#or rip ur hand up if it’s less gentle/chill

[comfortless]

AHH I was the anon from the Bear!Ko ask ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ I adore it so much like I’m kicking my feet and twirling my hair your ideas are CHEFS KISS AND IM GLAD YOU LIKED THE PROMPTT

Definitely not excited that you’re considering more hybrid stuff.. TEEHEE ʕ •́؈•̀ ₎

BUT YEAH JUST THOUGHT TO DROP SOMETHING NEW CUZ WHY NOT! Maybe Ko being deployed on a mission to some wild terrain, having to camp out on the grounds for a while by himself. Reader taking interest in the behemoth and toying with him until he finds out they’re a fae or nymph

Or a game of hide and seek.. in the dark.. with him.. maybe even a wolf!ko

ONCE AGAIN ID LOVE TO SEE YOU WORK UR MAGIC ON THESE IDEAS (｡♥‿♥｡)

hi, 🧸!! working on something with a lycanthrope Kö at the moment, but this is… well it is something! i adore the idea of König with a cute (insatiable) nymph!! definitely give @cookiepie111’s Drink From The Leche of Sirens a read if you haven’t already. <3

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. fae nonsense (reader is a tree nymph), vague smut.

It isn’t that he ever intended to be here, not really. Simple surveillance, Fender had told him. Any knowing soldier would recognize the equipment that did not even need hands to tend to it, the cameras that should be set and monitored, and yet there were none in place here— just König, a loaded gun, and the stillness of the forest that seemed to stretch ever onward.

There’s been a lapse for the past week, with Kortac’s most adept at retrieving information out seeking just that, off with their radios constantly abuzz and adrenaline running rampant through their veins.

There’s an envy harbored somewhere in the back of his skull, twittering and hissing when he thinks on it too much… shelved for an uncharacteristic mistake to be left here amongst plants and scattered animal sounds, a temporary solace that would be ripped away when something new came through the chain of command; an overabundance of the very things he would care to think less about.

König hasn’t seen another person in days, not out here, tracking a vehicle carrying supposed smuggled weapons. There are no tire tracks, not even air traffic passing above: only gloom, loneliness, and the chill of early spring.

Then the abandoned house, where he takes refuge. It’s dated: the furniture all in various states of disarray, shattered porcelain about the kitchen and vaulted ceilings so high he doesn’t even need to bother with ducking to cross from room to room. It’s old on the exterior, stately, with vines creeping up its walls to reach the warmest height to bloom. Though internally, it is clear the place has not been left to rot for long: no loose boards, no holes in the ceiling or floor, just seemingly preserved somehow, as though time itself had come to still.

He doesn’t mind the daily patrols through the forest, the pensive stalking and creeping to find any hint of what he was after. Even through the night, when sleep forgets to lure him in for warmth and comfort amidst the pollen and silence, the walking never seems to grate on him.

There are lights, often, amongst the trees, faint pulses of glowing white that dissipate the moment his gaze sweeps over them. He’s read the fairytales as a child, even witnessed Conor get so drunk once that he shared his own tales of the ‘wee folk’, but König would feel a fool to believe any of that at face value. Most of his own kind were not interested in him, shying away with laughter or pitying gazes the moment he approached, so why would anything else be drawn to a man who could never quite scrub the blood from his fingernails or keep a conversation from spinning out into silence and uneasy glances?

It’s during one of these nightly walks that he first sees her, a vision bathed beneath the milky glow of the moon, ethereal, yet still nothing short of a proper blessing from the earth. Despite the distance from his path to her own, her body looks soft, bare and gentle. The growing thorns and clusters of ivy do not scrape her, only gently pull aside as she walks, tender and swaying like the petals sprung up from the plants for little fingers ghost over.

He only thinks that, assuredly, he’s lost his mind. The vision fades away when she looks at him, curls her lips into a smile… and then it is all gone. She leaves not a trace, no footprints indented into the soil he knows he had only just watched her tread. The flowers he saw her pull into being have vanished, too. All that remains is a dulled aura of dread, a strange thing that he has not felt in years, if ever at all.

König does not think of the woman until she appears again, during the day amidst the leaves of a sprawling sycamore. She lies against the bark, body resting over a healthy branch where she sleeps in a position so demure it sets his heart ablaze. The breeze caresses her hair, something he wishes to feel beneath his own fingertips; it whistles over her bare skin while the sun bathes her in rays of gold, filtered out through pinprick partings in the leaves, begs, pleads for him to touch. Forbidden fruit, too lofty to touch, too dainty for ash and blood.

He only walks away, carries on with the focus of his mission, reminds himself of every time that he’s sought some semblance of companionship and how those escapades had all simmered down to nothing but taunting echoes for sleepless nights. There was no need for any more ghosts, not even the pretty ones.

With nothing else in sight, he returns to that house where time halts and loses himself to want; swallows dry when he frees himself of his buckle and pulls out his growing erection. A release and an expelling of memory all in one.

He thinks of her, of her graceful walk amidst the darkened woods, of the way she lay, perfectly unscathed and beautiful, unknowing of any thing that plagues him, scatters from his grim expression right down to his very marrow. The imaginings… he would never speak of them, perhaps would only have the information pried from him that he thought of her smile when he spilled himself into his palm, but only if she came to beg for it with a voice he imagines must be tree sticky and sweet like warmed honey. Only if she came for him.

There lies a meadow just past an abrupt opening in the tree line, small and subdued by outstretched branches that curl over the grass and wildflowers still yet to bloom. No chill lingers here, as though summer stretches over the little glade and settles atop it with its warmth, masks even the little pond that does not seem to carry the same frosted panes of ice that the others he had seen do. There is fruit, puny red berries and hefty pears causing their limbs to bend, gently set them down for the earth and all of the animals roaming about to eat.

And he knows he’s stumbled upon her home.

He finds his voice when she peeks at him from behind the trunk, wide-eyed and curious with the softest curl about her lips, playful but tentative.

“Hallo,” he whispers, raising his gloved hand as if to wave, but curling his fingers into his palm instead. He’s horribly uncertain, caught between the alarming thought that he’s dealing with some perturbing nudist or something… else entirely.

“Hello,” she says, almost shy as she unveils herself from behind the tree, takes a step toward him with a tender look in her eyes and a long draw of breath. Sets his nerves at ease with her silent admittance that she, too, at least seemed wary.

König immediately tells her why he’s here, not in full detail, sparing the poor doe the tedium and the confidential bits that would likely only make her head spin, and then… he mentions how he had seen her, how the forest seemed to yield to her whims, her dancing beneath the moon that appeared to shine only for her. He gives her a curious look, undetectable beneath the darkened hood, pleads for her to explain in his own silent sort of way.

“I have seen you too,” she says instead, curling her arms behind her back, pushing out her chest, and… he doesn’t think to ask any further.

She’s the loveliest thing that he has ever seen or felt: places herself right into his lap when she guides him down to the grass. There’s sap on her fingertips when she presses them to his lips, curiously grazing them over his mouth as he speaks to her about the forest, a forest he’s already deemed to be her own, obscure princess that she was. She giggles when he dares to lick over each intruding digit, even gives a shaky, soft sigh when he suckles at one.

The nymph whispers things into his ear that he’s never heard before: things about each sprouting plant, of other things that hide away in the shade beneath branches and how they had all seen him too, about the earth and life and softer secrets about her beloved tree. Home and love without ever daring to speak words so simple. She does not ask about the dreadful things he does not think about, only lies back in the grass when he praises her beauty and the lovely notes of her voice.

He thinks for a moment that he should not touch her, should not have her grace wasted on something like him, but she rises up only enough to kiss him through the hood and he finds himself tugged down to tickling blades of grass and his mind finally does quiet.

She cradles him close as he claims her love for his own, steals sap from her lips and follows her sighs to a comforting oblivion. Her hands find his neck, his shoulders to offer gentle touches, tracing patterns like the intricate twisting of vines against his flesh all while he praises their union, her sweetness.

He doesn’t know how long he’s spent with her, the day seems to to stretch on for an eternity with the sun high above, but when he wakes… he is back inside of the old, quiet house, lying in the bed he knows with a certainty that he’s never even touched. Fender’s voice is calling to him over the radio, clipped and demanding for a report, one that proves nothing at all, a barrage of words filled with wonder and bliss with no intel on the mission.

And König isn’t shocked by the leave he’s given once he does return to base the following day. Three weeks time would be just enough to clear his head, regain his focus, pull money from his account to purchase that lonesome old house in the forest. He couldn’t bare the thought of never seeing such an angel again, never hearing the soft chittering of her voice or being blessed with the feeling of her beneath him, intertwined like the vines she so loved.

[rosebuds-painted-my-cats]

I love this website cause unlike other websites that leave character limits on everything on Tumblr I can go in the tags and ramble about interacting with cats for 2 paragraphs and nothing will stop me

[beca-mitchell]

if ur feeling it, i’d Love to see what you do with 33 from the prompt list!

this life, what if it’s you and me? (1/1)

summary: Chloe’s wedding day. 

word count: 2.7k

to fulfill prompt 33: i missed something, didn’t i? (title from “crowded places” by banks) 

“Are you really going to try dating him?”

Piercing blue eyes search her own, inquisitively. The question, innocent on its face, hangs above them.

Beca fears she might have revealed too much, far too soon. She never planned on revealing anything at all.

“Why do you ask?”

Hanging there in the precipice, always between something more and something that resembles nothing at all, Beca turns from the crossroads.

“No, I…no reason. I’m happy for you, Chlo. I swear.”

“Ugh,” Beca groans, burying her face into her pillow. Somewhere, her alarm rings, likely knocked off her bedside after the previous night’s drunken activities. She has vague memory of how she stumbled home after the bar, but beyond that, nothing stands out with startling clarity. Or her head is doing a bang-up job of censoring her memories for her.

That’s fine, Beca thinks. One less problem to deal with.

One and a half years later and the question still haunts her. Both questions haunt her: one for revealing her innermost secrets, and the other for providing an opportunity which she decided to avoid.

She still thinks about asking Chloe that question at all, but she had to know. She wonders what would have happened if she never asked Chloe at all – or, maybe, if she never turned the corner at that moment to see Chloe firmly in a liplock with Chicago.

Now, all she knows is that Chloe wanted – Chloe chose Chicago – and that was all the certainty Beca needed.

That was it. Chloe didn’t want her then and definitely not now – not while she runs herself ragged trying to prepare for a wedding to end all weddings (as per Aubrey, who is Chloe’s maid of honor).

When Beca first received the wedding invite, she had locked herself in her apartment, too shocked to even call somebody to talk about it. At least, in her own home, she could cry about it and drink as much as she needed to without judgment from prying eyes.

Beca preferred the solitude. She still does.

But, God, did it hurt.

It still does.

Beca pours herself the largest possible mug of coffee available and inhales the aroma greedily trying to wipe the ebbs of sleep from her mind.

She figures she needs as much help as she can get, considering she has to go to Chloe’s honest-to-God wedding today.

It’s today.

Her traitorous mind tiredly runs through the same routine: every moment she shared with Chloe in school, every crackle of chemistry, he sly glances and soft touches that lingered just a bit too long…Beca always thought they probably didn’t mean anything, but a small part of her hoped, while a larger part of her ignored out of fear that she was reading too much into it.

The fear was temporary, fleeting.

Now, the smaller part of her – the one that held so much hope – is permanently crushed at the confirmation that Chloe didn’t want her at all.

A heartbroken sob escapes and Beca hastily swipes at the lone tear that escapes her eye. She quickly leans heavily on the counter and breathes out through her mouth for a few moments, applying pressure to her eyes. “Stop,” she mumbles.

“You mean the world to me, Beca. I would love if you were my maid of honor.”

“Stop,” she whispers again. “Please, stop.”

“…I can’t…”

She has made so many mistakes in her life.

She can only learn to live with them.

Beca is startled out of the a lazy mix she had been working on by a series of short, determined knocks on her door. Glancing at her watch, she groans.

She’s definitely late for something per Aubrey’s detailed schedule. She just can’t be bothered.

Five quick strides and she rips open the door, not wanting to hear Aubrey’s tirade or recital of events for the day.

She doesn’t need to be reminded.

“What do you…” Her voice cuts off abruptly as she quickly takes in biggest, most expressive pair of blue eyes she had ever seen, eyes that stare back at her in surprise and shock.

“Beca,” Chloe says softly.

Beca swallows. “Why are you here?”

“To see you,” Chloe answers quietly as she takes in Beca’s bedraggled state. She notes the redness around Beca’s eyes as well and takes a deep breath to steady herself, feeling something in her chest respond in kind to Beca’s evident distress. “Beca, what’s wrong?”

Chloe tries to come up with a reason why Beca is so upset, but every reason seems crazier than the last.

When Aubrey noted that Beca declined the breakfast/brunch she had prepared, Chloe had been worried and ducked out early, citing a family emergency.

It isn’t a lie exactly – Beca is family. She always will be.

“Well, here I am,” Beca mutters, ignoring the second question.

“Uh, yeah,” Chloe says, for once at a loss for words. Concern and sadness rise up in her as she takes in Beca’s shattered state, though she notes at the back of her mind that Beca still looks beautiful. “You can talk to me, Bec,” Chloe says, adopting a gentler tone. She hesitates in the doorway, glancing at Beca meaningfully, nearly begging to be let in.

Beca barely resists from rolling her eyes. “In or out, Chloe. Just shut the door behind you.” She walks back into her living room and sits on the couch where she had been perched earlier.

Chloe silently follows Beca into the apartment, closing the door after herself. “Thank you.”

Beca scrubs her face with her hands, buying some time so she doesn’t lash out at Chloe. When she looks up at Chloe again, all she sees is love and a gentleness that only breaks her heart even more. She scrapes at the million tiny pieces of her heart and holds them protectively. “What do you want, Chloe?”

“Aubrey was concerned that-” Chloe swallows at the lie. “No, sorry. I was concerned that something happened to you. After last night-”

Beca pauses. “What happened last night?” she asks slowly. A funny sensation rises up in her throat as the faintest of memories assaults her senses.

“God, your voicemail again.”

“You called me.”

No.

“I didn’t,” Beca replies immediately. Instinctively.

“Don’t marry him, Chloe. Please. Please, I’m begging now. I don’t know what else to do.”

“Fuck,” she mumbles one the memory hits her at full force with startling clarity.

Chloe looks stricken, hovering nervously by the end of the couch. “Beca, why?”

“Why what?” Beca asks tiredly. There are too many questions that require answers and Beca has long run out of responses.

The quiet question spurs Chloe forward and she steps just beside Beca. Their legs could touch ever so slightly. Beca can feel the warmth radiating from Chloe’s body. Chloe’s question, however, sends a chill down her spine. “I…I missed something, didn’t I?”

Beca shakes her head and runs a hand through her hair. She needs a fucking shower. “It doesn’t matter, Chloe.”

“It does,” Chloe pushes, dropping to her knees by the couch. “Beca, please. There was a reason you called me last night. Last night of all things. There was something you needed to say to me.”

Beca thinks she’s said everything she could possibly say.

(But she knows that’s a lie. There’s so much more.)

“You’re marrying Chicago today, Chloe,” Beca mutters. Chloe clamps her mouth shut, in the middle of protesting. “You’re marrying him and that’s that, isn’t it? There doesn’t need to be anything more to it. There isn’t anything more to it,” Beca stresses. She picks up her headphones from the table. “I’m busy. I’ll see you later, okay?”

“But you don’t want me to marry him,” Chloe says, light strain in her voice. “You said so yourself last night.”

Beca grits her teeth. “I was drunk.”

“Why?”

“Why was I drunk?”

Chloe’s patience thins. “Why don’t you want me to marry him?”

God, Chloe is fucking persistent.

Beca’s closes her eyes, not wanting to see Chloe’s fucking light beam eyes directed on her. “It doesn’t matter, Chlo.” Even the nickname makes her heart clench.

“It does matter because you matter to me, Bec. I want to know what you think.”

“No, I don’t,” Beca mutters. “No, you don’t,” she adds, hearing Chloe’s sharp inhale.

Chloe thinks of the girl she met all those years ago – the one with the quick wit and breathtaking sarcasm. It felt refreshing to see somebody who looked straight at her and saw her for everything she was – faults and all. Beca had been exactly what she needed and Chloe hadn’t needed anything more for almost ten years.

For ten years, she had waited silently, wondering if maybe Beca felt something more for her.

Until finally she had enough.

(Most days she thinks of Beca and how she could have never had Beca anyway. She mutes her voice of reason – oddly a voice that sounds like Aubrey’s voice – and goes on with her day. At least Chicago wanted her and wanted to marry her and he wasn’t afraid to show it.

Chloe thinks her own cowardice has less to do with it all. She hopes, at least. She always hopes.)

Seeing Beca this distressed, the tiny ember of hope flares to life again, paired neatly alongside Chloe’s own pain at seeing Beca so hurt.

She needs to know if Beca wants her.

She has to know because she feels like she missed something crucial along the way.

“Yes, I do. I want to know why. Please tell me what I missed.” Chloe murmurs, finally giving into her desire to reach out to Beca. She puts a hesitant hand on Beca’s knee, wondering if Beca will lash out, but she knows that Beca wouldn’t do anything that could hurt her. She rubs a thumb over smooth skin, marveling briefly at how soft Beca’s skin is.

A small tremble runs through Beca’s body.

“Chlo, stop,” Beca says, finally pushing Chloe’s hand away.

“Please,” Chloe whispers. “Help me understand.”

Beca can’t do it. She refuses.

To put voice to the words…there would be no going back after that. For as much as she wants to hold Chloe and kiss her and claim her as her own like she so desperately wants, she can’t.

She can’t.

“Don’t,” Beca chokes out. The hand on her leg refuses to be displaced. “Please just go.”

Chloe’s heart thuds at the utter devastation evident on Beca’s face and she pushes herself up off the floor to daringly sit directly in front of the brunette on the couch. She takes a quick breath before reaching out for Beca delicately. She wonders where she can touch Beca, finally settling on her shoulder, then her neck, letting her fingers skate lightly across Beca’s neck until she is able to thread her fingers through soft hairs. She squeezes Beca’s knee encouragingly with her other hand. “Look at me. You can trust me.”

Beca shakes her head. “I can’t,” she says very quietly.

“You can,” Chloe murmurs, hurt rushing through her at the thought of Beca not being able to trust her, even if she’s not sure what Beca responding to. “Come on, Bec. Look at me, please.”

While she was certain that her heart couldn’t break any more, hearing that nickname fall from Chloe’s lips so tenderly completely breaks her resolve. She inhales deeply, finally forcing herself to look at Chloe’s eyes. Big blue eyes – soft affection, quiet longing – stare back at her imploringly.

“Hey, you,” Chloe murmurs. “There you are.” She smiles at Beca in a reassuring way before she reaches for Beca’s hand to give it a light squeeze. Beca’s eyelids flutter as they naturally grow to hold hands delicately, making the smile on Chloe’s face widen. “Why?”

“Why are you so insistent about this?” Beca asks in quiet defeat as she stares resignedly into Chloe’s bright blue eyes, now glistening more with unshed tears. “Why does it matter?”

Chloe has long known that Beca’s stubborn streak often won out. If Beca, in this moment, chooses to stay silent, Chloe knows she has no chance. But she feels a crack in Beca’s façade. It’s as big as the crack in Chloe’s restraint, so she finally lets go. “I need to know if you feel this too.”

Beca startles, her leg twitching as if she’s barely restraining herself from jumping up from the couch. “Chloe…”

She doesn’t need to ask what ‘this’ is. She knows because it bubbles up in her chest, out of her control.

“Please, Beca,” Chloe murmurs, scooting forward she’s pressed closer to Beca’s leg. She tilts her head so she’s facing Beca head-on and she sucks in a breath at the intimacy of their positions. They’re so close that she can count Beca’s eyelashes. She reaches up tentatively with her hand to trace over Beca’s lips with her finger.

(It is fitting – so fitting – that Chloe finds herself on her knees in front of Beca Mitchell, asking for something – anything – to make her stay. She just wants to stay.)

The feeling of Chloe’s finger on her lips is her downfall. “I feel it. I feel it all so much. These feelings for you,” she murmurs. Chloe’s wandering cradles her face tenderly and she can’t help but to turn into Chloe’s gentle touch, hastily soaking in all the warmth and committing the feeling to memory.

“Me too,” Chloe whispers, stroking Beca’s cheek with her thumb.

Soft.

“Oh, Beca,” she breathes out and watches Beca’s eyes flutter shut, concealing her favorite blue for just a moment.

Uncaring and no longer able to restrain herself, she wraps her arms around Beca’s shoulders, pulling her into an embrace. The naturalness of their positions however, sends warmth and happiness through Chloe’s body as Beca’s entire body seems to melt into her own.

“That’s what you missed,” Beca murmurs in a small, broken voice as she wraps her arms around Chloe’s waist to holds her close. She wonders if this is the last time and inhales a little greedily before pressing her lips against Chloe’s neck.

Chloe’s hand continues to stroke soothingly up her back and neck, lulling Beca into a peaceful state. It sends pleasurable tingles up her spine and she shivers, pressing another, firmer kiss against Chloe’s neck. It’s not quite the most comfortable hug due to their positions on the couch, but Beca is reluctant to let go. She can’t let go.

Chloe whimpers quietly at the sensation of Beca’s lips against her neck and gently urges Beca backwards. “Beca…”

“Don’t marry him, Chloe.”

An echo of the previous night’s drunken voicemail, but this time with sober clarity.

“Why?” Chloe asks before she can stop herself.

Beca smiles, seeing the truth shining in Chloe’s eyes. Still, she finally puts her entire heart on the line. “Because I love you. I love you and I swear to you that I will do everything within my power to make you happy. Let me love you – let me just show you how - and, God, please say that you’ll love me in return.”

Chloe thinks she should say something in return, but all she feels is a sob bubbling up from between her lips. She opens her mouth to say something, but nothing comes and she blinks back her own tears of disappointment, not quite believing that Beca has managed to render her speechless.

Instead, she shakes her head, reaching up to pull Beca down for a kiss, heavy with both joy and relief. It is sweet, lingering, and soft as Beca’s hands come up to tangle in her hair.

I love you, too.

Chloe exhales shakily, letting Beca rest her forehead against hers once they pull apart. A light, pleased blush tints both their cheeks as Beca’s thumb traces over her cheekbone so tenderly that it makes Chloe want to cry. “Don’t marry him,” Beca says softly, almost like an echo of a distant dream.

“I won’t,” Chloe responds, finally.

Tears spring to Beca’s eyes and she tugs Chloe up so that they’re both sitting on the edge of the couch. “Are you in love with me, too?”

The ‘too’ isn’t lost on Chloe and she laughs a little breathlessly, wondering how her day turned out this way.

“I always have been, Beca.”

fin / fic tag