✒ 𝓭𝓮𝓥𝓲𝓵 ៹ ˚

〔 @cursearrows 〕
            
            "such is art in every generation, darling. it isn't for wearing on the street. just as you wouldn't walk around holding the mona lisa." he hummed with a soft tilt to his head. truly taking a look at what the other was wearing now. emotions and all. normally taking offence at how easily people brushed off years of work and perfection. but, he was caught in a proper good mood for once. he would be kind, once. not see it as a roll of eyes on proper work done. 

@furspots / startled or any

@furspots  
            
            // curious please ^^

〔 @MonsterScience- 〕
            
            his laugh came low — not loud enough to echo, but enough to ripple the air like silk caught in a draft. cruell moved like a wraith dressed in luxury, each step a deliberate act of defiance against the pain in his side. the blood was thicker now, dark and stubborn against the crimson of his shirt, but he held the pressure as told — palm pressed to the wound with a kind of theatrical care.
            
            “darling, if i wanted safety, i wouldn’t have come to a woman who keeps corpses warmer than her hearth,” he said, voice still soft, still sharp. he glanced at the scalpel, the blood clinging to it like lacquer. “and i wouldn’t dream of touching anything. not unless it begged me to.” his eyes swept across the lab — the steel, the bone, the careful chaos curated like an artist’s palette. something in him lit up at the sight of it, as if he were more at home among sinew and metal than anywhere clean. he followed her without hurry, boots squelching slightly with each step, leaving a trail of diluted red like roses unraveling behind him. “you’ve a lovely place,” he mused under his breath. “ghastly in all the right ways.”

༯【 @furspots 】༯
            
            Pale blue eyes studied him once more as she opened the door more her tall, pale and slender frame now on show. The scalpel that she held in her right hand was still covered in her subjects gore dripping every so often on the tiled floor near her boots while her left hand held onto the door , her knuckles bruised blue and black.
            
            “ brandy and morphine “ she spoke , a faint accent ( presumably Genevan ) making itself known stepping aside at last with all the ceremony of someone unlocking a tomb “ your asking for a doctor and a death wish in the same breath … how considerate “ she turned, not waiting to see if he followed .
            
            “ keep pressure on the wound. If you die before I sterilise the instruments, I’m not cleaning up your mess … oh and don’t touch anything unless you want to lose a hand.”

〔 @MonsterScience- 〕
            
            he didn’t shiver, despite the weight of rain soaking him through and the wind slashing his coat like it had a vendetta. instead, cruell offered her a crooked little smile, one side of his mouth tugging up as if by habit rather than intent. mascara ran in blurred ink down the sharp ridges of his cheekbones, and one earring — a dangling gold pin shaped like a needle — caught the hallway light like a wink from some cruel god.
            
            “i know,” he murmured, voice low and velvet-smooth, tinged with some accent that might have been london once, but was long stitched over with other cities, other sins. “but you were the one with the lights still on. lucky me.” he leaned against the doorframe without asking permission, though his weight made the gesture slump-lazy. if not for the blood, it might’ve looked like posing. hell, maybe it *was* posing.
            
            "i won't take long. just need... a few stitches and not to die, preferably. though if you've got brandy and morphine, i wouldn’t object to a prettier end." his eyes slid over her the same way hers had done to him. not leering, no — more like inventory. reading the sharp line of her mouth, the scalpel, the way she didn’t ask who he was. he smiled again. blood rolled from the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t flinch. “may i come in?”