Archive of Our Own ^beta

The cigarettes just don't cut it anymore.

On his most stressful days, when Will would bring himself to the brink of insanity to catch the worst of men — the scum of the earth, he could go through half a pack of Marlboro in a 12 hour window.

Now that Jack has lured him out of his safe haven by tugging at his heart strings- unfairly showing him photographs of dead, once perfect families- Will has had no choice but to stock up on cigarette packs in preparation for the mentally taxing manhunt.

If only the nicotine did anything to bring his restless mind to a quiet stop.

When he noticed it didn't, he thought the cheap whisky he bought at the liquor store near his motel would help.

Yeah, right. What a fucking joke.

After extinguishing the last Marlboro he had in his possession, Will turns off the bedside lamp and closes his eyes as he lets his head hit the pillow.

Sleep won't find him. It hasn't found him since he returned to profiling- to dancing like a puppet on a string for Jack Crawford and the rest of the FBI. Is Jack blind to what this does to him? His composure is wearing thin, his thoughts are being scrambled and reassembled as he tries to understand this new killer. Will is becoming impulsive, unrestrained. Christ, he threw Lounds on the goddamn hood of a car this morning when the reporter couldn't stop questionning him to save his life. And so forcefully so, the windshield had shattered.

With a heavy sigh, Will squeezes his eyes shut. Images of arterial sprays and blood-soaked carpets splash and spill behind his eyelids. He can smell the metallic nature of it, the heat it radiates even when it has long dried.

A shaky sigh escapes his parted lips when his traitorous cock twitches in his boxers.

He groans and turns on his stomach, trying to ignore the growing need, searing hot in his lower abdomen. The change of position is a bad move, the weight of his body against the mattress putting more pressure on his rapidly filling cock.

"Fuck."

He tries to think of anything else- anything at all but the sight and the smell of copious amounts of blood. He wants to think of anything but how powerful he felt when he murdered Garrett Jacob Hobbs all of those years ago.

What Lecter told him tonight is true. Goddammit, he hates to admit it, he feels  sick to his stomach to, but the man's right.

Killing feels good. So good. And why shouldn't it? God does it all the time, right?

Will groans, rolling his hips against the mattress. He imagines himself nude in the moonlight, covered in a thick layer of blood. It appears black under this light, as if he just emerged from a chrysalis, coated in the liquid that fuels his radiance.

He has reached a point of no return. So deep inside the killers' minds that it circled back around to his own buried needs and desires. His cock twitches, heavy between his legs. The humping is no longer enough.

God, nothing is ever enough.

He turns on his back and franctically tugs his boxers down. He's almost clumsy in his haste to get rid of them. The boxers are thrown, he doesn't care where they land.

Will licks his palm, coating it in a generous amount of saliva. The groans that leaves him come from deep in his throat as he wraps his hand around his lenght. He wastes no time, stroking from root to tip and back again. The pace is quick, frantic, desperate.

Taken by an overwhelming need for more, he sucks two fingers of his free hand into his mouth, covering them in spit. With his knees bent, he plants his feet firmly on the mattress and brings the fingers to his hole. It twitches and flutters at the touch, the tip of his fingers putting gentle pressure on it.  He hasn't touched himself in this way in years. Not since he married Molly.

As he slowly pushes his fingers in to the last knuckles, a long moan is ripped out of him.

It reminds him of the sound he made when Lecter gutted him.  Fuck, there had been so much blood. It streamed past his shaking hands and soaked  the doctor's expensive persian carpet.

He whimpers, palming at the wet head of his cock, his precum easing the glide.  The large scar on his abdomen burns as he curls his fingers in search of his prostate.

When he finally finds it, his eyes roll back in his head. He had forgotten how good it felt. He makes a litany of high-pitched moans as he hits his spot over and over again. Christ, what he wouldn't give to have a vibrator in his possession. It would quiet his mind for a long, long time if he could just spear himself on a large dildo and fuck himself to unconsciousness.

The image of his body lathered in blood -his own or someone else's- riding a long and girthy toy, brings him close to the  edge.

Carnal desires win over guilt as he abuses his prostate to the point of overstimulation.

He's close, so close...

Deep crimson is all he sees in the silver mirrors of his mind. He bites the inside of his cheek until blood pools out, and he lets the iron taste envelope his tongue and paint the back of his throat. To bite someone else's throat, to rip out a piece of them as they still breathe, must feel otherwordly.

He shouldn't come to thoughts so morbid but fuck does it feel good.

So good.

"Ngh, fuck-"

Will's back arches off the mattress, his seed spilling over his fist in excessive amounts. His hole clenches around his fingers, his body spasming with the strenght of his orgasm.

He pants, watching with lidded eyes as his cum flows down his spent cock.

Through gritted teeth, he winces as he removes his fingers from his used hole.

After cleaning himself up as best as he could with the brittle tissue paper on the bedside table, Will closes his eyes, his breathing still heavy. He can feel the chemicals flood his brain, the oxytocin making him almost euphoric. His body melts into the mattress and he sinks deep into a dreamless sleep.