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Her little sister has always been clever. Junko's mind is a razor honed to cut its wielder: She has a capacity for soaking up information, but grows weary of the facts.
I'm the brains; you're the brawn, she had whispered once against Mukuro's mouth, to which she had replied, Good thing it isn't the other way around, and there had always been some truth in that.
Junko caused her first true despair by telling everyone she didn't care about learning. She hadn't, not the way people expected her to. At the mercy of possessing limitless childhood potential, Junko struck her very first blow by severing it at the artery, some weeks before she tried to give Mukuro her own set of stigmata.
School's boring, you know? Not for me.
An extremely short and meaningful confession, it had the desired effect. It was different from bullying, from
Excessive hope had never been placed on Mukuro: She was quiet; she followed directions perfectly; she did her work without overdue enthusiasm; she got on well enough. In the absence of hope, they were always meant to grow into each other this way casting the shadow of despair.
Time in the field hadn't been conducive to studying, and Mukuro spends her current academic career in the same state of earnest disinterest, with Junko hanging answers in her ear the way they have always shared secrets. She does well enough.
In testament to her ability to excel at what she puts her mind to, Junko excels at her own study plan, in her own way. Mukuro finds her at her desk in front of her notes, her science diagrams pinned in stark disarray above the workspace, her hair pulled back at the base of her skull.
“I'm still studying, but you can sit with me for a while.”
Mukuro drops her bag beside the bed with a lifeless thud and sits at Junko's side by the desk propped up against the sundry drawers. Sometimes she feels like a graft growing out of her sister's very being – it doesn't matter that she is older
“You don't even care about that subject.” The angle makes it impossible to see any higher than Junko's chest, but she can close her eyes and imagine the only face she's never lost sight of.
Junko snorts. “Duh to the nth. Let's see how long I can force myself to stick it out!”
She lets Mukuro lick the tip of her thumb in order to turn a page in her notes, then rips a sheet of paper from the binding. She tears it into quarters, then eighths, before discarding the pieces in a flutter of broken pink words.
Maybe something is her fault. Junko hasn't acknowledged her except to give her her thumb again, not even to pet a lock of her hair or ask her a question or tell her she's wasting her time.
“Are you bored?” She's never looked at her work for so long.
“Of you, maybe.”
The stinging dismissal isn't new, but she doesn't want to be wrong, doesn't want to be /boring/. There's such a difference between being berated and being unwanted, when it comes to Junko.
Mukuro kisses her leg just below the hip, rubbing her face plaintively at the place where her thigh turns out.
“Please don't be,” she says. “Please.” Beneath her lips, Junko's skirt folds up like crumpling paper. She rolls it so short herself that Mukuro has no trouble crossing that crucial boundary, sliding in to press her mouth against a freshly exposed strip of inner thigh.
Junko's hand presses to her forehead, tilting her from side to side and interrupting her bid for attention. Too forward, Mukuro thinks, though still she wants to beg.
“What's this, what's this? I don't let just anyone do that, you know. You think you're the only one who knows how to fall all over me?”
Mukuro accepts the two fingers Junko presents her with into an eager mouth, running her tongue from knuckle to fingertip before sucking them in as deeply as she can. She moans as they separate, attempting to chase them when Junko messily pulls away.
“But you're special, aren't you?” Junko dries her fingers off on her skirt (not her; Mukuro expected her to use her if only for that, and it wells up inside of her, that old disappointment) and pulls her chair back so that Mukuro can crawl on hands and knees under the desk.
“Can you ...” Thinking better of her transgression, Mukuro lowers her eyelashes, then pushes Junko's legs apart with her own power to bring herself closer to her body, lifts her down and towards her, though maybe not enough.
It's not an inconvenience. She can't be.
The functionality of these panties has always eluded her; Mukuro can easily run the tip of her finger under a ribbon-thin strip of fabric all the way from the back of her hip to the dimple just below the bone. “What are you working on?” she asks, sliding a palm up between Junko's legs, across her belly, back down again to press against her with the heel of her hand.
“Outlines.” And it sounds bored, but she hisses out the final sound when Mukuro rotates her hand in a slow grind. Junko slides down in her chair until the angle fits. “You ask too many questions! What are you, a quiz machine? Stop, stop, stop; no one likes it when you're ignorant. And don't be slow. I have work to do.”
She lifts her hips enough to let Mukuro pull her underwear away, but doesn't even squirm when she closes the distance to bring her tongue against her.
When Junko does this for her, it is all about teasing. Mukuro has been driven to the verge of madness more than once with her tongue inside of her, reduced to plaintive, wretched noises as soon as Junko thinks she's had enough and taken her mouth away. Brought to the cusp again and again, she ends up a mess of noise and muscle begging for affirmation.
It's worse when Junko brings her all the way through, tender and exhilarating instead of desperate and numb.
It might be worse.
Junko shreds another piece of paper, and Mukuro drags her tongue along with the sound of the tearing, flicking her eyes up only to realize that still she cannot see her face. Junko flips her skirt back down over her head, blinds her. The paper rips again, from eights down to less and less and more.
Subtle, hitching breaths are the only indicator she has of Junko's reaction, the little gasps that manage to break past the sound of pen on paper. Mukuro takes the weight of her thighs on her shoulders, one arm wrapped around her hip to support her.
Chancing a pass of her tongue directly over her clit, Mukuro brings her thumb around to penetrate her shallowly. Sitting as she is makes her tight The touch is daring, she knows; she is everywhere Junko is most sensitive. She moves slowly and deliberately, each ripple of her tongue another electric pulse on the skin.
Sometimes she thinks Junko fakes her enjoyment of this, too, the way she indulges anything in the world that isn't to her interests.
The older and older and older they get, the less necessary it's become, so it can't be that, can it? It can't be that.
“Hurry up.” Junko drags her forward by the hair; Mukuro can feel pain pulling and needling at her scalp. And it's good, the feeling of being torn slowly apart. She works her hips down towards nothing at all, unable to close her thighs enough to rub them together. Selfish of her to think of herself at a time like this.
Nights like this, she knows, will be used against her one day in the future. She did all of this without any prompting. There won't be any reciprocation today. She was the girl who wanted this; she came begging on her hands and knees in shame. Such a nice feeling.
It should be such a nice feeling. This is the despair she has to come to understand.
Shaking and shuddering, Junko makes a low noise above her head and bucks, and the weight of fulfillment is a burden she alone can bear. For a moment it's as though Mukuro has peeled back some layer. They are truly sisters, and Junko is just another girl.
Then Junko laughs, all but screaming, and kicks her out from from underneath her skirt so that her head strikes the desk at an angle. It will bruise.
“I'm a genius! The keenness of my mind is beyond compare, sharper than the hair on a kiwi skin!” Here the chair rolls back slowly and Junko's face is there, finally, the same as it's always been.
“What? You're still down there? What are you doing on the floor?”
Mukuro's tongue passes once across her lips Just say I did a good job. Just say I did a good job.
“Good for something, aren't you?” Junko wedges the palm of her hand against Mukuro's face roughly and rubs her mouth dry.
“Could I have the notes that are left?” Junko draws that hand back and through her hair, petting her as hard as water erodes rock, and Mukuro adds, “Please.”
“You don't want them. I wrote down the wrong answers.”
I'm the brains; you're the brawn, she had whispered once against Mukuro's mouth, to which she had replied, Good thing it isn't the other way around, and there had always been some truth in that.
Junko caused her first true despair by telling everyone she didn't care about learning. She hadn't, not the way people expected her to. At the mercy of possessing limitless childhood potential, Junko struck her very first blow by severing it at the artery, some weeks before she tried to give Mukuro her own set of stigmata.
School's boring, you know? Not for me.
An extremely short and meaningful confession, it had the desired effect. It was different from bullying, from
Excessive hope had never been placed on Mukuro: She was quiet; she followed directions perfectly; she did her work without overdue enthusiasm; she got on well enough. In the absence of hope, they were always meant to grow into each other this way casting the shadow of despair.
Time in the field hadn't been conducive to studying, and Mukuro spends her current academic career in the same state of earnest disinterest, with Junko hanging answers in her ear the way they have always shared secrets. She does well enough.
In testament to her ability to excel at what she puts her mind to, Junko excels at her own study plan, in her own way. Mukuro finds her at her desk in front of her notes, her science diagrams pinned in stark disarray above the workspace, her hair pulled back at the base of her skull.
“I'm still studying, but you can sit with me for a while.”
Mukuro drops her bag beside the bed with a lifeless thud and sits at Junko's side by the desk propped up against the sundry drawers. Sometimes she feels like a graft growing out of her sister's very being – it doesn't matter that she is older
“You don't even care about that subject.” The angle makes it impossible to see any higher than Junko's chest, but she can close her eyes and imagine the only face she's never lost sight of.
Junko snorts. “Duh to the nth. Let's see how long I can force myself to stick it out!”
She lets Mukuro lick the tip of her thumb in order to turn a page in her notes, then rips a sheet of paper from the binding. She tears it into quarters, then eighths, before discarding the pieces in a flutter of broken pink words.
Maybe something is her fault. Junko hasn't acknowledged her except to give her her thumb again, not even to pet a lock of her hair or ask her a question or tell her she's wasting her time.
“Are you bored?” She's never looked at her work for so long.
“Of you, maybe.”
The stinging dismissal isn't new, but she doesn't want to be wrong, doesn't want to be /boring/. There's such a difference between being berated and being unwanted, when it comes to Junko.
Mukuro kisses her leg just below the hip, rubbing her face plaintively at the place where her thigh turns out.
“Please don't be,” she says. “Please.” Beneath her lips, Junko's skirt folds up like crumpling paper. She rolls it so short herself that Mukuro has no trouble crossing that crucial boundary, sliding in to press her mouth against a freshly exposed strip of inner thigh.
Junko's hand presses to her forehead, tilting her from side to side and interrupting her bid for attention. Too forward, Mukuro thinks, though still she wants to beg.
“What's this, what's this? I don't let just anyone do that, you know. You think you're the only one who knows how to fall all over me?”
Mukuro accepts the two fingers Junko presents her with into an eager mouth, running her tongue from knuckle to fingertip before sucking them in as deeply as she can. She moans as they separate, attempting to chase them when Junko messily pulls away.
“But you're special, aren't you?” Junko dries her fingers off on her skirt (not her; Mukuro expected her to use her if only for that, and it wells up inside of her, that old disappointment) and pulls her chair back so that Mukuro can crawl on hands and knees under the desk.
“Can you ...” Thinking better of her transgression, Mukuro lowers her eyelashes, then pushes Junko's legs apart with her own power to bring herself closer to her body, lifts her down and towards her, though maybe not enough.
It's not an inconvenience. She can't be.
The functionality of these panties has always eluded her; Mukuro can easily run the tip of her finger under a ribbon-thin strip of fabric all the way from the back of her hip to the dimple just below the bone. “What are you working on?” she asks, sliding a palm up between Junko's legs, across her belly, back down again to press against her with the heel of her hand.
“Outlines.” And it sounds bored, but she hisses out the final sound when Mukuro rotates her hand in a slow grind. Junko slides down in her chair until the angle fits. “You ask too many questions! What are you, a quiz machine? Stop, stop, stop; no one likes it when you're ignorant. And don't be slow. I have work to do.”
She lifts her hips enough to let Mukuro pull her underwear away, but doesn't even squirm when she closes the distance to bring her tongue against her.
When Junko does this for her, it is all about teasing. Mukuro has been driven to the verge of madness more than once with her tongue inside of her, reduced to plaintive, wretched noises as soon as Junko thinks she's had enough and taken her mouth away. Brought to the cusp again and again, she ends up a mess of noise and muscle begging for affirmation.
It's worse when Junko brings her all the way through, tender and exhilarating instead of desperate and numb.
It might be worse.
Junko shreds another piece of paper, and Mukuro drags her tongue along with the sound of the tearing, flicking her eyes up only to realize that still she cannot see her face. Junko flips her skirt back down over her head, blinds her. The paper rips again, from eights down to less and less and more.
Subtle, hitching breaths are the only indicator she has of Junko's reaction, the little gasps that manage to break past the sound of pen on paper. Mukuro takes the weight of her thighs on her shoulders, one arm wrapped around her hip to support her.
Chancing a pass of her tongue directly over her clit, Mukuro brings her thumb around to penetrate her shallowly. Sitting as she is makes her tight The touch is daring, she knows; she is everywhere Junko is most sensitive. She moves slowly and deliberately, each ripple of her tongue another electric pulse on the skin.
Sometimes she thinks Junko fakes her enjoyment of this, too, the way she indulges anything in the world that isn't to her interests.
The older and older and older they get, the less necessary it's become, so it can't be that, can it? It can't be that.
“Hurry up.” Junko drags her forward by the hair; Mukuro can feel pain pulling and needling at her scalp. And it's good, the feeling of being torn slowly apart. She works her hips down towards nothing at all, unable to close her thighs enough to rub them together. Selfish of her to think of herself at a time like this.
Nights like this, she knows, will be used against her one day in the future. She did all of this without any prompting. There won't be any reciprocation today. She was the girl who wanted this; she came begging on her hands and knees in shame. Such a nice feeling.
It should be such a nice feeling. This is the despair she has to come to understand.
Shaking and shuddering, Junko makes a low noise above her head and bucks, and the weight of fulfillment is a burden she alone can bear. For a moment it's as though Mukuro has peeled back some layer. They are truly sisters, and Junko is just another girl.
Then Junko laughs, all but screaming, and kicks her out from from underneath her skirt so that her head strikes the desk at an angle. It will bruise.
“I'm a genius! The keenness of my mind is beyond compare, sharper than the hair on a kiwi skin!” Here the chair rolls back slowly and Junko's face is there, finally, the same as it's always been.
“What? You're still down there? What are you doing on the floor?”
Mukuro's tongue passes once across her lips Just say I did a good job. Just say I did a good job.
“Good for something, aren't you?” Junko wedges the palm of her hand against Mukuro's face roughly and rubs her mouth dry.
“Could I have the notes that are left?” Junko draws that hand back and through her hair, petting her as hard as water erodes rock, and Mukuro adds, “Please.”
“You don't want them. I wrote down the wrong answers.”