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Hawks arrived at the PLF estate, in no uncertain terms, pissed off.
His meeting with Dabi immediately prior had been unfruitful, to say the least. His villain contact had been so painfully obstinate and unyielding with his info that Hawks had needed a few reps of his deep breathing exercises before taking flight. But it wouldn’t help anything to put his hands around Dabi’s stupid neck and throttle him until he shook some intel out, except maybe it would feel good for a minute.
The guy he was about to meet with now couldn’t possibly improve his mood.
“You’re late,” a thin, reedy voice chastised him as soon as he knocked on the door to Skeptic’s office. “Come in.”
“Good to see you too, Chikazoku,” he replied lightly, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “You wanted to adjust my camera equipment?”
Skeptic sat in a plush office chair, curled over his desk with his laptop emitting awful blue light. He’d had the sense today to utilize other light sources, at least; sometimes Hawks would show up to find Chikazoku working in complete darkness save for the light of his laptop and his many display screens. When asked by his higher-ups to describe the man, Hawks had found himself lacking any appropriate descriptor save for the following: an absolute creature.
He could snap Skeptic in half over his knee, he knew he could. It gave him some peace.
“You sacrificed punctuality for pre-packaged coffee.” Skeptic spun around in his chair to face him. He had a steaming mug of what Hawks could only assume was black coffee sitting on a coaster on his desk. Of course it was on a fucking coaster.
“I have my preferences,” Hawks said, fighting the primal urge to say, your coffee is bitter sludge and your sense of superiority for drinking it makes me want to skewer you like a kabob.
“Well, I suppose I can’t expect any more from you,” Skeptic replied as he unfolded himself from his chair. He was quite tall when he stood at his full height. “All that time you spend with Dabi is indication enough of your poor taste.”
Hawks practically choked. He fell back a step, one hand reaching for his stomach like he’d been punched.
“What?”
“Please,” Skeptic scoffed, “everyone knows he’s been bending you over since day one.”
A perhaps irrational amount of rage flooded Hawks’ chest— rage at the idea that everyone assumed he was involved with Dabi (which, yes, the thought had occurred to him before), but even more so at the assumption that he’d be submissive. It made him so angry that his vision went awash with red and all judgment evaporated. The skills the Commission had drilled into him from childhood turned to dust. Hawks wouldn’t be belittled like this, wouldn’t be demeaned. Not even for the sake of espionage.
“Get on your knees,” Hawks said, one of his long feathers slipping easily into his grasp.
The mocking expression melted off Skeptic’s face, replaced with aspersion. “Excuse me?”
“Get,” Hawks said, sweeping his feather behind Skeptic’s legs and knocking them out from beneath him, “on your fucking knees, Chikazoku.”
Skeptic predictably reached backwards for his chair to turn it into one of his mindless puppets, but Hawks was faster. Smaller feathers coiled around Skeptic’s wrists and ankles, tying him up like a present adorned in bright red ribbon. Hawks deserved a present. He was so fucking tired of these villains talking down to him, and he knew Skeptic harbored an odd… fixation on him. It would be a shame if he didn’t take advantage.
“You think I’m some little fuck toy that gets passed around?” Hawks asked. A feather trailed down Skeptic’s cheek, prompting him to shake his head and send his long black hair whipping back and forth. “I’ll have to correct you.”
“You’re so dead,” Skeptic snapped. “Once I’m out of these—”
“I don’t think so,” Hawks cut him short. “You know why?” He leaned down until he was face-to-face with the villain, and murmured, “I think you’re a dirty slut, and you like it.”
Heat crept into Skeptic's cheeks. "Fuck you."
Hawks stepped back and allowed his feather to do the work, trailing along Skeptic’s jaw until it came to a stop at his lower lip. Surprisingly soft.
“You’re my toy, Chikazoku,” Hawks said. “And I’ll do what I want with you.”
Hawks pulled Skeptic’s jaw down, forcing his mouth open and allowing the feather to slip inside. Immediately Skeptic tensed with a gag as the feather slipped over his tongue and towards the back of his throat.
“Unfortunately for you,” Hawks went on, “I want to turn you into a complete mess.”
Tears budded in Skeptic’s eyes, and Hawks did not relent. The wet heat of the villain’s mouth enveloped the feather from all sides, and Hawks felt it too. Tight and wet and convulsing. With a final lurch and a gurgling retch, Skeptic vomited all down his front and onto the floor with a nauseating splatter. Hawks stepped back, letting the restrains fall away and slipping his feather out of Skeptic’s mouth for the time being, surveying his handiwork while Skeptic caught his breath.
“Hawks—” Skeptic choked, then muffled a sick belch into his fist.
“Must’ve been so bitter, poor baby,” Hawks cooed in mock-sympathy, lifting Tomoyasu’s face up by his chin with a single finger. His talon grazed the underside of Tomoyasu’s jaw, threatening to break the skin. “See? Wouldn’t it have been better if the coffee was a little more sweet?”
Filthy, filthy, filthy , the voice in his head sung, and his feather slid back into Tomoyasu’s throat.
Tomoyasu’s hands grasped at his own throat as he choked and gagged, desperate to free his airway of the obstruction. He wasn’t suffocating, the feather was too small for that; Hawks was simply triggering more and more nausea as he tickled Tomoyasu’s throat from the inside.
“That’s it,” Hawks praised as Tomoyasu vomited again, rancid black coffee spilling onto the ground and joining the rest of the mess. Hawks’ talons scratched gently along Tomoyasu’s scalp before grabbing a handful of his hair, inky black and so soft in his fist, and yanking him upright.
“If you puke on my shoes,” Hawks said, “You’ll have to lick them clean.”
Tomoyasu let out something between a sob and a moan. His cheeks were flushed from exertion and streaked with tears. Spit and vomit ran down his chin and dripped off his jaw. So pretty, Hawks thought, even prettier when he was such a wreck like this.
This was simply his time around the League and the PLF rubbing off on him, and nothing deeper— not genuine desires coming to the surface. No, no, he’d simply spent too much time around villains, and as a good hero , he knew how to go undercover and commit to his role.
He didn’t realize committing to his role would give him such a tent in his pants. Boy scouts could have camped under there.
“H- hic!— Hawks,” Tomoyasu whimpered. He clung to Hawks’ flight pants with one hand, bracing himself on the floor with the other. His pants were stained with vomit and drool.
Hawks cupped Tomoyasu’s cheek. “I’ve got you.” He tucked a loose strand of hair behind Tomoyasu’s ear. “Such a pretty mess.”
Tomoyasu’s hand moved from the floor to between his legs, and Hawks was surprised to find a noticeable strain in the fabric of Tomoyasu’s pants. Tomoyasu’s eyes fluttered shut as he palmed himself, grinding the heel of his hand down with a soft whimper.
“You like that?” Hawks tightened his grip on his fistful of Tomoyasu’s hair just a little, drawing a small gasp from him. “You like me making you into a mess, huh?”
Fresh tears slipped down Tomoyasu’s cheeks. “I’d let you do anything to me,” he moaned, and the admission struck lightning through Hawks’ core. He didn’t think Tomoyasu realized exactly what his words had just done to him. He hoped Tomoyasu didn’t realize. That was a lot of power to have over him, and he needed to be the one in charge. That was the only way he felt any sort of security.
Hawks had never felt the luxury of control. Everything was decided for him. And here was Skeptic, perfectly content to get on his knees for Hawks. Skeptic was simply someone for him to dominate.
“Can I suck you off?” Skeptic breathed. His eyes were still leaking tears, lips still wet with spit and bile.
Hawks gripped him by the jaw, talons digging into his pale cheeks.
“You must think awfully highly of yourself,” he hissed, “if you really think you deserve to suck my cock.”
Fresh tears welled in Skeptic’s eyes. “I’ll be good,” he choked.
I’ll be good, Hawks’ own voice echoed. A boy cowering in the shadow of his father’s violence.
He felt cold and sick, and suddenly none of this was fun anymore. He let go of Skeptic’s face and staggered back, his hand grasping behind him for a chair or the wall to brace him.
“Hawks?”
“We have to stop,” he gasped. For a terrifying moment he thought he was going to throw up too, but the urge passed, leaving him shaking and clammy.
Skeptic was wobbly on his feet as he got up. “Hey,” he rasped, rubbing his throat. “What—”
“Don't,” he snapped. “Don't, just— don't look at me, I’m hideous— ”
He couldn’t cry in front of Skeptic. He had to steel himself. His eyes stung as he reined himself in, chest burning with the pressure it took to keep everything contained. He turned to the wall and leaned his forehead against it.
“Did I—?”
“It's not your fault,” he answered before Skeptic could get the whole question out. “I’m just. I’m not…”
He let the sentence hang unfinished. He wasn't sure how he was intending to complete it. He supposed he was going to say I’m not a bully . He hated bullies. Yet he jumped at the chance to make Skeptic puke until he cried, begging to suck his dick, and then reject him under the pretense that Skeptic wasn’t good enough for it?
Hawks felt like a villain.
“I was okay with it, you know,” Skeptic said after a beat. “What you were doing.”
Hawks lifted his head off the wall and turned around. “You were?”
Skeptic nodded. He looked like a total wreck. Hawks didn’t understand how this was okay.
“You were crying,” he protested weakly, “I— I was so cruel.”
“I thought it was sexy,” Skeptic said with a shrug, and Hawks was so taken aback by his matter-of-fact tone that a laugh jumped out of him. “I'm serious!”
“No, I know you are, I'm—” Hawks cleared his throat. “You’re very frank.”
“I've been told that.”
Hawks was settling back into himself, slowly. “Can I…?” He tried again. “Let's get you cleaned up, okay?”
Wariness and suspicion crept into Skeptic’s bloodshot eyes. “I can do it myself.”
“I know. But let me.”
Skeptic’s stubbornness softened. “Fine.”
Hawks swallowed a contented chirp and took Skeptic by the arm, guiding him out of his office. They passed no one in the hall, and Hawks locked the door of the overly ornate bathroom reserved only for the PLF’s elites. He could imagine Dabi snorting coke off the pristine marble sink, or Toga wiping blood from her face with a gentle white washcloth.
His endorphins are probably crashing, Hawks thought as Skeptic took a clumsy seat on the plush chaise lined against the wall. He leaned back, his hair spilling over the sloped arm, stark against the baby blue velvet.
“Can I help you undress?”
Skeptic nodded, and was limp under Hawks’ hands as he eased him out of his soiled boots, pants, and turtleneck.
This was another kind of domination, a more tender kind, one that didn’t leave him sick to his stomach. Lending his strength to the weakened, caring for the vulnerable. Skeptic still bowed to him here, still bent to his whim.
Warmth coiled in his gut as he wet one of the cloths folded by the sink and sank to his haunches by Skeptic’s side. He wiped the tear tracks from his cheeks first, then the sweat from his brow, then the spit and bile from his chin. Skeptic kept his eyes closed the whole time.
“Okay?” Hawks asked.
“Feels good.” Then Skeptic shivered. Without even thinking, Hawks shrugged off his jacket and draped it over him like a blanket.
“You need sugar,” Hawks said. “Juice, or something. It'll keep you from crashing too hard.”
“I’m barely dressed.”
“I’ll get it for you.”
Skeptic curled his lip in distaste. “You’re being too nice to me.”
Hawks couldn’t help himself; he fell back onto his ass and started to laugh.