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crispchocolates · 5 months ago

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i will be making a comeback after my finals i will read all my #tbr list TRUSTTTTTTTTTT i WILL PASS MY EXAMS ON THE FIRST ATTEMPT!

navi | m.list

౨ৎ⊹. ultraman, ultrafine, ultramine — ken sato x reader

synopsis: the cause of your recent troubles calls you up to address your concerns, and maybe make it up to you ;)

warnings: slight angst, mentions of bullying, cursing

word count: 1.9k

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part one.

Kenji Sato, you are going to be the death of me.

Coming back from the office, shoulders slumped and head hung low, you slip off your work heels and collapse onto the couch, tossing aside your work briefcase onto the floor. The clatter and clang of it made you wince but it didn’t matter. You had no need for it anymore because you had just gotten fired and it was all Kenji Sato’s fault.

Two weeks ago, when you were still a reporter working at one of the top news stations in the country, your boss came to you with the demand that you publish an article slandering Kenji Sato’s name. You were confused at first. He was one of the nation’s most beloved baseball players. They stuck his face on just about anything imaginable—billboards, megatrons, soda cans. He was inescapable in a sense, which made it all the more painful today when you were taking your walk of shame, office supplies neatly packed in a cardboard box, curious and pitiful stares from strangers on the subway and streets. The road back home seemed to stretch on forever—and the ever present, almost omniscient nature of him made it worse.

You rub your temples in an attempt to soothe the tension that was building up—maybe from clenching your jaw too hard, or holding your tongue, or furrowing your brows every single moment of every single day you worked within that godforsaken office. It was your dream as a child to become a reporter, so when did you start feeling trapped in that occupation? You could hardly recall the last time you had slept more than four hours in a single sitting, or downed less than six cups of coffee before dinner. Your coworkers joked that you were one of the things keeping the cafe downstairs busy. You and your coffees, they used to shake their heads and say.

You found out a little later the reason your boss wanted that smear article was because he had lost a hefty sports bet on Sato during one of his last games. Something about a ground ball, something about Kenji being a hack. You don’t know. You’re not even a sports writer. You wrote the part in the paper about restaurants and cafes and tourist spots worth visiting. The whole thing seemed way out of your comfort zone. Both the sports writing and the smear article.

You spent the next days afterwards trying to get a dig on him. Something, anything—but his trail was clean. No DUIs, no public intoxication, no cheating scandals; it was like this guy was the most well behaved celebrity out there—all work, no play—and that killed you. It killed you because you knew just how much trouble you would be in if you couldn’t come up with something. The new boss was ruthless. He had already fired five employees within the two months he had been here. 2 for missed deadlines, one for bad quality of work, the other two for insubordination. Everyone thought it was bullshit, everyone knew the ones who left were insanely capable workers, but nobody said a thing when they were fired. Nobody raised their voice, nobody protested—because they knew that if they did, they’d be next. So they stayed quiet, kept their heads down, kept working.

That’s what happened when you got fired this evening too. Silence, dead silence. No shouts or gasps, not even whispers—just the sound of fingers on keyboards getting faster. There were no goodbyes as you packed up your things and left.

Something eventually came up after a week-ish of relentless digging: a nasty fight that broke out mid-game. The public was torn at the time, it was either their favorite baseball player or an innocent guard. Well, maybe not innocent, but either way, the point stood. Sato’s PR team was desperate for a do-over after that, which allowed you to land an exclusive interview with him.

This is a rare, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for you. Rip into him and there will be more lining up for you.

You nodded my head then. Dreamed of a career where you could finally write headliners and front page articles. But when the day came and Sato was actually sitting in front of you, you couldn’t do it. He sat down, slightly slumped, hands together, constantly fidgeting with his fingers—the shape of a man, nervous. The bruises on his skin were still fresh and purple, the left side of his face swollen. You remember wincing and sucking air through your teeth when he first sat down, to which he chuckled and asked: “that bad, huh?”

And that was all it took to disarm you.

You had come into that interview, guns ablaze and all, ready to rip this man into shreds, but that single statement—the soft crinkle of his eyes, the echo of his laugh—made you toss aside the script and notes that you had prepared painstakingly for the last few days. Instead, you give him a chance at recovery. You redirect the story to make him seem in the clear; paint the guard to have been racist and inflammatory and practically asking for it. You were doomed. You knew that much. But in that moment you didn’t care. You just wanted him to smile at you again.

So the screaming fit from your boss afterward was no surprise. He put on the clip of the interview on the TV, and pointed, mouth frothing. He told you that you were wasting resources. That you had no idea the lengths he went through to get me that interview just for you to mess it up. That your writing was shit anyways, and no one read it, and now at least he knew your interviewing skills were shit too. You got fired for insubordination. You packed my things and left. 3 years of hard work packed into a small box that you carried through the city. You thought there would maybe be more to it, but apparently there wasn’t.

Fine, you thought. That’s fine.

It wasn’t fine.

The clarity of it hit a few moments after you got home. How had you let some guy mess up the rest of your career? You barely knew him too. He was a big shot athlete. One bad article wouldn’t have done anything to him. He would’ve gotten up and hit the ground running regardless. You sigh, and pinch the bridge of your nose.

Your phone buzzes from somewhere within the mess. You turn over a couple papers, set aside a stapler, and flip over the phone, revealing the caller ID: your mother. You groan and press your face into the pillow, ignoring it. She calls again and you don’t pick up. Her nagging was the last thing you needed. Again, and you don’t pick up. Again.

When she called for the fifth time, you were fed up, and you held the phone to your ear hastily, ready for a spat.

“Not right now mom! It’s not really a good time.” You bark harshly, palm pressed against the side of your head.

“Oh, sorry.” A male voice stirred.

Your eyes shoot open. You sit up.

“Sato?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, “yeah, it’s me.”

Shit, shit, shit.

“I- why are you calling me?” You ask defensively, “wait, how did you get my number?”

He laughs again. God, that laugh.

“I got it from my PR team. For future interviews, they said.”

A moment passes.

“I heard about the job.” He says.

Your heart sinks a little.

“You did?”

“Uh-huh.”

Another silence.

“I’m sorry that happened.”

You press youe lips into a thin line. You could cuss him out right here and now. You could let out everything you had been holding back for the last three years. You could tell him that he ruined your career, and that you would never recover, and that it was all his fault.

“It’s okay.” You mumble. “Shit boss.”

You hear him crack up from the other side of the screen and all you can think is that his laugh is beautiful, and you also think about the way his mouth kind of falls when he’s laughing like that, lips stretched and all.

“Still, I’m sorry.” He says after a moment, “I can’t help but feel like it was my fault.”

“It’s not.” You reply, voice softening. “It’s the shit boss.”

He laughs again.

“Sato,” you call out, but hear him wince.

“Call me Ken.”

“Okay, Ken,” you laugh, “how are you holding up? I mean, face and all.”

Another laugh, and you feel something in your chest squeeze.

“I’m dealing, thanks for asking.”

Silence befalls the two of you. You catch sight of him in the billboard outside your apartment window, posing for Premium Seven. He doesn’t look real when close up. Maybe it’s because you were so used to seeing him printed out onto things that when the real thing was in front of you it seemed unfamiliar. You lie back down and turn your attention back to the call, the screen still lit. If you concentrate enough, you could hear him breathing.

“Y/n?” He says after a while, voice just above a whisper.

“Hmm?”

“I wanna see you again.”

You sit back up, heart thundering in your chest. You feel your cheeks grow warm.

“Yeah?” You say, more like a question—needing confirmation as to what you just heard was true.

“Yeah,” he says. “I wanna see you again, I’ve missed you.”

And you feel that same squeeze again. You put your hand over your mouth as you rest your chin on youe knees, the phone burning against your ear.

“When can I see you?” He asks, tone practically begging. God, the things his voice does to you.

You bite my bottom lip.

“Tonight,” you say. “You can see me tonight.”

“Where?” There are the sound of keys jingling and a door opening. Maybe a car. “Just tell me where to find you.”

“Tonkatsu Tonki, down in Meguro.” You blurt.

When you get there—hair messed up and out of breath—Kenji Sato is standing in the front of the shop, waiting for you. He beams and raises his hand to wave. You jog over and attempt to catch your breath. He pats you on the back and laughs, making a joke about shit endurance. You glare at him for a second, but break out into a smile shortly after. You can’t stay mad at him. Not when he’s this gorgeous.

“How’d you get here so quick?” You ask in between pants. “I live two blocks away, you still got here quicker than I did.”

He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact. “I’ve been here a couple times.”

“Oh? Not many people know about this place.”

“I know.” He says, and whips out a stashed roll of newspaper from his pocket. He turns the pages and points at one specific article he circled with red marker. Your eyes scan the text and gasp. You look back up at him.

“I’m a fan of your work too.” He admits sheepishly, blush creeping up towards his face.

You cross your arms and cock an eyebrow.

“Kenji Sato, the man that you are.”

He laughs his beautiful laugh.

“It’s Kenji Sato to everyone else,” he says, opening the door for you, “Ken to you.”

“Me and nobody else?”

“Nobody else.” He beams, and your heart soars.

And in that moment you think: Kenji Sato, you are going to be the death of me.

next.

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author’s note: aaa tysm for all the love and attention this has received !! didn’t expect my first post to do this well but I’m glad to see so many fellow fans <33 let me know your thoughts in the comments aaaa thank you once again ilysm !!

#crispchocolates exam era #i have an exam every month....this is ABSURDDDD #crispchocolates pass first attempt on her finals and advances to third year #manifest...#kenji sato i am just a girl all i need is one chance...#crispchocolates tbr pile 🎸⋆⭒˚｡⋆

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