pirate!satoru who has a bad habit of picking up shiny things and an even worse habit of teasing the sweet mermaid he meets every sunset.
he first saw you while chasing a storm. his crew had warned him of cursed waters ahead, thick with fog and stories about drowned men who never sank. sea birds had stopped circling, and even the wind seemed to hesitate—but satoru liked cursed things. they were usually interesting. and interesting things always led to fun.
what was more fun than a girl in the sea, glowering at his ship like it had insulted the ocean herself?
he remembers that day like salt on skin. ropes whipping in the wind, the creak of the ship’s old bones groaning beneath his boots. gulls screeched overhead, barely heard over the crack of thunder. and then—your eyes, breaking the water like two shards of moonlight, locked onto his with that same look of unimpressed calm, as if you’d already judged him and found him deeply, deeply annoying.
you were tangled in another crew’s net, fins thrashing, hands cut red from rope. he didn’t free you out of chivalry—no, he wasn’t that sort. he just hated the other pirates. loudmouthed, greedy, and smug, like they were owed the sea’s bounty. they caged you like a prize pearl in a box. and that pissed him off.
“i owe you a favor,” you’d said afterward, voice soft like seafoam clinging to a quiet shore.
“you can owe me your company,” he’d replied, tipping his hat like a man far too confident for his own good.
turns out, getting under your skin was impossible. your metaphorical skin might’ve been made of coral and old secrets. he teased. you smiled. he flirted. you tilted your head in confusion. he poked. you thanked him.
like now.
he lounges at the edge of the ship, one leg dangling lazily over the side. the sun’s lowering behind him, turning his white hair gold at the edges, glinting off the pale sweep of his lashes. the breeze lifts the ends of his coat, fluttering it just enough to add flair. in his hands, he twirls two mismatched seashells between calloused fingers, idly rolling them together with a click.
a few crewmates are scrubbing deck nearby, trading quiet gossip about strange tides and the price of fish. none of them look over. they know better. at sunset, the captain talks to the sea—and she talks back.
then you arrive.
rising slowly from the waves like the ocean herself breathed you out. droplets cling to your collarbone, shoulders glistening under the fading sun. your hair, wet and clinging to your cheeks, frames the serene warmth in your eyes. you blink at him with that same quiet anticipation, like this ritual—this meeting—is the most natural part of your world.
he smirks, holding up the seashells. “oi, these yours?”
your brow furrows as you float closer, curiosity blooming across your face. “mine?”
“they look like your bra,” he says casually, letting them swing between his fingers.
you tilt your head. “bra?”
satoru leans forward on his elbows, grinning like the smug little shit he is. his eyes gleam with mischief, watching your expression intently.
“you know. the thing you wear over your chest?” he makes a vague motion toward your own shell top, then glances down at the ones in his hand. “though these—” he eyes the tiny shells, then very obviously eyes you, “—are definitely snack-sized. yours are, uh. not.”
you look at the shells, then down at yourself. then back at him. your smile spreads slowly, luminously. “they’re very shiny. thank you.”
he freezes. “wait. no, that’s not—”
your fingers break the surface and take them gently, like he’s handed you something precious. your touch is cool, damp, and feather-light against his knuckles. he tenses, a little startled by the sincerity of the gesture.
“i will wear them tomorrow,” you say, delighted. “they’re beautiful.”
he sputters. “they’re too—wait, you’re serious?”
you nod, already lowering back into the waves, cradling the shells like they’re pearls from a lover. “thank you, satoru.”
the sea folds over you in one smooth motion, and you're gone—your tail flashing silver in the last bit of sun, leaving only ripples behind.
satoru stares at his now-empty hands. then drops his face into them with a groan. “i was teasing, you little—”
that night, he doesn’t sleep right.
he tosses in his hammock, arms crossed behind his head, boots kicked off haphazardly on the floor. moonlight drips through the porthole like spilled milk, casting pale lines across his wall. every time he closes his eyes, he sees the way yours sparkled. hears your voice echoing in the back of his skull. "i will wear them tomorrow."
“they’re too small,” he mutters. “they were for crabs. or like, decorative. who even makes shell bras that size?”
he flips over and buries his face into the pillow with a frustrated grunt. wills himself to sleep out of sheer frustration.
satoru wakes with a start the next morning, tangled in the hammock’s netting like a man caught in his own trap. the wood above him groans softly with the sway of the ship, but inside his skull, everything is loud. echoing. relentless.
"i will wear them tomorrow."
the memory hits again, not so much a whisper as it is a war drum. a cursed prophecy. his breath catches, and he blurts out—“shit.”
he nearly tumbles out of the hammock, lurching upright like he’s missed roll call at death’s door. his coat is thrown over his bare shoulders in a crooked mess, one sleeve still twisted from sleep. one boot is half on, heel dragging noisily across the floorboards as he bolts for the deck like a man late to his own wedding. his hair is a disaster—white tufts sticking out in every direction, the ends tangled like salt-kissed seaweed.
his crew parts like startled fish, wide-eyed and wary. some lift their heads from mugs of lukewarm grog, others pause mid-scrub, the morning sun casting halos over buckets and ropes.
“what’s gotten into the captain?” a deckhand murmurs, still holding a mop dripping seawater.
“maybe the mermaid did curse him,” another offers, leaning on the railing with a skeptical squint.
“more like blessed,” a third snorts, biting into an apple with the smugness of someone watching a romance unfold.
satoru hears all of it. ignores all of it. his boots clack against the wood like thunder rolling toward a storm.
his strides are frantic, yet deliberate. his shoulders tense. his expression, usually carved from smug marble, is twitchy—like a man walking into his own trap with his eyes wide open. he rakes a hand through his hair—more chaotic than usual—and curses softly when it tangles between his fingers.
the morning air is salty, thick with gull cries and the faint scent of fish stew wafting from the galley. behind him, the sun has barely begun to climb, painting the deck in long gold strokes and casting shadows that stretch like sleepy cats.
and there you are.
rising from the sea like a myth rewritten.
your silhouette breaks the water with ethereal grace, droplets clinging to your skin like borrowed starlight. your hair, soaked and glinting like pearls, drapes around your shoulders, framing your face with moonlit strands. your eyes—curious and bright—search the horizon before landing on him. and there, nestled over your chest in all their misplaced glory—those fucking seashells.
tiny. ornamental. utterly useless in the face of reality. they barely cover what they’re meant to. they sparkle obscenely under the sun.
satoru’s spine locks like a rigged pulley. his pupils shrink.
he pivots too fast—then smacks directly into the mast.
thunk.
“ow—! dammit—” he hisses, stumbling back and grabbing his forehead like he’s been cursed by the gods themselves. one eye cracks open, pained and watery, just in time to see you waving.
“satoru! good morning!”
your voice is sunshine poured over seafoam. you tilt your head, cheeks dewy and glowing, sea breeze brushing through your bangs.
he spins again, half-hiding behind the mast, gripping it like a lifeline tossed from a lifeboat. his mouth is dry. his pride is dissolving. he forces a grin—shaky, stretched thin like fraying rope—and manages, “h-hi.”
his voice cracks in the middle like a boy in love. a boy in trouble.
“the shells fit nicely!” you call, hands floating over the water’s surface as you paddle closer. “they’re a little snug, but very shiny. i like them.”
his brain just stops.
“i—i figured you’d—uh—you didn’t have to actually—I was just—just teasing—”
his words trip over each other like drunken sailors on a tipping deck. his hands flap helplessly in front of him, like he can push the moment away through sheer air resistance.
you blink, thoughtful. your tail flicks behind you under the water, sending a ripple that bumps gently against the ship. “teasing?”
he breathes in too fast and immediately regrets it, choking on his own spit. he bends slightly, hand over his chest like he might physically keep his soul from bailing.
he looks at you. really looks.
the way your brows knit together softly in confusion. the way your fingers cradle the shells like they’re delicate offerings. how your skin glows, kissed by the morning light, shimmering where droplets cling to you. how the innocence on your face is devastating.
he drags a hand down his face, fingers smearing across his cheeks. his pale strands falls over his eyes. “you’re gonna kill me.”
you look genuinely concerned. “with seashells?”
he gives a defeated nod, letting his forehead rest against the mast like he wishes it were a guillotine. “yes. exactly that.”
you hum thoughtfully, still watching him. “do humans often give shells like that to show affection?”
he chokes again. this time, violently.
“w-what?! n-no, i mean—sometimes? not like—i wasn’t—it’s not—”
you smile, pleased with the answer you’ve crafted from his gibberish. “then i’ll treasure them. thank you again, satoru.”
you say his name like it’s a charm, a secret tied to your tongue.
you're not referring to cuddling or whatnot, but rather actually sleeping with him. trying to catch some z's with satoru by your side.
you just can't do it.
since he's so tall, he takes up most of the bed, as well as the covers. you'd go to sleep with a blanket wrapped around you and wake up with even the sheets gone from your side of the bed.
how did he manage to do that? you don't know, but either way, it was really annoying—especially during the winter.
you've made attempts to try and steal your blankets back, or at least get your sheets, but satoru would never budge. because of that, you'd be left to shiver the whole night.
and satoru would wake up with the audacity to ask you why you were shivering.
it's not just that, though. satoru also kicks in his sleep—which leads to you being kicked off the bed and getting hurt.
"baby, why are you on the floor?"
satoru questioned as he looked down at you from the edge of the bed, and you stared up at him with a glare as your body remained entangled with the blankets that were wrapped around you before you had been kicked off of the bed.
"shut the fuck up."
of course, he apologizes profusely in the morning once you gripe about the pain, and he tries to make it up to you by buying stuff.
he once bought a little divider in hopes that it would protect him from kicking you.
but he woke up to the sight of the divider completely demolished and his arm wrapped around you.
that's another thing—satoru can be insanely clingy during the night.
it's always the nights when he's not stealing your covers or beating you up that he decides it's the perfect time to practically choke you by clinging on to you.
if he was hugging your side, it wouldn't be as bad, but this man will literally crawl on top of you in his sleep. you will be hot and it will be hard to breathe.
why don't you just shove him off? because one, it's extremely hard to do so, and two, once you do successfully manage to push him off, he'll just go right back to his spot.
oddly enough, that's not the worst of it.
he sleepwalks and sleep talks.
you'd wake up to him being gone from the bed, and when you get up to look for him, you'd usually find him in the same two places.
either the kitchen with the fridge wide open as he eats the treats he had been saving—to which he'd ask him the morning if you ate them with the saddest look on his face since he doesn't want to accept that he sleepwalks—or, you'd find him on the floor of the hallway for some reason.
now, the sleepwalking doesn't really bother you because it's never harmed anyone, but the sleeptalking definitely does.
it affects you physically, mentally, and spiritually.
does he say anything scary? not that you were aware of, but you would rather hear him say something scary than wake up to him singing my chemical romance again or fall for you.
what makes it even worse is that he sings it in the same tone that the artists do.
"because tonight will be the night that i will fall for you..."
"toru." you whispered.
"over again..."
"satoru." you whispered once again, but your voice got sterner.
"don't make me change my mind—"
his singing was cut off as you slapped your hand across his mouth, and his eyes shot open as he tiredly stared at you in confusion. words were muffled against your hand, but you didn't care to try and figure out what he was saying.
"i don't care if megumi is going through a phase, tell him to stop playing my chemical romance around you."
you couldn't see satoru's expression very well since it was dark, but you heard him muffle a 'yes ma'am' against your hand before you finally removed it from his mouth.
♡. choso letting you ride his fat cock, smut mdni, size difference, riding
“Are you sure?” he asks again, voice low, nervous, even as he lies back with his hands braced behind him, shirt half off and hair messy from how often he’s run his fingers through it tonight. “We can stop. I mean it.”
You straddle him anyway—naked, breath shaky, thighs trembling around his waist. Your hands press against his chest like you’re trying to steady yourself. Or maybe stop yourself from sliding down onto what’s… very clearly going to be a problem.
Because Choso’s huge.
Like, really, actually terrifyingly big. Thick. Heavy. Flushed tip already smearing against your lower stomach just from how it sits.
You glance down between your bodies. Then back up at him.
“Holy shit,” you breathe. “That’s not… gonna fit.”
Choso groans, head falling back. “Please don’t say that,” he begs, voice wrecked. “I’m trying to be.. trying not to lose my control.”
You line yourself up anyway—slowly, carefully, shaking.
He grips your waist. Not hard. Just enough to keep you steady. “Easy, baby,” he murmurs, breath fanning across your skin. “Take your time. Just the tip first.”
Just the tip burns. Splits you open in a way that steals the air from your lungs.
Choso moans. “F–fuck, you’re tight. You okay?”
You nod—but tears prick your eyes. Your hands scramble for his shoulders, holding on like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded. “I–it’s so big…”
“I know, I know,” he pants, brushing a thumb along your hip. “You’re doing so good. You’re so good for me, sweetheart. Just go slow, yeah?”
You sink a little deeper—inch by inch—and his jaw locks. The stretch is unbearable. He feels like he’s in your stomach. You swear you can feel his heartbeat from inside.
“I–I can’t—”
“You can,” Choso says, firm now, eyes locked on you with a mix of worship and desperation. “You’re taking me so well. You were made for this.”
He groans when your hips drop lower. You’re not even all the way down yet. His hands are gripping the sheets now like if he moves he’ll break you in half.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel like heaven. You’re gonna ruin me.”
You finally bottom out—and freeze. Both of you are shaking. Your legs feel weak. You’re completely full. Stuffed to the brim.
Choso whimpers.
“You okay?” he whispers, hands stroking your thighs, your waist, your back—trying to soothe the ache. “Do you want me to move? Or—”
You roll your hips just a little, testing the friction, and Choso gasps.
“Holy—baby, don’t do that, I’m gonna fucking come—”
You do it again. And suddenly it’s too good to stop. The pain is still there, but it’s pulsing, rhythmic, drowned beneath the stretch and the friction and Choso’s voice in your ear telling you you’re perfect, that you’re his, that no one will ever fuck you like this again.
“I’m never letting you go,” he pants, arms wrapping around you, holding you tight as you start to bounce—slowly, shakily, but desperate. “You were made to ride me.”
You cry out his name, and Choso loses it—thrusting up hard just once, uncontrollably, and you both see stars.
synopsis ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ you talk about your husband like he is a dream and, frankly, your coworkers think that you are making him up. that is until your husband shows up.
you talked about your husband all the time.
nanami this nanami that
“oh, my husband makes the best lunchboxes”
“he stayed up to help me with my report”
“he walks me to the station when i stay late”
you weren’t annoying about it. not really. just a little too consistent. always saying things like “he’ll pick me up after work today, we’re going to get pastries!” and showing off texts that made your coworkers tilt their heads and squint.
kento nanami sounded fake.
a little too nice. a little too attentive.
and when you tacked on the fact that he was hot — “blond, tall, glasses, kinda quiet but really handsome, you know?” — people at work started to think that maybe you were pulling everyone’s leg.
just a little.
not out of malice — no, never that — but maybe you were lonely. maybe you just needed a sweet little fantasy to get you through the day. who could blame you?
because no way someone like nanami existed. not the way you described him. it just didn’t sound real. not in this world. not in this economy.
but you never let up.
you beamed like a lovesick fool when your phone lit up with his name. you refused to make afterwork plans on fridays because that was “friday pasta night with kento.” you sighed wistfully every time someone so much as mentioned a bakery and then whispered, “kento always remembers my favorite,” like you were in some fairytale.
you weren’t smug about it either. it was just… relentless. like you were trying to manifest it into reality.
and maybe it would’ve stayed harmless water cooler gossip — “hey, what do you think her husband actually looks like?” or “maybe it’s just her roommate who makes all the food?” — if you hadn’t mentioned that he’d be picking you up from work one day soon.
“he’s on leave,” you’d said, head bent over a spreadsheet, smiling to yourself. “wants to take me out for dinner. he’ll be here early. maybe you’ll see him.”
you said it innocently. with that dreamy lilt you always got when his name was on your tongue.
but that set off everyone.
bets were placed. theories floated. some said he’d never show. others swore they’d catch you whispering to your reflection in the hallway like a crazy person. one guy from accounting said he saw you with a facetime open to a picture of a k-pop idol and he swore it was nanami. it was all harmless. mostly.
people just didn’t believe it.
until the elevator doors slid open.
and nanami stepped out.
he wore a tan wool coat, fitted slacks, button-up half undone at the throat — all that fine-tuned, elegant masculinity that seemed sculpted into place. hair slicked back, wristwatch glinting, and an expression that was all quiet restraint, the kind that turned heads on instinct.
and his eyes — sharp, deep, familiar — scanned the room once, then softened the moment he saw you.
“you ready, sweetheart?” he asked.
your coworkers went silent.
someone dropped their pen.
you lit up instantly. grinned, grabbed your bag, waved at everyone with a cheery, “see you tomorrow!” like this wasn’t the most monumental moment of vindication in the history of your office.
nanami took your coat from you before you even shrugged it off fully. guided you with a hand on the small of your back. leaned in and brushed a kiss to your temple so naturally that your coworker audibly gasped.
he glanced up then. noticed the sea of frozen faces.
“good evening,” he said politely, like he didn’t just obliterate the collective doubt of your entire floor with one gentle peck.
you left with him. smiling, chatting, looping your arm through his as he opened the door and held it for you.
and behind you — a stunned, stunned silence.
“…so,” someone whispered, finally. “that was nanami?”
“the nanami?” another croaked.
“that man’s real?”
“she wasn’t even exaggerating,” came the hollow, awe-struck reply. “she was under-selling him.”
and in the elevator, nanami turned to you and smiled, faint but amused. “you were right,” he murmured, “they really didn’t believe i existed.”
you snorted and leaned into his side. “i told you. now they’ll think i made you in a lab.”
“i wouldn’t be bothered by that,” he said, tugging you closer, kissing your knuckles as the doors closed. “you did a perfect job, if so.”
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