Feathers in the Coffee Shop - Hawks x Reader fanfic
A story where Pro Hero Hawks takes a liking to the owner of a small coffee shop in Japan....but things don't go as planned.
TW! Violence, action, danger threats, emotional intensity, mild peril.
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Fukuoka, Japan. Present Day.
The bell above the door chimes, and you look up from steaming milk, brushing flour off your apron. Sunlit Brews is a small haven in Fukuoka’s bustle—wooden tables, mismatched mugs, and a chalkboard listing classics: espresso, cappuccino, matcha latte. The scent of fresh pastries and coffee fills the air, underscored by lo-fi music from a battered radio. Your café, built from years of savings, is nothing fancy, but it’s yours.
Keigo Takami—Pro Hero Hawks—struts in, crimson wings tucked, golden eyes glinting. “Yo, dove,” he says, leaning on the counter. “Got any of that fried chicken today? And a black coffee, stat.”
You snort, grabbing a to-go box. “You ever switch it up, hero? Or is chicken your whole deal?”
He clutches his chest, grinning. “Ouch, straight to the heart. This stuff’s my fuel, what can I say?” You notice a faint bruise on his cheek—another mission, probably. He doesn’t mention it, so neither do you.
As you hand over his order, a crimson feather drifts onto the counter. You pick it up, frowning. “You’re shedding again. I’m gonna start charging you for cleanup.”
Hawks chuckles, but his gaze lingers. “Keep it. Call it a tip.” He slides cash into the jar—way too much—and saunters out, wings catching the afternoon light.
You twirl the feather, slipping it into your pocket. You’ve found others lately—tucked in a menu, stuck under a table. Sloppy hero habits, you assume. Still, you wonder.
Hawks becomes a regular over the next month. Mornings, he’s there for coffee, tossing nicknames—dove, sunshine, chief. Evenings, he lingers after hours, helping you sweep or teasing your “dull civilian routine.” You clap back, calling him a “feather duster with a badge,” but his easy laugh warms the café like the sunlight through the windows.
One night, you’re wiping down tables when he slips in, wings singed, jacket scuffed. “Tough day?” you ask, pushing a coffee his way, no charge.
He slumps onto a stool, rubbing his eyes. “Just hero stuff—y’know, savin’ the day, dodgin’ suits.” His smirk fades fast. You sit across from him, the café quiet, streetlights glowing outside.
“This place,” he murmurs, “it’s… solid. Not like up there, where it’s all a blur. Ever feel trapped, even when you’re free?”
You nod, thinking of the endless grind—bills, suppliers, early mornings. “Yeah. This shop’s my dream, but it’s work. Still, it’s mine.” You pause. “What’s got you so deep, Keigo?”
He blinks at his name, no “Hawks.” “You, maybe. Makin’ me think.” He leans closer, and your pulse skips. His fingers graze yours, but he pulls back, wings twitching. “Gotta bounce. Keep this place safe, yeah?”
He leaves, and you find another feather on the stool. You drop it into a mug behind the counter, heart thudding.
The radio crackles with news about the Crimson Talons, a villain crew hitting local businesses tied to heroes. You tune it out, focused on kneading dough. But Hawks’ visits get spotty—he’s late, bruised, distracted. You catch him scanning the café, feathers quivering like they sense something.
One evening, a customer leaves a note under a saucer: Tell the bird to watch his back. You show it to Hawks, expecting a quip. His jaw clenches. “Just a punk mouthing off,” he says, but a feather zips out the door, scouting. “Don’t stress, dove. I got you.”
You’re not so sure. Later, you’re restocking sugar when he helps, joking about your “caffeine empire.” Your hands brush, and his wings flare, eyes locking with yours. “Trouble,” he mutters, but he doesn’t pull away. Not yet.
The attack hits during a lunch rush. The bell chimes, but it’s not Hawks—three figures in black, quirks sparking. “Where’s the Winged Hero?” one growls, smashing a chair. Glass shatters, customers scream, and you shove a teenager behind the counter, gripping a tray like a shield.
“Stay low!” you snap, pulse racing. A villain hurls a table, and you’re cornered when a gust roars through. Hawks lands, feathers slicing like knives, dropping two goons in seconds. His eyes are wild, searching for you.
“Hey, Dove!” He spots you, vaulting debris. A villain grabs you, but a feather slashes their wrist, freeing you. Hawks pulls you behind the counter, wings shielding you. “Stay with me!” he growls, voice raw.
You nod, adrenaline pumping. When a villain charges, you chuck a mug, nailing them in the head. Hawks grins mid-fight. “Nice shot, chief!”
Hawks clears the villains, but a blast grazes his side, blood staining his jacket. The Talons flee, and you’re left in the wreckage, hands shaking as you grab a towel to press against his wound.
“You good?” you ask, voice unsteady. His wing’s torn, feathers scattered.
“Been worse,” he grunts, but he hisses as you dab the cut. “Sorry ‘bout your shop. This… it’s on me.”
“Stop,” you say, softer. “You saved us. That’s enough.”
He meets your eyes, no mask. “This place, you—it’s where I’m not ‘Hawks.’ I need that. Need you.” His voice breaks, and you freeze, towel in hand.
“I need you too, Keigo,” you whisper. “Not the hero. You.”
He smiles, real, and leans his forehead against yours. “Guess we’re stuck with each other, huh?”
Sunlit Brews reopens, patched up—Hawks quietly covers the costs, waving it off as “tax write-off.” The mug of feathers stays behind the counter, your little secret. He’s still a regular, staying late to help with dishes or brainstorm pastry ideas.
One night, he grins, wings spreading. “Wanna see the city from my view, chief?” You laugh, heart racing, as he sweeps you up, soaring over Fukuoka’s twinkling lights. His warmth anchors you, the sky vast and endless.
For the first time, it feels like freedom.
