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
