could i possibly request a mukuro x fem!reader? :] maybe the reader reassuring mukuro specifically about her being pretty? <3 it always makes me sad to think about how she feels she's ugly haha
— 🔭 anon (if it's okay to have a sign off! ♡ this is my second request to your blog because you're just. too good at writing. my gayass is def stickind around.)
⋆˙⟡.ೃ࿔⋆ ofc feel free to sign off! yet to run into any dupes
↳ REQUESTS OPEN
female reader
The dorm room was quiet, the air thick with the scent of gun oil and the faint, antiseptic tang that always seemed to follow Mukuro around. She sat on the edge of the bed, her shoulders hunched forward in a way that made her look smaller than she actually was. In her hands, she held a small hand mirror, staring into it with a focused, almost clinical intensity.
You watched her from the doorway for a moment before stepping in. She didn’t jump—Mukuro never jumped—but her grip tightened on the plastic handle of the mirror.
"You're doing it again," you said softly, taking a seat beside her.
"Doing what?" Mukuro didn’t look up.
"Picking yourself apart." You reached out, gently prying the mirror from her hand and setting it face-down on the nightstand. "I can practically hear your brain listing things you don't like."
Mukuro finally looked at you, her eyes clouded with a familiar, quiet insecurity. She gestured vaguely to her face, to the faint splattering of freckles across her nose and the jagged, silver lines of scars that peeked out from beneath her sleeves.
"It's just the truth," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "I’m a soldier. My body is a tool, and it’s been treated like one. There’s nothing...aesthetic about it. Junko always says I’m the plain one. The ugly one."
The mention of her sister made your chest tighten with a flash of protective heat. You took both of her hands in yours. Her palms were calloused and firm, the hands of someone who had seen too much, but to you, they felt like home.
"Junko sees what she wants to see so she can keep you under her thumb," you said firmly, leaning in until your foreheads were almost touching. "But I see you. And Mukuro? You are breathtaking."
She blinked, a faint flush creeping up her neck.
"I have scars. And these spots on my face—"
"You mean your freckles?" You laughed softly, reaching up to trace a thumb over her cheekbone. "They look like constellations. I could spend all day mapping them out. And your scars? They’re just proof of how strong you are. How much you’ve survived."
Mukuro looked away, her gaze landing on her lap. "It’s hard to believe. I don't feel pretty. I feel...jagged. Like I don't fit in a world that likes soft things."
"You are soft where it matters," you whispered, moving your hand to cup her jaw, gently forcing her to meet your eyes again. "You’re graceful and steady. There is a specific kind of beauty in the way you move, Mukuro. It’s quiet, and it’s real. You don't need ruffles or hair dye to be beautiful. You just have to be you."
For a long heartbeat, she didn't say anything. She just searched your face, looking for any hint of a lie or a joke. When she found only sincerity, her posture finally broke, and she leaned her forehead against your shoulder.
"No one else says things like that," she admitted, her voice muffled by your shirt.
"Then I'll just have to say it twice as often to make up for lost time," you said, wrapping your arms around her and pulling her close. You pressed a lingering kiss to the top of her head. "You're beautiful, Mukuro Ikusaba. Not 'for a soldier.' Just beautiful. Period."
