#〈 . . . ▸ i'm the spark that lit your fire / ft lydia ]

[placeabo]

A stake, both wooden and an amalgamation of rudimentary metals, the tears of a witch, several vials of dried herbs, a bear trap, and silver bullets . . even sealed and incased in a velvet pouch within an oak box irritated a werewolf’s keen senses. Preparation was key, anticipation on the heels of shoes — the sole tools in the mental arsenal which enabled the Hale’s return from the dead. Peter Hale was all rushing blood, a beast’s heart thundering hard and powerful, thus it wasn’t his own death which was the subject matter in need of such dense preparations. 

The witches tears alone were thirty years in the making, and it was a damn shame all the torture endured collecting an entire vial’s worth would be ultimately used for the sake of Beacon Hill’s residents. Peter, of course, was one of those residents, too, however admitting that he required the tremendous use of weaponry acted as a dagger of weakness twisting within his belly. The full moon was a night away, and at the height of the day, the Californian sun proved brilliant and insufferable. The blinds in the living room and kitchen were shut entirely, as though the momentary darkness could trick his inner wolf that darkness prevailed; it aided the werewolf’s focus in a pseudo meditative state. 

Breath was steady, lids partially closed over hues, and fingers danced across the various items set before him upon the wooden floor. Methodical. Silent. Werewolf healing worked aptly beneath the various bandages covering his bare arms and thick-set neck until the very sensation of leaking blood stopped. Skin stitched together, though the pain of a bruised ego remained. Heels clicking against the wooden floor amplified with the closure of distance, and his eyeballs shifted quickly beneath his lids when the intrusion penetrated his focus until lids opened. 

It was still too bright in the room. Broad shoulders sagged a degree, and it wasn’t long after an exasperated breath left his nostrils. Car keys in her hand and judgement in her eyes. ‘Don’t do anything stupid until I get back’. Peter was too old to roll his eyes, instead his lips peeled apart in a sarcastic smile. One slip up, and Lydia suddenly acted like his guardian, like his superior. The banshee shouldn’t have been so casual to go out, even in the daylight, but the werewolf wasn’t about to spark another argument.

❝  The stupid things typically occur when you and your friends are around, but I’ll behave.  ❞    

▸ 𝑯𝑶𝑾𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑨𝑻 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑴𝑶𝑶𝑵  .  .  .  . .     ❛ don’t do anything stupid until i get back. ❜    𝙁𝙍𝙊𝙈  @thatprettylittlething​  .  .  .    〈 torture and violent roleplay prompts 〉

[placeabo]

Change things  —  the naivety and innocence dripped like honey from her perfectly painted lips, yet Peter preferred venom to be spewed instead of the foolish sweetness of useless hopes. Lines about mouth curled in an early expression of amusement, but he subdued the twisting of lips and the very prominent desire to expel a snort of derision. As much as the werewolf wanted to place the blame with the weakness of humanity or youth, his own nephew had been long tainted by the childish notions of heroism and morality. Bones of vertebrae cracked audibly, cruelly, as the were tilted his head back and forth purposefully before pressing hands at her sides, and then leaning forward until his face was looming closer to her own.

❝  You can, believe me, you can. The problem is those little thoughts clogging up what is natural. You can’t change anything, Lydia. You do. You act. You ARE.  ❞    Although his body posture and the sharp lines along his jaw were ominous, the tone of his voice was anything but.   Serious, certainly, but it was not an attempt to set her with fright. Blue hues studied her closely, seeing a girl and a powerful banshee to be all in one, but the human girl in her was far too dominant. Mouth twisted in a degree of disgust before he pressed himself backwards and set appropriate amount of space between them. 

❝  Then change will come to you, but you can’t play some hero. I know how much you and your little friends love being Beacon Hill heroes. ❞    Derision was no longer masked, yet it was held more in the tone than in the face; a little jab he could not help but shove in her face whenever given the chance. It was petty, and he loathed it, so shoulders shrugged into a more casual air. Then, his last piece of advice followed with tone free of any emotion.

❝  Lydia, stop thinking about what you SHOULD do. You’ll find yourself freed of such self imposed burdens.   ❞  

▸ 𝑯𝑶𝑾𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑨𝑻 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑴𝑶𝑶𝑵 .  .  .  . .   ❛ I can't use my power to change things. I can't even use it at all! ❜    𝙁𝙍𝙊𝙈   @multimirxcles​​​​     

[placeabo]

Respect and fear  —  validation in the form of kneeling, head bowing, or in this particular case. . begging for violence to conclude. The alpha energy within, the energy that would always remain inside his wolf cells, bared its teeth in delight. Despite the pleasure stirring inside belly, Peter’s expression modeled stone with only eyes revealing the emotion behind man and wolf. It was obvious he wanted more. . more chaos from himself and more pleading from the woman. Prom queen, high class, banshee, yet she was the only person in her circle of friends who contained half the brain to seek peace. Wolf claws remained retracted, and he parted his lips to scrape the remnants of dried blood beneath the thick claws with the crown of teeth. 

The taste of blood was only good after a fresh kill and in his wolf form, but the man simply could not resist putting on a show.  Knowing her patience was almost as brief as his own, he concluded the show by retracting claws and donning emotion on the sharp angles of face. Exasperated, unsatisfied,        ❝  Only because you asked so nicely. Only for NOW. Dearest Lydia, tormented banshee, I would really love to see the lengths you’ll go at to make me STOP. You know, for the foreseeable future. .   ❞    Tone and words were purposefully ominous before a deeming pat landed atop her head, and his body strode past hers. Away to clean up the blood covering boots and cuffs of pants, away to make plans for the next steps.

▸ 𝑯𝑶𝑾𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑨𝑻 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑴𝑶𝑶𝑵 .  .  .  . .  20  —  lydia pleading for no more bloodshed.   𝙁𝙍𝙊𝙈   @thatprettylittlething​​​ .  .  .     〈  blood lust meme  〉

[placeabo]

▸ 𝑯𝑶𝑾𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑨𝑻 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑴𝑶𝑶𝑵 .  .  .  . .   📜    𝙁𝙍𝙊𝙈   @thatprettylittlething​​​​  .  .  .     〈 random quotes generator 〉

[placeabo]

Although the Hale family had embedded themselves into Beacon Hills, it was the eldest survivor who looked beyond the legacy behind name and ancient pack dynamics; he sunk his claws into anything until his mark was made permanently   ―  not just a Hale but PETER. Alpha. Werewolf. Threat. Force of nature . . and, yes, a little reliant on the youths who scuttled around the town. Life had never been normal for Peter, and normality was a concept toyed with akin to a pauper imaging life in a court of thrones. How did it feel for Lydia Martin, to be torn so violently from a bland life of normality into monsters, the deceased, and living nightmares. Peter’s body was dead, yet his essence and influence lived and breathed through the Martin girl. Even in her nightmares of dead teens, fresh dirt of a burial ground, and foretelling screams, the alpha wolf released a very healthy roll of laughter from within his belly. In contrast to the very reason he was invading her sleep, there was nothing sinister about his laughter though it was certainly bombastic.  

❝  Here I thought you liked it when men took the lead and treated you as helpless even though you just put up the act. I’ll speak less slowly then, but remember I’ll keep watching over you until the deed is done.  ❞    Although his body had been across the room when he began speaking, the conclusion of the statement fell on the bare flesh of her tender ear. Strawberry blonde curl was curled about finger, and the dead Peter Hale drew his gaze from the proximity of her face into the rest of her slumber. He decided to be nice this time. Dark skies and bloodied halls were replaced with the pseudo warmth of a bright sky and endless fields of blood red roses.

▸ 𝑯𝑶𝑾𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑨𝑻 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑴𝑶𝑶𝑵 .  .  .  . .   ❛ don’t treat me like a child. ❜    𝙁𝙍𝙊𝙈   @thatprettylittlething​  .  .  .   〈 the witcher 3 memes 〉

[placeabo]

Haughty attitude was void on lips. The distinct lack of Lydia Martin qualities prompted the werewolf to sit stiffer in the leather bound seat of his vehicle, and his head turned in a swift but not too obvious manner in order to watch the young woman more aptly. Was it the intimate setting of sharing such close quarters in his personal vehicle which roused a question of such weight, or the anxiety of waiting for their enemy to make an appearance and the ultimate result of violence. Whatever the case, snark would not be applied, instead the Hale allowed his gaze to drift past strawberry blonde hair, pale skin, and make-up to the orange full moon just beyond tree line of the Beacon Hills reserve. 

❝  Playing with a boy’s heart time and time again ?  No, you’re not cruel. You don’t have an ounce of cruelty in your body. You know what you’re doing, and what you wish to ultimately accomplish with your actions and motives . . well, then we can see if it’s foolish or not.  ❞    Was this a young girl’s need to find validation from the likes of him. Peter Hale opted to place blame on the moon. She might have been just a banshee, yet all creatures and monsters were under the spell of such a powerful force. His inner wolf craved to pull out of his human skin, but Peter wasn’t so keen on opening his thoughts to present company.

▸ 𝑯𝑶𝑾𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑨𝑻 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑴𝑶𝑶𝑵 .  .  .  . .   ❛ do  you  think  i  am  so  foolish  or  so  cruel  ? ❜    𝙁𝙍𝙊𝙈   @thatprettylittlething​​​​  .  .  .    〈  the language of thorns memes 〉

[placeabo]

Hands sought to ensnare and mold  —  claws protruded enough to set an assertive pressure upon the girl’s shoulders without outright causing damage or instilling further fright. Defiant and frightened; the scent of her emotions poked the fire of the werewolf’s ego, and back hunched over to set his face adjacent to hers. Cheeks nearly touched though the heat of hushed words broke the barrier between flesh.   

❝  It’s too late for that, Lydia. You’ll enjoy being someone and something. Not just the prom girl, the girl with the grades and the looks  —  you’ll actually matter in a picture bigger than humans.  ❞    Blue hues moved to the corners of eye sockets to get a better look at Lydia before he very slowly withdrew. Claws detached first before he pulled his head away and straightened his back. 

❝  You’ll enjoy holding power. You deny it now but just you wait.  ❞    In dramatic fashion, he effortlessly stood at her front and extended arms to each side as a knowing smirk touched lips and gaze. He no longer saw an annoying teen with no value whatsoever; the Martin girl held tremendous use, and that would ultimately save her life.

▸ 𝑯𝑶𝑾𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑨𝑻 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑴𝑶𝑶𝑵 .  .  .  . .   ❝ No. I’m not like you. This is not going to be my life. ❞   𝙁𝙍𝙊𝙈   @thatprettylittlething​  .  .  .    〈 supernatural pilot memes 〉

[placeabo]

The spitfire within  —  teeth and claws forging ferocity from bratty attitude, however past his resurrection, the woman’s usefulness was more often peppered with back talk than practicality. The safety of her friends and her own self worth were transforming into something of a headache, and the woman’s brazenness was staring him down with thick lashes and lips smothered in what ( Peter could only assume ) was cherry red lipstick. They all needed to be put back in their places. . the sniveling youths. Stuck between a rockheaded woman and the wooden desk, the werewolf stood erect, watchful, but completely silent as the angry words tumbled from her mouth. Her hands even dared to move at each side of his body, forcing him to continue very intense eye contact with Lydia. 

She had enough, clearly, so why not leave. . though the same could be said for the werewolf. They were both at each other’s throats, at other people’s throats; it was like some sick game. Lydia wanted to play cat however. Didn’t she know Peter was no mouse, and never would be. Watch yourself. Brazen woman. There was no amusement on his face though something angry was surfacing in the lines about eyes and mouth. She was a banshee, nothing more. Without the aid of her friends, his claws could rip into her so easily. It was tense. Her hands moved away and the steam was practically rolling off her body.

        ❝  Give it your best shot, sweetheart.   ❞   Heated words a degree over a whisper. No, Peter Hale could never contain himself. He wanted to see what was next.

▸ 𝑯𝑶𝑾𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑨𝑻 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑴𝑶𝑶𝑵 .  .  .  . .  [ threaten ]   𝙁𝙍𝙊𝙈   @thatprettylittlething​​ .  .  .     〈  violent reaction prompts 〉