How they fall in love. For Vincent Sinclair, Charles lee ray, and marl Hoffman (seperetly) plz
Of course!! I apologize for taking so long to get this out, but I hope you enjoy!
Warnings: Stalking, mentions of blood and death, mention of you being used(Mark), AFAB reader in mind but I think it remained gender neutral, I think that's it.
Vincent Sinclair
It wasn’t immediate.
At first, you were just another face in a crowd of careless tourists. But something was different. You didn’t just look at the wax figures—you studied them. Your eyes lingered, noticing the fine details. The way his sculptures held emotion beneath their stillness. You whispered something under your breath when you passed one of his favorite pieces. He couldn’t hear it, but your expression stayed with him.
So he watched.
Days passed. You returned again—alone this time. You sat in front of one of his statues with a small sketchpad in your lap, quietly drawing. You didn’t know he was behind the wall, listening to the scratch of your pencil against paper. He was fascinated. Not by your appearance, but by your presence. Your stillness. Your focus.
Then you started talking to the sculpture.
“Who made you?” you asked it softly. “Who gave you such a sad face?”
Vincent’s breath caught.
For the first time in what felt like forever, someone wasn’t horrified. You weren’t disgusted or suspicious. You were trying to understand. And when you looked up—toward where he was watching behind the two-way mirror—it felt like you saw him, even though you didn’t know he was there.
He began leaving little things for you. Fresh charcoal. Clean paper. A wax rose, left on the bench you liked.
He never showed himself—not at first. He wasn’t ready.
But you kept coming back. Not because you had to—but because you wanted to. Talking to the statues. Drawing in silence. You’d even hum sometimes, your voice soft and aimless.
Vincent realized he’d memorized your songs before he even saw your full smile.
He didn’t fall in love all at once. He fell in parts—the way you moved your hands while you spoke, the way you never mocked the museum, the way you made this dead town feel like it still had a heartbeat.
Charles Lee Ray
You were the first to laugh at his jokes.
Real, sharp-edged laughs—not polite ones. You were clever, a little wicked, and walked the line between fearless and foolish. When Charles—Chucky, back in human form—first met you, you called his bluff during a con. You saw through him.
And you didn’t run.
You intrigued him. You didn’t scare easy, and even when you found out who he was, you looked at him with fire in your eyes. He’d killed people—you knew that. But you never pretended to be a saint yourself. Maybe that’s what made it feel so inevitable.
He fell in love through banter, through shared secrets and stolen moments. Through the way you challenged him, called him out, laughed at danger like it was a shared inside joke.
And damn, you were sexy when you were pissed.
He’d kill for you—had, actually. But that wasn’t love.
The way he stopped planning an escape route when he was with you? The way he dreamed of a future that wasn’t just blood and bodies?
That was.
Mark Hoffman
It shouldn’t have happened.
You were supposed to be a means to an end—someone Hoffman kept close to maintain his cover, or maybe someone he used to feed information. But then… you stayed. Even when you started to suspect something was off, you stayed.
You asked questions he didn’t want to answer. You saw through the façade. And instead of running or turning him in, you tried to understand him.
That was dangerous.
He didn’t fall easily. His heart was barricaded behind layers of lies and trauma. But you pushed past them. You saw the rage beneath the calm. The grief behind the precision. You didn’t try to fix him—you just stayed. Steady. Present.
One night, after a failed test—one he knew would haunt him—he came to you, blood on his hands and silence on his tongue. You didn’t scream. You just… held him.
That was when he knew.
Mark didn’t fall in love like a romantic. He fell like a building collapsing—inevitable and leaving ruin in its wake. And in the wreckage, he found you.
For Vincent Sinclair , Charles lee ray and mark Hoffman ? Fluff plz
Imagine reader has the powers of instant healing kind like rapunsel from tangled
I struggled a bit with the powers part, just cause it's so out of the norm for my usual fanfic, but I had fun with the challenge! They're all written with the same sort of concept just so I include the healing powers for each character. Ngl, I don't feel like this is my best work or characterization, but I hope you enjoy :)
Warnings: Mentions of blood, mentions of stab wounds, mentions of knives
Vincent Sinclair
Vincent sat in the familiar shadows of his studio, a warm amber glow from scattered candles reflecting off half-finished wax figures. Everything around him was still—too still. Except for you.
You moved carefully through the quiet, kneeling beside him without hesitation. His hand was resting on his knee, a fresh cut trailing along the side of his palm, blood streaking over old scars. You’d seen worse. He knew that. But still, he flinched when you reached for it—not from pain, but from something else. Something harder to name.
“Let me see,” you said gently, offering him your open hands.
He hesitated.
Then, slowly, he let you take his hand in yours.
Your fingers glowed faintly as you brushed them over the cut. Soft golden light spread from your touch, the torn skin healing instantly, the blood vanishing like it had never been there at all. He didn’t look at the wound.
He looked at you.
You glanced up with a smile. “There. Good as new.”
Vincent didn’t say anything at first. He just stared—at the now-healed skin, at the steady light in your eyes, at your hands still holding his. You were always gentle with him, always kind. And he didn’t understand why.
“I don’t get it,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “You… fix things.”
His gaze lowered to his palm. “You touch something broken, and it’s like it was never hurt.”
You tilted your head. “It’s not a big deal. I’m just helping.”
He slowly shook his head. “No. It’s more than that.”
There was something in his tone—wary, but quiet. Like he was tiptoeing toward something he’d never said out loud before.
“You touch people… and they don’t stay broken,” he said. “But I’m not something that can be healed.”
You frowned. “You’re not broken.”
His eyes snapped up to yours. Raw. Vulnerable.
“Yes, I am,” he said, more firmly. “I’ve been broken since I was a kid. I don’t… talk like Bo. I don’t smile like normal people. I live in the dark and make statues out of silence.”
He paused, breath unsteady.
“But when I’m around you... I start wishing I could be more than wax and scars.”
Your chest ached. You squeezed his hand softly.
“You already are.”
He swallowed hard, then reached up with his free hand and slowly pushed his mask up—not all the way, just enough to show you the barest part of his face. His lips. His jaw. The tremble in his expression that his silence could no longer hide.
“I love you,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t know if I’m doing it right. I don’t even know how to be… this. But I know that when you look at me, I don’t feel like a monster.”
You moved without thinking—reaching up to cup his face, your thumb gently brushing the skin he rarely let anyone see.
“You’re not a monster, Vincent. You’re human. And... and I love you too.”
He blinked like he didn’t quite believe it. Like the words were something he’d sculpted a thousand times but never dared to feel.
But then he leaned in.
Slowly. Carefully. Like he was afraid you might disappear if he moved too fast.
And for the first time in a long time—maybe ever—he let himself be held.
Not as a secret.
Not as a shadow.
But as someone finally seen.
Charles Lee Ray
“You’re such a damn idiot,” you mutter under your breath.
Charles lets out a low, amused chuckle as he watches you work, your glowing hands pressed to the gash on his ribs. It’s already closing, the torn skin knitting back together under your touch. The glow reflects faintly in his eyes—blue, sharp, but unusually soft tonight.
“Come on, babe. It was just a scratch.”
You glare at him. “You were bleeding through your shirt.”
“Yeah, well… adds character.”
He’s trying to joke, to play it off. He always does. But there’s a flicker in his expression—a hesitation. He’s watching your hands like they’re magic. Because they are. And for once, he’s quiet.
When the wound finally disappears, you sit back with a small sigh. “There. Try not to get stabbed for the next twenty-four hours, okay?”
Charles leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The humor fades from his face, and something else slips through—uncertainty, unspoken emotion. He’s quiet for a beat too long.
“You ever wonder why I let you do this?” he asks.
You blink. “Do what?”
He motions to your hands, your presence. “Fix me. Stay. Not run.”
You shrug. “Because I care about you. Even when you’re reckless.”
He scoffs, but it’s not sarcastic—it’s almost… nervous.
“I’ve scared off everybody I’ve ever been close to,” he says. “I hurt people. That’s kind of my thing, remember? The Lakeshore Strangler—ring any bells?”
You sigh softly. “You don’t scare me, Charles.”
His eyes snap up to meet yours. “Maybe you should be.”
He says it like he means it. Like he’s trying to push you away with words, the way he usually does with a knife.
But you don’t move. You don’t flinch.
And that’s when he finally breaks.
“Damn it,” he mutters. “You make it hard to be the heartless bastard I’m supposed to be.”
You watch him, head tilting slightly.
“I don’t know what this is,” he says, motioning vaguely between you both. “But I know that every time I get cut open, it’s not just the skin you’re patching up. It’s like you’re sewing together the pieces I thought were too far gone.”
He leans forward again, slower this time. His hand hovers near your knee—hesitant, uncharacteristic for someone usually so bold.
“I’ve done a hell of a lot of damage in my life. But when you touch me, when you look at me like that… I start thinking maybe I could stop running. Or at least slow down, if it means I get to see you at the end of it.”
You gently reach out, resting your hand on top of his. Your fingers are still warm from the healing light.
“Charles…”
He cuts you off—quick, before he can second-guess it.
“I love you.”
The room goes quiet.
Not because of fear, or tension—but because he’s never said those words and meant them.
“I don’t love easy,” he continues. “And I sure as hell don’t know how to be good. But I look at you, and I want to try. I want to be better… not perfect, not soft. Just better. For you.”
You squeeze his hand. “I don’t want perfect. I just want real. And that’s what you’ve given me.”
He leans in, brushing his forehead against yours. No games, no smirk. Just Charles. Raw and real.
“I love you,” he repeats, softer this time. “Not just because you heal me. Because you see me. And you’re not afraid.”
Outside, thunder rolls across the sky.
But in here, it’s quiet.
And for once, Charles doesn’t want to leave.
He just wants to stay. With you.
Mark Hoffman
The silence in the room is thick.
The faint hum of the city beyond the safehouse windows is miles away, like background noise in a life that didn’t belong to either of you. All that matters here is the dim light, the blood on Mark’s skin, and your glowing hands pressed firmly to his side.
He’s watching you—quiet, as always. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t grunt in pain, doesn’t even breathe heavier when the wound starts to close beneath your touch. But you can feel the tension humming under his skin. Coiled tight.
“You really have to stop getting stabbed,” you say gently, not looking up.
A low breath escapes him—half a laugh, half a sigh. “You say that like I wanted it.”
“You kind of throw yourself at knives like it’s a hobby.”
He smirks, but the expression fades quickly. He looks down at his side, then at your hands—still resting against his skin, now healed. His voice is low when he speaks again.
“You always do that.”
You look up at him, confused. “Do what?”
“Touch the broken parts like they don’t scare you.”
You blink. “Because they don’t.”
His gaze sharpens, searching your face. Not for lies. Just trying to understand how someone like you exists. You’re calm, warm. The opposite of the world he knows.
“You heal everything like it’s nothing,” he murmurs. “Wounds, bones, pain... like it never happened.”
“That’s what I do,” you say softly. “But you don’t let me help with the rest.”
He pauses, the silence between you stretching too long.
“Because I don’t know how to give you that,” he admits.
That stops you.
He looks away then—down at his hands, still streaked with dried blood. “I’ve lived in shadows for so long, I don’t even remember what it’s like to not hide everything. Every choice I’ve made, every lie I’ve told—it’s all built into who I am now.”
You stay silent. Listening.
“I’m not good,” he continues. “I’m calculated. Cold. Everything I do is for a reason. But you…” His voice lowers, like it’s dangerous just to say it. “You make me feel like I could stop being a machine.”
He looks at you now, really looks.
“You make me feel like a man again.”
You feel your chest tighten, warmth flooding through your ribs.
“You are a man, Mark,” you say, gently. “One who’s been through hell and back. But you’re still here. Still trying.”
His jaw clenches. He tries to speak, then stops, as if the words catch in his throat. Finally, he mutters—
“I didn’t want to feel anything when I met you.”
You stay quiet.
“But now I look at you,” he continues, “and I feel everything. And it scares the hell out of me.”
There’s a beat of silence, thick with honesty. He reaches out, then hesitates—his hand hovering just above yours. He waits. Always in control, always measuring.
You take his hand in yours.
He closes his eyes for a moment.
“I love you,” he says quietly. “Not the version of me I pretend to be. Not the mask. Just me.”
Your heart swells.
You move closer, resting your forehead gently against his. He exhales like he’s been holding it in for years.
“I love you too,” you whisper.
He leans into the moment—like he’s afraid it’ll disappear, but wants to believe it’s real anyway. His arms slide around you, pulling you close—not in desperation, but in relief.
For the first time in a long time, Mark Hoffman isn’t calculating his next move.
How you meet for Vincent Sinclair,Charles lee ray and Mark Hoffman (seperetly )?
Ooo alrighty! I'm sorry these are short, and I've never written for Charles, so forgive me if his character is odd!! Also these turned into like little blurbs instead of HCs, it just worked better for me right now lol
Warnings: Stalking(kind of), mention of blood, I think that's it.
Vincent Sinclair—Lost in Ambrose
It’s supposed to be a quick detour. Just a stretch of road through the backwoods before you hit the highway again. But your engine dies miles from nowhere, and your cell has no service. You walk for what feels like forever before you see the sign: Ambrose.
The town looks stuck in time—quiet, too quiet. No birds, no wind, just the creak of old signs and the tap of your footsteps on the cracked pavement. You try a few doors, call out for help, but no one answers. Not yet.
Then you find the House of Wax. It’s strange, lifelike, beautiful in a haunting way. You’re drawn to the sculptures, captivated by the detail. So much care in every feature, every line. You don’t know he’s watching you. Not yet. From behind the walls, Vincent sees you wander the gallery with wonder instead of fear.
He’s used to screams. Panic. Running. But you—you're still. Curious. Careful with the things you touch. You don’t treat his work like a freak show. You admire it. That makes you different.
So he doesn’t make his move. Not yet.
You feel eyes on you but convince yourself it's nothing. You think you're alone. But you're not.
Not anymore.
Charles Lee Ray—Your Creepy Neighbor
The building is cheap, the kind of place where no one asks questions, and tenants turn over fast. You don’t have many neighbors—just a couple guys who look like they belong in mugshots and a guy down the hall who always greets you with a smirk and a "Hey, sweetheart."
That guy? Charles.
He’s slick. Greasy smile, intense eyes. Always looks like he knows something you don’t. He holds eye contact a second too long. You see him late at night sometimes, covered in sweat, smelling like gunpowder or worse. You joke about it—"Rough night?"—and he always grins like it's an inside joke you're not in on.
One day, he helps you with your groceries and lingers in your doorway a little too long. You’re wary, but weirdly intrigued. He’s charming, in that sleazy, dangerous way. You don’t know what he is—not yet.
You just know that when he laughs, it’s low and sharp, and it stays in your head longer than it should.
And then he finally calls you by name—your real name—you never told him that.
Mark Hoffman—Your Coffee Shop Regular
You notice him the first week you start working there.
He comes in every morning like clockwork—black coffee, no sugar, no smile. Cop, you figure. He’s got that look. Clean-cut, sharp jaw, eyes that never quite relax. The kind of man who sees everything, says nothing.
At first, it’s nothing. Routine. You give him coffee, he gives you a nod. But then he starts staying. Lingers at the counter. Watches you when he thinks you won’t notice. He asks your name, eventually. Says it like he’s testing it on his tongue.
"Mark," he offers back. “Hoffman.”
You smile, polite. He doesn’t.
One day, you joke that he must be in here so often because he’s casing the place. He doesn’t laugh. Just looks at you in a way that makes the back of your neck tingle.
Another day, he comes in with a bruised hand and dried blood on his knuckles. You ask about it. He says, “Tough case.” No elaboration.
You start to wonder if you should be worried. But he keeps showing up, and you keep serving him. There’s something magnetic about him. Dangerous, but magnetic.
And then, you find yourself hoping he comes in tomorrow, too.
“Oneshot or short story with Mark Hoffman and a shy/timid fem reader who he has feelings for, and he gets a chance to be alone with her? Maybe nsfw or hints of it.”
I gotta say anon, LOVE the idea and I too am a Mark Hoffman simp. Hopefully I delivered this well! Also, I might’ve gone too far off the original idea and I apologize, I might write a second more “normal” one. If the requester asks me too I definitely will. Or if you’re happy with it as is Anon, I can do a part 2 with full NSFW, just ask away :)
Disclaimer: (spoiler) I am not trying to romanticize being in one of Jigsaw’s games, simply got inspired and tbh had this idea in my head for a while.
Warnings: Anxiety, stalking, reader being a victim in a game, gore, blood, descriptions of pain, NSFW hinted, hella lies, and a nice drizzle of manipulation.
Unedited
He’d been watching you. Ever since he became an apprentice of Jigsaw he had learned the tricks. It was only a couple months of him being an apprentice that he saw you in the station.
You tried to make yourself small. You were quiet and avoided eye contact. He noticed the way you picked at your nails and the surrounding skin. You chewing on your lips.
Sitting there, you felt eyes burning into your back. Perhaps he stared at you too long. You turned your head accidentally meeting with his eyes. Quickly you turned your head around.
‘Oh god, I made eye contact. What if he comes over here? What if he thinks I’m weird for looking at him?’ Thought after thought tearing its way to the front of your brain. Thankfully, they were interrupted by the officer returning to the desk.
From that day on you would randomly get the feeling of being watched. It wasn’t 24/7 but that’s what made it worse. It made your concerns of someone actually being there feel too real. You’d always close your blinds and curtains. Lock all your windows and doors.
That couldn’t save you tonight.
You had fallen asleep for the night, but soon jumped awake. You couldn’t remember what happened to wake you. Sitting up you rubbed your eyes. Once they adjusted to the dark you scanned your room. Something must’ve fallen.
But you froze. Your eyes landed on a large figure in the corner of your room. You knew it was just a shadow. Nobody was in your home. They just weren’t. They couldn’t be.
Breathing in your swing your legs off the edge of your bed. Shakily, you walked to that corner of your room.
You opened your mouth to scream but before any sound could come out the figure lunged forwards and stabbed something into your neck.
You felt light and airy, yet vaguely uncomfortable. In the back of your mind there was something wrong, you knew it. However, this feeling of wonderful uninterrupted sleep took all priority. Just slightly you peaked one eye open.
That’s when reality came crashing down. Your eyes shot open and you tried to pull your arms closer to your body. A mixture of screaming and rapid breaths made you light headed, until you just couldn’t scream anymore.
You began to calm yourself and looked at your pained hands, nails driven through them into a wooden cross. Your feet nailed through each other and the wood. Your head hurt but you couldn’t see what was on it. All you knew was blood dripped from it.
Your head hung as you tried to slow your breathing. The room was painfully silent, no sounds of creaking or cracking. Just your breathing.
As time passed your hands and feet became more and more sore. Tears stained your cheeks and your mouth hung open.
You didn’t know long it was now, you just knew you were lightheaded and tired. You felt like you’d been hit by a hundred bricks. You were feeling drained. Of energy and of hope.
But footsteps outside the door made your eyes widen and head shoot up. “HELP! HELP ME, PLEASE!” You yelled as loud as your sore throat would allow. Years began to prick your eyes again.
The door swung open and a tan man stood there. His brows furrowed as he stared at you. “Please, help me down, please.” You whispered and cried.
“I’m gonna get you down, but I need you to relax alright?” You nodded your head sniffling. The man began looking around the room and inspected your trap, while you tried to slow your breathing.
“What’s your name?” He asked while messing with some mechanism attached to the back of the cross.
“Um, I’m- it’s, (Y/N).” You paused. “Who are, are you?”
“Detective Mark Hoffman. Do you know who the “Jigsaw Killer” is?” He asked, still standing behind you.
“N-no, not reall- AHHH” You began to answer his question but he pulled something on the back of the cross that seemed to make the nails drive farther into your hands and feet.
A tape began to play in the corner of the room. “Welcome to your next test Detective Hoffman.” Your screams didn’t stop as the nails continued their way deeper. But more pain started, nails began driving through the first layers of skin around your head.
“You will have 60 seconds to stop the nails from,” The tape continued but with the pain in your hands, feet, and beginnings of pain on your head you couldn’t hear it. You couldn’t pay attention to the sounds.
You cried in pain as time ticked away. It felt like an eternity, but in reality it was 45 seconds before Mark got you out of the trap. You didn’t even know how but you didn’t care. You’re hands and feet had been completely nailed through, your head screamed in pain.
When he got your restraints off you fell into him. He carried you bridal style out of some warehouse, where the police were already waiting. As you were slid into an ambulance you made eye contact with Mark, just before slipping into darkness.
3 weeks later you were standing outside a door working up the courage to knock. A container of No Bake Cookies held in one hand. They were a thank you of sorts. He saved your life after all, it only felt right to you that you do something in return. Even if it was just some cookies.
You softly knocked on his office door. Just as you were about to walk away out of embarrassment the door opened and greeted you with a semi-familiar face.
“Come in.” Moving to the side Mark gestured for you to enter his office.
You gave an awkward smile and looked around the room. There wasn’t much to look at other than the bookshelf, but it was better than meeting his stare.
“What can I do for you?” He asked, moving around his desk to sit in his chair.
“Um, I made some, uh, cookies.” You held the box towards him. “For, for you.”
He stared at you for a moment and you nervously broke eye contact. Instead you stared down at the desk.
Grabbing the container he said, “Thank you, what kind?”
“Oh, well, they’re No Bake Cookies.” As you finished your sentence you finally reconnected with his eyes. “They’ve always been my favorite.”
“Thanks.” He set the container to the side and looked back at you. You stood there awkwardly, unsure of what to do or say.
Of course, in this already awkward situation you couldn’t help but realize just how attractive this man was. He just radiated daddy vibes. This of course, didn’t help with your quest of trying to avoid eye contact.
“(Y/N),” It was only then that you noticed just how deep his voice was. There was something so attractive about it. “You alright?”
“Hm? Oh, um, y-yeah, I’m fine.” You met his eyes and this time couldn’t look away. He was so intense, it felt like he could see right through you. “So, I guess, I’ll just um,” you slowly back up to the door.
“Come here.” He ordered, eyes still burning into you.
“I, uh... ok,” All other words seemed to slip your mind and you found yourself awkwardly walking close to his chair.
You felt strange, a few weeks before you had been trapped in a game with this man and now you were alone in a small office. Listening to his every order. It made you excited, yet nervous.
When was the last time you had even kissed somebody? Did that matter? Maybe he wasn’t attracted to you at all. Oh how wrong you were if you believed that.
Mark had an undeniable attraction to you, ever since he saw you at the station. He waited for the perfect moment to make that known to you and this was it.
