but really, I am so fucking happy that my friend is being the Mukuro to my Junko. I can’t believe I’m actually doing despaircest cosplay.
I’ll post so many pictures okay
I’ll post so many pictures okay
绝望姐妹吧 关注：856贴子：7,286
图片来自：江之島_盾子的百度相册I wanted to doodle an aggressive Mukuro while on watch, but I accidentally Despaircest-ed. Oops.
ikusaba and junko were in a motorcycle, full speed ahead when they feel a bump and mukuro looks around and they hit a dog. she stops instantly, almost dropping her sister from it and runs towards it. checking it's pulse, she finds out it has died. she stays there on her knees looking at the dog, her sister besides her. junko keeps trying to think of despair joke but for some reason she's completely blocked so she gets down too and hugs mukuro from behind and whispers "not your fault, sis"
COLLAB WITH MY GIRL PRINCE
AAWW YEAH SHE DID THE LINES AND I COLORED THEM AAA
y’all should visit prince i mean she has some gr8 art like DAAAMN
im sorry but just imagine that since the despair twins have their birthday on Christmas eve Junko basically decides to make those two days ~special~ for her and her sister
And so basically she just gives Mukuro hell the entire two days trying to show her affection for Mukuro with despair and so Mukuro just kind of starts to dread their birthday and christmas
And every year it’d get a little worse and Mukuro would be so conflicted as to whether she should be happy or concerned but then she realizes Junko actually cares enough for her to do this and she decides it’s a-ok
until one day she finds her vast collection of military supplies broken beyond repair on christmas morning
And so basically she just gives Mukuro hell the entire two days trying to show her affection for Mukuro with despair and so Mukuro just kind of starts to dread their birthday and christmas
And every year it’d get a little worse and Mukuro would be so conflicted as to whether she should be happy or concerned but then she realizes Junko actually cares enough for her to do this and she decides it’s a-ok
until one day she finds her vast collection of military supplies broken beyond repair on christmas morning
What?! Of course not! I-
…Whatever you say, sis. There’s totally not any proof to go against that little claim of yours, after all…
… Oh shit.
uh, just a short despaircest piece. nothing special about it really. 554 words.
Her name slips through your mind, though you block it out with memories of grenades falling from the sky and bullets raining down upon you.
uh, just a short despaircest piece. nothing special about it really. 554 words.
You’ve grown up a shadow; lurking, older and quieter, forgotten and sometimes acknowledged behind the sun. That’s what she is; she glows bright, demanding attention and worship from everyone, but the heat strokes afterwords are usually fatal.
She’s always been fatal. Everything from her flawless skin to sharp, dangerous smile to her determined sashay screams predator, especially to your fine-tuned instincts. And when her words turn soft and her hands start drifting on the arms of some stranger, you know that your sister’s hunt will be successful. No one can resist her charisma, her charm, her engulfing nature. Your sister is the flame in which you, like other people so boring and mundane, are drawn to like moths.
“Mukuro-chan!” her voice is soft, urgent, as she knocks at your door. You don’t bother to get up, because she enters without waiting on your response. In your hand, a pen writes down carefully the answers to the homework you’ve been assigned, the same problems she will copy from some herbivore boy and sweetly, innocently turn into the teacher. The pen comes to a halt at the end of the page, and you set it down gently.
She sits on your bed, legs at just the right angle to give you a glimpse of her untoned thighs. You don’t bother to avert your eyes as the predator grin comes out, razor-sharp and knowing in its danger. Her shirt is unbutton to offer a better view of lacy lingerie and a chest bigger than your own. And then, her face, turned towards you with that damned smile and naive eyes.
“Mukuro-chan, I’m so bored!” You walk over to her, quiet and not letting anything slip out of your mouth until you sit next to her. Her name slips through your mind, though you block it out with memories of grenades falling from the sky and bullets raining down upon you. But it doesn’t stop the sensation of her hands sliding slowly up your arm, as if you were one of her herbivore boys.
Everything is boring to your sister; the classes, the people, anything that doesn’t spring from the very thing that motivates her to draw in her boys and curl up beside you at night: despair. It drives her, drives you (though you aren’tyou, just an extension of her). The tender hands that are sliding up your shirt are coated in despair, her teeth grazing your neck injected with it. By now, you had tilted your head automatically to give her a better angle (you always give in to what she wants) and had pulled closer to her.
“Junko-chan, no marks,” you whisper into her hair. No one had dared to mark you but her. Enemies on the battlefield left no scars, but the dark bruises found in the morning bore her name within each indention. You can practically hear her heartbeat laugh at you as she bites down, hard, onto your shoulder. She’s teasing you now, teasing you with marks easily hidden and the temptation to give into her. But you both know, sitting on that bed, that you will give into her sunlight and let your skin peel off.
Wolves are meant to howl under full moons, not midday suns.
Her name slips through your mind, though you block it out with memories of grenades falling from the sky and bullets raining down upon you.
uh, just a short despaircest piece. nothing special about it really. 554 words.
You’ve grown up a shadow; lurking, older and quieter, forgotten and sometimes acknowledged behind the sun. That’s what she is; she glows bright, demanding attention and worship from everyone, but the heat strokes afterwords are usually fatal.
She’s always been fatal. Everything from her flawless skin to sharp, dangerous smile to her determined sashay screams predator, especially to your fine-tuned instincts. And when her words turn soft and her hands start drifting on the arms of some stranger, you know that your sister’s hunt will be successful. No one can resist her charisma, her charm, her engulfing nature. Your sister is the flame in which you, like other people so boring and mundane, are drawn to like moths.
“Mukuro-chan!” her voice is soft, urgent, as she knocks at your door. You don’t bother to get up, because she enters without waiting on your response. In your hand, a pen writes down carefully the answers to the homework you’ve been assigned, the same problems she will copy from some herbivore boy and sweetly, innocently turn into the teacher. The pen comes to a halt at the end of the page, and you set it down gently.
She sits on your bed, legs at just the right angle to give you a glimpse of her untoned thighs. You don’t bother to avert your eyes as the predator grin comes out, razor-sharp and knowing in its danger. Her shirt is unbutton to offer a better view of lacy lingerie and a chest bigger than your own. And then, her face, turned towards you with that damned smile and naive eyes.
“Mukuro-chan, I’m so bored!” You walk over to her, quiet and not letting anything slip out of your mouth until you sit next to her. Her name slips through your mind, though you block it out with memories of grenades falling from the sky and bullets raining down upon you. But it doesn’t stop the sensation of her hands sliding slowly up your arm, as if you were one of her herbivore boys.
Everything is boring to your sister; the classes, the people, anything that doesn’t spring from the very thing that motivates her to draw in her boys and curl up beside you at night: despair. It drives her, drives you (though you aren’tyou, just an extension of her). The tender hands that are sliding up your shirt are coated in despair, her teeth grazing your neck injected with it. By now, you had tilted your head automatically to give her a better angle (you always give in to what she wants) and had pulled closer to her.
“Junko-chan, no marks,” you whisper into her hair. No one had dared to mark you but her. Enemies on the battlefield left no scars, but the dark bruises found in the morning bore her name within each indention. You can practically hear her heartbeat laugh at you as she bites down, hard, onto your shoulder. She’s teasing you now, teasing you with marks easily hidden and the temptation to give into her. But you both know, sitting on that bed, that you will give into her sunlight and let your skin peel off.
Wolves are meant to howl under full moons, not midday suns.
some more despaircest for celesgami who’s a big nerd. sorry for posting twice in the tag haha. 953 words.
Her bedroom isn’t like a battlefield; it smells of nail polish and hairspray and hints of cologne from disposable boys. War is filled with blood and yelling and the hand of death slowly asphyxiating the troops, and that’s almost what it’s like when you sit on her bed.
some more despaircest for celesgami who’s a big nerd. sorry for posting twice in the tag haha. 953 words.
Nothing unnerves you quite like Junko. You’ve faced down men twice your size, beaten them easily without a scratch. Bullets have whipped past your face and flinching was written out of your instincts. Everything that makes you afraid, cowardly, has been torn out of you by the fierce savagery of war. Fenrir molded you up from nothing, layers of determination, stoicism, heartlessness around a burning core of despair. You grew into this role, too, letting guns become wings as you tore through enemies like an angel of death.
But something about her makes you stop, creep nervously past. Even when you were young and she yelled for someone to give her this or that, you stayed away from her. People forgot you easily around her, anyways, when she commanded the spotlight like a composer their orchestra. You let yourself blend into her shadow, guided by her movements and fleetingly glimpsed upon as you lurked, never daring to come close.
Her bedroom isn’t like a battlefield; it smells of nail polish and hairspray and hints of cologne from disposable boys. War is filled with blood and yelling and the hand of death slowly asphyxiating the troops, and that’s almost what it’s like when you sit on her bed. Still, you trust your sister, even when your throat tightens like it never has.
Red nails, long and the slightest mimic of claws, trace circles on your arm as her eyes drag lazily up your body. “Mukuro-chan, I’ve been so bored without you here!” Junko croons, voice laced with sickening innocence. She shifts towards you, nails ever-so-slightly pressing into your toned forearm. “Have things been boring without me there?”
You don’t let your face give away anything. It all comes back to her, even if she asked about you. Your sister didn’t consider you a person, merely a tool, something for her to poke and play around with and take orders when necessary. Returning to her was another one of her requests (commands), and the wig thrown lazily over a hook reminded you of the festering despair contained in the room.
Facing her isn’t hard, but it’s like looking into the eyes of a hungry wildcat. “War isn’t boring, Junko-chan,” it’s a generic reply, devoid of feeling. But the way she shifts towards you, eyes growing sharper and ravenous with something needy sends a solitary shiver down your spine, though she doesn’t notice.
“Did you watch them die, Mukuro-chan? Was it nice to see the spark go out of their fucking eyes and let the blood drain out of them? What did the fuckers say to you when you stabbed them in the back? How much despair is there in war?” These questions are whispered to you quickly, nails now biting into your smooth skin. Again, you think of the battlefield, loud and bloody but no one has marked you and here she is doing exactly that. This, something so insignificant to her, angers you enough to where you don’t even dignify her with a response. Freethinking for once, your silence matches her questions.
A hand, fast and thin, hits you across the face. You tolerate the pain easily (another way you changed since you left) and draw away from her. But oh, your sister doesn’t stand for that. Junko shoves you down, though you offer no resistance, and twists your wrists above you. “I asked you a fucking question!” she’s throwing one leg over your lap, leaning closer to you. “Did the little lapdog finally become a bitch?”
“Junko-chan,” you manage to say before she smashes your lips together, teeth pulling hard at your bottom lip. Responding isn’t hard, and the only thing you feel is disappointment in yourself at how eagerly your tongue attempts to probe her mouth. It’s mechanical for you, pleasing her, and the hands slipping away from your wrist and under your shirt don’t matter. She moves and you move, matching each other, until your hand slides down her skirt and she’s fucking herself hard on two fingers, fast and rough and you just let her, let her use you as much as she needs.
You’re so devoid of anything as she goes over the edge, the sharp growl of your name as she rides it out nothing but a reminder that you are Mukuro, marked only by your sister and belonging to no one but her. And soon you pull away from her again, turning to face a mirror that shows a bruised girl with scratches on her arms from a girl that’s breathing hard even though she’s your damn sister but not your equal.
Disappointment bites at you, but you laugh as you realize this is what despair feels like. This is what people felt when they lost the spark in their eyes and watched someone they loved die. It’s so cold, so bitter and hollow, and you can’t fathom why you ever let yourself believe this is what people wanted. But Junko, with her hair perfect though her cheeks are flushed with nothing screams I’ve fucked my sister, smiles at you that fatal smile she gives poor herbivore boys.
Those nails trail across the bruise at the base of your jaw, playing with the blood on your cut lip. Junko leans close, though it’s those doe eyes that look at you, and cups your face with her hands. “Dear sister, I just want you to feel despair as they do, and as I do. I want you to savour it, Mukuro-chan, just like everyone else will when we burn the world down.”
Her bedroom isn’t like a battlefield; it smells of nail polish and hairspray and hints of cologne from disposable boys. War is filled with blood and yelling and the hand of death slowly asphyxiating the troops, and that’s almost what it’s like when you sit on her bed.
some more despaircest for celesgami who’s a big nerd. sorry for posting twice in the tag haha. 953 words.
Nothing unnerves you quite like Junko. You’ve faced down men twice your size, beaten them easily without a scratch. Bullets have whipped past your face and flinching was written out of your instincts. Everything that makes you afraid, cowardly, has been torn out of you by the fierce savagery of war. Fenrir molded you up from nothing, layers of determination, stoicism, heartlessness around a burning core of despair. You grew into this role, too, letting guns become wings as you tore through enemies like an angel of death.
But something about her makes you stop, creep nervously past. Even when you were young and she yelled for someone to give her this or that, you stayed away from her. People forgot you easily around her, anyways, when she commanded the spotlight like a composer their orchestra. You let yourself blend into her shadow, guided by her movements and fleetingly glimpsed upon as you lurked, never daring to come close.
Her bedroom isn’t like a battlefield; it smells of nail polish and hairspray and hints of cologne from disposable boys. War is filled with blood and yelling and the hand of death slowly asphyxiating the troops, and that’s almost what it’s like when you sit on her bed. Still, you trust your sister, even when your throat tightens like it never has.
Red nails, long and the slightest mimic of claws, trace circles on your arm as her eyes drag lazily up your body. “Mukuro-chan, I’ve been so bored without you here!” Junko croons, voice laced with sickening innocence. She shifts towards you, nails ever-so-slightly pressing into your toned forearm. “Have things been boring without me there?”
You don’t let your face give away anything. It all comes back to her, even if she asked about you. Your sister didn’t consider you a person, merely a tool, something for her to poke and play around with and take orders when necessary. Returning to her was another one of her requests (commands), and the wig thrown lazily over a hook reminded you of the festering despair contained in the room.
Facing her isn’t hard, but it’s like looking into the eyes of a hungry wildcat. “War isn’t boring, Junko-chan,” it’s a generic reply, devoid of feeling. But the way she shifts towards you, eyes growing sharper and ravenous with something needy sends a solitary shiver down your spine, though she doesn’t notice.
“Did you watch them die, Mukuro-chan? Was it nice to see the spark go out of their fucking eyes and let the blood drain out of them? What did the fuckers say to you when you stabbed them in the back? How much despair is there in war?” These questions are whispered to you quickly, nails now biting into your smooth skin. Again, you think of the battlefield, loud and bloody but no one has marked you and here she is doing exactly that. This, something so insignificant to her, angers you enough to where you don’t even dignify her with a response. Freethinking for once, your silence matches her questions.
A hand, fast and thin, hits you across the face. You tolerate the pain easily (another way you changed since you left) and draw away from her. But oh, your sister doesn’t stand for that. Junko shoves you down, though you offer no resistance, and twists your wrists above you. “I asked you a fucking question!” she’s throwing one leg over your lap, leaning closer to you. “Did the little lapdog finally become a bitch?”
“Junko-chan,” you manage to say before she smashes your lips together, teeth pulling hard at your bottom lip. Responding isn’t hard, and the only thing you feel is disappointment in yourself at how eagerly your tongue attempts to probe her mouth. It’s mechanical for you, pleasing her, and the hands slipping away from your wrist and under your shirt don’t matter. She moves and you move, matching each other, until your hand slides down her skirt and she’s fucking herself hard on two fingers, fast and rough and you just let her, let her use you as much as she needs.
You’re so devoid of anything as she goes over the edge, the sharp growl of your name as she rides it out nothing but a reminder that you are Mukuro, marked only by your sister and belonging to no one but her. And soon you pull away from her again, turning to face a mirror that shows a bruised girl with scratches on her arms from a girl that’s breathing hard even though she’s your damn sister but not your equal.
Disappointment bites at you, but you laugh as you realize this is what despair feels like. This is what people felt when they lost the spark in their eyes and watched someone they loved die. It’s so cold, so bitter and hollow, and you can’t fathom why you ever let yourself believe this is what people wanted. But Junko, with her hair perfect though her cheeks are flushed with nothing screams I’ve fucked my sister, smiles at you that fatal smile she gives poor herbivore boys.
Those nails trail across the bruise at the base of your jaw, playing with the blood on your cut lip. Junko leans close, though it’s those doe eyes that look at you, and cups your face with her hands. “Dear sister, I just want you to feel despair as they do, and as I do. I want you to savour it, Mukuro-chan, just like everyone else will when we burn the world down.”
ill be honest here, junkuro sounds like a really cute alt. name for despaircest and it can also be used for saying mukuro!junko ??? im sold
im a nerd (komaeda noises)
DESPAIRCEST IS ACTUALYL A WONDERFUL YET SAD THING TO ME. i have two conflicting mukuro headcanons and theyre “mukuro was totally into this despair shit she was just as crazy as junko” and “mukuro didnt actually want to be a part of it she just followed her sister because she loves her unconditionally” and i think despaircest follows the latter to me???? like….. ikusaba was killed by her own sister, and said sister felt nothing but despair, and i bet that made ikusaba really fucking sad because she didnt make junko feel differently. all she felt was even more despair idk if im getting my point across but ikusaba is a wonderful person and junko is my baby and i want them to make out over a pile of corpses (drools twincest)
as for junko i have no fucking idea if she feels anything else but despair at this point like. can she ever love her sister back. we just don’t know.
(also keep in mind i havent read dr0 yet hahahah,)
DESPAIRCEST IS ACTUALYL A WONDERFUL YET SAD THING TO ME. i have two conflicting mukuro headcanons and theyre “mukuro was totally into this despair shit she was just as crazy as junko” and “mukuro didnt actually want to be a part of it she just followed her sister because she loves her unconditionally” and i think despaircest follows the latter to me???? like….. ikusaba was killed by her own sister, and said sister felt nothing but despair, and i bet that made ikusaba really fucking sad because she didnt make junko feel differently. all she felt was even more despair idk if im getting my point across but ikusaba is a wonderful person and junko is my baby and i want them to make out over a pile of corpses (drools twincest)
as for junko i have no fucking idea if she feels anything else but despair at this point like. can she ever love her sister back. we just don’t know.
(also keep in mind i havent read dr0 yet hahahah,)
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