Emma's secret club

𝜗𝜚 you’re keigo’s physician, coming over to check on him while he’s in rut

• keigo takami x f!reader

cw ~ rutting!hawks, avian specialist!physician!bird nerd!reader, reader wears glasses (stereotypical nerd? i wear glasses so it’s okay), smut;; handjob, painful erection, ballplay?, feral talk from kei, excessive precum + keigo cums a lot, facial ?, reader gets almost intoxicated off pheromones, so i guess mild dubcon, most likely inaccurate things ab wing anatomy though that parts not focused on.. (am i getting better at this)

wc 4.4k (i genuinely don’t know how that happened)

You breathed deeply before grabbing the keys and unlocking the door—rushing yourself in and swiftly closing it behind you.

“Takami?” you called out. You automatically made the mistake of breathing in too quickly, getting hit hard by the strong musky air that filled this entire house. 

The warmth was what bothered you, but you were familiar with this scent. Not with how especially potent it was today—but it wasn’t new. Though you’d been warned about this years ago, and told to get a mask to protect yourself from the damn near drugs this man produced. You’ve been fine, though. How bad could things get? You’d get a little dizzy after too long, but you could deal. 

You walked toward the coffee table, putting down your bag and looked over to the hallway to see your giant, shirtless patient.

“Ah. Trying to scare me?” You grinned at him as he stared at you blankly, before taking heavy steps to sit on the couch. 

“Not even gonna smile for me?” You fake pouted. “Is it that bad?”

He looked at you, eyes piercing through yours, before sighing. “Y’don’t even know.” he rasped.

“Actually, I do, very much. And why are all the windows shut? You know I told you the fresh air is good.”

“The city smells like shit.”

“If any normal civilian walked in here, they’d tell you this house smells like shit.”

“Smells like me.” he huffed the correction.

“It smells like sex.” You giggled, slipping off your white jacket and walking over to hang it. “Come on. Let me open one window. You know this isn’t very good for me either.”

“…You’re bothered?” he muttered, lifting his head.

“Oh, no. It just makes me sort of drowsy. Y’know, your pheromones are meant to be attracting another… half-human… half-bird… partner. I’m just me. You’re suffocating, almost.”

He looked at you for a long while, before sending a large feather to open a window behind him. You scowled at his wings as they spread, the state of them a horrible sight. “You’re a mess,” you groaned, quickly walking up to him and taking a closer look. “Ugh. My babies...”

You saw his head flick in your direction, most likely glaring.

“Don’t look at me like that.” you murmured. “Yeah. I’ll be here for a while. You’re wrecked.” You turned back to the table, searching through your bag and grabbing the thermometer and flashlight.

You put the thermometer in his mouth and grabbed his face as you shined the light in his dark eyes. “Pupils heavily dilated…” you looked down at the thermometer. 41°C. Which would take a human to the emergency room, but it’s around average for him during a rut. Still, very hot. You could see the glow on his skin from how he’d been sweating. 

You took the tools back, taking out your notebook to write the information down, leaving it open on the table. “Can you stand up? Stretch them out for me?” you asked sweetly, your hands folded at your front.

He gave you another silent stare before he got up. He seemed to have grown about three inches taller again. He groaned, before obeying. His wings, as usual—despite being a mess, were still beautiful. Large enough to fill this whole living room, if he stretched properly. But he’s tense—he’s sensitive. 

“Does it hurt?” you asked, getting closer and looking at the feathers closest to his back from the front. 

“Aches.” he said.

“Yeah, cause you love cramping them to your back all the damn time,” you murmured, receiving a mean glare from him as a response. You looked at his bare chest, getting closer as you saw how defined his muscles had become. His entire body shifted during this time of year, trying to give him all the strength he’d need to bury himself in someone and breed them, of course, without a single chance for them not to be full of his seed.

That’s… vulgar, but unavoidably true. You’ve dealt with him like this for so long that nothing is embarrassing, or shocking. You really take everything scientifically now, knowing you’re here to care for him, and track his behaviors. Nothing more.

So, of course, as you told him to breathe deeply while you listened to his heartbeat, you couldn’t help looking down at the huge print in his sweatpants. You could see the entire outline of his cock, especially his swollen tip—that you were actually shocked to see wasn’t leaking as it usually would be. You noticed his growth down there, too. Just a bit longer, a lot thicker.

Again, some things you can’t ignore, you’ve grown to see as normal. That’s just something else to write down.

“Your heartbeat is… uneven. Irregular,” you mumbled, looking up at him expecting an answer. His heartbeat usually keeps a quickened, but constant pace when he’s like this. 

He shook his head, putting it down toward you but keeping his eyes closed. “You…” he breathed.

“Me?”

“…Just… smell good..” he finished, followed by another heavy breath and a twitch from his wings. 

You raised your brows, chuckling as you put the stethoscope away. “Impressive, that you can smell anything through your aroma in here.”

He lazily hummed in response, eyes opening quickly as he suddenly felt your hand on his chest. 

“Sit down, and turn a little so I can see your back.” you said, turning and grabbing a small bottle of oil. He did so in silence.

You sat next to him, or… behind him, sort of—looking over his wings. Like his chest, his back muscles had gotten more defined as it had to adjust to the new weight of his wings. 

“Have you been eating well?” you asked as you popped the bottle open.

He simply grunts in response as he shrugs his shoulders. 

“Come on, what does that mean?” you groaned. Rut must be especially bad this time. “Have you eaten today?”

“No.”

“Takami.” you paused, as if he could see the expression on your face. “You have to eat after this. You’re so frustrating—your body has gained… like, fifteen pounds of pure muscle and you’re not bothering to eat? Then you get all groggy.” He stayed silent as you ranted to him about his own health. 

You huffed before pouring a generous amount of oil into your hand, and balancing the bottle on your thigh, as you reached for the base of his wings. Old feathers were tangled between the growth of his new ones, his pin feathers especially matted back here.

As soon as the moisture touched him, he flinched—posture fixing from the cool sensation. He’d relax though, as you slowly worked through his feathers. 

Shlick. The familiar sound filled the room as you massaged the oil into his rough coverts. You hummed, this process being so familiar it was comforting at this point. 

As you’d reach his primaries on his right wing, he’d occasionally grunt or hum. Which was nice to hear, him getting more comfortable. Keigo deals with a lot when he’s like this, and of course this isn’t something that heals him—but it is a relief. Quite literally a weight lifted off his shoulders, which feels good to do for him.

You collected the old feathers you plucked out, placing them on the coffee table to later put away for inspection. You took the oil again, coating your hands and reaching the end of his left wing. Shlick as you firmly dragged the serum down a long feather. Inspecting it closer, you caught a crumbled old feather that was stuck just underneath. You let him go, reaching for the tweezers again.

Though, you realized that as you stopped touching his wings… that sound didn’t stop.

Shlick… Shlick… Shlick.

Each interval taking a few seconds before it came back again, just as loud—even wetter as it continued. 

You almost thought you were going insane, that your hands were still moving on him or something—you literally looked at your arms to make sure—then looked down to see the muscle in Keigo’s shoulder blade moving. It was slight at first, and then got more apparent, along with his elbow slightly trembling as well. 

You then remembered the way he was grunting and breathing earlier—you thought it was from the massage. You looked over his wings, and saw him enjoying a…different massage.

The waistband of his pants stretched down a bit, and his hand wrapped around his thick, throbbing cock—as he stroked himself with a hard grip. Every stroke up had a bead of pre-cum forming at his tip, and dripping down with his hand. His dick almost had a red tint to it with how swollen he was. It looked like it hurt. 

“T…Takami…” you spoke softly after sitting back. 

He didn’t stop, or slow down—you didn’t even catch a twitch in his feathers.

You weren’t… uncomfortable. Not really, honestly the main thing going through your mind now was the fact that you underestimated how he was doing today. 

You have seen his cock before. A few times, the ache would get bad for him and you’d have to check and make sure it was just his hyper-arousal rather than something concerning. You’ve also caught him pleasuring himself before. The first time, it was enough to shake your professional persona, but it was easy to get over. 

Keigo doesn’t get anything to really… deal with himself. He feels it’s a little odd to have women coming to deal with him when he’s like this—not only is it an weird feeling for the feral side of his mind, fucking someone who wasn’t his mate—but it just… wouldn’t… work. 

Keigo’s uncontrollable during this time. He needs a partner. A mate. Someone he can call his woman, outside of his rut and as it happens. Someone he can have those long conversations with about how he’s going to need the help. How he’s going to need to fuck, and breed, and keep doing it until he the burning under his skin fades away—which will take longer than anyone expects.

That conversation about how it’ll be exhausting, how he could scare them—how he could hurt them—all of that.

You got that conversation too before you started working as his physician, and sure it… concerned you a little, but then after meeting him any worry about how he’d be during that time faded. You weren’t even nervous when you walked in during his first rut with you—also the first day where he really didn’t seem like himself—his body completely changed, bigger and tougher and really looking like a predator.

It’s because that bird-brained half of him had gotten comfortable with you. That side of him assigned you as someone who cares for him, makes him feel better, makes him fly better. You’re sweet and you’re understanding and you take your time with him. So, he could hardly get scary with you. He knew better, both sides of him. 

You wouldn’t know it, maybe not even he did, but some part of him put that ‘mate’ title onto you. 

With how you treated him so well, and the fact that you were the only person he saw during rut—he almost had no other choice. His mind needed something to cling to, and that became you.

Again, unbeknownst to you, you’d also make his ruts worse. He was seeing his mate almost every day and he couldn’t take her? Claim her? It was torture, just as it is now.

So, you’re here, sitting behind him as he’s desperately touching himself. What makes it different this time is that he’s doing it now, while you’re here. He’s doing this, and he knows you’re here, and he knows you know and he’s not stopping.

As mentioned before, you’ve seen him get boners while you worked. You’ve heard him say some feral lewd things to you and kept it pushing. You’ve walked in his home, hearing him loudly deal with himself in another room—but all those times there felt like there was a sort of barrier that didn’t make things weird. 

There’s literally no barrier here. You hardly even knew what to say—what to do. Walk out? Well, that would make him instinctively try to chase you.

“Takami…” you spoke a little louder as you got up slowly. He still didn’t react. As you moved the bottle of oil onto the coffee table though, his wings twitched as he moved and sat back on the couch, now completely exposed to you and seemingly not caring as he kept stroking himself.

Now, you couldn’t look away from his cock as it faced you. Swollen wouldn’t cut it. He was completely engorged, a vein that went down from his tip pulsing with each strong pump. Strong wouldn’t cut it either, and your eyes widened as you saw the muscles in his arm deepen every time he went back down—just choking the thick base of his dick. You breathed deeply before you spoke again.

“K… Keigo…” you murmured, his name almost unfamiliar on your tongue. “I… I’m gonna be honest, I don’t… I—I feel like…” the words wouldn’t come to you. Every option of a sentence felt wrong. 

He actually moaned then, and you watched his muscles tensed as he gripped himself impossibly harder, almost squeezing the precum out of him as it trickled down his inches.  

“Hurts,” he grumbled, opening his eyes to look at you for a second before throwing his head back onto the couch. “Fucking hurts.”

“Yeah,” you breathed. “I know…”

The room went silent and felt hot, you started to wonder if his pheromones were getting to you now. All you could hear was both of your heavy breaths along with him stroking the sloppy mess of his shaft. His eyes were closed, his brows furrowed, every now and then gritting his teeth.

You swallowed, trying to do what you came to do. You’re meant to care for him.

“I… uhm, I have some suppressants here, Keigo, if it’s this bad for you. It could help with the… swelling—”

“No,” he rasped. “No drugs.”

“It’ll help you,” you argued, taking a small step toward him. “You’re… holding yourself too hard, you can hurt yourself like that, I’ll get—”

“Won’t work.” he cut you off, gripping his dick again as if just to concern you more. As he dragged his hand down to the base, he lifted his head and opened his eyes to look at you. “Need to breed.” 

“…I know you do. You’re in pain. I can help it, I can make you feel better,” you insisted, feeling bad for sort of… lying to him. You knew those suppressants stopped working for him years ago. When he was a teen, they used to completely block out ruts. Eventually, they just turned into numbing pills for him, which kept the burning and the animalistic thoughts, and just made it impossible for him to get any relief. They also put him to sleep, which… sure, that’s something, until he wakes up. 

He still didn’t respond to you. His hips twitched into his hands, and he started to groan more—and louder. 

But then, he slowed down a bit, lazily lifting his head and staring at you. His gaze was intimidating, intentionally like he wanted to scare you. Well, he didn’t—as you were used to this—but he was trying. 

“Make… make me feel better?” he asked roughly, repeating your words to him.

“Yes,” you said softly, thinking you were getting to him. “I’m here to do that, Takami. You can trust me.”

He seemed to try to keep his eyes on you, but they rolled back as he stroked himself again. Another moment of silence as he tended to his ache, before his gaze snapped back to yours.

“Then… do it,” he breathed. “Come. Touch me. Help me.” his voice cracked near the end, and you heard a small whine as his face contorted while his tip kept self lubricating. 

You completely froze, breath hitching. Not knowing what to do at all. You did literally just say you would help him. And the way he’s doing it to himself is damn near scary. 

But… What? A handjob?

You watched him as you couldn’t speak. Your patient, completely at the mercy of his biology. Your patient who got like this so many times around you, completely feral and desperate, and never crossing a line—and now he’s whining for it. 

What line would this truly cross, though? You take care of him. You assist him with his issues that come with being half bird, and… this technically counts as one of them. You’re the only person in the world who sees him when he’s like this—who helps him.

You weren’t going to just let him suffer with this, not when he directly asked you. 

You took a slow breath, adjusting your glasses with a steady hand. “…Okay..” you spoke softly.

You took a few steps, standing between his legs before kneeling down in front of him. Your hands were still greasy from the oil, but it wasn’t like it would do him any bad. He’s also already soaked in his own slick. 

One of your hands finally wrapped around his cock, stretching your fingers wider than you expected. It was almost like he didn’t even feel your hands—he only reacted when he saw you touching him—his wings flinching closer to his back before he had to force them to relax again. His eyes were locked on yours. 

He hesitated, before letting himself go and resting his hands on his thighs. You took your other hand, stacking it above the other.

“Grip… grip it tighter,” he rasped. You listened, looking up at him for approval but then he shut his eyes hard. “Tighter than that.”

He’d tell you this about two more times until you huffed against his length. “I’m.. going to hurt you...” you mumbled.

He opened his eyes, brows furrowing in frustration as he put his hand over yours and showed you exactly how he needed you to hold him. Just as you said, his hand hurt against yours and you couldn’t imagine that pressure on him feeling good—but, nonetheless…You held him that same way, getting a deep groan in response as his legs spread wider. 

Your hands hesitated before they started moving up and down his length. Both following each other, before you started twisting them around him rhythmically. 

He moaned, hips bucking into you and individual feathers twitching off his wings. 

“Stop,” he suddenly grumbled, and you hovered before stopping. He sort of nodded his head as a signal for you to move, so you took your hands off of him. 

A whine came from deep in his chest by the loss of contact. He grabs his waistband, tugging it down his legs, his lower half now bare. Your eyes automatically snapped toward his balls. Just as swollen as his cock, tightened up close and twitching as he grunted for you to continue.

You breathed, getting closer as your hands held him. You started stroking him, before his hand shot over both of yours again and crushed them under his grip. Again, completely unbelievable how this felt good to him, but you listened. You got a whimper in response, the muscles in his thighs shuddering. 

You were sort of grateful by how empty your mind was right now. His pheromones were definitely doing something. Is this what the effect was supposed to be? Make someone’s mind blank, just willing to do whatever he needs them to? Fascinating.

Your eyes kept flicking toward the tight, swelling base of his length. It almost bothered you from your clinical view, how tight his balls were and the way they lightly pulsed with each stroke. 

You didn’t want to speak, the words would have been awkward coming out of your mouth. Oh, can I touch your balls? You simply let your bottom hand drift every now and then, letting his pre just slightly get lower and lower to lubricate all of him, while you watched his reactions.

Then, you’d let your hand linger, your thumb rubbing against the skin between them before sliding back up. After a few more times, you fully moved your hand down, cupping them gently. They were hot and heavy, and you tried to stable your shaking fingers as you put just a little pressure on them.

“Ohhh, oh my god…” he moaned, his hips jerking up into you. 

You almost smiled, so satisfied that he was feeling good. Your thumb and the pads of your fingers slowly kneaded into his throbbing sack. You found a rhythm, stroking him firmly and tending to his balls. 

“Hurts… fucking hurts so b—aaad.” his words were slurred between whines, his hands gripping to the couch. You held him impossibly tighter, making him sob out a moan that had your hands hesitating against him. He sounded like he was in excruciating pain, honestly. “Keep… keep goin’… shit, hands feel s’fucking good…”

He placed his hand on top of yours again, this time thankfully not crushing your fingers under his. “Fuck… fuck, spit on me.” 

“W—What?” you spoke quickly, hands stuttering against him again.

“Spit on it. Need your spit.” his gaze pierced into yours. 

You frowned, looking away to think... 

Well, actually… 

If he needed it…

You lapped your tongue across the roof of your mouth, gathering spit and letting it dribble from your lips onto his tip. 

“Oh my god, I need your cunt,” he whined. 

“…Takami…” you muttered, your voice barely even coming out. You dragged your spit over his dick, watching him twitch as you did. 

“Need to st—streetchh, mmmgh, stretch you out and… and use that cunt…”

“Not me,” you corrected quietly. “You don’t wanna do that to me.”

“I do, I fucking do—I need you,” he cried, now squirming under your touch. From the way his balls kept twitching in your palm, you could tell he was close. “Can’t… can’t cum if it’s not in your pussy. Wasting my seed in those fucking hands…”

You watched as his whole bottom half was literally tensing up from the way he was holding back his orgasm. He was very serious. 

I mean, this goes back to the severe lack of relief he gets during his ruts. He jerks off when it gets bad, but that feral side of his mind very much hates wasting his sperm on anything but someone’s cunt. 

“Waste?” you repeated quietly, making sure to keep that heavy pressure on his length, and your fingers massaging his balls. “Keigo… it’s… it’s not a waste.”

He could only groan deeply in response, the muscles in his thighs twitching. You knew the words he wanted to hear, and the words he needed to hear. 

“You’re… using me right now,” you looked at him as you spoke, your glasses fogging with how you’d started panting (along with how you’ve been sweating for a while now.) “Using my hands. They’re… making you feel good… y-you’re… claiming them.” you gave him a firm squeeze at the base of his cock.

“Aaah, shit, making those hands all mine… gonna fucking paint them,” he whimpered. You knew those words would do him good. That’s exactly what he needs now. He wants to fill someone up, and claim them as his. Mark them—mark his territory. 

“P—…Paint me then,” your wet hands sped up into a frantic pace over his length. “Paint my skin and cum for me.”

He couldn’t hold back for another second. His hips gave an uncontrollable, violent buck into your palms—his wings stretching out behind him, as his tip shot his cum everywhere. The second rope hit directly onto your glasses lens, you could almost hear the heavy splat against your face. 

The strong scent hit you even harder than that, almost like honey right from the comb. A wave of bittersweet, animal musk instantly coated the back of your throat. It was like you could taste it on your tongue. 

Oh, wait. That’s because you were.

Fuck, when it hit your glasses you gasped and opened your mouth in shock just as more splurted out of him again. A thick, extremely warm jet shot straight past your lips, hitting the roof of your mouth. With a gooey texture, and a deep pheromone sweetness that you could feel go straight to your brain. It was almost hard to swallow. Because of course you swallowed.

The whole scene was extremely sloppy, and messy. Your hands hovered over your glasses as you heard him moan and completely empty himself in front of you. 

When it got quiet, you slipped your glasses off of your face, looking at him.

A mess, as expected. His own seed was splattered over his chest and the couch, and your hands, and your glasses—and just a sliver remained on your top lip. Without thinking, you licked it off. Then you met his eyes. 

Low lidded, until he looked toward your glasses, and your nervous face. He groaned long, his hand suddenly sliding down his torso, shuddering—and you watched as his limp cock lifted back to its hardened state. The same as it was when he first started touching himself. Possibly harder, actually.

“Haah…” you let out a breath, surprised by how quickly that happened. You knew he could get boners back quickly, but… hardly even fifteen seconds had passed. 

He simply looked in your eyes as you watched his flesh engorge, his veins fat and pulsing down the shaft again.

Your hand rested on your own chest, feeling your slowing heartbeat. Your lids were low, and now without the distraction of trying to make him finish, you realized just how out of it you were. 

Realizing how hot this room was, the way you were covered in sweat. More importantly, realizing the aching pulse you felt between your legs. 

It was intense, and you could only sit back and try to process what the fuck just happened. What was happening. 

Your hand went over your mouth, trying to cover the way you were panting. You couldn’t control the whimper that came after that. 

Keigo suddenly growled, making your eyes snap to him. He was taking slow, deep breaths and staring at you with big eyes.

“Mmmh… You smell so fucking sweet,” he grumbled. “Need to claim that wet cunt.” 

Your thighs clenched together hard, the sudden friction only making it impossible to ignore the throbbing in your pussy. You were completely vulnerable to him now.

Well, you’re the one who decided to help him in the first place.

You’re the only one who can, so…

You should probably do your job.

I love the nijiku siblings

Fuckboy Hawks! Who basks in the spotlight and the attention of pretty fangirls. He throws winks at them like they're his feathers, loving to watch them blush and squeal to their friends. He's young, rich and handsome—of course he's aware of how much of a catch he is.

Fuckboy Hawks! Who flirts with you at pro hero galas like you're already his. He's methodical about it and doesn't even try to hide that he has set his eyes on you the moment you walked through the door with that killer dress of yours. That high thigh slit in the fabric and the low cut neckline reveals skin he hasn't seen in your hero costume yet and he almost salivates at the sight alone.

Fuckboy Hawks! Who casually slides into the bar stool beside you, throwing you one of his endless charming smiles and orders a drink for you as well. (He remembers your favorite because you mentioned it once to a sidekick who offered to get refills last year.)

Fuckboy Hawks! Who is surprised that all his advances seem to be pointless when you keep being friendly and professional instead of reciprocating his flirtatious charm with your own and don't seek out physical contact more than necessary.

Fuckboy Hawks! Who's even more surprised to find you stopping him from leaving early when the usual hero drama and politics bored him endlessly. You grab him by the wrist with a small smile that makes your eyes crinkle and shine with intention.

Fuckboy Hawks! Who—despite his public image—isn't used to taking an actual girl home with him at all and sweats buckets as his shaky hands try to type in his door passcode. Of course he tries to overplay his nervousness with flirty compliments and awkward jokes.

Fuckboy Hawks! Who makes an embarrassing chirping sound in the back of his throat when you basically attack his lips with your own and press him into the sturdy hallway wall before he can even offer you a glass of water. His hands grip at your hips out of reflex before flinging them off like you'd burned him. Was he allowed to touch you like that already? He doesn't have any idea how these one night things are supposed to work...

Fuckboy Hawks! Who lets you take him over to the couch and watches you sink down to your knees while you fumble with the zipper of his pants. Oh, Lord! He thinks he might bust a nut just from the way your eyes greedily take in his cock and how your hands wrap around him.

Fuckboy Hawks! Who actually busts a nut as soon as your lips wrap around him and you suckle on his tip teasingly. He whimpers and has to squeeze his eyes shut, one arm thrown over his face while the other hand tangles in your hair.

Fuckboy Hawks! Who thinks he's blown all his chances with his longtime crush and is sure you must think he's a complete loser, but you just look at him with wide eyes and ask if he can do that again—to which he just gives a few tiny nods. He lasts longer this time around, giving you enough room to actually work along his shaft and the fun only ends when you take him to the hilt and your throat constricts in lewd gagging noises.

Fuckboy Hawks! Who's so enamored with you, that he doesn't even notice how he flips the situation like a coin and takes charge completely naturally despite being fairly inexperienced. He hoists you up into his lap, grinds you against his thighs until you're all wet and sticky for him and croons the whole time at how pretty you look like this.

Fuckboy Hawks! Who has you ride him through two more orgasms before both of you collapse against each other—chest to chest, red faced and sweaty from exhaustion and breathing so heavily one might think you just fought off a group of notorious villains.

Fuckboy Hawks! Who makes you promise to stay for breakfast the next morning, because he wants to try and eat you instead of waffles or bacon and eggs.

Fuckboy Hawks! Who isn't really a fuckboy at all when he carries you bridal style into his bedroom, places you carefully into the soft pillows and pulls up the covers before tucking you against his chest, his wings naturally engulfing you into a cocoon of warmth and safety.