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Swan Feast, Natalie Eilbert

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will graham nation wya?

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it's undignified, having his trousers and boxers pushed down his thighs and @thisiamowed's hand between his legs. for all he knows, she's seen him every waking, or even sleeping, minute of the day, seen him inside and out. yet, there's some learned concept of decency that snubs the fact that he's here, sat atop her desk and half dressed, letting her play with him.

"now spread your legs and try to tell me all about your day."

he glares into the fabric of her shoulder, parting his legs obediently, and feels the tips of her fingers glide down the shaft of his elongated clit. there's a hitch in his breathing, the soft sound of her spreading his slick folds doing enough speaking for him at the moment.

"...you know about my day." surely, she's read the reports. will sighs, finally lets himself look at her— at her mouth at least. he can still smell copper on his own skin from the things he's done. it's easier to wedge hands inside a man than he could've imagined, easier to pry organs apart from each other than he knew. recalling it makes his legs spread that much further.

"were you watching?" it would make it worthwhile, at least in some way, if it were a performance for his harmony. will holds onto her arm, keeping her anchored in place while he leans closer, tips of their noses brushing together. his eyes glass over as she earns a moan from him.

"i wasn't done with him, you know." when they called his name, broke his trance, he was still contorting the bones of his victims into artful shapes. enjoying the snap, the warmth of the flesh. harmony dips digits inside him and his thighs twitch.

"i wanted to make something of him." for you is unspoken in his breathy words, but it applies nonetheless. and then, at last, his gaze searches for hers, wondering if she sees what devotion he has to offer, what hungers rests quietly beneath the skin at all times.

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there's a fog between will and everything happening around him. the rushing of water is only barely registered and as the cat sniffs at him, lingering the corners of will's vision, he only freezes and tolerates it. he sat down at some point, only realizing himself when henry rejoins him. the warmth has begun to sink into him, the chill gone bone deep and aching at his core.

a flash of disgust across his face at the thought of EXPLAINING himself. it passes easily. generally, he'd have more control over his expressions. the blanket is drawn tighter around himself, restless fidgeting.

"not everything is about doing." he was existing in the only way he knew how. breathing in the fresh air and hoping that, in some way, it can soothe the cracked edges of his psyche and allow them to slot back together. instead, the cold has only numbed him to it all once more.

a deep breath, the flexing of his jaw muscles, and then he looks to henry. he's doe-eyed but his gaze is piercing. it's not searching but perceiving, waiting patiently for henry to react to will's raised hackles.

and yet, there's no reason to entirely rebuff these saccharine attempts for connection. his lips purse. what can he offer his poor neighbor to soothe his anxiety?

"the walls feel..." briefly, a glance around the room, "close sometimes. better to handle the cold than that suffocation."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sure you can." Henry says in a passive tone, but it's not laced with any kind of annoyance. "But what kind of neighbour would I be if I just sent you that way alone?"

His house isn't far, since he did see Will through the window, and walks with him up the porch steps and inside. Max, his cat, is bawling his head off as they enter, and Henry suddenly bolts from Will into the kitchen. "Fuck!" He says loudly, not quite a yell, and returns a moment later. "I left the sink running, sorry." He'd deal with that mess later, one issue at time for now.

"Come in, this way." He walks to the couch and tells Will to make himself at home. "Wait here while I make some tea, try and get warm. It won't take long."

Max takes the opportunity to hop on the arm of the couch and sniffs the air, smelling dogs, and makes a face at Will, but doesn't run off; he's too curious for that. Henry returns a moment later with another blanket. "The kettle is on." He sits down next to the cat, worry still shown on his features.

"Can you tell me what you were doing out there, Will?" He's not familiar with what Will is dealing with, as the other man is very closed off and private. Henry can respect that, he's read up on the Lecter case. It's because of this he's resisted the urge to look at Will Graham with his third eye, because God knows what Henry might see, what might be following Will around.

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@thisiamowed sent: "without my work … i'm nothing."

"you would allow them that power?" will isn't careful with his facial expressions in this space, sat in front of her with a scrutinizing gaze and a curl of his lip that leaves no room to mistake how disgusted he is by the idea. he knows so very little, white walls and silence, but he knows that she is whole, enchanting.

"allow them to define you into nothingness?" beholden to lumon, he should've expected no less, and yet he hoped there were some limits to their reign. there's a moment of hesitation. the truth tastes bitter in his mouth. he'd rather spit it out, be rid of it.

"i live in a world of your creation." yes, it is her work, but it is his life. he hopes, beyond reason, that without this, he would persist in some way. they would persist... dormant beneath his distaste is a lick of pain which he won't even acknowledge to himself. she's wrong, but can't articulate why without sounding far too flattering for his own liking.

"if they took this from you, let it start anew. do you always require evidence for a thing to be brilliant?" his gaze is downcast, long lashes stark against pale cheeks.

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how do yall write so much. like--

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Bruce Springsteen, Born to Run

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it's tempting to roll his eyes and show riddick just how absurd the notion is, to think will would fear him. instead, he makes a deliberate show of dragging his stare up and down the creature before him. something shifts in will too, not quite a fondness but maybe a kindness, a softening of cold blue eyes.

thoughtfully, even vulnerably, will stares at the dirt beneath him, rubs fingertips over the pebbles. "mm." a noise of understanding. it's offered for riddick's comfort.

"i admire the performance." finally, a smile, however subtle it is. "that'll have to be flattery enough for you. i'm not scared of you." no more than he is of any survivor, at least. he poses no threat to riddick. if his mind ticks the way that will suspect it does, that means he can rest easily.

Riddick, an enigma in a tanktop, is made stranger still by the shapes cast upon him by guttering firelight.

"Now why'd you go and bring up bein scared?" He shouldn't relish, it would only prove Will's point. Still, he can't help himself. "Are you?"

Floating up in a halfhearted display, his palms, empty, indicate there's nothing to hide - including the sheer presence of the man, this physical potential for destruction.

There's a change in him: subtle yet real, not mere illusions from dancing shadows, and it is felt when his tempered voice, somehow, further flattens. "Different time, different place - I woulda been flattered by that." But in this reality, it's just the error of a career loner failing to assimilate.

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will's arms are crossed and he spares only a glance to jill as she makes herself known. his chin tilts up, stretching and flexing various muscles in restless thought.

"i'm not looking to find something." he's waiting to be told something from one of the many faces staring back at him from the board. "but no, i haven't had any eureka moments. did you just get in?"

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Having to collaborate with others isn’t always her strong suit, but she’s going to give it her damndest. Jill clears her throat as she goes into the room. “You find anything looking at the board? Or is it the same confusing bullshit.”

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if yall only knew how many replies i have sat in my drafts at roughly 80% completion

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Can i live in your wound?

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Natalie Díaz, from “Cranes, Mafiosos, and a Polaroid Camera”, Postcolonial Love Poem

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I Will Destroy You, Nick Flynn

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more and more, margaret atwood

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Anaïs Nin, Delta of Venus, originally published: 1977