swan 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

so you knocked on his door with a smile, tupperware clutched in both hands, wearing a ‘world’s okayest baker’ hoodie and a pair of fuzzy slippers because you didn’t expect to be judged for trying to be kind.

but he judged you anyway.

“hi,” you offered brightly when he answered, barely cracking the door open. “i live next door. thought i’d bring you guys something sweet.”

he looked at the cookies. then at you.

“thank you,” he said, polite but flat. “but we don’t eat much sugar.”

you blinked. “oh. well, your daughter might like—”

“i don’t let her eat things from strangers.”

you stood there for a beat too long.

then smiled again, tighter. “right. sure. yeah. that makes sense. wouldn’t want her to get.. poisoned or whatever.”

he nodded once and shut the door gently. you turned on your heel and stomped back to your kitchen, muttering under your breath.

“oh, we don’t eat sugar,” you mocked as you shoved a cookie in your mouth. “we don’t take things from strangers.” you opened your fridge too hard and a carton of eggs wobbled. “maybe your daughter would cry less if she had a goddamn chocolate chip for once.”

you weren’t mad. not really. just a little annoyed. okay, maybe salty, but only because the man had the audacity to look good and act like you were the problem. you tried to shrug it off.

except you kept seeing him. because well, he was your neighbor.

and worse: he was hot.

it was annoying.

he wore button-ups like they were tailored just for him. rolled his sleeves up when he mowed the lawn, muscles taut. when he jogged, his hair slicked back and his jaw clenched. you pretended not to look. he definitely didn’t look at you.

until he did.

the first time he offered to carry your groceries, you almost dropped them. he appeared out of nowhere, halfway down the steps of his porch, watching you struggle with two bags of flour and a carton of eggs. you hesitated, still a little wounded by cookiegate, but handed them over.

“sure. thanks.”

he still didn’t crack a smile. but he didn’t look annoyed either.

you told him your name as he followed you inside. he set the bags down on your counter and repeated it under his breath. it sounded good coming from him. stupidly good.

“i’m nanami kento.”

figures. of course his name was handsome..

he left after that, as quietly as he came. you stood in your kitchen, staring at the counter like an idiot.

you didn’t know it yet, but he was hard the entire time.

he hadn’t expected you to be barefoot on the tile, your shirt slipping lazily off one shoulder, and those tiny shorts clinging to your thighs as you bent slightly to open the fridge. the smell of cinnamon and sugar made his mouth water, but for something that wasn’t food.

he thought about you that night in the shower. tried not to, but he did. came faster than he meant to, head tilted back, biting down curses that sounded too much like your name. tried not to imagine the way your mouth would’ve looked around him— your tongue, your pretty little sounds. failed.

he told himself it would pass. it never did.

it only got worse.

he learned the hard way that he couldn’t keep his dick soft around you.

he was already halfway hard one morning when he walked out to grab the paper and saw you leaning out your window to shake a towel loose. your tank top barely covering anything as you waved at him, smiling. he waved back stiffly and went inside to jerk off with a disgusted sigh.

you were ruining him.

and you had no idea.

because you just kept showing up— dropping off extra banana bread, greeting his daughter with that soft, sweet smile, complimenting his tie one morning while licking strawberry jam off your fingers. you weren’t doing it on purpose, or maybe you were.

either way, it was a losing game.

“you always look at people’s hands like that?” he asked one day after he’d caught you staring longer than you should’ve.

“no,” you answered, wide-eyed. “they just.. stood out.”

he doesn’t even know what you meant by that. only that he had to excuse himself a minute later because he couldn’t walk around half-hard in his slacks with you standing five feet away in an apron and smirking.

he jerked off again that night. came so hard he almost blacked out, your name spilling from his lips between gasps. the guilt didn’t sink in until after.

and yet— he started opening the door more.

started waving first. started standing a little closer. you noticed, of course. and when you invited him to dinner one night after offering to bring over leftovers, he didn’t say no.

his daughter had already gone to sleep when he let you inside. you handed him a plastic container of curry with a sheepish grin. “i made too much.”

“so you’re a baker and a chef?”

“chef is generous,” you laughed. “i burn pasta all the time. but i can make you a mean sourdough!”

he didn’t laugh. but his mouth twitched. you considered that a win.

you stayed for dinner. then for the movie playing in his living room. it was quiet. just the two of you on the couch, the tv humming in the background, your head resting lazily against the cushion.

“kento,” you said after a while, voice soft, “why don’t you ever smile?”

he shrugged. “i do.”

“not around me.”

“i’m smiling now.”

“you’re not.”

“then maybe you should fix that.” he murmured.

your cheeks warmed. the room suddenly felt smaller. you shifted, knees brushing his. your hand landed on his thigh without thinking.

“you make it hard to behave.”

you looked up. “what?”

his eyes dropped to your mouth, then your chest. his jaw flexed.

“you know what you’re doing. all those looks. the touches. the cookies.”

“i was just being friendly.”

“you stare at my hands like you want them between your thighs.”

your breath hitched. he was still calm. still steady. but his voice was rough now, barely under control.

“you make me hard every damn day. i can’t sleep. i can’t think. all i see is you, walking around like you don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

his hand slid under your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

“i want to make you mine. make you my wife. but first—” his voice dropped lower, eyes blazing, “—i need to see you fall apart.”

he kissed you. slow and deep, tongue teasing the corner of your mouth before claiming you fully. you moaned into it, fingers clawing at his shirt. he lifted you with ease, carried you down the hall, laid you on his bed like he’d fantasized about for weeks.

your clothes were gone in minutes. his followed.

his cock was thick, heavy, flushed dark and drooling against your stomach as he pressed in close, the heat of it made your whole body twitch, lashes fluttering up as he stared down at you.

“open your legs,” he said, voice dark. “let me see you.”

you obeyed without question, hips tilting. he groaned when he saw the mess between your folds, wet and sticky and so fucking needy.

“such a pretty girl,” he murmured, dragging his fingers through the slick that coats your pussy. “all this sweetness, and you give it to me.”

his mouth replaced his fingers without warning. tongue working you open slowly, then desperately, devouring your cunt like it’s his sole purpose in life. licking and sucking and spitting, loud and filthy, tongue flicking your clit until your moans go hoarse and your legs clamped around his shoulders, body arching into every suck.

two fingers stretched you open suddenly, thick and deep, curling hard against your walls. your fingers thread into his blond strands, tugging harshly.

“kento- f-fuck, ooh!”

“that’s it. give it to me, sweetheart.”

he doesn’t stop until your pussy’s soaked and twitching, clenching around nothing, dripping down your thighs and begging for more.

“need your cock,” you gasped. “please—”

he stood, dragging his hand over his cock, thumb swiping precum from the tip just to smear it down the shaft.

“oh, i know. you’ve been teasing me for weeks, haven’t you?”

he pressed the swollen head to your entrance, then paused.

“look at me.”

your eyes met his, wide and already glassy.

“i’ll take care of you.”

then he pushed in.

you cried out as he filled you inch by inch. he was big. way too big. your cunt struggled to take him, squeezing helplessly. he groaned above you, teeth gritted.

“fuck,” he hissed. “you’re so tight. so wet. you were made for this.”

your moans were nonstop when he starts to move. long, hard thrusts that leave you gasping. your legs wrapped tight around his waist, keeping him trapped. each drag of his cock hits delicously, you felt so full. stuffed so perfectly you could barely breathe.

“you want to be mine?” he whispered.

“yes- yes—!”

“you want this cock every night?”

“please- kento, i—!”

“then say it. say you want to be my wife.”

“i do. i want to be yours, i want it all.”

he fucks you harder than before after that. your thighs were shaking uncontrollably. he grabs one, bends your knee back, forces you open so wide he gets the perfect view of the creamy mess building up on his cock with every stroke.

“gonna fill you up,” he growled. “you’ll take it, won’t you?”

you nod. whimpering, walls fluttering. your cunt clenching so tight he curses, slamming in deep and staying there.

“you’ll look so pretty with my cum leaking out of you.”

he groaned into your neck as he empties inside, warm seed flooding your hole. you trembled beneath him, overstimulated and soaking. his chest presses to yours as he kiss your forehead softly, breath still ragged.

“mine.”