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"Station. Now."
The text reached you at 10 pm, and your jaw fucking dropped. Your heart picked up and for the first time in entirely too long, you felt alive.
"What the fuck."
"Shut the fuck up and move your ass."
That was...more concerning than usual. Maybe you just weren't used to it anymore. You were pissed, yes, but your body was under a fully different impression and you couldn't blame yourself. Not this time. Not after eight months.
"You fucking vanished for MONTHS."
"Move."
"Fuck you."
"If I break any regs you're getting the bill, cunt."
You packed the first aid kid before you got into your car. Just in case.
Because while you anticipated him being his usual charming self, you had no idea what to expect. You’d thought he was dead (and disliked the thought more than you were comfortable with).
You got there in about half the time you needed when going at a reasonable speed.
In all honesty, it was a fucking miracle you didn’t wreck someone else’s car or ran someone/-thing over, because your brain was overheating in your skull and you were a fucking mess. As much as you hated to admit it: your hands were shaking where you were white-knuckling the wheel. You prayed you’d find him so you could bash in his handsome face and give him a piece of your mind (and maybe ride him until you couldn’t remember why you were angrier at him than usual (if he’d let you)). The question of why, just why, but also why he left you to figure it out alone, without a word, a little pointer, a note, anything, had taken over your daily life for as long as he’d disappeared without your consent.
You wouldn’t say you were worried, but you’d wanted to know.
Maybe you’d get your answer now. Amongst other things.
The parking lot was filled decently for the time of night, some poor souls boring themselves to death on the nightshift, probably, when you got out of the car, locked it and checked your pistol before holstering it. Again, just in case. You had very limited information and didn’t trust Hoffman with…most things, certainly not with your safety. You knew better than that.
Intimately.
You shook that thought very quickly. Now was not the time for that. Yet. At least you got the opportunity to utilize your training, because it’d been a while since you’d been out in the field and you were hyper-aware of the cool night air easily penetrating your thin t-shirt you regretted not exchanging for something warmer as you pressed forwards.
At least you’d look good if it was him.
You slapped yourself for that (just mentally for now).
The weight of your weapon was comforting. It was eerily silent after the door fell shut and a dull uneasyness, which made your hand move down to palm your holster as you moved in, settled uncomfortably in your stomach. Your heart felt like it was pounding in your throat and you didn't see another person until you got to the morgue, even then, they weren’t breathing. The coroner’s throat had been slit, while his assistant had collapsed against the doorframe, stabbed in the throat and bled out, from what you could tell. You drew your pistol, firmly ignoring the spike in your heart rate, and kept on going. Most rooms were completely deserted. Those that weren’t held bodies in similar conditions as those you’d found earlier. It was a little more than worrying. Someone had seemingly taken out the entire fucking station. With a fucking knife.
Don't bring a knife to a gunfight, you mused.
Until you came across a Detective whose name you hadn't bothered to learn when he was in better shape. The man looked like he'd fought. Or, tried to. Unfortunately, he'd lost his gun in the evidently unsuccessful process. With that, the advantage you'd had over the assailant was gone. Whoever it was, they were stronger than you.
Your survival was up to chance now. If you shot first, there was a possibility you’d get out alive.
Unless.
The violence that had been inflicted on your colleagues suddenly made your body react differently, because it could have been him and yeah, you might’ve wanted it to be him. You were ashamed of it, but not as much as you should be, and you didn't care because you were starved.
There was a noticeable urgency in your step now.
You needed to know.
Movement caught your eye and you trained the pistol in its direction instinctively. "Stop." You recognized Jill Tuck, very disheveled and fucking terrified and now you were just confused and slightly worried (for the Germans: über die allgemeine Gesamtsituation, ja, ich find mich witzig, danke) "What the fuck are you doing here?"
"He's going to kill me."
You closed your eyes briefly (Please please please please).
"Behind me.", you instructed and she all but ran. Seeing a person like her afraid made your worry creep back in. If it wasn't Hoffman, you were fucked the less fun sense of the word. If it was him, Jill was dead, because you'd hand her over in a heart-beat if that was what he wanted. You'd strategically moved towards her and towards a corner to ensure that outcome in the preferable scenario. She couldn't run. You couldn't, either, sure, but you trusted yourself to pull the trigger the very second someone that wasn't the man you prayed to see appeared in either doorway. But you needed to know what you should expect. You half-turned to where she'd situated herself behind you, unknowing of her predicament, should you decide she wasn't worth it. And while you didn't blame her for it, you wouldn't go out of your way to save her from her own mistake either. If anything, it made it easier for you.
You wanted confirmation before deciding anything.
"Could we use names? Because I have no clue what's happening." She grabbed your jaw and forced your head forwards.
"Drop the gun."
His hair was in disarray, it looked like he hadn't shaved in a few days, because there was stubble dusted along his jaw. A good bit of blood was smeared across his cheek, over a prominent scar you didn’t recognize, a few stray drops over his forehead.
He held an equally bloody knife, likely recently used, because it stained the ground with thick red liquid. You hadn't even registered the words, just the low purr of his voice and you couldn't fucking breathe.
You almost did lose your gun and wanted to drop to your knees.
"Fuck me."
"You mean that?" "Course I do." He chuckled, and you almost caved. But you didn't drop the gun. Not yet. He took a step closer deliberately, "Thought I told you to drop the gun." You clicked the safety off instead. Somewhere between drinking in the sight of your disheveled…whatever the fuck he was and debating on whether or not you should just drop it, you registered Jill shoving at your shoulders. She was, rightfully so, panicking, which you silently paid her respect for, because she had clearly realized you weren’t really planning on shooting Hoffman in any scenario and despite your actions, but you seemingly ignored it. She got past you and you let her think she actually might’ve had a chance for as long as it took her to get a few steps distance between you. It gave you the right angle to get your arm around her and the knife you’d tucked away in your boot against her throat two second later, while you kept the gun on Hoffman.
"Now if either of you could explain, I'd be eternally grateful."
"She tried to kill me eight months ago, and I'm keen on returning the favor."
Jill struggled, but it was short-lived. A little pressure on the blade was all it took to convince her to cut it out. She probably knew you were the better choice when it came down to it. "It was John's will." She responded, relatively calm regarding the circumstances, and you had to give her credit for that. "You rigged the fucking trap." The other man spat, but kept his eyes on you the whole time and you ignored Jill completely.
"Bloodlust looks good on you.” Your cheeks were visibly flushed and your voice sounded breathless and you couldn't bring yourself to care.
"I know. You're not being subtle." "I'm not trying to be."
Hoffman grinned "You want it that bad?" "Yeah. Fuck, I haven't-" It felt wrong, too vulnerable, but you kept going anyways, but adjusted the wording just enough so you wouldn’t come off as desperate as you felt, "I kept my promise."
"Eight months?" "Yes." "I could've been dead." "I know." His smile widened, "Give her to me and I'll make you forget I was ever gone." You clicked the safety back on, dropped the gun and kicked it over to him.
Jill got a second wind.
“I’ll handle it." He stalked closer, gun held loosely in his right hand and when he was about two meters away, you recognized it as yours. You swallowed hard. The closeness to him was enough to kick up your adrenaline after not being confronted with him for the past months. You’d forgotten what it was like to be near him and you’d missed it. He smelled like iron and the cologne you’d missed for too long. Your hands brushed as he took over and you realized just how touch starved you were, because it nearly ruined you. It was gentle and you were entirely unused to it, didn’t know what to do with the fact, but it was something after months of nothing and your body ached terribly while you were struggling not to beg for anything. The man was going to be the death of you and you’d fucking thank him for it.
“Come with me.”
Hoffman brought Jill into a storage room, with unnecessary force as she genuinely tried her hardest to escape, bashed her head into a table (“You. Fucking. Cunt.”) when she didn’t stop and used the time-frame of her daze to throw her over his shoulder with ease.
You were absolutely fucked, because that was the most attractive thing you'd ever seen him do.
Not that you’d tell him that…voluntarily.
He didn’t speak while he sized up the traps and selected the old-school reverse bear-trap for whatever reason. Possibly due to the fact it looked significantly more terrifying than the newer version, but your brain was currently slightly preoccupied with developing strategies that’d get you laid as quick as possible, so you wouldn’t know. The look in his eyes made you want to drop the pretense of composure (if you could call it that, because admittedly, you’d told him too much, were entirely too truthful, for your own good), of not wanting this so badly it made you abandon any semblance of morals to get fucked, completely.
“You’re so fucking hot.” You groaned from where you leaned against the doorframe and got a brief smirk after he’d gotten her into the trap with barely more than a flick of the wrist.
He stepped back and joined you were you were leaning against the doorway.
You recognized the delight in his eyes when she stopped the futile struggle, once the initial panic had settled down and the realization that she wouldn’t walk out of here set in, and just glared at him until her face was torn apart by one of her late husband’s creations. You admired her for it, but that wasn’t the primary sentiment.
You were a bad (or very damaged) person.
He’d just killed a (mostly) innocent person and all you could think about was getting fucked within an inch of your life.
“Game Over.” He turned to you and caged in against the wall, one hand against the wall next to your head and the other on your hip, which he used to make you grind against your thigh once he’d forcefully nudged your legs apart with his knee. “Please-” You dropped your head against the wall with a quiet whimper, your stomach fluttered and your cunt was fucking drooling for him. "Slut. Gonna let me fuck you next to her dead body? Gonna let me fill up your pretty cunt, leave some of my spunk and your cum for some poor idiot to find, so they know about you?" “Fuck you.” You spat, but oh, that thought was certainly something, not that you needed him to know just how much you got off on it, the man’s ego was…impressive as it was, so you went with less obvious and settled on a reluctant “Whatever you want.”
His grin made you want to clock him, almost as much as you wanted to fuck him. “Getting soft on me?”
Small correction: you’d clock him before you fucked him.
You would have liked to, at least, but he’d tracked the movement of your hand from where you’d had it clenched at your side to actively forming a fist and apparently found it laughably easy to get a read on you. A hand curled into your hair, while you briefly reflected on whether or not it was worth it (it wasn’t), and dragged you a few paces away from the wall, before you felt a sharp, extremely localized and clearly planned, pain at your ankle. You were on your knees and staring down the barrel of a gun before your brain could comprehend it. "You have two seconds to change your mind about that.” The click of the safety coming off, coupled with the muzzle digging into the underside of your jaw as Hoffman forced you to tilt your head back to look at him, had your cunt slicking up just like that. "Spread your legs." He kicked your bad knee for good measure, the fucking bastard. "Fuck you" you spat, because you didn’t have the brain power needed for more creative insults right now, "That was low, even for you."
"I'm inconsolable.”
Hoffman dead-panned, ‘nudged’ your knee again and it was almost enough to make you listen, but for what it was worth, your need to push won. Since he had a gun trained on you, you settled on milder, though equally petty, versions of what you’d usually do. “And I’m not convinced. Doubt you loaded it.” Questioning the threat level you were currently in seemed appropriate. “Wanna find out?"
The second you took to let that sink in was evidently too long, because he curled his pointer on the trigger readily, to avoid the implication of gladly.
You listened.
“You have no clue how bad I wanna empty this in your pretty fucking skull.” You spread your legs and he, in a slightly alteration of what he’d done the first time you’d fucked, placed his heavy boot on your crotch. “But I think we can put you to better use.” The pistol was removed from under your jaw. It would bruise by morning, if you went by the ache it left. You fisted his pant leg and tried (fruitlessly) not to sound too pathetic when he fisted your hair and ground his boot down against you. “Open.” You realized how far he was willing to go and that you were really fucking into it when cold steel pressed against your bottom lip, “If you don’t want me to decorate the wall with your brains.”
In theory that was really fucking hot, hearing him saying it was, too, but in practice, you didn’t want to take the risk.
You weren’t that suicidal (anymore).
You opened your mouth, kept your eyes on his and licked a thick stripe along the barrel before taking it into your mouth. Steel was less forgiving than flesh, which made it difficult and uncomfortable to work with, but this was plucked right out of your worst fantasies about the other man, and you were very motivated to please him.
He seemed to enjoy it as much as you did, judging by the impressive imprint of his cock visible through his slacks. You took more, ignored the sharp edges bruising your throat, and let, not that you could do anything about it if you didn’t want it, Hoffman fuck your mouth with his very possibly loaded pistol.
It had you leaking copious amounts of slick.
You gagged a few times, drooled around it, and teared up when he forced it deeper, but he ground his boot into your crotch and that made it all too easy to ignore the discomfort.
The click of his belt made it easier still. “Good boy, fuck” He groaned, low in his throat, dragged out the vowel on the curse, and for the first time, he sounded like he meant it.
You wanted to burn it into your skull.
He got his prick out and gave himself a few languid strokes. Precum was beading at the fat head of it and you couldn’t stop staring. “Look at me.” His voice was strained, “You want it?” You’d never be able to get that image out of your brain: Hoffman jerking himself over your face, because you were voluntarily placing your life in his hands and openly showing him how much you were getting off on the possibility of dying by his hand. You rocked your hips against his boot on your own now. There’d be enough time for your old pattern of resistance on principle and getting beaten for it once you’d regained your ability to think, once you’d gotten it so good you’d forget your own name. Realistically, you’d lash out earlier, probably on within the next ten minutes, his arrogance never failed to piss you off, but right at this moment, all you cared about was getting some friction on your poor, neglected cunt.
You were willing, eager, to do anything.
“Yeah, fuck, please. Detective-” You admitted, but paused briefly before deciding you’d let him have it, “Lieutenant, I want-” and the ‘you’ that almost slipped tasted like shame and, regretfully, less of a desperation fueled lie than you’d like it to be, “…it.” “Good for nothing but taking cock.” The insult was dulled by how obviously affected he was, so you returned the half hearted taunt with an equally half-hearted retort of your own to keep up the dynamic, “Wish you didn’t have anything to back that up on” “Shouldn’t have asked me to blow your back out, then.”
“Go fuck yourself, Hoffman.”
You gave into what he wanted, lashed out, gave him a reason to hurt you, but remedied it, at least partially, “’S not my fault you’re the only one that can do it properly.”, which, effectively, was the same as telling him he was right when you were honest to yourself.
Hoffman hit you, hard, despite your honesty towards the end, and you were immensely glad you'd lashed out. The force if it made you collapse forwards, barely managing to brace against the floor. Your nose was bleeding and it was every bit reminiscent of your first time with him.
That was what it was supposed to be.
You met his eyes, dark, and, dare you say, wanting.
It was the push you’d needed. Now only bracing yourself with one hand, you unbuckled your belt with the other and shoved both your briefs and slacks down to mid-thigh. Before you could say anything, he was behind you and pulling you to a kneel by your hair. It hurt and you lived for it. Both of you did.
Naturally, you encouraged him.
"You can do better than that." You heard the rustle of fabric that indicated he'd knelt behind you and the next inhale came shakily when he leaned in, breath hot against your ear "Smart boy." Before you could react or prepare for it, two of his thick fingers stuffed your cunt and it hurt and you felt the stretch in your whole fucking body and it was fucking euphoric. Also unexpected, but then, maybe you probably should've known better, was the muzzle of the gun digging into the underside of your jaw again. You moaned brokenly as soon as the safety came off once again and rocked your hips into it. Like all those years ago, it hurt but you knew that, coming from him, you wanted it to, because pain was an intricate part of whatever you had.
It wouldn't be anything at all without it.
Maybe that was just fine.
You were two fucked-up people that got off on the others coping mechanisms (or sick pleasure in regards to violence, depending on the day). You didn't need love. Maybe some destructive form of it would emerge some day, if you survived that long. Even if it didn't, what you had was good.
Really good.
Today, you could admit that. After eight months, you were allowed a little sentiment.
"Yeah, fuck, 'S good. Please" "You know," he curled his fingers against your g-spot and you clenched around him, "as much as I like it when you fight, you look better broken down, begging for cock from a man you hate like you can’t live without him." And oh, that made you feel things. Hoffman ground the pad of his thumb into your cock and that almost did you in. Your cunt was pulsing erratically and your breaths came quick and shallow while you desperately tried to hold on.
"Stop-" You'd never thought you'd ever utter that word and actually mean it. He ignored the request and you couldn't even blame him because you it wasn't like you really wanted him to. You wished it was that.
"Please- just, I mean it, fuck-"
"Yeah?" He sounded proud of himself. You nodded like a man possessed and he let up on the pressure on your cock and, to compensate, added a third finger to make the assault on your g-spot and your situation considerably worse. "Can't take it?" Why the fuck where you attracted to him. "No, fuck, you fucking prick, you know this is nothing, I-" He didn't let you finish, "Doesn't sound like it's nothing. You never said stop and meant it. Why now?" You were ashamed to say it and convinced by another slow grind against your overly sensitive prick.
Which was the exact problem.
“No, fuck, I'm too close, please” He didn't let up this time and you dug your nails into his forearm and squeezed your eyes shut in a ditch-effort attempt to keep it together, “You know I don't give a fuck when, if or how many times you come." "I wanna come on your cock, not like this. Not today, fuck, please."
“Christ, sweetheart. How long have you been holding that one in?” He sounded amused and incredibly proud of himself and if you had the mental capacity for it, you’d be livid at the smug satisfaction at his voice, probably take a swing at his pretty face, but you were well occupied at the moment.
“Soon as you started touching me, fuck, fucking stop, please, I can’t-”
Safe to say, you were struggling. Your muscles were straining, contracting, and you trembled in his hold as you fought your rapidly building high and your body’s need to come. You wanted to, of course you did, but you wanted it to be special, however, you didn’t know if he’d grant you the privilege. Judging by his erection pressing against your ass, he was getting off on this pathetic display of yours, and why would you even expect otherwise? Might not be physical harm, but you were still suffering, so of course he liked it. “I’m tempted to deny you,” He stopped and pulled back, painstakingly slow and toyed with your cock, feather light, barely anything at all, but if was still nearly enough to do you in, “but you beg so pretty. And I can’t pass up on having you pass out on my cock because you can’t handle how good it is.” Your world tilted briefly as the other man shoved you down.
The sound of his zipper sounded like salvation (or sin, you didn’t know, nor did you care).
“Please”, you arched your back to the limit when you felt the fat head of his cock rubbing over your hole teasingly and the high-pitched sound you made in response made your whole body flush with shame. Expectedly, it made you want him even more. “I need-”, your voice broke when he ‘slipped’ and ended up pressing up against your dick, “you.”
There, you said it.
Most damning, it wasn’t even a lie.
You’d panic about the implications of that later, as your efforts finally proved fruitful and Hoffman buried himself inside you with a single, harsh thrust. It was too much too soon, actively toying with the line of what you could take and you prayed you’d get a second to get used to it. Instead, he pulled back and started fucking you deep. “Fuck.” he groaned, “Fuck-” you sobbed while your cunt contracted around him. He pressed into your lower spine to make you arch into him and you followed, despite feeling like you were being split open.
“That good, hm? Poor thing.”
An embarrassingly high “uh-huh” left your throat on the next thrust, against your will and barely even registered because you couldn’t think. Pain sparked, brief and white-hot, every time he bottomed out against your cervix, immediately overwhelmed by bliss when his cock dragged against your g-spot every time he pulled back, and sent your system into overdrive. The extent of it was absurd, but you couldn’t help it. Your cunt fucking ached, painfully sensitive to a point where an accidental brush, a hint of touch, against your cock would set you off. There was no amount of strength you were capable of bringing up in order to get your brain to focus on anything but that. You responded to everything he did to you, that much was familiar, but his responses had adapted, and while they were still violent, he was less insistent on pretending it didn’t get to him as much as it did.
At the very least, you’d gotten a little more leash and he was increasingly playful about it.
“Dumb slut, too fucked out to speak,” Hoffman purred, clearly enjoying himself, because while you had been out of it regularly when you fucked, it’d never been this bad. Your body had missed him and he evidently intended to take advantage of it, “You wanna cum so bad, hm?”
You nodded, barely even comprehended his words, and it was all you were capable of doing besides those punched out little moans you made involuntarily every time he hit deep. “I’m tempted to deny you, leave you wanting and dripping with my spunk, and leave you like that.”
The verbal filth only worsened everything for you.
You were so close, and if he’d only touch you where you needed him-
Instead, he wrapped a hand around your throat and pulled you up and against his chest, went still and stayed like that, pressed up right against your cervix. “But I really want to see if you can come without immediately passing out after.”
His other hand splayed across your abdomen.
You keened, arching on your own accord and somehow, he was even deeper like that.
His pointer and middle finger almost brushed up against your prick and you attempted to rock your hips fruitlessly. Hoffman pressed the heel of his hand into your windpipe and you went real still real quick. “Smart decision. I think you can wait a little”, Hoffman cooed, “I’m not done.” You whined and the other man pulled back and started fucking you properly again. Your head was fuzzy and you were fully out of it, unable to comprehend anything that wasn’t his cock drilling into you. “God, I almost forgot how fucking tight you are, and all for me, isn’t it?” Trying to answer was futile, so you gave up on trying. The only reason why he was even talking was to degrade and mock you anyways and you knew, even through the thick, but pleasant, fog in your brain, that he’d have more fun if you just let him have it, if you admitted he’d taken you apart down to the last atom. You let your head fall back against his shoulder in defeat and just enjoyed it. It felt good to let go, to give into him. In this context, he was right about you.
You were good for nothing but this.
And you liked it.
“There we go, that’s better now, hm? Better not to fight it, never did you any good anyways.” You liked that even more. He played into the strength difference, knowing how much both of you got off on it, that you, realistically, wouldn’t have a chance against him. He could just hold you down and take what he wanted, or fuck you up so bad you physically couldn’t leave.
Thankfully, you weren’t in any headspace to question it.
You just clutched at his forearm to keep yourself upright and took what he gave you. Desperation was building, still, and you were shaking with the effort to be good.
Just this once.
But you were so close it hurt.
“I can fucking feel you dripping, sweetheart.” Finally, he thumbed your cock, “Go on, then, come for me.” You were helpless. “That’s it. Good boy.” He petted you through it. Little white spots flickered across your vision and you could hardly breathe as your muscled spasmed and you could feel a fresh amount slick dampening the thick hair above your prick as he did.
You’d never come that hard before and it left you a mess.
Somewhere at the edges of your consciousness, you realized you were crying again, not downright sobbing, but still, there was wetness collecting at your waterline.
Not that it mattered anymore.
He’d turned you inside out and you’d both admitted you’d missed it.
“I need to see your pretty face, fucking hell.” He pulled out for long enough to get you on your back before he forced himself back in, dropped the pretense of caring and used your body to get off. You were barely conscious through it all, but conscious enough to feel the insistent hurt of overstimulation infesting your senses as he continuously bullied your cervix. He wanted you to, otherwise he would’ve choked you out and been done with it. His hand did curl around your throat, and it felt like that was what he’d intended, but he lost his rhythm and squeezed your neck harder very briefly while he came with a drawn out “Fuck.” He didn’t slow down for a good while after, just fucked his cum deeper for as long as he could stand it. If you had the ability to think, the following beating would’ve been worth pointing out it that you could take more overstim than him. By a fucking landslide.
But you couldn’t.
All that left your mouth was a pitiful whine that warranted a patronizing chuckle, when he pulled out, although with more care and slower than expected.
You stayed down for a good five minutes, boneless and exhausted.
“Fuck,” you groaned as you sat up slowly, pants still around mid-thigh, “never gonna get used to this.” “I’d hope so. Watching you stumble around like a fucking idiot is half the fun.” Hoffman mocked, but his pupils were blown, eyes fixed on his spunk leaking out of your cunt before meeting yours, and you flipped him off, not deeming the remark worth a verbal response, and looked away before he could see the pretty pink dusting your cheeks. He’d kill you one day.
You wished the thought wasn’t as hot as it was.
You broke the momentary silence while either of you did your thing: disposing of evidence, the little he’d (unintentionally) left, getting yourself somewhat presentable and relearning how to use your legs on yours, because the both of you needed to get the fuck out of dodge.
You’d overstayed your welcome by a fair bit and your little reunion had taken up about as much time as you could afford staying at a police station soon-to-be murder scene. Still, the question burned to brightly to ignore.
"Was it loaded?"
He showed you the full magazine. "Have I made myself clear?"
"Yeah." You swallowed hard, adrenaline kicking in briefly and as intensely as the new wave of all- encompassing arousal burning through your veins, however, still took his hand when he offered.
"Good?"
"Good."