the big bad wolf

PETER HALE. I died, infiltrated the mind of an emotionally compromised teenager, returned to the land of the living, and all I got was this lame t-shirt. sidebar credit

[quitetwofaced]

xblasphcmy‌:

     Gravestones lined the eerie graveyard, Some recently placed, whereas others, cracked and crumbling. Mold covered the engravings dedicated to the dead, trees leaning towards the stones, branches reaching out to each other. The smell of old stone filled the dry air, weeds covering the graves of the dead, loved ones long since stopped visiting. Gravel paths weave through the maze of graves, allowing passers by to pay their respects to the people lined up in the earths embrace.

     Tonight though it was just her alone. Paying her respects and talking to the sister whom she recently lost. PRUDENCE BLACKWELL. BELOVED DAUGHTER && SISTER. and her family crest. Though most would say it was just a drawing to match all the blackwell’s grave. 

     After all the Blackwell Symbol is made up of a circle with a central triangle with a cross on top and at the left of the cross is a shape of a throwing star. 

      Not expecting anyone here at night, Paige caught his scent as soon as he entered the cemetery. Could be just like her and visiting family or a friend. Yet paige knew to always be on alert. Considering all has happened and Beacon Hills becoming a prison for everyone in this forsaken town, one can never be too sure about people. 

     An amused smile graced her lips at his words as she turned to look at him. Something about him was familiar though paige couldn’t be bothered with it. “Pretty sure she wouldn’t mind or need the flowers.”  

      After all, it was technically her grave. Just that her body was never there in the first place. All thanks to her mother who made everyone in this town believe she was dead. Though she wasn’t about to announce it. “Can’t really steal from a dead person. “ Or yourself. “It’s a thing. Ask museums. After all, dead people don’t own anything. ” 

     The brunette hybrid leaned against her own grave. “ && I’m positive she would want to give her sister the flowers she doesn’t want or need… Thanks for the condolences, though.” 

Dead people don’t own anything. Peter wished he could agree. The dead owned an awful fucking lot for being dead, claws dug in deep. Not even just the haunted items shtick. Deeper shit. Peter didn’t linger, why bother? He spent six years stewing over everything. He was haunted in every sense of the word. And he’d taken an awful lot, from both living and dead. Dead people don’t own shit. 

The words rang hollow. Awful fucking hollow, a child whispering--no, whimpering ‘I’m not scared.’ to the dark. 

He lifts his shoulders in a shrug as if he could be rid of his own internal monologue so easily “Least anyone could do when coming across someone else in a cemetery,” he responds casually “Maybe I could have left you alone but well--we’re all stuck here so why bother with common decency?” 

Not that it was something he dabbled with much in passing. 

But he was in short supply of friendly faces, or any faces outside of his very small circle of his nephew and his band of idiots. “So, what?” he shifts over to another gravestone -- not the sister but about two stones down “You frequent graveyards at night often then? Better than the local shithole bar I guess.” 

He wondered about the unspoken dance between two werewolves. He wondered about her pack. Was she separated from them now because of this curse? She wasn’t local. Because well, he was local. The Local. Then again...his gaze cuts towards the gravestones.  Maybe he really was bored. Visiting a cemetery spoke of a connection, there wasn’t a werewolf in town he didn’t know. Six years Peter. Six years. He hated that. Hated hated hated that annoying nagging little voice that always chimed in with that wonderful tidbit. So, she probably rolled in during his comatose period. Or whatever. 

“So,” he idly scratches at his jaw “What brought you to Beacon Hills? Couldn’t have been the graveyard, it’s more of a one and done kind of place.”

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        Paige stood over her own grave, having come to visit her sister’s to put flowers and clean it up, she noticed her own cleaned up and flowers on it. As far as she knew she had no living relative left. Grounds keeper wouldn’t leave it. Either way, paige shrugged it off. What’s the point in knowing. She was dead to them in general. To the world. “… Don’t really need these…” She thought out loud as she took the flowers from her own grave and placed them on her sister’s. 

[quitetwofaced]

Peter didn’t have much desire to visit the dead. What good were they to him six feet under? He had no regrets to spill, no forgiveness to chase; secrets were worth more kept than shared--one could never be fully certain they were alone. Sometimes, on his walks, his legs did carry him towards the gates. Some small part of him still marveled at the simple ability to...get up and go. Some days he still expected to have woken up back in that hospital bed. 

Maybe chasing after forgiveness he’d never obtain was easier to do than let himself, ugh, wallow. 

He didn’t look at any of the headstones in particular. Why bother? He’d just allowed himself to wander, to breath in the crisp air. It was nice. Almost a luxury. Tinged with something decidedly bitter. Another memory even he didn’t want to tread too close to. 

Honestly, he’s a little surprised he hadn’t run into anyone else sooner. He’d smelled her upon entering, his nose was just too good for anything else. A blessing. A curse. A gift. But he hadn’t honestly expected his own two feet to carry him close enough to converse. Cocking a brow, he watches her play switch-a-roo with a rather lovely bouquet to the neighbouring grave. Her words didn’t answer any questions he had. Did he have questions? Why bother? What else was he going to do? 

Werewolf vitality was generally far superior to that of a human, but not every werewolf came back from the dead twice over. Not to mention the general shitshow associated with both. “Stealing from the dead?” he drawls by way of greeting, thumbs hooking into the pockets of his jeans “That’s gonna follow you home you know.”

He should take a look at the gravestones, but it’s of no interest to him. No importance. She smells of something dangerous, something almost at home in a graveyard. It too tastes familiar. He didn’t recognize her. But honestly, it had been near seven years since he’d been out on the town. And, well; if they couldn’t give him something, then he didn’t care to remember them. 

Maybe she was just another poor soul who had been locked in the town with the rest of them. There were worse places to be locked. Then again, visiting a grave? Must be some kind of connection. Did that spark interest in him? Not really. Still, he was out stretching his legs and getting some exercise might as well stretch his social legs as well-- “Sorry for your loss,” he nods at the gravestones “Not sure it’s the kind of loss that excuses stealing but, hell what do I know; live a little, amiright?”

[quitetwofaced]

{ IAN BOHEN // MALE // HE/HIM // CRUCIFY - Ozzy Osbourne } The nemeton’s curse claims another. ( PETER HALE, TW ) has been lured to Beacon Hills. The ( FORTY-ONE ) year old ( BETA WEREWOLF ) is said to be both ( + CHARISMATIC ) & ( -CUNNING ) which is why i guess they’re called “ the multifaceted ”. ( HE ) is currently working as ( SELF-EMPLOYED ) while stuck here. I wonder how long that will last? { bigby, aquarius, they/them, 26, est }

Peter Hale was ever the chameleon in his youth. While both he and his sister were popular in their formative years, there was absolutely nothing genuine about Peter’s kindness. He shifted personas to whatever the situation called for, to be whomever he could be to get what he wanted. No hesitation. No regrets. 

He has always resented Talia. She was too soft, too kind, too forgiving. Despite these things, everyone in his family loved her. That’s not to say he hated her, they were family after all; he just...hated her blind belief in humanity. Hated what her peace-orientated mindset would do to them. And it would bring them nothing but misery. 

That’s not to say he wished she was dead. 

Six years is a long time. A long time to be locked in one’s own body, unable to move, locked in his memories when asleep and locked in near frozen time when awake. He can still hear them. Can still smell them. A werewolf’s sense of smell is one of, if not possibly their greatest, strength...it’s something he’s never going to forget. 

There was no one left to spit an “I told you so.”  towards. The rage. The venom. Once great plans for turning Beacon Hills into his own self-proposed utopia shifted towards nothing more than simple, mad ramblings. 

Then it evolved into something much more cold. An all consuming need for revenge.

That didn’t go as planned. 

Though he’d never admit it, he feels regret over taking Laura’s life. Enough regret to turn his eyes blue, a stark reminder every time he looks in the mirror (a usually wonderful and enjoyable pastime).

He’s still recovering since his resurrection (his second now, but who’s keeping count). And honestly, he rarely leaves his apartment--why he hasn’t left town is anyone’s guess (even if he didn’t die years ago, he still feels like a ghost). 

Peter is/was considerably well traveled prior to the Hale fire, he’s amounted a considerable wealth of supernatural knowledge, connections, and wealth. This status has allowed him a degree of independence from relying on his remaining family for support. Not that he’d ever ask for it. He loathes being in debt. 

Since his resurrection, he’s mellowed out some. Not much, but some. Going soft in his old age? Who can tell. His sister was only a year older than him when he died. Makes one think. Not about anything good of course, but Peter was rarely one to think of good things anyway. 

[thychesters]

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▹modest mouse || satin in a coffin Are you dead or are you sleepin’? Are you dead or are you sleepin’? Are you dead or are you sleepin’? God, I sure hope you are dead.

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Puscifer — “The Humbling River”