OK So With The Shit With The USPS Going On:

Different Stories Resonate with Different People

the assusination of julius caesar

wolves ^-^

This is truly incredible.

Remember folks! With Halloween coming up, food dyed black with charcoal can neutralise your medication rendering them inactive and useless! This includes contraceptive pills if you take them within 2 hours (before or after) consuming the charcoal!

❤️

I’m both pro herbal medicine and pro vaccination because you can treat burns with aloe vera juice and sore throats with lavender infused honey but you can’t rid a country of polio with plants. 

Ahem.

Me @ me: “Hey maybe don’t draw the entire first season of YOI from yakov feltsman’s perspective. That will take weeks and you’re an adult with a life”

…I did it.

Bonus:

Loosely based on this post.

{My Twitter}

Jango/Kit, while on a negotiation mission Kit has an... unusual reaction to some of the local cuisine. Next thing he knows he's waking up barely clothed in a 'drunk tank' and being very cuddley to a grouchy bounty hunter. (At least Jango is trying to act grouchy. His pheromones say otherwise).

Raucous laughter sparks along Kit's nerves, sharp and mean and taunting, and he grimaces as he surfaces from the depths of unconsciousness, the taunting voice slowly sliding sideways into words. It takes a moment to make them out, another to understand them, but—

“Finally knock him out, Fett?”

“Tired of a pretty thing all over you? You could always hand him over.”

“Get karked.”

The third voice isn't taunting. It’s tense, sharp, with a warning edge, and Kit feels an arm wrapped around his lower back tighten faintly. Feels those cruel presences pass, laughing with each other, and then Fett's breath, a careful exhale.

Kit's head feels vaguely like it did that time Qui-Gon got him drunk on honey wine from a very specific plant on a very specific planet, and it’s not overtly unpleasant, but it’s rather alarming. Especially combined with the fact that Kit doesn’t seem to be wearing much more than his breeches, and even those are rolled up to his knees.

He’s also plastered face-first against a Human’s chest, nose practically buried in his shirt, and he has no memory at all of how exactly he ended up this way.

“Awake?” that sharp voice says, and the arm around his back doesn’t move, but the hand curled over his hip loosens slightly. “If you go for my belt again we’re going to have problems.”

“Not the entertaining kind, I assume,” Kit says, and his throat is dry, his voice scratchy. Carefully, he lifts his head, and every one of his tentacles feels overly sensitive, enough so to make him wince as they shift. There are pheromones in the air, attraction and low-level arousal, but he deliberately shifts back regardless, settling on the bare duracrete floor of some kind of drunk tank with a faint grimace.

The last clear thing Kit remembers is…dinner. He finished his mission and stopped at a food stall, and the owner recommended the soup. And then nothing.

Quite the soup, Kit thinks wryly. At least for a Nautolan.

“Unless you think me breaking your wrist is entertaining,” Fett says, but despite the violence implied in the words there's a flicker of something that’s almost concern as he eyes Kit. The Mandalorian armor is a surprise, but—Kit's heard of Jango Fett by reputation, and he’s absolutely certain that the man’s reputation doesn’t include anything like this.

“Justified, likely,” Kit says wryly, and settles on his knees, wincing a little as his tentacles brush each other. That’s a less than pleasant side effect, apparently. Hesitating, he looks Jango over, and then says, “You have my deepest apologies, if I intruded in any way—”

Jango looks sour, but there’s a curl of pheromones around him that are anything but—heady, sharp, dark with want, and they send a shiver through Kit's tentacles, ripple down his spine. He has to catch his breath carefully to keep from showing a reaction.

“You were drunk,” Jango says. “Drunk and handsy. I can handle one tipsy Nautolan.”

“Drugged,” Kit confesses, a little wryly, and when Jango's gaze snaps to him, narrows dangerously, he raises his hands. “Involuntarily, I assume. Whatever was in the soup I had, I believe it could be marketed as an aphrodisiac for my species.”

Some of the tension eases out of Jango's posture, and he huffs. “Perks of exploring Outer Rim worlds,” he says gruffly, and when he catches Kit's wince as he shifts, suspicion flickers over his face. “Hey. Did you—before they tossed you in here—”

Kit chuckles, shaking his head, and then regrets it as his tentacles ache sharply. “No, no, my friend, I'm fine. I've never suffered through a hangover before, but I believe this is the equivalent.”

“Your head tentacles?” Jango asks, frowning, and when Kit inclines his head, he huffs. “Then quit kriffing moving. Come here.”

Not about to turn down the invitation, since Jango apparently doesn’t object, Kit slides closer, lets himself be pulled down against Jango's chest again. A hand gathers his tentacles up, and he hisses, but holds still as Jango gently wraps a length of cloth that’s probably his cape around them, then settles them against Kit's back, and—it’s better. Like dulling a sense, and Kit breathes out in relief, resting his forehead against Jango's shoulder.

“Thank you,” he says. “That is—much better.”

Jango grunts, but his hand presses flat against Kit's back, stroking right over the spread of his silver markings. “Thank me with dinner,” he says, offhand, like Kit can't feel the heat and want that hum, low-level but unwavering, right beneath the surface.

Kit chuckles, enjoying the brush of Jango's fingers now that he can focus on it. “Looking to repeat this experience?” he asks, amused.

“It’s cute you think I need to drug you to drive you out of your mind,” Jango retorts, and his fingers dig in, just faintly, as an image rises. It makes Kit's breath catch, makes him shiver before he can help himself, and Jango smirks, all smug intent.

Kit lets him keep it, if only for the moment. He’ll be able to prove he can hold his own soon enough.

[On AO3]