#this applies to adam stanheight

[tapeworrmart]

Loser 🛁🧩

[motheroftheantichrist]

"It wouldn't make sense narratively" bitch WHAT narrative?!?!

[zombie-jed]

[numberonejeanshipper]

adam is both dog boy and cat boy

[filmbropilled]

This meme has been collecting dust in my gallery for ages 😭

[syncast-err0r]

consider: lawrence letting adam top for the first time n adam's really excited but he's nervous because he's never tried it on his boyfriend but anyways it ends up becoming the best thing in their life because adam finds out that lawrence has been holding out on his moans the whole time and fuck, he didnt know he could be so loud and he's never seen him squirming under him like that before. anyways adam refuses to bottom ever again and lawrence pretends to argue but he never really liked topping much in the first place. lawl

[dgaftilwedie]

do you ever see someone post a headcanon of a character and you just sit there and think "wow. i really DO know them better than everyone else" because it's just so horribly out of character

[goatcheesecak3]

Anti - headcanons

Adam Faulkner-Stanheight

A/n I see a lot of headcanons that i could never agree with, so here's a list of things that I don't think fit Adam AT ALL, and what i think applies better instead. I've decided to call them anti-headcanons hehe :^) lmk if u want any more of these!

Adam does NOT listen to weezer, mcr or deftones. He's a music snob and he thinks mcr is for teenage girls, and even though he used to like a few deftones songs, he thinks they're too mainstream now.

He's not a stoner. Back in high school he smoked a lot, but now he doesn't really care for it. He drinks cheap beer and smokes roll ups, and that's good enough for him.

He's not straight or gay, or even bi, he doesn't like to label himself. Dgmw, he definitely got called gay in high school, but it never made him unsure of who he is. He's always been very comfortable with being fluid, he ran in very open punk circles and it wasn't a big deal to any of his friends. The whole "pick a side" thing just seems dumb to him. He likes who he likes, he doesn't really care what their gender is. He's totally cool with whatever other people identify as, but labels just never made sense to him.

Not a sub, but a switch. He honestly couldn't care less what role he's playing as long as he's getting laid.

He doesn't paint his nails- or at least as often as everyone makes out. He likes it, and he thinks it looks cool, but realistically speaking, he can't afford nail polish most months.

He's not shy at all, he's actually very outgoing. That's not to say he doesn't find himself in awkward social situations frequently, but they don't occur because he's too shy, they happen because he talks a bit too much without thinking beforehand. His personality is definitely an acquired taste, but if you can get past the fact that he has no filter whatsoever, he's genuinely a really funny and loveable guy.

[strawberry-whorecake]

Quite the Little Rockstar | A.S.

pairing: Adam Stanheight x fem!reader

summary: Adam’s feelings for his roommate are strictly platonic, right? At least he keeps telling himself that, until he finds you getting ready for a performance with your band, and you offer do to his eyeliner.

word count: 2.8k

warnings: none, just pure fluff <3

A/N: I’ve been in my Leigh Whannell era for months and the other day when I was doing my eyeliner I couldn’t stop imagining sitting on Adam’s lap and doing his eyeliner aaaaaaa

Having a roommate was weird. What was weirder was having a female roommate. But she’d answered his ad and she paid her half of the rent on time, so who could complain? Especially not when said female roommate was as good looking as you were.

The sound of rock music blaring over the stereo interrupted Adam’s darkroom session. He’d been so lost in developing and perfecting his photographs, he’d barely noticed just how much time passed. 

Still… the interruption was not what he was hoping for. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger as he shut his eyes tight. After a moment of realigning himself to reality, he stepped out of the darkroom, following the sound of the music, which only grew louder the closer he got to the bathroom.

He hesitated for a long moment, the door was slightly ajar, but was it weird to enter the bathroom while his roommate was in there doing god knows what? He didn’t want to be a perv. Was it even pervy in the first place if the door wasn't shut? 

About to give up as a whole, he stopped once more to the sound of you singing along to the music, and it pulled a small smirk to his lips. He swallowed down his anxieties and knocked first–like a gentleman– before pushing the door open anyways. 

“What the hell’s going on in here?” he asked a bit playfully, looking around at the state of the bathroom. 

The edge of the sink was littered with products, some of which had lost their balance and fallen to the floor. You looked nice, which confused him for a brief moment. Nice, but in a bad-ass, edgy kind of way. His gaze flitted over your outfit, and he couldn’t help but mentally admire your figure.

“I’m getting ready for the concert.” you said simply, and he furrowed his brows slightly. Concert? What concert? Then it hit him.

“Oh shit… the Wrath of the Gods concert is tonight?! Fuck! I forgot all about it… Scott’s gonna crucify me.” He groaned before running his hand through his hair. He huffed as he caught your reflection in the mirror.

From what he could see it looked like you were about to stab yourself in the eye with a pencil, and his eyes practically bugged out of his skull. He watched with incredulous curiosity as you brought the pencil not into your eye like he’d expected, but around it. The pencil left messy black smudges around your eyes. 

“What is that…?” he asked, probably sounding like an idiot. 

“Eyeliner?” you replied with a little huff of a laugh. Yep. He was an idiot, and your words proved that to him..

“Oh, yeah… I knew that.” he bullshitted. He’d seen that particular makeup look on girls before, but the only thing he’d ever known in terms of makeup was lipstick and eyeshadow. Oh, and that black gunk you’d put on your eyelashes that made them look long and dark. Mascara? 

He watched the way you applied the makeup around your eyes, only to then rub the tips of your fingers over your eyes, making the black pencil even messier… though, it was oddly attractive. It suited you well. 

“What?” you asked, peering at him through the mirror’s reflection. His expression turned sheepish, not realizing he’d practically been ogling at you until you’d called him out on it. 

“Oh, just uh… that makes you look cool, I guess.” In typical Adam fashion, he downplayed his compliment. He had a hard time being genuine around you, he didn’t want you to think he was a pussy or something by calling you pretty… or gorgeous… or just plain outright goddamn sexy. He did think all those things about you, but would you like him to call you those things? Or would you just think he was weird if he did? 

“Thanks.” followed by a little laugh pulled him from his thoughts. You liked his compliment? His gaze softened a little as he watched you reapply only to smudge the makeup around your eyes more. 

“Does that like… hurt?” he asked. It looked painful… a pencil that close to your eye? He shivered as he imagined that feeling. 

Your laughter once again pulled him out of his thoughts and he regained his focus on you as you turned around to face him, leaning back against the sink with your arms crossed over your chest. “You.. wanna try it?” you asked. 

He was a bit hesitant, he still partially believed it would hurt. Didn't girls always talk about how beauty was pain? But also… he was a guy. Wouldn’t makeup make him like, less masculine?

 “I don’t know…” he mumbled. “You’re gonna put makeup on me?” He asked, narrowing his eyes a bit, not at you, though. At that pointy pencil between your fingers.

You rolled your eyes despite the smile on your lips, which he always thought was an attractive quirk of yours, and the gesture made him smirk a bit in return. “Adam… every rockstar wears eyeliner.” you explained with that same smile he thought was really enticing. 

“Every rockstar?” he said a bit jeeringly. 

“Only the best… Billy Joe Armstrong, Bowie, Ozzy Osbourne, Alice Cooper…” Your smile widened a bit as you continued on, and Adam couldn’t help but roll his eyes, though this time a small smile pulled on his lips too.

“Whatever.” he said, though that was the closest thing you’d get to a yes from him.

“C’mere…” 

His gaze drifted from your eyes to your arm outstretching, finally to your hand as you held it out to him. He rolled his eyes in an attempt to keep up his arrogant nonchalance, though he silently begged that his cheeks hadn’t blushed. Especially when your fingers entangled with his. 

He let you guide him to sit on the lid of the toilet seat, and watched with shaky breaths as you stood in front of him… between his legs. Only to be close to him, of course… right? 

When you brought the pencil up to his eye he immediately flinched away, listening to your little scoff at his cowardice. “Shut up.” he bit back.

“Adam, I swear it doesn’t hurt. Don’t you trust me?” 

Goddamnit, how the hell was he supposed to say no to that sweet tone in your voice!?

“If you stab me in the eye, you’re paying the full rent.” he threatened, narrowing his eyes slightly as his gaze darted between that pencil and your eyes. 

“I won’t stab you in the eye if you don’t move.” Your tone held a sense of focus as you brought the pencil back closer to him again, and he couldn’t help but close his eyes. 

“Adam…” you huffed, making him open his eyes again.

“What!? You’ve got a sharp pencil so close to my eye! You really expect me to just be calm or some shit!?” he scoffed. 

“Don’t be a baby,” you teased and before he had time to even process what you were doing, he found you practically straddling his lap, your hand holding onto his cheek. 

His breath hitched in his throat, but he covered it up by pretending to clear his throat. Your body was so warm pressed against him… and so soft.

Oh fuck… he was blushing. 

It seemed like you knew what you were doing though, because his eyes were practically glued to you. Wide and unblinking, not wanting to miss a single one of your movements. 

And you took the opportunity and ran with it. You brought the pencil to his eye, almost touching, and he clenched his jaw a bit to resist his urge to close his eyes or flinch away. 

“Look up for me.” you instructed as you gently tilted his head downwards, and he obliged your directions, glancing up at the ceiling. 

He was scared as shit as the pencil grew closer and closer to his eye… but then suddenly it tickled? He couldn’t help but pull back slightly from the sensation.

“What the fuck…?” he huffed a laugh, which only made you laugh too.

“I told you it didn’t hurt. But you have to stay still okay? It’s gonna tickle a little bit, just try to ignore it.” you reassured him as you gently gripped his face a bit more firmly. 

He definitely noticed the way you leaned into him to get closer, your face only inches from his and he suppressed the urge to groan, instead bringing his gaze up towards the ceiling like he’d done before.

Adam fought with every ounce of strength to not let his eyes shut in defiance as the pencil tickled his waterline. He was relieved when you’d moved from his left eye to his right, figuring you were finally finished. But when you said it was time for the top, his eyes widened a bit.

“You’ll be fine, just look down this time.” you said, tilting his head up, and begrudgingly he obeyed. You gently placed your fingers on his eyelid, tugging it up as the pencil met his upper lash line.

“Jesus christ… this tickles worse.” he practically whined. He ignored the smile that pulled on your lips in response to his griping. 

What he couldn’t ignore though, was how cute you looked like this. Sitting on his lap, your eyes soft but so focused on lining his eyes perfectly. Your fingers gently guiding and pulling at his face. He liked your touch… maybe a little too much. 

That thought only made him blush and he looked away from you, still keeping his gaze downward like you’d instructed him too. He knew if he looked at your thighs pressed to his, his blush would only grow worse. Hell, his face would probably envy a tomato at that point. 

You worked from his left to his right eye again, and the sensation definitely didn’t get easier the second time around. It was insufferable, like a stuck eyelash that was constantly tickling and poking into his eyelid. “Are you done yet? This sucks… you like doing this!?” he asked, his tone full of disbelief. 

“Relax.” you said simply, running the pencil along his upper lash line a few more times before you pulled the pencil away completely. And leaned back away from him which he wouldn’t admit he didn’t like so much.

“Now just rub your eyes.” you said, reaching over to grab the pencil’s cap from the sink and sliding it over the pointy end. 

He looked at you quizzically for a moment. “But you just did all that… to mess it up?”

Your little laugh unwillingly pulled a small smile of his own to his lips. “Yeah, pretty much. That’s what makes it look cool… and like you don’t give a fuck.” you explained, and oddly enough, you were speaking Adam’s language. 

He huffed a laugh, still feeling a bit ridiculous, but obliged, using the heel of his palms to rub both of his eyes at the same time. When you gently grabbed at his wrists to tug his hands away, he peered up at you.  

He watched as a smile pulled on your lips as you looked him over. “Totally bad-ass.” you reassured him. 

Adam had to suppress a pout as you slid off his lap. He’d gotten really used to that closeness, and now that it was gone, he missed it. He wouldn’t admit it, of course. But he perked up when he realized now he could see what you’d done. 

Pulling himself to stand up, he turned to stand beside you in front of the mirror. “Damn,” he said simply. Your eyes were practically glued to his reflection, and he could tell you were worried that he’d hated it. He let a small smirk pull on his lips. “I look punk rock.” 

He tilted his head in a few different directions, looking over, and practically admiring his appearance in the mirror. He did look pretty cool and that made him feel cool too. “Maybe I should be the guitarist and singer for Wrath of the Gods instead of you.” he teased, earning him a gentle elbow to the ribs which made him laugh. 

He looked from his own reflection to yours beside him, and the way your eyes matched. It felt strangely intimate… and he liked it. He tangled his arm over your shoulders, pulling you into him–wanting to feel your closeness, but easily played it off as a friendly gesture. 

“What do you think? You think I look cool enough now?” he asked, enjoying the way you rolled your eyes despite your smile, and how you didn’t reject his touch… and instead you seemed to lean into it. 

“If you want me to tell you that you’re always cool… it’s not gonna happen.” you teased back, making him laugh. He liked that you were a little spunky. It only made him more attracted to you.

“Okay, okay… fine.” he said with another small laugh before turning his head to actually look at you, not your reflection. “We look pretty punk rock together, huh?” he asked a bit teasingly, though he was pleased at the way you practically giggled. You’d never giggled before and it felt like a huge accomplishment to him. 

“Shut up, Stanheight. You’re such a dork.” You rolled your eyes, but still had that same intoxicating smile. 

He glanced down towards your lips, telling himself he was just admiring the way they curved into the most precious smile he’d ever seen, but he knew that wasn’t true. He was actually wondering if your lips were really as soft as they looked. 

“Shit! We gotta go, Adam!” you interrupted his thoughts as you practically dashed from the bathroom. He glanced in the direction of the clock on the stove, seeing your source of panic. 

“Oh fuck, Scott’s gonna kill us both.” He quickly followed after you, hurrying to his darkroom to grab his camera, looping it around his neck as he met you back by the front door of the apartment. 

He admired only for a moment how good you looked with your guitar case strapped over your shoulder, and he couldn’t deny his excitement to see you on stage performing with so much energy and passion like you always did. 

You were quite the little rockstar, and he liked that. 

It was a silly thought,  but he also liked that your eyeliner matched… like in a weird way, your matching eye makeup was a claim on each other. He just hoped you were thinking the same thing he was. 

“C’mon!” you said, snatching up his hand as you ripped open the front door, pulling him along so hastily he barely had time to shut the door behind him. 

“Hey, hey… slow down,” he said as a bit of a huff. You begrudgingly slowed your roll, peering over your shoulder at him as you dropped his hand. He anxiously ran his fingers through his hair. 

“I was just kinda wondering… if you’d let me kiss you without the guys around.” When he noticed the way your brows raised at his request he quickly stumbled out, “You know! For good luck, duh!” 

Before he even had a moment to backpedal, say that he was just fucking around, there it was again, that soft little laugh that was practically a giggle.

“Well… if it’s for good luck.” you said, stepping closer to him and making his heart race in his chest. He gently reached up and cupped the side of your face, tilting your head up a bit as he leaned in. He watched the way you leaned in too as your eyes fluttered softly shut, and he swore he melted in that moment.

He shut his eyes too, as he closed the distance between your lips, kissing you softly. It only lasted a few moments before you pulled away first, though he didn’t mind. He was awestruck that you’d even let him kiss you. 

He got to kiss you, and he knew for a fact that your lips were indeed as soft as they looked. He was a fish and you cast out the line, hooking him in. He didn’t just want to kiss you again, he felt like he had to. Until your words quickly shut down that desire.

“C’mon, let’s go before Scott loses his shit over how late we are.” you said with a small, almost shy smile. 

“No way…! What if that wasn’t enough good luck!?” he playfully argued, making you laugh. 

“Then if we totally blow tonight, I’ll let you give me a little extra good luck later. Deal?” you offered, and this time, it was his turn to laugh. 

“Okay, fine… deal.” he agreed a bit reluctantly, though that reluctance faded as soon as you tangled your arm around his waist, and he did the same to you.

Usually he hated being the personal photographer for Scott and Wrath of the Gods, but tonight he was rather excited about it. He already knew most of his pictures would be of you. 

And even if you guys killed it tonight… he was still dead set on giving you that extra good luck once you guys got home later, anyways.

[mikeynf]

pookie why did you say this

You guys gotta go back to reblogging the hell out of everything it’s how the hellsite stays alive

[ask-specs-fisher]

Hello !! My name is Specs, or Steven (both work just fine) and I like spooky things!! You may know me from Spectral Sightings, a blog run by me and my good friend, Tucker Croft. Just here for a good time =]

hii admin here with some more info about our guy. he/they pronouns for both me and the character. trans ftm, gay (mlm), ace. gave him ocd because i have ocd and.... yeah. idc if u flirt with him or anything like that, just keep the nsfw stuff light, im not into that. also all admin posts will be formatted like this and tagged as such. movies 1-4 are canon, 5 hasn't happened yet! ALSO also, specs is a trap survivor!! ask him about it if u want angst or whatever djwdndn

i also headcanon specs as related to/siblings with adam (stanheight) and david (radford) and will apply these headcanons to him, but if u wish to rp as either with me and have differing views that's totally fine just lmk :)

divider by kodaswrld

[schrodingersjigsaw]

You Taught the Dog to Bite

Rating: Mature

Tags:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

No Archive Warnings Apply

Adam Faulkner-Stanheight/Lawrence Gordon, Lawrence Gordon, Adam Faulkner-Stanheight, Post-Bathroom Trap (Saw), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Adam Faulkner-Stanheight Lives, But he goes a little feral, chainshipping - Freeform, Adam gets compared to a dog a lot in this

Summary

Adam and Lawrence both make it out of the bathroom, but just as how Lawrence's foot will stay there for eternity, left to rot, part of Adam's sanity will also remained locked in, destined to never see the light of day again. He needs Lawrence to fill the gap.

[apprenticestanheight]

I don't know if your taking requests still 😭 but I would kill for some reader and adam angst, like Adam and reader were in the trap and are both suffering with the aftermath of it, but they have eachother to help, fluffy and angsty💔❤️ but bit more angsty for reader, maybe PTSD triggers if your okay with that?.. thankyou!! I love your work and you're fr keeping my obsession alive 😭 idk what I'd do without your works, love you bb <3

We'll Be Okay- Adam Stanheight x gn! reader

Hi!! I love me a good post-bathroom trap centric fic (nearly all of mine for adam have been aus where he lived because I refuse to think otherwise) and writing this was a good distraction from my life as it is now so thank you for sending this in!

One thing before we get into it--Adam is where Lawrence was in terms of the trap, and the reader is where Adam was. They wake up in the bath tub like Adam did because I needed their fear of water to make sense and that was the way to do it.

Fic type- this is hurt/comfort with angsty elements

Warnings- mentions and depictions of undiagnosed PTSD (the reader does mention going to therapy eventually but that's not until the fic is near it's end as to my understanding, therapy wasn't that big of a thing nor was it normalized in a big way until the early-mid 2010s. Might also be wrong there but google refused to tell me very much so meh), depictions of flashbacks, mentions of a fear of the water and such hindering the ability to shower for longer than three or so minutes (make up wipes are used in place because it was my first thought), a mention of serial rapists (in terms of Jigsaws victims), mentions of guns and bullet wounds and guns misfiring, mentions of drowning and being shot into the bathtub, reader is afraid of water and the dark post-trap

TWO MONTHS POST BATHROOM TRAP

You'd escaped the bathroom trap with Adam two months before you found yourself standing in a garden in Jersey after having left your apartment for the first time in two weeks. You were wearing basic outfitting--a pair of black jeans, a white cable knit sweater because Jersey was finally cold enough for you to dig it out of your closet, black Dr Marten boots that you'd owned since high school and would never give up on despite the wear they'd accrued in the eight years since you'd graduated, a black cardigan and a white beanie because when Jersey was cold it was better to wear too much than wear too little.

You hadn't known what your goal of the day was when you'd woken up--grants that your closest friend had applied for for you to get funds after the traumatic incident covered your medical bills and had been covering your rent for the two months post escape. You were applying for jobs after quitting your other one because there were too many reminders of the trap there, but you'd decided the night before that you weren't going to go job hunting that day--but you knew you had to do something.

So, you got up. You did your best to shower--waking up in the bathtub and nearly drowning in it had hindered your capabilities to be under water for longer than three-ish minutes--and you told yourself that that was enough while you made sure you didn't stink by using make up wipes that smelled like your favorite scent.

You got dressed in the cable knit sweater you'd thrifted when you were eighteen, put on the black jeans you'd borrowed from a coworker that July but would probably never return, put on a couple of pairs of socks to help combat the cold while acknowledging that the Dr Martens you'd splurged on just a couple days before you were taken still needed breaking in. You grabbed the cardigan off of your coat hanger by the door, did up the three buttons on the waistline, and grabbed a hat when you remembered you needed to grab your phone and apartment and car keys before you left.

Then, you left your apartment. You decided to walk instead of drive and stopped by a local breakfast bakery because you'd been meaning to start supporting locally owned businesses anyway. You grabbed a cinnamon roll and your hot drink of preference, then you left the store and kept walking.

You found yourself standing in one of the only gardens in Jersey, the mornings frost dusting the grass in a way that makes it look almost more beautiful than it does in spring.

You breath in deep, the air bitingly cold, but you find yourself thankful for it. You've started noticing that you're thankful for a lot lately--after a couple of bullet wounds from Zepp and Adam both, you had to spend three weeks in the hospital just...healing.

The minute you stepped out of the hospital, you found your case wasn't quite old news and press just kept hounding you, going so far as to wait for you in the lobby of your apartment complex.

Coupled with that was the fact that you had to go to the police to give a statement while the events were still clear in your mind. Because of complexities on the force and with the Jigsaw case, your statements kept being interrupted because of how thin things were stretched even with the FBI on the case, so that occupied the first week of your second month out.

Then, it was a myriad of issues. You were too afraid to have the spaces in your place be dark, you couldn't handle being in the water for too long because Zepp had shot you into it when he shot you in the shoulder and the chest, being unable to move because Adam had misfired and shot you in the leg when the gun was within his reach and Zepp had tried to wrestle it away from him.

But, still. You took a deep breath in, watching the ground, and were grateful for that capability. Just like you'd thanked the barista who'd taken your order, thanked your luck that you'd woken up in your apartment rather than the bathroom like your nightmares had told you you would. Just like you would thank the first stray cat who ran up to you and rubbed their cheek against your hand when you extended it--Jigsaws aim had been to make sure you felt grateful for the life you got, and while it had left you traumatized, the innate urge to thank things that you'd taken for granted before seemed to come along with the fact that you'd survived.

You weren't grateful for the fact that you'd been trapped--the trauma you inherited along with the survival had kind of hindered that. Instead, your time was spent angered at Jigsaw for doing as he'd done.

"Y/N?" You hear your name being called, recognize the voice calling it instantly. "What are you doing in the garden? It's the middle of November."

You laugh a little bit as you turn to face him. "I don't know," you say. "I just--it's standing in the garden that will be relatively free of people until the spring or job hunting. I've been using a grant to pay my rent since we escaped, so I chose to do this instead."

Adam laughs a bit in turn, and you let yourself approach him.

He looks good--his hair has grown out a slight bit, he's got his camera slung over his hip. He's wearing glasses, too, and oddly enough they suit him.

He's wearing outfitting that you just think is so him--a pair of blue jeans, henley layered with a flannel or two, and a leather jacket. He looks better than good--he looks amazing.

"What do you do for work?" You ask in the interest of making polite conversation. "Are you still working as a--"

"PI? No," Adam says. "I work in photojournalism now. Don't even smoke as often as I used to, I get so damn terrified he's around and watching me."

You snort. "Oh, believe me, I can relate. I've debated adopting a dog recently but I'm too afraid that I'll see an old man sitting somewhere sketching away whenever I take them on a walk. I hate it, but it's the new normal so I guess all we can do is adjust."

"You could adopt a cat," Adam suggests. The two of you start walking toward the garden entrance. "Unless, of course, you decide to leash train them. In which case, just make sure they don't climb up a tree and I'm sure you'll be okay."

You laugh a little and realize that you haven't laughed so much since before the trap. It's a little disheartening, but you and Adam were dropped at two separate hospitals. You couldn't have talked to him before that moment, and you were going to cherish it and all the laughter it brought along.

"If I did adopt a cat, I would want to make sure I had a job beforehand. The grants my friend got me on can be used to pay for rent and other expenses but I don't want to adopt a cat using 'hey, you were traumatized and we can't fix that but here's some money!' money. You're able to apply for them up to three months after the incident, so if you're needing something to cover the rent and make sure you have adequate groceries from paycheck to paycheck, I'd look into it."

Adam shook his head. "Pfffffftt," he breathed. "What--rent money and grocery money? In this America? How foolish a thought!"

You laugh. You'd not experienced any trouble with putting food on your table thanks wholly to the grants, but before the trap you were making enough to cover rent and rent only and as such would frequent the foodbank nearest your apartment.

"Seems a luxury until you realize that living without roaches is, in fact, your right as a tenant. Does your new job at least pay you enough to move somewhere?"

"They gave me a place, actually! It's near my job and the rent is cut from my paycheck. I get five hundred for groceries which goes a long way when one is shopping sales and at places like Aldi," Adam says. "I'm also using a company owned car--my friend Scott knows someone who knows someone else. Got an interview, didn't flunk my way through it, and now I've got a solid set up, I think."

You smiled. You were so happy for him.

When you're within a foot of the exit, Adam sidesteps, gestures at it and lets you through first with a sarcastic grin on his face. "The one who's got more bullet wounds gets to leave first," he says as you exit.

"I don't have that many more than you do," you say.

"You have four," Adam says. "Two in the chest, one in the shoulder, one in the leg. I have one--a shoulder wound is nothing, especially considering that Zepps aim was off."

You smile close-lipped at him, and Adam shakes his head.

"I know," he says. "Too soon. 'M sorry I didn't visit you--I meant to find your number in the phone book after I'd gotten out of the hospital, but I didn't know if you'd gotten out yet and I didn't want to leave a voice message. Doing so would've felt pathetic, I think."

"It's all right," you said. "I was a mess until my last four days in--had I seen you, I think that I would've needed to be sedated. John definitely got to me in a way that was not very fun at the start."

"You're on a first name basis with him now?" Adam asks, sarcasm dripping from his tone.

"Oh yeah," you said. "Kramer and I get coffee every Wednesday, and I hear all about the relatively innocent people he plans to put into his murder machines. Not a lot of photographers, though--you must've been a one-off."

Adam snorts and you laugh, leaning against him a bit. It's like something in your dynamic has cracked, returned you to the people you were in the bathroom--Adams sarcasm, your riffing off of his responses and hitting back with your own. The difference is that Adam found the key to the chain around his foot in a cracked and lifted area of the floor two feet away from where the chain on his foot kept him, and left after finding that the key required for the cuff on your foot was different. You were stuck for a few days before Kramer and one of his accomplices freed you after asking if you'd held out hope and when you responded yes desperately because you were dehydrated and hadn't eaten and you were bleeding out.

Adam sighs. "I have to get to work, but I'll call you, okay? You have a landline?"

"Yeah," you nod. "It's the number beside my name in the phone book."

Adam nods. "Okay," he says.

And then you're watching him go, and the coldness of reality is returning.

FOUR MONTHS POST BATHROOM TRAP

In the months that follow, you end up with a job working in marketing. Adam calls your landline and you give him the number associated with your flip phone. You start meeting for coffee when your shifts line up and let you do so before or after work, and on the weekends and most weekdays you two are inseparable until midnight comes and you're telling Adam to call you in the morning while you go about your nighttime routines.

Adam stays over on the weekends, or you stay at his. It depends on who's place the coffeeshop or bar you go to after work is closer to because the two of you take turns choosing where.

When, two weeks into your second month post escape, you adopt the pair of stray kittens you find in the dumpster behind your apartment, Adam starts picking coffeeshops that are closer to your apartment than his own.

The cats are both boys and are named Cinnamon and Nutmeg for their brown coats. Cinnamon is completely brown all over and blue eyed, whereas Nutmeg is a calico that has shades of brown all over his back, paws, face and tail, where white is on his tummy and neck area.

Adam has spent more time taking photos of them than he'll willingly admit, but as time develops he also has a ton of photos of you doing anything and everything--opening the windows, falling asleep while you two watch a bad horror movie, doing some work from home, making coffee and tea, holding a joint, making breakfast, eating an edible.

He also realizes as time goes on that you are a lot worse off than he is. Three months in and you can't stomach the thought of going to the part of Jersey where the trap was located. You can't exist in spaces absent of light for too long, you look over your shoulder constantly because you're afraid that the act of lighting a cigarette while in a public space will have you trapped again. You cry a lot and are sometimes terrified to be in your apartment because you were taken from there, just like Adam was.

There are days where something sets it off and you're thrown off kilter so bad that you have a panic attack. Nutmeg the cat is very receptive to moments like that one, often rushing to your side with Cinnamon the cat on his toes, ready to press his face against your tear stained cheeks while you idly pet at the fur on the top of his head, and Adam lights the lavender candle you use because the scent of lavender is calming.

Three months in and Adam is suddenly fond of notebooks because he likes to keep track of the things that trigger it for you. Winter-era power outages from the wind are not at all helpful in your recovery post trap, he discovers. You hate it, even with the candles lit. You cannot stand living in the dark--it reminds you of waking up in the bathroom, waking inside a full bathtub with your foot chained to a pipe on one side of the room while Adam was chained to one on the other. You can't stand the smell of the sewage in downtown Jersey or the smell of the dumpsters behind your apartment building because it smells too much like the bathroom. You get anxious about the idea of taking baths and being submerged in the water and find showers difficult most days.

You thank baristas and hold the doors open for people. You thank Nutmeg and Cinnamon whenever they cuddle up next to you or in the all-too-common instance that Nutmeg tries to use kisses as a reason for you to feed him two dinners. You laugh at dogs in the park doing silly stuff and you love the taste of coffee. You watch the news warily whenever a new Jigsaw victim or survivor comes out of the woodwork and you love the job you ended up with. You can't stand the sight of Walkmans or the sound of cassette tapes. You seem to thrive off the sound of Adams laugh in the way he thrives off yours.

By the fourth month, Adam has realized that his lists of the things that set you off and their solutions have just become lists of things you do and don't really notice while you do them--the smile on your face when you feed Nutmeg and Cinnamon or choose to donate a dollar to whichever charity when you and Adam are ordering your coffee from the coffeeshop you've both taken a liking to near your apartment.

The way that you look when you're baking or the way that you look when you watch the sunset, the sound of your laugh in the mornings.

The way that you look when you've just woken up and are registering the fact that Adams hand is carding through your hair because he's been awake fifteen minutes longer than you have. The sheer excitement you seem to radiate while you make your first cup of coffee of the day, the serenity that takes you over whenever the two of you watch the sunset from Adams fire escape, the way that you lean against him, arm looped through his elbow, when things get too much or when the world gets too quiet.

His lists of the things that he likes about you and the ones about things that set you off are eventually put into two separate notebooks after a while of meaning to separate the two things and have two different styles--the ones of things he likes about you are rambles. They go on for pages at a time and there are more run on sentences than there aren't.

The lists of things that trigger your trauma responses are simple--Adam writes the trigger and the solution.

Staying in the dark for too long--consider buying a small lamp for corner of room as Christmas gift, light candles, open windows (cold is good--Y/N likes the cold. Helps keep them grounded) play shitty 80s horror movie so that there's light from the tv

The smell of sewage and dumpsters behind apartment complex--avoid the areas of Jersey where the sewage is prominent, tell Y/N to plug nose and breathe through mouth when taking the garbage down

They're simplistic in their own right, complex in that too, but they're good.

Adam is holding a six pack of donuts and a tray with two coffees from your favorite local breakfast bakery when he opens your door, startled to find it unlocked. Your apartment door was always locked unless Adam called beforehand and you knew you'd be in the shower when he showed up, thus unable to let him in, but he'd not called that morning. He knew you didn't have to work and neither did he, so the fact that your door was unlocked set him on edge almost instantly.

He proceeds in with caution, setting the coffee and donuts on your coffee table. Nutmeg the cat meows at him before starting in the direction of your fire escape, the curtain drawn to a close over the window through which you got to it. When Nutmeg turns around to make sure Adam is following, Adam starts to.

He pulls the curtain over your window back, blinking a little in the surprise he feels as he realizes that it's mostly closed. Your back is pressed against the railing, your body facing the window, your eyes closed but your face tilted skyward.

Adam opens the window, steps onto the fire escape. He closes the window behind him after gently shooing Nutmeg the cat indoors so that he doesn't have to deal with the cold bite of Jersey in January.

"Y/N?" He asks in a voice that's barely above a whisper. He's helped you through panic attacks as you've helped him through the same, but he's never seen you like that before.

Your eyes open. You don't look at him.

"Do you ever get nightmares?" You ask.

Adam inhales sharply. His capabilities as far as sleep are concerned have been detrimentally affected since he escaped the bathroom trap. He went from getting somewhere just past the seven hour threshold on weekdays and nine or ten on weeknights to nightmares no matter how mundane the day. Because of the nightmares, he'd averaged out to three or four hours a night, two on his worst and five on his best.

"Every night since I left," he says. "When I escaped, I had a nightmare about leaving you behind--which, I did at first. I'm sorry about that, by the way."

You were chained to a pipe near a bathtub. Adam had been chained to a pipe near the door. Adam had found the key in a cracked and lifted part of the floor about two feet away from him after several hours of bickering and telling Adam to shoot you despite his protests. That day had been one of the worst days of your life.

Still, four months after your escape and well into a January in the city of Jersey, the days you spent starving to death, fading in and out of consciousness and bleeding from four wounds barely managed to top that.

"I didn't have too many," you say. "Not until recently--went for a three month visit to check on the wounds in my chest. Think that spurred me on a little, and I've been having them for three weeks now."

"What are yours about?" Adam asks.

You meet his gaze. Adam is startled to find that he can probably drown in the relief he feels as you do, following it by a gentle shake of your head and a smirk while you stretch your right leg out, crossing your ankle over his left foot. Adam presses his back against the window and idly wishes he could smoke.

"Nah," you say. "Nope. You first."

"Leaving you behind, mostly," he admits. "Some are about one of us being put into a trap again, the other of us being forced to watch them die. Mundane stuff compared to what old man Jigsaw is known for, right?"

You laugh. "Mine are somewhat the same," you say. "You leave me behind, but it's your choice to do so. Others center around my experience escaping, most are about drowning in the bathtub while you hold me, though. Sweet stuff--you're sobbing and you kiss my forehead and you ask the sky 'why, why them?'"

Adam snickers. "Had that been how it happened, I absolutely would've done that," he says. "God isn't really someone I believe in, but I would've stopped believing in him had you died. I uh--well, people have been put into Jigsaw traps for worse than us, right?"

"Worse reasons, and pettier ones, too," you say. "You spy on people, I fudged the data on a couple of marketing reports when my old boss promised me a raise, which you ended up investigating."

You approach and Adam welcomes your embrace, settling with you sitting against the fire escape railing by the window, one of Adams legs up and your leg tucked beneath it while the other sat near his foot, your foot resting against his calf.

"We're going to be okay," you say. "I mean--not now. Probably not by March, but we will be, I think."

Adam scoffs. "You think?"

"I don't know," you shrug. "Nothing is certain, really, but if I'm remembering correctly, 'time heals all wounds' was, in fact, my senior quote. Either that or something from a Jane Austen novel."

Adam laughs, presses a kiss against your forehead. You relax for a minute, eyes closing as you breathe the cold air in and whatever kicked up that trauma response seems to settle.

"For the record--I think we'll be fine," he says. "I mean, my margin for fine is a little on the low end, but I really do think we'll get there one way or another. We have to."

You grin at him, take his hand.

An unspoken truth exists there--you'll be okay if you have each other. You'll claw your way to okay if you have to, but you'll get there and you'll do with hands entwined, no matter how exhausting it becomes.

SIX MONTHS POST BATHROOM TRAP

You were working. You liked your job. Yours and Adams romantic relationship had been going on for a month when you decided to turn on the news on a crisp evening somewhere near the second week of March.

Another case. Another victim and survivor both, another instance wherein Jigsaw completely evaded capture and no leads on his location are findable.

Sometimes, despite the number of good days you have, you have bad ones, too. Adam is the same--his trauma isn't as bad as yours in the long run, but sometimes his nightmares throw him for a loop or he finds the darkness too unsettling or he gets too close to the part of town where the trap was without realizing until it's too late.

You both have your bad days and your bad weeks, and you've both come to rely on each other during those times. Adam knows how to get you onto the ground again when you feel like you are floating outside of yourself, and you know how to help him when his nightmares have left him helpless, drowning in the thought that he'd left you to die alone in the bathroom.

Adam knows your signals well enough, which explains the closeness he keeps to you when he shows at your apartment after his shift where yours had ended only forty-five minutes beforehand and you'd been home for all of thirty.

You'd managed to take a shower in that time, but in combination with your trauma exacerbated by a nightmare when you'd slept the previous night, it still left you reeling. Every drop of water against your skin was another reminder of the fact that you'd been shot into the bathtub, would've drowned if not for the fact that Adam pulled you out in a panic.

So, you were standing in your living room, your hair was damp. the news was on in the background, some reporter droning on about the specifics of the newest set of survivors and the victims who'd been identified thus far.

You were wearing a pair of adidas joggers and one of Adams hoodies, socks covering your feet because your floors were always cold. You were asking Adam if he wanted to order a pizza while he interlaced your fingers and nodded, pulling you back toward him when you started walking away and pressing a kiss to your forehead when you melted into his embrace for a split second.

You ordered the pizza while your brain was still trying to process everything, some part of you wanting to go back to watching the news despite knowing that such probably wasn't in yours or Adams best interests.

Once the pizza was ordered, you and Adam went to your living room. Adam looked at you how he looks at you when he's trying to determine the best way to help and ends up pulling you close, the two of you swaying along to the tune of the weatherman reporting the next week of Jersey springtime temps.

You're shaking, still a little on edge. You've been the way that you are for six months, and in those six months you've tried everything that you can short of going to therapy.

You bought melatonin gummies to combat the fear of falling asleep and thus falling victim to another nightmare and you take them as the fear sets in.

You've started gradually working on your fear of water rather than doing as you used to--forcing yourself under the shower head and trying to wash and condition your hair while in the midst of a panic attack--and you're slowly starting to work on your fear of the darkness, though you doubt you'll ever again find solace in it like you used to.

Adam, though, is a delightful constant in a life that, before your trap, was almost completely absent of them. You see each other daily, have each others backs and can read each other like neither of you can read anyone else.

Adam knows you inside and out, and that's why he knows to keep close while you sway, hands interlaced in order to keep yours from shaking.

Externally, you just seem like a couple in their mid twenties, swaying along to the music in their hearts while the news talks in detail of the latest local and global tragedies.

Internally, though, you're stuck in the bathroom again. Your chest is stinging with the reminder of the two bullets that were shot into it. Your leg aches like the wound is new and your shoulder begs for a reprieve from the burn of a bullet wound.

Internally, you're watching Adam try to jam the key into the lock attached to the chain on the cuff attached to your foot. He's angry because it's not working and you're begging him to go because you don't want him to see you bleeding out.

You're telling him "If you go, you have a shot at saving me. Go and get help, Adam. Please."

And he's responding. "I'm not going to leave you behind," and your hand is against his face, one of his is on your hip and you're both covered in blood that is his and yours both. Zepp Hindle is dead. The doors have slid open and Adam can go.

You push him away. "Please," you croak.

And then you watch Adam go, hope leaving you as he turns his back after promising that he'll come back and find you, even if it kills him.

Internally, you are once again the person who fell into murky bathtub water, and you're hearing Adams shouts as Zepp tries to drown you but Adam fights him off and yanks you out.

Internally, you are person startled awake by the feeling of two hands against your shoulders. You're mumbling Adams name.

"No," says a grizzly voice. It's the kind that just...has to belong to an older guy, the kind that you would hear from some sixty year old who'd chainsmoked his way through the previous ten years of his life.

"I have a question for you, Y/N," the voice is saying. "Have you held out hope for Adams return?"

In your bouts of consciousness, the first thing that you've spoken has been his name. "Yes," you're croaking, voice raspy from the disuse and the fact that you haven't drank water in days.

"Congratulations, then. You've passed your test, and it is time you got to a hospital."

Internally, you're hearing the sound of keys being inserted into the lock on the chain that holds your foot captive. You're being carried bridal style out of the building by a woman, dropped into an SUV. You're blacking out, starving and dehydrated, while you're driven to the hospital.

Then Adams voice meets your ears. "Y/N?" One of his hands moves to the small of your back. Your hand starts shaking but Adam moves it to his face, your thumb against his top lip. "Come home. We aren't in the bathroom--not anymore."

You're breathing in. Your eyes are opening as you trace your thumb over Adams lips. Adam steps just a little closer as your hand moves from his lips to his shoulder. You're careful not to touch the wound there.

"We're okay," Adam says. "It's been six months. Today, actually--it's the six month anniversary. I made it out and I called for help while I was sitting on a gurney in the ambulance. I didn't leave you behind, I promise. I told you I wouldn't and I didn't."

Despite the inklings of progress you've made, Adam senses that the reassurance isn't bringing you back like it's meant to. He tries to think of what you'd told yourself after a series of flashbacks--he's got it written somewhere, and despite himself, knows it almost like the back of his hand.

"Your name is Y/N L/N," he starts. "It's been six months since you escaped the bathroom trap, which you were placed into on September 10th, 2004. You were put into the trap because you fudged data for the promise of a raise that you desperately needed because your boss had lowered your pay to the point where it was either covering rent or eating on payday."

You did it like that--your name, the duration of time since you'd left the trap, the day you were put into it, the reason. That was always how it started.

"You are twenty seven years old," he continues. "You have two cats named Cinnamon and Nutmeg and you thank everyone for everything all the time. You say sorry a lot, too, and you like weed but you find nicotine a little disgusting because of how it tastes and the headaches smoking leaves behind.

"You like the coffee and baked goods from Maries on the corner of Cornelia and 45th. You hate the water and you hate the dark and you hate being left alone when the loneliness of that sets in, but you love things too. You love sunrises and sunsets, the smell of coffee and Jersey in the winter."

You squeeze his shoulder a bit, press your forehead against it. Adams hand moves from your lower back up to your shoulder, falling down your arm. He gives the hand of yours that is still tucked into his a squeeze.

"You love it when Nutmeg meows at you, the way that Cinnamon always runs to the good spot for sunbathing in front of your fire escape," he says. "You love late nights and the opportunities they give you in the realm of stealing my sweaters. You love cinnamon buns and music and the sound of birds chirping, and in an unexpected turn of events, your favorite movie is 1987s 'The Princess Bride'. You escaped the trap and we're in your apartment, we've ordered food, and everything is as okay as it can be right now."

You take a deep breath in. Adam squeezes your hand again, presses a kiss to your forehead.

"You surprisingly put up with my music taste despite the fact that ours differ," he says. "And you survived. You survived, Y/N. We both survived, and that has to count for something, at least."

Internally, the flashback ends. You exist outside of yourself for a solid thirty seconds more before Adams lips against your forehead brings you back to the ground.

"Thank you," you say, offering a weak smile. Adam grins back, reassuring and warm.

"Anytime," he says.

Six months in, things are okay. They could definitely be better, but they're okay enough and that's what really matters.

TWELVE MONTHS POST ESCAPE

The six months to follow are relatively decent--Adam moves into your apartment and his paycheck is bumped up significantly as he's not living where the company was paying for him to.

You find a therapist you like in order to work on your residual trauma and start going in every Saturday from two to four. You and Adam buy Cinnamon and Nutmeg a cat tree almost as tall as the wall in your living room and every single morning becomes one full of tired, groggy voices, hugs from behind and the sound of exhausted laughter.

The morning of September fourteenth comes quicker than you or Adam had expected for it to, but you try to go about your day as normal. Jigsaw is still at it, wherever he's ended up. You wake that morning to news of a detectives disappearance and one of his past victims having been tested again. There were two survivors in total--Amanda Young and Daniel Matthews, the son of the missing detective.

You try not to let it dampen your mood and decide to order breakfast rather than make it--you have the day off, as does Adam. You took it because you figured it wouldn't be a very good day and Adam took it because he wanted to suffer with you, in his words.

Off the bat, there's nothing that triggers it. Sure, the news has you in a tizzy as you discover that a group of people was placed into what evidence is reportedly calling "The Nerve Gas House," and you feel a moment of resentment for the fact that all of it is being sensationalized by the media, but that barely scratches the surface. It doesn't trigger much more than mild anxiety and resentment as you really start thinking about it. More people dead. Two left alive.

You wonder how Eric feels, how Amanda feels--both of them are being bombarded by the media just like you and Adam were, and you remember that much as though it were yesterday.

The true crime reporters were a different kind of ruthless, some of them trying to visit you while you were still in the hospitals recovery unit. News reporters also kind of sucked, but then it seemed like everyone wanted a scoop, and you could recall being told to "savor your fifteen minutes of fame" once by one of the particularly ruthless reporters who tried to visit you, even going so far as to open the door to your hospital room and enter while you were high on morphine and still being hydrated through an IV.

The entire thing has made you angry in recent months--Jigsaw, you can admit, puts a very wide scope of people into his traps. It ranges from people with a history of drug addiction or people like you who'd committed relatively minor offenses for decent reason to serial rapists and people who were the direct cause of someone elses death.

The ones who survive his traps are usually left with something to serve as a consistent reminder. For you it is back-of-the-mind worry about things in relation to your heart because two bullets were lodged there for several days. For Adam and you alike, it is the fact that you feel the bad weather before the bad weather hits because you'll get pain in your legs and your shoulders. For others, its the scars that self mutilation has left behind, sometimes even as far as consistent reminder of the loss of a limb coupled with the trauma and the responses developed from it.

So--the thing that makes you angry about all of it is that people survive the things that Jigsaw puts them through, and then, traumatized and having been given a hefty medical bill, the media circus will start. They'll be harassed by reporters as they walk down the street or after giving their statement to the police and the harassment will just continue until the next case comes around.

But, you suppose its better to digress. You turn the news off as you get a call that your food has arrived. Adam, having woken up and taken a shower only to get redressed into a pair of sweatpants and one of the baggy cableknit sweaters you loved digging out of your closet come the first of September, gets it from the door and thanks you for ordering food.

You sit and eat your breakfast while laughing at Cinnamon as he tries to steal Adams bacon, where Nutmeg the cat has settled between your side and the corner of the couch, head on your thigh as he purrs because you'd given him a few pieces of shredded cheese earlier, when you were snacky before you stepped into the shower and braved your way through standing under the water longer than five minutes.

Adam looks to you for help, and you shrug. "You're the one who took it upon yourself to feed him a small piece of bacon when he was nine weeks old," you say.

He laughs a little, holding his bacon egg sandwich in the air and laughing at Cinnamons persistence as he jumps from Adams lap to his shoulder, stretching out over Adams arm.

"I aided in the raising of a demon cat," he says. "You adopted a demon cat."

"I adopted two demons," you said. "I just don't happen to like bacon and Nutmeg calms down when I give him a little shredded cheese once every few weeks."

Adam shakes his head and relents, ripping a small piece of bacon off and letting Cinnamon have it. He's able to eat peacefully from there, Cinnamon settling on the couch cushion behind him.

You eat breakfast in a medley of calmness, talking about work and the apartment and getting snippy at one point, Adams sarcasm coming into play and you reminding him of how quick witted you can get when you riff off his sarcasm like it's nothing. You both mention how good a walk in the gardens sounds while the gardens are still walkable and not bitten by frost, but don't end up deciding to go right then.

There comes a point where Adam moves closer to you and you curl against his side and there's a silent knowledge that passes over you.

The one year anniversary of Adams escape was four days ago. The one year anniversary of your escape is today. Three days exist between the 10th and the 14th, all of which you spent alone. You were alone in that hospital, just as Adam was alone in his. Neither of you had reached out to your families beyond a few stunted phone calls, but you were still alive. A year gone and you were still standing.

Adam presses a kiss to your forehead. "'M sorry I left."

"I told you to go."

"I know, but I feel like I should've stayed."

You turn to look at him, shaking your head. "No," you say. "Had you stayed, we both would've failed and we would've been left for dead. You left because I begged you to go, you got to stay alive, and so did I. We both passed the test that Jigsaw set up for us and now we're here. You can't wallow in the what-ifs, okay? I already know how it would've ended had you stayed and I am relentlessly glad that you didn't."

You press your forehead against his. He grabs your hands. You interlace your fingers and give his hands a squeeze. Of course that day was not going to be an easy one--a year gone already? A year of nightmares, of flashbacks, of good and bad moments both, passed you by like it were a blink.

"We're okay," you whispered. "And we're okay because you left. You left, Adam, and you saved my life."

You pull away, meet his gaze. He's looking at you like you're the love of his life and he hates that leaving you was something he had to do at all.

"We're okay," you whisper.

"We're okay," Adam nods.

To tell the truth of it, you're not sure whether or not you're lying to yourselves. If you are lying to yourselves, however, then the lie is pretty damn convincing.

--

You and Adam end up walking through one of the only gardens in Jersey as the sun goes down. It's the first time you've been to the garden in ten months, and the ten months that have passed have been ones that were good, bad, everything.

Adams hand is interlaced with yours. Your cheek is against his shoulder. Things don't really feel okay, but you know that they will start to eventually.

But, there is also the truth within that that 'okay' is not a constant. There will be moments of your life wherein the thing in its entirety comes crashing down upon you, moments where you feel like breathing is a struggle, like blinking will make you exhausted. There will be moments wherein you're okay, moments where okay elevates to good. Good elevates to great, and great elevates to amazing.

There is not one constant state of feeling or emotion, there is not one constant state of being. Things will fluctuate, as they do, and as Adam lifts his camera to snap a photo of a stray cat, you think, for the first time since your escape, that you're fine with that.

Whatever the next phase of your life looks like, whatever it means for the trauma that still lingers from your time spent in the bathroom trap, you can handle it. With Adam by your side, with your apartment and the adorable cats you adopted two and a half months after you'd been dumped at a hospital with severe bleeding, blood loss, and several bullet wounds, you can handle it. Whether or not you'll be okay throughout all of that time, you'll handle it, and that's what matters.

[madssaunders111]

Help! | A Seinfeld x Saw AU (female!reader)

Characters: Jerry Seinfeld, George Costanza, Elaine Benes, Newman, Adam Stanheight, John Kramer, Estelle Costanza, Frank Costanza

I’ve thought about making Adam an apprentice because the entire saw fandom imagines him as one. And his photography hobby is useful to John

Content: Torture, mentions and descriptions of death, stalking, swearing, violence, sexual themes, light clit stimulation, fingering

Extra info: You are in a situationship with Newman. I used Amanda's trap and I even added Bob Sacamano even though he doesn't make an appearance in the show. I also used the Angel Trap

Word count: 2942 words

Description: You are an accomplice of the Jigsaw Killer. When John moved his games to New York, another one of his accomplices, Adam Stanheight found someone worthy of being tested. As the trap is ready, John Kramer gives you the task to bring the victim to him in order to be taught a lesson.

~•~

It was late morning in New York City. You were walking through the city until you reached a building marked “Manhattan Meatpacking Plant”.

You walked in and saw Adam Stanheight standing with a camera. You approached him, and held your hand under his camera lens.

“Adam“

“Yes, Y/N?”

“Has John finished building the trap yet?”

“I don’t know.” Adam shrugged. “I’m only in charge of photography, speaking of, look who I found.” He laid multiple photos on the table of a man who was on the heavier side and wore a mailman’s uniform. Your jaw dropped in shock.

“Newman?” “Are you kidding me Adam?” You asked as you picked up a picture of Newman sitting in his mail truck with a diabolical look on his face. Another photo was him walking along a sidewalk holding a mailbag on his shoulder. Another one of the photos was him walking back to his apartment.

“That’s right.” Adam nodded as he placed his camera on the table. He snatched the photos on and placed them in an envelope. “You need to go to his apartment and bring him here.”

“No! No fucking way, Adam!”

“Trust me, Y/N.” Adam held your hands. “You can do it.”

“I’m sort of…in a thing…with him.”

“Like what, exactly?”

“Situationship, like dating…hooking up…but we don’t want to label our relationship.”

“Interesting…but confusing.” Adam picked up his camera again and walked to another room. You followed him.

“Wait, Adam! Maybe you could help me with bringing Newman.” You pleaded.

“Y/N…”

“Please, Adam!” You sank to your knees. “You can get Newman and I can distract everyone, like Jerry, Elaine, George and even Kramer.”

“Cosmo Kramer?” Adam scrunches his nose in confusion. “Is that actually his name?”

“Yeah…” You smacked the table in annoyance. “But please, Adam, help me!”

“Y/N!” John shouted from the makeshift hospital room in the plant. The room was depressing, lit by green lightbulbs, had a hospital bed and even medical equipment.“Yes, John?” You asked.

“Come here.” His voice was weak but still deep. Your legs shook as you walked into the hospital room. John applied an oxygen mask to his face every few minutes. “Tell me, why don’t you want to do your task?”

“Because…it’s not right John.”

“Tell me, Y/N, you’re loyal to me right?”

“Yes of course.”

“Well…you can do this…besides…he’s not innocent like you think.”

“How so?”

“For example, he harbors mail even though it’s a federal offense.”

“What else?” You asked as you crossed your arms over your chest.

“He’s also assisted in the kidnapping of someone else’s pet.”

“That’s nothing!” You ran your fingers through your hair in agitation. “Besides, the dog wasn’t hurt from what I’ve heard.”

“Well…John has given you a task and you should do it.”

“So I’ll end up in another trap? God I should’ve left you in that bathroom to die!”

“You’re such an asshole! Besides, Lawrence should’ve saved me!”

“Yeah, well he left you in there to die! He lied to you!” You stormed out of the building and walked through the street until you reached 81st Street, where Jerry Seinfeld lived.

~•~

As you walked up to Jerry’s apartment, Newman stood outside lugging a mailbag. He turned to you and held his hand up.

“Y/N..hey there.”

“Hello, Newman.” You trudged your feet to Jerry’s apartment.

“Did you hear about that man who went missing last night?”

Your eyes widened slightly. Adam did bring a man to them, and he is still alive, not for long.

“No, I haven’t.” You stood outside Jerry’s door and knocked. The door opened revealing Jerry on the other side.

“Oh, Y/N, hey.”

“Hey, Jerry.” Your feet slid against the floor as you walked into the apartment and to the couch where George sat. George placed your head on his shoulder.

“You look tired Y/N.”

“Just…work.” You muttered as you laid against George’s chest. It wasn’t exactly a lie…your “work” was being the accomplice of a killer.

“Heard you talking to Newman, what was that about?” Elaine asked as she leaned over the couch.

“Just about that man who went missing last night.”

"What was his name again?" George asked.

“My friend Bob Sacamano." Kramer walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. He removed cold cuts and ate them.

“It’s horrible.” You muttered. “I hope the cops catch whoever did this.”

~•~

Hours went by and your eyes fluttered open.

“Where the hell am I?” You asked yourself. When your vision cleared, you were still in Jerry's apartment huddled on his couch. Your phone rang with a message from Adam. He texted: “Where are you Y/N? I got Newman in the truck, hurry.”

You let out an agitated huff as you left the apartment and ran outside where a truck sat. Adam sat at the driver’s seat and Newman was unconscious in the back. “Took you long enough.” Adam sneered.

“Why does it matter?”

“Maybe you had sex with someone else, someone that wasn’t Newman.”

“Okay, first of all, I didn’t, and secondly, I fell asleep.”

“Yeah, for four hours.” Adam turned the wheel and drove away to the Meatpacking Plant.

~•~

You and Adam lugged Newman's body into the building. Adam hunched over and placed the body in a wheelbarrow. "Jesus, he's heavy."

You rolled your eyes and pushed the wheelbarrow into a separate room that had a chair, a bear trap, and a body of a man on the ground. The same man who went missing the night before: Bob Sacamano.

You walked back to the makeshift hospital room and crouched down to the bed.

"Everything's ready."

"Good." John wheezed. "Good job Y/N."

"Is this trap...rigged?"

"No. I don't rig my traps. You know that."

"I just want Newman to live." You walked back to the metal table where various monitors sat. One of the screens featured Newman's unconscious body slumped in the chair with the bear trap on his head.

"You are so in love with him, it's actually funny."

"Shut up Adam." You sneered as your fist met his shoulder.

"Damn, relax. Don't get so defensive."

You paced back and forth as you saw Newman wake up on the monitor. Nerves fluttered in your stomach, nerves that made you feel sick.

~•~

Newman's POV

Newman's eyes opened in a room lit by green lightbulbs. He thrashed his head around in fear. His hands gripped the bear trap rested onto his head and jaws.

He whimpered and let out muttered screams.

"Mmh!"

A tv turned on beside him revealing a puppet's face.

"Hello, Newman." The deep sinister voice of John Kramer said. "i want to play a game."

"You don't know me, but I certainly know you. I've been keeping an eye on you, watching over you, like a guardian angel, but with negative intentions. You see Newman, you've done awful things, such as misuse of a mail truck, kidnapping, and especially harboring mail, which is strange because aren't you a mailman? Anyway, those are things that can easily be fixed by a prison sentence."

Newman wriggled into the chair as John spoke. The puppet's mouth moved with the message.

"You'll have sixty seconds to find the key, the key to your freedom, which is in the man beside you. Look to your right Newman, know that I'm not lying."

Newman turned to the right and saw Bob laying on the floor still and numb. He turned back to the tv.

"However, if you don't, your jaws will be permanently ripped open. Here, I'll show you." The footage changed to a glass mannequin wearing the same bear trap. The timer ticked fast and the mannequin exploded in a mess of glass.

"That will be you if you don't get out. Now, let the game begin." The tv then turned off. He stood up and the tripwire to the timer activated.

He started to panic and walked over to Bob Sacamano after grabbing a scalpel from the table beside the chair. He crouched down and saw Bob's eyes open and widen. Newman stabbed until blood was everywhere and Bob's organs and insides were all over Newman's hands.

He pulled a key out and shakily shoved it into the bear trap lock. The timer was at 10 seconds before the trap unlocked upon contact with the floor.

Newman screamed and fell to the floor, his hands, face and shirt covered in Bob's blood. The door then opened a figure in a dark red and black hood approached him.

"Congratulations, Newman. You're still alive."

End of POV

~•~

Newman sat on a chair in John's makeshift hospital room in the Plant.

"Hello, Newman." John greeted.

"Easy, John." You said as you dropped your hood revealing your face.

"Y/N? What the hell?" Newman's jaw dropped in shock.

You stayed silent as John placed an oxygen mask on his face for a few seconds before removing it.

"I assume you and Y/N know each other Newman?"

Newman nodded. He looked up at you betrayed and hurt. "Y/N...why?"

"I don't have an answer for you Newman."

Adam walked in and placed his camera down on the chair beside Newman.

"Now, you have a chance to be granted full immunity and protection." John started.

"Like what?" Newman asked as he looked from John to Adam and then to you.

"Let me explain-" Adam said before you interrupted.

"Let me say it Stanheight, you're terrible at explaining things." You cleared your throat and faced Newman. "Basically, you can work for us, help us teach people, bad people, lessons and change their lives. Especially revenge, for those who have wronged you. What do you think?"

"Well...I...I don't know what to say." Newman dwindled his fingers anxiously.

"Well, you've been tested, you passed, therefore you're able to work for us." You said. "I was tested, Adam here was tested as well."

"Wait, how were you tested?"

"Same trap you were in. I even cut my jaw." You point to your jaws stitched with black thread. "I got cut severely, but I got a chance...John helped me."

Newman turned to Adam. "What about you?" He asked.

"I was in a bathroom, and I almost died because my key disappeared and I didn't want to chop my foot off. So I was left to die." He explained as he gave you a glare.

"Oh my God! I rescued you! I didn't have to!" You shouted.

"Y/N! Adam! Stop fighting!" John shouted.

Adam stuck his tongue out like a child and scooped up his camera. "Well, bye." He walked out of the room and left the building.

~•~

Adam's POV

Adam walked through the street wearing his camera around his neck like a necklace. He looked at his phone screen which had a picture of George Costanza. He was his next victim.

Adam went to the subway station that was headed to Queens. He knew where George's parents (and him) lived.

~•~

Your POV

"So, Newman, what do you think about our offer?"

"I..I don't know."

"Don't forget the immunity and protection." You whispered in his ear.

"I..I accept." Newman replied nervously.

"Good...you can help many others cherish their lives now."

~•~

By the time Adam arrived in Queens, the sun had gone down and the streets were completely empty and dark. He clutched his camera as he found the Costanza's house.

No lights were on indicating that either no one was home or everyone was asleep. He crept up to the side door and slipped right in, no lock, no dog, nothing.

Adam stumbled through the dark kitchen and found the living room. "Fuck." He muttered as he hit his foot against the couch. A woman's voice shouted. Adam hid in the closet and held up a gun loaded with tranquilizer darts.

Estelle Costanza, George's mother, ran out of her bedroom holding a bat.

"I'm armed!" She shouted as she ran around the living room swinging the bat.

"Jesus." Adam muttered under his breath.

"Damn it, Estelle, it's one o'clock in the morning, why are you up and holding a baseball bat?" Frank Costanza, George's father walked out of his room irritated and exhausted.

"Someone's in the house."

"You're hearing things, now come on, back to bed." Frank led Estelle back into the bedroom until a dart shot into his neck knocking him unconscious.

"Frank! Oh God!" Estelle shouted before Adam shot a dart into her neck knocking her unconscious as well. George ran out confused as he looked down and saw his parents laid unconscious on the floor.

"Mom! Dad! Oh, God!" George shook them hard. A dart shot into his neck and he fell unconscious.

"God damn," Adam muttered as he dragged George out of his house and to the truck outside. After Adam drove away, he arrived back in Manhattan half an hour later.

~•~

Your POV

You sat in a room in the Meatpacking Plant furnished like a bedroom. Your head lay on the bed while looking up at the ceiling. Newman walked into the bedroom and sat down near you.

"Hey, Y/N."

"Hey, Newman." You sat up and looked down at the bed avoiding eye contact with Newman.

"So, how long have you worked for John Kramer?"

"A while."

"Ever since...your test?"

You nodded. Newman held your hand tightly.

"Hey, look, I won't tell anyone. And plus, I think you're pretty badass in that hood." Newman smirked.

"Really?"

"Of course. It definitely makes you attractive even though you're the apprentice to a serial killer." Newman leaned in and kissed your lips softly.

"Ohh, Newman, what was that for?"

"Because...I think I'm crazy for you Y/N."

:Are we labeling ourselves?"

"Yes. I want you so bad Y/N. You have no idea." Newman leaned back in and kissed your lips harder.

"I need to give in." You kissed him back and hopped on his lap.

~•~

Adam's POV

Adam pulled the truck into the back of the building and dragged George's body in. The same wheelbarrow he used on Newman sat near the back entrance.

George groaned in his unconscious state. Adam lugged George to a separate room where a harness sat. He placed George in the harness and dropped the key in a vat of acid. He left the room leaving George alone.

~•~

George's POV

George woke up in a dark room lit by green lightbulbs. He looked down and saw fishing hooks pierced into his ribs.

"Oh God!" George shouted as he thrashed around the harness. 'What is this? Get me out!"

The tv beside him turned on revealing the same ventriloquist puppet.

"Hello, George. I want to play a game." The recording started. "You're here because of what I've seen and what you've done. And I'm not happy about it. Imagine pretending to be handicapped just to use a better bathroom, pushing adults and children so you'd get out of a fire first, and especially killing your fiance by buying toxic envelopes. Honestly, prison won't change you, but this experience certainly will. You will have a minute to get the key from the acid, but be careful, the acid can dissolve the key in seconds and then you'll be stuck. If you don't get out, your body will be ripped and you will be dead. Let the game begin." The tv then turned on and a timer on the wall started ticking down from 1 minute.

His hand hovered over the acid tank before he shoved it in.

"Ahh!" George screamed loudly as he gripped onto the key. He then dropped it. "Oh, Goddamn it!" George reached back in and finally got hold of the key.

He stuck it in the lock and waited for the harness to open. When it didn't open, George panicked more.

"Help! Help!" The timer ticked down to 20 seconds. The faster the timer went. the more panicked George got.

The timer went down to 0 and George let out one last scream. The hooks ripped his ribs out and suspended them above him like angel's wings. George's body limped and everything went quiet.

~•~

Your POV

You and Newman were in the bedroom kissing and pleasuring each other.

"Oh, Newman!" You moaned into his ear.

"Oh, Y/N. You're not ready for what's about to happen." Newman placed his hands on your pants and pulled them down revealing your panties. "Oh baby, you look so beautiful and ready."

Newman rubbed his fingers in between your legs slowly and then increased the passion. "You like that baby?"

"Y-yes." You moaned. "Your fingers are so thick."

"You're already so wet." Newman whispered in your ear.

"W-we can't do this."

"Of course we can baby. I know you're in love with me."

Newman slid his fingers into your panties and started moving them within your inner walls. "God damn, so tight."

As Newman continued pleasuring you, just as you came, Adam ran into the room.

"Oh damn, sorry," Adam said as he hid a smirk on his face.

"What do you want Adam? Is the game done?"

"Yep." Adam walked away and closed the door.

You slumped down with Newman on top of you. He leaned down and kissed you.

"Well, wasn't that exhilarating?" Newman asked.

"Yes." You said as you kissed him back.

"Good." Newman smiled. "By the way, I will be the best apprentice you've ever seen." He held your hands tightly as he kissed them. "By the way, what game is Adam talking about?"

"Oh. George was placed in a trap, and judging by the air, he did not make it out."

"Damn, George Costanza?"

You nodded.

"Police will have a field day with these strings of missing persons cases." Newman smirked as he gave you one last kiss. "Besides, we should relax and wait until the next game."

[basement-vampire]

Fandom: Saw

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Adam Faulkner-Stanheight & Amanda Young

Additional Tags: Nightmares, Found Family, Trauma

Chapters: 1/1

Whumptober 2023, Day 20: Found Family

“I don’t know what I'd do if I didn’t have someone to talk to about this.”

“Go crazy, probably. Cut off all your hair and join a cult.”