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itsuki-minamy · 2 years ago

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RED CASE FILES: HOMRA IN LAS VEGAS

CHAPTER 12: MADNESS, ILLUSION, AND HIS FUTURE

* List of Chapters

Translation: Naru-kun Raws: Ridia

Ed took a step forward, planting his feet firmly on the grass.

Suoh looked at Ed with eyes that showed no emotion. He looked at the kicking steel giant and jumped from there to face Ed. He put his hands on the back of his neck, cracked his joints and asked.

"Who are you?"

Ed responded with a flash of hate.

"I am a member of the "Purgatory" clan, Edward The Red. I have come to eliminate you."

Suoh tilted his head. It is possible that he did not understand what he said to him in English. Either one would do. Ed hadn't come to chat.

His right arm burned with a roar.

Edward's "stigmata" were supposed to be on his right hand. The four fingers torn off by the Kagutsu installation, and the flames that spewed from them, were his proof and weapon.

Flames were now engulfing Ed's right arm. Even the heat pain that was driving him crazy at the moment was numbing and he couldn't feel it. No pain, no sensation, but the burning arm moved as Ed intended. It was hot, strong and fierce, incomparable with the flames of the past.

Ed interpreted it as gospel. It was given to him by Kagutsu in Hell to punish the one he pretended to be the "Red King".

Clenching his fiery fist in front of his face, Ed muttered.

"You will die."

Then Ed swung his right arm out to the side.

The distance between them was about 10 meters. Rippled flames spread out like a snake's neck and attacked the sides of Suoh's head.

Suoh slightly widened his eyes and raised his right arm.

With a dull sound, the flame attack was blocked.

Ed smiled.

Using Suoh's arm as a fulcrum, the flame arm extended further. The same movement as a throwing weight ball that entangles the prey. The rope-like flames wrapped around Suoh's body, blocking his movement, that was supposed to be the case.

This time Suoh laughed.

He was blowing a hot wind. A hurricane of auras containing destructive power ripped away the fire rope and hit Ed from 10 meters away. Ed reflexively blocked it with his meat arm.

When he lowered his arm, he saw Suoh's face in front of him.

Something exploded around his plexus. Heaven and earth spun in his field of vision, and intense pain, fierce nausea, and acceleration attacked him at the same time. It was as if the shock of being hit by a car a while ago had been multiplied tenfold.

Before long, Ed landed on his back in the street, bounced, and landed face down. Unable to contain the gushing out of him, Ed sprayed the area with gastric juices.

"Gah, uh..."

Supporting his body with his bare arms, Ed sat up.

Suoh didn't go after him. He just looked at Ed curiously.

If he had wanted to, he could have punched a hole in Ed's stomach.

He was taking it easy. Those words made Ed's hatred boil even more.

"Damn! This must be a joke!"

With a cloudy and angry voice, Ed raised his flaming arm.

The arms of flames spread out in a parabola and rained down on Suoh. Suoh stepped back a bit to avoid it, but the fist exploded as he crashed to the ground, spreading flames all around him.

However, the exploding flames were drowned out by Suoh's overwhelming aura. Let alone the skin, even burning down downy hairs did not come true.

Suoh raised his leg and stomped on the fiery fist.

The sensation of his own aura being eroded by someone else's aura, Ed gritted his teeth at the pseudo-severe pain. As he did so, Ed forced the fire fist to regenerate. Five flaming claws tried to dig into Suoh's ankle.

Suoh took a step forward.

It wasn't even an attack. It was like putting out a cigarette that was dropped on the ground, crushing it. With just that action, the fiery fist flew out, creating a crater in the grass with a loud sound.

With sweat dripping from his face, Ed raised his eyes and looked at Suoh.

Elephants and ants. Hawks and winged insects. "King" and Clansman.

The difference in strength between them was so overwhelming that there was no place to think about it. Genji Kagutsu and Jin Habari. Ed, who had witnessed the two "Kings" before, knew this very well.

If Kagutsu was his opponent, there wouldn't even be dust left.

If Habari was his opponent, his neck would already be completely severed from his torso.

The fact that he was still alive made him angry more than anything else.

"GAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

With a roar, Ed stamped his feet. He hardened his fiery fist and punched right.

He was blocked with one hand.

Suoh's eyes were far from the strain of battle as he looked closely. Discomfort and suspicion. The look in the eyes of a lion chased by a fly seemed to disgust him.

Suoh's fist hit Ed's side.

"Guh..."

His toes kicked into his face, and he groaned and looked down. The sensation disappeared from the neck up, and Ed wasn't quite sure what was happening to him.

Before he knew it, the night sky was reflected in his field of vision.

Looking towards the distant "Sword of Damocles", not even a fragment of it floated.

Walking slowly towards him, Suoh stared at Ed's face. The disgust was gone, and only doubts appeared on his face.

Moving his bloody lips, Ed tried to curse Suoh.

"......"

He could not. Like a dying goldfish, he just bounced and no voice came out of his mouth.

Even so, it seemed that Suoh understood his intentions. He bowed his head and said...

"Do you want to die?"

Ed's bloody lips gave a slight smile.

"That's right."

Ed wanted to die.

He didn't want to survive, he just wanted to die. Not once in the last 10 years had that thought disappeared.

He traveled to the United States, fought countless mobsters, and reigned as the anonymous king of Las Vegas. The whole thing seemed meaningless to Ed. There was nothing quite like it when he went berserk as a member of the "Purgatory" clan. There were no chills like when he faced the strong men of "Scepter 4". He just lived... That was it, life was like coals.

That's why he wanted to end all of that quickly. May all life shine like them, and fall spectacularly against the false "Red King".

Ed focused all of his attention on his missing right arm. A small amount of flames escaped from his charred shoulder. A weak flame that was less than the flame of a lighter. Still, that was all Ed could do at the moment.

Suoh narrowed his eyes.

The aura gathered in that fist. A glowing red symbol of power.

Suoh finally got it. Ed would never stop. As long as he lives, he will always target Suoh and spread destruction and chaos.

Ed stared at the glowing red fist, signaling the end of himself.

A shot rang out.

Suoh widened his eyes slightly.

Of course, the bullet didn't hit Suoh. Due to the probability deflection field, normal weapons are not effective against psychics. Also, if the opponent is the "King", then a mere bullet is meaningless.

Suoh calmly turned his face away. Ed also looked at him unintentionally with only his eyes.

A woman with long black hair and brown skin trembled as she held a gun.

She was Maria.

She was shaking, tears welling up in her blue eyes. It must be terrifying. Despite being a lover of the mafia, she had never tasted chaos. She was the type of woman who was afraid to even touch a gun, even though she was given a gun to defend herself. Cowardly, obedient, just a woman. Even if she was wrong, she was not a good person to be in that place.

She pointed her swinging muzzle at the "King".

A voice filled with fear issued from Maria's mouth.

"Y-Y-Y-You... Get away!"

Contrary to that resolution, Maria's appearance was comical. Her presence made no sense here. Pointless resolution, pointless weapons, pointless threats. He wondered if Maria knew.

If he hadn't been crushed, Ed would have been huffing and puffing. Turning his gaze to Suoh, he finally made a voice that he could do.

"Keep going."

Suoh also looked at Ed again. Suoh must have been aware that his existence was meaningless. Raise your fist and lower it. With just that, all the troubles that bothered Suoh would end.

A series of shots rang out.

All the bullets flew in the same direction.

Although he was on the verge of death, Ed was stunned. Even without the deflecting probability field, Suoh would not have been hit even once. It might be unavoidable if it was shot by a woman he had never trained and was shaking with fear.

But...

The aura disappeared from Suoh's fist.

"......?!"

After that, Suoh seemed to have lost interest in both Ed and Maria. He turned around, crossed the golf course, and walked slowly toward the trees in the distance.

Ed distorted his face and put all his strength into getting up.

As he tried to stand up, his legs lost strength. With both knees and one hand on the ground, he barely supported his body. Maria ran over, but Ed didn't even look at her and yelled at Suoh's back.

"Wait!! Hey, where are you going?! Aren't you going to kill me?!"

Suoh didn't even stop walking.

He just took his hand out of his pocket and waved it around.

A dark killing intent grew inside Ed. Kill. He did what he did. Thinking so, he tried to run, but his legs didn't have enough strength. Like that dream trying to catch up with the funeral procession. There was a back in front of him that he really wanted to reach for, but his body wasn't listening to what he was saying.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it!"

Slamming his forehead into the ground, Ed screamed as if he was vomiting blood. The night wind blew like a fool, and the scattered grass brushed his ear.

A woman's tearful voice could be heard mixed with the sound.

"Ed, stop it, Ed!"

The swollen killing intent found a place to go.

As Ed watched, Maria wore an unmistakable expression of fear. As if facing a monster, she placed her buttocks on her back and stepped back.

It was a distance that he could reach if he stretched out his arm. A woman's thin neck can be tightened without using special powers.

There was a good reason to do it. That woman got in his way. She botched the fight with Suoh and wasted the precious opportunity. That alone was worth dying for. He should have killed her and he wanted to.

Five fingers bent into hooks were about to reach for Maria's neck, but stopped halfway.

He heard a voice telling him to kill her.

Would he kill his own woman for his revenge because he was no match for the "Red King"?

Is that the meaning of not being able to die and having lived until now?

The trembling fingers finally lost their strength and fell.

"Guuuuh!

Covering his face with his hands, Ed crouched down and let out a bloody sob.

++++++++++

Mizuchi was crawling in the dark.

The eye chamber was broken a long time ago, and he didn't know what was happening around him. The ground, which had been grass until a while ago, now had the feel of wet earth. Could he escape through the trees? It would all be over if Suoh chased after him, but that was no reason not to run away.

In the darkness, Mizuchi muttered.

"Fufufu... Thank you, Mr. Edward... I appreciate it..."

He did not despair. The "golden" dream he pursued, the "king-slaying" dream, glowed brightly even in the dark. Survive by crawling or drinking muddy water. Then he would move towards his goal. Mizuchi knew that repetition was the only way to make his dreams come true.

Brilliant wisdom and talent. The only way to polish it was with his bare hands.

(That's right, master! Do your best!)

(You're almost there! Survive!)

(You do it for us too!)

In his ear, "Grasshopper II", "Fireworks Master II" and "Piercer Mark II" encouraged him.

"Oh...! Thank you, thank you all... I'm sure I will...!"

Even as he climbed up the tree roots and buried his face in the mud, Mizuchi was still smiling.

Someone would find Mizuchi, if he could just crawl to the main street. Since America is a civilized nation, an ambulance would come to help a person who is covered in blood and falls. If that were to happen, the headquarters of operations should eventually pick up Mizuchi.

He couldn't beat the "Red King". On the contrary, he couldn't even kill one of "Homura". That is the result of a study that does not lie.

However, regardless of whether top management could understand it or not, failures were inevitable in the investigation. No, the accumulation of failure data was the very meaning of the investigation. The fruit of success was on top of that accumulation. That result was just one of the many failures that are necessary if you want to kill the "King".

Mizuchi must have conveyed that. Through his own mouth, to the people above him. That is the reason why he came to this country.

At that moment, his fingers reached out in front of him and touched something.

Hard, cold and slippery: someone's shoes.

"Mizuchi."

The voice coming from above was unmistakable. Mizuchi's lover... was Jane.

"Uh… oh, Jane. Thank God it's you. I was worried."

"What?"

With his half-destroyed face raised, Mizuchi smiled.

"I received a message from headquarters that you betrayed me, but I understand. It's a ploy to trick them, right? We are comrades with the goal of "killing the king". You can't betray me."

"......"

"Come on, take me to the headquarters. Let me explain. And then, the next strategy! It might be good to do it in Japan... I'm also interested in the "Silver King". When you say "unchangeable", how much "unchangeable"? is? If I can catch him... I'm sure I can do all kinds of experiments... Fufufufu."

A metallic sound echoed above Mizuchi, who was laughing to himself.

He didn't know what it was. The next thing he heard was Jane's voice.

"I wonder if Doctor Frankenstein felt that way."

Unable to understand the meaning, Mizuchi turned his invisible eyes towards Jane.

Jane was lying.

"It is definitely us who turned you into a monster. Your superiors may not admit it, but I do. I am definitely responsible for that."

At that expression, Mizuchi smiled.

"Huh, "Monster"... I see. Maybe that's the case. I'm sure I'm a monster."

"......"

"But, Jane. As you know, the "King" is also a monster. To kill a monster, you have to become a monster yourself. Isn't that right?"

"...That's how it is."

After sighing, Jane muttered.

"So I'll be a monster too."

And then a shot rang out.

After that, Mizuchi's consciousness, the shining "golden" dream, the most valuable battle data against the "King" that had been accumulated in the main device, all disappeared into eternal darkness.

++++++++++

Tanaka glanced at Erin as she returned from the golf course.

He didn't dare question the meaning of the shot that rang out earlier. He guessed that she did it because she said: "I'll draw a line.". And there was only one line that Erin had to draw.

Erin looked at Tanaka. They were tired eyes. Right next to the minivan parked across the street, she sat on the railing and breathed out deeply.

"It's over."

"Yes."

That's what Tanaka replied. He could only answer yes. Even with his shared interests, Erin was still an agent of another organization. The words that could be spoken were limited.

So Tanaka took a cigarette from his pocket, put it in his mouth, and lit it.

He offered the box to the surprised Erin. Erin smiled and took out a cigarette. She turned it on, inhaled and exhaled.

And so the two spies breathed in the purple smoke for a while.

"What's going on over there?"

Tanaka answered while he smoked a cigarette.

"A while ago, a Japanese diplomat contacted us. The United States said that they had no idea what was happening in Las Vegas, but said that they would do everything possible to calm him down."

Erin raised her eyebrows. She must know the meaning of the sign.

"Isn't that "investigation"?"

Tanaka chuckled slightly.

"Since the silence of the "Punching Machine Mark II" was confirmed, the United States has responded to our communications. Perhaps destroying it was their... apology, their breaking point."

A weapon to kill the "King" with a supernatural person. That's what America thought, Tanaka's icy side thought. Superpowers are always suspicious of being toppled from their thrones. The "superhuman body" that the Third Empire once envisioned was literally the "Sword of Damocles". It was kind of an instinct to look for ways to prevent it.

However, it ended in failure.

In the end, the supernatural weapon created by Mizuchi was useless against the "King". He did not know what conclusions the United States would draw from that failure. By holding them accountable, they might interfere a bit with that conclusion. That was the job of "Tokijikuin" and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

Everything he could do there was over.

Tanaka looked up at the night sky at the sound of the rotor. A military helicopter crossed the night sky diagonally. Looking at that, Tanaka asked.

"What are you going to do now?"

"I don't know."

Erin looked at the light at the end of her cigarette and responded with those words.

"There are not many paths for a traitorous agent to choose. If you stay like this in the country, you will be persecuted in the near future, and at best you will go to prison, at worst you will be eliminated. If you don't like that, why don't you change your face and name and fly abroad?"

"You mean me to go to "Tokijikuin"?"

Erin's blue eyes looked at Tanaka.

Placing his cigarette in the portable ashtray, Tanaka continued calmly.

"I knew that other countries viewed the existence of supernatural beings as a threat, but I never thought that they would use force to this extent. I need to review my expectations. The information you have will be of great help."

With a laugh, Erin tossed her cigarette onto the asphalt. She put on her shoes and laughed a self-deprecating laugh.

"If I can predict what the United States will do, I can also think of ways to avoid it. In terms of avoiding conflict, it is also for the benefit of my motherland, right?"

"......"

"I've also tried to recruit spies from other countries for my own camp. The trick is to make them believe they're doing the right thing. Half of it should be true. I'll make it easier to swallow to protect myself."

Erin pushed back from the railing and shrugged.

"If it's that simple, I won't betray you in the first place."

"That's all."

Tanaka had no choice but to reply.

Erin got into the minivan and started the engine. She asked Tanaka through the window.

"Speaking of which, how are the members of "Homura"?"

"After meeting with Suoh Mikoto, I took him to the hideout you prepared for me. As soon as it is safe to do so, we will move to another hotel."

"Actually. Please excuse me for causing you trouble."

Tanaka remained silent and nodded slightly. He was a miserable person. He combined benevolence and righteousness. If a person like her entered "Tokijikuin", the peace they wanted would have become more secure.

But her choice was her freedom.

The minivan took off slowly. The tail light went back. A blue patrol lantern and a siren approached from a distance as if to pass him. Tanaka stared at him and took out a second cigarette.

++++++++++

His body trembled and his confused awareness slowly surfaced.

"Where I am?"

When he blinked his blurry vision several times, he looked like he was in a car. It was the passenger seat of a pickup truck. When he looked to the side, Maria was driving with an exhausted look on her face.

"Guh..."

When he tried to move his body even a little, severe pain shot through him.

He gritted his teeth and endured it when he heard Maria gasp.

"Ed! Are you awake? Are you okay?!"

Ed looked at Maria. Seeing the anger in his eyes, Maria showed fear of being hit.

But even so, Maria lowered her eyes and whispered.

"I'm sorry. But I can't help…"

"......"

Ed didn't say anything either, gritting his teeth.

He knew what Maria was thinking. He supposed that she didn't want to die. It can be love, or it can be self-protection. He doesn't know what will happen to Maria if Ed dies. At least he got out of Las Vegas. "Blood & Fire" is not a loyal organization to the extent that the position of "previous boss's lover" is accepted.

No, or maybe even now...

"We'll be home soon. Good luck until then."

Ed frowned.

When he thought to tell her to stop, he had already reached a familiar section.

After stopping the car in front of the hideout, Maria got out of the driver's seat. Ed straightened up, got out of the passenger seat looking good at best, and wobbled. Maria lent her arm there.

It was nasty. He thought so reflectively. If they saw that...

"Boss. Are you okay?"

A low voice called from the shadow of the alley.

Leaning against Maria, Ed looked up. The organization's executive, Douglas, approached slowly.

An ugly burn ran down his cheek. Ed did. The other organization he once belonged to was crushed by Ed and the others, after which the surviving Douglas was recruited.

"Why are you here, Douglas?"

"I was worried about my boss. Looks like you did a good job."

Ed spent half of his life in the underworld.

It was much more important to read other people's thoughts there than in public society. You can't survive if you can't say what you want, what you're thinking, and what you're trying to do. That's why Ed relies on his sense of smell, which has survived until now.

And now, the scent emanating from Douglas was something he had smelled many times before.

Ed dared to speak bluntly.

"It's an extra help. What happened to Diego and Alan?"

"They left."

Two members appeared behind Douglas in the shadow of the alley.

He had a submachine gun in his hand.

Douglas's burns created an ugly smile.

"This bullet can also be used on psychics, right?"

Douglas pulled out a gun and pointed it at Ed.

Maria screamed. The passenger door was still not closed. Ed's damage was so severe that he couldn't grow his arms of fire in an instant. Something had to be sacrificed. Ed made an instant decision on what to sacrifice.

He grabbed Maria's shoulder with his left hand and turned his body at the same time. He let his body get between Maria and the gun. Ed pushed Maria into the passenger seat.

A shot rang out and a hammer-like discharge exploded from his back.

Blood gushed from Ed's mouth and splashed across Maria's face, who was writhing in fear and shock.

At that moment, the flame arm was finally ready.

The extraordinary arm that extended from his shoulder stretched out like a whip with a movement that was impossible for the human body, dragging the three people behind it.

Shouts and gunshots echoed down the back alley.

Ed looked ahead. His bloodstained lips were laughing. Shoulder, stomach, thorax. Despite the hail of bullets, Ed was still laughing.

"Hahahahahahaha!"

The two of them rolled on the ground, turned into balls of fire and writhed. Douglas, whose stomach was burned, his eyes widened in fear, but he still tried to aim the barrel between Ed's eyebrows. Ed burned the gun first. He then smashed his fiery fist into Douglas's face, sending flames down his throat at will.

When Douglas was extinguished, the other two had already stopped moving.

Ed got to his knees.

"Ed, Ed, Ed!"

Maria covered him from behind. The heat of tears fell on the flesh that had been torn by the bullet.

"Ha." Ed chuckled.

Is that the reason why he couldn't die until now?

To save the life of his lover with his own life. Cheesy and cliche. Anyone in "Purgatory" would laugh. That's why he couldn't die.

That was true.

That is why he had lived until now.

Maria was crying, his voice was fading. He was very pleased with that. Not because he loved Maria. It was because a conviction settled in his chest.

A funeral procession crossing the white desert.

Far, far away, the march in black receded as if they were vanishing over the horizon.

Looking at them, Ed didn't feel the impatience he had before.

Because he realized that he was not qualified to do it.

Ed was no longer in "Purgatory". That day, "Purgatory" disappeared from this world together with Genji Kagutsu.

You cannot belong to what has disappeared. You can't touch it; you can't reach it. It was just something inside Ed, with bright memories.

It took him 10 years to figure that out.

Ed closed his eyes and murmured with a small smile on his lips.

"She's so sweet I hate myself."

++++++++++

Foolishly, there were also slot machines in the departure terminal. A few people here and there were reluctantly playing slots even though they were about to become flight attendants. They wanted to make up some of the money they had lost in Las Vegas, but most of the time they were only going to widen the wound.

Looking at him with numb eyes, Fushimi leaned back in his chair and checked the ticket again.

It was business on the way there, but first on the way home. He could see the guilt of "Tokijikuin". Thanks to his clumsiness, Fushimi ended up traveling to Las Vegas. If he hadn't done at least that much, he wouldn't have been worth it.

At that moment, his PDA received a call.

After putting the ticket in his pocket, Fushimi took out his PDA, confirmed the call, and clicked his tongue. It was a name he didn't want to see as much as possible. He could have chosen to ignore it, but Fushimi took the call with a sigh, thinking it would be a bother if he found out later.

"Good morning, Fushimi-kun, oh, excuse me. It's still noon there."

"What's up, Captain?"

The reason for his dismissive tone was because the report had already been submitted. From the arrival in Las Vegas to the present, he had been sending almost every event that happened. Now that the enemy Intelligence Service had withdrawn and the incident was circulating in the media, Fushimi had nothing to say to Munakata.

However, Munakata hit a sore spot.

"What was in Tanaka-san's report was not in your final report, so I confirm it. I heard that you injured your left arm, is that true?"

"......"

That was true. Fushimi's left arm was in a cast and bandaged and dangled from his neck.

"Fushimi-kun?"

"There was a problem trying to stop the guys from "Homura"."

To be more precise, Misaki Yata's staff broke Fushimi Saruhiko's left arm, but it was too unpleasant to put into words, so he won't report it in detail.

"That's it. Then, you must file a work-related accident claim after you return home."

"I understand. Is that all?"

"That's all there is to talk about work. From now on, it will be small talk, but your activities have been spreading across the sea."

"Eh?"

At the same time, he frowned, the television in the living room played a news video.

It was a familiar image.

"The CIA cover story says that this incident was a conflict between members of the mafia, but it seems that you were unable to cover up your activities. So it seems that it was a new show at the Varangia Hotel. Congratulations on your debut in Las Vegas."

Three men fighting as if dancing in a fountain. They rained down fire, wielded glowing wands, and slashed with glowing sabers. It certainly looked like a spectacle depending on how you looked at it.

Fushimi whispered his impressions.

"This is the worst."

Munakata laughed.

"You've been unlucky for a long time. At that rate, the casino wasn't good enough, right?"

"I don't go there except for work. I didn't come here to play."

"Oh. That's a waste. Why don't you try your luck one last time? Aren't there any slot machines at the Las Vegas airport?"

Fushimi snorted.

"I'll cut it when I'm done."

"Yes. Please let me know when you get back home the result of the slot. After..."

That was it, the call was disconnected.

Fushimi tilted his lips and looked at the slot machines in the living room once more.

He supposed it wasn't an order. It was none other than Munakata who said that it was a talk. However, he could imagine that he would be the first to be asked about it when he returned to Japan, and he could also expect to be lied to at that time, or criticized for answering "I didn't.".

Just to avoid it, Fushimi got up and walked over to the slot.

He sat down at the machine and entered a dollar bill. Upon pressing the button, the reels began to spin at high speed. As it was, Fushimi randomly pressed the button three times.

The 7 was complete and "JACKPOT!" showed up.

A terrifying volume of fanfare and sickening flickering lightning were emitted from the slits in front of Fushimi. A crowd of onlookers gathered around and the staff flew away in a hurry. Fushimi looked at them with the eyes of a dead fish.

++++++++++

"Hey, Yata-chan. What are you doing?"

Yata snapped out of his thoughts when he called out to him.

"Oh, no, wait a minute..."

"Do you drink alcohol? Did you?"

Yata smiled wryly at Kusanagi's joking comment. He was sitting at the bar in the room. The "Pyramid Hotel" had similar facilities, but this one seemed more sophisticated.

The place to stay that "Tokijikuin" prepared was a VIP room in a fancy old hotel.

According to Tanaka, the crisis is over and there is no need to worry about the public eye. The sun was out and it was time to return to a fun vacation. The other members seemed to have already gone out to play the casino.

But Yata still didn't feel that way.

Seeing that, Kusanagi made a very nonchalant gesture and sat down next to Yata. He picked up the bottle in the cupboard and showed exaggerated surprise from him.

"Oh, it's Ballantine's 30th. As expected of a luxury hotel, that's a ridiculous thing to put in a room."

"It is expensive?"

"Well, at the HOMRA bar, a popular bar like ours, you can't really sell it. If it's a genuine product, it's probably around 80,000."

"Eh...?!"

A strange voice came out. Yata did not know of any other bottle that cost so much.

However, Kusanagi cleverly opened the bottle. He took out two glasses, he poured just a little and slid one of them towards Yata.

Kusanagi smiled at the puzzled Yata,

"In the beginning, it's better to drink good sake."

"Haa..."

When he raised his glass, it smelled like vanilla. When he looked at Kusanagi, he was drinking as if he was licking it. When he followed suit and he dipped his tongue into the amber liquid, it spread an indescribably smooth taste, and the next moment his throat burned.

The reason why he could barely contain himself was because he heard the price. Kusanagi looked at Yata with amused eyes. He knew that was going to happen. Yata raised the glass forcefully and made a toast gesture.

"It's good."

Kusanagi laughed out loud, then brought his mouth close to the glass again. Yata also looked ahead, but he put the glass down and started looking at the sake bottles lined up on the cabinet.

Before long, Yata opened his mouth, still unable to collect his thoughts.

"I was thinking about Ed."

Kusanagi didn't know about Ed. He had heard about the former "Red Clan member" who attacked Yata and the others, but he had never actually seen him. When Yata and the others joined Suoh, Ed had already disappeared.

In fact, it turned out exactly as Fushimi said. Yata, filled with irresistible anger, had no choice but to admit it. Ed tried to kill Suoh and failed. No matter how heinous it was, there was no way a mere clansman could win against the "King".

Ed must have known.

However, he challenged Suoh. He kept wondering why he did that.

"That guy said that he belonged to a clan called "Purgatory". I'm sure that was the Red Clan from before."

"Yes. I've heard that too. It seems they were quite unreasonable."

Yata nodded vaguely. He wasn't really interested in "before". If Yata only had "Homura", that would be enough.

But...

"He lost his "King", right?"

Yata began to reflect on what Ed was shouting.

(There is only one "Red King". You cannot do anything other than that.)

"Even if we were "next", he couldn't allow it. He couldn't accept it. That's why he attacked us."

No matter how favorably he interpreted Ed's actions, it was nothing more than resentment. It wasn't like Suoh or Yata had done anything to him. That man was just spewing out the anger and hatred that had been swelling up inside of him against "Homura".

"At that time, it wasn't a joke, I already figured it out. But when I think about it now, I feel like I understand his feelings a little bit."

Losing his "King".

Yata hadn't even imagined such a thing. Suoh Mikoto is the strongest and most invincible "King". Even if something happened, even if the time came when "Homura" had to fight with everything, he couldn't even imagine that Suoh would die. First, at that time, he was supposed to have died first as the captain of the vanguard.

But what if he was in the same position as Ed?

What if the "next" Red Clan appeared in the life of losing the "King", losing the clan and continuing to smolder?

"If that happens, I could do the same. I would not allow the "following" to praise the new "Red King", and so..."

He couldn't put it into words. Yata let out a breath.

Kusanagi slowly shook his head.

"I don't know much about this Ed guy. But how is he different from you, Yata-chan?"

Yata looked at Kusanagi. The eyes behind the sunglasses were thoughtfully downcast.

“There are times when you need to think, but you don't do meaningless things. The Yata-chan I know should have been that kind of person. Even if the same situation happened, I don't think that would happen to Yata-chan."

"...Yes, it's true."

"Do you believe me?"

Kusanagi smiled. Number 2 of "Homura", his unmistakable words had considerable persuasive power.

On the other hand, Yata wanted to ask Kusanagi the same thing.

"Kusanagi-san, have you ever thought about that?"

"By chance... you mean? Haha, that happens all the time."

Yata rolled his eyes and Kusanagi shrugged.

“Mikoto is that kind of person. I wouldn't be surprised if something happened."

Yata asked as he chose his words.

"If that happens, what do you plan to do, Kusanagi-san?"

Kusanagi turned the glass in his hand. As if playing with his own thoughts, Kusanagi repeated that gesture for a while before muttering.

"I don't know what will happen then."

Then Kusanagi looked at Yata and smiled.

"I just have to do what I can. At that point, do what you can do to the best of your ability and leave the rest to me."

Yata tilted his head.

"Leave you what?"

"I don't know. Luck or heaven. Maybe something like that."

Saying that, Kusanagi tipped his glass.

It was a story he could understand and couldn't understand. Yata was not smart. He knew it very well. Moving his body was more suited to his nature than thinking, and he still wanted to.

Even so, Yata thought of Ed.

Do what you could. That's how it is. If so, did Ed have no choice but to do that? For the sake of his "King", he challenged the next "King" knowing that he couldn't win. Was that all he could do?

"......"

Yata frowned, and then, like Kusanagi, drank the glass in one go.

"Ah."

Kusanagi let out a nervous voice. The hot alcohol slid down his throat and burned his stomach. Gritting his teeth and bearing it, Yata looked at Kusanagi with slightly reddened eyes.

"Thank you, Kusanagi-san. I can't say it right, but I'll do the same. If that happens, I'll do my best."

To be honest, Kusanagi smiled wryly. He picked up the whiskey bottle again and poured it into Yata's glass. This made Yata happy, as if he had been recognized for something.

#k #k project #k las vegas #izumo kusanagi #yata misaki #suoh mikoto #totsuka tatara #kushina anna #fushimi saruhiko #reisi munakata #scepter 4 #homura #homra #kagutsu genji #purgatory

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lukewarmdumpsterfire · 2 years ago

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Currently tripping balls in purgatory

#k(ringe)#the funky patterns make the endless nothing cooler #lsd #purgatory

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kneelingshadowsalome · 1 year ago

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Christian Woman

(König x Nun!Reader)

Word count: 6.4 k Tags/warnings: Pining intensifies, religious despair intensifies, minor injuries, treatment of wounds, crying, enthusiastic kissing, König gets a few boners. 18+ for eventual smut in this story.

A/N: Don't tell me you wouldn't get horny scared too if you saw this tall guy suddenly emerging from the shadows in his full war gear :) There's a cute date night and a lot of angst in this chapter too, I tried to summon an actual plot here... As always, I need to explain why they’re bonking! But smut is coming, next and last chapter will be full of fluff and steamy first times (Reader is virgin!)

Part 2

You have a feeling that this is the last day you’ll see him.

The stranger from the Austrian Alps, the kindest mercenary you’ve ever met – the only mercenary you’ve ever met – the giant soldier who now carries a piece of your heart with him. You wonder if he even knows he owns it.

The morning prayers and mass are a chore and bring you no comfort, and the usual dawn bliss is gone. You find no delight in singing with your sisters, and withdrawing to your cell for solitary prayer feels like stepping back inside your own personal purgatory.

You’ve been in heaven and in hell for days now. Maybe since the moment you met him...

But at the same time, you know it must’ve been the Lord who brought you together. There must be a reason for God to make you two meet, you refuse to think it’s only because He wishes to tempt you. There must be a bigger plan; the connection, as sinful and carnal as it is, has to serve some higher purpose.

And you wonder if you’re going mad, because your most sinful thought is that you actually see God in him. It’s just your lower instincts speaking, a demon of some sort that tries to misguide you because no man is like Lord Jesus.

And yet, don’t they always preach that you meet Him in every person you meet? And that through you, other people meet God too…?

This reasoning feels much better. It solidifies the mercy you’ve longed for during the brief weeks you’ve known this man who brashly calls himself König. You want to believe that he carries a spark of the Divine in him, and that you hold a grain of the Virgin Mary’s compassion and love in you.

You decide to hold on to this thought: that you were meant to meet so that you could come to know God through each other. For in König, you see a suffering God, a crucified Christ who rises against evil by offering himself to the cruelty of men. Somehow, the image of him as a mortal man starts to twist into a divine, dark trooper, someone who battles the forces of the evil in this world.

And this reasoning leads you to think that it is only natural that you, a Sister of the Faith, have helped him find some rest and relief in the middle of his work. It’s pretty clear that König has found some solace in your company, and even if things have ventured into a forbidden area of low, simple lust, it’s not dark enough to taint the beauty and grace you've felt together. As long as you hold on to this purity, nothing can go wrong.

While praying for both of you that morning, you find yourself replaying the smiles and touches König has given you these past weeks. You know you will drown yourself in memories after he's gone because they are all you’ll ever have of him.

And they're more than enough.

Or at least they should be…

You feel a tiny dagger of guilt push into your heart, the place reserved for Christ, when you’re assigned to do some spiritual reading instead of helping out in the kitchen or organizing the small library. The appointed texts are about falling into temptation and sin, reminding you about the consequences of such actions. You read the passings with a heavy heart and then slip out to meet König, possibly for the last time.

You wear your everyday clothes to the café, and König says nothing about your sudden moral choice, only gives you another longing, enamored once-over. You keep him at arm’s length, both physically and emotionally, and the effects of this unexpected cold shower are immediate. The man doesn’t even try to disguise the sad, puppy-eyed stares he shoots your way.

You hate it that the bright, playful air of your meetings is gone, and your heart is tearing itself apart in your chest because the only thing you wanted was to spread joy into his world. Even the Lord seems disappointed in you being so cold-hearted, and you can’t bear to see His sadness and suffering in König’s eyes.

You get offered not one, but two coffees today, and a large piece of dark chocolate cake that tastes of pure sin. He talks about how he would love to write to you, but you tell him you can’t be in correspondence with a man who isn’t your brother or father. König isn’t even married, so it would only raise questions – you would find yourself reading spiritual texts about lust and sin until it drives you crazy.

“I’m leaving early tomorrow,” he finally reveals with a voice thick with sorrow. “Can I see you before I go...? One last time?”

“I’d love to, but… I’m sort of being watched,” you say, slowly coming out of your shell to make it clear that you’d want to spend the rest of your life with him, but you simply just can’t.

Your weak, apologetic look is like a dose of confidence shot through his veins because the face opposite of you brightens immediately. König’s whole posture gets a hopeful uplift.

“Just for a little walk...? To see what the city looks like in the evening?”

“I don’t know if I can make it… I have to work until six... And attend the evening prayer at seven. And then silence starts at eight…”

You’re wringing your hands under the table while you explain, hoping König will come up with a solution to this dilemma.

“We can go for a walk after silence, then,” he shrugs.

“I–I can’t just escape from the window.”

“...Why not?”

You look at König; he looks straight back.

The man’s serious about you sneaking out your window at night; he’s actually serious, even if there’s a dark, playful smile rising on his lips.

“I can help,” he grins.

Your heart cracks open, it shoots full of light only more and more with that smile. König doesn’t need to ram a door down and shoot his way through your chest; all he has to do is sneak inside your heart and take the place that belongs to God. You don’t even feel the difference as he makes himself at home.

Well, actually, you do... It’s like your Christ’s love and mercy have finally come to flesh and blood before you. They're materialized in the man sitting opposite of you, bouncing his knee excitedly and grinning like the most innocent little devil on Earth.

You find yourself whispering “Ok”, and the whole world shifts.

You take a step towards something forbidden but great, your whole heart starts to sing along with life. You haven’t even done the actual thing yet but you’re already filled with bubbling laughter and excitement. If only your friend could see you now, about to do things she probably did when she was fifteen...

But everything feels so right that it can’t be a sin – if it is, it just so happens to be the most natural, most divine thing to do too.

If this is the last day you’ll ever see him, you can surely steal a tiny moment for yourself and forget about rights and wrongs for a moment. Just forget about the rules, and live in the actual world for a few hours, breathe the worldly air, see what normal people do and pretend you’re one of them, for just one night.

…

You feel like Cinderella when picking clothes for the evening.

You rummage through the only closet in your room – during the time that should be spent in silent prayer before bed – and notice you still have your old jeans.

They’re light blue and still fit; actually, they fit more than well... You know that König’s eyes will be glued to your butt when you’re not looking.

You have completely forgotten how nice you look in jeans, and it’s the Devil talking, making you admire yourself in tight denim like this. You never cared about how you look before; you certainly never gave much thought to how men see you or if they’re checking out your butt or breasts. Now you’re grooming yourself like never before, trying to decide what to do with your hair as if your life depended on it.

You choose a simple, black t-shirt to pair with the jeans and not make it too obvious that you’re trying to flaunt yourself. It hugs your form but is otherwise plain, and for some people, your choice of clothing is probably their regular work outfit. To you, it feels like you’re about to go out to seduce everyone.

Everything’s so tight and earthly; everything’s so… there. Visible... Touchable.

Lord, have mercy on me. I know I’m weak. But please let me have this, just this once…

And König has seen you without makeup all this time, so what on earth has possessed you to lament the fact that you don’t own a single case of lipstick? You’d kill for a few sweeps of mascara, too, just to bat your lashes at a silly man.

It’s not a date, you remind yourself.

It’s not a date... It’s not a date. You’re just going to have a short walk with him.

And you fear that accepting König’s “help” was a mistake. If you get caught with a man on the convent perimeter, you’ll get your ass thoroughly whooped…

Can a man of his size even keep quiet?

He probably suggested it so that you wouldn’t chicken out of this. If König is at your window by 8 and there’s no sign of you, he’ll probably just come in, throw you on his shoulder and jump out. He knows where your window is located now, and surely has some questionable skills due to his profession, skills you know nothing about, but you’re still about to have a panic attack from pure excitement when the clock strikes 8.

You push the window ajar and settle on the sill to keep watch, gasping when you hear his familiar accent down below as soon as the window is open.

“Kätzchen...”

“König…?”

You peek down and meet his stupid, grinning face – God, he’s so happy to see you kept your promise. His eyes are shining, his fingers interlock to help you have something to place your foot on.

“Here, kitty, kitty…”

You could easily jump out the window without hurting yourself, but of course he wants to help you since you were so kind to tell him where he could come and "pick you up".

But to see that playful smile and hear him trying to coax you out like you’re some skittish little kitten…

Could a grown man get any more silly?

You wiggle yourself out the window, trying to ignore the fact that he’s probably staring at your butt, still grinning like crazy while you do it.

SupportING your entire weight like it’s no trouble at all, he helps you down. You’ve never been this close to him since you bumped into him: you have to take support from his shoulders as you search for a footing, and he scoops you in his arms the minute both your feet are safely on the ground.

“I knew you’d come,” he purrs with joy, and you place your hands on his chest – not to keep him at bay, but to touch him in a way that is as appropriate as possible when a man is hugging you like this.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you whisper, still unsure if this is the best or the worst decision of your entire life.

“Kitty… Live a little, hmm?”

You have to crane your neck to look up at him – you’re not sure if you’re in the embrace of Jesus or Lucifer because the warmth of those eyes compare to the love of God, but they also make you weak and helpless. Whenever you’re with your sisters, the feeling is pure, pristine love, not a surge of complex emotions and thrill like it is with König.

“You’re a bad influence,” you breathe – König only laughs, and the grip around you tightens.

“My lady. You’re the one who climbed out the window.”

“Because someone would’ve probably thrown small rocks on it if I hadn’t…!”

“Natürlich. And if that didn’t work… A serenade or two. Do you like love songs?”

You look down at his chest, smiling, heart fluttering at the thought of a silly Austrian man serenading under your window. You have no trouble imagining him singing something syrupy in German, waking everyone up with his racket.

“You’re crazy, did you know that...?”

“Sure. They tell me that all the time at work. Aber du… Du bist süss.”

“...What’s that?”

His smile only widens as he takes in your lips, your neck, the tight shirt that finally gives him something more to look at.

“You’re cute.”

…

The whole evening is heavenly.

It’s everything you’ve ever wanted from a date and more.

He doesn’t take you for a short walk, oh no. He takes you out to eat, at some lively restaurant where they serve delicious, artisan, wood-fired pizzas. You have créme brûlée for dessert, and König gives you his strawberries when he notices you eat them first, but only on one condition: you have to let him feed them to you one by one.

He buys you a rose: a big, red, plump one. No man has ever bought you flowers before, and even if you love lush, abundant bouquets, the fact that he chose you a single red rose after you’ve spoken about the beauty of simplicity, doesn't escape you.

König hasn’t only listened to you these past few weeks: he gets you. And how symbolic is it that he chose a rose that’s also tied to all the mysteries of God?

You walk the streets with a flower in one hand and his palm in the other. It's a holy trinity of him and you and the Great Mystery, it’s passion and it’s thorns, it’s blood and beauty and pain, and you feel like he just gets you; he knows you through and through.

You pass by an outdoor bar with live music, and the place is so crowded that people are dancing on the streets. No cars honk as they slowly pass by the scene, the music and the laughing, dancing pairs make even the grumpiest passersby smile.

It shouldn’t be a surprise that König pulls you to him before you get to escape the scene. You’re drawn flush against his chest, hips colliding with his, hands finding each other in a slow sway that has never even seen the steps of Latin dances.

“Nuns are allowed to dance, no?”

He smiles dreamily, enveloped in the same sweet haze as you.

“Not with a man,” you correct, but don’t even bother to push him away. Instead, you let König guide his hand down your waist and draw you closer. If this isn't a date, you don't know what is...

“I can take the blame,” he says. “You can tell everybody it was me.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” you laugh.

“Why not?”

His eyes are glued to yours, making you warm all over, so much so that you feel like you’re burning from the neck up. You guide your stare down to his chest, then over to the quick heartbeat on his neck.

He's nervous, too... Your cruel soldier is nervous, and kind, and shy because he's pressed against you.

You rest your head there on his chest, watching the golden sunset far away, painting the rooftops with a genial glow. Your heart is made of molten gold, too, as you allow yourself find a home in his embrace.

“I can take your sins,” he promises above you. “Jesus did that too, right?”

“You’re not Jesus,” you smile against his shirt – black, always black...

“Are you sure? I would go to hell for you.”

Your dance comes to a halt as you swallow and lift your gaze. The smiles are gone now, both yours and his. He’s so close now he could touch your lips with his if he wanted to.

And he does want to.

You don’t shy away as he leans down to kiss you. It’s chaste at first, a slow exploration, but then he opens your mouth with his, demanding, hot, intoxicating. You melt in his arms, and he somehow supports you through it all, turning the dance into an embrace and the decent little kiss into a full French one.

It’s hot and wet and slow, so, so passionate that your knees are about to give in. You devour him back, feel how he grows hard against your stomach – the swelling erection makes you dizzy before you come to your senses, but only barely.

You break away an inch, panting into his mouth while he’s panting into yours. What a blessing that you don’t own any lipstick; both of your lips are red without it…

“This is–”

“Inappropriate?”

His voice is husky, and sends a flood of wetness down between your legs. Your heart is racing, but you can’t even note how terribly alive you are before he attacks your lips again.

The kiss is even more desperate than the first one, and the slow urgency is gone. His mouth leaves you without air, and then – he wraps his arms around you and picks you up from the ground like you weigh nothing. Your hands get squished somewhere between you, naturally coming to cup his face as you kiss him back.

It’s eager, pure lust, so powerful and needy that it scorches through your chest and ties your heartstrings into tight little knots, makes your brows knit together, too.

He grunts into your mouth, sensing you’re more than up for this after all. You let him see the full depth of your hunger and your lust, just waiting to be released and taken – made love to until you’re both sore and messy and limp.

God… This is better than God…

You hear whistles and whoos in the distance, some men yelling, “Let’s go!” and “Get a room” while they pass by. Realizing you’ve fallen into a dream trap of strong arms and needy lips about to depart tomorrow, you know it's something you could have had years ago, perhaps, but not anymore. You'll lose everything if you break your vows tonight: basically, you’ve already broken them, but no permanent damage has been done.

You can still turn back if you turn back now…

You push yourself away, push him away, heart clenching when you see his adoring, love-drunk, half-lidded stare.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, fighting back tears as you come down from your high. “I just–I can’t…”

He breathes labouriously, still clutching you against him, holding you in the air like you’re the thing he has searched for his entire life and now, finally discovered… Only to be told that he now has to put it back where he found it.

You’re crying by the time he sets you down, and you have no heart or will to pull away. Instead, you bury your face in his chest and cry your fill in his shirt. It’s soon damp from your tears as König hugs and supports you through his own stoic heartbreak.

“I’m sorry... I’m sorry…”

You repeat it until you can’t repeat it anymore, bawling in his chest while the world around you continues to spin despite your heaven and hell, despite your vows, despite your stupid devotion. The world revolves like it always has, as you choose a crucified man over the one who’s flesh and blood and holds you through your pain.

“Kätzchen, don’t cry,” he pets your hair while you sniffle and tremble in his embrace. You know this is not the last time you will cry your heart out over him, but knowing it doesn't help you when he offers you his last, bittersweet comfort.

“It was a good dream while it lasted...”

…

The rose withers in your cell.

You turn it upside down and tie it to the curtain rod to prevent it from dropping its petals. It dries beautifully and keeps its bloodred colour, now reminding you of both Jesus and him.

There hasn’t been a word from König in months, and of course there hasn’t. You denied his wish to write you, and the dried rose is the only thing left of your time with him.

In the first weeks, it’s hard to keep up a charade. You show up to prayer, work and mass with red eyes, revealing to everyone that you’re going through a loss of some sort. Somewhere during the first week, the abbess summons you to meet her and you brace yourself for a scolding.

God knows you don’t need the rebuke, and when you close the door and turn to face the symbolic mother of the convent, you end up breaking into tears right in front of her.

“Whatever you were up to, my child, I am glad that it is over now,” she says with all the gentleness of the world.

“Me too,” your voice breaks, and when the abbess extends her hands, you go to her, fall to your knees, and have another heartwrenching cry with your face in her lap.

You’ve denied yourself love and mercy for days, expecting to be expelled or shamed or ridiculed, but mercy is what you’re offered now, even after you’ve sinned.

The abbess caresses your hair just as softly as König did just days ago, and the fact that her kind gesture reminds you of some silly, infatuated soldier, only makes the breakdown worse. You bawl like a little child who’s deprived of candy, and you don’t even have the strength to berate yourself for it.

“I hope you haven’t done anything irredeemable...?”

“No... Nothing happened,” you sob and look out of the rose window, desperate for sun while your head rests on a gentle but distant lap.

Nothing happened except the most sinful, beautiful, lustful kiss of your life... Nothing happened except that you saw this man every time you could, held hands with him, swam in his smiles and affection, and went to bed with thoughts inappropriate for any human being.

“The world tests us in many ways... But Lord never tests us. He only loves us.”

Something in that sentence finally quenches the neverending flow of tears. Your muscles start to relax, and you remember that this is the eternal truth: to surrender, over and over again, to a power far greater than you.

The abbess never asks for details about what you have done. She never tells you you have sinned; you don’t need to be told that. The punishment has been dealt already: whoever ties herself to this world and its temptations will suffer exactly like this when the passion and excitement ends. The key to escaping its grip is to simply let go first, once and for all, surrender to the love of God, and trust that everything fill fall into place eventually.

“You must offer your mind and body to work now,” the motherly voice speaks above you. “Work, time and prayer will ease your pain.”

…

Work, time and prayer do ease the pain.

They ease all pains, but it takes almost six months to stop thinking about him every hour of every day.

You’re proud of yourself when you find out one day that you haven’t thought about him at all. He just now crossed your mind when you remember how he used to smell: of salty seabreeze mixed with intoxicating musk, the scent of excitement and safety all in one.

You could almost swear you catch a whiff of that particular scent in the yard when you go and water the flowers one evening, but it can’t be: he’s gone, and there’s nothing you can do about it, nothing you even want to do about it because you already made your choice. This path leads you to greater peace of mind in the long run, and you know you made the right decision even if it hurt you and König.

Sunsets still remind you of him, the colour of rose and gold mixed with endings, but the memories are now laced with bittersweet love rather than blunt despair and pain. The times you spent with him are a collection of brief, blissful moments, and you treasure every single one of them in your heart. You still pray for him, not every day, but nearly every day. You touch the rose when the hurt reaches its peak, but the last time you did that was almost a week ago.

And you thought you had forgotten his scent, but apparently, you have not. In fact, it seems to drift to your nose again, which is odd because you’re outside, after all…

“Kätzchen.”

A whisper is hissed from the shadows just as you’re about to straighten and investigate, because either you’re going crazy or then there’s someone here who smells exactly like him.

You startle and almost drop the watering can, staring straight into the shadows under your window. The tallest man you’ve ever seen steps out from the dark in full combat gear, and while you can’t see his face because it’s covered with a draping black hood, you recognize it’s him simply from the way he moves.

“Don’t be afraid. It’s me,” he rasps and tries to straighten from the slightly hunched position he’s in, but immediately falls back, then slants to lean on the wall. His gear is dirty, and he holds the side of his stomach with one hand, the lively blue eyes either drunk or very very tired.

“Dear God… What happened to you?”

You abandon the watering can and rush to him; it’s useless to ask if he’s injured when, clearly, he’s trying to prevent himself from slumping to the ground.

He’s enormous and intimidating even when wounded, a soldier loaded with ammo and weapons and protective paddings and guards, wearing a hood and a helmet and a radio of some sort, his tactical gloves bloody and eyes droopy. The weapon by his side is almost half as tall as you, and God – is that a grenade strapped to his vest?

“I got compromised,” König looks down at the wound but doesn’t remove his hand. He looks so different, like another man entirely when he’s not dressed in his customary olive green pants and a casual black t-shirt. He seems even buffier now, even taller, so terrifying that you wonder if you ever even knew this man.

You must look like a frightened deer because König mistakes your horrified look as sweet, simple concern.

“Don’t worry... They have it much worse, I assure you,” he says with his usual grin – you can hear it from the way he says it that he’s smiling. But it’s so weary now, so exhausted and frail compared to his confident, playful laughs and that husky voice with which he spoke to you after your kiss.

“I came to ask for help,” he continues under his breath, wobbling even when leaning against a wall. “You’re the only one I can… trust.”

“Of course, anything. I will do anything I can.”

His eyes smile down at you from behind the executioner’s veil. It’s that same devoted stare you’ve been trying to dispel for months now. You give yourself a quick mental shake, then tell him to wait here while you go in and call for an ambulance.

König bounces off the wall and seizes your hand, telling you he can’t go to a hospital and that, if anything, he must avoid any kind of public places. You don’t ask any further questions, even if you know you’re in a pickle now, and not only because those glacial eyes are making your knees weak again. There’s nothing much you can do: he’s wounded and still in danger, saying he can’t trust anyone else. Of course you have to help him in any way you can. If he says it’s not safe, then you must help him get somewhere where it is safe.

And besides, aren’t you a nun? You’re supposed to help those in need.

So when he asks you if there are any motels or a bed & breakfast nearby, you say you know just the place.

It makes your heart bleed that König takes support from you while you slowly make your way down the street. A man of his size, a body trained to withstand whatever his job throws at him, seeking support from a frail little nun… It’s a joke, indeed, and a horrid one.

When you get to the small place run by a humble old man, you don’t know who to feel more sorry for: the elder behind the counter or König, desperately trying to stay on his feet.

“I mean no trouble,” he says while pushing an unnerving amount of money across the table. “I just need a place to rest.”

The receptionist’s eyes dart to you, then back to König, who still has what you suppose is a loaded rifle dangling by his waist. The safety is on, probably, but there are also knives and grenades strapped to his person, and with that hood, he mainly looks like a terrorist of some sort.

“She’s here to help. See...? Bride of Christ. Even less trouble than I am.”

You try to smile reassuringly as the man risks a better look at you now instead of being fixated on König or his weapons.

You must make an odd pair, a soldier and a nun... The old man probably has a ton of questions in his head right now.

“No shooting,” he says to you, but his words are directed at König.

“No shooting,” he promises. “No mess if no one knows we’re here. Ok...? You’ve never even seen us.”

The receptionist nods. Then he extends a trembling hand and takes the money, and hands out a key without taking any check-in information.

You go to König and help him up the small stairs and into his room paid with bloody money and a menacing appearance. The fitted carpet is old, and floral patterned, the room small and adorable and meant for visitors far more petite than König. The bedspread is old-fashioned and floral too and has never even seen blood, of that you are sure when König lays himself down with a grunt.

You spend the next minutes – or hours, you can’t tell – in a tunnel-visioned fog as you do exactly as he says.

You help him out of his gear and weapons and lay them aside quickly but gently, you cut his shirt with an ugly-looking knife, then get a watered towel for him to press against the wound. You rush back to his tactical vest and search for a first aid kit and some medicine, and start to treat his wounds per his advice.

The sun sets in the window, and you patch up your injured soldier with care, trusting his word when he says it’s only a flesh wound and that it looks far worse than it is.

“I should get shot more often,” he purrs when you’re cleaning the rest of the blood off his skin.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you scold, trying to focus on your task and not the vast plates that make his chest. Or the thick abs, right there under your fingertips… Or the fact that he has incredibly narrow hips, and a luscious breath of dark hair leading from his navel down and underneath the waistband of his pants.

You suppose this is what your friend calls a happy trail...

And it does make you very happy.

You don’t dare to look beyond that because the pants he usually wears aren’t as tight as these, and you fear he’ll catch you checking out his junk in an attempt to see if your friend was correct about his size.

To your blessing – or your curse – you don’t even have to look straight at it to see he’s having an erection. You can actually see from the corner of your eye how König grows hard while you’re treating him – it’s right there, a robust tent that rises beside you while you concentrate on wiping off the blood.

“Pay no mind to that,” he says thickly and completely without shame. “It just happens… Can’t control it.”

He breathes a bit too heavy for someone who’s lying down, and you fear it’s because of the blood loss. But then you start to suspect it’s probably because all the remaining blood has gone between his legs… He doesn’t even try to tone down the heated, obsessive stares he shoots your way, and you suppose he’s either missed you very much, or then there’s a fever rising after all. You’re not sure if you’re glad or disappointed that the bullet didn’t scrape his leg instead.

“I missed you,” he says like he just read your thoughts. He whispers the sentence slowly and with purpose, saying it like a long-withheld secret.

“I missed you too,” you whisper back.

Gosh… Here you are, a silly little nun who’s tried to get over a crush for six months, crying after him at night and caressing his rose during the day. You’ve been petting a withering flower some mercenary gave you in hopes of getting into your pants, you’ve fawned over memories of a few smiles and a kiss, all the while the said mercenary has killed people for money and now got shot. He came here to work again, but never sent a message, he only came to see you when he was injured…

...And you’re glad he did. If a bullet was needed to bring him back to you, then you’re grateful for it, no matter how horrible it is.

“Did you ever… find someone?” You ask while keeping your gaze fixed on his navel instead of the raging bulge in his pants.

“Someone, who?”

“Someone to hold hands with.”

He gives a strained laugh. “Ah. No. No time for that.”

You swallow, and slowly guide your eyes to his.

“Are you still happy with your crucified man?”

Ouch.

“I… I don’t know.”

His brows knit together; you can see it even in the dim light of the table lamp, you can see it even if there’s some godforsaken black war paint all over his face under that hood.

There’s a distant hurt in his eyes before he blinks softly, slowly.

“I wrote to you, Braut Christi... Many times. Never sent the letters… They’re still in my room, at the base.”

Your heart skips a beat.

He hasn’t had “time” for women, yet has written you letters all these months. He’s written letters while you’ve caressed a rose….

You wonder if hearts can find each other, even through a distance, and if you’ve felt the urge to go to the flower he gave you at the same time König has gotten the desire to write another letter to you. It’s bittersweet, like this whole thing between you two, the mystery that both brings you together and rips you apart.

“I wish I hadn’t… I wish I...” you start, but can’t bring yourself to finish.

“Liebling. I should’ve sent them anyway.”

You go get rid of the bloodied paper towels before you start to cry in front of him.

God… You’re not only in a pickle, you’re neck-deep in trouble, and you only notice you forgot to wash your hands when you return to him.

He reaches for your hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. Peace settles in, even if there’s blood on your hands and the man you adore is lying next to you, patched up with the help of a first aid kit when he should be lying in a hospital, receiving treatment and care.

There’s a knife and a pistol tucked under the bedspread, next to his hand, and the fact that he’s still prepared to fight anyone who tries to come through that door underlines the fact that you two come from very different worlds. König is more than just a rose buying, coffee offering gentleman, he's more than just a silly guy who threatens to sing serenades under your window if you don’t come out to play with him.

You’re not sure if you’re more enamoured or scared.

“You’re an angel,” he rasps from the bed as you try to swallow the tears that refuse to go down.

“No I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

A teardrop falls on the innocent floral bedspread as you wish you were in this room as a married couple instead of an injured, horny soldier and a childish nun in love. Spending your honeymoon or something, getting some rest after an eventful day in town, choosing this absurd old Bed & Breakfast as your place to stay for the night.

You wish you were doing anything else than treating his wounds, lethal or not.

“Are you crying?”

His voice is gentler than you even remembered. Six months of despair have turned him into a dark, alluring trickster when he’s really just a man, a big, amazing, tender man who’s multifaceted, multitalented, and always kind.

He's about to fall asleep, and it’s no wonder. The events of the evening have left you drained, too. You kneel beside his bed, too tired to even sit on a chair, wondering if he’ll die from his wounds tonight or get hunted down by the people who still want him dead.

“I wish you would stop killing people... I wish you would stop getting killed.”

You must look silly, kneeling beside a giant soldier’s bed, crying and holding his hand between yours as if praying. But his eyes smile at you, and while you’d want nothing more than to see his face again, you realise you kind of like König this way. Masked and menacing and mean to his enemies, but stripped down to his soul when he’s with you.

“I wish you would stop praying... And start living,” he mutters gently.

“Praying helps sometimes,” you whisper.

In truth, you wish you’d start living, too. You always thought you were brave when you said ‘no’ to the world. Perhaps you were only running away from it…

The hand is warm but not feverish. His breaths start to even, and his lids get heavier; his thumb gives you a small caress before he drifts off to sleep.

“Perhaps that’s why I’m still here, Kätzchen.”

#könig x reader #könig x you #könig fanfiction #konig x reader #konig x you #könig cod #könig mw2 #könig x fem reader

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max1461 · 10 months ago

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Max I have a linguistics question. And I will even free your chess ask from purgatory as payment. So there's this thing that goes around saying that US English pronunciations are more similar to old English than British English. Is there any truth to this, and how would we know one way or the other?

There is some kernel of truth in it that is getting exaggerated or oversimplified.

Let me start off by answering, in a general sense, the question "how would we know one way or the other?"

The Part Where I Accidentally (on Purpose) Wrote a Brief Introduction to Historical Linguistics

Phonological change (change in the pronunciation of a language) doesn't work in the way we might naively expect it to. I think that most people imagine phonological change as basically happening by way of each word in the language taking a random walk through pronunciation-space as time goes along. Like genes in a genome, randomly mutating. This is not what happens. Rather, phonological change occurs via rewrite rules, which find-and-replace particular sequences of sounds in a systematic way across the entire lexicon. For example, such a rule might replace a [t] sound with an [s] sound whenever it precedes an [i] sound. This will occur in all words in the language at once, in a uniform way. These find-and-replace rules are called regular sound changes, and they pile up over time, constituting phonological change.

This fact—the regularity of sound change—is known as the Neogrammarian hypothesis.

The above picture is an oversimplification. There are a variety of exceptions and apparent-exceptions to the regularity of sound change, and dealing with them is one of the major challenges of historical linguistics. But as a model, the Neogrammarian hypothesis is extraordinarily powerful. It is literally what makes historical linguistics possible at all. The upshot of the Neogrammarian hypothesis is that when two languages are related, their vocabulary won't just be "kinda similar" in some nebulous sense, it will demonstrate systematic, predictable correspondences in sound between cognate vocabulary.

Here's an illustration of this, a comparative table of some cognates in Polynesian (from Wikipedia):

If you look at any two columns of this table, you'll start to notice correspondences. Tongan and Niuean /k/ correspond to Samoan /ʔ/ (a glottal stop, written with a apostrophe). This correspondence is one-to-one. Samoan /s/ corresponds to Tongan and Niuean /h/, but the reverse is not true: some instances of Tongan and Niuean /h/ correspond to Samoan ∅ (nothing). Tongan /s/, on the other hand, corresponds to Niuean and Samoan /t/, but only before /i/. Etc. etc.

These are systematic sound correspondences, born of Neogrammarian sound change from a common ancestor.

Ok, on the left hand side you will notice a column that says "Proto-Polynesian". The words in this column are all marked with *, indicating that they are reconstructed forms. They are linguists' best guess as to what the original, ancestral form of these words would have been in the Polynesian languages' common ancestor. There are various ways linguists make these reconstructions. First of all, we can do it by sheer majority rule: if most of the languages in a family reflect a sound as X, and only one or a few reflect it as Y, then (all else being equal and assuming the tree is flat) it is more likely that the original word had X. Almost all these languages have /t/ as the first sound in "person" (row 1), whereas Marquesan has /ʔ/ and Hawaiian has /k/. Thus the ancestral sound is reconstructed as /t/.

But there are other, more sophisticated tools that can be used. For instance, we know a certain amount about what sorts of sound changes are likely to occur and what sorts are not. Thus, for instance, an /s/ is reconstructed as the first sound in "grey haired" (row 2), even though the majority of languages have /h/. This is because we already know that s -> h is a fairly common sound change (and indeed corresponds to a known phonological process found presently in many languages—debuccalization), whereas h -> s is a much rarer change (in fact, I suspect wholly unattested), and corresponds to no known phonological process or phonetic explanation.

Finally, we can rule out reconstructions when the sound change needed to create them would not be a function. Consider, for instance, that the majority of the words in row 3 have no consonant sound at all before the final /e/. But the reconstruction features a consonant /h/ there. If we posit ∅ as initial instead, we have to come up with a sound change that explains how the /h/ got there. ∅ -> h doesn't work, because that would put /h/ everywhere! How about something like "∅ -> h between two vowels" (linguists would notate this change as ∅ -> h / V_V). That would work, but we see other instances of adjacent vowels (e.g. in row 4) with no /h/ between them, so that can't be it. Maybe "∅ -> h between /a/ and /e/" (∅ -> h / a_e). We can't rule this out on the basis of this chart, but we probably could by looking at more vocabulary.

And so on, and so forth. In general, we want to posit the simplest set of sound changes possible, in which the changes themselves are as probable as possible, in order to explain the data. These putative changes can then by checked against all sorts of outside observations, such as

descriptions of pronunciations in historical texts

past loanwords into languages whose phonological histories are already known with confidence

epigraphic data from archeology (not very applicable to Polynesian, unless we decipher rongorongo)

newly collected data from modern languages in the same family

evidence from rhyme schemes or alliteration schemes used in poetry composed in the past

etc.

to see if they hold up.

The Part Where I Answer Your Question

Ok, right. American English and "British English" (I assume this means Received Pronunciation) are two related language varieties. Thus, they share systematic sound correspondences, and we can try to reconstruct their common ancestor. Also the British Isles have produced an extraordinary number of texts in the past thousand years, including poetry and actual linguistic descriptions of various dialects at various points in time, which we can check these reconstructions against.

But actually you don't need most of that to identify a few ways in which (most) American English dialects are more conservative than Received Pronunciation. For one, Received Pronunciation has dropped /r/ at the end of a syllable (in English dialectological jargon it is "non-rhotic"), whereas General American English hasn't. There are some associated vowel changes too. One way or another, the /r/ is plainly original: elision of /r/ is more common and phonetically plausible than insertion of /r/ in a bunch of specific post-vocalic positions would be, /r/ is written in the orthography, historical descriptions of the language talk about an /r/ sound, etc. etc.

In other ways RP is more conservative. For example, GenAm has deleted /j/ (the "y" sound) in a specific phonological environment ([+coronal]_u) in words such as tube, GenAm /tuːb/, RP /tjuːb/.

Is "American English more conservative than RP" overall? I don't really think so. Certainly it has preserved a number of salient features that RP has lost, such as syllable-final /r/ and (in some dialects) /hw/ in words like what, and so on. But there's other senses in which RP is more conservative. And this is not even to mention the other dialects of Britain, which are manifold and much more diverse than the dialects of America. As to the strict question of the relative phonological conservatism of GenAm and RP, I think someone with more detailed knowledge of English historical phonological would have to come in and answer. Perhaps @yeli-renrong can comment.

#linguistics #ok I think I've fixed the typos it's free to reblog

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