khaoskampf

[khaoskampf]

In a biblical sense, we are beyond repentance.

[TW] : None. 

Side note: Humbly presents to you, this is a list of short sentence(s) starters or an excerpt of a possible scenario. Consider them as a skeleton without the muscular system nor organs; that will be our duty to create the fibrous tissues as well as networking the veins and arteries later on, through a discussion or head diving into a thread. 

Legend: Unless specified, the plot is open for both students and members of the staffs alike.

Ｉ  : 『 If he was the devil’s incarnate; heartless, heinous and Hell-bound then you must be the succubus/incubus his sable gaze had been trailing after. When he began introducing you to the Seven Deadly Sins, you began to ponder upon the sanity behind each methodically planned act and the frozen flames in his irises. 』

ＩＩ :  0/3 unfortunate students『 Tongue heavily coated in a pungent layer of acidic bile, his once pristine maroon silk now marred by incomplete handprints from you pawing at him while your stomach emptied itself mercilessly, there was barely a second to spare for apology exchange before you started dry heaving again as he sighed while reaching out to brush back sweat-slicked strands, a shudder sent your entire body into uncontrollable paroxysms. 』

ＩＩＩ :  0/1 foolish professor『 Within a humble chapel (three moons before the arrival of Yuletide) and its stained glass windows, you saw prismatic colours dancing over his side profile yet there was a stillness of the storm in his eyes that you refuse to live and let die so long as the infinitely soft vemillion scarf, a rendition to the red string of fate and its remix, remains neatly in your determined grasp. 』

ＩＶ  : 『 It was a well-known fact that he would only be around for a good time and not a long time but the warmth pulsing in your veins and rhythmic heart palpitations speak otherwise, in direct contrast to the denial you had been adamant about; how his mahogany eyes and dulcet croons do not delude you into wanting the unattainable after all. 』

Ｖ  :  0/3 unfortunate students『 Your kisses with him were chaste, remorseful but lack of consequences; you have told him that he was playing with fire, one does not simply chase after a fuel tank when themselves are all up in flames. Did he listen? Of course not, which is exactly why you found yourself with a lapful of the Ezrans’ sole heir speaking through hazy drunken slurs and red rimmed eyes. Perhaps you should hex him as a stern reminder and a picture for future nostalgia blackmail material whenever he acts stupid again..? 』

ＶＩ  :『 Being stuck in the rain as early whiffs of petrichor invaded your senses should not be as appealing had it not been for the pitiful drenched state Ezekiel was in compared to your adequately dry self. A small talk meant to pass the time while watching heavy grey clouds overhead slowly dissipate metamorphosed into solid discussions of faith in supreme divinity, quirky real life experiences storytime and blind trust to dance under the rain prior a hot pursuit to the nearest tower. Is it getting hot out here or is that a fever creeping up on your health? 』

ＶＩＩ  :  0/2 foolish professors『 The equivalent exchange occurs in a series of guttural moans and ridiculous number of bite marks littered across unblemished expanse of tempting dermis.   』

ＶＩＩＩ  :  0/2 unfortunate students『 Why is he so fucking stubborn?! Your mind is scattered with thoughts of legally ethical but morally grey homicidal tendencies yet your frankly speaking, overworked limbs are being sent into overdrive to chase after this menace of a bastard whose posture might as well have been titanium infused and steel rods for bones yet how does he maneuver himself on the broom in such a manner? Not unlike the refined flutter of phoenix feathers? Or maybe the tersely portentous swings belonging to a dragon. 』

[khaoskampf]

CYANIDE FILLED MOUTHS, DO YOU GREET YOUR MOTHER WITH THE REEK OF SUCH DEMENTED ODOR? DO YOU KISS YOUR LOVER WITH A TONGUE COATED IN SLEEK FILM OF DETRIMENTAL WILES?

And if you are not a king, though you sit on the 

king’s  throne and drape yourself in many fine robes of 

silk and velvet, you are still not the king 

and you will never be one.

[khaoskampf]

[khaoskampf]

Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk.

[TW] : Dark Arts. Graphic injuries. Abuse of magic. Pretty sweet plot, actually, unless you wish to write it as otherwise then the liberty is all yours; I would warmly welcome it, of course. 

Side note: The influence of Durmstrang is still prominent in the gait of Ezekiel’s maneuver. Pre-established relationship between muses; either a fellow student who was acquainted with muse prior to his transfer, a professor that wishes to attempt in taming the destructive force known as Ezekiel or a muse who is a tragedy at Defence Against Dark Arts and unknown to the both of them of the technical reasons between the how’s and the why’s, your muse landed himself with Ezekiel as a tutor(read: there is a sense of wariness and doubtful sincerity at play here. perhaps.. through my muse’s perspective.. your muse is a friend? punching bag to vent out his unspoken emotional treason?)

fight or flight, those trembling hands of yours; quivering lips and rivulets of sweat streaming down your face. despite the immaculate robes, those clean pressed slacks, your focused gaze is able to discern the tangible thew adorning his very being. 

Ezekiel speaks like those cunning foxes, he smiles as if the entire world rested on his back yet the way you fought erased those mental images of him with his forehead leaning against a Thestral unseen to you yet so endeared by him; of him lazily circling the quidditch field as the snitch remains nonflying; of an acerbic scowl and pompous disdain dripping from a disgruntled voice accompanying the momentary sting from the slap of his wand at different points to improve your posture. 

this silence and that silence are parallel lines; never to meet because back then, Ezekiel was effortlessly flicking hexes at you and now he fills you in with a sharp inhale, venomous gas precipitating within your heaving lungs. 

why?

[khaoskampf]

The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho.

[TW] : Gore(negotiable), dubious consent, mutual physical abuse/power struggle, emotional manipulation, psychological duress, descriptive self-destructive thoughts. 

Side note: Manifestation of insecurities and the poltergeists clinging to the frayed edges of a worn-out conscience. Optional: imbalanced power dynamics in terms of your muse having an advantage over mine or an emotionally detached and pure adultery of a dominant/submissive contract, not necessarily sexual either; the focus is more on my muse’s guilt complex and your muse’s manipulation that further amplifies the certainty of how Ezekiel is of responsibility to atone for what had occurred in Durmstrang. 

This plot will occur at the start of his transfer where your muse begins to recognise the familiar description of my muse and begins hunting him down either out of an initially pure curiosity or the simple pleasure of sadism. Be mindful of the fact that Ezekiel has a loathsome character therefore, your muse is bound to develop a thirst for my muse’s demise.   

as his profound nudity shivered on the cement floor of the unspoken; out of sight, out of mind holding cell, he only ever wished to live. 

“when you really want something to happen, the whole universe will conspire so that your wish comes true.” 

yet as he witnessed the blazing sun in a woeful rendition on the eclipse of his fragmentized sagacity, the feelings could only be summoned as standing in the middle of Sahara dessert with zero bearings. 

would you be the Philosopher’s Stone to fuel his cognizance or are you the Elixir of Life to put a halt on the tempest in his mind? these scars littering his body are quite fascinating, against your fingertips; against your tongue; against the blade you’re holding too, maybe.

[khaoskampf]

1984 by George Orwell.

[TW] : Heavy undertones of violence and more in a ( pre-established relationship ) between muses in the form of an unhealthy rivalry or mutual hatred, an exploration into the depths of a character often left forgotten in a dusty corner void from a speckle of sun’s rays. Full liberty to wreck a havoc on Ezekiel and he shalt return it tenfold. Tiptoeing the line between respecting the law and provoking its wrath. Lots of self-dialogue/monologue and respective thought process.

Side note: The idea serves as an introduction to his upbringing and roots, where the mindset of abductive reasoning in lieu of an intellectual debate comes forth. Your muse should have a competitive streak on equal footing with his; may be in the form of grades, physical prowess or social status, everything even. 

We shalt embrace the notion of fighting fire with a greater blaze. It could be a thread where you may vent out through your muse. Do not hold back, bare your muse’s fangs and reciprocate each bite of disdain. 

The thread will be written in three separate pieces; 

i. Inferno: of their past when their threads of fate became abysmally intertwined.

ii. Purgatorio: a slow progress on untangling the fraying knots.

iii. Paradiso: the process of self-reflection and acknowledging their skeletons in the closets. Ambiguous ending is optional and negotiable; whether the gain or lose a part of themselves from this battered bond.

callused extremities dominated the entirety of his passageway. an unfocused psyche is as propitious to a sword caked in sodding subcutaneous tissues and congealed blood.

stumbling upon despair, do you spit out venom or do you wallow amidst self-deprecation? there is a hierarchical order, constituents arranged based on ranks and the invisible eye of an ultimatum ever watchful. slithering through hallways, 

ascending a never ending flight of stairs, upwards the both of you go; forward the both of you pursue, despondency and determination, yet did any of these two ever realize those chains circling your ankles, the leash of death knotted around your neck? was escape ever truly a reality, those acquaintances truly ally and the trust you’ve shared between, has it always been seen as a tracking trail to prove who’s in the wrong?  

god does not create all men as equals. 

now let the devil pay his dues.

[khaoskampf]

1Q84 by Haruki Murakami.

[TW] : Incorporates elements of Herbology and Astrology. The hidden tenderness and juvenile wonder of my muse where he reminiscences upon the galvanising breeze as he streaks across the morning sky, the horizon a chaotic tincture of fuchsia and invasive orange yet the celestial bodies have not ceased to glimmer. Perpendicular lines of fate and redirected destinies; the unbecoming bud and its shriveling petals in crisp winter.

Sometimes you’ll see him carrying a bouquet of flowers; fingers caressing the petals as if they were a part of him and spoke in soft wisps of breathy sighs whenever he’s seen in the gardens. 

floriography, he had once told you after a brief meeting; you asked, he acquiesced a polite yet standard answer to brief inquiries and that was that. 

but then it was if the Sun and Moon had aligned and you were staring at an entirely different entity; embers in the sultry enrapturing gaze of Ezekiel? Whom had forsaken his name for the security in anonymity as he makes you chant a mantra of Káos, Káos, Káos? 

who is he? you could’ve sworn crimson painted his fingers, razor sharp smile and glinting eyes. the way he had manhandled those people left you torn between weeping in terror or avenging their deaths by tearing this diabolical individual whom remained standing in front of you, unwavering gaze and manifesting panache, lullabies of the dawn of ages in a humming loop. 

[khaoskampf]

THE CATCHER IN THE RYE BY J.D. SALINGER :  𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝

[tw] : past/present toxic relationship(flexibility of level of commitment), abusive behaviours(further discussion shalt be conducted to understand each other’s limitations although the general outline includes derogatory terms, verbal harassment and physical harm that is definitely negotiable), dubious consent(optional due to the sheer fact that the lot of you are sweethearts &&. i feel like a demon walking around in sheep’s clothing), emotional manipulation.

there were signs; there will always be signs with him.

the celestial sphere consisted of men, tears, and cry never.

ezekiel is a man, whose tears metamorphose into ruby droplets rather than crystalline and never cries. do you not find paramount satisfaction within the depths of oblivion as the lacerations across his arm weeped in sorrowful crimson rivers? perhaps the divine echoes from which your guilt trips are webbed beyond escape?

how do you go about someone who’s gone through wars; both fought in reality and in his mind’s simulation?

the ever present lines of red rimming those falsely jubilant eyes, you can’t think, can’t think, refuse to acknowledge, beneath that sleek-pressed robes of high status and regal stature; underneath sandalwood scented wool and ironed pinstripe slacks, one of those parts in his timeline, that scarred stomach once sunken in, a microscopic sound of heartbeat but it did not flit to where it sees fit?

where did (e)zekiel (d)ante (e)zra(n) go as he was subjugated to blossoming lavenders and ruptured veins beneath pallid translucent canvas? where did he go when the marble that had once been graced by the sophistication of his dexterous glides and immaculate slides of polished oxfords, now tainted by ghoulish splatters?

how is it that you are stuck in oblivion when he’s the gush of adrenaline frazzling your very nerves, the soar of a thunderbird’s shrieking voltaic force field as he bestows a delicately balanced embrace encapsulating your wrath and tenderly soothing the flame within your soul?

[khaoskampf]

Wo der liebe Gott eine Kirche baut, da baut der Teufel eine Kapelle daneben.

I. They said love draw nigh in two facades; a sweep of the breeze and thou shalt behold beneath curtains of hazel tresses one's dexterity in moonlike curvature by a duplet of arcane irises lined with the smog scooped from the bowels of a defiled urn. Its compeer; emblazoned and streaked by depravity would materialise upon thy thousand-yard stare. He had never possessed such prerogative, wobbling knobs scrapped and pressed against the glacial tiles beneath an altar, streams of Helios' aureate haze illuminating a longevity not embedded amidst his constellations. The personification of ( calamity embodied ), ( ruthless divinity ) and ( irascibly vindictive ).

II. Bold, capitalized et dutifully inked upon in shades of #1c1c1e, sultrily outlined by #ddbb73 against his #f8c9ad skin. Indoctrinated stoicism clung to enervated quadrupeds; ( adamantine pertinacity ) unrivaled by others if the luscious #b1504a lips quirked at its corners was not a dead giveaway regarding his bâtard légitimé. Rather than weird, he'd prefer peculiar; rather than mere fear, he'd prefer absolute domination; his celestial sphere had naught but a muted monochrome wherein white and black served as adulterated guidelines counter to what he, himself would deem as right and wrong.

III. Pain was a nefarious spectator, obliterating through each defensive layer before stripping him of his very own skin, chink armour now clattered of soundless worth whilst he was forced to bleed out his sins, a lurid ( eloquence ) which knew no bounds to be cleansed of the taintment through means of macabre display as he retched grotesque internal chunks and spat mouthful of morbid gore all over himself. The creed of a sanctitude in ( equanimous sublimity ).