#◜ inchara. ◞ * ･ﾟ✧ * ━━━━━ i am a true explorer.

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“maybe i’ve always been more comfortable in chaos.”

FLORENCE + THE MACHINE’S  ❝ HOW BIG, HOW BLUE, HOW BEAUTIFUL ❞  SENTENCE STARTERS // accepting !

      HE IS ELDRITCH’S ANGEL:  screaming / writhing / mourning the hot hot halo grit between his own teeth. there is a whole scorching horror located inside of him and he has no interest in that. this is an all too familiar scene for kurt, the heavy plumage of weight tackled onto the concerts of ache,  found in earth - bound vagabonds. kurt could say, ‘ finally! someone up to my speed ! ’ but this is a realm discernible from his own ; he himself is the nightingale in the seams :  he flits about and instead seeks solace in the warmth of his book. his gentle, calloused fingers that trailed the sliver of words that bounce off its own muted pages, famished of a world splintered off his skin, they make its way to the cliff of the page and turns with a harnessed crinkle.

      there’s a tender bridge to the calamity that harvests within naib. kurt is ever so mindful of this —- he is the same after all. to covet this humanity is the same to covet its horrors.

            ❝ is that so? ❞ are you comfortable? or are you so used to being weaned on chaos?                  ❝ you’re as brooding as ever !  come – have a seat! i’ll show you a sanctuary you’ve never seen before. ❞   his books.      //    @gurkhasblade

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      ❝ oh! hello, laura. ❞  the smile comes easy, like feather - weight. a lilt preens on the junction of his throat and it’s a oral indicator he’s learned to adopt since birth ; the duplicity that harnesses in his smile is raw yet secure : a gleaming gaslamp.  ❝ i see you must be curious to hear about sicily. am i right ? ❞  a ginger-handed pat on the empty space, unoccupied beside him : an open invitation.   //   @escapxlogy

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      HIS FROWN ISN’T so much a simple display of his bone - white / marrow - sullen frustration as it is a pure snag of teeth. this is a scene he exists outside of: perilous anger phrased as a tale, in which ---- is a prison. prison of blasphemy, prison of a deeper breed of despair: snakeskin secrets ,  your blood ruptures like gunfire / you smile like a rifling gun.

            ❝ martha ... martha .. ----- martha ! ❞

      kurt’s movements are jilted from its abandoned duties and the grueling peel and bite of ruddy - bruised knuckles against walls that sounded just moments ago were nothing if not short - ended tributes to his own carnal feat. kurt finds that martha dishes out death like alms, an altar ransacked of completion. through this -- through martha, he witnesses that death and women are clearly aligned.  ❝ martha, please --  ❞ the cadence that creases from his lips tells a period of exhaustion, exasperation, empathy ; in a clipped tone he reserves for only martha, his dearest friend. he’s known the beat of this rhythm as if it were the own beat in his blood, an ode to his pulse and the thump to his heart ---- grabbing her wrists as a means to prevent further contusions and shabby knuckles would only escalate it :  his body flutters about with as much grace as a large man like him could supply and makes it so her fists comes into contact with his chest, his hands firmly gripping around the strong divot of her elbow.

                  ❝ what has gotten you so riled up ! ❞   //   @coordinator-behamfil​

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(   x   )  :  moved from ask.   // @askidv-thebarmaiden

      ❝ france ! ❞  the explorer exclaims, what with his childish, unadulterated glee only kurt could foster into something charming : bewitching in a guileless sense. the hunch of his shoulders and quick work of his hand, fingers just beginning to coil around the slender neck of the martini glass, it’s a delicate albeit swift motion, prime with the toothy grin that he sees mirroring in the marveling pool of deep sea blue ; a laugh unfurls from his gut and it’s a violent if not familiar burgeoning of petals that matures into a mirthful metronome, hearty, a call of family.  ❝ oh, you know how i love it there in france, belle! ❞ mindless fingers pick at the sheen of glass, the smile reaches his eyes though he knows -- he knows the weight of this simple twist of lips can’t be shared for this party of two. belle’s own comportment is a raw duplicate of his own, but that’s what it is: raw. raw in every sense of its being ; a gentle ache in the palace of flesh that becomes a staple of belle -- kurt’s belle, belle’s smile is raw -- as it is a silent twist of grief. he’s seen doe - eyed creatures die with a smile. kurt thinks this is the only way belle knows how to smile, how to speak, how to survive.

      he doesn’t take a sip, opting to instead swirl it to the crux of the glass in round motions ; a habit he’s formed during their meeting a surplus time ago. ❝ of course you know that, haha, your goal is still paris, isn’t it?  ❞

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tag dump 1/?