#labradoesnt

[empathickally]

@labradoesnt

He was responding to a 911 call, someone’d said there were lights roaming around the old DeRosier’s place. Granted, that place was more haunted than that abandoned tuberculosis hospital upstate, but no one’d ever complained about lights. Carefully, Jarrett made his way in, flashlight strapped to his gun, until he saw someone moving.

“All right now, whoever y’are, come out and put your hands up, I don’t wanna shoot ya, but I will.”

[starxshine]

@labradoesnt

On a normal walk, Kalapana doesn’t stray. The feline either remains perched on her owner’s shoulder or stays snuggled in her shoulder bag, small head peeking out. Today’s walk is clearly not normal. Perhaps it's road construction that has Hokulani taking a different route to the market and that is what causes the cat’s senses to go into overdrive. All the new smells and sights. 

Whatever it is, it’s clear Kalapana has a destination in mind as she hops off of Hoku’s shoulder and takes off at a brisk trot, dainty nose in the air, whiskers twitching, dainty paws silent on the sidewalk as she weaves in and out of people. Hoku calls her, gives brief “excuse me”s as she follows, long Bohemian skirt swishing around bare ankles. It’s like this for at least two blocks, the cat pausing now and then to get her bearings, black body petite in size.

Finally, the feline seems to arrive at her destination, pawing at the door to what appears to be an office. Before Hoku can stop her, the cat has pawed the door enough to slip inside and Hoku has no choice but to follow her. 

“Get back here!” It’s a low hiss, but the feline ignores her and instead go right to the ankles of a man- clearly, a man even as his back is to her -and begins to meow loudly, rubbing along his calf. “I am so sorry! I don’t know what’s gotten into her.”

[empathickally]

Kisses!!! Straight up sits on his lap and gets his smooch on!!

He’d just been sitting there, watching TV, when suddenly he sees Bowie bolt off the couch. Jarrett doesn’t have much of a chance to even say much of anything before Rufus is on his lap, kissing him. “Whahe--?!” Surprised giggling comes out even as his hands wrap around the other man’s waist and he responds to the kisses, thumbs looping into the belt loops at the back of Rufus’ pants. Surprises like this were why he loved him. 

[empathickally]

" kiss me. just kiss me a lot. "

"Y’ain’t gotta tell me twice,” he whispered before doing just as he was told. Thick arms wrapped around Rufus’ shoulders, holding him tightly as he kissed him, happy and warm, a small moan echoing inside the other man’s mouth. 

Jarrett kissed him until he couldn’t breathe, then moved to kissing a trail across the man’s jaw, around the shell of his ear, at the soft, pulsing points on his neck. 

“Y’know you taste so good, babe,” he breathed into his ear before taking his lobe between his teeth, “So easy t’kiss, too.” 

[empathickally]

" oh. i shouldn't have eaten all that chocolate. "

“Aw, no, ‘Zit do the same thing t’ya that it does t’full dogs?” Jarrett frowned, hopping up to get a bucket, just in case. “You shoulda told me that before I made a chocolate cake....I’m sorry babe. You want some kaopectate, milk o’magnesia or somethin’?” 

[painmade]

at this point, he doesn't know what else to do. rufus has broken down to a strange level of instinct; he just keeps bringing jesse things that he feels like might help. tea. pillows. blankets. slippers. a heating pad. his very own favorite stuffed animal. one of his shirts. pajama pants. he's pacing, trying not to be too big of a bother --- but he's also worried. "you're going to get sick if you keep this up. maybe you should see a doctor? i know how you feel about pills and stuff, but..."

jesse hasn’t slept in days. // selectively accepting. 

THERE ARE PARTS OF HIMSELF THAT he still doesn’t know about. Parts that hide deep within him, waiting in the confines of his tortured soul to burst through and torment him for days at a time. 

Jesse doesn’t know why he gets the way that he does. He doesn’t quite know what triggers this episodes of horrible, rampant insomnia – and he doesn’t know how to stop them. No amount of companionship, no amount of soft, comfortable fabric, no amount of warmth, seems to be able to lull him into the confines of sleep. He wants to drift off, to allow himself to fall into the warm calmness of sleep and stay there forever if he can. 

But every time he closes his eyes, he sees Gale – he sees that terrified man, begging for his life. He sees his head snap back against the force of the bullet, blood splattering over the potted succulents and stacks of books and papers and vinyl records that were scattered about his apartment. He hears that body fall to the ground, lifeless. He sees the blood pooling beneath Gale’s lifeless body. He can remember every fucking detail – every speck of blood on every speck of book. He remembers a shard of Gale’s skull resting peacefully against a hardback copy of Don Quixote. 

When he closes his eyes he sees Jane laying beside him, vacant eyes staring up at the yellowed ceiling of his old duplex, as if she were begging a cruel and apathetic God to save her in her last moments of life. He can see her pallid face, the absolute emptiness behind her eyes. He can remember scrambling on top of her, desperate to breathe life back into her, tears falling upon her lifeless face as he begged her, begged anyone, to bring her back to him, 

      Come on, baby. Come on. God! Please! Come on! 

No one had answered him. He lost his faith that day. 

Jesse closes his eyes and he sees Drew Sharp, an 8-year-old, shot to death for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He sees Todd, sneering down at him with bloodied knuckles, the lit cigarette between his lips bouncing as he spoke horrible, manipulative things; y’know, Jesse, this’d go a whole lot smoother if you’d cooperate. She died ‘cause you didn’t behave. You know that, right? You killed her.

He can remember the way it felt to have those cigarettes put out on his body, to writhe in pain and cry out, only to be silenced with a reminder that although Andrea was dead, her son, her 6-year-old son, was still out there. And there hadn’t been a doubt in Jesse’s mind that they’d murder him, too.

      “ – N-No, no doctors.” 

The second anyone caught wind of what had happened to him, he’d be thrown in prison instantly. There’s a rage that bubbles inside him for a reason he can’t really place at the notion that he’s sick. That he needs fixing, somehow. That it’s ever going to be possible to heal from what has happened to him.

      “I’m fine,” he hisses. “It happens sometimes. I’m fine.” 

The deep, purple circles surrounding his eyes say differently. He looks 20 years older. His eyelids droop and he can barely stand up straight when he needs to. His paintings are near incoherent – and they’re angry. Christ, are they angry. 

      “Just let me – just let me do this. I can’t see a doctor, alright? I… can’t tell you why.” 

@labradoesnt

[lorcanthropy]

" i'm --- i'm fine! it doesn't even really, uh, hurt that bad it's just --- oh, oh wow. okay. so i can't walk on it. that's cool. this is cool."

“Ah, shite,” Mal said under his breath, thinking nothing of hoisting the man--who had a good five inches on him--over his shoulder because trying to support him to hop into his office was too much work. He put Rufus on his couch, where he could prop the leg up, and gave it a look, “Can y’move yer toes? Try for me, yeah? If it’s broken, how long’re yeh gonna be stuck here before it heals?” 

Not that Mal minded Rufus being there, of course, but he needed to know if he should order takeout for two tonight, or if he’d be up and about before it’d even arrive. 

[empathickally]

"Hold still." Rufus sounds frustrated and maybe he is, given that the other man doesn't smell right. He smells like soap --- too much soap, and therefore Rufus has taken to rubbing their cheeks together in hopes of doing away with some of the scents. Replacing it with his own? A bonus, really.

He’s just barely dry, his hair’s still a little drippy, and he’s wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, crutching out of the bathroom to grab his prosthetic when Rufus accosts him, as is their ritual now. “What’re y--” he manages to get out before his mouth’s all but forced closed as the other man starts rubbing against him. Jarrett leaves his hands at Rufus’ waist, smirking and just standing there, using him for a bit of support since he was the one doing all the movement. 

When he can breathe again, he gives him a half-hearted spank with his arm crutch,  “Next time wait til I’m not a pirate, yeah? I don’t wanna fall over on ya.” But, now that it seems they’re both satisfied, he leans in and kisses his cheek, scratching at the base of his hairline on the back of his neck, just where he knew Rufus loved it.