The Wraith

Better known by his victims as "The Wraith", you may not know he's watching until it's too late... Sideblog to leadxxr (Dwight Fairfield) Trauma haunts him... But he still finds himself unearthing mortal desires for understanding... Love. Something he's accepted he will never be worthy of. But they're fleeting as The Entity reminds him... he has a job here in the fog.

[bingbxng]

Fingers wrapped around the Wraiths arm, tugging gently yet excitedly. Completely ignoring Dwight’s advice of personal space. No, he forgot the talk they had, it was definitely a flaw of his. “I flew it today! It was magnificent!” His words spoken as if he wasn’t in a never ending nightmare. Eyes glossed over with a dreamy far off look. His kite, the gift given to him by Philip had finally been put to use and it worked. It didn’t break, thank god! This would have been an entirely different conversation.

@deadlykitefight | PRISONER OF THE FOG: MAIN

Curiosity beamed from beneath the silver-plated facade, intrigue and satisfaction swelling beyond Renato's vision. He felt . . . happy. Content to see joy in a place haunted by grief and suffering; proud to have been the source of it.

"I am pleased it did not get lost in the trees," came a muffled chitter as his hidden beady stare relocated to the survivor's grip fondly. One unfamiliar with Philip might have interpreted his comment as disingenuous, but it was anything but that. He could get used to this. To seeing his survivor smile. It filled him with a sense of purpose he'd been previously lacking, at least in a nonviolent context.

[bingbxng]

Curls up beside him.

@deadlykitefight | PRISONER OF THE FOG: MAIN

Philip barely moves a muscle. The idle chitters in his throat adopt a certain fondness identifiable by someone who knew what to listen for. Free of any mask hindering his own textured countenance from being seen. Appreciated versus scrutinized.

A spindly arm readjusts in the silence to rest around the survivor's form; firm yet not suffocating. Merely a nonverbal communication of the thoughts in his mind that wanted Renato to know he was safe in his presence. Eyes fall closed as the Wraith exhales and allows himself to settle against his nuzzling survivor. A rarely felt essence of peace begins to well within him in this moment.

[deadlykitefight]

Eyes followed the spinal column, watching as it hit the floor. Excitement coursing through him. He'd get contact, some way, some how, but he knew it was coming. Hoped it was. Even so, a gasp of surprise, but also a lingering desire, escaped him. Eyes moving back towards Philip's masked face. Swirling with questions, underlined with lust. Straightening at his touch, before leaning into it. Relishing in the simple gesture. "I...please." He whispered, unsure of what he was already practically shaking to get.

"Then what is it?" Words still low, almost as if he was afraid he might scare The Wraith off. If he was too loud, too eager, he might send him running. His own hand began to press into his chest, urging him on. The first time he was at a loss for words. Stuck in his throat, so he'd just get closer, if it were even possible. His free hand moving to tug at the fabric of the Killers clothing.

"P..pleasure? Oh..." If he didn't have his attention before, he definitely had it now. Allowing himself to get pulled forward, with no resistance. Grabbing tighter. Fingers twitching, trying to keep his control, attempting composure, but it was failing. Slowly, but becoming rather quickly slipping away.

"You're the only one I want to have me in such a way... Someone like you-- YOU are exactly what I want. Who I want." He managed to say, sounding less breathy, and more firm. He wanted the Killer to devour him, ravish him in ways he had never been. -- before that though, he needed him to know-- Philip was all he wanted, he never wanted someone else like he did right now, and certainly not as badly. "Pl--please.."

[bingbxng]

Words seemed almost fabricated in Philip's mind. Words he wanted to hear but could hardly have anticipated actually coming to fruition. Words of endearment, encouraging his subtle gestures. His heart raced within its narrow cavity; a constant reminder of the effect Renato had on him. Words failed him now. There was no issue of the survivor's consent, his desire to have him in a physical sense, and the killer found it difficult to contain himself much longer. Renato's words inspired a dangerous flame to ignite at his core, a warmth fueled by desire he hadn't known for quite some time.

A subtle pull drew the survivor's torso flush against his form, the killer's own breath heated against his face as it bounced back from the interior of the mask he still donned.

"If you would allow me some time to prepare," he began in a low chitter. Philip wanted this moment to be perfect. He required time to tidy up the quarters bestowed upon him by the Entity, to make them presentable. He desired not to take the survivor where the crows of the realm could see them; the Entity's spies, he'd always suspected. Would he face punishment for fraternizing with a survivor in such a way? It was possible, and whereas something at the Wraith's core trembled at the thought of a return to the Entity's cruel methods of persuasion to doing her bidding, something else battled to erase such concerns. He was filled with an intoxicating desire for companionship; for physical affection he hadn't known in such a capacity but had always yearned for. "I would have you meet me back where the Fog separates the campfire from the trees."

[mournfulroses]

Yannis Ritsos, trans. by Kimon Friar, from a poem featured in "Erotica: Love Poems,"

[bingbxng]

@condxmnxd

[bingbxng]

“I’m not enough...”

@deadlykitefight | PRISONER OF THE FOG: MAIN

The Wraith's features scrunched, thin digits raising to remove his mask. Muddied features looked less coated with filth than normal, though thick locks remained coated in the earthy shell. The mask would topple from its place in his hand, slender fingers raising to brush across the soft of Renato's cheek, featherlight and gentle as if he feared the survivor might crumble beneath his touch.

"Not enough . . ." words repeated as a rattle tainted by a soft disbelief from the Wraith's throat as milky hues took in the survivor's solemn features. Every drop of innocence, of vulnerability . . . he wanted to consume it; an uncanny desire to absorb the purest parts of Renato and hold them within him. Calloused palms lingered against soft skin; he struggled to muster words that could disprove him. "My dear . . . to what standards do you hold yourself that you could possibly be anything less than enough?"

[petaltexturedskies]

Mary Oliver, from Long Life: Essays And Other Writings

[mournfulroses]

John Keats, from a letter to Fanny Brawne, featured in The Selected Letters of John Keats

[bingbxng]

@condxmnxd

[mournfulroses]

Emily Brontë, from "Wuthering Heights," originally published in 1847

[mournfulroses]

Anna de Noailles, translated by Jethro Bithell, from Poems; “Tale of Hearts”

[bingbxng]

@deadlykitefight

[mournfulroses]

Kim Addonizio, from a poem titled "For You," featured in Lucifer at the Starlite: Poems

[deadlykitefight]

He paused for a moment, his eyes moving to Philip's masked face. Words caught in his throat for what may have been the first time. Curiously trying to read his mood. The atmosphere had shifted, air seemingly thicker, heavy. Their magnetic pull getting stronger, more adamant. Before there was a small twitch of his fingers against the kite in his hands, reluctantly he stepped back and placed it gently beside them.

"What do you desire?" he whispered. Moving closer once more. Needing him, wanting to be near him.

Renato's hand moved back to rest against his chest. "Wh-... what .. kind of death?" His voice a mixture of raspy , and breathy. Eyes wide, as he looked up at him. Lips parting ever so slightly. The sudden desire was almost overwhelming. Trying to recall a time when he felt this way was impossible. His nerves were taking over, as his body shuffled closer, doing the opposite of what it was yelling. A part of him yearning to flee. The other screaming at him to jump into the killers arms. Cling, and never let go.

[bingbxng]

Idle chitters rumbled in Philip's throat in the wake of the survivor's question; his desire to know just what he meant. Innocence knocking at the door of corruption once more. The killer's hidden stare remained locked with Renato's gesture upon his chest, spindly digits of his own releasing their grip on Azarov's spinal column, allowing the instrument to topple carelessly to the forest floor. His Father's bell, however, remained in his free hand; such a symbolic item would not join what remained of Azarov on the ground. Spindly digits now available found the survivor's hip, a soft claim being staked as they curled with want.

"One spoken by the French . . . that is not quite what it sounds like," he rattled beneath his breath as narrow fingers grappled with the fabric shielding the survivor's soft, caramel skin from him. The killer's own nerves were well managed, suppressed and hidden though he felt each one tickle up his spine and threaten to keep words stalled in his throat.

"A figurative death . . . derived from pleasure . . . versus pain. Something I desire not to share with another." The Wraith's touch lingered and held heavy implications his own tongue struggled to clarify against the influence of his own hesitation. He felt his hold subtly encouraging the survivor's form closer; a thirst he couldn't suppress; a nonverbal explanation through physical suggestion. He craved the other in many ways he dared not crave another; cravings that justified Renato's worthiness of possessing his own heart.

"If . . ." a moment of hesitation as Philip paused, his yearning sitting impatiently on his tongue. "If you would have . . . someone like me . . . have you . . . in such a way, that is."

[deadlykitefight]

Pulling the kite close to his chest, practically hugging it. Looking at him now, it was as if this piece of fabric would never leave his hands. Embedded in his heart, and in his grasp. Eyes glistening with unshed tears, he couldn't remember the last time someone has done something so meaningful. The gesture may be small, but it meant the world to him.

Hearing the chittering, he couldn't stop his feet. Walking closer, one of his hands reluctantly letting go of the material. Reaching out and resting on The Wraith's chest. "You've made me happy enough to last a lifetime --- or lifetimes." He said softly, fingers pressing harder against him. Needing to feel him under his touch.

"What makes you happy? I would like to provide it. If I can make you feel a fraction of how I feel. -- I would die in a million trials just to do so."

[bingbxng]

Philip did what he did best: he silently observed behind the silver shield in the wake of the survivor's inquiry; his desire to return what he received. Many things did Philip crave; very human cravings unacted upon. Mortal sins committed of the flesh though the killer did not desire to sully the survivor. He yearned to ravish him, though such want remained suppressed in his mind. Before him stood innocence faced with corruption itself; an enticing offer founded not in roots of vulgarity, but that inspired thoughts of an uncouth nature, nonetheless.

Renato's words resonated beneath his rib cage and cued a flushing of hidden cheeks; a swallow of nervous energy soon followed.

"Your death is not what I desire," the Wraith chittered somewhat curtly, a deep fondness still evident in his strict tone as masked eyes traveled to the survivor's hand upon his chest. It only encouraged the foreign yearning growing at his core. "Not that kind of death."

[bingbxng]

Rika holds a tiny silver hand bell, gently chiming it as she looks at Philip with sad, puppy-esque eyes. "Um... I-it's not working..."

( @breakcut )

@breakcut | PRISONER OF THE FOG: MAIN

Had the Wraith been met with such a meek display within the confines of a trial, the survivor wouldn't have made it very far; the killer was merciless with the rare exception. However, beyond what he was bound to by the Entity, bloodshed was more of a chore than a pleasant past time. Though he lacked any remorse for his deeds, Philip also didn't go out of his way to slaughter. He merely stares from behind a silver shield, canting his head as chitters vibrate off the inner surface of the mask like a macabre echo.

It was . . . laughable, honestly. Was this survivor intending to mock him and his father's bell? He had yet to decide, though spindly digits tighten around Azarov's spinal column, nonetheless, raising the weapon in tandem with the brass bell; two collisions ring out before Philip is once again one with the spirit realm and imperceivable to the human eye.

[mournfulroses]

Robert Desnos, from The Essential Poems & Writings of Rober Desnos; "Ebony Life,"

[bingbxng]

*leaves him a tub of vanilla ice cream, unfortunately, it's minus the side of pain this time.*

@deadlykitefight | PRISONER OF THE FOG: MAIN

The Wraith cants his head at the lone offering. Many curiosities spring up in his mind: its origin, the purpose behind such a gesture, and just how long it had been sitting there, waiting for him. He chitters idly beneath his steely facade before spindly fingers trace the cold container fondly as if to confirm its contents. Condensation chills the pads of his fingers, confirming his internal query. A treat indeed, one Philip certainly isn't accustom to, but something burns in his chest that the Entity wasn't responsible for this particular gift; this gift that reminded him of a time before The Fog. A time in a dimly lit apartment. Alone with a box tv, a secondhand chair and a spoon. Not a mirror in sight. The Wraith might not know how a survivor would get their hands on such a commodity, but he certainly has suspicions as to who would share it with him if they had.

[noroamenial]

All I have ever wanted is to be loved

[bingbxng]

if you could just... stay here for a while. ( have another from joey

@exmortiis | PRISONER OF THE FOG: MAIN -> touch-starved prompts | accepting !

Philip’s pale, glowing gaze remained upon the Legion’s smooth chocolate skin in the wake of his meek request — he truly was flawless in his eyes; all consuming. Blinking, an idle vibration tickled the Wraith’s vocal cords as he simply stared, dissecting the deeper meaning behind such a momentary hesitance. His presence was actually . . . desired. He would stay, of course he would. He had no reason to desire to be anywhere else than with the Legion beyond the Entity's beckoning; holding him in his lanky arms; feeling hearts beat against one another, a painful reminder that his own still remained beneath his ribs. One of these days . . . when Philip was certain Joey was serious about him, his company and his willingness to love and devote himself to another . . . about what they had . . . then perhaps he would bestow upon him a blade to remove it, to complete the binding ritual of their souls forever in this hell scape of Fog where death was but a joke. Joey was certainly worthy of it, but such a topic was better reserved for another time, for it carried with it a macabre air of commitment.

“Whatever you wish.” And he did mean anything. “I am at your disposal.”