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swellwriting · 5 years

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Datapads and Love Letters Pt.3

Fandom: Star Wars

Pairing: Reader x Armitage Hux

Warnings: Smut yet again because I have no self-control.

Request: Please write a part 3 to the Hux fanfic. Maybe one of Kylo being jealous and trying to dissuade the reader from being with Hux.

A/N: Serving you some more Hux and some more Kylo, all in one! I roll a three-sided dice to decide whether to call him Hux, General or Armitage so I’m sorry for that business. ALSO lots of I-N-T-I-M-A-C-Y-!!!

Word Count: 2.5k Previous Part Two Part 4

Sunberry red wine stains his pale lips making them somehow look even more kissable. You take the wine glass from his hand, finish it and then place it on the floor outside the tub, bubbles drip onto the black tile, white iridescence contrasting smooth black. You’re sitting on top of him, a site he can’t comprehend, so beautiful and intimate and he still thinks this is some fever dream.

You lean against him, wrap your arms behind his neck and kiss him, he tastes like the sunberries, you prod his mouth open with your tongue, wanting more.

The bath started normal, sitting with your back pressed against him, relaxing. But now you were careless about the splashing bubbles and puddles on the floor tile, moving against him without care as you kissed him, noses butting.

You keep messing up the kiss, your mouth breaking into a smile until you cant keep focus and just giggle against his mouth. He’s concerned at first, he doesn't understand what’s so funny.

“What?” he asks quietly, smiling too now against your lips, happy to hear your cute laughter.

“Nothing I’m just, just happy, this is fun I’m having fun,” you say trying to explain your self. Hux thinks for a moment that his heart has stopped, he can’t handle so much pure goodness, the adoration in your eyes and voice is too much. He leans forward, you’re still sat in his lap as he rests his forehead against your collarbones and chest, his hair tickling your chin as you rest it on his head.

He kisses in between your breasts, wet skin meets his lips, kisses become sloppy, the taste of wine on his tongue stronger than the soapy bubbles on your skin.

His hands travel to your hips and you know what he wants, where he’s going with this.

“Can we?” he asks in between kisses, working his way your neck.

“So soon?” You tease and he blushes darker than his wine-stained lips.

“Oh no, I just...” he tries to explain himself and you giggle bringing a finger to his mouth to quiet him.

“I'm just teasing! You think you can do it again though?”

He raises a brow, silently asking what you mean.

“Oh, well men sometimes can’t go again, so soon. Usually, you’d need a bit of time to, mmm, recover is not the word I’m looking for but I think you get what I mean.”

He nods his head understanding, he feels foolish and unexperienced, like he should know more about these things. The only time sex was talked about in the academy was how it ruined soldiers, and that it was forbidden. Which makes sense from a school point of view who doesn't want any academy babies being born.

“Have you never-?” You ask and he doesn't catch on, so you sink your hand into the bubbly water and wrap your fingers around him, he’s soft in your grasp until you start moving your hand slowly up and down, he closes his eyes from the action, and puts his forehead back against your chest “-touched yourself?” you finished and he was glad his face was hidden because he couldn’t imagine how red it was, his face felt burning hot against your cool wet skin.

He feels almost as if he is in trouble, for what he’s not sure, but he doesn't want to admit this to you, he feels dirty to say it allowed.

He brings his lips to yours quickly, kissing you hard, bucking into your hand desperately.

“I'm gonna assume you have.” You say, so calmly talking about such a personal subject with him, but you feel so at peace with him, so content and free, why hold anything back. He nods while still kissing you, you smile against his lips.

“It’s okay, it’s not a bad thing, I have to.” You admit as you let go of him and grab his hand that was caressing your breasts and bring it between your bodies and guide his fingers to where they were before. “I've thought about you,” you admit and he stops kissing you, looking at you in awe.

“That weird?” You mumble, cheeks heating up under his gaze.

“No, it’s not weird, I just never imagined you would then…” he trails off as you kiss him again, he moves his fingers inside you and you start pumping his cock again, moving your hands out of sync, splashing water all over the place.

“Did you ever do it more than once?” You ask, curious if all of your efforts would be for nothing.

“Sometimes, it depends,” he admits quietly accidentally biting your lip as you rub a soapy thumb over his tip.

“Think we can do it?” You ask playfully and he quickly nods his head before you even finish speaking.

“Yes absolutely.”

You move closer to him, hover above his cock that’s gripped in your fingers, he doesn't take his fingers away, still sliding them in and out, his palm rubbing against your clit, you close your eyes and rest your forehead on his.

“You kinda gotta move your hand,”

“Oh,” he mumbled and fumbles, grabbing your hips and helping you move onto him, he slides inside easy and you waste no time, no pausing through transitions.

With each rise of your hips more bubbles and water splash out, you don't care enough to control your quick movements, you’re moaning into the kiss, into his mouth, he bites your lip again, mumbles an apology. He holds your hips tight, reaching fro control as he stops your movement, you feel him come inside you and then continue to move your hips as he watches your face expectantly.

You rest your forehead against his as you reach your high, stomach twisting, eyes rolling back. His face is elated, but he looks proud of himself. He pulls you flush against his chest and scoops water in his hands and lets it drip down your back, his fingers follow the liquid, running his open hand down your back and then bringing more water up. Your head is resting on his shoulder, heartbeat calming, breaths getting slower.

“You’re going to fall asleep in the tub.” He says quietly, trying to crane his neck to see your face.

“We can go to bed.”

Before long you’re sitting at the end of his bed, wrapped in a large towel, one is wrapped around your hair too. He brings you a pair of his pyjamas that should fit you well enough and you take them with a smile, he watches you get dressed, still in awe of you, that you’re his, that he gets to touch your body.

“What side do you sleep on?” You ask as you crawl up the bed, he points to the right so you crawl to the other side and pull the thick blankets over top of you. He follows quickly and is glad that you make the first move to cuddle up to him, holding him close as you quickly fall asleep.

The next morning you wake up early, you have a droid bring you your belongings and then get ready, sharing the bathroom with Armitage, brushing your teeth side by side. He likes this less lonely life already, though he isn’t sure how often you will stay over.

He leaves before you do, kisses your cheek, tells you to have a good day, a pip to his step, you put him in too good of a mood.

You walk up to your door where Kylo is waiting like he always is.

“Do I have the wrong room?” He asks sarcastically.

“Nope!” You say with a smile, your helmet in your hands and lightsaber on your hip.

“You’re radiating, I can feel you through force,” he says flatly.

“Awe thanks Kylo!” You tease as you start walking, he quickly follows you.

“It's annoying.”

“Not everyone can be brooding 24/7 like you are.”

“ I do not brood,” he argues, sounding ridiculous.

“The only person on this ship who has seen you not brooding and angry is me.”

“ I think you get more annoying every day,” he murmurs, putting his mask on.

“And I think you’re just jealous.” He whips his maks back off and drops it on the ground loudly, his facial expression would make you laugh if this was any other situation, he gawks at you.

“Jealous?” He says like it’s the most absurd thing he’s ever heard but you can feel his emotions through the force so plainly they fill the entire training room. Kylo is almost controlled completely by his emotions, which usually isn’t a problem, anger works in his favour most times, but when he’s weak, he’s very weak.

“It’s coming off of you in waves, I can feel it.”

“And I could feel you through the force last night, you and him,” he says with disgust and you’re taken aback.

You’re confused and you don’t mean to look into his mind for an answer but you do it by habit, crossing a line by accident but it’s too late to take it back, you see him sitting in his room, sensing your overwhelming happiness and joy, the light surrounding you and he’s worried, worried that Hux will make you weak, worried that he’s losing his only friend in the universe.

“You aren’t losing me, I’m still your apprentice, your friend.”

“We are not friends!” he yells and you take a step back, the inner conflict, everything Snoke wired into his brain is messing with him. Telling him he shouldn’t want to be friends with you in the first place so why is he so upset at the notion of losing you as one.”

“Even if you won’t say it out loud I know we are.” You try to calm him.

“Get out of my head!” He yells and pushes you back with the force, you fall to the ground looking up at him. You want to match his anger but you are far more sensible than him, you know this can be repaired easily.

“Come sit with me,” you say quietly and he stays standing, ignoring you. “Please,” you gesture down to the mat in front of you.

He sits down begrudgingly and silently.

“Kylo, you need to allow yourself to process emotions other than just anger, I know you think it makes you stronger with the force but that isn’t true, it clouds your mind, it makes you act too rashly. I know the thought of losing me scares you, I’d be scared to lose you too, but that doesn't mean I don’t get my own life.”

“Your sounding very Jedi mastery right now,” he says, not allowing himself to smile but he isn’t as angry anymore at least.

“Ew, do not call me a Jedi,” you joke and he laughs a bit.

“I was a Jedi once,” he says and you hold back a laugh.

“You were only a padawan technically, I know Jedi’s are all about their technicalities and rules and such.”

He rolls his eyes, “you’re insufferable.”

“Mhm, so are you though.” You smile at him and it’s a weird moment, one not shared often. For people so ruled by their feelings, you think you would talk about them more, but you don't. “We should train, you got some anger issues you need to work through,” you tease standing up and he stands across from you, grabbing his lightsaber and looking at the hilt.

“Maybe if I hit you in the head with this hard enough you will come to your senses?” He asks, taking his stance and pulling his helmet on.

“Good luck getting close enough,” you counter, as you run at him with your sabre ignited.

Kylo did not like this new relationship, but he decided he would try to ignore it. What he couldn’t ignore was Hux standing in front of him asking him a question while a bunch of other officers waited on his reply.

He had his mask off and he was standing unnervingly close to the general, Armitage was tall on his own but Kylo towered over everyone. Thank his boots for that.

Hux looked up at him expectantly and an uneasy silence filled the room, Kylo wasn’t listening to the General speak, he was busy fantasizing about killing him, sticking his sabre through the Generals stupid heart, choking him with the force, it seemed so nice in his head.

He finally realized everyone in the room was staring at him so he dug into Hux’s mind for the question he had asked prior. All he found were Hux’s worried thoughts.

-Oh kriff he seems mad, he’s angry, he’s always angry, does he know what I did, oh kriff does he know what I did?- Hux’s thoughts ramble so fast Kylo almost can’t keep up, he speaks allowed.

“Do I know you did what?” Kylo asks angrily through gritted teeth, the officer standing nearby takes a step back, that was not an appropriate answer to Hux’s question about whether or not they should move against a nearby planet that was rumoured to be a rebel sympathizer.

Hux’s face pails instantly, he realizes Kylo is in his head and he tries to control his thoughts but they jumble in his mind as Kylo sifts through them, he stumbles upon the events of last night, bits of what took place between you and Hux, kissing, dinner, and then bare skin, baths, Hux hands on his apprentice.

“You did what to my apprentice!” Kylo yells and grabs Armitage by his neck using the force pushing him backwards and up against the wall.

Hux grasps for his neck, eyes wide, accepting that this is how he’ll die, completely worth it though if he’s being candid.

Kylo is seething, partly because he hates the idea of Hux being anywhere near you, touching you, angry he accidentally saw you in such a compromising situation but Hux didn’t mean it, he tried to suppress the thoughts it wasn’t his fault he couldn’t block Kylo’s prying mind out of his own.

“Please remove your hands from my boyfriend’s neck Ren,” you say quickly, using the force to loosen Kylo’s grip, Hux falls to his knees. You called him the less personable name you could, you even almost came close to pulling the “Solo” card.

Kylo looks at you and then quickly looks away blushing.

Hux grasps as his neck, trying to catch his breath.

“What is going on here?” You ask an officer and they shrug, fear-stricken still.

“I looked into the General’s filthy brain,” he pauses and then looks at your sorrily, “I didn’t mean to see, I…” he’s lost for words and you walk over to Armitage, offering him a hand, pulling him to his feet and then interlocking your fingers with his as you pull him out of the room.

“Perhaps you should stay out of other people’s business then hmm Kylo?” You ask and you aren't angry since you suspected this would happen eventually.

Kylo rushes into his office and slams the door shut. You bring Hux back to your room to take care of him and his bruised neck.

“He’ll get over it soon enough.” You say as you trace your fingers down the pale bruised skin of his neck, the bruises travel under his collar, forming darker splotches quickly.

“If I can survive that long!” He says and then winces at your touch.

“Does it help if I kiss it better.” You tease kissing his nose.

“Very much so.”

SW TAGLIST: @bluerorjhan

EVERYTHING: @jordan-ia

Requested part three in the comments: @elentiya @huxismyman

#armitage hux x reader #hux x reader #general hux x reader #armitage #armitage x reader #armitage hux x you #armitage hux #general hux x you #general hux #Hux #hux one shot #hux fanfiction #general hux smut #smut #hux smut #hux x reader smut #star wars fan fiction

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sunbrights · 7 years

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fic: by the claw of dragon (7/7) | COMPLETE

Alright, kids! Here we are, the end of the line. Before I jump into this, I just want to say THANK YOU to all you guys who’ve been out there reading and sticking with this fic while I got it finished. This is the first longfic I’ve finished in a long, long time, and the excitement and encouragement from you guys has been a huge part of that, so: thank you, so much, from the bottom of my heart. I can’t say it enough. I hope you enjoyed it!

(And if you’re new and would like to start at the beginning, click here! c:)

fandom: danganronpa characters/pairings: natsumi kuzuryuu, fuyuhiko kuzuryuu, peko pekoyama + 77th class ensemble, et al. kuzupeko. character tags will be updated on AO3 with plot-relevant characters as chapters are posted. rating: m summary: The Kuzuryuu Clan stands on the precipice of the greatest era of its history. Kuzuryuu Natsumi promises to be the strongest leader the clan has ever seen, the Overlord of the South born again. That Hopes’s Peak Academy would select her for it’s 77th class was assumed, not hoped for.

To the younger Kuzuryuu son, everything is as it’s meant to be.

read on AO3

She ends up right where she means to be: in the plush chair opposite Kirigiri’s desk. She lounges in it, arms wide and shoulders back, with her legs crossed at the knee. It’s comfortable. It makes sense that Kirigiri wouldn’t know much about power plays.

Peko stands behind her, a silent sentry by the door. Natsumi had her pack her shinai away for good after she’d left her message for Amachi; her katana is more emblematic of the message Natsumi wants to send to everyone from here on out.

“The intent was to speak to you only, Kuzuryuu-kun,” Kirigiri says. He lifts one hand towards the door. “Pekoyama-kun, if you’d like to wait—”

“Peko-chan goes where I go,” Natsumi says. “Take it or leave it.”

Kirigiri’s mouth presses into a thin line. He knows something about power plays, Natsumi amends in her head: he knows when he’s on the receiving end of one. “Pekoyama-kun,” he says, eyes sliding to the back of the room. “This is alright with you?”

Peko says nothing.

“She’s fine with it,” Natsumi answers.

“I see.” He clears his throat. He’s uncomfortable. Good. “The school is taking these inquiries very seriously, Kuzuryuu-kun. I appreciate your full cooperation with this investigation.”

“You’re welcome,” she says. “Wouldn’t want people getting the wrong impression of the school, right? Gotta keep that enrollment up, up, up. Especially if those grants are about to go up in smoke.”

“The school needs to be safe,” Kirigiri says. “For everyone.”

“Sure. That too.”

He peels the top few papers back from the stack on his desk. “Of course, we’ll be speaking to….” He squints at the page. He’s not a good actor, Natsumi decides. “Kuzuryuu Fuyuhiko, as well. Satou Yume had brought to our attention some behavioral concerns that warranted—”

Natsumi picks at a loose rivet on the chair’s left armrest. “My brother was in the city that night,” she says. “You can ask the theater if you want. Gotta be at least twenty independent witnesses who can corroborate it.” The rivet twists off in her fingers. “Well. Nineteen, if you don’t count Hinata-kun. High school students can give some pretty unreliable testimony sometimes, did you know that?”

“I don’t think it’s the students that are unreliable,” he says. He clears his throat again. He probably shouldn’t have said it. “Regardless, we’ll speak to the theater. You understand the need to be thorough.”

“Sure,” she says. “It’s your time to waste, I guess.”

The pristine, square line of Kirigiri’s shoulders slumps when he sighs. “To be candid,” he says, “you’re making it very difficult to help you, Kuzuryuu-kun.”

She looks him straight in the eye. “It’s a good thing I’m not looking for your help, then, huh?”

Silence settles. It’s up to him to give up this student-teacher charade if he wants there to be any progress. She’s been generous with opportunities this morning; she doesn’t intend to extend any more. Both parties have to reach across the table in order to make a deal. If he has to reach further than her, well, that’s his own fault, isn’t it?

He makes the right choice. She’s never thought Kirigiri was stupid, only weak. “Then what is it you are looking for?”

“A mutual understanding,” she says, “that’s all. Between you, me, and the guys upstairs. Y’see, I get the feeling we’ve been stepping on each other’s toes this whole time. Butting heads when we don’t need to. I wanna clear the air.” She leans forward to put the loose rivet on the edge of his desk. “So that unfortunate things like what happened to Satou-san don’t happen again.”

He’s very calm when he says, “Is that a threat?”

She smiles. “Only as much as that dig at my brother was a threat. How about it?”

Kirigiri’s gaze breaks down to the stack of papers on his deck, to the profile of her brother set out on the top. That’s his problem. He bothers to feel guilty.

Natsumi slaps both hands down on the arms of the chair. “Here’s the deal,” she says. When she stands, Kirigiri only looks up at her. There are too many lines in his face for a man his age. “What you’ve seen from me is just the beginning. You and your judges wanted to see my talent? You’re seeing it, and so is everyone else. So there are two ways this can go.” She counts them on her fingers for him, her other hand on her hip. “One, we put all this behind us. Your school gets to keep me, my brother, and my parents’ fat stacks of cash, and everybody here gets to see the more…generous side of me and my family’s business. Win-win-win, all around. That’s my preferred option.”

“And two?” he prompts.

“Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it?” She draws it out, waits for him to shake his head. “Two, my brother and I pack up our talent and go. And, well.” She leans over the edge of his desk. “You get what’s coming to you.”

That one really is a threat. She has to hand it to him: he doesn’t look away this time.

“And that’s it!” She stretches her arms high over her head, until her spine pops. “Run that up to your bosses and let me know.”

“Kuzuryuu-kun,” he says, sharp. “I assure you that any decisions will be made by me.”

She has to laugh. “When’s the last time you made a decision? You know, a real one.” She doesn’t let him answer. “I’ll be around. Let me know if you have any questions!”

Peko holds the door open for her.

There’s a throng of students huddled in the hall outside Kirigiri’s office. They’re whispering when the door opens, but suddenly they’ve got nothing to say when Peko shuts it behind them. Koizumi is hovering at the center of their little pow-wow, near the back, hands white-knuckled around her own elbows. One of the other girls puts a loose arm around her shoulders and whispers something to her, but she doesn’t react, only stares.

“Take a picture,” Natsumi snaps at them. A boy near the front winces. “I hear Koizumi-san’s supposed to be good at that.”

The girl’s arm tightens around Koizumi’s shoulders, but Koizumi ducks out from under her and pushes her way to the front. Her hair is limp around her face, and the circles under her eyes are more like gouges. She bypasses Natsumi entirely. “What,” she says to the security guards posted on either side of Kirigiri’s door, “that’s it? You’re going to let her go? Just like that?”

The guards avert their eyes.

Koizumi looks frozen. She shakes her head, an unnatural, jerky motion. “No,” she says. When she reaches out to clasp the sleeve of one of the guards, he shakes her off. “No, you can’t do this. You have to know what she did. Everyone knows what she did!”

Natsumi sets one hand on her shoulder. Koizumi flinches with her entire body, heels of her shoes squeaking against the floor, and Natsumi digs her nails into the top seam of her blouse.

“Come on, Koizumi-san,” she says. “I know you’re upset. I’m upset, too. But it’s time to let this middle school grudge go.” Koizumi stares at her, eyes wide and wild. “That’s what Yume-chan would’ve wanted, don’t you think? After all this?”

Koizumi gulps air like a fish gulps water, mouth open wide. Natsumi pats her shoulder once, and smiles when she turns away.

“No.” Koizumi’s nails catch the edge of Natsumi’s wrist and pinch in, dig deep. “No! I’m not letting this happen again. I know it was you, Natsumi! I’m not going to just let you walk away!”

Natsumi tries to wrench her arm back, but Koizumi only tightens her grip. Her nails drag against skin, and leave angry red welts in their wake. “Hey!” Natsumi shouts. “Get off me, bitch!”

The hall is already almost too narrow to accommodate all the people in it; when panic sweeps through, it takes no time at all for it to turn to chaos. Kirigiri’s guards sweep forward to keep the crowd from trampling itself, one barking for backup into a walkie-talkie.

“Stop!” one girl screams. “Stop it!”

“No!” Koizumi screams back. “No! Someone has to do something about this! I’m done sitting by while you—”

An arm cuts between them, and Koizumi shrieks, “No!” when she’s lifted bodily off the ground. Her nails scrabble at the edge of Natsumi’s sleeve, but the fabric gives first; it rips along one seam when Natsumi jerks her arm away, a brutal, echoing sound in the narrow hallway.

Peko has Koizumi by the shoulders. She slams her back against the wall, her forearm an iron bar across her throat.

The other students keep screaming. Some of them take off down the hallway; others surge forward against the guards trying to hold them back. Kirigiri stands in the open doorway of his office, and does nothing.

Natsumi finds her feet. Her right arm is bleeding, and the sleeve of her blouse is hanging off of one shoulder. She lets herself enjoy a few good, long seconds of watching Koizumi wheeze and flail in Peko’s grip, and then she says, “That’s enough.”

Peko drops her. Koizumi hits the ground on her hands and knees; it sounds painful, hard bone against linoleum. She curls into the floor, arms hugged around her middle, and her gasping breaths turn into shuddering sobs.

It’s pathetic.

Natsumi shoves the mess of her hair back from her neck, and steps over Koizumi’s shaking form to get to the other side of the hallway. What’s left of the crowd of onlookers parts for her to pass.

She sends Peko to get her a new shirt from her dorm room.

There are eight unread messages on her phone. She hasn’t looked at seven of them; the notifications are all collapsed under the first, sent a week and a half ago:

fuyu-chan 09:01 we need to talk

The school is on what the security team calls a “temporary restricted schedule.” Classes and clubs are still meeting as normal, but curfew has been bumped up, and the school is crawling with extra guards, even during the day. Main course students have to inform their teachers when they plan to practice on their own. Reserve course students aren’t permitted to leave the west campus at all, for any reason.

Natsumi doesn’t bother telling anyone when she and Peko slip out during afternoon homeroom. No one stops them to even give them the opportunity to lie; the guards at the main doors only watch when they trot down the front steps and cut across the courtyard.

Enoshima is waiting for her on the northern side of the building. It’s dark, the whole north wall swallowed by late afternoon shadows. The sharp angles of her face look soft in the low light, even when her shark’s grin splits her face.

“Heyyyyy!” She cups both hands around her mouth, a stage whisper. “Look who it is! The mover and milkshaker of the reserve course. You’ve really got all of ‘em wrapped around your little finger, huh?“

Peko hangs back to keep watch. Natsumi leans against against the wall, and holds out an expectant hand. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Some kid tried to muscle his way into the east building the other day.” Enoshima pulls an envelope from inside her shirt and wiggles it out for Natsumi to take. “You should’ve heard him.” She claps her free hand over her heart. “‘Kuzuryuu-san, Kuzuryuu-san! Let me through!’ It’d almost be sad if it wasn’t so embarrassing. His poor talentless heart, squished like a bug.” She squeezes her thumb and forefinger together, “Prrfft.”

Natsumi lifts the flap of the envelope with one nail. The bills are sorted and stacked the way she asked; just eyeballing it, the numbers look correct. She dumps the stack out into her hand anyway.

“You’ve got a down payment right there,” Enoshima tells her. “Plus first month’s collection. They want you to know they’re coming in good faith.” She bumps Natsumi’s shoulder with hers. “Everything look good?”

Natsumi flips through the bills. Some of them are old and stained. “Not until I count it,” she answers.

“Sure, sure.” Enoshima’s smile is wide. “I’ve got all afternoon.”

Natsumi counts. Normally this is the sort of thing she’d pass off on her brother, making sure all the numbers are right, but inviting that conversation is way more trouble than it’s worth right now. She’s been focusing on improving on the business side of things, anyway. First she needs to be just as conversant as Fuyuhiko, and then she needs to be better.

“What happened to him?” she asks, after she rounds the first 250k.

“Who?”

“Hinata-kun.” Enoshima stares at her. “The reserve course kid.”

“Oh! I dunno. Security sent him packing, I guess.” She laces her fingers under her chin. “Why? You got a thing for the bottom of the barrel?”

Natsumi rolls her eyes. “No. But if he’s making an ass out of himself you can bet my stupid brother is gonna blame that on me, too.”

Peko’s phone pings, too loud. The new ringtone is airy and annoying, like a bell; Natsumi had told her to pick one of the presets, so that Natsumi would know whenever new messages came in, and somehow she’d managed to land on the worst one.

She dips into a shallow bow. “Apologies.”

Natsumi doesn’t look up. She shuffles the stack of bills back against her palm; all 500k is there and accounted for. “Who’s that?”

Peko shifts to pull her phone from her pocket. “Fuyuhiko-sama,” she answers, like she even needed to check. Like Natsumi even needed to ask.

“What’s he want?”

“He says he sent you another message this morning.” He did. Natsumi hasn’t read it, either. “He wants me to encourage you to reply.”

Natsumi feels her lip curl. “Yeah,” she snorts, “I bet he said it like that.”

“Would you like me to read it?”

“No. I already know what it says.” Enoshima holds one hand out, palm up like a toddler waiting for dessert. Natsumi counts her cut out into it, a flat three percent. “Just ignore it.”

“Yes, young mistress.”

Enoshima licks her thumb and peels back the bills in her hand, one by one. “You know,” she says. “I have a sister.”

Natsumi has to wait while she counts, in case Enoshima has an objection about her share. She won’t, if she’s not stupid, but they have to go through the motions anyway. “You better not lose count,” she warns. “I’m not sitting through this a second time.”

Enoshima flaps her hand. “You worry too much, senpai. I’m great at multitasking, you know.” Her fingers don’t hesitate on the bills, at least. She snaps through each one with quick confidence. “Anyway, you wouldn’t believe me if I pointed her out to you. She’s this sad, smelly, homely waste of space.” She curls the end of one pigtail around her finger. “We could not be less alike.”

“So?” Natsumi snaps. “There’s no family and friends discount in our agreement.”

Enoshima sniffs. “Believe me, you don’t have to worry about that. I’m not about to let her ruin the good thing we’ve got goin’ on.” She lays back the last bill, and runs her thumb over the whole stack. “It feels pretty good, actually. She’s been dragging me down so long I almost forgot what it was like to just let me be me, you know?”

Natsumi preoccupies herself with tucking the envelope with the rest of the cash down in her bag.

“But she’s my sister,” Enoshima sighs. “Family first. Whaddaya gonna do!” She tucks the roll of bills back into her shirt. “Looks good, senpai! I’ll hit you up as soon as I’ve got something else for you.”

There is a delicate cough behind them.

“Kuzuryuu-san. Pekoyama-san.” Yukizome is looking at them, one hand laid against the corner of the building. Light cuts across the top half of her chest, and leaves the rest of her in shadow; it makes her hair look more fire than ginger. “Did you know class has started?”

Natsumi goes. There’s no reason not to; she’s finished her work early, today, and if she wants Kirigiri to take her up on her offer, she needs to show some good faith herself.

The halls are sparse and silent. She half expects Yukizome to take advantage of the timing and a captive audience to try and teach her a lesson about youth, or draw her feelings out of her like a sloppy emotional corkscrew, or scold her for skipping without telling anyone, or something, but she doesn’t. She leads in silence, hands folded tight in front of her.

More than half the desks are empty, when they get to the classroom. Nanami, Souda, Sonia, and Mitarai have their little back row filled, but the rest of the classroom sprawls in front of them, neat and sad.

Yukizome drags both hands back across her scalp, until her ponytail is lumpy and lopsided. “Where are Owari-san and Nidai-kun?” she says. “They were just here!”

“Owari-san got impatient and left,” Nanami supplies. Her GameGirl is, for once, off and laid on her desk. She drums on the buttons anyway, even with the screen blank. “... Nidai-kun said he was going to bring her back. That was fifteen minutes ago.”

Yukizome breathes in deep, and holds it. She’s frazzled, paler, with flyaways in her hair and bags under her eyes.

“Well! There’s only about—” She looks up at the wall clock, and lets the rest of her breath out in a rush. “Less than half the class left. We’ll just have to hope they come back soon. Kuzuryuu-san, Pekoyama-san, go ahead and sit down, please.”

Natsumi does as she’s told. In the back of the room, Souda’s head snaps up.

“W-Wait,” he says. He scoops the mess on his desk towards his chest, graph paper and screws and a bunch of half-used mechanical pencils. “No. No, no, no. I’m not staying in here with that psychopath, not for one flippin’ second.”

“Souda-kun,” Nanami tries, quiet and gentle. “It’s okay. I think if Kuzuryuu-san—”

“Are you kidding me? You saw what Pekoyama did to Koizumi, and that was just today! Who knows what they did to that reserve course chick!” He fumbles his books, and the thwack of their hardback covers on the floor rattles in the windows. He leaves them there, scrambling around desks to the door. “Forget this. You couldn’t pay me to breathe the same air as her.”

Natsumi smiles at the ceiling, arms behind her head.

“Souda-kun, wait, please.” Yukizome says. “I understand how you feel, but if we just—”

“No! N-No fucking way. Sorry, teach, but I’m outta here.”

Yukizome follows him out into the hallway.

She comes back a minute later.

She can bluster all she wants, but in the end she can’t force any of them to stay. She only ever had any power because they let her have it.

“I’m sorry, class,” she says, stepping back behind her desk. She’s still smiling, but it’s lopsided and unconvincing, like someone snapped it in half and she pieced it back together incorrectly. “I know these past few weeks have been hard. For everyone.”

“He’s not wrong, you know,” Natsumi says.

Yukizome looks at her like she’s only just seen her.

“Souda-kun,” Natsumi clarifies. “He’s not wrong. I mean, you’ve all heard Koizumi-san’s sob story by now, I bet. And who does know what else I’ve been up to? Maybe I’m an impediment to your safe and happy learning environment, Yukizome-sensei.“ She twists in her seat. “What do you think, Sonia-san? You’ve got an opinion, right?”

Sonia stares back at her.

“That’s enough, Kuzuryuu-san,” Yukizome says, after the silence has turned painful. “Let’s move on. We’re a small class today, so—”

“No,” Sonia interrupts. She stands, tips of her fingers set on the desktop. “Kuzuryuu-san is correct. I do have an opinion.”

“Oh yeah?” Natsumi says. “It’s about time. Let’s hear it, then. Princess Perfect comes clean. Or as close to it as you can get, huh?”

“Kuzuryuu-san has no place in this classroom,” Sonia tells Yukizome. She keeps the line of her gaze high, over Natsumi’s head. “She has no one’s best interests at heart but her own. She is selfish, unpleasant, and underhanded.” Natsumi grins up at her, but Sonia still refuses to look down. “However, it is not because she is inherently malicious, as she would have you believe. It is because she is a coward.“

Natsumi feels her smile fall off her face.

“She is small, and she is afraid.” Sonia tilts her chin up and her eyes down, until Natsumi is at the end of her nose. “Nothing less,” she says, “and nothing more.”

“You’ve got me all figured out, huh?” Natsumi snaps. “All because of that one time I got the better of you? Are you embarrassed that you got it so wrong, Sonia-san?”

Yukizome flutters between them, expression pained. “Girls, please,” she says. “We’ll sit together after class to resolve this, alright?” She sets the heel of her hand against Natsumi’s shoulder, firm.

Natsumi rolls her shoulders back to shake her off. “Here’s a tip,” she snarls at Sonia. She sits up, and braces herself on the back of her chair. “You don’t know anything about me. You never did. You never will.”

“I see,” Sonia says. “That is it, then.” She bows, military-sharp. “I apologize, Yukizome-sensei, but I must take my leave as well. I find it difficult and unpleasant to learn in such a hostile environment, and I have preparations of my own to complete.”

Yukizome reaches for her elbow when she brushes past. “Sonia-san—”

“I will be back for homeroom tomorrow morning.” She sets her fingers over the back of Yukizome’s hand, but her smile is small, diplomatic, and fake. “I am sorry.”

The classroom is silent, even after the sharp sound of Sonia’s heels fades into the distance.

Mitarai is looking at her. It’s a cool, level stare, one that reminds her of the very first day of class. “You got something you wanna say, Mitarai-kun?” she prompts. “Go on. Everybody else does.”

He doesn’t, it turns out. He averts his eyes, the same way he did that first day, and gathers his books up against his chest. He walks out without a word, head low and shoes scuffling.

Yukizome doesn’t even try, this time.

“Welp! Looks like that’s it.” Natsumi swings herself out of her desk. Peko follows suit, rising in a single, smooth motion. “Speaking of, I’ve really got better things to do than sit around listening to you talk to yourself, so I think I’m gonna bail too.” She looks back over her shoulder. “Oh, I guess Nanami-san is still here. But she barely counts, right?”

“You didn’t always used to be this way, Kuzuryuu-san,” Nanami murmurs.

Natsumi pretends not to have heard. She knows who she is now. She isn’t responsible for anyone else. “You had a good run, Yukizome-sensei.” She swings her bag up onto her shoulder. “But you really should learn to know when you’re beaten.”

When she and Peko leave, Nanami is the only one still in the room, fingers wrapped tight around her stupid little game.

She and Peko are back in her dorm before curfew. It’s easy to be, since she dropped all of her clubs, and it isn't like she isn't busy. There’s always work to be done, or work to be made.

Sleep doesn’t come on its own, and hasn’t for a while. That’s fine; it means she gets more done. She spends the first few hours after class checking in with the new recruits in Osaka. When that’s done, she starts researching the leads Enoshima brought to her last Tuesday.

When that’s done, it’s dark outside, and she can still see Satou’s face on the inside of her eyelids.

Peko’s phone pings in her pocket. Then it pings again. And again. It pings so many times in a row that the sound keeps cutting itself off, lilting chimes played over top of each other in jagged increments.

Natsumi grinds her knuckles against her eyes. “What’s he want now?”

Peko doesn’t reply right away. When Natsumi looks over, she has her phone in her hand, frowning at the screen.

“Well?”

Peko’s eyes flick up, then back down again. She dims the phone and puts it back in her pocket. “He’s frustrated that I’m no longer responding to his messages,” she says.

“That’s it?” Natsumi says. “That was, like, five messages, at least.”

Peko won’t meet her eye. She has her gaze at a stubborn half-mast, focused on the baseboard at the other side of the room. “Sometimes he gets very frustrated,” she answers.

Natsumi sits up, one elbow on the back of her chair. She studies Peko’s face, and then says, “Read it.”

Peko hesitates. It’s as damning as anything.

“I said, read it.”

“Yes, young mistress.” Peko pulls the phone back out from her pocket. The light from the screen casts a glare on the lenses of her glasses. “‘I know you’re reading these,’” she recites. “‘And I know what’s going on. Is she that much of a coward? She doesn’t—’” She breathes in, and when she lifts her head Natsumi can see the whites of her eyes again. “Young mistress, is it necessary to—”

“Yes,” Natsumi snaps. “Keep going.”

“‘She doesn’t have the right to treat you like a—’” The words stick. Peko’s jaw locks, and when she starts again the words come out halting and uncoordinated, like a child learning to read without processing meaning. “‘Like a piece of fucking property. She’s out of control. I’m gonna handle it. Don’t worry.’”

Natsumi folds both arms over the back of her chair and lets each word settle over her, until they’re bone-deep and boiling. Peko watches her, phone still held face-up in her palm. The backlight eventually turns off on its own.

“Are you worried, Peko?” Natsumi asks, cheek against her elbow.

“No, young mistress.”

“Do you think I’m out of control?”

“No, young mistress.”

“Do you think there’s something my brother needs to handle?”

“Not to my knowledge, young mistress.”

Natsumi holds her hand out. “Give me the phone.”

She does, without objection.

Peko has had the same phone since Natsumi first went to middle school. Natsumi’s father agreed to it only because Natsumi had demanded it: what was the point of having a tool at all, she’d argued, if they were going to be separated with no way to keep in contact?

It’s an old, clunky thing. Natsumi thinks the only reason it still works is because Peko hardly ever uses it. There are three saved contacts: Natsumi, Peko’s weapons-master back at the compound, and Fuyuhiko.

Peko waits in silence while Natsumi scrolls through the text history.

Fuyuhiko-sama 12:17 so apparently there’s this old street cat hanging around during lunch now

Fuyuhiko-sama 12:17 the others are calling it miruku

Fuyuhiko-sama 12:17 a white cat. called miruku. real fucking original

me 12:18 😺

Fuyuhiko-sama 12:20 you really like that one huh

me 12:20 It seemed appropriate.

me 12:22 Should I refrain from using them in the future?

Fuyuhiko-sama 12:22 no it’s fine

Fuyuhiko-sama 12:24 if my sister can average ten of those things per text you can use however many you damn well please

Fuyuhiko-sama 12:33 sorry about earlier

Fuyuhiko-sama 12:33 I was out of line

me 12:57 There’s no need to apologize.

Fuyuhiko-sama 12:57 are you serious? of course there’s a need!

Fuyuhiko-sama 12:59 nobody’s got any right to talk to you like that. including me

me 13:13 There is not.

me 13:13 Your concerns were appreciated, though unwarranted. You should not apologize for feeling strongly.

Fuyuhiko-sama 13:13 godDAMMIT peko

Fuyuhiko-sama 13:13 do you not listen to a single fucking word I say??

Fuyuhiko-sama 13:40 sorry

Fuyuhiko-sama 13:40 again

Fuyuhiko-sama 13:40 you can point out the irony if you want

me 13:42 I won’t.

Fuyuhiko-sama 13:42 yeah

Fuyuhiko-sama 15:30 hey. I need your help again

Fuyuhiko-sama 15:30 miruku’s being a little asshole and I can’t figure out how to shake her

Fuyuhiko-sama 17:02 look I’m sorry I called the cat an asshole, but she is, all right?

Fuyuhiko-sama 12:17 how’s school going? ok?

Fuyuhiko-sama 13:05 peko?

Fuyuhiko-sama 13:16 can you at least tell me if you’re getting these or not?

Fuyuhiko-sama 13:21 fuck this, I’m texting her

Fuyuhiko-sama 10:02 hey

Fuyuhiko-sama 10:02 I know the stuff with natsumi is a shit show right now but congrats on your practical exam

Fuyuhiko-sama 10:03 you did a good job

me 10:04 Thank you.

me 10:04 I didn’t realize you’d be watching.

Fuyuhiko-sama 10:06 well yeah. yours got broadcast the same as everybody else’s. why wouldn’t I watch it?

me 10:06 (Draft) I don’t know.

me 15:56 I’m sorry.

Fuyuhiko-sama 15:56 what have you got to be sorry for?

me 15:57 I feel responsible.

me 15:58 It wasn’t my intention to damage your relationship with the young mistress.

Fuyuhiko-sama 16:12 what the fuck?

Fuyuhiko-sama 16:12 did she tell you that?

me 16:13 Will you speak to her, please?

Fuyuhiko-sama 16:13 no

Fuyuhiko-sama 16:22 look, I’m pissed at her, not you

Fuyuhiko-sama 16:22 if I see her now I can’t guarantee I won’t slap the shit out of her

Fuyuhiko-sama 16:22 it’s about time I finally got sick of her bullshit anyway

Fuyuhiko-sama 09:10 are you okay?

me 09:10 Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?

Fuyuhiko-sama 09:10 don’t give me that

Fuyuhiko-sama 09:11 I need one person to tell me the fucking truth for once

me 09:11 It is the truth.

me 09:11 I fulfilled my purpose. There is nothing for me to be ashamed of.

Fuyuhiko-sama 23:21 listen I’ve been thinking about what you said and I know you’re not going to like it and I know I said I wouldn’t bring it up again but I can’t sit around on my ass acting like I’m okay with it anymore. she took it way too fucking far. doesn’t it bother you? even a little bit?

Fuyuhiko-sama 01:47 peko?

Fuyuhiko-sama 14:08 will you just get her to fucking talk to me? I sent her ANOTHER goddamn message and she’s STILL fucking ignoring me. if I have to fight one of these pussy security guards to get over there I fucking will

Fuyuhiko-sama 21:49 I know you’re reading these

Fuyuhiko-sama 21:49 and I know what’s going on. is she that much of a coward?

Fuyuhiko-sama 21:49 she doesn’t have the right to treat you like a piece of fucking property

Fuyuhiko-sama 21:50 she’s out of control. I’m gonna handle it

Fuyuhiko-sama 21:50 don’t worry

Natsumi relaxes her fingers until the phone slips out of her grip. It hits the floor corner-first, and cracks explode across the screen. When she stands up, she lets the rest of it crunch under the ball of her foot, until the backlight flickers and cuts out.

Peko is looking at her feet.

Natsumi pulls her own phone out of her pocket and sends a single message:

me 22:04 ⛲🕕

She and Peko get there first. She means to be early; it gives her an advantage.

It’s her favorite fountain on the school’s grounds. It’s small, and made of warm, burnished metal. The spouts are shaped like leaves on the ends of long stems, and water tumbles off the edges of them in sheets. It burbles instead of roars.

It’s tucked away in a little nook on the western side of grounds, out of the path of visiting tour groups by virtue of not being historical enough or impressive enough to warrant wasting time on. It’s flanked by two rickety, decorative benches on either side, and framed up above by a drooping wisteria tree. This year’s blossoms have already fallen off and been swept away, like they were never there.

The fountain is turned off, after hours. The water is so still it looks almost black when she leans over to check her reflection.

She hears him when he shows up. He’s doing it on purpose, she knows, letting wayward twigs snap under his heels. He could be quiet if he wanted to, but he knows he got second place. He’s early, too, just not early enough to beat her.

He’s dressed down for the night, in an undershirt and the straight-legged running pants he sleeps in. He has both hands deep in his pockets. His hair is getting too long. He still looks more like himself than he ever did in the reserve course’s travesty of a uniform.

He says, “Hey.”

She sits on the outer rim of the fountain’s wide basin and crosses her legs at the ankle. “‘Hey’?” she echoes. “That’s it? I was expecting a lot more after that rant you sent Peko.”

His eyes slide right. Peko is behind her, staring into middle distance, pretending not to listen. “It’s late,” is his excuse. “Nevermind that those texts weren’t for you.”

Natsumi’s laugh slices through the still air of the courtyard.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says, when he glares at her. “I’m just— It has to be funny, right? That you’re still this clueless?” She pinches a lock of her hair between her fingers, and inspects the split ends. “It’s okay, though. That’s why we’re here, so I can explain things to you. That’s what a good big sister does.”

“I don’t need you to explain shit to me,” he says. “I know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Do you?” She leans over to root around in the interior pockets of her bag. “I’m serious. Do you? Because you’re treading a dangerous line, Fuyu-chan.” She tosses what’s left of Peko’s phone out onto the concrete between them. “And I’d really, really like it better if it was just a simple misunderstanding.”

She gives him time to get a good look. He wants to scream at her; she can see it in the flush of his face, and hear it in the sharp suck of breath between his teeth. “Yeah,” he says, volume forced into a hissing whisper. “I do. I know you killed a civilian over your pathetic fucking ego, and I know you’re sitting here patting yourself on the back for it.”

She lets go of the edge of the fountain. There’s a wide, red indentation on the heel of her hand when she smooths it over her knee. “You don’t,” she says, and for all that she tries to keep her voice steady, she can still feel anger vibrating beneath the surface. “Don’t pretend like you know a single thing about me, anymore.”

“Why?” he demands. “Does it fuck with your perfect justification if I know how afraid you are that she was right all along?”

“I was protecting you,” she snaps. “From her, from the school. From your own fucking stupidity.”

“Bullshit,” he says. “That’s such fucking bullshit. You can’t get on my ass about being a shitty liar when you try to say crap like that with a straight face.” He spreads his arms out wide. “Just admit it. You never gave two fucking shits about me. Dragging me here was always about making you feel better about all the shit you caused yourself.”

“What, I was supposed to give you what you wanted?” She’s on her feet before she can convince herself to stay where she is. “I was supposed to let you roll over like a fucking dog so some talentless bitch could say she outsmarted us? I was supposed to let this school think they could pull my strings whenever they wanted?” He holds his ground, even when she’s standing over him. “Well, guess what? They know better now. They know what our clan will be once I’m in charge. And I’m not going to let you fuck that up for me.”

The courtyard is silent. There’s no breeze. There aren’t even bugs. The school’s groundskeepers do everything they can to keep everything sterile and pristine.

“She was right all along,” he says, without an ounce of shame or hesitation. “You think I’m the one giving the clan a bad name? Look in a fucking mirror, Natsumi.”

Her heart pounds in her ears. He jerks his chin up, stubborn and defiant, and something low in her stomach burns, anger and humiliation and betrayal simmering together.

She tilts her head to the side and says, “Peko.”

Fuyuhiko’s brow pinches. He doesn’t understand. He wouldn’t. He’s too soft and too stupid to see what’s happened, the only response he’s left her with. He thinks she’s soft, too.

She isn’t.

Peko understands, though. Natsumi knows she does, because she always understands, even without having to be told. She’s quiet, and then she whispers, “Yes.”

Natsumi holds her hand out. “Lend me your sword for a sec.”

“Young mistress—”

Natsumi doesn’t look over. She flexes the fingers of her outstretched hand. “Did that sound like a question?”

Peko doesn't say anything else.

The blade sings out of its sheath instead, a ring of metal on metal. Fuyuhiko watches Peko do it; he's always watching her, all the time. Like he can't look away. Like she's the most important thing in the room. Like she's more important than respect, or tradition, or his own flesh and blood. Natsumi thinks if he spent less time preoccupied with her and more time on himself, he'd actually manage to recognize the position he's in.

But he'll get there. He's putting the pieces together now, she can see it in the jittery jump of his eyes from Peko's face to hers. His hands curl into fists at his sides, and he says, “Natsumi,” like a warning.

Peko sets the hilt of her katana into Natsumi’s open palm. It’s heavier than she expects, and she has to catch the pommel with her other hand to keep the tip from hitting the ground. For all that it always looked weightless and graceful in Peko’s hands, it feels heavy and unwieldy in hers.

“Natsumi,” Fuyuhiko says again.

She readjusts her grip, and tries to remember. Ippon-me. Nihon-me. Sanbon-me. Yonhon-me. Years of watching and assessing and memorizing, and none of it comes to her now, when it matters, Peko’s sword clumsy in her hands.

“I am the clan, you know,” she tells him. “I’m the foundation. I mean, sure, Dad’ll truck on for a while, but I’m not trying to just be what Dad is. We’re going to be better, understand? We’re going to be more than we’ve ever been, and it’s going to be because of me.”

“Put the goddamn sword down, Natsumi,” he says.

“I gave Satou her chances. I gave her too many, if you ask me.” She levels the tip of the sword at him. The weight of it stretches the bend of her elbow far enough to hurt. “I gave you yours, too.”

He lunges at her. It’s impulsive and stupid, the way he’s always been. Maybe he thinks she’s bluffing, or that sentiment will make her hesitate. It’s just more proof that he doesn’t know a single thing about her.

The blade swings out. She could stop it. She could drop it, or pull it back, or press it out to the side.

She doesn’t.

It catches him across the face. It’s a clumsy, uncoordinated cut; when the tip catches on the hard ridge of bone over his eye, she fumbles the hilt to keep it from slipping out of her hands. It slides the blade back, deeper, until it jostles back out and tears up toward his scalp.

She expects blood, but she doesn’t expect it to spray the way it does. All at once there are damp spots on her sleeve and the top half of her blouse. Some of it gets in her hair. It’s abruptly hot and then even more abruptly cold, and the smell of it burns her eyes and her nose and the back of her throat.

There are spots in her vision. She stumbles to keep herself upright.

Her brother is doubled-over, both hands clutched over his face. At first she thinks she might have slashed him sideways across both eyes, but when she’s steady enough to look again, there’s only blood spilling from the right side of his face.

“What the fuck,” he wheezes between breaths, “what the fuck.”

He’s hyperventilating. He’ll pass out if he doesn’t get it together.

“I tried to help you,” she tells him. Distantly, it registers that she’s begun to shout. Her throat is constricted and raw. “This school wouldn’t see what you could do, you wouldn’t see it, but I did. And this is the fucking thanks I get?” She drags the sword back up. The blade shrieks against concrete. “How much longer am I supposed to let you drag me down?”

A hand clamps around her wrist, light but firm.

When she looks, Peko is looking back at her.

They’ve been walking in each other’s footprints since the day they were born, and Natsumi has never once seen Peko the way she is now, eyes big with uncertainty and fear. “Young mistress,” she says, unsteady. “That’s enough. Please.”

Natsumi twists her wrist. Peko doesn’t try to hold her; she drops her hand and draws herself back, head low and elbows tucked in against her torso. The little clearing is silent, save for Fuyuhiko’s labored breathing.

Natsumi drags her free hand through her hair. It smears the blood there further in, and the smell hangs around her face, acrid. She can hold in the bile that bubbles up in her throat, but not the laughter.

“What,” she says, “the fuck is this?”

“I believe that Fuyuhiko-sama now understands the gravity of the position you’re in, young mistress,” Peko says to the ground. “It’s unnecessary to—”

“I’m sorry,” Natsumi interrupts. Peko doesn’t flinch, but she does close her eyes, which is close enough. “Since when do you decide what’s necessary and what’s not?”

“I would never presume to make your decisions for you, young mistress,” Peko replies, fingers closed into tight fists at her sides. “I was only concerned that you….” She cuts herself off. She bends her bow deeper, until her braids hang nearly perpendicular to the ground. “Forgive me.”

“No,” Natsumi says, “don’t let me stop you.” She swings both hands out; the sword slices through air just as cleanly as it does everything else. “You’ve got the floor, Peko-chan! Let’s hear what you’ve got to say that’s so important.”

“I spoke out of turn,” Peko murmurs. “I apologize. The mistake was mine.”

“You’re right,” Natsumi tells her. “It was. Too bad saying sorry isn’t good enough to get you out of this, huh?” Peko doesn’t answer. “Talk.”

“You have been in an acute state of stress for two weeks,” Peko answers obediently. Her voice is muffled, with her face turned down so low. “Your sleep has been poor every night during that time. You tried unsuccessfully to sleep three times tonight alone.” She breathes. Her voice shrinks. “I didn’t want you to make a choice you would regret.”

Natsumi bobs her head while she listens, and twists her elbow up to give herself a good look down the length of Peko’s katana. There’s a smear of blood along the sharp edge, and a splatter of it higher up the blade. The longer Natsumi holds it, the more at home it feels in her grip.

“Tell me something,” she says eventually. “What are you without me, Peko-chan?”

Peko is silent.

Natsumi lifts her eyes from the sword, and lets her stare burn into the top of Peko’s skull. “I asked you a question.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Fuyuhiko snarls behind her. His voice is breathy and strained. “Shut the fuck up, Natsumi.”

“Nothing,” Peko answers, without looking up.

“Close!” Natsumi says. “Without me, you’re a pocket knife someone dropped down a sewer drain.” She pins the tip of the sword into the dirt at Peko’s feet, so she can see the smear of blood on it for herself. “You’re pointless. Useless. Forgotten. Is that what you want?”

“No, young mistress.”

Natsumi throws the sword down between them.

Peko opens her eyes. Her shallow breathing stops. She understands, without needing to be told.

“I have a situation,” Natsumi says. “Handle it.”

Peko doesn’t move. “I….” Her voice is small. It’s nearly empty breath, and it nearly falls backwards into her chest. “I am never to raise my weapon against a member of the Kuzuryuu family—”

“That’s fine.” Peko still isn’t looking at her. Natsumi smiles anyway. “Consider this the exception.”

“Master Kuzuryuu has expressly forbidden—”

“Who do you take orders from?” Natsumi demands. “Is it him? Or is it me?”

The question hangs in the air. Peko’s shoulders droop. The anxiety in her voice flattens into nothing. “You, young mistress.”

“And who’s giving you this order, right now?”

“You, young mistress.”

“Pick it up,” she orders.

Peko squeezes her eyes shut again.

“You and me,” Natsumi spits in her face. “Always. No matter what happens.” She kicks the sword’s hilt with the heel of her shoe. It spins lazily, metal whining. “Pick. It. Up.”

Peko bends.

“Don’t do this.” Fuyuhiko has both hands clapped over the right side of his face, now, but blood and milky fluid still ooze out between his fingers. He can’t stand up straight. Natsumi’s impressed he’s still standing at all. “Natsumi. Don’t— don’t make her do this.”

“You can’t put this all on me,” she snarls at him. “She made her choice. You made yours.” Peko draws herself back up, katana in her grip, and Natsumi falls back to her shoulder. “Well, this is me making mine.”

His elbows are trembling. He has to drop his hands, and his fingers draw messy tracks through the blood on his face when he does.

When she was four, she’d thrown paint in his face after she’d gotten bored during finger painting. Red and blue and yellow. He screeched at her and chased her around the room, until the both of them had left enough hand- and foot- and elbowprints to occupy the maids for an entire week.

Their parents had come home early that day. She’d tried to wipe it off his face before they could see, but she’d only smeared it worse over his cheeks.

“Natsumi,” he gasps again, “please.”

Her baby brother, who always used to cry when he was afraid.

She steps back, and Peko steps into her place. The balance of her katana is effortless in her fingers, the blade a single smooth, unwavering line in the darkness.

Peko stands tall, her shoulders steady and square. She dwarfs him, his body bent and hunched and twisted, but he doesn’t try to run from her. He only stares up into her face, searching.

“This doesn’t change anything,” he manages. His voice is hoarse and thick. “Understand? I- I fucked up. I should’ve done more. I should’ve tried harder.” She sets her open palm against the mangled right side of his face, and his breath comes out in a wet, shuddering gasp. “Peko, I’m— I’m sorry.”

The courtyard is still. Natsumi forces herself to keep her eyes open.

Peko drives the full length of her katana through his abdomen. There is a quiet hiss of breath, and then silence again.

She doesn’t let his body drop, the way she did with Satou’s. She doesn’t twist the hilt of her blade or shove him off it with the base of her foot, the way Natsumi has seen her do to other marks before now. She draws her blade back and out, dark metal streaked scarlet, and it tumbles from her fingers with a clatter. She leaves it there in the dirt, and scoops both arms under Fuyuhiko’s shoulders to hold him against her when he buckles.

There’s no shouting or screaming or panicking. His face presses into the juncture of Peko’s neck and shoulder when she sinks with him to the ground, and he clings to her back, or tries to. His fingers are too uncoordinated and smeared with blood to get a proper grip. He’s talking, something quiet and slurred and rambling.

Natsumi turns her back, and bends over the fountain when her stomach rolls. A pocket of damp air rushes up into her face and disperses the smell of hot metal, so she stays there, gut trembling.

“Sorry,” he’s saying. “S’okay. Peko. S’okay. I’m a fuckin’... I’m not… I’m….”

Satou died faster than this. Maybe Peko’s lost her touch, or her nerve.

Natsumi squeezes both eyes shut. Her nails split on the sharp edge of the basin. She focuses on the pain, on the smell of stale water, on the thrum of adrenaline in her throat. Anything to drown it out.

When she opens her eyes again, her lashes are wet, and something has disturbed the flat surface of the fountain. Thin ripples smash into each other from all directions, and her reflection warps, stretched and compressed in waves.

Eventually, the stuttering stream of his voice slows, then fades, then stops. There’s a shift, the damp sound of fabric peeling back, and the slow intake of Peko’s breath.

Natsumi turns around.

Peko is laying Fuyuhiko out on the ground in front of her. She cups one hand against his cheek to tilt his head toward her, and away from Natsumi. (But there’s blood in his hair from where Natsumi split his eye open, and she can see Satou still, face frozen and empty. Peko’s patronization protects her from nothing.) He looks small in her hands, like he weighs nothing at all. His chest doesn’t move.

She sits up tall when she’s finished, fists on her knees. The front of her blouse sags shiny and wet with blood, and the chocolate brown of her skirt has turned to something murky and sickly. It’s smeared on her knuckles and up her forearms, and soaked into her collar where her neck meets her shoulder. It’s on her cheek, under her glasses, and in her hair.

Bright red makes her skin look ashen. Natsumi’s always thought so, and always told her so. It’s why Peko stopped wearing red ribbons in her hair, as a child.

If not for Fuyuhiko’s corpse spread out in front of her, someone might think she was the one who bled out.

“Young mistress,” she says. “I am finished.”

The official police report calls him the second victim of an unknown assailant on the school. They are actively encouraging anyone with any information on the case to step forward. There are no leads at this time.

The school goes on full lockdown. The students are packed in with each other, most clubs suspended without further notice, and the rumor mill churns. Some say Satou was secretly a yakuza princess, the daughter of a rival clan whose death started a war. Others say she and Fuyuhiko were seeing each other in secret, and were punished by the Kuzuryuus when they were found out. Someone somewhere whispers that the school itself was behind it, and that the reserve course is to Hope’s Peak like a prized hog is to a butcher.

Natsumi listens to all of them, and Peko reports to her the ones said out of earshot. No one comes to her for independent verification.

They don't want to know the truth, anyway.

Her brother’s funeral is on a Thursday. She and Peko are given three days of official bereavement leave: two travel days, and the funeral itself.

There are light refreshments, after the service. Natsumi doesn’t have time to take any, but it’s fine; her stomach is too twisted and shriveled to contemplate even the cheap, flaky digestives at the low end of the table.

She receives the family in a line out on the grass, Peko behind her left shoulder. There’s no smarming or schmoozing or simpering. None of them touch her, not even her aunt, who so often reaches to clutch her face without asking. They all wring their hands and avert their eyes when it’s their turn to face her.

It’s terrible, they all say. They talk about her brother in different ways, about how he was sharp-edged and bright, full of life, the flip side of her coin, but when the bullshit’s done they all land on that same adjective. Terrible. Terrible. Terrible.

Natsumi stares at every one of them until they shrink away from her, cowed and afraid, and feels nothing.

On her first day back at school, Enoshima is sitting at her lunch table, waiting. Her shake today is strawberry, bright enough pink that it hurts Natsumi’s eyes.

“Welcome back, senpai,” she chirps. “Got time to chat?”

Natsumi sits down across from her. Peko stands to the side, hands folded loosely behind her back. “Five minutes,” Natsumi says. “Talk.”

“That’s more than you gave me the first time,” Enoshima says. “I call that progress!” She stirs the straw of her shake with one finger, her chin on the heel of her other hand. “But I’m not here to waste your time, or mine. I hear you’re in the market for a new right hand.”

“My brother’s body isn’t even cold,” Natsumi tells her.

“You're right. And we're all gonna miss Fuyuhiko-kun and his special brand of friendship.” Enoshima leans forward on her elbows. Her voice dips low. “But is the business going to wait the appropriate amount of time for grieving? Are the Azumas gonna consider the well-being of your family before they muscle in on our new turf?”

She stretches her neck out to suck on the straw of her shake. “Well, they probably will, actually. Just not in the good way. You get what I mean, right, senpai? You need somebody to watch your back while you go through this difficult time.” She touches the tips of her fingers to the edges of her smile. “And I’m just the girl for you.”

Natsumi sits back in her seat. She busies herself with cracking open the lid of her lunch. “If you do a good job, Enoshima-kun,” she answers. “Maybe I’ll consider it.”

Enoshima’s smile cuts bright and sharp, back toward her ears.

“Enoshima-kun this, Enoshima-kun that,” she drawls. “Come on! We’re friends now, aren’t we?” She reaches across the table to lace their fingers together. Natsumi lets her, hands loose. “You can call me Junko.”

#natsumi kuzuryuu #fuyuhiko kuzuryuu #peko pekoyama #kuzupeko #danganronpa #anyway bye i'm gonna go sleep forever #fic: by the claw of dragon #sunwrites

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