Size Kink With Simon

Special Bonus:

the catch

summary: kenji sato really just wants you at his game. you propose a bet instead: you’re going to come to his game but if he loses, he treats you to dinner; if he wins, he can ask you for anything in return—and ken knows exactly what he wants.

⇢ pairing: ken sato x fem!reader ⇢ contains: fluff, friends to lovers au, pining ⇢ word count: 2.0k ⇢ note: idk if people still read for ken sato but i rewatched ultraman: rising & fell in love with him all over again. reposted from my old blog with the title changed.

“It would mean a lot to me if you came.”

Kenji Sato is known for being a lot of things—handsome, talented, the best thing that’s ever happened to the world of Japanese baseball—but being sincere is not one of them. He’s an insufferable, over-confident prat most of the time, as Coach Shimura would willingly attest, and he knows all of this, too. He can’t really help it; the media eats out of the palm of his hand when he showcases his suave, debonair side.

You, on the other hand, snort inelegantly at him, swat at his shoulder, and say, “I’m busy that evening, Kenji.”

The baseball player frowns, lips jutting out petulantly. “With what? You’re usually free on Friday evenings.”

“Yeah, I’m busy,” you inform him, clutching a stack of documents to your chest. A loose sheet of paper flies out of your hold, and Ken bends down and picks it up, holding it out for you. “I need to binge-watch the newest season of Bridgerton.”

“Hey!” Kenji draws his hand back, still holding the paper. “I thought we were gonna watch that together.”

He can’t believe you would betray him like this. Binge-watching stuff together is your thing, and it always has been ever since he moved back to Tokyo. Kenji Sato doesn’t have many friends, but you walked straight into his life just like Emi did—easily and simply, like the universe decreed it. It’s a perk, he thinks, to being the secretary of the manager of the Yomiuri Giants. On one hand, you frequent his practices so often that Kenji was used to seeing you scribble down notes, sitting by the bleachers. 

On the other hand, however, you aren’t forced to attend all the Giants’ matches. You tend to use the time you get off to rest and relax and rejuvenate, coming back to Ken’s next practice session with bright eyes and a happy grin.

You roll your eyes at his antics, reaching out and trying to grab the document. The baseball player merely holds his arm above his head and sticks his tongue out at you when you can’t reach it. 

“Kenji,” you warn. “Give that back right now.”

“Or what?”

“Or you’ll lose the exclusive invitations our team has for the fundraising gala being held by the KDF next week, and Mr. Nishimura will have your head.”

At the mention of his manager’s name, Kenji blanches. Mr. Nishimura is known for his work ethic—he’s composed, efficient, and level-headed. But he’s also strict and scary when something impairs his meticulously thought out plans. Ken can’t possibly fathom being on his bad side; it puts dealing with Emi’s acid reflux to shame.

But perhaps… he can take advantage of this.

“I’ll give it back,” he says, “but only on one condition.”

You raise an eyebrow but don’t say anything. Ken takes that as a sign to continue.

“You come to the game tomorrow.”

A brief flash of irritation crosses over your features. Kenji feels slightly guilty, but he doesn’t take back his words.

He likes you, so God help him, and keeping this confession contained within him is driving him over the edge.

“I’ll do you one better,” you challenge. Kenji is startled; he gulps at the conviction in your tone.

“I’ll come to your game tomorrow, but I have a condition too,” you say. “If you lose the game, you have to take me out to dinner.”

A slow grin spreads on Ken’s face. “Ah, but you see—I never lose.”

“Hasn’t Coach Shimura told you to cut down on that ego of yours?”

“Fine, fine. I accept.” Kenji shrugs. “But what do I get if I win?”

You consider it, brows furrowing and lips pressed together in that way you always do when you’re thinking hard about something. He waits patiently, bringing his hand back down and flicking a strand of hair out of his eyes. 

Finally, you say, “You can ask me for any favour.”

“Any favour?”

“Yes, Ken.” You sigh with mock regret. “Anything.”

Kenji squints at the printed words on the paper he’s holding. “Say, does this event allow us to bring dates?”

You snatch the sheet from him, scowling. “That’s for me to know.”

“And for me to find out?”

“And for you to never find out.”

“Rude.”

The cheer of the spectators in the stadium is deafening, their excited shouts and loud claps making Kenji’s ears ring. It’s a full house tonight—Coach Shimura had informed them that all the tickets were sold out, and then grudgingly pointed at Ken and muttered, “All thanks to this fellow.” Perspiration drips off his forehead and down the sides of his face. His gloves fit his hands snugly, slightly worn out from constant use. It’s a bit humid; the dome protecting the stadium doesn’t allow natural air circulation.

Yet, despite all the noise and clamour surrounding him, all Kenji Sato can do is stare at you.

You’re leaning over the barricade, completely ignoring the relatively more comfortable seats you get in the VIP stand. Your gaze is trained on the ball, hollering obscenities when one of the Giants makes a mistake, and hooting gleefully when his team does well. Even from a distance, your enthusiasm is infectious.

That’s not the only reason Kenji Sato can’t stop looking at you. There’s another—something more devious on your part. He has to lick his lips and force himself to tear his eyes off you.

Out of all things dastardly and cunning in this world, you chose the worst kind of torture imaginable: The shirt you’re wearing, hanging loosely off your shoulders and tucked into your jeans is his jersey.

It’s an old jersey, one he wore back when he still lived in LA. With fraying edges and faded colours, it’s little more than a washed-out t-shirt. Still, it looks fucking gorgeous on you—but as exhilirating as it is, seeing you in his clothes, it’s making it so fucking hard for him to focus.

The ball whizzes just past his shoulder. He swings his bat a second too late and misses it. 

Strike one.

Barely biting back a groan of frustration, Kenji ignores the taunting snicker of the opposing team’s catcher. He chances a glance at you.

You’re glaring at him, eyebrows knit together in a vicious frown and lips pressed together. He can imagine the kind of thoughts you’re having about him right now. He can practically hear your voice in his head, teasing him mercilessly for missing the ball. Ken gulps. You’re a formidable force of nature, and he does not want to get on your bad side.

Taking a deep breath, Kenji Sato reminds himself of the bet. His life depends on it.

Well, not really. Underneath the veneer of calm, composed, gentlemanly cockiness, Kenji Sato has always had a flair for the dramatics. He remembers what he’s going to ask you if he wins.

He absolutely must win. It’s a matter of life and death.

Strengthening his resolve, Kenji turns back to the pitcher and fixes him with a scowl so intent, it would make any bystander quake in their boots. He can’t wait for this match to end, can’t wait to see your brilliant smile at his victory. He also can’t wait to get back home to Emi and her mother, and his father, and tell them that he’s finally accomplished the one thing he’s been aching for ever since he met you.

When he hits the winning shot, it’s as though Kenji gets tunnel vision. He jogs across the field, giving high-fives to his teammates and shaking hands with the losing team. But he’s not concentrating much; all he can think of is you in his periphery.

He makes his way over to the VIP stand—and nearly keels over, right there, on the soft grass of the pitch.

Your smile is so blinding, it feels like something’s been lit up inside Kenji’s body. 

He slows down, returning your smile. He takes off his helmet and drops it somewhere by his feet. Running a hand through his sweaty hair, he winks at you.

“So,” he says. “What do you think?”

Your grin doesn’t waver even as you insult him affectionately. “I think you’re gross and sweaty and need to take a shower, like, right now.”

“I bust my ass out there to win the stupid trophy and this is what I get as a reward?”

“Congratulations, Ken,” you say softly, sincerity evident in your voice. “You were amazing out there.”

Normally, Kenji would reply with some snarky, arrogant comment. But it’s you, so, instead, he says, “Thank you.”

“I guess I owe you something now, huh?”

He smirks, not unkindly. Elation fills his entire being.

This is it. This is what he played for today.

“I want you,” Kenji says slowly, “to go out on a date with me.”

He waits for your reaction. You gape at him as soon as the words leave his mouth. Your eyes are wide open and your mouth parts slightly. The thought that he’s made an irredeemable, irreversible mistake briefly flashes across his mind.

“Yes, oh my God!”

You fling your arms around his neck, pulling him close to you. The barricade digs into his sternum, but Kenji finds he doesn’t really care, lost in your tight embrace as he is. He wraps his arms around you as comfortably as he can and inhales your scent. Both of you stay that way for a moment, simply indulging in each other. The cheers from the crowds over his win turns into static background noise. All that exists is this: You, him, and the undeniable joy that comes from having your confession being accepted.

Kenji is loath to pull away from you, but the posture soon becomes uncomfortable, and he’s more concerned about you straining some muscle because of him. 

He looks at your face, all sunshine and golden. You’re happy because of him, he thinks. He’s made you happy. What more could he possibly want?

“Can I kiss you now?” he asks, bringing his hands up to cup the sides of your face. “Even though I’m all gross and sweaty?”

You roll your eyes at him. “Like that’s gonna stop you.”

“You’re right,” Ken agrees, and then he kisses you.

It’s a burst of colours against his closed eyelids. He feels like a bunch of fireworks have gone off inside his chest, painting every part of him in warmth. Your lips are soft; you taste like breath mints and coffee, and Kenji wants more. He swallows all your gasps with his mouth, tilting his head and deepening the kiss. You clutch the front of his shirt with your hands, like you’re pulling him closer and closer, even though there is no distance to traverse.

It’s heaven.

For all the grudges that Kenji Sato holds against the KDF, he has to admit they can throw a pretty mean party.

He wonders, though, if he’s just in a good mood because your hand is wrapped around his arm.

“Have I ever told you,” you lean forward and whisper into his ear conspiratorially, “that you look incredibly delicious in a suit?”

Kenji chokes on air. You pat his back condescendingly while he splutters. 

Once he recovers, he gives you a onceover (you pretend like he hasn’t been checking you out ever since you entered the venue) and tugs you towards him. “I bet you look even more delicious with that dress of yours off.”

You shiver. Kenji smirks. He’s won the battle for now. Looking around, he spots a familiar face in the crowd. “Ami!” he exclaims, waving at her.

“Hello, Kenji,” the journalist greets him, walking over to you both. 

“Ami,” Kenji says, an infectious sort of excitement in his voice. He looks at you and then back at his friend, a soft smile on his lips. “I wanted you to be the first to know.”

She raises a shrewd eyebrow. “Is it something I can publish?”

“I don’t know, babe,” the baseball player says, turning to you. He doesn’t miss the knowing chuckle Ami directs at him. “Is it?”

“Yes,” you confirm, stepping forward with a hand outstretched. “It’s nice to meet you, Ami. I’m Kenji Sato’s girlfriend. Whatever this oaf tells you, don’t believe it. He thinks he won the bet, but it’s really me who won the catch of a lifetime.”

simon’s not vocal during sex. like before you knew him well you’d even get a little insecure about it. but now that you know he isn’t, it doesn’t bother you.

the only time you’ve ever heard more than a grunt from him after he sinks into your warm, wet cunt for the first stroke is when he’s bone dead tired.

only when he’s so exhausted and his legs feel like they’re being weighed down, will he let you know how good he feels.

your soft body bouncing lazily atop of his, barely raising your hips before simon’s calloused hands are pulling you back down onto his cock.

the warmth of your pussy practically lulling him to sleep. warbled, almost pained, noises leaving his lips.

grunts, mewls, whimpers leaving him as you fuck yourself on his cock.

“fuck, doll. slow down, gonna make me cum.”

but he’s the only slamming you down onto him. guiding your movements as growls leave his throat until he cums inside you with such a guttural moan that your clit throbs deliciously.

rocking you down into him as his chest heaves with exertion. eyes slowly blinking up at you as his thumb finds your clit to rub lazy circles until your tightening around his cock and you find your own release.

This might be a wild one.

But hear me out okay.

Simon has his hand somewhere intimate at all times whenever it’s the two of you together.

NOW okay stay with me…

At first, it was somewhat innocent. You’d both be watching a movie on the sofa, he’d deliberately have you lie across him just so his hand can rest on your ass. Casual couple things y’know.

But as your relationship progresses and he’s very used to being able to touch his pretty girl whenever possible…he tends to stray to more intimate places.

There would be one time, you’d be standing in the kitchen, cooking dinner for him on the rare occasion he gets to have a home cooked meal for once. And he’d stand behind you, humming some dumb song that’s been stuck in his head for days. But his hands will be on your tits.

Now, there’s nothing sexual about it really. He just likes holding them. Likes touching you. He’d probably give the occasional squish now and again because let’s face it he’s a man and they’d all do it.

But the only time his need to be touching you would turn sexual, is by complete accident.

(Hear me the fuck out okay?)

So you’d both be lying in bed, you’d be scrolling through your phone as he’s reading beside you (he reads, it’s obvious).

But his hand, would be down whatever pants or shorts you’re wearing for bed, underneath your underwear if you are wearing any at the time…and his hand would simply be resting on your cunt.

Like I said, it wouldn’t be sexual at first and it was an accident this time around.

Because this man can’t sit still at home, it’s too quiet…too calm…he needs something to do.

So what does he do? Play with your cunt.

The pad of his middle finger would idly rub up and down over your clit, not even trying to put any effort in all whilst he focuses on reading. Even if you’re there slightly squirming from the pleasure that the rhythmic motion of his finger creates, he wouldn’t really notice straight away.

He’d circle it a few times, all the while you’re trying to keep quiet as to not disturb him. Having to hold in every moan or soft sound your body aches to let out.

And for the most part, he seems completely focused. Even when his finger would slide down and gather every drop leaking out of you and bring it back to your clit just for more stimulation.

It’s only when you’re close to cumming from the lazy but constant stimulation that he’ll lean down slightly just to whisper in your ear.

“C’mon…give it to me love…please…”

He knows.

He always knows.

Chema Mendez aka Mendez Mendez (Dominican, b. Dominican Republic, based Bavaro, Punta Cana, Dominican Republic) - Growing, Digital Art

Writing Notes: Cliffhanger

Cliffhanger - a plot device in which a component of a story ends unresolved, usually in a suspenseful or shocking way, in order to compel audiences to turn the page or return to the story in the next installment. A cliffhanger can end a chapter of a novel, a television episode, a scene in a film, or a serialized story (book or movie).

Cliffhanger endings usually fall into two categories:

The main character comes face-to-face with a dangerous or possibly life-threatening situation.

A shocking revelation comes to light, threatening to alter the course of the narrative.

Tips for Writing Cliffhangers from Dan Brown

“Cliffhangers pose big questions at the end of a chapter or section,” Brown says.

“Typically, a cliffhanger stops during a climactic event midway through the action instead of at its natural conclusion. Is your hero about to push the villain off of a racing yacht? Stop where the hero has the villain in his grip. Leave the reader thinking, ‘All right, I’ll read just one more page....’”

Brown suggests these strategies for creating cliffhangers:

Move the last few paragraphs of a scene to the next chapter.

Create a section break between your work.

Introduce a new surprise that the audience will not expect.

Use pulses, or short sentences or phrases to remind the reader of lurking danger.

Tips for Writing Cliffhangers from R.L. Stine

R.L. Stine advises writers to develop the very end of the novel first and creating at least 5 potential cliffhangers for each chapter ending.

To successfully build up to a cliffhanger, Stine suggests using descriptive elements to remind readers of potential danger.

He also advises using these structural elements to frame a cliffhanger for maximum impact:

Start chapters with a sense of urgency.

Keep passages concise and cut out superfluous descriptions.

Blend descriptive passages into action scenes.

Stay grounded in a protagonist’s sensory experience.

Find plausible ways to withhold key information from a reader (i.e. narrate from the point of view of a character who can’t get/doesn’t know the information).

Open a chapter in the middle of a scene.

Open a chapter or section with a question, an interesting fact, or a change of pace.

Use a “pulse” to remind the reader of lurking danger.

Use flashbacks to open new sources of suspense.

Finish a chapter with a cliffhanger ending.

Source ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

sillies !

― Osamu Dazai, No Longer Human