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powerfultenderness · 1 year ago

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Heelloohh! It kenat stop itching my brain so imma share it to everyone, Neighbor könig startling Y/n as y/n let out a questionable sound, and the following nights neighbor könig's he dreamt about that... Please powerfultenderness! THANK YOU!!!!!

🤭 Ooooh boy!!! König's dreams!

Gonna drop a Mature 18+ rating on this one because of those dreams!

König tried to say hi to you, but you ignored him, walking down to the mail room and humming to yourself. He followed you, about to speak up again when he noticed the white earbuds you were wearing. Ah! You couldn’t hear him! A wicked smile crossed his face as he dropped back a few steps while you blissfully continued on your way.

He waited until you had closed your mailbox, attention fully on sorting through the various letters in hand, before he pounced.

“Got you!” He shouted as quickly pulled you in his arms, lifting you in the air enough that your feet swung from the ground.

“Aieee!”

You squealed, mail flying through the air, and kicked your feet out at nothing. Your hands clasped down on his arms as you looked up and behind you to the laughing mad man.

“König! Let me down!”

Still laughing, and with his arms still around you, he set you back on the ground. “You should pay more attention!”

You rolled your eyes and popped your earbuds out and stuffed them in one of your pockets. “Stop laughing!”

Of course that only had him laughing harder, practically leaning on you to keep himself upright.

“König!” You whined and tried to wiggle out of his hold, not very successfully, the man had an iron grip (and chest!).

“Ok! Ok! Sit down, my little bunny.” He once again lifted you from the ground, not nearly as high in the air, and gently sat you down on the table that was pushed against the wall under the mailboxes.

For just a quick moment he was standing between your knees, your thighs spread wide just to accommodate him, and you let out a quiet gasp and whimper in that short moment. He stills, big warm hands grasping at your thighs and you panic. You quickly pull away from him and slap your hands over your face, “it’s not funny, König!” You whine and sniffle and-

“Shit! Are you crying?” He jerked away, as quickly as if he’d been burned and started to fret around you, unsure if he should touch you again.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

A sob racks your body and you hiccup and gasp for a breath.

“I’m sorry, my love! I’m so-” he was leaning down enough to peek at your face, still mostly hidden by your hands, enough to see that you were holding back a smile. “You’re laughing!!” He jumped back and pointed an accusatory finger at you!

You finally let go and dropped your hands from your face as you threw your head back in laughter. “Ahahhahahaha!!! That’s what you get for scaring me, you big jerk!”

You must have looked like two maniacs just sitting in the mail room laughing like crazy, but neither of you could care at the moment what any passerby would think of you.

He helped you gather your fallen mail, and grabbed his mail while he was there too, and the two of you still shaking in laughter, walked you back to your flat.

Flowers. Pretty flowers that faded from sight as he nuzzled his face into the soft skin of your neck. “So beautiful.”

You gasped, arching into his touch and whimpering as he nibbled and lapped against your pulse point.

“König,” your arms were around his neck, hands clawing at the back of his shoulders like your life depended on him. Good, he growled as his lips traveled up your neck to your face, you needed him, he pressed his lips against yours, thrusting his tongue into your mouth. He needed you.

You squeezed your thighs around his waist and let out another erotic whimper. You pulled back from him, he tried to follow, but you gently pushed one hand against his chest to stop him. “König,” you whispered and glanced shyly away from him. He didn’t like that. He nudged your chin so you were looking at him again. “What?”

“Can I sit on your face?”

His eyes rolled back and he groaned, hips grinding into you. “Yes! God, yes! Please!”

He picked you up from the mail room table and turned around to set you on his bed, hands flying underneath the skirt of the pretty dress he bought you to pull down your panties, black lace finding a new home in his pocket.

Then he climbed on the bed, laying down while simultaneously pulling you, giggling the whole time, on top of him. You sat up, knees spread apart so that you were straddling his chest. He ran his hands up your thighs, pushing your skirt high against your waist, the fabric pooling down your center. “Come here,” he tried to get you to move higher on him, but you ignored him and leaned down instead.

You softly pressed your lips to his in a gentle kiss. “König.”

He gladly returned your kiss, but upon its natural conclusion he once again tried to entice you to move, just a little more.

“König.” You repeated with a breathy sigh.

“What?”

“König!”

“WHAT!”

“Jesus, man! Wake up, it’s go time!”

“Fuck!” König shook the dream from his mind for now, focusing on the mission before him. But the second he had a moment of free time, his thoughts went back to that dream.

[More neighbor König]

#wybwtjmiadz #könig x reader #könig x fem reader #neighbor!könig #konig x reader #blurb #lmaooo even in his dreams!!!#when he called her my love in german #she didn't understand it.#she mostly uses context clues when he speaks german to understand him. and just assumes his nicknames are common friendly nicknames

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kittycatcorner · 3 months ago

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shows up to give you the coffinchain challenge

Please be more careful when you cross the road You’re a perfect arrangement of rickety bones

Stray cats.

Peter had always likened the apprentices to a group of stray cats, in his mind.

At first it was out of distaste. They were a nuisance; a band of drifters slinking around the alleyways, catching their quarries unaware. The quick, sharp jab of a hypodermic needle might as well have been the efficient killing bite that a cat might deliver to the throat of its prey. They worked in the shadows, occupying all of those lonely abandoned buildings and reworking them for a new, twisted purpose.

Then, begrudgingly, he’d found himself wrapped up in Mark Hoffman. Chasing him, hunting him, hellbent on bringing him to justice, then on killing him, then on understanding him, then…

Well, Peter didn’t know what he was doing now.

All he knew was that sitting in his apartment, in varying states of composure, were three of Jigsaw’s disciples.

Dr. Gordon sat on his couch, eyes trained down as his hands worked on bandaging a fresh wound on the arm of his younger accomplice. Stanheight sat quietly and allowed for the medical attention with little fight. Hoffman himself sat on the floor, back leaned against the couch close to the other two.

Peter remained standing, trying not to buckle at the absurdity of his situation. In true stray-animal nature, he had made the mistake of allowing Hoffman into his home once, twice, thrice, and now he’d come back with friends.

‘Don’t feed the strays’, indeed.

Accept that he did know the other two, at this point. The polite Dr. Gordon was well-spoken and direct; Peter had found him infuriating in the beginning. He was a hard man to interrogate and an even harder man to intimidate, as level and unflinching as he was. Unlike Peter, he never seemed to let his anger get the best of him, and he seemed to know that. Dr. Gordon was a man who always seemed very aware of how much more control he had in the conversation. It was enviable.

Then there was Adam Faulkner-Stanheight. Mouthful of a name. It was strange enough for Peter to wrap his head around the fact that the kid was alive, let alone working with Jigsaw. He was angry- had more rage in his scrawny little body than what felt possible. Stupid and impulsive, Peter had found him annoying. Just a petulant adolescent who had gotten himself into bigger trouble than he yet realized.

They’ve come a long way since then. Both apprentices had grown on him, maybe because they reminded him of himself in their amalgamate qualities. The cold, callous bluntness of the doctor. The white-hot temper of the kid. The way he had never seen the former so gentle nor the latter so complacent until now, as they patched themselves together on his bloodied furniture.

Peter had been reluctant to welcome them all inside. It was bad enough to shelter one serial killer, but now three? It reminded him that everything he’s been doing as of late is against what he once stood for. Fuck, it would solve a hell of a lot of his own problems if he didn't care. If he’d let them all rot, make them regret thinking that Peter would risk his own hide just because he's been friendly with them. Dr. Gordon and Stanheight had seemed to understand this too. Their expressions had been apprehensive, looking ready to flee like the animals they were. Peter wonders how long ago he would have given chase.

Hoffman had spoken, then.

“I didn’t-” His voice was shot and exhausted. “I didn’t know where else to go, Strahm.”

And just like that, Peter took them in. Those words were all it took. Hoffman limped inside on a bad leg and described some sort of police-raid, premature. John Kramer and Amanda Young hadn’t even been there, so it had just been the trio, and they were forced to flee. Unable to go far on foot in their current state, Hoffman had brought his injured companions here. To Peter.

Why did that make something strange stir within him?

The three of them were soaked to the bone from the rain. Peter watched Hoffman sluggishly attempt to remain alert, but every so often his head would lull and come to rest against the soft thigh of Dr. Gordon. If the doctor noticed it, he didn't say a word as he continued to diligently work. He looked tired. Stanheight was putting on the best brave face he could manage, but Peter’s keen eyes caught his shoulders trembling, only eased when Gordon’s hand came to rest on one and rubbed gently. They all looked so tired.

Unable to watch any longer, Peter finally broke the silence.

“So why are you still doing this?” It took everything in him to not fidget idly as he spoke, brows furrowed at the three men.

All eyes were on him quite suddenly, sharp as they regarded him. Three clever pairs of observant eyes that all screamed out ‘I know more than I’m letting on' to Peter. He held their gazes, muscled arms crossed over his chest.

“You know what I’m talking about.” He scoffed, lip curling. “What’s the point of doing the old man's dirty work when he just lets things like this happen to you?”

Silence.

Hoffman broke first. He laughed, eyes closing as he rested more fully against the couch. It was good-natured but ultimately dismissive.

Dr. Gordon frowned at Peter, one brow quirked as if he had asked them something incredibly naive. Like he expected Peter to know already.

Stanheight didn't react. Not outwardly, anyways. He only stared, something new and strange glittering in his eyes that Peter couldn't place.

“What,” Peter grit his teeth, an edge to his voice. Less of a question and more of a prompt.

“Nothing, nothing. Apologies, Mr. Strahm.” Gordon sighed, turning his attention back to his handiwork. He appeared to nearly be done with the worst of Stanheight’s injuries now. “It’s just… not that simple.”

“Not exactly the kinda job you can put your two weeks in for.” Hoffman corroborated, a smirk tugging at his full lips.

Peter felt his face burn hot, and he huffed in frustration. “You fucking- Don’t play dumb. Don’t act like it’s a stupid question. I’ll throw you back out onto the fucking curb.” He jabbed a finger at Hoffman in particular, who for his part did indeed shut his mouth. “You listening? Good. What I’m saying is that John Kramer is one demented old man. What is actually stopping you?”

This time, the quiet was punctuated by Hoffman and Gordon exchanging an uncomfortable glance. After a moment, Hoffman shrugged and ran one hand through his damp, messy hair. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept of, uh, checks ‘n balances.”

Peter raised an eyebrow skeptically. Hoffman continued.

“Information is power, etcetera. Kramer keeps basically everything on a need-to-know basis. Including, I dunno, who you’re workin’ with half the time. Hell,” He rolled his eyes, and lazily raised a hand behind his head to pat Gordon’s arm. The doctor made an annoyed noise in response, shifting away from him. “He only told me about these lovebirds when he needed help lookin’ after ‘em.”

“I’m still mad about missing out on a trip to Mexico.” Stanheight quipped. His voice was softer than normal, but Peter supposed it was a good sign that he was speaking at all. He wasn’t used to the younger man being so quiet.

Gordon straightened up a moment later, gently patting down the new bandages and brushing some of the hair from Stanheight’s face. “There you go.” He sighed. The warmth in his tone was so palpable that Peter had the distinct feeling it wasn’t meant for his ears. Despite being in his own apartment, he somehow felt he was intruding. “Get comfortable, alright?”

Peter watched as Stanheight pulled himself to his feet, stopping short just a little ways away from him with an awkward shuffle. Gordon patted his thigh and spoke his next words like they took all of his energy to say.

“Your turn.” He didn’t even bother to look at Hoffman. The detective grinned anyways, wasting no time in clamoring up into Gordon’s personal space and slinging his leg across the man’s lap. Gordon shook his head disdainfully, but carefully began rolling back Hoffman’s torn pant leg anyways.

Peter guessed he wasn’t the only one that Hoffman lived to irritate.

“Christ, Mark.” Gordon sucked in a sharp breath, and Peter’s shoulders stiffened as he took a step forward to look. His stomach sank despite himself; from where he was standing Hoffman’s calf looked like a bloody mess. Peter’s a man who’s seen more gore in his line of work than anyone should hope to see in their lifetime, and yet here he is, staring in alarm. It was unlike him, and woefully he could only attribute his own uneasiness to the owner of the calf.

As if he could read his mind, Hoffman looked up towards Peter. “Hey, it’s just-” He winced, hissing in pain as Gordon began to clean the wound. “It’s no big deal- no bullet inside. Just grazed me.”

“You were shot?” Peter balked.

“Grazed,” Hoffman corrected.

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose in a quick-rising frustration. Hoffman was impossible.

“Don’t be an idiot.” Gordon’s voice was little more than a growl as he spoke through gritted teeth. “You took an unnecessary risk. Do you think I enjoy patching you back together? Honestly, if I didn't know any better I’d assume you were trying to get your sorry self killed.”

Dr. Gordon’s tone left the detective bristling. “Don’t tell me how to do my job.” He scoffed. “Hell, I don’t bother you when you’re workin’ in the sickbay. Why don't you just- fuck!”

Hoffman yelped at the unceremonious splash of disinfectant. Gordon gave him the sort of well-practiced fake smile that only a doctor could.

“My bad,” he murmured, unapologetic.

Peter decided he’d seen enough. He turned on his heel and walked into the kitchen, telling himself that he was just stepping aside to get ice in case the doctor needed some. He knew it wasn't the truth, though; he scolded himself quietly as he leaned against the wall and ran a hand through his graying hair.

The truth was that he couldn't keep standing there, staring at Hoffman’s leg injury.

It’s ironic, because it feels like not too long ago that Peter would have done anything to put a bullet in Hoffman. Now the thought makes him feel… queasy. And a bit confused.

Peter found himself comparing the apprentices to strays again.

He couldn’t get the image of roadkill splattered on the side of the highway out of his head.

From what he knew of John Kramer and his cult, the apprentices were expendable parts. It doesn't even sound like they can trust each other half the time. One wrong move or fatal mistake would be all it took. Peter wasn't even sure how long it would take him to know something had happened.

His thoughts were interrupted by footsteps so quiet that he knew exactly who they belonged to before turning around. Stanheight stood at the entryway of his bare-bones kitchen, watching him. He’s probably spent the least amount of time alone with him.

“What is it?” Peter’s frown deepened.

The kid didn't answer immediately, instead coming to lean against the wall beside him. He was quiet for a moment, and then shrugged.

“Wanted to check on you, I guess.” He answered simply.

“Check on me? In what way do I need checking on?” Raising a brow, Peter gestured towards the living room. “Look at you three, for fuck’s sake.”

Stanheight held his hands up defensively. “Hey, hey, I just- I get it, alright?”

Peter didn't know what that meant. He stared down at the shorter man, scowl ever-present, silently prodding him to elaborate. Stanheight’s expression was… almost sympathetic, but his eyes had that same strange look from before: the one that Peter couldn't place.

The kid was easy to underestimate, Peter knew it from his file and from his current involvement. He wasn't about to make that mistake with him.

“Sucks, doesn't it?” Stanheight finally said. He was muttering now, glancing once over his shoulder to ensure they were still alone. “One thing to know what they're doing and another to see them come back with blood and bits of their skin hanging off.”

Peter felt his stomach turn. “No,” he lied. “If Hoffman’s gonna be reckless and get himself killed then so be it.”

“No matter what you or anyone else thinks, I’m not stupid.” Stanheight laughed dryly. “You don't gotta lie to me, okay? I’m on team Peter here.”

“Are we forgetting that you’re one of ‘them’ too?” Peter steeled his gaze, unamused.

Stanheight grimaced. “I mean- kind of. Not really.”

“‘Not really?’ What’s that mean?”

“I- like- like I’m with them but I’m not one of them. Old Johnny-boy has never and will never give a shit about me. Not exactly in the running to be his heir or whatever the others think will happen.” Stanheight huffed, rolling his eyes as he explained. “Pretty sure he wouldn't even notice if I went missing if it weren't for the pictures ‘n schedules I go and get for him.”

Peter is quiet for a moment.

“Why stick around?” He asked softly, already knowing the answer.

The kid just snorted in lieu of answering, and the two fell into silence once more for a couple of seconds.

“Glad that Mark has you.” Stanheight suddenly murmured, thoughtful.

“He does not ‘have me’.”

“Maybe you can knock some sense into him.”

Peter scoffed, looking elsewhere. “You’re frustrating, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.” Stanheight laughed, “I’m not kidding, though. It always freaks me out how Mark gets when he’s like…”

Raising a brow, Peter waited for him to sort out his thoughts.

“Like, when he gets hurt, right? He just- just runs off. Or he’ll go and get hammered on the other side of town and when we find him he’s a mess.”

At that, Peter’s shoulders went rigid. He was aware of Mark’s habits, his unhealthy coping mechanism. He hadn't thought about who else might know, how deeply it might run. He hadn't thought about how often Mark must be alone.

When he looked back at Stanheight, he realized the kid was staring at him intently. There was concern in his expression, but also something fierce.

“John’s really messed him up. Worse than he was before all of this.” His voice was low, almost cautious. “All of them. Lawrence, Mark, Mandy, none of them deserve this. You know that, right?”

Peter’s mouth felt dry. “I…”

Straightening up again, Stanheight stepped closer to Peter. Before he could see it coming, a smaller hand took his own and held it, inspecting it. “I think Mark needs you.” He said, “maybe all of us do. So you gotta take care of yourself too.”

Something confused seemed to bloom in his chest then, an uncertain warmth that he could feel rise up to his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again when he couldn't decide on anything to say.

“Just think about it, ‘kay?” Stanheight let go of his hand again and started to leave the kitchen, pausing for just a moment to look back at him. “Oh, one more thing.”

“What is it?” Peter’s voice was hoarse.

Stanheight gave him a grin that didn't meet his eyes. “Welcome to the family.”

Then he was gone, Peter’s protest to that statement dying on his lips, and Peter was left to think on everything he said.

Hoffman needing him. Hoffman hiding himself away in dark corners to nurse his wounds. Improperly set bones and too much bandage.

Stray cats.

Peter’s family used to have cats. His sister’s cat had been an old, white, raggedy thing that she named Alfredo. When Alfredo passed away, he had hidden under the bed and refused to come out. Peter thinks he remembers reading somewhere that pets do that on purpose, so their humans don't have to see them die, but it's been years and his animal knowledge is limited.

Peter wondered how hard it is to socialize a stray cat. To reintroduce it to domesticity.

He stepped out of the kitchen, lingering at the entryway, and watched the apprentices from where he stood. Gordon seemed to have finished with Hoffman’s leg, speaking to him in a quieter tone than before. To his surprise, Hoffman looked like he was listening. Stanheight was on the couch with them now, leaning his head onto Gordon’s shoulder.

Peter found that he wished he could freeze this moment with the three of them in it. The bubble of safety that was his living room felt far away from everything Jigsaw. Maybe they were always meant to be here, on soft furniture, and not crouching amongst rusted pipes and jagged metal.

Tamed. Domesticated.

He sighed through his nose and walked around the couch, three sets of clever eyes on him again as he caught their attention. Now that he was there, he could see that Dr. Gordon had just begun to wrap up Hoffman’s leg and he silently motioned to ask for the gauze, kneeling down between them.

Understanding the gesture, Gordon handed it over, smiling at Peter warmly enough to raise his body temperature by a degree.

“Strahm-” Hoffman started, bewildered, but Peter simply began wrapping his leg neatly.

“Shut up.” He grunted. “Let me help you, stupid.”

#saw #coffinchain #chainshipping #hoffstrahm #coffinshipping #hoffstrahmdonheight #asks #jennilah #I LOVE YOU JENNA I'M SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG #these are supposed to be short fics . uhhhhhhhh #i prommy i'll get better at this whole ficlet thing #anyways god i hope any of you like this bc i already hate it LMAOOO it's mostly dialogue and idk if it's anything #oh well #sometimes you write 3k words and then just go 'this sucks' and post it anyways #could've been softer given the song i rolled BUT i wanted to ease y'all in since this is technically my first posted coffinchain fic #pls tell me if you do like it ;w; and also don't be afraid to keep sending ships/characters bc i'm still up for this song lyric prompt #writing #fanfic #peter strahm #mark hoffman #adam faulkner stanheight #lawrence gordon #ughgg i love them. i really love them i wish i could do them more justice than this

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