#it's the sound of the police

[malarkgirlypop]

What the Easy men are ticketed for when driving

Richard Winters:

He has all of his paperwork at the ready the police officer doesn’t even have to ask. He’s very apologetic, but he didn’t do anything wrong. Dick politely chats with the officer, he’s not intimidated by the man but he’s being cautious. When the officer says he made a mistake and lets him go, Dick is very understanding. They even exchange information, talk about meeting up. You feel like a third wheel for a hot sec. He has never had a ticket.

Lewis Nixon:

IM NOT DRUNK!!!! I CAN DANCE, I’LL PROVE IT!!! 'Darling stay in the car', proceeds to fall out of the car while trying to exit. The cop and you exchange a glance. You follow the cop car to the station, you can see Nixon’s little head in the back window. He was indeed drunk. Yeah you should've seen it coming he had to blow into a breathalyser before starting the car, turns out that's why you were there.

Harry Welsh:

Nervous around the cop, tries to make small talk but the guy isn’t having it. You sit there in awkward silence as the cops leaves to fill out the paperwork. Harry got pulled over cause he was trying to show you a trick, but the trick was swerving back and forward across the lanes and wasn’t very impressive. Sheepishly takes the fine, with a mumbled apology.

Ronald Speirs:

Asserts dominance over the cop, uses his killer stare. The cop is jumpy under his cold glare. He’s not smug about it, stating facts about the law making the cop look dumb. The officer can tell he’s fighting a losing battle so tries to rescind the fine. Ron is very happy about this reaching out if the window to give the cop a pat on his arm. "It’s ok, people make mistakes". Leaves the police man in the dust before the interaction is truly over. He was speeding, but it was fine, he had somewhere important to be.

Carwood Lipton:

I feel like he would be the same as Winters. Very calm and collected, hearing out the officer. Obviously it's our baby boy and he hasn't done anything wrong. Even if the cop was a total dick, Lip would be so polite and understanding. I think it would piss off the cop that he wasn't talking back, giving a "Have a good night officer", as the cop marches away muttering under his breath. I'm sure he would turn to you saying, "shall we?" before pulling away from the curb. He did nothing wrong, Lip getting fined. Ha! You wish.

George Luz:

Thinks he is a stand up comedian and can get out of the ticket by telling jokes. Unfortunately for Luz he gets the most grumpy, stoic officer of all time. George crashes and burns with each quip and pun, you sink lower in your seat hoping the ground will swallow you whole, (we all know second hand embarrassment is the silent killer). Finally he receives the ticket and you sit in silence while he re-thinks his entire life. Before making the most ridiculous remark sending everyone into hysterics. He is very proud of himself, "I knew I still got it. He was just a bad crowd." Very pleased with himself he doesn't even care he got a ticket. What was the ticket you ask. Trying to stand and drive. Yeah this isn't his first time either, yikes George.

Joe Toye:

Yeah no this man never gets pulled over. Even if he does, he will evade the police. His brag is that he has never been ticketed. Well, they have never been able to catch him to give it to him. He will never tell you what he does to be chased by the police, the mystery of it all. Bill says its cause he's a shit driver.

Bill Guarnere:

Knows everyone, so when he is pulled over all you get is, "Wild Bill you mad dog, I haven't seen you in years!" Buddies with the whole police force, gets let off the hook way too often. Has broken all the laws, but hey when you know everyone, what really are laws?

Joe Liebgott:

You all might think he's a bad boy rebel with the most tickets out of the lot. But you forget, hes a tried and true cabby. Like Bill he knows everyone, all you have to do is utter his name and you can get a million stories about the man. His brag is that he has never been ticketed, sure he's broken the law, but he never gets caught. Unlike some people *cough cough* Toye. But hey Toye hasn't actually been caught, just been in multiple car chases.

David Webster:

He's offended you think he drives. Clearly passenger seat princess, put some respect on his name. Has been fined for not wearing a seatbelt and standing up through the sun roof singing Unwritten, but that's just a vibe and he has the ticket framed on his wall.

Buck Compton:

The self proclaimed 'best driver of the group'. He's daddy and drives around his baby boy's. He's like the dad that picks you up from Saturday sport, 'who wants to stop at McDonalds?' His car is the vibe, everyone always fights over who rides with him on road trips. Has the best songs and snacks for the road trips, he laughs in the face of tickets, this man is untouchable and has a squeaky clean record. May have tried to do a donut, but he'll never tell.

Eugene Roe:

Pfft, this man getting pulled over. You're dreaming. The most calm driver. He's like my nana, anyone heard of the story the tortoise and the hare, yeah well he's the tortoise. No one wants to drive with him if they need to be somewhere in a hurry, he's too nice and gives way to everyone. This man panics when the police pass him, even when he's doing nothing wrong.

Babe Heffron:

If Gene is the tortoise, then Babe is definitely the hare. Hold on for dear life if you ride with this man. The most chaotic driving of all time. Over taking, under taking, side by side taking? Yeah he does it all. You see orange light, he sees pedal to the metal. Speed limits are just suggestions to this man. The amount of fines and tickets this man gets in a year he could buy a whole other car.

Donald Malarkey:

He's a good driver, but boy oh boy he's easily distracted. If you're sitting in the back showing photos to the rest of the boys, he's turning around fully in the seat to see what's going on. The most common phrase in his car is, "Don watch the road!" He's a fun driver having the best songs and also has karaoke mics in the car that he hands back, but please encourage him to keep both hands on the wheel and both eyes on the road. The ads the are on the side of the road are catered just for him, he can't help himself when he sees something flashy. Has rear ended a car or two, maybe one of them was a police officer, but no one was there to see it.

Skip and Penk:

They don't drive. Skip is clearly a passenger princess and Alex is a backseat babe! Just tell them to please keep all limbs inside the car. Should not be allowed in Malarks car as they are the reason for his distraction but the love it, you will have to pry them out of the car they aren't splitting up!!

[allthehiddlethings]

Tom, in a perfect New York accent:

"Hey, Loki! Put your dog on a leash—it's after 9!" 👮 🛑

[ditzybat]

I see a lot in fanon of Jason being Tim’s fav robin - and I’m guilty of enjoying it and posting content in that same vein - but honestly we need to sit down and think critically for a second… Tim’s favorite robin is definitely Dick - after all he did sorta bring start everything for Tim as he is a pillar in his orgin story. But like we all write the Jason and Tim brother relationship all sweet and reconciliation (which, in current canon is sorta true, if apprehensive) when in reality Tim actively makes fun of Jason during titans tower when he’s getting his shit handed to him, would call him a flop to his face, and probably barely tolerated his Robin in comparison to Dick’s out of respect for the name. And Jason is just the definition of Cain instinct mixed in with imposter syndrome, and really doesn’t gaf all too much about Tim besides baseline animosity shown in the beginning of their relationship (as it seems that we’ve all collectively decided to stop recognizing any comic after 2010 apparently- which… is fair to be honest 😭) - BUT ANYWAY I just thought it was very silly haha to find that we’ve all somehow interpreted their relationship one way when it’s really written a completely different way, I just love the extravagant game of telephone we all play when making fandom content/spaces.

[salvadorbonaparte]

The way people post about subtitles and dubs and other forms of translation on here makes it clear they think translators are inherently untrustworthy and unprofessional. I have rarely seen so much distrust and skepticism towards a profession as "invisible" as this

[astersofthesky]

Maybe the reason why yotsuba Light and pre-kira Light is so vastly different in personality (he's more 'genuine' that is) is because yotsuba Light had L that kept him from feeling that mind-numbing boredom that pre-kira Light experienced prior to getting the death note.

Pre-kira Light literally had nothing to keep him entertained and that he was too powerless to change the broken justice system, so he's more closed-off and serious, literally just living through the motions like a dead man.

On the other hand, yotsuba Light met someone who's not just on par with his intelligence, but also one insufferable enough to annoy him that never made any dull moment possible with L around. Aside from that, yotsuba Light is literally working alongside the world's greatest detective helping him solve the world's hardest case that involved the justice system, so yeah, yotsuba Light really will take L's side of "justice" because detective L is legal whereas Kira's actions are not.

[omg-snakes]

Real Science II: The Cookening

Our players:

Meet the Experiment group, aka the Hot Lunch Bunch

And the Control group, who are also technically receiving a hot lunch but it's not quite as hot I guess.

I've taken initial measurements for all participants and logged baseline weight and length, and the majority of these kiddos have already started eating their meals!

An early pitfall: my hypothesis that cooked prey would be more readily accepted seems to have been correct. A few of the Control group haven't taken meals yet while all of the Experiment group are taking meals with gusto.

If the Control kiddos don't get with the program they're going to skew my data. >:(

[towards-toramunda]

Oh god not the “orym can’t be attracted to Ashton bc Orym is gay and Ashton isn’t a man” bullshit again… I use she/they pronouns but I implore lesbians to be into me! I beg it of them actually!

[mochinomnoms]

I read a book yesterday that had one of the character telling another, “Your teeth are sharp, you have a predator’s instincts, and your blood is howling.” And I think using that to flirt with Floyd would work wonders.

(The book was ‘Devil’s Candy’ btw)

I'm so sorry to argue against this, but I actually think Floyd would kinda hate anything poetic when it comes to flirting? He strikes me as someone who prefers bluntness and honesty from someone. If you're flirting with him? Tell him that straight up! If you like him, don't hide with flowery words, he's upfront (mostly) with his feelings all the time! It might be at other's expense, but still!

Or be mean to him. He get's a kick out of it. Also kick his ass. If you do it successfully, he's gonna be chasing after you to either make out or try and kick your ass in return. And then make out.

[cherrywhite]

One thing I love about Hayward in s1 is ya, sure, he's a cop. But most notably, he's not even a good cop. 

Hear me out. This isn't saying Hayward does not have the intuition one would associate with your typical, glorified cop from tv shows (in chapter 40, Hayward is absolutely right in that he immediately figured Carpenter out the moment he spotted her in Marcel's Crossing) and other instances, like chapter 43, shows that he has good reflexes for moments under fire (is the first to notice Brother Philly and co. at the door and pushes Carpenter out of the way). Not to mention that Hayward was on the force since he was 19, and to survive on the force for that long means he surely had plenty of solved cases under his belt, regardless if pressure has slowly built up by the time we're introduced to him.

No, when I say he's not even a good cop I mean in the sense of: he's not good at what cops actually do. 

One of the very first things Felix reminds him is to not "forget his gun this time." Implying that this has happened before, enough times for Felix to sound audibly tired about it (and he does have to go back for his gun at least two times in season 1). When Mr. Finch points a gun at him, he sits on the ground for a conversation. When asked, Hayward is confused as to why Daggler would need a knife when they find Carpenter and Faulkner's abandoned car, the thought of slashing the tires never even crossing his mind. And instead of immediately taking her into custody with no warrant whatsoever aside for his hunch, he sits down with Carpenter for an amicable conversation and a meal; only later showing his hand long enough to warn her that he's a cop and he's on to her. He's a cop and he has the Stink on him; because s1 Hayward is a bad cop. Because he does not immediately resort to violence. 

(And this isn't to dismiss his role as a cop entirely, something we're never fully privy to; chapter 3 alone shows us how his mere position as a cop was enough to cause a death that could have easily been avoided, because that role prevented Hayward from providing Mr. Finch with the actual help he needed.)

Daggler is such a ridiculous, exaggerated character but he's also the picture perfect cop. The Lieutenant-Colonel sends Daggler of all people, when they think Hayward can't solve the case. And, look, we don't really know what Daggler's position on the force is compared to Hayward, but he's clearly trusted enough to be sent, to be the exception to personal gods and keep a rhetorical god. Clearly trusted enough to close the case efficiently. Yes, Daggler is utterly ridiculous when put next to Hayward but that's because Hayward is a bad cop. Daggler is the ideal: he gets results quickly (by losing patience and immediately assaulting the bookseller), he takes perps to court and wins (with the use of The Coiling Speaks, not a liar's god btw), and he knows how to tell a compelling story (because of course Carpenter tried to attack Hayward. And of course the Good Cop shot and killed the Heretic to Protect His Partner). Good publicity all around.

S1 Hayward shows that there is no "good cop;" because being "good" is antithetical to what's expected of cops. There was no way he could continue being good and being a cop, it's why the Stink was beginning to creep up on him. "You're one of them nice coppers." says Mr. Finch. Nice. Not good. Because so-called good cops are probably the first to get sacrificed; because these institutions are not built with morality in mind.

[starry-bi-sky]

Blood Blossom Au: before the nightingale sings

---------

for my batdad blood blossom au, the one where Vlad poisoned Danny with blood blossom extract and Danny ran away from him and ended up tumbling into the care of one Pre-Robin Battinson Batman :). A quick oneshot telling the tale of the tragic deaths of the Fentons

TW: Major Character Death Warning

-------

Not all deaths are created equal.

That is a valuable lesson in life to learn. One that Danny learns when he is eleven years old, standing in the pit of his parents’ creation; the culmination of their life’s work. The portal to the other side, the realm of the dead. To the infinite. 

He learns that when he’s eleven years old, in a hazmat suit that sags on him, and boots that clunk when he walks because the only ones that fit are his mom’s, and even those are too big. In gloves that he has to clench his fists in because otherwise they fall off. In goggles that slide down his nose even when he’s tightened them the farthest they can go. 

He learns that when he’s eleven years old, choking on giggles that harmonize with the laughter of his friends’ who stand at the mouth of the tunnel. Sam’s holding a polaroid in her hand. They’re just being kids. 

They’re not laughing when Danny’s hand hits the safety lock — the one with faulty wiring, the only one in the tunnel. The only one he could possibly hit. They’re not laughing when the portal buzzes to life, and the lights inside switch on row by row as the generator begins to rumble and hum. 

They’re not laughing when Danny dies. They’re screaming. They’re not screaming when he comes back.

Not all deaths are created equal.  

Some are poetic, beautiful. The satisfying close of a book as it comes to an end, of the hardback thumping soft against the pages like the sound of a door closing. A train run its course.

Some are violent; unsatisfying; unfair. The unexpected shattering of an egg as it rolls off the countertop when nobody is looking, the unmistakable crack as it falls to the floor. It is abrupt and messy. 

But most are just… unremarkable. Unintentional. Clumsy. 

Danny’s family dies one night in late January. He is thirteen years old, barely a month away from fourteen. It is unforeseen. It is preventable. It happens. 

It happens like this: 

Their water heater breaks one Monday in January. It’s old, sitting in the garage, and has dealt with nearly sixteen years of Fenton-grade chaos and shenanigans. Of parents tossing scraps and junk into the garage as brief storage to come back to later. Of illegal tune-ups on their vehicles that result in something exploding. Of little children running around and knocking things over, playing with poles and sticks they find on the ground, on the shelves. Of being lived and used.  

Something had to give. 

Jack Fenton notices it immediately when he comes upstairs that very afternoon — his children at school, his wife downstairs — to grab something from the garage. The very same scrap and used material they store like squirrels to use later. 

He stops what he’s doing to fix it.  

It wasn’t supposed to be permanent. 

Despite what many believe, Jack Fenton is not the idiot people make him out to be. He knows what he’s good at, he knows what he’s not. He knows he can be passionate and obsessive and single-minded about things. He knows that he is a scientist, an inventor; an engineer. 

He knows that he is not a plumber. That fixing water heaters is not something he knows how to do, not safely. And he loves his family. What he does is only meant to be temporary — a fix meant to only last a few days until they can call someone in who can fix it for them. 

So Jack Fenton futzes with the water heater, gives it a temporary stitch to last a short while, and reminds himself to call a plumber later that day to come in and fix it. He turns and leaves the garage with the part he came for —  a sheet of metal for his wife to melt down — and disappears back downstairs. 

He does not make that call; it slips from his mind. 

It is not his fault. 

One day passes, then two, then suddenly it is Thursday. The water heater has still not been fixed, the water heater has been forgotten. It is nobody’s fault.  

Danny asks his parents at breakfast if he can stay over at Tucker’s house for the night. Just one night. They’re going to study for their math test and then play video games until midnight, but he only tells his parents that first half. 

He’s been doing well in school. Really well — better than he has in a while. There’s been a delightful lull in ghost appearances for the last few weeks. The living don’t know why, but Danny does. The Winter Truce always calms the dead down for a while, something about how the Zone cleanses itself twice a mortal year and that fresh wave of ecto clears out the old and brings in the new. 

This year Danny got to participate. He’s feeling the effects of it too, and he’s been sleeping consistently well for the first time since the accident. 

It’ll never happen again. 

His parents agree under the condition that he doesn’t stay up late, and Danny harmlessly lies through his teeth and agrees. He goes and throws overnight clothes into his school backpack, and when he leaves for school with Jazz his parents are already departed into the lab. 

The last conversation he has with his sister is in her car on the drive to school. Inane, mindless conversation to fill the air and pass the time. Jazz comments on how relaxed he’s been lately; Danny tells her about the Winter Truce. She listens in rapt attention. 

She tells him that she’s glad to see him so well-rested. She thinks her little brother’s been growing up too fast these days. She thinks he’s been too tense. Too caught up with the spinning of the world around him that he forgets about himself sometimes. 

When they reach school, before Danny can get out of the car, Jazz looks to her little brother and says; “I love you.” 

Her little brother’s cheeks turn an embarrassed shade of red. He makes a scrunched up, grossed-out face, but can’t hide the smile pulling across it. “Don’t be a sap, Jazz. I’ll see you later.” He tells her, yanking his hood up over his head. She hears the bashful, ‘love you too’ before he walks away. 

That is the last conversation she ever has with her brother. 

Thursday is unremarkable, passing by in its normality as it always does. There’s one, maybe two ghost sightings; shades lurking around in curious infancy that are easily spooked away by the presence of a greater being. Danny doesn’t even have to go ghost. 

Thursday evening is even less so. Danny goes to Tucker’s house — Sam has a prior arrangement with her slam poetry club — and the two of them study for an hour before they toss their textbooks aside and reach for the game console. 

Danny sleeps in Tucker’s room with one of the extra blankets on his bed, curled across the room in one of the bean bag chairs. It shouldn’t be comfortable, but to Danny it is. He sleeps throughout the night, the portal shut down by his parents before they’d gone to bed. 

Early Friday morning, before the sun has even risen yet, before it’s even so much as a concept to grace the horizon, the water heater breaks again. It was supposed to be fixed. 

Carbon monoxide is a silent killer. Odorless and scentless, it kills within minutes. It fills the house like a shadow casting over the ground, creeping into the rooms. 

Danny’s family die in their sleep; painless and unaware. 

It’s not Jack Fenton’s fault. He didn’t mean to.  

Nobody wakes up with their alarms. 

Danny wakes up to Tucker Foley’s alarm on Friday morning, and he turns his head intangible and shoves it into the beanbag chair like an ostrich hiding its head in the sand. Tucker gets up before him, and throws a pillow at him as he reaches for the alarm. 

There’s laughter, messing around. The both of them get dressed, and Danny has breakfast with the Foleys that morning. He takes the bus to school with Tucker, and they meet Sam by their lockers. 

To him, everything is as normal as it should be. There are no ghosts for him to fight right now, school is as school does, and he’s on top of all his schoolwork. 

He does not see Jazz at all that morning, he doesn’t notice. Their schedules are so different, their routes on different paths, that it’s not uncommon for Danny to not see Jazz until he gets home some days. That’s if there’s no ghost attacks. 

At lunch, he gets approached by her friends. Worried creases between their brows, they ask him if he’s seen Jazz. She hasn’t shown up to any of her classes. She’s not answering their texts. It’s unprecedented of her; unheard of. 

Danny doesn’t admit to the concern that swells in his gut when they tell him this. He shrugs at them, and says he hasn’t seen her either. But it was probably nothing to worry about; she might just be sick and sleeping it off. 

He offers to text her and let them know if he gets a response, and that seems to ease her friends enough that they shuffle away in uncertainty. He keeps his word, and does exactly that. He pulls out his phone and opens her contact, and shoots her a message.

‘Where are you?’ 

He doesn’t get a response back, Danny is left on sent. He puts his phone in his pocket, and with a sense of unease creeping in the back of his mind, goes on with his day. He gets no response by the time the final bell rings; and he tries not to be worried. 

The house is quiet when he opens the door. Unusually quiet. He drops his backpack to the floor, it lands with a hearty thunk, and begins to take off his jacket. “Mom! Dad!” He yells. He hangs it up, and slips his shoes from his feet. “Jazz skipped school today!”

A laughable untruth that would get his sister all riled up normally; she should be able to hear him from the front door if she was in her room. The house just stays dead silent. 

He can’t even hear the usual banging and crashing from the lab. His unease returns. He reaches for the intercom that leads directly down to the basement, and presses the button to turn it on. A burst of static, and then he speaks;

“Mom? Dad?” 

Danny lets go, and waits for a response. He gets none back. That never happens, not when the house is this quiet. Not when he knows they should’ve heard him. 

Something sickly and fearful borns in the pit of his stomach, and begins to snake upward. He heads for the lab. The cool metal of the door is familiar in the grooves of his hand, and he doesn’t even need to think about the code as he punches it in;  he simply lets muscle memory guide him. It’s been the same since he was little. 

The door hisses as the pressure is released, and he swings the door open. He takes the stairs down two at a time. Something is wrong. His parents aren’t answering him. His feet pound against the metal. 

“Mom? Dad?” He calls again, more worried, more frantic. More scared. His voice echoes down the stairwell, and he reaches the bottom before it’s fully faded. The lab is empty. The portal is still shut down. 

It was four in the afternoon, they should still be down here. 

Danny races back upstairs, fear-raised nausea coiling in his throat. “This isn’t funny you guys!” He yells when he reaches the top, shoving open the door with more force than necessary. His head swims, his voice cracked. 

He checks the garage, the car is still there. 

“Mom!? Dad!” His voice bellows out throughout the first floor, loud enough that it bounces back at him and rings against his ears. He’s never raised his voice this much — mom would scold him if she heard him. But she doesn’t show up. “Jazmine!” 

Finally, he goes upstairs, and he can’t tell if what he’s feeling is anger or terror. Something is very, very wrong. 

He swings the door of his parents’ rooms open first, and there they are, with the lights still off and the curtains still drawn. As if they hadn’t left their bed all day. Some of Danny’s fear lifts from his shoulders just by the sight of them, but he’s still trembling. Something is still wrong — the room smells… off. Not good, not bad. Just… off. 

He swallows dryly, his throat still thick, and steps into the room. “Mom, dad?” They do not stir. “Didn’t you guys hear me yelling?” 

There is only room static. Danny’s heart shrivels in his chest with a tenfold return of terror, he feels ill. He remembers, just now, that they’re not heavy sleepers, and his dad should be snoring like a freight house. 

Danny reaches their bedside in seconds, hand outstretching for the covers, “Momma? Dad?”

Not all deaths are created equal. 

But many of them are accidental. Unmeditated. Shocking.

Danny Fenton finds his family dead in his childhood home. He runs to his neighbors in hysterics, inconsolable, in tears. Nine-one-one is called, but there is nothing that can be done. They were dead for hours by the time Daniel Fenton returned home. 

He sits on the front steps of the neighbor’s house beside FentonWorks, his jeans slowly becoming wet from the snow that was unable to be scraped off, and watches the paramedics cart out his family beneath white sheets. There are police cars blocking off the street, yellow tape blocking off his house, red-blue lights lighting up the block, an ambulance on the scene. He is wrapped in a shock blanket, and he is missing his jacket and his shoes. His tears are freezing onto his face, he can’t feel the chill. 

Not all deaths are created equal

But all of them are unforgettable. 

[wordto-thewise]

I think my favourite thing about Paige is, in season one, we know her as this passive office worker who just up and finds the courage to help the people who kidnapped her after she witnesses a very law-backed atrocity. And you think how brave and/or insane it is of her, to go from smiling along with a human sacrifice to impersonating a police officer!

And then you learn her dad's an accomplished and previously convicted con man. If anything she probably could've impersonated a cop better if she wasn't so rusty.

[artfartt]

[thymehallward]

Kidpix Max 🍓💘🐇

[nateezfics]

this is a psa for fic writers. please do not post all of the chapters of your fic at once, especially if there are several chapters. it clogs the tags and it’s super annoying. like please tell me why i was just in the ateez smut tag and saw someone posted all 15/16 chapters of their fic at once?? and it’s not just that one blog, i’ve been seeing a few blogs do this recently. like first, that’s so annoying because again, it clogs the tag feed and makes everyone have to scroll through a million posts. second, where is the logic in that?? your posts won’t do well at all if they’re all just posted at once??

I generally try not to nag or complain about what other blogs do or how they post but this is just so annoying to me. like i’m honestly so tempted to block the blogs that do this because it’s so annoying having to go thru 84749393 chapters of a fic i am not even remotely interested in reading.

[plutoswritingplanet]

Enabler (Mark Hoffman x Female!Reader)

a/n: y'all missed me? i binged the entirety of the saw franchise while sick and... yeah.. f the police right?

Warnings: Non-Con (like, fr, be warned, be safe), a lazy ass idea for a Jigsaw trap, Workplace Crush heehee, Smut, Strahm's also here

Summary: You've survived a test, made for you by Jigsaw. As your two coworkers visit you in the hospital, Hoffman thinks back to that faithful night of your kidnapping. Cross-Posted on AO3.

Live or die, detective. Make your choice.

The mechanically distorted voice follows you through your journey to regaining consciousness. It's words flicker in and out of existence, as your eyelids flutter against the white light of the hospital room. Your eyes water and you groan, as the mixture of the night's events comes back to you in a wave of nausea and dull pain engulfing your entire body. Your fingers scratch lightly at the crispy white duvet, and you feel every single tendon in your hand flex, earning another groan from you. 

There's a steady sound of beeping present in the room. It makes your brows furrow slightly. It must've been really bad, if they had you hooked up to a heart monitor. You don't really remember just how bad it was, your mind flickers to the moment you slid your hand into the metal box and then... Pain, so much pain, and the smell of blood that follows you like a phantom even in the pristine light of the hospital room.

- Thank God you're awake. - a voice brings you back from beneath the surface, a familiar one, laced with inexplicable worry. 

You force your eyes to open all the way. Bright light attacks your pupils and you can't bring your arm up to shield yourself, even if you tried. Pain, bordering on tearing, floods your system whenever you try to force your upper limbs to work. Tears form beneath your eyelids and you blink forcefully to distribute moisture across your eyeballs. 

There are two men in your room, and even their blurred sillhouettes are enough to let a wave of relief wash over you. 

 One standing by the foot of your bed, towering over the entire space, even with the slight hunch in his back. The other one sits by your side, hands fiddling with the edge of a green blanket the hospital staff must've left for you. Even with the grogginess of sleep still hanging onto you, you immediately notice the sudden lack of his wedding ring, which he usually kept on. Perhaps he's just washed his hands. On instinct, your head rolls over towards the sitting man, and your lips pull back into a tired smile of recognition. 

- Hello ladies... - your voice doesn't sound like a voice at all.

It's hoarse, barely recognizable, sounding more like a huff of wind going through rusty machinery. Still, Special Agent Peter Strahm lets out a puff of air, tension sliding off of his shoulders as if a tangible weight has been lifted from them. Your eyes shift downwards, towards his hands, and you watch as his fingers twitch, so close to grabbing yours, yet deciding against it at the last minute. 

God bless professionalism, you think bitterly, before straightening your head on the pillow and looking towards the other man.

Detective Mark Hoffman watches you intensly from the foot of your bed, his expression unreadable, as he takes in the sight of you. Face almost washed out of any color, sunken cheeks and eyes, lips so close to blue it's almost making him pity you. Almost. 

Then, there are the bandages. Starting at both of your palms, running up and up, all the way towards your elbows, where your skin peaks at him from under the hospital gown. They've managed to stop most of the bleeding, but he can see clear as day, specs of drying blood showing through the cloth, creating a contrast that's strangely hypnotizing. He doesn't want to imagine how your arms look underneath. Doesn't need to, he has seen those wounds first hand. Both after you were rescued... And before that. 

- How long have I been out? - you ask after a moment of silence, your voice regaining a bit of your usual color. 

Mark opens his mouth, but it's Strahm who answers you first. The Detective bites down on a scowl. He was never too interested in literary heights, but even he must admit there is something poetic about the both of them crowding around your bed, while you lay there, stricken by tragedy. It makes him feel ridiculous. You make him feel ridiculous. 

- Two days - Strahm supplies, his eyes flickering around your face, the bed, the medical apparatus - You've been unconscious most of the time, lost a whole lot of blood. 

To that, you scoff, or laugh, neither of them are sure. Of course you've lost a lot of blood. That was the point of the game, wasn't it? To bleed yourself dry. And supposedly some important life lesson was also hidden in there, but after five minutes of pissing blood from your veins into a beaker, you really must've lost it in translation. 

- Fuck... - you sigh, slowly trying to move your muscles under the covers.

You try to lift your hand towards the bedside table, where a water bottle with a straw is waiting for you, but your hand starts to shake so badly, you have to give up. Oh, you hated this. This feeling of helplessness. That's when Hoffman springs to action, closing the distance between himself and the other side of your bed. He snatches the bottle from the table like a man on a mission, and places the straw right at your lips. 

- Thanks - you mutter, eyes connecting with his for a split second, before focusing all your efforts on drinking. 

You don't remember water tasting this good, and as you swallow, you let yourself hum with delight. After a while, the bottle is finished, and Mark dutifully places it back on the table, debating whether to shuffle back to his original place, or to somehow stay here, looming over you as there was no chair for him to sit in. You decide for him, patting the side of your bed and attempting to shift your legs a little, to make more room. He takes the hint and plops himself right next to your foot, his hand coming up to grab at your calf reassuringly. Immediately after that, all reservations seem to leave Strahm, as his hand slides over yours in a warm embrace.

If you weren't so goddamn tired, you would've laughed. Two manly men, fighting like a bunch of petty schoolgirls. Your chest swells with something dangerously close to affection. Quick, someone call for the doctors to bring back professionalism into the room. 

- Do you remember anything from that night? - Hoffman asks with slight tension in his voice.

- Is this really the best time to be asking this? They've barely woken up - Strahm's always close to outrage when Hoffman's around, and you silence him with a slight shake of your head.

- It's fine, I can talk - you mutter, brain already working overtime, as you think hard on every single detail from your recent kidnapping.

- I called you.

Your eyes focus on Hoffman, and you can see his jaw shift under his skin as he swallows. His lips twitch into a small smile, but you can see worry settling heavily over his brows, as he looks over the bandages on your arm, his thumb rubbing circles into the skin of your calf through the blanket. 

- That you did. - and at the time, it almost startled him to death.

***

The puff of smoke you let out flows into the night air of the city, as you lean your head against the cool wall of the restaurant. You're dressed a bit too elegantly, too much like a costume of a successful woman, with skinny heels and too big of a coat. 

Hoffman watches with unreserved fascination the way neon lights illuminate the column of your throat. Hidden in the shadows of his car, finally he can watch you without the confines of his professional reputation restraining him. Only if for a fleeting moment, before he has to put on the mask and fulfill his other duty.

 Still, his eyes glide greedily over your body, dolled up specially for this fancy dinner with your highschool "friends". You've been buzzing around the station for almost a week now, complaining about this particular meeting, and every time you've mentioned it, Hoffman was making plans. All he had to do, was wait until you were ready to leave. He was certain, you would like a long, calming walk after this whole spectacle. You always did those, whenever a particularly hard hitting case appeared. 

Another puff of smoke, and you reach towards the pocket of your coat, fishing out your phone and flicking it on. His eyebrows raise in curiosity, as he watches you dial a number and place the device between your shoulder and your ear. Your hand reaches down to loosen the strap on your heel, and Hoffman is so transfixed by your display of calculated clumsiness, he almost flies from his seat, when his phone starts to ring in his pocket. 

Your number is displayed proudly next to your name, and he blinks a few times, before answering.

- Hoffman speaking.

- It's me - your words are slightly slurred, and from his hiding spot he can see the smile forming on your painted lips. 

- Did something happen? Why are you calling me? - he asks, trying to sound as bored and tired as he possibly can, while fighting off the sudden jolt of adrenaline surging through his body. 

He sees you straighten out against the wall, finally giving up on the strap of your heel. Then he hears the shuffling. And laughter, a short chuckle that sends something swirling in his stomach. 

- I'm fine, I'm fine... I just... - you hesitate, hand coming up to tug at the roots of your hair, before taking a long drag from your cigarette, irresponsible, Hoffman thinks - I just wanted to hear a voice of someone who's not a complete asshole. 

His laugh comes out in a huff, and it seems contagious enough to make you chuckle as well. If only you knew on how many layers you were in the wrong. Perhaps you'll find out someday, most likely not. Not after tonight. 

Still, the sheer notion of you calling him of all people. Calling him instead of your favorite Special Agent even. There's a feeling dangerously close to pride climbing up Hoffman's chest, and he has to swallow it down, before he does something stupid. Which, in this case would be not doing anything. He has to remind himself, why this whole situation is taking place, and all feelings of flattery turn to ash in his mouth. His eyebrows furrow. 

- I take it the dinner isn't going well.

- Oh it's fucking terrible - you shake your head in frustration - I don't really care about what they say, I just want to eat food. Which, as it turns out, is a lot to ask for at a dinner party. 

- Want me to come over? - he asks, hand playing idly with the black synthetic hair of his pig mask.

For a second, you seem to be actually considering it, and Hoffman would lie, saying it didn't make something swell up in his chest again. Dangerous, very dangerous. 

- Nah - you sigh, before throwing a long, disgusted look at the door to the restaurant - Give me permission to ditch them. 

He doesn't hesitate to engage in this short, familiar dance of yours. 

- You have my permission to ditch them.

Another sigh, then a wave of giggles. Your expression in the neon lights looks almost affectionate. Hoffman reaches for the chloroform bottle.

- Thank you - is this a blush Hoffman sees on your cheeks, or is it just his mind supplying what he wishes was true, who's to say - For the talk and everything. I'll see you at the station. 

- Good night, Detective.

He disconnects with one hand, while the other wrestles the mask over his face.

 You don't even notice, when he slips behind you, with a chloroform cloth in his palm. It takes a couple of seconds of wrestling, but it still makes him pretty worked up, in more ways than he has anticipated. There is no screaming, for which he is grateful. Your body is strong against his, as you give him all you've got, trying to shake his much larger frame. Your heel digs painfully into his foot, as you slam it down, and he fights back the urge to scream. You can't hear his voice, it would be too telling. While his one hand presses the cloth to your face, the other tries to contain the flurry of panicked punches you throw his way. 

The way you wriggle against him shouldn't really affect him that much, hasn't affected him with any other victims. But the sheer fact it's you he's overpowering, seems to be enough. He balls the cloth in his hand sticking it further down your mouth, and shudders at the feeling of your teeth dragging against his leather gloves. 

A muffled scream is all that you have left, as your hips buck into his forcefully, hands scratching down his forearms. His breathing heavily behind you, watching with mixed emotions as, finally, consciousness leaves you.

 You fall down in a heap at his feet, to which Hoffman has to admit, he has never felt so powerful. There's blood on your stiletto and a perfectly round hole in his shoe. He grunts in annoyance at the prospect of having to hide a limp for a couple of weeks. 

Getting your lifeless body into the trunk of his car is laughably easy. 

***

- So you didn't see who attacked you? - Hoffman clarifies, and you nod solemnly. 

His hands flex, your leg underneath his palm twitching slightly. Strahm sighs heavily next to you, his head hung low, as he massages your fingers so gently, it's almost as if he's afraid you'll break under his touch.

 You appreciate that, him leaving his bad cop persona on the hanger by the door. Still, between his tactful worry and Hoffman's stressed twitchiness, one of you has to be the stern policeman. And it seems this time the honor falls on your shoulders. So, you wiggle in your place, rising into a sitting position. The suddenly stern expression seems almost foreign on your sunken face, a caricature of a person you used to be. No, scratch that, you still are. This is the one thing you won't allow Jigsaw to corrupt. 

- He's strong though - you say, eyes glued to the edge of the green blanket, as you focus on all the sensations from the night of your attack - Uses chloroform to sedate his victims. 

- Kramer? - Hoffman asks and you immediately shake your head. 

- I can take a dying cancer patient. That man was healthy, fucking gigantic and... - your eyebrows furrow - He caught me by surprise right after we ended the call. 

Hoffman looks like he has something else to say, but he swallows thickly, his palm pressing further into your calf. You try to give him a reassuring smile, convince him, that it's alright. It falls flat against his tense expression, and you know deep down, he feels guilty for not talking to you longer, not checking up on you. He shouldn't, but it's just the way he works. And you appreciate it. 

He's enjoying himself far more than he would've anticipated, listening to you talk about him without actually knowing anything.

He likes the way your entire face scrunches in focus, trying to remember anything of note, while he's sitting right here, right in front of you. Perhaps he's becoming an adrenaline junkie? All thanks to you. Yes, he thinks, eyes gliding over your disheveled hair, you're absolutely the enabler here, and you don't even realize that. 

Even after what he put you through.

His jaw tightens at the thought of you never actually learning from this special, intimate experience he has concocted just for the two of you. Haven't you heard the tape? Or perhaps you're just too goddamn dense to comprehend the lesson. As he looks into your doe eyes filled with pity and misguided understanding, he's beginning to think the latter's the case. 

- And after that? - Strahm is still careful, as if you are some startled animal, and Hoffman huffs through his nose, letting some of his bubbling anger out. 

You visibly shudder, and while on the surface both men have the same, worried reaction, Hoffman feels as if he's ready to run a marathon. You're scared, scarred forever by him, and yet here you sit, unaware. Letting him pet your leg like some goddamn pet. Good thing Kramer doesn't actually know how to read minds, otherwise Hoffman might end up in a trap himself for just thinking about you. 

- I woke up in a chair - you answer after a while, your voice numb and emotionless.

That won't do, Hoffman thinks, eyes burrowing into your skull, as if he wants to drill a hole and look straight into your brain. He wants you crying, unconsolable, changed. That carefree, light persona you've been flaunting before him since the moment you've arrived at his station. He wanted it gone. 

- My legs were tied, and my wrists were hanging down from the armrest. There were boxes underneath, with buttons... 

Suddenly, you head snaps up, eyes fiery and filled with righteous fire none of the men expected. Hoffman thinks, for just a second, that something has clicked in your mind. Something that would unmask his entire operation. The thought excites and terrifies him at the same time and subcontiously, he throws a quick look towards Strahm, who's too absorbed in your statement to pay him any mind. 

- He was checking the restraints when I woke up - there is something in your voice, something that makes Strahm lean closer in his chair, something that keeps Hoffman from breathing too deeply, because deep inside he knows what comes next - I think this whole thing can be psycho-sexual.

There. You can hear the pin drop, as your words register in the men's brains. 

- How...? - Strahm starts, but you cut him off harshly.

- He got hard while tying me up.

Silence. 

Only the beeping from the medical apparatus can be heard in the room. Strahm closes his eyes, bracing himself for the next question he has to ask. Hoffman on the other hand is becoming redder and redder under the collar of his shirt. How far will you go with your story?  

- Did he...? - Strahm swallows, cutting himself off.

Hoffman leans forward, as if he wants to pull the answer from between your teeth himself.

Did he? You're avoiding both their gazes, eyes flickering between your bandaged arms, something darker settling over your features as memories flood you. Did he? Hoffman's hand clamps itself down onto your calf, you can feel all five fingers digging into your flesh. How much will you tell, how much are you willing to share with your darling Special Agent? With him? Hoffman feels his chest tighten, every breath becoming more and more shallow. You, on the other hand, inhale slowly, deeply, then exhale.

- He didn't. 

Hoffman wants to laugh. 

***

He tightens the restraints on your left arm, when you start to rouse from sleep. Your head lolls to the side, cheek pressing into his arm. He freezes in his spot, one hand flying towards his face to secure the pig mask over his features. Silence hangs heavily between the two of you, cut only by the quiet groans coming from your waking body.

 Transfixed, Hoffman watches the way your lips seem to hang slightly open, lipstick smeared, mascara running, staining his shirt, as you all but rub your face against his shoulder. You look lovely like this, so vulnerable, with your face mushed against him. Nothing like the headstrong, strudy woman he's come to know over the short time you've spent at his station. 

Were your superiors aware of what they were doing? Sending some pretty young thing, straight from the academy, eyes still shining with ideals, all the way into the heap of corruption that was his city? And right in the middle of the biggest serial killer case the world has ever seen. They must've known you were doomed to fail. The narrative was never on your side, no matter how hard you tried to deny it. 

- Mmm... - finally, he can hear your voice get clearer, still groggy from the chemicals he has pumped into your neck - Mark...

He nearly jumps at the sound of his name. Thoughts run rampant through his skull, heart beating so hard, he's scared it will fly right out of his chest. Have you recognized him? He made sure to leave all traces of the Detective Mark Hoffman at the door before starting this. It was impossible, he did everything right. 

Your head rolls back against the backrest of the chair, your throat exposed to the world, to his hungry eyes. Your pulse runs rampant through your veins, and Hoffman feels a sudden urge to rip your trachea out with his teeth. Or, press an open mouthed kiss behind your ear, he can't seem to decide.  

- Oh, Mark... - a moan slips from your lips, and this time, he fully comprehends what is happening.

The realization runs past his brain and straight to his crotch. With shaking hands he reaches for a leather belt, and forcefully pushes it into your mouth, causing your eyelids to flutter.

Finally, your eyes start to open. Pretty eyes, he thinks, especially now that they're surrounded by dark stains from your mascara, glossy and unfocused. You writhe in the chair, as if you're waking up from a wonderful nap, arms straining against the restraints when you try to stretch. Then, your body freezes, realization that something is terribly wrong settling over you in an almost visible shadow. 

Panicked, you turn your head towards him. Tears flow freely down your cheeks, and Hoffman flexes his fingers. The urge to rip his mask off, to show you who he really is grows in him like a tumor.

 Oh the look on your face would be something for the history books. Your favorite grumpy detective, your best work buddy. Would the truth about his identity crush you? He liked to think it would. He liked to think it would suck any will to live right out of you. 

He wanted to have that power over you.

Hoffman drinks in your terrified expression like a man parched. The confusion between your eyebrows, the click in your jaw, when you realized you've been gagged, the way your eyes find him in the darkness of the room. It's almost too easy to let himself be enchanted by the way you look, so different from your usual appearance. 

Where is that young profiler teasing him about his gruff exterior any chance they get? He could never decide whether he wanted to kill you or fuck you in these situations, hiding his frustrations behind an exasperated eyeroll, or a smile if he felt generous. 

Right now, he can't decide either, as you begin to move in the chair, tugging at the belts holding your limbs down, scanning the room behind him, You're smart, he knows and despises that with his whole heart. Because if you weren't, he could just write you off as a naive, stupid girl, who doesn't know her place. But he can't, which means everything you've done, you've been doing intentionally, and the thought boils him from the inside. 

Your gaze falls towards the boxes under your hands, the slits in the armrests, where stainless steel blades reflect the light from a singular lamp. And the beaker, right in front of you, ready to be filled. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what you're supposed to do, and you give out a pathetic whine, which Hoffman immediately commits to his memory.

Killing you is out of his hands now. The game has been set, and the outcome rests solely on your trembling shoulders. The second part however... 

His eyes rake across your entire body, taking in the elegant blouse, which is now stained and torn in a couple of places. The tight pencil skirt you've chosen for the dinner, and how it has ridden up your thighs. Your stockings, torn on your knees, where you fell to the floor. And those damned stilettoes, one of which still has his blood on it's heel . Which reminds him...

Hoffman steps in front of your chair, your eyes following him cautiously. He can see thoughts run rampant through your head, searching for a way to get out, trying to determine his intentions, anything that might be helpful.

Well, good fucking luck Miss Profiler. 

He kneels down in front of you, taking a hold of your calf in a manner so gentle he's surprised himself. The leather gloves on his fingers make the task of unclasping the small belt around your leg a hassle, but he doesn't falter. You two have all the time in the world.

Figuratively speaking. He needs to be out of here in half an hour. 

The heel slips from your foot and Hoffman lets out a barely audible chuckle, as he's greeted by neon pink nail polish. 

Professionalism, you would remind him every single time, whenever he even dreamt of coming closer to you. It was infuriating, the way you led him by his nose, coming to work in the tightest of clothing, swaying your hips like the place belonged to you. And then, you would walk past him with a laugh and wink at Strahm of all people, when you thought he wasn't looking. 

His hand splays out all across your calf, a touch so unexpected, he feels your muscles jump under his fingers. All your focus shatters immediately, as his second hand joins the other, running up and down your leg, stopping just short of your thigh. Realization hits you like a ton of bricks, and he follows your line of vision straight to a very visible problem brewing in his trousers. Mentally, he scolds himself for loosing control so easily. 

If Kramer could see him now, he'd shoot him on the spot. 

But then again, maybe not. After all he agreed to let Hoffman orchestrate this entire game, and then allowed him to carry it out, despite his connections to the victim. You could never guess with that old bastard, and for that, Hoffman is eternally grateful. 

Your body twitches in the chair, as he finally drags his hands higher. You squirm, leather gloves feeling foreign on your skin.

He knows, he knows, he wants to coo at you from under the mask, swallowing the urge with a sigh. You can't hear his voice, he reminds himself, almost too enraptured by the heat radiating off of your body.

He continues to massage your leg, fingers hooking into the torn material of your stocking, pulling at it, tearing it further in an agonizingly slow pace. Almost as if he wants to watch closely as the fibers give away. Then, in a sudden change of pace he rips them entirely apart, until they fall in strips of sheer fabric on the chair.

A gasp escapes you, and you spring into action, legs clamping shut in an instant. You're fast, but Hoffman is faster, and he wedges both his hands between your shaking thighs. It takes little to no effort to open you up again, and he leans down, squeezing his torso between your knees. 

Time freezes for a moment, as the both of you watch each other closely. Your chest is rising and falling in rapid succession, as fire begins to brew in your eyes. Hoffman leans even closer, hands skimming just short of your core, as they forcefully drag your skirt up. 

God, he loves this look on you. The heat, the anger, the swirling desire. Because he can clearly see the way you take in his frame, unknown to you yet so familiar. Were you able to decipher some familiarities? At this point he can't seem to care, he's so close to his reward. 

Touch me, and I'll kill you, your eyes scream at him.

If you kill me, I'll drag you down with me, the dark holes of his mask seem to reply.

Two forceful tugs and the material of your underwear tears from your body. Cold air makes you uncomfortable, yes, but it's nothing compared to the stillness of the man before you. He stares, intensely, for a moment completely frozen in his spot. You can hear deep, heathing breaths coming from the rubber mask and wonder what is going through this strange man's head. For a second you're actually worried this will be the end of it. As much as you hated what was happening to you right now, you would hate it much more, if you were left wanting. 

Your worries are disproved in a split-second, as gloved fingers wiggle their way into your core. They take you apart, delicately at first, as if the man before you is trying to commemorate your every nook and cranny to memory. This slow exploration twists into adoration in your mind, as you fight off an onslaugh of shivers deliciously running down your spine. You huff, muscles tensing at the intrusion. Despite your growing wetness, the man in front of you has some real thick fingers, made even bigger by his leather gloves. 

He turns his masked head to the side, and you desperately want to know what he's thinking. Your head rolls back, as you bite down on the leather belt in your mouth. Eyes closing, your mind starts to wander into places you're too ashamed to acknowledge. 

God, you're sick. Thinking about your much older coworker in this beyond fucked up situation. But your mind has already supplied you with images of him rolling his sleeves up. His eyes following you around the room when he thinks you don't pay attention. Lingering touches that burn through your clothing. Oh, how much you reveled in the attention, how you stored all those small moments in your mind, just to bring them up in the privacy of your home. 

Perhaps you deserve to be put in trap, perhaps this is your lesson. Discovering the depths of your depravity. 

With a deep sigh, Hoffman pushes his finger in, as far as it can go, and your hips nearly fly off the chair, bucking into his palm. The sound you make bounces off the walls of the room, surrounding him in an echo of your cracking voice. Then, he starts to work you, adding a second finger until you wail through your gagged mouth. His entire arm is put to work, body pressing incredibly closer, as he soaks in your face twisted in pain and pleasure. 

This is so much better than what he imagined. And he has had quite the imagination, from the moment you appeared in his life. All the times he would zone out during a meeting, letting you talk to Strahm about a new discovery in the case, while he let his mind wonder. It was torture, pure and simple. There were points where he couldn't be left alone in his office without his pants tightening. Horrible, awful feelings, all of which were your fault. 

His fingers curl into you, and for a second you swear you can see stars flying across your vision. He notices the sudden change, and doubles the efforts at hitting thet exact spot over, and over again until your legs start shaking. His leather-clad thumb presses tightly into your bundle of nerves, bordering on overstimulation. While his right hand brings you closer to your release, his left one grabs every inch of flesh it can find, fondling with your breasts, squeezing your throat, playing with your blushed cheeks. The rubber of the pig mask is cold against your collarbones, as the man presses his weight to your front, as if he wants to bury himself into your chest.

No one can hear your screams, no one except Hoffman, and he commits every note to memory. Then, your voice snuffs out completely, as your entire body tenses so much, he's actually concerned you'll free yourself from the binds. Your release sneaks up on you and seizes your body in a sudden chokehold. For a moment, you can't breathe, teeth grinding against each other. God, it's been an embarrassingly long time ago since you've had even a resemblance of an orgasm like this one.

Hoffman feels wetness cover his entire palm, coming towards his arm. You're breathing heavily, when he slides his fingers out of you, the leather gloves shining with a souvenir of your altercation. He straightens himself above you, knees cracking as he does. Then, for a moment he just stands there, his shoulders rising and falling heavily, as he huffs under the mask. With heavy eyelids, you watch, as the man lifts it ever so slightly. Your vision is blurry, but your stomach still does a flip, when you see an outline of his tongue darting out to taste you. Then, the mask is back all the way on, and the reality of your circumstance becomes clear once again. 

To his credit, he gives you a couple of minutes to gather yourself, as much as you can in this situation. Cold air makes you squirm in your spot, as you feel the stickiness of your release coat your thighs. Then, the man produces a small casette player from his pocket, presses start, and throws it between your still open legs. He's out of the room before the recording even starts and you're left alone to fight. Or to die. 

***

- When I've put my hands in the boxes and pressed the buttons, knives came out from the armrests - you recount, voice steady despite the chills running up your back. - I had to fill the beaker with my blood, then the restraints would give away and the door would open. 

- What was your lesson about? - Hoffman asks, a certain smugness to him, one, that makes you shift in your seat. 

For a second you were worried, that he deduced what has truly happened from your expression. Perhaps he could read minds, and he discovered you've been thinking of him, while getting off on Jigsaw's apprentices hand. You had to physically shake your head to banish the thought. It was hard enough to look him in the face without impossible scenarios looming over you. 

- The tape hasn't been recovered? - you ask with a tightness to your voice.

- It has, but I haven't listened to it yet - a lie. 

A big, fat, fucking lie, and both him and Strahm know it. The other man turns to him with clear confusion, but Hoffman doesn't bother even acknowledging him. He's too invested in that delicate, blooming fire, which starts to eminate from your eyes. The same flame he has seen back in that room, where you looked at him like you wanted to devour him whole. And you don't even know it.

- He said - you swallow, and Hoffman follows the movements of your throat greedily. - He said I was an enabler, that I bring out the worst in people - another swallow, your gaze never faltering, and Hoffman feels his mouth run dry - That I revel in other's misery. 

- That's not true - Strahm jumps towards you, ready to reassure, to be the gentle hand you undoubtedly need.

- I stabbed the fucker in the foot with my stiletto - your voice breaks, and Strahm pulls away with an unreadable expression.

- And one more thing...

Hoffman turns fully towards you, hands running up and down your calf, as if he's trying to massage the memories back to your brain, make you think of how you fell apart on those exact fingers. The thrill of having you here, so close to the truth is unlike anything he's ever felt. 

- I know what he smells like.

Admittedly it's a small thing, an inconsiderable detail, that will most likely help no one. Still, the sheer tone of voice in which you've said it forces Hoffman to make a detour to his house, between the hospital and the police station. There, he takes a black garbage bag and throws away every single piece of cologne he can find in his house. 

Except one. A small sample he remembers using that very night. He stores it in his cupboard, right next to his bed, a small reminder of what has transpired between you both. Balancing his work life and his secret identity has never been easy, but now... He's almost tempted to throw it all away if it means looking into your tear stained eyes again. 

[buttersc0tchz]

Heyyy tumblr :p

I haven’t done much but reblog so have my latest fun thingS!!!

anyway i also love this artists Sam and Max genderbent??s so MUCH that I had to give a bit of something of my own hit of it and like idk guh

recently got heavily back into Sam & Max thanks to both having the money to buy the two games ON SALE on steam and the upcoming DEVILS PLAYHOUSE REMASTER?!?!?! i’m so SO excited to play it soon!!!! GRAHHHH infest the timeline with sam and max be upon ye 🐛