Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As soon as they got inside,  Hoffman turned on his heel and pushed Strahm to the door, both hands on his chest, pinning him.

"There’s just one rule for tonight:” His breath hot and wet on Strahm’s face “If you as much as think of jigsaw, I'm really going to kill you."

"What, you're psychic now? Can you, uh, read my mind?" Dark, blown eyes lingered on Mark’s mouth, and he could feel Peter’s racing heart.

"Maybe I can. Right now, I'm pretty sure you're wondering how does my busted lip tastes like.” He purred as his eyes fluttered down to Peter’s lips, reddened by the blood smeared from his nose. Wanna try?" His hands moved from the other man’s chest to fix his shirt collar. There were a few wet spots, the only indicators of blood dripping down on a black shirt. 

Mark briefly thought about his own grey shirt being ruined, but he couldn’t really bring himself to care. In his mind he already painted a bloody picture of them both smearing each other's faces with sticky red. His pants were uncomfortably tight, and pressing his thigh against Peter’s crotch he sensed his were as well.

But a loaded second passed, and Strahm wasn’t throwing himself at Mark. Instead, he abruptly reached to his own face again, as if he suddenly remembered his nose.

„Right… „ Gently but firmly pushing Hoffman aside, he walked past him, causing him to frown.

„Right, I need to sort my face out. Where’s the bathroom?” Strahm muttered.

Mark swept down his lashes with a sullen smirk. Looks like the line is drawn at fucking kissing.

„You know where it is.” He answered in a sing-song tone after making half an eye roll.

„Right.”

*

Strahm looked into the mirror above the sink. His nose didn’t seem to be broken, thank god. And it looked like the bleeding had stopped, too. He washed his face and evaluated the result in the mirror again. What the fuck are you doing here? Back in Hoffman’s shithole apartment?? He was sure he blew it with the article and the accusations, but for some reason Hoffman invited him yet again. Could it be that Peter was wrong about him? Or was that bastard actually plotting to kill him? 

Well, getting killed would serve Peter right for throwing himself at this fucking creep.

He was well aware of being utterly fucked either way - that much has been established. But he'd also seen how Hoffman looked at him. God only knows what's going on in that sick head of his, but Peter was sure of one thing - Hoffman wasn't in control either.

Abruptly, he snorted a bitter laugh. He laughed at how fucked up it all was, how insane he became practically overnight.

No… not overnight. It started with the water box trap. 

Or maybe even earlier… when he went to investigate detective Kerry’s body and met fucking Mark Hoffman.

„Um… you ok out there?” Hoffman’s voice. Hoffman’s fucking voice. He closed his eyes with a heavy sigh.

„Yeah.” He mindlessly opened Hoffman’s cabinet. Lots of hair products. Closed it.

„Yeah, I’m coming.”

They passed each other at the door.

“Look at you, handsome as ever.” Mark purred at Peter. „I also need to powder my nose. Can’t let you be the only pretty one around here.” Peter made a sour grimace.

„Fix yourself a drink, I’ll be right back.” Hoffman said disappearing in the bathroom.

Right.

Hoffman’s fridge. Hoffman’s kitchen cabinets. Everything looked strange and new, but to be fair, last night he wasn’t really looking. Turns out Hoffman’s got a regular person’s kitchen, with food in the fridge, actual food like vegetables and shit. Like he cooks. Like he’s a human being with a life. 

Peter checked the obvious places for booze.

"Got any more of that whiskey?"

A voice from the bathroom;

"I'm afraid you’ve drunk all of it last night."

Peter frowned. "Nothing? Not even a beer?"

"I don't drink." The disembodied voice sounded matter-of-factly.

"Something special about last night, then?" Peter asked, still checking the kitchen's corners.

"Well, I'd call it pretty special.” An audible snicker. “Wouldn't you?" 

Peter’s face felt hot.

Hoffman continued, loud enough to reach Peter. "I ended up pouring it down the drain." From the sound of it, he was now brushing his teeth.

Peter considered the statement. 

"Not really my business." He mumbled, but somehow Hoffman heard him anyway.

"Oh wow, can I have it on record?” He sneered after spitting toothpaste in the sink. “Anyway… think you'll manage doing it sober tonight? Well, sober-ish."  

"Don't worry, I won't go easy on you." He could hear Mark's satisfied hum. The effects of his few drinks were practically gone by now. He just felt tired, but what else was new.

"I'll just make myself a coffee." 

"Good, take anything you need. I just need a minute." Mark yelled from behind the bathroom door.

When the coffee pot was set, Peter found himself wandering off to Mark's bedroom. Looking for a pig mask, or a rusty bloodied torture device or whatever. It was what FBI’s Special Agent Peter Strahm would have wanted, may he rest in peace. He looked around, dove under the bed, and found… nothing, obviously. 

For a moment there, he actually felt stupid. Hoffman was fucking with his head, but… what Peter felt right now seemed a lot like…doubt? Or was it his blood-crazed lust disguising itself as doubt? Either way… he had to admit to himself that he acted a little crazy. The article was a potential motive of Hoffman’s complicity, but it was also a low blow to a grieving brother. It didn’t actually prove anything. And Peter wasn’t even on duty. Some could say he was just obnoxiously nosy . 

But that’s literally your job, idiot. Get a fucking grip.

He began to lift himself from the floor, when something caught his eye after all. The nightstand’s low drawer wasn’t completely closed. Of course he reached for it.

*

Mark has made himself as presentable as possible, given the circumstances. Skin broke on his cheek and lip. Strahm bit him under the jaw - not the safest place to test the sharpness of one’s canines, but even though the wound left a thin trail of blood down his neck, it was also just skin deep. 

He sighed. So bloody kisses weren't in the cards for tonight, so what. Strahm was already here and it didn’t seem like he wanted to leave. Can he work with that? Sure. Should he though?

He cleaned his neck and changed into a new shirt, as cold blue eyes judged him from the other side of the mirror. It all turned into an ugly mess really quickly, and it can easily go downhill again. How long until Strahm blows his cover? He's way too close, closer than Mark should ever allow him to be. He just never imagined Strahm still being a problem at this point. And now, there they were - at his apartment, bloodied and practically tripping over their boners. Too bad Strahm seemed to have an equal sized boner for violence and for proving Mark’s jigsaw accomplice.  

And it was different than last night. Strahm was different. Not a loose cannon, not a predatory animal… except for their fight. Yes, last night’s unhinged Strahm was definitely still in there, he just got a little overwhelmed. Things got a little too real for poor old Peter, with his high morals and a fucking wedding ring. Mark snorted to himself with a grimace, shaking his head. 

He still believed that he had an upper hand in this. That if he plays it right, he'd have Strahm wrapped around his finger. If the way Strahm looked at him was any indication, it had already happened.

And, worst case scenario, if this is going to crash and burn anyway, why not have some fun while it lasts? Keep telling that to yourself, Mark.

At the very least Mark thinks he managed to guilt Strahm into retreat with his FBI antics, if only for the night.

"Hoffman? Uh... what is that?"

Mark rolled his eyes.

*

Peter was in Mark's bedroom, staring down at the nightstand drawer that was now open and full of sex toys, many of which were s/m themed. Dildos, butt plugs, nipple clamps of a chain, a riding whip. And a dog collar.   

"Don’t expect you’ve got a warrant for a house search?”

Peter bent over and took the whip in his hand. "You had this, and you let me beat you with a fucking metal rod??" 

Mark shrugged with the dumbest grin Peter had seen on him yet. 

"I wanted to try it. It seemed hot at the moment. And it was. Plus, I love your creativity. But for tonight, I thought maybe I'd make it easier for you."

“You– you’ve actually left the drawer half open on purpose?” At the sentence’s tail he realized how stupid he sounds. 

Mark shrugged. “I anticipated the possibilities.” His voice just half a note darker.

Peter threw the whip back into the drawer, raising brows and tilting his head with recognition. 

"Well, you're a freak. What else is new." After a heartbeat, he added "You use these with other people?"

A corner of Hoffman’s mouth lifted slightly. “I had a feeling you’re a jealous type. You’ve got that possessive aura about you.”

Peter rolled his eyes in irritation even though his ears felt hot. “Fuck it, I don’t wanna know.”

Hoffman answered anyway. "Sometimes. Haven't in a long time. It's hard to find a matching freak." He winked at Peter. “By the way, I still have your handcuffs. Seemed pretty important to you.” 

Peter closed his eyes with a sigh, as if he was just reminded he fucked up. He blinked it away though, feigning indifference a little too late.

"Right... so these things... you use them on yourself?" 

"When I'm in the mood, yeah..." He bit his lip, waiting for Peter to say it.

"Show me."

*

Mark started unbuttoning his shirt, bowing his head. His lips curled in a grin and biting it back, he gazed at Strahm who was now sitting on his bed. He wanted to see the other man's face when exposing his skin, still wearing the mementos of last night. The welts on his chest were less red but still very much visible. Upon seeing them, Peter just tensed his jaw muscles. Hoffman’s expression was one of pride. 

“Satisfied with your work?”

Peter felt the temperature rising rapidly. At the same time, his eyes glistened with something animalistic. Mark knew that look. He wasn’t joking when he said Strahm was possessive. And he wasn’t wrong. Peter has marked him, made him his, and judging from his face right now, it did go right into his head. Yes, Peter’s face was an answer enough.

„Well… why don’t you pick something for me.” He asked, bringing Peter back to earth.

To Mark’s great amusement, Peter seemed flustered. It was unbelievably hot to see him wild and dominant as he was last night, and the contrast between that and him being intimidated over borderline vanilla sex toys was… fucking endearing, actually. Last night’s Strahm was unhinged. Feral. Maybe that was something Mark needed, but he didn’t mind this Peter, either. Plus, he knew that last night’s Peter was just waiting for the right moment to attack. A sadistic diamond in the rough. 

Peter was looking at the toys, seemingly lost in thought, then said: „What do you think I’d pick?”

Mark laughed. „Well this is fun. Fine. What I think you’d pick?” He glanced at the collar for a split second. Baller move of him to even put it in here. This should probably be traumatic for him, after the saw trap and all. But curiosity took the better of him and he wanted to see Peter’s reaction to discovering it, and if he’d pick it, if he’d put it on Mark’s neck, and how tight would he –

Peter cleared his throat, snapping Mark out of his thoughts. 

„Hmm… something we both like, I think.” Mark said, mentally present in his bedroom again.

He took the nipple clamps instead and threw them on the bed. Peter didn’t exactly look disappointed… But apart of his expression was hard to decipher.  

“Anything else? You said you could read my mind.” Peter said, his voice lowered just a little.

“You want the fucking collar, just say it.” Mark threw a challenging look at Strahm, a shade of a smirk still lingering on his lips. There was a glint in the agent's eyes, but his expression was otherwise unreadable.

“That depends. Do you want the fucking collar?” 

There was only one answer and they both knew it. 

“Yes. Yes, I do.” Mark said, reminding himself to breathe and trying not to sound too eager at the same time. 

“Fantastic. In that case, get on all fours and heel, like a good dog.” 

Mark did. He knelt at Strahm’s feet, squinting his eyes with a small grimace that didn’t go unnoticed as he positioned himself on the floor. He watched as Strahm took the collar and held it with both hands in front of him. A sharp inhale hitched in his throat as the leather touched it. Strahm was taking ownership over him again. Let him have it . He watched Strahm’s face carefully, just as Strahm was watching his, wrapping the strap of leather around Mark’s neck.

“How tight was it?” Strahm asked with his dark, husky voice. It took a moment for Mark to realize the meaning of the question.

He swallowed, and quietly said “Tight.” He saw Peter mouthing a single “Fuck.” under his breath.

And tight it was. Not enough to make breathing difficult, but just the right kind of uncomfortable. 

“Like this?” Strahm asked, and when Mark breathed out “Yeah.” he fastened the collar behind Mark's neck.

“There.” Peter said, giving Mark a couple of light slaps on a cheek. “So… you wear it when you're alone?”

“Like I said: sometimes…”

“Did you wear it since…?”

“No.” He reached to feel the inside of Peter’s thigh, just above the knee, and Peter let him. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t.” Mark raised his chin slightly, his tone almost challenging as his eyes drilled through Strahm.

Something hitched in Peter’s throat. If he had more questions, and he sure did, he decided to keep them to himself. Right now, he doesn’t want to know more. All that was left unsaid had him in a chokehold as sickly sweet as Mark was in. 

He cleared his throat. “Now, that other thing.” His fingers reached to Mark’s unbuttoned shirt, opening its side to better see Mark’s chest again, almost touching it. “Take it and stand up.”

Mark took off his shirt, put it on the bed and reached over Strahm's lap, leaning close to him, to grab the chain with nipple clamps.

Sitting back to his position, he swiftly picked himself up holding the edge of the bed for support. He then bit his lip in a devious grin, hung the chain over his shoulder and began to pinch his nipples to stiffness. He couldn't resist going harder and pulling them, letting out a small moan. 

When he rendered himself ready, he took the chain and secured the clamps, one after another, on his nipples, only taking a deep breath once it was done. He looked at Peter, who barely managed to close his mouth the moment their eyes met. 

Peter cleared his throat again. 

"It's the damn hole." He said, pointing at the bandage.

"Oh, of course." Mark nodded, raising his brows, his tone just short of condescending, but Peter let it slide.

"What do you do next?" He asked hoarsely. 

A rush of blood. Mark was heating up from being so fucking exposed like that. "Well... " he sighed. "Sometimes, I tug at the chain," He took the chain, straining it until it pulled upward at his nipples, and put it between his teeth, "like this. So my hands are still free." He made an impression of jazz hands to illustrate.

Peter stood up and approached Mark slowly, a grin blooming on his face. His voice dropped, now deeper, darker.

"Free… to do what?" He curled one finger around the chain, taking it from Mark’s mouth, straining it but not really pulling. It still made the shorter man weak in the knees. And just like that, the dynamic shifted completely and he knew he's not in control anymore. The sensations from his body begin to slowly consume his mind, and he would gladly let Peter take the lead from now on. 

Biting the inside of his cheek he shot Peter a smug look and said, also deepening his voice: “Whatever you want me to.”

Peter was very close to him. So close, Mark could feel his warm breath burning the tender flesh punctured by his teeth not an hour ago.

“Well…” Strahm raised the chain to Mark’s lips, which parted obediently, taking the chain between his teeth again. “...since your hands are free… take off your pants.

*

He stood naked in the middle of his bedroom, having just Strahm’s hungry eyes on him.

"Now put your hands behind your head. And don't drop the chain." Mark obliged as his cock twitched at the authoritative tone. Peter didn’t have to see it, the rest of Mark was just as eager. With one finger, Peter lifted Mark's chin up, pulling at the chain. They looked into each others’ eyes. God, Peter loved when Mark looked at him like that. Upturned brows, heavy lidded eyes full of anticipation and unhinged want. Nostrils flaring as he takes laboured breaths through his nose. Hanging on every word Peter said.

„So that's your idea of a night alone?”

Mark’s lashes fluttered. He nodded with a moany, pathetic sounding „Uh-uh”, the chain attached to his nipple clamps held firmly between his teeth. It wasn’t the emotion of shame that brought a sting to his eyes, blurred his vision and made him light-headed. Rather, it was the exhilarating feeling of being completely exposed and seen in his rawest, most vulnerable form.

Peter stretched out his hand to brush away a few strands of hair from Mark's forehead.

"Your hair is ridiculous, you know that?" 

"And you..." Mark's voice was shaky, lips trembling around the chain in a small smirk "You're just... mean..." 

Peter's eyebrows went up with sheer amusement. "Oh, am I now?" He caressed Mark's cheek and the man fought the urge to lean into his hand instantly. "Uh-huh... yeah." 

Peter leaned closer to Mark's ear and whispered;

"I can show you mean." And it almost made Mark drop the chain with how sharply he gasped.

Peter’s head turned from side to side in search of something. „Uh-oh. I know that look.” Mark said.

„Where are the clothespins? I think I grew quite fond of them.”

"Timeless classic. They’re in the bathroom drawer."

Peter was out for a while. Long enough for Mark to start to worry. When he came back, he was practically glowing.

“Look what I found.” He said, raising the handcuffs to Mark’s eye-level. The shorter man smirked slightly and began to lower his arms.

“Hey! Didn’t say you could move!” Peter growled, grabbing Mark’s jaw and tilting his head back, causing the man to take a step back and, obviously, pull at the chain. Hoffman snarled, but placed his hands back behind his head.

“I’ve got a different idea.” Strahm said with that wild spark in his eyes, and a needy moan escaped Mark’s mouth through his teeth in response. He ordered the shorter man to let go of the chain again, and pulled it slightly. As Mark was observing him, he worked the middle of the chain with his clever, long fingers, until he hooked the handcuff’s chain to it. 

Hoffman was still watching with his mouth open, darting his eyes from the handcuffs to Peter’s concentrated face in awe. 

“God, you’re wasting your talents in the FBI.” He whispered.

“Open.” Peter raised the handcuffs to Mark’s mouth. “I cleaned them.” He added, tilting his head to the side with half an eye roll.

“Fuh–” was all Mark managed to say before tasting metal. It was cold, hard and smooth - not exactly easy to hold with teeth.

„Hold it, or else it might hurt.” Peter said with a sickly-sweet smile, clicking a clothespin he just pulled out of nowhere before Mark’s eyes and fucking winked at him. He then dropped to his knees, and Mark jolted his head down after him;

„Wha-” Holding the weight of the handcuffs with his teeth, talking was significantly harder now.

„Chin up!” The command’s delivery was so abrupt and crude it made Mark yank his head up, painfully pulling at the nipple clamps. He couldn’t see what Peter was doing, but he felt a hand cupping his balls. Then, the other hand took his cock and lifted it. And then, he felt a pinch of a clothespin on the skin of his scrotum. Through gritted teeth, he let out a long, howl-like moan.

A hand shot up and palmed just below his chest.

„Okay?” A voice from below.

Mark closed his eyes and tried to steady his breath.

„Fuck… uh-huh…”

Peter tapped his middle and proceeded to use another pin. Then another. And another, all the while reveling in the wincing and whimpering coming from above his head.

„You’re doing so well… you think you deserve a little reward?” Strahm cooed.

Mark sensed a trap, and didn’t answer right away. This didn’t satisfy Peter, so he flicked the pins on Mark’s ballsack, which made the man squirm and growl. He repeated the question.

„Do-” flick, „You-” flick „Deserve-” flick „A reward?”

„Yes! Ah, fuck you!” Mark cried as his cock twitched.

Then Peter took said cock, and licked it from the base to the tip. All air left Mark’s lungs as he almost folded in half. By sheer luck, he didn’t drop the chain, but his head shot down at what the hell was happening.

Peter proceeded to lick at Mark’s tip, but as soon as he met his eyes he yelled „Chin the fuck up!”. So Mark straightened up again, eyes forward, light-headed and dazed with an almost unbearable mixture of pain and pleasure. Speaking of the latter, Peter was now taking Mark’s tip in his mouth, running his tongue along the underside.

„Fuck, Peter… I, uh… fuuuuck!

In response Peter took him whole in his mouth, grabbing at Mark’s bruised ass.

Mark was trembling above him, gasping and groaning all the while, his muscles tensed as the heat flooded him wave after wave.

His body language was Peter’s cue to let Mark’s cock out of his mouth, leaving it leaking and desperately twitching for contact – not sure if it was about to cum or self destruct – either way, ending its misery. And then, Peter smacked it.

Mark gasped in shock, letting go of the handcuffs. As gravity claimed them, their weight pulled the clamps off his nipples.

„FUCK…!!!” A broken cry tore from Mark’s collared throat as he shut his eyes.

„Jesus, be quiet! Someone will call the cops!” Peter jumped to his feet and pressed his hand against Mark’s mouth. They stood like that for a moment, looking in each other’s eyes as, calmed by Peter, Mark was steadying his breathing. Once he cooled down a bit, Strahm took his hand to fully reveal Mark’s fucked out and tortured expression. He was still breathing heavily, but wasted no time to state the obvious.

„I’m ‘the cops’, moron.” earning a huffed chuckle from Peter.

"You'll do just about… fucking anything to torture me… won't you." Mark added, aligned with his breathing.

“Probably. And you just never shut up.”

Mark’s tired smile spread into a full grin. “You love the sound of my voice.” 

Peter's ears burned as he realized it was true. The moans, the cries, the tiniest whimpers Mark made sounded perfect to Peter, but when he spoke in his soft, raspy voice it just made him feel warm… homey. 

He swept his gaze to Mark's open mouth and fought the urge to choke him with his tongue. His brain only let him do the next worst thing – he dove and pressed the flat of his tongue against Mark's sore nipple.

„Jesus, Peter, have mercy! Ahh for fuck’s sake!” A choked sob.

But Peter didn’t have mercy. He teased Mark’s nipples with his tongue, licked them, going from one to another.

"Nhh… Just fuck me already!" Mark pleaded in a fever pitch voice, squeezing his eyes shut.

A burning rush of blood hit Peter, as he relished in the other man's desperation. When Peter finally relented, he went lower to his knees again, giving in to the urge to flick the clothespins on Mark’s scrotum one last time. The tortured man wriggled with a hiss.

„So fucking needy… What kind of filthy whore would be so desperate for cock after all this?”

„Your filthy whore-” Mark choked on the tail of his answer, spat out too quickly, clearly with no thought given to it.

Underneath him, Peter flushed. „...I’m taking those off now.” He stated, and did just that, even though his hands shook slightly – slowly, methodically, drawing a pained growl with each clothespin. Mark’s cock was leaking a string of precum, helplessly twitching when Peter gently cupped his freed balls.

„I swear to god, if you won't fuck me right now, I’m gonna kill you.”

"That's a third death threat tonight." Strahm noted looking up at the trembling, broad frame of a man.

"You're a death threat." Mark snarled. Being on the verge of losing his mind from all the teasing and torture, he didn't care much about making sense. Even though he actually meant it. 

„Good boys get fucked. Nasty mutts are left hanging.” Peter's statement was received with a long, deep growl.

„Please…” Mark practically sobbed, then whispered „..please...” nailing that pathetic note he knew Peter loved so much.

And Peter did love it. He was drunk with the sound and the vision, reveled in them, imprinting the image of pleading Mark in his mind forever. To say he loved seeing him like this would be a gross understatement. A smug, arrogant, downright obnoxious so-called detective dissolved into this desperate, helpless creature. Exposing his most tender and vulnerable side to him, to Peter. 

And what did he even do to deserve such adoration? He knew he sucked at intimacy. His ex-wife, and frankly all his exes told him that much. And one day, just like that, this fucking guy appears and unzips him, letting all the ugly burst out with vengeance, and apparently that’s exactly what Peter is, and apparently that’s exactly what Hoffman wants.

"Well, are you a good boy?"

Mark opened his mouth but seemingly caught himself mid-thought before expressing it. With a knitted brow and teary eyes he said, softly.

"I... can be." Not exactly the answer Peter was expecting, but Hoffman's submissive tone was enough for him to play along.

"I can be. Just... let me show you. I can be so good for you, please..." 

Even if he wanted to, Peter couldn’t tease Mark any longer as the heat was pooling in his stomach to the point that he felt like his insides were about to melt.

„Lower your arms. On the bed, hands and knees. ”

Chapter Text

Peter undressed in record time and knelt next to Mark, who was already in the position. He hesitated, then reached for the younger man's neck to undo the collar. As Mark tried to turn around in confusion, Strahm explained: “It’ll get in the way.” He took the collar off and tossed it, immediately wrapping his hand in its stead around Mark’s throat. The detective gasped, then moaned loudly at the sensation.

"Fucking shameless. No wonder neighbours look at you weird." Peter noted. “Where’s lube?” He asked, his breathing a little frantic now, hand still on the other man's throat, pressing just enough to hold his head up while still on all fours.

“Just… get it in me!” He was far beyond the point of any efforts to stifle the neediness in his voice. Peter rolled his eyes and let go of his neck.

“Turn around. C’mon.” Mark did, with a whine of irritation, but the disappointment faded the moment he fully saw Peter naked, sitting on his heels before him. Mark sat in kind, waiting and in awe.

“Open your mouth.” When Mark did, Peter shoved three fingers in and plump lips closed on them. He moved his hand back and forth, pressing down Mark's tongue, fingerfucking his mouth as the other man sucked on his digits.

“God, you just looove taking orders, don't you…”

Mark moaned around the fingers in response.

“Yeah… you'd love to be on a leash… under someone's boot…”

More whiny moans as Mark salivated on Peter's digits, heavy lidded eyes transfixed on him.

“...someone who'd tell you what to do, when to cum, and how to be a good pet…” He enumerated, punctuating the last words with harder and deeper thrusts of his fingers.

As moans turned to whimpers Peter briefly thought about all the ways he could test Hoffman's obedience and his cock drooled at seemingly endless possibilities.

Withdrawing his hand, he ordered the other man to turn around and back on all fours. He pushed one slick finger inside Mark, then the second one, stretching him best he could, as fast as he could. 

“Stop fucking teasing me…”

Impatient, Mark reached his hand back to grab at Peter's hand, hip, cock, anything to pull him closer. 

“You said you'd be good!” Peter snarled at him and continued working his fingers inside Mark, feverish over his own painful erection.

He used the other man's imbalance to grab the back of his head and shove his face down into a pillow. Pressing it down with a tighter grip on Mark’s hair, he used his other hand to line his dick and began pushing himself in.

He started slowly, almost gently, even though he himself was nearly overwhelmed with want, simply because teasing Hoffman indeed became his new favorite pastime. When he bottomed out, they both moaned in unison, although Mark’s moan was muffled by the pillow, which, from the sound of it, he was biting on. Peter then let go of his hair, pulled out almost completely, before thrusting in, hard, his pelvis hitting Mark’s bruised ass with a smack. The detective jolted and shuddered with a muffled scream, but Strahm firmly held his waist, slowing his pace once again.

He tried to be careful. Even though the sight of bruises on Mark’s butt cheeks flooded him with arousal, he didn’t want to cause worse damage or overstimulation. Or, he still held onto the version of himself that would care about such things. He tried taking hold on less bruised areas, struggling with their scarcity. Mark looked over his shoulder, completely flushed and disheveled, raising one judgemental brow.

„Kinda wish you were this gentle back on the street.”

Peter huffed in amusement. „No, you don’t.”

„No, I don’t.” Mark admitted with a grin.

„Are you… sure you don’t want some sort of a safe word?” 

Mark gave him his most dramatic eye roll. „Fine. Only because you seem to need it more than I do. Would 'stop' suffice?”

"You can say it, you know."

"Are we really having this conversation right now? Jesus!"

"Fine…!" Peter was so easy to provoke. He took a firm hold of Mark's hips, and slapped his ass. The other man gasped sharply, too shocked and out of air to scream from the pain. He whipped his head back, round blue eyes on Peter, who froze, staring back at Mark with equally round eyes.

“Well, don’t fucking stop now!” Mark whined with grievances.

“Don’t you fucking forget yourself? You don’t make demands here!” Peter’s breathless bark caused Mark to turn his face back to the pillow, but the agent still caught a glimpse of a grin. He began to speed up his thrusts. As they set the tempo, one of Peter's hands let go of Mark's hip to palm at his back instead, going lower onto the bruises... 

"Go ahead, knock yourself out". Mark turned around again to meet Peter's eyes. "It's, ah- it’s ok." A reassuring nod. Peter’s eyes darted down again - a relatively thin layer of skin covering crushed blood vessels. Bruised flesh, stinging and tender. A juicy place to throw a lot of hurt. He knew the fucking alone must have felt intense, each time his hips slapped against Mark's black and blue skin. 

But he was tempted, god help him. He didn’t use full force to smack Mark's purple ass cheek with his hand but it was enough to make the man choke on a broken cry. 

"Ah, fuuck..." He muffled, pressing his face hard into the pillow.

"Again!” To prove he’s intent, Mark whipped his head to the side again, making sure Peter heard him loud and clear.

Primal lust rose in Peter’s stomach, and with a spinning head he smacked Mark again. The man under him broke into tortured sobs, a sound so beastly beautiful Peter had to stop moving, or he’d lose his fucking mind.

As Mark rose his head and looked back in reproach, Peter grabbed his shoulder.

„Turn around, I need to see you.” His voice was hoarse and breathless, loaded with desperate urgency. They clumsily reassembled in seconds. As Peter reentered Mark, he pinned the man’s hands above his head with one hand, thrusting in him with their faces inches apart. Mark cried as Peter's dick found his prostate. Borderline delirious, he then felt a hand reaching his throat, fingers curling around it. Peter asked with his eyes, and Mark answered breathlessly.

"Yeah… Fuck yeah."

Fuck yeah, he says. Of course. 

How on earth could Peter ever think this was a bad idea? How could he ever have any doubts? They were fucking made for this. For each other. Neither of them ever wanted anyone so desperately, and neither of them ever felt so desperately wanted. They fucked like it was the last thing they’ll ever do and the only legacy to their violent corporal existence. All they had, all they will ever have was right now.

Peter freed Mark’s wrists to tighten the grip on his throat with both hands, shifting his weight to press harder. Mark’s fingers curled around one forearm that choked him, seemingly as a reassurement of staying in control. If it was to reassure Strahm or himself wasn’t really clear. His other hand reached to feel Peter’s pecs, neck, the bandage on his throat. 

Mark made small gasping noises, eyes glazed with bliss, while Peter was pounding into him mercilessly, chasing their mutual climax. For a second, Peter loosened his grip on Mark's throat, when he saw the other man's eyes roll back into his skull, but that same moment, a grip on his own hand tightened, keeping it in place. Mark's mouth was agape, trying desperately to catch air. His cock rubbed between his and Peter's stomachs and his prostate hit repeatedly in rapid thrusts made him feel like dying. Which, in this moment, he wouldn’t mind. There were worse ways to die. 

Much, much worse. 

However, he wouldn’t want to leave this pit of despair before seeing his Special Agent’s face one last time. He focused his bloodshot eyes on Peter and his heart filled with… something, everything, and he let that feeling drown him. It had to project on Mark’s face, because the sight of it was enough to drive Peter to the edge, to unravel everything that held him together. He jerked inside Mark, twitching the grip on his throat as a single, broken “Fuck!” tore from his punctured throat. Taking it as a cue to his own orgasm, Mark thrashed as his moans were restricted by choking. He gasped and came all over his and Peter's torso as his crossed eyes rolled back again. 

As Peter let Mark's throat free, allowing him a greedy gulp of air his lungs ached for, he fell on him, limp and boneless. For a long moment, they were so fucked out, they didn't know up from down. Peter's ears were ringing as if a bomb just went off. In a way, he felt like it did. And they were the only survivors. Blown to pieces, but miraculously put together again, made anew.

They lay like that, exhausted and panting heavily, for a long while. Even after they came to, neither of them wanted to ruin the moment.

Peter spoke first.

"You ok?"

Mark squeezed his eyes shut, reaching to touch his throat.

"Yeah... you?" 

A breathless laugh. „I think I just had a heart attack. Otherwise I’m fine.” After a pause a small burst of throaty laughter escaped him again.

"What's... so funny?"

"Fuck if I know, really..." Peter still chugged in amusement.

They stayed like that, steadying their breath for a while longer, until the panting sounds were merely audible. Then Peter rolled on his stomach.

"Fuck." 

"S'fine." Mark waved his hand dismissively, figuring it’s about the sheets. Then suddenly he felt the other warm body right next to him.

Supporting himself on his elbows, Peter hovered over Mark's face and leaned for a kiss, prying open Mark's slightly parted lips with a slow but forceful and deep swipe of his tongue. Mark welcomed it almost instinctively. It wasn't a ravenous, violent kiss he had hoped for earlier. It still was hungry, yearning even, but slow, sensual, affectionate. He reached and pawed at Peter's chest, played with the salt and pepper hair covering it, squeezed his peck, all the while reveling in the taste of his mouth. A small sigh of bliss escaped his throat before he could even think of stifling it.

This was all too much. The kissing, the soft touches… now that he was at his most vulnerable. He didn't want to want it, definitely not like he wanted it from Peter. It was wrong. It was sick. It was sick, because Peter had no idea how undeserving of this affection Mark is. Right now, Peter was at his absolute cruelest, and he didn’t even know it. 

Falling deeper into the kiss, Mark was hit with an ice cold realization:

He had to kill Peter Strahm.

If he doesn't kill Peter Strahm, the guilt of almost killing him will drive him insane. 

This has to end.

Yet when Peter broke the kiss Mark found himself chasing after his lips. The older man hummed into his mouth. "Mmm...you know, the first time I saw you, I knew those lips of yours will be the death of me."

A bark of genuine, surprised laughter tore from Mark's throat against his will. "Bullshit."

„I happen to have an excellent intuition, you know?” He nibbled at Mark’s neck. „It’s a blessing, but it’s also a curse.”

„Jesus, Strahm, are you having a stroke?” Mark attempted an amused tone. „What’s gotten into you?”

„I didn’t hear you say ‘stop’.” Peter said  and Mark didn't have a response to that, so he just gasped and moaned softly under his breath when he felt Peter's teeth grazing his collarbone. His own hands were touching Peter's skin, seemingly on their own, fingers tangling in his hair, pressing him closer...

"Can I stay the night?" He murmured into Mark's neck out of the blue.

Mark’s stomach dropped.

„...It's a long drive and I'm… so fucking tired…” Peter doubled down, albeit now a little sheepishly. Mark wanted to die.

Peter huffed against Mark's skin, still not meeting his eyes "S'fine. Nevermind."

"No, It's just... you're so full of surprises, Special Agent. What’s next, you wanna be the little spoon?"

"Oh fuck off, just let it go." 

"No, it's fine. Stay. I want you to stay." Would a person hiding something say that? Would someone with a guilty conscience say that? "S' just... I don't know if we'll be able to get any sleep at all."

Peter scoffed into Mark's neck. 

"I'm old, Hoffman."

"Old people don't fuck like this."

"God, if only I'd met you twenty years earlier..."

"Hm..? What would you do to me then?"

Peter let out a hearty chuckle with his whole self. He surrendered. He was defenseless. Then he hid his face in Mark's neck again, only now the kisses turned to bites.

"I'd break you… Take you apart limb from limb... Just to put you back together. And then I'll break you again… Over and over. Night after night."

"Well -” Mark let out a heavy sigh. “I think I'm gonna need to call in sick again tomorrow..."

"Oh sure, anything to avoid working. You're such a shitty cop… a fucking disgrace…" Peter sighed before leaving a new bite mark on the other's chest, right above the old one.

They each drank a whole bottle of orange juice. Took shower. Changed the sheets. 

Doing all those normal, domestic things together made Mark sick in his stomach. Having Peter in his home like this, like they could actually pretend normalcy for a moment, get this microscopic glimpse at what could have been, was truly a pinnacle of Mark's masochism. Except he didn’t enjoy it one bit.

He wanted Strahm to fuck him stupid again. To fuck him bloody and raw. Maybe that would help his guilty conscience. 

But when he reached the bed, Peter was already fast asleep. Lying on his stomach, his wide back slowly rose and fell with even breaths. Face turned to the side, all the rough edges smoothed, cheek buried deep in the pillow, and his outstretched arm was hanging from the bed frame. 

He really was tired.

Mark has never seen him so peaceful.

The nightmare wasn’t a vision as much as it was a feeling. A feeling of running out of air. Of engaging all the will power into breathing without actually breathing. Fighting the raising panic of inevitable drowning. A feeling of absolute helplessness and blinding terror.

Peter was wheezing in his sleep. Although not particularly loud, the gasps quickly turned more desperate and frantic. It wasn’t long before they woke Mark up.

„Peter? Hey!” He tried gently shaking him, but the sleeping man just kept wheezing long, laboured breaths, unconscious but visibly distressed.

„Peter, what's happening?!” Mark rolled him on the side and patted his back, simultaneously reaching for the night lamp switch. Finally, Peter started coughing and seemingly regained consciousness. Choking on his breath, he managed to lift himself and look around. Sweat and tears were rolling down his face. He jolted out of bed, stumbled and fell to the ground, crowding himself to the closet, pressing his back to it, and his knees to his rapidly heaving chest. Shaky hands shot up to the sides of his head, his face, touching it feverishly. Mark materialized in front of him, taking Peter's hands in his, holding them to his face. 

„It’s ok, I've got you.... I've got you. It was just a dream.”

Except it wasn’t. Some part of Peter never left the goddamn box. He was still there. Still drowning, running out of air.

In a few minutes Peter’s breathing seemed to steady its rhythm, but his heart was still pounding like it wanted to rip from his chest, and his throat burned like it was stuffed full of sizzling coals. Throughout all this, Hoffman’s voice soothed him.

“Breathe. Slowly. That’s it. You can breathe. You can b–.” A sudden grimace on Mark's face. He bit his lips together and darted his eyes to the floor.

“Where… am I…”

“You're in my apartment. It’s ok.”

Peter looked around and at Mark.

"Right… Shit…”

Still heaving, he hid his face in his hands. Feeling how wet it was, he squeezed his eyes shut.

"I... I just didn’t want to be alone for this. Not another fucking night.” His voice was weak, bordering on sobbing. “How fucking pathetic is that.” He rubbed his face violently, only to feel Mark’s hands on his head, trying to gently lift it. He complied, their eyes met. Mark’s expression was full of concern, no trace of triumph or pity, which would be even worse. There was however something else that Peter couldn’t exactly place.

“You’re alive. You’ve beat the trap. You’ll beat this, too.” Mark cradled Peter’s face in his hands, gently stroking his cheeks with thick thumbs. “It'll pass. And until then, I don’t mind you staying in my bed. ”

Peter was looking at him, searchingly. It still felt a lot like a dream, and although he much preferred this one over the nightmare, there was something of menacing similarity lingering on the peripheries, just barely outside Peter’s grasp. He gently took Mark’s hands off his face, suddenly feeling crowded by them. 

“Can… can I get a glass of water?’

“Sure.” Mark said, already pushing himself up from the ground and disappearing outside the bedroom door. Peter rubbed his face with the palms of his hands and picked himself up from the floor, walked a couple of steps and sat on the bed. Elbows on his knees and hunched down, he was mindlessly scratching at the bandage on his throat when Mark came back with a glass full of water. He took it from the other man greedily, took a sip and instantly started choking. All Mark could do was pat his back and wait for the coughing fit to end, watching as Peter’s eyes teared up again.

“Fucking hell!” Peter spat between coughs. When he finally stopped choking, he cleared his throat a couple of times.

“Yeah… that also happens sometimes.” He said quietly, limp and defeated with his eyes fixed on the floor between his feet.

“You need, uh… I dunno, a fucking straw or something…?” Mark mumbled, perplexed, and Peter half snorted, half coughed in response. 

“Nah. Just smaller sips.” He wheezed air through his teeth and covered his eyes with his hand. “Fuck.” He couldn’t remember another time he was this mortified. Falling apart like this in front Hoffman, in Hoffman’s apartment, in his fucking bed. Except… he still felt grateful. For once, he wasn’t alone with this nightmare. Even if it’s Hoffman. Especially if it’s Hoffman. Because he would understand. Did he?  

He lifted his head and met the detective’s blue eyes, concerned and child-like and strange. He was shirtless, and Peter's eyes inevitably went down.

“So…” He felt that if he didn’t move past his sad little fit, he’d fucking implode into a gaping black hole. His voice was even weaker than normal, reduced to hoarse whispers, and it visibly hurt him to speak. “...how did you get this scar?” 

The old, rugged line of pale-pink scar tissue was still visible despite the skin being reddened from last night's lashes. 

Mark raised a brow. “How did you get yours?” He asked, drawing a line under his eye with a finger, mirroring Peter's face scar.

Peter scoffed, dropping his head. 

“Yeah, exactly. Fuck you, too.” Mark smiled hesitantly.

“It’s not a fucking secret, it’s just stupid.”

“Well, mine’s stupid too, ever thought of that?”

Peter blinked and looked at his feet again, slouched in the dim, night stand lamp light, still absent-mindedly touching the bandage on his throat. He then asked, quietly.

„Why do you like pain?”

Mark raised his eyebrows at the question and scoffed, before realizing Peter really wanted to know. He frowned as he never really pondered on the issue, and didn't see much sense in analyzing himself like that. „Well, looking back, I guess I’ve always had… inclinations. But it’s a little more complicated than that.” He glanced at Peter, who was watching him with an attentive expression. Contemplating, Mark furrowed his brows and stuck out his chin.

„You know… Angie’s father – my so-called stepfather – broke my jaw when I was sixteen. It was Angie’s fifth birthday.”

„Jesus Christ…”

“Not that he was such a badass brawler. I was just yapping at him when he hit me. Wrong moment, wrong angle… And bam, I had to eat through a straw. Liquids only. For almost three fucking months. It got infected, too. Gnarly stuff, really. Couldn’t eat, couldn’t talk, couldn’t do fuck all. Not to mention my blowjob game was shit.”

„For fuck’s sake, Mark…”

„Sorry.” The smile he wore was small and somewhat disturbing. „You gotta laugh… and believe me, I didn’t laugh back then. I physically couldn’t.” He snorted, delighted with his own joke. Peter looked at him with concern, but Mark just looked ahead, not meeting Peter’s eyes. He continued, serious again. „It taught me something though. I realized that pain is unavoidable. You can’t escape it. You may run from it or try to ignore it, but it's always gonna get you. Always.” He lowered his gaze on the floor.

„Huh.”

Peter studied Mark’s pensive expression, thinking for a second that he found something on the carpet. „What?”

„I don’t think I ever told that to anyone.” He didn’t linger on the thought for long, abruptly realizing why he might have had overshared like that. He briefly glanced at Peter.

„Well, storytime is over. You good now? Need any more water?”

„No, thanks. And yeah. I feel better.” He looked uneasy, considering something.

„Thank you.”

„Don’t mention it.” Mark scoffed, getting himself back in bed.

„No…” Peter gently took Mark’s chin in his hand to meet his eyes. „Thank you.”

Mark blinked.

„For what?”

„For… being here, I guess.”

„This is my apartment, where else would I be?” He tried to bite back a grin when he saw Peter smile.

„Oh fuck off, you know what I mean.” Peter scoffed, pushing Mark’s face away.

„Can we go back to sleep now?” Mark feigned annoyance as he layed down on his side, back to Peter. Out of his sight, the younger man bit his lip as he felt Peter settling in to sleep as well. He could feel his warmth on his back.

„I really wish we’d met earlier.” Peter whispered.

Mark swallowed hard. „Me too.” He heard his own unsteady voice, and he felt his throat tighten. He then cleared it and flatly said „Maybe I wouldn’t have to kill you now.”

„Ha ha, very funny. But it’s getting a little old if you ask me. Can you at least wait until morning before killing me? I really… really need to sleep.”

Mark shifted slightly, eyes fixed on the darkness of the room, lip worried between his teeth.

„Sure. You completely wore me out tonight.”

„Good.” Peter moved closer to Mark, hesitantly testing the waters as he touched the man’s shoulder. No resistance there. „I need to warn you though.” An arm reached over Mark and suddenly, he was held.

„As you know, I’m not easy to kill.” With eyes still wide open in the darkness and breath hitched in his throat, Mark took Peter’s hand in his and squeezed it, holding it close to his chest. In a sleepy voice, Peter whispered into Mark’s ear.

„ ‘Too weird to live, too rare to die.’ „

A surprised, breathless chuckle burst from Mark’s throat. His eyes were stinging.

„Get some sleep, Peter.” He whispered and pressed the other man’s hand to his heart. Something was constricting around it, as he listened to the other man’s breath becoming even and slowing down. Easing Peter into peaceful sleep.