Chapter Text
“You’re droppin’ feathers, Birdbrain.”
You didn’t even look up from your protein bar. Just muttered it as Hawks stumbled into the large office, sweaty and flushed. He’s messier than usual, his molting more of a nuisance like finding someone else’s hair down the locker room drains and you’re the one who has to carefully scoop it out with toilet paper so the dirty water wouldn’t pool around your feet anymore.
"Some chick quirked me. It’s a whole thing." He flopped dramatically onto the couch, one wing twitching, the other dragging like a dead limb. "Already got it scanned and diagnosed by the agency. Gotta be reversed by a ‘compatible partner’ biting this freaky mark on my neck."
You finally glanced over. Eyes narrowed.
“Compatible?” you ask.
He grinned.
Cocky. Gleaming with sweat. Pupils already dilated, heat rolling off him like steam.
“I guess the universe finally agrees with me. You're my match, bunbun.”
You rolled your eyes.
“Cute!” you say a little too strongly of sarcasm before you deadpan, “Never heard that one before.”
“I’m serious,” he said, head tilted. The timbre in his voice gives you goosebumps. “I mean, I’ve always flirted with you, but that wasn’t just for fun.”
You gave him a glare. He returns with a smirk.
“You’ve been in my head for months,” he murmured. “Speed, power, those ears... I’m down bad.”
Your eye twitches. Activating your Werebunny Quirk always gave you strange glares more than admiration. Your tail is oddly bushy for someone who has the ragged ears of a rabbit. You looked like a horrible mistake in some mad scientist’s lab.
In reality, your Werewolf Quirk-ed father just had to marry a lesser rabbit-eared woman who didn’t have nearly the same Heroic tendencies as Mirko did. Luckily, you drew the long straw.
So, obviously, it was hard to believe Hawks here almost begging you into his arms.
You chewed slowly.
“So let me get this straight. You’re in heat, you got hit by a sex quirk, and your solution is... me ?”
“Not just a solution,” he said with a wink. “You’re the fantasy.”
“Mmkay,” you shrug. You throw the protein bar wrapper into the trash bit, dusting your hands like you’re about to go back to work.
Two seconds later, he was pinned to the couch, legs spread, wrists caught in your grip.
His wings thrashed weakly.
“W-whoa—! Wait—”
“Shut up,” you growled.
His mouth fell open. You leaned in, nose brushing his throat. He whimpered when your breath hit the pulsing mark.
“Still want that bite?” you asked.
He nodded.
You sank your teeth in.
His cry was filthy . He arched under you like he’d been struck by lightning, hips grinding up instinctively for any semblance of relief.
The great womanizer and playboy reduced to a puddle. And you haven’t even gotten your clothes off yet. So you lean down, not bothering to take off his bodysuit, mouth working over the fabric and to the hem of his pants.
“W–what are you—?” his question dies off in his throat when your nose bumps his cock through his pants.
Too fast. Too slow? Fuck, he doesn’t even know anymore.
—
He doesn’t even remember how his pants came off. One second your mouth was hovering just above the fabric, and the next, he was bare, twitching, and embarrassingly ready . His wings fluttered like they were trying to escape without him, fanning his heated skin.
“I thought you’d—mmf—tease me,” he managed.
Your tongue flicked out, just once, dragging slowly along the underside of his cock before he could even finish the sentence.
“Don’t need to tease prey,” you said, glancing up with half-lidded eyes. “Especially when they’re already begging.”
“I’m not—” he started to protest, then gasped as your hand wrapped around the base and squeezed.
“You are.”
He groaned. The mark on his neck pulsed like it had its own heartbeat. His hips jerked.
Your smile was wicked.
“Sensitive,” you mused. “Guess that quirk really did a number on you.”
“Not just the quirk,” he muttered, delirious. “It’s you. ”
You paused.
Just for a breath.
Then you leaned in again, this time licking a stripe over the head, and his whole spine bowed off the couch.
“Shut up,” you said. “And take it like a good boy.”
He whimpers as he feels you take him down your tight throat.
Warm. Slick. Devouring.
Hawks' head hits the back of the couch with a thud, wings twitching open like they can’t decide if they want to fly him to safety or wrap around you in surrender. His fingers claw at the cushions, too unsure of himself to touch you, too overwhelmed to breathe properly.
“F-fuck,” he gasps. “You’re—shit, you're really—”
You hum.
Just that. A lazy, amused sound with your throat full of him, and it vibrates straight through his spine. His thighs tremble. He’s already fighting the urge to come like it’s a losing battle and from the slow, deliberate rhythm you’ve chosen, you know it.
He should be cocky. He wants to be cocky. But instead, he’s falling apart in your mouth, panting, whispering your name like a secret, like a plea.
The hands that are still gloved curled into fists. Shaking .
You ease up only once. Just long enough to pull off with a wet pop and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.
“What happened to all that big talk, Birdbrain?” you ask, voice rough, pupils blown wide. “Didn’t you say I was your fantasy?”
He whines.
Actually whines .
Because he’s hard, leaking, and absolutely throbbing, and you’re smirking like this is just a quick snack between missions.
“I—fuck—yeah,” he breathes, “fantasy—you're—you’re unreal, I can't—”
You grab him by the throat.
Not hard. Just firm. Dominant. Confident. In control.
—
His voice dies in his mouth.
He's too sensitive. He wants to beg for more clothes off, to see more of her, but she simply takes off her joggers and moves her bodysuit and panties to provide just enough access to sit on him.
Hot. Tight. Warm and velvety. It's too much and he feels embarrassed when he feels himself gush for the first time, the climax nothing but a pulse of pleasure before she looks down at him with an unimpressed gaze.
She doesn’t move.
Doesn’t say anything at first.
Just clenches once, deliberately, and he gasps; Head thrown back, wings fluttering uselessly under him like they’re trying to carry him somewhere safer, softer.
But he doesn’t want safe. He wants her.
Even now, fresh off an embarrassingly fast orgasm, his hips twitch upward, desperate for more. The inside of her is hot, soaked, clutching him so snugly it’s like her body was made for him.
“That's… never happened before,” he mutters, almost shy.
He looks up at her and he knows he looks messy, flushed and needy, still panting like he flew a marathon without landing once.
She cocks her head. One ear flicks forward.
“No kidding,” she says, dryly unimpressed.
His face flushes deeper. Shame mixes with the heat simmering in his veins, but the quirk doesn’t let up. Neither does the rut. His cock pulses again inside her, hardening fully in seconds, and he stifles a groan.
“God,” he breathes. “You’re… you’re really not even trying, are you?”
She finally leans forward, putting her hands on his chest and slide down on him once. Slow. Firm. Final.
He nearly blacks out.
“You came just from that?” she says, voice low. “Didn’t even see me naked.”
He swallows hard, hands flying up to grip her thighs; Strong, carved lines from years of training under Mirko. Her abs twitch as she moves again, and he moans .
“I—I wanna see you,” he gasps. “More of you.”
—
You just smile.
But it’s the dangerous kind. The kind that says you know exactly what you’re doing .
Instead of stripping, you tug the neck of your bodysuit just far enough for one full breast to spill out—lush, round, and so fucking close he can smell the faint musk of your sweat, feel the heat of your skin.
“Earn it,” you say, voice like velvet and razorwire.
He bucks up again, helpless.
“Yes—yes, anything—please—”
—
He’s still hard.
Still twitching inside her, even after cumming like a rookie. His chest is heaving, pupils blown wide, sweat dripping down his temples, but you haven’t moved; Just keeping him seated deep, grinding in slow, devastating circles.
“Sensitive,” you murmur, watching the way his jaw clenches every time your hips rock. “Still trying to show off?”
“N–no,” he breathes, voice shaking. “Not—not showing off—just—please—”
“Please what?”
His mouth opens.
Closes.
The pressure is unreal .
His hands are shaking against your thighs now. He tries to thrust up again, chasing friction, and you slap his chest—just once.
“No,” you say.
He whimpers.
You lean in, lips near his ear.
“You don’t get to cum again until I say.”
He swears under his breath, squirming, legs stiff under your weight. His wings tremble; stretched, frayed, panicked . He’s not used to this. Not used to not being the one in control. Not used to being treated like something to be used.
But god, it’s hot.
Your hand wraps around his throat again, this time firmer.
“Eyes on me,” you order.
He obeys instantly. Gold meets your gaze and you feel a wave of satisfaction flood you. Oh, how the mighty had fallen. And it tastes delicious .
“That’s better.” You squeeze around him, slow, and his toes curl. “You’re gonna learn how to last, Birdbrain. And I’m not letting you off this couch until you do.”
His cock throbs.
Hard. Aching. Utterly ruined.
You ride him slow— too slow. Enough to keep him on edge, not enough to let him fall. When his thighs start to shake, when his hips try to thrust again, you stop entirely, grinding your hips in a way that sends sparks down his spine.
“Fuck, please—please,” he whines. “I need—I need to—!”
“No, you want to,” you correct calmly, not even winded. “And you’ll take what I give you.”
He’s babbling now; flushed red, panting, body slick with sweat as you put him through it. A slow, methodical breaking . He’s so overstimulated his eyes are glassy, lips parted like he might cry. And still, you don’t let up. You bring him to the edge again —and stop.
Over. And over.
Eventually, you lean back, one hand trailing up your exposed breast.
“Touch me,” you command, finally.
His hands fly up so fast they almost shake.
“Carefully,” you warn.
He groans like it hurts to move, but he cups your breast with reverence, thumbs grazing over your nipple. His face is wrecked . Ruined.
But you finally smile.
“Good boy.”
That praise alone nearly makes him cum again.
—
Keigo was always cocky.
Until he wasn’t.
Until your teeth were scraping his neck and your thighs clenching his hips hard, cage him in place, and he was gasping into your shoulder.
“P-please, I—fuck, I can’t—”
You rode him like he was made for it. His wings fluttered helplessly, dragging across the floor, feathers falling everywhere. You slammed him down again and again, and his brain short-circuited somewhere around the third orgasm.
You didn’t let up.
—
Was it six? Seven times he came? He’d lost count. His brain was gooey. The mess between her legs flooded down to him, overstuffed and it would send him into another frenzy if he wasn’t so boneless . Hot tears pricked his eyes and his face feels like its burning with a fever.
On his office couch. Spread-eagle. Sweaty. Trembling. He should be embarrassed. He should be concerned he just got his brains fucked out at work. The HR paperwork would be insane.
But instead, he watched you through bleary eyes as you stood, stretched, tugged your pants back up like nothing had happened.
He stared up at you, dazed.
“...S-So, uh. Do you wanna maybe... get dinner sometime?”
You blinked.
Then snorted.
“I just got you outta your quirk, Birdie. Cute, though.”
… what?
His heart shattered .
You ruffled his hair—just once—and walked out with your hips still swaying like you hadn’t just turned Japan’s number two hero into a feather-covered puddle of afterglow and regrets.
He lay there for a while. Just… staring at the ceiling.
His wings were twitching involuntarily, like his body couldn’t decide whether it wanted to fly away or chase you out the door.
“Cute, though.”
The words repeated in his skull like a cursed mantra.
He wasn’t even sure if he was more humiliated by how fast he folded, or how sincere that question had been.
Dinner . Like he was some lovesick intern with a crush. He wasn’t that guy.
He was Hawks . The charming menace. The pretty boy with a smirk sharp enough to cut steel and a body count to match.
...And now he was lying on his own agency couch, his abs twitching from the abuse, with a feather stuck to his lip and a crush the size of Tokyo Tower.
He groaned into his hands. It takes a minute, but he manages to clean himself off with a spare towel he keeps in there that was usually used to wipe grime and sweat off his hands before he touched the hundred-thousand-yen desktop and pulled up his pants.
The entire time, he secretly wished you’d come back in. Maybe you’d forgotten your shoes or your phone? Anything, really.
But, you were already gone. Back to work. Probably didn’t even think about it the same way he did. Probably just needed to get him out of the heat-quirk mess, and maybe scratch an itch while you were at it.
But him?
He was ruined .
Every time he blinked, he saw the curve of your biceps. The way your ears twitched in irritation. The subtle flex in your thighs when you pinned him down like it was easy . You didn’t just scratch an itch—you carved your name into him with your teeth and left him there to think about it .
And Keigo lay back down, covered his face with a wing, and muttered to himself like a man deep in spiritual crisis.
“...I’m so fucked.”