Enoshima Junko. She was a bombshell blonde, curves that anyone would drool over and the legs that she would love to strut on the catwalk. Cheeks and nose flushed with a rosy pink, along with nails as sharp as her winged eyeliner, prim and oh, so, perfect skin. Her lips were topped with red lipstick and a touch of gloss, and eyes a demeaning baby blue. A flirt, but serious at times.
Ikusaba Mukuro was nothing like her, choppy jet black locks with a bit of sheen. Her face was ghostly pale, almost white, with an array of freckles scattered over her nose and cheeks. She most certainly had no hourglass figure, but has slight curves that were barely noticeable and legs with faded and recent bruises, occasionally the third wheel if Junko brought someone home.
They were sprawled out over the bed, with Junko weaving her fingers through her sister's hair and Mukuro laying on top of her, ear pressed against her chest. A steady thump came from the blonde's heart, chest and stomach rising with her gentle breaths. Her nails softly scratch the solider's scalp, and it feels great.
Her smooth, honey-like voice broke the aching silence between the two. "Hey, Ikusaba-san, you wanna know something?"
"Hm?" Mukuro looks up at her with murky eyes, yawning. It was true that it was early in the morning, but early enough for classes not being able to start yet.
She looks at her, eyes following the subtle features of her cheekbones and jaw. "I think you would look good with makeup on," she thought aloud, giving her a snarky look when she glares at her. Mukuro lifts herself up from Junko, and she's sitting with her legs underneath her, palms digging into her thighs.
"Really?"
"Yeah. I could do it for you."
"But I-"
"Ooh, this is going to be great! You could be my mannequin!" The younger one squeals, strawberry blonde curls bouncing with her excitement.
"Junko-chan, don't you-" An index finger was brought up to the solider's lips, hushes escaping from the other female. She hops off of the bed and digs through her cosmetics drawer, pulling out a bag and a few trays with an array of colors on them.
"Junko."
"Shut up, you're going to look great." Junko pouts at Mukuro's dismay, but the expression neutralizes when the older one rolls along with it.
She begins with a small command, nothing special. "Go wash your face first."
Mukuro gets up, and the door to the bathroom was shut. Her reflection glares back at her with an equal amount of sternness as she is done with each splash of water to her face. She pats down her face with a fluffy towel, one that hasn't been used for awhile but still looks new. Back into the bedroom.
Junko squeezes a bit of strange liquid on the back of her hand, and it has almost a marble texture to it. She mutters something under her breath but the older one chooses to ignore it. Rubbing her fingers together between the liquid, it's applied thick on Mukuro's skin, but thins out when she spreads it evenly, blending away the streak marks from dragging too hard afterwards. There was also concealer, one of the few makeup products the solider knows, along with lipstick, eyeshadow and eyeliner.
The fashionista goes on, grabbing a brush from her cosmetics bag and applying a brown eyeshadow color on. She starts with a window wiper motion on the sockets of her eyes, and Mukuro twitches. Junko makes a sound of annoyance and tells her to stay still, and not to grab the mirror to see herself.
"Sorry, Junko-chan."
Enoshima shows no reaction to her apology and grabs a tube of some sort, spinning off the top to reveal a brush with a slick, inky black color coating every side and crevice. Ikusaba jolts up, grabbing her sister's wrist and telling her to watch it. She laughs in response, kissing her forehead and telling her to stop worrying. She drags the eyeliner over her eyelid, tongue jutting out of some form of concentration. Junko wings it, doing her lower lashes before filling the area in.
Mascara was a breeze. The hairs touched Mukuro's eyelashes uncomfortably, but she didn't dare to make a fuss. Not now. Blush felt painstakingly long, but what's the point in putting effort into whirling a brush in a container with mixed chemicals and applying them to your face? Nothing, to the solider's view. Your face is a canvas, Junko would say. People could wreak havoc or create blissful despair on it.
The younger student hands her the mirror and she smirks slyly at her sister's reaction. She didn't look like herself. She didn't feel like herself. Mukuro Ikusaba soaked up her younger sister's handiwork and grabbed her bag. She would be late for her tutoring in the library at this point.
Kiyotaka Ishimaru bit his lip when he saw his student, fifteen minutes tardy. He looks away for a split second and gives her a warning, and she apologizes profusely, bowing with her hands straight to her sides.
"No matter. Now, what was that you had trouble with?"
Ishimaru wrote down a few sample problems for her, to which she answered with some correct answers. Others were close, and there were few that were just out of line. He couldn't help but look at her face the whole entire time, fighting the urge to ask her about the new look she has.
"Thank you, Ishimaru-kun," she says, book underneath her arm and backpack swung over her shoulder. She was about to exit the library before she hears a response come from him.
"No problem, Ikusaba-kun. Your makeup looks very good on you."
The solider nods and exits the room, face and ears completely flushed. Junko waits outside for her, twirling a lock of her hair with her index finger innocently.