spiralinghours

[spiralinghours]

“Breaking and Entering (and Getting Stuck)”

Rating: PG

Media: Saw franchise

Characters: Mark Hoffman, Amanda Young

Warnings/Content: chubby Hoffman; mentions of weight gain; mentions of tight clothing; language; general banter

Summary: Literally Mark getting stuck in a fence/gate. You know what you came here for, lads.

Author’s Note: Quick little piece inspired by a lovely mutual, yet again. Not much to this one. Any errors found will be fixed eventually.

Sneaking into a scrap yard and rummaging through rusted odds and ends felt juvenile and petty, especially given that John had the means and the money to do otherwise. But he had justified that this was a more discreet way of obtaining materials—wouldn’t leave a trail.

What were they supposed to do? Buy suspicious materials every two weeks from Home Depot?

‘Maybe,’ Mark had ruminated boredly on the most recent drive to the yard, cheek resting in his palm as his other hand braced the wheel.

Amanda liked to make up anything to complain about to his face, including driving duties on their joint outings… Which was why he always beat her to the driver’s seat of the little van. It was the one thing he knew he could take control over and gloat about quietly.

As was usual, Amanda brooded in the passenger seat with her thick-soled boots propped on the dashboard, something that grated on Mark’s nerves for no real reason.

He swatted a hand at her feet. “Can you fucking not?”

“Ugh, eat me.” She rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, you wish.”

“There. Pull into that bay,” Amanda directed, sitting up to point at a shaded ramp.

“I know what I’m doing. We’ve been here before, asshole.”

“I’m surprised you have anything memorized outside of 10th Street Pizza’s phone number.”

“Get fucked. Let’s get this done, okay…”

A chained-up gate stood in front of them, rusted and cold as it had always been. The spacing between two particular bars on the right gate had been wider than the rest, which was how the two were repeatedly able to slip in and out under the cover of night with a fair amount of ease.

Amanda slid out of the van and hopped up before the tall iron barrier, eyeballing the spot where she usually clamped onto to hoist herself in between the bars. She did so in a smooth motion, mimicking the way someone would swing themselves to launch down a waterslide tube. Mark was usually a little more ginger and slow with his approach, being significantly wider and needing to angle himself methodically. (“Athletically thick,” was how he often explained the reason for this to Amanda with an unearned certainty.)

As he grabbed onto the spike protruding from the top of the framework, sliding his hip in sideways, a dull thunk meshed with the scritching of fabric alarmed Mark. There was an unease to the wedging sound of his coat against metal.

“Come on!” Amanda hissed in an impatient hush.

“Hold on, think my coat’s stuck. Lemme just, ugh, take it off.” Mark grunted in trying to backtrack as much as he could to allow just enough mobility to slide his arms from the thick, canvas sleeves. Without the bulky insulation and all the pocket flaps, he’d be able to squeeze in easier.

Supposedly.

Even in the cast of night, the scathing smirk stretching over Amanda’s lips was evident. Her eyes traced over three points: 1) where one of the thin metal bars was basically sandwiched between Mark’s pecs, 2) where the same thing was happening but with his posterior, and 3) his waist and belly, and how they squeezed softly and severely between the metalwork. Mark’s love handles and broad tummy were stuck solidly with hardly any room to move, white undershirt adding to the constriction.

“The fuck?” he grunted. “The bars must have dented inwards.”

“Sure about that, Winnie the Pooh?” Amanda was cackling at this point, glossy dark lips cracking in a perpetual sneer. It had Mark’s skin itching.

“I was able to get through last time we were here, last month.” Mark didn’t know why he was scrambling to find an explanation for himself. He just wanted to get in and get the job done.

“Yeah, and that was ten pounds ago. And another ten pounds from the time before that!”

“The fuck you mean, Hot Topic?” Mark grumbled. He wanted to actually spit on Amanda but she had backed up just far enough out of reach.

“Lemme ask you something, can you even still fit in your uniform?” Amanda’s screeching laughter was hitting a volume too inconvenient for them sneaking around. It couldn’t be helped.

“I haven’t had to even wear that since 1999, and—”

“I dunno… Last time ‘arrested’ me you had it on and that didn’t seem to fit you too well then. And we haven’t known each other THAT long…”

“The fuck are you getting at, Mandy?” He spat the abbreviated name like an insult.

“You’ve been getting really porky lately, Detective. Sure it’s not getting in the way of your duties?”

“I’m in my forties, I dunno how you expect me to be built. Anyways, the gate is just fucked up, I can get out.”

Testing her luck, perhaps too similar in risk to taunting a tiger, Amanda scuttled forward and pinched the pudgy, exposed curve of Mark’s underbelly. “Yeah, it’s totally the gate.”

“Cunt,” Mark huffed, cheekbones tinging red from his pinpointed frustration. He had nowhere to go, stuck with whatever dumb shit Amanda had to heckle him with.

He sucked his gut in, hoping he could hold his breath long enough to barge through… Except his deep inhalation did nothing: his belly barely inched back, more or less shifting uselessly with a slight bounce.

“Glad we didn’t stop at the drive-thru,” Amanda sassed gleefully. “Tell you what: you stay there, and I’ll go grab what we need.”

Where she had fucked up, however, was in reaching to give Mark a mocking pinch of his cheek. The moment she made contact, his grip was solid around her wrist. He had managed to snake his other hand around just enough to clasp onto Amanda’s other forearm.

“I dunno about that,” Mark muttered.

With a labored pull, fighting against Amanda’s wriggling, he had pulled them both backwards through the opening, stumbling back into a crumpled heap.

Mark had more or less landed on his ass, shallowly rubbing at his hips and the sides of his belly to feel for the bar’s indentations. Amanda, on the other end, was doubled over his legs, her clunky boots and baggy pants legs making it harder to collect herself.

“I fucking hate you,” she jabbed at Mark through clenched teeth.

“You’re so sweet,” he hummed obnoxiously.

“Fuck this. We’re going to the hardware store,” Amanda settled, rolling up to her feet and carding her fingers through the stringy brown hair over her face.

“Fine. We’ll go to the hardware store and make a quick trip of it,” Mark agreed. “But after we’re going to Waffle House. All that bullshit back there made me hungry.”

Mark grinned to himself, knowing Amanda was fuming despite her back being turned to him. If she was going to give him grief the least he could do was lean into it.

[spiralinghours]

Miss them Hofftitties tbh

[spiralinghours]

“Breaking and Entering (and Getting Stuck)”

Rating: PG

Media: Saw franchise

Characters: Mark Hoffman, Amanda Young

Warnings/Content: chubby Hoffman; mentions of weight gain; mentions of tight clothing; language; general banter

Summary: Literally Mark getting stuck in a fence/gate. You know what you came here for, lads.

Author’s Note: Quick little piece inspired by a lovely mutual, yet again. Not much to this one. Any errors found will be fixed eventually.

Sneaking into a scrap yard and rummaging through rusted odds and ends felt juvenile and petty, especially given that John had the means and the money to do otherwise. But he had justified that this was a more discreet way of obtaining materials—wouldn’t leave a trail.

What were they supposed to do? Buy suspicious materials every two weeks from Home Depot?

‘Maybe,’ Mark had ruminated boredly on the most recent drive to the yard, cheek resting in his palm as his other hand braced the wheel.

Amanda liked to make up anything to complain about to his face, including driving duties on their joint outings… Which was why he always beat her to the driver’s seat of the little van. It was the one thing he knew he could take control over and gloat about quietly.

As was usual, Amanda brooded in the passenger seat with her thick-soled boots propped on the dashboard, something that grated on Mark’s nerves for no real reason.

He swatted a hand at her feet. “Can you fucking not?”

“Ugh, eat me.” She rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, you wish.”

“There. Pull into that bay,” Amanda directed, sitting up to point at a shaded ramp.

“I know what I’m doing. We’ve been here before, asshole.”

“I’m surprised you have anything memorized outside of 10th Street Pizza’s phone number.”

“Get fucked. Let’s get this done, okay…”

A chained-up gate stood in front of them, rusted and cold as it had always been. The spacing between two particular bars on the right gate had been wider than the rest, which was how the two were repeatedly able to slip in and out under the cover of night with a fair amount of ease.

Amanda slid out of the van and hopped up before the tall iron barrier, eyeballing the spot where she usually clamped onto to hoist herself in between the bars. She did so in a smooth motion, mimicking the way someone would swing themselves to launch down a waterslide tube. Mark was usually a little more ginger and slow with his approach, being significantly wider and needing to angle himself methodically. (“Athletically thick,” was how he often explained the reason for this to Amanda with an unearned certainty.)

As he grabbed onto the spike protruding from the top of the framework, sliding his hip in sideways, a dull thunk meshed with the scritching of fabric alarmed Mark. There was an unease to the wedging sound of his coat against metal.

“Come on!” Amanda hissed in an impatient hush.

“Hold on, think my coat’s stuck. Lemme just, ugh, take it off.” Mark grunted in trying to backtrack as much as he could to allow just enough mobility to slide his arms from the thick, canvas sleeves. Without the bulky insulation and all the pocket flaps, he’d be able to squeeze in easier.

Supposedly.

Even in the cast of night, the scathing smirk stretching over Amanda’s lips was evident. Her eyes traced over three points: 1) where one of the thin metal bars was basically sandwiched between Mark’s pecs, 2) where the same thing was happening but with his posterior, and 3) his waist and belly, and how they squeezed softly and severely between the metalwork. Mark’s love handles and broad tummy were stuck solidly with hardly any room to move, white undershirt adding to the constriction.

“The fuck?” he grunted. “The bars must have dented inwards.”

“Sure about that, Winnie the Pooh?” Amanda was cackling at this point, glossy dark lips cracking in a perpetual sneer. It had Mark’s skin itching.

“I was able to get through last time we were here, last month.” Mark didn’t know why he was scrambling to find an explanation for himself. He just wanted to get in and get the job done.

“Yeah, and that was ten pounds ago. And another ten pounds from the time before that!”

“The fuck you mean, Hot Topic?” Mark grumbled. He wanted to actually spit on Amanda but she had backed up just far enough out of reach.

“Lemme ask you something, can you even still fit in your uniform?” Amanda’s screeching laughter was hitting a volume too inconvenient for them sneaking around. It couldn’t be helped.

“I haven’t had to even wear that since 1999, and—”

“I dunno… Last time you ‘arrested’ me you had it on and that didn’t seem to fit you too well then. And we haven’t known each other THAT long…”

“The fuck are you getting at, Mandy?” He spat the abbreviated name like an insult.

“You’ve been getting really porky lately, Detective. Sure it’s not getting in the way of your duties?”

“I’m in my forties, I dunno how you expect me to be built. Anyways, the gate is just fucked up, I can get out.”

Testing her luck, perhaps too similar in risk to taunting a tiger, Amanda scuttled forward and pinched the pudgy, exposed curve of Mark’s underbelly. “Yeah, it’s totally the gate.”

“Cunt,” Mark huffed, cheekbones tinging red from his pinpointed frustration. He had nowhere to go, stuck with whatever dumb shit Amanda had to heckle him with.

He sucked his gut in, hoping he could hold his breath long enough to barge through… Except his deep inhalation did nothing: his belly barely inched back, more or less shifting uselessly with a slight bounce.

“Glad we didn’t stop at the drive-thru,” Amanda sassed gleefully. “Tell you what: you stay there, and I’ll go grab what we need.”

Where she had fucked up, however, was in reaching to give Mark a mocking pinch of his cheek. The moment she made contact, his grip was solid around her wrist. He had managed to snake his other hand around just enough to clasp onto Amanda’s other forearm.

“I dunno about that,” Mark muttered.

With a labored pull, fighting against Amanda’s wriggling, he had pulled them both backwards through the opening, stumbling back into a crumpled heap.

Mark had more or less landed on his ass, shallowly rubbing at his hips and the sides of his belly to feel for the bar’s indentations. Amanda, on the other end, was doubled over his legs, her clunky boots and baggy pants legs making it harder to collect herself.

“I fucking hate you,” she jabbed at Mark through clenched teeth.

“You’re so sweet,” he hummed obnoxiously.

“Fuck this. We’re going to the hardware store,” Amanda settled, rolling up to her feet and carding her fingers through the stringy brown hair over her face.

“Fine. We’ll go to the hardware store and make a quick trip of it,” Mark agreed. “But after we’re going to Waffle House. All that bullshit back there made me hungry.”

Mark grinned to himself, knowing Amanda was fuming despite her back being turned to him. If she was going to give him grief the least he could do was lean into it.

[spiralinghours]

“Smoke Break”

Fandom: Saw franchise

Rating: PG

Characters/Pairings: Mark Hoffman; Adam Faulkner-Stanheight; hoffheight if you squint or want it to be; mentions of John Kramer, Lawrence Gordon, Amanda Young and David Tapp

Warnings: language, canon character death

Summary/Author’s Notes: Nothing more than a drabble about Adam and Mark… Because I just wanted to make observations on them interacting. Just a little something.

2004

“Great job,” Hoffman huffed languidly, leafing through the shallow stack of 8.5 x 11 glossies.

The falling dusk was beginning to cast a heavy veil through the bricked alley, making the black and white images appear a bit fuzzy in the violet shade. All the same, the images of Hoffman posed on his phone, walking with a coffee in hand, or getting out of his cruiser were captured perfectly to look candid. That was all he needed.

“Nice sweater,” Adam commented on one shot, rolling up on his toes to peek over the photo stack. It wasn’t clear if it was truly a compliment or not.

Hoffman gave a pouting sneer as Adam’s shorter stature butted the crown of his choppy black hair into his personal space.

“I gotta say, though,” Adam continued, easing back out of Hoffman’s bubble to light a cigarette, “I usually take actual candids. This posed stuff is not my typical bag. If it were I’d be rolling around in that model money.” He chuckled with small talk fakeness around his exhalation.

“You’re getting paid, aren’t you?” Hoffman muttered, reaching a leather-gloved hand into an interior pocket on his overcoat and extending a thick roll towards Adam’s face. “Anything else I ask for will be the real deal. This is the only posed thing I need.”

A shiver involuntarily coursed up the base of Adam’s neck, to his skull. Everything Hoffman had been telling him was vague and mildly ominous. The vague part was to be expected, as that was a major role in the investigative aspect of his work. Don’t learn too much about your subjects lest you want to end up on the other end of a gun. But Adam badly wanted to ask if Hoffman had anything to do with that other cop… Tapp, that was it. It did feel like too odd of a coincidence to have two detectives (well, one ex-detective) hire him for incredibly shady shit.

But he kept his mouth shut. Money was money, and it took a lot of it to live in a crap stain. Adam just breathed smoke around the wad of money, mentally calculating its worth before grabbing it.

Hoffman reached his now empty hand towards Adam’s lips, fingertips grazing a little too close. He snagged the cigarette and drew it up to his own mouth.

“American Spirits? Really?” Hoffman sneered again with displeasure. He kept dragging nonetheless.

“Hey! What the fuck?!” Adam blurted, hating how bratty his protest came out. “You’re gonna take my cigarette and complain about the brand?” He darted his fingers for the smoke, but Hoffman swatted him away, barely turning his head. “Fuckass,” Adam quietly grumbled.

Hoffman kept his lips softly embraced around the butt, side-eyeing Adam for all his frantic, jerky energy. It matched everything about his appearance: greasy, sweaty, pallid, and twiggy. Hoffman scoffed at what a malnourished rat he looked like. Handsome, sure, maybe, but underfed and annoying.

“I got one more assignment for you, then that’s it,” Hoffman announced flatly, flicking the chewed up button at Adam’s feet. “You don’t have to hear from my fuckass again.”

“I sure fucking hope not.” Adam grimaced at how low and stupid Hoffman’s voice grated at his ears. The very sight of the detective’s floppy dark hair and fat, blow-up doll face made him itch.

He hoped to never see him again once the job was done.

2008

Someone deep in the pits of Hell, or even some grand ethereal being out in the cosmos really had it out for Hoffman. The real answer was that John and Lawrence were the ones who had been conniving and scheming. It was always the people who were supposedly on your side.

But the end result was absolutely some cosmic joke.

In the blackness of the bathroom, Hoffman could just barely make him out from the green light leak just beyond the sliding door. He had seen him before Lawrence had left, the sickly overhead lights still on: Adam, slumped beside him, restrained to the same pipe. The contrast was jarring: no longer a skittish, sarcastic grin, but, rather, lifeless, exposed teeth, jaw rotting away; Head of black hair decayed over time with some mold peppered at the points where skull was wearing through.

Hoffman had watched bits of Adam’s game go down, despite Amanda and John taking the lead and doing the proper follow up. Through that he knew enough about what had been left in the room, with the remains of years—and victims—past.

He felt around the filthy, tiled floor, thick fingers trailing around until they had stumbled into what felt like Adam’s jeans pocket… Lo and behold, a crumpled cigarette and a near-empty matchbox remained. Even those felt dead and withered in Hoffman’s hand.

He struck one of the weak matches and managed to light the cigarette with the limited amount of fire it could muster.

“Never thanked you for the smoke,” Hoffman told the corpse, suddenly unsure why he was speaking to it, let alone out loud.

[spiralinghours]

Hitters (2002) | Dir. Eric Weston

[spiralinghours]

Happy lesbian day Saw fans

[spiralinghours]

Louis Mandylor as Nickos “Nick” Portokalos in My Big Fat Greek Wedding

-and-

Costas Mandylor as Marco Poloni in Just Desserts

[spiralinghours]

Let’s all appreciate that THIS is the little face Mark made while John and Amanda were roasting him over his work on a trap.

[spiralinghours]

“Consequences”

Characters/Pairing: Mark Hoffman x fem reader

Rating: PG

Tags/Warnings: mild knife play; mild mask kink (the pig mask stays on); a little victim x kidnapper type dynamic

Summary: Reader is a trap victim, but some masked figure is testing her in an unexpected way.

Author’s Notes: Wow, another insert fic with yet again another plain and bad title. What else can we expect from me? Not much tbh. I’ve had a lot of creative blocks lately so I forced this out as a means to get the juices going again. It’s probably not good because of that. It’s also fluffy, cheap, indulgent, and corny, so if you really don’t fuck with that, don’t bother reading.

Thick, gloved fingers firmly palmed and planted on your thighs, a humid and tacky sensation from the leather texture intermingling against your silk fabric and skin. You were rousing to more consciousness from the touch, more clarity coming through on the situation.

Like some stereotypical damsel in a pulpy plot, you awoke in some undisclosed shadow—some storage crate or warehouse, it seemed like—in your nightgown and literally nothing else. Of course that was the type of thing to happen to you. Of fucking course.

Through some snowy static on the old TV in the corner, some eerily warped voice had informed you of your task and the point of your entire test. Apparently Jigsaw didn’t appreciate even the pettiest of theft, and you were found on his chopping block… Meant to exercise some endurance, some will, against touching and any other natural reactions. Poetic justice bullshit.

There was also the mention of not letting your heart rate get too high throughout the challenge. The monitor connected to your circulation-cutting restraints would be sure to keep accurate track.

While that all didn’t seem too difficult to roll with in a ten minute limitation, you were starting to develop doubts… Doubts regarding how the big hands resting gently—though with stern authority—on your legs were making you feel.

Whoever the figure was—wide, encased in layers of black materials, a stiff raincoat with the hood up, a pig mask draped with black hair—wasn’t moving, as if to avoid anything untoward. Their touch stayed in place, hesitant, waiting to see what you would do.

You did your best to still your heart and any quivering through your muscles, prompting the pig-faced person to remove their grasp. They started tugging the gloves off, finger by finger, until olive-toned skin was exposed, working its way back to you, cupping your hands this time.

The odd message from the TV hadn’t said anything about speaking, so surely it wasn’t against the rules to talk to the pig-person.

“Who are you?” you asked stupidly, knowing immediately they likely wouldn’t answer that. “Can you breathe under there? It’s hot in here. Aren’t you hot?”

An amused grunt rumbled from the individual, shifting in their wide chest with a noticeable rise. They momentarily repositioned again, unzipping the constrictive neck of the raincoat down to their chest, which you were surprised to see was bare: ruddy-tan skin accented with flecks of sweat, curls of dark chest hair, and a sizable pink scar slashed over one pec.

“You’re asking a lot of questions,” a sultry sort of voice curled out from under the mask. You were taken off guard by them speaking back. “And your hands. They’re so cold.”

“Circulation,” was all you could mumble, your brain-dead thoughts barely tumbling out sensibly.

You tried not to stare with too much fervor at the scar dipping between the pig’s hearty pecs. A beep from the heart rate monitor pinged, showing an indicator rising from a green to a yellow level.

“Something catch your attention?” the low voice asked. “Better be careful that doesn’t hit red.”

It wasn’t clear if the warning was playfully malicious or genuine. They had a taunting sort of tone to how they spoke.

“I, uh…” you scrambled, flailing your fingers in his big grasp. Their palms were so soft, reflective of the welcoming chub that dimpled around his knuckles.

“Careful,” they warned, snatching away. “Your touch betrays you, remember?”

Right. It was all a test.

“What’s—What’s going to happen to me?” you badgered, to no success.

“It is hot, you’re right,” they agreed with a put-on sigh, disregarding the inquiry. They lowered the hood, then worked at sliding the zipper from the crease under their chest down their bulky torso. Each movement seemed unexpectedly calculated, as if it was one whole burlesque.

It wasn’t helping your conflicted palpitations, so you shallowly sucked in grounding breaths.

Meanwhile, Pig Mask had roughly chucked his coat to the floor, leaving a white undershirt that embraced a sturdily-rounded physique with perspiration. That was next to go, however, as it tugged and crinkled up and over broad shoulders, joining the coat in a pile.

Sweat beads gathered along wisps of chest hair, delicate and crystalline, rolling down in long trickles across the expanse of bare skin. Whoever they were—he was—seemed softened to the touch, dewey skin adding to the plushness across his hips, chest, and back. You considered what your fingertips would feel like if you—

The yellow level had been bypassed, spiking to the lowest part of orange.

Pig Mask—somehow he kept breathing through it, despite shucking other layers—neared where you sat, a sort of swagger to his unrushed gait. You were delayed in noticing where he had produced a switchblade from, but it was now tipped to the underside of your chin. He lightly trailed it down the curve of your neck, to the tender hollow between your collarbones, then back to its original point.

“Nervous?” he asked from under the vacant face.

“No,” you immediately lied. Your response wouldn’t make a difference in your position regardless.

He pressed the blade tip harsher against you, not drawing blood, but just on the brink of doing so. You reactively flinched and swatted your hands around, as if to grab at him or the knife.

“Ah-ah, control yourself.” It was all some twisted joke, a laugh, for him. He craned down beside your face, pulling the mask up just enough with one hand to expose his rounded chin, his full lips. “Only a few more minutes,” he purred.

His behavior was hard to read—hard to decipher if he wanted to help you or wanted to savor your inevitable loss, whatever that would entail.

While you should have been focused more on how to win, how to inevitably escape, it was hard to disregard what a different, more heated part of you was noticing: the way the stranger’s lips curled up into a self-satisfied smirk, the way he shifted around with a swaying certainty… There was also the way perspiration was starting to gather and roll down from his hefty chest down the soft curve of his belly.

You bit your lip, trying weakly to hold back an instinctual hum at your observation. But he could see you, almost as if the gears turning in your head were that obvious. It warranted a gruff chuckle.

“You’re sweating,” he noted bluntly, dragging a couple of fingers along your neck, feeling the dewiness. “You weren’t sweating that much before.”

“I, uh—It, it ah—” Your eyes tracked in a panic between the monitor (solidly in the orange zone now) and the stranger, his hefty torso closing in in you, looming over. He dragged his fingers from your neck to your lips, damn well aware how he was pushing you.

Your heartbeat, meanwhile, was fluttering so arduously that it felt more like a metallic thud in your chest. You dared not look at the monitor again, feeling the red mocking you, feeling like this was going to be the breathy spiral that would do you in. It was true, your touch and your gaze—your impulsive want—was going to be the downfall…

“Look at that. Game over,” the syrup-thick voice mused close beside you.

You hadn’t taken notice to how tightly you had squeezed your eyes, waiting for death by some choke or some shock—anything. But apparently you were fine and intact, keeping just calm enough within the timeframe to survive. The digital timer had even given you the proof, showing flashing red digits set to 00:00.

Thick fingers began working at the cuffs that held you in place, presenting more ease than you had expected. It had further lulled your tense breaths and beating heart into a comfortable rhythm.

Expecting to just walk out like a mouse in a maze, booted to the street like nothing had occurred, you were taken aback by the way you were scooped up by the masked stranger. Your side pressed up warmly to his plump form as he started carrying you out princess-style. The cushion of his chest and stomach, along with his husky breathing from under the pig facade, wound you up into a flutter, though you felt guilty at the sensation.

“Where are we going?” you finally asked, breaking from your distraction.

“You won your test. Someone will want to see you about that. But in the meantime you should rest.”

A blush flourished over your cheeks. “Taking me back to your place or something?” you teased, testing the waters with a bit of flirting.

“Why? Would you like that?”

You didn’t quite answer, just worked the bottom flap of his mask back up over the lower part of his face and planted a small kiss to the padded angle of his jaw.

It was hard to tell in the dingy darkness, but you thought you glimpsed a perk of his lips.

[spiralinghours]

“Consequences”

Characters/Pairing: Mark Hoffman x fem reader

Rating: PG

Tags/Warnings: mild knife play; mild mask kink (the pig mask stays on); a little victim x kidnapper type dynamic

Summary: Reader is a trap victim, but some masked figure is testing her in an unexpected way.

Author’s Notes: Wow, another insert fic with yet again another plain and bad title. What else can we expect from me? Not much tbh. I’ve had a lot of creative blocks lately so I forced this out as a means to get the juices going again. It’s probably not good because of that. It’s also fluffy, cheap, indulgent, and corny, so if you really don’t fuck with that, don’t bother reading.

Thick, gloved fingers firmly palmed and planted on your thighs, a humid and tacky sensation from the leather texture intermingling against your silk fabric and skin. You were rousing to more consciousness from the touch, more clarity coming through on the situation.

Like some stereotypical damsel in a pulpy plot, you awoke in some undisclosed shadow—some storage crate or warehouse, it seemed like—in your nightgown and literally nothing else. Of course that was the type of thing to happen to you. Of fucking course.

Through some snowy static on the old TV in the corner, some eerily warped voice had informed you of your task and the point of your entire test. Apparently Jigsaw didn’t appreciate even the pettiest of theft, and you were found on his chopping block… Meant to exercise some endurance, some will, against touching and any other natural reactions. Poetic justice bullshit.

There was also the mention of not letting your heart rate get too high throughout the challenge. The monitor connected to your circulation-cutting restraints would be sure to keep accurate track.

While that all didn’t seem too difficult to roll with in a ten minute limitation, you were starting to develop doubts… Doubts regarding how the big hands resting gently—though with stern authority—on your legs were making you feel.

Whoever the figure was—wide, encased in layers of black materials, a stiff raincoat with the hood up, a pig mask draped with black hair—wasn’t moving, as if to avoid anything untoward. Their touch stayed in place, hesitant, waiting to see what you would do.

You did your best to still your heart and any quivering through your muscles, prompting the pig-faced person to remove their grasp. They started tugging the gloves off, finger by finger, until olive-toned skin was exposed, working its way back to you, cupping your hands this time.

The odd message from the TV hadn’t said anything about speaking, so surely it wasn’t against the rules to talk to the pig-person.

“Who are you?” you asked stupidly, knowing immediately they likely wouldn’t answer that. “Can you breathe under there? It’s hot in here. Aren’t you hot?”

An amused grunt rumbled from the individual, shifting in their wide chest with a noticeable rise. They momentarily repositioned again, unzipping the constrictive neck of the raincoat down to their chest, which you were surprised to see was bare: ruddy-tan skin accented with flecks of sweat, curls of dark chest hair, and a sizable pink scar slashed over one pec.

“You’re asking a lot of questions,” a sultry sort of voice curled out from under the mask. You were taken off guard by them speaking back. “And your hands. They’re so cold.”

“Circulation,” was all you could mumble, your brain-dead thoughts barely tumbling out sensibly.

You tried not to stare with too much fervor at the scar dipping between the pig’s hearty pecs. A beep from the heart rate monitor pinged, showing an indicator rising from a green to a yellow level.

“Something catch your attention?” the low voice asked. “Better be careful that doesn’t hit red.”

It wasn’t clear if the warning was playfully malicious or genuine. They had a taunting sort of tone to how they spoke.

“I, uh…” you scrambled, flailing your fingers in his big grasp. Their palms were so soft, reflective of the welcoming chub that dimpled around his knuckles.

“Careful,” they warned, snatching away. “Your touch betrays you, remember?”

Right. It was all a test.

“What’s—What’s going to happen to me?” you badgered, to no success.

“It is hot, you’re right,” they agreed with a put-on sigh, disregarding the inquiry. They lowered the hood, then worked at sliding the zipper from the crease under their chest down their bulky torso. Each movement seemed unexpectedly calculated, as if it was one whole burlesque.

It wasn’t helping your conflicted palpitations, so you shallowly sucked in grounding breaths.

Meanwhile, Pig Mask had roughly chucked his coat to the floor, leaving a white undershirt that embraced a sturdily-rounded physique with perspiration. That was next to go, however, as it tugged and crinkled up and over broad shoulders, joining the coat in a pile.

Sweat beads gathered along wisps of chest hair, delicate and crystalline, rolling down in long trickles across the expanse of bare skin. Whoever they were—he was—seemed softened to the touch, dewey skin adding to the plushness across his hips, chest, and back. You considered what your fingertips would feel like if you—

The yellow level had been bypassed, spiking to the lowest part of orange.

Pig Mask—somehow he kept breathing through it, despite shucking other layers—neared where you sat, a sort of swagger to his unrushed gait. You were delayed in noticing where he had produced a switchblade from, but it was now tipped to the underside of your chin. He lightly trailed it down the curve of your neck, to the tender hollow between your collarbones, then back to its original point.

“Nervous?” he asked from under the vacant face.

“No,” you immediately lied. Your response wouldn’t make a difference in your position regardless.

He pressed the blade tip harsher against you, not drawing blood, but just on the brink of doing so. You reactively flinched and swatted your hands around, as if to grab at him or the knife.

“Ah-ah, control yourself.” It was all some twisted joke, a laugh, for him. He craned down beside your face, pulling the mask up just enough with one hand to expose his rounded chin, his full lips. “Only a few more minutes,” he purred.

His behavior was hard to read—hard to decipher if he wanted to help you or wanted to savor your inevitable loss, whatever that would entail.

While you should have been focused more on how to win, how to inevitably escape, it was hard to disregard what a different, more heated part of you was noticing: the way the stranger’s lips curled up into a self-satisfied smirk, the way he shifted around with a swaying certainty… There was also the way perspiration was starting to gather and roll down from his hefty chest down the soft curve of his belly.

You bit your lip, trying weakly to hold back an instinctual hum at your observation. But he could see you, almost as if the gears turning in your head were that obvious. It warranted a gruff chuckle.

“You’re sweating,” he noted bluntly, dragging a couple of fingers along your neck, feeling the dewiness. “You weren’t sweating that much before.”

“I, uh—It, it ah—” Your eyes tracked in a panic between the monitor (solidly in the orange zone now) and the stranger, his hefty torso closing in in you, looming over. He dragged his fingers from your neck to your lips, damn well aware how he was pushing you.

Your heartbeat, meanwhile, was fluttering so arduously that it felt more like a metallic thud in your chest. You dared not look at the monitor again, feeling the red mocking you, feeling like this was going to be the breathy spiral that would do you in. It was true, your touch and your gaze—your impulsive want—was going to be the downfall…

“Look at that. Game over,” the syrup-thick voice mused close beside you.

You hadn’t taken notice to how tightly you had squeezed your eyes, waiting for death by some choke or some shock—anything. But apparently you were fine and intact, keeping just calm enough within the timeframe to survive. The digital timer had even given you the proof, showing flashing red digits set to 00:00.

Thick fingers began working at the cuffs that held you in place, presenting more ease than you had expected. It had further lulled your tense breaths and beating heart into a comfortable rhythm.

Expecting to just walk out like a mouse in a maze, booted to the street like nothing had occurred, you were taken aback by the way you were scooped up by the masked stranger. Your side pressed up warmly to his plump form as he started carrying you out princess-style. The cushion of his chest and stomach, along with his husky breathing from under the pig facade, wound you up into a flutter, though you felt guilty at the sensation.

“Where are we going?” you finally asked, breaking from your distraction.

“You won your test. Someone will want to see you about that. But in the meantime you should rest.”

A blush flourished over your cheeks. “Taking me back to your place or something?” you teased, testing the waters with a bit of flirting.

“Why? Would you like that?”

You didn’t quite answer, just worked the bottom flap of his mask back up over the lower part of his face and planted a small kiss to the padded angle of his jaw.

It was hard to tell in the dingy darkness, but you thought you glimpsed a perk of his lips.

[spiralinghours]

“Consequences”

Characters/Pairing: Mark Hoffman x fem reader

Rating: PG

Tags/Warnings: mild knife play; mild mask kink (the pig mask stays on); a little victim x kidnapper type dynamic

Summary: Reader is a trap victim, but some masked figure is testing her in an unexpected way.

Author’s Notes: Wow, another insert fic with yet again another plain and bad title. What else can we expect from me? Not much tbh. I’ve had a lot of creative blocks lately so I forced this out as a means to get the juices going again. It’s probably not good because of that. It’s also fluffy, cheap, indulgent, and corny, so if you really don’t fuck with that, don’t bother reading.

Thick, gloved fingers firmly palmed and planted on your thighs, a humid and tacky sensation from the leather texture intermingling against your silk fabric and skin. You were rousing to more consciousness from the touch, more clarity coming through on the situation.

Like some stereotypical damsel in a pulpy plot, you awoke in some undisclosed shadow—some storage crate or warehouse, it seemed like—in your nightgown and literally nothing else. Of course that was the type of thing to happen to you. Of fucking course.

Through some snowy static on the old TV in the corner, some eerily warped voice had informed you of your task and the point of your entire test. Apparently Jigsaw didn’t appreciate even the pettiest of theft, and you were found on his chopping block… Meant to exercise some endurance, some will, against touching and any other natural reactions. Poetic justice bullshit.

There was also the mention of not letting your heart rate get too high throughout the challenge. The monitor connected to your circulation-cutting restraints would be sure to keep accurate track.

While that all didn’t seem too difficult to roll with in a ten minute limitation, you were starting to develop doubts… Doubts regarding how the big hands resting gently—though with stern authority—on your legs were making you feel.

Whoever the figure was—wide, encased in layers of black materials, a stiff raincoat with the hood up, a pig mask draped with black hair—wasn’t moving, as if to avoid anything untoward. Their touch stayed in place, hesitant, waiting to see what you would do.

You did your best to still your heart and any quivering through your muscles, prompting the pig-faced person to remove their grasp. They started tugging the gloves off, finger by finger, until olive-toned skin was exposed, working its way back to you, cupping your hands this time.

The odd message from the TV hadn’t said anything about speaking, so surely it wasn’t against the rules to talk to the pig-person.

“Who are you?” you asked stupidly, knowing immediately they likely wouldn’t answer that. “Can you breathe under there? It’s hot in here. Aren’t you hot?”

An amused grunt rumbled from the individual, shifting in their wide chest with a noticeable rise. They momentarily repositioned again, unzipping the constrictive neck of the raincoat down to their chest, which you were surprised to see was bare: ruddy-tan skin accented with flecks of sweat, curls of dark chest hair, and a sizable pink scar slashed over one pec.

“You’re asking a lot of questions,” a sultry sort of voice curled out from under the mask. You were taken off guard by them speaking back. “And your hands. They’re so cold.”

“Circulation,” was all you could mumble, your brain-dead thoughts barely tumbling out sensibly.

You tried not to stare with too much fervor at the scar dipping between the pig’s hearty pecs. A beep from the heart rate monitor pinged, showing an indicator rising from a green to a yellow level.

“Something catch your attention?” the low voice asked. “Better be careful that doesn’t hit red.”

It wasn’t clear if the warning was playfully malicious or genuine. They had a taunting sort of tone to how they spoke.

“I, uh…” you scrambled, flailing your fingers in his big grasp. Their palms were so soft, reflective of the welcoming chub that dimpled around his knuckles.

“Careful,” they warned, snatching away. “Your touch betrays you, remember?”

Right. It was all a test.

“What’s—What’s going to happen to me?” you badgered, to no success.

“It is hot, you’re right,” they agreed with a put-on sigh, disregarding the inquiry. They lowered the hood, then worked at sliding the zipper from the crease under their chest down their bulky torso. Each movement seemed unexpectedly calculated, as if it was one whole burlesque.

It wasn’t helping your conflicted palpitations, so you shallowly sucked in grounding breaths.

Meanwhile, Pig Mask had roughly chucked his coat to the floor, leaving a white undershirt that embraced a sturdily-rounded physique with perspiration. That was next to go, however, as it tugged and crinkled up and over broad shoulders, joining the coat in a pile.

Sweat beads gathered along wisps of chest hair, delicate and crystalline, rolling down in long trickles across the expanse of bare skin. Whoever they were—he was—seemed softened to the touch, dewey skin adding to the plushness across his hips, chest, and back. You considered what your fingertips would feel like if you—

The yellow level had been bypassed, spiking to the lowest part of orange.

Pig Mask—somehow he kept breathing through it, despite shucking other layers—neared where you sat, a sort of swagger to his unrushed gait. You were delayed in noticing where he had produced a switchblade from, but it was now tipped to the underside of your chin. He lightly trailed it down the curve of your neck, to the tender hollow between your collarbones, then back to its original point.

“Nervous?” he asked from under the vacant face.

“No,” you immediately lied. Your response wouldn’t make a difference in your position regardless.

He pressed the blade tip harsher against you, not drawing blood, but just on the brink of doing so. You reactively flinched and swatted your hands around, as if to grab at him or the knife.

“Ah-ah, control yourself.” It was all some twisted joke, a laugh, for him. He craned down beside your face, pulling the mask up just enough with one hand to expose his rounded chin, his full lips. “Only a few more minutes,” he purred.

His behavior was hard to read—hard to decipher if he wanted to help you or wanted to savor your inevitable loss, whatever that would entail.

While you should have been focused more on how to win, how to inevitably escape, it was hard to disregard what a different, more heated part of you was noticing: the way the stranger’s lips curled up into a self-satisfied smirk, the way he shifted around with a swaying certainty… There was also the way perspiration was starting to gather and roll down from his hefty chest down the soft curve of his belly.

You bit your lip, trying weakly to hold back an instinctual hum at your observation. But he could see you, almost as if the gears turning in your head were that obvious. It warranted a gruff chuckle.

“You’re sweating,” he noted bluntly, dragging a couple of fingers along your neck, feeling the dewiness. “You weren’t sweating that much before.”

“I, uh—It, it ah—” Your eyes tracked in a panic between the monitor (solidly in the orange zone now) and the stranger, his hefty torso closing in in you, looming over. He dragged his fingers from your neck to your lips, damn well aware how he was pushing you.

Your heartbeat, meanwhile, was fluttering so arduously that it felt more like a metallic thud in your chest. You dared not look at the monitor again, feeling the red mocking you, feeling like this was going to be the breathy spiral that would do you in. It was true, your touch and your gaze—your impulsive want—was going to be the downfall…

“Look at that. Game over,” the syrup-thick voice mused close beside you.

You hadn’t taken notice to how tightly you had squeezed your eyes, waiting for death by some choke or some shock—anything. But apparently you were fine and intact, keeping just calm enough within the timeframe to survive. The digital timer had even given you the proof, showing flashing red digits set to 00:00.

Thick fingers began working at the cuffs that held you in place, presenting more ease than you had expected. It had further lulled your tense breaths and beating heart into a comfortable rhythm.

Expecting to just walk out like a mouse in a maze, booted to the street like nothing had occurred, you were taken aback by the way you were scooped up by the masked stranger. Your side pressed up warmly to his plump form as he started carrying you out princess-style. The cushion of his chest and stomach, along with his husky breathing from under the pig facade, wound you up into a flutter, though you felt guilty at the sensation.

“Where are we going?” you finally asked, breaking from your distraction.

“You won your test. Someone will want to see you about that. But in the meantime you should rest.”

A blush flourished over your cheeks. “Taking me back to your place or something?” you teased, testing the waters with a bit of flirting.

“Why? Would you like that?”

You didn’t quite answer, just worked the bottom flap of his mask back up over the lower part of his face and planted a small kiss to the padded angle of his jaw.

It was hard to tell in the dingy darkness, but you thought you glimpsed a perk of his lips.

[spiralinghours]

[spiralinghours]

Yes, this is certainly a shot.

[spiralinghours]

It’s subtle but idk he just looks soft here and I love it.

Whatever, I’m having writer’s block so we’re posting chunky Mark pics.

[spiralinghours]

Pride doodles and Saw ship scenes recreated by Kuromi and Melody. Idk man.

[spiralinghours]

Idk where else to put these, but…

[spiralinghours]

Need to start a collection of whatever this is…