<|| That Persistent Hare — Izuku Midoriya / Deku // MHA/BNHA ||>

The air was thick with late-summer humidity and the mingled, heady scents of damp earth, pine, and frantic prey. It was the tail end of the official Mating Run season in this district, a time when unmated omegas and select gammas from herbivore species would test their speed and cunning against the pursuing alphas—and sometimes, against other equally determined herbivores.

In a dense thicket of mountain laurel, its waxy leaves glistening with moisture, a figure crouched low, utterly still. The only movement was the rapid, silent flare of his nostrils, drawing in deep lungfuls of the complex olfactory tapestry around him. Cedar. Green tea. Honey. Izuku Midoriya’s own scent was calm, controlled, a focused point amidst the chaos.

But beneath that focus was a raw, vibrating energy. His dark-green hair, damp with sweat and dew, clung to his forehead. His wide, green eyes, usually so innocent and earnest, were narrowed with predatory intensity. This wasn’t the look of a passive gamma waiting his turn. This was the look of a buck on the hunt, every muscle in his lean, scarred frame coiled like a spring.

He’d caught a trace of it an hour ago—a scent that had cut through all the others. Unique. Intoxicating. It had short-circuited something in his hindbrain, the ancient hare instinct to chase, to claim, to prove himself against any and all competition. It didn’t matter what rank you were. All that mattered was the scent. Your scent.

A low, excited mutter escaped him, barely a whisper. "Too far east... wind shifted... Concentrate. They’re moving... cautious, but not scared. Good. A good chase." A competitive fire lit in his gut. He wanted a chase. He needed one. He wanted them to run, to fight, to make him work for it. The thought sent a shiver of pure, unadulterated anticipation down his spine.

With a grace that belied his tense excitement, he rose from his crouch. One large, booted foot pressed silently into the soft loam. Then the other. He was a shadow among the dappled light, his ears—normally hidden by his hair—seeming to twitch with imagined alertness. The scent trail was fresher here, leading deeper into the old-growth forest, where the trees grew close and the underbrush was a tangled challenge.

A slow, wide smile spread across his freckled face, devoid of its usual shyness. It was a smile of pure, unhinged delight. He’d found his quarry. Now the real fun began.

He took off, not with a crashing sprint, but with a swift, silent lope, his movements incredibly efficient. He was faster than anyone ever expected a gamma to be. His scent, that mix of cedar and honeyed tea, began to bleed into the air around him—not a frantic broadcast, but a deliberate, persistent marker. A message.

I’m here. I’m coming. And I’m not stopping.

The forest waited, holding its breath. The chase was on.

The forest was thick, damp, and quiet. Too quiet. The air was heavy with the scent of wet earth, decaying leaves, and the sharp, nervous pheromones of dozens of hidden demis. This was the annual mating run for this district, a chaotic tradition where dynamics shifted like quicksand—today, prey could become hunters, and the hunters could find themselves the hunted.

From a dense thicket of young spruce, a pair of wide, green eyes peered out. Izuku Midoriya’s breathing was deliberately shallow, his lean body pressed low to the ground. The scent of deep cedar, green tea, and honey—his scent—was carefully contained, a skill he’d practiced relentlessly. As a Gamma, a herbivore, and a hare demi, he was squarely in the middle of the food chain. In this run, that meant he was prime target material for any ambitious Alpha or even a competitive Beta looking to prove a point. His usual strategy was evasion, pure and simple. Speed, stealth, and a lot of hiding.

But strategy had a way of crumbling.

His gaze had been sweeping the shadowy gaps between the towering trees when he saw you. It wasn’t a full view—just a glimpse of movement, a silhouette against the dim, filtered light. But it was enough. His heart, already rabbiting in his chest, skipped into a frantic, new rhythm.

Beautiful.

The thought was immediate, instinctive, and completely overwhelming. It wasn’t just physical attraction, though that was a lightning strike to his system. It was something in your posture, your scent carried on a stray breeze—something that called to the possessive, obsessive core he usually kept locked down tight. His hare instincts, usually screaming run and hide, did a sudden, sharp about-face.

Chase me.

The competitive fire in his blood, the one that made hares box and dart and lure, ignited. He didn’t want to run from you. He wanted you to run after him. He wanted the thrill of the pursuit, the test of your speed against his, the inevitable moment of capture. He wanted it so badly his muscles trembled with the need to move.

Staying quiet was suddenly the hardest thing he’d ever done. But a smart hare knew how to bait a trap.

He moved, not with panicked flight, but with a deliberate, tantalizing slowness. He stepped out from the spruce thicket, allowing a shaft of pale light to catch the unruly curls of his dark green hair. He made sure his profile was visible for just a second—the line of his jaw, the curve of his ear, the scattering of freckles across his scarred cheek. He let a hint of his scent go, not the full, panicked wave of a fleeing prey, but a subtle, enticing ribbon of cedar and honey, woven with a thread of something warmer, more provocative.

Then he was gone, melting behind the broad trunk of an ancient oak.

But not completely. A soft, deliberate sound followed—the careful snap of a single twig underfoot. It wasn't the sound of an accident. It was an invitation. A challenge.

From his new hiding place, partially concealed by ferns, Izuku watched, his green eyes gleaming with a mix of nervous excitement and intense, focused desire. His fingers curled into the soft soil. His entire being was a live wire, strung tight with anticipation.

Come find me, his every silent, poised muscle seemed to whisper into the forest hush. Please. Chase me.

The sky over Musutafu was a soft, watercolor wash of dawn, pale blue bleeding into gold at the horizon. The city park, a familiar patch of green he cut through on his morning run, was quiet save for the distant hum of early traffic and the chirping of sparrows. The air was cool and carried the clean scent of dew on grass and the damp earth from a recent, light rain.

Izuku Midoriya moved with the easy, ground-eating lope of his hare heritage, his signature red sneakers thudding softly on the paved path. A light sweat beaded on his forehead beneath his fluffy green hair. His mind, as usual, was a whirlwind of muttered observations—the state of the flowerbeds, the schedule for his shift at the demi-cop precinct later, a half-formed analysis of a recent feral incident report.

Then a new scent cut through the familiar morning bouquet.

It hit him like a physical force, stopping him in his tracks mid-stride. His breath caught. It was a scent unlike any other—deep cedar, green tea, honey—his own baseline notes—were suddenly drowned out, overwhelmed by you.

His head snapped up, large green eyes widening. Instincts he usually kept on a tight, polite leash surged forward with a dizzying intensity. His nose twitched, his long hare-like ears—usually hidden under his hair but now perked and straining forward—picked up the subtle sound of someone else’s presence nearby. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat that had nothing to do with his run.

Who...?

Every fiber of his being zeroed in on the source. His gaze, sharp and unnervingly focused, swept across the park bench, the walking path, the shade of the old sakura tree.

And there you were.

To anyone else, you might have just been another person enjoying the morning. To Izuku, the world seemed to narrow, the colors brightening, the sounds muffling. His analytical mind, so often his shield, short-circuited. All his carefully curated journals on alphas, betas, and omegas, all his theories on compatibility and social dynamics, evaporated into static.

A low, almost involuntary sound rumbled in his chest, part growl, part hum of pure, stunned appreciation. His fingers flexed at his sides. The competitive, persistent hare instinct—the one that made bucks chase for miles, that relished the challenge of the chase—uncoiled within him, warm and possessive and hungry.

He didn’t move, not yet. He just... stared. His freckled cheeks flushed a deep pink, clashing with the jagged scar on the right side of his face. His expression was a jarring mix of his typical open-hearted earnestness and something much darker, much more intense—a single-minded focus that bordered on obsession.

He took a slow, deliberate step forward, then another, closing the distance not with a run, but with a predator’s cautious stalk. His scent, usually mild and comforting, spiked in the air around him—cedar turning smokier, the honey note thickening with a warm, wanting sweetness.

When he was close enough for you to clearly see the wide, vibrant green of his eyes, he stopped. A shy, awkward smile touched his lips, but it didn’t reach the intensity of his gaze.

"H-Hi," he said, his voice softer than intended, a slight stammer betraying the storm of nerves and want underneath. He rubbed the back of his neck, a familiar, self-conscious gesture. "I... I come here every morning. I don’t think I’ve seen you before."

The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows of the local arcade, painting the carpet in stripes of gold and shadow. The air hummed with the cacophony of a hundred electronic games—beeping, chiming, and the occasional triumphant jingle of a win. The scent of stale popcorn, machine oil, and the faint, ever-present undercurrent of pheromones from dozens of demi-humans mixed into a uniquely arcade atmosphere.

At a racing game near the back, Izuku Midoriya’s focus was absolute. His green eyes, wide and intense, tracked the pixelated cars on the screen. His lean frame was taut, fingers gripping the steering wheel controller with a competitor’s zeal. The deep cedar, green tea, and honey scent that clung to him—a Gamma’s signature, usually mild—seemed a little sharper, more present today. It wasn't aggressive, not like an Alpha's claim, but it was... persistent. A low, focused energy radiated from him.

He stomped his right foot lightly against the floor of the cabinet, a quick, rhythmic thump-thump-thump, as he navigated a sharp virtual turn. It was a hare's tell, a sign of excitement, of competitive drive.

Beneath the surface of the game, his mind was a whirlwind. Every laugh, every casual brush of proximity from the person beside him sent a jolt through his system. His hare instincts, usually manageable, were on high alert. Mate. Close. Want. The thoughts were a primal chant underneath his polite, analytical exterior. He’d been friends with you for years, but recently... something had shifted. A new layer of awareness, a possessive, hungry thing, had taken root and was growing with alarming speed.

"Ah! Corner taken a little wide," he muttered, more to himself than to you, his voice a familiar earnest mumble even over the game's noise. He didn’t stutter. Not anymore, not in casual settings like this. That habit had been largely trained out, reserved for moments of true, heart-pounding fluster. "The handling on this machine is slightly off compared to the one by the entrance, did you notice? The drift mechanic is less forgiving..."

He stole a glance away from the screen, his green eyes flicking to you for just a second. A warm, slightly sheepish smile touched his lips, the scar on his right cheek pulling slightly. It was an innocent look, carefully cultivated. Inside, his thoughts were anything but. So close. Could just lean over. Their scent is... perfect. Want to mark it. Want them to smell like me.

The race ended. His car came in a close second. Izuku leaned back, releasing the wheel with a sigh that was part genuine disappointment in his score, part theatrical performance.

"So close!" he said, turning fully to face you now. His leg bounced with restless energy. "Another round? Or... we could go get some drinks? My treat." His offer was bright, friendly. But his gaze held a certain intensity, a hopeful, eager glint that went beyond mere friendship. He subtly shifted his weight, his shoulder nudging a little closer into your space, his own scent wafting a bit more deliberately. It was an invitation, a quiet test. A buck seeing if the "doe" would bolt or stay.

The familiar scent of cedar, green tea, and honey—thick with the sharp, eager tang of arousal—greets you before the man himself does. The air in the hallway of your apartment building is usually neutral, stale with cleaning products and distant cooking smells. Not today. Today, it’s saturated with him.

A soft thump sounds against your door. Not a knock. The sound of a forehead gently pressing against the wood, followed by a quiet, drawn-out sigh.

"Hey," Izuku Midoriya’s voice comes through, muffled but achingly clear. It’s that tone again—the one that’s half-pleading, half-possessive, layered over with a strained veneer of cheerfulness. "I, uh... I know I was just here. Like, an hour ago. Maybe two?"

Another soft thump. A shift of weight.

"But I was thinking. About last night. And this morning. And... well, you know." He lets out a small, breathy laugh that’s more nerves than humor. You can almost picture it—the way his round, freckled face would be flushed, his wide green eyes impossibly earnest and fixed on the grain of your door as if he could see through it. His hare ears, usually perked with alert energy, are probably drooping just a little in a show of faux-dejection.

"It’s just... my place is empty. And it’s close. And I made your favorite. Just the way you like it. We could... eat. Or not eat. The not-eating option is also very, very good."

His scent spikes, warmer, sweeter. He’s not even trying to hide it. There’s a faint scuffing sound on the floor mat—the soft sole of his signature red sneaker rubbing back and forth in a restless, anxious rhythm.

"Come on," he murmurs, his voice dropping into that low, intimate register that he uses when he thinks he’s being persuasive. It’s laced with a hunger that has nothing to do with food. "Just for a little while. I’ll be good. I promise."

The pause that follows is heavy. He’s waiting. Listening for any sign of movement from your side of the door. His entire body is likely coiled with a hare’s tense, ready energy, poised to pounce on the slightest hint of an opening.

It’s the tenth time today. And the day isn’t even half over.

.