corn-fanfiction - Tumblr blog

[corn-fanfiction]

hes on babysitting duty

[corn-fanfiction]

im very normal about this film.

[corn-fanfiction]

if you could make any movie or story have a muppet adaptation which one and who would be the singular character played by a regular human

No Country For Old Men.

The only human would be Anton Chigurh.

[corn-fanfiction]

Hey!!! I wanna make sure y’all can access both my tumblr and my Ao3 easily, so here’s the link to my profile. Happy reading!!!

[corn-fanfiction]

SAVIOUR COMPLEX (Mark Hoffman x F!Reader) (Pt. 15)

(Part 14) Part 16)

Rating: M

AN: IM SO SORRRYYYYYYY when I tell you life has been busy I mean BUSY. But here's part 15!!! Please forgive me!!! Please!!!!!!!!

Warnings: canon-typical violence

After everything, after all this time, the surmounting self help and therapy and books and house plants and hobbies and keeping yourself happy and distant, the first and only thing you can think,

What did I do?

What did I do what did I do what did I do?

What could you possibly have done to deserve this? Waking up on a concrete floor that's covered in dark stains of questionable origin, though you have some sickening inkling. The low lighting, distant hum of electricity, metallic tang to the air…you know exactly where you are, even if you don't know why.

You know even before the voice crackles to life over a speaker above you.

“Hello y/n. I'd like to play a game.”

Despite your premonition you still choke on a sob. You didn't even have enough time between awakening and the reveal to have false hope. That this is a mistake.

“This is no traditional game, however.”

Dramatically, a blinding spotlight switches on. It reveals cell bars surrounding you, next to you, and then you hear the groan of Mark waking up, iron bars between you.

“You've taken Mark Hoffman as your lover despite the mounting evidence that he is a killer…”

Mark stirs, finds your eyes.

“...And he is.”

No. No no no no no no

But even Mark's eyes speak the truth.

“He killed Ted, and many before him, and he will continue to do so, unless you stop him.”

You can barely hear the continued directions. Distantly, you're aware of the question of who is plotting this show if Mark is the Jigsaw killer, but all you can focus on is the hollow point of betrayal that's widening in your chest as each second ticks torturously by. And with each tick, Mark isn't denying any of it.

“However, my goal is twofold. If you survive your test, you will be able to bring Mark Hoffman to justice. You will let the world know what he has done.”

So what are you guilty of? Love? Being fooled yet again? Were you willfully ignorant? No, that couldn't be it. You knew what you knew and nothing pointed to-

But it did. At the end of it all, you know what a coin toss looks like. You had a 50/50 shot. You just chose wrong.

Still, is that a death sentence?”

“If you do not survive your test…Mark Hoffman will have one more thing to hate himself for, and he will be exposed.”

And Mark does look like he hates himself in this moment. But not as much as the hole in your chest is filling with hate for him.

“The only difference is your survival.”

He could be getting framed. It could be a massively complicated and constructed lie to set him up for failure, prison, death.

Then deny it. Please. Before I hate you beyond repair.

His silence is earth shattering.

“Here is your task….

You will have three minutes once your cell door unlocks. In the room with you is a phone. It is simple enough. Make a call. Turn Mark in. Free yourself of this misfortune you continue to find yourself in.

But.

You will have to survive Mark Hoffman.”

Your head turns and, similar to that night after you saw someone outside your bedroom window- presumably whomever is speaking to you now- you realize with a terror instead of comfort Mark's build. Despite his injury, which seems to have been somewhat repaired, he can easily take you.

Why have you so suddenly accepted your task? So easily accepted Mark's guilt and, by association, yours as well?

Because it does make sense. And unfortunately, yet again, you're reminded of the one rule you seem to consistently forget throughout your life.

People lie.

“If you do not make the call by the end of the timer, a lethal gas will deploy, killing you both. Live or die. Make your choice.”

The cell door clicks and for an indeterminate moment of time, you and Mark stare at each other, both of you crouched to the ground. The air hums with the vibrations of tension, almost animalistic. You don't know for certain what he'll do, but you know what you'll do. And so does he.

You don't bother to look at the door before you bolt to it. It flies open and your legs carry you fast towards a table where the phone sits. You're smaller and uninjured so you're faster than he is. The sound of him cursing and bounding towards you sends your heart into a vice panic. He'll break you if he gets you. You'll die here. It's been him all along. He won't spare you if it doesn't mean escape.

Your hand extends to the phone but you're knocked to the ground just out of reach. He's barrelled into you with his good shoulder. You brace for further impact but none comes. Mark stands over you. Behind his shoulder, a timer ticks down in bright red numbers.

“You want us both to die?” You wheeze, still trying to recover the air that was knocked from you. “You don't want to kill me. And prison doesn't have to mean death for you, either. Not with them,” you point towards the darkness of the ceiling, referring to your captor.

Mark huffs and shakes his head. “I can't let you make that call.”

You push yourself to stand. A minute gone.

“There's no other option. Mark. Please. Let's set this right.”

“I didn't kill these people, and I'm not going to jail for it. They'll kill me.”

“And then we will both die! I don't care what you say. I'm ending this.”

You go to the phone, entirely convinced he won't stop you. But right when your hand grips the receiver, Mark has his arm around your neck in a chokehold. Instinct screams at you to free both your hands to counter but you have the good sense to consider the phone in your hand a weapon. Your free hand shoots up to scratch his face, pull his hair, distract him as you pick up the base to the phone and bash it against the side of his head. He releases you, stumbles back.

You push yourself forward. Try to move away as best as you can and punch in 9-1-1 at the same time.

“911, what's the location of your emergency?”

“I don't know, I-”

Pulled again. Forced to the ground and the headset flies from your hand. And suddenly, in a way that is wholly surprising to you despite it all, Mark is straddling your chest. The phone cord is stretched taut in his hands.

“There has to be another way out of here. I don't wanna hurt you.”

He sounds like he means it, but you can't take that chance.

“You already have,” you whisper.

“Whoever put us in here killed Ted, don't you get that? Probably Jigsaw accomplices, like Amanda Young. They'd have to be twisted enough to do this to us.”

Any fight you're giving begins to settle as you digest his words, their logic wedging its way into your brain. The possibility of him being framed seeps back into your mind.

“I didn't kill Ted. I promise.”

He's seeing you work through this in your mind. But something about that sentiment sticks.

“Mark-”

“I don't know how to prove it to you-”

“Mark. Are you a murderer?”

“No, I didn't kill any of those people.”

He's working his jaw. He's growing impatient.

“Will you let me up, please? The cops have likely traced the call by now. The only thing we can do is wait.”

He hesitates but eventually shifts so you can stand. The phone still lays discarded on the floor but you doubt it matters anymore.

“I didn't kill-”

“Any of those people. I know.”

You've made it abundantly clear.

Maybe Mark didn't kill Ted. Maybe it wasn't him in these recent murders. But there has to be a reason Gibson and Perez believe he's capable of the past Jigsaw killings.

The possibility now, the mere likelihood puts you on edge. It doesn't really matter since the police will be here soon. But you keep your distance.

You hear the sirens. Mark is staring holes into your head. You inhale, exhale. He's still in his bloodied clothes, gripping his injured side, hair in his face, breathing ragged.

From here, he certainly looks like a killer.

[corn-fanfiction]

My friends!!! I promise!!!! I'm still here and I'm still writing!!!! I'm just in the middle of grading midterms and working on a musical and trying to get my Masters!!!! But I'm HERE!!!!

[corn-fanfiction]

SAVIOUR COMPLEX (Mark Hoffman x F!Reader) (Pt. 14)

(Part 13) (Part 15)

Rated: M

AN: I'm so sorry you all had to wait so long for this!!! It's been tricky writing recently and we're almost done with this fic so motivation has been tricky.

Thanks for sticking around! CW for canon typical violence.

The next 24 hours are a blur. You go home, shower, eat, sleep. Everything is mindless and apathetic. You go into work the next day because you're not sure what you'd do with yourself if you just stay home.

Gerri tries to be helpful and you don't protest when they offer to drive you home. They stay over for a bit. You watch a couple of old westerns together and eat some popcorn and they're doing everything they can to go on as normal. But even they feel it. The crack. And the way it's deepening.

It kills you to ask Gerri to go on home. That you need to be alone. They understand, if not hesitating. Soon, like before, and like how you told Mark you would be, you're alone.

You knew he wouldn't be able to keep that promise he'd made about you never being alone again. Only a person that makes that promise can break it.

It's 11:43 when your phone rings. You pick it up from the receiver and press it to your ear.

“Hello?”

“It's Agent Perez. Something happened. Mark’s loose. Broke out during a prison transport. He was injured so I doubt he'll get far on foot. Gibson's heading to location and I'm meeting him there. A squad car is coming your way. If Mark shows up, do not let him in. Don't listen to him.”

You try to grip the kitchen counter but your hands are shaking too badly.

“How long ago did this happen?”

Perez sighs and the sound makes your stomach drop.

“Close to an hour. The stopped truck was reported by a civilian.”

So…not reported by anyone else on the truck. You swallow through a dry throat.

“He could be anywhere,” you murmur.

“Lock your doors. Keep quiet. Someone will be there soon.”

You hang up the phone. Your doors and windows are already locked. Short of barring them, there's nothing else to do. You're not stupid and neither is Perez. An hour is too much time. There has to be other places he can go.

But maybe not other places he would go.

The slap of a bloody handprint on the window beside your front door makes you jump. It's too soon. You haven't even had time to think about it…

But there Mark is, bloodied and clutching his side. You scramble away and press your back to the door.

“I'm sorry. I couldn't go anywhere else. You don't have to say anything. I'm in bad shape. I need help. Just some rubbing alcohol and some gauze, something. Please.”

A sound like him pressing his forehead to the glass reverberates through you.

“Mark, did you kill those people?”

“No.”

“Mark-”

“On Angie's soul. I did not kill any of those people. I didn't kill Ted. Please. Anything.”

You think of Angie, of her softly smiling face. You find some nerve.

“Are you armed?”

“I have a gun.”

“Alright. Lay it on the ground.” You wait and listen while he does so. “Here's what's going to happen. I'm going to get my first aid kit and put it in my bedroom. Unlatch the window. I'm going to prop a chair under the handle in the hall. I'm going to take the gun and aim it at that door and if you try to leave that room I'm going to shoot you. Do you understand?”

He listens, is quiet. Labored breathing.

“I understand.”

“Good. I have my phone and Gibson on speed dial. I'm going to get the first aid kit and put it in my room. Don't move.”

“I won't.”

You hesitate for a brief moment, overtaken by a vision of him breaking through the glass as you pass and strangling you, cutting you to pieces through the shattered window. But you gather yourself and move away from the door, to the bathroom. Grab the kit and place it on your bed. You take a deep breath. Exhale. Go to your window and unlock it. Close the bedroom door behind you and take a dining room chair to prop under the handle. You return to the front door.

“It's done. I'm not opening this door for the gun until I hear you open the window. Got it?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Go.”

Your mouth is dry. He shuffles away and you count your breaths, find five things you can see, hear, feel-

The window opens. You open the front door and quickly grab the gun before closing the door again and locking it. It occurs to you that you should've made him show you that the gun was loaded since it's your entire contingency plan, but you check for yourself and you find bullets. Flick off the safety. Stand squarely facing the door at the end of the hall.

“They called me right before you got here. Might wanna make quick work of it before they get here and lock you up again.”

There's no response, just pained grunts as he presumably works with what little you have to stop the bleeding. You assume it's a gunshot.

You don't feel like making useless chit chat so you pull up a chair and sit instead of standing. You can't stand to just hear his pain through the door so you hum to yourself.

“Tape?”

You jerk to attention.

“What?”

“Do you have any medical tape?”

Shit. You know exactly where it is. Sitting in the miscellaneous drawer in your kitchen after you needed to sick a note to your fridge but ran out of regular tape.

“Yeah. Hold on.”

You rise to retrieve it and when you do you turn it over in your hand. Too big to fit under the door. You exhale slowly. Walk to the end of the hall.

“I'm gonna have to open the door. Stand at the far end of the room. I have the gun.”

He shuffles around. You slowly remove the chair from under the handle and open the door a crack. You should just toss the tape inside and shut the door behind you but your curiosity wins out and you look inside. Mark's removed the button up he'd been wearing since you saw him in the hospital and he's raised his undershirt to pick away at a bloody, albeit clean bullet hole.

“Jesus,” you breathe upon seeing all the blood. No thoughts for the bedsheets, but how it looks like a lot and Mark's starting to sway-

You're rushing into the room before your brain can convince you not to and you manage to catch Mark before he cracks his skull on your bedside table. He's so heavy though that your knees buckle and hit the carpet so you're cradling him. No thoughts for the carpet.

“You're losing too much blood,” you start to panic, pressing your hands to his side. “Shit. Hold on, there's gotta be-”

One of Mark's hands comes up to find your face.

“I'm fine-”

“You're gonna have to go back to the hospital. I can't fix this-”

There's a knocking at the front door and your blood freezes in your veins. Mark grunts.

“Go. Maybe I can drag myself back out the window-”

“You'll die if you keep moving. Why did you try to run?”

“Someone's framing me and they've given Gibson and the Feds enough evidence to put me away forever. Give me the needle, even. Need to get away long enough to clear my name.”

The knocking turns into pounding.

“I have to answer that or they're gonna break down the door. I can't- I can't lose you, Mark.” A tear falls from your eye and mixes with the blood on his cheek.

“You believe me?”

You sniffle and nod. “Yeah, I believe you. So you need to believe me when I say we're fine figure this out, but we're gonna do it from the hospital. I'm gonna set you down, okay?”

Mark groans as you remove yourself and he does his best to sit up. Even if he tried to run still, you're soaked in his blood so there's no way you're getting out of this either. But on Angie's soul? The truth has to win it. It has to.

You open the door and barely have time to spit out a greeting before your brain registers pale pink, black hair, and a cloth over your mouth that sends you to sleep.

[corn-fanfiction]

got a damien karras idea: karras x vampire reader (i imagine them as male but any gender is also fine). the idea is vampire reader notices karras’ ordeal, corners him in a night lit alley and gives him a deal: they can make it so he can be immune to the demon at a terrible cost, only to be refused. they show respect to his faith before bidding farewell, kind of a sad story. they can pepper in charms in between but this isn’t mandatory, for example turning his jaw or teasing him “you know little, don’t you?”. im fine if this doesnt get picked up tho, have a nice day!

Anon...when I tell you I SPRINTED to my desk.

I hope this is what you wanted. I love this sad-eyed hunk and his rando vampire friend.

-·=»◆‡«=·-♡·=»◆‡«=·-

Blood of the Father (Damien Karras and M!Vampire)

Rated: T I guess?

Tags/warnings: ANGST, CATHOLIC GUILT, gays being mean to each other, hurt no comfort, religious trauma

It is the greatest of ironies that He cannot step inside the church. Instead, He has to resort to watching from outside the stained-glass window. He watches in the heat, watches in the cold, watches from the well-shaded tunnel of an alleyway. Georgetown was so changeable, but darkness and dimly lit streets are always reliable. The Bible is reliable, regardless of how others choose to change it. But religion? Church? Priests? These are wavering, tenuous. Born on shaky legs and dying on broken bones.

Damien Karras is one so flappable.

He watches him in particular for a very long time. He’s not His only subject, but certainly his favorite, for as long as the dance lasts, anyway. And it does not last long. Yet another leaf threatening to break away with a November wind. 

He’s watching from the ground below, hands in his pockets, the wet leaves illuminated by a nearby lamppost. A swift change in direction and the wind catches a maple and tugs it away with a sigh. It put up what fight it could. Even weak soldiers are still soldiers.

Or Jesuits. He turns when he hears him coming from a half-mile away. Coming from the Macneil residence, bundled up in his windbreaker. Collar turned against the heavy rain. He adjusts his collar, straightens his jacket. Strides along the opposite end of the sidewalk. They meet at the steps and He pulls the priest into a tight space between the steps and the brick casing of a house. 

Damien Karras barely breathes. Whatever he’s just seen makes every simple fright pale in comparison. He’d be jealous if He didn’t feel so sorry for him.

“I don’t have any money,” Damien says. He feels his arms under the windbreaker and smirks. He’s strong, toned, muscles well hidden under any choice of clothing. He could push Him away, really fight him, make a break for it. But he won’t. 

“I know. It’s a helluva good thing I don’t want any.”

To his credit, Damien does break His arms away. He peers back out onto the narrow street, in the direction Damien came from.

“You have no idea what you’re up against. But I do. I’ve been watching you, Dimmy. Not like the other one. But we’re much different, anyways. He’s a certified devil. I’m just…well. I’m a night trader. But I can still offer you a fantastic deal.”

Damien tries to walk as soon as the last syllable leaves His red lips but His arms brace against the brick and the priest can’t budge past them.

“Don’t be rude. It’s un-Christian.”

“What do you want?”

“It’s about time you asked. Do you know the only thing that can really, truly save your soul from the devil?”

Damien doesn’t answer. He doesn’t bother to say God, or repentance, or prayer. The man leans his face close to where its freezing skin gives Damien a chill.

“To be a devil yourself.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sometimes that’s true. Not in this case, however. We have encountered one of the few instances where I know better than anyone, actually. Aren’t you the least bit interested? You can withstand the temptation of that devil down the street, save that little girl’s life? Be a hero?”

“I withstand the temptation of one devil by giving into another?”

“He’s quick,” He sucks against his sharp teeth. “To be a martyr is the best thing in your God’s eyes, isn’t it? This way, you get the title without having to deal with the whole dying business.”

“You still haven’t explained your offer.”

He smiles.

“I am offering eternal life, eternal death, wakeless days and sleepless nights. Sanguine. You’d be immortal, imperceptable, and all for the price of your soul. Isn’t that nice? And you wouldn’t be without company, either. You’d have me, of course. I’ve been watching you, Damien. I’ve seen you, the way no one else has or will. Not even your precious Jesuit friend. You fear for your eternal soul and his anyway. I’m no mind-reader, but I’d say there’s some mutual feeling there. That’s another benefit they don’t tell you about. No one can truly judge you if you cannot die.”

“You can die. Anything can die. And there is one to judge.”

“True. But if you do something much worse first, sodomy disappears to the bottom of the list.”

Damien’s fist collides with the man’s face quick enough that He’s able to register it right before it happens, and He allows it. His head barely moves, his lip splits, but it does not bleed.

“I could go on. Abandoning your poor mother. God cares more about that than who you share a bed with.”

“You son of a bitch-” Damien grabs the lapel of His coat and draws him near. He shakes with rage and tears roll down his sculpted cheeks, mixing with the rain.

“If you don’t believe in a God, then what does it matter? Bring it down to science. I said I’ve seen you. The very idea keeps you up at night. How can you fight against something if you don’t believe in the one weapon you have against it?”

Damien pushes Him away, wipes his mouth with his knuckles. 

“Whatever it is, I’m not broken enough to buy it. Whatever you think you know about me or anyone else is false.”

“And yet you’re still here. Come on. Lay down this burden. Don’t be so selfish as to pawn it off on someone else. How do you think this ends for you? For her?”

Damien looks at the ground. He clenches and unclenches his fist.

“If that, that thing can exist, and if you can exist, and these things you believe in, then there has to be something, or someone to balance it all out, hasn’t there?”

“You’re asking me to tell you if God exists?”

Damien shakes his head, spilling more water droplets onto the sidewalk. He watches them with a hunger.

“I don’t need to hear anything else you have to say.”

The man straightens. “The pain would go away. The responsibility. The guilt.”

“It’s what makes us human.”

The man leans a hand against the brick wall beside Damien’s head. He smiles, then sighs. Wipes his face. 

“I can’t twist your arm?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Hm.” A beat. “I lied earlier. The guilt doesn’t go away. I don’t know why. But it doesn’t.”

He extends a finger, exposing a long, sharp nail and traces the line beside Damien’s mouth. 

“You know little, don’t you?”

Damien waits until He takes His hand away to respond.

“I know enough.”

He nods.

“Yes, I think you do.”

He withdraws his arm from the wall and Damien rushes out into the sidewalk. The man follows him slowly after a spare moment, leans against one of the posts of the staircase. Watches him jog.

“Goodnight, Father. And good luck.”

Damien looks back only for a moment, as if to make sure it really was this stranger that was speaking. He doesn’t respond before disappearing from view. The man sighs, turns towards the MacNeil house, mutters something in a long forgotten language, then disappears from Georgetown forever.

[corn-fanfiction]

REQS

hi my friends!!! I see your reqs and I’m going to respond to them!!! Thanks for being patient 🩷🩷🩷

[corn-fanfiction]

SAVIOUR COMPLEX (Mark Hoffman x F!Reader) (Pt. 13)

(Part 12) (Part 14)

Rated: M

Tags/TWs: language/ past abuse/Mark Hoffman being a c*p/reader's life is getting messy/ Detective Gibson/ LINDSEY PEREZ????/ CHAINSHIPPING MENTION???????/ trauma n grief/ hurt NO comfort

Housekeeping: I'm retconning that Lindsey wasn't killed by Mark. I've decided she took a long sabbatical after her injury and then returned only after the coffin trap.

You stand at the wooden panel door within the hospital. You reference the name scrawled on your note in your hand and compare it to the name plated on the door.

You knock and enter when prompted. Sitting behind a desk, 40s-50s something with slicked blond hair is a man. He's scribbling onto a notepad and looks up when you enter.

“Hello, sorry did we have an appointment?”

“No, sorry!” You lower your head and smile bashfully, pressing your way inside and closing the door behind you. “I hope I'm not inconveniencing you. It's…not a medical issue.”

He straightens, then tenses a little, but maintains his smile.

“Well…have a seat I suppose.”

You do.

“Thank you. I swear it'll only be a few minutes. I need guidance, and if you're willing I think you're the best person to offer it.”

You give him the opportunity to interject but when he doesn't, you continue. “There's someone in my life that I care very deeply about. He's just been arrested for connection to the Jigsaw murders. But…it's not him. I know it's not.”

Gordon nods and passes a pen between his hands. “Detective Lieutenant Mark Hoffman.”

Your eyes widen.

“Yes. You know him?”

“Not really. We've only met a handful of times.” Gordon puts down the pen, leans forwards on his elbows. Sighs. “Sometimes, we think we know people, know them to the very marrow of their being, and then the next moment they're a stranger.”

You look at the floor. “I know. But I've known bad men. I've been with a very very bad man. And Mark is not a bad man. He's hotheaded, and can be misguided sometimes but his intentions are good.”

“May I say something that might upset you to hear?”

You obviously want to say no. Your hands are starting to shake.

“Sure.”

“That same thing could be said about Jigsaw. John Kramer or any of his accomplices.”

“But not him. Doctor, isn't there someone, anyone in your life that you would do anything for?”

And though you don't know it, in that moment, he thinks of Adam Stanheight.

“There was once.”

“And?”

“I couldn't save him.”

Your throat begins to close up.

“I need to. Please.”

Gordon pushes back from the desk, seems to go over something in his head before clasping his hands together.

“I know someone who may be able to help. May. I can't legally give you any personal information but if you can find it, give her a call. Jill Tuck. John Kramer's widow.”

You recognize the name upon hearing it.

“She's a clinician, right?”

Gordon doesn't respond, doesn't even nod, but doesn't deny it.

“I hope I was able to help.”

You smile. “You did, in some measure. I really appreciate it.”

You get up to leave.

“Can I ask you something before you go?”

You turn.

“Of course.”

“What happens if you're wrong? I hope you're not. But, what if?”

You falter. “Not even a possibility I can entertain.”

Gordon nods in an understanding you don't know. You thank him again and leave the office.

-

You worked very hard to get Jill's home address. Not wanting to bombard her at work, you got the name of a reporter from Gerri, who got you Jill's address. Probably from some past or current harassment over her dead husband. You feel guilty for being the next in line.

She's in a nice complex and you knock on the door. After a moment of waiting, you hear approaching footsteps and the door opens. Your eyes widen when you recognize she's the woman you served at work.

“Oh, hi! Um, are you Mrs. Jill Tuck?”

She leans on the door. “Miss. And yes.”

After a moment, you shake your head.

“I know you. From the restaurant.”

“Oh yes, you're that nice waitress. What can I help you with?”

God, you really hate to do this to her now.

“I'm really sorry to do this but I'm desperate. Someone I care for very deeply needs my help. And I was told you'd be the best person to ask.”

She adjusts her posture and you notice that she keeps a sturdy blockade between you and her apartment.

“What's this about?”

“Mark Hoffman? He's a detective-”

“I know who he is.”

It's a clipped response.

“Oh. Well, he's been arrested. I need to prove his innocence.”

“And who told you to come to me?”

Her bubbly demeanor from the restaurant, even the positivity when she opened the door, has given way to a coldness. You understand, but it's still jarring.

“I don't know if I should say…”

“If you managed to find where I live, I think I deserve to know.”

“Dr. Lawrence Gordon.”

“Ah.”

You shake your head. “I'm sorry. I think coming here was a mistake.”

“Look. All I can say, and if the police ask I'll tell them the same thing, is that I don't know anything about Jigsaw other than he was my husband. I don't know about any accomplices.”

You look at this woman and really see her. She's gorgeous, a kind face, weathered by what was likely the relentless stress of having a serial killer for a husband. You also distantly recall hearing something once about a baby, when everything came out…

And to think, here she is, collected and living.

“Okay. I'm sorry to have bothered you. Have a good rest of your day.”

“You too.”

She closes the door and you take yourself back down the hall. Another dead end. You check your watch and curse at the time, running out of the building and hailing a cab. You're almost late for work.

-

Half a shift in with decent tables and tips to match, and running drinks from the bar when your night manager catches you.

“Jesus, Jake! I'm not paying for these if you make me spill them.”

You're half joking but the look he gives you is full serious.

“I'm getting pretty tired of cops showing up around here. Got one asking up front.”

Your stomach knots and you return the drinks to the bartop. Wiping your moist hands on your apron you peek around the corner and blanche when you spot Gibson. And you have half a mind to go duck into the kitchen when he spots you and beckons you over.

He gets a good look at you, rubbing his jaw. He looks as worn as he did when they arrested Mark.

You lead him outside into the cool night air. The neon sign of the restaurant hums above you and casts yellow onto the wet pavement.

“What is it?” You ask and wrap your arms around yourself.

“You're being called in for questioning. Is it okay if I drive you?” He hooks his thumb in the direction of his car. You smudge a hand across your cheek and sigh.

“Can I finish my shift first?”

He looks at you, his eyes softening a little, before he nods.

“Sure.”

You do finish your shift and throw your apron in your locker before walking out with Gibson. He actually opens the passenger door for you, something that gives you pause, before seating himself behind the wheel.

“Sorry it's so late,” he mutters and cranks up the heat.

“It's fine,” you lie. You did make him wait, and you're still a little surprised he did so in the first place. “I've actually been wanting to talk to you. I need you to tell me what evidence you have against Mark. And if you need incentive, I would be very happy to go to the chief and tell him about you assaulting me if you don't give me what I want.”

You're at your wit's end about helping Mark and you know that until you know for certain what they have against him, you don't have a leg to stand on.

Gibson's hand, still on the stick, positions it back to parked. He turns to you.

“When I take you to that room, I'm going to give you that evidence for free. You can even tell the chief too. I won't try to stop you. Believe it or not, regardless of my unprofessional and inappropriate behavior choices, I have no ill will against you. The disdain I harbor for Hoffman carried over into our interactions and I regret it.”

You're stunned into silence. He's looking at you, too, not avoiding your eyes.

“I say all of this so that hopefully you'll trust me when we get in that room. You can hate me, you can tell me to go fuck myself. But before that, can you at least listen?”

In the short time you've known him, Gibson has proved an enigma to you. Bad temper, bad mannered, but quick, sometimes smart. Downright nasty in some situations. But in the moment, when it counts…

“Yeah…okay.”

-

He doesn't lead you to the interrogation room. Instead, he takes you to a conference room with warmer lighting and comfortable seats. There's coffee ready, and the blinds are pulled. And sitting across the table is a woman you've never seen before. Her curly black hair is pulled up and you can very clearly see the scars that mark her face and neck, like she'd been cut relentlessly.

“This is Special Agent Perez with the FBI.”

The rises to shake your hand. When she smiles at you, you manage to remember watching the TV reports. One of the first federal agents on the Jigsaw case.

“Holy shit. You're- I thought you were gone.”

“I took a sabbatical to distance myself from…Peter. but when Jigsaw started killing again I came back in.”

Peter… Strahm. The supposed official Jigsaw accomplice. Those details you were a bit shaky on.

Gibson invites you all to sit.

“I figured it would help to have her here. Make this a bit easier.”

You look between them. She seems warm and inviting judging by her resting face giving you attention and a soft look in her eyes. And…he's put another woman in the room with you.

You blow out air. He's really trying.

“Okay…What evidence?”

Perez speaks first. “Let's start with Peter- Agent Strahm. The FBI had reasonable suspicion of him due to…physical evidence being left at the scene of an earlier trap. But, through some medical dating, we were able to determine that the particular piece of evidence would have only been left after Peter was dead. In short-”

“You ruled him out.”

“Yes.”

You look between them again.

“So you're saying he was framed.”

Silence. They're waiting for you to connect the dots.

You do.

“You're saying he was framed by Mark.”

Perez nods. You clench your fists around the fabric of your pants and focus on your breathing.

“So what about this new evidence?”

It's Gibson's turn now. He's sitting next to you and softens his posture to face you. “DNA samples, personal items, both found at the newest crime scene. Irrefutably Mark's.”

You're staring at the woodgrain of the table. You can't seem to blink.

“So that's it? That's enough to damn him? If Strahm was set up, why couldn't Mark be set up? Why do you get to believe Strahm but I can't do the same?”

For a moment, they're a little shocked at your words, stuttering between them before Gibson takes over.

“Well, with all due respect, you're not a detective or an FBI agent. And Agent Perez new Strahm for years. You've known Mark for a month. You've put in a lot of effort to gather support for Mark, but what have you found so far? Who's vouching for him?”

Your head begins to shake.

“No. I'm sorry, but no. I don't believe it. It's too easy.”

Perez leans further over the table.

“Have you heard of Occam's razor? That sometimes the simplest answer is the right one?”

“But, he cares about people. About his sister, about me.”

“Enough to kill his sister's abusive and murderous ex? To kill your ex?”

Ted.

“No…”

He promised.

“Let me ask you this. Has he ever acted out of the ordinary? Kept strange hours… acted violently or maliciously? Said strange things?”

“Yes but…”

“Is it possible you've suspected this and you don't want to believe it?”

Tears are forming and you don't think you can hide the wavering in your voice.

“I think… I think I should call a lawyer.”

“Why?”

“Because these questions- they're scaring me. Confusing me.”

“You're more than welcome to call a lawyer, but is a lawyer going to be able to ease your mind? These are the facts, this is what we know is true. Everything we know points to Hoffman, more than likely, being an accomplice to Jigsaw, and now taking on the mantle.”

It can't be true. Your hands move from your trousers to the table top, shaking against the smooth surface. You're suddenly very hot and Perez must notice this because she pours and slides you a glass of water. You consider it, reach out fingers, then draw back knowing that you can't possibly hold it.

“…can I see him?”

Gibson stutters.

“I'm not sure that's a good idea.”

You feel the tears return. You aren't entirely sure what you think talking to him will do. Maybe just seeing him will unlock the vice grip threatening to squash your heart? That this internal pain is the only thing you can consider managing?

“Please? I won't repeat any of what you just said, I promise. You can be in the room. But I need to be able to look him in the eyes.” They're silent, avoiding your eyes. “Gibson, please.”

He clicks his teeth, nods at the table.

“I'll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.”

Gibson walks out of the room, leaving just you and Perez, who reaches a hand to yours. Not to hold it, but like an extension of sympathy.

“Hey, I know what it's like, to go through life with everyone telling you that the person you trusted more than anything is a killer. It's hard. You're gonna get through it.”

You pull your hands back into your lap.

“You have the comfort of knowing for sure it wasn't Strahm though. And isn't it a comfort?”

You don't mean to harden your glare but it can't be helped. She knows this.

“It is, for what it's worth.”

-

The Chief agrees to five minutes between you and Mark with him in the holding cell and you a safe distance away, with Gibson's presence. You note that Perez is not invited.

Mark's sitting on a bench inside when you enter. The must've gotten some of his clothes from the lockers because he's changed into a shirt and jeans. You wonder if they've given any attention to his wounds or kept up with his pain med dosages.

He doesn't move when he sees you and it's suddenly very difficult to move your feet so you end up almost shuffling with Gibson at your back. You stop in front of Mark, plenty of space between you and the bars.

He looks up at you. Doesn't stand, doesn't speak.

“How's your leg?” You ask. He doesn't break away.

“Still hurts.”

You turn to Gibson.

“Have you been giving him pain meds? The hospital said-”

“We know. We have.”

You nod and turn back to Mark.

“Mark-”

“Don't ask me.”

You let out a shaky breath.

“I have to.”

“You know what my answer will be.”

“Maybe, but I need to hear you, to see you say it.”

He doesn't move.

“Mark, did you kill-”

“Let me finish-”

“No, I can take accusations hurled from everyone but you.”

Your mouth drops. “I'm not accusing-”

“How many times and ways can I say it before you people get it? I didn't kill anyone!”

When he stands up your back hits the wall. You've heard him shout before, but never like this…never at you.

“It looks really bad from here, Mark.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning you should maybe calm down instead of scaring the one person you've got on your side,” Gibson snaps. Mark stills. Sees you and the way you've turned yourself inwards.

“I- I'm sorry. I'm tired. It's not an excuse but there it is. Hey,” he comes closer to the bars. “Thanks for coming. I mean it.”

How badly you want to go to him. But even if Gibson wasn't standing right there waiting to prevent it… you're not sure you would.

It's almost like every once in a while you suddenly remember who Mark is and always has been. He's a cop, he knows he has power, he has a temper. He can be kind and loving or he can be cold. It's confusing to see both battling for control in front of you.

You turn to leave without thinking. Gibson is surprised but follows you out. You press the back of your hand to your mouth to stifle your crying when you hear Mark calling after you.

Occam's razor. Sometimes, the simplest answer is the right one.

And the answer was just staring you in the face.

[corn-fanfiction]

YALL ARE CRAZY I luv u

[corn-fanfiction]

Hiiii hii hi over here!! I loooved stitches!! They way you wrote Mark was perfect imo, capturing his sonewhat standoffish but human side. Awesome job!!

Can I request one where Mark is reader's best friends's dad?? AU or not but he's still an officer

Pretty please with a cherry on top? ♥

Okay we're fudging math a little with this one. We'll clock reader at 22 and Mark at...44. there, twice the age without making it too weird.

I really love this prompt and its challenge to dodge some cliches. And then roll around in some like a little piggy in the mud. Little pig boy comes from the dirt. Sorry I blacked out there for a second.

-·=»◆‡«=·-♡·=»◆‡«=·-

Is It Justice? (Mark Hoffman x F!Reader)

Tags/warnings: older man/ younger woman, manic depressive disorder, moments of deep vulnerability, questionable choices, kissy kissy, mentions of death and grief, hurt/comfort

Rated: M (I think? I started to go cross eyed writing this)

Mark sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Again. Again?

He knows he should be grateful it's you and not his son. But Sam would never, ever be caught in this compromising a position. But you had seemed to lack any sort of stern parenting in your life. His son had no shortage of that.

Okay, so he hadn't always been a perfect father, but he was a good cop. But tonight, as it had so many times before, the line became blurry. And a third role had begun to emerge, and it was bad enough that each time he had half a mind to pawn you off on someone else.

But it didn't feel right. No one would take responsibility for you, nobody would claim you. He may as well.

That's how he ends up in front of the holding cell at 3 in the morning. He's still dressed from work because he hadn't left the station yet. His son was (he prayed) still sleeping soundly in his apartment off Princeton's campus. The same could clearly not be said for you. You are in the same baggy clothes you're usual donning, dark circles decorated your undereyes. If he didn't know any better, he'd think you're on something hard.

Your eyes don't light up like he expects them to each time you're both in this situation. It's almost like a kin to dread, or pure exhaustion.

"If you're that inconvenienced, commit a crime closer to a different precinct," he mutters as the night shift cop slides the barred door open and you step through, just narrowly avoiding Mark's large frame and he follows behind you. At the booking station, Helen presents your possessions back to you.

"One cell phone, a wallet with a driver's license, library card, fortune ticket and father's credit card-we've already called- a pack of cigarettes and a Bic lighter."

You grab it all and shove it into the deep pockets of your jacket. Mark nods in gratitude at Helen and when you turn to the direction of the exit, Mark has a firm hand on your shoulder and he's steering you towards his office.

You've been in Mark's office a couple other times. Once, when you and Sam first moved in together and he wanted to introduce you to his father, and once for the first time you and the holding cell had become acquainted. The two other times you'd ended up at the police station, you'd been lucky enough to avoid this room again. But not this time.

You shake your head and slump in one of the chairs as Mark closes the door behind him. He sighs heavily and drops himself into his desk chair, and for a moment you both sit in your shared exhaustion.

"Does Sam know where you are?" His voice is groggy when he speaks. You pick at the chipped paint on your nails.

"Hope not. I left after he fell asleep. I don't like to make him worry when I leave."

Mark smirks humorlessly and stares at the ceiling tiles.

"How considerate."

"Just don't bail me out next time."

"Oh don't worry. I won't. There better not be a next time. But if there is, you'll get no help from me."

His eyes are staring sternly into your own now. You didn't have much to be proud of anymore, but you could always be proud of managing to hold Mark Hoffman's stare.

"I don't have a report. I'm tired. Can I go home?"

"You got money for a cab?"

"No."

"A subway pass?"

"I'll hop the guards."

"Like hell you will. Fine," he pushes himself up from his seat and throws on his jacket. "Come on. I'm driving you home."

You have half a mind to put up a useless fight but you're too tired, so instead you follow silently out to the parking lot and climb into the passenger side of Mark's car. He gets in and tightens his grip on the steering wheel.

"When was the last time you ate?"

You shrug. Mark curses under his breath and starts the car.

"Fine. Food first."

A half hour later, you and Head Detective Mark Hoffman are sitting outside a 24/7 bodega, devouring sandwiches and a couple of sodas. You don't even mind that the food isn't hot, you're just glad to have something on your stomach.

"Alright, so," Mark wipes his mouth and clasps his hands together. "Trespassing?"

"It didn't hurt anybody."

"Nobody but yourself."

"I'm fine."

"You know they've been exploding deeper into that quarry, right? What if you'd gone near some active explosive? Or tripped in the dark and fell 250 something feet?"

"Then Mom would have some company."

He fights the urge to grab you, only to shock the thoughts from your head. But he's too shocked.

Your mother disappeared seven months ago. Five months ago, she was found at the bottom of the quarry outside of town. Maybe it was murder, maybe it was accidental. Either way, there was a closed casket.

You almost feel guilty for the way you've stunned mark into silence, but the feeling passed quickly.

"How would your father feel if he knew that's where you were tonight?"

"He'd have to be sober enough to comprehend a single thought. My money's on the likelihood that he's in no such state."

"Fine. What about Sam?"

"I won't tell if you don't."

"Well, I've got half a mind to."

You chuckle and feel the tears prick at your eyes. "Heh. Right, just pawn me off on him. Great fathering techniques, Mark. Seriously. I'll not just become someone else's problem, but your son's. My best friend's. And soon he'll get fed up and drop me, too."

"Enough with the pity play."

"Why? It's all true. You don't give a shit so it's not like I could guilt you."

Mark crumples up his sandwich wrapper with ire and tosses it into a nearby bin. He straightens out his trousers and stands. Stares down at you. From here, you look like a stranger. Not a girl, not his son's roommate and best friend, not a woman on the verge of unravelling, but some other being that has attached itself onto his heart and follows him around like a curse.

He'd loved you for a while. He'd hated you for just as long. The way you drag yourself down, the way you endanger Sam along the way. But the way you smile and how you shine when you have your shit together- there were as many good memories as bad ones in the short span of time you'd known each other.

He can't decide who he's looking at and doesn't stop staring until you look up at him. He shakes his head, looks out onto the street, then offers a hand to help you up. You take it without hesitation and you both get back into the car.

"I really don't wanna take you back to the apartment."

"I don't wanna go back. To wake up Sam is bad enough the day before finals, but to do it with his dad in tow is not much better."

Mark grumbles. "Couch?"

You nod. "Couch."

You've done the couch routine one other time, and it wasn't any of the times you'd been arrested. This incident was midwinter, during one of your episodes where you decided to walk in the freezing snow with no direction. Sam had called Mark in a panic, Mark knew your routes well enough to find you quick. It was closer to go back to his place, and he made careful work of warming you up and assuring Sam that you were safe. After that, you and Mark formed a mutual understanding that the less Sam knew, the better.

Mark's apartment was that of the poster child for a bachelor. After Sam went off to Princeton, Mark and his wife had nothing keeping their tenuous marriage together so the divorce was quiet and amicable. Now, Mark works too much to seek any remedy to that.

All that being said, Mark keeps his place nice, and his leather couch beckons you immediately. You collapse onto it and you can hear Mark halt over you.

"You're gonna sleep in jeans?"

"I didn't pack my overnight bag," you mumble into the material. Mark sighs. Leaves the room, comes back, tosses a bundle of clothes on top of you. You sit up and unfold them. PPD sweatpants and a faded t-shirt.

"How scandalous," you mutter, too tired to censor your words.

"Be uncomfortable for all I care."

Mark busies himself with removing his tie and you stand and hobble to the bathroom to change. From the kitchen area he can hear you sniffle and cough, changing otherwise quietly before reentering the living room. His breath hitches when he sees you in his clothes. He can't remember the last time he saw you in something that actually fit but clothes always left plenty to the imagination. And Mark did imagine.

You rub your eyes and stumble to the kitchen sink, grabbing a coffee mug and filling it with water. He watches as your throat strains when you devour the water like you were born thirsty. You'd just had a soda, but of course you're dehydrated. You don't take care of yourself during your episodes. He knows it just kills Sam. He knows, because he feels the same way.

He can't understand why you and Sam never became an item, even for a brief time. He was proud to call Sam his son, the way he's smart and kind, and you're funny and intelligent when you decide to be, and beautiful. So beautiful. Whether you're made up and presentable or on his couch, in his clothes, looking like death.

He only realizes he's staring when he blinks and you're staring back from the sink.

"Mark?"

He squeezes his eyes shut and yawns. "Sorry. Tired. You know where everything is if you need it."

"Yeah," you say, but your voice is thicker than it should be. It's no mystery that Mark Hoffman is an attractive man. Gruff and grumpy and yet does everything in his power to take care of you. Sam does the same, but you're so scared of ruining him. You don't run that risk with Mark.

You can't ever pin down exactly what it is you like so much about him. Maybe it's his thick arms and large hands, or his dumb hair, or his asshole smirks and the way his praise and compliments light you up inside. How he talks to you like an equal, even in these times. Everyone walks on eggshells around you. He's a hardass. You love him for it.

Mark senses a shift and taps the counter decisively.

"Listen-"

"No," he shakes his head. "No, don't."

But you stand and he doesn't move.

"I'm not doing anything."

Except you are. You're moving towards him and he can't find the strength to move away.

"It's too late to do this-"

"Do what?" You ask in faux innocence. You're not the teasing type, but you're just desperate to know if he'll fess up or not. You already know you're screwed.

"You know."

You bite your lip and take a small satisfaction when the movement captures his eyes.

"Mark, no one sees me like you do."

"That's not true," he lies.

"It is, but it's okay."

You place your hands on his chest and he stops breathing. Doesn't move.

"So long as you know, I don't do it for attention. I've been this way before I ever met you or Sam."

"I know," he says breathlessly.

"Do you want to touch me?" You ask. He exhales and trembles. He's only thought about it shamefully in the dark of his bedroom or his office about a hundred times. To caress the sides of you that he suspects have gone untouched for too long. To hold you gently and yet assure you that no one else will be touching you for a long time.

He's quiet for too long. You take a hand and bring it under the shirt that swallows your torso, sliding his palm against your tummy. He exhales through his nose.

"I want you to touch me. And I want to touch you."

His hand burns onto your soft skin and you continue to move it up until his fingers grace the curve of your breast.

And just like that he yanks his hand back and stands, pushing away from you.

"Mark-"

"Go to sleep. Don't think about this anymore."

Easy enough for him to say. You both know that you'll go to your respective beds (well, bed and couch) and you'll be kept awake by the thought. But you don't argue. Only watch as he stalks down the hall and fights with himself, until he closes the bedroom door behind him. You sigh and lay down on the couch, grabbing a nearby throw blanket but deciding you're too hot for it right now.

And in his room, Mark paces the floor. He slowly removes one article of clothing after the other, ends up sitting on the edge of his bed in a shirt and boxers, fingers pressed to his lips, eyes glued to the door.

He's waiting for you. If you come knocking, he'll let you in. But he can't go to you. He can't. That would seal his fate.

But the thought of you so warm and ready for him, so inviting and strong willed...his resolve is wavering.

And it doesn't take fifteen minutes before he's walking back to the couch.

And you rise and meet him halfway, and there's only a moment's hesitation before his lips crash into yours and his hands are returning to where you'd placed them before. Mark will convince himself that you initiated the kiss. You'll let him have that lie. Whatever seals your fate together. Whatever keeps you both coming back together.

[corn-fanfiction]

SAVIOUR COMPLEX (Mark Hoffman x F!Reader) (Pt. 12)

(Pt. 11) (Pt. 13)

Rated: M

Tags/TWs: aftercare/ language/ past abuse/Mark Hoffman being a c*p/reader's life is complicated/ Mark is protective bc it's his job but he's also problematic/because he's a c*p/ Detective Gibson/slight description of bloody boo boos

“You know what I was thinking?”

You and Mark lay in your bed. He's caressing your head and you have a hand resting on his broad chest. Your bodies are slack from sex and you're still coming down from the high.

“What's that?”

“Something Gibson said,” you feel Mark stiffen. “No, not that. But…I think he had a point. A shitty one, but maybe true? He said that I was wasting my life. My talent.”

“Prick doesn't know what he's talking about.”

“I don't know. Maybe not. But still, it got me thinking…what if I could be doing more?”

“What if?”

“You gonna talk in more than one sentence at a time?”

“Fine. Do you remember what you said when we first met?”

“Um…I'm pretty sure I said a lot. Which part?”

“You said that you keep your life small on purpose. That it was control.”

“I said that?”

“You know you did.”

“Hm.” You kiss his bicep. “What about it?”

“Well, what if your desire for control is what's holding you back? That you're scared of letting it go?”

“You're a psych now?”

“Alright, fine.”

He goes to move from the bed but you pull him back playfully. He falls, you hold him to you and run your fingers through his hair.

“I don't know…you know, I have a BFA.”

He smiles up at you. “No shit.”

“Yep. English. Wanted to go into publishing.”

“So why didn't you?”

You shrug. “Ted. Needed me to work so I put everything else on hold.”

“What about now?”

“I don't know. How do I move away from the control without being afraid to fail?”

“Well, you just have to trust that someone will catch you.”

You laugh a little. “No one can guarantee that. We're all alone at one point or another.”

“Not you. Not again.”

“Yes, even me. Things happen, Mark.”

Sensing your shift in mood, Mark sits up and brings you with him.

“Hey, look at me. You're never gonna be alone again, you hear me? Never. I won't let it happen.”

You stare deep into his eyes and can barely see color for the way his pupils are blown. His breathing is heavy. He means it.

You almost feel bad for getting him worked up so you pull him in for a kiss. A hand comes to rest on the side of your neck and you sigh, leaning into his touch.

“I guess I never really thought about what else my life could be. Never thought I'd have time.”

“You do. As long as you're with me, I guarantee it.”

Maybe something about that phrasing should strike you as odd but when he takes you into another kiss you hardly care, just allow yourself to fall into him.

If he wasn't so caught up in you, Mark would be horribly bored.

Nothing at his day job, and his night job is suspended indefinitely until he can shake the precinct from you.

It's a standard day of Mark clocking in, going to his office, paperwork, patrol, stopping by some crime scenes.

It's a standard day, until he gets a phonecall.

“Hoffman.”

“Mark!”

Mark creases his brow in curious thought. “Gibson?”

“Hey, we’re down at the abandoned museum on the Bailey Waterfront. We need you down here now.”

The corner of Mark’s mouth quirks up. “Hang on, let me get my recorder. Say that again.”

“Dammit, Mark. I’m being serious. It’s an active Jigsaw trap. I’m not stupid enough to think you won’t be helpful here.”

Fuck! Mark curses to himself. Who the fuck is this guy?

“Alright, I’m on my way.”

You get the call in the middle of work and you have Gerri speed you from the restaurant to the hospital. They don't mind to do it, of course, especially considering the fact that you can't stop shaking. It's bad enough that Mark's a cop; it's even worse that he's attached to the Jigsaw case, even if unofficially at this point.

You have to press your forehead to the cool glass of the window simply to focus on that sensation, rather than the nausea emanating through your bones. You've never been a patient person. Today it's worse.

The receptionist directs you and Gerri back to the ICU where you're turned around by five different attendings until you finally find the area occupied by Mark and Gibson. Mark's jacket and button up are off and he's in the process of getting stitches in his leg.

“Jesus,” you gasp, actually getting a good look at the drying blood and the new blood that oozes from the wound. He has other garden variety scrapes and bruises, but the worst of it seems to be the leg.

But he smiles when he sees you.

“Hey, baby.”

You sigh in partial relief and hug him the way you can from his spot sitting on the bed. He presses his head to your chest and you circle his scalp with your fingernails.

“What happened?” You ask as the panic begins to settle some more. He's calm, so you're growing calmer.

Mark hesitates and you clock it. You look over at Gibson.

“What the hell happened?” You repeat, this time with an obvious accusatory tone laced into your words now that they're directed at Gibson.

“It was another trap, I called Mark in.”

Fury shoots up your spine. “So you kick him off the case just to bring him back in and get him sent to the fucking hospital???”

You make a move towards Gibson but Mark lands a gentle hand on your bicep.

“Hey, he saved me.”

You look between them, your anger paused.

“What?”

“Got caught in the crossfire of a trap. Some buckshot. Gibson pushed me out of the way before I got fifty holes in me-”

You can't listen to it anymore without visualizing it perfectly and you hold him again. Maybe he senses the severity of your concern because he holds you back with his free hand.

“Hey, hey I'm alright.”

But all you can see are those photos of Ted that Gibson showed you with his body bloated and his limbs removed. Mark getting even a whiff of a bullet has tears pooling at your eyes. Any other day you'd kick yourself for being so weak, so vulnerable in front of strangers and, worse, Gibson.

“I'm sorry,” you whisper into Mark's hair. “I can't. I can't lose-”

“Hey, baby, sit down.”

You hear the scrape of a chair behind you and you sit.

“Thanks, Gerr,” Mark says. You reach behind you to hold their hand.

“You don't have to stay.”

“You sure? I don't mind.”

“I know and I appreciate that. I'll be fine.”

“Alright.” Gerri gives your hand a final squeeze and smiles at Mark before leaving. Over Mark's shoulder, you can't help but notice Gibson watching the interaction. You also finally notice that he's alone. And even though you hate him, he still saved Mark, and you feel a stab of pity in your heart.

“Gibson? You okay to get home?”

His eyes widen in surprise, not only that you'd talk to him, but that your words are suddenly considerate.

“Of course. They didn't take my legs,” he responds with sarcasm. You roll your eyes.

“You're right, I'll never ask about your well-being again.”

“Oh, so nothing will change.”

You decide that you're done with the interaction so you lean your cheek against Mark's shoulder and wrap your hands around his large one, content to stay as close to him as possible.

You take Mark home. You've never been to his apartment but the doctors said that he shouldn't drive on his hurt leg. You can't help but sneak glances over at him. He's sweating, still coming down from the pain. His face reflects yours only hours ago. His eyes are closed, his forehead resting against the cool glass. You're reminded of the instincts that overtook you during your movie night. But what you want now, to rest your hand on his neck then up through his hair. To kiss his eyelids as he falls asleep. He feels safe around you. Your heart swells at the thought.

His house is really nice, all rich and dark wood. You carry him into the living room and sit him on a leather sofa. He lifts his arm and flicks on a Tiffany lamp.

You press the back of your hand to his forehead.

“When did they give you a fever reducer?”

“It's been a minute,” he grunts, turns his head.

“Okay. Bathroom?”

He gestures to the back hallway by the staircase. You quickly tuck a lock of hair behind his ear before disappearing to the bathroom, grabbing a washcloth and giving it some cold water. You bring it back and lay it across Mark's forehead. He sighs into the sensation, and you're not proud of the way the sound makes you feel.

You like making him feel good. You like taking care of him.

Mark sits up to retrieve some preplaced glass of water from the coffee table and takes a long gulp. You watch as some of the water escapes the corners of his mouth and drips down the muscles of his neck. You swallow.

When he finishes, he gasps. He opens his eyes and finds yours.

“You can't look at me like that right now,” he mutters, lids heavy with sleepiness from the drugs.

“I'm sorry,” you whisper with a small smile, stroking his hair.

“It's not fair,” he's getting sleepier.

“I know, I'm sorry. I'm mean.”

He turns into your arm and kisses the soft skin there. He hums.

“I love you.”

And you're too stunned to acknowledge those words before he's snoring softly in your arms.

You wake up to banging.

You jump, jostling Mark who's still in your embrace. He's not quite awake but the sudden noise has you on high alert. You grip Mark's arm just in case you need to shake him awake. You're almost certain it was a banging on the front door.

Silence. You're frozen, heart pounding in your ears.

The banging comes again and you jump.

“Mark! Mark, open the door.”

Now that's interesting, you think, slightly less afraid at Gibson's voice coming through the door but still on edge, because it's- you check the clock- 3 am.

You decide to wake Mark. He grumbles.

“Mark. Mark, I think Gibson's at the door.”

More banging. Mark is managing to open his eyes. At the very least you need the noise to stop, so you help Mark to a sitting position and go to the door yourself. When you open it, you see Gibson on the other side…with about five other cops behind him. Your stomach drops. He looks about as surprised to see you as you do him and his entourage. But he also looks exhausted, like he hasn't stopped moving since he left the hospital hours ago.

“Where is he?”

Your grip on the lip of the door tightens.

“What's going on?”

“Move.”

“No.”

You can't stop yourself from saying it. You can't believe it, but you also know immediately what this is. It's impossible, and you're not going to let it happen.

“Obstruction of justice. You want to get charged, too?”

Gibson looks over your shoulder and you follow his eyes. Mark stands in the hall, or limps, rather. You want to go to him, of course you do, but you can't move.

“I'm not gonna tell you again,” comes Gibson's voice. You look between the two men, count the police outside one more time just to be certain.

“You can't,” you whisper to Gibson, your voice wavering.

“I ain't got a choice.”

Gibson pushes in past you and your back hits the wall. Mark limps towards you but doesn't make it far before two officers have a hold of him, cuffing his wrists behind his back. He fights, what little he can, and one cracks him under the knee. He cries out in pain.

“Stop it!” You shout and run forward, but not before someone can catch you around the waist. “He's fucking hurt!! He was hurt doing his job! This isn't fair!”

“Mark Hoffman, you're under arrest under suspicion of conspiracy to murder and active murder, specifically for the killing of Theodore Simpson-” your heart cracks at Ted's name. “And many others. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you on a court of law-”

Gibson carries on but you push your way to Mark, managing to touch his face one more time.

“I'm gonna get you out of this, okay? I don't know how but I will-”

Someone has you again and Mark…Mark is silent. Doesn't return any affection or offer any of his own. His eyes stare you down though, like he's trying to communicate something. But before you have even a chance of deciphering what that could be, they're walking him out the door.

You do attempt to follow but Gibson has a firm grip on your arm. On instinct, you swing your free hand around to hit him but he catches that one too, and twists you to where both hands are caught and you wince in pain.

“Don't try to fight me.”

“Fucking let go!”

“I get that this is hard. Don't make it worse for yourself.”

You struggle a bit more and he finally lets you go, but by the time he does, the cruiser with Mark inside is already on the main road. You curse, cry, punch the door and grab your hair.

“Fuck you. This isn't fair.”

“There is hard evidence. I know you don't wanna believe it-”

“You were just at the site with him-!”

“I don't know what happened, but it happened, okay?”

He's got you cornered, but almost in a way that is an attempt at calming you. Like you're a wild animal.

“No. I don't believe you. Or I don't believe that it's real. Someone's setting him up.”

Gibson rolls his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“It doesn't make sense! If it was Mark, why would he have stuck around for this long. Are you saying he put himself in that trap a year ago? Does that part make sense?”

“So I don't have it all figured out! But there is reason enough to put him behind bars, at least until we get this thing straight.”

You're all turned around. There are a couple more officers watching your interaction while they should probably be locking the place down-

Oh. Mark's apartment is probably a crime scene now.

“I, uh-”

“Come on. Let's get you home.”

Gibson goes for the door but notices you not following him.

“Don't make this difficult, for the love of god.”

“There's no fucking way I'm getting in a car with you.”

Gibson sighs in exasperation.

“Look. What happened the other day was completely unprofessional and I'm sorry. Shouldn't have happened. But please. Can this night just be over?”

You don't budge.

“Motherfuck- Zimmerman!” Gibson calls over his shoulder. One of the cops comes running. “I'm telling you, in front of her, that I am going to take her home now. If something happens to her, or if for whatever reason she doesn't make it home, you know she was with me. This is me alleviating her fears. Got it?”

The poor cop looks between the two of you before nodding in a slight and confused panic.

“Good. Get back to work.”

Gibson turns back to you as Zimmerman sprints back to his job.

“Alright. Shall we?”

You can't be alone. You hate it. The one person you rely on to keep you comforted in this strange brand of insanity is now locked into it.

You try to get something, anything out of Gibson in the car but he's tight-lipped. Once he drops you off, you lock your front door and sit behind it. Then you make it to your couch, then to the bathtub, filling it with scalding water.

I don’t know. This is the second time you’ve been involved. First time, you’re a witness and get his operation shut down. Second time it’s your ex in a trap. Not to mention…

I’m just saying, who else has been there the first time, and a second time?

If anyone of us would be Jigsaw, it would be Hoffman.

Irony of ironies, you never did like puzzles, and you certainly don't love being the supposed center of one. But this one is looking a little too clear. Like the picture on the box is insultingly simple and yet you insist there are pieces missing. It's a 100 piece puzzle. Just figure out the edges and work your way in.

Yes, coincidences can be bizarre and yes, they can fuck up a life. But when do you stop and take stock, and say “something about this isn't right?”

Is it when the man you love may or may not be a serial killer?

Yes, this is where most people would stop.

You grit your teeth as the water burns you.

Do you maintain some semblance of control by cutting your losses? Because at this point there is a very good chance Mark could go to jail. And with the surmounting evidence, most people would think he deserves it.

And yet you haven't seen any evidence, only heard theories that make sense when you, or they want them to make sense.

If only you could talk to Mark…

But you know they won't let you anywhere near them.

So you need someone else. Someone close to it like he is. Like you are. Someone who's been there.

You drain the tub. You wrap yourself in a robe and sit at your computer.

You've got work to do.

[corn-fanfiction]

[corn-fanfiction]

[corn-fanfiction]

you know what maybe they can both be in the saw bathroom

[corn-fanfiction]

whoever said "they need to make a prequel to the exorcist about damien and chris" was so fucking right, but it wouldn't be a horror movie. i still want to know so bad. chorus girl rising to fame and a high-profile divorce case mixed with child loss trauma. boxer with obvious issues somehow ending up as a scarred priest and psychiatrist. this is not a horror movie though it's an indie drama but hhhhh i want to know your lives!! what aren't you telling me!!