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Chapter Text

Dabi doesn’t reach out for two whole weeks after Hawks’ sudden escape, and if Hawks didn’t know the villain doesn’t care, he’d think it’s retaliation: vindictively evading him, much like the hero evaded his touch. 

Over the time between their last encounter and the next, Hawks runs out of air and out of sanity.

His objective ironically slips through his fingers like the smoke that caused the downfall, and because Hawks has no course of action to prevent it from dissipating into thin air – since he only ever receives calls from Dabi’s burner or public phones – he agonizes over the loss. Being forced to stand still in anticipation of a call that is not guaranteed to come at all is not easy for a man constantly moving at such high speeds.

It doesn’t help that Hawks also has to engage in mortal combat with memories of the feeling, Dabi’s touch on his body, Dabi’s mouth pressed to his. 

Some days, when he wins, he falls asleep to gruesome thoughts and self-induced memories of blood splattered on floors and walls, which do manage to make his stomach feel so heavy that he can’t think of much else until he collapses out of exhaustion. Other days, it’s just not enough. Even after flying from city to city, fighting crime and trying to eavesdrop on criminals about the Paranormal Liberation at the same time the whole day, tiredness is not enough of a good weapon to keep him from imagining Dabi in his bed, grabbing him, touching him, kissing him without conditions. 

Ordinary hero duty doesn’t cut his brain a slack in general, because he’s too good for any job to actually take his mind off the heavy rock at the pit of his stomach called guilt. It’s a miracle he can fly at all with such weight dragging him down. 

Dabi is too powerful a thought. 

Dabi corrupted what little of him was left to be corrupted still, and Hawks was gladly debauched, but because he is too much of a chicken – ah, bird jokes, a classic – he couldn’t even go deep enough to let Dabi reach every part of him. Now everybody and their mother in this country might pay a price for it.

He could find another way in, of course he could. He’s a smooth talker. He’s built a public personality that is just borderline between a trustworthy national Hero and a guy who will do what he wants and take what he craves. Perfect for infiltration. Only problem is Hawks doesn’t have a timesheet. Something bad is about to happen, no one knows when it’s going to happen, and it took months to earn this much of Dabi’s trust. 

He needs to get it back, needs to get Dabi back.

And yeah, that might be an issue.

Because for a guy who winks at the camera and says he’ll do whatever he wants and take what he craves, he’s left with a conundrum: the first time he really wanted , it was something he should never take. How does he solve that? Hawks knows he was trained better than this. He’s at fault for running away, and at fault for wanting Dabi to kiss him again, to touch every part of him. Besides, Dabi – his way in – wanted it, so Hawks should have just granted. He’s very well-trained in the art of granting other people access to parts of him, feathers included. It’s not like people respect his boundaries on the streets either.

But the fact is Dabi desired .

There was something burning vividly in his eyes before he reached out, something growing from the darkness of the night and devouring, something different than mere curiosity for the phenomenal, nationally-known red wings of Hawks. 

So in the split moment between Dabi reaching for his feathers with rising heartbeats and the escape, Hawks horribly found himself wanting Dabi to touch his wings too.

Maybe that’s what he ran away from. 

Maybe if Dabi had wanted to touch his wings out of curiosity like anyone else, and if Hawks didn’t feel anything about it, then he might have gone through it without any effort.

The fact is that wanting Dabi is out of his schemes.

Wanting Dabi is confusing.

Wanting Dabi doesn’t come from an order, so where does it come from?

It should just be convenient, really – Hawks tells himself for days and nights and days again – that he wants it. Why is the thought of Dabi giving him what he wants so scary that it makes him unfit to fulfill the mission he was assigned to instead?

For two weeks Hawks runs on coffee like it’s the only potable drink left on Earth, almost on an uninterrupted caffeine roll, awake at all times. During the few hours he sleeps out of exhaustion, he keeps his phone wrapped in a feather so that he can jolt awake if Dabi does call for him.

By the time Dabi finally calls, Hawks had almost surrendered to the idea of finding another way into the League, an easier one. 

That would have definitely killed two birds with one stone, and left one bird, him, alive.

Yet, when he gets the call one afternoon, Hawks drops the report he was filing on his early rescue intervention on one of his interns at his agency and flies off into the sky. He runs to Dabi like a good dog, guilt as a leash he’s very accustomed to – just a different hand pulling at it.

Dabi does have a task for him this time. 

His commands are grunted coldly through a burner phone (a ‘ don’t bother meeting me without what I asked’ unspoken yet clear) and they come with tips on where to find him that are so cryptic they require an investigation of their own. Hawks drowns in the abyss of his faults on the other end of the call for causing this fall, a hundred steps back along the path of their ‘relationship’, finish line no longer in sight.

Two weeks ago Dabi had met him just cause , no tasks. 

(A thought that Hawks admittedly struggled shutting down by following the proper protocol of the specialists at the Commission on intrusive thoughts; one that costs effort not obsessing over). 

Now he won’t see Hawks without what he asked for.

Luckily for Hawks, the villain doesn’t have a clue how easy the assignment is.

Dabi asks for a list of heroes that are being investigated for corruption and possible treason by any secret agency or group under the radar. He wants Hawks to violate State secrets to get the information so that he can prove he’s a more faithful dog to him than he is to the system. 

Or maybe he is just lazy and wants to take advantage of Hawks’ desperation to have him pave the road for the next Hawks: have what he sees as his current pawn give him a list of the possible pawns that might substitute the guy who wouldn’t let him touch his wings.

If only Dabi knew that, if Hawks hadn’t been assigned to the infiltration, those names would probably end up being his current check and eventually hit list.

Predictably, The Commission consents to the trade the moment Hawks reports to them: Dabi’s trust – Hawks’ golden ticket into the League – in exchange for the names they meant to wipe off themselves, so that Dabi takes the matter in his own burning hands, sparing Hawks dirt on his already nasty wings because it slims the risk for them.

Dabi must be fishing for recruits in villain, civilian and hero waters, something he hasn’t done for a while. The thought doesn’t bother Hawks at all . 

If it does, it’s only for the sake of his mission. It has nothing to do with how his brain immediately offers a vision of an indefinite individual not kissing Dabi on the top of buildings in his stead. Hawks is a grown man who’s trying to save the country, so it’s only out of the fear he might lose access to a net of viral information that might prevent disaster that he wants to avoid Dabi cutting him off. 

Besides, Hawks mustn’t be deluded. Because it’s insane, he’s better off avoiding that instinct that chirps in his brain that Dabi has no interest in this list at all, and that he just asked Hawks to make him think that he is considering a replacement. 

How self-absorbed would Hawks have to be to believe that?

He obliges, because from the end of another call, the voice of his handler makes it clear that he should be desperate to win his contact’s trust after two weeks of radio silence. Hawks has more faith in himself than that. He fully believes he could earn himself another contact, but would that be worth the risk when he has one that did not-kiss him on a rooftop? 

Because none of Dabi’s potential recruits he’s aware of came back alive from meeting with the villain but him, Hawks trims the list, unknown to the HPSC. The definitive version that Dabi will get a hold of has been stripped of the names of heroes that Hawks finds to have children or relatives in need of care. He hopes it helps them more than it helps his conscience.

The hardest part of his otherwise effortless mission is meeting with Dabi in person to deliver.

The villain welcomes Hawks sprawled on an old couch in the middle of a dusty, abandoned apartment at the edge of the city that reminds Hawks of his childhood the moment he steps in. There’s a kick to his stomach when the smell of dirt clings to his heart, the weight of leaving this reality behind unscathed wraps its hand around his neck, suffocating him with guilt.

Funny how Dabi knows to wait for him exactly where Hawks belongs.

He wonders if the villain can smell it off him from where he’s slouching, legs spread, shoulders weighting completely against the back of the couch. 

Hawks doesn’t know jealousy, but if his ego were responsive enough to be tickled, it would be by how Dabi makes his room look like a luxurious throne room rather than a broken home. Hawks tried to make it look like a house back in the day, fingers consumed from his attempted repairs, and he couldn’t even achieve that.

As soon as he walks in, the smell of weed doesn’t go unnoticed, alluring for reasons that have very little to do with smoke. Hawks doesn’t miss the joint resting in an old, faded ashtray either.

He ignores the way it evokes the memory – a rooftop, pinkies brushing, Dabi’s tongue rolling against his, long fingers stretching towards red wings.

Staying on the other side of the coffee table between them helps the evasion. Hawks sends a feather to deliver the list safely on the surface, hands in his pockets as he tries to settle back into the friendly mask that earns him Dabi’s favor from time to time.

“There you go, sir. Fresh out of the oven!”

The burned lower half of Dabi’s face is covered by his hand, eyes trailing between the list and the hero standing in front of him. Hawks can sense the distance between them is not just physical in the moment. The temperature couldn’t be lower in the room. Under the cold scrutiny of those eyes, he feels blameable of all the crimes in the world. Mind you, there was never closeness between them before, but the ship that was traveling, though admittedly at low speed, clearly hit the iceberg with Hawks’ dramatic elopement and is now sinking.

Hawks is miles beneath the surface too, away from the sun, or the moon and the stars over a rooftop. He hides under his visor, unsure what his eyes will say, scared of what Dabi will say, afraid that Dabi will pull him closer again and terrified that he won’t.

Bad intentions unmistakably glimmer in the villain’s eyes for a second, and that’s all the warning Hawks gets because apparently Dabi has no thought-to-action filter (something that Hawks will definitely regret being so wrong about months from now), leaving even the fastest man in the country no time to react: he reaches for the feather hovering the table rather that the list, catching it between his thumb and index finger. 

Straightening up like a soldier in front of his commander, Hawks does his best to keep from groaning and he must compliment himself for the indifference he pulls off. Dabi’s fingers are holding him . All of him.

“Tell me, Hawks,” Dabi marvels up close at the feather in his hold, spinning it graciously, “are you afraid that I’ll burn your precious wings?”

Hawks doesn’t mention how there’s nothing precious about his wings, even though it’s loud in his brain on first instinct. He focuses on the details, the hint clear: being called by his Hero name rather than a nickname means serious talk. Hawks can read the room, he was trained to read every room. They never had any serious talk that wasn’t business before.

Had Dabi asked this same question two weeks ago, before the smoking and the kissing and the almost something more, Hawks might have had to resist the urge to scoff.

If it ever came to a fight, Dabi wouldn’t really have the time to burn him and exploit the advantage of his quirk against feathers (yet another thought he’ll regretfully look back to months from now). It’s another kind of burn that he worries about now instead: the one that sets fire to his lungs, his insides, his trapped heart . It’s the temperature rising beneath his skin whenever the haunting thought of Dabi’s tongue against his own visited him over the past two weeks that concerns him.

“Can you blame me?” He offers a possibly cute, charming shrug of his shoulders, so that Dabi thinks this false confession embarrasses him. “You always look like you’re going to bite me no matter how hard I try.”

Dabi has a malevolent, suggestive grin for him as a response.

It makes Hawks sink in the collar of his jacket as he physically blinks away the sudden fantasy of Dabi actually biting him. Hiding in himself is his only choice: it’s not like he can flee the room again. If the dog constantly runs away, the owner might get the idea that they are ungrateful, that they do not appreciate what they’re given, yadda-yadda. And Hawks? He’s been taught to be the best of dogs since he had to earn his treats.

That doesn’t mean he’s a pushover, though.

With Dabi, he can always push back.

( This owner likes it when he pushes back. It evidently amused him. So the line between Hawks pushing back because he wants to and Hawks pleasing his owner in another way is so blurred not even his sharp eyes can see it clearly.)

He attempts at calling the feather back to his wings, but Dabi doesn’t let go, rubbing his thumb along the vane gently instead, in a way that makes Hawks’ spine shiver despite the generous amount of clothing.

“Can you blame me?” Dabi chants in an evident knockoff of Hawks’ tone. His fingers explore the feather tentatively, eyes scanning Hawks for reactions. “You always look like you’re just using me to get in.”

The mockery is more lighthearted than usual in his voice, so Hawks thinks he either doesn’t mean it or he just knows they’re using each other and doesn’t care enough to be bothered ( Dabi doesn’t care was one of his first memos on the villain; Dabi cared so much, too much is still far away in the future, for a broken Hawks that doesn’t exist yet to grasp).

“Aw.” Hawks kicks the air with his foot playfully, the fool-in-love gig exaggerated so that it cannot be mistaken for real – because it’s not . “You could have just said you wanted more attention, Dabs.”

Dabi doesn’t flinch at the new nickname. He settles more comfortably against the back of the couch, strokes once more along the vane, aborting all the goofy kicking Hawks’ been staging.

“And miss the chance to ruffle your feathers?”

Dabi’s thumb becomes hot against him. The heat passes on, from the villain’s skin, to the feather, to Hawks’ entire body, his brain spreading the illusion of the feeling to the rest of him until it’s like Dabi is touching everywhere all at once. He can’t be kicking the air now that his knees are trembling, can he?

Hawks’ face rises in temperature as well, but the hero suspects it has nothing to do with the stimulation of the heat and everything to do with the thought of Dabi touching him everywhere… how the real thing would feel.

Before he can say something stupid, like maybe Dabi should actually ruffle his feathers since he seems to crave it so much, Dabi asks an equally stupid question.

“Wanna in?”

It’s the exact words from last time, whispered with an unsubtle nod to the joint in the ashtray.

Hawks really shouldn’t.

The shaky pull at the pit of his stomach gives him all the signals that this is wrong.

It’s not about the drug, obviously. Hawks’ had plenty and he’ll have it again and again and some more to be able to get under the skin of his target, to make them feel comfortable enough in his presence that they open up. It’s not about being with Dabi outside of what’s strictly necessary to deliver what the villain commanded because, again, Hawks would do it in a heartbeat if it opened up Dabi the way it usually opens up people.

It’s about the impending threat, the sensation that he won’t be able to come back from it; the aura of fatality that lingers around Dabi as he slacks on the couch, ruling over his kingdom of dust. The danger lies in the awareness that, contrary to all the times Hawks has done this before, this once he would be reaching for something he craves. Dabi’s call reaches him no matter the stakes. It’s unprofessional, it’s nasty, it’s bad.

What can Hawks do other than go along with it, though?

He can’t push Dabi away the way he knows Dabi might not push him away completely in his own interest.

At this point, even if Hawks doesn’t smoke with Dabi, he will still be forced to be around him by the circumstances, his orders. Saying no to something both he and Dabi want will only complicate things, won’t it? Refusing the unexpected chance at reconciliation Dabi is offering because he recognizes Hawks is an extremely precious tool would be stupid, wouldn’t it? Taking too long to answer is improper behavior for someone who underwent almost two decades of training to prevent it.

Besides, Dabi’s thumb running gentle circles over his feather is doing wonders to soothe every single nerve in Hawks’ body. It’s like a head-to-toe massage that makes his legs wobbly without the help of any weed.

And when Dabi full caresses him through his feather, so careful and gentle that, had it not been insane overthinking that cannot possibly correspond to reality, Hawks might think he’s trying to prove a point, to demonstrate that he won’t hurt Hawks’ wings if he lets him touch them, he finds himself speaking in genuinity.

No strategizing.

“Sure.” His words echo like a verdict in the old room as he walks around the table, feather snapping back to his wing as soon as Dabi releases it. “It wasn’t so bad last time.”

Hawks hadn’t even realized he was still trying to summon his own feather back.

“Seems like you were able to fly just fine, after all.” Dabi snaps sardonically as the hero approaches.

Hawks definitely does not almost stumble on his stroll to the couch because of it.

Pretty naive of him to think his escape would go unmentioned.

“Ya think? I threw up as soon as I got home. Barely made it to the bathroom.” He lies, pretending like he didn’t almost actually throw up from Dabi related vertigo rather than stoned motion sickness. He sits on the other end of the couch, wings draping uncomfortably over the back as he keeps them raised. “Maybe this time, it’ll be better.”

As he rests his elbow on the arm of the couch, cheek in his palm, eyes on Dabi who’s looking back, Hawks doesn’t think smoking can improve from Dabi kissing– not kissing him with the excuse, Dabi’s hands on his hips, Dabi’s tongue in his mouth, Dabi’s heat below him. There might have been some flatness in his tone, blame the awareness.

The villain goggles at him from beneath black strands, looking like he can see through Hawks’ bullshit exactly.

It’s always so.

“Yeah,” his grin grows in size and brightness, “maybe if you let it fade before you throw yourself off the roof, birdbrain.”

Dabi doesn’t wait for an answer before he takes the joint from the ashtray – is he bored with their conversation? Is it eagerness? Both hurt in completely different ways – and he lights it up with his fingertips, blue flames hypnotizing Hawks with their gorgeous pretty glow, dangerously close to some of his longest feathers curtaining over between their bodies.

Whatever excuse Hawks was going to come up with to justify his sudden escape from two weeks ago, Dabi doesn’t seem interested in hearing it, choosing to avert his blue eyes from the joint and towards him instead.

Through the sharp cockiness of his gaze, Hawks can see something softer and undefinable, something questioning and doubtful, something that makes Dabi look more like a human rather than the monster Hawks desperately wants him to be, as the villain whispers quietly between them.

“Just like last time, yeah?”

Well, no one ever trained Hawks to hide the way his heart speeds up in his chest at the intimacy, Dabi’s gentle tone making the room feel like it’s a multicolored bubble wrapped around them, keeping them from the rest of the world. His wings don’t move but Hawks can feel they practically itch to flutter.

The question of why they would do such a thing lingers in his brain.

The question of why Dabi and he would want to do it like last time lingers on his tongue as much, sits heavy and comfortable in his mouth.

He wants to ask so badly, needs to ask Dabi why they would let their mouths pass the smoke between them again rather than just passing the joint. Dabi doesn’t have to believe the lie that Hawks has never smoked before because he did ‘for the first time’ with him two weeks ago. Hawks could play it off as a joke, smugly tease Dabi about the villain wanting to kiss him so badly it makes him look stupid or something. Instead, like a coward, he swallows the question so deep in his own body, out of his own reach, so that it cannot break this moment with its rationality.

Hawks doesn’t know why he simply nods along.

He swears Dabi’s grin becomes blinding, an unaware callback to the stars on the rooftop of a twenty-story building.

The villain makes it look easy, too. 

Not the smoking, of course, that’s the effortless part.

He makes all of this look easy, like they are just two guys who are about to enjoy something together. He has none of Hawks’ internal turmoil written over his features, so if he does feel conflicted about this, then maybe Hawks should be more careful what he is dealing with, impeccable acting skills and all. Nothing gives him away. He makes it look like Hawks isn’t doomed to betray Dabi to stop the League, if Dabi doesn’t betray him first. And if Hawks is not meticulously careful about this, then he is starting to think he’ll drown in the illusion of them possibly having a different ending in sight.

Two young men sitting on the couch of a rotten house in a rotten neighborhood, smoking pot by not kissing each other on the mouth.

In fact, Dabi makes it look and feel so effortless that when he turns in his seat, side dropping against the back of the couch, and blows from the join, Hawks finds it just as natural to hop in closer until he is within doom’s reach, one perfect step away from disaster.

This time, Dabi smoothly uses his free hand to cup Hawks’ jaw, pulling him closer, taking him in.

Hawks obliges, wags his tail for his current owner, and opens up when Dabi reaches his lips.

The villain puffs smoke out and into Hawks’ welcoming mouth, fingers tugging a little at his jaw when their lips touch. There’s a spark at the contact, Hawks’ hairs stand alert along his arms.

This time, Hawks’ eyes are shut before he can even question it. He can hardly ever afford to close them and he certainly did not command so willingly in this case. Yet, he doesn’t regret it when, rendered blind by his own body for a few seconds, all he can focus on is the drag of Dabi’s tongue against his, a brief swipe through the light smoke before Hawks has to remorsefully close his mouth and hold it in.

“Yeah, just like that.” Dabi murmurs sweetly over his locked mouth. “Hold it in, birdie.” 

Hawks is not immune to the gentleness in his voice, the warm fingers on his jaw or the new nickname. He preens under the implied praise – a tiny, pretty bird rather than a birdbrain. His shoulders fall slack and his wings fluff up without consent. It’s the first time Dabi doesn’t call him something derogatory related to his mutation.

His head fills with the lightness while he holds the smoke in.

Dabi doesn’t rush him to blow out.

When Hawks opens his eyes and gradually breathes the smoke out, letting it disperse over Dabi’s features, he immediately feels lightheaded compared to other times. The slow huff has a tighter grip on his senses than the ones from weeks ago. Holding it a bit longer, dragging the exhale a bit further, the first blow feels like a different beginning than last time.

He isn’t sure what’s causing it, if it’s the closed eyes, the fact that Dabi immediately slipped his tongue along in between them this time, the way his fingers held Hawks’ face unnecessarily.

Or maybe it’s the way Dabi is looking at him through the see-through smoke right now, staring like he wants to  strip him of everything: his cover, his over-friendly demeanor, his clothes. Hawks is dizzy with unspoken emotions, not high from that one hit, but certainly not lower than before. His head gives a little spin, but he wouldn’t know if it’s from the weed or just the high of being looked at by Dabi like he’s a delicious meal and the villain is starving.

His hand never leaves Hawks’ face either.

Dabi is completely unbothered by the smoke between them, probably used to burning ones: denser, hotter, dirtier.

Hawks stares at Dabi’s mismatched lips, pulled in a lopsided grin. His eyelids look lazy, his body loosely sprawled on the couch. He had figured Dabi had been smoking before he got here from the smell, but now that he’s up close and the villain is burning holes in Hawks’ skin with his gaze, he can see the signs of it all over him too.

He can tell he is wanted without any doubt now as well, the thought of Dabi craving him more intoxicating and accelerating than any drug. Hawks’ heart stumbles on itself and falls to fatal damage when Dabi’s blue eyes pierce him and the villain exhales a long, empty breath.

Then the joint is raised to Dabi’s mouth again.

He hollows his cheeks, blows with casual elegance and steadiness.

His fingers pull at Hawks’ neck and jaw before he’s even done inhaling.

Hawks leans in before Dabi’s even lowered the joint between them.

Dabi barely remembers to push the smoke in when Hawks spreads his lips.

Hawks would have forgotten to breathe in had the smoke not been pushed into his mouth.

Some of it slips out and is forever lost when Hawks’ tongue seeks out Dabi’s before the passage is complete, misbehaving like it has a will of its own, licking along Dabi in the faintest of tentative touches. 

If Hawks didn’t think himself better than that, he would call it teasing. 

Dabi’s tongue is wet, warm and slippery, too slippery when it runs back in his mouth, leaving Hawks to wrap his lips around the smoke, unable to catch it.

“Gotta hold it, birdie.” The villain chuckles drily in a reminder, voice raw, eyes sparkling beneath half-shut eyelids.

His hand runs along the side of Hawks’ face sinuously, a snake sliding until it reaches its prey, Hawks’ lips, to press a finger against them, commanding that he keeps them sealed to let the drug float.

Hawks obeys.

He holds it in even when Dabi’s long finger arches, tip rolling Hawks’ lower lip down and then letting it pop back into place. Dabi’s eyes follow the motion, focused and a little wide, before they’re staring back into Hawks’.

When Hawks exhales, it’s right against Dabi’s finger, the line of smoke splitting into a half and fading between them. 

He realizes that his head is dropping slightly to the side.

In his crooked view, Dabi looks gorgeous. The reflection of the dim lights of the afternoon coming through the dirty window, hampered by dust and welcome in by broken glass, is caught in his staples, turning him into a shiny stoned mess. Head fuzzy, Hawks has a harder time than ever not staring at each single one of them; an impossible time, actually, as his brain suddenly floods with visions of staples popping or his tongue running along each single tiny one of them; then a sudden urge to rip them off Dabi’s face, steal them and bring them back to his nest rushes through his mind. Ugh , his home , not nest. What’s wrong with him?

Well, not like ripping them off Dabi’s face in general would be a normal fantasy.

Dabi catches the momentum, because he always catches everything.

His hand drops from Hawks’ face, fingers quickly wrapping around his wrist instead.

Maneuvering Hawks’ arm must be easy with how loose it feels. Dabi guides it to his own face like they’ve done this a million times before, like they are close and familiar with each other instead of worlds apart.  Hawks’ fingers are trembling when he finally touches the metal that keeps Dabi’s healthy and burned skin together.

It hits him like a rocket, the retaliation that the man sitting next to him is practically giving Hawks access to the foundations that hold his body in place.

If this is some sort of manipulation to get Hawks to feel confident about Dabi’s trust in him then the hero must fucking applaud him. He himself couldn’t get there and let Dabi touch the most vulnerable yet deadly part of him, so whatever game they’re playing, Hawks’ certainly not winning.

He taps gently on a staple, then moves onto the next one.

The reflections are heavier on his gradually sleepier eyes, so he attempts to look back at Dabi instead, his throat suddenly too dry. Before he can meet the villain’s gaze, he is being pulled by the wrist and dragged urgently onto Dabi’s lap once more.

It’s purely instinctive, the way Hawks spreads his wings threateningly over them, casting a shadow over half the room, the entirety of them barely making it between the walls without touching them.

All he sees in response to the automatic self-defense mechanism of his body when he looks down at Dabi is honest, carefree wonderment.

From below, the villain is staring at Hawks’ wings with wide eyes, running from one end to the other with his gaze, his lips slightly parted. Hawks doesn’t know how to tell his heart to stop hammering at how handsome Dabi is painted in amazement and emotion, how gorgeous he looks when he isn’t numb to everything around him. Hawks’ lucky that Dabi doesn’t care for shit in general at this point, because if he always saw the villain like this, so free and wild and human , then he might just not have to fake the fool-in-love gig at all, given time. 

When he realizes there’s no harm being done other than the damage his heart is taking, Hawks settles his wings back, more comfortable now that he is straddling Dabi, long feathers falling onto the dusty floor.

The joint is in Dabi’s right hand between their bodies.

Hawks gets the feeling that if he’ll text Dabi later about how zoned out he looks right now, about how he marveled at Hawks’ wings, the villain will just tell him to fuck off. It’s not like Hawks can blame him, because if Dabi texted him about whatever the weird bird fuck that thing with the staples and the staring was, Hawks would deny it to the death. Those traits shouldn’t even exist. He worked hard, he made sure.

This time, Dabi doesn’t reach for Hawks’ wings.

Thankfulness and rejection build equally in Hawks’ chest, the fear of Dabi touching him just as potent as the terror of Dabi never giving it another chance.

Instead of reaching out, the villain simply lifts the joint back to his lips, the accidental nod of his head making his black bangs dance over his forehead.

“Better angle.” He whispers before he smokes – less guarded, more vulnerable.

All for Hawks to take.

So why is it that when Dabi blows again, Hawks can only babble a barely perceptible yup in return, head filled with louder pleas of yesyesyes the closer Dabi pulls him in, long fingers grabbing the hem of Hawks’ jacket, slipping through the fur?

Hawks doesn’t care about the smoke at this point.

He could lie about it again, to Dabi and to himself, but he suspects that no matter how good of a performance he puts on, it’ll be vain to his audience, especially with such daming proof when he rushes in to definitely kiss Dabi, mouth open slack, objective forgotten, tongue asking for access on first touch.

To his credit, if Dabi did care about the smoke at this point, he seems to be quickly swayed.

His chuckle is manic against Hawks’ mouth when they collapse together, smoke spilling like water out of a full glass, tongues practically wrestling one another, gloved hands running on a burned, exposed collarbone; scarred hands grabbing overdressed hips.

Dabi’s tongue is shamelessly swirling around Hawks’ for the first time, fighting him in the same way Dabi fights him when Hawks tests his patience.

Hawks gets easily lost in the feeling – the wetness, the hotness, Dabi’s fingers pulling at his hair so that Hawks bends his head and gives him better access, to the point the hero thinks he couldn’t reach a deeper spot in the villain’s mouth even if he tried.

That’s when he feels that for the first time, too.

Deep in the cavity of Dabi’s mouth, a thick line of what feels like stitches rubs roughly against the tip of his tongue, an unexpected pointy welcome party. Hawks isn’t sure what it is about a man with a stitched tongue that makes him moan, hips following the motion that Dabi’s hands are suddenly setting on his hips.

The joint is probably lost somewhere along the couch, which is definitely more hazardous than the floor of a rooftop, but Hawks can’t bring himself to care about accidentally setting fire to a place no one lives at this time. It’s not worth the feeling of Dabi’s stitched tongue in his mouth.

All he can bring himself to focus on is licking and exploring and pleading.

Dabi kissing him like he wants to devour him on the spot, tongue and teeth now battling to own him, turns Hawks into an itchy, sweaty mess beneath his clothes. Dabi must notice somehow – that’s how much Hawks’ burning, that an actually burning man realizes – because he pulls back and tugs at the fur of Hawks’ jacket again.

“Take this shit off.” He all but growls breathlessly, and Hawks might be a little stoned but definitely not enough to miss the urgency behind it.

Dabi wants him too; which, of course, implies the admission that Hawks does want Dabi.

The villain hooks his finger below Hawks’ visor, throwing it gracelessly around the room, leaving Hawks nothing to hide his own eyes behind. Yet, without it, Hawks can bathe in the unfiltered pretty picture Dabi paints with the healthy part of his cheeks flushed with heat.

The villain has an eyebrow arched his way.

He is basically pouting.

The second of staring earns Hawks a scolding.

“What? You hooked on the metal again? Fucking bird brain.”

There’s no disdain in his tone, only neediness.

Hawks can relate to the need.

There’s definitely some contribution from the weed to the dumb way the hero tries to pull his own jacket off with his wings still in their full form. The drug makes him unreasonable and instinctive, though he wouldn’t cross his heart and hope to die on the fact that the substance altering his brain isn’t just Dabi blushing beneath him, pulling at his body wherever he can reach for it. Hawks doesn’t want so many clothes on himself now, doesn’t want things between their bodies, wants to feel Dabi so close that there aren’t inches between them. 

So Hawks scatters his feathers, then.

He strips himself of the biggest safety measure he has against Dabi, sending them all over them, spreading widely in the air like a fan, all the tips aiming at the ceiling and the walls, opposite to Dabi; all his sharp edges turned away from a man he might be forced to cut through some day in the near future; all his defenses lowered, his body exposed, for Dabi’s taking in return.

And he wants Dabi to take it.

Hawks’ breaths get shorter, his chest rising beneath the compression suit when he thinks of letting Dabi’s hands all over him, Dabi’s arms around his waist, Dabi’s mouth against his own once more.

The villain flinches briefly – a second later, blame the high, maybe? – but then his face shifts from surprise to disappointment. His hands pull at Hawks by the loops of his pants childishly in complaint.

“No, no, hey,” his words are dragged and just a little needy, his head falling back against the couch in defeat, “none of that, don’t take those off.”

Hawks stares, dumbfounded, jacket hanging midway along his arms.

Ah, it’s a thing then. 

“You’re not scared.” It’s an observation rather than a question.

Dabi answers anyway.

“Of you?” He tsks despite the breathlessness, but he never tears his eyes away from the feathers. 

Of course Dabi has an interest in his wings, well, everybody does. He’s already given proof of it last time too when he reached for them. Hawks knows as much already. He’s been obsessing about it for two weeks now. And yet , the way Dabi’s looking at his scattered feathers now…

It’s different in the intimacy of a room compared to having the whole city below them, too. Hawks’ never had any part of himself be so devotedly worshiped through someone’s eyes without phone cameras flashing in his face, screams thrown at him, without the reverence of the Hero he represents rather than the heteromorph he is.

Dabi seems to have enough of his dignity intact through the dizziness with the way he’s holding himself together despite the whining, evidently attempting to blink the still present horror on his face from the fear of Hawks taking his wings off.

Hawks feels the villain’s eyes wander between each single one of his feathers, and while the drug is kicking in gradually, it does manage to hinder him when he tries to keep them from quivering under the inspection. They all tremble at the same time, some quickly, some barely, the effort to halt them reaching only the closest to him and stopping them from going off completely.

Dabi seems as concerned that they’ll stay midair rather than back on Hawks as amused that they are tingling for him .

Hawks gracelessly pulls his own jacket off his body, throws it to the floor. He yearns for Dabi to see him, all of him , the way no one’s ever seen him. Connecting is terrifying, but Hawks feels lighter from the way Dabi massaged the vane of his feather before, from the weed from the hand stroking his face and then… something else, too. He replays the scoff over and over again in his mind, time frozen and his desire put on hold in a loop.

Dabi’s derisive tone reverberates in Hawks brain again and again like an echo.

You’re not scared.

Of you?

Then repeat.

You’re not scared. Of you?

When Dabi stares back into his eyes again, Hawks finally understands what is making the fall easier than two weeks ago. 

He can expose himself because Dabi went first.

This is a trade.

He guided Hawks’ fingers to the metal holding his body together, to the damaged part of him. Dabi dragged Hawks on top of him, giving him the advantage with his deadly weapons all still glued to his body. He explicitly requested that Hawks bring them back, even when the hero had so carefully directed their ends away from him. Dabi opened the door to his secret basement to him, and Hawks would be even more of a coward if he ran away again instead of unlocking that drawer where he stuffed that one single desire for two weeks.

All the feathers snap to his wings at once, the puzzles of the monster he carries on his back ready to fulfill another master’s desires, and Dabi immediately reverts to his priority in response.

The only thing slowing him down, hands reaching and then stilling midair between their bodies, seems to be the fact that Hawks is suddenly in nothing but his flight suit and gloves from the waist up.

The way Dabi’s eyes run along his body… Hawks might as well already be naked. It’s exactly like flying where the pressure is too high and the air becomes too thick, making it harder to breathe. Inhaling oxygen is now a bigger challenge than it is to just breathe Dabi in. It only gets more difficult when Dabi tentatively grabs his hips with big, firm hands, marveling in unmistakable fascination as he slides his palms along Hawks’ hip bones to try and connect his thumbs and he almost can.

His hold becomes firmer.

His palms turn hotter against the material of Hawks’ suit, temperature rising and itching the skin below where Dabi’s palms are pressed vehemently.

“Fuck,” a hiss to himself, like Hawks isn’t even there, “you’re going to ruin everything.”

Hawks might not be sure what he means by it, but the words hurt even though they are nothing to one another.

He can’t define where the sting comes from.

He doesn’t know why Dabi sounds as needy as resentful.

And what he can comprehend even less is why, out of all the kissing and the stripping and the being against one another, it’s being told to his face that he is going to fuck up that gets him going.

It’s instinctive, the way he responds to the words by bending down and claiming Dabi’s mouth again, soaking up the way the villain appreciatively moans in surprise, like he didn’t think Hawks had the initiative in him. And why is that? If Hawks is going to ruin everything, it’s not going to be by sitting still.

The surprise doesn’t mean Dabi’s blindsided though.

He is quick to recover and fight him, tongue versus tongue, as soon as Hawks slips back in. His hold on the hero’s hips becomes vicious and inescapable. When his hands run along his sides and lower, exploring past Hawks’ belt, folding like wrapping paper around the curve of Hawks’ ass to drag him closer, they run out of inches between their bodies and Dabi… well, he isn’t shy about the bulge in his pants not-so-accidentally rubbing against Hawks.

How Dabi can be so hard so soon with weed in his system is a wonder lost quickly to Hawks in favor of the realization that the villain is turned on by him and below him. That makes Hawks responsive incredibly fast, flattery having him twitch in his pants as he swells in return, a gasp of surprise at the friction falling into Dabi’s open mouth.

He chases the feeling automatically, takes in as much of Dabi as he can rub against himself with the rolling of hips, moaning when the sway grants him a hint of relief, hard on against hard on, the pleasure insufficient, tempting and addictive. Hawks wants to keep Dabi pinned beneath him; craves to have him grinding against him; needs him , everywhere. At this point, Hawks’ half-assing his movements, every roll awkwardly halfway between following the rhythm Dabi’s trying to dictate with his hands and Hawks’ own need to chase that lovely drag whenever Dabi slides against him and he can feel inch by inch that they are both getting harder.

With every pulse of his dick, Hawks’ feathers vibrate too.

Dabi grunts in his mouth, licks inside like he’s desperate to see just how deep he can reach, and oh – just phrasing like that in his own head, just the brief, one-second-at-best imagine of Dabi thrusting into him, gets Hawks painfully, fully hard and desperately aware.

At this point, he wouldn’t say he’s in control of his hips and his mind anymore.

He is all but humping Dabi against the couch, swaying and pressing, leaning in until his upper body is glued to the villain’s, the HPSC’s embossed logo of his suit painfully stabbing both of them. The encouragement of Dabi firmly squeezing his asscheeks between his long fingers is definitely good enough motivation to overlook the displeasure.

It’s not like Hawks never had his ass touched even just for play, but the way Dabi does it, and the way Dabi throbs against him when he does, it’s just so fucking different. Maybe that’s because Hawks wants to be touched too. Eyes closed, feathers quivering on his back, all he can focus on is Dabi guiding him, Dabi’s cock against him, Dabi’s tongue in his mouth, Dabi’s hands gripping him. The sweat running along his back and making his suit disgustingly sticky, and the way his toes are curling in his boots are probably great hints on how close he is. Hawks is confident, as embarrassing as it is, that he’s not going to last long.

He doesn’t want that, though.

He doesn’t want this to end.

Dabi’s hands move up from his ass and run higher along his back as they roll against one another, his fingers so close to Hawks’ wings but never touching, only accidentally brushing Hawks’ covered skin where it becomes more sensitive to stimulation, close to the bones. Hawks’ legs wantonly spread on their own accord, his waist chasing the humping like his life depends on it, tip of his dick accidentally rubbing against Dabi at the end of each hiccupping roll. 

Dabi’s fingertips reach further towards the base of Hawks’ wings, lingering, craving, but never claiming.

Hawks doesn’t get it. It’s not like he could fly away now. He’s just so close, chasing and chasing that feeling so estranged to him with someone else, legs trembling at the side of Dabi’s body, mouth panting into his, gloved hand sunk through Dabi’s black hair, holding him close.

When Hawks pulls back from the kiss, Dabi chases him immediately to close the distance once more, but he’s held back by Hawks’ strong pull on his hair. The villain looks like he’s about to roast him on the spot for stopping, but he doesn’t anyway. He just whines quietly, hands almost relenting on the hold on Hawks’ back. The question on what the fuck is keeping Hawks from going is evident on his face but unspoken from his mouth. He breathes a long breath in, sends a longer one out too right after. He pulses against Hawks, and he gets an immediate response out of Hawks’ body. 

Dabi’s eyes are almost completely blown black when Hawks looks into them. Heart hammering against his ribcage, he tries to listen to the call like he never does: to listen to what his body, his mind, his heart are all bleeding out for.

“You can touch, you know.” Hawks breathlessly announces, his throat feelings as raw as his voice sounds. He tries to catch the scary W word and force it into his mouth. “I want you to touch them.”

He’d proudly say he kept his dignity intact by confessing so rather than giving into the pleasepleasefuckpleasetouchme chanting in his head.

Whatever complaint Dabi had in mind, the annoyance fades from his face in a moment.

He pulls Hawks back towards the abyss that he is once more, welcomes him back into his mouth, hungrier and more desperate than before. The tiny quiet whines he slips between kisses despite the effort to tone them down make Hawks’ head spin. 

His fingers are quick and unapologetic now as they run up his back and he finally – finally – slips them through Hawks’ feathers, headed to gently grab the base of his wings.

Hawks cries out against Dabi’s tongue, their teeth almost clashing together.

It’s too overwhelming.

Dabi’s hands are hotter than ever, scorching to the point Hawks’ skin melts into a puddle of sweat, the feeling of heat wrapping itself around his wings and reverberating up to his brain. It makes his legs kick on the edge of the couch, hips grinding down against Dabi again. His wings flutter, his dick throbs, and there’s a quiet, weird chirping at the back of his throat that Hawks barely manages to cut off before it’s out.

Dabi leaves his lips with a drag of his tongue, his head bending down to look at where their clothed erections are creating that lovely accidental friction that is making Hawks’ face burn and his eyes urge to roll to the ceiling.

“Fuck, your pants–” Dabi groans, pleased, and when Hawks looks back at him, his blue eyes are wide, lips grinning in satisfaction.

Hawks follows his gaze to where he has a damp spot on his pants, his dick wetting him through the material of his flight suit. He isn’t sure why that pulls a quiet laughter out of him. When he looks back up, Dabi’s staring at him with content, infected by the hilarity. Hawks’ wings flutter – his heart flutters too. He hates it.

Dabi’s attention is caught by the movement, his hands stroking through the feathers gently, thumbing occasionally over the vanes he can reach through Hawks’ still ongoing desperate chase for friction.

“Would you open your wings for me, pretty bird?” He’s now bordering on pleading, Hawks loves that tone on him. There’s a tiny bit of whining too, of a habit of being spoiled that Hawks didn’t think Dabi had in him. “Wanna see them all spread while I come.”

‘Yesyesyes’, Hawks thinks but doesn’t say as he rides the waves of satisfaction himself.

‘ I’ll put on a good show for you’ , a chirp accompanies the thought in the back of his throat, too quiet for Dabi to hear beneath their constant groaning.

“Ah, you really love a freakshow,” he says instead, letting his hand wander sneakily along his own thigh, just inches away from Dabi’s clothed cock.

“Look who’s talking...” Dabi’s smirk accompanies his hand running down Hawks’ wing, settling for his hips again, “you into freaks, Hawks? Or is it the smoke, making you crazy?”

Hawks doesn’t know why he enjoys it so much. Maybe because the teasing keeps him from thinking about how Dabi’s the one making him crazy. Or maybe because he is reminded of the excuse, his safety net. If Dabi can blame it on the smoke, so can he.

His wings struggle to keep closed under the strokes of Dabi’s thumbs along his hip bones.

He would give Dabi what he wants right now, when the villain has him at the perfect spot, one slippery grind away from making the Number Three hero come in his pants; if Dabi asked for anything , really, under the condition of keeping this up until Hawks comes, Hawks would grant it. Because Dabi just called him pretty , Hawks would gladly, because his wings are already begging to spread under the praise – to pree, to fluff, to look more inviting . 

But the fact is he loves the banter, loves that he can push. 

(He always loves that he can push back with Dabi and not be pushed around.)

“What about you, huh?” His hand slips away from Dabi’s thigh, right where it was so close to its goal, to chase the long lost joint instead. A little courage. He arches on the side, hand rummaging through the folds of the couch. “Wing kink, really? Maybe you’re just like everybody else. Not so special, huh?” Dabi’s hand pulls at his suit, an implied threat. Hawks’ clearly wandering where he shouldn’t, so he rectifies before they lose the momentum. “Or maybe you like me too much.”

He pulls out the joint, which fortunately went out.

Dabi seems to enjoy this teasing more than the previous implication, his lips pulled to the side in a lazy grin.

“Don’t let it go to your head.” He whispers steadily, but Hawks’ feathers catch a slip of his heartbeats.  Hawks takes the spent joint to his mouth, matching the irregularity with the beats of his own heart when he catches Dabi staring at his lips, eyes appreciative as they didn’t have their dicks against one another already. “You’re at the right place at the right time. Kinda needed a good lay.”

Maybe it’s being defined a good lay itself that gives Hawks the confidence – not the tabloid, spray your abs over a cover confidence, no ; the intimate confidence of showing your needs to someone else – to slowly, languidly slide one of his hands to Dabi’s cock, grabbing it and feeling just the weight of it in his palm. Hawks tries not to marvel at the size. Dabi gasps in surprise but he doesn’t skip a beat, hips jerking up on the couch and into the hold, offering more to Hawks, using the hero’s hand to find better friction, better comfort. 

With his other hand, Hawks guides Dabi’s own to the joint, fingertips at its end in a quiet request, his thumb simultaneously playing with Dabi’s clothed dick, exploring, tracing its shape. 

Dabi obliges with a smug look on his face and a drag of his cock against Hawks’ palm: he flickers the joint lit again with his blue flames.

With another long pull from it, Hawks’ shoulders fall slack. 

He starts metamorphin out of his cocoon of cowardice and becomes braver.

His fingers leave Dabi’s clothed erection when he starts spreading his wings over them again, the room filling with the massive size of them until there are almost no more inches to fill.

Dabi’s unspoken compliments fuel his courage like liquor on a starting fire, setting explosions into motions.

His blue eyes glimmer with glee when he sees Hawks’ wings wide open, wonderment filling them until it forces the villain’s lips to arch into a marvelous, broken smile that makes his staples tremble with the tough task of holding him together. His fingers grab the belt loops of Hawks’ pants, pulling and guiding, until Hawks is chasing Dabi’s erection with his own again, his hips rolling until there’s no inch between them.

The relief almost, almost makes him whimper this time, as he tries to adjust to the rhythm, to follow Dabi like he’s supposed to – Hawks should pleasure him, he should please him, he should do anything to make Dabi feel in every possible comfort zone until he opens up to him like a jar and Hawks can pull every useful thing out of him until Dabi’s empty and useless – but Dabi, either by accident or because Hawks is a fucking open book to him apparently, doesn’t allow it.

Instead of guiding Hawks’ pathetic little grinding against him, instead of setting it to his liking so that Hawks can walk guided by the leash that always moved him, Dabi lets go of his hips completely, leaving Hawks tragically doomed to face the scariest of his enemies: his own want.

And left alone with his own desire, Hawks struggles to adjust. 

All the courage he gathered from both the drugs – the weed and Dabi’s praises – threatens to leave his body. It’s only Dabi’s throb against his crotch that keeps him going – the fact that Dabi wants this, that Dabi needs him to continue gives Hawks a fort to hide into. So he does. With one hand against the back of the couch and the other lifting the joint back to his own mouth, Hawks starts riding Dabi’s lap until they’re rubbing together once more.

Each time the inch beneath the head of his cock rubs against the villain’s straining, pulsing bulge, Hawks’ breath becomes shorter and he pulses in response.

“Dabi…” The joint between his teeth threatens to fall.

Hawks is unsure what he’s begging for.

Dabi’s lopsided, relaxed grin doesn’t comfort him, but the way his fingers travel up along Hawks’ back, slipping once more through Hawks’ feathers, does. He moans when he feels the hot, scorching fingertips explore his natural red cloak, running to the bones and then gently caressing his feathers to their ends. Dabi’s eyes follow the movement of his wings, the way Hawks spreads and closes them alternately while he starts basically jerking off against Dabi’s body, finally chasing what is no more a want but definitely a need for his body. 

Both the way his hips roll to chase the feeling, that little friction that makes his thighs tremble, and the way his wings spasm as if he wasn’t blindfolded for months to learn how to perfectly control dozens of feathers effortlessly at the same time, are completely out of his control.

And with each rub Hawks starts feeling that too, his orgasm approaching, heat pooling inside, his own body no longer listening to any of the commands he’s giving just to get to that fucking moment when he can let go.

He bends, desperate and panting, forehead resting against Dabi’s, eyes closed and joint still barely hanging because he cannot keep his mouth shut anymore. The little gasps coming out of him don’t help it, so it’s really a fortune that when the joint falls from his lips, Dabi is quick enough to catch it with one of his hands, the other still exploring Hawks’ feathers like they’re the world’s biggest marvel; like touching them didn’t mean Hawks feels Dabi’s fingers everywhere – a strange, warm commotion tingling all along his body.

“Look at you,” Dabi teases between them, his voice quiet and dry, the phantom of a chuckle lost between words; Hawks cannot bear to look at him, let alone himself, “so desperate just from a little action… haven’t fucked in a while, Hero?”

He should find it vulgar and call Dabi out on his crudity, really.

It’s just that Hawks finds it really hot instead, and he’s arching back so that he can rub against Dabi better, so his weight is all on his waist and he doesn’t know how Dabi’s not getting crushed under it. He almost wants to tell him; almost wants to tell Dabi that it’s ‘ haven’t fucked, ever’ , just so that he can see how he’ll react, what he’ll do, what he’ll say… if his blue eyes will get wide with surprise; or if he’ll love putting his own mark on Hawks before anyone else; if he’ll think it’s lame and Hawks will be shamed him for it.

Hawks cannot allow that.

He pants over Dabi’s mouth, whimpers when the next rub of them together almost gets him there, then opens his eyes. He isn’t sure how he is looking right now, but whatever it is, Dabi appreciates it. The villain’s lips are slightly parted around the joint, his eyes just a little wide. Hawks wants more of it, but can’t give too much of himself away.

“My wings,” he half-lies, “it’s just, huh ,” Dabi is grabbing the base before Hawks’ even done speaking, “they’re very sensitive and I’m not used to–”

“You don’t let other people touch them when you fuck?” Dabi’s eyes honest to god glimmer like gems at the notion, and well, that’s not what Hawks was going to say but it fucking is what he is going to say now if it gives him that look.

“Never,” he confesses over Dabi’s lips, almost getting burnt by the end of the joint vividly and proudly still going, “never before.”

Something about it really gets the villain going. Hawks doesn’t know if it’s the possession, the exclusivity , the way it makes him feel special, but Dabi’s practically jumping his back off the couch and dropping his joint from his mouth to his hand, so that he can reach for the tiny, only few inches of skin Hawks has uncovered, the slim land where his jaw becomes neck. Dabi’s tongue is quick to flatten itself on him, licking a devoted stripe that makes Hawks’ hips snap and his ride become wild.

He lets Dabi lick and kiss his neck while he wraps an arm around his waist, the joint so close to Hawks’ feathers that he might set them on fire by accident. From the corners of his blurred, moist eyesight now directed to the ceiling, Hawks can see the ghost of dark smoke clouding the room. The smell starts filling the space around them and between them too, until Hawks realizes it’s coming from Dabi’s body.

But Hawks’ just too close to care. 

He’s just too close in any way and he shouldn’t have let it happen.

His legs spasm at Dabi’s side.

He feels warm everywhere ; where Dabi touches him, where Dabi doesn’t; in the pit of his stomach, down to his curling toes; along his vanes where the rising smokes from Dabi’s skin elevate the temperature of the room. Then in his lower belly, on his neck where Dabi presses scorching kisses; and unsurprisingly, in the hotness, Hawks erupts, his vision blurring into whiteness and his brain freezing as he spurts warm and sticky in his pants.

There’s no telling how long Hawks spends panting and staring at the stained, consumed old ceiling without truly acknowledging space around him, his loud breath filling the room like he just battled for his life, heart hammering in his chest like the drums of the Billboard Chart, nothingness flashing in front of his eyes like cameras thrown in his face. It’s as overwhelming as being devoured by the world as he constantly is, but it’s also warmer. It deprives him of his energy all the same but he leaves him content and with a stupid, uncontrollable grin on his face that takes a few seconds to transform into a conscious smile.

Hawks has come before, sure, but never with another person against him; never actually desiring so intensely; never with his feathers stimulated, not even by himself.

He expects Dabi to interrupt at some point.

It’s naturally bound to happen because Hawks is taking, taking, taking and is not giving in return anymore. He can almost hear in his head a sarcastic, sharp call back to action that never comes.

When he has come down to this planet steadily enough that he can look down at the villain again though, he simply finds Dabi beneath him, as content, cock out of his briefs but mostly covered by his fingers, as he slowly fists the last of his orgasm, thin lines painted on his shirt. His other hand holds the joint to his lips as he smokes through it. His eyes look heavy, his face half purple, half red, and he is looking at Hawks through thick upper eyelashes like Hawks’ the most marvelous creature to walk the earth.

The march of Hawks’ heart comes to halt for just a second, both from that look and from the thought that he must have just been a huge disappointment.

“Shit,” he spits it out probably, but can’t hear it through his own breaths, his own heart, the music of his body in general, “fuck, I–”

“Now you’re really working for it,” Dabi half grunts, half teases, his hand coming off his dick to grab Hawks’ hip, patting it like he’s a good boy, “That was hot. Now we can talk business.”

Hawks wishes they would.

He is glad if they will.

He doesn’t want to deal with any of what just happened, not after it felt so good, and he knows he’s verging on the precipice, one inch away from becoming aware of what just happened and how messed up that is.

“I think you’re too stoned to talk business.” He breathes teasingly between them, to hide how desperate he is to get back to business in reality.

His hands are at the sides of Dabi's head, as he tries his best not to steal a glimpse at Dabi’s bare, probably softening cock.

Dabi scoffs, tilts his head to the side, unveiling little inches of his forehead through the bangs.

“I think you’re too horny to talk business.”

Hawks appreciates that it’s how it’s going to be.

Business, making out with Dabi, coming in his pants, leaving a mess on their clothes and then joking it off? Good. It’s all to his advantage. No difficult conversations, no dealing with the strange, inexplicable cravings he has when it comes to the villain, the way he makes Hawks squirm with one look like he wasn’t a trained government Hero infiltrating a group of criminals. 

“ I’m too horny?” He hears the laziness in his own voice, as much as he feels the stunt growing back on him. Dabi’s thumb stroking his hipbone sends a waterfall of butterflies down his stomach. His briefs feel itchy. “Didn’t ya call me out to lure me into making out with you on a rooftop last time? What was the business we were going to discuss then, huh?”

He digs for the clue, digs for the sake of the case.

(Maybe he only digs because he needs to know.)

Dabi’s grin grows, it pulls at his staples.

“You would've known if you hadn’t jumped off a cliff, literally.” Hawks doesn’t want to show that he’s disappointed thatthere might have been an actual reason for Dabi seeking him that night. “Besides… we were just smoking, not really making out.”

Hawks should probably nod along. Not kissing , right? 

But that hint of dare in Dabi’s voice, one that makes it sound so much like he knows Hawks is the type of guy who will drink the poison if you call it juice, one step forward in their dance, requiring Hawks steps back for the sake of their choreography… it just doesn’t sit as right with Hawks as Hawks sits right on Dabi’s lap.

“So we’re just smoking still?” He breathes out, eyes pinned on Dabi’s.

The villain’s eyebrows wiggle.

His thumb runs an invisible circle on Hawks’ hip.

One step forward requires one step back.

“Are we?” Dabi asks back rather than answering, grin lazy, eyes only half absent.

“You tell me.” Hawks shrugs, doesn’t know why he’s leaning down on Dabi.

Every time Hawks thinks Dabi’s grin can’t grow more without the staples popping, it does.

“Why don’t you tell me , Hawks?”

See? They can’t dance if no one sticks to the fucking choreography.

It’s fair, really. Hawks was born cursed, so that he has to have this – the kissing, the making out, the coming in his pants while having his wings gently stroked, the not being pushed into pleasing his partner, the not being walked over, the playfulness, the silliness, the intimacy – with Dabi of all people slots in his puzzle like the perfect next piece.

The tragedy fits, but only because Dabi’s not a good dancing partner for Hawks. Hawks is doomed to have his feet stepped on. It makes perfect sense.

He swims through the fog of his mind, smoke and emotion building a dense mist, looking for the answer that will make Dabi trust him the most, like him the most. There's an angle in the long run, the field might be deep and the forecast might call for a storm but Hawks’ still gotta see this through to the end and score.

He puffs his wings just a little, subtly, making it look like it’s not purposeful.

His hands slide on Dabi’s covered chest.

He arches a little, offers himself a little, makes himself a fine dish so that Dabi gets deluded that he can eat him. (Above all, he ignores the voice screaming in his head that Dabi absolutely can and should eat him).

“I think you got me hooked.” He feels free and lazy when he says it, even though it’s part of a meticulous, coming-together-on-the-spot plan.

“Yeah?” Dabi’s finger caresses him still, but there’s a shift in his eyes. Hawks can’t read past that stare – he’s either hopeful or on the verge of shutting Hawks down. It must be the latter. This is just Dabi getting off – it’s like he said, he needed this. “You gonna smoke again?”

Hawks breathes in.

He doesn’t want to read an implication beneath the question but… it’s there, isn’t it? It’s not just him. But Dabi’s just so hard to read through right now. Hawks keeps staring and staring, but he finds no clues.

He lifts his wings, flutters them purposely just a bit. Dabi follows with his eyes only for a second, then he’s back on him.

“Not on my own,” Hawks offers one truth in a game of lies, then fixes it by lying again, “I’m afraid I lack the experience.”

Much to his surprise, Hawks slams against a hard cold wall.

The moment the words are out of his mouth, Dabi’s face shifts and he’s closed off. No more gawking, no more grinning, no more teasing. Just Dabi, Hawks’ villain contact. The man Hawks is spying on.

“Sweet-talking to me isn't going to get you anywhere.” He spits out as he adjusts. Hawks doesn’t follow the way he pulls himself in his briefs and zips himself up beneath him because he’d like to keep some of his sanity. “Get up, like I said, it’s time for business.”

Hawks doesn’t comment on how sweet-talking always gets him somewhere with Dabi. It’s just that even he is incapable of ever predicting where exactly.

“I got you what you wanted.” Hawks partly complains, partly justifies.

Dabi’s smile and a following, hissed ‘good boy’ is all Hawks gets before they actually get to business without further mention of whether they’re just smoking or making out.

Hawks’ always been a top grade student, really, because he was trained to be. 

He followed all of the Commission’s meticulous lessons and training sessions, most times with specific distractions set out to disorient him. He’s maneuvered dozens of feathers through extremely loud simulations of concerts and war zones. And yet, he has a very hard time focusing on Dabi’s business-talk without thinking about rolling against Dabi, kissing him tongue tied, how Dabi’s whole body would look naked, how deep his scars run. 

It’s hard, but he manages. Hawks’ always a man on the job, after all.

It doesn’t help that Dabi is as vague and cryptic as he can be as he sits in his throne room of dust after cleaning himself up, giving Hawks not so very specific details about the Nomus they apparently have and want to test. 

But on the other hand, Hawks’ never been more involved than this. 

He soaks the information like a sponge, eyes following Dabi’s dramatic schemes with care, brain registering every single casual detail the villain drops in a sea of vagueness. Dabi isn’t cold to him like he has been many times before, but he’s closed off. Hawks can tell from the way he keeps the distance, the way he looks away, the way he walks it off when they’re done. It tears him apart from different sides, as he starts wondering what exactly it is he must do to open Dabi definitely.

Everytime he thinks he has him, the villain trails off.

Everytime Dabi trails off, Hawks is in a much more desperate need of him, because time is running out and the pieces of the puzzle still don’t make anything even close to a full picture.

To Hawks, the Hero who knows a mysterious bomb is on the verge of being defused in the country, the fact that they enter in a strange limbo of coexistence is a tragedy. 

To Hawks the man who whimpered in Dabi’s mouth and came in his pants, the fact that they do is life-changing.

Every meeting after that goes the same.

Hawks runs chores for Dabi like a good dog, flies miles for him on a clock, never says no to his requests that sometimes risk making it look like Dabi’s just seeking for excuses to meet with him. Dabi does meet him then at a location of his choice where they trade information in exchange for plans that involve Hawks’ ability and the well-being of the League of Villains. 

Sometimes, they smoke and make out before the information is traded. 

Sometimes, when Dabi deems something paramount, business comes first, and then they smoke and make out anyway.

It never goes behind the lazy but desperate humping. It never goes past their clothes. Sometimes Dabi whispers praises at Hawks’ body, face, wings. Sometimes Dabi mocks his desperation while being equally desperate but holding himself together better. Sometimes, and those are the scariest times, they just smoke and make out. 

Hawks never says no to their kissing sessions and when he goes back to his apartment, he pats himself mentally to congratulate the tenacity and act like he doesn’t become the one to initiate the most of it more and more with each of their encounters. He doesn’t look at himself in the mirror, afraid that his own image will snap him out of the illusion and yell at him that he’s coming in his pants because he’s desperate for Dabi to kiss and touch him more.

It never progresses.

Hawks is desperate for it to progress, not because he wants to get closer to Dabi, to have moremoremore of the villain, to see the man behind the monster obviously, but because he’s objectively on a timer.

And yet…

Even though there’s the urgency, when he meets his handler for an update, to proudly earn a pat on his back by announcing that he got Dabi, that he has the villain wrapped around his finger and he can now more than ever exploit him to get where he wants… a gear breaks in the system and Hawks slips. 

It’s on the tip of his tongue, really, how Dabi loves his wings, how Dabi likes to make out with him even when it leads nowhere, how Dabi felt safe enough to doze off briefly when Hawks was around once. 

For some reason though, under the cold scrutiny of his handler, the words never come out. He reports on his progress and the information he gathered like it never involved kissing Dabi and skipping heartbeats around him. He omits all the parts that make Dabi look human and Hawks look guilty, and he sticks to their everlasting public façades in the story: Dabi, the heartless monster, and Hawks the trustworthy hero.

Instead, Hawks falls into a strange routine of meetings with Dabi in the most remote places of town, on the villain’s whims and as equally on the villain’s lap. He learns a lot but never enough. Dabi toys with him through information, then toys with him more with strokes of his thumb on Hawks’ hips. 

So maybe Hawks simply doesn’t confess to his handler that maybe he’s the one being wrapped around Dabi’s long finger. It’s not because he is in a losing spot that he doesn’t; it’s because he knows he is close to a breakthrough, and why report on a failure where he could wait just a little longer and report that he’s made it?

The turning point is really not what he expected, though.

It comes near the end of the year in the form of a way too dangerous Nomu being thrown at Hawks out of the blue in the middle of the city, for what at the time looked like no reason. And then, suddenly, because of it, Hawks has to bite the hand of his new owner. 

And from such a collision, a bizarre honeymoon begins. 

One fit for them.

One that starts with a corpse.