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tangerinesgirl · 2 months

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Unravel

AFAB!Reader x Mark Hoffman

Word count: 1.8k

Rating: explicit, 18+, no minors

Warnings: smut, masochism, size difference, some brief talk of weight, creampie, mostly Dom!Reader but some Dom!Mark, spitting, p in v

Summary: Your ex, Mark, has no where to go after the glass coffin trap and needs your help...even though you've been on a break.

Notes: I wanted to challenge myself to write a fic that has more detail this time. Reading my works back they all seem super quick to get into the action. So let me know what you think and I hope you enjoy!

You jump out of your skin at the loud bang against your apartment door. You begrudgingly roll over to the bedside table to check your phone: 1:03AM. Sighing, you put on slippers and stagger to the door. There's a more polite knock this time as you look through the peep hole: it's Mark Hoffman.

You and Mark had a rocky relationship ever since he became an apprentice for John Kramer. You found out from his clothing being torn, covered in oil and miscellaneous substances, or just straight up gone missing, and confronted him about it. He showed you the way of the traps and Kramer's ideology, part of you was sick to your stomach thinking about how many people have died like this, but the other part of you was seriously into how he would build the traps, brainstorming ideas and coming home all hot and bothered. But in the end, you had to take a break, Mark couldn't commit to a relationship as he was essentially married to his work. What you both had was fun, but you always wanted something more.

You unlock the door and Mark tumbles into your flat and walks straight into the kitchen. When you turn around you notice his once silk blue shirt is now red, full of cuts and glass shards. You don't quite know how he got to you; did he drive? Walk? Either way it was impressive how he's still standing. He swipes the kitchen table clean and dumps a first aid kit down. "Fix me", he demands of you. You sigh, thinking about how many months have passed without hearing from him and he turns up like this out of the blue, then inevitably grab some tweezers and sterilising fluid.

Nothing more is said after that, the only sound in the room is you cutting off Hoffman's shirt. Mark had actually trained you in first aid since he started up the traps, to cover for all eventualities. Things like how to stitch a wound, fix dislocations, and so on. You didn't think you'd actually have to use it when he left. It's not exactly like he could fish out the shards himself so it made sense in a way, even though it was painful for you to see him again. Maybe not as painful as the actual glass in his back though. You carefully start removing pieces from him, every so often he flinches but stays as stoic as ever. You put each shard on the table, disinfecting the tweezers as you go. It's painstaking, especially without a word being said. There's too many thoughts whizzing around your head, you wouldn't even know where to start, so you focus on your work instead.

You dab at the wounds with wipes, you notice a couple of particularly deep ones need stitches, and few more need steri-strips. You start to unwind your thread, and begin to close them up. He still flinches and groans occasionally as you fix his wounds. You're surprised you have enough steri strips for the rest. You give it one last glance over to make sure there's no more tint hidden pieces. Once you're happy with your work, you start to pack the rest of the stuff away.

As you reach for an unused bandage, Hoffman suddenly grabs your wrist. You turn to look at him, and he looks at you, deeply into your eyes, as if to say "thank you" without actually saying it, since that wasn't really part of his nature. He then glances down briefly at your lips. He thinks you didn't notice, but you did, and you look down at his too.

There's a lot of tension in the room, and you find it extremely hot that not a word has been said in the last two, maybe three, hours. You've lost track of time, you always do when Mark is around, because nothing else matters. You start to move forward into a kiss but you stop, inches away from him. Mark looks at your lips again. Then he suddenly puts his hand on the base of your skull behind your head and grips your hair. You let out a little surprise gasp.

Then everything happens so fast.

Mark slams his lips against yours, like a man starved, his kisses are desperate and all tongues. You both lightly moan through the heavy kisses, you sit on his lap and start to drag your hand through his hair in exchange, tugging occasionally. You start grinding while on his lap, searching for more. You can feel his member through his trousers. Then you accidentally knock one the cuts on his back and he groans out in pain, however you couldn't help but notice his cock twitch as you did so, now semi erect. You both stop for a bit and share a glance, not one of humiliation but of realisation. You raise an eyebrow, intrigued, and start to purposefully play with one of his stitched wounds. Mark moans and quickly grabs your other hand that's resting on his chest.

"Stop", he commands. There's clearly some unsaid things between you and Mark. You stop and look at him, you both look at each other with need and desperation.

"I don't know how far I'll go, I can't promise I'll be gentle", Mark has danger in his eyes.

"I know", you admit. Mark was always the kind to take out a rough day at work through sex, and you had a feeling tonight was no exception. But it somehow felt different. It could be the time you've had away from each other, or whatever he experienced that night had him particularly wound up.

"Same safe word?", you ask. He nods slightly, and in a flash he's back to passionately kissing you. He lifts you up, trying to walk you to the bedroom, but can't see where he's going as he's so tied up in the moment. He slams you into a wall, you moan as the air is pushed out of you.

You break the kiss momentarily to remove your top, you must have each other now and can't wait until you're in the bedroom. Mark removes your bra, his hands replacing it. His hands are so large, one hand seems to cover your entire chest. His rough skin feels amazing on your soft breasts. You moan as you remove your underwear. Mark breaks the kiss to kick off his trousers and underwear. He catches you looking at his erection, he walks back over to you and grabs your hair.

"How do I look?", he growls in your ear. You moan and start to kiss him again.

Without warning he pushes his cock into you. You forgot how well he filled you up. He was just the right size, but girthier than average. His thickness stung a little since he slammed into you without warning, but it's a good thing you were already slick with arousal. You hold him around his neck as he's lifting you up. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he's slamming into you against the wall.

With him still inside you, he then carries you over to the kitchen table. It's a good thing you packed everything away earlier. You put your feet on the edge, with your back on the table. Mark continues to push inside of you, sweat starting to glisten down his forehead, onto his large chest. Somewhat hairy, but oh so broad. His frame and arms have always been a turn on for you. Sometimes he was self conscious about his weight but you found it extremely hot. Especially the way it felt on top of you.

You sit up, breaking his momentum briefly, as you can feel the table shake, becoming more and more unstable. You push him to the chair where he was sat as you were cleaning his wounds, and motioned for him to sit down. You straddle him like before, only this time you were completely naked. You haven't felt this powerful for a while. You start to ride him, reaching behind you to start and fondle his balls. He tilts his head back in pleasure, mouth wide open. You stop briefly to hold his jaw open, you look over him as a dribble of your spit travels into his mouth. You forcefully close his mouth to get him to swallow, and continue to ride him.

It's not often you're able to take charge, but you were enjoying it. Hoffman, even though he wouldn't admit it afterwards, likes to think he's dominant at heart, but also loves it when someone takes control.

Your hands start to trail down his back once again. You could feel a few of his stitches had begun to unravel. Mark hisses as you trace your fingers over them. You stop briefly, making sure he was okay with you going further. After no safe word, you continue to pluck open a wound. Mark pretty much jumps out of his seat, slamming into you as he does so. You both moan, the lines of pleasure and pain blurring. You start to dip your finger into the warmth, blood coating your finger and travelling down his body.

"Y/N, I'm gonna-", Mark trails off. You remove your finger, and smear the blood as you caress his face. Around his lips, his jaw, down to his neck.

Mark is VERY into this, he's a massive masochist and seeing you like this has his mind going into overtime. What traps could you come up with? Maybe you could come with him during the next game, getting off on your hard work, putting each other in a trap, and seeing others in them. Watching them struggle in your game, totally oblivious to you and Mark having the steamiest sex of your lives over the monitor.

At this thought, he starts to cum inside of you. The biggest orgasm of his life. You continue to ride his orgasm out of him, the amount of cum you can feel inside you also triggers your orgasm. Mark slams you down by your shoulders to get you to stop moving as his penis slowly grows softer and twitches inside of you. You collapse into Mark's chest, both of you breathless.

You both sit there for a moment, taking everything in. Mark still inside you, his cum leaking out onto the chair, onto the floor, mixing with the blood from his wound that you opened.

You eventually move and mention that you should clean him back up. Mark reluctantly agrees. Neither of you decide to put your clothes back on, as you start to disinfect the table and open your first aid kit again. You mend his stitches and clean him up, and Mark is giving you that look again. Looking at your lips, totally helpless. You sigh as you realise you'll be stitching him back up once again.

#fanfic #mark hoffman x reader #detective mark hoffman #mark hoffman #afab reader #saw #saw fanfic #hoffman x reader #mark hoffman x you #mark hoffman x y/n #hoffman x y/n #glass coffin

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deputyrook · 6 months

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Impressions- 5/? Mark Hoffman x Psychic!Reader

PART 1. PART 2. PART 3. PART 4.

You're a psychic. He's a detective. And a serial killer.

(You're a team.)

Word count: 4050

WARNINGS: CORRUPTION, stockholm syndrome, abusive dynamics, general Saw-levels of horror & violence. Reader is drinking the Jigsaw Kool-Aid.

“God, you’re persistent,” you tell Kerry, laying back on your couch and rubbing your temple, “Fine. Yes, I’ll go to therapy and I'll check out the community resources for Jigsaw survivors. Are you happy?”

It's not exactly a lie. You might check out the resources. Kerry's voice crackles across the line in reply: “Good. And if you’re able to remember anything while you’re there-“

Of course. It’s not that she wants you to get help, but rather, she’s hoping that you’ll pick up on some kind of psychic lead from discussing your capture and trauma with a therapist.

A swell of bitterness fills your chest, though you wish it didn't. You’d asked her to come and help you with groceries and chores today, but she’d declined, saying that she was too busy working on the case. Somehow, Mark had been coming around to help more often than she was, and he was balancing his job with being a serial killer.

Kerry’s work has always come first, and her dedication is something you had often admired. The two of you had bonded in university over a shared discomfort at parties and social events. Neither of you had ever quite fit in with the crowd. But even knowing her for as long and as well as you did, it still hurt to know the obsession came before your friendship.

“When are you going to take a break?” You ask, instead of voicing your frustration.

“When I find Eric,” she replies, steadfast. You must make some kind of a critical noise in response, because Kerry adds, “What? Do you believe it’s hopeless? That I should just give up?”

“It’s not that,” you mutter with a sigh, already regretting this line of conversation, but knowing that Kerry won’t give it up until she pulls the truth from you.

“Then what?”

“Just that maybe Matthews shouldn’t have gone and played Cowboy Cop, shooting from the hip.” You finally snap, to Kerry’s stunned silence. “You play stupid games and you win stupid prizes, Ally. If he had just listened to the rules he’d been given-"

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this from you right now," She says, voice sounding more shocked than angry, "Jigsaw took your eyes, put you through hell, and you’re defending him?”

“I’m not defending him,” you bite back, wondering if you are, “But Matthews was corrupt. You know that, even I know that. Sometimes, you get what you deserve."

There's a beat of silence over the phone line, and you wonder if you've taken it a step far. It almost surprises you, to hear the words coming from your mouth. A month ago, you wouldn't have believed you would feel this way, but it's true, isn't it?

Matthews had a way out, just like everyone else did. Just like you did. If he hadn't fucked around and found out, he would have been fine.

Your sympathy for the other Jigsaw victims- the other subjects- has become somewhat muted since you became one yourself. Being able to intuit all of their faults in high definition had only dulled it further.

“You think he deserved to be murdered, is that it?" Kerry asks, and if she wasn't angry before, she definitely is now. Thankfully, you know from experience that she tends to anger quickly, and cool off just as fast. "What about you, then? You got tested, too. How the hell can you say it's deserved?”

Because I deserved to be tested, too.

Something about the topic of conversation turning to you causes a vision to spring forward from the recesses of your mind, like it had simply been waiting for the most opportune moment to reveal itself.

You see yourself, standing in what appears to be a shallow pool of water in the middle of a dense forest. It is quiet and still, save for the ripples in the water caused by your movement. You can't hear any animals- the forest is silent.

You look exactly as you remember, save for a few key details- wide, white globes for eyes stare wildly back at you, and you are drenched in the water. You are soaked through and dripping, the water running down your forehead in rivets. On your head, twisted and gnarled, is a crown of some sort. At first, you think it's a crown of branches- fitting for the forest that you've found yourself in- but once you approach and look closer, you realize it's a crown of rusted, jutting metal pieces.

In your hands, you hold out a crumpled piece of paper, one you’ve somehow kept from dissolving in the water. Carefully, you take it from yourself and unfurl it, to see a wrinkled advertisement for a Jigsaw survivor support group.

Interesting. You file that piece of information away for later. Your lips are moving, but you can't hear the words. You lean in, trying to listen. It seems you're repeating something, over and over, mouthing along to an inaudible refrain.

“Hello?” Kerry's voice pulls you out of it.

“I'm sorry,” you reply. Any anger you'd been feeling is gone, shaken out of you, “My head's been all over the place."

"I know," She sighs as well, and you can feel her unspoken apology in return as she continues, "The FBI's getting involved. I've been in contact with one of their agents."

Immediately, you think back to your vision of the two dangerous people- the man and the woman.

"Damn," you remark, before you note, "He's a lot to deal with, isn't he?"

"That's putting it lightly," Kerry huffs, and you can feel her frustration not only at you, but at the FBI agents getting involved before she's been able to find Matthews herself. She feels embarrassed by it, the scrutiny and criticism only mounting the pressure she feels to find an answer, quickly.

"Tell me this," She asks then, weary, "Is everything going to be okay?"

There's a sinking in your stomach, but you lie to her, and say, "I think so."

Your words hand in the air, as if from a hangman's noose.

"Thanks," Kerry replies, and you're not sure if she believes you.

"Hey, Ally?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful out there. Keep your head on a swivel." You feel like you can hear the smile in her voice when she responds to you, though her tone remains grave.

"Always. You too."

---

[11:47AM - Outgoing] Did you know about the FBI getting involved in the Jigsaw case?

[11:48AM - Incoming] no.

[11:48AM - Incoming] fuck.

[11:50AM - Outgoing] That one isn't a vision either, straight from Allison

[11:51AM - Outgoing] But I've seen them, too.

[11:51AM - Outgoing] Two agents I think. They look like trouble.

[11:53AM - Incoming] thanks for the heads up

[11:54AM - Incoming] fbi... what a pain in the ass

[11:55AM - Outgoing] If they start poking around, it could be a lot worse than that

[11:55AM - Outgoing] Be careful

[11:59AM - Incoming] well how about that. you do care.

[11:59AM - Outgoing] Don't let it get to your head

---

The Jigsaw Survivor Support group meeting is held in a church basement. It's the first time you've been in a church for a long time, and the atmosphere feels weighty with the desperate prayers of its inhabitants.

Of course, there isn't an elevator. Down in the cool of the basement, a circle of chairs waits for you, and you get the sense that several men and women already seated when you arrive. Hushed voices quiet to silence as you approach, tapping your cane ahead of you.

"Oh! Hello!" A woman's voice calls out as you approach, nervous but excited. From her tone, you guess that she's an older woman. "You're new! Normally, Dr. Gordon would greet you, but he's actually away this week. He's the one who organized this group."

Doctor Gordon. Why did that name seem to strike a chord of familiarity with you?

You wince as someone takes your arm. You've learned that one major difference about being blind is that strangers are all too willing to touch you, now that they think they're being helpful.

You sure wish that they wouldn't.

The person who grabbed you by the arm leads you further into the room to a chair, "helping" you sit down. They seem a bit offended when you don't thank them, instead setting your cane beside the chair and folding your hands in your lap.

"So? What'd he take from you?" A male voice asks from across the circle, after you've settled into your seat.

"Take a guess," you reply dryly. No one in the room laughs, and you're not sure if it's better or worse that you can't actually see them all, staring and judging you. You clear your throat, and try again. "My ability to see."

"You don't need to talk about it, if you don't want to," the woman placates quickly, a note of admonishment in her tone. "Ned, you can't just ask the new people what was taken them-"

"It's okay," You interrupt, feeling surprisingly calm. Between the woman who had grabbed you, and the man who interrogated you, she had bothered you more than he had, "Not much throws me off, these days."

Reaching out with your senses, you survey the circle. A tangled mess of self-pity and loathing hits you, and you have to keep your lip from curling in a sneer of distaste. These are the survivors? You only get a hit off of one of them that doesn't repulse you- a reluctant, begrudging respect, an acknowledgement that he's made changes in his life that have improved things, since the game that he was in.

Feelings of ownership, control, responsibility- could the Jigsaw games really inspire them? Mostly, it just seemed to have traumatized these people-

These people, who were so miserable and desperate to begin with, their sins writhing inside the marrow of their bones. You have to free the sins, get the them out of the marrow to save them-

Your head throbs. The headaches have lessened considerably since you... refocused your senses, but they hadn't completely disappeared.

Briefly, you itch for a painkiller, but you ignore the craving as best as you can as you listen to each subject in the group introduce themselves.

The only name you fully register is that of the young man who you'd felt the sense of kinship with- Daniel Matthews. Hm. Isn't that ironic?

"I'm still processing everything," you say, after you introduce yourself. "But to be honest... I guess I have been seeing things in a different way."

"I'm sure you've learned to appreciate your life, and be grateful," you can hear the scowl in the man called Ned's voice. You have no idea what his test was, or how he survived, but you can hear the sarcasm in his tone- if someone here is grateful, it isn't him.

You consider the words seriously instead of taking the bait.

Had you?

"I've learned to appreciate the life that I have, rather than the one I used to wish I had," You say. You can feel the attention of the others burning on you, and it makes your skin crawl. Their judgment is like a heavy blanket over the room, and its almost suffocating. But still, the words pour out of you, too honest, too raw.

"I'm the only person who can do what I do, and the only person who can see the world from my perspective. Wishing and hoping for things to be different is pointless- it's pathetic."

No one says anything, so you continue, trying to explain further how you feel. Maybe you hope that you can convince someone here to see their game in a new light. Maybe you just need to say the words have have been stuck in your throat for so long.

"I am who I am. I'm the person I love and the person I hate. Good, bad. It doesn't really matter. I don't care anymore, and I'm so tired of making excuses for being myself."

The room sits in quiet silence, until finally, Daniel Matthews speaks up for the first time in the session.

"But do you know... who that is? Yourself?"

The version of you in your mind's eye- the version from the forest lake with the jagged metal crown- looks at you and grins with teeth.

Your words in response seem to be carried by an incoming chill.

"I think I'm figuring it out."

---

You're not sure what you expected, but a house in the suburbs is not it.

"I'm renovating it, so careful where you step," Mark says, leading you through the front door with a hand on your waist. "Would be a hell of a waste if you died tripping over a brick."

"Hey, you're not allowed to make fun of me for being blind," You reply back, without any real venom. His hand squeezes your waist, playful but dominant.

"Who said anything about you being blind? I was talking about your two left feet." You jab him in the side with your elbow, and he chuckles to himself, pulling you along with him.

It feels altogether domestic- far easier than it has any right to feel. You can imagine a life together, in this home. Taxes and fighting over chores and going on trips. Putting on music as the sun goes down, brewing coffee in the mornings as it rises. You allow yourself the indulgence of it, for just a moment.

The house smells like sawdust and paint, but there's a metallic undercurrent of blood. It's hard to tell if that scent is really there, or if it's just something your mind has picked up on, independent of your objective reality. Mark seems to lead you on forever, around too many corners to count.

There it is again, that sixth sense nagging at you. Something bad happened here. Something bad will happen here. Layers of pain, like the rings in the centre of a tree. You think back to Daniel Matthews, and his nervous, angry energy. So much like his father's, but still so different.

The coffin of glass swallows the target, but he doesn't know what it means. He thinks he is safe inside, but he is wrong. The walls are closing in on him, not his opponent, who is pulled through to the heavens. This isn't how its supposed to happen.

"Is this place a maze? What kind of architect designed this?" You mutter, as Mark stops walking and crouches down beside you. You tap your cane around, noticing a hollow sound ringing from part of the floor.

"Probably John. The layout's a nightmare. But the place is huge. It'll be nice, once its fixed up." Mark responds, and you hear a loud thud. "It's a trap door," he explains.

"Great," You reply, "Always a good sign."

Mark helps you through the trapdoor and down a ladder. Your tentative movements take time, but if he's annoyed by your slow pace, he doesn't complain. Once you're down the ladder, you reach out with your mind's eye, and survey your surroundings.

It is much colder, down here, somehow. Something bothers you about it, like an open sore in the back of the mouth.

"Hey, where are you going?"

You don't realize you're walking away until you hear Mark's voice, calling after you. Something is drawing you in like a beacon. It feels, suddenly, like you're on the cusp of completing something important, something you'd nearly forgotten about.

Drawn through the cold, damp, narrow tunnels, you somehow know instinctively which ways to turn. You don't trip, or run into walls, but keep moving, deeper into the dark. Until finally, you feel yourself stop in front of... something.

Reaching forward, you grasp the bars of a cell.

"Somewhere deep and dark. Low, inside the earth," you echo your words from weeks ago now, and hear a low, guttural groan in response.

Poor Eric Matthews, more animal than man by now.

"Yeah, he's not doing so great," Mark whispers in your ear, having followed after you. You get a brief flash of vision- Mark grabbing Eric by the hair, grown matted and shaggy, and dragging him back as he sobs and claws at the ground. Mark, punching him heavy in the stomach, throwing slop at his feet.

He hated it, at first. Then he grew to relish it.

Pure horror settles in you, uneasy in your stomach.

"Why... keep him?" You ask hollowly, feeling Mark's arm around your waist again, territorial.

"Kramer wants him for the next game," He replies, too quiet for Matthews to hear, "Needs him as an incentive. You know how bad the precinct wants to save him. Hell, it's why you're here in the first place."

"Is someone out there? Help me-" Matthews pleads, his voice broken, "P-please-" Your mouth is dry. You'd been brought in to save this man, and now here he was, begging for help in front of you.

"Huh. So he does remember how to speak," Mark mutters. Part of you wants to reach out, to comfort Matthews, to lie badly to him and tell him it will be alright.

But this is what it is. Open wounds, dirty basements, and pain like the refrain of a prayer. The maw of Hell itself. This is what it means, to be a part of this.

To be partners with Detective Mark Hoffman.

You jump in surprise at a sudden, loud clang- Mark has grabbed your cane, and slammed it against the rusted bars of the cell. You hear whimpering, as Eric Matthews seems to retreat. You take a few steps back, away from the cell, closing your eyes as if it will help.

"It gets easier," Mark tells you, "I know, I know. It's alright to be uncertain. Too feel sick about it. I was at first, too."

You swallow, and nod. He presses his lips to your temple, in a gentle gesture, and continues to soothe you with honeyed words.

"Don't worry. No one's going to find out. You and me, we do this together. We help each other. Right?"

You nod again, and he kisses you, on the lips this time. It's almost forceful, as though by the action alone, he can make you forget your conscience.

"Come on," He says, "Lemme show you the bathroom."

---

Although you've never set foot in this room before in your life, you feel as though you're returning back to a place you grew up in. It has an air of nostalgia about it that's almost uncanny, like a place you've dreamt about a million times, but can't quite map the layout of.

Frankly, it's kind of fucking creepy in here.

The smells of decaying bodies doesn't help. It's unmistakable, almost sweet in its rot, and you clasp a hand over your mouth as you grimace.

"You're renovating, but you couldn't take out the bodies?" You ask, fighting the urge to gag.

"Yeah, let me just carry them to my car," Mark snipes back, and you suppose he has a point. "I don't really come down here. But hey, do your thing." You hear the scrape of a chair, and wonder- is he pulling up a seat?

With a deep breath, you calm your nerves, and try to dial in to your extrasensory perception. The first task you'd been given- find Eric Matthews- has been completed. The second- find the secret apprentice- has not. That's your goal, and the reason you came here. You know that this place has the answers you seek. The walls bleed with them.

You sense Mark, somewhere behind you, curious and sharp. But you need to reach something older. Glass crunches under your boots, and you slowly pace the room, stepping carefully as not to trip over anything.

Then, you catch hold of something. Before you can understand what you're doing, you're crouching in front of one of the bodies, taking his bony, brittle face into your hands. The skin is like tissue paper under your touch.

"Oh, Adam," You murmur to him softly, "How unfair. He didn't follow his own rules for you, did he?"

"Are you... talking to the corpse?" Mark asks, an edge of disgust in his voice.

You ignore him. The corpse doesn't speak, of course, but he answers you in his own way.

"He promised," you hear your voice saying, an echo from a thousand miles away, "He promised he'd come back to save him. A Knight in shining armour. But he never did. He dies down here, missing his mother and wondering if he'll ever see her again. He dies over and over again. He exists as a ghost, haunting the third. The fourth? The secret one, the guilty one, the one who got away."

You hold the skull delicately, with a care not to disturb him. Of course, he's just a body. Just a shell. But before that-

You smell cigarette smoke, hear the click of a camera snapping a shot. Despair, fear, loneliness. Despondency, hope. Bitterness, so much resentment. A cell phone ringing, a hacksaw, tearing into flesh, pain, pain-

"Who was tested in here?" You ask Mark, letting go of the body and standing. The room spins around you, seems to pulse in the darkness. You get the impression of patterns, swirling about- the kind you can read and understand, that you can use to tell the future, if you just focus. You wipe your hands on your pants.

"That guy," Mark replies, presumably pointing to Adam, "We strung up another guy in here at one point. And Matthew's game ended up in here, with the kid and Amanda."

"Who was with Adam?" The answer is so close to you. For some reason, you think of the Jigsaw survivor group, and briefly wonder if the secret apprentice is Daniel Matthews. It partially seems to fit, but your intuition suggests that guess is off base.

"A doctor, I think. We planted his pen light. I think he ended up surviving. What the hell was his name...?" As Mark thinks, the answer comes to you, bold, in flashing neon lights.

"Doctor Gordon," you whisper. You ankle aches in confirmation.

"That was it," Mark replies, and then he pauses. "Him?"

"Him."

"You're sure?"

You see a blonde man, pale and sickly looking, crawling away as blood pours from the stump of his leg. It flows like paint spilling from an overturned tub, until the man presses it to a boiling pipe. Flesh melts and blood coagulates. He survives.

He survives. But he is alone. He has no one else but the ghosts, and the King, omnipotent in his wisdom, sees a subject in the making. A knight to stand guard, to protect the most valuable pieces. To save, when he could not save before.

"I'm sure," You reply, and you are. You hear Mark stand up from his seat.

"What now?" He asks, walking back over to you, "Do we...confront him? Ask Kramer about him?"

It's curious, you think, that he's asking for your opinion now. But you shake your head.

"No," You answer. You've never felt so sure of something in your life. The impressions of the patterns spell out hints to you, show a chessboard with its pieces, ready for play.

"No, we sit on this. We'll need him, later. We don't let anyone else know that we know," You say and you hear Mark make a small hum of contemplation.

"We'll need him?" He asks, a note of skepticism in his voice, and you nod.

"I don't know how yet. But I can feel it. Trust me on this?" You ask. He sighs.

"You haven't been wrong yet," He replies, and you smile at him in thanks. The pieces are coming into focus now, starting to settle into place. John Kramer has been lining up these dominoes for half a decade.

And you can sense what's coming. Your sight will be your survival. You catch the sound of a buzz, coming from where Mark stands.

"It's John. He wants to meet with you again, one-on-one," Mark says then, and you hazard a guess that he's looking at his phone. Does John Kramer know how to text?

"When?" You ask back. Your intuition tells you this will be important- that it might be the last time you see Kramer, face to face. He's a tyrant, his dark shadow looming over you and Mark, and you know in your soul that even when he's dead, that isn't going to change.

"Now. You ready?"

You hope that you are. You think of Eric Matthews, rotting in the dark; and Daniel Matthews, living in the day. You think of Adam, resigned to the depths to die alone, and Ned, who survived to scoff at the notion of gratitude.

It makes you sick, and not out of guilt.

A/N- A bit plot heavy, but since I actually know where this is going now, I'm actually laying down the building blocks for the end! Thank you for waiting, I'm a bit nervous about this chapter so if you liked it, please leave a review <3

TAG LIST: @icarusinstatic @honimello @haven-is-happy @karmaswitch @the-jester-calamity @teamhawkeye @thebrideofcaliban @mjrkime @kaelyn-lobrutto24 @mrs-hotforhoffman @aliengutzstuff

#mark hoffman #sawposting #slasher fic #costas mandylor #my writing #slasher x reader #detective hoffman #mark hoffman x oc #mark hoffman x reader #smut #psychicverse #saw franchise #saw movies #horror #reader insert #x reader #gn reader

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corn-fanfiction · 4 months

Note

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.

#mark hoffman #fanfiction #mark hoffman x reader #saw fanfic #reqs open

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sawtastic-sideblog · 5 months

Note

This is kind of unnerving. Idk why. Probably because this looks like a selfie he'd send on snapchat.

Imagine:

Mark watches as Amanda poses and takes a selfie on her phone.

"What are you doing?"

"Taking a selfie."

"Well, yeah, but why?"

"Adam snapped me."

"He did what?"

"He sent me a snap."

"That has made nothing clearer."

"Snapchat," Amanda says. She looks at Mark and sees the questioning look on his face. She sighs and gets up from the couch to walk over and sit on the arm of the recliner. "Look."

"It's your camera."

"I mean, yeah, but look down here. These are filters. You can put them over your pictures."

"Kinda like the voice filters we use for the tests?"

"Exactly. Adam sent me another snap."

Mark watches as she swipes over to her messages and taps the message. The image of a pouting Adam graces the screen. The caption "Larry says we can't get ice cream. This is bullshit. I'm gonna riot." Amanda laughs and double taps Adam's name. The camera comes back up. She scrolls through the filters and picks one.

"Okay, you're in this. Open your mouth when you see the ears," Amanda explains. Before Mark can protest, Amanda has the phone out in front of them. Amanda has a pair of brown ears with a dog nose on her face. Mark has a pair of white ears with black spots and a dog nose on his face. Mark opens his mouth to speak, but cuts himself off when he sees a tongue come out of his mouth. Amanda presses the shutter button and chuckles at Mark's confused expression. She taps the screen and types in "Teaching Hoffman how to use snap. Wish me luck. #boomer."

"What the hell?"

"Hm?"

"I am not a boomer."

"Okay, whatever you say, Boomer."

"If anyone is a boomer, it's John."

"John is hip and cool. He wears backwards hats. He's an honorary member of Gen Z."

"You're not even Gen Z."

"Shut up. Anyway, you can have a bitmoji, add friends, see where they are on snap maps, and you can earn points."

"What do those do?"

"No clue, but you should make an account."

"Help me?"

"Okay."

Fifteen minutes later and Mark is receiving his first snap. It's from Adam. He's in the passenger seat of the car, angling the phone to where he and Lawrence are both in view. Both men are wearing sunglasses. Lawrence is looking ahead, driving as Adam gives the camera a pouty, kissy face. The caption reads "welcome to the snapiverse. Been trying to get Larry on for a while. Maybe now he will that you're here."

Mark goes to reply to Adam but slides to the left instead. He sees Adam's bitmoji pop up at the bottom of the screen.

"We can also text here if you want. I just like posing for the camera sometimes."

Before Mark can answer, Amanda snatches his phone.

"Hey!"

"Hi, give me a minute."

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Making your bitmoji."

A few minutes later, Amanda is handing his phone back. She made the bitmoji look similar to Mark and she's also added him to a group chat with herself and Adam.

"Send your first snap in the chat. I'll be back in a minute," Amanda says leaving the room. Mark does as she said and sends a photo of him glaring into the camera. Adam responds first with a picture of him pulling his sunglasses down. He is looking over the top of the glasses. He is making another kissy face at the camera. The caption says, "Dude what the fuck? Pose or something."

Amanda's snap comes in. Mark opens it to find the top half of Amanda's heas in front of a white wall with a silver bar behind her head. Is she in the bathroom? Her eyebrows are in a questioning furrow and her eyes are concerned. Her caption reads "for real. Pose. Do ducks lips. Give a peace sign. Something."

Mark opens the camera. His lips poke out and he holds up two fingers and snaps a picture. He types out "like this?" And hits send.

*Adam has taken a screenshot*

*Amanda has taken a screenshot*

"OMG I cannot breathe. I am deceased!" Adam sends in the chat.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SHIT MARK!?" Amanda questions.

"I tried okay?"

#thanks for this #im so exhausted my brain is mush but #mark using socia media is my new favorite thing #saw 2004 #saw franchise #adam stanheight #lawrence gordon #leigh whannell #john kramer #mark hoffman #saw fanfic #tobin bell #amanda young

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hoffmansnightmare · 6 months

Text

Keep Away From The Edge

Chapter 2

Read Part one here: Part 1

Pairing: Mark Hoffman X Emmy Hodges

Recovering, Hint of Panic Attack, Crying, Not Comfort, Drinking, Nightmares

(You can also read it here! Keep Away From The Edge)

Emmy only stayed at the hospital for another day before they decided she was well enough to head home.

Well enough was of course relative. Emmy wasn't sure she'd ever be well enough again, but she wasn't in any danger of dying from her wounds. They'd monitored her to make sure she didn't spike a fever, and released her with scripts for painkillers and an antibiotic.

"If you start to feel like you have a fever, please come back." Her nurse, Betty, had explained. Betty handed her the clothes she had arrived in, which had been washed as thoroughly as they could be, but still had slashes from the glass. Emmy winced at the sight of them.

"Is there anything else I can wear out of here?" She asked. The idea of putting the clothes she had suffered in back on made her skin crawl. These garments were fated for a fire when she got home, most likely. "Also…did you find a tape recorder with my things?" Emmy didn't know why she was worried about that thing in particular. The memory of sticking it in her back pocket was already becoming hazy.

"I think we may have some sweat pants and t-shirts we can send you home in." Betty looked uneasy at her second question. "I'm not sure about the tape recorder. I would guess that the police probably took anything like that as evidence."

Emmy thought about the detective's business card that still sat on the bedside table. She imagined herself calling him up, demanding to have her tape recorder back. It was hers. She'd earned it. "My wallet and cell phone are gone too?"

Betty just shrugged, looking very apologetic. "I didn't see anything besides your clothes."

Emmy drew in a long, labored breath. "Can you still see about those clothes?"

Betty gave her a small smile and a nod, leaving her to find something for her to wear. Emmy was grateful, but soon how she was even going to make it home crossed her mind. She lived across town, and with no wallet she couldn't get a taxi. She had no family left and the few friends she had were states away. She had one friend that did live close by, but Emmy also didn't feel like she had the strength to explain what had happened to her again…not yet anyway.

Her eyes wandered over to the business card again. 'Detective Mark Hoffman' in bold black letters above his phone and fax number. Surely he was far too busy to humor Emmy's woes. Maybe she'd just see if one of the nurses could give her just enough for bus fair. Then she thought about being crammed in a tight space with strangers, unfamiliar faces, any of which could be the person who had taken her.

Her hand yanked the room phone off the receiver and she was dialing his number before she could think any further about it. By the third ring she was starting to get cold feet, her hand on the receiver getting tense, ready to slam it down after another unanswered ring.

"Detective Hoffman."

Great he'd answered and now she had no idea what she was even going to say. What had she even needed in the first place? Her wallet?

"Hello?"

"H-hi." Emmy forced the word out. "It-it's Emmory, Emmory Hodges?"

"Yes." Hoffman's voice pitched up in recognition. "Did you remember something?"

"W-well not exactly."

Mark listened to her plight. "You don't have any family who can help you out?" Of course Mark knew she didn't, but asking was a part of the script, part of the act he had to keep up as the detective who hadn't been following her around for weeks. He knew her routine very well, and it wasn't very exciting. It looked much like his had, before John. Work, bar, home. Only to be repeated day after day. Both of her parents had passed away, and there were no siblings that he knew of. And she certainly didn't spend time with friends. At least not often.

"No, and without my wallet I can't get a cab." Emmory said.

Mark looked over at her possessions he had taken when he'd grabbed her. Just a cellphone and wallet. He'd added the tape recorder she'd put in her pocket before dropping her off. Just three lonely items sitting on a cluttered desk in the crowded warehouse he was currently using as a home base. Mark checked his watch for the time. He should probably head into the station soon anyway.

"I can swing by the hospital, and I think I can return your wallet and cell to you."

"That would be great." Emmory's voice brightened. Just a little. "Then I could pay a cab. I don't mean to be a bother."

Hoffman smiled at that. He wasn't exactly sure why.

"O-oh there was one other thing." She sounded unsure again. "There was a tape recorder in my back pocket. Did the police retrieve it? If so…I would like it back too."

"You want your test tape back?" Now Mark was truly confused.

"Y-yeah. I made it all the way through with it in my back pocket and I…I just want it."

Mark chewed the inside of his lip. On one hand he didn't see much harm in returning it to her. He could wipe it for all prints, and it was one John had prerecorded. But what she wanted with it was a mystery, and Mark didn't like mysteries.

"I'll see what I can do." He answered. He heard a whoosh of air on the other line.

"O-okay. I'll see you soon?"

"Yes." Mark was already standing and grabbing his coat. "I'll be there soon." She hung up and Hoffman snapped his cell closed. He stood over her things, cell, wallet, and tape recorder, still debating on whether just giving her the thing was a problem or not. Then he had to stand there and consider why he was even humoring the request. He should just tell her he couldn't get that particular thing out of evidence. She'd believe it.

He pulled on his leather gloves and shoved all three items into his coat pockets.

At the hospital she was waiting for him at the nurses station just outside her room, which was currently being turned down and sanitized for the next patient. Emmory was wearing a shirt that looked to be two sizes too big, and a pair of sweatpants that were synced around her waist. They looked like they were as big as the shirt. In her left hand was a plastic bag with what looked like her old clothes.

Her eyes landed on him as soon as he exited the elevator. They almost pinned him still in the spot. They were such an intense shade of corn flower blue, a little unsettling if he was honest. Mark kept his feet moving, procuring her wallet and phone from his pocket. For now he left the tape recorder where it was, not exactly keen on revealing it in front of all the nurses there. She grinned as he handed them to her, opening her wallet to make sure everything was still there.

"Wow, they didn't take anything." Relief was obvious in her voice. Next she tried the phone, but the battery had long since died. She put both things in the pocket of her much too big sweatpants. "Thank you again…and the other thing?"

Of course she'd ask. Mark tilted his head toward the elevator. "Let me walk you out." She followed without further comment, looking absent again. When the elevator doors closed he produced the tape recorder. "Here, but it's our little secret."

She took it with wide, almost reverent eyes. He told himself he was giving it to her to gain more of her trust. The more she trusted him the easier his life would be down the line. Her thumb hovered over the play button, and Mark put a hand over it.

"Maybe don't listen to it. Not so soon after anyway." Was she trying to traumatize herself further? Thankfully she listened to him, putting it with her phone and wallet. The rest of their ride down was silent.

On the ground floor the elevator doors opened up to pure chaos. In the short time it took him to get here and their elevator ride down, the press had learned Emmory was being discharged today, and were not swarming the front doors. Emmory stopped dead, watching the reporters shout at her through the doors. Apparently the hospital staff had shut off the automatic sensors and locked the doors.

"Oh…" Emmory said, her hand fisting itself into her oversized shirt. "How am I going to get a cab?"

She wasn't, not without going through that throng. The two of them were far enough back that the crowd hadn't noticed them, and Emmory was already taking a step back.

"We go back to plan A." Mark said simply, tapping her elbow. "I take you home. Come on. I parked in the parking garage. We can go out the back way."

She looked up at him with those wide blue eyes again. "Okay."

Escaping the press was relatively easy. At least it seemed that way to Emmy. She supposed the detective was probably used to maneuvers like this. Emmy tried to covertly take the man in properly from his passenger seat, being fully conscious for the first time in days.

Objectively he was handsome. The first thing that had stood out to her was his eyes, blue like hers, but riddled with emotions she could not even begin to decipher. Then his lips, they were so full it seemed like a crime. His hair was a dark brown and combed carefully. Clean shaven face and a build that was just…solid. He wasn't exceptionally tall, but he was…well thick. He looked like her might be a little soft in some areas, the way older men sometimes were.

"So, where am I taking you?"

Emmy started sharply. Right, he needed to know where she lived. "I'm just outside of the city. 1428 Summers Ave." She gave him directions on how to get to her place, although once she said the street name Hoffman had nodded. He probably knew every street name in a ten mile radius of the city.

There was still something, at the back of her mind, bugging her. Like an itch she just couldn't reach.

"You seem to be handling everything very well." Hoffman said, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

"Oh…well…" truth be told she hadn't really let herself stop to think about it. She'd either been sleeping or trying to figure out how she was going to get home. "It hasn't, I guess, occurred to me yet?"

Hoffman was quiet for several moments, then he nodded. "It could still be shock. Hasn't sunk in yet." They were out of the city now. Her stop wasn't very far from here.

Emmy tried to think about that. It wouldn't do her any good to ignore it. Was it just that she was so thankful to be alive? She didn't really think so. Yes she was happy she didn't die, but now she was going to be covered in scars, and probably have some bad nightmares to boot. Would she just go about like it didn't happen? Why hadn't she cried yet? Emmy thought the not crying thing was probably the weirdest part. Then again she'd heard stories of emotions so great they were beyond tears. Maybe that's what she was experiencing?

"Hey, you get lost in there?" They were stopped at a red light, and Hoffman had taken the opportunity to look at her, tilting his head slightly to get a better look at her face, which was pointing down to her lap.

She blinked slowly, coming back to the present painfully. Her throat was closing and she suddenly couldn't be home soon enough. She turned her head to the window, swallowing hard. "I'm fine."

He left her alone for the rest of the ride. When he pulled up in front of her house Emmy turned back to him. "Thank you. You really saved me."

Hoffman smiled and something flickered in his eyes. "Hey, it wasn't any trouble."

Emmy tried to smile at him as she left the car. It felt off, and she hoped she wasn't actually grimacing at him. Once she closed the door behind her everything hit her like a wave crashing over her. Her back fell against the door and she slid down until she was holding her knees and shaking. It was then, when she was finally all alone for the first time in a few days, that the tears came. They rolled down her face fat and hot. Now Emmy could really feel the ache all over her body, how the deeper cuts hurt.

A sob bubbled out of her chest, which started a torrent of more sobbing. She sat there, on the floor with her back to her front door, and cried for what felt like hours. She cried until she just couldn't anymore. She was still heaving sobs, but her cheeks had long dried. Eventually she got too tired to even make noise, so she subsided to whimpers, then silence. Just sat there with her chin on her knees, staring at the hard wood floor of her living room.

How was she meant to just keep going after what had happened to her? The point of the test was to teach her to appreciate being alive, but now all she could think about was how she was going to go about things as usual when she had nearly been another deceased victim of the Jigsaw killer. Now she was one of his lucky survivors. She was supposed to just put that all behind her? In the moment that seemed impossible. Like she'd never be able to move on. Logically she knew she eventually would, probably with plenty of nightmares, and the scars to remind her every day, but down the road it really would become just a memory.

Being back in her home just threw into sharp relief how wrong it felt. To be back here, safe in her house, when only a few days ago she may never have seen it again. It was beyond her comprehension. And her job…oh God she'd have to go back to work. That alone suddenly seemed like a monumental hill to climb. Did her boss even know what had happened to her? She hadn't called him yet, but she'd have to go back to work eventually. Trauma didn't make the bills go away. Emmy sniffed at that. It felt cruel that the earth kept on spinning.

Her ass really started to hurt from sitting on the hardwood floor, and her back was getting stiff, so she got back to her feet. She walked into the kitchen, which was just a step out of the living room in an open floor plan. Her phone charger was on the kitchen island so she plugged her phone in and set it down there to charge. She took the tape recorder out too, setting it next to her phone. It still had her dried blood on it. She hadn't noticed that before. She went back to retrieve the plastic bag she had been holding that held her old clothes. She chucked it into the trash on her way to her office.

Her office was down the hall off of the living room. Really she just wanted to go into her bedroom and collapse on the bed, pretend she didn't have to actually exist for one more day, but she thought it would be better to check in sooner rather than later, and she was sure her email was full to bursting by now. Mainly she wanted to email her boss and make sure she did indeed still have a job. That would really just be the cherry on top, having to job hunt after everything. Her email was full, most of it was spam and chain emails. Some were from her boss, wondering where she was, and worried. Emmy sent a way too brief email explaining what had happened and letting him know she'd be back again on Monday. She hadn't realized what day it was until she sat down. Thursday. For some reason the fact that the Jigsaw killer took her in the middle of the week really stuck with her.

Wonder if he has a 9 to 5 schedule.

She received an email back within a few minutes. It was the middle of the day and he was probably sitting right at his desk. Her heart thumped opening the email, expecting him to say that she'd been terminated. But no, he was relieved she was alive, if not okay, and that she could take more time if she needed to. Emmy replied back her thanks, but that she'd be in on Monday. She thought returning back to routine is what they always said you should do. Keep yourself busy and all that.

Now all she had to do was turn on her phone and see who had tried to contact her.

The precinct was abuzz as it always was. Kerry cornered him as soon as he walked through the door to ask him about the latest survivor.

"Did she have anything new?"

Mark could have rolled his eyes. "You read the notes. She saw as little as the others."

Kerry followed him all the way to his office, filled with way too much energy. "I want to bring her back in. After recovering she may remember more details.

Real irritation flared in Mark's chest this time and he rounded on her, his hand gripping the door handle. "Jesus, Kerry, give the woman a few days at least. She's going to have enough trouble adjusting."

He watched as shame flickered through her eyes. Mark wanted to sneer openly in her face. You forgot she was human for a moment there didn't you? All you could think about was that she lived through what you are studying. He could have sympathized with Kerry at one point, not so much now. Maybe some of that was his own fault. The work he did with John seeping unto his very marrow. Had he once just wanted to put bad guys away? He thought so. Now he was beholden to a dying old man who swore there was a better way.

"We can give her a week, but I do think it's important we question her again. It's standard."

It was. People tended to remember details after a period of time. Not that Mark thought Emmory would magically remember anything important. Well he knew she wouldn't. His only reply was a grunt as he opened his office door. A clear sign that this conversation was over. Mark sat down in his chair with a groan. He had plenty to do, or pretend to do. That day he had the request John made of him to fulfill, and he had a lot of work ahead of him.

Mark worked well into the evening, eventually checking his watch and seeing it had gotten quite late. He’d made some good headway. He’d call John and update him once he got out to his car. He wanted to drive by Emmory’s place, just to check in. Not that he expected he’d see much, but it was worth a look to see if she were home, or back at her favorite bar.

All was quiet at the Hodges House. The lights were out, and the car was in the driveway, which didn’t mean much. The little hole in the wall Emmory frequented was only a couple of blocks away, and he knew she was prone to walking there. They couldn’t take your keys if you didn’t drive.

So Hoffman made his way to the bar. It was a small place with a weird name, Lavender Tavern Syndrome. It was a step above a dive bar, and seemed to be video game themed. There were arcade cabinets along one wall and a few of the tables themselves were arcade machines, with a screen under the glass tabletop. Hoffman wondered if this place was Emmory’s favorite because of the theme, or because it was so close. He also thought they’d probably do better business deeper into the city, but they seemed to be doing well enough. There was no sign of Emmory here either, so hopefully she was at home in bed.

Mark ordered a drink, not wanting to look more suspicious than he already did in his cheap suit. The bartender was very welcoming, taking his drink order with a smile and producing it quickly. Definitely a far cry from the bars Mark had been used to in his heavy drinking days. He’d finish his one drink, then head home for the night. Maybe he’d swing by in the morning to see if there was any change. He didn’t think Emmory would be open to joining them, he wasn’t sure if she had the fortitude…

And maybe he didn’t want her to be. John’s cult didn’t need to grow any bigger. Mark could guess that John would eventually want to talk to Emmory, see how she took his ‘rehabilitation’, but Mark would leave that up to his discretion when he returned from Mexico. Mark wasn’t ready to out himself to her anytime soon.

Emmy tossed and turned in her bed, a sheen of sweat glistening on her forehead. The nightmares had come, memories of broken glass and how hot her blood had felt oozing out of a fresh cut. Shards grinding against the bones in her knuckles. In her nightmares she could have sworn there were still pieces inside of her, burrowing deeper under her skin.

Then, at the very end, when she got to the light at the end of the tunnel, a voice. It was deep, resonating in her chest.

Congratulations. You made it.

@grxmreaperx

#mark hoffman #saw 2004 #sawposting #saw franchise #saw movies #saw x #mark hoffman x oc #Mark Hoffman x Emmory Hodges #Keep Away From The Edge

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gdbatbitch · 6 months

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Surgery happened on Tuesday! So my thyroid is now gone, along with some suspicious looking lymph nodes. The surgeon, Dr Lawrence Shirley at Baptist Health, was wonderful and has genuine concern for my progress. He told me that what was removed will be examined/tested by a pathologist to see if there may be any other issues, but hopefully this will be all I need to start healing. Hopefully. I'm not saying anything for certain.

The surgery itself was pretty easy on me. The only other time I've had major surgery like this was almost 24 years ago, when my twin daughters were born. That was a much different experience, but I have strong memories of the hospital staff at University of Kentucky hospital, and most of those memories are not positive. I'll just leave it at that. Baptist has been great so far. Everyone I've interacted with has been kind and made me feel like I was being genuinely cared for. Especially the nurse I was assigned Wednesday morning, Cody. He and I had a few conversations about the economy and comic books and movies, and that really helped me stay positive even though I was in pain.

I am still in a lot of pain. Swallowing hurts, as well as turning my head, leaning, bending over, or sitting up in bed. I tried a couple of times this morning before just rolling myself over to the side so I had more leverage to stand. I also apparently talked way too much yesterday because by the end of the day, my voice was all hoarse and that was causing pain as well. So I think today is going to be a quieter day.

I'm also going to be able to take off the bandage on my incision today and see how that goes. I'm kind of dreading that, even though I am curious to see what it looks like. I'm not afraid of having a scar, I have several as it is. It's just I have this weird fear of the incision opening up on its own. That comes from when I was recovering from the C-section and a staple that was holding the incision closed popped. It didn't really cause any problems, but I had nightmares that my guts could just fall out at any moment. Logically I know that's not going to happen, but the gremlins that control my anxiety levels are having a blast making me paranoid.

At this point, I'm at just around a third of the way toward my goal. I've already had to use what I've raised so far to keep the bills paid and pay for part of the surgery. The hospital has put me on an installment plan that will have me paying about $300 a month for 18 months. That is so far outside my budget, so I'm going to be pushing this fundraiser more, and I'd really love it if those of you that have already donated to share this page and encourage your friends to do the same. The more eyes we get on this, the better.

Right now my bank account is looking sad and since I'm missing time from work, my next paycheck is going to be just a little over half of what I usually bring home. It's only the 19th now, but I'm already nervous about being able to make November's rent. And I know things are tight for everyone, so even the smallest donations can make a big difference to me. A $5 donation is just as good as a $500 donation, and I'm grateful for all of them.

I'm grateful for all of you, for all you've done for me, whether it's a donation or words of support or a phone call, all of it. I usually feel like I'm taking on the world all by my lonesome, but I do feel very much supported and cared for thanks to all of you.

Please enjoy my post-op selfie and the grippy socks I absolutely took home with me. I'm wearing them now and I love them. I'm going to be doing nothing but resting today, since I overdid a little yesterday. Later taters.

#surgery #thyroid cancer #fuck cancer #grippy socks #gofundme #fundraiser #help please #reblog the shit out of this

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readersandimagines · 2 months

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Gone Missing - Chapter 1

Okay so this took me way too long to write! I decided to try and write it in first person but also still keep it neutral enough that a reader could place themselves in the story? I may scrap this and go back to 2nd or 3rd person we shall see! Sooo let me know what you think! Only other warning I have is I didn't proof read this and quickly put it together.

But uhh essentially you're Adam's sibling and he's been missing for three days too many so you do what any sensable human would do and go to the police station to report him missing. Dectective Hoffman is on the case ;3

It had been three days. Three days wondering where in the world my brother, Adam had gotten up to. I sighed, checking my phone for what felt like the hundredth time today. Still no callback. Maybe Adam just got busy, I thought trying to reassure myself that he was fine. The last time we spoke he told me about some ex cop that was paying him pretty good money, so maybe he was just busy with that?

“I can’t do this anymore!” I exclaimed, standing up to grab my coat.

I quickly locked the door to my apartment and headed out. I needed to stay calm, but my mind raced with too many thoughts to grab hold of anything. As I walked and held my phone close; Adam had exactly 20 minutes to call me before I reported him as a missing person. I knew he would be angry, but I couldn’t lose him. He was the only family I had left.

The autumn air was crisp as I started to walk along the street. Cars and people passed by continuing on their way. Their world continued to move forward while it felt like mine froze. I could feel a lump growing in my throat as I pushed the door open to enter the Metropolitan Police Department.

The front was unremarkable dead. A small lobby with a few chairs and a main desk with an officer to greet you. Taking a deep breath, I approached the desk mentally preparing to deal with whatever bullshit these guys could throw at me. As long as they help me find him that’s all that matters.

“Name and case number?” the voice asked.

“Uhh… I don’t have one?” I answered, earning a sigh and annoyed glance from the man behind the desk.

Normally this man wouldn’t have bothered me so much. I would just sass him back and yet I couldn’t bring myself to do that.

“You don’t have a name?” the cop asked a little louder, gaining some attention from people behind him.

“I have a name, but I don’t have a case number.” I responded, feeling my chest tighten. “I… need to file a missing persons case.”

“Sweetie people go missing every day in this town, you sure they didn’t just dump you?”

Anger, confusion, sadness. Each one leaving as quickly as it came. I couldn’t understand how walking into a police station was such a problem. The man behind the desk examined me, seeming to want to say something else before another man in a suit walked up. The two officers exchanged words briefly before the man in the suit walked over. I clenched my jaw, I knew I shouldn’t have come here. I would have better luck finding Adam myself than trusting these people.

“Detective Hoffman,” the man called, extending his rather large hand out to me.

“_________ Stanheight,” I answered, taking his hand into my own.

He had a strong, but gentle handshake as he gestured to the chairs in the lobby. If this had been a regular day, I would have been having to contain my emotions as I looked over the detective. He had the brightest blue eyes and a nice smile. He wasn’t ripped like other cops, but he definitely seemed to be in shape. I just hoped he could help me find Adam.

“I couldn’t help but overhear,” Detective Hoffman said, gesturing towards the front desk. “What makes you think someone is missing?”

“I don’t think anyone is missing. I know my brother Adam is missing. We talk everyday and now I can’t get in touch with him,” I huffed, my annoyance starting to grow as the detective nodded, pulling a notebook out of his pocket.

“Adam huh? How long has it been since you spoke? Could he just not have his phone?” he asked, earning a glare from me.

“It’s been three days. Look, I know he’s missing. We talk everyday. And one of your officers hired him to follow some doctor--” I snapped before he cut me off.

“One of our officers?”

“Yes! Some old guy-- Bob Tapp? I think?” I exclaimed, mentally kicking myself for not getting the name when Adam had originally told me.

“Detective Tapp? But he’s dea--” the original guy from the desk started to say before Hoffman cut him off.

“All the more reason to take their information,” he said sharply.

“D-dead?” I stammered, my eyes widening. “No, you have to be mistaken, Adam just got hired by this guy.”

Everything around me felt like it was spinning. If the guy that hired Adam was dead-- no Adam couldn’t be dead. My thoughts grew louder and I couldn’t focus. Time seemed to freeze. I could feel tears filling my eyes before I felt a strong, but firm touch on my shoulder bringing me back to reality for a moment.

“Hey, I need you to calm down. We will do everything we can to find your brother,” Hoffman said firmly.

“He can’t die,” I whispered, trying desperately to stop the flood gates trying to open. “He’s… the only family I have left.”Hoffman’s face softened briefly and he nodded like he understood what I felt. I needed to calm down. I needed to give him the information. But I also desperately needed to go out and start my own search. It felt like the wind had been knocked from beneath my sails and yet all I could do was focus on one singular thought: Adam could be in serious danger.

#artemis rose writes #artemis writes #ask artemis!#mark hoffman #saw #adam stanheight #adam saw #x reader #saw x reader #does adam live? who knows not I the writer XD #gonna go write up some headcannons now because I get the feeling Adam may get wrecked and people are gonna be angee

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apprenticestanheight · 5 months

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pls a Mark hoffman x male reader where him and the reader get cozy in a bookstore while it's snowing

Snow- Mark Hoffman x male! reader

ALLL right!! In the spirit of the fact that I am determined to get my requests under control coupled with the fact that a snowstorm blew through my province sunday night through midday yesterday, this request is a little holiday-happy-feely. It's also what I hope to be the beginning of a prosperous week--I have energy drinks, coffee and finally finished editing something I actually finished working on last week, so the goal is that I can focus on other things now and get stuff done lol.

Thank you for sending this in--I truly don't write for hoffman enough and I just knew, from the minute I read the request, that it was gonna come out really sweet. I love me some tooth rotting fluff and writing this was an absolute joy!

Fic type- fluff!!

Warnings- this is unedited (I was trying to finish it before the motivation went away and editing it hardly occurred to me bc editing is never motivating ever--but I did read through as I went to make sure the grammar and stuff wasn't TOO funky. Apologies if it still is tho)

You were standing in the bookstore a close friend owned, watching the weather forecast from a TV in their backroom while they finished up with customers when you first got the news of a very intense oncoming storm.

Jersey, as a whole, was looking at a median half a foot of snow over the weekend. Locally, though, two feet were the expectation. You had the thought to get home and make sure to turn the heat on so the pipes didn't freeze, but your phone was dead and you'd agreed to meet Mark at the bookstore and then grab a cab home together, so it wasn't really worth it. Plus--the snowfall in the first four hours wasn't expected to be too terrible. Driving conditions would be fine until midnight, at the very latest, which gave you plenty of time.

Your friend decides to close the bookstore early, and when Mark comes in fifteen minutes after they've decided to close, he's a sight for sorer eyes.

Your friend, having watched the snowfall to see just how inaccurate the newscaster had been, was setting up their backroom in case you all needed to spend the night there while you brewed up some coffee from the machine left somewhere to the right of the counter, right next to an advertisement stating that coffee, hot chocolate and tea all costed the hefty price of two quarters.

Mark is somewhat covered in snow--he shakes it from his hair and shoots you a happy, loving smile as he idly dusts it off his coat. Your friend greets him and Mark says his hello, running a hand through his hair as Quin--your friend--goes back to the backroom to finish setting it up.

"They said it wasn't supposed to be that bad," Mark notes as he approaches you in the dimly lit bookstore. "Strahm was a dick about it, though--sounded like he was sixty, complainin' about how storms in Jersey always seem a bit random. Perez had the graces to wish me luck, where Strahm just said to enjoy my walk. Don't think he likes me all that much, if I'm honest."

You shrug, passing him the mug of coffee you'd just made. "He's the new guy, Mark. Take it a little easy--not everyone sees the charm in Jersey, babe. Especially not with some serial killer on the loose. Maybe he's worried he's next for smoking cigarettes or something."

Mark laughs. Your heart swells.

"Think we'll get snowed in here?"

You laugh, starting another cup of coffee by placing a new K-pod into the Keurig. "I love Quin, but I really do hope not. As someone who studied for their college degree in that staff room, sleeping on that couch is not for the weak. I'm pretty sure it's old enough to drink, actually. I helped him move it in when he bought the place."

"Well, we'll figure something out."

You nod, grinning as Marks lips press a kiss against your cheek. "We always do, Mark. How was work?"

"It was work," Mark shrugs. "Shitty roads, more investigating, all of the fun stuff that comes with workin' at the precinct. How was work for you?"

"It was a day in the life of marketing," you shrug, wrapping an arm around his waist. "Numbers, people, crappy coworkers and slow computers. I can't wait for my week off on Monday--I will sleep in and for an entire seven days, I won't have to hear about Carol and her bunions or David and his grandmother. I hate the office I work in but the coworkers make it so much worse. Their incessant gossiping makes it hard to focus."

Mark laughs, and you laugh a little too while the coffee finishes pouring. You make it to your specifications and burn the roof of your mouth drinking it, but it's worth it because it tastes damn good.

Quin shows up with a defeated smile from the back room. "Hey, lovebirds," he greets. "You've got four hours before the roads start sucking ass to drive on, but from what it looks like, cab companies aren't going to let their drivers drive anyone home after ten. You're welcome to stay here and browse for a bit, drink coffee and Mark, I'm sure you'll have an excellent time while Y/N looks at the classics section that he loves so dearly, but I'll be leaving round ten thirty so I'd say it's best to be leavin' at nine thirty. That is, of course, if you have any hopes of getting a cab before companies start threatening to cut the wages of anyone still out and driving after the cut off."

You nod at Quin. "Thanks for the tip, Quinnie," you say. "We'll be out of your hair by nine thirty, we promise."

Quin shakes his head, waving a dismissive hand. "No worries, Y/N. Have fun with Detective Lip Filler."

Mark quirks an eyebrow while you laugh, shaking your head as if to say "don't ask, mark," and interlacing your fingers with his own.

Mark lets you lead him off, down one of many winding corridors in the bookstore. While you browse the shelves you and Mark talk--Christmas plans very quickly become a point of discussion, seeing that it's two weeks away and neither of you really know what the plan is just yet.

You know that Mark doesn't much talk to his parents--they're in their seventies as it were and subscribe to more...conservative points of politics and worldviews. Aside from them, he's not really got anybody and hasn't since his sisters death.

You figured he'd spend it with you, unless work got in the way as it had last year. Your tradition was simple--spend Christmas Eve at home, order Chinese takeaway, watch whatever crappy Christmas movies happened to be playing on the channel that was devoted to them during December and laugh at the bad acting.

Wake up Christmas morning, make cinnamon buns and bake a tray of brownies to take to your parents as you were always in charge of dessert. Make sure the gifts you'd bought for relatives were in your car and then drive the half an hour to your parents place. Spend the day there, leave with a quick hug to your parents and a promise to come around again around the new year, and then go home and smoke a bit of weed to relax and hit the hay early.

"You don't have to," you murmur, grabbing the penguin edition of Shakespeares 'Hamlet' and glancing the cover over. "It's just a suggestion--it's Christmas, Mark. Might be because I was raised with neighbors popping by for Christmas dinner, but Christmas is a shitty holiday to spend alone."

Mark nods. "I was hoping I'd get to spend Christmas with you anyway," he says, taking a sip of his coffee. "Will we have to act like we're just best friends, though? Or are your parents unopposed?"

"They know I have a boyfriend at present," you answer. Your relationship isn't new--it's been three years with him, but Mark has been busy with work and trying to keep a level head as things with Jigsaw have continued, so you've never really had the chance to introduce him to anyone in your family. "They also know what your name is--first, not last. And that you're a detective, and that you're really handsome. I promise, I haven't told them anything that would make them hate you. My mothers been eager to meet you since I brought you up, though. My exes were horrendous, according to her."

Mark laughs, and you let yourself grin. "I'll do my best to impress, then," he says. "We'll have to get them gifts, though."

"I've been meaning to do some Christmas shopping anyway--we'll go once the storm has cleared," you say. "And at this point, I think my parent's won't care about gifts, really. They just really wanna meet you."

You put Hamlet back onto the shelf and grin as Marks arms wrap around your waist after he's set the coffee mug on an empty shelf. You do the same and let your arms wrap around his shoulders, and silence settles.

You close your eyes for a second, listening.

"Can you hear it?" You ask after a minute, maybe two.

"Hear what?" Mark asks. "It's completely silent in here, Y/N--there's nothing to hear."

"The snow, Mark," you answer. "It might just be because my ears are good, but I can hear it hitting the windowsills."

"How?"

"I dunno," you shrug. "Just been able to since I was a kid. I knew it was snowing right when I woke up some days."

"I will add that to the catalogue of random things that've come to light at random times," Mark grins as your eyes open again. "Among the fact that your favorite color was green until you were twenty four, and the fact that you once got bitten by a stray cat so bad that you had to be put on antibiotics during your college days, and the fact that you've never liked daisies."

You laugh, shaking your head. "You love me and my randomness, Hoffman."

Mark nods. "That I do," he says.

The two of you end up sitting at one of the desks by the windows, drinking coffee and chatting until nine, when you leave to grab a cab home just to sit by your windowsill and watch the snow until you grow bored of it.

All in all, for a night in the middle of December, while the beginnings of a snowstorm rages on outside, it's a pretty good night.

#mark hoffman x male! reader #mark hoffman #saw franchise #saw posting

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corn-fanfiction · 5 months

Text

SAVIOUR COMPLEX (Mark Hoffman x F!Reader Pt. 10)

(Pt. 9) (Pt. 11)

Rating: E

Tags: sm*t (oral f+m receiving) (p+v penetration) (light bondage), established consent, aftercare, language, past abuse, Mark Hoffman being a c*p/reader's life is maybe becoming normal again/Mark is protective bc it's his job but he's also problematic/because he's a c*p/Detective Gibson is maybe less of a trigger warning!

The hardest part of this will be swallowing his pride. Because, stripped down to nothing else, Mark Hoffman is far too prideful.

But he walks into the precinct like it’s a normal day, despite the wary looks from coworkers. Betty even tries to stop him, but he waltzes right up to the Chief’s office door and gives it a firm knock.

“Come on in,” he hears from inside. So he does.

When Hoffman doesn’t immediately say anything, Chief looks up from his desk and raises his eyebrows.

“Hoffman, I'm fairly certain your suspension hasn't been lifted.”

Mark chuckles bashfully, playing it up.

“Um, no it hasn't. May I?” he gestures to a chair. Chief nods but watches him with distinct interest.

“Alright. I've had time to cool off. I understand taking me off the Jugsaw case and I'm not here to ask you to change your mind. But…please, let me come back to work. I'm good at my job.” The please is bitter and rolls off his tongue like a block of lead. The chief notices this and smiles slowly.

“Please? Didn't think that word was in your vocabulary.”

“It usually isn't.”

“It should be.” He considers Hoffman. Works his jaw, taps his pen. Mark knows, in this moment, the chief has all the power and he is milking it. He can make him wait as long as he wants. And Mark will wait. So long as he walks out of here with his job intact.

“Alright, Hoffman. One more chance. But if you fuck up again I'm not going to save your ass.”

Mark stands immediately as the chief retrieves his badge and gun from his desk. Mark even extends a hand for a shake.

“Thank you.”

Chief accepts the gesture and watches Mark still as he departs from the office. It doesn’t matter what they think. He really is untouchable. And he wants everyone to know.

Gibson gets a phone call on the way home from your shift.

“Gibson.”

You watch him intently. Something in you is desperate to know if it’s about Mark, or Jigsaw. You strain your ears to listen.

“Yeah. Oh. Chief, with all due respect- uh huh. Right. Yeah. Okay, understood.”

He closes his phone and pockets it, and there is a split second of calm before you slams a palm against the steering wheel. You shrink into your seat, black spots poking from the back of your eyes. You shut down, can’t help it. Your body braces for the next hit.

“Sorry,” Gibson breathes, shaking out his hand and smoothing his hair back. He looks over and sees that you haven’t moved. “Hey, I’m sorry. That was inappropriate. You okay?”

He doesn’t try to touch you, which helps. Slowly, the cemente leaves your limps and you’re able to come back to life, like a spider unfolding after being smashed with a shoe.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Yeah, just, uh.”

“Yeah, Ted. Jesus, I’m sorry.”

You’re a little surprised that he seems to mean it. Gibson is an asshole and he pushes your buttons on purpose, and seems to genuinely have a problem with Mark, but none of it seems to be with you.

“Everything okay?” you dare. Gibson looks over at you, thinks about something, almost says it, then bites his tongue.

“Fine. Just work stuff.”

He doens’t say anything else after that. When he drops you off, he apologizes again, and again you tell him it’s no big deal. And really, it isn’t. You do the same thing at work if someone drops a stack of plates or if there’s a drunk patron. It was thoughtless, but not malicious.

This seems to help you calm down and you step into the shower to unwind. Showers, for you, are pockets of peace. The place with the most control and intention. Your shampoo and conditioner, your body wash, the temperature of the water perfect for what you want. Even the rest of the apartment is limited to availability, but a shower is simple.

When you’re done you exit and wipe a hand across the fogged up mirror. You grab a satin robe and wrap yourself in it and start scrunching your hair with a towel.

There's a knock at your door. You stiffen, wrapping your robe tighter around yourself and dropping the towerl. Maybe Gibson game back for some reason? It's late in the evening, around sunset. You still haven't heard from Mark.

A drip of dread snakes down your back. He never did give you the name of the doctor he clearly suspects.

You creep to the kitchen and grab a knife- at this point, it's ritualistic. You hate that no one can knock on your door without you arming yourself, but for obvious reasons, it's a wise choice.

You look out the side window and your chest relaxes. It's Mark. He's tapping his foot like he's impatient. You replace the knife though and open the door. You barely get a word out before Mark's hands find your jaw and he takes you into a deep kiss. Your hand fumbles on the door and you slam it shut. Mark's knee between your legs backs you up to the counter and he places a bruising grip on your hips to hoist you to a sitting position.

His kiss is hot and he breaks to place searing kisses along your jaw and neck. You move your head for easier access and grip his shoulders.

“Good news?” You moan. He hums against your throat. When he moves to face you, his pupils are blown wide, his already full lips swollen.

You've never seen him this hungry.

“Got my job back. Figured we'd celebrate.”

You break out into a smile and Mark places warm hands on your shoulders and pushes your robe down to your arms. You shiver under the sudden cold but then sigh when Mark's large hands slide from your arms to your breasts to palm them, watching them with a reverence.

“God, can't believe we've waited this long,” he whispers, then comes down to bite lightly on one of your breasts.

“Some would say…we waited…a normal amount of time…”

His hands move to your waist and he picks you up again; your legs instinctually wrap around him.

“Not this. My self restrait-” he kisses you. “Has been extraordinary.”

Oh, that does a lot to you. He carries you to your bedroom and lays you gently on your bed; you prop yourself up on your elbows and watch as he takes off his jacket, his shoes, and he goes for his tie, but you get to your knees and stop him.

“Allow me,” you grab the silk and use it to pull him to you in another searing kiss. Nimble fingers undo the knot and you set the tie aside, determined to find use for it later. Mark works on the buttons of his shirt and you work on his belt.

You're almost too quick the way you slide a hand down the front of his boxers and he gasps against your lips as you wrap around his length. You smirk, and your pussy clenches at the feel of it. He's a big man. He's endowed to match.

“Be careful with that,” he says, his voice thick with want.

“Oh, I will.”

You guide him to sit, then to lay down on your bed.

“We don't have to worry about my knees now,” you smile and remove his pants the rest of the way. You have half a mind to hang on to the belt, too. But you see his hardening dick and can't help yourself. You hold it again.

“Congrats on the job, Detective,” you say, before offering him a long, wet, hot stroke of your tongue. He throws his head back onto a pillow and groans unabashedly. You can’t lie- it’s not the easiest thing to get all of him in your mouth, so you settle for what you can manage. You’re spurred on further by the sounds he makes, by the fingers that tangle themselves in your hair and pull lightly on your scalp. You put one hand to work stroking him and you begin to focus your attention on getting him as far back into your throat as possible. It doesn’t take long for him to cum, and when he does, you swallow.

He takes no time to sit up. He grabs your chin between his thumb and forefinger, stroking the spit from your bottom lip.

“God, I have wanted to have you since the firs time I saw you,” he growls, removing his undershirt- the final layer of clothing, and kisses you again. You press your palms to his wide chest and squeal when he effortlessly flips you onto your back, tracing his hands up and down your sides.

“You’re exaggerating,” you say breathlessly. He gives you a smirk before trailing kisses down your chest, to your stomach, to your pelvis, and all the way down to-

You grip onto the sheets when he sinks a finger into you, then two, curling up and stretching you. Beyond the haze, you’re thankful. You know you’ll need it.

A groan escapes you when you feel him latch onto your clit, and suddenly you know what those lips were made for. He works you with his tongue, with his fingers, moving in and against you until you clench around his fingers and buck helplessly again his mouth. Your body lights up and you cum with a series of whimpers and whines as he works you still. Just when you think you can’t take it he pulls away. He sits up on his knees and he looks so good with your want glistening the lower half of his face.

He wipes his mouth with his forearm and returns to your mouth for a kiss. Your hands roam across his back then find his ass to give it a squeeze. He groans into your mouth. You feel one of his hands leave you and then return, dragging the tie across your stomach.

“Do you trust me?” he asks. You nod.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

He pulls away, takes your wrists in his hands.

“If you want to stop, at any point, you tell me. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“If you want to stop, you say ‘stop’.”

“Okay.”

He starts to bind your wrists with the tie.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Mark, if I want to stop, I’ll say ‘stop’.”

Pleased with his work, Mark guides your hands to rest above your head. Goosebumps form on your skin when he caresses your arms, your sides with light fingers.

“Mark…”

“What is it, baby?” he asks as he begins to line himself up.

“I wanted you too. From the start. I saw you and I just knew. Even if I was pissed, I knew.”

He smirks, leans down and kisses you, slipping in his tongue right as he enters you. You groan at the sensation of being so filled, and he groans at the filling, resting his forehead against your shoulder.

“Fuck…”

For a moment, neither of you moves, just getting used to the feeling. You bring your knees up to rest by his hips. One of his hands moves to your hip and the other grabs your hands, and he rocks against you. You move with him, rising when he does and allowing him as much access as possible. You don’t miss how he’s taking it slow.

“Mark- faster.”

“You don't know,” a grunt. “What you're asking for.”

“I'm asking.”

That's all the confirmation he needs. He uses both hands to grab your hips and lifts your bottom half up, absolutely hammering into you. Your eyes go into the back of your head as he hits your g-spot over and over and over and over-

Your whole body spasms when you cum again, and he doesn't slow or stop. He keeps going until suddenly he pulls out, stroking himself roughly until he cums on you, painting your stomach and chest. You don't mind. You don't care about anything. All you can think about is how floaty you feel. Mark leaves the bed. You hear the faucet running, then feel the bed dip when he returns.

“Oh shit, sorry.”

He's still out of breath when he undoes the tie and kisses you gently as an apology. You shiver when he uses a warm wet rag to clean up your abdomen. You're still staring at the ceiling, taking slow deep breaths. All you can think is how you feel.

“I'm sorry about- I realized I wasn't wearing a condom-” he stops when he realizes you aren't responding. He hovers over you, caresses your face.

“Hey, hey baby. You okay?”

Finally, your eyes find his and you smile slightly.

“Hey. Yeah. I just… It's never been like that. I've never felt…that safe. You make me feel safe.”

He smiles at that but doesn't say another word, just throws the covers onto you both and pulls you against his chest. You still do everything you can to touch him. He strokes your hair softly and watches the window behind you. All you want is him.

#mark hoffman #saw fanfic #fanfiction #mark hoffman x reader #saw franchise

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blueberrypancakesworld · 4 months

Text

Day.16 Water - Sawtober/Sawcember

warning : angst, hurt/comfort, hydrophobia

Sawtober/Sawcember masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The weather is a natural phenomenon and the predictions of weather experts and researchers can only be interpreted. It has happened more than once that it started to rain even though it was high summer or that it snowed in the fall when the leaves started to turn colorful.

But what were initially just annoying and yet somehow pretty weather phenomena had become an inner burden for Agent Strahm.

Since he had woken up in the water trap, since he had felt the cold metal on his neck and his screams had not come out of the box, he seemed to have changed. Not only did his neck still hurt from the hole he had to ram into it with his pen, it was the fear of being surrounded by water again.

The renewed fear of hearing the loud splashing noise that rumbled in his ears, of being helpless and suffocating. A fear he didn't have before - he loved swimming, diving, bathing and showering.

But since he had been discharged from hospital, he had avoided water as much as possible. The shower was hardly ever on and only minimal drops flowed down, prolonging his showers by hours. A fact he denied and dismissed with an

,,I'm fine" every time in front of his boyfriend but he saw the skeptical look on Hoffman's face and knew he knew he had a problem. A problem that couldn't simply be solved, even if his partner disagreed. For Mark it was a simple matter of how to get Peter back under water.

Which is why he came up with a little plan, because he wasn't going to put himself through another couple of hours waiting for his friend in the shower.

Without knowing what it would do to Peter, he would take the risk. The two of them drove to work, as they did every day, and he knew that Strahm kept checking the weather forecast on his cell phone.

Strahm used the large umbrella that was actually intended for two people on his own. ,,Don't worry so much, it's only a few meters to the station," Hoffman said, taking one hand off the steering wheel and placing it on his boyfriend's thigh.

Nevertheless, he could feel the tension in the brown-haired man who didn't want to leave the safety of the car in the rain. ,,Yes-yes... I'll manage," Strahm replied, but his heart was beating wildly as he somehow tried to get out of the car with the half-open umbrella and run to the main door faster than necessary. He winced as he felt the drops of water on his neck and wheeled around.

He saw that Mark had given him the few drops and seemed to want to give him more. ,,Hoffman, don't you dare!" hissed Strahm, shielding himself with his umbrella before hurrying into the station and hearing his friend's grin.

At least that's how it looked from the outside, that Hoffman didn't take his boyfriend's illness seriously, but in reality it was his fault that it was haunting him. Guilt that he hadn't simply recognized Strahm, that he hadn't simply told him that he knew who had set him up.

That it was Lawrence and not Jigsaw. Lawrence the medical genius knew exactly how to get everything out of his victims, both mentally and physically.

But even though Hoffman was initially against it, he knew that interfering would only complicate things. And he wanted to avoid any more complications at all costs.

I'll fix it, the brown-haired man thought to himself and wiped the raindrops off his jacket before he went inside too, because in the end he was just Mark Hoffman the friendly policeman and not Jigsaw.

He just had to find the right mix of both with Peter to help him. Which he did, even if Strahm didn't like it. He would have to get through it.

And when the two men got home, the story had gone on far too long again and they had taken Asian food with them, the last thing Strahm thought about was water, or rather the shower.

,,Did they mix up my sauces?" asked Strahm, leaning back on the couch with his noodles and glad to be back safely in the house.

They both always took the same thing and of course Hoffman knew exactly what his friend wanted because if Strahm didn't cook, Hoffman was screwed.

Instant soup and pasta was the only thing he could manage, but everything else would turn into a cooking lesson with his friend. ,,No, I don't think it's the same as always," Mark said dismissively, looking back at the screen and the ticking clock.

It must be working he thought and shoveled another spoonful of rice and chicken into his mouth. He knew it wasn't the sauce that tasted different, it was the crushed sleeping pills. Lawrence's special recipe as he remembered when the blond had given it to him.

Maybe it was his now somewhat radical conviction to persuade the human mind to do something he was afraid of, or maybe it was just a touch of madness in him.

But he had already heard the third yawn from his peer and knew that it was only a matter of time. He looked back at the screen, but after a few more minutes he heard the clink of the fork falling to the floor as Strahm fell asleep.

,,Time for a test," Hoffman mumbled and carefully placed his and Peter's food on the table before carrying his friend's body as gently as he could into the bathroom.

The shower wasn't huge but there was enough room for them to stand next to each other, but they didn't have to. He leaned Strahm carefully against the wall under the shower head and looked at his friend for a moment.

His shirt slightly unbuttoned and his tie hanging out of his trousers, a tired expression even in his sleep. And yet he was overcome with guilt again when he saw the scar on his friend's neck.

He moved his fingers carefully over it and felt the scarred tissue. ,,I'm sorry," he murmured as he let go of the scar and left a gentle kiss on it before turning on the shower and closing the door.

He waited for Peter to wake up and sat in front of him as best he could and looked at him, he would stay with him and show him that water didn't mean death.

The water had already almost completely soaked his shirt and he could see it sticking to his friend's skin and his pants. But he knew he didn't look any better himself, his hair hanging down as he leaned over to Peter and slapped him lightly on the cheek to wake him up.

,,Peter...come on...wake up," he said slowly, seeing how he woke up again after a few moments and was confused for a split second before he let out a cry of fear. ,,Get out of the way!" he shouted at Mark as he felt the water splashing down on him, grabbing Mark's shoulder and trying to push him aside.

There was sheer fear in his dark eyes. But Mark was quicker to grab the other's arms and pull him into a tight hug.

A hug that didn't let him escape, ,,It's okay, I'm here," he said and heard the echoing screams and pleas to let him go, he seemed like a frightened dog trying to crawl into a corner.

,,No! No! Let me fucking go Hoffman!" Peter continued to scream at him and tried to free himself, clawing and scratching at anything he could find, hitting and biting at a sight that stung Mark. Because he was indirectly responsible. He had done this to Peter.

Which is why he just pulled him even tighter and kept talking to him, hoping it would just stop at some point. That Peter would have to calm down at some point.

The special agent kicked his legs and managed to get the glass door of the shower to crack. ,,Peter, I'm here, you're not drowning, don't you hear me," said Mark, easing up a little as he felt the attempts to escape diminish and Strahn looked at his work with a shocked expression.

The splintered door, Hoffman's body with several bloody scratches and even a bite. But then he saw tears welling up in Strahm's eyes as he realized that it was finally over.

He carefully put a hand on his boyfriend's cheek, ,,What-What have I done? Forgive me," he murmured and Hoffman returned the hug and Mark hugged him.

The two of them were still being hit by the water, but neither of them cared, it was the overcoming that mattered.

And while Strahm told him over and over again, ,,I love you", it was Hoffman who had to fight back the tears as he looked at the slightly bloody water and only said, ,,I'm sorry I did this to you" and hugged him even tighter.

They had both repented in the water only to come out again at the end. In love and not brokenness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@a-reading-dreamer , @megustadilf , @klarise , @misslavenderlady , @mysunfishpeedinmyroom

#sawtober #sawcember #saw #saw movies #peter strahm #mark hoffman #peter strahm saw #saw mark hoffman #coffinshipping #hoffstrahm #hoffman x strahm #Spotify

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