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There’s a very fine line between what Strahm would say he loathes and what he would say he loves. If you gave him the ultimatum of choosing between going back into the room where the concrete and metal walls had almost crushed him to death so he would not have to look Mark Hoffman in the eyes ever again, or fall willingly into said man’s arms after a long day of playing cat and mouse because Mark Hoffman secretly enjoyed feigning innocence whenever he was questioned regarding being the supposed accomplice to Jigsaw, Strahm would fold under pressure instantly. He would simply bequeath any and all denial of feelings to whoever would care enough to listen.
Because as much as he wanted to tear out Hoffman’s throat with his teeth and crawl his way deep inside of his carcass to see what exactly was festering beneath the hardened shell of the man while also simultaneously wanting to be as close to him as inhumanly possible, Strahm had to admit that he did actually enjoy being around the guy, much to his internal dismay.
So much so, that he had a mental list of things he found himself to be enamoured with whenever Hoffman would do them, making it endearing to no one else except Strahm. It actually stemmed from one of their first “official outings” (“Date. It is a date, Peter.” Hoffman had said, exasperated. Strahm chose to ignore him.) as two people who didn’t like to establish specific titles onto anything but still felt the need to explain to whomever outsider would ask. This “date” had taken place just a few days prior to Hoffman deciding that putting him in that blasted water cube in hopes to get him off his trail in the least subtle way was the best possible outcome to get Strahm to succumb to his advances.
Which, mind you, was probably the shittiest way someone could ever try to win someone over. But we’re talking about Hoffman here – and if Strahm was already falling at an astronomical speed before, and despite also wanting to wring his neck like a wet towel, then Strahm eventually (albeit a little bit unwillingly) had to forgive him.
.
.
Right?
.
.
Listen, Strahm was a sucker for amazing kisses. Hoffman supplied those and more. Hoffman was also good at taking care of people, for some weird reason, and had helped nurse Strahm back to health from his own self-inflicted tracheotomy scar that adorned his neck from his encounter with almost drowning. Strahm, unfortunately, could not deny Hoffman of the incessant help as much as he loathed the thought of it. He did, however, take immense pleasure in seeing Hoffman’s face twist up in discomfort every time he eyeballed the scar whilst changing the bandage, beads of sweat lining his brow as Strahm bore daggers into the side of his face. Strahm took it in pride. It was a sort of win/win situation here, okay?
And given the situation at hand, Strahm could tell you he didn't see it coming from a mile away, but he could also tell you that water is wet, the world is round and not flat (thank you very much), and so on and so forth. You get the picture.
So Hoffman had whisked Strahm away to a more classy sort of establishment after a particularly stressful day for Strahm, one that had a live Jazz band playing in the background and a few couples slow dancing in the middle of the floor. A soft buzz of chatter filtered throughout the room as the two men made their way to their reserved booth following behind the waitress that led them; Hoffman slipping off his coat and placing it next to him on the seat in front of Strahm.
They spoke about anything and everything, and sometimes just let themselves bask in comfortable silence whilst flickering their eyes over their menus to see what they were in the mood to order. The tip of Hoffman’s pristine leather Oxfords nudged against Strahm’s incomparably worn down Oxfords because he needed to be touching Strahm at any given moment, apparently. Not that Strahm was complaining, or would complain aloud. Again, he just found it endearing that a man like Mark Hoffman - cold, calculating, reserved at times and teetering on being just a little psychotic in other circumstances, and everything in between - could ever be vulnerable enough to express and convey exactly how he was feeling in that moment for Strahm.
Not that he would ever tell Hoffman about those thoughts, though. No, Hoffman would have to carve them out from the recesses of his brain should Strahm fall far enough into the rabbit hole to never recover.
Strahm’s eyes slid up from his menu to look at Hoffman when he noticed the man starting to hum under his breath. How Strahm could hear it beneath all the noise surrounding them, he couldn't tell you, but it sounded…nice? He also noticed Hoffman tapping his pointer finger against the side of the menu before moving it to the table absentmindedly; the faint tap tap tap in tune with the music, almost as if it was helping Hoffman calm his nerves. It made Strahm snort under his breath. Hoffman, nervous? As if. If Hoffman was nervous around Strahm of all people, especially in the very intimate setting that Hoffman himself had brought them to, then Strahm was about as straight as the couple in the next booth over. Which he wasn’t, and Hoffman wasn't nervous. You get the point. Anyways.
He watched Hoffman continue to tap away on the table, only pausing when their food was brought out and an insatiable grin adorned his lips as he licked them in hunger. Strahm wondered if it was simply a tic that Hoffman did without realizing, and he also wondered why exactly he wasn't bothered with the sounds when usually it would irritate him to no end.
Strahm concluded that it’s because, to put it simply, Hoffman was doing it. That’s why it didn't aggravate him.
He filed that away in his head, first on the mental list he had ultimately named “Things that Mark Hoffman does that doesn't quite piss me off but I still want to strangle him and maybe kiss him all the same.”
The first actual instance that Strahm would count of Hoffman dutifully and lovingly (that was a strong word to use, but it felt befitting in a way that Strahm was reluctant to admit) attending to Strahm like he actually wanted to and didn't have a gun to his temple was when Strahm had been late to the precinct on a stormy fall Tuesday. Already, Strahm had been extremely annoyed with the traffic he had to endure just trying to merge onto the highway from the hotel he was staying at while he was in town for the Jigsaw case. It took him nearly over an hour, which would normally only take him about 15 minutes, because some fucking idiot didn't know how to drive and caused an accident on the wet roads (Strahm had let out a long string of expletives in the car to no one in particular because of course this would happen to him on a shitty rainy day where he woke up with a pounding migraine).
Strahm stormed into the precinct with such an intense and intimidating scowl on his face that anyone within five feet of him steered as far away from him as they could in anxious anticipation that he would blow up on them if they even uttered a single word in his direction. With dripping strands of wet hair plastered to his forehead from the onslaught of rain outside, his throat beginning to feel dry and scratchy from the weather, Strahm stomped his way down the hallway, shoes making wet squelching noises each time his feet hit the carpet which had him visibly cringing from the sounds it produced. Strahm wiped the back of his hand across his temple as he neared his shared office, rivulets of water trickling down from his hairline. Perez had a very clear understanding of how to handle Strahm when he was like this since she had dealt with his shit before many times over the past five years, so she fully understood what his problem was when she saw him turn the corner down the hallway. Still, she silently handed him a freshly brewed mug of coffee once he entered their borrowed office and waited, watching Strahm knock it back in one single gulp like it was a shot of whiskey. Perez made a face.
“Forgot your umbrella?” She asked timidly, handing him her own untouched mug of coffee as a sort of peace offering since it clearly looked like he needed it more than her right then. Strahm didn’t answer until Perez’s warm, overtly sugary coffee was sliding down his throat in two heavy swallows. He placed the mug on the desk beside Perez and fixed her with a look before sitting down in his chair.
“Not in the mood.” Strahm muttered, his voice cracking as he cleared his throat, flinching at the sound. He raised his fingers to his tracheotomy scar and rubbed along it, trying to sooth away the dull, aching pain that was flaring up from the cold. Perez watched his movements carefully, then shrugged and began debriefing Strahm on what she found whilst digging through some of the files before he got to the station.
Once lunch time hit, Perez told Strahm she was going to get them something to eat from the diner down the way, leaving him to sulk in his still damp clothes from this morning, not quite drying completely over the course of the four hours they spent digging their noses through a few of the Jigsaw victim’s files. Strahm shifted in his seat, making a face at the way his clothes stuck to his body and chafed across his skin with each movement. He pushed himself from the chair and headed out the door. He knew Hoffman had some spare button-downs in his office in case of emergencies so he headed to the Detective’s office to steal borrow one of his long-sleeves. Hell, Hoffman may even have some dress pants for him to wiggle himself into (though Hoffman, Strahm knew, was much wider and thicker than his own build, so he hopes that he also somehow had a spare belt hiding within his office, otherwise he’d be shamefully walking out of the office holding up the pants with his hand).
Strahm could hear Hoffman’s voice from around the corner and the corners of his lips turned upwards just slightly before squashing the feeling away and resorted back into his scowl. He rounded the corner just as Fisk did and they collided into each other. Strahm immediately felt wet heat trickling down the front of his shirt and he didn't even have to look down to know Fisk had accidentally spilled his coffee all over him when they bumped into each other. He pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers, hearing Fisk begin to apologize profusely, trying his damndest to not explode on the other Detective for something as trivial as spilt coffee. Strahm kept his head held back, eyes closed, teeth grinding together to try and keep calm as he counted upwards slowly in his head, and Hoffman must have understood, or was just in tune with Strahm enough to read his body language, because he stepped forward, half whispering to Fisk that– “It’s okay, go get another coffee. I’ll deal with this.”
Hoffman took hold of Strahm’s elbow and led him into his office, closing the door behind them. He also closed the blinds as well, to which Strahm was thankful for because he must have looked like a right mess and not entirely suitable to be at work in his current state. Strahm perched himself against the credenza by the door, arms crossed over his chest as he silently seethed. Hoffman did not speak at all as he moved around his office, digging into a few drawers in his desk, producing what looked to be wet wipes and tissues (Strahm was not going to comment on why exactly he had those in his desk drawer) and made his way over to Strahm. Hoffman took out said wet wipe, to which Strahm belatedly realized that it in fact was not a wet wipe, but a stain remover wipe. Now that made more sense to him, only because Hoffman was a heavy eater and would quite often make messes on himself so of course he would have wipes to dab away at the many stains that would find their way on his shirt after a meal.
Hoffman hummed under his breath as he loosened and removed Strahm’s tie, placing it on the sleek wood of the credenza behind Strahm before moving his hands back to slowly start unbuttoning his shirt. See, now this is what would usually spur Strahm’s thought process into thinking Hoffman wanted something of him; perhaps wanting to drag his thick fingers along the expanse of his chest and down towards his belt loops, to feel just how rapidly Strahm’s heart was beating as he did so. But Hoffman wasn't after anything, it seemed, as he continued to unbutton Strahm’s shirt, like he was doing this out of the kindness of his heart, before pulling it open and sliding it down the length of Strahm’s arms. He watched as the Detective placed the shirt on the wood top and ripped open the stain remover wipe, noticing how his tongue was slightly poking through his plump lips in concentration.
“You like being sopping wet and stained when coming to work, Special Agent?” Hoffman grinned after fighting with the wipe for a second, fully knowing he was trying to rile Strahm up like he always loved doing. “Or do you only do that when you’re around me?” He flickered his gaze at Strahm briefly in time to see Strahm roll his eyes.
“If I wanted to be like this, I’d have gone to your house and presented myself on your couch like a housewife waiting for her husband to come home,” Strahm gritted out, arm hairs standing up as he full bodied shivered due to a cold draft wafting in from the cracked window in Hoffman’s office. “No, you idiot. I don’t normally make a habit of coming to work looking like I enjoy being a human towel to soak things up with.” That made Hoffman belt out a chortle from deep within his chest, his shoulders shaking from it, as he focused on Strahm’s stained button down.
“What if I said I’d have liked to come home to you lounging on my sofa, waiting for me?” The corner of Hoffman’s lip turned upwards in a small smile, dabbing the wipe along the stain with as much care as Strahm would assume he would handle a hurt animal.
“I would roll my eyes and say, “You’re assuming too much”.” Strahm scoffed in response, shaking his head. He didn’t say what he truly wanted to say – which was that he would have hopped on that idea so undeniably fast it would have given him a crick in his neck from the immediate whiplash he’d get. He can’t give into his urges this early on, though, as it’d only inflate Hoffman’s ego to the point of no return and he wanted to drag this on for a bit longer.
Only to see Hoffman beg and whine at his feet, Strahm thought to himself, nothing more.
It was silent after that. Strahm knew that Hoffman knew he was lying out of his ass, but he wouldn't rebut it in favor of simply having Strahm stay there with him. Strahm scooted closer to the human furnace still tending to his shirt, goosebumps spanning the length of his forearms as the chill from the cracked window got worse. He rubbed a hand along his arm to try and warm himself up just as Hoffman heaved a sigh and placed his shirt on the top of the credenza.
“I tried my best, but you’re going to have to put more stain remover on this in the wash when you get home. Hopefully it won’t come out of the wash stained still.” Hoffman murmured idly and turned to Strahm, noticing him rubbing his hands up the length of his arms. He poked his tongue through his lips in thought, eyebrows furrowing. “Are you cold?”
Strahm didn't bring up the fact how Hoffman was hinting at him going home with him in order to wash his shirt and could only provide him a curt nod, grinding his teeth together to hopefully not have them start chattering once he spoke. He could feel the coldness creeping up his jaw, making it sore as he clenched his jaw tight. Hoffman tilted his head to the side, eyes sparkling in pure glee as he moved forward, tugging Strahm into his chest, his arms winding around the expanse of Strahm’s broad back. Instantly Strahm felt warmer than he did five seconds ago, deflating in Hoffman’s arms. A heavy exhale escaped him, shoving his face into the crook of Hoffman’s neck, his nose rubbing against the side of it like a cat scenting its mate. Hands rubbed up and down his back, nails catching slightly against the white tank-top as it did, and Strahm just. Melted. His shoulders sagged and brought his hands up to grip the ends of Hoffman’s suit jacket, then moving them underneath the jacket to snake around Hoffman’s hefty girth of a stomach. A quiet growl resonated deep in his throat at the feeling of Hoffman’s belly pressing against his own and he dug his nails deep into the other man’s lower back, Hoffman’s breath hitching slightly at the feeling.
“Eager, hm?” Hoffman chuckled, pressing his cheek against the side of Strahm’s face. Strahm closed his eyes.
“Mm, no. Just content,” Strahm mumbled. He did not indulge Hoffman and say that he maybe was just a little bit eager, having gone without touching the man for two days now. He wouldn't leave the office unscathed if he did. “And warm. You’re fucking hot. Have I ever told you that you’re like a human furnace?”
“I think once or twice before. Actually, now that I think about it, I think both times were said to me in bed, but I could be wrong.” He could feel the growing smirk against his temple and Strahm felt his face burn, the tips of his ears flushed a bright red at the thought of them in bed together not even two nights ago. He buried his face more into Hoffman’s neck, his nose smooshing so much against the other man’s neck that he was starting to have trouble breathing through his nostrils. He felt him shake with laughter, the wide expanse of Hoffman’s belly bouncing jovially against his own as he did so. “Hey, I never said I was complaining. I actually like the thought of making you warmer, and would certainly like to warm you up more than what I’m doing right now, but,” Hoffman pressed his lips to Strahm’s temple, lingering for a second longer than normal before pulling away. “We’re still at work, and I also have a case to get back to. As do you.”
Strahm groaned loudly and pulled himself away from the man, instantly feeling the rush of cold air hit his arms, the hairs standing to immediate attention. Before he could fully move away, Hoffman tugged Strahm back to him by his belt loops and pressed a single, albeit wet kiss to his mouth before turning towards the small wardrobe in the corner of the office, intent on finding something for Strahm to wear for the remainder of the day. Strahm grimaced at the sudden wet feeling and went to swipe the back of his hand across the corner of his mouth, smiling to no one but himself, and watched Hoffman dig through said wardrobe. He took note of how the soft lamp light hit Hoffman just right, outlining his larger physique beautifully as he sifted through his extra shirts.
When Hoffman turned back to him, holding up a dark blue-grey button down in triumph, appearing like an excited child presenting a new drawing to their parents, Strahm felt what was left of his facade crumble. He felt utterly enamoured with the man, and mentally jotted that at number two onto his growing list of Hoffman’s unfortunately endearing qualities.
Just within that same week that Fisk had unfortunately spilled coffee all along his front side (and it was only the day after, how convenient for him), Strahm’s car decided it was time to take one for the team and break down.
Quite literally.
Strahm could feel the jittering of the engine finally giving out on itself as he drove on the 78 and he quickly pulled over along the side of the highway, putting the car in park as soon as it rolled to a stop. He knew his car had been nearing its end; he’s had the thing since his first marriage back in ‘87, and it was just pushing over 290 thousand miles. So it’s safe to assume that Strahm had loved his car quite dearly; he had gone on a plethora of long drives with his ex-wife many times to different states to visit family and to also go on a few small vacations, and even recently within the past few months with Hoffman whenever he wanted to traverse the highways to visit the most bizarre locations ever. Strahm had his suspicions as to why he was being coerced into driving in the depths of the night sometimes, but Hoffman was quick to deny any and all accusations thrown his way.
At least it wasn't raining like it was the day prior, although the sky was still shrouded with dark clouds encroaching on the sun, and the ground was still a bit wet. Strahm got out of the driver's seat, wandering over to the front of the car to stare at the hood like it would magically open by sheer willpower. He put his hands on his hips, cocking his head to the side at his current dilemma. Sure, he was roughly 10 minutes from the precinct, and yeah, sure, he was fully capable of also calling a tow truck to come save his ass from the side of the road or even call for a taxi, but Strahm knew better.
He knew that if he did any of those things, if anything got back to Hoffman in terms of him passive aggressively complaining about the money he had to spend on said taxi or pertaining to having to purchase a new car, then Strahm would never hear the end of it. Of how things could have gone differently had Strahm simply called Hoffman to come pick him up.
Which is exactly why, at that moment, Strahm heaved a sigh and pulled out his phone, a migraine slowly creeping its way across his right temple and behind his eyelids. He flipped it open to dial Hoffman’s number from memory. Hoffman picked up only after a single ring.
“Peter?” Hoffman sounded a bit out of breath, like he had just come from walking down the street to the nearby liquor store to grab some snacks for the long day ahead. Some shuffling was heard from the other end of the receiver and Strahm no doubt could picture him shuffling through the many files strewn about his desk. “I’m heading into a debriefing right now, can I give you a call back in, say, 20 minutes?”
“My car broke down.” Was all Strahm could push through his gritted teeth, digging his nails deep into the palm of his left hand as he waited with baited breath. The migraine finally lodged itself at home right behind his eyes as he spoke and he had to close them tightly to avoid the sun's bright rays glaring down at him. Why were they always so bright after emerging from behind the clouds? Strahm groaned loudly at the thought, then immediately cursed himself and winced as the sounds vibrated around in his skull, amplifying every little noise for his migraine to eat away at.
Not even a few seconds had passed before he heard Hoffman grunt an affirmative and more shuffling was heard, then the sound of keys jangling around when he said, “Hold tight, sweetheart. Send me your location and I will be there soon.” Then promptly hung up, giving no room for Strahm to retaliate the sudden and, quite frankly, out of nowhere pet name that always had Strahm’s face heating up like he had gotten a sunburn on a particularly hot day.
So he waited. He paced around in the dirt on the other side of his car, the wind whipping around him every time a car blazed past him on the highway and all he wanted was to go right back home and into bed. To forget this day even happened because it really would be just his luck that shit would come raining down on him multiple times in the same week.
Strahm sighed heavily, dragging a palm down across his face, then back up to rub at his temples.
Fuck, his head was killing him.
It couldn't have been more than 5 minutes from when he last spoke to Hoffman when he heard a car pulling up behind him and turned around, meeting Hoffman’s eyes through the windshield as he put his dark blue Lincoln into park right behind his own. He must've been speeding to get here, Strahm concluded, given the time of day and how little cars were on the road, and he couldn't help the way his heart sped up just a tad at the thought. Hoffman got out and beelined straight to him, not even glancing at Strahm’s car, like Strahm was more important to him than something replaceable. Which, to Hoffman’s credit, Strahm is more important and he would argue with Strahm to the ends of the earth to get it through his stupidly thick skull.
Hoffman’s hands immediately found purchase on Strahm’s hips when he reached him, safely hidden behind the car to any nosey passersby that would peer over whilst driving past them. Hoffman furrowed his brows as he took in the sight of Strahm’s heavy grimace, his fingers still rubbing at his temples, and didn’t even utter a single word before pulling Strahm along with him towards his car. He opened the passenger door, made sure Strahm was fully inside before closing it, and went around to the drivers side to turn the ignition to idle in order to turn on the air conditioning to try and help alleviate any sort of discomfort Strahm was having. He went back to Strahm’s car to grab anything necessary and important that he would need before locking it and returning to the driver's seat. The corner of his lip upturned, his crows feet emerging as the skin around his eyes crinkled, when he saw Strahm had laid the seat entirely flat and had his arm thrown over his eyes. He was buckled in, at least.
Hoffman placed a heavy hand atop Strahm’s left thigh and rubbed it soothingly as he pulled off from the side of the highway, expertly weaving through cars with only one hand. Strahm would chastise him about it later, but for now, he was trying his best to will away his ever growing migraine.
“You’re not going into work like this, sweetheart. I’m taking you home.” Hoffman eventually said, squeezing Strahm’s thigh. Strahm did not have it in him to fight the pet name and could only give him a weak thumbs up, to which Hoffman chuckled. “I could sense you sounded off on the phone. Don’t worry, I told Fisk to go into the debriefing for me, so I’m cleared for the rest of the day. I’ll make sure the house is suitable for you to rest in.”
And he did, not to Strahm’s surprise, since Hoffman was and has been like this, at least to him. He went around the house to make sure all of the curtains were drawn, as well as Strahm’s sleep mask was on his pillow, a glass of water on the bedside table, and some Advil next to it. He then made sure that Strahm was tucked into bed, even if he ended up curling into a fetal position underneath the covers, and pressed his lips to his temple a couple of times, nosing along his hairline.
Strahm had never felt as loved as he did at that moment, and jotted this incident as number three on his mental “Hoffman’s endearing qualities” list as he succumbed to slumber while Hoffman carded his fingers softly through his hair.
The rest of the week went by with no other issues and Strahm was quite thankful for that. He awoke early Friday morning to Hoffman hogging all of the blankets yet again, even though he didn't need them since he always ran terribly hot during the night, and knew today was going to be a good day. He would make sure of it.
Strahm went about his day as normal as he could have; he met with Perez at the precinct per usual and discussed some recent Jigsaw victims files (Strahm had to bite his tongue from spilling anything he knew relating to certain Jigsaw traps (specifically the Jeff Denlon case), let alone any supposed apprentices. He could almost feel the barrel of Hoffman’s gun ghosting along his lower back just with the thought, and even though he knew Hoffman would never, he also knew that Hoffman would). He and Perez went out for lunch instead of staying at the precinct, which was a nice change of pace to remove themselves from their work. Deep down, Strahm had wanted to invite Hoffman to go with them, but Perez didn't know they had a thing going on, and Strahm really didn't want to answer a plethora of questions that were hurdled his way, so he forgo the thought.
Later, towards the end of the day when most people already started trickling out of the building to go home, Strahm stayed put in his chair. He said his goodbyes to Perez about an hour ago and decided he would stay for a little bit longer just to finish going through the last two files he was currently looking at. He must have been so lost in thought, tongue peeking out from between his lips as he turned a few pages, that he nearly jumped out of his chair at the feeling of a pair of hands settling on his shoulders. Strahm didn’t realize he hadn't heard anyone come through the door, let alone move behind him. Was he really that out of it?
Though, he didn't have to look up to know it was Hoffman behind him, the bulk of him blocking out the lamp light behind them. He leaned over him just slightly to press his lips to the back of his head, fingers kneading his shoulders almost similarly like a cat would do to a blanket. Strahm felt his shoulders sag at the massage he was currently being given, head slumping forward as a soft sigh escaped his throat.
“Thought you would've gone home by now.”
“There’s still a couple of files left to go over, and I’d rather not leave it until Monday when I could finish it tonight,” Strahm groaned at a particularly rough dig in between his shoulder blades from the pads of Hoffman’s thumbs, yet it felt good all the same. “Plus you’re my ride.” He added, still embarrassed that he no longer had a car of his own and had to rely on Hoffman to drive him places outside of him walking, even though Hoffman made it abundantly clear that he had no qualms about driving him around.
(“It’s like you’re my passenger princess.” Hoffman said in passing the night after his car broke down. Strahm had given him a wild look and started hitting him with one of the couch pillows as Hoffman squawked, trying to deflect the oncoming attacks.)
“You’re so tense, Peter. Take a break. They won't suddenly burst into flames if you leave them for Monday,” Hoffman worked his hands along Strahm’s upper back, his shoulders, then towards the nape of his neck, his fingers curling slightly around his throat as he massaged his fingers along his skin. At that, Strahm felt all tension release from his body and he relaxed into Hoffman, tilting his head back enough to thump against the Detective’s belly, looking up at him through his eyelashes. “Come home with me.”
Hoffman leaned down to kiss his forehead, peppering them along the creases caused by downturned brows that never let up, and Strahm guessed that’s what spurred him to inwardly admitting defeat. He couldn't argue with Hoffman on that, and discarded the file he was holding back onto the heaping pile to his left. Hoffman escorted Strahm out to his car, opening the door for him like the gentleman he thinks he is – to which Strahm rolled his eyes and told Hoffman he didn't have to do that – and drove them home.
Hoffman decided along the way home that he would make dinner for them instead of ordering take out, even though Strahm argued it would be easier and faster, to which Hoffman shook his head and said, “I’d rather make something for you that you enjoy than spend money on something cheap.” That itself had made it to number four on Strahm’s mental “Hoffman list”, to say the least.
So Strahm found himself lingering in the kitchen, watching Hoffman move around the room seamlessly, gathering ingredients for a crock pot stew that always had Strahm’s mouth watering just at the smell of it. Hoffman met his eyes and beckoned him over with two fingers and a small smile. He tasked Strahm with cutting the carrots, instructing him to cut them thick but not too thick, enough to absorb the broth and spices evenly. Strahm took one of the knives from the block and started cutting, making sure they were to Hoffman’s liking.
“Have you looked into what kind of car you want to buy to replace your other one?” Hoffman asked, stirring a ladle around in the broth. Strahm forgot about that, only because he actually had a good day today with Perez and Hoffman helping clear his mind of stress, even if it was just for a day.
“I have, but nothing really stuck. I’ll go out tomorrow to a dealership to see what they have, I guess.”
“Or,” Hoffman supplied, Strahm hearing rather than seeing his grin while he spoke. “You could postpone it until, hmm, next weekend maybe?”
“Now why would I do that? You know I have a job that requires me to use a car.” Strahm deadpanned.
“Well, I like driving you around. Yeah, sure, I’d let you drive my car if you actually wanted to, but–” Hoffman chuckled to himself, like he had remembered an inside joke that Strahm knew nothing about. Strahm realized all too late where this was heading. “I like having you as my passenger princess.”
There it was again, that blasted phrase Hoffman loved using the past few days that drove Strahm crazy. It caught him so off guard again that he belatedly realized a sharp pain shooting through his finger and down his arm. He shouted, a bit undignified if you would ask him, the noise echoing against the walls, and dropped the knife, it clattering onto the granite countertop. Hoffman turned towards him so fast, Strahm was surprised he didn't dislocate a hip or something. He looked down at his pointer finger and saw a deep gash, just slightly larger than an inch long, along the side of it, blood pebbling up from the open skin and dripping down the length of it onto the counter.
“Look at what you made me do.” Strahm snarled, shoving his finger into Hoffman’s face as he crowded closer to him to see what the fuss was about. Hoffman rolled his eyes. “Saying that stupid pet name when you know how I feel about it.”
“It’s not even that bad, you're just over reacting. Here, let me.” Hoffman grabbed a hold of Strahm’s wrist, bringing his hand to eye level as he peered at the wound. Strahm blinked, a little concerned for what Hoffman must be thinking of, when the man suddenly stuck the entire first knuckle of his finger into his mouth. Strahm’s mouth dropped open in shock. Hoffman smirked around his finger before pulling off of it, the tip grazing along his plump bottom lip.
“What? You can't be that surprised, can you?” Hoffman laughed before sticking Strahm’s finger back inside his hot mouth.
“You– I– What the fuck–” Strahm spluttered, his heart rate picking up at a speed that couldn’t possibly have been normal. His face burned hotly, and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that the apples of his cheeks and the tips of his ears were a strikingly bright red. He knew Hoffman must be doing this to get a rise out of him, or maybe something more, with the way he could feel Hoffman’s tongue gliding over the cut, licking up the blood as it went. Strahm knew he was goading him and he felt it deep in his loins. The sting of the cut was forgotten as he watched Hoffman sensually suck at his digit like he was sucking his cock; tongue flat against the bottom of Strahm’s finger, cheeks hollowing out as he bobbed his head, clearly putting on a show, hoping he would succumb to his advances.
And he almost did, his breath hitching when Hoffman pulled his mouth off of his finger, tongue swiping lazily against his lower lip again to lick up excess drool that escaped his mouth while he basically provided fellatio to Strahm’s fucking finger. Strahm surged forward, capturing Hoffman’s plump lips with his own and tasting his own blood at the same time. He bit down harshly on Hoffman’s bottom lip and tugged, hearing him let out an almost pornographic wanton moan. Fingers dug into Strahm’s hips, curling around his belt loops to yank him forward until their bellies met, and Strahm let out his own deep-throated growl at the touch. His tongue swiped along the seam of Hoffman’s mouth until they willingly opened and he plunged his tongue inside, mapping out the hot cavern as he entangled his tongue with Hoffman’s. He placed both of his hands on Hoffman’s ass and squeezed, shoving him backwards until his lower back met with the edge of the counter, his mouth never leaving the Detective’s as they made out like two horny teenagers in the middle of the kitchen. Hoffman eventually pulled away, his supple chest heaving with the breaths he was trying to suck into his lungs after being deprived, the fluorescent lights above them showcasing a sheen layer of sweat that appeared along his brow.
“The food–” Hoffman whispered, eyes glazed over like he said it as more of an afterthought. The food was no longer on the forefront of Strahm’s mind – he only wanted to devour Hoffman now – but he swallowed and pulled away, but not before stealing another kiss from Hoffman’s bruised lips, feeling him grin against his mouth. “Let’s save this for dessert.” Hoffman breathed out, begrudgingly removing himself from Strahm’s hold and turning back to the broth, Strahm’s wound long forgotten.
How could Strahm deny him, or even himself, of that request?
He went back to slicing the carrots, the faint sting of the cut only spurring him to cut faster.
Dessert never happened.
The instant Strahm laid himself on the sofa after scarfing down the delicious stew Hoffman made for him, head pillowed by Hoffman’s soft yet still quite firm from their meal stomach, bracketed in between his thick thighs and blanket snugly thrown over him, Strahm had conked out. He had had about two and a half bowl fulls before he called it quits with an over filled belly, resting a hand on top of the engorged flesh and rubbing it slowly. Hoffman had eyed him hungrily like he was the main course and not the stew itself, when usually it was the other way around. One of Hoffman’s hands carded its fingers through messy and somewhat greasy locks of hair, gently scratching at his scalp as he did.
He may have drooled an entire puddle's worth onto Hoffman’s shirt, but he would never admit to it aloud.
He was eventually aroused from his surprisingly deep slumber when Hoffman clicked the television off and started shuffling his body to try and weasel his way out from beneath Strahm. Hoffman made a face, pouting almost mournfully when Strahm owlishly blinked his tired eyes open and frowned at Hoffman.
“I didn't want to wake you.” Hoffman sighed apologetically. Strahm grunted as he stretched his arms and legs out before him, similarly like a cat. Hoffman had this dopey looking smile plastered on his face when Strahm peered up at him again and he felt his face flush, turning his head to smush it into the back of the sofa.
“Want me to carry you to bed?” Hoffman offered, kneeling next to Strahm who was still trying to mold himself into the couch fabric. He chose to not wait for an answer, instead sliding his arms underneath Strahm’s semi curled form, bringing him close to his chest. Apparently, Hoffman had no issue hefting a six foot, 200 something pound adult male into his arms because he did it without even batting an eye. Strahm let out an undignified yelp as he was suddenly lifted into the air.
“Mark, you asshole, give a man some warning!”
“Sweetheart, I did.” Hoffman said in an all too innocently faux voice that had Strahm grabbing at the scruff of his neck, which almost simultaneously made Hoffman drop him in the process. “And if you would like to make it to bed in one piece, I’d suggest you play nice.” He half-whispered the last part in Strahm’s ear, giving the outer lobe a quick nibble, making a full body shudder rack his frame. Strahm “hmphed” under his breath like a bratty child and shoved his face into Hoffman’s left breast, exhaling a relieved sigh, his eyes closing. God, did he absolutely love Mark Hoffman’s supple chest. If he had the chance to, perhaps before he died, he would shout it as loud as he possibly could from the highest peak of a mountain so the sound waves would bounce off everything it touched and echo to everyone within the closest vicinity that “Mark Hoffman has a ginormous rack that I would love to motorboat!”
He must have dozed off again – his dreams were getting a bit wild and out of hand…
Strahm awoke briefly once more to being laid upon the pillowy soft mattress in Hoffman’s bedroom. He was being manhandled, almost delicately, as his arms were lifted slightly to remove his button-down and have it be replaced with one of Hoffman’s oversized nightshirts which, to Strahm’s delight, smelled amazingly like the man currently changing him. It should absolutely be no surprise to Hoffman, but he still barked out a laugh when he heard Strahm inhale so sharply he thought he’d sniff the shirt right up through his nose.
The moment Hoffman laid down beside him, mattress dipping under his weight, Strahm immediately turned over to face him and smooshed his face right in between his tits like it belonged there. Maybe also slid a hand up Hoffman’s stomach to squeeze one of them too, maybe even squeezed twice, who knows. Strahm was almost fully back to sleep, he didn't care what he did currently, as long as Hoffman stayed close to him and provided him warmth (and put his god damn hand back in his hair), that's all that mattered to him.
Strahm woke up for the third time to the feeling of being the most rested he’s felt all week, let alone in a long, long while. He must have turned over in his sleep as he was no longer facing Hoffman and his face was also not in between the best set of tits he’s ever had the pleasure of laying his eyes upon, but instead half of his face was shoved into his pillow, partially wet with his drool. He had no strength to force himself to move, nor did he want to move, feeling more like a human puddle that had melted in the summer heat. It still felt quite early enough to stay in bed for a few more hours, so he closed his eyes again, blankets having pooled around his ankles throughout the night. The chilliness of the morning permeated throughout the room as a cool breeze blew open the curtains in the window.
Speaking of something pertaining to the morning…
Strahm felt something poke the back of his thigh when Hoffman shifted behind him, still deeply asleep from the sound of his loud as fuck snores. He snorted at the sound and then sighed afterward. He felt content, enjoying the feeling of Hoffman subtly rocking ever so slowly up against his thigh, chasing his own sleepy arousal even as he dreamed of probably one of his dumb ass jigsaw traps. One of Hoffman’s arms that was strewn over the side of Strahm’s stomach pulled him closer to his body, his hand forming a fist in the front of Strahm’s sleep shirt as he did. Strahm bit down hard on his bottom lip at a particularly delicious moan he heard from deep within Hoffman’s throat. It sounded guttural, and drove Strahm positively insane at the thought that he was the cause of this, of how Hoffman was so worked up and hard against him, even in his sleep, when he wasn't even doing anything.
He took a chance and rocked himself back against Hoffman as he pushed forward, and he could almost, almost see the way Hoffman’s face contorted as he let out the most neediest whine he could ever muster. Strahm swallowed thickly, feeling his own cock stir within his boxers at the sound. He reached a hand back to grasp the supple flesh of Hoffman’s bare stomach, feeling the skin give beneath his finger tips. Another heady groan was heard to his right, closer this time, and Strahm felt a pair of lips ghosting the shell of his ear, breath fanning across his exposed neck and tickling his cheek, morning breath be damned.
At this point in time, with the ministrations being dealt to his ear lobe, Strahm would've thought that Hoffman was wide awake and very much aware of what he was doing, but when Strahm turned his head just slightly to peer back at the other man, he appeared to still be asleep. Fascinating, Strahm thought just before Hoffman pressed down firmly onto the lower part of his stomach, not quite where he needed him most but still forced a choked gasp to escape Strahm’s throat. He settled back against Hoffman’s front, casually meeting Hoffman’s weak thrusts as he relaxed himself in the other man's hold, not caring at all that this isn't the normal speed they would usually go at.
No, this was more…
Intimate? Romantic?
Strahm doesn't know how to explain the feeling of morning sex when both parties aren't really putting their all into it but still enjoying it all the same, even though one was still very much asleep.
He’s never really had this before, not even with his ex-wife. This was entirely new to him, so the butterfly feeling crawling up inside of his chest cavity was alarming, to say the least.
Strahm pawed lightly at Hoffman’s stomach, nails scratching along the skin and leaving faint red welts as he closed his eyes. The front of his boxers were damn near soaked through just from pre-cum, and Strahm should have felt embarrassed but he didn't. It was probably because he could feel Hoffman’s own soaked boxers against his ass, the coarse hairs spanning the wide expanse of his stomach rubbing tantalizingly onto Strahm’s lower back and ass, which were causing the synapses in his brain to violently fire off multiple electrical shockwaves throughout his body. He keened softly, Hoffman crowding against him, basically almost on top of him at this point. Hoffman was panting and grunting in his ear like a caveman with an insatiable appetite, and his teeth kept catching onto Strahm’s ear and, at one point, when Strahm guessed Hoffman was feeling very much his animalistic side, he bit down hard where the skin of Strahm’s shoulder met his neck. Strahm threw his head back, very narrowly missing head butting Hoffman in the face, and cried out so loudly at the mixed pain and pleasure that Hoffman jolted awake behind him, teeth unlatching from the broken skin that was now producing a few droplets of blood.
“Sweetheart?” Hoffman mumbled hoarsely, voice thick with sleep and disuse. He blinked his eyes open very frog-like and Strahm wished to anyone that would listen to hold him back because he was going to throttle the man.
“Don't ‘sweetheart’ me, jackass, you nearly bit my damn shoulder off in your sleep,” Strahm growled, though there was no ill will behind it. He immediately folded when Hoffman began peppering kisses along the bite, his tongue flicking out to soothe what little pain Strahm still felt amidst the oncoming wave of pleasure still coursing through him. He was still hard somehow – they both were – and it amazed Strahm when Hoffman started rocking against him again, nuzzling his face in the juncture of his neck and taking a long whiff of Strahm’s musky scent.
“Fuck, you smell so good.” Hoffman whined, rutting against him like a dog in heat. Strahm sighed and did them both a favor by shimmying his soaked boxers off, haphazardly tossing them onto the ground, and Hoffman quickly joined him in pushing his own down his thighs, not quite fully removing them but letting them hang around one of his ankles. Hoffman crowded him once more, snaking an arm underneath Strahm’s neck so he was laying on his bicep, and wrapped his hand loosely around Strahm’s throat, Strahm’s breath hitching at the feeling. It wasn't enough to choke him how he liked, but just the feeling of Hoffman’s fingertips grazing his skin sufficed considerably, especially when they ghosted over the scar that adorned the front of his neck like a tattoo. Another moan had bubbled up and out of his mouth when it was quickly silenced by fingers being shoved down his throat. Strahm choked at the sudden intrusion.
“Yeah, yeah, fuck, Peterhnnghh,” Hoffman babbled nonsensical things in his ear, his hot breath fanning across Strahm’s ear as he finger-fucked his mouth, causing him to shiver. “Taking it so good, my good boy.” Strahm’s cheeks erupted into a bright fiery red and he admittedly moaned so loud around Hoffman’s fingers that he swore the neighbors would hear and make a complaint.
The girth of Hoffman’s cock sliding against the crack of Strahm’s ass cheeks, its leaking tip poking the seam of where his thighs and the bottom of his ass met with each slow thrust, cum providing at least some sort of lube in between Strahm’s thighs as it guided its way through – it really only provoked Hoffman further into lifting one of Strahm’s legs up, higher than it probably should have gone given that he’s well into his late 40’s and wasn't at all flexible in any sort of way, and pressed the tip of his cock up against his hole. Strahm’s eyes fluttered and rolled back into his head at the feeling, his tongue lapping at the fingers still fucking his mouth, feeling his gag reflex kick in when Hoffman’s fingers went a little further than expected. He weakly pulled at Hoffman’s wrist to remove his fingers, breathing labored as he glanced back at the man, seeing just how wild and glazed over his eyes were. His pupils were blown so wide he only saw black, not a speck of blue to be seen. Fuck, he looked beautiful.
“-In, put them in me, Mark, so help me God-” Strahm panted out. Hoffman didn't have to be told twice.
He rubbed two spit-soaked fingers against the fluttering hole being presented to him a couple of times and visibly shuddered, groaning out a “Fuck, you’re so fucking hot like this, Peter, I love you Iloveyou-” and then slid them in with ease, both of them moaning in unison. Strahm’s head thumped against the pillow, messy strands of hair fanning out across his sweaty forehead as he tilted his head back enough to nudge Hoffman’s cheek with his nose. Hoffman closed the distance between them and kissed him so tenderly that it yanked at Strahm’s heartstrings like a violin.
Hoffman fingered him lazily as they made out, not caring to set a specific pace, rather enjoying the feeling of Strahm’s warmth around him. He knew he hit Strahm’s prostate as soon as he felt Strahm clench tightly around him, breaking the kiss off with a shaky gasp. Strahm couldn't even form coherent enough thoughts let alone produce any sort of tangible sentence to let Hoffman know to just fuck him already aside from whapping a hand on the heated skin of Hoffman’s thigh, thrice, and he guessed Hoffman got the memo because he slid his fingers out of his hole.
The feeling of nothing inside of him anymore had Strahm mumbling, “Hurry, Mark, fucking hurry. ‘M need you inside of me.” which had Hoffman letting out a string of expletives behind him. The bed shook slightly with Hoffman’s movements as he no doubt tried to dig into his nightstand for lube from his position, which apparently was successful when the click of a cap opening was heard not even a second later. Strahm heard the slick sounds of Hoffman coating his cock with the lube, chewing on his bottom lip, half expecting the man to throw all caution to the wind and just shove his cock deep inside of him with no warning, but no. Hoffman simply slapped his cock against his ass a couple of times, sliding up into his curled fist as he did, before spreading open one of Strahm’s cheeks with a wide splay of his fingers and breached his hole with the tip of his cockhead.
Strahm felt the air get punched out of him as Hoffman began to slowly – torturously, agonizingly, even – move into him, the tip no more or less going further inside of him than it was pulling out. Teasing him in a way of what was to come.
He let Hoffman do his thing though, because no matter what Strahm did, Hoffman lived to string him along by a thread until the very last moment. Even in instances like this.
Hoffman thrust into him languidly, each movement making his cock slide further into the warm cavern that enveloped it. Soft pants were heard behind him and all Strahm could do was lay there and take it, no energy to have Hoffman go faster, which was fine by him. Strahm nestled further into Hoffman’s embrace and entangled one of his hands with Hoffman’s that was resting on his hip. His mouth opened slightly, his breath hitching at the sudden change in pace when Hoffman shifted behind him, shoving his hips forward in one single thrust, his cock sliding all the way in until his pelvis met Strahm’s ass, completely flush against him.
At the same time, Hoffman squeezed his fingers around Strahm’s throat as best as he could given the angle, limiting his ability to breath properly which had him rolling his eyes back until only the whites of them were showing, his other free hand shooting out to grab at the bed sheets tightly. “Yeah, you like that?” Hoffman grunted in his ear, still going at a rather slow pace but began canting his hips upward fervently at an angle he knew for certain would have Strahm begging for more. Strahm tried nodding his head in Hoffman’s hold, tried to speak but only garbled moans were sliding off his tongue, along with drool from the corner of his mouth. He could only resort to dragging his nails sharply across Hoffman’s arm, arching his back in sheer pleasure as he rocked his hips backwards to meet Hoffman’s rough abuse against his hole.
Evidently, this would only prove that they couldn't keep the pace slow, ever.
Strahm felt himself be pushed forward until he was on his stomach, face now fully shoved into his wet pillow, and Hoffman’s cock slipped from his hole in the process, which had him feeling empty for a second time that morning. He felt his hips be pulled up until his knees were resting on the mattress and a pillow was shoved underneath him, which in turn trapped his flushed and leaking cock between his stomach and said pillow. At least he had something to rut against. He lifted his head to look back at Hoffman, their eyes meeting briefly before Hoffman shoved Strahm’s head back into the pillow, his hand wrapping around the nape of his neck to keep him there, and swiftly shoved his cock back inside Strahm.
Strahm bit down on the pillow and moaned so whorishly that he felt embarrassed for all of two seconds before he succumbed to Hoffman’s relentless pounding. “Fuck, Peter,” Hoffman panted heavily into the otherwise quiet room, save only for the echoing of wet slapping from Hoffman’s hips meeting Strahm’s. “You’re so pliant for me, doing so good for me. Fuck, I was dreaming of doing this to you, y’know? Of waking up to fuck you the way you deserve. Wrecking your ass so good I’d be the cause of you being bedridden today. Hnnnnghh, shit…” He groaned, the tight grasp he had on Strahm’s neck faltering enough to allow him to turn his head to the side, inhaling sharply.
“Mark, Mark, Mark, please, love, please, please…” Was all Strahm could chant and plead as he was pounded from behind. Hoffman released his hold on Strahm’s neck in favor of grabbing both of his hips in a tight hold, knowing full well that bruises will appear with just how harshly he was pressing his fingers into the skin, and leaned over Strahm, making sure to kiss his way up along the curve of Strahm’s spine to his ear. Hoffman bit down on Strahm’s earlobe and nibbled on it, his sweaty skin sticking to Strahm’s own.
“I’m close, sweetheart, fuck, ‘m close.” Hoffman growled out. Strahm could only weakly nod, his thighs shaking considerably due to the over exertion he was making his body go through from the position he was in. It also didn't help that Hoffman was basically laying on him, either.
One of Hoffman’s hands left the near death grip it had on Strahm’s hip, snaking under him to grasp his neglected cock, the tip an angry red and entirely soaked with cum. At the mere touch, Strahm’s mind went blank and he jolted, going ramrod straight, and clamped down on Hoffman so tightly it had the man seeing stars before full-body shuddering. His knees slid out from under him as he collapsed beneath Hoffman onto the sheets. Hoffman didn't slow his rough pacing, blinking as he lifted his hand to witness just how strung out Strahm really had been. The pearly white strings of cum laced his calloused hand almost beautifully, and only spurred him to continue relentlessly pounding into Strahm’s ass as he also neared his end.
“You took me so well, sweetheart, so good for me. You’re so good for me, Peter, my good boy, I love you so much.” Hoffman babbled, mouthing at Strahm’s shoulder as his hips stuttered in rhythm.
Strahm whined softly, the over stimulation washing over him as Hoffman kept thrusting into him to chase his own release, but he still reached a hand out to intertwine his fingers with Hoffman’s that wasn't coated with his cum. “Yours, only yours,” He whispered into the pillow, eyes fluttering shut when Hoffman nosed at his shoulder. “Cum in me, Mark.”
Apparently, that’s all it took. Hoffman sporadically sped up his thrusts as his heavy breathing became almost animalistic in a way, before slamming his hips so hard into Strahm’s ass that he actually slid an inch up the bed from the force. Hoffman came into him at the same time he bit down on the indent he had previously left on Strahm’s shoulder, re-puncturing it as his canines dug sharply into the flesh. Strahm cried out weakly, giving Hoffman’s hand a final squeeze as the feeling of the other man’s cum inside of him short-circuited his brain (it always did), leaving him feeling warm and fuzzy all over.
At least Hoffman was thoughtful enough to not fully collapse onto him after cumming. He did, however, fall off to the side of Strahm, softening cock still fully inside of him, and tugged Strahm back into his embrace. He licked over the bite mark almost apologetically, lapping up what blood had spilled from it again before kissing over it. Strahm sighed, once more content. And sweaty.
Strahm made a face at the wall.
“I’m all sweaty now.”
“Good morning to you too, Peter.” Hoffman chuckled, smoothing a hand over the forming splotches of fingertip-shaped bruises now littering Strahm’s pale hip. The room reeked of sex when Strahm breathed in, turning over slightly to press a lingering kiss on Hoffman’s jaw, feeling Hoffman’s mouth turn upwards in a mischievous grin so he mentally prepared himself for whatever Hoffman was about to do.
Turns out, the onslaught of kisses being pressed all over his face was not what Strahm had expected of him, and it had him laughing in a way that sounded almost identical to a school girl giggling. Almost.
“You’re making my face all wet because you’re slobbering all over me. Get away, you freak.” Strahm deadpanned, rolling his eyes as he shoved Hoffman’s face away from him, the other man puckering his lips like a fish. Hoffman pulled out of him slowly, rubbing Strahm’s outer thigh softly as he did and moved to sit up. Strahm still had a small smile plastered on his face as he rolled onto his back, grimacing at the way his bones cracked from the movement. He was also beginning to feel incredibly sore from the waist down, Hoffman’s cum drying against the insides of his thighs, and it didn't feel all too great. “Fuck, you did a number on me, you animal.” Strahm groaned, swatting Hoffman’s hand away when it came into his peripheral.
“Sorry, baby, let me make it up to you?” Hoffman offered, stretching his arms above his head in a stretch, his groans gaining in decibels the more he stretched. A cool gust of wind blew through the open window, the sun's rays finally making their way through the curtains, landing so nicely against Hoffman’s tanned, flushed skin when he turned towards Strahm that he just stared at the other man in awe. He was never the one to outwardly admire someone's looks, Hoffman usually did it for him, so it struck him, like an arrow straight through the heart, just how handsome Hoffman looked in that moment.
And then of course Hoffman had to go and ruin it by giving him a look like he grew a third head. He opened his mouth to speak but was quickly silenced when Strahm slapped his palm on his mouth, shaking his head.
“Get the bath running, please. And you should make waffles for breakfast too.” Strahm slid to the edge of the mattress, going as slow as he could to not cause any more discomfort to his lower back. Hoffman pressed a kiss to his shoulder, rubbing a hand along the curve of Strahm’s spine as he got up from the bed.
“Your wish is my command.”
That could be added on to the list of Hoffman’s endearing qualities, Strahm guessed, watching the Detective saunter out of the room and into the ensuite bathroom, hearing the water start running in the bath after a second.
Yeah, number five on the list.
No, scratch that. Number one on the list.
Hoffman doing anything and everything for him at the drop of a hat, with and without him asking.
That’s what Strahm loved about him the most, and his heart clenched at the thought.