Fatal ➵ Peter Hale [COMPLETED]

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seven

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"What do you want, Peter?" She asked, or more like huffed as she downed another vodka shot before sending him a glance and raising an eyebrow.

       "Isn't it obvious? To get a drink. It is a bar after all." He said, with his ever irritating smirk engraved onto face. One that Dea would like to punch, ever-so badly.

       "Great." Dea said as she signalled the bartender for another shot. Peters eyebrows raised slightly in shock, till she continued to speak, "Maybe you could find yourself a drink in any other bar in town or further away. The latter would be more preferably but, you know what they say; beggars can't be choosers."

       "Sweetheart, you wound me."

       "Tell someone who cares, asshole." Dea growled, growing increasingly annoyed of his presence... but, there was also something else; a small sensation that she could only describe as familiarity. And maybe, just maybe, she did somewhat enjoy a tad of their "conversations" and though most of them made her want to pummel him into the ground, it made her feel nostalgic of the times when they were young and stupid, before... that had happened.

       But that was the thing; it did happen. And without a second thought he had crushed her and ripped her apart more viciously than her family was, in a metaphorical sense.

       "Ouch, and the kitten bites." He said, and by some tragic miracle, it was possible that his smirk could actually widen even more. "I just wanted to talk."

       She wasn't sure what made her snap. It wasn't anything in particular that made her anger fly through the roof and reach the high heavens, but whatever it was, she still snapped.

       She turned to him, her eyes flashing red for a moment and said, "You want to talk? Okay, let's talk. Let's talk about how much of an ass you were - and still are by the way - when you were younger. Let's talk about all your obnoxious attempts just to get into my pants like you did to all of your other bitches. Let's talk about how you saw me as nothing but an object you needed to have to relive some spontaneous, drunken mistake I made when we were younger. But most of all, let's talk about how much of an asshole you were when you stood there in my home where my family were ripped apart to the point where they decorated the room literally and called me a broken, orphan freak. And even though you knew how much I just needed you to be there, you casted me aside because you decided I was no longer worthy of you. Let's talk about how you made the whole school believe I was a freak of the school for being an orphan, believe that it was disgusting and horrifying just to be near me, and you know what? For a moment, you even made me believe it too. Hell, at one point you even made me think that maybe it could've been my fault that they ended up like that." Dea growled to him in a hushed whisper, before angrily downing the shot she hadn't realised the bartender refilled, and slammed it down, glaring at Peter as she leaned in closer, "So, Peter," She spat out, "Let's talk."

       Peter wasn't one for emotions, if you couldn't tell already, but boy, in that moment he was sure he could feel too much all at once to the point it almost felt numb. The smirk was wiped clear off his face and for once, though he had so much he needed to say - most accompanied by some witty, sarcastic comment and a charming, cocky attitude - he couldn't bring himself to say any of them.

       He knew there was nothing he could say. Nothing that could amend what he had done and even in his eyes, he thought it reached beyond the levels of being an asshole.