“You shouldn’t be here.”
The homicide detective spoke clearly, his tone cold and detached, as he had seen these things countless times. It’s freezing outside, the bitterly cold wind blows harshly, pushing the rain to come down harder.
“I know. I had to say goodbye.”
Her voice comes out shaky. Dean, a long-time friend, caught up in a series of bad drug habits, landed in Jigsaw’s hands. He struggled a lot and brought many people down with him. Despite your push to do better, dropping him off at rehab clinics, letting him couch surf countless times, and many broken promises on his end, he chose drugs every time. He chose to die.
“Get inside. You’ll get sick, and I don’t want to catch whatever you get.”
She scoffs, but follows the detective regardless. Detective Lieutenant Mark Hoffman, cold and calloused, was so crass about the situation despite working with a friend of a lost soul. He didn’t care, and she could feel that from a mile away. The police car provided shelter, and the clicks of the dial shot heat into the car.
“Why did you become a detective? You should have been a grief counselor.”
She can’t help the bitterness that leaves her lips. She needed to mourn, and he was being a complete asshole. Surprisingly, it gets a snicker out of him- like he found her sarcastic bitterness to be amusing.
“You think so? I must have missed my calling.”
“I believe in justice-”
She cuts him off. Fuck that generic answer.
“No. Don’t feed me that bullshit. Justice, caring for the people, getting perps off the street- anyone with more than 2 braincells and a heart can see that isn’t the reason, at least not anymore.”
“Don’t interrupt me.”
He practically growls. Those blue eyes look sharp with anger, something dangerous bubbling underneath. He continues.
“Fine. Real answer. I always wanted to be a detective. Control- protect- and use my mind.”
She sits in silence. She lets him speak his mind.
“My sister was murdered several years ago. Her abuser got justice. My job is to ensure the same for others.”
She sighs in a breath of relief. He is human. He’s just as scarred as her.
“Sorry. That’s terrible- your sister must have meant a lot to you.”
“The world.”
He states plainly. The rain pattering hard against the windshield fills the silence between them.
ft. Mark Hoffman (SAW franchise)
Day 11 - Cum Licking, Handcuffs, Needle Play
Warnings: Nsfw (MDNI), Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, afab reader, established relationship (yall are married), canon typical violence / mentions of death (not reader), drugged / kidnapped, needles / injections alluded to, handcuffs and restraints, cum licking (he eats it outta you), unhealthy relationship, mentions of substance abuse and depression
Synopsis: Your husband was never the same since his sister died...but when he appears to be improving five years later, you assumed things were on the up and up. One pig-masked scuffle later, you discover his dark secret.
Word Count: 3192
Mark Hoffman x Fem!Reader (nsfw)
A/N: Officially the longest kinktober to date!!! I love SAW, I love a big boy like Mark Hoffman. Saw 'needle play' as a prompt and immediately thought of this franchise
Your husband was never the same after Angelina died. He’d turned to drinking and was apathetic, depressed, and unreachable. You’d done your best to support and comfort him as he grieved, especially during the grueling court processes against his sister’s killer, Seth Baxter. When Baxter was convicted to a life sentence, you’d naively thought things would go back to normal, that Mark would start to heal. But he didn’t.
Rather, he seemed to spiral even deeper. It was as if he’d lost the ability to feel empathy, now acting disinterested in his work at the police department and, frankly, in your marriage. Things fell into a listless routine. He refused therapy, and wouldn’t talk to you about any of the struggles he was going through.
For almost five years, things went on like this—and yet you didn’t have the heart to leave him. You loved him, and at the same time, he was no longer the man you’d married.
Then disaster struck. Baxter was unexpectedly released from prison due to a legal technicality, and Mark shattered as the justice system failed him. You were sick with worry over him. He was coming home later and later, obsessed with finding the man who’d stolen his sister from him. He wouldn’t answer your calls, wouldn’t tell you where he’d been or what he was doing.
And then, after a month of this confusing, worrisome madness…it stopped. Seth Baxter had been found brutally murdered, and the police department was quick to blame the Jigsaw killer. Yet, the news of this development hadn’t been the thing to send a shiver of dread up your spine—it had been the cold smile on your husband’s face when he delivered the news to you. It’d been the first smile you’d seen him wear in over half a decade.
Gradually, Mark seemed to find renewed fortitude and strength. He was less agitated, taking you on dates again, and beginning to rise on the up and up. It was remarkable, how this sudden change seemed to come over him. Although you wondered what could have happened to bring your detached husband back from the brink of utter ruin, you couldn’t deny that you were glad for it.
He was present once more—and your love life, your sex-life, was vastly improved. God, it was like you were newlyweds all over again, rediscovering one another’s bodies and souls. You wouldn’t say that Mark was the same as before, when you’d first been in love and married long ago. He was jaded now, and at times he seemed to lack any feeling. But at the same time, he was also more assertive, in control, and hard working.
You believed things were better. That he was better.
And that had been your mortal mistake.
-
You unlocked the front door of your house, pushing it open with your foot as you hauled in a grocery bag on your hip. You were home later than you’d said you’d be, but you had to make a quick stop to the store to grab some supplies for dinner.
“Mark? Honey?” you called out, dropping your purse and keys on the entryway table and slipping out of your shoes. You walked down the darkened hall to the kitchen, flicking on the light switch with your elbow. Setting the bag down on the counter, you looked around curiously. No answer.
“Mark?” you called again, confused and a little unsettled. He should’ve been home already and waiting for you…and yet, all the lights were off. You held your breath for a moment, listening for any sound that might indicate your husband was in the house.
A beat of silence, another one…and then suddenly, the tv clicked on in the adjacent living room, and you jumped out of your skin at the loud garble of static. You whirled around with a yelp of fear, eyes wide as they stared one room over. The living room furniture was cast in frightening shadows by the light of the salt and pepper screen.
“Honey, are you there…?” you forced your voice to croak out, a deep pit of dread beginning to settle in your stomach. You weren’t sure why you were so scared. Perhaps all that talk of the Jigsaw killer running loose in the city had finally gotten under your skin. Slowly, you stepped over the threshold that separated the rooms, your socks pushing into the plush of the carpet as you approached the tv.
You stared at the screen and swallowed, transfixed by the scratchy sound of static and dancing dots of black and white. Your heart hammering in your throat, you leaned forward to press your fingertip to the power button…and with a small click, the screen went black.
The room plunged into a deathly quiet, the small light from the kitchen being the only thing that kept the darkness at bay. You shuddered out a small sigh, trying to force your sympathetic nervous system back into a state of calm.
You straightened your back, rising once again to your full height. You told yourself your mind was playing tricks on you, turning from the tv to head back into the kitchen…and screamed as you came face to face with a grotesque creature of black hair and tusked snout.
You were caught off guard as the boorish, boar-ish intruder grabbed you with painful strength, pulling your arm so far to the side you thought it might snap out of place. You cried out, struggling against its brute strength, when suddenly you felt its balled fist slam into the side of your neck. The impact had you seeing stars, and then—fuck something sharp had pierced into the muscles there and…
You felt dizzy, something like cold water flooding your veins, trickling down to your arms and torso. You mind still raced with terror, but your body grew impossibly heavy. Your tongue wouldn’t cooperate, for only a small moan escaped you as you tried to cry out. Black spots crept into the edges of your vision, and then…you saw only black.
It felt like only a blink of an eye before your consciousness was returning, groggy and confused. You were first aware of the sound of dripping water and the dull thrum of an HVAC system whirring. Your eyelids were too heavy to lift, so you fluttered them until whatever drug wore off enough for you to blink them open.
As you did so, you watched the blurry world gradually come into focus. A bright, light…an unshaded lamp in the corner. Old, dusty machinery, half covered in old drapes and white tarps. A metal desk with papers askew on it. A rolling cart with various needles, tools, and labeled vials. Lab coats hanging on the wall. Ropes and hooked chains hanging from the ceiling beams….and some dark brown, rusty colored stains littering the floor in various places.
Good god, what hell hole had you awakened to? You felt your limbs gradually return to you, an aching soreness beginning to settle in your joints. You tried to move your hands…but they were forced behind you. Handcuffs, you guessed, if inspecting your husband’s pair over the years had any help in identifying your current restraints.
Your feet were untied, and you were free to kick and swing them…but the chair you sat in was bolted to the ground. Unless your hands were freed, you wouldn’t be able to stand.
Your head swiveled at breakneck speed towards the sudden metallic clanging of a door opening. Eyes wide, blood running cold, you watched the hulking figure of a man step into the room. Relief flooded your system at the sight of your husband. “Mark!” you choked out, your voice hoarse from disuse. How long had you been out?
But, one look at his dark expression and your relief was doused by a bucket of ice water. “W-What’s going on?” you whispered, horror beginning to dawn on you.
Mark walked up to you, his lips a thin line as he smiled at you, his eyes painfully devoid of any warmth. He stopped just in front of you, and bent at the waist so he could meet your eyes. He raised one large, calloused hand to cup your cheek, and shushed you quietly.
“Easy now, honey,” he cooed with mock reassurance. “Drug’s still leaving your system, so try not to whip your head around like that. You’ll get sick.” He dropped his hand to his side, and rose to his full height. His eyes raked over you, a satisfied look settling over his expression at seeing you restrained like this, at his mercy.
You’d been blind and naïve, faithfully believing that your husband was incapable of anything so heinous or cruel. But there’d been signs. His increased apathy and sociopathic tendencies. His deep decline into alcoholism and depression, and his obsession with Seth Baxter. All those late nights he didn’t come home until the early morning, and his sudden recovery and renewed vitality. God, how hadn’t you suspected anything before?
“It was you, wasn’t it?” your voice was weak with shock and terror. “You killed Baxter…” you stared at him, horror swelling in your throat when Mark didn’t so much as blink at the accusation. There was a cold expression on his familiar face…lethal and foreign. Dear god…you didn’t know your husband at all, did you? No…not since Angelina died.
“You’ve been a wonderful, dutiful wife,” Mark answered instead, rubbing a hand along his jaw as he surveyed you. His eyes lingered on the heaving of your breasts, your breathing uneven and short. “You’ve been loyal, devoted…even though you really should have left me years ago. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you did. I was a sorry fool, waiting for justice, believing in our judicial system, damning the universe for being unfair.”
He shook his head, and lifted his hand to gently grip your chin so your eyes met his. “But I’ve been enlightened, dearest. I am the hand of justice. It cannot be debated or deliberated upon…only delivered.”
His eyes searched your face, taking in the slight tremble to your bottom lip, the small droplets pricking at your vision. He thumbed your cheek, smearing a tear as it escaped the corner of your eye. “Shh, shh,” he murmured, leaning forward to press a kiss to your forehead. “You’ve done nothing wrong, my dear.” His tone was a mockery of the tender love he’d once shared with you. Now there was only hunger, only the need for control and dominion, which hardened his voice.
“I’m giving you a gift…an opportunity to join our mission, to stand with me once again as husband and wife—not only in title, but in spirit.” He sounded crazy to your ears, unhinged and so unlike the Mark you knew. If you weren’t so hyped up on adrenaline and the lasting effects of whatever drug had been injected to you, you might’ve caught that elusive ‘our’ he’d used.
“M-Mark,” you whimpered his name. Despite the betrayal, the horror, the disillusionment…you couldn’t find it within your heart to hate him. Five years you’d stuck by his side in life’s worst moments. Five years you’d preserved this marriage, waiting for him to reach out…to come back to you. Five years of waiting, of hoping, of praying for the love and connection you’d once shared to return…
And in his own perverted way…that’s what he was offering to you.
You still loved him, despite everything. God, how could you not? It was your husband. Your Mark.
He searched your face, and he must’ve found something there, because his expression shifted His eyes grew more intense and heated, his thin lips curving up into a mockery of a smile. “There’s my girl,” he whispered, and before you could react, he was lifting your chin and pressing a bruising kiss to your lips.
You whimpered into the forced kiss, you body instantly reacting. Your eyes fluttered shut, and you opened your mouth for him obediently as he demanded entrance. He groaned into your mouth, and the sound send an instant heat between your legs. Fuck, what were you doing? This whole situation was beyond fucked up, and yet your body was so conditioned to him, that he could turn you on with just one world-shattering kiss.
He kissed you with more force than he’d had before, a new, dark hunger overcoming him as he ravaged your mouth, his hands roaming over you as if this was the first time he’d ever touched you. It was as if two strangers were clashing together in a passionate tango, rather than the weathered and intimate lovers of a long-standing marriage.
“I knew you would understand,” he panted out against your lips, eagerly making deft work of your pants. You whined against him as he ripped your jeans down to your ankles before tossing them to the side. Your wrists ached and stung where the metal handcuffs bit into them, and you longed suddenly to have them free…not so you could make an escape, but so you could bury them into your husband’s hair.
The cool metal of the chair pressed against the bare skin of your ass, and you gasped at the sensation. Mark hummed against you, trailing kisses down from your lips and to your neck, where he grazed his teeth against the flushed skin there. “You’re the only good thing in this world,” he grunted, one fist groping your breast, the other working at his zipper. “Even at my worst, you’ve been by my side… You didn’t ask where I went. You didn’t ask why I came home smelling like bleach, or cleaning chemicals. You just… stayed. That kind of faith? People kill for less.”
You felt the head of him prod at your entrance, and your hips bucked instinctively. The motion tugged at your wrists, and you whined at the sting. He kissed along your neck consolingly. “Shh, I’ll take care of you,” he promised darkly, sucking on your flesh as his hips slowly sank into you.
You let out a long, strained cry as he stretched you—his cock far thicker than most men’s. Although you’ve laid in your shared bed and taken him more times than you could count, something about this moment felt new and erotic. This was a claim, a promise, a shared heartbeat.
It was the renewal of vows.
Mark lifted your knees up to your ears, folding you in half so you were presented to him in the most vulnerable and explicit way possible. He sucked a breath in through his teeth as he directed his gaze down, watching, transfixed, where you connected. He hissed lowly as he watched himself pull out, and then sink back into you.
Your body was uncomfortably contorted, hands cuffed behind you, legs pressed in half and exposed. You were twisted about like a pretzel, and though the metal cut into your wrists and your hamstrings were already getting sore, you could only focus on the heightened pleasure at the apex of your legs.
Mark began to rut into you, taking you hard and rough, punctuating each thrust with the roll of his hips. Gone was the tender husband who would make love to you under the blanket of night. All that remained in the man who bore your wedding ring was a cold-blooded brute, who now fucked you like he could brand you with his cock… He knew you would let him.
You cried out as he pounded mercilessly into you, each motion pressing deeper and deeper as he dragged across your g-spot. In this position, he could reach so deep into you that you felt it in your stomach, pressing against your insides. Your thoughts escaped you as you fell into a one-track mind—carnal and lust-driven.
You forgot about the dirty warehouse, you forgot about the handcuffs, you forgot about the revelation of your husband’s double life, and of the lives he must have taken…because right now, all you could think about was that he was yours again.
He fucked into you violently, balls slapping against your ass with each punishing thrust. Then, he was groaning, cumming into you while his fingers bruised into the plush meat of your thighs. Your face contorted into a strained expression as you tried to wiggle your hips, needing more friction. You still hadn’t cum, and you didn’t want this entrancing moment between you to be over.
He leaned his forehead against your shoulder as he panted, chuckling darkly at your body’s evident neediness. “Did I forget something?” he taunted, and the humiliation you felt at his words had your practically dripping over his still throbbing cock.
You whined as he slowly withdrew, your legs starting to lower back down.
“No,” he scolded, fixing you with a firm glare. “You’re going to keep those legs up for me.” You watched as he withdrew a key from his pocket, and within a couple of seconds, the handcuffs that restrained your hands unlocked with a click. You took a moment to observe the red welts around your wrists, wincing slightly at the raw skin.
But before you could feel too concerned, your husband was patting your ass. “Legs up,” he commanded lowly, and you felt the strong urge to please him. You hooked your arms around your knees and lifted them up, watching with wonder as Mark lowered himself down to a kneeling position. His face was now inches from your overflowing pussy, and you blushed at the pornographic picture of him.
“M-Mark, what are you—” you managed to squeak out before you gasped, feeling him latch onto you his mouth, swirling his tongue over you and groaning at the taste. He licked along your messy folds, cleaning you of his own finish in one of the most vulgar acts you’ve ever witnessed. The sight alone had you clenching around nothing, only serving to squeeze out more of his cum for him to lap up and savor on his tongue.
He ate you out like a man starved, drunk on the taste of your mixed fluids as you presented yourself to him on a silver platter. Your breathing deepened, and your legs began to shake. You gasped as his face buried into you, taking you higher and higher until you tipped over the peak. You cried out, tears flowing freely from your eyes as you came all over his tongue, writhing as he enthusiastically drank all of you in. His throat bobbed as he swallowed everything you gave him, until your legs fell limp onto his shoulders, your body spent and twitching.
He licked his lips, a satisfied sigh escaping him, before he gently lowered your legs back to a sitting position. Rising from where he knelt, he craned his neck to kiss you dizzy—to swipe away your tears, and murmur sweet and wicked devotions into your hair.
With the tiniest sliver of remaining clarity, your numb mind reaffirmed the fact you’d known for years—your husband would never be the same man he was before his sister died…but in someways, maybe he was better.
Hoffman has feelings for Strahm's fiance. Now that Strahm is dead, you struggle with returning those feelings just for the night.
Set in between Saw V and VI. Please visit the ao3 link for full tags.
“Hey. You left something by the coffee machine.”
You look up, and see Detective Hoffman holding your engagement ring. “Oh,” you smile. “How do you know it’s mine?”
“I guess I look at your fingers a lot,” he jokes, tossing it to you. You slide it back on.
“Do you? How’s this one look?” You playfully flip him off, and he manages as much of a chuckle as the stoic man ever could.
“I’ve sure seen that one more than the others.”
You return the ring to your finger, sliding it on and sitting back down at your desk.
“We’re going out for drinks tonight,” Hoffman mentions, “Wanna come?” You normally wouldn’t join the rest of the officers after hours, but you had been making more of a solid effort to go out and enjoy yourself now that the initial sting of Peter’s death had subsided for you. You tilt your head.
“Is Lindsey gonna be there? Matthews?”
“Yeah. Sing, Tapp. Everyone’s going.”
“Sure. I’ll be there,” you nod.
“Great.” He looks like he wants to say something else, and eventually closes with, “Don’t work yourself too hard.”
You look down to the paperwork on your desk, and back up to return with a quip, but Hoffman’s gone. You spend longer than you should looking out your door, mindlessly counting the number of steps it takes him to get back to his own office as if you hadn’t already memorized it.
Mark sits down at his desk. He’d always had a thing for you. He’d been jealous of Strahm, not only in his stellar reputation with the guys, but of his pretty wife and his perfect life. Mark may have seemed like the handsome hero everyone dreamed of, but in reality, he was a pitiable alcoholic whose sole personality trait was mourning.
If you ever did return his feelings, it would probably be because you pitied him for the loss of his sister, which hurt more than the bindings John had put him in that first day of initiation. He only wanted one thing, really. Maybe two, the first being justice. True justice. As for the second, it's not viable to have you in the position he's in, but his tendency to run from his emotions is being put to the test by your acceptance of his invitation.
When you get to the bar you and everyone at the station frequent after work, Hoffman’s sitting there. Within a half an hour, it’s become apparent the others aren’t coming... and were never coming.
“You invited me out under false pretences,” you say, accepting your drink of choice from the bartender with a nod. “Why?”
“I told you, the others didn’t show.”
“I work for the FBI, and you’re a detective. You’re honestly trying to lie to me?”
Hoffman considers this, purses his lips. “Not very well thought out on my part, I guess.”
“What, did you want to talk to me about a case?” you ask. “Something about today’s paperwork?”
“You know I don’t want to talk about that crap. I wanted to ask you how you were,” he corrects you, taking another generous sip of his second double vodka of the night. “All these months later. Treat you to a night off.”
“Oh,” you nod. “Right.” You’re quiet for a moment. “I’m okay. I haven’t really said it out loud yet, but I think I am.” You debate opening up, but you know he’s also lost someone, so you take a chance. “I feel bad when I forget him.”
“Yeah. I know how it feels to forget. My sister was a huge part of my life, and I never thought I could. And I can’t. Difference is, I try to forget.” You stay quiet, ruminating on the reminder of Mark’s dead sister. He didn’t talk about her often for that reason you suppose, but everyone who knew Hoffman knew he was the way he was because of her death. “You’re not wearing your wedding band,” he mutters, starting in on his third drink.
“I lost it,” you whisper.
“Like you lost it by the coffee machine today?”
You avert your eyes down to your lap. “Maybe you’re not the only one who tries to forget.” Silence passes between you as you explain. “Looking at it opens up old wounds. Keeping the past in the past is my way of dealing with it. He’s gone. If I think about how awfully he died, how scary his last seconds were, it’ll be like it happened yesterday... and I’ll have to start the process again.” You shove your hand down into your pocket, unwilling to study your bare ring finger any longer. “The past is as tangible as the future, detective. If I can’t feel it, it’s not there.”
“You think denying it’s gonna help you in the long run?”
You frown, looking up at him. “Nobody’s denying anything.” Blinking as if in slow motion, Mark gets up and tosses money down for the two of you. He takes your arm and leads you out of the bar, into the cool night air. Confused and more than a little angry, you jerk your arm away. “Why did you invite me for drinks?”
“I wanted to offer my condolences. Again.”
“Bullshit. It’s been 4 months and you haven’t once said you’re sorry he died in one of John Kramer’s sick traps. I know you two weren’t close, but why wait this long? What do you really want?”
“I don’t want anything.”
“Look me in the face and tell me one thing tonight that isn’t a lie,” you demand. Mark turns to you fully.
“Okay. I want to fuckin’ kiss you.”
You hesitate. That was the opposite of what you were expecting. You try and find words as Mark stares at you with that dark gaze, those eyes that seemed to linger in your mind now that you were lonely and no longer trapped under the weight of a lacklustre partnership.
“So? What’s stopping you?” You can never tell what’s going on behind those eyes; he guards his feelings and he guards his secrets. You know he has more secrets than the average man, but he’s a detective. How bad can they be?
“You want me to kiss you?” he murmurs. “Tell me exactly what you want me to do.” He advances, walking you back against the brick wall of the alley no doubt filled with the scum John had him abduct for his games. “Huh? You want me to kiss you how you’re used to? Kiss you like it’s an obligation? Like it’s what people expect me to do?” Your eyes start to prick with tears as Hoffman brushes your hair out of your face. “You want me to tell you I love you like a man who’s only true obsession is a serial killer he couldn’t begin to understand?”
“Hoffman, Peter—”
“Don’t say his name,” he mutters, “You’ll cut the wound wide open again, sweetheart.” He presses his lips against yours, and you feel your body release all of its tension. He kisses like Strahm’s antithesis—like he knows what he’s doing. He’s rough and he’s present, nothing like how you’d imagined the cold detective would. Peter had tried, but as much as he wanted to be, he hadn’t loved you as much as that damn case. Hoffman adversely seemed to care about anything but, even though he was in charge of it. You used to think everything was a façade for Hoffman, that appearances were everything. Façades have to crumble sometime.
By the time you had arrived at his apartment with him in the passenger’s seat, the full effects of the detective’s four double vodkas had set in. He tries to maintain his sense of self until the elevator, then down the hall and into his place.
“Shit,” Mark grunts, sliding your jacket off, “I want you.”
“No you don’t.”
He licks his lips. “Wanna bet?”
“You’re drunk, and we’re colleagues,” you mutter. “You’re gonna walk into work tomorrow morning and you’re not going to be able to look me in the eye.”
“What, after taking you on every surface of my apartment?” he mutters, lips dipping dangerously close to your neck. “Your pussy isn’t gonna shock me. Yours isn’t the first I’ve seen, but it’s sure as hell on my list.” You try once more to push him off, and he tries to stand wearily. His brown eyes blink a few times, and he shakes his head. “Fuck. Sorry.” He lets go of you, backs off. You realize your mistake, and take him by his lapels.
“Are you?”
He looks back up at you, and through your shared gaze, he sees his own arousal reflected in your eyes. His lips are back on you, finally touching your skin, and his hands roam under your top, up to cup your breasts and paw for the hooks of your bra.
“Around the back,” you whisper against his lips. In his drunken state, Hoffman misinterprets this to mean you want to be turned around, and you find yourself pressed against the wall as his hands massage your ass. A moan slips from you as you try to reach back. “I meant the bra.”
“Fuck,” he repeats again, slightly slurred, and reaches up to take it off of you. It drops down one arm, and Mark turns you around again to take your top off and release the garment from your sleeve. “This is what I’ve been fuckin’ missing?” he mutters, half to himself. “God damn gorgeous.”
“Tell me more?” you ask coyly, wrapping arms around his neck. He growls, picking you up by the ass so your legs can wrap around his hips.
“You don’t even wanna know the shit I fantasize about with you,” he mumbles, grinding himself between your legs.
“Wanna bet?” you volley back his line with a grin, and he scoffs, working down your panties as you reach a hand forward to tease him through his business casual pants. The feeling of his bulge grounds you in the reality that yes, Mark Hoffman does want you back. He wants to fuck you in his apartment, and he wants to do it now.
“I’m drunk, but I’m not drunk enough to tell you that, honey.” He presses a soft kiss to the curve of your jaw and slides your panties off, dropping them and rubbing his fingers back up your thighs and beneath the plush seat of your ass. His fingertips are oddly rough, for a detective who hasn’t seen field work in three months.
“What’s your secret, Hoffman?” you ask, and he uses one hand to stroke up the column of your neck.
“Gonna have to fuck me to find out.”
The two of you move over to his couch, Hoffman attempting to lift you over. His state tells you this is a bad idea, so you just pull him by his tie over, and push him down on the couch. He seems to like your show of control, eyes roaming up and down your body as you stand over him. “This feels a little unfair,” you whisper, lifting a hand up to squeeze your breast. Hoffman tears his eyes away from the action.
“What does?”
“Look at you,” you gesture to his fully clothed form, “And look at me.”
“Oh, I’m looking,” he nods, reaching down to squeeze himself. You get between his legs on the couch with a huff, and take over, unzipping his pants and giving him a better squeeze through his boxers. You can feel how hard he is, how large his bulge has grown. He grinds up into your hand, makes no move to undress himself any further.
“You’re selfish,” you mutter.
“I never said I was a nice guy,” he replies.
“You’re a detective.”
“Gray area.”
“For what?”
“My hobbies.”
“Which are?” You sit back on your heels for a moment. Hoffman seems to realize he was about to let something big slip, and your curiosity only grows as he cuts himself off.
“Shut up, will you? And kiss me.”
“That’s my line,” you groan, unbuckling his belt and sliding it out.
“I stole it.”
“You steal a lot?” you probe, hoping to uncover that elusive secret.
“Like I said,” he mutters, face still stone cold. “I’m not a nice guy.” You moan as he pulls you down against him, and moves his hand down to uncover his cock in a smooth movement of his hand. He groans as it grazes against your thigh and up to your pussy, and you lean down to kiss him again. His large hands reach up to your smooth naked back, clutching your body to his as he deepens the kiss. Your breath mingles as you pull away, vodka in his and the mint of chewing gum in yours.
“Condoms?” Mark reaches beside him to the coffee table, and pulls open a packet. Reaching between you two and keeping you held up with the ease of a strong bicep, he doesn’t break eye contact with you as he rolls one onto his shaft—the feeling alone of his own hand on himself is enough to make him moan, but he keeps it together. You lift up to position yourself. “You’re sure you want to do this?”
“I’m ridiculously hard for you,” he replies, eyes half lidded and lips parted. “I think if you left me now, it would be the first time in my life I’ve cried.” You roll your eyes, and he sits you down on his cock. Your eyes roll back. He looked big when he first took himself out, but it was nothing compared to the feeling. He’s stretching you all the way to the base, hands tightening on your arms. He rocks up once, and you whine his name softly. “Can you move?” he whispers, slurring his words.
“Yeah.” You start to rock down, and his breath hitches. After a moment, he reaches his hands further back, feeling your ass and groping it before sliding them up to your lower back to guide your movements.
“So good,” he mumbles, “Never knew I wanted you... this fucking bad.”
“When did you figure it out?” you smirk, gasping as he hits deep.
“Today, at the office.” His eyes slip shut. “I looked at you sitting there, and wished your picture was on my shelf instead of all the bullshit awards I don’t fucking deserve. One thing that means something to me, that I don’t have to tempt fate to get. That’s all I want. That’s all I need. Just someone else. Just someone else.”
You can’t think of a response. To save him embarrassment in the morning if he, by some miracle, remembers this conversation, you don’t reply. You’re afraid you’ll scare him off if you reciprocate the sentiment, and you’re terrified you’ll offend him if you coddle him. Then again, he could mistake your silence for apathy. Even in his impaired state of mind, Mark seems to realize what’s running through your head. He pulls you down against his broad chest again to put all these thoughts you had no business thinking while getting fucked to bed.
Still, he offers no tender explanation of his confession, no further apologies or bashful take-backs. He only increases his pace, grunting as you start to feel your climax build.
“I wanna feel you cum all over me,” he growls, “Fuck. Fuck, let me feel it.”
“Hoffman.”
“Use my name. Use my fucking name—”
“Mark.”
“Ah,” he hisses, trying to make himself last. “Good girl. Good girl...” You squeeze around him, riding him back and forth, your clit grinding against his pelvis and your ass slamming down into his thighs. He lets out sharp puffs of air, wrapping one arm around you and tightening it. You feel as though you’re as close to the distant man as you’ve ever been as he breathes your name into your hair, burying himself in it as he buries his cock the deepest it will go inside of you and stills.
You’re both almost there, and the formality between you dies.
“Mark—I’m gonna cum,” you breathe desperately, “Don’t stop!”
True to character, Hoffman doesn’t offer any verbal encouragement, but his body language is worth a thousand words. He bites your earlobe, reaching down to rub your clit in circles. The action makes you gasp, and you brace yourself on his chest as your orgasm finally hits in waves. His hips convulse inside of you as he finally lets himself finish with you, and your grunts and groans meld together into a harsh symphony of panted out breaths.
“You moan so pretty, babygirl,” he sighs. A warm flush rushes through your body at that, and you’re not sure why. This needs to stay a one night’s stand, not some workplace romance the two of you can giggle about behind closed doors. It would only be a liability to both of your careers in the force, and you know Mark will agree once he sobers up in the morning.
“Stop thinking,” he groans. His voice is gravelly, sated. “Hey. Stop. More importantly, stop guessing what I’m thinking.”
You stare down at him, eyes dancing between his. Your voice comes out barely louder than a whisper. “What are you thinking?”
“Absolutely nothing. Which is what you should be thinking of too, after we both fell into bed together.”
He seems to grow uncomfortable with the close eye contact, feels as though you’re reading him like a book. He moves your head down, where you lay there on his softly rising and falling chest. His steady breathing makes you think he’s fallen asleep, but his eyes are wide open. He stares up at the ceiling as if he was staring up at Peter Strahm again, watching the walls close in on the agent and crush his bones as he himself sunk into the ground safely entombed in glass. He swallows, imagining how your bones must have crunched in on themselves as you crumpled to the floor receiving news of your husband’s death.
His fault.
John’s fault. Jigsaw's fault.
No.
His fault.
He thought acting on his feelings and sleeping with you would make him forget Strahm ever existed. Instead, it felt like Strahm was the one in that box, watching the walls close in on Hoffman as every shitty thing he’d done in his life came closing in on him. Hoffman feels his heartbeat pick up desperately, but talks himself down as he did every night. He listens to the rhythm of your breath, tries to meditate to it.
You don’t have the problem of hyperactive thought at the moment—you had taken Mark’s advice, and calmed down. It’s okay that you had moved on. It’s okay you had found comfort in someone else’s arms, and it’s okay that it’s Hoffman. Despite this, one singular question seems to bounce back and forth in your head as curiosity digs its nails back in.
Your finger traces a pattern in the rug below the couch... the pattern of a puzzle piece.
