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Life with Junko was chaos and contradiction, a battlefield Mukuro knew very well but hadn't quite got right (but would never, ever leave). They'd always known this. They, alone, knew this.
Two small girls had never felt more lost and hopeless than inside their own home. Perfect portraits, stiff and lifeless scenes encased in wood and glass-- only the twins knew what 'family' really meant: the long, angry silences, the crushing resentment, the smell of dust and disappointment in stale summer air.
Gorgeous, brilliant, lovely Enoshima-san was never so alone as when she was surrounded by crowds. Fans and admirers, agents and cameras, all blinded by her gleaming grin-- only Mukuro saw the hollow empty eyes, the venom clenched tight behind her fangs, the bitter, seething hatred just under her skin.
And her trembling, delirious, painfully thin sister was never so alive as when she was discussing her own death. Her voice tremulous and reverent, looking skyward for salvation as she listed all the ways she'd pay for her sins, sitting cross-legged and childlike on their bed while Mukuro leaned against the faded, peeling wallpaper.
“You could kill me right here! You could snap me in two!” Junko's voice was quick and light, reveling in fantasy. Mukuro sharpened her knife. “With all your training, I bet you could murder me in five different ways just with your bare hands!” Seven, Mukuro thought absently, before biting down hard on her inner cheek (no, she would never). She drew the stone along the blade. Repetitive, soothing.
“Or you could shoot me, but that would be so very boring, cold and impersonal and hardly fun at all--” and she stopped and gazed slyly at the soldier, fluttering her lashes, “but that would be just like you, after all!”
Junko loved talking. Junko adored the sound of her own voice. Mukuro tried very hard not to listen. As she always did, when Junko got like this. Her sister was sick.
“Would you kill me, Muku-nee?” She chirped, lacing her fingers together under her chin, pouting cutely, eyes sharp and searching her face, “Would you ever hurt your baby sister?”
“No.” The reply came immediately, flat and unemotional. Mukuro refused to meet her sister's gaze, and Junko grinned.
“Even if I was going to do something awful?”
“No.” She didn't need to ask that. She should have known the answer. Mukuro hadn't stepped in before, not ever, no matter what she'd seen or what she felt (because what she felt didn't matter, only Junko mattered, only making Junko happy mattered).
“Even if I ordered you to?”
Mukuro glanced up at that, and Junko gave her that glorious, dazzling, hollow, painful smile, and for a moment she couldn't find the words. “No.” Softer this time, penitent. Good soldiers didn't disobey. Good sisters didn't hurt each other. She couldn't win (she could never win with Junko).
“Aw, Muku-nee,” Junko whined, hands on her hips, the perfect image of a bratty younger sibling, “no fair! You have to listen to me, right? What good's a stupid soldier who can't even do that?” Mukuro felt her jaw tighten, biting back a reply and a hiss of pain as she slipped and scraped the stone against her thumb.
“What if I hurt you?”
“I could never hurt you, Junko.” Quietly, painfully, truthfully.
“Such a well-trained dog! You wouldn't ever turn on your master? Boring! Boring boring boring, Mukuro!” Junko laughed, harsh and sharp and loud, “Meek little mutt, is that all you are? How can you even live your life being such a tremendous disappointment?” Her lip curled in a sneer, eyeing Mukuro's trembling hands, the whetstone abandoned, the knife clutched tight, “Who's afraid of the big, bad wolf?”
Junko was sick. Junko didn't mean it. Junko was sick. Junko always did this. Mukuro tried to breathe, low and even, counterpoint to Junko's furious escalations, “stupid, ugly, useless, boring, disappointing, pointless, worthless,” and she tasted blood in her mouth and felt her skin buzzing with adrenaline and heard her own heartbeat thudding in her ears.
Suddenly it wasn't a game any more, if it ever had been, and Mukuro stiffened as Junko leaped up, stalked forward, spat out a vicious "Say something!” and swiped one taloned hand across Mukuro's face and
She grabbed Junko's (thin, delicate) wrist and yanked her around and brought one arm up across her (narrow, fragile) chest and slammed her so hard against the wall that for a moment she couldn't breathe and let out a growl so low and deep it almost didn't sound real.
“Muku-nee,” Junko wheezed, “you lied.” She cocked her head to one side, tactically baring her vulnerable throat, razor smile painted across her face. “They did turn you into a wolf.”
“I--” Mukuro swallowed (she still had the knife), breathed (she could never hurt Junko), swallowed again (rabid, vicious, dangerous, how could she), “I'm-- I'm so sorry--”
“Well?” Junko asked, impatiently, breathlessly, “Come on, come on, it's so easy, just get it over with. One quick twitch and a little mess and it'll be done.” Smiling emptily, tears running down her flushed cheeks, words rushing fast and low and pleading, “Just one cut, that's all, one little slice, Muku-nee, please--”
Mukuro dropped the knife and kissed her desperately into silence, and Junko made a small little noise somewhere between a moan and a sob, and Mukuro pulled her close and held her tight and tried to stop her shaking, and all of Junko's sharp edges melted against her as she wrapped her own skinny arms around her neck. Mukuro kissed her and stroked her hair and wiped her tears, because she never knew what to say (because she couldn't say anything that would ever, ever help). And even then, she still stupidly opened her mouth to try and whispered a desperate and pleading “I love you.”
Junko shoved hard against her and Mukuro immediately stumbled back, apologizing dizzily, “J-Junko, I'm s-sorry, I--”
“Shut up,” Junko hissed, claws clamping down hard on her shoulders as she steered her backwards, pressed her down against the sheets and sprang up on top of her, straddling her hips easily. She leaned low and kissed her back, hungrily, forcefully, scraping her teeth against Mukuro's lower lip as she pulled away to yank her shirt over her head and kick off her skirt. Mukuro unbuttoned her own shirt with shaking hands as Junko caught her in another desperate kiss, deep and rough, hooking claws under her waistband and stripping her, flinging the pants across the room.
As soon as they could they flew back into each others' arms, Junko nipping and marking her neck, Mukuro gently running her fingers through Junko's hair. Junko swiped her hands down Mukuro's sides, leaving long angry scratches as Mukuro laid soft kisses across Junko's collarbones. Mukuro splayed her hands across Junko's taut stomach, cupped her too-sharp hips, traced a path across her thighs, and Junko snarled “Fuck me” into her ear and Mukuro could do nothing but obey.
Mukuro watched her sister reverently; her eyes as they fluttered closed, her hands as they tightened on her shoulders, the way she bit down on those cherry-red lips and hissed in satisfaction as Mukuro slid one finger inside her. She was already squirming and twitching, moving impatiently, leaning down to kiss her again and again until Mukuro could hardly breathe.
Those perfect teeth nipped against Mukuro’s ear, drawing a tiny whimper from the soldier that made Junko shiver. She bit again, again, and dug her fingers into her sister’s sides, and raked her claws across her skin-- and every bruise and scrape and precious drop of blood sang that she was hers, hers, hers. Mukuro bore it all unflinchingly, accepting each and every mark as well-deserved-- she tilted her head back and bared her throat in submission, whined as those predator fangs sank into her skin. Junko growled low and rasping, breathing hot and rapid against Mukuro’s neck, grinding against her hand insistently. “Another,” and she obeyed, slicking a second finger and easing into her, listening to her groan in wordless gratitude.
“I love you,” She repeated, nuzzling against her cheek and whispering into her ear, enraptured and heedless of those slender fingers digging into her skin, “I love you so much, Junko-chan--”
Junko whimpered, a sound so strange for her, high and ragged and weak, panting out “Mu-ku-ro” in gorgeous staccato breaths as she rocked against her palm-- and then bucked forward unevenly with a pleading, filthy “nee-chan” and Mukuro's lips parted in a soft and shameful moan. She shivered underneath her, curling her fingers and pressing her palm down just so, drawing another breathless whimper from Junko, another stammered “Muku-nee-chan,” another delicious tremble. And it was so good to be useful, to be worth something, to hear her sister whine her name so sweetly as she rutted against her (sick they were sick she was sick)--
Junko shuddered, let out a strangled yelp and came, nails digging so sharply into Mukuro's shoulders that she drew blood. Mukuro replied with a soft sighing hum, gently withdrawing and earning a tiny gasp in return. Junko nearly collapsed, curled up immediately against her-- one arm across her chest, one leg hitched up over her thighs, panting softly against her neck as Mukuro held her until her shivering ceased.
“Muku-nee,” she finally sighed, so airily into her ear that Mukuro couldn't help but flush.
“Mm?”
“You're bleeding.”
Mukuro glanced down. Red beaded up through pinprick cuts. “Mm.” Not important.
“Doesn't it hurt?” She breathed, glancing curiously at the soldier's face.
“A little,” she admitted, murmuring into Junko's hair. She didn't mind. Junko was silent for a moment, arms looped around her, eyes roaming over the damage. Long red scratches, bruised lips, the half-moon crescent mark of fangs and blood-smeared stripes across her skin. She ran one finger down one tender scrape, featherlight this time, and Mukuro flinched under her touch.
“Sorry,” Mukuro supplied automatically, sounding vaguely disappointed in herself, and Junko’s eyes clouded. She pulled herself up onto one elbow, peering down at Mukuro, expression unreadable.
“Muku-nee.”
“Mm?”
“Close your eyes.”
Her eyebrows quirked together for only a moment, curious and wary. But she did, without question-- she would never disobey Junko's orders.She felt the mattress dip slightly as Junko shifted, felt the tickling drift of her long hair against her cheek-- and Junko's cherry-red lips on hers, softly, almost hesitantly, without any flash of teeth. Mukuro's breath hitched in surprise-- and Junko cupped her cheek with one hand and kissed her again, more insistently, silencing her with her tongue. Junko's hands roamed over her and she arched to follow them, the soft touch bittersweetly unfamiliar, anticipating pain that never came. Slowly she raised shaking hands and set them uncertainly on Junko's narrow hips, and her sister purred encouragingly into her mouth and combed her talons sweetly through her raven hair.
She felt lightheaded, like her mind was full of clouds and rain-- Junko pulled back and nuzzled against her, let her breathe in shallow gulps, and Mukuro could feel her smiling against her skin. That slender hand slid lower, smoothing down the rivets torn into her chest, the parentheses her nails bored into her sides. She kissed her again as she pressed gently across her flat stomach-- and lower, tracing along her so gently, and Junko gladly swallowed up another of her gasps.
“J-Junko,” she rasped, a tiny shiver running through her, and she could hear her sister stifling a giggle-- though it didn't have the vicious blood-seeking edge it normally carried. Mukuro blushed anyway, biting her lip and trapping a whine behind her teeth as Junko's idle stroking grew more focused. Her head tilted back and her hips twitched forward, automatic, and she waited for the sting of fangs-- and instead Junko leaned in to kiss her marks, gentle and almost chaste. She must have made another sound, a small confused hum, because that amused not-quite-laugh came again, closer this time and then-- Junko dragged her tongue along her throat, agonizingly slowly, accompanying it with a breathy moan and the inexorable press of her fingers into her. Mukuro couldn't help but shudder and just barely forced back a whine, her voice clipped and strained.
“Nee-chan,” she purred into her ear, and Mukuro felt a hot flash of shame and pleasure deep in her belly, like curls of paper twisting and burning-- Junko kept up a steady rhythm and she rocked against her, clinging to her with eyes still tightly shut, face buried against her neck to try and muffle her moans.
The low burn grew more urgent, her smooth motions fell out of sync, and Junko spoke low and smoky into her ears, her voice enough to draw another whine from her-- “Ready?”
“Y-yes,” she whispered, swallowing dryly.
“Nee-chan,” Junko sighed, tangling her fingers in her hair as Mukuro shuddered and whined, “look at me.”
She did, immediately, steel-grey eyes meeting wide blues like endless oceans, hiding crushing depths with surface gloss-- delicate, pale skin, flawless like fresh-fallen snow-- blood red lips just barely parted to show those perfect carnivore fangs-- she drank in the sight of her, enraptured and adoring and worshipful even as her hips canted helplessly against her and everything crashed down.
She came with her sister's name on her lips, and Junko didn't quite smile, but her eyes were soft as she kissed her lightly once more.
“I love you,” she whispered, again, stupidly, and Junko was quiet for a long time. Finally, those long fingers twined into hers, one hand holding hers loosely as the other slipped under her to hold her closer.
“Sweet sister,” she murmured, and for once it wasn't dripping with venom, and that was enough. Mukuro curled against her weakly, already half-asleep, and didn't even notice herself drifting away.
/// ///
She never slept for long, though, accustomed to catching little naps where she could-- and she woke to find Junko sitting on the windowsill, skinny legs dangling outinto the abyss, a single glowing pinprick of light held carelessly between two fingers. One of Mukuro's shirts hung loosely over her shoulders, and her messy hair was wreathed in halos of smoke. Mukuro slid silently out of bed, wriggled into clothes and climbed up to perch beside her, and they stared up at the ink-soaked sky.
“Have you slept?” Mukuro asked quietly, even though she knew the answer.
Junko raised the cigarette to her perfect pouting lips, sucked poison into her lungs, tilted her head back to let the smoke escape her like a dying dragon. Glassy eyes didn’t stray as she shook her head, locked on the horizon as indigo bruises blossomed through it.
“Have you eaten?” The script was old and tired and useless but she read from it dutifully. She shook her head again. She sighed, quietly, and Junko glanced briefly, hollowly, at her for a moment before snuffing out the cigarette. Mukuro carefully threaded one arm around her painfully narrow waist, and Junko leaned tiredly against her, and they watched as dark red slowly bled into the sky.