Souichi Tsuji is a young boy who enjoys normal boy things: pranks, goofing off, cartoons, and the occult. An outcast, he has no friends and often curses those who get on his bad side. While most don't take him seriously, he sometimes shows that he truly has supernatural powers.
(Souichi x Reader)!Kids
Rated: PG (Mild language)
It isn’t odd that Souichi hadn’t shown up to school that day. What is odd is that he hadn’t called you before skipping. You’re on your way to his house with the schoolwork your teacher’d forced into your hands and a growing sense of irritation. He’s the only reason you even went to school any more — and vice versa. You’re prepared to give him hell when you get there.
It only takes you about half an hour to reach his house. The modest home’s lawn is freshly cut and ready for winter and small ornaments line the clean walkway. You knock on the front door and a few moments later, Mrs. Tsuji answers. Her face is as lined and tired as ever.
“Afternoon, dear,” she says with a smile.
She notes the schoolwork under your arm. “Souichi’s not feeling so well right now. I can give him that schoolwork instead if you—”
“No thanks, that’s not necessary, I’ll take it up to him.”
“Then if it’s not too much trouble, can you please take him his food and medicine?”
You agree and soon you’re on your way upstairs to his room with a tray of food and the schoolwork (that will probably go unfinished). At his door, you hold the tray in one hand and use the other to knock.
“Go away.” His voice is nasally and stuffy.
“It’s me,” you reply.
You laugh through your nose at his change of heart, then slide the door open and walk in, closing it behind you. It’s so dark in his room that you’re not quite sure what he’s doing. Souichi’s in the middle of his room on the floor, surrounded by unlit candles. He has a box of matches and is in the process of lighting one. When he strikes the match, the light allows you to see a ring of salt around him as well.
You repress a sigh but couldn’t stop the exasperation from coming through in your voice. “What’re you doing?”
“Trying to get the demons out.”
“What are you talking about?”
He lit one of the candles, shook out the match, and used the candle to start lighting the others. “I feel like muk.”
“You probably have a cold,” you reply.
You put his food tray beside his bed and walk up to him. He went into a coughing fit, determined to light the candles through his violent motions.
“I don’t get sick—” he coughs more, his chest congested. “—it’s clearly the work of the supernatural.”
“You should be in bed resting.” There is a box of tissues on his desk so you grab one and give it to him, letting him hack into it. You take the candle from him and blow them all out. “And is this seriously a line of salt?”
“It was the best I could do, okay? Barely made it down the stairs…”
When he tosses the tissue aside, you grab his arm and lead him to his feet. He stumbles but you’ve got a good hold as you lead him to his bed. No protests erupt from him — he really must be sick if he can’t find the energy to fight you tooth and nail. You gingerly put him to bed and he finally groans his objection.
“Don’t need’a go to sleep…”
“Then eat instead.”
You retrieve his soup, water, and medicine. Souichi’s face scrunches at the sight of the neon-colored fluid.
“I was having better luck with the salt circle,” he says, getting up.
Your hand on his shoulder leads him back down. You say, “c'mon, you wanna get better, right? Weren't we supposed to call on Souji and Grandma Sachi for the holidays? How are we going to do that if you're sick?”
He sighs — well, sort of. It starts as a sigh and ends as a coughing fit. When he finishes, he slowly reaches over and picks up the small cup of medicine, then downs it in one go. Souichi squeezes his eyes shut and sticks out his tongue, lips curled back, making a big show of how much he hated it.
“Yeah, yeah,” you dismiss. “Just drink your water.”
He does so, drinking a bit before putting it back and moving onto the soup. You wait patiently for him — this wasn’t exactly what you’d been expecting coming up here. You were thinking you’d do more yelling, but this isn’t one of his fake illnesses. This one is real. And bad.
He doesn't finish all of his soup, maybe half by the time he puts it away. While he blows his nose, you gather up some things to take downstairs before you leave. Namely, you take the candles and the container of leftover salt, alongside his dishes.
You say, “Guess I'll let you sleep. Hope you feel better soon.”
Just as you're walking out, you hear Souichi try to call “wait”, but his voice is coated with phlegm. He coughs, clears his clogged throat, and tries again.
“Wait, don't leave yet. Come over here and cuddle with me.”
“Are you delusional?” You ask plainly. “Is your fever getting to your head?”
“How cruel,” Souichi pouts, leaning back against his pillow with arms crossed. “I just want to cuddle, is that so much to ask? And to think I helped you with your math homework last week…”
“Souichi, you stole the answers from Wakayama and then tried to get me to copy them. I still got a D on my test today, you know.”
You want to slap him, but he looks pitiable covered in sweat, eyes leaking, nose reddened from tissue abuse. Putting the tray with everything on it atop his desk, you go back to his bed. He makes room for you to lay beside him, smiling at you; cutely innocent (what a laugh) and dorky. With a playful roll of your eyes, you get in, laying over the covers. He throws an arm across your shoulders and snuggles up to you. His breathing is thick and he’s sweaty.
You watch him for a minute or two, his eyes closed, smile fading as he began falling asleep. You wish that you would've picked a more comfortable position on the bed. Seems a shame to wake him. Even knowing that you were going to wind up getting sick now, too, you find it worth the warm, affectionate scene before you. When are you going to finally tell him that you think he’s cute?
Your friend ditches you at a party, but you find the creepy boy doing voodoo in the corner to be far more interesting.
(Souichi x Reader)!Teens
Rated: PG-13 (Mild language, mild sexual themes)
You already don’t want to be at this stupid party. Not only had you been more content to sit at home and left to your own devices, but the only reason you’re here is because your now MIA friend had told you there would be booze. As it turns out, the host couldn’t get hold of his dad’s ID (“lost it”, he’d said) and the entire party wound up booze-less. This didn’t stop people from bringing beer of their own, but the drunks hogged it and now you’re stuck with some mukty punch that hadn’t even been spiked. Some jackass is standing behind you, breathing down your neck and trying to get your attention.
“So, uh, you like movies, or…?” he trails off as you walk away.
Wading through the crowd of teenagers — half angry because they aren’t drunk, half stumbling because they are, all stupid and giving you a headache — you try to find your friend so you can ditch with her. She’s nowhere to be seen in that living room, lost somewhere, maybe off with some guy. You scan the entire living room, shuffling through parts of the crowd, and all you manage to find in one lonely corner is a strange looking boy. His black hair is a mess and he’s got some creepy stitched doll in his hand, other hand holding a pin.
“What’s this? Some kinda voodoo bullmuk?” you ask.
“Bullmuk?” he parrots, not looking at you but looking intently across the room near the punchbowl. “If that’s what you think, sit down, shut up, and watch this.”
Now curious, you do so, glancing at the doll and then at the punchbowl.
“See our dumbass host?” he asks rhetorically. “He’s about to find himself face first in the punch.”
You watch as the host draws nearer to the bowl, empty cup in hand. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the creepy voodoo boy poke the doll’s left foot with the pin, pushing it through to the other side. The host gasps and his ankle gives way under him, sending him just as the boy had said: right into the punchbowl. Punch goes flying, soaking people in the crowd near him and causing a ruckus. You laugh at the sudden chaos, but voodoo?
“Yeah right,” you say, “that was just a coincidence.”
The boy dismisses you with a, “if you say so.”
Unperturbed by you, he reaches into his pocket for a slingshot and a small pellet. He puts the pellet in the belt and aims at the kitchen light. He makes a single sound-effect under his breath — a high-pitched “pew!” — and lets the pellet go. It hits the light, shatters it, then ricochets into the midst of the crowd with a loud pop when it hits the ground. If there was chaos before, it had just escalated tenfold.
“What the hell is wrong with your house!?” shouts one of the attendees.
“You got ghosts or something, man!”
The boy is giggling on the couch beside you, sounding so childlike for a teenager.
“C’mon, everyone!” the host urges, drying his face. “Let’s just take this outside for a bit!”
Seems like a decent plan, with his house rather secluded. You wonder if this creepy boy is going to follow them outside and cause more mischief, but as the door handle is turned, the boy whispers behind his hand and the door refuses to budge.
“It’s… It’s locked!”
“Well, unlock it, you idiot.”
“I can’t! There’s no lock, only a handle!”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Don’t believe me?” the boy asks you. “Just watch.”
His tired, dark eyes stare right into yours, a smirk on his face, and a — a carpenter nail? — poking out from between his lips. You look him up and down. Watch what? What’s that supposed to mean? There is a shriek from one of the girls in the crowd, followed by concerned and questioning remarks.
“L-Look outside! Out the window!”
Anyone who looks immediately freaks out so you stand up and peer out of the window beside the couch to the front porch. Only there is no front porch. Behind the previously closed blinds, there is a darkness, a shadowy amalgamation of disembodied eyes and sharp-toothed mouths looking in from every side. You try to scream but the gasp gets caught in your throat as you back away, letting the blinds drop back into place. The boy is standing behind you; the crunching of him toying with the nails in his mouth, rolling them between his teeth gets your attention. He giggles.
“It’s not real,” he says softly.
You don’t want to. You really, really don’t want to see again what you’d just seen. But the boy’s bizarre ways, his calm demeanor, the nails, the voodoo doll, the eyes he seemingly summoned — he makes you so very curious. You take a deep breath, ignoring the screaming and scrambling around you, and peak outside again. All is normal — the grass is green, the trees are in their early spring bloom, and the sky is twinkling with stars. But still others look outside and go ballistic. You whip around to the boy, panting. He’s smiling at you. Not a jovial or cute smile in the least — no, there’s a malice in his innocent facade. Your fingers grasp the windowsill behind you and your body tenses as he takes a step closer.
“What’s wrong?” he coos. “Don’t like it?”
You’re stricken speechless by this tired-eyed, creepy boy. You mouth words that never come to fruition.
He pulls his lips back in a bigger grin. “Whaddaya say we ditch this party? I’m done here — it’ll be hard for that dumbass to recover from this.”
He snickers behind his hand, an extol of his abilities and the chaos he created. It chills you. Your adrenaline pumps as he holds said hand out to you, silently urging you to take it. A sudden eagerness courses through you as you accept his hand and let him lead you through the crowd of panicked teenagers, all of whom seem to steer clear of you without realizing. Even at the door, a path is created unbeknownst to their hallucinating minds. There is a lock on the door, invisible to all but you and this strange boy. He takes you outside and shuts the door, drowning you both in silence. His hand releases yours.
“Voodoo bullmuk, huh?” he asks with a condescending sort of tone.
You’re still shaking off everything that had happened. The punchbowl was obviously a coincidence, the light was clearly his doing with the slingshot, but the… Well, the everything else couldn’t be explained away so casually.
“How… How did you do that?” you ask, amazed you managed to keep yourself together to ask a coherent question.
He closes the gap between you, your back now against the front door. He’s got his arms out on either side of you and he’s looking deep enough into your eyes that you swear he could taste your fear. And your rising excitement.
“Stick around and find out,” he replies, his voice low.
“Who are you?”
His smirk holds strong. “Doesn’t matter.”
He leans into you, height towering over your meager frame. When he’s close enough, you bridge the gap and kiss him. His pale lips are warm on your own. You can taste the iron flavor of the nails on his kiss, feel the warm, wet teasing of his tongue against your currently closed mouth, wondering how far you’re willing to let him go. For this creepy, alluring, somehow intoxicating boy you met at this party…? Who knows. All you know for sure is that you’re glad you came to this stupid party.
A mysterious haunted house crops up near your town, seemingly overnight. You feel dragged in. Maybe that was the owner's plan all along.
(Souichi x Reader)!Adults part 1
In your quiet hometown, something has caused quite the stir. The morning chatter, filled with whispers and rumors, brings your attention to a peculiar set-up near the woods. A house cropped up, seemingly overnight. You hadn’t believed the rumors when your friend mentioned it to you, but the more your friend had delved into the story, the more your interest had grown. Perhaps it’s this growing interest that made you call out sick. An urge to sate your curiosity…
It’s not hard to find. You simply follow the sparse people who have the same idea as you. They lead you right to that house. It’s a bit shabby, kind of small, but there’s a palpable thickness in the air as though something has your lungs in its tight grasp. Strange, when you consider that the outside of the establishment is decorated with childish skeletons and bats and spiderwebs. Seems like it should be any other haunted house type of deal — a strange time right on the cusp of summer’s end, but there are types who like this sort of thing. At least there must be, seeing as a small line stretches from the window by the entryway.
You walk closer to the haunted house, open so early in the morning. The more you think about it, the more bizarre the whole thing becomes. You can’t quite see into the window, but you can see your neighbor at the front of the line now, complaining loudly about the prices.
“You gotta be kidding!” he says to whoever is beyond the window. “Ten thousand yen to go through this mukty-looking haunted house!? Looks like it’s for kids — you tryna rip off our kids?”
The small crowd in line behind him agrees readily.
“I assure you—” says the calm, deep voice from beyond the window. You walk closer to get a better view as the man continued, “—this is a very legitimate establishment, and the scares are worth every yen.”
“You can’t fool me just ‘cuz I live in the countryside! Don’t get slick with us,” says your neighbor.
As the sun breaches leaves in the thicket around you, the man inside of the window opens a side door and steps out. He’s well-polished — shoes shined, suit clean, black hair slicked back professionally. There’s a stogie in his mouth, freshly lit and making the owner quite regal. His eyes are bagged and dark, and though he isn’t looking at you, his gaze gives you a chill.
“Sir—,” says the owner, “—I see you’re a shrewd customer. If you need convincing, I’m happy to oblige, free of charge.” The man titters, giving you another shiver across your shoulders and up your neck. “There’s one in every town, and I’ve convinced more stubborn people.”
The owner leads your neighbor to the front door beside the window and pulls the curtain aside, bowing and motioning for the customer to enter. As your neighbor does so, the owner wishes him a pleasant visit, and the crowd is left to wait. The owner nonchalantly stands outside of the door, curtain covering the entrance once more; he is smiling in his amiable facade. His dark eyes scan the crowd until they find you at the back. They rest on your eyes for only a moment before you look away. But he doesn’t. You feel his attention still on you, you know it. Doesn’t seem right that he’d still be looking… No. Maybe, you think, it’s just your imagination because of the strange eeriness that still has hold on your lungs. You look, just to be sure, and your body tenses.
He’s watching you.
The strange feeling in your guts is cut short by your neighbor’s screams. Loud, blood-curdling, like a man ripped from reality by abject terror. It’s the only thing that gets the owner to stop looking at you. He pulls out a golden, Western-style pocket watch.
“Three minutes,” you hear him say to the crowd. “Couldn’t make it all the way through.”
Another scream interrupts the owner, who casually puts a finger in his ear closest to the establishment to block out the noise. He smirks, the first time his formal smile turns to some kind of malice. Your neighbor flings the curtain aside moments later, sweating and pale, so panicked that he doesn’t block the bright sunlight out of his unadjusted eyes. He nearly falls to the ground as he runs out, then whips around to the owner, unable to form words out of his quivering body. What the hell had he seen in there that made him cower? A shabby, small home; could it really contain such horrors? To steal a strong, fiery man’s voice and confidence…
The entire town has been in an uproar and you’ve been trying to go about your mundane day-to-day. Despite your typically good routine, you find yourself tired. Your eyes are heavy as you work your day job, boring as ever. It makes it hard to get that man out of your head. He’s why you haven’t been sleeping well lately. You’ve been having strange nightmares. Nightmares you can’t remember — all you know is that you’ve seen his face. Consistently. Those gaunt, high cheekbones, his demeanor, his false smile hiding a sadistic mind. Last night, he’d been so close to you that you could smell his cologne, something just as elegant as you would expect — cardamom, sandalwood — mixed with the scent of tobacco and fresh mints. It had been so real in your dream. And when you walk home, you swear you see him out of the corner of your eye. When you look, however, he’s never there.
The next day is when you hear the news from your friend. Turns out, your neighbor was admitted to the hospital last night, claiming he’d been seeing… Things. Your friend doesn’t know what sorts of things, nor does the rest of the town or even the doctors. It’s like your neighbor can’t speak about what he’s seen. When he tries, he goes cataleptic. Doctors don’t understand this condition yet. It’s as if something is trying to silence him.
Other cases of this affliction begin cropping up. Just a few here and there, not enough to cause chaos, but enough to spin the rumor mill. You try not to get involved. Instead, you distract yourself by chatting with family and friends over the phone in the evenings and going through the usual motions during the day. But you can’t escape him. He’s in your dreams. That house is in your dreams. You envision yourself going inside, but whenever you do, darkness suffocates you and you awaken drenched in sweat. Despite your best efforts, you’re getting dragged in. Like many others.
That again. That strange feeling; that pulling, nagging, gripping feeling. You have to finally accept its call. Whatever it is. Whoever he is.
He calls you.
You go out that night. Nighttime. Fitting for a visit to a haunted house. Midnight, no less. A time that, perhaps, will have no other people there so you might catch a conversation with this strange, creepy, somehow alluring man. Your feet take you to the haunted house without you paying much attention, too focused on the scent of him from your dreams. The venture takes place in a blurry, obsession-filled haze. A deep-rooted need to see this man.
The house is bathed in darkness that your eyes can barely penetrate. Your lungs are gripped once again by the atmosphere the place exudes. Undeterred, you walk up to the house. The front door has been slid shut, probably locked. You don’t get a chance to try it.
“I was wondering when I’d see you.”
The man’s deep voice comes from the window beside the door. You can’t see anything within, except the barely visible gleam of two eyes looking into yours.
“What do you—?”
He interrupts your small voice, “I’ve been waiting for you, ever since the other day. So, are you here to see the house? Or—” he titters in his rumbling chuckle, “—is this a personal visit?”
Your mouth dries and you swallow the lump of phlegm that forms at the back of your throat. “Well, see, I… I’ve been… Having dreams…”
“Curiosity driven? Seems rather foolish, don’t you think?”
The gleams lift into the air as the man stands. He rustles around his person and pulls a few things from his pockets. A lighter illuminates his face as he burns the end of his cigar, magnifying every dark shadow of his gaunt cheeks.
“But if you wish to visit my haunted house, and at midnight no less, who am I to stop you?”
He steps out from the side door and approaches you, standing a head taller at least. There’s something ominous about his presence, but the sudden scent of him, so familiar from your nightmares, pulls you in. He holds his hand out to you, silently making you take it. He needn’t say anything to convince you, though. You feel as though you would’ve happily accepted his hand. Or perhaps you did. It’s hard to tell.
His skin is warm. He leads you gently the meter or so it takes to get back to the front door. With his other hand, he knocks several times on the threshold of the door and it slides open at his whim. You don’t want to release him, but you want to go inside. After another stolen glance into his eyes, your hand slides from his and you wander into the darkness.
“I’ll be waiting for you at the end,” he says, and the front door shuts behind you.
Hi there! So I admit I don't know almost nothing about Souichi, nor do I usually read xReader stories. However, the art you did based on my request was lovely, and I want to return the favor by checking a few of these out!
I actually gave the first story a quick read to make sure the content is appropriate for the forums (per protocol, lol). I admit, the concept of someone having a cold and trying to "summon the demons" out is kinda amusing. I don't blame Souichi, colds do suck haha. And no sick fic can't end without a cuddle! And then the healthier person catching it later oops.
The second story was fun too! I actually imagined Souichi using the slingshot Bart Simspon style haha. I can see why he's great at parties, heh.
Okay, onto the last story! Unlike your other two fics, this one seems like it'll be on the horror side. That haunted house must be worth every penny then if that man came back horrified. Am curious how the next part will unfold.
Aww, thank you for reading through my horrible bs x3 And I'm glad that it can at least be interesting. I'm not used to writing x Reader (just x Mary-Sue self-insert, lmao), so this was new territory, but a lot of fun. I'm hoping to finish the Haunted House one soon -- it's been unfinished for over a month now because I wasn't exactly sure how to go about the haunted house part. But I know how to end it and my writing buddy and I have been going over a few ideas as well. So things are moving, albeit slowly. xP
Thanks again for reading and giving me your thoughts! x3 ♥