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Peter shouldn"t be searching the warehouse without backup.
He’s working on a tip-off from the local community, an abandoned building on the East side suddenly experiencing unusual activity; lights on at odd hours, shadows going past the windows, the sound of machinery. It would be easy enough to discredit it as the warehouse being used for a squat, but Peter’s looked into the building"s history, and records state that it used to be owned by the Nelson Pig Farms. It’s too much of a coincidence to pass up.
Peter Strahm has officially been on the Jigsaw case squad for three years now. In that time he’s been stabbed in the throat, watched his colleague get her face torn open, avoided being crushed to death in a coffin, and started a homoerotic relationship with a serial killer.
He’s in his forties, for Christ’s sake. He should be playing golf and taking time to himself, not stalking around a warehouse with his finger on the trigger of his gun.
Luckily, or indeed, unluckily, it’s clear that the building has been used by one of John Kramer"s apprentices, not that there are many left. Hoffman is the only one that Peter knows by name, the others either dead or hidden in the shadows. It twists his gut to think about the other men and women out there who take part in Jigsaw"s sick philosophy, who stand beside Hoffman and delight in murder. Red paint spills across the floor, along with a few random pieces of metal that have been molded into horrifying shapes and then abandoned. Peter kicks them out of his way as he explores the building, squeezing past old mannequins and stepping over discarded candy wrappers.
At least there’s no blood, or none that Peter can see. The warehouse has merely been used to build traps, not a place to hold victims. Peter’s seen worse; men flayed alive with barbed wire, women with their eyeballs removed. With Kramer dead, there had been an expectation that the brutality would end. No such fucking luck.
Peter rounds the corner and catches a flash of black fabric. It could be a trick of the light, but Peter knows someone in a robe when he sees it. There’s apprehension sitting in the pit of his stomach, but Peter adjusts the grip on his gun and calls out.
“FBI! Come out with your hands up!”
Something shatters from the same direction that the figure went running. Peter stalks after them, ignoring the way his heartbeat threatens to climb out of his chest. There’s another flash of fabric, and now Peter can make out that they’re tall, wearing a pig head mask. At least it’s not a junkie in a place that they shouldn’t be, he thinks. Just a mass murderer.
“FBI!” Peter calls again, and gives chase.
He’s led through a maze of hallways, rooms with too many doors but not enough windows, and a staircase to a second level where the floor is rotting through. The figure is quick, clearly no stranger to the warehouse layout, and Peter grits his teeth in frustration as he’s taken for a wild goose chase.
Peter kicks his way blindly through a door hanging off its hinge and is surprised by a punch to the stomach. He grunts in pain, doubling over, and briefly considers firing his gun in retaliation. The apprentice takes the decision out of his hands by smacking the gun away, and it skids across the floor like a stone skimming a frozen pond.
“You motherfucker.” Peter snarls, and the figure tackles him to the ground.
Peter tries to punch them in the head, but the accomplice catches his hand in a gloved fist and twists it back, the bones in his wrist grinding painfully. Peter’s getting too old for physical fights, scrapping on the floor of warehouses, dirt and grime sticking to the back of his suit jacket.
Peter tries to kick with his legs, but he can’t quite reach far enough to knee the figure in their broad back. His wrist aches in the attacker’s grip, and it would be so easy to snap him into pieces like some abandoned plaything, bury him out in the backyard to rot to nothing. Peter wheezes in pain, and spits up at the accomplice, running out of options.
“Play nice, Agent Strahm.” Hoffman says.
Peter stops trying to kick Mark in the head. Now that he’s up close he can see the crinkles of Mark’s eyes behind the mask, recognising the bulk of his body. Mark rearranges himself so that he’s sitting on Peter’s hips instead of his stomach, and entangles their fingers together like a lover. Peter would roll his eyes, if it hadn’t been months since they last saw each other in the flesh.
“I could have shot you.” Peter says, because it’s easier than saying: where have you been, did you ever get a medical professional to look at your cheek, I missed you.
“I’m much more valuable alive,” Mark says smugly. “I’ve seen those wanted posters in your office.”
He ducks his head, and rubs the latex snout against Peter’s cheek. He smells like rubber and sweat, and Peter wriggles his hands out of Mark’s grip so that he can reach for the mask. Mark jerks in surprise when Peter begins to tug the pig head from his face, but allows himself to be revealed to the audience of one.
The scar that rips up the side of his cheek exposes his jaw, the merest hint of teeth. His hair is longer than Peter has ever seen it, stuck to his face with sweat, and his nose hasn’t set properly since the last time Peter broke it. He looks like he just walked off a horror movie set, and Peter hates him so much, especially when his stomach drops as Mark splits his face into a smug grin, lips still full and pouting.
“You need a haircut.” Peter snaps, taking in the full vision of Mark Hoffman on the run. “You look like a hippy.”
Mark snorts. “Are you offering?”
“You’d trust me around your throat with scissors?” Peter tosses the pig head away from them both, it bounces on the ground and finishes face up, eyes looking blankly at the ceiling. God damn Kramer and his stupid obsession with swine.
“Shouldn’t trust you,” Mark admits idly. He presses his thumbs into the knotted trach scar of Peter’s throat, applying pressure until Peter gags with it. “Think I’d let you though.”
“So kind.” Peter manages to wheeze out. “Book you in for an appointment next week.”
“I’ll tip extra.” Mark promises, and bends his head to kiss him.
Mark tastes like the inside of his mask, latex and blood heavy on his tongue. Peter sits upright to kiss him back, licking into his mouth to try and consume as much of Mark as he can. Mark huffs happily against him, hands still tight around Peter’s neck like he’s scared Peter will try and pull away. Peter hasn’t pulled away from Mark for a while now.
God, he’s an idiot. He’s the stupidest fucking idiot on the planet, as his hands settle on Mark’s thick waist, gripping the black robe that he still wears despite Kramer’s death. Mark has killed so many people, tortured hundreds of others. Peter has stood in the blood and guts of Mark’s crime scenes, and spoken to the families of the bereaved. And yet here he is, kissing Mark until his lips are numb.
“I want you.” Mark murmurs against Peter’s mouth. “How long do we have?”
Lindsay has a tracker on Peter’s phone, had forced him to put it on after Peter went missing the first time. Peter, in turn, has a tracker stuck on Lindsay’s, sometimes watches her move about when he’s home alone and lonely. Sometimes he wishes he could track Mark, but he knows bringing it up would have Mark snarling about police interference.
“About an hour,” Peter says. “Before Perez comes looking for me.”
“Perez.” Mark drags out her name like honey, rolling it around his mouth. “She could have been a brilliant apprentice.”
“Fuck you,” Peter says, knowing that it’s true, can remember her reaction to Rigg’s game, how angry and frustrated she’d been. “She’s mine.”
Mark smirks and scrapes his tongue across the stubble of Peter’s jaw up towards his ear. “I could convince her.”
“Like you convinced Rigg?” Peter asks. “Like you convinced me?”
“You’re not arresting me, are you Strahm?” Mark points out, breath hot against Peter’s skin. “You seem to be… enjoying this.”
He rolls his hips against Peter, who bites down on his bottom lip to stop himself from making an embarrassing noise. His cock stirs in his trousers, and Mark grinds down, lazy movements that make Peter’s stomach clench. They last fucked around three months ago, Peter bent over his desk in his office as Mark pounded him from behind. He had said horribly sweet things to Peter, contrasting with the brutality of his thrusts, and Peter had cum with stars behind his eyes. Peter thinks he needs therapy.
Mark nuzzles into the side of Peter’s face and begins to explore Peter’s ear canal with his tongue like some sort of exotic animal. It feels disgustingly wet and Peter isn’t a fan of Mark trying to probe his brain and shoves at Mark’s soft chest to push him away.
“Put your mouth somewhere else.” He says.
“Is that a command, Agent Strahm?” Mark purrs in Peter’s ear. “Or should I call you Senior Executive Strahm now? Heard all about that big promotion.”
The ceremony had been held on one of the rainiest days in Washington, everyone damp and irritable as medals were given out and hands were shaken. Lindsay’s new black shoes leaked dye all over her socks, and Peter had spent the day looking into the crowd for any sign of Hoffman, or even any of the apprentices. He had half expected to see the ghost of Amanda Young in the audience, smirking at him as her throat wound split her neck open like a kiss.
“Tried to send you an invite, but you never gave me a forwarding address,” Peter says, raising his eyebrow. “My apologies Detective.”
“I’ll go to your next one.” Mark says, and nips Peter’s earlobe.
Peter’s ex-wives never went to any of his work events, apart from the occasional Christmas party when the alcohol was free, and they could compare themselves to the other FBI partners. Peter’s memories of those nights are mainly of the drunken arguments afterwards in the cab home, screaming at each other about Peter’s work ethic, his relationships with other members of his team. He could see those same arguments with Mark, only it would end with Mark slaughtering the department, rather than divorce.
Mark distracts Peter from his thoughts by sliding his hands down Peter’s stomach and starting to unbuckle his belt. Peter’s cock twitches at the prospect of being touched, and he grits his teeth, not wanting to look too eager. It’s pathetic that the only person he ever sleeps with is a homicidal maniac who sees nothing wrong with torture and dismemberment.
“I’ve missed you.” Mark sighs, and all thoughts of self-loathing trickle out of Peter’s brain. He thrusts up his hips lazily, and Mark captures his mouth in a kiss as he continues removing Peter from his trousers.
“You’re wearing your good underwear.” Mark comments, giving Peter’s cock a squeeze. He’s not hard yet, but on the way there.
“How do you know what underwear I own?” Peter asks. He should be ashamed that Mark knows the entire contents of his underwear drawer - probably breaks into his apartment when Peter is at work and sniffs his dirty laundry. Peter moves his own hands to slip Mark’s robe off, exposing the all-black outfit he’s got on underneath; plain shirt and cargo pants with the pockets bulging full of god knows what.
“I know everything about you,” Mark says, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of Peter’s grey boxers. “You’re mine.”
“Of course.” Peter says, distracted as he tries to figure out Mark’s belt situation.
There are too many zippers and buckles, in the end, he gives up and just yanks Mark’s trousers down to mid-thigh, exposing tanned flesh and bruises. Peter strokes his fingers across them, the mottled purples and blues, dark in the centre like a bullseye.
“Who gave you these?” He asks, pressing his thumb against a particularly nasty-looking one just to feel Mark shudder.
“Jealous?” Mark replies. “Wish it was you?”
He stops playing with Peter’s underwear and instead lifts his shirt to show off a deep red wound that splits across his belly, just below the navel. Peter hisses with sympathy pain and sits upright to inspect closer – it looks like someone tried to carve Mark open with a saw blade.
“How the fuck?” He asks bluntly.
“Trap slipped,” Mark says, sounding proud. “Took the brunt of it.”
Peter presses his hands to the neat stitches that are keeping Mark together. They’re better than the ones Peter sewed into Mark’s cheek, performed by someone who is used to surgery. Peter finds himself angry at the idea of someone touching Mark, cool hands on Mark’s fat belly. Did they comfort him? Did they hold him down? Did he sob, like he did in Peter"s bathroom, delirious with pain?
“You’re a fucking moron.” Peter snaps, and pinches Mark"s skin. "You shouldn"t be trusted around heavy machinery."
Mark laughs and drops his shirt, covering the horrible injury. “I wasn’t best pleased either.”
“You could have died,” Peter says. “Did you ever think about that, you idiot?”
“But I didn’t die.” Mark cups Peter’s face in his big hands and plants a wet kiss on his mouth. It feels like kissing a fish fresh from the tank. “So don’t worry.”
“I’m not worrying.” Peter snaps, shoving his hands off him. “Just go back to touching me.”
“Bossy.” Mark says in a fond tone of voice, and drops his entire body on top of Peter.
Peter grunts in both pain and surprise, trying to get out from underneath Mark. He feels like he’s being crushed into the warehouse floor, and smacks at Mark’s shoulders to try and get him to ease up. Mark only laughs under his breath and rubs his hard cock against Strahm’s own, still covered by his boxers.
Fuck. Peter tries not to moan, still trying to get Mark off him. His hands delve underneath Mark’s shirt, clawing at his back, but Mark only shoves his face into Peter’s neck and bites him. It’s not enough to hurt, more like a puppy testing out the strength of their teeth, and Peter huffs, digging his nails into Mark’s skin.
Their cocks rub together, sending sparks of pleasure through Peter’s body. It would be too easy to give in, to let Mark rut him into the floor. They don’t have enough time to play nice, for Peter to find lube, to stretch himself open for Mark. It would save time to let Mark plant his hands on either side of Peter’s head and drag their cocks against each other until Peter was pink and keening. He keeps fighting however, leaving deep scratches down Mark’s back, hissing horrible things, and Mark is delightfully smug as he grinds his hips against Peter’s own.
“Give me space.” Peter hisses. "I can"t breathe."
“I like it like this,” Mark replies, slobbering at Peter’s ear, tugging the lobe between his teeth. “You like it like this.”
Peter slides his hands up the front of Mark’s shirt and digs his nails into Mark’s new stomach wound. Mark yelps like a dog, and Peter increases the pressure until Mark is sitting upright, incredulous with pain. Peter’s hands come away red with blood, wedding ring tarnished, fingertips stained like he fingered Mark open.
They stare at each other, panting. The front of Mark’s shirt is wet, hard cock trapped in his underwear, thighs trembling with the effort of straddling Peter’s body. Peter keeps direct contact as he raises his hands to his mouth and sucks his thumb between his lips, tasting metallic blood and his own sweat. Mark’s eyes go glassy as he watches, cock twitching as Peter drools around his finger.
Peter pulls his thumb out and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. A younger Strahm would be embarrassed, but Peter’s too old to focus on the things he does for Mark’s attention. He crossed the line of normality years ago, when he saw Mark Hoffman standing beside the corpse of his colleague and decided to cause trouble.
“Fuck.” Mark breathes, like Peter is the saint of his name. “Peter-“
“I said I wanted space,” Peter says. His voice is hoarse, blood coating his tongue like wax over a cassette tape. “I warned you.”
“You warned me,” Mark repeats. He reaches out and takes Peter’s hand in his own, pressing it against his stomach. “Do it again.”
Peter doesn’t hesitate. Not when Mark is asking so nicely, and they don’t have enough time to be normal, they’ve never had the time to be normal. Peter curls his fingers underneath the hem of Mark’s shirt, feeling the hot glow of skin trying to heal. Mark is practically panting as Peter drags his thumb across the wound, and then pushes inside, feeling the hot wet heat of Mark’s stomach.
Mark howls in pain, and Peter crashes their lips together, an exchange of breath rather than a kiss. He keeps his eyes open, looking directly into Mark’s own watering eyes, and continues to thrust his thumb in and out of Mark’s wound. Mark whimpers against Peter, but doesn’t stop him, only squirms like a worm on a line. Peter is so hard that he can barely speak, wants to rub himself off against Mark as he abuses him.
He drags his bloodied hand out of Mark’s stomach and licks it clean. Mark ducks his head and copies him, tongue only leaving more blood when he’d bitten it straight through in pain. They kiss sloppily, and Peter only grunts when Mark presses his teeth into the palm of his hand, seemingly unable to stop himself.
“You’re insane.” Peter says gruffly.
“You’re insane.” Mark says, pupils blown wide. He inspects the mess of his stomach, the blood oozing from the wound, the stench of flesh. The stitches are half torn, white thread soaked in red. He fingers the destruction Peter has left with a smile on his face.
Peter could bury his face in Mark and eat his way through him until he wrapped his jaw around Mark’s heart. He can imagine how it would taste, hot and fatty, oozing blood as Peter sunk in his teeth. Mark would whimper, but he would allow Peter to consume him, until there was nothing left but a pig head mask.
“Can I fuck you now?” Mark says, breaking Peter out of his thoughts. Blood covers his face, like a wild animal after a kill.
Peter cannot give him an answer. Instead he drags Mark forward by the shirt and kisses him, trying to tell him everything in one simple action. I love you. I hate you. I want to eat you so that you never leave again. I want you to be inside me.
He breaks away, Mark chasing his mouth, and looks down at his stained hands. His wedding ring gleams on his finger, and Peter grunts as he wriggles it free, holding the hot metal in the palm of his hand. Mark tilts his head again, sweetly confused, and Peter uses his other hand to hold open Mark’s jaw.
“Open wide.” He says.
Mark obeys, sticking out his tongue like he’s about to receive sacrament. Peter places the wedding ring on the very centre, gold against red. He shuts Mark’s jaw before he can change his mind, and presses a kiss to his closed lips, almost chaste.
“Swallow.” He says.
Mark looks at him with widened eyes. Peter wonders if he can tell the difference between the metal of the ring and the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. Is there a difference, between Peter and Mark’s blood? He doesn’t even know what blood type Mark is. Strange, now he thinks about it.
“Swallow.” Peter repeats.
Mark swallows hard. Peter’s stomach clenches as he watches the roll of Mark’s throat, pictures the wedding ring squeezing through his oesophagus, settling down into his stomach. Mark opens again, and shows Peter his empty tongue, lifting it to show nothing hidden on the floor of his mouth. The ring is gone.
I’m inside you, Peter thinks. I’m never going to leave.
“Psychopath,” Mark says roughly, and pushes Peter down onto the dirty ground where he sprawls out, body limp and easy now that he’s satisfied. Mark towers over him, wound bleeding wet through his shirt. How many other people have been in his position, staring up at the last son of Jigsaw? Peter wonders if this will be the last thing he sees before he dies. Mark, gazing down at him, with that terrible terrible mouth.
“I’m going to take you apart now.” Mark says, and spreads Peter"s legs apart.
“Good.” Peter breathes, and closes his eyes.