#artdecgore

@artdecgore || x

He was far from aware enough to really process what was happening logically and yet that open-ended statement still managed to fill him with a sense of panic. Damnit. Apparently, he had fucked up and overstayed his welcome.

"You always ask people you've barely met twice such a question?" And whoever this beauty was - and she will be named if ever she care to share it with him, and is truly such a rare sight - she was impulsive. But you never meet the same even remotely bubbly, or whatever sort of confident vibe she's mustering, woman at two different science community gatherings in less than a month. Peter got the feeling he seemed more approachable to these types if they were drunkenly obliged to flirt with him. Something tells him she wasn't into prosthetics, or even, cybernetics. "What's your counter-remark for either answers you have in mind?"

Oh, to believe he couldn't break a heart that may lust over him if he tried. Peter is too aware he isn't the best fit for any such void in every person. Just mere seconds weigh over his decision to entertain her gesture, and whatever she may respond back with. To say nothing while looking at clearly desire lit eyes feels suddenly punishable by law. Or maybe this is just how she makes most acquaintances...

"Did I say my name's Peter yet? Delighted to mee--well, maybe to get to know you, ...if you're game for that."

"I always think.. gee, I'm SO pretty when I cry. Well, sort of. When I'm not snotty, but even then..."

Even then the flush from frustration is nicer than most shades of blush found in Ulta and sure her eyes are rimmed red but they always look so much more BLUE when they are watery.

"Anyway. You look amazing, want me to beat someone up for you?"

" hey, hey ... " his voice is low, almost a whisper, as he reaches out to press a hand to mary's shoulder. she can feel the tension under her skin, like a rubber band near snapping. it must be a sight— to see someone in a space close to death and then to have them walking and talking like there isn't anything missing or wrong at all. the hem of his shirt is ripped and bloody, a stark contrast to how put-together her face is. healing is ... a slow process.

   “You think so?” A grin tugs at his lips, hidden behind mask. Sometimes, it was a damned shame that he kept his face covered – ah well, couldn’t be helped. He moved idly, bloody blade being absentmindedly wiped against the fabric of his jeans.