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When the Commission first told him he would be the top prize to win at a charity auction, Hawks didn’t think anything of it.
“All I have to do is take them out on a date?” He’d plastered on the grin he always reserved for these conversations. “Sure, why not? Sounds fun.”
It’s not like they’re presenting it to him as a choice anyway; they never do. He’s just happy that this is something easy and harmless. So he goes along with it, like he always does, allows them to parade him around on a stage and winks at the audience to spur them on. The auction is televised for the whole country to see, but he’s used to it, comes with the territory.
He really thinks nothing of it.
So it comes as a surprise when, as he’s getting ready for the date, toweling his hair dry, one of his feathers out in the living room picks up a presence, someone entering his apartment through the window. There’s only one crazy bastard who comes into his place like that.
“I have a date tonight, sorry,” Hawks calls out to Dabi from his bedroom. “No time to talk shop.”
All he gets in response is, “Good thing that’s not what I’m here for then,” with no further elaboration.
His carefully-placed feather is picked up from the windowsill, making him shiver from the surprise and abruptness of the contact, and his couch makes a noise and– And that’s it? Hawks drops the towel onto his shoulders and glances out the door of his room, expecting… Well, something.
But Dabi does nothing but silently chill on his couch, feather held lightly between two fingers, so Hawks shrugs and finishes toweling off his hair before grabbing civvies from his closet to get dressed.
It’s like Dabi is just waiting to hear movement to taunt him. Only seconds after Hawks inadvertently bumps two hangers together, Dabi is brushing a finger along the vane of the feather, slowly dragging it all the way up to the tip.
Hawks drops the shirt he was holding. And knocks over at least four hangers when he turns to glare at the wall outside his door.
“So who’s the unlucky date?” Dabi asks conversationally, voice carrying over from the living room.
Hawks doesn’t know what spurred this, but Dabi is clearly trying to get under his skin tonight, for whatever reason. There’s no way he’s taking the bait.
He grits his teeth and tamps down the urge to storm into his living room, instead shoving his shirt over his head with a little more force than necessary and summoning his wings to their rightful place at his back without a care for how many feathers fall in the process.
“None of your business,” Hawks sing-songs, tone aiming for casual.
Dabi doesn’t answer. Instead, Hawks feels a very different texture against his feather. Not fingers. Mismatched. Burnt. Lips. They slide up and down the vane, then the feather twists, the firm press of lips reduced to a gentle brush once more.
He stops breathing and doesn’t realize it until something distinctly wet traces the shaft of his feather.
A tongue.
Fuck.
Hawks’ wings flare before he can control himself and he’s suddenly glad that Dabi isn’t in the same room to see how affected he is by the teasing. He closes his eyes and takes deep, slow breaths to calm himself down.
“Stop it.”
Dabi says, “Stop what?” but Hawks can hear the smirk in his voice. That bastard knows exactly what.
And, to further prove that assumption true, the tongue disappears and is replaced by skin. It’s familiar, but Hawks is more used to the feeling against his hands. And his lips and his teeth. Even with the skin against his feather instead, Hawks still recognizes the shape of Dabi’s torso, can recognize each plane and divet by touch alone. Knows, before even feeling the scratch of denim, how far down the feather has trailed.
When Dabi slowly drags the vane along the waistband of his jeans, Hawks sharpens the feather and it cuts across the skin there, just slightly, a warning.
This proves to be a grave mistake when Dabi lifts the feather back up to his mouth and licks the blood off of it. The hum he lets out reverberates through the feather and across the entire span of Hawks’ wings, causing them to flex and shake.
Hawks finally snaps and charges into his living room.
“Enough.”
Hawks reaches over the back of the couch – where Dabi is casually lounging, the asshole – to grab the feather out of his hands, but Dabi is clearly expecting as much and just holds it further out of reach.
“What? Pretty bird doesn’t want to play tonight?” The tone of his voice changes, just barely, almost imperceptibly, as he says, “Or are you saving yourself for your date?”
Suppressing the automatic reaction from his wings at the sound of the familiar nickname, the one Dabi only uses when they’re alone and usually when they’re fucking, Hawks says, “So what if I am?” just to be contrary, to take back an inch of the mile that Dabi has on him right now.
His next move is his fatal mistake; he leans over Dabi, tipping his body’s center of gravity over the couch and making it easier for the villain to grab his wrist and yank him down, feather suddenly abandoned. Hawks has one single moment of clarity after landing on top of the villain, when he places a hand against Dabi’s chest and tries to sit up, to get off, but Dabi’s hand, the one not still wrapped around his wrist, presses against Hawks’ lower back, holding him down.
Dabi is strong, sure, but the hold isn’t. Hawks could easily wiggle his way out of it, but–
“Better get moving then,” Dabi says and his breath ghosts Hawks’ lips, as if the words aren’t enough of a taunt. “Wouldn’t want to keep them waiting.”
His grin is so annoying and so close and Hawks can’t help himself.
“You’re such a fucking asshole,” he says.
Then, fisting the hand on Dabi’s chest into his shirt, Hawks pulls him upward and kisses him hard. All teeth and tongue and aggression and frustration.
He’s so focused on the tongue sliding against his, the cool metal of its piercing, the hand on his back slipping under his shirt, rough fingers skirting over his spine, the tightening of the grip around his wrist, the leg that presses up between his, clearly searching for the growing interest.
He’s so focused on all of the other sensations, everywhere, all around him, that it takes him a moment to realize that Dabi is smirking against his lips, even as he licks into his mouth.
Hawks breaks away, partially out of frustration from the realization, partially because of the discomfort of his position.
“Don’t you have a date to hurry off to?” Dabi asks when he does, not releasing the hold he has on Hawks’ wrist or back.
Hawks shuffles in his lap and Dabi shifts his grip to hold Hawks’ hips instead, allowing him to rearrange himself so that he’s properly straddling the villain and make quick work of tearing off the shirt he just put on.
“I can make this quick,” Hawks says, admittedly just as much to himself as to Dabi.
This is a Commission-scheduled appointment; if he’s late, he’ll be in deep shit. But it’s fine, quick is doable. Quick used to be every fuck back when he and Dabi would only have sex during their solo meetings, in dingy warehouses and back alleys.
Dabi’s smirk stretches out into a grin, the kind that would bode well for Hawks if he wasn’t in a rush. A shiver runs up his spine regardless.
“Oh?” Dabi’s grip tightens again just before he flips them over, pushing Hawks up against the couch’s armrest so that his wings can hang over. It’s unusually thoughtful; he clearly wants to keep Hawks from moving. “And what if I want to take my time?” He maintains eye contact as he lowers his head to nip just beneath Hawks’ collarbone, not hard enough to leave a mark, which has Hawks letting out a whine before he can help himself. “Savour my meal?”
And just to make a point, Dabi’s hands move to his hips before he drops further down, face hovering over Hawks’ chest. He still maintains unblinking, unwavering eye contact and it’s like staring directly into the flickering blue of a flame just before it engulfs and consumes you. With both hands now free, Hawks scrambles for purchase, fingers automatically, instinctively grasping at Dabi’s back, fisting his leather jacket.
Dabi licks his lips, tortuously slow and too far away, and Hawks’ hips cant up, seeking friction, the heat of that tongue, anything.
The action only makes Dabi smirk again and tighten his grip, holding Hawks down.
He’s slow and meticulous, taking his sweet time putting on a show, clearly trying to drive Hawks up the fucking wall and irritatingly succeeding, as he traces Hawks’ torso with his tongue. It’s unbearingly hot, both to the touch – perks of fucking someone with a fire quirk – and to watch, as the villain between his legs circles, first with his tongue, then with his teeth, every bit of skin that he knows from experience will draw a moan out of Hawks.
The first time he bites down on Hawks’ clavicle, this time hard enough to mark, Hawks keens, wings flapping uselessly behind him.
“Fuck,” is all Hawks can bring himself to say in response. With his hips pinned, he tries a different tactic, wrapping his arms more fully around Dabi, gripping the back of his jacket more intently, and pulling him closer. Maybe if he can bring Dabi closer to him, he’ll finally be able to get some friction where he actually needs it. He doesn’t mean for it to come out sounding quite as much like a whine as it does when he complains, “Hurry up.”
Allowing the distance to close between them, Dabi is careful to keep his hips just out of reach and his hands above the belt. The words, the plea, seem to have the opposite of the intended effect; he only leans down once again and sucks a bruise into the base of Hawks’ neck.
“Don’t they teach you manners at hero school?” Dabi says, voice low and directly in Hawks’ ear, making him shiver. “If you want something, ask nicely.”
“If you won’t do it,” Hawks says, freeing one of his hands from Dabi’s jacket and letting it drift down to where he needs it. “I’ll handle it my–”
Dabi’s hands at his hips abruptly heat up and Hawks’ words break on a whine, his hand latching back onto Dabi’s jacket without thought. Shit, that’s gonna leave a mark. His wings flutter at the thought.
“Come on, birdie, don’t play coy.” Dabi’s voice is dangerous now, a threat to match the heat searing a brand into Hawks’ skin. “You know how to beg.”
Despite the heat in Dabi’s words, he isn’t actually restraining Hawks’ hands and Hawks is pretty sure Dabi wouldn’t actually set him on fire. He could still reach down to his neglected cock and relieve himself. He could, yeah, but–
“Please,” he breathes out instead.
“Mm? What was that?”
“Dabi, please.”
The response is immediate: Dabi’s leg finally shifts to apply pressure between Hawks’ own, enough that it borders on painful, and Hawks drops his head back on a moan. It’s perfect, exactly what he needed. If he could just–
He tries to move his hips, but Dabi’s grip remains firm and unyielding.
“More,” Hawks openly begs, not caring how broken his voice sounds or how cocky Dabi looks as he lowers his head once again to continue his ministrations, licking and biting and marking every surface of skin within reach, the pressure against Hawks’ cock unmoving, too much quickly morphing into not enough. “Dabi, please, I can’t–”
It’s only thanks to years of training and honing his senses that he hears his phone ringing in his room.
The sound is enough for him to cut himself off mid-sentence but not enough to have him even consider moving, not now that Dabi has finally gotten one step closer to giving him what he wants. He doesn’t care who it is or what they want, there’s no way it’s more urgent than this.
Dabi, apparently, disagrees, fully detaching himself from Hawks, who whines at the loss of hard-earned contact.
“Go ahead, birdie.” Dabi sits back just enough to tear off Hawks’ jeans and underwear all in one swift, practiced movement, Hawks wiggling his hips to assist, practically on autopilot. “Pick it up.”
Then Dabi leans down once again and nips at Hawks’ hipbone, and Hawks loses all higher brain function. It takes Dabi stopping altogether and raising an eyebrow for Hawks to finally register his words.
“Wha– Now?” he asks, face flushing because Dabi can’t be serious here.
But Dabi says, “You wouldn’t want to miss an important phone call, would you?” And his eyes say, I’ll make you regret it if you do.
Hawks knows Dabi’s idea of a punishment and he’s taken enough teasing for today. He caves.
“Fine, but behave.” It’s a useless command, they both know Dabi will do whatever the fuck he wants. Which today, unfortunately for Hawks, seems to be relentlessly teasing him.
Despite knowing the risk, Hawks lets a few of his feathers shoot out from his wings and towards his room where he quickly finds his phone and brings it to his waiting hand. He doesn’t think to check the screen before answering the call.
“Hawks?” His handler’s voice is unmistakable.
Shit.
“Hey!” He grimaces a bit when his usually-carefree voice comes out sounding too cheerful, an obvious overcompensation for how strained he feels. “What’s up?”
He’s so focused on the call, eyes staring off into space, that it catches him off guard when he suddenly feels teeth sinking into his thigh. He jerks upright, gasping, but Dabi places a hand on his chest and pushes him back down against the couch.
“What do you mean ‘what’s up’?”
His handler’s voice is nothing but background noise as he glares at Dabi, who smirks as he licks soothingly over the bite mark he just made, then noses at Hawks’ cock, which twitches at the contact.
Hawks holds his hand over his phone’s microphone and mouthes, Don’t you fucking dare.
“You’re late to your date,” Hawks’ handler informs him, as if Hawks is in any position to care right now. “Where are you?”
Contrary to Hawks’ very clear demand, Dabi licks a stripe up his length, tracing the vein that runs along the underside with his tongue piercing, and Hawks is beyond grateful that he’d just put his hand over the microphone because he would never be able to look his handler in the eyes again if she’d heard the noise he just made.
He takes a second to calm down and level his voice before saying, “Sorry,” but it’s apparently not enough because his voice still comes out just this side of raspy. “I uhh–”
There’s no warning, aside from the dangerous spark behind Dabi’s eyes, before he swallows Hawks down. It’s too much all at once: the heat of his mouth, the strange but familiar feel of his piercing, the hands that dig into his hips, into the marks Dabi left on him earlier.
Running off of very little brainpower and quickly growing desperate, Hawks does the first thing that comes to mind to keep himself from moaning directly into his handler’s ear. He kicks Dabi off of him and shields himself with his wing.
He breathes out, “I ran into a villain,” and hopes that it just sounds like he’s a bit winded from running or flying. He hears a scoff from somewhere off to the side. “But I’m almost finished with him so–”
It was dumb, he recognizes too late, to block his field of vision. Because it means he’s completely unprepared when a hand grabs his thigh, hard, and yanks him down the couch, startling a noise out of him and knocking his wing out of the way.
His eyes snap down to Dabi and he means to glare, to silently tell him off, but when he’s met with the sight of the fire user with three fingers in his mouth, what Hawks knows from experience to be a skilled tongue working its way along each digit, all he can do is stare dumbly.
Hawks imagines that the fingers are his, that he could feel the wet warmth of that tongue, the smooth glide of the piercing; he imagines the fingers in his own mouth, imagines the way he knows Dabi’s pupils would dilate at the sight.
By the time his leg is thrown over a shoulder, he knows what’s coming. Luckily, he has just enough presence of mind to muffle his phone against his chest before the moan can escape him at the feeling of Dabi pressing a finger to his entrance.
He’s weak though; a weak, weak man. Because even in this situation, he can’t help the way his leg reflexively contracts, pulling Dabi closer.
“Hawks?” He can barely hear the garbled words coming out of his phone, doesn’t think he could focus on them or respond even if they were perfectly clear. “I think you might be cutting out.”
Hawks glares down at Dabi, who just buries his finger in deeper with a too-knowing look, then slowly starts to withdraw before pushing back in. Hawks isn’t capable of maintaining his glare after that, his eyes fluttering shut as he lets out a shaky breath to steady himself enough to speak coherent words.
“Okay, fine, I take it you’re busy with the villain attack,” his handler says and Hawks internally sighs with relief, sensing the end of this conversation. His good fortune is immediately overturned again when his chest apparently brushes against the speaker button, filling the room with his handler’s voice as she says, “Deal with it quickly. This woman paid a lot of money for you.”
He scrambles to reclick the speaker button so that Dabi can’t hear any potentially incriminating or embarrassing information, but his fingers are unusually uncoordinated in his panic.
“Right, I’m on it,” he blurts out unthinkingly, just trying to get words out so that it sounds like he’s paying attention.
He opens his mouth to say more, to spout some witty line about having this imaginary, made-up fight in the bag, but Dabi grabs the phone from his hands, abruptly ends the call, and tosses the device across the room.
“Hey, what did my phone do to you?” Hawks complains.
In response, Dabi inserts a second digit inside of him and pumps the two fingers faster. Hawks keens and, without his phone to clutch in between his fingers, his hands find their way into his couch. The leather is wrong, not like the jacket he’s used to grasping, but a good enough temporary substitute.
“She’s heard enough of you like this,” he’s vaguely aware of Dabi saying. “The rest is just for me.”
Hawks’ sharper-than-average nails dig into the couch, tearing into the leather, as Dabi twists the fingers inside him, his aim targeted and perfect. But then those perfect fingers disappear, taking the heat with them and leaving Hawks empty, and it rips a whine from his throat. He watches dazedly as Dabi shucks off his leather jacket, then his shirt.
“Come on, birdie,” Dabi says as he slots himself back between Hawks’ legs, immediately forcing his fingers back inside while his other hand grabs Hawks’ wrist and guides it towards Dabi’s back. “There are better things you could be doing with those.”
Hawks doesn’t need his higher brain function to figure out what that’s supposed to mean; he knows, partially on an intuitive level, partially from muscle memory, that Dabi likes when he leaves scratch marks on him. A claim for a claim, his animal brain thinks.
He happily obliges.
“Good bird,” Dabi praises, shoulder blades flexing as Hawks drags his nails down his back without restraint.
Hawks’ wings flutter at the praise, then fully extend when Dabi inserts a third finger. He’s taking it slow. Too slow, painfully slow.
“If I’m being so good,” Hawks manages between pants. “Then fuck me properly.”
It’s times like these that his training comes in handy because even in his lust-addled state, he’s able to maneuver a small cluster of feathers to his bedroom and back with a bottle of lube. Dabi holds out a hand – the one that isn’t preoccupied, thank god – to catch it without even looking. Hawks lets out a shaky breath, reflexively tightening around Dabi’s fingers as they leave him.
Finally.
This has to mean he’s going to replace the fingers with–
“If you don’t like the way I fuck you,” Dabi says, voice dangerously low and displeased. “Get someone else to do it. I’m sure you have a lineup of willing bodies.”
Hawks blinks, surprised by the weird direction this has taken, then frowns.
“W-what?” Breathless and unthinking, he grabs the lube from Dabi, pops it open, and coats his hand himself. “What are you going on about?”
Dabi inhales slow and deep when Hawks reaches out to wrap his hand around him, but that’s the extent of his reaction. Even as Hawks slicks him up, sliding and twisting his hand exactly how Dabi likes it, palm dragging over Dabi’s ladder piercing, all he gets are quiet pants.
Dabi isn’t smirking anymore. Hawks hates it.
“I’m sure your date would’ve done it,” is Dabi’s nonsensical response.
It’s only in that moment, hand on Dabi’s cock with the villain just a pout away from sulking, that Hawks finally realizes what’s going on here.
“Wait, are you jealous?” he wonders out loud, distractedly letting his hand fall. Dabi avoiding eye contact is all the confirmation he needs. Hawks’ wings flare out at the thought and he breaks out into a smile. “You are! You’re–”
Of course that’s the moment that Dabi, completely without warning, chooses to sink into him. Hawks lets out a startled cry.
“What do I have to be jealous of?” Dabi says, smirk returning – but it’s fake, he’s dumb to think Hawks can’t tell his smirks apart – as he takes his time bottoming out, then pulling back out. “It’s not like anyone else gets to see you like this.”
Hawks doesn’t want to encourage the obvious deflection by admitting just how right he is, how long it’s been since he’s had a sexual partner that isn’t Dabi, how ruined he would be for anyone else even if that was something he wanted.
So instead, he turns his grin sultry and taunts, “I don’t know, have you seen the auction winner? She’s pretty cute, actually. Maybe after our date, we can–”
“You’re mine.”
Dabi’s hands heat up again and Hawks isn’t sure he’s even aware of it as the fingers of one hand dig into Hawks’ thigh, the other into his hip, leaving fresh marks that have him gasping for air and blinking fast. Dabi has stopped moving though and Hawks could scream.
“Fucking move,” he demands, desperately shifting his hips to do the work himself. Or at least trying, but Dabi’s grip is unyielding once again.
“Not until you say it.”
He pulls out slowly, leaving Hawks feeling empty, and enough is enough.
“You–” Hawks firmly shoves Dabi back and the villain goes easily, allowing Hawks to maneuver him until he has him straddled. “Are infuriating.”
Dabi responds eagerly when Hawks leans forward to capture his lips, but he’s still in a mood, apparently, because he keeps breaking off each kiss before Hawks can deepen them. Hawks isn’t having it. He quickly loses his patience and bites the villain’s bottom lip when he pulls away again, locking arms around his neck to keep him close. Dabi huffs against his lips, clearly amused, then finally lets Hawks take what he wants. And take he does, without hesitation, sliding his tongue into Dabi’s mouth at the first opportunity and reveling in the pleased noise it gets him.
By the time they part ways, they’re both panting.
“Is that why you marked me so much today?” Hawks asks.
Dabi replies, “Not enough,” and drags Hawks down so that he can suck a bruise right beneath his jawline. Which, fuck, Hawks is not going to be able to cover that. He buries one hand into Dabi’s hair to keep him there regardless and moans at the thought of people seeing the mark and knowing he’s been claimed. “Your little hero costume covers so damn much.”
A hand wraps itself loosely around his throat, hardly applying any pressure but still making itself impossible to ignore.
“Maybe if I burned a collar into you,” Dabi says, eyes fixed on Hawks’ neck where he’s holding it. Not a threat, but a promise. “They’d back the fuck off.”
Hawks’ costume would cover it, but he’s careful not to point that out. Instead, he grabs Dabi’s wrist and pulls the hand more firmly against his own throat, enhancing the pressure, just in case Dabi is bluffing and thinks to back away.
“Do it,” Hawks says, challenging stare unwavering. “Mark me.”
Show everyone I’m yours.
Dabi stares silently at him, then huffs out a laugh.
“You’re one crazy bastard, aren’t you?” His grin says he approves. “Begging to be marked by a villain. Corrupted.”
Hawks doesn’t even have the patience to be offended. He’s about to complain about Dabi taking his damn time again, poke and prod until he caves and makes good on his promise, but there’s a searing heat at his throat before he can. He gasps and grips Dabi’s wrist tighter.
“You’re mine,” Dabi growls, voice bordering on feral.
Privately, Hawks thinks, I wish I could be. But he’s already someone else’s property. This, what he has with Dabi, is only temporary. They both know that.
But externally, he allows them both to pretend.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yours.”
As soon as the sharpness of the heat fades and Dabi releases his hold, Hawks rocks forward to kiss him again, long and slow, taking his own time for the first time this evening. It’s tender, soft, maybe a little too much and, when they part, Hawks is quick to distract himself from the thought by lining Dabi up with his entrance and sinking down.
As a result of his impatience, he goes too fast, taking Dabi all the way to the hilt in one go, and it burns. Good thing he’s a sucker for pain.
“Fuck,” Hawks chokes out, hands automatically flying to Dabi’s shoulders. “That’s more, ungh– Like it.”
He barely takes a moment to breathe before he starts moving. He’s too quick, too impatient, not allowing his body to adjust as he impales himself, over and over, but the sting is good and it’s even better when the feeling morphs into pure pleasure.
It’s not enough, never enough. He needs Dabi deeper. He needs to be consumed. He needs Dabi to stop making him do all the fucking work by himself.
“Impatient today,” Dabi says, running a hand along his thigh, still barely applying any pressure, a clear taunt. “Aren’t you, pretty bird?”
Despite the tease, his voice is shallow and his breathing is uneven. He can say whatever he wants, but Hawks knows what he sounds like when he’s coming apart. He knows he can make the fire user snap. Just a little more.
“And you’re–” He seats himself fully and lets out a broken noise. It’s amazing, but not enough, not enough, not enough. Dabi has long since ruined him for anyone else, turns out that applies even to him when he’s holding back. Where’s the extra heat inside of him? Where are the roaming hands and lips and teeth? Where’s the insistent snap of hips to match Hawks’ own? “Too fucking patient.”
Dabi smirks at him, like he’s still in control and winning, and Hawks refuses to back down. If Dabi wants to play dirty, then so will he. Hawks tips Dabi’s head to the side to lick a stripe up his neck, following the track of a bead of sweat that’s formed there. When he reaches the shell of his ear, he whispers, “If you don’t start helping, I’ll go find someone who will.”
It’s a bluff. Obviously it’s a bluff, he doesn’t want anyone else.
But a bluff is all it takes.
Smoke pours out of the seams in Dabi’s skin and Hawks knows what’s coming, had been hoping for this exact outcome, but he still cries out and tightens when the heat inside him rises, just how he likes it. Planting his feet firmly on the ground and spreading his legs for better leverage, Dabi grabs Hawks by the hips with a bruising grip, lifts him off, then yanks him back down, timing the movement with a thrust of his hips.
Hawks is quick to start matching his brutal pace, thrust for relentless thrust, and Dabi gives up the game the moment he does, finally letting his restraint snap.
Going from nothing to everything all at once in a split second is almost overwhelming. Dabi’s heated hands and mouth are everywhere, mapping out every surface of Hawks’ body within reach, and he knows exactly what to do with his hips, how to angle himself to hit just right.
Between the litany of curses and pleas and cries of Dabi’s name, Hawks is only able to form the coherent words, “Who’s, ah– Impatient n-now?”
He knows Dabi is close when his very intellectual response is, “Shut up,” and a harsher thrust of his hips that has Hawks tossing back his head and crying out.
He’s close too, he can feel it, Dabi’s possessive streak and newfound lack of restraint bringing Hawks to the edge faster than usual, and he reaches down to take ahold of himself completely without thinking. Dabi watches him for a moment, eyes dark, drinking Hawks up, before he leans his head against the back of the couch and closes his eyes.
Hawks’ brain is fuzzy right now, nothing but lust and static and please, please, please, Dabi, more, deeper, but losing that hungry stare, losing Dabi’s all-consuming, undivided attention, stirs something primal in him that doesn’t require thought.
“Eyes–” Unwilling to remove his fingers from where they’re digging into Dabi’s shoulders, the grip vice-like, he uses the leverage to pull Dabi flush to him and summons a singular, sharpened feather to dip beneath the villain’s chin and lift it upwards to force eye contact. “On me, hot stuff.”
He dips down to capture the villain’s lips in a sloppy, uncoordinated kiss, sliding their tongues together without any of the skill their crazy amount of practice should’ve afforded them, and when he pulls back, Dabi’s eyes are open and staring right back into his, intense and fixed and yes.
Devouring him.
In return, Hawks makes his obedience worthwhile by putting on a show, pitching his moans just slightly louder, in complete disregard for his neighbours, just how Dabi likes it, his songbird, and squeezing the base of his cock every time he’s about to release, to keep himself from coming prematurely.
“I’m–” he pants. “I’m so close, fuck.”
When Dabi replaces Hawks’ hand with his own, it feels enough like permission that Hawks unravels completely.
As he comes with a choked off call of Dabi’s name, he is distantly aware of his wings stretching out to their full extent and twitching. He becomes far more aware of them, and all of his other limbs, really, when he feels a hand comb through his feathers. Combined with the fact that Dabi is still milking him dry, he quickly grows overstimulated.
Never one to back down, however, he lets Dabi use him and squirms in his lap, forehead dropped onto the villain’s shoulder, until Dabi falls apart too.
Knowing how Dabi gets after they fuck, Hawks indulges him as he rearranges them on the couch until they’re laying flat, Hawks’ wings comfortably draped over the edge, and pressed flush against each other, even as their quickly drying come makes a mess of them and Hawks’ unfortunate couch. He’s careful to be as quiet as possible when he sends some feathers to find a cloth and bring it back to wipe them down.
Dabi’s eyes are already closing so Hawks is slow and gentle with it, letting the villain drift to sleep under his ministrations.
Once he’s done, however, having set the cloth aside and returned to where Dabi had placed him, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s forgetting something.
“Dabi,” he whispers, gently nudging him. “What am I forgetting?”
Dabi hums out a sound of irritation, wraps his arms tightly around Hawks’ waist, and buries his face into the hero’s neck, almost slurring as he tiredly mumbles, “Go to sleep, bird.”
Hawks obliges, getting himself comfortable and draping a wing over the two of them to block out the light coming in from his window. The uneasy feeling in his gut makes falling asleep harder than usual, but he makes a valiant effort and soon the warmth enveloping him, like a weighted and heated blanket, has him drifting off regardless.
Hawks jolts awake sometime later.
“Shit, the date!”
Dabi snorts from where he’s perched on Hawks’ living room windowsill, blowing cigarette smoke out the open window. It takes fully absorbing the view – Dabi redressed in his white shirt and jeans – for Hawks to realize that the villain’s signature jacket is pooled at his own waist, clearly having fallen from where someone had draped it over him in his sleep.
When he sends his wings away and puts it on, his only intention – believe it or not – is to feel less naked and cold as he rushes around his apartment to grab his discarded clothes and phone. The eyes that follow him, transfixed, are just an added bonus that he doesn’t have time to focus on right now.
“What time is it?”
Dabi starts laughing and shit, that doesn’t bode well. Hawks checks the clock on his phone, after remembering that that’s a thing that exists, and drops his head back, groaning. Yeah, definitely not good. The Commission is going to have his ass on a platter; he’s hours late for the date.
“What the hell am I supposed to tell the Commission?” he complains, plopping back onto the couch and burying his face in his hands.
The couch dips next to him and Hawks drops his hands from his face, using one to prop his chin up so that he can look at Dabi.
The villain runs a thumb over the burn mark around Hawks’ neck in a way that might come off as reverential from anyone else and says, “The truth.” When Hawks raises an eyebrow at him, he adds, with a grin, “That you got mauled by a big bad villain.”
The press of his fingers becomes more insistent, making the healing burn sting and Hawks bats his hand away, unimpressed.
“But I can leave more marks if you don’t think they’ll buy it,” Dabi offers, so incredibly unhelpfully.
“You’re such a pain in the ass.”
Without missing a beat, Dabi drawls, “Mm, just how you like me.”
Hawks summons a batch of feathers just to smack the villain upside the head with them.
To the surprise of absolutely nobody, the Commission reschedules Hawks’ date with the auction winner.
To the surprise of everyone but Hawks, said date is crashed within five minutes by an especially tenacious Nomu and some suspiciously blue flames.