#ken x oc

[mvjerbs]

Some requests made from my tiktok :))

Bonus comic after the wedding dress comment:

[smolkooks]

incoming call... (part ii) - kenji sato

a/n: roughly 2k more words of kenji sato fluff! sequel to 'incoming call...' link to part i

ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚

“ouch!”

you snickered, “ken, i told you not to get too close! she doesn’t like strangers,” you leant down to scratch the little kitten’s cheeks, and because she knew you and you were undoubtedly her best friend, she purred in contentment, all the while giving kenji sato an irritated glare.

the nickname—ken—slipped off your tongue smoothly, the same way you’d been saying it for the past few months that you’d been spending around your highschool sweetheart. even though you’d been apart for so many years and hadn’t seen each other for so long, it had been easy to slip back into an old rhythm.

“fuck, i didn’t know she’d actually bite me, she looks so tiny,” he hissed, shaking his reddened finger.

“size means nothing when it comes to animals,” you retorted, and despite the way you rolled your eyes, you still handed him an ice pack from your freezer, “take this, big baby.”

he huffed but took it anyway, pressing it to his injury.

it had become a bit of a routine—after his games, he’d come over to your clinic to visit you while you handled the late-night clean ups. the rest of the vet team headed home at closing, but with no kids or family to care for, you often spent your evenings here, keeping the animals company and handling some of the extra paper work. 

“how’s emi doing, by the way?” you said as you refilled some of the water bowls. most of the animals were sleeping at this time, but you still liked to make sure they were all fed and watered. in fact, it was better to do it while they were asleep—less whinging from the little babies for treats.

“she’s doing well,” he said, and it was his turn to roll his eyes as he leant against the bench, “attitude and all, as always.”

“she’s a teenage girl,” you said with a laugh, “it’s so normal. i was one, so i can affirm.”

“mhm,” he said, eyes gleaming, “i remember.”

it was weird, toeing this line with kenji sato. so long ago, you’d been each other’s universes and after separating to go to university, the two of you had been sucked into different orbits—him going into baseball in the states, and you pursuing veterinary medicine in australia. it almost felt like fate nudging you, having the two of you run into each other—back in japan all these years later.

saving you from responding, his phone rang at that very moment. being around kenji all these weeks had gotten you used to his late night calls—how he’d have to run off to take care of the city. but this call seemed to come from one of his teammates, with the familiar way he addressed the person on the other side of the line.

he’d told you that at first he didn’t have any friends here, too busy to do anything but work. but now, he’d grown close to plenty of his teammates and of course, he had you.

“yeah well, i’m kinda busy right now actually...why?” you overheard him say as you busied yourself with some clean up and tried not to look like you were eavesdropping, “oh...oh! yeah uh—what?! what the...” his change in tone piqued your interest.

“...right, thanks for telling me, i’ll call you back later, yuta. thanks...” he hung up, and turned sharply to you, meeting your awaiting gaze, “the press caught you, uh, getting into my car.”

you frowned, confused at the problem with that, considering it wasn’t at all illegal for kenji to have friends.

“they’re blowing it up,” he said, running a hand through his hair and messing it up again, “i...i don’t mind, but i don’t want it to hurt you, that’s all.”

you waved his concerns off, “it’s whatever, to me. as long as it doesn’t harm your reputation, i don’t really have a public image to maintain. my patients don’t care who i date or don’t date.”

date? you felt flustered the moment those words left your lips. even though the two of you had been getting closer again and flirting and doing things that one would do while dating, neither of you had clarified the boundary yet.

kenji seemed equally as flustered and didn’t address what you’d said, not wanting to embarrass you, “you’re right,” he smiled crookedly, and you returned one back despite your racing heart.

***

the moment you stepped into your mum’s house, you were bombarded.

“what’s this about you dating kenji again!” she exclaimed, shutting the door behind you and ushering you into your childhood living room, “i haven’t seen that boy in decades. and since when were you—,”

“what, mum?” you cut her off sharply, even as she shoved you into a chair and poured you hot tea, sitting down opposite you eagerly, “i’m not dating him? plus, where’d you even—,”

she shoved the article in your face before you could even finish the question, her phone screen so bright that it took your eyes a second to adjust. “mum, your phone’s so bright, it can’t be good for your eyes.”

���not important, y/n,” she snapped hurriedly, “look at it.”

blinking your eyes to focus, you finally saw the image clearly. it really did look like you were dating. the window of kenji’s porsche was wound down, and you were leant over towards him, pressed so close to him in a way you didn’t remember doing, even though you knew that you’d only been reaching over to grab the gum from his glovebox. the way he was looking at you, though—you hadn’t noticed in the moment. it was really full of adoration, eyes glittering with a love you remembered so clearly from your highschool days, and his arm was reached out around you in a way you also hadn’t noticed before.

“explain,” your mum demanded, although she didn’t seem annoyed, she seemed...quite excited, the way her eyes were suspiciously bright, “i miss seeing that lovely boy around.”

embarrassed, especially as your eyes scanned over the headline—baseball star kenji sato’s new sweetheart?!—you stuttered, “uh, i ran into him a few weeks ago and we’ve been hanging out, you know, at the clinic.”

“well, then, what are you doing in his car?” she rushed, waving her phone around again, “doesn’t look like the clinic to me. and look—,” she scrolled down a bit further to another picture, this one even more incriminating.

it was you, tucked in the audience of one of kenji’s baseball games, dressed in his team colours, cheering amongst the other vip guests sitting amongst you—friends and family of the players.

“well—,”

“i’m not hearing it,” she cut you off, a grin breaking out, “you’re bringing him over! i can’t believe it—my daughter and kenji, reunited,” she sighed happily, “i was worried you would never settle down, you know.”

flustered, you didn’t even bother to object, sagging in your seat at her insistence.

***

“y/n, i’m really sorry, i didn’t think it’d be that bad,” he said hurriedly as he followed you up the stairs to your apartment, “i’m really sorry. i’m trying to get them to take it down but you know how—,”

you whirled around as you shut the door to your apartment after letting him in, “my mum wants to see you.”

“huh?”

you sighed, switching on the lights and throwing yourself onto your couch, “she saw the article and couldn’t stop going on about how i was finally settling down and how she needed to see you again.”

he ran a hand through his hair, “you...don’t mind?”

“kenji,” you sat up straight, beckoning him over, “i don’t mind. and i wouldn’t mind...”

the silence was loud, the only sound in the room the quiet humming of your lights and the traffic outside, as he sat down beside you, sinking into the cushions.

you knew you didn’t have to finish your sentence. kenji sato knew you too well. he met your eyes and pulled you close, hugging you to his chest. you breathed in his scent—clean, and a little tinted with fish. you’d found out that he often had to go fishing—diving, more like—for emi’s dinners, and that was why he was so often around your apartment block...to fish in the river like a weirdo.

“y/n...”

you hummed, waiting for him to continue as you pressed your face into his chest.

“i really meant it when i said i missed you, back when we first saw each other again,” he began, and you smiled into his skin, “i was so lonely. drained, and it was like fate—seeing you that day saved me, i swear. you were all i could think about. i couldn’t...i couldn’t imagine never seeing you again.”

“kenji,” you murmured, leaning back to look at him earnestly, “i missed you, too.”

“what i’m trying to say is,” he swallowed, looking down before looking up to meet your gaze again, “i...i wanna date you, y/n. if you’ll have me,” suddenly shy, he flushed a bit at his own words.

you smiled at how sweet it was, how shy he seemed and also how your stomach fluttered with butterflies, “ken, of course i’ll have you. you’re all i want.”

you’d barely finished your sentence when his lips met yours in a gentle, soft kiss. you couldn’t really put it into words, how it felt to kiss kenji again after all these years. it felt like coming home. it felt like taking all the colours of the sunset and smearing it across a canvas. it felt like drinking warm milk tea. you hummed into the kiss as he deepened it, pulling you closer by the nape of your neck, and you reached up to tangle your hands in his dark locks, pulling him down towards you at the same time.

you were so close to him you could feel his heartbeat—almost hear it, and you hoped he couldn’t hear how quickly yours was racing. he tasted of caramel, and you couldn’t help but sigh as his hands slid down to your waist, pulling you onto his lap as you broke apart from the kiss, curling into him in a hug.

“y/n,” he murmured, keeping his arms wrapped around you, “i really, really missed you.”

you’d missed him too. his little habits, his dishevelled hair—fish smell, and all. you’d missed him more than anything.

finally, you’d come home.

[lonelynight13]

[stanfanfiction]

Masterlist

Hey all! For now I’ve only written Ken x reader fics (and they are ongoing) but wanted to go ahead and get my masterlist page started. I do accept requests so let me know if there’s any fun ideas you’d like me to consider!! I’ll be updating anytime a new fic is posted :) thank you all SO much for all the insane love, and so fast!

Ken (Barbie) (ongoing)

Taste of You - Ken x fem!reader, 18+ only

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Two.Five

Chapter Three

Chapter Three.Five

Chapter Four

Chapter Four.Five

Chapter 4.5 (BONUS)

Chapter Five

Chapter Five.Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Six.Five

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight (coming soon)

Requests are currently open

[jointherebellion215]

Birdie

John "Bucky" Egan x female!reader

Summary: A rare night out in London has Bucky coming to terms with his feelings for you.

Word Count: 2.9k

Tags: mechanic!reader, songbird!reader, female!reader, she/her pronouns used, drinking culture, cursing, mutual pining, moderate bouts of denial, insecurities, women supporting women because it's what we deserve, let's pretend that The Old Therebefore is an ancient Appalachian folk song in this universe, maybe she's a Mary Sue idgaf, I just wanted to write something happy so LET ME LIVE, WWII era, there's no Y/N but reader has the nickname "Birdie"

A/N: Yeah, I'm obsessed with Masters of the Air. I had to write something for my mans before the creative procrastination literally killed me. Please leave a like, comment, or even a reblog if you're so inclined :)

You can read my OC version of this story on AO3!

Songs Mentioned in This Fic:

Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy by The Andrews Sisters

G.I. Jive by Johnny Mercer

The Ole Therebefore (Accapella) by Rachel Zegler

Disclaimer: I own nothing. This story and any recognizably named characters are based solely on dramatic portrayals of the characters from the series, not the real individuals they represent. All the respect to the actual service people who fought and died in the Second World War. Also, don't copy my writing without explicit permission. That includes you, you AI sonuvabitch.

Your heels clicked on the cobblestone streets, turning into the pub you’d heard so much about. You were out celebrating a very rare weekend off. The Brass had somehow allowed you and twenty other mechanics from base two days leave, so you took advantage of the opportunity and headed straight to London.

Your two best girlfriends from base were with you. Teresa was one of the toughest nurses you’d ever come across. She could give you a wide grin, crinkles around her hazel eyes, and reset a broken bone without breaking a sweat. It helps that she was already working towards becoming a nurse back in New Mexico, the war just sped along that process. You had bonded over your love of books, giving each other recommendations almost weekly.

You’d met Irene on the boat to England. She puked on your shoes almost thirty minutes exactly after leaving the port in New York. You gave a small grin, offering her a handkerchief and a piece of ginger candy and the rest was history. Finding out that she was a fellow mechanic was the icing on the cake. Coming in at a whopping five foot two, the spritely blonde could easily be found in a crowd with her loud Appalachian accent.

It seemed almost like fate for the three of you to have found each other. Being some of the few women on base naturally made you close, but you were closer with Irene and Teresa than any of the others. That’s not to say that you weren’t friends with any of the men, because you were. Friendly. 

All three of you were dressed to the nines, in contradiction to your everyday work wear. You all got ready together in your hotel room, giggling while you applied makeup here, spritzed some perfume there. You all felt confident and were ready to have a good time. You spotted some familiar faces and made your way over towards them, your friends linked arm-in-arm with you. Lemmons was the first to greet you.

Of the fifty men on the ground crew, Sgt. Ken Lemmons was the most welcoming of them all. From the get-go, he didn’t care if you were a man or woman. He just wanted to know that you were capable. You were sure he had to go through some hazing because of his age, which probably changed his perspective on gatekeeping the job. This made earning and maintaining respect a lot easier for the women on your crew. We all came over with the same goal, it was better for all if we just helped each other out.

“Hey Birdie! Nice to see you out and about.”

Ah, the famed nickname. You tend to hum and sing under your breath when elbow-deep in a project. It helps you pass the time and clear your mind. Of course, the rest of the ground crew quickly caught on to this habit of yours, which quickly earned you the nickname “Birdie”. You, of course, never sing solo in public, so this confuses anyone who’s not around you while you’re working. But the name stuck, so here you are. Birdie.

Chairs are quickly cleared for you and your friends, which you all graciously take. You go up to buy some drinks, knowing what your friends like, and quickly return with your drinks of choice. Conversation flows, laughs are shared, and a few drinking games are played over the next hours. Teresa soon speaks up on a topic you’d been hoping to avoid.

“Do you think he’ll be here tonight?”

You shrug and look into your drink, “Dunno. Why does it matter?”

Irene, the ever supportive best friend that she is, backs up Teresa. “What do you mean ‘why’? This is your chance to finally make a move!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You quickly deny, taking another sip.

An unladylike snort leaves Irene, “My ass! You and Major Egan have been making googly eyes at each other when you think the other’s not looking for months. I’m saying it’s time for you to perk your tits up, buck on over and ride that—!” You slam your drink on the table, pressing your hand over Irene’s mouth, heat rising to your cheeks in embarrassment.

“Are you insane?” You whisper harshly, looking around to make sure no one overheard you. You seem to be in the clear, which makes you calm down a bit. Irene pushes off your hand, takes a swig of her drink, and consults the person who started this whole conversation.

“Am I wrong?” You look to Teresa, who cringes slightly in agreement.

You gape at the pair of them. Normally, you were the median between the two girls who had vastly differing opinions. But this is what made them come to a consensus? Unbelievable.

“Look, I’m not saying that I don’t want to.” You start, which makes your friends nod encouragingly at you. “It’s just that… Is he really as interested as you think he is?”

They both groan and slump against each other, like they’d just run a marathon. Teresa sits up, scooching your chair in closer so that the three of you were in a private triangle, cut off from the rest of the group.

“Let’s look at the facts here, okay?” Teresa starts to tick off a finger with each point she and Irene make. But you seem to always have a rebuttal at the ready.

“He brings you coffee every morning.”

“I thought he does that for everyone.”

“He constantly fixes his hair when you’re around.”

“He takes care of his appearance!”

“He walks you to the mess hall every day for dinner.”

“We just happen to be going the same way. And we happen to have the same dinner schedule.”

“He read The Hobbit when you said how much you loved it.”

“He’s an adventurous guy, it’s an adventurous book, what’s not to like about it?”

“You two literally will walk and talk outside alone for hours.”

“A man can’t have a stimulating conversation with a woman?”

“He laughs at all your dumb jokes.”

“Hey! They’re not all dumb. Like, the one with the goose and the—”

“Point proven. Anyways! He has your picture in the inside pocket of his jacket.”

That one stops you in your tracks. You brain tries to justify this meaning but comes up blank.

“He…” You struggle with an excuse. “He…” Your best friends give victorious smirks in your direction.

“He… likes the extra padding in his jacket?” You stutter over what is possibly the most pathetic, sorry excuse you could have ever come up with.

“When are you gonna admit to yourself that he likes you? Like, actually truly likes you?” 

You gave a sad sigh, letting the insecurity you were feeling deep down come to the surface. “I just… He’s just so…” You had stomped down your feelings for so long that it was becoming hard to articulate what exactly you’re feeling.

“He just seems so unreal. Like, of everyone he could have chosen, why me? I mean, I know I’m great. But you’ve seen the other girls on base. They’re all so beautiful, smart, classy… and none of them are covered in engine oil ninety percent of the time.” You looked down at your hands, specks of grease and oil peeking out from beneath your nail beds. It seems like it would never completely wash out, no matter how hard you scrubbed. You hadn’t even painted your nails for this weekend, knowing it would be money wasted come Monday morning when you’re back on the clock.

Teresa and Irene share a look that you don’t see, then come forward and grab each of your hands. 

“The words you just used to describe those girls. All of that is you, Birdie. That and more. You being a mechanic doesn’t make you any less of a woman, and to hell with anyone else who thinks otherwise.”  You nodded in agreement, Irene’s words of encouragement slowly washing away your anxieties.

Teresa spoke up next, “You deserve someone who will rearrange the stars and the whole night sky for you. And I’m more than willing to bet that Major Egan is up for the job.” 

“Besides, none of that 'unreal' stuff. At the end of the day, John Egan is nothing more than a man. If he can’t look past his nose and his d—" You gave a squeak to cover up the vulgar word Irene was about to blurt in public. She rolled her eyes fondly and continued.

“If he can’t see what you’re worth and make the effort to treat you a hundred times better than that? That’s on him. Not you. You know what you deserve, and you deserve everything you want. Absolutely everything.”

You sniffed, happy tears coming to your eyes. You brought your best friends in for a hug, thanking them profusely. 

“Don’t sweat it,” Teresa grins into your shoulder “every girl needs to be pulled out of her well sometime.”

You pull back from the hug, grabbing your glass and tipping your head back, finishing the rest of your drink. “Even if he’s not gonna be here, let’s have a ball!” Your girlfriends cheer as the three of you go to the bar for refills.

One drink turns into two, which turns into a few more, and suddenly you’re buzzed. Your group are having a rambunctious time, Irene dancing by the local piano player. Once Irene looks over to you, she stops and whispers in the player’s ear. He nods, then starts a new tune. Irene starts up her voice, walking over to you and Teresa, encouraging you to join her. 

The alcohol has loosened you up enough that you don’t feel the nausea you usually associate with being perceived, so you join in the harmonies you and your friends have practiced in your bunks at night.

He was a famous trumpet man from out Chicago way

He had a boogie style that no one else could play

He was the top man at his craft

But then his number came up and he was gone with the draft

Soon the whole pub was jumping and dancing along to the tune as you brought a new vibe to the pub. It was like a spark that started an entirely new night and everyone was eager to go on forever.

One song turns into an entire set, which ends with a full rendition of G.I. Jive, which had everyone singing along. It was a magical moment; made you feel like you were a part of something important.

Irene sidles up to you, giving you a hug. She says in your ear,

“I think it’s time to slow it down a bit. How about you sing that song I taught you.”

She means an old Appalachian folk song that’s been in her family for generations. You had heard her sing it one night and immediately loved the dark, but strong nature of the lyrics. It was an honor to learn it from her. 

“I don’t know, it’s your family’s song and…”

“And I can’t think of anyone better to sing it to these soldiers.” You gave each other a look, her slight eyebrow raise gave you the courage to nod in acceptance. She smiled, hugging you again, her voice yelled out to the crowd. 

“Birdie’s gonna sing solo!”

The announcement is met with raucous applause, Irene and Teresa shoving you towards a dodgy looking table. Crank offers a hand up, which you take gratefully. As you find your bearings on the tabletop, you quickly spin around and find all eyes on you. 

The crackling energy in the air seemed to simmer, the fast-beating hearts of the pubgoers recognizing a moment to acknowledge you. Nausea starts to make an appearance, but a deep breath quells the sensation within you for the time being.

You take another deep breath. Inhale, exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

You close your eyes, open your mouth, and sing.

Meanwhile…. 

Majors Gale Cleven and John Egan walk down the familiar street, one eager to catch up with his fellow countrymen’s alcohol intake, the other just happy to spend time with his friends. They were arriving later to the festivities due to being caught up in filling out reports. By far the worst part of having a higher rank was the paperwork.

“It’s pretty quiet.” Buck acknowledges. “They’re usually rowdier by this point.”

Bucky sniffs, shrugging off the concern. “Ah, it’s probably nothing.” 

As the two men approach the pub, they find that a crowd has formed. Soldiers, civilians, RAF, USAAF, old, young— people had obviously stopped to watch whatever was going on. It was dead silent, save for a voice singing. Was there a radio show on or something?

A familiar face peeks out at them from the crowd, DeMarco quickly waving them over. 

Bucky is quick to question, “Hey, what’s going on?” but is immediately shushed by nearby crowd members. Buck cringes in apology, despite not being the one to disturb the peace. His best friend, ever unshaken by the opinion of strangers, carries on.

DeMarco leans in, whispering, “Your girl’s taking us all to church.”

“My girl..?” Bucky’s nose scrunches in confusion. He makes space through the crowd and quickly makes sense of DeMarco’s words. It was you.

I’ll catch you up

When I’ve emptied my cup

When I’ve worn out my friends

When I’ve burned out both ends

Standing on a tabletop, watchful eyes sat all around you like baby ducks flocking to their mama. You were captivating everyone with each note and word that flows from your mouth. Damn, you've got a set of pipes— a voice that belongs on the radio, in concert halls, on Hollywood records. He had no idea.

His little Birdie.

“Wow.” Buck mutters in awe from behind him, and Bucky couldn’t be more in agreement.

When I’m pure like a dove

When I’ve learned how to love

He hadn’t noticed before, but her eyes were closed. Like she needed to concentrate on each and every breath she took, every single movement her body made, before letting them out in an angelic melody.

As if by divine intervention, her eyes pop open and lock on his as she belts “how to love” 

It could’ve been an eternity, for all he knows, the amount of time that they spent locked in each other’s gaze. The world pauses around them, everything frozen. Her eyes were already the kind to knock a man clean off his feet with a single gaze, but he thinks- for a brief moment- that his heart completely stops beating.

John Clarence Egan would swear every day from then on, until his dying breath, that the course of his life was altered in that very moment. He knew how it would continue from then on, and how it would end. How he wanted it to end.

Then the world starts back up and carries on.

Right here in the old therebefore

When nothing is left anymore

Her final hums are joined by a short blonde woman who stands nearby, another face he recognizes from base. 

The applause that picks up after the end of the song is near deafening. The star of the hour gives a shy smile, a quick curtsy and is given a hand to step down from the table.

Everyone soon starts mingling, the normal chatter of the bar returning. But Bucky is stuck in his spot, dumbfounded. In all the conversations you’d had together, somehow this never came up. He should’ve put two and two together, as he recalls overhearing your hums one morning as he made his daily coffee delivery to you. But you had been caught off guard, so much so that you tripped off the ladder you stood on and fell. Luckily, his quick reflexes kicked in to catch you before any serious injuries occurred. 

Remembering the sensation of his hands on your waist and thighs, face just inches from yours, sent his brain into a tailspin. That’s not even considering just how damn cute you were when, after a beat, you turned away from him and playfully mourned the cups of coffee that were splattered all over the hardstand.

“John. John?” A hand waving in front of his face knocks him out of his reverie. He blinks once, twice. Then looks to his best friend.

His voice comes out uncharacteristically weak in response, to which he then clears his throat and corrects. “Yes—yeah?” He pops the collar of his sheepskin jacket to try and hide the rampant red of his ears that signals the heat radiating from them.

Buck just shakes his head and gives him a knowing smile. “You sure know how to pick ‘em, Egan. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“See what day?” Bucky starts to consciously return to his body, leaning on the bar.

“The day when a girl finally knocks you on your ass. I knew you had a thing for her, but that?” He points to his face and motions to indicate where they had just been standing. “That’s something else. That’s something real.”

Bucky gives another shrug in response, to which Buck throws back an unconvinced frown. He turns his head to gaze over the pub patrons and is distracted by you once again. Any denial he was about to spout immediately dies in his mouth when you lock eyes with him again and give him a dazzling smile. The world starts to fade away again.

His heart pumps faster in his chest at the sight. Damnit. He sighs, telling his best friend the truth he’s been privately wrestling with for a while now, all the while keeping his eyes locked on yours.

“I know, Buck. I know.”

Bucky smiles back at you and is elated when your face lights up. You give him a wave.

“She kinda snuck up on me.”

[cleomigadon]

Durgetash's Greatest Hits!

So did my foot. 🦶🏻

[despacito-uwu16]

A Journalist’s Guide To A Successful Article

Kenji Sato x Journalist! Reader

Enemies to Lovers | Forced Proximity | Pining |

My first mini-series!! This is why I've been so busy these past few weeks! After 3 1/2 weeks, it's almost complete and ready to be shared!

⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺

Summary:

Y/N L/N is a sports journalist, well known for her detailed articles and for destroying an athlete's reputation in one paragraph.

Kenji Sato is a baseball player with an ego. He prides himself on being the best “living player”, despite his recent losing streak.

The two of them have an intertwined past. A past that made them despise each other. After years of banter, Ken has a proposition. A proposition that Y/N is forced to take. 

Warning: I changed up the original story a bit so it might give off OC vibes

⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺

Let me know if you want to be in the tag list!!

⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺

Released: August 12, 12 pm PST/ 3 am PHST

[morownic]

of fever dreams and jamais vu

And, of course, like all fever dreams, he had to wake himself up from it. (But this one? This one was real.)

warnings/tags: NSFW MDNI (non-graphic smut), non-ultraman AU, afab + fem pronouns

next — series masterlist · my other works · ao3

a/n: there were a lot of songs that i listened to while writing this (animals) and i do have a playlist of them but i would recommend color tv to listen while reading the flashback part bcs i did write this part with that song on repeat lol. enjoy!

All the world and his wife was scrutinizing Ken Sato the moment he stepped out of the airport and took his first deep breath in his homeland after twenty years. Of course, he welcomed and basked in the attention even if it suffocated him—quite literally, he must add, what with how the reporters and photographers were almost wrestling each other to get a scoop on him. What came after that only gave him a headache after a headache. He had to settle in his new residence, a mansion he bought just 15 minutes away from where his father lived, one that felt way too big for just one person and his supercomputer assistant. He finalized his contract with the Yomiuri Giants, followed by a meeting with all the staff members and a less-than-formal outing with his new teammates to some club in Shibuya he didn’t bother to remember the name of, where he was just constantly reminded that he was alone. The day after that, he had to deal with a hangover, a press conference, and an interview that ticked him off—Ami Wakita, was it?—before ending the night with a bar fight that left his shoulder aching.

Ken was sure he wouldn’t even have considered moving back to Japan nor would he have let his father somehow slip back into his life if it wasn’t for his mother.

With his injury, your father needs you, kiddo.

And so, Ken Sato began his baseball career in Japan with the Yomiuri Giants. He brought the team to their first victory of the season despite a lot of things: how the media was still on his ass about why he would leave his career with the Los Angeles Dodgers behind, how Coach Shimura seemed to have a chip on his shoulder when it came to him, how the pain in his own shoulder would stab and dull with every movement he made. The way his shoulder ached left him wondering if he should have treated it more seriously rather than seeing it as an inconvenience, perhaps put his pride aside to admit that yes, that drunken brawl was fucking stupid, and my shoulder fucking hurts. That was why he didn’t think much of it when Coach Shimura was talking about bringing in some new guy—something about a new performance analyst or whatever—as a matter of fact, he couldn’t care less.

So, imagine his surprise when he showed up to practice and saw a face he hadn’t seen since graduating college in the States. A face that made his breath hitch because one, she was just that beautiful, and two, he had no idea why she would be here. A face that was so familiar he almost threw up from shock, anger, guilt, longing. A face that contorted into contempt at the mere sight of him.

Ken Sato was sure of one thing at that moment.

He was completely, utterly, thoroughly fucked.

Ken Sato wasn’t always the famed world-class baseball star he turned out to be, and she wasn’t always the blunt and tight-lipped new analyst for the Yomiuri Giants she turned out to be.

He was a doe-eyed, lanky Japanese kid who had above average grades in his classes and showed promising results as a slugger for the baseball team. He spent most of his freshman year being stereotyped and made fun of for how he looked and talked, and it only changed because he had his growth spurt in sophomore year. Not only did he become a cleanup hitter by the end of the year, girls were suddenly giving him bedroom eyes in the hallway and guys tried to make up for their borderline bullying by letting him into their cliques. His friendships with them were shallow, really, because they would still poke fun at this old accent even after he had nearly perfected his American accent. Ken took it in stride only because he knew everyone would never make fun of him in baseball, not when he had practically put his school on the map by winning tens of titles and playing in the Senior League. And so, by the end of high school, Ken had baseball to thank for almost everything in his teenagehood.

She, on the other hand, came to high school smart and pretty. Where Ken stood out like a sore thumb, she stood out like a broken finger. Someone being academically gifted and socially relevant was practically unheard of at that time. She was among the top 10 students in freshman year, earned her spot as the leadoff hitter for the softball team in sophomore year, won a national debate championship in junior year, and passed 4 AP classes with flying colors in senior year. She, too, had put the school on the map, perhaps even more contributively than Ken did, so the teachers only kept their grievances for when she skipped class to smoke. Even so, everyone seemed to like her regardless of their cliques; she was always greeted in the hallways, was almost always invited to every party, and had gone out with all the popular students. She could have had it all, and whatever her secrets were, Ken and the other students in their school only knew her as the high school sweetheart, the kind you would see printed next to the definition of high school sweetheart itself.

Ken had seen her in passing during freshman year, but he never really talked to her until they shared three classes together in sophomore year. He remembered that she had approached him first during PE, suddenly speaking to him in fluent Japanese that he nearly had a whiplash. She told him that yes, I know you’re also Japanese and sorry I didn’t talk to you sooner, then babbled something about how she felt guilty that she had just been watching while others made fun of him. He didn’t think much of it at first, still surprised that one of the popular girls—if not the popular girl—in his year was actually talking to him. But then, he found himself understanding every word she said whenever she talked in Japanese and replying to whatever she was saying in English; he found himself exchanging notes and numbers with her in math class; he found himself going to the baseball field with her during lunch breaks and seeing who could hit the farthest. He was somehow roped into bringing her home after he offhandedly mentioned her to his mother, and then, they somehow became best friends. He would cover for her whenever she skipped class to smoke, much to his dismay, and she would introduce him to other social circles outside his baseball team, where he found his first girlfriend—who, admittedly, broke up with him because the way he spoke about his “best friend” was laced with more adoration than the first kiss he had with her. He would wait until their practice sessions were over and drive her home, where they would spend at least three hours talking on her porch before he went home, and she would show up to his games with an obnoxious handmade banner that read “KEN SATO THE G.O.A.T,” cheering the loudest whenever he hit a home run. He would pick her up from anywhere almost every time she asked, even if he had to get himself out of bed at two in the morning, and she would hang out at his place every other weekend, bringing fruit baskets and takeouts for his mother. It was somewhat domestic, how she settled in his apartment (and his life) whenever she came over. Ken almost always had to ground himself because his brain would feed him thoughts of a future with her, and his heart would beat so hard it threatened to break out of his ribcage.

But they were just best friends, he thought and said to his friends whenever they asked him about her. Best friends who happened to suck off, eat out, and eat each other’s faces pretty regularly. He found it funny at first, really; one time, their classmates told her that she just wasn’t human, what with how she juggled school and being popular. She only laughed it off, but he thought of how right they were when she came over while he was home alone at the end of sophomore year. There was no way the girl kneeling between his legs was fucking human. Not with that tongue of hers. Not with the way she looked up and batted her eyelashes at him. Not with how she literally gulped down his load in one go and played Tekken on his console as if she hadn’t just given him the best head of his life. She quite literally sucked the soul out of him that day, and he never had another head like that ever since. Even as they started hooking up—strictly platonic, she said, and he just went along with whatever she wanted as long as it was with her—that was still the stuff of his wet dreams, and it remained that way even long after they never saw each other again.

“Do you think we’ll be friends forever?”

The question caught Ken off-guard not only because it broke the comfortable silence between them, but also the feelings it evoked. Where is she going with this? he thought. A frown was etched on his face as he turned to look at her. Under the soft glow of the star projector in her room, she laid on her back, eyes tracing the constellations that danced across the ceiling. Her breathing was far more steady than his, chest rising and falling slowly behind the thin fabric of his shirt. Her hair fanned out around her on the pillow, framing her face as if it was her halo. At that time, her expression was probably the most serene and somber he had ever seen. She’s beautiful, he said to himself, and he thought it wouldn’t be so bad to keep a picture of this moment in his head for his selfish reminiscing should they ever stop being friends. (He hardly thought she meant that they could be more than friends, and he didn’t want to entertain the thought of not having her in his life.)

“Yeah?” He answered and mentally cursed himself for sounding so unsure. After clearing his throat, he corrected himself: “I mean, yeah, why not?”

There was no way she hadn’t seen the way he was staring at her from the corner of her eye. Even if she did, she didn’t turn her head to face him and only hummed in response to his answer. A look of contemplation appeared on her face as she kept quiet for nearly another minute. Ken swore it felt like an eternity.

“What if–” She sighed. “What if we fuck up and hurt each other? What then?”

Ken somehow knew that she already knew that there was no way she could ever fuck him up. (She already did, anyway, literally and figuratively.) Not with how he looked at her, not with how he reached out to hold her hand, not with how he promptly turned his head to face the ceiling once she was turning to look at him. Perhaps, what she was looking for was the reassurance that he wouldn’t fuck her up. He squeezed her hand when the thought crossed his mind.

“I’ll still be your friend anyways,” he said, softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

A chuckle left her lips then. She didn’t let go of his hand as she moved to hover over him, replacing the twinkling manmade constellations in his sight. (He thought she was brighter than any star in the sky, anyway.) He raised his brow when he saw the mischievous glint in her eyes as she leaned down, her lips nearly closing in on his.

The grin she had on her face was enough to tell him she was up to no good. “Are you a masochist?”

“You–seriously?”

He might’ve groaned from annoyance, but the way her body shook with laughter on top of him was enough to make that godawful warmth bloom in his chest. He pulled her in for a kiss, though he wasn’t sure if it was to shut her up or if he just wanted to, and he thought that if anyone were to see them like this, no one would ever believe him if he told them that they were just best friends. Hell, everyone had enough of his answer whenever they asked him about it at school, and he was even picked on again at some point—but not for how he looked or talked. No, he was picked on for being her “best friend” because no matter how many people had tried to make her theirs, she kept coming back to him. But then they would find Ken making out with one of the cheerleaders under the bleachers and her sucking off some guy from the football team at some senior’s house party. It was confusing for everyone, but even more so for Ken, because every time she asked him to pick her up from God-knows-where, he would see red when she saw her huffing out a smoke, disheveled because of someone who was not him.

And, of course, like all fever dreams, he had to wake himself up from it.

“–Sato.”

Two things snapped Ken out of his trance then. First, it was the voice that called out to him, then it was the pain in his shoulder. Ken found himself standing on the batter box in Tokyo Dome, a bat in his hand, and his breath was ragged. The seats were empty, the sky was turning dark, and then he remembered that he was at practice. He was at practice, not on the porch at her old house in Los Angeles holding her close as she cried over that one guy who supposedly broke her heart. He was at practice, not at the frat party where he met her again for the first time after months of no contact and saw her giggling on the lap of some jock. He was at practice, not in front of the diner they used to go to almost every other day where he said awful things he didn’t mean and maybe, just maybe, that was the reason why she had left for Japan the next day. (She had waited for him to come to the airport, to at least apologize, but he never came. He had turned off his phone during practice.)

Ken sighed and lowered his bat, hissing when he rolled his left shoulder. He steadied his breathing and regained his composure before his eyes flickered to the field. His teammates were waiting for him to hit another ball so they could continue their fielding practice. Then, he turned to the one in front of him—Yoshida, right?—whose voice pulled him out of his train of thought. Yoshida raised his brow when he locked eyes with Ken.

“Are you distracted or something?”

It was his turn to frown. “What?”

“Are you distracted by the new girl or something? You kept looking back at the dugout earlier.”

Ken almost dropped his bat when he heard that, his neck turning so quickly that he was surprised he didn’t give himself a whiplash. “What?”

Yoshida nodded in the direction of the dugout, and Ken turned to look. His grip around the bat tightened as his eyes darted towards the dugout. Her back was facing the field, leaning against the metal fence that divided the field and the dugout. Her arms held a clipboard to her chest, and he could only see her side profile from where he was standing as she spoke with Coach Shimura. The two of them looked familiar already—he really didn’t know how she did it, given that he was still at odds with the coach, but it was so her, he thought, the way she could get along with all the people he couldn’t—as Coach Shimura was talking more expressively with her than he had ever seen him. She was nodding to whatever Coach Shimura was talking about with a smile on her face, one that didn’t reach her eyes, and he berated himself because why and how the fuck could you tell from this distance? Ken’s lips parted as Coach Shimura’s expression changed and nodded in his direction, and his breath hitched as he saw her turning slightly towards him.

Ken’s heart dropped as the smile on her face faltered, replaced by an unimpressed look and an air of disdain that made him shiver. The world seemed to stop right then and there; even when she looked at him as if he was the reason behind her suffering—which was probably true, to an extent—he couldn’t help but think of how beautiful she was. Even with the hint of blood between her slightly cracked lips and the dark circles under her eyes that she didn’t bother to hide with some concealer. Even with how she looked even paler than she was when they were still in Los Angeles and how her cheekbones seemed to protrude and her cheeks seemed more hollow. She was beautiful, yet she contrasted her old self, which bothered him so much that dread started to pool in his stomach. Ken knew her and would even say he knew too much of her. But, right at that moment, it was as if he was looking straight into a stranger’s eyes and not the pair he had fallen in love with, as if he was looking at the stuff of his nightmares and not the girl of his dreams, as if he had never known her at all.

(What if it was true?)

Ken pinched his arm, hard, and winced when the pain seared through his body and kickstarted another throbbing ache in his shoulder. None of the stuff of his fever dreams, the dread and peculiarity of it, should have been real. This was real. So, if this was real, then God must not only be fucking joking, but He must’ve been thoroughly fucking evil to be putting him through this.

“Oh, fuck.”

[mochminnie]

Hi! I saw your comment on my post recently and I was thinking about an idea I have. I got a few but this is the most interesting one. And I was thinking about Ken Sato x Fem! Reader. Reader works as an spy who knows about Kenji's identity as Ultraman, they got to know each other since the were childhood friends...When she finds Kenji is so stressed out of Emi, she starts to help him out with Emi being like a mother figure for her. Making a strong connection between Ken and Reader falling in love with him.

Readee takes good care of Kenji to relax a little bit. Making good, cleaning and also making sure he bathes. Realizing they could be great parents someday...Confessing her feelings to him.

Omgggg my version is that Ken and Fem Reader were ex childhood friends back in America and they grew apart middle school high school and Fem reader and Ken reunited in Japan. Reader’s occupation is an elementary English teacher / public children’s content creator. Who loves kids and animals.

I will definitely make it fluff and there might be some spice👀

Not gonna lie Ken gives Tadashi vibes but with a temper & Mina is like Baymax😭🥺🫶🏽

Trope: Polar opposites, bickering, old married couple vibes.

[mvjerbs]

WELCOME TO A SLICE OF LIFE ULTRAMAN AU WHERE WE HAVE NURSE KENJI

ARCHITECT PROFESOR JURO

AND THEIR PERSCHOOLER DAUGHTER EMI

Bonus comic:

Me and my friend after making the au:

[enchantedchocolatebars]

Sir Caleb and Lady Clara! 🩷 🩵 🌼 💕 💟

During their lively conversation, the couple was clueless about the bearded hobo man and his sparrow spying on them from the bushes.

(Commission drawn by @mochapao)

Sketch

Original cover

A Winsome Witch And A Happy Human Chapters

The witch in the art is my wittewife oc.

[stanfanfiction]

Taste of You - Ken / fem! Reader fanfic - PART TWO

Edit: multiple parts have been uploaded and can be found on my pinned Masterlist on my profile :)

Tags/ warnings: 18+ ONLY / virgin Ken / oral (f and m receiving) / lots of fluff and horny angst / bashful Ken / first time sex / Ken being confused and adorable and hot / slow burn / smut / praise k!nk

Ken stared at you, nodding slightly, but his nerves seemed to still get the better of him at your soft command to “get in the bed.” You touched his cheek gently. He hummed happily, nuzzling his cheekbone into your palm, eyes twinkling, still looking at you, enjoying being treated so gently.

“What is it, Ken?”

He closed his eyes for a moment, breathed in, and brought a hand up to make sure your hand stayed against his cheek. He shrugged the tiniest bit, glancing away when he opened his eyes again. “I, well, I thought I knew enough….to…I wanted to…impress you.”

Any shred of his forced “cool” demeanor completely gone, you smiled at him, small and quiet. “You do impress me, Ken.”

He stared. “Don’t lie to me. Please,” he whispered, sounding choked up.

You shook your head. “I’m not. I won’t.” You get why Ken might not have the best self esteem, especially considering his kind of forced himbo status since his “birth” into the world and considering how, reading through the lines based on what Ken had told you, that all of the Kens back in Barbieland held the same level of intellect. So you got why he would, here with you in your world, definitely feel overwhelmed and possibly not the brightest.

Ken glanced down at himself again, still holding your palm to his cheek. “You promise?”

“Ken, everyone has to learn this kind of thing this way, and have someone show them.”

He stood a little straighter then. “Yeah?”

“Mmmhmm.” You slowly reached your free hand towards his cock, which did somehow resemble a gorgeously huge, fake looking sex toy you would get at a shop. But then, he WAS technically a doll…somehow…even here, in your world..you stopped thinking too hard about it as you wrapped your hand softly around the base of him, not wanting to move too fast, making sure he felt comfortable with everything. He inhaled sharply as you applied pressure with your hand, although not moving it yet.

“Is this okay, Ken?” You whispered.

He continued to stare at your hand wrapped around him as you kept a steady grip on his shaft, gently gliding up to his tip. As you circled your thumb around his crown, he let out the most gorgeous shiver. The noise that escaped his lips was almost silent but made you suddenly desperate to hear more, hear him louder.

“How is this?” You asked, thumb continuing to rub on him.

He exhaled loudly, his hand gripping the your one that he had been holding to his face by the wrist and squeezing, almost in pulses, unintentionally in time with the bolts of pleasure he was feeling as you touched him.

“This is…it’s good. Really,” he swallowed, “really good.” He shuddered again, and you knew you had to get him on the bed and start to have your way with him already.

“Ken, can I keep doing this to you? But, on the bed?”

He finally looked back up into your eyes. His pupils were huge, and he breathed through his mouth - god, how the fuck were you so attracted to his mouth now, and thinking of the things you would teach him to do with it.

“Mmmhmm,” he replied, short, simple. “What do you want me to do?”

“Just lie back, get comfortable.” You removed your hand from his groin, and he moaned in disappointment. “I’ll start again, once you’re..” you nodded to the bed directly behind you. He walked to where you had directed, not letting go of your wrist, and sat down, staring at you expectedly. You felt like you should have been frustrated but somehow every moment of this was just blissful, quiet, mesmerizing. Watching him was *truly* mesmerizing.

“Okay, get further up the bed. Lay back for me.”

He did as you asked, still not letting go of your wrist, thus pulling you up towards the headboard with him. It was as if he was afraid you would leave if he let you go.

“Good Ken,” you said, not really thinking through your words until you heard him breathe in sharply again. Oohhhh….of course he would have a praise kink. And of course he wouldn’t even known what a *kink* is yet, you thought.

His eyes trained on you every moment, you straddled him slowly. His gaze flickered up to your face, your lips, down to your legs suddenly encasing his hips, back to your eyes, then your hand as you set it firmly onto his muscled chest.

“I’m going to need this hand back,” you said, gesturing to your imprisoned wrist.

Ken shook his head. You bit back a giggle. “Why, Ken?”

“I don’t want to,” he said simply, not forced or dominant, just…an answer.

“It’ll be easier to make you feel good if you do.”

He paused, then using that same wrist, pulled you down towards him. You were a bit shorter than he was, so even with your hips at the same distance as his, your face barely hovered over his head as you were forced to lean over him, your free hand supporting you still ground into his chest. You weren’t sure what it was he needed, but the tension between you was so thick -

Ken reached his free hand up to tangle in your hair, lifting his head up to suck your lips into his. A moan escaped you effortlessly as he nipped and pulled on your mouth. As you gently dug your nails into his chest, his hips bucked, unexpectedly for the both of you. His head fell back immediately and you were now beginning to become slightly annoyed that he didn’t know what he was doing, because he bare cock stabbing into your panties just then made you want to ride him, hard and NOW. He gasped at the same time you did, staring up at the ceiling as in disbelief.

“THIS is why I need both my hands, Ken,” you said, your voice firm now. He looked at you, his body stiff, chest heaving.

“If you don’t like anything, literally anything at all, tell me. I will stop.” You stared back at him, and saw in his eyes that he believed you. “I promise.”

He finally released your wrist. Somehow the loss of his grip actually made you sad for a moment. You cursed yourself in your head then sat back up, moving your hips down a bit so his groin was now fully exposed to you. Your core sat on his thighs, his thick muscular, dear fucking god I bet he will be able to fuck like a stud, between those thighs and those abs and - you forced yourself to focus, Ken lying motionless beneath you and staring. The guy never seemed to stop staring.

You breathed in and wrapped both of your hands around his cock, firmly. He moaned loudly, head falling back into the pillows, and you decided it was best to just keep moving because if you asked him if he was okay every time you made a move, this would probably last days…not that it would be a bad thing, but…

You began stroking him up and down, making sure to squeeze a little more at the tip and rub your thumb around it before going back down like he seemed to enjoy earlier. And he was very much enjoying it. He grasped the covers beneath him, eyes squeezed shut, moaning loudly at every sensation. His breathing became so rapid you were *almost* worried he was going to hurt himself.

“Is this good, Ken?” You asked, not stopping your movements.

“Ahhmmm..mmhmm…I..AHH!” He sputtered his words, and you felt even more heat grow in your core, watching this man be absolutely destroyed by your touch. His body shivered deliciously, his muscles flexing every time he tensed.

You leaned over without announcement, taking his tip into your mouth and moving it in rhythm with your hands. The noise he made…dear. Fucking. God. He looked down at you now, his eyes wide, his legs trembling a little.

You smiled, more to yourself than to him, as you pushed as much of him into your mouth as you could handle. Ken made a sobbing noise and gripped your hair tightly in both hands. You knew he didn’t intend to, but he was actually pulling a little too hard, and you discovered it turned you on more. You began sucking him a little faster, taking breaks to suck and lick only his tip, then going back down as far to his base as you could muster.

“I…fuck…Y/n…I can’t -“

You sat up, releasing his member from your lips, but still holding him with one hand. You actually felt concerned. “Are you okay?”

“I need…I can’t…breathe.”

You climbed back up closer to him, hovering over his torso, taking his face in both of your hands. His pupils were fully blown, his hair messy from tossing it back and forth on the pillows, and his entire body was flushed. He looked like he had just been fucked out of his mind. Your fingers on his cheeks seemed to soothe him, and again he reached a hand up to hold one of your hands and cradle it as he leaned into your palm.

“Are you okay, Ken?”

His eyes closed, he hummed an answer that sounded winded but content.

“What do you need?” you asked.

“Mmmmmm. Just you.” He sounded almost drugged, smiling and turning his face to plant kisses into your palm.

“Do you not want me to finish?”

“Finish what?”

Holy shit. He didn’t even know what a climax was. You were dumbfounded for just a moment, not knowing what to say. He helped snap you out of it.

“Why aren’t you undressed, y/a?” The sudden realization dawned on him, and he leaned up onto his elbows, you moving back a little to avoid him literally smashing his face into yours.

“I, uhh…was wanting to focus on your first.”

He cocked his head. “But in the movie -“

“Yes, I know, they were both not wearing clothes.”

“Do you dislike not wearing clothes?”

His desire to discover an answer was - why did everything he was doing right now make you want to fuck him more.

“Oh!” He sat up more, face bright with a new realization, and now you fully straddled his lap as his hands came up to wrap around your waist, almost as if a seatbelt to keep you safe. “Is it because I’m supposed to undress you? Like how you undressed me?”

You didn’t know why you kept losing your words tonight, but now it was fucking happening again.

You were taken off guard as he wrapped his hands around your small nightly, pulling it off in one easy, swift motion. He smiled at your proudly, and you just stared at him in disbelief, until he glanced down and saw your breasts. Then his entire face became entranced. You didn’t realize you were covering yourself with your hands until you spoke.

“Now I KNOW you’ve seen this. These were aalll over that movie.”

“Yes, but those weren’t yours.” He reached up and pulled your arms away easily, gazing at you as if opening a fascinating book for the first time. You held your breath as he held you open for him, his lips parting slightly as if in a trance. He leaned down and took one of your nipples into his mouth without warning, and you caught yourself pulling back from the sudden touch. Ken seemed to sense that you weren’t saying “no” as much as you were saying, “Oh, I wasn’t expecting that,” and he placed both large hands onto your back and he easily pulled you into him again, this time his lips latching tightly onto your nipple.

Now it was your turn to shudder. He sucked gently and hearing your moan, pulled you between his lips a little harder. You exhaled loudly when his tongue swept over it, and he hummed contentedly, continuing his exploration of your nub for awhile longer. You placed your hands on his shoulders, not needing to balance yourself but wanting to touch him as he held you firmly in place with his own hands, pressing harder into your back so you were easier to suck on, to take more of your breast into his mouth. You bucked when he bit down, gently, but still without expectation, and he grunted when your clothed vulva once again pressed against his naked cock.

He pulled away, looking up at you. Now YOU were flushed and heaving and…all over a goddamn nipple? Fuck. What was happening.

You looked at him, suddenly feeling a little self conscious again. “Hi,” you whispered.

He beamed at you in adoration. “I made you feel good, too?”

You exhaled and smiled, laughing a soft, breathy giggle. “Yes, Ken.”

“I’m good at this now?”

You brought your hands up to run your fingers along the back of his neck, and his expression let you know this was another new sensation he hadn’t experienced before. “You are very good at this, Ken.”

He leaned his forehead against yours, sighing, holding you close to him. Honestly, you were thankful for this moment, you needed a breather. You stayed like this until he pulled back, once again looking confused. Your stomach flipped. Oh no, what this time?

“The man went off screen to go down on the woman, too. Like when the woman went offscreen…she was doing what you did to me?”

You realized what was about to happen and blushed so deeply you felt the heat in your cheeks literally burn. “Mmmhmm,” you got out.

He looked down at you, at your panties still covering your core. “Then it’s my turn to do that to you.” He smiled, confident he had given you the correct answer and that you would be proud of him. He reached for the tops of your panties but you stilled his hands, suddenly VERY nervous.

Ken frowned. “What is it? Are you confused like I was earlier?”

Your mind raced. Of course you had had sex before, many times, actually. But suddenly being put in a position to REALLY have to focus on literally every single detail, down to introducing this man to what a woman’s privates looked like, how to touch them, studying every sound and movement you made, and how incredibly vulnerable that made you feel…you were frozen for a moment.

Ken remained silent, contemplating what he was supposed to say. You seemed anxious like he had been earlier, so, you must have been feeling the same worries that he had, he mused. He racked his brain for a moment, then said, “If you don’t like anything, literally anything at all, tell me. I will stop.” He smiled now, obviously proud of himself for remembering what you had told him earlier. You realized he assumed that what must be said every time someone was about to give another oral sex. It must just be the “normal” thing in his mind - and he had zero idea what giving oral to you was going to be like.

You nodded slowly, and looking genuinely concerned, he began moving one hand up and down your back gently, tracing your curves with his fingers. It’s as if he knew he needed to help you relax, and his instinct this time was finally perfect. Your body became less rigid, and he moved the other hand to hold and squeeze your other breast, and you became dizzy and…just…fuck it.

You leaned into him completely, kissing his jawline, his neck, his collarbone, leaving tiny bites here and there, loving the gasps he made and how certain areas that felt particularly good made his grip on you tighten. His chest melted into yours as he kissed you greedily, hungrily, and he ran his tongue along your lips. You moaned and could tell he smiled a little, feeling proud. He knew now that you liked his tongue, a lot.

After awhile longer, he pulled back, looking back down at your panties. “Can I take these off now? Please?”

He fucking said please….

You took a deep breathe, and climbed off of his lap. He whined at the loss of contact as you reached to pull your panties off.

“No!” He started, hand reaching out. “No, that’s my job to do.”

“This isn’t like a formal thing, Ken.”

Confusion. Again.

“Just let me do it,” he pleaded, not seeming to want to understand what you had said, but literally giving you puppy dog eyes as he held the waistband of your panties in both hands now, only waiting for you to give permission. You didn’t think he really understood the concept of consent, but that he just really didn’t want to do anything to upset you.

You laid back in the bed onto your back now, and he watched every moment, the most loving look on his face. You nodded finally, taking your hands away from his, allowing him the access he craved.

He smiled as he pulled the clothing off of you, leaving you completely bare. You worked hard not to force your thighs together, just breathe, just let him see.

He didn’t say anything at first. He was still, as if working to understand, once again, something he had never seen before.

Fuck, fuck, fuck stop feeling self-conscio-

You internal scolding hushed as he gripped both of your thighs again, pulling you open. You held your arm over your mouth, trying to just be silent. You didn’t feel shame per say, but this was all such a mind-fuck and you -

“Fuck, you’re beautiful.” He sighed.

You looked over your arm, and he continued boring his gaze into your core. “So, so beautiful, Y/N.” One of his hands begin grazing up one of your thighs, and once again you worked to control your breathing. His fingertips ever so goddamn gently touched your clit, and you gasped, His barely-there touch was electric. “I’ve never seen anything like this before,” he cooed. “You’re incredible.”

One finger ran down your entire core, slowly, studying every little crease it could find, memorizing you. You let out a small sob yourself, just trying to get through whatever wonderful torture this was.

Ken looked back up at you. “Hey, Y/N?” You were silent, expecting him to be asking another sex question. “Y/n? Please? Will you look at me?”

You did as he asked, his stunning, chiseled body planted firmly in front of you. Oh god, the things running through your mind that could literally happen at any moment if you’d just fucking explain them to him.

“Yes, Ken?” You breathed.

“How do I make you feel good now? I…haven’t seen one…”

You nodded, working through how exactly you wanted to introduce him to this new segment. “Uhm,” you began, deciding maybe it was best if you did the touching, at the least for now.

“So, this area here,” you touched your clit with a finger, pressing on it slightly, chills running through you. Chills that Ken definitely noticed. He looked excited but focused.

“And here,” you went lower, slowly, “is the vagina.” You held your lips open a little so you could show him easier.

“Mmmhmm. Okay.” He encouraged you to go on, letting you know he was paying attention.

You decided you would stop feeling any form of embarrassment from this point forward and just force yourself to enjoy this, not think about it…

“The vagina,” you said, dipping one of your fingers into it, but didn’t continue when you heard him gasp, his eyes wide.

“So I put my fingers on your clit and in your vagina and that makes you feel good?”

“Mmmhmmm,” you replied, slowly taking your finger back out to rub your clit again.

“Okay, yeah, mmhmm I can do that.” He was talking more to himself than to you, and hurriedly moved the hand you were using to touch yourself out of his way, eager to try.

“Wait, Ken!”

He startled at your command. He looked almost incredulous, why would you stop something right when he understood?

“Listen.” You sat up now, holding his hands. “This is…there’s a LOT that goes on from this point forward.”

He nodded, listening, wrapping his hands around yours in a protective way.

“You don’t have to just use fingers.”

He nodded quickly, letting go of your hands. “Yes, I know.”

“Ken, you -“

He shushed you with his lips again, pushing you back onto the bed, his weight fulling pressing into you. You moaned, and you knew at the moment you were wet enough for anything he had to offer. He smiled again. “You took such good care of me. Let me take care of you. I know what you need now.”

He slowly began kissing down your neck, your jawline, your collarbone, mimicking the tiny nips you had given him. You closed your eyes and shivered, trusting him to just discover as he went along for now.

He tenderly kissed your breasts, your navel, your hips, holding them while he loved on you firmly, making sure you knew he wanted you to stay there.

When he got down to your core again, you opened your eyes, watching. His eyes met yours, and he smiled one more time, quiet yet confident. A single digit pressed against your clit, circling it, learning how it moved underneath his touch. You moaned softly, and that was enough for him to lower it down to your opening, holding your lips open with his other hand like you had shown him. You braced for “impact,” but all he did was trace around it, staring at it, then back at you. The almost ghost of a touch was fascinating to experience. You had never felt anyone look at you, touch you with so much love, so much care.

“Does it hurt when I put my finger in?” He asked, still circling the muscle gently.

“Mmm, uh, sometimes. If I’m not wet enough.”

He took a moment to contemplate that answer, then leaned down and placed the most delicate kiss into your folds, his touch and breath making you absolutely melt. You wrapped a hand in his hair and just basked in the moment. “What a good Ken.”

This made him even more confident, and he began kissing your core more, up and down, and honestly it felt so wonderful you didn’t want to tell him to do anything else, until his lips suddenly wrapped around your clit and sucked.

You hips bucked and your cried out, and Ken’s eyes sparkled up at yours with joy of figuring out something that *really* made you feel good, and he began lapping at it with his tongue, in the exact same order he had discovered tasing your nipple.

“Ohhh my god,” you panted, pulling his hair hard, which he seemed to love. “So good, Ken. You’re so good at - AHH! Fuck, god, you are incredible.”

Once you started almost mewling, he moved his lips down to your opening, and slowly traced his tongue around it. You were done. Your body went into alternating spasms of being limp then becoming rigid with every movement. When he stuck his tongue inside you, you basically began to sob. He hummed his approval as he licked you deeply in circles then slowly in and out, holding your legs apart because you had begun squeezing them around his head.

Finally he pulled back a little, licked up over your clit again with firm pressure, and exhaled. “Will it hurt if I put my finger in now?”

You knew you looked like a mess, and felt almost goddess-like in it. “Not at all. Please,” you pulled harder on his hair. “Please, Ken. I need it.”

“You need my finger?” You couldn’t tell if he was egging you on or if he was confirming what it was you wanted.

“Yes, you, your finger, your cock, I don’t care anymore. Please, my good boy, I just *need* it.”

Realization dawned on his face, and you cursed yourself for letting the idea of his cock get into his mind again, because even though now he finally understood what he thought he was doing when he dry humped you, you didn’t want to distract him until he had made you come. You felt insane right now.

“Oohhhhh,” he said, smiling warmly at you. “I understand.”

“MMhmmm,” you quipped, trying to to tug his head back down towards your vulva. “Please, now.”

“Fingers?”

You nodded, and he slowly pushing one of his achingly large digits into you, staring at you, making sure you seemed to feel good. You moaned loudly, opening your legs wider. Ken was hypnotized by you.

“More, please.” It was hard to comprehend the right words to get out, as you began bucking into his hand.

“More?”

“Fingers. Need two. Need you to move.”

“Two more? Or two in -“

“KEN, PLEASE!” You cried in frustration, unable to think you were so overwhelmed with sensation and desire.

Kens focus whipped back to your core, pulling out his single finger than pushing two back into you. Your groan was delicious, as was the heat surrounding his fingers now. The wetness, the warmth, the tightness of the muscle he was penetrating. He watched and felt in awe as he began moving his fingers in and out, trying to mimic the way you had been bucking into him.

“Yes, and, please,” you mewled, “curl? Like this?” You showed him two fingers through glazed eyes, curling them upward. Ken stared, determined to do what you were wanting, and copied with his fingers inside you. He did something perfectly because now your hips moved more into his touch, and he moaned as he watched your writing, moaning, all because he was making you feel good. His assault became a little faster after awhile, a little harder, testing out what limits there were, his eyes never leaving your face, your body, memorizing every movement.

"I need your lips, please," you started, then continued quickly, "fingers are good. Keep doing, ahh!!" he hit the spot really hard unexpectedly, and you felt the most amazing pleasure roll through you. "Keep doing THAT, but use your lips on my -"

Ken understood immediately, much to your surprise, but also much to your gratitude as he began sucking and licking your clit in rhythm with his fingers, and you tightened your grip in his hair.

"Please, please, Ken, don't stop," you pleaded, your climax hurriedly approaching.

Ken wanted to pull back and tell you he wouldn't stop, but decided against it, since he wanted to keep doing this to you for as long as you wanted. Your orgasm hit hard and strong, your back arching off the bed, almost screaming as he didn't let up his movements for a single second, even after your body collapsed back onto the bed and you worked to catch your breath.

"Okay, Ken, thank you - ah! oh no, please really, stop."

He stared up at you but kept going, again confused for whatever reason, wanting to make sure he was making you happy.

"Ken, it hurts now." You said, and he halted immediately. He jerked back, removing his lips and fingers from you as if he had been struck.

"I hurt you??" He looked broken.

"No!! no, no, please. Come here. Lay with me." You smiled at him, inviting him to you, and he gingerly crawled up and lay besides you, wanting to touch you so badly still, but not sure what he had done wrong.

"Mmmmm," you breathed happily into his hair, allowing yourself to relax and enjoy the post-orgasm glow. "Thank you, Ken."

He felt tense. You pulled his arm to wrap around your waist, kissing his lips, and he kissed back, still staring at you, needing an answer.

"You made me feel very, veerryy good, Ken. You got me to orgasm."

"I got you a what?”

"When a person is being pleasured, sometimes their pleasure *peaks,*" you show him using your hand, going upwards like mimicking a rollercoaster. "It feels amazing. Like an explosive amount of feeling good," she said, loving using the term he found to be the best way to describe everything tonight. "And then you get all warm and feel all glowy, and cuddly, and sleepy. Like I am right now."

“And I didn’t hurt you?”

“Oh, that’s more because after I orgasm, I’m really sensitive. So it could hurt if you keep going.”

Ken allowed his head to now relax into the pillow next to you, and he smiled. "I made you feel the best you could feel?"

"MMmmmm," you smiled, kissing the tip of his nose, your hand finding its way back into his hair.

Ken smiled, proud, and like he was going to say he loved you. Thankfully he didn't and instead said, "Did I have one of those?"

You shook your head. "Not yet. It can get kind of intense. You seemed like you needed a break."

"I don't know how it could feel better than what you did," he admitted, wrapping your free hand in one of his, kissing your palm again. He seemed to love doing that.

"It can. We can make that happen, if you like."

He smiled sleepily, even though you were pretty sure he wasn't actually tired but rather just matching your energy. "You said my cock can go into -"

"Yes," you cut him off.

"Is that how I orgasm?"

"That's one way." You snuggled your body fully into his now, your skin-to-skin contact making you more relaxed, and Ken nudged his knee in between yours.

"Can we do that next time? After I make you have an orgasm first?"

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

Read More ➡️ Masterlist

[iguessthisisanewobsession]

It takes a mob Part 1

PART 2

Bill didn’t sign up for this.

He glanced around at his fellow gang members as the kid let out another shrill cry.

The kid was couldn’t’ve been two. He was small, in a can and from it’s shivering Bill could guess very cold.

“Aw hell..”

Lifting up the tyke, Bill grimaced as he pealed off the what he could only assume was some sort of blanket and blindly handed behind himself.

“What the fuck is on that shit?”

“What the fuck would I know Maven? Do we look like a baby experts? Kind of smells like blood..”

“Blood ain’t green Ken..”

“Did I say it looked like bloo-“

“Will you two quit yapping? The kid doesn’t look too good someone hand me a jacket.”

Bill cut the off as he ran a hand over the kid’s back. After a quick round of rock paper scissors, Marv handed over his hoodie with a pout.

‘The kid is way too small’

Bill grimaced as he tried his best to wrap the kid tightly. He could probably his fingers around the kid’s waist and still be able to drop a penny between them.

“Was there anything else left with ‘im Bill? A name or-?”

“Not unless it’s on a candy wrapper.”

Bill sneered as he kicked the trash can over,

“There’s a lot of types of fucked up in Gotham but to leave a babe outside in January..”

Marv pluck the kid out of Bill’s hands and gently bounced him on his hip. Cooing gently as the boy’s blue eyes started to close before smiling and asking,

“So what’re we goin’ to name him? I vote Danny. He looks like a Danny.”

“Ayy no, we’re not naming him nothing. We are gang members, Hood’s gang but still. What we are going to do is clean and warm him up before we set him down at the Wayne foundation’s-“

Bill paused Marv let out a shriek. The kid had let out a sneeze. Usually wouldn’t’ve been that big of an issue but there was now a very big patch of ice on the building’s side that wasn’t there before.

Shiiiitttt..

The kid’s a meta.

Could a kid his age even become a meta?

How?

“We can’t take him to the foundation Bill.”

Ken muttered,

“The Bat will be notified day one an’ send him packing. Tough enough in the system as is, the second he has that M on his papers his chances of a normal childhood is zero.”

“And what do you think we can do about it? In case you forgot, our boss works with the bats.”

“We can hide him!”

Marv chimed in,

“There’s a couple dozen of us around, I’m sure if we just ask-”

“Are you hearing yourself speak? Hide him from the bats. It won’t work.”

Bill pinched the bridge of his nose as leaned against the alley.

“So that’s it we’re just going let the kid be push around the country? He didn’t came from a happy home Bill! The system will eat him alive and then there will be a freeze jr. in 15 to 20 years! Shhh shhh sorry Dan-Dan sorry, Calm down baby.”

Bill watched as Marv continued to shush the baby. For being gang member Marv has always been a gentle soul, everyone knew his soft spot for kids.

“Fuck…”

Ken chuckled as he ruffled “Danny’s” hair.

“Done being a dick?”

“Yeah, yeah.. yuck it up you two. If this blows up in your faces than I want no part of it.”

“Come on Danny let’s go find you some food. There’s got to be a convenience open somewhere around here!”

Bill sighed as the two exited the alley with the gurgling baby. Hiding him from Red hood was going to be impossible but at this point he knew when to give up a fight.

Taking one last glance Bill let out a weary chuckle and looked to the sky.

“I should’ve never left the goonion..”

[obrowne21]

ʙᴀʙʏ ɪ’ᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱ

Chapter 2 - “Hates the Perfect Word”

▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣

“Don’t stay out here too late, Baby.”

Sergeant Ken Lemmons was only partly joking with Baby when he said this to her. However over the three weeks of getting to know the stubborn blonde, he realized it wasn’t so far fetched for her to lose track of time.

And that would be proven correct as Baby was still out on the Airstrip, working away. She found it difficult to leave seeing as the view was so beautiful. The sunset painted the sky a warm orange and pink tone. A calm breeze briefly passed her, ruffling the tall grass, the trees, and even the bottom of her dress as it did so.

Sighing, she found a comfortable spot on a nearby crate. Busying herself by screwing two engine pieces together with a basic rod. The action was done smoothly like muscle memory.

A loud sound of an engine and the screech of tires had broken her peaceful state. Internally rolling her eyes, Baby prepared herself.

That could mean only one thing.

The jeep made a rough stop in front of her causing her to look up at the person responsible for the interruption.

Major John ‘Bucky’ Egan.

Even the thought of his name sparked annoyance in Delilah. She couldn’t pinpoint what it was about him that was so infuriating.

Maybe it was the way he walked around base like he was the king of the world. He had everybody under his spell, especially her brother Gale. She couldn’t understand how the two had ever became friends.

Or maybe it was how he would sometimes get caught looking at her but would never say anything.

It was like a game of tug of war. Always giving her signs of interest but then taking it back as if he physically and mentally couldn’t bring himself to go there with her. Like something was stopping him, more like someone.

She had a pretty good idea of who.

“A little birdy told me you were out here.” Leaning back in his seat, Bucky faced the woman.

Delilah, uninterested, gave him a nod before focusing back onto her work. “Never really liked birds.”

“Sad to hear that. They’re real fascinating creatures. I’m more of a unicorn guy myself-”

“I bet you are.”

After a beat of silence, Delilah glanced up to see him staring at her once again. It could’ve been because she had just rudely interrupted him but by the way the corner of his mouth twitched into his signature smirk made her think differently.

His eyes held nothing but admiration as he kept his gaze on her. The way she smoothly worked away like it was her second nature was wildly attractive. Not to mention the quick wits that shamelessly left her pretty mouth, which instead of feeling insulted he would always feel more amazed by her.

“Gale send you out here?”

“No.”

“So tell me…Major Bucky,” The name rolled off her tongue as a taunt. Placing the tool and engine piece down beside her, she leaned back onto her hands. “To what do I owe the pleasure of being in your presence?”

Bucky watched as she seductively crossed her legs and tilted her head awaiting for an answer. The reminder that she was his best friends little sister kept blaring in the back of his mind. But it was so damn hard to listen to.

“Maybe I just want to be in yours.” Copying her action, Bucky tilted his head. “You ever think of that?”

”It’s hard to when you’ve been avoiding me like the plague.”

He knew exactly what she referring to. Part of it was intentional but at the same time he really never knew how to approach her. Which was odd for him.

John Egan never struggled in talking to women. However he would always overthink with Delilah. She made him nervous, in a good way.

“Can’t say I know what you’re talking about, sweetheart.” Bucky let out a nervous scoff knowing he had been called out.

The use of the nickname made Baby raise her eyebrows in surprise. “That’s a new one.”

“You like it?”

“I’m not sure yet.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve been called many things, Major Bucky, but sweet has never been one of them.”

“What?” He dropped his jaw dramatically, pretended to be shocked. “You’re the sweetest.”

Bucky watched as she let out an adorable laugh as she threw her head back. A small wave of pride washed over him at the fact that he got her to smile, let alone talk to him for more than five seconds.

“If I’m sweet then you’re a good singer.” She playfully jutted.

“Oh,” He placed a hand on his heart. “You wound me, Baby. I’d have you know I’m an excellent singer.”

“A little birdy told me differently.”

Looking away Bucky chewed away on the piece of gum in his mouth. Damn, she was good.

“If this birdy happens to be tall, boring, and has a head full of blonde hair on his head than you should ignore him and come see for yourself.”

Delilah laughed not taking him seriously. “Yeah, okay.”

“I’m serious.” He said. Eyes connecting with her honey brown ones. “There’s a dance, day after tomorrow. Come and I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Might skip out on this one.” She declined.

Nodding Bucky looked down. An idea popped into his head that might change her mind. “Huh, guess you Clevens are more alike than you want to admit.”

If there was anything he learned from witnessing the Cleven sibling duo was that they both were complete opposites. Buck was more serious, rule follower, and never really liked to do anything risky.

And although he didn’t talk to Delilah much, he would notice how she liked to do things in an untraditional way. Her presence here as one of the first female mechanics proves that. She also loved to make fun out of most situations. A small joke was always at the tip of her tongue and she could never keep it there.

He’d like to bet she loved to dance too.

Picking up the tool beside her she pointed it at Bucky with an annoyed glare. “Take that back right now.”

Bingo.

“Makes sense.” He shrugged his shoulders innocently. “Guess the ‘never have a good time’ genes got passed down to both of ya.”

“I can have a good time.” She rebutted.

Bucky nodded, not really convinced at all. “Okay.”

A moment of silence passed as Bucky continued to poke fun at Delilah as she thought over his words.

Letting go of her cheek, the one she was anxiously biting, Delilah sighed. “What times the stupid dance?”

A smile of victory took plastered across the Major's face as he mentally celebrated. “I’ll be there at 8:00, that’s when the real party starts.”

“Can’t wait.” She gave him a fake smile.

Taking a look around, they both knew that it was about to get dark soon and should head back.

Reaching over the passenger seat of the Jeep, Bucky propped open the door with one arm. “Hop in, sweetheart. I’ll give you a ride back.”

“I have a bike, you know?”

“That old thing?” Simultaneously the two turned to look at the bike leaning on the side of the crate she was sitting on.

“Yeah,” Delilah smiled proudly. It was one of the things she built on her own when she first got here. “Isn’t he pretty?”

“He?”

“Well you men always refer to your cars and planes as woman, so I’d thought I’d return the favor.”

As the blonde continued to admire her piece of work, Bucky’s gaze shifted to her. Taking in her smooth tan skin and pretty freckles that he’d like to individually kiss. And finally her full lips that were just calling his name.

He watched as she grabbed the handles of the bike and easily kicked her leg over to get on it. He furrowed his eyebrows. “Baby?”

“I’d rather ride a thousand miles on this old thang than one in there with you.”

He was left speechless as she petaled away without a second thought. The fact that her and a Buck were siblings was still a shock to him.

No matter how different the two were they both had something in common. The Clevens had captured John Egans heart. With a Buck it was respect and friendship. And with Delilah.

Oh, Delilah. He hadn’t even got to know her fully yet and she already had him hooked.

Snapping out of his trance he started the engine before catching up and riding along beside her. Now he was back to looking between the road and her pretty side profile.

“Still got you to go to the dance with me.” He gloated.

Once again, John Egan had managed to make her smile. Shaking her head she tried to petal faster but he would just match her speed. “I hate you!”

“Hates a strong word.”

“Hates the perfect word.”

▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣

A/N : As y’all can tell I love a good slow burn. Hope y’all liked it! Let me know your thoughts on it please, I love to hear feedback.

ALSO DAYUM YALL REALLY CAME THREW WITH THE LIKES ON MY POSTS

Tag list(I can’t believe I have those now🤭):

@valenftcrush

@justheretoreadthhx

[metranart]

Mikey x Reader x Draken (Tokyo Revengers)(Part 8)

Being a gang leader doesn’t leave a lot of free time and having hit the critical age of the hormonal teenager, Draken and Mikey are beginning to feel the raging urge of having some needs meet.

They knew what was to come, same reason why they kept you at arm reach. 

Now that their brains aren’t a pool of hormones and lust, they realized how instead of being gentle and tender as any first time should be, it was animalistic bordering primal. You basically drove them to the edge of insanity, and they willingly fell into the spell.

Spellbound still, they follow closely behind you, trailing your every move with attentive eyes, internally ready to chase if they need to, to restrain if is necessary and to beg if you force them to it.

All in hopes of keeping you for themselves. They want you to have their kids, share their dreams, conquer Japan along them—… not in that specific order but you get the idea.

You walk moving quickly but quietly. The idea to go find your own gang leader passes through your mind briefly, but you dismiss it. Draken and Mikey’s gazes are on you like a hawk.

If you miraculously manage to escape and go to Elliot's, -you sigh, long and breathlessly- imagining being beside him and under his protection. Your body tenses at the prospect of running away, maybe straight to a cop—

“Such a long sigh,” you hadn’t taken more than three steps when Mikey cuts short your plans by snaking an arm around your shoulders. “Tell me, (y/n), were you planning to run away?” 

 You wrinkle your nose at being discovered. His eyes study you as you stand frozen beside him. 

“Nah, my Babygirl is not such a dummy,” he states, voice heavy with sarcasm. “I wonder where you were off to?” Mikey continues, and soon Draken joins as well.

“Perhaps she fancies another restaurant,” the tall blond suggests, airily.

“Feeling a little peckish, are we?” Mikey replies, playfully, his attention solely on you. “—Looking for another sip of milk? You can have some of mine, if you like.” The Toman leader smirks at seeing you blush hard, and you can hear Draken chuckle.

Your injured hand is wrapped in fresh bandages, you feel exhausted and weak, your crotch is sensitive and your body aches. It might be safer to play along and then plan an escape route. 

His wicked laugh draws your attention back to him.

“My, my Kenchin... how very little our girl is.” Mikey notices, glancing back at his friend, taking in count how your whole frame is dwarfed by his. “Humor me, (Y/N). How old are you?” he asks, and you hate the sound of his patronizing voice. 

Drawing yourself up, you respond with as much pride and dignity as any gang member should have.

“Not old enough, Manjiro,” you snarl, trying to shake him away from you to no avail. “You just raped a minor—” 

Draken sighs, claiming the other side of the sidewalk to walk right next to you. Flanking you. 

“So very young, indeed.” The tall blond shares, calmly, “but so are we, and sex between teenagers is NOT legally rape…. more like mildly disappointing for society, but not jail time.” Draken patiently explains, and your fists clench, painfully. 

“That’s fairly horrifying, ain’t it?” Mikey croons and you bared your teeth at them, a mocking imitation of a smile. “Plus, you being our girlfriend, ummm-” he taps his lips thinking, “is not rape at all, it was our first time. Lovers sharing an intimate—” 

“Do NOT call me your fucking girlfriend, delusional asshole!”

You raise your voice, moving slowly to your right towards his left side, but he catches your subtle motion and mirrors it casually in his own. He laughs at you, then, and it absolutely prickles your skin.

“Delusional asshole?” Mikey repeats in a spoiled, childish voice, “-that seems like a bit too harsh, don’t ya think, baby?”

You are about to mitigate any kind of hope Manjiro Sano may be harvesting in that blond sick head of his when Draken towers over you, leaning so closely that you can feel his warm breath against your face.

“(Y/N), please, don’t presume that because we allowed a little disrespect, we will continue to endure it,” his eyes seem darker than ever up close, and your body's involuntary reaction is to try to run to which he catches your forearm in his firm grip in an almost lightning-fast motion.

“I can catch you-” he warns, a little upset by your foolish attempt, “I will catch you, and it’s quite unseemly for a girl to be dragged back like a spoiled brat, don’t you think?” 

Draken’s face is so close that you are only a breath away from a kiss, or head-butt him but neither would have a happy ending for you, so you back down and allow them to believe that you have given in.

“—And just like that all her fight is gone.” Mikey says between merry laughter, eyes creasing while he sticks his front to your back in a possessive hug. “Give her a break, Kenchin, she's just getting used to us.”

Graciously offering you his hand, Draken sighs and waits for you to take it, and after a couple of tense seconds, you do. As a sign of good omen between the two.

You can feel the bulge of muscles and the twisting veins that ran from shoulder to knuckles just by the grip of his hand, it's not bruising but is firmer than what you expected. You shudder, imagining those powerful hands locked around your hips, driving himself deep inside once again.... and you being unable to stop him, once again.

“Why me?” you ask, suddenly, ice dripping from your tone.  

Mikey’s arm is around your waist, light as a feather on the wind as he aids Draken to escort you to the restaurant. A blush creeps up your neck when Manjiro Sano choose to deposit a chaste kiss on your neck instead of answering you, and before you can even think of ask again, Draken does the same but on your cheek.

And you puff some air, outraged. “The least you can do is answer me—”

“And that's exactly what we just did.”

Draken cuts your outburst short to then fall silent. 

“Please,” you whisper, your voice hardly there. But their heads turn towards you slightly, and their attention makes you feel brave enough to continue. “Please let me go. I want to go home, I just want to go home, I’ll do anything! I’ll renounce to my gang, I’ll convince Elliot to…to…not do anything against you, I’ll do anything!” You stutter, finally reaching your breaking point.

“You have nothing to offer us.” Mikey claims in all calm smoothness, trying to pass some of that energy to you. You know they don’t care about any you have to offer, even so, you need to try. “Plus, you are not our prisoner, just our girlfriend-”

“What's the difference?”

The words leave you before you can stop them and both stop suddenly and release your hand and waist, turning towards you.

“Loving can heal—” Mikey proclaims, way too invested. You can clearly see in his eyes that he believes what he is saying. “—But you need to give us a chance to let us make up for what’ve we done, okay?”

Maybe this was their way of apologizing for violating you in every possible way.... did they believe that this could be erased and the three of you would end up being a happy polyamorous couple?

You stood quiet for a moment, staring into his startlingly beautiful dark eyes. He was handsome, and sometimes –like now– he even seemed kind enough, though his words were firm and good intentioned, you knew better than to listen to them. 

So, without answering, you turn from them coldly, taking a few testing steps ahead of them. 

“–Just walk.” You hear Mikey advise; gaze firmly set on your every move. 

“Don’t run… we won’t be able to stop ourselves if you run.” Draken warns, his voice tight as if is taking him a lot not to chase you down. 

You were only a couple of steps away from them, but you could see the tension that it caused them.

Testing your luck and their small slip of freedom for you, you visualized the restaurant and move faster, they compensate for the speed but still don't grab you or pull you. Leaving you some air to breathe. Feeling a little -tiny- more in control, you trot demurely until you reach the door, and turn around.

Genuine surprise showing on your face when you noticed that they hadn't chase you.

“Not even a day ago I trusted you.” You remind them, “you spitted in that trust with your more than reprovable acts-….” their blank faces were hard to read, “-I’ve yet to trust you since.” 

Both blonds nod, understanding what you are saying but still unable to process why you can’t understand them as well.

“She’s going to be a tough nut to crack, ain’t she, Kenshin?” 

The aftermentioned smirks, “if she weren’t we wouldn’t be so interested.”

Mikey snickers at that, opening the door to follow you inside. “Damn right.” 

Both gang members enter and just start to walk, you are already inside a booth occupying the long seat of the right and leaving just the seat in front as their only option. 

“Scoot over, (Y/N),” Mikey orders, “Kenshin and I are far too big to share the same side—” 

“I never hear you complaining when you had to share the same, small and diminutive, bed….” You snarl out, and he looks down at you. 

“I’m hungry and tired, even if you find it hard to believe,” the leader of the Toman confesses and for the first time you notice the bags under his eyes. “If you don’t scoot over voluntarily I’m going to be forced to put you on my lap-” 

You’re quick enough to swallow the gasp, and before it continues, you slide to the end of the booth.  

“Good girl,” Mikey praises, taking the seat next to you, sliding gracefully closer until feels the side of his thigh pressed to yours. Then he starts. 

“Communication based on threats will not help us grow our relationship,” Mikey begins to lecture you, and you feel your blood boil.  

“He’s right, little mouse,” Draken adds, taking the seat in front of you as he flips through the menu. “We ought to be civilized,” he instructs, offering you the menu, and when you take it, he doesn't let go, "do you think you can be civilized?”

Your lips purse, even so, you reply.

“Of course, Sweetie, whatever my dear boyfriend asks.” Your tone drips harsh sarcasm. 

“—I know you are doing it to spite me,” Draken begins letting go of the menu, serious facade yet soon his mouth curves into a smile. “… But you calling me your boyfriend really gave me goosebumps, doll.” 

A blush creeps across your cheeks when you frown, making it unable for them to know if its out of embarrassment or anger.

“Now I’m jealous,” Mikey pouts, “Tell me something pretty as well.” 

The blond asks unashamedly, as if your sarcastic comment were actually a show of affection. 

You ignore him, in order to read the menu and suddenly feel him take your hand nonetheless. 

You are about to snatch it back, violently, when you see him bowing, you feel the barest hint of his breath on your knuckles before he presses his forehead to them, instead of his lips. 

“I couldn't even bring myself to kiss your beautiful hand, my love—” he mutters, “Not when I can only think of kissing your lips.” 

When he look up, his eyes are blackened yet overflowing with a feeling that you refused to call love, and his tone as cold and composed as ever. 

“Knock it off, Sano.” You grunt, uncomfortable. “You can drop the act—” 

“It’s not an act, darling.” Draken cuts in, “It never has been.”

You try to snatch your hand away, but Mikey isn’t ready to let go, not without a token of affection. 

“Let go.”

He shakes his head. You sigh, burdensomely.

“You know what I ask in return.” He simply instructs. 

You would like to hit him but you are so emotionally and physically exhausted that you are reduced to saying.  

“Could my dear boyfriend let go of my hand?”

The blonde's eyes shine and placing a soft kiss on your knuckles before releasing you, he smiles.  

"Your boyfriend doesn't want to, but he will do it because he loves you." He announces and your nose wrinkles in disgust.  

You shake your head disapprovingly and he nods.  

“We love you.”

Draken adds.

“A lot.”

“You are delusional and confused—” 

"Whatever you feel, my love, we feel all the more," Mikey say slowly and clearly. His thumb reaches your cheek and brushes it, affectional. 

You flush a little in embarrassment, and he smirks, glad that you made his point easier. 

“The implication behind this blush tells me of how you don’t find us inadequate nor disgusting-” 

You seem to regret your involuntary body reactions, But unfortunately this only makes you blush more, much to the delight of both blondes.

“There’s hope,” Draken adds out of the sudden. 

“Yes, there is.” Mikey nods, “…. We only have to work for it.”

You're about to reproach him when his fingers gently fall on your lips, "and we will, gladly."

“You will fail.” You say in an icy tone. 

Both smirk, and Draken is the first to talk. 

“Wanna bet?” 

COMING SOON PART 9....

⭕️ In my PATREON you will find NSFW art of this story and lots of NSFW content from Tokyo Rev and other popular anime, exclusive smut fanfiction and more. Join our community and vote for the next smutty fanfiction.

[morownic]

you found your house, but where’s your home?

Japan was home to your childhood and the innocence you had lost a long time ago, and there was no way you would taint it with your deep, irremediable sorrow. You were never going back there. You were never going back home. (Have you ever had one?)

warnings/tags: NSFW MDNI (graphic descriptions of drug use, overdose, and blood; non-graphic smut), non-ultraman AU, afab + fem pronouns, non-graphic descriptions of a car accident, suicidal ideation

prev. // next — series masterlist · my other works · ao3

a/n: still written in the big spirit of oh no (tbh i was kinda convinced this song is practically gonna be the theme song for this series lmfao) + big influence of the breach + maps. this took a month to finish because i was in the trenches and my laptop broke lol thats why i didnt proofread and the ending is kinda ehh as well. i hope there are still people reading this though </3

Blues and purples washed over the crowd of college students as the party reached full swing. Music thumped in your chest as if it wanted to replace the beating of your heart, and drunken chatter rang in your ears as if they wanted to replace the voices in your head. Your eyes swept over the room, looking for a familiar face to ground yourself in the midst of your high. Some people greeted you as you made your way through the sea of bodies. Even though you failed to recognize most of them, you practically bounced as you greeted back and asked for their names and majors, complimenting them on their appearance and making small talk before moving on to the other person that had approached you. Mirth ran through your veins, so much so that it caused nausea to bubble in the depths of your stomach, as you kept moving from one conversation to another without so much as taking a breath and moving around with a twitch every now and then and a restlessness that slowly built up your exhaustion. When you finally saw Harley, your roommate, you gave the last person who spoke to you a jovial goodbye and a giddy side-hug before making your way toward her.

If you weren’t coked out of your mind, you would have immediately noticed the look on her face as she realized that you were not sober. Disappointment, concern, horror. You merely offered her the widest smile you could wear as you downed whatever the content of your cup was. The bitterness and burn of alcohol didn’t even make you flinch, and at that moment, you wondered if you should have heeded the sign that you gotta stop yourself now. Harley, on the other hand, looked at you as if you had just grown another head in front of her.

“Are you serious?”

Still, in your state, you couldn’t register her anger just yet. You were just confused as to what she was referring to as your smile slowly morphed into a frown. “What?”

“God, I thought you’ve been clean for–” Harley was momentarily interrupted by someone tapping on her shoulder, to which she responded with a rather aggressive ‘Give me a fucking minute!’ before she turned back to you. “You’re fucked. You’re really fucked.”

You were still puzzled, but your own indignation was starting to surface. “What the fuck’re you saying?”

The person behind Harley was saying something to her again, a sense of urgency evident in their speech and gesture, and you saw her gaze flickering between you and them. You caught her cursing under her breath before she said something you couldn’t hear to them and craned her head in your direction with a scowl on her face.

“I’ll be right back. Do not fucking do anything stupid, you hear me?!”

A glimpse of your roommate’s bleached hair was all you saw before she disappeared into the crowd. You couldn’t even process your interaction, let alone get another word in. The realization that you were alone, again, somehow sobered you up. Your eyes felt heavy as they swept over the room once more, hoping to find someone who could distract you from your approaching crash. Gone was the euphoria that ran through your veins and kept you moving. The bluish lighting lost its color and no longer cast a glow that made you feel at ease; its coolness only made you feel more despondent in the middle of the party. The steady pulse of the music somewhat replaced your slowing heartbeat, yet it was muffled in your ears, blending with the chatter around you that grated on your overstimulated nerves. Each breath and step you took as you aimlessly walked through the crowd were slower than the last. You had never experienced your high crashing down as quickly as this. You thought that maybe, just maybe, talking to someone else about some mundane things or the latest gossip would at least be better than going back to one of those bathrooms for a fix. But there was no one to drag you into their conversation, let alone drag you into some corner just to temporarily reprieve you from the weight of it all; everyone was lost in their own world, while you just wanted to run away from yours, to forget and forget and forget.

So you did what you had been doing for the past year to patch up that hole in your heart ever since your parents died.

The bathroom you slipped into was bathed in deep purple, with flickering fairy lights framing the mirror where you saw your own reflection. You almost broke down when you did, because you hated what you saw. To others, you looked fine, pretty even, what with how the silk dress fitted over your form, how the red of your lips and nails seemed to glow in the dark, how your hair still seemed effortlessly kept even though it was a bit disheveled. To you? You looked fucking horrible. If it weren’t for the dim lighting, everyone would have noticed the dark circles under your eyes that you had tried to hide with layers and layers of concealer and the hollow of your cheeks that you didn’t bother contouring. You were a couple pounds lighter than you had been a month ago. Your veins stood out like dark, winding rivers beneath your skin, and your metacarpals had bulged like tree roots protruding from the ground. You put your purse on the counter, sluggishly rummaging through its contents to find your stash. Pressure wrapped around your head like a rubber band as you fumbled with the items inside your purse, trying to control your breathing so that pressure wouldn’t snap. You pulled out a tiny, crumpled resealable bag filled with that godforsaken white powder.

(Couldn’t you have found another way to numb yourself?)

You carefully opened the bag and poured the amount that you thought could lift the crushing weight from your chest onto the counter. With an old credit card your father once gave you before he returned to Japan to run away from you and your mother again, you arranged a few neat lines that you couldn’t even count on one hand because of how distressed you were. Even if you had at least retained a bit of your rationale, you would only have given yourself a pat on the back for lining them nearly as straight as a ruler. You hastily ripped a piece of paper from the tiny notebook you carried with you, rolled it up, and placed it against your nostril.

One sharp inhale and your world burst back into color, it seemed.

No more of that suffocating burden in your chest. No more of that dull ache devouring your entire body. Only that abrupt, exhilarating thrill returning to your bloodstream. Your body tensed for a split second, with your gasp for air making you sound like you had been strangled by death himself just moments ago. (But even death would have been kinder to you than you did to yourself.) At least, this way, your world felt warmer. Not the cold, barren land that you never bothered to nurture, even more so after your parents had passed. Their faces coming to the forefront of your mind made you snort another line, and you were taken back to your childhood home in the Tokyo suburbs; home where your dad played baseball and watched recordings of the Giants’ games with you, where your mom pulled you in for a side-hug as she plated the tonkatsu she cooked for dinner, where you ran around in your backyard either playing with bubbles bought from the local festival or a kite your dad had made for you. Those memories hurt you enough to make you take another bump.

Peace was not something you could afford—not when the line you took, crossed, only made you remember his face. You held back a sob as you took yet another bump. He was just that doe-eyed boy in high school; the boy who laughed in earnest after you parroted some stupid middle school joke you heard from one of your old classmates, the boy who scored a home run that you cheered for so loudly you could barely speak the next day, the boy who made you feel vulnerable for the first time when you kneeled for someone else as if he was God and he later kissed you as if you were an angel, as if all those Sundays you spent at church with your mother were all in vain because he was the original sin that you could not rid yourself of. One line taken, crossed, for every thought of him. One line taken, crossed, for every image of him in your head. The euphoria and heartache enveloping your chest did little to tear you from your frenzy, and only when they turned into a weight heavier than the one you were trying to cast aside did it finally hit you.

“Oh, fuck.”

The devil was staring back at you in the mirror. Your hands felt clammy as they gripped the counter so hard that your knuckles turned white. Your heart beat violently against your ribcage that you were sure it was about to break. You found that it was getting harder to breathe with each sharp inhale that burned your nostrils. Instead of running away, it was as if you were being chased. As if God had enough of your bullshit and told you ‘Don’t you fucking run away’ as the room closed in around you. Everything blurred, darkened, as you grew numb and heavy. Your grip on the counter loosened before your hands finally fell on your sides. Gone was the euphoria that made your world feel at least a little worthwhile, replaced by the realization that something very wrong was going on with you. You swayed and lost your balance in one movement—damn your high-heeled feet, damn the black hole in your heart, damn all the gods and angels that ever existed that never heard your prayers—then you fell onto your knees, knocking your head on the edge of the counter. The only warmth you felt then was the blood trickling down your forehead as you collapsed sideways onto the floor.

Several minutes passed as you teetered on the edge of unconsciousness. During those minutes, you recalled not being able to breathe properly, if at all, as you instinctively yet weakly willed yourself to at least lie down on your side. The noise that escaped the back of your throat was barely audible, and it was something akin to someone being choked to death. You thought that that was what was actually happening, that it was for real this time. Everything was muffled, but you could make out a loud bang against the wall and a figure rushing to your side and shaking your body a little too violently for your liking in your half-conscious state. Warmer light bathed the room once the overhead light was turned on, and you heard what you could only recognize as the voices of people panicking and yelling at each other.

God granted you one last moment of clarity, in which you saw Ken’s face, stricken with horror, before you let yourself fall deeper into oblivion.

Ken Sato got benched for the first time.

Not only did the Giants lose their second match against the Swallows, Ken was also very nearly suspended for the bench-clearing brawl that he had supposedly started. In his first game against the Swallows, the umpire had intervened in the quarrel between Ken and the opposing catcher, and he managed to hit a home run that boosted the team’s morale. But then he just had to meet her during that stupid celebration; their encounter had left him distraught for literal fucking days. Before he knew it, the sun had already risen on his game day. He had to drink two cups of coffee just to kickstart his body into motion. While he could keep that goddamn catcher’s brickbats in the first match, Ken could barely keep himself together when the catcher provoked him in the second match—he tried, really, to hold the lingering effects of the few cans of beer he had the other night, to perform well despite his lack of sleep and barely healed shoulder, to empty his mind from the thoughts of her while he was on the field. He remembered slapping the catcher’s mask off his face and the impact of a clenched fist against his left cheekbone. Everything that happened afterward was a blur to him, other than the fact that Coach Shimura benched and reprimanded him and that he went past the speed limit when he rode his bike back home after the game. That night, the ice bath he had sunk himself into did little to calm his nerves.

The bruises on Ken’s face ceased to swell just two days before his next game. When he found that he could fit his helmet comfortably again without having to deal with how sore the left side of his face was, he cruised across the Rainbow Bridge and relished the rush he felt as he swerved past the traffic in Minato, the hum of his bike engine reverberating through his body. For a moment, the sight of the Tokyo Tower in the distance distracted him from his reality. He thought of Shibuya as the destination of his night ride, but then he recalled his encounter with her at that one nightclub and frustration bubbled up in his chest once again like heartburn. So he simply cruised through the streets of Roppongi, aimlessly taking turns until he arrived at an intersection and narrowly missed a car running a red light from his right.

“Hey–!”

“Ken, are you alright?”

The sound of metal clashing and glass shattering just a few feet ahead of him made Ken instinctively swerve away from the crash. He could barely register what was happening as he brought his bike to a stop near the sidewalk. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as his heartbeat pulsed in his ears and pounded in his chest. With labored breaths and trembling hands, Ken took off his helmet and turned to look at the scene. His eyes widened in shock as he processed the sight of two cars crumpled against each other at the intersection, smoke billowing up from one of the cars’ hoods and the ring of their alarms echoing through the street.

A loud wail that shrilled through his ears pulled him out of his trance. If the scene hadn’t already distressed him, then the sight of a child that some of the pedestrians pulled out from the passenger seat of the impacted car was downright heartbreaking. She was no more than five years old, her pristine white dress stained with blood—Ken wasn’t sure if it was the child’s or someone else’s. He could only imagine what she had seen in the driver’s seat for her to keep trying to get back into the car and shrieking at the top of her lungs. But when they pulled out the driver from the car, he understood.

Ken felt as if his heart had been ripped out from his chest when he saw a face so familiar being laid down on the sidewalk across from him. He was sure he strained his vocal chords when he called out her name so loud it might have rivaled the child’s earsplitting cries.

He had seen this before. He had felt this before—sometime in college, at some godforsaken frat party that made him absolutely abhor parties. (Even if they were some of the only things that helped him cope with the loneliness he felt after she left.) He remembered seeing her lying on the bathroom floor, motionless; there were trails of white on her nostrils, drool and lipstick smudged on the corners of her mouth, blood trickling down from her forehead to the stained white linoleum. But now, instead of slowly kneeling beside her, he ran as fast as he could to the other side of the road and practically shoved away the people that were between him and her. There was no way she was dying right in front of him again. He refused to believe it, at least until he reached out to hold her and realized that she was as pale as she had been that night. His breath labored and his hands—no, his whole body trembled as he frantically glanced over at her closed eyes, the trickling crimson on her face, the slowly drying red on the white of her shirt. Time didn’t slow down this time; it felt as if everything in the world, his world, had completely stilled when he brushed her hair out of her face. Her. It was her. It was just like that night.

This was real. This wasn’t a fever dream.

This was fucking real.

Ken had met you again in the middle of freshman year in college. The two of you reconnected, albeit with a sense of detachment that often made his skin crawl. The jock he had seen you with was actually your boyfriend of a month—one you had supposedly dumped just two days after Ken had met you again. A few days after your breakup, Ken saw you hunched over on a bench in front of the convenience store near his dorm. Your face was hidden under the hood of your jacket while you ate cup noodles and drank a can of beer; he noticed how the bags under your eyes had become more prominent and how your lips were a little more chapped compared to when you were in high school. He bought a can of beer of his own before awkwardly sitting next to you, asking about your life, and you lit up a cigarette, apologizing for cutting him off after graduation. He didn’t know which he hated more: the fact that he could forgive you in the blink of an eye or how easy it was to fall back into the dynamic you used to have—playful banter, laughter that shook your bodies, and longing stares that neither of you spoke about. His heart fluttered when you held out your little finger, and he hooked it with his own.

“Friends forever, bro.”

You were glad you didn’t fall back into some of your old habits—the ones that involved either him under you or you under him. (He was your old habit.) You reconnected with his mother, too, but you never visited again, because you feared the comfort of his home would remind you too much of the past and how your home could never be as warm as his. For a while, it truly felt like you were just friends without all the skeletons in your closets. You would spend some of your weekday nights studying with Ken at the library before riding your bikes across town to that old diner you used to frequent with your mother before she stopped coming home early and he took her place. Other nights, you would roll up some joints with Harley in your dorm room while talking about whatever was on your mind; yet whenever she asked you about Ken, he almost always arrived in front of your door as if on cue, and you never got to tell her that you could never love anyone the way you loved him. (You had a feeling she knew.) The evenings you cherished the most, however, were the ones you spent hanging out at the park with the two of them, smoking pot while doing your assignments and watching the sunset together.

Freshman year ended with a core memory of you pushing Ken into the lake before he pulled you in with him. Harley laughed until she couldn’t breathe, one hand holding a half-smoked joint and the other recording the two of you with her phone.

Three months into sophomore year, your father came for a month-long visit as he usually did every year, and you didn’t return home on the weekends as you usually did whenever he came. When you were still in high school, you would have to either stay and listen to their screaming matches, both the hostile and obscene, or lie to your parents that you had some group work or extracurricular project so you could go to one of those awful house parties; fuck one of the guys you met at said party—that was, if Ken wasn’t there, because you would definitely pull him to the nearest empty room for a quickie if he was there; and sleep over at one of your friends’ houses, talking about anything and everything except you would stay quiet when they told stories of their fathers showing up at their rehearsals and their mothers baking homemade cakes for their birthdays. You never told anyone what was happening. Not even Ken, let alone his mother. You were just happy to be out of that house. Now that you were in college, your reasons were at least closer to the truth. Assignments. Group projects. Final exams. Student Council stuff. Preparations for career exhibitions and campus festivals. Debate practice for another state championship—you won three titles throughout college, yet your father would only acknowledge with an almost disinterested hum whenever you told him. (You didn’t play softball competitively anymore. Your parents made you drop the sport.)

You hated how you fell back into your old habits whenever your father visited—you hadn’t indulged in them last year since he didn’t visit, and you quietly thanked God because there was no way you were going to spend your most vulnerable moments with that insufferable jock. This time, though, you found yourself smoking at least a pack of cigarettes a day and looking for someone to kneel for.

Of course, you didn’t even let yourself think of pulling Ken down with you. As much as you would rather have him, you cared for him enough to not put him through what you had put him through in high school. But Ken knew you. Perhaps it was his fear of losing you again. Perhaps it was out of his own selfishness to keep you all to himself even if you weren’t his. He was the one who fell back into old habits for you. Whenever you called him to ask where he was on the weekends, he would drop whatever he was doing at that moment and come to you. Sometimes, the two of you would go on a night ride—on his bike because he didn’t trust you to drive, given your state of mind—and he would fuck you in the dark alleyway next to that old diner after eating two large burger meals together. At times like this, you didn’t even need to smoke or drink afterward because you would find yourself drunk merely from the pleasure and adrenaline rush. Other times, when his roommate got the hint and made himself scarce, Ken would take you on his bed, and you wouldn’t have any other choice but to be as quiet as possible. Then, even if you were the one who fell asleep in his room, he would always be the one leaving before you woke up in the morning, and you would never wait until he returned. 

One day, while you were watching the sunset with Ken and your roommate, you received a call informing you that your parents had been in a car accident and were killed on impact. This wasn’t the first time you broke down. But it was the first time Ken had ever seen you collapse in on yourself like a planet turning into a black hole.

“They’ll be buried in Japan,” you uttered flatly. “I called my uncle. He said he will be picking them up next week, but he won’t be staying long.”

Ken frowned. “Are you going–”

“No.”

If you had to suffer, you wanted to suffer here, where all the worst memories of your family resided. (Even if it meant staining the happiest days of your life with him.) Japan was home to your childhood and the innocence you had lost a long time ago, and there was no way you would taint it with your deep, irremediable sorrow. You were never going back there. You were never going back home.

(Have you ever had one?)

Ken tried to be there when you mourned. But you had shut him and even Harley out after your uncle picked up your parents’ ashes. You spent three days glued to your bed, only getting up to eat something and brush your teeth when your roommate practically dragged you to. Ken would bring the food his mother made, even bringing her to the dorms at some point, but you would only eat five spoonfuls at most and leave the rest for your roommate. You couldn’t look his mother in the eye, even after she pulled you into her embrace, and you let her leave without so much as saying goodbye. The one time you broke down again, Harley called Ken for help because you told her you just couldn’t even will yourself to get up. When he saw you curled up on your unmade bed, reeking as if you hadn’t showered for more than a couple days, he thought that you were the only person that could break his heart in a million different ways. He remembered carrying you to his mother’s car and making you stay at his place until you feel better. He remembered slowly feeding you the gruel his mother made for you as you limply leaned against his side on his bed. He remembered washing you in the tub when his mother wasn’t home, scrubbing your back as your tears fell into the bathwater and your cries echoed in the bathroom.

His mother only reluctantly let you go back to your dorm a week later. By then, you already felt a little more like yourself, yet Ken still insisted on helping you. He would bring his mother’s food for you and walk you to your classes whenever he could, even if his classes were on the other side of the campus. He would buy some things you offhandedly said you needed to stock in your dorm and wait for you to finish showering, standing idly outside the communal showers area, no matter how much time you took. He would soothe you in ways he only knew how—with hushed praises, hands entangled with yours, kissing away the tears that fell either out of pleasure or grief—and left a glass of water, something to eat, and morning-after pills for when you woke up. To him, this was how he could love you without loving you. To you, this was a reminder that you would never be deserving of his warmth.

Two months passed. Everything seemed to return to normal—as normal as it could be, Ken thought, because there was something off about you after you spent your winter break in Japan. Upon your return, you started coming to those frat parties again, but you would come back more skittish each time. Perhaps you were just drinking, Harley said, but that was enough reason for Ken to start coming to the same parties you were invited to. He noticed how color had slowly faded from your cheeks as they hollowed bit by bit; how the dark circles around your eyes became more noticeable, even with all the makeup you wore; how you grew thinner every month, eating only once a day, becoming frail underneath your rapture. He should have known that the way you casually wiped off your nosebleed while smoking at the park was a dead giveaway; yet, somehow, realization only dawned on him when you rejected his warmth for the first time in the years that you had burned him in yours. Brokenhearted was an understatement. He lost you again—not to the bittersweetness of unspoken love, but to the malignity of worldly subservience.

One of his biggest, if not the biggest, regrets in life was not stopping you right then and there.

Summer break—everyone and their mothers held a party. Ken remembered that night awfully well that it became the stuff of his nightmares. He spent half the night looking for you; he didn’t even need to talk to you, he just needed to know you were there. Some of his friends noticed how distracted he was, and when they brought it up, he waved them off, saying he had just seen a familiar face before joining their conversation. He hoped they didn’t notice how bitter his laugh sounded when they teasingly asked if he was looking for you. Usually, it wouldn’t be this hard to find you. Whenever there was a party, you would be at the center of it. Your enthusiasm whenever you came to one of these frat parties contrasted with your more mellowed out self in those dimly lit house parties in high school. Yet, as the clock neared two in the morning and he still couldn’t find you, he reminded himself of how there had been something off about your high spirits.

“Ken?”

Upon hearing a familiar voice, Ken blinked rapidly and realized that he had been in a stupor. Instead of one of his friends, it was Harley who had called out his name, and he was surprised to see her there. He noticed that she hadn’t been coming to the same parties anymore and remembered you mentioning it was probably because she finally had a girlfriend. He brushed off the thought when he saw concern etched on her face, but before he could even open his mouth to ask, she beat him to it.

“Have you seen her?”

“No…?” Ken frowned. “No, why?”

Harley clicked her tongue. “I swear, she’s–” She took a sharp inhale of breath before continuing. “Can you help me find her?”

“Well, yeah, but–” Ken’s frown deepened when he took notice of how Harley kept looking around the room restlessly. “Is something going on with her?”

“Yes!” She snapped, and judging by the look on her face afterward, she probably didn’t mean to. A frustrated sigh escaped her lips before she continued. “Yes, and you gotta help me find her before she does anything stupid.”

“Okay, okay,” Ken said, raising both hands, gesturing to Harley to calm down. It did little to pacify her, as she continued to look around the room restlessly. He subconsciously followed gaze as he asked, “Where was she the last time you saw her?”

“She was right here, I swear–” Harley cut herself off when she recognized someone in the crowd before repeatedly tapping on their shoulder. “Hey, did you see a girl in a black dress here before?”

She uttered your name afterward, and the person’s face lit up in recognition. “Oh, her?” They turned slightly, extending a forefinger to point in a direction. “Yeah, I think I saw her going into the bathroom over there.”

Oh.

Oh no.

Ken was pretty sure he bolted toward the bathroom at record speed without so much as saying ‘thank you’ to the person who gave him and Harley the heads-up. They must have looked like madmen shoving people aside left and right, and had he not had a literal life-or-death situation at hand, he would have gotten himself into a fight with how hard he shoved some people and how indifferent he was in the face of their indignation. When they finally arrived in front of the bathroom, the door was slightly ajar, and the sight of a pool of black on the floor made his breath hitch.

“Oh, no.”

He swung the door open so hard that it hit the wall with a loud bang, stunning the crowd near the bathroom. Harley immediately dropped onto her knees next to you with a loud thud. “Oh, no, no, no, no–hey, hey, wake up!”

Everything that happened afterward was a blur to him. Your roommate yelled and gestured wildly at Ken to turn on the lamp, which he did after barely registering her words. He froze when he saw you lying on the floor, motionless, pale as a ghost that he thought you might as well have turned into one. Time slowed down as more people flooded the scene, yelling and screaming at each other in panic, and everything was just too much. He tuned them out as he slowly kneeled and reached out to brush your hair out of your face, the blood from your forehead staining the tips of his fingers. His disbelief turned into a sickening realization that made the contents of his stomach rise up his throat. It was you. It was really you.

Ken couldn’t think straight as he lifted you in his arms and carried you out of the bathroom before Harley could even get another word in. How could he? The blood on his fingers felt warm, yet you were as cold as a fucking corpse. He could barely feel the rise and fall of your shoulders as you breathed. All of his rage and heartache, including the resentment he had for you, fueled him as he yelled at people to get the fuck out of the way! and carelessly shoved anyone who didn’t. When he finally got outside, he realized you didn’t even feel warm against the chill of the midnight wind. Fortunately, the ambulance arrived just as he was about to run and carry you to the nearest hospital himself. The paramedics tried to stop him from getting in the ambulance, only relenting when he almost punched one of them. He didn’t remember getting to the hospital or how he ended up spending the night at your bedside—just the overwhelming fear that he could have lost you for good.

That night, it was his first time smoking a cigarette out of his own will.

“You can’t keep doing this shit.”

“You don’t fucking get it.”

“I don’t need to fucking get it when I can see that you’re fucking up yourself!”

You couldn’t even reply to that.

“Did you even know how scared I was? How scared Ken was? God, I don’t care if you’re a total bitch, just don’t do this shit to yourself!”

“I had it under control–”

“Under control? You fucking overdosed. That’s not under control, that’s out of fucking control!”

This time, you snapped. “Well, yelling at me isn’t going to fucking fix anything!”

Ken stood outside your hospital room, leaning against the wall next to the door. He sighed as soon as the screaming match started. This wasn’t the first time you and Harley fought with raised voices and unrestrained spite since she found out about your addiction, straining both your throats and friendship after each fight. Still, neither of you had ever escalated things, so he simply listened from where he stood, a heavy weight resting on his chest as the two of you exchanged words he knew you would regret down the line. Her last words to you, however, would probably haunt you for the rest of your life.

“You know what? If you don’t want me to stop you from killing yourself, fine. Go kill yourself if you want.”

Even Ken staggered upon hearing the words that left her lips.

“Harley–!” He heard you call for your roommate, whose heels clicked on the floor and echoed closer to the door. As she opened the door, he heard you yell, “Fuck you!”

He gave a sideways glance toward Harley as she got out of the room. She visibly jumped when she noticed his presence but quickly composed herself and closed the door behind her. A deep, exasperated sigh left her lips as she hung her head. “Sorry.”

He waved off her apology in reassurance. “You okay?”

A shake of her head, then silence. It wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t awkward either—it was the first time he wordlessly understood Harley when she looked up at him tiredly because ‘Why won’t you let anyone help you?’ and he could only slacken his frown because ‘I want to know why, too.’ She glanced at the floor beneath her heels, pondering for a few moments before finally speaking her mind.

“Can you look after her?”

To that, he offered her a small, sad smile.

“Yeah, I will.”

That was the last time Ken—and you—ever saw Harley. She moved off-campus, blocked your number and all your social media accounts, and never even spared you so much as a glance whenever you passed by. You also didn’t bother to approach her, guilt gnawing at you like maggots eating rotten flesh. By the time you started your senior year, you never saw her on campus. Ken was the only witness to your absolution.

(You wondered if he was God himself, with how forgiving he was.)

Four months into junior year, you finally came back to your house. One of your aunts was kind enough to help organize your mother’s belongings after the funeral and pay for cleaning services throughout the year your house was empty. You found yourself standing in the middle of the living room, hollow. You hadn’t been here for a year. Everything stayed the same. Everything—except your mother’s heels were no longer displayed on the shoe rack in the foyer, her favorite episode of Love Island wasn’t playing on the widescreen TV you could see from upstairs, and her liquor cabinet was void of her favorite bottles of Pinot noir. Everything, except your mother’s nonchalant ‘Welcome back, how was school?’ didn’t greet you when you came in, her dulcet voice no longer spoke of your achievements as she introduced you to your new neighbors, and her drunken laughter wasn’t echoing in the living room as she offered another drink to yet another younger man whose face you didn’t bother to remember. Everything stayed the same. Everything except you.

You would have grabbed a kitchen knife and killed yourself if the doorbell hadn’t rung.

Disoriented from your own thoughts, you willed yourself to stagger toward the door and open it. Ken stood there, one hand running through his unruly hair and the other holding his helmet. His eyes softened as he studied your features, while you offered him a confused look.

“Why are you here?”

He shrugged. “So you won’t be alone.”

There must be some divine punishment for how you had molded him into this—a young man who only wanted the slightest bit of love you could give, but you never did. You wanted to reach out, feel his warmth in your arms, and say ‘Thank you for never leaving me alone.’ You wanted to scream at the top of your lungs and strain your throat and your neck muscles, either saying ‘I can do this myself’ or ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’ You wanted to look him in the eye and say ‘I love you,’ with every word echoing throughout the world to let him know that he was your world. But you settled with an apprehensive stare that you didn’t know he could look through.

“I’m fine–”

“No, you’re not,” he said with a firmness you hadn’t expected. He saw how you were taken aback and let his jaw unclench, his gaze soften, his voice lower. “We promised, right?”

Then he held out his little finger and you were sixteen again, breaking each other’s hearts for the first time.

“Friends forever.”

Ken looked at you with your father’s long-lost fondness and your mother’s forgotten tenderness. You wanted to hook your little finger around his and offer him the slightest hint of a smile you could muster, so you did. You wanted to take a deep breath, press your head against his chest, and hear—feel—his heartbeat, so you did. He held you closer, inhaling the familiar scent of your shampoo in your hair, his free hand soothingly rubbing your back. Your arms instinctively wrapped around his torso as you pressed yourself closer to him, relishing in his warmth while burning him in yours once again.

(You didn’t tell him the way he said it sounded more like a proposal than a promise.)

“You don’t have to stay.” But I want you to.

He let out a contemplative hum that reverberated through both his body and yours. You found the slight vibration comforting.

“But I want to.” You don’t even have to ask me.

That day, you started packing up with his help. You showed him the albums of your childhood, told him the stories behind each photograph, and spoke fondly of your father for the first time in years. The next day, he checked and washed your bike and your mother’s car—which you sold later on in the afternoon, helped you pack all the medals and trophies you had won since middle school, and dragged you outside to mess around with the sprinkler system one last time. On the last day, he carried all the boxes and stacked them downstairs so the movers could easily move them, you cooked your mother’s mac and cheese recipe and he held you as you cried while eating, and the two of you took out your old star projector and turned it on in the living room, where both of you talked yourselves to sleep. Those three days were the first time in years that your touches didn’t lead to anything more.

You moved out to a studio apartment near downtown, sent the rest of your mother’s belongings back to her family in Japan, and rented a storage space for the things you couldn’t fit in your apartment. Ken would come over almost every day and sleep over every weekend, spending your shared free time playing video games, catch ball, or poker. (Strip poker, sometimes.) Two months later, he practically moved in, what with how many of his clothes were in your wardrobe and how his toothbrush was always next to yours in the bathroom. Six months later, the two of you practically became parents to a stray tabby cat named Mochi, whose favorite thing to do was to nap nearly all day and only seemed to stay awake when you and Ken decided to shove your tongues in each other’s mouths and your hands in each other’s pants.

A year later, you gave him your sobriety coin.

The harsh overhead fluorescent lights glared at him as he stared down the empty forms laid down on the reception desk in front of him. Instead of filling them out, his mind wandered to his bloodstained jacket, now sealed in a bag somewhere in the hospital. One of the nurses had said something about preventing contamination, but he could barely register her words with how the faint smell of iron still lingered in his nose even after he washed off the blood from his hands. His eyes then flickered to them; the red of your blood now replaced by the redness of his own skin after he had vigorously scrubbed it off, leaving small scratches on his palms. Then his mind wandered to you. You and the crimson painting your face. You and the white staining your nose. You, smiling whenever you saw his face in the crowd. You, laughing at every one of his stupid jokes. You, lying down on the bathroom floor with dazed eyes looking straight at him and an unspoken apology he could hear over the music before you passed out. You, lying down on the sidewalk with the same look in your eyes and a fear he couldn’t quite place before you went limp and closed your eyes as he tried to stop the blood flowing from your torso.

(His bike wobbled when he caught a glimpse of his bloodstained hands while speeding off to the hospital.)

A dull ache returned to his bruised cheekbone, pulling him out of his train of thought, and he hissed at the slight pricking he felt when he brought up his hand to touch it. The papers in front of him captured his attention once again. He forced his brain to work as he deciphered the rows of kanji written on them. It was easy, at first. Your name. Birthday. Blood type. Medical history. He thought it wasn’t his place to disclose your old habits. (Even if he was one of them.) But then he realized he didn’t even know how to properly spell your smoking and addiction history in Japanese, and his frown deepened when he read the address, emergency contact, and insurance details columns.

“Wait, uh,” he said, flipping through the papers, his eyes darting between the columns before he handed one of the forms to the nurse behind the desk. “I don’t know if I could fill some of these.”

“Oh,” the nurse exclaimed softly, glancing over the paper in her hand. “Do you know anyone we could contact on her behalf? Her relatives, perhaps?”

Ken couldn’t come up with an answer. Your parents and his mother had already passed. He knew nothing about your extended family, and from the way you spoke or avoided speaking about them, he figured that you wouldn’t want him to call them even if you were on your deathbed. He did think of his father and the possibility that you had met him after you came to Japan, but the resentment that simmered in his chest made him tighten his grip around the pen in his hand as he shook off the thought. He wasn’t going to call his father. He would never.

“Uh, no,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “They’re not on good terms,” he continued. “I don’t have their contacts, and I don’t know if they’d even come if you called.”

“I see,” the nurse said, nodding as she handed back the paper in her hand to him. “Then please just fill out these forms as best as you can, sir. If you need any help, please let me know.”

He nodded and muttered a ‘thank you’ before making quick work of filling out the forms, writing down what he knew about you. On the other hand, he left your daughter’s forms mostly, if not completely, empty. Your daughter. A flash of indignation burned for a moment in his chest before disappearing just as quickly as it came. No older than five years old, he recalled. He wondered if you had her after you left Los Angeles. He wondered if you had called him to meet at that old diner to tell him. He wondered if, had he not been drunk and you actually told him, there would at least be a reason for him to be a part of your world—your daughter. His daughter. Ken swore his heart tightened, threatening to shrivel, at the thought of you raising a child alone in a country where you didn’t have anyone else.

(What if you were alone all this time?)

“Would you like to see your daughter? She’s asleep right now, but she should be waking up anytime soon.”

Ken barely registered the nurse’s words, but when he did, they almost gave him whiplash as he snapped his head to look at her. “Huh?”

The nurse herself seemed to have asked him the question without properly looking at him, thus not seeing the bewildered look on his face, preoccupied with whatever was on her desk. “Would you like to see–” She cut herself off when she finally looked up at him, her own expression slowly turning into one of mortification. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I assumed–”

His hand waved off her rushed apology, reassuring her that he didn’t take offense to the question. “Yeah, yeah, no, i-it’s alright,” he stuttered. “She’s–she’s not my daughter, but…” His words trailed off to give way to a momentary silence before he asked, “Can I see her?”

With an understanding nod and another apology, the nurse led Ken to the pediatric ward and into one of the rooms. An older nurse was already there, sitting by the bedside with a clipboard in her hands. She gave him a small smile as she got up from her seat to move to the corner of the room, muttering a ‘Please don’t mind me’ as she sat down. Perhaps she was just taking precautions, considering that he wasn’t listed as an immediate family member. He thanked her, turning his attention to the child sleeping on the bed, breath hitching when he realized something.

She looked so much like you. A carbon copy of you—the you he had seen in a photograph your father took on your fourth birthday, dressed in a pretty pink dress and a blue paper hat as you posed with the candled cake, a Duchenne smile on your face. (You said it was the happiest day of your life because it was the only time you remembered your father’s warmth.) The you he had seen in another picture in your childhood album, where you sat on your mother’s lap, laughing and playing the piano together. (You told him your mother stopped playing when you got into high school.) The you he had seen in a Polaroid shot your mother took when you were fifteen, a rare moment amidst your spiraling home life, where you were curled up on the couch, fast asleep in your party outfit with your old teddy bear in your arms. (You gave him that photograph; he kept it in his wallet to this day.)

Ken’s eyes widened, and he sat up straighter in his seat when her eyes slowly opened, revealing a pair of gray orbs strikingly similar to his own. Fear and confusion were etched on her face, but they melted away when her eyes gleamed with recognition upon seeing him—and all he saw was the 6-year-old boy who had just moved to Los Angeles and didn’t speak a word of English.

“Mr. Nana?”

“Huh?”

Her weak, slightly hoarse voice must have alerted the nurse in the corner of the room, because she was right by their side within seconds. The nurse asked her how she was feeling and checked her vitals, her own voice low and gentle so as to not scare her patient. Both the nurse and your daughter kept glancing at him every now and then, and after she fully regained consciousness, her eyes never left Ken’s.

“She keeps calling you ‘Mr. Nana,’” the nurse chuckled softly. “I think she’s referring to your jersey number, Mr. Sato.”

A small smile made its way onto Ken’s face. “Oh, yeah, that makes sense.”

“Would you like to talk to him, sweetheart?”

Your daughter nodded bashfully, and the nurse helped her sit on the bed. He took it as a cue to move closer, gently dragging his chair to avoid the shrill sound of its metal legs against the floor. He let his shoulder slump a little so he could look at her at her eye level, though her gaze nervously flickered between him and the nurse standing by the other side of the bed.

“Hi,” Ken asked softly and awkwardly. “What’s your name?”

She blinked at him a couple times. “Emi.”

Emi. Emiko. His mother’s name.

“Emi?” He croaked out, and she nodded. A moment of silence passed between them before he took a deep breath and let his smile return to his face. “That’s a pretty name.”

“...Thank you,” Emi said shyly, glancing up at him before looking back at her fidgeting thumbs. “Mama said I’m named after someone pretty.”

(You really were the only person who could break his heart in a million different ways.)

He let out an amused snort. “Is that so?”

She nodded again; the next time she opened her mouth to speak, her surfacing excitement reminded him of whenever you talked about the topics you learned at debate practice or the things you just couldn’t discuss with anyone else but him.

“Mama also said that you’re the best baseball player in the world. Is that true?”

The greatest living player, you once said. “Yeah,” he chuckled softly. “Yeah, that’s right.”

If he hadn’t known better, he wouldn’t have thought that Emi had just been in a car crash a few hours ago. The little girl nearly bounced with how giddy she was, eyes widening and lips parting in wonder. His own smile widened at the sight and when he asked, “Do you like baseball too?”

“Yes!” Emi answered enthusiastically. “Mama showed me that- that when you play, you can hit the ball reeeally far!”

Ken let out a chuckle, warmth spreading in his chest when the thought of you singing his praises crossed his mind. “I can show you how to hit the ball really far too,” he said, trailing off to ponder on something before continuing. “When you get better, I’ll show you. How’s that sound?”

The proposition made Emi turn to look at the older nurse, seemingly for reassurance, and she simply nodded in Ken’s direction in response. Emi’s eyes gleamed in delight, a small smile on her face, and he couldn’t help but notice just how much she resembled you when she nodded bashfully.

(Maybe, just maybe, you’re finally home.)

taglist: @mochminnie