♡ Pairing: Hawks (Keigo Takami) x Reader
After years of relying on heat suppressants, your doctor refuses to renew your prescription, forcing you to face the one thing you’ve spent years avoiding.
Desperate, you turn to the black market for one last dose—only to get caught by the Number Two Hero himself.
Instead of arresting you, Hawks offers something far more unexpected: a safe place to stay… and an offer only another avian-type could truly understand.
✦ Explicit Sexual Content
✦ Emotional Vulnerability
✦ Medical Discussion (Heat Suppressants)
I definitely need therapy. 💀😅
Please don’t question me because I honestly don’t have a good explanation for this one. 😂
The afternoon sun glinted off Hawks' crimson feathers as he soared over Musutafu's bustling streets, a familiar, comforting weight against the wind. Below, the city was a tapestry of motion and sound—cars honking, people rushing, the distant wail of a siren that wasn't for him. He loved the view from up here, the god-like perspective that let him see the intricate dance of ordinary lives without getting tangled in them. It was cleaner. Easier.
His patrol route was a well-worn groove in his mind, a sequence of rooftops and intersections he could navigate half-asleep. But something, or rather someone, snagged his attention today. Tucked into the outdoor seating of a trendy cafe, a small group of women laughed around a table, their conversation a bright, inaudible murmur beneath the city's hum. Most of them were unremarkable, but one… one made him pull up short, hovering silently in the sky like a painted hawk on a wire.
They weren't like his, the broad, powerful raptor appendages built for speed and devastating force. These were different. Smaller, more delicate, arching from her back in soft, elegant curves. They shimmered with an almost pearlescent white, the individual feathers catching the light like mother-of-pearl. They folded neatly against her chair, a stark, beautiful contrast to the dark wood. Angelic. That was the word that sprang to mind, unbidden.
He knew every active hero with a wing-type Quirk, and he made it his business to know the up-and-comers at the commission. He’d never seen her before. More than that, he would have remembered. The sheer rarity of someone else born with natural wings, a kindred spirit in a world of Quirks that so often aped flight with clumsy machinery or mutant mishaps, was a statistical anomaly he couldn't ignore. She wasn't in a hero costume, just a simple summer dress that showed off toned shoulders. A civilian. A beautiful, intriguing civilian with wings that could make the heavens themselves weep with envy.
A grin, sharp and genuine, split his face. Well, now. The day just got a hell of a lot more interesting.
He folded his own wings and dropped, a controlled, silent plummet that ended with a soft tap of his boots on the pavement a few feet from her table. The sudden appearance of the Number Two Hero sent a ripple of excitement through the other patrons. Phones came out, whispers escalated. The woman with the angel wings flinched, her head snapping up, her wide, startled eyes locking onto his.
Her friends erupted, a flurry of "Oh my god, it's Hawks!" and "Can we get a picture?"
He gave them his signature lazy wink, the one that looked easy but was calculated to disarm. "Ladies. Enjoying the sunshine?"
He kept his gaze, however, fixed on the one who mattered. She was trying to make herself small, her wings twitching involuntarily, pulling in tighter against her back. There was fear there, and a deep, weary annoyance that piqued his curiosity even more. Most people were star-struck. She looked like he'd just ruined her lunch break.
"Sorry to bother you," he said, pitching his voice low enough for only her table to hear. "Couldn't help but notice your… assets." He gestured with a casual flick of his chin toward her wings. "Rare to see a pair like those. I'm Hawks."
He held out a hand, a polite invitation she looked at like it was a snake.
One of her friends, a bubbly blonde, nudged her. "Y/N, say something!"
So that was her name. Y/N. It suited her. He watched her throat work as she swallowed, her gaze darting from his outstretched hand to his face and back again. Finally, with what looked like immense reluctance, she placed her fingers in his. Her touch was light, hesitant, her skin cool. "I know who you are," she murmured, her voice softer than he expected. "And thanks."
She pulled her hand back as if burned. Her wings rustled, a soft, shushing sound.
"You're not a hero," he stated, more an observation than a question.
"Civilian. Good for you." He flashed another smile, this one a little less polished. "Never seen you around before. Your wings… they're incredible. You keep them hidden?"
The directness made her flinch again. A protective wall slammed down behind her eyes. "I don't like the attention."
"Can't blame you there," he said easily, leaning a shoulder against the railing that separated the patio from the sidewalk. "Gets old. But still. Must be a hassle, right? The… maintenance."
It was a delicate way of asking. The molting, the preening, the aches, the strain of keeping them folded for hours. And the other thing. The thing no one liked to talk about.
Her friends were now staring, their conversation forgotten. The silence at the table was thick with Y/N's discomfort. She picked at a loose thread on her napkin. "It's manageable."
The single word was a dismissal. Clear. Unarguable. Hawks knew when to push and when to retreat. He'd gotten what he came for—a name, a face, and the confirmation of a mystery he intended to solve. He could see the tension in the set of her shoulders, the way her wings were pressed so flat against her back they looked bruised.
"Alright then," he said, pushing off the railing. "Don't let me keep you from your lunch. Nice to meet you, Y/N."
He gave a two-fingered salute to the rest of the table, eliciting another round of giggles, and launched himself back into the air. The upward rush of wind was a familiar thrill, but his mind was already replaying the image of her: the wariness in her eyes, the almost painful tightness of her posture, and those impossible, beautiful wings hidden from the world. Why hide something so magnificent? He didn't know, but he had a feeling it was a story worth hearing. And Takami Keigo always got the story he wanted. He banked, catching a thermal to gain altitude, a new thread added to the web of the city, and he, for now, content to watch from afar.
Three days later, you sat in the sterile, unforgiving glare of Dr. Satomi's office, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. The familiar scent of antiseptic and paper did nothing to calm you. Your wings, usually a source of quiet pride even when hidden, felt like a dead weight of dread pinned to your back.
"Absolutely not." Dr. Satomi's voice was firm, her expression unyielding behind her spectacles. She slid the small, empty pill bottle back across the polished desk. "Y/N, we've been over this. You've been on these suppressants for four years consecutively. The strain on your system is becoming untenable."
"But they work," you pleaded, your voice thin. "I can't… I can't go through it. Not again."
The 'it' was a week of living hell. A heat cycle that transformed you from a composed, independent woman into a trembling, lust-addled creature ruled by instinct. The memory of your last natural heat, four years ago before you'd found a doctor willing to prescribe long-term blockers, was a nightmare of sweating, shaking, aching need. Days where you couldn't think, couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, your body a furnace of desire for release you were too ashamed to seek. You never wanted to feel that loss of control again. Ever.
"They're 'working' by putting your body into a state of constant, low-grade chemical warfare," Dr. Satomi countered, her tone softening slightly. "Your hormonal levels are a mess. I've flagged your last three blood tests. The commission is already asking questions. And I'm telling you, as your physician, if you push this off again, the next one will be worse. More painful, and significantly longer. Your body is building up a resistance. A backlash is coming, whether you like it or not. It's safer, healthier, to let it run its course now, under supervision."
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through your chest. "So that's it? You're just… cutting me off?"
"For your own good, yes. I'm writing you a prescription for nutritional supplements and mild pain relievers. I recommend you take the next week off work, prepare your home, and let nature take its course. I repeat, you cannot take another blocker."
You left the office in a daze, the prescription paper feeling like a death sentence in your clammy hand. You didn't even make it to the pharmacy. The thought of that week alone, helpless and consumed by fever, was unbearable. Shame warred with a primal, desperate fear. You had to find another way.
The thought was ugly, a dark seed sprouting in the fertile ground of your panic. The black market. You'd heard whispers, of course. Other avian-types, those whose quirks came with inconvenient, messy biological imperatives, talked about it in hushed online forums. Unregulated, dangerous, and expensive. But it was an option.
That evening, huddled in the warm glow of your computer monitors, you dove into the seedy underbelly of the hero-support web. It took hours of navigating encrypted chats and vague code words, but finally, you found it. An anonymous seller, promising 'premium pharmaceutical-grade heat suppressants, no questions asked'. The price churned in your gut, but a week of that particular suffering was worse than any financial blow. You contacted the seller. An address materialized on your screen: a discrete-looking alley tucked behind a 24-hour laundromat in one of the city's grimmer districts. The meeting was set for midnight.
Relief, bitter and hollow, flooded you. You pushed aside the nagging guilt and the fear of what you were doing. It was survival. That's all.
Meanwhile, high in a glass-walled office at the Hero Public Safety Commission, Hawks wasn't looking at the city. He was looking at a screen, at data streams compiled from months of meticulous investigation. Operation: Nest Egg, he'd privately dubbed it. A crackdown on the very same black market you were about to visit. The Commission was concerned about unregulated Quirk-altering drugs falling into villain hands, but Hawks had a more personal interest. These drugs were killing people, or ruining them from the inside out. He'd seen the aftermath.
"Got a bite," his sidekick's voice crackled in his earpiece. "Level-3 buyer. Paid a hefty sum for a single-dose blocker. Meeting point is the old laundromat on 6th. Midnight."
"Roger that," Hawks murmured, a predatory gleam in his golden eyes. "I'll handle it personally. This feels bigger than a level-3 buyer if they're paying that much. Might be our lead to the source."
The next night, the air in the alley was thick with the smell of damp lint and stale cigarette smoke. You pulled your thin jacket tighter, the fabric doing little to ward off the creeping chill. Your wings were folded so tightly they ached, a physical manifestation of your anxiety. Every shadow seemed to move, every distant footfall sounded like a trap springing. This was a mistake. A stupid, reckless mistake. But the memory of the heat, of your body not belonging to you, was stronger. You pressed onward.
A figure detached itself from the deeper shadows near the overflowing dumpster. Tall, broad, nondescript. You couldn't make out their face beneath the brim of a low hat.
"You have the payment?" The voice was a low rasp.
You nodded, extending a trembling hand with the thick envelope of cash.
"Good." They took it, thumbed through it with unnerving speed, and then produced a small, amber plastic vial. "Pleasure doing business."
The transaction was sickeningly fast. You clutched the vial, a tiny, precious lifeline. As you turned to flee, a crimson feather whispered through the air, impossibly fast. It didn't strike you, but the seller. A sharp yelp of pain, and the man staggered, dropping a bag from his shoulder. More feathers swarmed in, a blizzard of sharpened steel, pinning his clothes to the brick wall with surgical precision, trapping him.
You froze, your blood turning to ice. From the rooftop above, a silhouette dropped into the alley, landing with an unnerving lack of sound. The streetlights caught the flash of red wings.
"Commission business," Hawks' voice rang out, calm and authoritative. "You're under arrest for illegal distribution of controlled substances."
The seller was swearing, struggling against the feather-pins. But you couldn't focus on him. Your gaze was locked on Hawks as he turned from his catch, those sharp, intelligent eyes finding yours in the gloom. A flicker of recognition. Then surprise. And then something harder, something colder, that made your stomach drop.
"Well, well," he said, his voice losing its public-facing cheer and taking on a private, dangerous edge. He walked toward you, slow and deliberate. "Graphic Designer Y/N. What a coincidence."
You opened your mouth, but no words came out. The damning little vial felt like a block of lead in your sweaty palm. Shame, hot and suffocating, washed over you. You were just another statistic to him. Another desperate idiot.
He stopped a few feet away, his presence overwhelming. He glanced down at the vial, then back to your terrified face. "You know," he said, his tone quiet, almost gentle, which was somehow worse, "the stuff they cut this with? It can cause nerve damage. Permanent paralysis in the extremities. I've seen it." He gestured vaguely with a hand. "Feathers, wings… things like that. Makes them useless. All for what? A week of discomfort?"
"It's not discomfort," you finally managed to choke out, the words torn from a raw place in your throat. "You don't understand."
"Then explain it," he challenged, his golden eyes boring into you. "Because from where I'm standing, you're trading your entire career, maybe your ability to fly, for a shady pill in a dark alley. That sounds like a pretty bad deal to me."
You couldn't. You couldn't explain the suffocating helplessness, the way your mind fractured under the weight of instinct, the primal humiliation of it. You just shook your head, clutching the vial tighter. "Please."
His expression softened by a fraction. He saw the genuine panic, the absolute terror in your eyes. He let out a slow breath, with a flick of his wrist, one of the feathers pinning the seller zipped back to his hand. He stepped closer, so close you could feel the warmth radiating from him. Before you could react, he deftly plucked the vial from your grasp.
"Hey!" you cried out, a desperate surge of adrenaline making you bold. "Give it back!"
He held it up between two fingers, examining it under the dim light. "No. This is evidence. And you," he looked at you, and the disappointment in his gaze was a physical blow, "you're coming with me. We're going to have a talk."
He didn't touch you. He didn't have to. His sidekicks arrived a moment later to cart away the sputtering seller. Hawks simply gestured with his head toward the mouth of the alley. "Let's go."
You followed him in a numb trance, your wings dragging behind you like broken things. The flight to his agency was a blur of wind and city lights. You didn't speak. You just wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to hold the pieces of your composure together. He flew with one arm wrapped securely around your waist, a grip that was firm but not bruising. It was the only point of contact, and it felt both like an anchor and a brand.
His penthouse apartment atop the agency building was exactly what you'd expect: sleek, modern, minimal, with a breathtaking floor-to-ceiling window that showcased the entire city. It was beautiful, impersonal, and made you feel even more out of place.
He let you go near the large sofa, and you immediately sank into it, curling into yourself. He stood by the window for a long moment, a silent, imposing figure against the glittering skyline.
"You do this every year?" he asked, his back to you. "Take the black market stuff?"
"No," you whispered. "This was the first time."
He turned around, his face unreadable. "So what happened? Your doctor cut you off?"
You just nodded, staring at a spot on the polished floor.
He sighed, running a hand through his messy blond hair. "Y/N. The Commission takes this seriously. So do I. People who sell this garbage are the lowest of the low. They prey on desperation." He walked over and sat in the armchair opposite you, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "The stuff in that vial could have done a lot more than just block your heat. It could have stopped your wings from regrowing feathers after a molt. It could have caused tremors so bad you'd never be able to hold a pen again. Your job as a graphic designer? Gone."
The list of horrors washed over you, each one a sharp knife twisting in your gut. You hadn't known. You hadn't let yourself think.
"I didn't… I couldn't…" You stammered, tears finally breaking free and scalding your cheeks. "I can't lose control like that."
He was quiet, letting you cry. It wasn't a sympathetic silence; it was a considering one. He was watching you, analyzing. It made your skin crawl.
"Lose control of what?" he finally pressed. "What happens?"
The shame was so thick you could taste it. You couldn't tell the Number Two Hero that for a week, you became a slave to a biological urge so powerful it made you want to beg any warm body to fuck you senseless. You couldn't tell him how you'd spent your last heat huddled in a cold shower, weeping from the agonizing need that wouldn't go away.
"Nothing," you lied weakly. "It's just… painful. And inconvenient."
A humorless smile touched his lips. "Try again. I'm not an idiot, and neither is your doctor. She wouldn't risk her license and your health for something 'inconvenient'. The physiological response to an avian-type heat cycle is…" He paused, searching for the right word. "…intense. It's a mate-seeking imperative. It messes with your head. Makes you pliable. Desperate."
You flinched as if he'd struck you. He knew. Of course, he knew. He was one of you.
"And the blockers," he continued, his voice dropping into a more confidential register, "they don't just stop the physical symptoms. They numb everything. Dampen the instinct. Let you pretend it doesn't exist. But it does. It's always there, under the surface. And the longer you suppress it, the bigger the wave when it finally breaks."
He was describing exactly what you were afraid of. The tidal wave of need that was threatening to drown you. You hugged your knees to your chest, your wings trembling behind you.
"So what's your plan now, genius?" he asked, not unkindly. "You can't have the illegal stuff, and you're not getting a prescription. You're staring down the barrel of a heat cycle with no protection. And from what I can tell, you're not prepared to handle it."
You had no plan. Your plan was to go home, crawl into bed, and wait for the world to end. You just shook your head, the motion feeling pathetic and useless.
"Right." He stood up and paced over to the window. "Look, I'm not going to turn you in. This time. The seller is the real target. But you can't do this alone. The doctor was right about one thing: it's dangerous to let it run unchecked. You could hurt yourself. Dehydrate. Or worse."
"Worse?" you whispered, not sure you wanted to know.
"The instinct for a mate is strong," he said, his back still to you. "It doesn't care about logic or consent. It just sees an opportunity to… procreate. You might find yourself in a situation you can't get out of, with someone who won't listen when you say no later. Even if you were the one who initiated. The lines get blurry when your brain is boiling over with hormones."
A fresh wave of cold dread washed over you. That was your deepest fear. Not the pain, not the need itself, but the loss of self, the potential for making a irreversible, humiliating mistake.
"So what am I supposed to do?" you asked, your voice cracking.
He turned from the window, and the look on his face was unreadable. Calculating. It was the look he gave villains before a takedown. "There's another option. One that doesn't involve dangerous pills or a week of solitary misery."
You stared at him, confused. "What is it?"
He walked back toward you, stopping right in front of the sofa. He loomed over you, a shadow that blotted out the city lights. "I could help you."
The words hung in the air between you, heavy with implications. Your mind, already reeling from panic and shame, screeched to a halt. "Help me… how?"
His golden eyes held yours. "The heat isn't just about sex. It's about connection. Comfort. Safety. A partner to weather the storm with. Someone who understands the biology, who can provide the physical release the body craves without letting the situation get out of control. Someone strong enough to handle the… intensity."
You finally understood. The offer wasn't about pity. It wasn't even entirely about altruism. It was a practical, terrifying, and bizarrely logical solution. The Number Two Hero, offering to be your… what? Your heat partner?
"You can't be serious," you breathed, the words feeling foreign on your tongue.
"Never more," he said, his expression unchanging. "Think about it. No risky black market pills. No week of suffering alone. And most importantly, no danger of you ending up in a vulnerable position with some stranger who might hurt you. With me, it would be… controlled. Safe. We get through it, you get it out of your system, and in a week, you can go back to hating me for crashing your lunch date."
The last part was a dry attempt at humor, but it fell flat. Your mind was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. It was insane. It was reckless. It was… the sanest proposition you'd heard all day.
"Why?" you finally managed to ask. "Why would you do that? You don't even know me."
"Because I know what it's like," he said, the words quiet but resonant. "I was on blockers for years when I was starting out. The Commission wanted their 'perfect weapon' to be predictable. The first heat I had after coming off them… let's just say it wasn't pretty. I was lucky. I had options. Not everyone does. And I see you, Y/N. You're strong, but you're terrified. I'm offering to take the fear out of the equation."
The sincerity in his voice was disarming. He wasn't doing this to get laid; he'd mentioned he just finds some random for his own heats. This was different. This was a mission. A rescue. And you were the damsel in distress, a role you despised.
"You don't have to decide right now," he said, straightening up. "But the clock is ticking. I can feel it from here. Your temperature is already rising. Your scent is changing. You're probably what, a day, maybe two out?"
He was right. A low, persistent warmth had been blooming in your core for hours, the first sign of the impending fire. You'd dismissed it as anxiety, but now you knew better. He could probably sense the subtle shift in your pheromones, a language only other avian-types could truly understand.
"I'll give you some privacy," he said, walking toward the door that led to the rest of his apartment. "I'll have some food and water sent up. Think about my offer. The alternative is going home alone, right now, and trying to ride this out by yourself. And trust me," he paused with his hand on the doorknob, "you're not ready for that."
The door clicked shut, leaving you in the cavernous silence of the living room. You were trembling, a fine, uncontrollable shake that started in your wings and spread through your entire body. You hugged yourself tighter, the heat inside you growing, a slow, insidious burn. You looked around the sterile, beautiful apartment. This wasn't your home. He wasn't your friend. But he was right. You were utterly, terrifyingly unprepared to face this alone. The shame of your failure in the alley was a bitter pill, but the fear of what was coming was an poison. And Hawks, for all his cocky bravado and intimidating reputation, was offering the only antidote.
You buried your face in your knees, the fabric of your dress damp with your tears. You had a choice to make, and neither path led back to the quiet, controlled life you'd so carefully constructed.
You didn't know how long you sat there, a cocoon of misery and indecision, but eventually the click of the door drew you from your stupor. Hawks re-entered, carrying a tray. On it was a tall glass of water, a bowl of what looked like miso soup, and a small plate of onigiri. Simple, nourishing. Kind. He set it down on the coffee table in front of you without a word, then resumed his seat in the armchair.
You didn't move. You just watched him, your breath catching in your throat.
"Eat," he commanded gently. "You'll need the strength."
You ignored the food, your mind finally catching up to the gravity of the situation. "How would this even… work?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper. "Here? With you?"
"It's simple," he said, leaning back, sprawling in the chair with an easy grace that belied the tension in the room. "You stay here. With me. For the duration. We'll keep the windows closed, the scent blockers on full. You'll have the bedroom. I'll take the couch. When the… symptoms start to become unbearable, you come to me. Or I'll come to you. We'll take the edge off. No pressure, no expectations beyond what your body needs to get through the worst of it."
His frankness was disarming. He was describing a biological process, a shared ordeal, not a romantic encounter. It was clinical. Efficient. Which somehow made it both more terrifying and more acceptable.
"Take the edge off," you repeated, the words feeling clumsy on your tongue. "You make it sound so simple."
"It can be," he said. "The hard part is in your head. The embarrassment. The loss of control. We can skip all that. I know what's happening to you. I know what it feels like. There's nothing you could do or say that would shock me."
The heat inside you flared, a sudden, intense pulse that made you gasp. A faint, pleasant ache bloomed between your thighs. Your body was listening to him, responding to the proximity of a compatible, powerful mate. The primal word surfaced again, unbidden.
"Are you… in heat now?" he asked, his gaze sharpening. He could probably smell the shift in your pheromones, the chemical signal that your body was beginning its desperate broadcast.
You shook your head, your cheeks flaming. "Not yet. Soon. A day. Maybe less."
"Then you have your answer," he said softly. "You can't go home. You won't make it."
You looked from his unreadable face to the bowl of soup. The steam rising from it smelled comforting, safe. A small anchor in a stormy sea. Your pride screamed at you to refuse, to run, to face this on your own terms, no matter how painful. But a deeper, more instinctual part of you, the part you'd spent four years trying to suffocate with pills, knew he was right. It craved safety. It craved strength. And sitting across from you was the embodiment of both.
Slowly, your trembling fingers reached out and picked up one of the onigiri. You brought it to your lips and took a small bite. The rice was warm, the salty filling grounding. It was an acceptance. A surrender.
A slow smile spread across Hawks' face, but it wasn't triumphant. It was… relieved. "Good choice," he murmured.
He stood up. "Finish eating. Then I'll show you the room. You should rest. We've got a long week ahead of us."
The bedroom was as sleek and impersonal as the rest of the penthouse, dominated by a large, western-style bed with crisp, dark grey linens. The curtains were heavy, designed to block out the city. It was a sanctuary. A cage. You weren't sure which.
He didn't follow you in, just pointed toward the adjoining bathroom. "Towels, anything you need, should be in there. My clothes will probably be too big, but help yourself if you want something comfortable to sleep in. I'll be out here."
The door clicked shut, and you were alone. The silence was a roar in your ears. You stripped off your day-old clothes, the fabric feeling grimy and wrong against your flushed skin. After a quick, hot shower that did little to soothe the growing fire within, you found one of his t-shirts hanging in the closet. You pulled it on, the soft, worn cotton swallowing your frame, smelling faintly of him—clean air, something spicy, and the unique, musky scent of feathers.
You crawled into the vast bed, pulling the cool sheets up to your chin. Your wings ached to be spread, to be free, but you kept them tightly folded, a final, futile act of self-control. Sleep was a long time coming. You drifted in and out, your dreams a feverish collage of crimson feathers and golden eyes, the low hum of your own need a constant, thrumming undercurrent.
It wasn't a metaphor. The heat was a real, physical thing, a furnace blazing in your core that had sweat beading on your skin and soaking the sheets around you. The ache between your legs was no longer a dull throb; it was a demanding, insistent pulse, a clenching emptiness that begged to be filled. A soft, broken whimper escaped your lips.
You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to breathe through it, but the air was thick, heavy. The scent of your own arousal was overwhelming, a sweet, desperate perfume that filled the room. Your wings twitched uncontrollably, the feathers ruffling as if trying to fan the flames. You felt raw, exposed, like an open nerve ending.
Another wave of heat, stronger this time, washed over you. You curled into a fetal position, your hands clenching into fists. You could do this. You could survive it. You just had to endure. You bit your lip so hard you tasted copper, focusing on the sharp pain as a distraction from the all-consuming need.
But your body was a traitor. It craved a solution it knew was just beyond that door. A strong, capable partner. A safe harbor. It craved Hawks.
The thought was so shameful it made you want to cry. You hated this. Hated him for seeing you like this, for offering this fucked-up, clinical solution that your body was so eagerly accepting. You hated yourself for needing it.
A particularly violent tremor wracked your frame, a shudder of pure, unadulterated want. It was too much. The ache was becoming a pain, a sharp, twisting agony deep inside you. You knew, with a sinking certainty, that you couldn't endure. Not alone.
With a sob of pure humiliation, you swung your legs out of bed. The t-shirt clung to your damp skin. You stood on shaking legs, your wings drooping behind you, heavy and useless. Every step toward the door was a battle. You reached for the handle, your fingers clumsy and slick with sweat.
You pushed it open and stepped out into the dim living room. He wasn't on the couch. For a heart-stopping moment, you thought he'd left you, that this was all a cruel joke. Then you saw him.
He was standing by the massive window, looking out at the city. He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of loose grey sweats that hung low on his hips. His back was to you, a smooth, expanse of golden skin crisscrossed with the faint, silvery lines of old scars. His wings were folded, a beautiful, lethal mantle of crimson and gold.
He must have heard your soft gasp. He turned, and the look on his face wasn't pity or triumph. It was understanding. A deep, quiet knowledge that made your throat ache.
"Hey," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Took you long enough."
He didn't move toward you, just waited. The control, the deliberate stillness, was a balm. It was exactly what your fraying nerves needed.
You couldn't speak. You just stood there, trembling, a single tear tracking a hot path down your cheek.
"It's alright," he said, taking a slow step forward. "Come here."
And you did. You walked toward him, each step an act of surrender. When you were a few feet away, you stopped, your gaze fixed on the floor, unable to meet his eyes. You were a mess. A disgusting, needy mess.
A gentle hand tilted your chin up. You were forced to look at him. His golden eyes were soft in the dim light, burning with an intensity that wasn't just lust. It was focus. Compassion.
"Let me help," he murmured. It wasn't a question.
He closed the remaining distance, and his hands came to rest on your waist. His touch was warm, firm, and it sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core. You gasped, your hands flying up to grip his biceps for support. His skin was hot, the muscles beneath hard as steel.
"Easy," he soothed, his thumbs stroking circles on the sensitive skin just above your hips. "Just breathe."
But breathing was impossible when his scent enveloped you—clean, masculine, with that wild, musky undertone of feather and sky that was uniquely him. It was like pouring gasoline on a fire. A low moan escaped your throat.
"That's it," he praised, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "Don't fight it. Just feel."
One of his hands slid up your back, tracing the line of your spine until it reached the base of your wings. The touch was electric. You cried out, your body arching into him, your hips bucking forward instinctively. He was right. Fighting was useless. Your body had a mind of its own, and it wanted him.
"Sensitive here, huh?" he murmured, a hint of a smile in his voice. He gently traced the joints where your wings met your back, and your knees nearly buckled. A fresh wave of slickness flooded your core, the evidence of your undeniable need.
"So responsive," he breathed, his approval a heady rush. "Look at you. So beautiful."
His other hand moved from your waist, sliding down the front of your thigh. You tensed, but he didn't go for the most obvious place. Instead, he caressed your skin, learning the shape of you, his touch a slow, teasing exploration that was both torture and bliss. He was stoking the fire, building the pressure, and you were helpless to do anything but burn.
"Tell me what you need," he coaxed, his lips brushing against your ear. "Use your words."
You couldn't. Words were meaningless. The only thing that mattered was the throbbing emptiness inside you, the desperate craving for more. You whimpered, pressing your face against his chest, your fingers digging into his shoulders.
He chuckled, a low, vibrating sound that you felt through your entire body. "Okay. No words. I get it."
With a strength that was both thrilling and terrifying, he swept you off your feet. You yelped, your arms automatically wrapping around his neck. He carried you effortlessly toward the bedroom, your smaller wings fluttering in a useless, panicked rhythm. He laid you down on the bed, the cool sheets a shocking contrast against your feverish skin.
He didn't immediately join you. He stood by the bed, looking down at you. His gaze was heavy, possessive, but it wasn't cold. It was the look of a predator that had cornered its prey, and was in no hurry to devour it. He was savoring the moment. Savoring you.
"You're shaking," he observed, his voice soft.
You were. Tremors wracked your body, a combination of fear, shame, and overwhelming arousal. You felt exposed, vulnerable, laid bare under his intense scrutiny. You pulled the hem of the t-shirt down, a pathetic attempt at modesty.
"Don't," he commanded gently. "Don't hide from me. Let me see you."
Slowly, as if under a spell, your hands released the fabric. He reached down, his fingers hooking under the hem of the shirt. He paused, his eyes meeting yours, seeking permission. You gave a barely perceptible nod.
He lifted the shirt, pulling it over your head in one smooth motion. The cool air hit your bare skin, making your nipples pebble into hard, aching points. Your wings, finally free from the confinement of the fabric, unfurled slightly, their pearlescent feathers rustling. You'd always been self-conscious of them, of their size and shape, but the way Hawks looked at them, with a mixture of awe and desire, made a fresh wave of arousal wash over you.
"Perfect," he breathed. "Absolutely perfect."
He knelt on the bed, the mattress dipping with his weight. He leaned over you, bracing himself on his arms, caging you in. His crimson wings fanned out behind him, a breathtaking canopy that blocked out the dim light of the room. You were trapped. Sheltered.
You could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the raw, masculine scent of him. Your breath hitched. He was so close. So impossibly close. You tilted your head back, baring your throat, an instinctual sign of submission that you couldn't control.
A low growl rumbled in his chest. "So good for me," he praised, his lips trailing down the column of your throat. "So willing."
His touch was electric. Every kiss, every brush of his lips against your skin, sent a jolt of pleasure straight to your core. You were lost, adrift in a sea of sensation. Your hands came up to tangle in his hair, holding him to you, needing more.
He chuckled, a low, vibrating sound that made you shudder. "Patience, little bird. We have all week."
But patience was a luxury you no longer possessed. The ache inside you was a living thing, a beast that demanded to be fed. You arched your hips, a silent plea.
"I know," he soothed, his hand sliding down your stomach, his fingers tracing the waistband of your panties. "I know what you need."
He hooked his fingers under the fabric and slowly, torturously, slid them down your legs. The cool air hit your wet, swollen flesh, and you moaned. You were completely exposed to him, every inch of your desperate, needy body laid bare.
He spread your legs with a gentle but firm pressure, settling himself between them. He looked down at you, his golden eyes dark with a hunger that mirrored your own. He was taking his time, savoring the sight of you, and the sheer intensity of his gaze was almost enough to push you over the edge.
"You're so wet," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "All for me."
He lowered his head, and you felt the hot puff of his breath against your core. You tensed, anticipation coiling in your stomach like a spring. And then, he tasted you.
His tongue was a shock of wet heat against your sensitive flesh. You cried out, your back arching off the bed. He started with slow, deliberate licks, exploring your folds, learning your taste. He was teasing you, tormenting you, and you loved it.
"You taste like heaven," he growled, the vibrations of his voice sending shocks of pleasure through you. "Like a fucking dream."
He wrapped his arms around your thighs, holding you open for him, and then he dove in. His tongue found your clit, and he began to circle it with a firm, relentless pressure. The pleasure was overwhelming, a tidal wave that threatened to drown you. Your hands flew to his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands, holding him to you as you rode the wave.
"Don't stop," you begged, your voice a broken, breathy moan. "Please, don't stop."
"Never," he promised, his tongue flicking against your clit, again and again, pushing you higher and higher. "Come for me, little bird. Let go."
His words were your undoing. The coil of pleasure in your stomach snapped, and your orgasm crashed over you with the force of a tidal wave. You screamed his name, your body convulsing, your wings flaring wide in a spasm of pure, unadulterated bliss. It was a pleasure so intense it was almost pain, a release so complete it left you shaking and breathless.
He didn't stop. He lapped at your juices, prolonging your orgasm, drawing out every last drop of pleasure until you were a quivering, boneless mess. Only then did he raise his head, his chin glistening with your arousal. He looked up at you, a triumphant, predatory smirk on his face.
"That's one," he said, his voice a husky rumble. "Only about a hundred more to go."
