#kenji sato x oc

[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.”

[octolyfe2]

“Stressed.”

I particularly am writing this for my own indulgence, I’m writing this from the POV of my own oc, but if you wanna imagine yourself in this, by all means go ahead darling

no kenji pov.

<kenji/ken sato x ftm male oc>

Today was… hectic to stay the least… okay scratch that today was a mess.

I just found out my boyfriend is literally THE ultraman. Crazy right?

He has too carve out so much of his time for his daughter too. Yes Emi is too die for but at times she becomes too much…

She is a wonderful creature though. Soon as I saw her I was smitten. I mean that big adorable chubby face! WHO wouldn’t love her?!

Kenji came through the door of our shared home collapsing on the couch, face directly in my lap.

Classic kenji…

“OW!—“

Did he just… fuckin bite me?

“Ken what are you doin—“

Oh my god… When did my shorts come off?

How long has it been?

My glossy eyes gazed at the clock, 12:30..?

Kenji gripped my thigh and placed my other leg over his shoulder, his skillful tongue—

“Oh fuck, oh fuck! Ken ‘m gonna—!”

WOOSH!!

Next thing I knew I was tucked in bed.

Holy shit theres bite marks all over my thighs.

Yeah I’m gonna talk to him later I’m goin back too sleep.

I do hope you enjoyed this silly little writing of mine. I’m very tired so this is why it’s kinda bad, but I have stuff in my notes I might wanna post here for stay tuned for that if your interested!!

love u guys, goodnight.

[warlike-morning]

I NEED MORE KEN SATO FANFICSSSS!!!!

[megauraa]

So I will give a Brief background on Amaya if y'all want a whole other story about her life with the Yakuza and such I geuse I just need to see more attraction here before the movie ! If yall are interested Please Talk to me ! I am new here ❤️❤️❤️

She's the daughter of a KDF member and is suspected her mother was part of the local Yakuza but never met her. When Amaya was young she lived with her grandparents and her dad (Fathers Parents)  her family lived a very casual comfortable life.Especially since they had their own family restraunt and were pretty popular for awhile.Amaya LOVED to make new dishes and show them to people she loved to see people smile after what she created them .This helped her learn that she loved to entertain people and want to get into acting at a very young age . Amayas school life was pretty normal was always in theater programs the definition of a Theater kid she's shockingly one of the better students when it came to acting normally ending up being the second to main character in shows because of this she has always been kinda self cautious of her skills knowing she's not good enough so she always seems to avoid the main roles . But she also was so scared to fail auditions she tended to just not try because her fear and self cautiousness .Amayas biggest saport to her acting was her father Amaya may saw him as pushy but he just wanted her to get her dream even though she fought back .

Amaya and her dad had a very very close relationship . Sure the 2 may not agree on his career choice but they both see past that and Amaya being a little girl saw him as a perfect influence. The 2 would often watch baseball games and root for the tigers and the 2 use to vote for the giants but since the Giants won all the time they decided to root for the under dogs .Her father had to leave her with her grandparents because his job could last days even weeks.But when he got home he was there for his little girl the 2 use to watch baseball games all the time offten betting crackers whos going to win.One day in summer her dad had to go on a mission and left a gift for Amaya labled "Amaya sorry I couldn't see you off on your first day I needed to go to work early and i wont be back awhile . Promise me you wont open the box without me. Love You MyLittle Cub" next to the box was a Plush Tiger with a little Cub between its legs . Amaya spent months years even waiting yet her dad never came. She locked it away deep in her closet and never bothered with it for years but because she has HOPE he was going to walk into the door any moment so they could open it together.

Her early 20s she still worked at her Grandparents restrant actully geting pyed now. Going to collage (teaching and acting) and on the weekend helped out in one of the oldest theater in town participating in the programs becoming a big asset to them even directing Kids shows. She has now finally gotten big roles like Elohaba in wicked but she still struggles with her confadence . That was when she met “the love of her life” 😒 A man very well put together and fairly powerful too. They became smitten and were actually in love for a while that was till it slowly became very toxic . Amaya becoming more and more distent because her work life was crowded and she honestly lost the love for him so she wasnt there for him as much as she should have. Meanwhile Shiro (her now ex) was becoming more and more aggressive and Amaya saw him Kill many people which tramatized her and Saw him snooping around her privatecy he also got Extremely jellous when Amaya said she had a Celebrity crush on some baseball player named Kenji Sato the 2 argued and Amaya decided to brake it off . But after that Shero vowed to ruin her because she ruined his chances to rise the rank of the yakuza and he always kept a eye on her never letting her in another romantic relationship again because whenever she tried to date she is eather turned down or the dude she is going out with instently brakes up with her or “vanishes” . Sadly Amaya became very VEry lonely so this brought on depression and Major Anxiety she needed to go to therapy for . Ams theripist sugested that she get a dog because she sufferd with EXTREAM lonlyness she whent out and found a spunky little puppy yorki boy and she INSTANTLY fell in love and the yorki and basically became the mascot of the restrant all the people who came in INSTENLY got love from the little ball of fluff. Amaya decided to name him Joey because she has always dreamed visting amarican and thought it was cute.She would soon start to daily going to the park with Jo and meeting other dogs Amaya would soo meet her best friend Cleo Harkle a girl from amarica who moved to japan to persue her fashion career . Cleo and Amaya start working together at the theater and hanging out all the time. Amay also has a long time child hood friend whom she got way closer to in her adult years being she is the daughter of the owner of the theater the 2 clicked pretty well and Cleo got along with Sara so they all 3 became the girl gang .

Saras boyfriend owning a popular night club in the area he invited her to come hang out aparently a popular base ball team rented the whole club for a celebration of a new season and they were getting a new player so they were welcomeing him . Sara thought it would be fun to invite Amaya and Cleo since they been single awhile and she knew Amaya was really wanting a relationship and thought maybe she would get along with the new guy or one of the teamates. Amaya decided to accept and meet new people just to get out of the house.

The girls whent to the local shoping district to get new outfits for the event when they were leveing the store the mall got crashed into by a giant man . Amaya,Cleo and Sara were holding on together cowering Amaya would look in the eyes of the man and relised she knew EXACTLY who it was “OH MY GOD ITS ULTRA MAN!” She being a huge fan of Ultraman she watched as he got up and ran off the rest of the building that was holding him down the girls fell with the building.Amaya would wake up in the hospital with stiches on her neck because she got cut by a huge glass shard leving a massive slit just bairly saveable but she lived. Cleo was able to escape only brakeing her leg and Sara concussion .Even after all that the girls decided to join the party since it was next weekend and the 2 were EXtremely exsited to go.

[writing-fanics]

I’ll attempt to draw my ultraman rising oc who’s kenji’s partner

who’s inspired by my half human half kaiju idea

When her emotions are heightened, she turns into a kaiju, and I’ll also draw her half kaiju have human appearance which inspiration comes from the of May from turning red

[lejindaryikiki]

Some AUs I thought of:

Prince!Kenji x minister's daughter!Barbara 

Knight!Kenji x knight!Barbara (ft. Gigantron as Goddess and Emi as their adopted daughter)

Marine Biologist!Kenji x Professor in Physical Chemistry!Barbara (ft. Emi as their biological daughter) (inspired by mvjerb's AU)

God of the sun!Kenji x Goddess of Moon!Barbara 

Minister's son!Kenji x Princess!Barbara

Demigod!Kenji x Demigoddess!Barbara

Actor!Kenji x Actress and singer!Barbara

Soulmates AU

Past lives AU

Polyamorous Relationship AU (ft. Ami Wakita)

Spy x family AU

[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.

[succubusdivinity]

Brb I'm about to script a reality where these two fine ass sum bitches fight over me

[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

[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.

[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

[sorthern]

It's an oc thing

[ch4rryc0smos]

— kenji sato who holds her like it's the day he lost her for the first time, and kenji sato who loves her in a way the books couldn't ever compare. ken who loves her, and who's always wanted attention, but hers is different, yet it's exactly what he wants. ken who's insufferably in love, with her.

★ ; he makes me go kaboom, i love him so much, and thinking of soft ken makes me want to explode !!

© ch4rryc0smos

[takosdenaranja]

Kenji: Why?

Jonathan: Why what?

Kenji: You really planned to cure my depression with that song?

Jonathan: Do you have depression?

Jonathan isn't a bad boyfriend, he's just stupid. That it's different 🕴🏻

[lejindaryikiki]

(Hilda runs away from Barbara and Ken's bedroom after being traumatized at what she has seen. But little did she know, someone is running after her.) Hilda: C'mon Emi, we gotta get out of here. Mommy and daddy are going to do the nasty. Barbara: (comes from behind and smears her face with a frosted cupcake and runs away) Hilda:… Emi: (giggles and eats the fallen cupcake)