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Hoffman was up to something.
Peter just wasn't sure what it was yet.
The first hint that something was amiss was the suspicious lack of smarmy, stupid little witticisms from the detective. He’d been acting normal for the majority of the evening but now, in the comfort of Peter’s bed- if ‘comfort’ was a descriptor that could be afforded to anything in Peter’s apartment- he had seemingly flipped a switch and was now on his best behavior.
Well, mostly. He wasn't without his bite, nor his tendency to bite, but Peter was coming at him with the same amount of heat as always and half of his responses were… little more than a huff or a laugh. Hoffman loved to act smug (because it pissed Peter off so much), but this was overkill. He just wasn't getting riled, and that told Peter that he had something planned in that thick skull of his.
It was a wonder that he and his ilk hadn't been caught and hauled off to prison yet, what with how bad he was at concealing his scheming.
Peter’s calloused hand glided over the expanse of Hoffman's generous stomach as he leaned up on his knees, all gritted teeth and tension as he tried to pick apart Hoffman’s brain with his gaze alone. It was one of his most common pastimes when he was with him; practically second nature by this point. Break the image of Mark Hoffman down into tiny pieces in Peter’s brain, put them back together in new shapes, viewed from different angles. Anything and everything to better understand the strange fucking man that Peter found himself tangled together with.
A grin on the apprentice’s face, a spark of challenge. “Gonna take the reins, Strahm?”
Rather than grant him the satisfaction of a response, Peter continued, straddling Hoffman’s midsection with thighs spread obscenely over the wide torso beneath him. Hoffman watched with heightened interest, and Peter could feel the way his breathing quickened as the slick of Peter’s cunt made contact with Hoffman’s lower belly. He could barely hold himself back from rutting against it like a bitch in heat.
Maybe next time, he thought. Maybe he’d get situated just like this and hump his belly until he finished himself off, without so much as touching Hoffman anywhere else. Watch the slick drip down the swell of his stomach and pool on his pubic fat, his neglected cock weeping precome like a busted tap.
I bet you'd let me, too, wouldn't you? Peter panted as his mind swam feverishly, his breath feeling too hot in his mouth all of a sudden. You’d thank me for using you.
“Fuck,” Hoffman whispered, sultry and desperate. “You’re soaked for me.”
“Shut up.” Peter snapped back, impatient and hot in the face at his words, as shameless and crude as they always were.
Hoffman did indeed shut up, his own big hands coming up to rest on the tops of Peter’s hairy thighs. Peter once again felt that twinge of annoyance that came with not knowing what was going on in Hoffman's head, but didn’t let it stop him from getting into the proper position to ride Hoffman for everything he had.
Peter hesitated for a moment once he was lined up, one hand curled lightly around Hoffman’s girth to ensure he keep still. He wasn't an angel himself- he loved to tease the man beneath him. Maybe it was because it was just so easy, with Hoffman getting so desperate for him so quickly. It was working already; his half-lidded and hazy eyes fixated on the spot where the head of his cock brushed against Peter’s hole. His hands tightened their grip on his thighs. There was no doubt in Peter’s mind that he’d wake up tomorrow with bruises in the shape of big, fat fingerprints.
“C’mon,” Hoffman cooed. He grinned lopsidedly up at Peter, brows upturned in that way that made him look so docile. Annoyance and endearment fought viciously within Peter at his little act.
A cat showing its underbelly, striking your hand the moment you dare to make contact.
Huffing, Peter began to sink down on the detective’s length. Slowly- even slower than usual. Normally, it was because he had a hard time accommodating him. Whatever stupid thing was wrong with Peter, his body didn't seem to want to cooperate with him, and it made taking cock a practice in pulling teeth. The agony of how long it took to work him open… maybe this was an exaggeration, but Peter swore that it was worse than the agony that going into it dry would be.
Hoffman was often, when taking the lead, very meticulous about prepping him. Even when Peter demanded that he hurry the hell up and get on with it already.
Peter considered this moment his payback. He remained where he was, knees firmly planted into the bedding, with the flushed tip of Hoffman’s cock just barely breaching his twitching cunt. He was making it very clear that he was the one in control of the pace. An impatient whine escaped Hoffman’s throat between pleasured little pants, but no amount of noises or sweet, begging eyes would budge him. Even when he was finally adjusted and beyond ready to take in more- fuck, throbbing with the need to take in more- he waited a few moments more than necessary.
He waited until he couldn't wait any longer and relenting to both Hoffman's pathetic little sounds and his own fervent desire, Peter began to sink lower, inch by solid inch. Despite being utterly soaked, it was still a strenuous exercise. Below him, Hoffman’s breath escaped him in a heady sigh of pleasure, his hot breath tickling the thick hair on Peter’s chest and forearms.
Behave yourself, he scolded silently, shooting a stern look down at his captive apprentice.
That was the most he could muster while he was splitting himself in half on the stupidly thick dick that belonged to the man, anyways. Once he was moving again, It took everything Peter had not to moan wantonly as he was filled to the brim. So much. Too much.
In an act of desperation or rebellion, Hoffman’s nails dug into the skin of Peter's thighs. He couldn't help but smirk in response, meeting Hoffman’s eyes to drink in his needy, foggy expression.
“Almost there,” Hoffman murmured. He rolled his hips testingly just once, but Peter wouldn't let him have so much as an inch, so to speak. He uttered a warning growl, hands quickly bracing themselves stubbornly against Hoffman’s plump pecs. They always felt so nice under his rough hands. He gave them a hard squeeze for good measure, relishing the hiss that it earned him.
“Keep your ass on the mattress, you hear me?” Peter ordered through clenched jaws.
Hoffman’s responding grunt was neither agreement nor argument. Either way, it satisfied Peter for the moment, and he adjusted himself before continuing. Fuck, he could feel himself pulsing around the the cock inside of him.
After what seemed like an eternity of stretching, he had taken Hoffman to the hilt, a shaky exhale escaping from him as the tension in his arms from holding himself up against Hoffman’s broad chest finally released. With his eyes screwed shut, brows pinched together, and his lips parted softly, he felt… vulnerable. He felt like something wounded, a trophy on a pike with the way he could sense Hoffman staring at him, unblinking and obsessive. He felt good. Most of all he just felt so fucking full. He would never be used to it, no matter how routine these encounters became.
Why are you so big? No one should be that big. Especially not you.
Peter ignored the nagging thought that it might be less about Hoffman being big and more about himself and his broken body.
He did his best to pull his expression back into a grimace when he cracked his eyes open again, but it was impossible to hold. As soon as he dragged his gaze upward and took in the sight of Hoffman blissed out against the pillows, warmth and affection bloomed in his chest with so much force that it nearly knocked the air out of his lungs.
Unwanted. Undeserved.
But fuck, Hoffman was beautiful. Here, now, in Peter’s bed stifling pants and groans as he fought hard against himself and his own urge to move. The sight, the knowledge that he had the apprentice- the lonely kill-shelter stray that was Mark Hoffman- wrapped around his finger… Peter couldn’t get enough of it, could still scarcely believe it in the first place. When did all this happen?
His eyes were locked onto Peter’s, big and pale blue and always looking just a little bit watery, like he was on the verge of tears. Ice cracking and melting under the warm rays of a winter morning.
It must have been forever, snowmelt and erosion, until Peter finally began lifting himself up to break the little spell they'd been caught up in. With only a slight hiss of exertion, he was pulling himself up and off of Hoffman, only holding for a brief moment before he took him all the way in again in one swift motion. Perhaps a little too swift, because the sound that tears itself from his throat is somewhere between a moan of pleasure and a gasp of pain. Either way, Hoffman made his own delight known, his head dropping back against the pillows as he huffed and puffed like he was the one putting in any exercise.
“Fuck,” he bared his teeth as he raised his head again, grinning from ear to ear. “You take me so good, Pete.”
Peter’s face burned red-hot at the praise. It wasn't even true. If it was, he wouldn't be feeling tears welling in the corners of his eyes and sticking to his thick eyelashes when they've barely started. “I told you to stop calling me that,” he griped, latching onto the only thing he could think to complain about.
“My bad.” Hoffman didn't sound apologetic in the least.
Biting back an indignant growl, Peter braced his arms against Hoffman again; this time against his soft stomach. With his palms pressed into the malleable flesh, he could just make out the firm muscles that sat dormant underneath. There was real power in Hoffman’s body, and Peter was often reminded of it in moments like this. He was sure that for many, underestimating Hoffman might very well be their final mistake. It was a good thing he’s always seen him for what he was.
(As if ‘what he was’ wasn't making Peter’s heart bleed his love, his affections pouring freely like oozing warmth from so many puncture wounds. As if he weren’t exacerbating it by flaying himself open for Hoffman like he was. As if his wet, red insides weren’t exposed to him in all of their horrible glory, waiting to be claimed. As if Hoffman wasn't permeating every fiber of his body, setting each and everyone one of his nerves on fire.)
It became easier to move after a moment or two of the exercise, and soon enough Peter was very nearly bouncing himself on Hoffman’s cock with the closest thing he could refer to as ‘ease’. He was also doing his best to find a rhythm that suited his thighs, which were already acquiring a dull ache from the repetitive movement. Come on, he urged himself, you can do better than that. What gives?
Maybe he was just getting a little old for this. It was one thing to be this active in bed back in college, but Peter was pushing the big five-o with all of the achey joints to show for it. No amount of FBI training could make up for the fact that he wasn’t as spry as he used to be and was making a habit of jumping into the sheets with a lovesick serial killer anyways.
His hips were next to begin protesting the effort. Not enough to slow him, but he knew that by the end of it all he would be beyond sore, wrung dry, and exhausted.
Then again, when wasn’t he exhausted after a night with Hoffman?
Still, it happened a bit sooner than he had anticipated. God, his age really was catching up with him. The heat building in his abdomen, while pleasant and addictive, wouldn't be enough to distract him from the burn in his muscles for much longer.
“Peter?” The voice of his annoyance, low and gravelly and thick with arousal.
“What?” He snapped back, impatient and all too aware of the sweat beading at his hairline from the effort he was putting in.
“Take it easy.” Hoffman laughed. “You’re gonna pull a muscle or something.”
“You take it,” Peter grumbled in response. Not his best comeback, admittedly.
Just as his pace was beginning to stutter, he felt those nails again, those trimmed little crescents pressing into the meat of his strong thighs. A small, curious sound of acknowledgement slipped past his lips, but the forefront of his mind was occupied with fucking himself on Hoffman’s stupid girth.
The apprentice's muscles tensed. Subtly, but Peter noticed it.
His alarm bells barely had time to go off before he suddenly felt the brunt of Hoffman’s weight crashing into him. A yelp of surprise escaped his throat half a moment later, turning into a raspy wheeze as the wind was knocked out of his lungs. He’d been caught off guard; Hoffman had effectively bowled him over, flat onto his back with his legs hiked up past the point of comfort. I fucking knew you were up to something, you-
Peter was strong. More than strong enough to move Hoffman in general- hell, he’d all but thrown him into that damned glass deathtrap - but his companion was quick, clever, and determined not to give Peter even the opportunity to fight. He used his heavier bulk to his advantage, flattening himself out above Peter to fully crush him into the mattress and gripping his wrists in two meaty hands.
He howled, frantic and enraged at the sudden mutiny. “Hoffman! Get the fuck off me!”
Thrashing under the oppressive weight was no use. He was still halfway stuffed, and all it took was one sharp thrust to punch the fight (as well as a long, drawn-out groan) out of Peter. His limbs seemed to turn to jelly against his will, going loose and pliant as his sweet spot was rubbed up against and his t-dick was pinned under warm heft.
Hoffman hummed, all at once smug and smitten. “C’mon, Pete.” He murmured, voice traitorously sweet, “I’ll take care of you. Just relax ‘n let me.”
“I’m gonna kill you,” Peter hissed. He meant for it to sound vicious, to sound deadly, but Hoffman was immune to the lethal venom dripping from his trembling voice. It was his drug of choice, after all. “I mean it, Mark.”
“You're so pretty when you're mad at me.” Hoffman murmured, sounding breathless, awestruck. Peter responded to the cloying words with a furious jerk of his body, only to remain firmly contained. Even getting a full breath in was something of a struggle, with the way his lungs were compressed under Hoffman’s heavy weight.
“You’re crushing me, you fat fucking moron!” He dropped his head back against the bedding, teeth gritted in an indignant snarl.
Distantly, through the haze of anger and arousal, he could see Hoffman smirk like he’d said something funny.
“And you’re enjoying it so much, aren’t you?” He countered. He bared his own teeth in what could have been a wicked grin or a threatening display, and Peter would have seen no difference. The worst part was that he wasn’t wrong; despite his own difficulties in opening himself enough to comfortably receive, he was currently wetter than he’d have ever thought possible. It wasn’t long before Hoffman caved to his baser instincts and gave another roll of his hips, testing the waters, testing Peter’s compliance. He was itching to move, wound up and needy as he always got in the thick of it.
Hoffman was listening, of course. Despite all the peacocking, Peter knew that he was waiting diligently to hear something specific, a sign that he couldn’t possibly miss.
That sign conveniently never left Peter’s lips. He huffed and puffed and growled and spit but never once did he utter the one thing that would put an end to all of this. Not even when his back twinged in pain at the position, at the stress, at the impatient rhythm beginning to form as Hoffman bullied his way further inside. It was convenient, and merciful, to give Peter that out. He didn’t have to ask- he could say whatever he wanted, and Hoffman understood what it was that he truly needed. He could take, and take, and take, and Peter could fight him on it to his heart’s content.
And now, squeezing his eyes shut, he swore he could feel his organs re-arrange in real time, feel his ribcage cracking apart from the inside.
“I- I fucking- ah- I hate your stupid fucking-” Peter’s protests were breathy and a pitch higher than normal, utterly embarrassing to hear out loud. The fact that he sounded like this for Mark fucking Hoffman was just the icing on the proverbial, mortifying cake.
Hoffman crooned in response. “Oh, but you love me, don’t you, Pete? Just let me hear you say it.”
“Shut up!” Peter barked. His face was flushed a deep red, helpless to the overly-sweet tone and indignant despite it. “You motherfucker!”
“Didn't say ‘no’,” Hoffman sounded delighted. He was on cloud fucking nine, clearly enjoying the position he had Peter in. On a particularly nice thrust, Peter whined so loudly that he was briefly afraid they would wake Lindsey in the next apartment over, and god, he couldn't imagine what she would say. If only she knew (and she did) that her partner of five years was being ruthlessly, lovingly taken by a man he couldn't go a single work shift without bitching about, would she laugh? Would she show concern for Peter’s mental state? Would she come in, guns blazing, and empty a clip into the detective’s broad back?
(The reality, unbeknownst to him, was that she would toss pillows at the both of them and beg them to be quieter. It was a reality that came closer and closer to unfolding each time he brought Hoffman back to his apartment.)
Peter threw his head back in the next moment, unable to hold onto the thought with his mind in such a daze. It took him a moment to even register that he was keening and whining, the sound so foreign to his ears that he could scarcely believe the noises were coming from his own mouth.
Hoffman seemed unable to believe it either, from the way his eyes were fixed on Peter. The stare he had leveled with the FBI agent was just edging on amazement, maybe wonder, and it was so out of place for a moment like this that Peter wanted to hit him for it. Then again, maybe he just couldn't stand to be watched with such a reverent, fond gaze.
“Stop staring like that-” Peter's voice was wavering.
“I can't help it.” Hoffman confessed. His voice was entirely too earnest as he leaned in closer, smothering Peter even further. A strangled gasp escaped him as he tried to get a breath in, just as Hoffman closed his teeth around the lobe of his ear. “You’re just so damn perfect.”
The hot breath against his ear was almost edging on too much, the hair on the back of his neck bristling. A full-on whimper was dislodged from Peter’s throat and he nearly bit through his tongue in his attempt to stop it. Horrified, he tugged his head to the side and away from Hoffman’s mouth, only for that mouth to find a new purpose in trailing kisses and bites along his jawline.
Hoffman loved to bite him more than anything else. It was something that carried over from when they first started doing this… whatever it was that they were doing. In the beginning it had been an outlet for spite, for hate, for mutual anger and annoyance with each other manifested in the form of perfect teeth-sculpts embedded in soft flesh. But here, now, it was different. The meaning had changed and Peter could feel it, every mark left behind by the apprentice an expression beyond words. He was obsessed with staking his claim, and making his feelings known in the only way he knew how.
A veritable warpath of lovebites.
“You’re- fuck, ahn- you’re slobbering on me,” Peter complained.
“Mm. My bad.” Hoffman murmured back, punctuated by a sharp thrust inside.
Even as he said it, Peter could feel him grinning against the side of his throat. Annoying. Infuriating. Insufferable. There was an entire arsenal of things Hoffman could be called. He was lucky that Peter was too busy melting into all of his nipping to start prattling them off.
He could tell when Mark was getting close, of course. He’d slept with the man too many times to not know all of his tells, to recognize the increasingly fervent pace and the hitched, needy tone seeping into his groans and growls. He had a harder time keeping a handle on himself like this; his pace grew sloppier and more desperate. He was mercilessly slamming his hips into Peter’s now, taking and taking and taking. He was also sinking more and more of that weight into him, overwhelming and stifling, seemingly trying in earnest to make him one with the mattress.
Peter could hardly complain when his cock was being smothered so nicely by Hoffman’s lower belly. On each thrust he found himself grinding into the soft fat of him, and it felt so good that he could weep. So good he could just…-
“Love you.” Hoffman whined, hopelessly meaning it. Peter couldn’t finish his thought. He couldn’t force the words out into the open, no matter how much he wanted to. He settled for looping his strong arms around Hoffman’s neck and balling his fists until his knuckles were white. Settled for moaning softly, quietly, just beside Hoffman’s ear as he drove his cock impossibly deep. So soft and quiet, in fact, that he might still be able to deny it afterwards.
The pace stuttered; Hoffman was whipped up into a frenzy now, pummeling his insides with reckless abandon as he chased his orgasm. Peter’s legs were protesting the position and he could feel the burn of it in his thighs. “Slow down, fuck,” he managed to hiss.
His complaint fell on deaf ears as the apprentice fucked into him, using him like a toy. Despite his complaining- Peter would take literally any opportunity to complain- he was nothing but thrilled at this outcome. Hoffman would know if he needed to stop.
Caught in the heat of the moment, Peter didn't even think to consider where this conviction had come from, that Hoffman would do right by him.
“Peter,” the man all but wailed for him. “C- close- I’m gonna-”
Fuck. They’d forgotten again.
“Out! Pull-!” Peter yelped, much too late to prevent what was already about to happen.
Hoffman honestly might not have even heard him, as loud as he was huffing and panting and whining into the side of the agent’s throat. He was lost in it completely, that lovesick fucking moron, and it wasn’t long before he was rutting uneven, stuttering thrusts into Peter and grinding their hips together as tightly as he could manage. A stutter, a sharp intake of breath, and suddenly Peter was being filled seemingly beyond his max capacity.
“Mark!” He gasped, indignant, knowing he wouldn't be far behind. He clung for dear life, managing to feel small under a man he typically looked down his nose at. Hoffman slowed but did not stop his movements as he rode his orgasm out, emptying a seemingly endless amount of his spend into Peter’s cunt and leaving him writhing and keening.
All of the apprentice’s weight bearing down on him was starting to become too much, stifling and overpowering in the worst and best ways, making it extraordinarily difficult to pull in a proper gulp of air. It only served to further liquify Peter’s brain, however. He felt lightheaded and dizzy as he struggled, and even more so as his cock was smothered in the soft heft of Hoffman’s belly. It was hot, slick with sweat and Peter’s own arousal, and his desperate humping against it was ultimately what did him in.
Everything was building and building and building until he could feel it all cresting over and his orgasm washed over him with a force he wasn't ready for, sweeping him away momentarily.
When he came back to himself his ears were ringing, and Hoffman was swiping fat tears from his cheek with his tongue.
Groaning, stiff limbs aching, Peter released his arms from his hold around the detective’s neck and used one hand to push his big, stupid head away. “Knock it off, you freak.” He grumbled.
Hoffman laughed, dropping his face back to Peter’s neck to leave more languid kisses. He didn't even think to stop him. “You had fun, didn't you?”
What was Peter supposed to say?
“Shut the fuck up.” That worked. “Were you listening at all? I told you to pull out and now you've gone and made a mess.”
“Oh.” Hoffman pressed one last kiss in, then ducked his head sheepishly. “Didn't mean to. Got caught up in the moment.”
Peter wished he didn't find his scolded animal look so damn attractive. Changing his tone, he sighed, and his post-sex raspy voice dropped an octave. “You’d better clean up after yourself,” he relented, decisively.
At the unspoken request, something in Hoffman’s demeanor shifted, hopeful like the rescue he was. Those damn eyes of his even seemed to gleam momentarily brighter. Peter’s heart ached with feelings he still wasn't ready to name. In the safety of Peter’s temporary lodgings- not home, never home, only lodgings- he just seemed so docile.
Sharp-pointed claws and fangs looked soft and almost kitten-like in the dim lighting of Peter’s bedroom.
“You know,” Hoffman began, unsteady as he pulled himself up to a kneel. “Gotta tell you something.”
Peter heaved in a good, deep breath now that he could. He wasn't about to admit to how much he was already missing the sensation of being buried in sweaty flesh. He waited for Hoffman to continue.
He wasn't waiting for long. “I've got the meanest crush on you, Pete.” Hoffman purred, sounding for all intents and purposes like he could die happy right then and there.
It was no longer than a second after he spoke that a pillow made swift contact with his face.