Chapter Text
Detective Mark Hoffman was in love with Special Agent Peter Strahm.
But not in the way Angelina was in “love” with the bastard mother fucker that Seth Baxter was. And god forbid Hoffman loved Strahm in the strange way John loved Jill. He’d rather puke. What Strahm and Hoffman had barely even counted as love.
After all, Mark Hoffman didn't exactly fall in love. He didn't do all that lovey dovey shit. He was a busy man, a spiteful miserable man that would rather drown in his own misery than to finally settle down. This wasn't love. This was something foreign. Unknown, unpredictable and terribly dangerous. Whatever this was– it wasn't supposed to exist and he sure as hell shouldn't feel it.
He should be punished for it. Specifically by Peter Strahm.
Just at the thought of being punished rather than saved by Strahm, Hoffman hated to say he grinned and leaned back in his chair with a sigh as he tugged at his tie. Suddenly catching himself, Hoffman huffed and crossed his arms, readjusting his posture and sitting up straight. He was still at work, he had to control himself, even if no one else was here. He placed his head in his hands and groaned.
This was pathetic. It was just lust anyways. It had to be. It’s all it could be if Hoffman wanted to live through this.
Peter Strahm was a pretty man, gorgeous even.
He’d caught his eyes the minute he walked into that crime scene that fateful day. Walked in, looked at Allison Kerry’s lifeless body and immediately called his bluff, shutting him down in an instant. He was locked on instantly and far smarter than any of the useless agents he had met before.
He could have posed as an actual threat, someone who could finally do his cover in for good.
Normally this should have angered him, pushed him to an edge, mark him as number one on his hit list. Instead, it thrilled him. It excited him, the thought of an actual challenge after years of sneaking by, it did something unnatural to him. Something that had been long shot dead and left rotting in his body, had suddenly become ignited, given life once more. It was surreal, it was life altering and as much as it terrified him to his very core– he found himself awfully enthralled.
How could he not? Peter Strahm was as cunning as he was a nuisance. His smart mouth, his pretty eyelashes, his strong arms, that charming haircut of his, his low voice, that terrible temper. It drove him mad and he couldn't help how hot he felt just thinking about him.
Huffing, he undid his tie, flinging it off and clutched his thigh, suppressing a low groan. Strahm was doing things to him and he hadn't even laid a hand on him yet.
Strahm was terrible for him, and Hoffman only wanted more, he wanted him all.
The things he’d do to the man if he ever got his hands on Strahm, he’d break him. He’d either snap off all his limbs, biting and tearing into his flesh with a savage bloodlust Hoffman had never possessed before–or–shove him over a desk and let his hands roam all over the man’s body, watching the man squirm beneath him, earning every little noise he could get, relishing in it all. He didn't care which option he got, he just wanted Strahm and he wanted Strahm terribly.
Undoing the buttons of his dress shirt, Hoffman sighed in frustration. He was a mess, a total mess for a guy who would rather kill him than ever get in his pants. Not that Hoffman could really blame him, killing the other man was at the top of his list of things he wanted to do to the man. Peter Strahm was stubborn, repressed and almost as miserable as himself. Maybe that’s why he was drawn to him. Misery did love company after all.
He wanted someone to save him, to end him once and for all and expose him as the fraud he’d morphed into. Or he wanted someone to join him, to make working for John easier, someone to lean on, someone to blow some steam off with. Someone to use for his own gain. Someone to keep, someone to finally hold on to and never let go. Someone he could latch his teeth onto and bury into. Strahm was the perfect candidate.
Now if only he would listen.
Out of all the men he could have “fallen” for, it had to be for the most uptight, stick up his ass, stuck in his ways agent he could have ever found. Hell Hoffman didn't even know if Strahm even liked men that way. Although the few flushed glances Strahm shot at him when he thought he wasn't looking certainly told him otherwise. He knew he had fairly good looks, the men and women he often found gawking at him never went under his radar but he never paid much mind. For Strahm however? He always made sure to take note. He wanted Strahm to want him just as badly.
He wondered if Strahm wanted all his limbs ripped off and if he wanted to bite and tear into his soft flesh. He wondered if Strahm just wanted to get in his pants and degrade him to no end. Hoffman wouldn't mind either way.
All that mattered was Strahm. Strahm was his saving grace and the nail in his self made coffin. It was up to him to decide what Hoffman’s fate would be. He’d leave his life, his body and his aching heart all at the hands for Strahm to decide.
He’d give it all up if it meant Strahm made the decision and not him. Was it cowardly? Absolutely. Did he care? Not anymore. Not when it came to Strahm. Strahm could put a complete and total end to him and maybe, just this once, Hoffman wouldn't mind.
They were a match made in hell, doomed to be each other’s undoing.
Suddenly startled by the sound of footsteps trailing outside his office, Hoffman snapped out of his Strahm-obsessed thoughts. Realizing he hadn't even shut his door, Hoffman quickly scrambled to button up his shirt again and rushed to the door. He was abruptly greeted by none other than the man of his dreams (and nightmares), Peter Strahm himself.
Strahm froze and shot him a confused judging look, “The hell are you still here for?”
Hoffman caught his breath and realized his tie was still on his desk and he grumbled, proceeding to lie straight through his teeth, “Working.”
Strahm raised a brow and looked behind him and then back at him, Hoffman clearly sweating, shirt ruffled, tie missing and hair all disheveled. “You sure you’re not just jerking off in here?”
Hoffman rolled his eyes but grinned slyly, “Could be.”
It was Strahm’s turn to roll his eyes, “No wonder the Jigsaw case never gets solved, their own lieutenant detective is too busy jerking off when he's supposed to be putting in some extra hours to work on the case.”
Hoffman laughed and he ran his fingers through his hair carefully, “Got me there. Mind helping?”
Strahm crossed his arms and huffed, “Already did all my work, don’t know see why I should help you. You’re clearly very occupied.”
“Leaving then?”
“Yup.”
“Care to join me for a drink at the bar right now then?”
Strahm rolled his eyes again and his brows furrowed, “Wow you really don't give a damn about this case at all.”
Hoffman honestly should have punched the guy but was tired and needy so he kept his hands at his sides, “I do give a damn Special Agent. But I’ve been on this case far longer than you have, this won't get solved in a day. A few drinks can't hurt.”
Strahm bit back a response, incredibly tempted to retaliate with some snarky comment. He should have protested but frankly he was just as exhausted and a few drinks did seem awfully tempting, even if they were being offered by the devil–Mark Hoffman–himself.
“Fine, you’re paying though.”
Hoffman winked and clasped his hand on Strahm’s back, Strahm’s shoulders jumping at the touch, but ultimately letting the man’s hand stay, much to Hoffman’s delighted surprise.
“Of course Agent Strahm.”
Strahm rolled his eyes and leaned into the man’s touch with a grumble, “Yeah yeah fuck you.”
Their mutual destruction could wait, for today the two can pretend their twisted little rivalry didn't mean the world to either of them.