Mike Driver
RMH
YOU ARE THE REASON

★
Keni
ojovivo
Not today Justin
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occasionally subtle

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Sweet Seals For You, Always
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dirt enthusiast

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@wanyecarter
you’re gonna feel how personal this is for me
"Can I help you?" God, he's really got to get the damn door replaced already. As it is, he stares rather grumpily at the intruder.
Kiss of Death
Jax kissing his sons
requested by lifefullofglitter
Jax kissing Tara’s hand
Requested by silviaprt
He wanted a FIGHT || Jethro & Wayne
Sometimes he forgets he’s even a wolf. He was not, of course, a true wolf. Jethro’s body was made in the form all but indistinguishable to the dire wolves of his heritage down to the genetic coding, which was one of the reasons that he’d been able to hold his own and with this supernatural world. But he was more than animal, and less, in some ways. There was another kind of instinct that waited always, crouched in the dark recesses of his brain. The knowledge lycanthropy imparted, which had but one commandment. The commandment of the curse came to the forefront of his mind. The commandment was simple, and it was this: thou shalt kill bloodsuckers. There was an irresistible urge inside them all, a fiery need inside them, to destroy, to claw, to tear apart and rend anything vampiric they came across. It was the same way dogs felt about cats, wolves about bears, and killer whales about great whites. That was just the way of the beast world. Human emotions do not have anything to do with the beast side of things, and a vampire and a werewolf is strictly beast. So this made Jethro want to to taste even more of the tar that came out of Wayne while pushing a large hairy paw into his chest, thrashing violently with much more size and muscle he’d had at a distance, and those unnatural wolf claws sliced into his skin.
Blood would have been bubbling up around them had Wayne been alive. But he wasn’t. No, the vampire was quite dead. Like every member of his species, he radiated no humanity at all. It’s strange the first time you notice: he would have never said another lycanthrope was human-seeming. Yet even werewolves gave off a kind of aura, a human-like scent, or perhaps just fucking body heat. A vampire had none of these. The only comparison anyone can make was that a vampire was like a marble statue of a person. Its lines and contours could be perfectly carved, immaculately replicated, but you would never mistake him for something alive. Wayne was like Michelangelo’s statue of David. Perfect but hard and cold. So hard the vampire’s skin resisted every assault, but then would split wide open and dark fluids—not blood, of course—grouted from each wound. Bites and scratches were appearing all over his abdomen and face, dozens of them spraying strips of skin and then bits of muscle tissue like cooked chicken—all white meat—sputtered out of them. But Wayne’s strong, supernatural hands gripped at the sides of Jethro’s heavily thick fur coated ribs, instantly stunning the wolf and making him yelp in surprise and pain. The werewolf leaned to one side, desperately shuffling to keep all four paws steady him so he didn’t fall over. He managed to do so, but only by spreading his legs out as far as they would go, his chest pressing on Wayne’s to keep him down at the same time.
It was an awkward, ungainly position and it did not allow the wolf to defend himself against what came next. Wayne rolled on his side, pulling Jethro with him. The wolf struggled wildly. His claws didn’t skitter they tore along the floor, unable to get up. He snarled and growled, snapping from side to side, trying to bite Wayne’s hands. Meanwhile, inside his head Jethro was reacting to the compromising position he was in could be his end. His left side was stinging from the flip but he could still turn and his back paws were free and in full command of its faculties. Rolling over (well, the incredibly uncomfortable way his waist twisted while everything upstairs kept the bloodsucker from getting his neck) his hind legs went into the soft part of the vampire’s stomach, hard, with his glass-edged back claws. They would then force a screw action until he’d got through the muscles into the wet privacy of his mutant organs.
Pain was felt, oh god how it was f e l t . Wayne's blood might not have been warm but it was living, with whatever life force it was that drove corpses like him about as if they were still human beings. Now it flooded from his stomach, flaps of skin hanging, intestines spilling in wet folds even as his body sought to heal itself. A scream tore, unbidden, from his throat, blood flecking his lips, and with all of his might he tossed the wolf away from him, heard the muffled slap of meat hitting the concrete walls of his home. Wayne rolled to his knees, scooping up his innards and stuffing them back into his body cavity. Stumbling to his feet, he backed away, palms slick with dark blood pressed against the gaping wounds as his flesh stitched itself back together ever so slowly. It didn't get a chance to heal fully, though, because the Wolf wasn't going to give him that chance, and within another moment, they were a tangled mass of limbs and bones, muscle and fur.
I am terrified a great deal of the time. Afraid of what I’ve done, of what I’m doing, and of what I might have to do. It’s not a crippling fear. In fact, it’s just the opposite. I thrive on it. I crave it. I need that rush of terror to get me out of bed in the morning. It’s in my DNA.
There are things you can’t fight - acts of God. You see a hurricane coming, you get out of the way. But when you’re in a Jaeger, you can finally fight the hurricane. You can win.
Naomi was glad her coworkers were too into their beers and the pool game bets so that they hadn’t witnessed her sudden switch of moods. It was quite unlike her to feel so angry and frustrater, or to show it in public, at least, but either they hadn’t noticed or they were purposely ignoring it. “Who can care about a girl they met at a liquor store and jumped in her bed the very same night?” Crossing her arms, though, Naomi couldn’t find it in herself to meet his eyes for longer than a few seconds, her own burning with feelings she couldn’t quite control and she had to literally bite her tongue not to say further. “Don’t you think this, us, has gone longer than it should? I mean, there’s plenty of new comers who can certainly claim the vacancy.”
He was growing more and more confused by the second. Sure, Naomi had expressed certain distastes as far as their relationship (for lack of a better word) had developed. She knew he slept around, that he wasn't someone to settle down with. But he had stayed with her, woke up next to her in the sunlight. They'd -- and he grimaced at the thought -- made love. At least, that's what he thought. Had she forgotten that too? That promise that he wouldn't leave? At least not for good. He'd promised. "Naomi--" He bit the inside of his cheek, glaring down at her. "You're not some vacancy." Immediately, he wanted to take the words back, to bottle up whatever feelings of jealousy and impotence he was feeling at the moment because that. wasn't. him.
It shouldn’t enervate her as much as it did, his attitude and easy response. It did, and her grip on the dark now back in her hand tightened furiously while she tried to keep a cool stare. The headache wasn’t helping, her every muscle constricting in anger and the impotent sensation that she couldn’t quite remember something important. “Perfectly. I’m not six feet under, thank God, or at the hospital anymore… though unless word gets to you at a bar or whenever there’s a break in your very busy schedule so that you decide to go knocking at my door you wouldn’t hear about it or care anyways.”
She was upset. No, she was pissed. His head dropped, brows furrowing together so tight it looked like he was glaring. This was confusing, annoying, and worrying all at once and he could feel parts of him already shutting down, sectioning everything into manageable compartments. "I have been avoidin' you," he admitted quietly, looking up again from the floor to meet crystal blue eyes. He choked on the next words, rolled them around under his tongue, finally spat them out. "But that doesn't mean I don't care about you."
Aria shook her head in feigned disappointment, but truly she could have used Wayne’s presence that night the way things had unfolded. The charmer could have let her escape her own mind if only for a moment. “What a shame that is. I wouldn’t say I had the best night either.” An understatement, she had been heartbroken and left a room in splinters. “Were you hiding in your coffin? You can’t enforce stereotypes, Wayne, you have to crawl out of your hole. Except I’ve spent much less time at the bars anyways, which is where we always seem to run into each other.”
"Ha ha, you're hilarious, darlin'," Wayne faked a laugh, briefly sticking his tongue out at the tiny redhead. "I actually don't own a coffin an' haven't been in one in-- 30 years? I'm doin' well for myself." He chuckled a bit, wishing he wasn't telling the truth. "So what happened? Do I have to beat some poor guy up for you?"