#ultraman rising kenji sato

[amyriadofleaves]

୨ kenji sato — old habits die hard. ˚୧

synopsis : kenji sato breaks under the weight of new, unfamiliar eyes ─ foolishly confessing his love to the public. you, the one that got away, are stupid enough to fall into his trap. will you two ever be able to just be friends?

⌗ pairing : kenji sato x fem!reader ; warnings : alcohol consumption, sexual innuendos ; word count: 3k ; angst!!!

© an amyriadofleaves work. do not plagiarise, translate, or use to train ai.

KENJI SATO, newly recruited, renowned and beloved baseball player of The Giants, is being interrogated to the bone.

“Come on, relationships have nothing to do with my career,” he sneers with a curl of the lip, guise of unease betrayed by the incessant movement of his knee concealed by the navy blue tablecloth.

A woman, clad in a blazer, follows up with her question. “They have everything to do with your career, Mr Sato. You return to Tokyo only weeks before your championship with the Dodgers. Why?”

The silent, yet deafening clicks of cameras give Kenji a pocket of air to swallow hard, clearing his throat into his fist. Perhaps it’s the heat of the moment, but he doesn’t realise that the baritone of his voice had been caught by the mic, blaring through the speakers. Not that it was his intention to shut the whole room up, but he’ll take his victories. 

Kenji eyes his PR team in the back of the room, giving them the look they’ve been trained countless times  to know he’s about to make a dumb move — after many close misses, perhaps this is the blow he deserves to take. “Ms. Wakita, right? Ever associate something you love with someone you’ve loved? Well — I’m simply here to feel a little closer to that someone. I hope you understand, Ms. Wakita, that I wish to not elaborate any further.” 

He shoots a small smirk at the camera airing this conference live, hoping with some semblance of his untouched ego that you’d see it.

Ami Wakita eyes him with an amused look, penning down every word of his down to a T. Kenji Sato, sitting on the other side of the room, takes a generous gulp of water before plastering that shit eating grin that glitters amongst the sea of camera flashes. “That’s all for tonight, everyone. Keep your eye out for the Ken Sato on the field.” A subtle wink at the camera goes unnoticed by the man behind it, but certainly not by you. 

Because nothing gets past you.

You chuckle nervously at the man seated next to you, the silhouette of your ex tracing every inch the projector can cover. Sure, word had spread about Ken Sato returning to Tokyo, but you thought it an utter sham; whether it was in the States, or home in Japan, gossip columns would and still will fight tooth and nail for ways of profit. And you, of all people, should know this well. Though hard to admit, his face swamped you with a multitude of emotions your trip to the bar was supposed to help with, but little Ken just had to ruin the fun — along with the pleasure your distraction, a white, tall, and borderline conceited man was supposed to provide you with.

Looks like that’s going to have to be another day, then.

“You a fan of that guy?” the man asks, brusquely pointing to the live broadcast. 

Adjusting your top, you sceptically analyse the way his eyes dip to your chest, and your brows furrow as his gaze trails lower, and lower… “More than a fan actually.” your voice comes out meek, and you think this is how you broadcast your lie to the world. But your audience is a tipsy man with a shell for a brain, so what threat does he bring to you?

More than a fan, huh? It was definitely more than that. From late night drinks to advancements you swear on your whole being to not speak of, you think you’d consider yourself more than that. 

Frankly, with no terms to address the man except for using the term ‘man’, you know nothing about the drunk specimen in front of you — and he knows nothing of you, either.

He scoots closer to you, arms rested against the bar table. The stifling scent of his cologne does nothing to drown the beer’s breath with every syllable coming out his mouth. “Well if you’re the fan you claim to be, how have you not recognised me yet?”

You almost scowl at his cockiness. It’s even worse than Ken’s! God. “Well, unfortunately, I only focus on the important players. ” Your words come out muffled as you take a shot of vodka, sliding it across the table to request for another to add to your tab. It’s your fifth, and you haven’t even started feeling fuzzy yet; this is going to be a long night.

The man, on the other hand, seems piss drunk — and given your observations, this is only his third shot.

Lightweight, you note, his flushed cheeks and lidded eyes a spectacle for sore eyes. You feel your heart constrict into itself; for a second, in your stupor, his face flits to Ken's. Pulling away from him, you turn your head to the couple sat in a booth to divert your attention, but it only makes matters worse — so you resort to shutting the world out.

“I could show you how important I am if you’d come over to my place,” the man mewls, slithering his hand onto your thigh. It’s awfully easy to catch his bluff, and you certainly aren’t buying that awful sneer.

A nervous, polite laugh leaves your lips before you swat his arm away with a chastising glare. “I think you’ve got this wrong. I don’t think you know how important I am.”

He begins to giggle, and he keeps on giggling until he’s caught by a snort. You can’t help but grimace. There are many things you aren’t sure of, but you know for a fact that there was absolutely no shot that this man was an athlete. “And just who might you be?”

A satisfied smile tugs at the sides of your lips. “That just gives you your answer. I’m too important for you, and our conversation is over.”

You grab your purse and slam a hundred dollar bill onto the table, swiping the man’s shot and downing your own shot and his at once. The buzz of alcohol numbs the burn as it travels down your throat. 

He grabs your wrist with a quivering grip. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Haven’t you heard? I am the most demanded model in this city. So if you think you can win me over with sweet talk, you’re wrong.” You wrench the hold he has on you, and backhand him (though the swing is terribly calculated). 

See, if you were sober, you would’ve held him to it — that he owed you. But with seven shots of vodka now finally working its way through your system, you let it slide.

Your stilettos click angrily against the marble floor, and you walk out with two lies.

The first: You weren’t at the bar for a good time.

The second: You definitely aren't a model at the biggest agency in Tokyo.

The bell tied to the handle of the door jingles as you storm out (with a concerning amount of difficulty) of the bar with your thumb out on the road. 

“Taxi!” you shout, to no fruition. 

After ten minutes of nothing, an orange taxi stops and swerves to your end of the sidewalk.

Stumbling into the taxi with nothing to show for the decorum you had seven shots ago, you slip off your heels and hug the headrest of the taxi driver. “To the Sato Residence please,” you command — or so you think you do — before keeling to the side and vomiting up your dinner.

“Ken. I don’t think that was a very good idea,” the supercomputer Mina reprimands, robotic arms reaching for her spherical head. 

Ken maintains an unbothered pose with his arms crossed. “But it sure as hell was an amazing one.” He curtly taps the bottom of his couch with his heel to reach for a drink in his mini fridge, only for it to shine with the enthusiasm of seven coconut water cans.

“Ugh Mina,” he groans, sliding a clammy hand down his face. “Do you not have anything else?”

“Would you like it if I gave you water instead?”

This only spurs him to move both his hands to cover his face in what Mina detects is shame. She floats closer to him, the light of her eyepiece a stinging pain against the backdrop of dimness. “Is something wrong? I detect you are going through… some stress.”

“Yes Mina, yes I am! And it’s not ‘cause I just outed being in love with someone in Tokyo —” He trails off, digging himself into a deeper hole when hit with the realisation that Tokyo, out of the cities in Japan, is a small world of connection. Everyone knows everyone. Shit.

She reaches for a can of coconut water with a metallic arm and opens it, offering it to him. Ken, coming empty for excuses, accepts the drink, wincing as he sips it. “It’s ‘cause I still — nevermind.”

“Because you still what, Ken?”

“Goddamnit Mina. Do I have to spell it out for you? I still miss this girl!” He thinks of you and almost makes himself sick at the thought of you with another man; and for a sudden, lurching moment, he wishes he never had an imagination at all. 

He slumps into his seat, peeking through the slits of his fingers, admittedly curious to see what the robot’s reaction to his statement would be. 

Ken visibly wilts when she doesn’t move a muscle — or robotic limb, or whatever.

“Would you like for me to contact her?” “Yeah no, no.” He shakes his head, but stops mid-action. “Wait — how do you know who I’m talking about? I don’t think I’ve ever talked about her, have I?”

She floats around him as if in orbit, and pokes at his head. He whines out an ow! “You have. When severely intoxicated. Which is why I’m not giving you anything other than coconut water.” “God save me.” 

And that He does, when Ken’s moping is interrupted with a ding of the entrance. 

You rethink what you’ve known about yourself, and it’s that you certainly cannot take seven shots of vodka, and that it leads you to doing stupid things: like walking half a kilometre of an automatic bridge just to have it out with Ken Sato. 

Any normal person would have walked the distance in less than five minutes, but it took you twenty. Still, in your eyes, pretty impressive. You give yourself a pat on the back; but for some reason, the intention is off and you’ve just slapped yourself in the chest. Way to go.

The alarm to his house doesn’t blare when you heave the gate open. Woah, since when did it get so heavy? You giggle to yourself, the prospect of no alarms going off an unimportant matter in the midst of your exhilaration.

Stumbling to his doorstep, your heels click sloppily on cement — confident stride muffled by the slurring of words you never knew existed in the first place. You feel your way to the entrance, sliding your hands across a bike — his bike. If your sight wasn’t blurred, you could spot a polaroid of a familiar face taped just a little to the left of the speedometer.

Your wandering hands lose hold of the vehicle and feel for the doorbell, and clumsy you misses the mark. Bullseye, your Ken would say, glimmering with all the love in the world when your arrow proved as accurate as your aim.

Leaning against a pillar, you almost slip forward before the door opens just in time. But instead of meeting marble, you meet the warmth of an embrace.

Seeing him in the flesh stirs something terribly nostalgic you could definitely use for vomiting in the taxi again.

“Hey, Ken Sato, how’s it going?” you mumble with your gestures sluggish — and ultimately, very miscalculated; so your attempt at sounding sober goes to waste the second you bump head first into the man who completely did not expect to see you.

Ken stumbles backward in both surprise and the sudden addition of weight on either side of his arms; and to him, you sound like a garbled mess. But above all, you’re still the same girl who cussed him out the first time you met. 

You try to walk, but the attempt goes to shit, and you see a floaty thing manifest a bed at Ken’s own command. Crazy stuff. You almost fall for Ken’s offer to carry you, but you’re not one to fall back into bad habits.

When you sag onto the mattress, you see him crouch down so your face is level with his. “[Name], what happened?” 

“You happened, Ken. Finally found me worthy enough to come back for? I saw your little speech about love at that press conference,” you seethe, ignoring how your words end in a quiver. Brimming, hot tears, betray whatever semblance of composure an intoxicated woman can hold for herself. Suck it up, you tell yourself — because if you needed to cry, it would not be in front of the reason.

This mantra doesn’t seem to hold for any longer than you think it will, because you finally find something that makes you break: his own, crestfallen curl of the lip.

“Hey, hey,” he starts, hesitantly reaching to wipe the tears staining your face. But seeing you after two years, such intimacy came at a price: your complacency. Would she want it? Want me? He thinks, eyes diverted so he wouldn’t have to bear the sight of someone he never knew as messy. Someone he never knew to break. 

He, against all his strongest desires, retracts his hand. In some act of desperation, in some act of needing to feel him, you take his hand and press it against your cheek. He brushes the tears pooling around his thumb in slow circles, whispering sweet nothings into your ear. You wouldn’t consider his words nothing, not after he mutters a quiet, incomprehensible ‘I won’t leave you. Not this time.’ under his breath. 

Nothing gets past you.

“But you lied. And I believed you. Over and over —” you hiccup, your hand over your mouth to muffle your cries. 

His voice softens a notch, and it's so subtle someone as wasted as you wouldn’t notice, but you find you notice it more than you would’ve with a clearer mind. “I know, I know. And I’m sorry.”

“Are you really? Because the last time I checked, you were the one who left me behind.”

He doesn’t reply.

He knows he should take your words with a grain of salt, and against his better judgement, he doesn’t. To be frank, he never did. Every word from your lips dripped with golden honey, and he still, against his better judgement, savours every last drop.

You choke up on a sob, and Ken rushes to trace lines from the cliff of your shoulder bone to the very tips of your fingers. It was something he used to do — a little joke between the two of you. Something you shook off as a placebo, and something he insisted helped you with your anxiety.

Or rather, the only way he knew how.

It was — and still is, the only way for him to level the wrinkles of your face, just so he could at least see you soothe in his arms — for some morbid part of him crunches up at the thought of this being the last time he sees you; in this state, delirious, yet, for lack of better words: painfully right.

“I just — I just wish we could go back to being us,” you croak, reaching to trace the fine lines of his face. Your touch blindly feels for the familiar: the dip from his jawline to the nape of his neck, the scar soldered into his cheekbone, the softness of his lips. 

All rhyme or reason (if there was any to begin with) blurs into the fray, and the war raging in your chest comes to a standstill, docile in nature. You feel his Adam's apple bob against your touch, and your hand travels, and travels, until met with your comfort against the cacophony of searing voices. 

The approach is slow and borderline sloppy — though you can’t expect much of it. It’s just how things were with the two of you. Your lips hover against his, before you give up everything you’ve ever believed in for a crash against his lips, the taste of vodka weaving into his veins (except that it’s not the vodka, it’s very obviously you).

He rounds around the curve of the bed to feel you, and you let his hands wander. Some part of you screams in reprimand — that for some inexplicable reason, you’d regret this in the morning. But why would you regret having everything you’ve wished for in the very palm of your hands?

That is exactly why.

The high is stripped from you like an angel of its wings, and you pull away, eyes puffy and lips swollen. “I — we can’t do this.”

He pulls away, brows knitted. “We can’t and yet we still are doing this! [Name], what is it you really want?” His eyes search yours for an answer, before he gives you that look again. 

You smile, and this time, it’s beautifully real. “I don’t know. But it has to stop. We’re a mess, can’t you see?”

“Yes, we are. But that was our thing.” That is our thing, a voice inside him screams, but the words die on his tongue. Again, and again, his words fail him like he does a lost game.

Everything around you is a swirl of blocked colour, but you squint through the grain and push him away with a light nudge of his chest against your palms.

“And it isn’t gonna stop until one of us does,” you say, biting your lip from going back on your word.

“We can make it work. I promise,” he begs, reaching for your hands. 

In an attempt to shrug off your daze, you rake a hand through your hair and reach for your purse that had fallen in the heat of it. “We loved each other, Ken. But I think we should stop convincing ourselves we still do.”

His eyes flit to the floor, and his tousled hair falls against his nose. And to a certain pair of people an arbitrary moment ago, they would’ve thrown themselves against all propriety upon white bed sheets with sun peeking through the blinds, and your fingers would’ve combed through strands of tousled, jet black hair that appeared honey like in the dawn.

Through the haze of your high, you catch a glimmer of hope you’ve never seen him have. “Please, you’re still drunk. Let us discuss this when both of us are in our heads, yeah?”

Tilting your head to the side, it is your only sign of complacency that he recognises amidst it all. Through your insobriety, your smile can only tell him just as much: 

This is never gonna end, and we both know it so.

a/n: hello hello!!! please excuse the sappiness i've written the bulk of this at times where I shouldntve been awake GOD I blame it on the fact that this guy actually consumes every morsel of my SOUUL

[hrhmimieucliffe]

Oh no, I have a new crush. Welp. Time to make a totally new OC to ship with him and to give Emi a mother too methinks

[soapallo]

aw yeah bluey time

[soranatus]

Ultraman: Rising (2024) - Film vs. Concept Art

“The moment when Emi is born: what does it feel like to see life for the first time? Well, maybe it would feel like a nursery, with a moon and the stars hanging from the ceiling of a nursery.” — Shannon Tindle

[mukbangg]

Ken sato drunk...?

I imagine he's a clingy pouty drunk.

(I wrote this after a whole bottle of red wine)

Kenji Sato, legendary baseball star, Ultimate hero of Japan as The Ultraman, and....currently tearing up while clinging to your waist.

"Keeennnn!!"

You huffed, waddling with the extra weight on you to the bedroom you both shared.

"Baaabbyyyy!!!"

He whined back in the same tone, face rubbing into your warmth as if he wants to merge with you.

He's been babbling on about his team, his work, Emi, his dad, crying for your attention for the last thirty minutes since he got home reeking of beer.

All while you attempted to get him to the bathroom.

You've tried coaxing him, sweet-talking him with honeyed words and promises of cuddles, of breakfast in bed and as many kisses and attention he wants but....to no avail.

"Stoop pushin- me- awaayy- "

The man himself whimpers, nuzzling into your side, teary eyes squinting as his face scrunched and his ridiculously plump lips pouted in a way that tugs at your heart.

"You hate me!"

His brows knits, weight falling completely onto you as he topples you onto the ground.

"Kenji,"

You deadpanned, rolling onto your back, arms folded across your face.

One, two, his wet sniffles.

You glance down in defeat as he crawls up the length of your body, whimpering something under his breath, and buries his face into your neck.

His warm tears wet your neck and you rub his back, sighing.

"We need to get your cleaned up, ken,"

"I missed you baby- hic- so much- so mu-cchhh-"

Your fingers scratched at his scalp, running through his hair.

"Its just so- hic-hard- I missed you- I miss-hic-"

His muffled wails vibrates against your neck, lips sloppily kissing up to your jaw.

You let him whine for abit before tugging gently at his hair.

"I know, Ken baby, I know. But let's get you a warm shower and bed hmm?"

You craned your neck to peck at his hairline.

"I'll give you all the cuddles you way, 'kay?"

He lifts his head groggily, lidded eyes brimming with tears as he swallow hard.

There's a long pause as he tried to deduce your sincerity, before he purses his lips and drags himself off you like a petulant child.

"....mmkay,"

You sat up, offering him a gentle smile as you ruffle his hair.

"Good boy, Kenji,"

[shimiyass]

Papa taking his little girl for a ridee🏍️

[motherrpearl]

no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic, while I gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, doggy, backwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick throbbing, fist clenching, ear ringing, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling, teeth jitterbug, mind blogging, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy,moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious,gushy, creamy, beastly, lip biting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark worthy, can't walk, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail scratching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell desolving, hair ripping, show stopping, magnificent, unique, extraordinary, slendid, phenomenal, mouth foaming, heavenly, awakening, devils tango ever bro could cause a nuclear bomb inside me and I'd still ride.

[yzzart]

౨ৎ⊹. BOYFRIEND!KENJI HEADCANONS!

── content warnings: F!reader, mention of Emiko, Emi and Mina, Ultraman form, Kenji being a little needy (once again), fluff, a little something to warm our hearts and minds so dreamy.

── word count: 683!

⭑.ᐟ Underneath, and sometimes over, tight-fitting t-shirts and extremely expensive fabrics, wear a necklace; however, there is something special there. — His promise ring hangs on the gold chain; like a talisman, something that surrounds he with luck and passion. — Staying attached and close to you, even with a small object.

⤷ If he needs to think or try to decide something dramatically important and you're not around, Sato will take his fingers to the necklace and hold the ring; looking for guidance. — Oh, and waking up, before him, and contemplating that shiny and significant piece, which rests on his broad chest, is angelic.

⭑.ᐟ It's not uncommon to feel, in the middle of the night, Kenji's face trying, persistently, on your neck; readily, wanting to harness the huge and strong body between your. — He doesn't care about the grotesque difference in size, just at that moment, and he doesn't give up.

“Kenji, be careful…!” — Your voice, fully, drunk with sleep and maintaining stillness, murmured between the boy's black and shiny locks; who only responded with a snore, more like a purr and clinging even tighter to you.

⭑.ᐟ Sato can't keep his hands off you, no matter what's going on, what you're doing or what simple task you're performing; hands on your waist, kisses on every exposed and revealed part of your body, thin and wide fingers catching on some part of your clothes. — Don't be upset with him, this poor man is in love with you.

⤷ One day, Mina compared him to a sloth and obviously got a frown of disapproval and the adorable Emi observes how her “father” remains so attached to her “mother”. — Even laughing and grunting when he saw a completely sleepy and desperate Ken crawling towards you.

⭑.ᐟ Please, we have, we need to talk about all the times Kenji and Emi train together, most of the time, being just leisure moments, you sit in the stands, virtually, scheduled and cheer for them; accompanied by Mina. — The feeling of nostalgia, remembering an incredible part of his life, is exposed in Ken's chest; remembering his mother.

⭑.ᐟ I can easily imagine Ken pressing his nose against your cheek or neck wanting your attention; also, when he wants to show you the way Emi is sleeping, enjoying the baby's sweetness. — And, together, pressing his forehead against yours during countless moments of the day and night, when you get home after confronting some creature and every time he want to say "i love you" to you.

⭑.ᐟ This man knows you like the back of his hand; no one can disagree or dispute this fact. — Kenji pays attention to your gestures, noticing your body language and, for a matter of seconds, he knows that something is bothering you; and, there he is, dedicating himself, with all his attention, to doing his girl well.

⭑.ᐟ Funny situations, for Ken, between you and his Ultraman form are included in your lives. — Once, while chasing Aboras, he ended up finding you on the street, wanting to go home, and clearly he was distracted by wanting to cause a provocation. — Mina gave the boy a long, and rightly so, scolding.

“Go back to the house, young lady.” — The robotic voice filled a part of the city's environment, wanting to convey an authoritarian image. — “You know…” — He pointed one of his gigantic fingers in your direction, then towards the place he was. — “The streets have been very dangerous lately.” — Oh, you stopped yourself from answering him like you really wanted to.

“Thank you, so much, for the advice, Ultraman.”

⭑.ᐟ There are nights — many, many nights — that Ken spends watching, contemplating you sleeping, peacefully; your face remained full, without signs of tiredness, exquisite and messy locks spread out, this was adored by the player's eyes. — Between seconds of fascination, Kenji longed, dreamed, deeply and painfully, of his mother meeting you; this way, she would have the chance to know the light that raised her dear son.

⤷ Kenji prospers, sometimes praying, that one day his mother will return, safe and sound, and be able to achieve what he wants so much in his life.

[eiririnn]

So I watched Ultraman Rising and I get the hype🫣

[scipunk63]

Like Father like Daughter.

[kkurensia]

some of yall dont fw ken sato like i do. seriously

[amyriadofleaves]

yall i have ideas…

[mikeyyyyv]

EMI WITH BASEBALL

Cutieeee emiii!! 🤍

[soapallo]

headcanon that ken made ollie when he was a kid

[sunnysam-my]

Yeah, everyone talks about how pretty this concept art is, but can we talk how funny some of Shannon Tindle's are

[kkelsey--spring]

ken sato, the beautiful man you are