Reaching up to the grating of the trap room, Hoffman pulled Strahm's severed hand from the mesh. It was cold, stone-dead, and heavier than he expected. The weight of it in his palm was surprising, a final withering glare from Agent Strahm made manifest, settling on him from beyond. Hoffman smirked, giving his shoe a dismissive flick as though to dislodge phantom residue from his sole. He'd already cleaned up. Strahm was no more.

He could breathe again.

Then, why...?

Some part of him, the part that was less persuaded by logic, was frustrated to see this remnant of the detective. Crushing him to paste was the only option that had felt right in the end. He had to mulch the man's body beyond repair lest he come crawling back, the very picture of an action hero, coughing blood but victorious. Seeing some part of him escape that fate, however small, was disconcerting. It gave the impression that he could still be out there, having escaped once again from death's machinations. From his machinations. Hoffman almost expected to see Strahm's hand contort into a vulgar gesture, chipped fingernail raised, another 'fuck you'. He grit his teeth.

It was fitting, he thought, that he'd crushed Strahm. Compressing him into a shape that was palatable, reducing him, forcing him to submit in the only way he ever could. Violently. The two had never known anything different. Hoffman had no illusion that, were Strahm here now, he would kill him with his bare hands. There would be no hesitation - if he could bear to touch him at all. Maybe he would use a gun instead so he could play professional, distant and cold, pressing the barrel to Hoffman's throbbing temple after forcing him to his knees. He'd drag it out, teasing the trigger with the tip of a finger until it clicked, until Hoffman begged him to stop, while the sick look in his eyes betrayed just how much he wanted him to continue. He shifted hotly at the thought, gripping the hand, digging his manicured fingernails into the clammy skin of Strahm's knuckles which didn't so much as bruise in protest.

Then again... It would be just like Strahm to wave a gun around and never end up actually doing anything with it. Hoffman breathed a shuddering laugh, giddy at the insult. Baring his teeth at the hand in a self-satisfied smirk, he whispered "all bark, no bite." All bark and no nothing. Ah, but... he trailed those cool fingers along the inseam of his suit trousers. Strahm could have been made to bite. If Hoffman could just have wound the man up tight enough, until he broke, until he was nothing more than a snarling feral dog waiting to be pointed in a direction and ordered to kill... Cold fingers brushed against burgeoning heat and his eyelids fluttered. Hoffman had always thought that Strahm would make an interesting apprentice. Not as effective as him, mind, but half-decent. Hoffman could orchestrate, pull the strings, and he could do the rest. Snippets of this unreal life flashed behind Hoffman's eyes - Strahm complimenting his impressive feats of engineering, Strahm sweating with exertion as he wrested an unconscious victim into Hoffman's trap, wiping his split lip, spitting into the dirt.

It was painfully tight inside his clothes now, and Hoffman breathed heavily. Subconsciously, he reached up to touch the bridge of his nose where Strahm had broken it. He clutched tightly at the severed hand, running a thumb over the sharpness of the protruding bone to center himself. He did it again and again, until it sliced his finger. It didn't work. Clenching his fist, blood trickled to his palm.

In a conditioned section of his sickening brain, a small voice piped up reminding him that Jigsaw wouldn't want him to - but he harshly interrupted it. Fuck it. Fuck John Kramer. Fuck Jigsaw. He wasn't around to know. He was dead, and none of the moronic detectives left would be able to figure this out. He had it all under control. He had succeeded, he had won the game, and he deserved a reward. Thumbing his belt, he eyed the size of the hand. It hadn't shrivelled yet. Perfectly adequate. Letting the coil of leather fall to the ground with a startling clash of buckle on metal, Hoffman flicked open his trouser button and pulled impatiently at the zipper. Bringing himself out into the cool night air, he didn't hesitate.

Wrapping his palm around the outside of Strahm's hand in a bleak facsimile of a caress, he pressured those adamant fingers to curl inwards around him. The slight stiffness to the joints gave Hoffman the impression that he was being resisted, and his breathing hitched. That's right, you obey me now. Pressing harder, he exerted his will until their bodies met completely. Flinching as the cold skin touched his heated flesh, his lip curled in a snarl. Even in death, Strahm pissed him off. Hoffman applied further pressure, hoping his own heat would transfer and make the sensation less unpleasant.

He stroked, cautiously at first, afraid to catch himself on exposed bone fragments or pull his skin on the toughened pallid flesh. Gradually, though, he relaxed into the feeling and began impatiently jerking Strahm's hand along his length. In motion under the pale moonlight, it was harder to tell that the mottled skin wasn't quite the right colour, that some fingers didn't quite align at a proper angle, that congealed blood was slowly oozing from its fractured wrist with each fitful movement. Hoffman didn't look away. Having Strahm finally at his mercy like this was making him dizzy, a sensation only enhanced by the rhythm he was asserting with each movement of Strahm's fingers. He wished he'd made more of an effort to convince the man to do this while he was still alive, but this... It had its own sweetness.

Satisfying though it was - and it was - he craved more. Tentatively, then all at once, he thrust the fingers into his mouth, plush lips parting eagerly to engulf them. The taste of death on his tongue made him gag but he persevered, whether out of dogged spite or delusion, he couldn't say. After a moment, he shoved those calloused fingers back into his throat, triggering his gag reflex again, coughing around Strahm's intrusion. Weak-kneed, Hoffman fell to a kneeling position on the ground. "Ah, Agent -" he moaned around the fingers, muffled, as spit trailed down his chin. Tugging at his collar with his other hand, he worked his tie loose, sweating as he tore open his shirt.

Pulling Strahm's hand from his mouth with a small wet noise, he forced the hand against the middle of his neck, pushing against his larynx with messy abandon and squeezing as hard as he could. Soon he was lightheaded, head swimming. He gasped and choked, whimpering as he imagined Strahm dominating him, voice raw as he roared obscenities at Hoffman. He imagined him screaming, spittle flecking his face as he gazed up into the eye of the storm, watching the bloom of crimson across Strahm's tracheotomy bandage as old wounds worked themselves open. Something inside Hoffman wanted to burst like a dam, to scream too, to cry. Instead, he throttled himself with greater vigour.

He squirmed feverishly as he pictured Strahm sneering with disdain as he squeezed his throat, pointing his gun right between his pleading eyes as they rolled back into his skull. Hoffman leaned back as though Strahm towered above him, eyes gazing sightlessly up at the grating as he panted, working those unwilling fingers, bending them tightly, trying not to notice their rubbery texture. The skin felt like a first-aid mannequin, inhuman, reflecting something he didn't want to dwell on.

He was making sounds he would rather die than confess to.

His other hand reached down and worked his length frantically - hungrily - as he pressed Strahm's fingers so hard into his neck that they bruised him, hearing a small crack of stiff joints as he tried to dig the purpled fingernails into his pulsing jugular. He wanted to draw blood, needed to. Strahm was disgusted with him, frothing mad that he would have the fucking audacity to touch himself to this, was asking him what the fuck was wrong with him, was forcing the gun into his mouth -

It was too much. It was too much, but Hoffman persisted. He was moaning loudly now, overwhelmed, unable to keep quiet. There was a gunshot, and his daydream was blasted apart. All at once Strahm dissipated, and Hoffman was laying in a transparent coffin with glass shards prickling his back like sweat. Strahm was now in a box of his own, separated, walls closing in. Palms braced, eyes wide, fingernails clawing for purchase. Hoffman gasped at the vivid memory, groaning as he re-lived it, stroking himself to the tempo of Strahm's intact fist beating impotently against the walls. Living flesh pressed to raw metal as a visceral scream wrought more from anger - sheer fucking anger - than terror echoed around them. Hoffman drank it in like a dying man, stars fizzing behind his eyes as his breathing accelerated, ragged, drawing shrilly through his broken nose. He brought Strahm's severed hand from his bruised throat down to curl around his length once more, pumping roughly as he unfolded the scene in his mind's eye.

Quickly, Strahm's lungs were compressed beyond purpose, blood taking the place of vocalisation as his body became the only thing capable of producing sound. One hand scrabbled up at the grating, fingers curling in desperation for the sky, pulling at the mesh. Both arms popped out of their sockets, splintered to fragments, and the walls took a firm hold of his head. For a moment, he could do nothing but scowl as his eyes began to bulge. His jaw was locked open in a silent scream that slowly distorted, elongating into a horrible caricature of his former appearance. Hoffman held his breath but did not still his hand.

With a crunch, that hot-headed expression cracked in two and Hoffman was sure he was furious to the end. That final expression, the primitive need to destroy the man in front of him but being completely unable to do so... He won. He won. Hoffman bit the inside of his cheek until it bled as he cried out, careening over the edge. Throwing back his head with a guttural moan, he spilled into Strahm's unresponsive hand in hot, thick spurts.

Hoffman's subconscious rattled off empty threats to his dead nemesis as he panted, trying to catch his breath. For a long moment he remained there, kneeling on the ground. As he slowly came back to himself, he became aware of his grip on Strahm's hand. For a moment he considered throwing it to the ground, leaving it to rot, coated with his fluids. A final humiliation.

It was the smart move.

Instead, Hoffman stood up. He cleaned himself off, slowly tucking himself away, neatening his shirt and tie. Ensuring nothing was left of him here, he inspected the floor, wiping up any drops, spritzing cleaning liquid on any spots that required attention. Not once did he let go of Strahm's hand. All warmed up, it almost felt alive.

They may never have had the chance to work together under Jigsaw, but that didn't matter.

Hoffman had other plans.