#Then the FBI guy guessed right that he was lonely because he had nobody else

[hereforyourdispleasure]

AW STOP FRANK'S SO CUTE

[driftwooddestiel]

below the cut is my “sonfs i NEED to amv” list, directly copy pasted from my notes app . this is a culmination of all my ideas its my magnum opus

even when the wayers cold (lisa maybe??)

golden skans (sam faith amv maybe???)

saving grace (the cranberriesnatural real)

spsceman (castiel, anna, amara and other characters ‘falling to earth’ growing to love humanity hear me out)

(coffees for closers) [fallout boy] (faith throughout supernatural)

w.a.m.s (destiel & purgatory and stuff arc alsoo apocapy’…

float on (everyone :) ) happy birthday dean ? what if they were happy…

am i ever gonna see your face again (destiel and their many widowed arcs)

when will you die (fbi/police & their run ins with dean and sam) OR (chuck and his constant attempts to change and regulate the charcaters) maybe both…

the girl of my dreams is giving me nightmares (samruby demon blood arc) this one is TOP PRIORITY!!!!!!!! because its so special to me forever (first ever amv idea ever :O)

things go bump in the night from the scooby doo movie! silly

monkey gone to heaven (pixies) with dean or sam and deaths idk what else to say okay

tame (pixies) with kripke era dean

no 13 baby - s4/s5 destiel… handprint……… hear me out…. EDIT: i dont remember writing this??? i dont really know how this even makes sense but i trust u past me kind of

Mr Hyde (bb brunes) - demon dean and/or mark of cain dean … maybe drowley??

turn the lights off (tally hall) - something about monsters demons etc as a queer allegory okay just . hear me out

call me maybe (carly rae jepsen) destiel early seasons please just hear me out on this one

excuses ou mensonges (orelsan) - nick and lucifer idk i just think maybe..

your body my temple sam and lucifer hear me out ACTUALLY JUSTG SMA AND AUTONOMY 

killing time 2.0 (american psycho tha musical) chuck and wnding the world ^_^

needle in the hay (elliot smith) - dean. throws up and dies

mask of my own face (lemon demon) - gabriel :)

what sarah said (death cab for cutie) - destiel and all cas’ deaths. throws up

(ANIAMTION) oatmeal (jack stauber) - the archangels 

i cant be with you (the cranberries) - destiel

private life (oingo boingo) - the bunker (probably dean focused… maybe even destiel you know how it is)

hymn for a scarecrow (tally hall) - the angels

VIDEO GAMES (LANA DEL RAY) DESTIEL IM GOING TO DIEA

ELECTROMAGNETIC SPECTRUM SONG!!!

curious (franz ferdinand) - destiel cas pov EDIT: okay another one i have no memory of writing

ode to my family (the cranberries) - jo harvelle

right action (franz ferdinand) - tfw and their many mistakes etc

johnny delusional (ffs) - chouse…………………………………..

hot to go (chappell roan) - dean being a hot girl summer tm

the bad touch (bloodhound gang) - hannigram… the sillies… do u feel me

judas (lady gaga) - hannigram my goofy guys. hannibal pov

sweet tangerine (the hush sound) - hannigram . more serious. hannibal pov again

nobody likes me everybody hates me guess ill go eat worms (idk artist) - hannibal :3

complicated (avril lavigne) - skyler white, about walter

boom clap (charli xcx) - hilson. no im not insane.

need you tonight (inxs) - hannigram. cmon. you see it

pop culture (youtube, forgot artist) - homestuck ‼️ 

everytime (butterfingers) - dean!!! hear me out okay. it also works so well for adam saw but unfortunately he has so little footage :(

i just had sex (the lonely island feat. akon) - saw characters getting out of traps and stuff this is such a silly idea but i laugh every time i think of it

[beginagainunsolved]

RYAN: This week on Buzzfeed Unsolved, we’ll be talking about the mysterious “death” of Jason Todd.

SHANE: Why is death in air quotes there?

RYAN: You’ll see.

SHANE: I love it when you get all mysterious. Really draws me in. You’ve got me on the edge of my seat here, Ryan!

RYAN: Oh, it gets edgier.

SHANE: Don’t think that works in this context, buddy.

RYAN: It does. You’ll see. This guy’s a real edgelord.

SHANE: Gross.

RYAN: Shut up. Anyway, this is actually one of our most highly requested cases. We get comments to do this one every time we post a new video, so —

SHANE: You guys can SHUT UP now. We’re DOING IT. Get off our BACKS.

RYAN: Okay, maybe don’t — maybe don’t yell at them.

SHANE: Hey, I’ll yell if I want to yell.

RYAN: Okay.

RYAN, NARRATION: Jason Peter Todd was the second ward of billionaire Bruce Wayne, adopted shortly after his first ward, Dick Grayson, was emancipated and moved away from Gotham city.

SHANE: Why is this guy always adopting kids? Can that be the next episode?

RYAN: That would be so boring. “This week on Buzzfeed Unsolved: A Billionaire is Lonely.”

SHANE: There are better ways to deal with loneliness, Ryan.

RYAN: I don’t know. He seems to like his way.

SHANE: I guess.

RYAN, NARRATION: Not much is known about Jason’s life prior to his adoption. Unlike Wayne’s previous ward, Dick Grayson, it doesn’t appear that Todd had any sort of public persona. Most reports claim he was born to a poor family and largely grew up on the streets, but it’s difficult to confirm.

SHANE: You mean you couldn’t find it on Google?

RYAN: Yeah, I couldn’t find it on Google. I typed in “Jason Todd - Street Youth?” And nothing came up, so I called it a day and got a smoothie.

SHANE: (wheeze)

RYAN, NARRATION: Most accounts of Jason’s life begin shortly after his adoption. During this time, it appears that Dick Grayson and Bruce Wayne weren’t on speaking terms, at least to the general public. Shortly before Jason’s adoption, Dick stopped making public appearances and attending galas with Wayne. Many speculate that Jason’s adoption was Wayne’s attempt to fill the void left by his first ward’s departure.

SHANE: Oof.

RYAN: Yeah, oof.

SHANE: And I thought my family had drama!

RYAN: Your family has you. That’s enough drama.

SHANE: Didn’t your dad cut someone’s head off once?

RYAN: Please stop telling people that. Someone’s gonna believe you! The FBI are going to show up at his door!

SHANE: I hope they do. I hope SHIELD interrogates him.

RYAN: NO!

RYAN, NARRATION: People who knew Jason Todd in the years immediately following his adoption into the Wayne family paint the tale of a troubled young man vying for the attention of his newfound father. After his supposed death, many of Wayne’s high status acquaintances who had met the boy at galas and public events were quick to come forward with their own accounts of his demeanor and personality.

SHANE: Ryan, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again…

RYAN AND SHANE, IN UNISON: Rich people fucking suck.

SHANE: Rich people fucking suck!

RYAN: On this, we absolutely agree.

SHANE: This one thing!

RYAN: This one thing, yeah.

SHANE: Anyway. Eat the rich!

RYAN: Okay.

RYAN, NARRATION: The real mystery of Jason Todd, of course, doesn’t lie in how he became associated with Bruce Wayne. The real mystery comes from how this association ended.

SHANE: Here we go!

RYAN: Here we go.

RYAN, NARRATION: Then, in 2010, not long after his adoption into the Wayne family, Jason suddenly disappeared from the public eye. Much like Dick Grayson before him, he stopped attending galas and public events. Unlike Dick Grayson, no one seemed to know where he ended up at all.

SHANE: So this wasn’t a “I’m mad at my dad so I’m gonna crash on my buddy’s couch” type situation.

RYAN: Oh, no, definitely not. This kid seemingly vanished into thin air.

SHANE: Like Amelia Earhart! We all remember her!

RYAN: Don’t say anything about the —

SHANE: She was eaten by crabs.

RYAN: Jesus Christ.

RYAN, NARRATION: This went on for some time, with Jason out of the public eye and Bruce largely dodging questions about him when asked. Then, one day, Bruce Wayne called a press conference and made a startling revelation: Jason Todd was dead.

SHANE: Not a fun press conference.

RYAN: Not really, no. It’s — You can still watch it on YouTube. It’s bleak, man.

SHANE: Well, he’s announcing his son’s untimely death, Ryan. There’s not gonna be confetti.

RYAN: Yeah, but I mean — he pretty much just gets up on stage, makes a depressing ass announcement, and leaves right away.

SHANE: Imagine being a reporter there. Just standing out in the rain. Was it raining? I bet it was raining.

RYAN: I think it’s just, like, perpetually raining in Gotham. It’s got those kind of vibes.

SHANE: Depressing noir detective vibes, yeah. That’s why all those people dress up like bats and clowns. Nobody does that in L.A.

RYAN: No, we don’t get a lot of bats or clowns in L.A.

SHANE: We had the flame head guy! Miss him.

RYAN: He comes up in this.

SHANE: HE DOES?!?

RYAN: Spoiler alert!

SHANE: No, she lives in Gotham, too.

RYAN: Shut up.

RYAN, NARRATION: Life seemed to move on for the Wayne family after this. Jason was buried in a Gotham cemetery following a private funeral. Dick Grayson and Bruce Wayne seemingly reunited. Some time down the line, Wayne adopted Tim Drake, a boy whose recently deceased parents ran in his social circles. Jason continued to be a rarely mentioned subject in any public appearances made by the Wayne family and their close associates, and any time he was brought up in interviews, journalists were categorically shut down.

SHANE: This is getting depressing, but I want to circle back around to this guy’s kid adopting addiction. Nobody should have this many orphans, Ryan.

RYAN: I mean, he’s helping them, right?

SHANE: Is he? He’s just replacing one with the next! Like a congo line!

RYAN: A congo line of — You know, I say this a lot, but this time I really mean it. You are going to get us so sued.

SHANE: It’s like the Macarena. You put an orphan in and take an orphan out.

RYAN: That’s the Hokey Pokey.

SHANE: And shake ‘em all about.

RYAN: Please stop.

RYAN, NARRATION: With most cases, this would be the end of it. A bleak end to a bleak story. But instead, this is where things get weird.

SHANE: Hooo boy. This is where the air quotes come in.

RYAN: This is where the air quotes come in!

RYAN, NARRATION: A few years after his death, Jason Todd seemingly reemerged. He was spotted leaving Wayne Manor, a few inches taller and with a new hair do.

SHANE: I’m just gonna put this out there, like, as an unofficial theory.

RYAN: Oh god.

SHANE: Are we sure this wasn’t just some other random orphan? The guy likes orphans, Ryan. He has an orphan problem.

RYAN: If it was another random orphan, it was a random orphan that looked exactly like Jason Todd.

SHANE: Wouldn’t put it past him!

RYAN: How would he even manage that?

SHANE: I don’t know! He’s rich!

RYAN: That can’t be your answer to everything shady you accuse someone of doing.

SHANE: It can, and it is.

RYAN: I really hope Buzzfeed has lawyer lined up for us. We’re gonna need so many lawyers.

SHANE: I’m sure we’ll be fine.

RYAN: (long sigh)

RYAN, NARRATION: When asked about Todd’s sudden reappearance, members of the Wayne family dodged the question just as thoroughly as they once dodged questions regarding his death. Their excuses, typically flimsy, varied from person to person with some saying the man who appeared to be Jason was actually someone else, and others saying said man didn’t exist at all.

SHANE: Pfffft. “Oh, no, there’s no man here! No man at all!”

RYAN: I actually looked up a lot of the denials, and some of them get… wild. Dick Grayson once claimed that no one ever said Jason Todd died at all.

SHANE: The press conference is on YouTube!

RYAN: He said it was a prank.

SHANE: A prank? Man, fuck this guy!

RYAN: I think he just panicked.

SHANE: He can panic more smoothly than that, at least! Have a little respect!

RYAN: (wheeze) You’re telling people about respect now?

SHANE: I’m very respectful, Ryan.

RYAN: You told a ghost to eat your ass last week!

SHANE: We’ve been over this. I don’t respect ghosts because they aren’t real. I told an empty room to eat my ass. And it did not comply.

RYAN: You accused Bruce Wayne of stealing orphans three minutes ago!

SHANE: I don’t respect rich people, either, because fuck ‘em.

RYAN: (wheeze)

RYAN, NARRATION: So, what ever happened to Jason Todd? Let’s get into the theories.

SHANE: I’m sure they’re all perfectly reasonable.

RYAN: As always.

SHANE: Oh, no.

RYAN, NARRATION: The first theory is that Jason Todd’s “death” was a coverup for a ransom attempt.

SHANE: That kind of makes sense.

RYAN: Yeah! Like, obviously Wayne wouldn’t want people to know his kid was abducted for ransom. Especially if he was going to plan on paying it.

SHANE: Well. I don’t think he’d say “yeah that kid’s dead” if he was planning on paying the ransom.

RYAN: You think he left him to die?

SHANE: RICH PEOPLE SUCK!

RYAN: God. I can taste the lawsuit.

RYAN, NARRATION: This theory is a rather straightforward one: After receiving a ransom note for his son some time after his disappearance, Wayne announced Jason’s death to cover it up and prevent the kidnappers from getting the publicity that would have made them infamous.

SHANE: Like a big ole fuck you!

RYAN: Yeah, I mean, you’d get a lot of clout for kidnapping a famous billionaire’s son. Especially in Gotham, right? Out there, it’s like… Crime is currency, almost. You build up a reputation like that, you can rule the city.

SHANE: Exactly! So by taking that away… Kind of ruins their whole thing.

RYAN: Right! And then they’ve got no use for Jason anymore and, you know, killing somebody’s a lot harder than kidnapping them, so…

SHANE: Oh, I don’t think they let him go. That kid was scrappy. He probably gave ‘em all rabies and ran.

CAMERAMAN, IN BACKGROUND: Guys. Defamation —

SHANE: Yeah, yeah, we know. Let’s move on!

RYAN, NARRATION: The next theory ties back to Jason’s alleged life before his adoption as a street kid. This theory states that Jason, like many young people in Gotham, got tangled up with some of the neighborhood’s local gangs and got in over his head.

SHANE: His sordid past as an eight year old came back to haunt him?

RYAN: Well, presumably he stayed in contact with people he knew at the time and got pulled into the gangs later.

SHANE: Nah, I want an eight year old with a shiv. He’ll shank you… but only from the waist down. Can’t reach any higher.

RYAN: (wheeze)

SHANE: Except for on you! You’re, like, the size of an eight year old. Man, he’d crush you.

RYAN: Yeah, well, you’d be fine, Gumbo. He wouldn’t be able to reach anything above your foot. You’d be like a giraffe stepping on a thumbtack.

SHANE: I keep telling you, Ryan, I am average height. You’re just abnormally short.

RYAN: Fuck you, buddy.

SHANE: Ouch.

RYAN, NARRATION: According to this theory, Jason’s death was faked in order to save his life from mobsters associated with famed Gotham gang leader Oswald Cobblepot, otherwise known as the Penguin.

SHANE: Why does everybody in Gotham have a stupid name?

RYAN: You don’t like the Penguin?

SHANE: I don’t care for it, no, but I also don’t love the name ‘Oswald Cobblepot.’ Like, that sounds ridiculous.

RYAN: Maybe that’s why he chooses to go by the Penguin.

SHANE: He should choose to go by Stan.

RYAN: Stan?

SHANE: Stan.

RYAN: No clarification there?

SHANE: I don’t believe it needs any.

RYAN: Okay.

RYAN, NARRATION: Our third theory is by far the most simple: Tired of the life of a billionaire’s son, Jason asked Bruce to fake his death in order to allow him to disappear from the public eye.

SHANE: (wheeze)

RYAN: I will admit… There are probably better ways to duck out of the public eye.

SHANE: YOU THINK?

RYAN: Like, faking my death might not be my first resort.

SHANE, IN AN EXAGGERATED IMITATION OF A CHILD’S VOICE: Oh, I’m tired of people taking my picture. Papa, will you tell them all I died a gruesome death? I’m going to Fiji!

RYAN: (wheeze)

SHANE: And then Wayne, what, just went along with it?

RYAN: Well, I guess he was due for another orphan soon anyway.

SHANE: I’m so glad you’ve warmed up to these jokes.

RYAN: I’m getting sued anyway, I might as well have fun with it.

SHANE: I am loving this development for you, Ryan!

RYAN, NARRATION: The next theory ties into a legend that some of our viewers from the Los Angeles area may be familiar with, —

SHANE: OH HELL YEAH! HERE IT COMES!

RYAN, NARRATION: — the Ghost Rider.

SHANE: (cheering)

RYAN, NARRATION: This theory states that Jason Todd’s anonymity exists to cover up his identity, and that the initial ‘death’ occured when he took up the mantle. Some believers of this theory claim that Wayne may have actually believed Todd was dead at the time, as he may have dropped off the radar entirely in order to pursue work as the Ghost Rider.

SHANE: This is my favorite one.

RYAN: I don’t think there’s any merit to it.

SHANE: Oh, absolutely not. But you’ve gotta love the theater of it!

RYAN: It does have a certain level of aesthetic appeal, yeah.

SHANE: Just some random rich kid out here with his head on fire, killing guys with crowbars.

RYAN: (wheeze) Why crowbars?

SHANE: I don’t know. Crowbars feel right here.

RYAN: That doesn’t make any sense.

SHANE: And the rest of this does?

RYAN: Good point.

RYAN, NARRATION: Perhaps supporting this theory is the fact that Ghost Rider tends to go after gangsters much like the ones Todd would have been dodging as a young man in Gotham. It also seems to tie into the rash, angry personality that many people claim he displayed. According to this theory’s supporters, Todd became fed up with the state of the city.

SHANE: And… what? Decided to light his head on fire?

RYAN: Well, maybe he was a metahuman.

SHANE: I guess that’s why he didn’t stay in Gotham. Doesn’t Batman kick them all out?

RYAN: That’s what people say, yeah.

SHANE: Man. Dick move of Batman to kick Bruce Wayne’s kid out of the city. (chuckles.) Get it? Dick?

RYAN: Oh my god.

RYAN, NARRATION: Our fifth and final theory is that Jason Todd was abducted by aliens.

SHANE: Nope.

RYAN: Don’t you at least want to hear the full theory?

SHANE: Absolutely not.

RYAN: Well, they do.

SHANE: Who is ‘they’ ?

RYAN: The people!

SHANE: They don’t want to hear your alien theories, Ryan. No one does.

RYAN: Well, it’s my video. And I’m going to tell the alien theory.

SHANE: (long sigh)

RYAN, NARRATION: This theory states that aliens, in an attempt to gain power and intel in preparation for an invasion, targeted Jason because of his close relationship with one of the richest and most prominent men in Gotham.

SHANE: So they interrogated him and then just spat him back out?

RYAN: Let me finish!

RYAN, NARRATION: According to this theory, the Jason Todd who returned after his ‘death’ was not Jason Todd at all but, rather, was an alien clone.

SHANE: I regret letting you finish.

RYAN: (wheeze) I knew you would!

RYAN, NARRATION: Believers of this theory claim it’s supported by the physical differences between the Jason Todd who disappeared and the one who lives in Gotham now, including his hair and his height.

SHANE: Or, hear me out. He grew. And he dyed his hair.

RYAN: Aliens seems more plausible to me.

SHANE: I hate you.

RYAN: (wheeze)

RYAN, NARRATION: So, what really happened to Jason Todd? Did he fall in deep with the wrong crowds and have to give up his life to find his way out? Was he kidnapped in an attempt to get money and influence from his wealthy adoptive family? Or is there something otherworldly about his disappearance and reappearance into the world? With the Wayne family refusing comments and no other sources to consult, it looks like the truth behind the scenes of Gotham’s most prestigious family will have to remain… unsolved.

WHAT UNSOLVED MYSTERY DO YOU WANT TO SEE NEXT?

[murderdaddymayhem]

Trapped - Mark Hoffman x Reader [NSFW]

Hoffman has feelings for Strahm's fiance. Now that Strahm is dead, you struggle with returning those feelings just for the night.

Set in between Saw V and VI. Please visit the ao3 link for full tags.

“Hey. You left something by the coffee machine.”

You look up, and see Detective Hoffman holding your engagement ring. “Oh,” you smile. “How do you know it’s mine?”

“I guess I look at your fingers a lot,” he jokes, tossing it to you. You slide it back on.

“Do you? How’s this one look?” You playfully flip him off, and he manages as much of a chuckle as the stoic man ever could.

“I’ve sure seen that one more than the others.”

You return the ring to your finger, sliding it on and sitting back down at your desk.

“We’re going out for drinks tonight,” Hoffman mentions, “Wanna come?” You normally wouldn’t join the rest of the officers after hours, but you had been making more of a solid effort to go out and enjoy yourself now that the initial sting of Peter’s death had subsided for you. You tilt your head. 

“Is Lindsey gonna be there? Matthews?”

“Yeah. Sing, Tapp. Everyone’s going.”

“Sure. I’ll be there,” you nod.

“Great.” He looks like he wants to say something else, and eventually closes with, “Don’t work yourself too hard.”

You look down to the paperwork on your desk, and back up to return with a quip, but Hoffman’s gone. You spend longer than you should looking out your door, mindlessly counting the number of steps it takes him to get back to his own office as if you hadn’t already memorized it.  

Mark sits down at his desk. He’d always had a thing for you. He’d been jealous of Strahm, not only in his stellar reputation with the guys, but of his pretty wife and his perfect life. Mark may have seemed like the handsome hero everyone dreamed of, but in reality, he was a pitiable alcoholic whose sole personality trait was mourning.

If you ever did return his feelings, it would probably be because you pitied him for the loss of his sister, which hurt more than the bindings John had put him in that first day of initiation. He only wanted one thing, really. Maybe two, the first being justice. True justice. As for the second, it's not viable to have you in the position he's in, but his tendency to run from his emotions is being put to the test by your acceptance of his invitation. 

 When you get to the bar you and everyone at the station frequent after work, Hoffman’s sitting there. Within a half an hour, it’s become apparent the others aren’t coming... and were never coming.

“You invited me out under false pretences,” you say, accepting your drink of choice from the bartender with a nod. “Why?”

“I told you, the others didn’t show.”

“I work for the FBI, and you’re a detective. You’re honestly trying to lie to me?”

Hoffman considers this, purses his lips. “Not very well thought out on my part, I guess.”

“What, did you want to talk to me about a case?” you ask. “Something about today’s paperwork?”

“You know I don’t want to talk about that crap. I wanted to ask you how you were,” he corrects you, taking another generous sip of his second double vodka of the night. “All these months later. Treat you to a night off.”

“Oh,” you nod. “Right.” You’re quiet for a moment. “I’m okay. I haven’t really said it out loud yet, but I think I am.” You debate opening up, but you know he’s also lost someone, so you take a chance. “I feel bad when I forget him.”

“Yeah. I know how it feels to forget. My sister was a huge part of my life, and I never thought I could. And I can’t. Difference is, I try to forget.” You stay quiet, ruminating on the reminder of Mark’s dead sister. He didn’t talk about her often for that reason you suppose, but everyone who knew Hoffman knew he was the way he was because of her death. “You’re not wearing your wedding band,” he mutters, starting in on his third drink.

“I lost it,” you whisper.

“Like you lost it by the coffee machine today?”  

You avert your eyes down to your lap. “Maybe you’re not the only one who tries to forget.” Silence passes between you as you explain. “Looking at it opens up old wounds. Keeping the past in the past is my way of dealing with it. He’s gone. If I think about how awfully he died, how scary his last seconds were, it’ll be like it happened yesterday... and I’ll have to start the process again.” You shove your hand down into your pocket, unwilling to study your bare ring finger any longer. “The past is as tangible as the future, detective. If I can’t feel it, it’s not there.”

“You think denying it’s gonna help you in the long run?”

You frown, looking up at him. “Nobody’s denying anything.” Blinking as if in slow motion, Mark gets up and tosses money down for the two of you. He takes your arm and leads you out of the bar, into the cool night air. Confused and more than a little angry, you jerk your arm away. “Why did you invite me for drinks?”

“I wanted to offer my condolences. Again.”

“Bullshit. It’s been 4 months and you haven’t once said you’re sorry he died in one of John Kramer’s sick traps. I know you two weren’t close, but why wait this long? What do you really want?”

“I don’t want anything.”

“Look me in the face and tell me one thing tonight that isn’t a lie,” you demand. Mark turns to you fully.

“Okay. I want to fuckin’ kiss you.”

You hesitate. That was the opposite of what you were expecting. You try and find words as Mark stares at you with that dark gaze, those eyes that seemed to linger in your mind now that you were lonely and no longer trapped under the weight of a lacklustre partnership.

“So? What’s stopping you?” You can never tell what’s going on behind those eyes; he guards his feelings and he guards his secrets. You know he has more secrets than the average man, but he’s a detective. How bad can they be?

“You want me to kiss you?” he murmurs. “Tell me exactly what you want me to do.” He advances, walking you back against the brick wall of the alley no doubt filled with the scum John had him abduct for his games. “Huh? You want me to kiss you how you’re used to? Kiss you like it’s an obligation? Like it’s what people expect me to do?” Your eyes start to prick with tears as Hoffman brushes your hair out of your face. “You want me to tell you I love you like a man who’s only true obsession is a serial killer he couldn’t begin to understand?”

“Hoffman, Peter—”

“Don’t say his name,” he mutters, “You’ll cut the wound wide open again, sweetheart.” He presses his lips against yours, and you feel your body release all of its tension. He kisses like Strahm’s antithesis—like he knows what he’s doing. He’s rough and he’s present, nothing like how you’d imagined the cold detective would. Peter had tried, but as much as he wanted to be, he hadn’t loved you as much as that damn case. Hoffman adversely seemed to care about anything but, even though he was in charge of it. You used to think everything was a façade for Hoffman, that appearances were everything. Façades have to crumble sometime.

  By the time you had arrived at his apartment with him in the passenger’s seat, the full effects of the detective’s four double vodkas had set in. He tries to maintain his sense of self until the elevator, then down the hall and into his place.

“Shit,” Mark grunts, sliding your jacket off, “I want you.”

“No you don’t.”

He licks his lips. “Wanna bet?”

“You’re drunk, and we’re colleagues,” you mutter. “You’re gonna walk into work tomorrow morning and you’re not going to be able to look me in the eye.”

“What, after taking you on every surface of my apartment?” he mutters, lips dipping dangerously close to your neck. “Your pussy isn’t gonna shock me. Yours isn’t the first I’ve seen, but it’s sure as hell on my list.” You try once more to push him off, and he tries to stand wearily. His brown eyes blink a few times, and he shakes his head. “Fuck. Sorry.” He lets go of you, backs off. You realize your mistake, and take him by his lapels.

“Are you?”

He looks back up at you, and through your shared gaze, he sees his own arousal reflected in your eyes. His lips are back on you, finally touching your skin, and his hands roam under your top, up to cup your breasts and paw for the hooks of your bra.

“Around the back,” you whisper against his lips. In his drunken state, Hoffman misinterprets this to mean you want to be turned around, and you find yourself pressed against the wall as his hands massage your ass. A moan slips from you as you try to reach back. “I meant the bra.”

“Fuck,” he repeats again, slightly slurred, and reaches up to take it off of you. It drops down one arm, and Mark turns you around again to take your top off and release the garment from your sleeve. “This is what I’ve been fuckin’ missing?” he mutters, half to himself. “God damn gorgeous.”

“Tell me more?” you ask coyly, wrapping arms around his neck. He growls, picking you up by the ass so your legs can wrap around his hips.

“You don’t even wanna know the shit I fantasize about with you,” he mumbles, grinding himself between your legs.

“Wanna bet?” you volley back his line with a grin, and he scoffs, working down your panties as you reach a hand forward to tease him through his business casual pants. The feeling of his bulge grounds you in the reality that yes, Mark Hoffman does want you back. He wants to fuck you in his apartment, and he wants to do it now.

“I’m drunk, but I’m not drunk enough to tell you that, honey.” He presses a soft kiss to the curve of your jaw and slides your panties off, dropping them and rubbing his fingers back up your thighs and beneath the plush seat of your ass. His fingertips are oddly rough, for a detective who hasn’t seen field work in three months.

“What’s your secret, Hoffman?” you ask, and he uses one hand to stroke up the column of your neck.

“Gonna have to fuck me to find out.”

The two of you move over to his couch, Hoffman attempting to lift you over. His state tells you this is a bad idea, so you just pull him by his tie over, and push him down on the couch. He seems to like your show of control, eyes roaming up and down your body as you stand over him. “This feels a little unfair,” you whisper, lifting a hand up to squeeze your breast. Hoffman tears his eyes away from the action.

“What does?”

“Look at you,” you gesture to his fully clothed form, “And look at me.”

“Oh, I’m looking,” he nods, reaching down to squeeze himself. You get between his legs on the couch with a huff, and take over, unzipping his pants and giving him a better squeeze through his boxers. You can feel how hard he is, how large his bulge has grown. He grinds up into your hand, makes no move to undress himself any further.

“You’re selfish,” you mutter.

“I never said I was a nice guy,” he replies.

“You’re a detective.”

“Gray area.”

“For what?”

“My hobbies.”

“Which are?” You sit back on your heels for a moment. Hoffman seems to realize he was about to let something big slip, and your curiosity only grows as he cuts himself off.

“Shut up, will you? And kiss me.”

“That’s my line,” you groan, unbuckling his belt and sliding it out.

“I stole it.”

“You steal a lot?” you probe, hoping to uncover that elusive secret.

“Like I said,” he mutters, face still stone cold. “I’m not a nice guy.” You moan as he pulls you down against him, and moves his hand down to uncover his cock in a smooth movement of his hand. He groans as it grazes against your thigh and up to your pussy, and you lean down to kiss him again. His large hands reach up to your smooth naked back, clutching your body to his as he deepens the kiss. Your breath mingles as you pull away, vodka in his and the mint of chewing gum in yours.

“Condoms?” Mark reaches beside him to the coffee table, and pulls open a packet. Reaching between you two and keeping you held up with the ease of a strong bicep, he doesn’t break eye contact with you as he rolls one onto his shaft—the feeling alone of his own hand on himself is enough to make him moan, but he keeps it together. You lift up to position yourself.  “You’re sure you want to do this?”

 “I’m ridiculously hard for you,” he replies, eyes half lidded and lips parted. “I think if you left me now, it would be the first time in my life I’ve cried.” You roll your eyes, and he sits you down on his cock. Your eyes roll back. He looked big when he first took himself out, but it was nothing compared to the feeling. He’s stretching you all the way to the base, hands tightening on your arms. He rocks up once, and you whine his name softly. “Can you move?” he whispers, slurring his words.

“Yeah.” You start to rock down, and his breath hitches. After a moment, he reaches his hands further back, feeling your ass and groping it before sliding them up to your lower back to guide your movements.

“So good,” he mumbles, “Never knew I wanted you... this fucking bad.”

“When did you figure it out?” you smirk, gasping as he hits deep.

“Today, at the office.” His eyes slip shut. “I looked at you sitting there, and wished your picture was on my shelf instead of all the bullshit awards I don’t fucking deserve. One thing that means something to me, that I don’t have to tempt fate to get. That’s all I want. That’s all I need. Just someone else. Just someone else.”

You can’t think of a response. To save him embarrassment in the morning if he, by some miracle, remembers this conversation, you don’t reply. You’re afraid you’ll scare him off if you reciprocate the sentiment, and you’re terrified you’ll offend him if you coddle him. Then again, he could mistake your silence for apathy. Even in his impaired state of mind, Mark seems to realize what’s running through your head. He pulls you down against his broad chest again to put all these thoughts you had no business thinking while getting fucked to bed.  

Still, he offers no tender explanation of his confession, no further apologies or bashful take-backs. He only increases his pace, grunting as you start to feel your climax build.

“I wanna feel you cum all over me,” he growls, “Fuck. Fuck, let me feel it.”

“Hoffman.”

“Use my name. Use my fucking name—”

“Mark.”

“Ah,” he hisses, trying to make himself last. “Good girl. Good girl...” You squeeze around him, riding him back and forth, your clit grinding against his pelvis and your ass slamming down into his thighs. He lets out sharp puffs of air, wrapping one arm around you and tightening it. You feel as though you’re as close to the distant man as you’ve ever been as he breathes your name into your hair, burying himself in it as he buries his cock the deepest it will go inside of you and stills.

You’re both almost there, and the formality between you dies.

“Mark—I’m gonna cum,” you breathe desperately, “Don’t stop!”

True to character, Hoffman doesn’t offer any verbal encouragement, but his body language is worth a thousand words. He bites your earlobe, reaching down to rub your clit in circles. The action makes you gasp, and you brace yourself on his chest as your orgasm finally hits in waves. His hips convulse inside of you as he finally lets himself finish with you, and your grunts and groans meld together into a harsh symphony of panted out breaths.

“You moan so pretty, babygirl,” he sighs. A warm flush rushes through your body at that, and you’re not sure why. This needs to stay a one night’s stand, not some workplace romance the two of you can giggle about behind closed doors. It would only be a liability to both of your careers in the force,  and you know Mark will agree once he sobers up in the morning.

“Stop thinking,” he groans. His voice is gravelly, sated. “Hey. Stop. More importantly, stop guessing what I’m thinking.”

You stare down at him, eyes dancing between his. Your voice comes out barely louder than a whisper. “What are you thinking?”

“Absolutely nothing. Which is what you should be thinking of too, after we both fell into bed together.”

He seems to grow uncomfortable with the close eye contact, feels as though you’re reading him like a book. He moves your head down, where you lay there on his softly rising and falling chest. His steady breathing makes you think he’s fallen asleep, but his eyes are wide open. He stares up at the ceiling as if he was staring up at Peter Strahm again, watching the walls close in on the agent and crush his bones as he himself sunk into the ground safely entombed in glass. He swallows, imagining how your bones must have crunched in on themselves as you crumpled to the floor receiving news of your husband’s death.

His fault.

John’s fault. Jigsaw's fault.

No.

His fault.

He thought acting on his feelings and sleeping with you would make him forget Strahm ever existed. Instead, it felt like Strahm was the one in that box, watching the walls close in on Hoffman as every shitty thing he’d done in his life came closing in on him. Hoffman feels his heartbeat pick up desperately, but talks himself down as he did every night. He listens to the rhythm of your breath, tries to meditate to it.

You don’t have the problem of hyperactive thought at the moment—you had taken Mark’s advice, and calmed down. It’s okay that you had moved on. It’s okay you had found comfort in someone else’s arms, and it’s okay that it’s Hoffman. Despite this, one singular question seems to bounce back and forth in your head as curiosity digs its nails back in.  

 Your finger traces a pattern in the rug below the couch... the pattern of a puzzle piece.