Summary: You wake up in a strange room, meet a strange man, he tells you strange things.
Characters: Mark Hoffman x Reader
Category: Suspense I think. 13+
Warnings: Swearing, mentions of kidnapping and m*rder
Word Count: 1.5k
Author’s Note: Here is my first Hoffman fic! I hope you all enjoy it! This is basically a setting the scene type of thing with plans for more chapters. It will most likely end up being a miniseries. This also is setting up a universe so you all can make requests to be based in which I am super excited about! Let me know what you think of it! If you wanna submit a request you can dm me or submit an ask. Wanna be added to my Hoffman tag list? Just comment down below or dm me! Thank you all for reading and I hope you like it! Smell ya later 🌀
Your head is absolutely pounding. As you slowly open your eyes, you groggily try to figure out where you are. Everything in your body aches, your mouth is dry. Attempting to lick your lips, you realize you can’t do it due to something cloth like stuffed in your mouth, which is preventing you from using it at all. As your senses start to wake up, you try to bring your hands up to rub your eyes in hopes of clearing up your vision. However, when you try to move your hands, you realize they are restrained to the chair you are sitting in. This is when panic really begins to sink in.
Your heart starts to race, your dazed mind tries desperately to figure out what the fuck is going on. The last thing you remember is being on your phone, speaking to your estranged friend as you walked to your car in the parking garage of your workplace. The next thing you know, you are restrained to a cold metal chair with some kind of gag placed in your mouth. You have no clue where you are, who brought you here, or why they took you in the first place. There is a pit in the bottom of your stomach, fear coursing through you as your mind begins to wander to the absolute worst possibilities.
The news was constantly covering it, it was on every magazine and newspaper you saw, you would have to be living under a rock to not know about Jigsaw. All that you heard these days was about the kidnappings, the survivors, the victims. You couldn’t stop your mind from tumbling head first into these fears, thinking that’s the only natural solution, you pissed him off and didn’t use your life how he wanted you to and now you are here in one of his sick games.
You are still trying to piece everything together when your attention is brought to the metal door in front of you opening. The room you are in almost looked like a makeshift interrogation room, and what confuses you even more is that the man who walks in looks almost like a … detective?
The tall man is wearing nice slacks, a blue button up shirt that is slightly unbuttoned at the top with a police issued coat ontop, and a gun along with a badge tucked nicely onto his belt. His dark hair looks as though it had previously been slicked back and styled, but now is hanging forward from being messed up. Overall, he has a slight disheveled look, like he had just been doing laborious work. You felt like your heart stopped in your chest when he walked in. The man didn’t say anything, just walked over to you with slow purposeful steps, pulling the gag from your lips, a string of spit following it. Quickly you lick your now very chapped lips, grateful to finally be able to close your aching jaw. He tosses the balled up fabric onto the large metal table in front of you, the impact making a loud thud in the quiet room, which subsequently causes you to jump slightly, your eyes squeezing shut.
You feel him get closer to you and when you open your eyes, the man is right in front of your face, his harsh and narrowed eyes looking deeply into yours. Your breath catches in your throat and you don’t dare make a move.
The brooding man stares at you for a moment before he stands to his full height, and slams his first on the table muttering an obscenity while he does so. The suddenness of it all causes you to jump again, and you wonder what could’ve possibly set him off. He takes a breath before he finally speaks, “You have caused me a world of trouble this evening.”
You are shocked by how deep and smooth his voice is.
He doesn’t look at you as he talks to you. Your mind is swirling with what you could have possibly done to cause him trouble seeing as this is the first time you’re ever meeting this man. You stay silent as he begins to speak again, “You were supposed to be tested. You were brought here to be tested, to prove yourself and that you are worthy of the life that you have been given. But you, you did nothing wrong, and I tried to tell the old fuck that but he wouldn’t listen. I couldn’t let you die knowing you didn’t deserve it.”
You could feel everything in you tense when he said that you could’ve died. So he is trying to save your life? The life that he put in danger? You don’t get much time to think before he is speaking again, “So I brought you here. You’re still going to be tested, you’re going to have a chance to prove yourself, but you are not going to die. Not yet, not if you choose to live.”
Finally, you get the courage to speak, confused about everything he is saying, “What test? Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?” You are hoping that you would come off strong and confident, instead sounding feeble and scared. You do not want him knowing how terrified you are.
The man grabs a steel chair identical to the one you are currently strapped in and pulls it towards him, placing it directly in front of you. After he takes his seat, he leans forward with his elbows resting on his knees. “Mark,” is all he says and he must have noticed the confused look on your face because he follows it up with, “that’s my name.” To say you are surprised is an understatement. The man who kidnapped you, bound you to a chair and threatened you with death just told you his name. Then, like a ton of bricks it hits you. There is no way you’re walking out of this room alive.
You feel stupid for not realizing it sooner. He showed you his face for fucks sake, of course you wouldn’t be leaving the room. He is just toying with you. That makes rage burn in your blood. Your words are laced with venom as you practically spit out, “fuck you, Mark.”
Mark’s eyes narrow at you, and for a brief moment, everything is still.
Then, he pounces.
He quickly stands from his chair, the rickety metal thing scooting loudly across the floor as his large hand grips your hair, tugging your head back causing an involuntary whimper to leave your lips as you stare up at him with wide eyes. Your breathing is shaky and shallow as he leans down, his lips right beside your ear, “Watch your fuckin mouth, alright? I’m trying to give you a fair chance. Don’t make me take it away.” You nod as much as you can with his grip on your hair. He forcefully lets go and you push out a shuddered breath.
“Okay…okay. What is my test? What do I have to do?” You keep your voice soft, definitely not trying to upset him again. Your eyes follow him as he walks around you. He is doing it on purpose, a display of power, showing that he runs this room, not you.
After a few moments of agonizing silence, he leans down to speak beside your ear again, this time standing behind you, “I want to see if you have what it takes.”
God damn it you wish this man would just get to the point instead of speaking so cryptically. He is essentially forcing you to ask questions, to talk with him. You have to give in to what he wants if you want a chance of making it out of here. “To do what?”
A smirk appears on his face, “To follow me. I want your help. I have seen your work. You are a talented engineer and I have a way to put your talent to use rather than wasting it away.”
That one hurt. Yeah, you are not where you want to be in your life at the moment, but it wasn’t from lack of trying. So what he says, you can’t deny that it peaks your interest. “How…How would you do that?”
“Simple,”
Mark walks away from you, going to the other side of the table and reaches under it. He pulls out a bag, setting it on top of the table. Reaching in, he takes out a notebook. He lays it on the table and flips it open to a gruesome looking drawing of a terrifying metal contraption. You look at the drawing confused before looking back up at him.
“Can you construct it?”
You look down at the drawing again. It has a lot of moving parts yet very simple mechanics. It is fairly mild compared to what you’re used to building. Taking your attention back up to him, you nod, not daring to say a word.
A grin appears on Mark’s face at your answer, “Good choice. Let’s begin.”
You don’t yet fully understand the weight of what you just agreed to, but if it will keep you alive, so be it.
warnings: smut, phone sex, rough language, masturbation, slight power dynamics
For the hundredth time in the last hour, you toss and turn in bed. Although it was late in the night for you, it wasn’t for your boyfriend. He was still working tirelessly in the office and that irked you. You weren’t trying to be selfish, but you needed him. Badly.
Mark Hoffman was a senior Detective Lieutenant at the Metropolitan Police Department. Between tracking down Jigsaw’s next move and being out on the field, he had little time to spare. Somehow Mark would squeeze time in his busy schedule to see you.
That entailed either a quickie in his office or waking up very early in the morning to his hot body pressed against your own. However, it had been too long since you even heard the sultry man’s voice. The thought alone made you insatiably wet.
Summary: Being the King of Hell has its ups, but it also has its downs. And these downs lead Crowley straight into a bar, where he finds something far greater than just a glass of whisky: the love of its bartender, a young woman who is oblivious to the demon's nature. But one evening, he does not show up at the bar at his usual time, and his newfound love finds herself exposed unwillingly to everything that has been hiding under her nose this whole time…
Chronology: Season 10.
~~~~~~~~~~
That Sunday evening was quiet. But then again, so were most Sunday evenings. It was hard to do business when the dreaded Monday was right around the corner. Yet, it was paradoxically enough the very reason behind the few customers' presence. For the people who did show up at the bar those evenings, it was precisely because Monday was patiently waiting to drag them back into their weekly routines, whether they spent them sitting behind a desk in a boring cubicle or working their asses off under the sun or the cold. For these people, Sunday evenings down at the Golden Cross were their salvation; and I was happy to provide it to them.
I had been lucky enough to have effortlessly found a job I enjoyed when I had come to settle in town, a few years prior; although I was attached to the state capital of Kansas, in which I had been born and raised all my life, I had decided to leave it behind after certain unfortunate changes in my life and had headed South, for the county of Wichita. There, I had found a post as a bartender in a bar called the Golden Cross, which specialized in all things Scottish, from the drinks, the aesthetic, and the tunes on the jukebox. Now, I did not have the slightest experience of working as a bartender, but my motivation and interest in the job were enough to help me get it without too much difficulty: and, since Ed, the owner, had been kind enough to give me on-the-job training, I quickly came to enjoy it.
One other thing I also enjoyed was one of the perks that came out of it: a studio apartment. The bar occupied the first floor of a building that also included apartment rooms on the upper floors, and which were specifically rented by all the workers of the bar. The studio was not the most spacious, but given I lived alone, I did not mind much: there was enough room for one person, and that was just fine by me. And one of the reasons I liked it was because of how convenient it was for me: my workplace was only one floor below my bed, and though a setup such as this may have been seen as harrowing to some, it was highly practical for me and my work hours. I worked every evening, from 9 PM to 3 AM. And yes, that included Sundays.
That Sunday evening was quiet. So much so that when the front door was pushed open around 10:30, it caught my attention right away; but not as much as the gentle sound of short heels walking the ground that followed. I looked up from what I was doing to see a middle-aged man step into the bar and walk in my direction, the direction of the counter, behind which he sat in silence. Armed with my warmest smile, I walked up to him.
"Good evening, sir." I welcomed him while cleaning an empty glass I was holding. "What can I serve you on this lonely night?"
"Lonely indeed." He answered in a neutral tone, seemingly unfazed.
I smiled further upon hearing his accent.
"Oh, British." I said with slight enthusiasm.
Upon hearing my comment, the man smiled lightly and scoffed as he lowered his gaze for just a few seconds, before he looked back up at me.
"Do you serve Craig here?"
I tilted my head a little and stopped cleaning the glass in my hands.
"Glencraig whisky?" I asked with a chuckle. "Of course, we are a Scottish bar after all."
A faint smile appeared on his face as he slightly raised his eyebrows, after which he nodded and looked back down at his hands.
"Then I'll have one, thank you."
I was still smiling warmly at him when I gently tapped on the counter with the palm of my hand.
"Coming right up."
I walked a few steps away to go grab the bottle of whisky then came back in front of him, and I poured him a glass while we exchanged smiles. After having served him, I left him to himself and went back to my shift: although the bar was on a slow day, a few customers still showed up here and there, and so the man with the Craig was left to silently drink on his own as I kept on serving customers. However, at one point, not long after I had filled his glass, I could not help but notice him pull out his phone, which he set in front of him on the counter, and spend quite some time intensely staring at something on its screen. I did not dare approach him to ask him what he was doing precisely, so I did not move from where I was standing; the one rule I always tried my best not to break when working at the bar was to not come off as intrusive or rude to the customers. Besides, as its bartender, I knew better than anyone that many of them came to have a drink with the sole intent of drowning in their sorrow and forgetting about their problems.
He's just a drifter... One of many that wash up on the shore of our bar, I thought to myself. And whatever he's looking at on his phone must be linked to the reason why he decided to have a drink to begin with.
I stared at him for a minute longer, still lost in my thoughts.
Though, I do have to admit... For a drifter, he comes off as a very classy man.
Just as this remark crossed my mind, I saw him put his phone away and back in his coat pocket, which prompted me to initiate a conversation with him while I kept making drinks for other customers; I stood next to him as I grabbed various bottles, glasses, and shakers.
"Pardon me for asking, but what are you doing here?" I asked with a chuckle but genuine curiosity.
Up until I talked, he had been looking to the side, but the very second the first words I spoke came out of my mouth, he turned to look at me.
"I mean- I don't mean to be rude, but a business-looking fella like yourself doesn't really seem in his environment in a place like this."
He scoffed at my comment and closed his eyes for a brief second.
"It's true I'm not usually fond of bars." He said as he looked around him at the bar and its decorations. "But I've been hearing about this establishment of yours from..."
He marked a pause mid-sentence to exhale heavily through his nose, then pouted in an upset manner.
"... Business partners." He finally finished his sentence in a somewhat bitter tone. "So I'd been meaning to give it a try for some time now, and it just so happened I needed a drink tonight."
"Ah, I get the feeling." I told him with a smile. "And, soooo... How are you liking it here so far? Have the expectations you had of the bar been met? If you had any to begin with, that is."
The man looked around him once more, as if to fully analyze his environment, after which he brought his glass of whisky up to his lips.
"It's quite a decent pub you're running here, I think."
"Oh, I don't own the place." I awkwardly chuckled as I gestured my hands around. "But, thank you. It always makes me happy to know our customers are happy customers."
The smile I wore lifted upward on one corner of my mouth as I shrugged lightly with my eyebrows slightly raised.
"And, who knows... If you really do like it here, maybe you'll even see yourself becoming a regular." I joked. "Lord knows that'd be a blessing for business."
And to that, he scoffed and shook his head, then he swallowed the last drops of liquor that had been resting at the bottom of his glass.
"Yeah, who knows." He whispered almost inaudibly.
Now that his glass was empty, that his sorrow had been washed away, he got up from his stool and was ready to go back outside, out into the cold night that was surely waiting for his return; but before he did, he dived his hand into one of his coat pockets, and as he turned to me, he set on the counter a moderately generous tip.
"Good night." He told me in his low, deep voice.
"Thank you." I said, smiling brightly at him while my hand collected the money before me. "You have a good night as well."
And with that, the man in the suit headed for the front door, followed once more by the sound of his short heels walking the white and blue floor tiles; and he left the bar, which was still as quiet as when he had first stepped foot inside it.
Going through the PPP tag on here and it makes me remember how much of a crush I used to have on Brian Benben and just WTF? I don’t even know why…just suddenly while watching the show I was all “Wow, that’s a good looking guy!” LMAO!
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