 

“Is being human always this delightfully contradictory? So baffling and solid and… damp?” Desire asks, lifting their head just enough to peer at Hob as he re-enters the room. It's a moot question, of course. They've been human long enough now to know that the answer is, largely, yes. 

���Often. But do you know, my sibling, the very best part of being human?” Desire turns lazily to look at Morpheus, smiling wide. Their lipstick today is dark purple, and smudged at the corners of their mouth. 

“Mm, do tell. You know how much I crave your… wisdom,” they say, rolling the words indulgently over their tongue. Hob sighs and nudges Morpheus’ book to one side so he can set the tray down on the nightstand on his side of the bed.

“It is that it is no longer against the Old Laws for me to do this,” Morpheus says, planting one foot against their side and shoving hard enough that they topple off the bed with an outraged squawk and undignified thump. There's a blessed moment of stillness, the same kind of breathless anticipation that Hob remembers from the battlefield, before the charge and the mud and the pain. Then they pop back up over the side of the bed with a cry and launch themself at Morpheus. He'd be more worried if he couldn’t hear the laughter in their voice, nor see how their outstretched hands target Morpheus’ ribs and armpits, rather than his eyes.

Hob's sisters have been dead for centuries now, but he remembers this well enough.  Maybe if the Endless had ever been anything like children, they might have gotten all of the murderous posturing out of the way before they grew up enough for it to be a problem, he muses. Still. Better late than never.

He takes a sip of his own tea and grabs a biscuit. Lord knows he won't get a look in once Morpheus has finished trying to jam his elbow into Desire's stomach and realises they're there.

“It was never against the Old Laws for you to be a bastard, which is lucky because you always were one!” Desire gasps, writhing away from Morpheus’ pointy limbs. Hob's been at the receiving end of those elbows before, and even when Morpheus is being gentle, they're decently sharp. He wonders idly if either of them'll tire of this before their tea goes cold, and decides not to intervene either way. Serve them both right if they have to drink cold tea.

“You tried to kill me!”

“Don't tell me you're still hung up on that?”

“I am, because you tried to kill me!”

“Well it's not like it worked!”

Not really the point, Hob reckons, but then again he's had plenty of mates that have tried to kill him. 

“More by good fortune than good judgment,” Morpheus hisses.

“Oh, so you admit to your poor judgment?”

Hob snorts, and the wounded look Morpheus swings towards him would fell a lesser man. Hob takes another biscuit.

“Ha!” Desire takes advantage of his momentary distraction to lock their arms around his shoulders and blow a loud raspberry against his cheek. Hob doesn’t think he's entirely successful in hiding his smile. Morpheus doesn't even try to hide his look of disgust. 

Well, he had to learn the downsides of being an older brother at some point, Hob supposes. 

Judging that the worst of the scrapping is over, he perches on the edge of the bed and pats Morpheus’ flank idly. Desire, loose-limbed with alcohol and triumph, flops over him to reach for their tea. Morpheus magnanimously doesn't jab his fingers into their exposed side.

“Thank you, Robert darling,” Desire says, eyes half-lidded as they drink. It comes out far less coquettish than Hob imagines they intended; too genuinely content. Morpheus sighs, and frowns, and doesn't quite do a good enough job of hiding his own ease as he sits up and leans against Hob. 

“I suppose you intend to stay the night?” Morpheus asks. There's nothing of the dignified dreamlord about him now, with his hair flattened on one side and just a little lank, and pillow creases on his cheek. He peers at Desire, half of his weight still supported by Hob, who takes another slurp of tea and polishes off the last of his biscuit. It's still unbelievable, sometimes, that he may see his dour and distant old stranger like this. Something tangible, something grounded, something he can hold. Unbelievable, too, after the way they had almost parted, after the way Morpheus had almost –

Well. Doesn't bear thinking about, really.

“Mm, yes, if you'll have me.” Do they have to work to make everything they say sound like a double entendre,  Hob wonders, or does it come naturally? He's not entirely sure they even notice they're doing it. 

“You're always welcome,” Hob says. “Guest room's all made up, and there's a spare toothbrush under the sink you can have.”

“How very kind. Dream, dear, isn't your man kind?”

“Unreasonably so.”

“Ta, love,” Hob says, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Desire rolls their eyes theatrically, as though that might mask how their expression softens. “Now drink your tea, I'd like to get a few more hours’ sleep before I need to get up.”

Morpheus grumbles but straightens up, plucking his mug from the nightstand and cradling it in one hand while he reaches for a biscuit with the other. 

“Should we expect any of our other siblings to join us tonight?” He asks, managing somehow not to spray crumbs everywhere as he does so, which is a bit unfair. Hob has centuries more experience talking through mouthfuls of crumbly biscuits, and he still can't do as good a job of it. “I take it you did not venture out alone this night.”

“No I didn't, but don't worry,” Desire says, tilting their head back as they drain their mug, a neat ring of purple left behind on the ceramic. “My sweet twin is unlikely to make an appearance. I certainly hope, at least – she went home with that little exorcist friend of yours. If she comes here, then something’s gone dreadfully wrong.”

They grin, cat with the cream pleased at the expression on Morpheus’ face, and flick their hand in something like a wave. “Well, goodnight brother! Robert.”

They flounce away towards the spare room, and Hob presses his smile into the curve of Morpheus’ shoulder.

“I hate them,” Morpheus grumbles. Hob kisses the bony jut of skin where his t-shirt has slipped, once, twice.

“No you don't,” he says. Morpheus sighs, sets his mug down, and returns to hold Hob's face still for a proper kiss. Not that Hob would try to get out of it. 

“No,” he agrees softly, pulling Hob down with him for a cuddle onto pillows that still smell a little of peaches. “No. I do not.”