Takes place during the flashback in SAW VII in which Gibson is attacked by a homeless junkie (or whatever) and Hoffman in turn shoots and kills him. You know this story had to be written sooner or later.
Please heed my warning that this story depicts rape. It could be seen as dubious consent but more along the lines of actual non-con. You've been warned!
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It happens so fast.
So fast that Gibson almost misses it entirely. He had been knocked down to the soggy, dirty ground and he blinks for just a split second but it's long enough for him to miss it. When he opened up his eyes again, they were wide. From shock? Fear? Relief? He couldn't place what he had been feeling in that moment for his heart had stopped and he lost all sense of self.
Gibson was acutely aware of two things: One, he had heard gunshots ring throughout the cold damp air but he wasn't shot and Two, his face had been splattered in warm liquid. Putting these things together didn't take long as he was being pulled up onto his shaking legs by big strong hands.
Gibson looks up from where the dead man lies of the filthy ground, sporting three perfectly jagged holes through his shattered ribcage. He turns his head up towards his unknown savior, eyes wide and disillusioned. His head is spinning and for a moment he doesn't recognize the high ranking officer before him.
Hoffman grabs Gibson by the shoulders to shake him gently, bringing the young officer back to his senses. Gibson stares blankly into Hoffman's eyes, feeling different. The specks of blood are drying fast on his face but his arms are heavy as lead, refusing to wipe away the poison staining his cheekbones and forehead.
"Next time, you shoot first," Hoffman informs, referring to the dead assailant lying motionless on the ground. The man who attacked Gibson. The man Hoffman has killed unjustly. "You owe me."
At first Gibson doesn't know what to make of the statement, too dazed by the events to fully grasp each word Hoffman says. Only now does Gibson realize what's happened. He remembers why he had been called down to this particular shithole and he remembers being jumped. Everything after that is a fuzzy blur. Maybe he tried to fight back, but it was clear that the assailant got the upper hand and that's when Hoffman stepped in with his own brand of street justice.
He was attacked, sure, but that didn't mean the attacker needed to die. He might not have killed Gibson.
"You killed him..." Gibson says almost absently, the orange glow of the fire illuminating the scene before him. "Why did you do that?"
"Hey, I saved your life. It was either him or you," Hoffman replies gruffly, irritation heavy in his voice. "That could be you lying in broken glass and used needles."
"You didn't have to shoot him..."
"Like hell I didn't," Hoffman huffs as he holsters his gun.
"Now, about my compensation for all the heroics..." Hoffman trails off ignoring Gibson. The kid's face is painted with someone else's, possibly diseased, blood and his eyes are like saucers and the lighting isn't doing him justice. All that put aside, Hoffman thinks he'll quite enjoy his reward for all his troubles. "Shall you pay me now or later?"
"I d-don't understand," Gibson stammers, hands still trembling.
"Payment. For saving your reckless ass," Hoffman states flatly.
Gibson scrambles for a moment, patting down for his wallet and looking forlornly at the small crumpled bills inside. He looks back at Hoffman almost innocently, shaking his head.
"I don't have much..." Gibson starts to say before stopping himself. What the hell was he doing? Paying Hoffman with his own money for doing his job. For doing his job terribly, actually. If anything he should be demoted.
"I don't want your loose change, boy scout."
"I don't understand," Gibson said for the second time.
"I had something a little different in mind."
It sounds predatory, dark. The voice has thickened in it's deep timbre and Gibson feels small under the looming mass that is Hoffman. Gibson knows where this is going and yet at the same time he has no clue as to what Hoffman is implying. And it isn't until he's backed up against a brick wall that he catches wind as to what Hoffman wants from him.
"Fuck you, man! I don't have to give you shit!" Gibson shouts out of panic, back hitting a wall.
"I'm afraid you don't have a choice."
He is defenseless as his jacket is yanked down his arms halfway to keep him restrained. He is powerless as he is flipped around to face the wall. He is helpless when Hoffman's big hands went to the front of his pants. He is speechless when his bottom half is exposed to the cold contaminated air of this filthy alley.
The side of his face is pressed firmly to the cold wall and all Gibson can see is the vague outline of Hoffman behind him. He hears the distinct sound of a zipper and Gibson knows that now is a good time to panic and he does. But he can't move. Gibson realizes that this is the moment he should run away or try to put a fight up against Hoffman. But he knows he'll lose. He can't even win the battle warring in his head.
There is a rustle and a shuffle before Gibson feels a big hand curl around the back of his neck, pinning his face further into stone and grit. He closes his legs together as tight as he can and clenches all his muscles but it's useless. Hoffman kicks his legs apart to expose Gibson's backside even more, making the rookie shiver from a low draft.
"W-What are doing?" Gibson pleads shakily, heart pounding in his chest.
"Collecting what you owe me," Hoffman almost growls into Gibson's ear, voice turning darker. Thicker.
Hoffman uses his whole body to press Gibson fully into the brick wall, holding the young officer down with weight alone. Gibson's body is already starting to ache. Hoffman puts one hand on on the rookie's hip and squeezes it firmly, making Gibson struggle for the control he knows he doesn't have. He knows it's futile, but his instincts disagree on the matter.
Gibson tries to pull his arms out of his jacket sleeves but they aren't giving. He's stuck like this. Pressed against a filthy wall and legs spread far apart. Then there's the moment when Gibson feels something poke him and it makes him jump away from Hoffman as much as he can. All Gibson can think is 'No, no, no' and 'This can't be happening'.
"What the fuck-? What are you doing?! Stop! Let me go!"
These are all the things Gibson sputters out as Hoffman adjusts himself and nudges against Gibson's off-limits area. Gibson tenses up, bad move, and starts to squirm but it only seems to benefit Hoffman further. He can feel Hoffman pressing incessantly against him and before Hoffman makes the pressure more firm and real he whispers into Gibson's ear.
"Fair's Fair, kid."
It happens so fast.
Hoffman wastes no time at all before he's pushing into Gibson fully with all his might and weight. He didn't have the common courtesy to prepare Gibson and he hasn't bothered to slick himself up with something. Anything. He wants Gibson to feel everything he's given and Hoffman doesn't care how much it destroys the kid.
The initial breach is painful to say the least. It's like a punch to the gut and Gibson can't remember ever feeling anything this excruciating before in his life. Hoffman doesn't bother to sugar coat it and Gibson feels nearly split in half by the intrusion. The wind is knocked out of him but Gibson is making involuntary gasps and moans. And not the pleasant kind either. It almost sounds like he's dying, or at least a part of him is anyway.
When Hoffman is pushed in as far as he can be, he grabs a hold of Gibson's hips, yanking them back to thrust the rookie onto his manhood further. There's a hitch in Gibson's breathing, if you can even call it that, and Hoffman grins. Gibson's upper half is pressed firmly into the wall as his lower half is poised outward towards Hoffman's groin. It's a strain and a feat that Gibson didn't know he could manage.
Then the thrusting begins and it's none too pleasant either. It's unyielding and relentless. The kind of thrusting that makes Gibson pray to whatever God there is to make it just stop. It's almost entirely unwanted and while Gibson would love to blame Hoffman solely for this pain, he can't help but over look his own blunder. He knows fighting back at this point is useless and if he could just unclench his body, this would be so much smoother. Not completely painless, but it would help a lot.
Gibson is fucked senseless to the point where he doesn't give a damn. With each thrust of Hoffman's cock into his tightly puckered hole Gibson loses all reason to care. His hole has long since went numb and the tingling sensation of a throb and slickness is unmistakable. Gibson has to assume that it's not split and definitely not any form of healthy lubrication.
He can feel warm liquid trickle down inner thighs and down his shaking legs. Gibson has to assume that it's his own blood. Hoffman has fucked him so hard and raw that it has damaged his body in ways he never would have thought possible. The side of Gibson's face is most likely dirty and rubbed raw from the friction of the wall and his whole body aches. But he no longer cares about any of it.
Hoffman is making animalistic grunting noises behind him and his brutal pace hasn't faltered yet but despite everything Gibson still manages to get hard. He knows he'll hate himself later for that but even now as Hoffman is ravishing his body Gibson can't help but be turned on by the fact. Sex is sex and anything remotely sexual has always turned Gibson on despite his best efforts.
So when he comes it's not his fault, or at least that's what Gibson tells himself. For the first, and only, time throughout this escapade Hoffman's cock lodges into Gibson's prostate at the perfect moment to send the young rookie into a moaning, shaking frenzy. Gibson arches his back, arms twisting in his tangled jacket, and comes harder that he ever has before against the brick wall. It's glorious, it's painful, it's disappointing, it's unwanted, it's shameless.
Gibson is held up on his trembling legs only by the force and strength of Hoffman's continued thrusting, riding out the afterglow of his unwanted orgasm on boneless limbs. He's shaking all over and every inch of his body seems to throb from some sort of strain or another. Gibson's unaware that he's still moaning or the fact that his throat is raw from shouting. He's completely pliant under Hoffman's hands, as if that wasn't obvious already.
Hoffman's breath is hitching in a very distinct way. In a way that tells Gibson that his impending orgasm is catching up to him. And Gibson would be thankful for this fact if in that moment he was handled roughly and pushed to the ground on his knees. Gravel and little beads of broken beer bottles dig into his knees and before Gibson can register anything, Hoffman's cock is thrust deep into his mouth.
He has no choice but to suck and take what he's given. He can taste the coppery tang of his own blood on Hoffman's cock and it should make him sick to his stomach. It should make him retch, but it doesn't.
On every bob of his head and thrust of Hoffman's cock, Gibson falls forward slightly and after this happens a few times Hoffman decides to help him. Without the support of his bound arms Gibson is grabbed by the face and steadied in an angle to where Hoffman can glide his throbbing cock freely into and out of Gibson's mouth. Thank the heavens for small mercies, right?
Hoffman sets a pace much like the one he had when he was ravaging Gibson and fucks the young officer's throat relentlessly. Gibson isn't surprised in the least at the amount of brutality Hoffman projects. It should scare him but as far as he's concerned Gibson is almost through with his most traumatic experience and he's more caught up with remembering how to breath with a cock down his throat.
When it happens, Gibson feels more than hears the satisfied grunt Hoffman makes just before he comes. Hoffman throbs heavily on the flat of Gibson's tongue and comes, pulsing hard against the back of the rookie's throat twice before pulling out to coat his face with a few streaks. Gibson winces and forces the bitter fluid down his raw throat as his face is painted with another fluid that shouldn't be there.
Gibson doesn't know how long it's been and he figures it doesn't particularly matter. It could've been hours. It could've been ten minutes. Either way Gibson is different now, changed. He watches on helplessly as Hoffman puts himself away, remarking dryly at what a good fuck he was and that they should do it again. Gibson doesn't know whether to laugh or cry at the offer.
Hoffman has the common courtesy to untangle Gibson from his jacket but leaves him there covered in come and blood, both his and someone else's. Gibson stumbles to his sore legs and pulls up his pants, disregarding the drying blood running down his legs and around his abused entrance. He doesn't know how long he stands there looking at the dead man on the ground.
All he knows is that it happened so fast.