#modulo!yuji x reader

The room is darkened on purpose, providing some much-needed cover for you. Curtains drawn, bed neatly made, your dress freshly ironed, the straps of your high heels digging a little into your ankles, and the silky scarf—really just there to make you seem coy—tickling your neck in various places.

You’ve done this a few times, acting as bait for creepy curse users, but you’re still not used to it. The nerves in your spine must be fried at this point from anxiety. Pretty but weak sorcerers clumsily playing succubus and then striking isn’t rare nowadays, small jujutsu agencies with questionable HR departments tend to use this method.

Things are different this time, though, and you don’t know whether you should be relieved or more nervous. He’s a stranger, after all. The guy sitting next to you isn’t exactly friendly, even if his alleged intentions are to help you out.

He had just popped up at the motel room entrance, said he had some business with your target, and that he would like to take part in your mission. It was clear he had expected you to agree, as if his request were self-explanatory, rightfully his to make.

His hood is still covering his face, his back hunched, hands stuffed into his pockets. The only thing you managed to catch a glimpse of was the scar around his mouth, teeth exposed at the right angle. When he speaks, he does so slowly, like he knows the world will slow down to listen to him.

His whole image screams do not fuck with me.

The silence is tense, awkward. You don’t make an effort to hide your unease. Your legs dangle from the bed, gravity pulling your shoes from your heels with each little swing. The delicate leather straps keep them secure, though.

“You do this often, mh?” the man asks quietly, speaking for the first time in ten minutes. You can’t tell, but he’s eyeing your bruised feet from under his hood.

You scoot a little to the side, either to give him more space or to create distance. Or both. “…I guess so…” you mumble, unsure how to respond. It’s a simple yes-or-no question, but it carries uncomfortable implications you don’t want him to think about.

One could say you’re embarrassed.

The man lets out a low sigh and reaches up to the top of his head, where his hood tents slightly over the spiky hair underneath. He rubs at the fabric, tugging it back into place.

“How old are you, even?”

“Eighteen, sir.”

His fingers twitch slightly at the sir. He obviously doesn’t appreciate the title, but you’re just trying to be polite. Isn’t that what men want to be called?

The stranger exhales through his nose, shifting just enough to glance at you from under his hood. His voice comes out rough but quieter now, like he’s trying not to startle you.

“Don’t call me that. Just Yuji.”

A pause. He taps his fingers against his knee, restless.

“You got a name?”

You nod, the anxiety clouding your mind just enough to make you think a simple “yes” would suffice. That’s not how normal conversation works, though, you remember in time.

“Fushiguro.”

As soon as the word leaves your lips, Yuji stiffens. His breathing falters, missing a few beats between exhales and inhales.

The reaction is unusual. Sure, in certain parts of Japan that name is known, it carries power and respect but it’s more common for people to acknowledge it with a brief smile than… whatever this is. Moments ago, he was staring at the ground, utterly disinterested. Now his body angles toward you, knees parted.

“Any relation to Megumi Fushiguro?”

His sudden attention makes you even more nervous. “Uhh…” You decide to take your scarf off, hair spilling over your shoulders, back, and face. “That’s my dad’s name.”

Under his hood, Yuji’s eyes widen as he watches your hair curl and tumble down your back.

More tense silence follows. You just sit there, blinking up at the stranger with a confused frown, unaware that you’re giving him the worst whiplash he’s ever felt.

He clenches his hands into fists. There’s no cracking sound, nothing that would give you the wrong idea but the way blue veins pop near his whitening knuckles is enough to make you wonder if you accidentally ended up in a room with an enemy of the Fushiguro name.

Seconds pass. Yuji exhales slowly.

“You look like him,” he says, trying to soften his voice.

This is the point where you start catching up.

“Are you… are you the Yuji? Yuji Itadori?”

The question hangs heavy in the air. For a brief moment, Yuji tenses, caught off guard that you figured it out. Then he regains his composure. Of course you figured it out. He just gave his name away and the fact that he knew Megumi Fushiguro. Plus, that scar around his mouth doesn’t help him stay incognito either.

He lets out a short sigh, his shoulders drooping just a bit.

“Yeah. That’s me.”

His voice stays quiet, rough around the edges. He studies you from beneath his lashes, trying to gauge your reaction.

“Uhm… the whole of Japan is looking for you…”

Yuji can’t help the dry huff that escapes him. It’s a mix of amusement and cynicism, both worn thin.

He leans back slightly, the bed creaking under his weight. The hood still hides his face, giving him a sense of anonymity in the dim light.

“Yeah, I’m aware,” he says, bitter sarcasm threading his voice.

“I— I won’t tell anyone,” you add quickly, looking away.

Yuji scoffs softly. “You won’t?”

You pause, shoulders drawing up as someone, probably a janitor or another guest, passes by in the hallway.

“…Dad really loved you. I won’t betray him, so I won’t betray his loved ones either.” Your gaze stays fixed on the funky color pattern of the carpet.

“Look at me.”

You bite your lip before forcing yourself to relax. Slowly, you look up, brushing hair out of your face.

Yuji’s breath catches as he meets your gaze. He hesitates, studying your features, your eyes. The resemblance to Megumi is undeniable, the little frown, the sadness in your dilated pupils, the long, feminine lashes. It’s comforting and heartbreaking all at once.

He speaks again, barely above a whisper.

“You’ve got his eyes.”

You blink, unsure what to do. Your hand rubs absently at your cheek. “That’s nice to hear.”

Yuji exhales slowly, some tension leaving his shoulders.

After a moment, he reaches up, slowly, giving you time to pull away and tugs his hood down. His face is weary, older than you’d expect, but unmistakably him: pink hair, kind eyes, scars that tell the story of a powerful yet lonely sorcerer. The Yuji Itadori from history books. The man who fought Sukuna and lived.

His lips quirk into a tired, almost apologetic smile.

For a moment, you just stare. You know it’s really him now, but somehow he’s different from the pictures you were shown.

You smile back, your hand settling in your lap.

Yuji holds your gaze a moment longer before shifting, uncomfortable with the weight of it. He rubs the back of his neck.

“You gonna be okay? After this?”

“Yeah… yeah.”

“You don’t have to pretend for my sake.”

His shoulders stay tense, hands shoved into his pockets. He looks around the room, realization dawning on him. Megumi is gone, and his daughter is in a shitty motel, luring shady curse users for a living, bruises on her feet and probably elsewhere too.

“Come here,” he says, gesturing for you to move closer.

It takes a few seconds to register. If you hadn’t talked to him at all, you’d probably refuse. But this is Yuji Itadori, the man your father spoke of so highly, even when people said immortality had made him bitter. Megumi believed in him.

Yuji watches you approach, eyes tracking every movement. The mattress dips as you sit beside him. You’re careful, smoothing your dress so it stays neat and ironed.

You flatten the edges with your palm while Yuji just stares, his left cheek rounding slightly where his tongue presses against it from the inside.

Nothing happens, except for the oddly pained expression that spreads across his face without his permission.

“…I’m sorry if it’s hard to look at me,” you mumble.

“It’s not hard. Just bittersweet.”

Without thinking, he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. His voice softens more.

“You remind me of him. So much…”

His fingers trace the line of your chin. The same sharp jaw, the same cheekbones, the same delicate features.

Yuji hates it. Yuji loves it.

“It hurts a little.”

“I can put my scarf back on.”

He shakes his head with a quiet huff. “Don’t.”

His grip on your hip tightens just a fraction.

“Just… let me have this,” he murmurs. “I know it’s weird. Just…let me look a little longer.”

“Alright.” You nod, leaning back slightly.

Yuji’s fingers ghost over your cheek, tracing faint moles and imperfections.

“Just like him.”

His gaze drops to your mouth. The famous Zenin frown. Or more of a pout on you, fangs catching your lower lip for a moment. You don’t seem nearly as brooding as your father, people often praise that.

“You have his lips,” he whispers, thumb brushing your lower lip. “You bite them like he did.”

Blood rushes to your mouth, skin pulsing beneath his touch.

Yuji swallows. His hesitation shows as his thumb presses softly against your lip, exposing some teeth.

“You even taste like him, don’t you?”

“I—”

“Let me find out.”

His palm opens in front of your chin. A faded, white scar spreads from the root of his index finger to to the tip. No one says anything and you realize that your dad might have known a different Yuji back then. It’s not that he’s rough or mean now. Just selfish. And too out of touch with the world.

You spit.

The saliva lands in the center of his palm, a thin string breaking as you pull away.

Yuji brings his hand to his mouth and licks it clean with one slow drag of his tongue.

“You both bite when cornered.”

He exhales, rubbing his thumb over his bottom lip where your taste lingers. He looks away, flexing his fingers, brow furrowing as he realizes how far he’s gone.

“…Sorry,” he mutters. “I forget how to act around people sometimes.”

Yeah. You figured.

“You should slap me for this.”

“I won’t.”