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Will is on edge. He has been pretty much most of the day, and normally he would be taking this time between his lectures to give himself a little stress relief, but no, of course Jack calls him in for another fucking consult.

He's aggravated and ready to snap, keeping his bared teeth behind tight lips as he rushes into the office and drops his bag on the floor, his own body hitting the empty chair with the same lack of gentleness. Every inch of him prickles with anticipation, built up and ready to be released. He can't stop thinking about the toy in his bag, the tight clutch of silicone around his cock. He needs it.

He's been like this for as long as he can remember, impulsive and insatiable. Will doesn't consider himself a sex addict, any more than someone uses coffee to perk up first thing in the morning or takes painkillers for chronic migraines.

These days, orgasms are the only things that calm his heart rate and help him breathe easier. He masturbates around ten times a day, sometimes more if the day is particularly stressful.

Lately, things have been very stressful.

So he's already on edge and it doesn't get much better when Jack's guest, Doctor Hannibal Lecter, keeps poking and prodding at him, as though trying to find some nerve ending he's sure is exposed behind Will's clenched jaw. Talks of bone areas of the skull and eye contact, that polite smile plastered across his handsome face, it's enough to set Will's teeth on edge.

So is Jack's handling of this case.

"He's not raping these girls," Will hisses. "They mean more to him than that." He looks at the wall, the lineup right out of Mall of America, and his fingers clench. He almost wishes that this serial abductor and presumed murderer did get some kind of sexual satisfaction through his hunting method. It's easier to focus on that when it's sexually motivated. The satisfaction takes the edge off.

"They're not objects, to him," Hannibal says, in that low voice that feels like nails right at the base of Will's skull, dragging and grounding him. He clenches his jaw and breathes in deep through his nose. Hannibal is agreeing with him, which is a nice change of pace, but the longer this meeting drags out, the less time Will has before he has yet another thing to get to, and the less time he can spend realigning his internal clock.

He's not hard, it doesn't affect him like that, but he aches. He needs, so badly it's hard to concentrate. It creates knots between the blades of his shoulders and makes his head hurt. Maybe that's because he's grinding his teeth so badly. He can't bring himself to stop.

Jack gives them both a skeptical look. "This is an ideal demographic for sexual crimes, gentlemen," he says.

"It's not, Jack," Will hisses. "He…worships them. Consumes them. He doesn't want to hurt them, not in…that way." Not in that way, no, Will knows that. He can feel the killer like smoke, aching just as badly as he is. It's like hunger, in a way, a terrible, animal compulsion to feast during a famine. He looks at these girls and wants to fall in love with them.

He can't, of course. He's not wired that way. Trial and a supreme amount of error have told Will that sex isn't as good with another person. There's too much work, too many mindsets, for him to concentrate on the need to just get off and go about his day. A toy, a willing hole, someone he can summon at his beck and call to use and discard as he sees fit.

He wants to leave, and go to the bathroom, and ease the pain in his stomach. He can't, he doesn't have grounds to. Jack needs to dismiss him or piss him off enough that Will has an excuse to leave.

"They all look similar," Hannibal agrees. "He has a type. As though sacrificing idols that share his true object of affection's likeness."

Will stares at him. Hannibal doesn't look away from Will, even when Will drops his gaze. Objects as sacrifices. It makes sense, except the metaphor is skewed and awkward. If anything, these girls are the god that this killer lays his altar in front of, prostrating himself. Will's fingers curl around the arms of his chair.

"It's easy to find objects like that," Hannibal continues, his dark eyes still on Will, a faint smile curling the corners of his mouth up. "There are so many for him to choose from." His gaze drops, then, to Will's bag. Will tenses. "He'll keep his favorite close to him, I should think, to use as he sees fit."

Will blinks, tensing up further. Hannibal's smile widens, and his chin lifts. He breathes in.

He knows.

It's impossible that he knows, but Will is certain in that moment that he does. Hannibal gives nothing away, no change in his posture or exaggerated tilt to his smile, but Will has never been more certain of anything. "What do you think, Will?" Hannibal presses. "This killer you're hunting, will he eventually submit to the one he wants, or kill her, too, out of desperation?"

Will can only stare. He's too on edge to come up with an answer that holds weight. He shakes his head and looks away, heart hammering in his chest. Hannibal knows, Will is certain he knows. He wants to take his bag and shield it from sight, as though his body will hide the evidence of the toy. Hannibal can smell it – the silicone, or the lingering come Will left behind before his last lecture, before he drove here?

He's saved from having to answer by Hannibal pressing him further, until Will finally snaps. He hisses out something rude and abrasive, jagged as the pressure of his teeth against his lower lip, and rushes from the office. He hears Jack calling for him, but the rush of his blood is loud enough to ignore it.

He runs to the nearest bathrooms and slams the door shut, then takes the furthest cubicle. He's alone in here. He sits on the closed toilet seat and fumbles with his bag while his other hand jerks at his belt and tugs on the zipper of his slacks so hard it almost snaps.

Wrapping his hand around himself is a relief, a tease of pressure, of pleasure and rightness he knows he can have, now. He pulls the toy from his bag. It's thick and black, no need for realism here. In fact, Will prefers that it doesn't look realistic. It's just a hole. He spits on the entrance and tears open a packet of lube, squirting it inside. His cock is hard now, leaking at the tip and flushed, it hurts, fuck, he just needs to get off and then he can go back and apologize for his behavior.

Hannibal will smell it, Will is sure, but he doesn't give a fuck. He just needs this, he needs it so badly.

He grips the toy tightly and shoves his cock inside, sighing and tipping his head back, eyes closing in a slow blink at that first wave of promising relief. He works the toy up and down his cock, squeezing himself through it. Months of rigorous use has compromised the integrity of the casing, meaning it bends and molds to his grip, so it feels like the tightest, wettest thing he's ever shoved his cock into. It feels so fucking good, finally, to be able to do this.

Sweat beads on the back of his neck and his breathing is ragged as he plants his feet, jerking his hips up to get the friction and demanding press of the toy he needs. He's a little too big for it, so he meets resistance when he pushes in far enough, but fuck, that's good too. That's fucking perfect.

He doesn't picture anyone when he does this. He hasn't fucked enough people to have a favorite memory to call to mind, and it doesn't matter at this point. Being with another person doesn't make this better, it's just sex. Just fucking and coming inside something, knowing he's marked it and claimed it, using a tool for its intended purpose, no more special than driving a car or using his phone.

Will clenches his jaw, bending back over the toilet basin as he mercilessly fucks the toy, panting now, his heart hammering behind his ribs and his eyes unable to open. Fuck, yes, this is what he needed. He's going to come and it's going to feel amazing and he'll be able to think again. His hand tightens on the toy, knuckles turning white. He's so close. He shoves his other and into the knotted mess of his clothes, cupping and massaging his balls as he works the toy up and down, and rubs the sweaty skin of his perineum as his toes curl in his shoes, his orgasm tingling up his spine like a promising electric shock.

The door opens.

Will goes still, gasping and clamping a hand over his mouth immediately. He's so close, he was so fucking close, fuck, he just needs a little more. He tries to stay as quiet as possible, but can't help clenching his fist around the toy, seeking more pressure. He can come silently, he's had to before. He just needs to be quiet, he can do that.

Whoever has entered the bathroom doesn't go into the stall, there's no splash of urine in the urinal, no running water to signify rushing hands. Will swallows back a groan of complaint. He can't stop now, he fucking can't, there's no way. He doesn't have the strength for that, he needs to come so badly and his orgasm is like a hot rock in his stomach, it burns him.

The person doesn't leave, either. Will can't take it anymore. He winces at the squelch of lube and old come dripping down his shaft. If he's still for too long, it'll stain his clothes and he won't be able to walk out without letting everyone know what he's done. He knows he shouldn't be doing this, here of all places, now of all times. People don't understand compulsions like this, not really.

He grinds himself deep into the toy, whimpering into his palm. His balls hurt at this point and his cock is throbbing, desperate for release. He's sweating and shaking from desire, from need, the sudden edging making him tremble and gasp in the stall.

Soft, clicking footsteps approach the sink, and the water turns on, making Will brave. He rushes through the final thrusts, desperate to finish before the other person does. His orgasm hits him like a battering ram, making him bend over himself and groan into his palm as he jerks his hips, making the toilet seat creak and rattle beneath him, and fills the toy up, soaking his cock in thick, wet come.

He likes this part, too. His past girlfriends were too afraid of getting pregnant to let him fuck them bare, and definitely not to come inside them. Toys don't care. Will doesn't have to worry with a toy.

He gasps and shakes his head, gritting his teeth. His orgasm makes him boneless and he can't catch his breath. He peels the toy off him, grimacing at the stain on his cock, the thick drip of come and lubricant coming out of the toy's end. He needs to rinse it out, but the person is still here.

He uses toilet paper to wipe himself clean, stands and throws the tissue inside and flushes, pulling his pants back up. The idea of putting the toy back in his bag, still dirty and leaking, makes him wince, but he doesn't have another option at this point.

He pushes his sweaty hair from his face and takes a deep breath. He feels a lot calmer now, thank God, even though the act of teasing himself and waiting makes him feel like he's been stabbed. He wraps the toy up in more toilet paper to prevent the most staining, shoulders his bag, and steps out into the main part of the bathrooms.

He freezes.

"Doctor Lecter," he rasps, nodding to the man as he smiles at Will in the mirror. Of all the fucking people, shit.

Will clears his throat and goes to the sink farthest from him, rinsing his hands. Hannibal shuts off the water.

"Forgive me," he says. "I thought that would make it easier for you."

Will glares at his hands.

"The noise," Hannibal adds.

"I'm not a shy shitter," Will replies.

Hannibal chuckles, the sound warm and low. "Will, are you going to continue to play coy?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Will insists. He finishes washing his hands and yanks on the paper towels, drying them noisily before tossing them in the trash. It is at this moment, when he straightens and stares at the door, that he realizes the deadbolt is locked. The realization makes him freeze, shoulders tensing. Hannibal isn't blocking the door and Will is sure he wouldn't really try to stop Will from shoving his way past and leaving, but there's a look in Hannibal's eyes that makes Will feel glued to the spot. Unable to escape, like a mouse in a glue trap, like a fly in a web.

"I have a very strong sense of smell, Will," Hannibal explains. His eyes drop to Will's bag, and his smile widens. "May I see it?"

"See what?" Will snaps, taking a step back.

"You don't have to show me," Hannibal tells him. "But I'm curious."

"Curious," Will echoes.

"We're both adults, Will, and I am a therapist. I daresay I've seen just as much human deviance as you have, in your line of work." Will bristles at the word, but doesn't have a retort. Hannibal takes a step forward. "I would like to understand."

"Study," Will corrects. "You want to study."

Hannibal doesn't deny it, which Will appreciates. He bites the inside of his lower lip hard enough that it aches. Objectively, he knows he can't argue. Hannibal can smell it, and Will caught enough of a sight of himself in the mirror to know he looks like a man who just got fucked to within an inch of his life. There's no use playing coy, even if part of Will wants to keep pretending, to see how far Hannibal will go.

Hannibal smiles. "It's simple, in its way, isn't it?" he asks, tilting his head just slightly like a curious cat. "Toys have no desires. Nothing to distract you from yours." Will hums, jaw clenching. "You can revel in your selfishness, knowing that it does no harm."

"I already told you not to psychoanalyze me, Doctor Lecter," Will snarls in warning.

Hannibal hums, neither his smile nor the tilt of his head changing. "Do you ever take human lovers?"

Will shows his teeth, bristling at the question. He's not quite sure why, why he's so defensive. There's no judgement coming from Hannibal, nothing but open intrigue. Will would know, he can taste judgement like paint thinner in the air.

"No," he finally says. "No one can keep up with me."

Hannibal's eyes flash. He takes another step forward and Will doesn't do anything to stop him, or move back further. "How often?" he breathes, eyes dark.

"Every chance I get," Will replies. "Probably…every hour or so, if I can." He looks down, chest and cheeks warm with shame he knows Hannibal doesn't want him to feel. At least, he's not trying to conjure it, but it's there. It's always been there, with every complaint from a girlfriend and every joke from his father and every judgmental look from a camp counselor. Every day, every time, someone knew, someone looked at him like he was a freak.

Will shivers, as Hannibal walks over to him. He takes Will's chin in hand and lifts his head until their eyes meet. This close, Will can smell Hannibal, too – old paper and ink and the subtle scent of rich cologne. Like he's hiding something too, beneath his fingernails and in the back of his throat.

Hannibal considers him, and murmurs, "Your own helplessness excites you." Will frowns, opens his mouth, closes it again. "The freedom of desperation. Chronic, almost. No one judges a starving man for gorging himself on good food." Hannibal's fingers release his chin, and Will doesn't look away. He wants them back on him. They felt good, warm and firm, assured. Hannibal's lack of judgement and soft voice is like a balm on Will's exposed nerve endings.

Wordlessly, he lifts his bag and sets it on the counter. Hannibal locked the door, no one is coming inside. Hannibal looks at his bag, and then to Will when Will steps back and gestures to it. He goes, and opens Will's bag, reaching in and taking the toy that still shines with come and lubricant and Will's own sweaty grip.

Again, his expression doesn't change. Again, he tilts his head, considering the lack of labia or decoration around the hole, the smear of semen, as though Will just revealed nothing more interesting than a pretty rock.

Will watches, eyes wide, as Hannibal pushes his thumb into the hole, and then pulls it out, shining and messy. His jaw practically drops as Hannibal lifts it to his nose and breathes in, as though savoring a fine bouquet. He has no idea how to react, and probably shouldn't feel a terrible little thrill at the exaggerated noise, how loud and animal it is, nor the way that Hannibal's lips part as well, as though he wants a taste.

"You can't be serious," he rasps.

Hannibal's eyes meet his, his smile wide enough to show teeth. He steps up close to Will and leans in, until their cheeks are almost brushing. The sudden closeness, the heat of him, makes Will shake in a way that is dangerously close to how he feels when he needs to use his toy again. It's liquid fire and sudden as lightning. He bites the inside of his lower lip hard enough he tastes blood.

"How soon can you use this again?"

Will's cock twitches in his underwear, a sudden flint-strike of interest meeting the open gasoline constantly ready to ignite in his stomach. He shivers and sucks in a breath, trying not to look at the toy and how good Hannibal's big, tan hand looks wrapped around it.

"I don't know," he rasps.

Hannibal laughs again, the sound right in Will's ear, making him need to reach out and grab the counter so he doesn't just fall to his fucking knees. Hannibal's hand on his hip is as sudden as his movement closer to Will, like a cobra, and Will grits his teeth to stifle a moan as Hannibal turns him, places the toy on the counter at Will's hip, and presses up against his back.

"I have time," Hannibal purrs, their eyes meeting in the mirror. Will looks just as fucked-out and ruined as he feels, and he can't tear his eyes away from Hannibal's warm smile, his dark eyes, the spread of his fingers over Will's hip. Hannibal tilts his head, nosing Will's sweaty baby hairs from the nape of his neck. "And an abundance of curiosity. One I think you share. Would you like to sate it together, Will?"

Christ, Hannibal could probably recite a grocery list to Will and he'd be shaking, but this is fucking devastating. Will can't remember being this off-kilter and shaky in his entire life. He drops his gaze to the toy, used and wet, fuck, it's probably still warm on the inside. His cock twitches again, and he whimpers as Hannibal's fingers tighten.

"I'll help, if you like," Hannibal offers. "Or I can simply observe."

Will gasps.

"Though, I will admit, I would thoroughly enjoy being given the option to participate."

"In what capacity?" Will whispers, barely any sound coming out.

Hannibal seems to give this question thorough consideration. "My only desire is to watch you, to see you surrender to your helplessness, your selfishness," he purrs to Will's nape, which apparently is so sensitive that the brush of warm air is enough to send goose bumps down his arms. Will braces both hands on the counter and heaves a breath. "I won't do anything you don't tell me to do, Will."

Will meets his eyes in the mirror. He's just another tool, Will realizes. Both of them using each other for their selfish needs. Fuck, that shouldn't get him so riled up, so desperate. He feels just as tightly wound and on edge as he did when he first went into the bathroom.

He presses his lips together and takes the toy, sliding it into place in front of him as his trembling hands unbuckled his belt and unzip his slacks again. Hannibal's hand remains steady and grounding on his hip, his exhale warm on Will's sensitive neck as he watches Will, ravenous, in the mirror.

Will is hard again, of course he fucking is, he didn't stand a fucking chance. He stares down at the toy and sucks in another shaky breath.

"Hold it for me," he whispers.

Hannibal reaches immediately, flattening his hand over the toy to keep it still as Will drags his cockhead through the leaking mess and then pushes back inside with a soft, desperate groan. Hannibal tightens his grip on Will's hip and around the sleeve of the toy, giving Will the pressure he needs. His heart is racing again, cock sensitive and sore but so eager. Orgasms, sex, it's the only thing that makes him feel good these days, and if Hannibal is offering it to him, then Will would be a fool not to take it.

"Oh, fuck," Will snarls, arms bulging, shoulders tensed and knuckles white on the counter as he rolls his hips, fucking into the toy in a steady, slow rhythm. He can afford to tease himself this time, to really enjoy it. Hannibal's grip is as firm as his own, strong and powerful. Will can't think of anything but how warm and slick his toy is, how good it feels, how good Hannibal is being for him, keeping him upright and holding Will's little hole steady for him to use.

Hannibal doesn't press against him, doesn't move with him, but his solid chest is a support for Will when he leans back and tips his head up, surrendering to the feeling of pleasure building in his stomach. Hannibal mouths and kisses at his throat, making Will whimper, one hand clutching Hannibal's on his hip until Hannibal's fingers spread out and they can lace together.

Hannibal doesn't speak, which Will appreciates. He doesn't want any distractions. He has his toy and he has a living doll helping him use it. A sudden image comes to mind, flashing behind his closed eyelids, of keeping Hannibal open and wet like this, bending him over whenever Will wants, using him until he's just as sloppy and well-used. Putting Hannibal on his knees and fucking his throat until Hannibal is constantly rasping and rumbling his words.

He bares his teeth, breathing out shakily, and bows forward again. The mental images are strong and unstoppable, it's the first time he's ever actively fantasized about someone, and fuck, it's good. Will is burning up in Hannibal's arms and the sounds of his cock fucking through the thick, dripping mess, the echo of his panting ricocheting around the tiled walls, the creak of his belt and the rhythmic tap of the buckle hitting the counter whenever he bottoms out, it's fucking good.

"Fuck," Will hisses again, feeling his orgasm building up again. It's going to be just as powerful as the last one, he can tell. Hannibal's teeth graze his throat and Will whimpers, baring his neck for more. He likes that, he likes how wild and unashamed Hannibal is making him feel, encouraging Will to be selfish, to just take what he wants. It's a feeling he could quickly become addicted to.

He slams his cock in deep, making the tip bulge as he tests the strength of the sheath. Immediately, Hannibal's grip shifts, cupping the end of the toy and squeezing around Will's throbbing cockhead. Will groans, dropping forward, his knees buckling, only kept upright by his weight on the counter and Hannibal's strong grip on his hip keeping him on his feet.

He shudders as he comes, flooding the toy a second time, before he goes boneless. Hannibal wraps his arm around Will's chest, holding him up, letting Will gasp and recover his bearings enough to lock his knees. The second he does, Hannibal slides his hand to the shaft of the toy, and starts to move it.

Will flinches, whimpering with overstimulation, but Hannibal's grip on him is strong and his teeth warn Will from struggling too hard. He milks Will's cock with the toy, sliding it slow and tight over Will's cock as Will fills it up, until he has nothing left to give, until the friction is painful on his sensitive flesh and he can't think of the words to make Hannibal stop, let alone speak them.

Finally, Hannibal slows, and then slides the toy off completely. Will is kept in his strong arm, dazed and panting, watching through hazy eyes as Hannibal sets the toy in the sink and turns the water on. Hannibal doesn't try to touch him, doesn't clean Will off or correct his clothes, which Will appreciates. His neck burns from the intimate series of kisses and grazes of teeth, he's not sure he could handle Hannibal actually touching him any more than that.

When he can stand on his own, Hannibal releases him, and watches silently as Will rinses his cock, dries it off with delicate swipes of paper towels, hissing at the flicker of pain from rough material on his sensitive skin. He tucks himself back in, and then sets to work cleaning the toy. His cheeks are burning with arousal and embarrassment.

He can't believe he just fucking did that, Jesus Christ, what is wrong with him?

"Will." Hannibal touches Will's chin, almost making Will flinch again. He turns and meets Hannibal's eyes. They're so dark that they're almost black, his cheeks flushed prettily as well, his ugly beige sweater vest rumpled from Will grinding against it like a Goddamn whore. Hannibal tilts his head, and smiles. "Thank you."

Will frowns, and then laughs nervously. "I feel like I should be thanking you."

"I did nothing but enjoy myself," Hannibal replies. "Selfishly."

Will's blush deepens, as he remembers the mental images called to mind during that whole…experience. Hannibal on his knees for Will, or kept loose and open for him, ready for Will to use whenever he wants. He's almost afraid to tempt fate and ask for more, even a repeat of this strange turn of events. He has no idea if he'll even ever see Hannibal again, if this was a one-time consult situation.

He wants to, though, he realizes. He wants to see Hannibal again.

He clears his throat and looks back down at the toy in his hands. "Maybe…we could be selfish more often," he says, forcing his voice to be as light as he possibly can. He's sure he fails, miserably. "…Together."

"I would like that very much, Will," Hannibal says, his smooth voice sitting heavy in the back of Will's skull, rich as molasses and just as difficult to breathe through. Will shivers, biting the inside of his lower lip, which is sore and aches from so much rough treatment. "Is this," he nods to the toy, "the only item in your collection?"

Will laughs, short and sharp. "Not by a long shot," he replies.

Hannibal's eyes flash with intrigue, when Will meets them. "Would you be open to showing me the others?"

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours," Will says.

Hannibal blinks at him, a sated cat now, content that the mouse is not going anywhere, and can be devoured at his leisure. When he smiles, it shows his teeth. "Whatever you desire," he purrs. Will believes him.

He finishes cleaning and drying the toy, stuffing it back into his bag. Hannibal watches him like a hunting cat watches an injured deer as Will circles him, slowly, and approaches the locked door. He finds himself strangely reluctant to unlock it, wanting instead to remain here, with Hannibal, in this strange liminal space.

He unlocks the door, and sucks in a deep breath.

"I assume you'll find a way for us to see each other again," Will says.

"I already have," Hannibal says, smiling when Will looks at him over his shoulder. "Jack will tell you the details."

Of course he will. It's somewhat thrilling, forcing Jack to unwittingly participate in this strange new game. Maybe Will isn't the mouse, this time, but a fellow hunting partner. Maybe he and Hannibal can feast, and devour, together.

He smiles back, and forces himself to put his hand on the door, to push through it until it swings out, to take a step over the threshold. "Until next time, Doctor Lecter," he murmurs.

"Until next time, Will," Hannibal replies, promise dripping from every word. "We'll see each other again soon."

Will shivers, and lets the door close behind him, hurrying down to his car. It still feels like Hannibal is touching him, lips at his flushed neck, nails in his hip. He doesn't even make it home before he has to pull over on a tiny, wooded outlet between Quantico and Wolf Trap, where no one can see him, and take his toy out again.

He thinks of Hannibal the entire time, and even when he finishes, he doesn't feel satisfied.