Akihiro

The shop smells faintly of wood and leather, the warm scent curling through the quiet air as sunlight slants across the floorboards. You’re perched on the counter, swinging your legs as you sort through a pouch of coins, and across the room, Akihiro pretends to be busy with inventory.

He’s always like this when it’s just the two of you—calm, quiet, gentle in every movement, as though afraid one wrong touch might break something fragile between you. To anyone else, he’s the towering ex-adventurer with the kind smile and quiet strength. To you, he’s your best friend—the one who carried you through battles, shared fireside stories with you under endless stars, stayed at your side when the world felt too heavy.

What you don’t see—what he hopes you never see—is the way his hands tremble when they brush yours. How his pulse pounds when you laugh. How his amber eyes drift lower when you stretch, catching the sliver of skin at your waist before he forces himself to look away.

He tells himself it’s enough—this closeness, this trust. But gods, it’s torture. Because every time you lean over the counter, every time you touch his arm without thinking, every time your small body presses into his when the inn gets crowded, something in him frays a little more.

He’s never said a word. Not because he doesn’t want you—but because he wants you to choose him freely, not the monster he hides under those loose trousers. Because if you knew—if you saw the truth—you’d never look at him the same.

And the truth is this: Akihiro wants you in ways that keep him up at night. He wants to feel you under him, so small his arms could swallow you whole. Wants your nails clawing at his back as he pushes deeper, filling you until you can’t take any more. Wants to spill into you until there’s nothing left—until you’re marked and leaking and ruined for anyone else.

But instead, he just stands there in the quiet glow of afternoon, stealing glances when you aren’t looking. His massive hands curl around a wooden crate as if the tension in his chest could be crushed into splinters.

“You hungry?” he asks softly, voice low, steady, betraying nothing of the storm behind his eyes. Because if you said yes—if you gave him even an inch—he’s not sure he could stop.

Not this time.

The sun hangs low on the horizon, painting the clearing in shades of gold as you toss your practice blade aside, chest heaving. Your arms ache from the endless rounds, your breath coming in short bursts—but you’re grinning. Because for the first time, you managed to land a hit on him.

Akihiro stands a few paces away, towering as always, sweat sliding down the ridges of his abs and soaking through his loose shirt. He wipes his brow with the back of his hand, amber eyes flicking toward you with something like pride… and something else.

“You’re getting faster,” he says, voice smooth but husky, just slightly ragged at the edges. His lips curl in a faint smile that makes your stomach flip.

“Maybe you’re just slowing down,” you shoot back, teasing, and he chuckles—a deep, warm sound that sends a shiver through you.

Then he steps closer.

One, two strides, and suddenly he’s standing over you, shadow falling long across the grass. You tilt your head back to meet his gaze, and gods, he’s huge up close—sweat-slick skin, muscles shifting under the fabric, the scent of steel and earth clinging to him.

“You think so?” he murmurs, and before you can answer, his hand is on your shoulder—steady, grounding, yet heavy enough to make your breath catch. His grip is warm, firm, his thumb brushing your collarbone like an accident. Except… it lingers.

You laugh nervously, trying to pull away, but his fingers curl tighter, anchoring you in place. His other hand rises—slow, deliberate—and cups your jaw, tilting your face toward his.

His eyes burn like molten amber, locked on yours, and when he speaks again, his voice is low enough to rattle through your bones: “You’ve gotten stronger… but don’t forget who taught you everything.”

The air between you is thick—charged—and his thumb strokes along your jaw before trailing lower, ghosting over your throat. For a split second, you think he’s about to kiss you… and the worst part? You want him to.

You always have.

The mountains are quiet this time of year, the only sound the rush of distant waterfalls and the whisper of leaves. You pull the sliding door open and step into the onsen’s bathing area, the sharp chill of the night air chased away instantly by the thick, fragrant steam curling up from the water.

Akihiro is already there.

He sits waist-deep in the steaming pool, hair damp and pushed back, droplets sliding down his neck and over his broad shoulders. His body looks carved from stone, every ridge of muscle glistening in the hazy light, a living statue surrounded by mist.

He glances over as you enter—just a flicker of amber eyes through the steam, but enough to make your pulse jump. “You made it,” he says softly, voice deep and smooth, reverberating in the still air.

You ease into the water across from him, trying to ignore the way the heat makes your skin prickle and your thoughts swirl. The pool is big, but somehow he feels close—maybe it’s the way his presence fills the space, or the fact that his legs stretch so far beneath the surface they nearly brush yours.

For a while, it’s quiet. Just the trickle of water over stone and the muted thump of your own heartbeat. But every time you glance up, you catch him looking—quick, guilty glances that slide away when your eyes meet. His jaw is tight, lips pressed thin, like he’s holding something back.

You shift, and the water ripples, breaking the surface tension. That’s when you notice: His towel, draped loosely at his hips, does nothing to hide the sheer size of him. Even soft, his cock is obscene under the water—thick, heavy, the shadow of it shifting when his thighs flex.

Your breath stutters. His does too.

“The water’s… hot, huh?” you mumble, forcing a laugh.

Akihiro’s head tips back slightly, throat bobbing as he swallows hard. His voice, when it comes, is rough around the edges, low enough to curl heat through your gut: “Too hot,” he murmurs. And when his eyes meet yours again, the restraint in them is paper-thin.

The tavern’s been packed all night—mercenaries, traders, drunk adventurers spilling ale on the floorboards. By the time you slip into the bathroom, the muffled hum of voices feels like a dull roar behind the wooden door. You step up to the nearest urinal, sighing in relief as you start to piss.

Then the door creaks open again. Heavy boots on stone. A shadow falls across the floor beside you, and before you even glance up, you know who it is.

Akihiro.

He moves with the same quiet confidence he always has, towering over the cramped space, the heat of him brushing your shoulder as he takes the spot next to you. Out of the corner of your eye, you see his hands—those big, calloused hands—slide to his waistband. And then, without hesitation, he pulls down his belt and pushes his trousers open.

You shouldn’t look. Gods, you shouldn’t. But when the sound of fabric shifting fills the silence, your eyes flick down—and your breath stutters.

It drops heavy into his palm, swinging free like it’s got its own weight. Thick, uncut, impossibly long, the foreskin loose and dripping with the first bead of piss that clings to the flushed head. Even soft, it’s a monster—easily dwarfing anything you’ve ever seen.

The sound of his stream hitting porcelain is deafening. A deep, powerful hiss that lasts and lasts, splashing with the kind of force that makes the whole stall smell faintly of him—musky, virile, raw. Akihiro exhales slowly, tilting his head back slightly like it’s the first real relief he’s had all night.

“Sorry,” he murmurs without looking at you, voice low and smooth as molten honey. “Crowded out there.”

But when he glances down at you—then at your cock, then back to his own—there’s a flicker in his amber eyes. A challenge. A promise. A silent, brutal truth: If you keep looking, you’re not leaving this bathroom standing.

The bell above the shop door jingles softly as you push it open, the warm scent of leather and old wood greeting you like always. You call out his name—“Akihiro?”—but there’s no answer.

The place is quiet. Too quiet.

You step inside, your boots barely creaking on the floorboards as you glance around the cluttered shelves of adventuring gear. The back door is cracked open just slightly, and from behind it comes a sound that makes your breath catch.

A low, broken groan. Deep, raw, and nothing like the calm, easy voice you’re used to.

Curiosity pulls you closer, your pulse quickening as you ease the door open just enough to peek inside.

And there he is.

**Akihiro sits slumped back in his chair, shirt rucked up over his abs, trousers shoved down to his knees. One massive hand fists his cock—**a monstrous thing even in motion, veins bulging under flushed skin, foreskin sliding wetly over the thick, swollen head with every stroke. His other hand digs into the armrest, muscles taut, chest heaving with each sharp breath.

You freeze, rooted to the spot as you take it in—the raw size of him, the obscene slick sounds filling the air, the way his jaw tightens like he’s fighting to keep quiet and failing miserably. His voice comes again, a hoarse whisper of your name, followed by a guttural curse that makes your stomach twist and heat flood your veins.

Then it happens.

He shudders hard, head snapping back, teeth gritted as his cock jerks in his fist—and then it erupts, spraying thick, heavy ropes of cum that arc through the air and splatter across the wooden floorboards. The first spurt hits the edge of the desk with a wet smack; the next paints his abs, his hand, the chair. It just keeps coming—pulse after pulse, obscene amounts gushing out in thick, creamy ropes, dripping from the tip and pooling under his chair.

By the time he slumps back, panting, his abs are slick, his thighs sticky, and the floor looks like someone dumped a bowl of cream across the boards. He mutters a shaky, guttural laugh—like he didn’t even realize how much he had in him—and reaches lazily for a cloth, still unaware of the eyes watching from the doorway.

The night is still except for the crackle of the fire and the distant whisper of wind through the trees. The flames cast everything in shades of gold and amber, painting shadows across Akihiro’s face as he sits across from you, one knee drawn up, a cup of tea cradled in his massive hand.

You’ve made camp a hundred times before. Nights like this were nothing new—quiet, safe, warm after a long day’s trek. But tonight… feels different.

Maybe it’s the way he’s staring into the fire, jaw tight, like he’s working up the nerve to speak. Maybe it’s the silence—the way it stretches too long, too heavy, until it presses against your skin.

“You ever think about… what comes after?” he asks suddenly, voice low, smooth, yet carrying an edge of something uncertain.

You blink at him. “After?”

His eyes lift, molten amber catching the glow of the flames. Gods, he looks different tonight—less like your calm, steady friend and more like a man on the edge of something dangerous.

“After all this,” he says slowly, as if every word costs him something. “Adventuring. The fighting. The running. What comes next for you?”

You shrug lightly, trying to laugh it off. “Haven’t thought that far ahead.”

He sets the cup down. His hands—those huge, scarred hands—curl against his knees, the tendons in his forearms flexing. When he speaks again, his voice is rougher, quieter, like he’s afraid of the answer: “And… if I told you I wanted you in that future?”

Your breath catches. The fire pops, sparks spiraling up into the dark as the weight of his words sinks in. You open your mouth, but he’s already moving—leaning forward, his shadow swallowing the distance until you can feel the heat of him across the flames.

“I’ve wanted you for so damn long,” he murmurs, and now there’s no hesitation, no mask. Just raw need trembling under every syllable. His gaze drops to your lips, then lower—to the hollow of your throat—before snapping back up with a hunger that makes your pulse race.

“I can’t keep pretending anymore.”

The world goes quiet. It’s just the fire, the night… and him, waiting for an answer that could burn everything to the ground.

The words hang heavy in the cold night air, sinking into your chest like a stone. You can hear the fire crackling, the distant call of an owl—every sound sharper now, because Akihiro is looking at you like a starving man.

“Aki—” you start, voice trembling, but then he moves.

In one slow, deliberate motion, he rises to his full towering height, the firelight casting his body in molten gold. His boots crunch softly on the earth as he circles the fire and stops in front of you. When his shadow falls over you, your breath catches.

“Say something,” he murmurs, voice rough, almost pleading.

You open your mouth—but you never get the chance.

Because then his hand cups your face, and his mouth crashes into yours.

It’s not gentle. It’s years of restraint snapping all at once, every ounce of longing and hunger poured into the press of his lips, the bruising grip of his hand at your jaw. You gasp against him, and he seizes the chance—tongue sliding deep, claiming you, devouring the sound like he’s been dying for it.

You clutch at his shirt, but he’s already pulling you to your feet—then shoving you back, hard enough that your bedroll hits the dirt and you land with a startled cry. He’s on you in an instant, straddling your hips, his massive frame blotting out the stars above.

“You don’t know,” he growls against your throat, teeth grazing your skin as he drags his mouth lower, licking the sweat and salt from your collarbone. “How many nights I’ve thought about this. How many times I’ve had to stop myself.”

His hands—gods, those hands—tear at your clothes, stripping you down until the cold air kisses your skin. And then you feel it.

The weight.

His cock drags against your thigh as he grinds down—a monstrous thing, hot and heavy and already slick with precum. You glance down and your breath catches because it’s unreal: thick, veined, uncut, the foreskin rolling tight over a flushed, angry head that throbs with every beat of his heart.

“Aki—fuck, it’s—”

“Too much?” he pants, voice trembling as he grabs the base, stroking slowly, letting you watch the foreskin peel back. “I’ll go slow. I swear. Just… let me have you.”

You nod—shaky, desperate—and that’s all it takes.

He hooks your legs around his waist and presses forward. The first push steals your breath—stretching you wide, burning and blissful all at once—and Akihiro curses low and broken, burying his face in your neck as he sinks in deeper, inch by inch, until your belly feels full, stuffed beyond anything you thought possible.

“Gods, you’re perfect,” he groans, hips trembling as his cock pulses inside you. “Made for me… all mine.”

And then he moves.

Slow at first, rocking his hips, letting you feel every ridge, every thick vein dragging along your walls—but it doesn’t stay slow for long. The years of holding back crash down on him, and soon he’s pounding into you, each thrust heavy enough to jolt you up the bedroll, your cries swallowed by his mouth as he kisses you like he needs air to live.

The fire pops, sparks spiraling into the night as Akihiro loses himself—slamming you into the dirt, hips snapping hard, sweat dripping from his temples onto your skin. His voice is wrecked, a low, relentless chant of your name, broken moans and snarled curses spilling between gasps: “So tight—fuck, can’t stop—gonna fill you—”

You feel him swell inside you, the base of his cock thickening, foreskin rolling tight as his rhythm falters. Then he slams deep—balls flush against you, cock buried to the hilt—and breaks with a guttural roar that shakes the night.

Heat floods you in a violent rush, thick, virile ropes of cum spilling in heavy pulses, so much it gushes back out around him and drips down your ass. He doesn’t stop—still grinding, still emptying himself in wave after wave, groaning into your hair as his cock twitches, painting your insides with an obscene, endless load that makes you feel ruined, marked, his.

By the time he slumps forward, panting, the bedroll is soaked, your thighs sticky, and he’s still hard, still throbbing inside you—because gods help you both, he’s not done yet.

“Not letting you go tonight,” he whispers, voice hoarse against your ear. “Not after this.”

And when he rolls his hips again, slow and deep, you know he means it.

The first thing you feel is warmth. Not just the heat of the sun spilling through the tent flap, but the deep, solid warmth pressed against your entire body.

You blink awake slowly, head heavy, muscles sore in the best possible way. The fire from last night is nothing but smoldering embers now, faint smoke curling into the dawn air—but you barely notice, because you’re lying on something far more comforting.

Akihiro.

Or rather, on top of him.

Your cheek rests against the hard plane of his chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat echoing through your ear like a drum. His skin is warm, slick with the faint sheen of dried sweat, and his arm is curled around your waist like a steel band—holding you there even in sleep, as if the thought of letting go would kill him.

He looks different like this. The sharp lines of his face softened by the early light, lips parted slightly, dark hair mussed and falling into his eyes. Even in sleep, he’s breathtaking—all raw strength and quiet vulnerability, the kind of beauty that steals the air from your lungs.

You shift slightly, and that’s when you feel it.

Something heavy resting against your thigh. Thick, warm, and already stirring despite the fact that he’s still out cold. You glance down and swallow hard because, gods, it’s just as monstrous soft as it was hard last night—hanging thick and heavy across his hip, foreskin loose, the tip flushed and leaking faintly, like even his cock refuses to rest after what he did to you.

Last night comes back in flashes—his voice in your ear, his weight pinning you down, the stretch, the heat, the way he filled you until you thought you’d break and then kept going. Your whole body aches from it, sore and marked in ways that make heat curl in your belly all over again.

A soft groan rumbles under your cheek, and then his arm tightens around you. His eyes flutter open, amber catching the dawn light as they focus on you—and gods, that look.

“Morning,” he rasps, voice low, rough from sleep. His fingers trail slowly up your spine, and then he’s pulling you higher, pressing your lips to his in a lazy, tender kiss that melts every bone in your body.

“Not leaving this bedroll today,” he murmurs against your mouth, a faint smirk curving his lips as something thick and hot nudges your hip. “Not when I’m not done with you.”

You’ve always known Akihiro was tall—towering, really—but sitting across from him now, in the cramped little inn room you’re sharing, the reality hits different.

The chair he’s perched on groans under his weight, the wooden frame creaking every time he shifts. His legs—gods, his legs—stretch halfway across the room, thick with muscle, calves like carved stone and thighs that could crush a man in seconds. His knees are level with the tabletop, while yours barely reach the edge.

He leans forward to grab his mug, and his forearms flex with casual strength, veins standing out against tanned skin. The mug looks tiny in his hand—like a child’s cup—while yours fits snug between your own fingers.

You glance at his boots by the door and swallow hard. They’re massive—each one big enough that you could probably fit both your feet inside. You’ve joked about it before, but now the thought just makes your pulse race.

And then your eyes drift lower.

He’s relaxed—sprawled back in the chair now, shirt open at the chest where the ties have come loose, exposing a stretch of golden skin and muscle. But it’s what’s under the table that steals your breath: His cock. Or rather, the outline of it through his loose trousers. Even soft, it’s obscene—long, heavy, a thick ridge running down his thigh that twitches every time he shifts his weight. You try to look away, but it’s impossible not to notice how the fabric strains at the shape, how the sheer size of it makes your own feel pathetic in comparison.

Akihiro catches your stare. For a heartbeat, he says nothing—just watches you, his amber eyes darkening with something you’ve never seen before. Then, slowly, he leans back, spreading his legs wider, giving you a better view.

“Something on your mind?” His voice is calm, but there’s a dangerous edge under the words—a heat that makes your stomach twist.

When you stammer out some excuse, his mouth curves into a slow, knowing smile. He taps a finger against the table, gaze never leaving yours. “Come here,” he says softly, like it’s not even a question.

And when you stand and step between his legs, you feel small—so small—tilting your head back just to meet his eyes, your chest brushing his knees, his hands already reaching for your hips.

“You ever wonder,” he murmurs, voice low and rough as his fingers curl around your waist like iron, “just how much bigger I am than you?”I’m

It’s been a week since that night by the fire—the night everything changed. And if you thought Akihiro was protective before, you were wrong.

Now, he’s downright clingy.

You can’t move around camp without feeling his presence like a second shadow. Cooking breakfast? He’s behind you, arms wrapped snug around your waist, chin resting heavy on your shoulder as he rumbles out a lazy, “Smells good…” against your ear. Packing your gear? He’s already done it for you—because the thought of you lifting anything heavier than a dagger makes him frown.

And gods, the touching. Constant. If he’s not holding your hand, he’s got an arm around your shoulders, your hips, your thigh—anything to keep you close. Sometimes he just scoops you up entirely, carrying you bridal-style across camp as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, ignoring your protests with a soft, smug smile and a “You’re mine now. Get used to it.”

Tonight, after a long day of travel, you collapse onto your bedroll with a sigh. You barely have time to breathe before Akihiro stretches out behind you, pulling you flush against his chest like his body was molded to fit yours. His arms band tight around your waist, his face burying in your hair as he exhales a deep, contented sigh.

“Don’t move,” he mutters, voice low and heavy with warmth. His lips ghost along the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “Not going anywhere without me.”

You laugh softly, teasing, “You’re worse than a shadow.”

He grins against your neck, and then he’s peppering kisses along your skin—slow, tender, almost worshipful—before murmuring, “That’s because shadows don’t get jealous when someone looks at you.”

When you turn to face him, he’s smiling—but there’s a flicker in his eyes, something fierce and tender all at once. He tilts your chin up with one massive hand and kisses you slow, deep, like he has all the time in the world. Like he wants to taste every part of you.

And when he pulls back, his voice is a whisper meant only for you: “I’m not letting you go. Ever.”

The fire crackles softly in the hearth, throwing warm light over Akihiro’s sprawled frame. He’s lounging on the couch like a king in his throne—broad chest bare, muscles relaxed, eyes half-lidded with that quiet confidence that always makes your stomach flip.

And his cock? Gods.

It lies across his thigh like something out of a fever dream—thick, veined, uncut, the foreskin loose and heavy over the flushed head. Even soft, it looks impossible; a beast barely contained by its own skin, resting against a nest of dark hair.

You’re curled against him, head on his chest, when your hand drifts lower—just brushing the base at first, testing. He glances down, brow quirking, but doesn’t stop you. If anything, his lips twitch in a lazy smile. “Dangerous game you’re playing, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice smooth and low.

You ignore the warning. Your fingers curl around the shaft—barely able to wrap fully around—and hook under the edge of his foreskin, tugging it down slowly. The swollen crown peeks out, flushed and slick with precum that glistens in the firelight.

Akihiro’s breath stutters. His hand slides to your back, gripping, as you push the skin back up, rolling it gently until it bunches over the tip again. The motion is slow, teasing—pull, glide, pull, glide—a lazy rhythm that makes him exhale through his teeth with a low, shaky growl.

You do it again. And again. And soon his chest is heaving under your cheek, his abs twitching with every stroke. Precum starts to bead and drip down the shaft, making everything slick and obscene.

“Fuck—” His voice cracks when you squeeze lightly, thumbing over the tender head before dragging the skin forward in one smooth motion. His hips jerk, his thighs tensing like steel under your touch. “You keep that up, I’m gonna—”

Too late.

His whole body seizes, a guttural sound ripping from his throat as his cock lurches violently in your hands, spraying the first thick rope across your cheek. Then another. And another. Hot, sticky ropes of cum paint your face, your lips, your chin, splattering onto your chest in heavy, obscene spurts. It doesn’t stop—pulse after pulse, an endless flood spilling over your skin as he groans your name like a prayer gone filthy.

By the time he slumps back against the couch, panting, you’re a mess—face streaked, dripping with his release, hands still sticky around his throbbing shaft. His amber eyes crack open to take in the sight, dark and wild with hunger.

“Gods,” he rasps, chest heaving. “You look so fucking good like that…”

And when his cock twitches in your hands again—still hard, still leaking—you know he’s nowhere near done.