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Hawks wakes up wet. 

This isn’t unusual. It’s the end of March; the blossoms are in full pelt, blanketing the puddles in pink and white. The weather isn’t warm yet, and Hawks still has to bundle up on long flights, but she can smell the seasons shifting, the air sweet and fresh with spring.

But Hawks can’t enjoy spring, because she’s always fucking soaked.

The first time this wetness appeared, in the trenches of Hawks’ deeply uncomfortable puberty years, the Commission’s doctor, a man, mumbled something about ovulation before fleeing the room. He couldn’t look Hawks in the eye after that. He was replaced by somebody else, somebody young and female, swiftly afterwards.

All Hawks wanted to know was why she was so gloopy. She used to go through multiple pairs of underwear a day, when she was still in training. Now, between the months of March and May, she swaps her regular flight suit for a specially designed one, a hush-hush don’t-talk-about-the-problem version that is thick enough in the right places that she doesn’t have to change through the day. 

Hawks sighs into the empty space of her bedroom. It’s early enough that it’s not quite light outside, the sky between her curtains a dusky, pre-sunrise blue. She pats, perfunctory, around her thighs, feeling for the spread of damp. At least she hasn’t soaked the sheets this morning.

She doesn’t bother taking care of her problem. She doesn't have the time, or the patience. She just wipes, pulls on her flight suit, and heads to work.

When Hawks’ doctor practically ran out on her, Hawks determined to find the cure herself. She remembers spending hours on the mystery, on medical sites that didn’t quite match up to her experience, on articles about puberty that simpered about hormonal acne and armpit hair, but betrayed nothing about gushing waterfalls in the spring.

She eventually found her answer on a forum about bird breeding. In hindsight, it should have been the first place she looked. Anything that the Commission avoids answering can usually be traced back to Hawks’ avian parts.

The simple answer: Hawks was in heat. Nature-having, nurture-needing, baby-wanting heat.

Just another thing to add to the damn pile. Hawks usually has a big revelation about herself once a year, something her parents or the Commission has elected to ignore or push under the rug until Hawks dares to peek under an upturned corner. 

Feathers that sharpen into knives. Frequent migraines from endless overstimulation. The extra colours that only she can see.

And, of course, the unrepentant, flagrant horniness of being bird-adjacent in spring.

Hawks arrives at the agency just before six. The air above the city nipped at her, laden with a touch of frostiness, and Hawks is soaked when she touches down.

She sighs. She heads to the bathroom. She wipes what she can, ignores the way she wants to shiver, ignores the way she’s hot all over with a warm weight in her stomach.

Another time. She doesn’t have a spare moment to sort herself out, not the way the animal in her so desperately craves. 

She’s too busy. She has a world to save.

Dabi doesn’t scare Hawks when she gets home, but Hawks pretends to be startled anyway. 

“You gotta stop doing this,” she proclaims, swanning into her apartment while Dabi watches her from the comfort of the couch. Every time Dabi breaks in, which is far more often than Hawks would care to admit, Hawks knows exactly where to find her.

At least somebody makes use of Hawks’ couch. Hawks certainly doesn’t. She usually beelines between her balcony and her bed like the Commission doesn't spend thousands on her cushy penthouse every month. 

She thinks their money could be better spent elsewhere, but, hey, it’s better than a cardboard box in the street.

“I know you ain’t scared,” Dabi shoots back. She’s brimming with fresh-off-a-recruitment energy, something mean looming out of her, something that wants to bite.

Hawks doesn’t want to bite back. She wants to slink to her room, shuck her damp flight suit, perfunctorily masturbate until she’s no longer hot and buzzing all over, and knock the fuck out.

Because the thing is, as much as Hawks is predisposed to pleasure between the months of March and May, it’s not something that comes easily to her. She doesn’t sleep with people. There’s too much of a risk, too much potential tarnish to her reputation if her one-night-lover goes running to the presses.

And, sure, the tidbit that highly-wanted national villain Dabi occasionally breaks into Hawks’ apartment to heckle her would ruin her reputation far worse than a scoop on what she sounds like in bed, but Dabi’s not going to rat herself out, and Hawks is too tired to bother with the drama.

Hawks doesn’t get laid, Dabi doesn’t know when to stop, and Hawks hates spring.

“I’m so scared of you,” Hawks says, bone-dry monotone. She tosses her flight jacket over Dabi’s head, and it takes all of her media training not to crack a smile when Dabi tugs it off, hair a static mess, her face unrepentantly sour. “Can you leave, though? I’m not in the mood tonight.”

“You stink,” Dabi says, Hawks’ jacket clutched in her hands. She raises the fabric to her face, inhales. Hawks resists the urge to cringe. “What’d you do, throw down with someone with a Fart Quirk?”

“Hey!” Hawks protests. She snatches her jacket back, away from Dabi’s inquisitive nose. Hawks knows she smells strong at the moment, but – it’s not that bad, is it? How embarrassing. She’s hot all over. She really needs to take care of this stupid animal thing inside of her, begging for release. “Creep.”

Before Hawks can flee to the bedroom, Dabi grabs her wrist. Her fingers close over the sleeve of Hawks’ flight suit.

The temperatures still verge towards cold, so it’s sleeves down to Hawks’ wrists for the time being. Hawks is grateful for the barrier.

She can feel the heat of Dabi’s palm through the fabric, and even that non-touch makes her sick with desire, sick with the heat that crashes through her. She’s damp. She’s really, stupidly damp. 

Dabi sniffs again. Hawks hides her wince as Dabi’s eyes rake up and down her body, curious, assessing. Dabi’s harmless, like this, but Hawks is always tense for the switch-up, for the illusion to shatter. One wrong move and Dabi could destroy her. Hawks hates that it thrills her. 

“Seriously, what is that?” Dabi asks. She shifts, craning over the back of the couch to get closer to Hawks. Hawks steps away, but her wrist jolts in Dabi’s vice grip.

“What’s what?” Hawks says, even as Dabi inhales deeply, eyes drifting shut as she attempts to pinpoint what Hawks’ horniness smells like.

“That smell,” Dabi says. Her hand is tight around Hawks’ wrist. Hawks’ feathers begin to sharpen. If Dabi loses a few fingers for her curiosity, so be it. “It smells like…”

She grunts when the words escape her. Her eyes flutter open. She frowns at Hawks without maliciousness. Who knew that the way to distract Dabi from her warpath would be an unfamiliar smell?

“That’s what being a Hero smells like,” Hawks says. She tries to wriggle away. Dabi’s other hand darts out and lands at Hawks’ waistband. Hawks bites down a quiet curse when Dabi’s fingers curl into Hawks’ belt loop and her body responds, very enthusiastically, in turn. “Y’know, a bit of saviour complex, a dash of martyrdom, tons of adoring—”

Dabi’s face lowers. Hawks freezes. Eye level with Hawks’ crotch, Dabi inhales again.

“Why do you smell like that?” Dabi’s voice is husky and rough and does awful things to Hawks. Hawks closes her eyes. She’s trembling, all of her feathers on high-alert, all of her body bursting for touch that she can’t have.

Dabi’s fingers tighten around Hawks’ belt loop, tighten around Hawks’ wrist. She pulls Hawks closer, until Hawks is pressed to the back of the couch, the panel digging into the soft flesh of her thighs. Hawks doesn’t have the strength to fight Dabi’s pushing and pulling. She’s too busy battling with the thing inside of her that wants Dabi to rip her clothes off and take her on the floor.

“Dabi,” Hawks warns, as Dabi’s face creeps closer to Hawks’ crotch. Her voice shakes, barely rises above a whisper. It has no authority. Dabi can hear it.

Dabi inhales again. It’s a delicate, curious gesture. Almost gentle, probing for an answer. The tip of Dabi’s nose nearly brushes Hawks’ trousers. Hawks stares helplessly at the top of Dabi’s head, the thick, dark hair, the cowlick near the front that Dabi never seems to be able to brush down.

Hawks jerks when Dabi lets go of her belt loop, only to move her fingers down to Hawks’ inner thigh.

Hawks can feel it when Dabi presses down on the fabric. The dampness. She’s soaked through her trousers. 

Dabi brings her fingers to her nose and sniffs. “What’s this?”

And Hawks, resigned and hot all over and soaked to the fucking bone, says, “It’s spring.”

Dabi finally looks up. Hawks’ whole body squeezes when they make eye contact; Dabi’s pupils are blown wide, her eyes more black than blue. Hawks’ feathers seek out Dabi’s pulse: it’s fast. Not as fast as Hawks’, who swears her heart is about to thunder from her chest like a wild horse, but it’s noticeably quick. 

Hawks isn’t the only one affected by this.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dabi rasps. She’s drifting towards Hawks’ body again, unconsciously. Hawks realises, suddenly, damningly, that she can see down Dabi’s vest from this angle. She has to bite back a whimper when her eyes rove over the swell of Dabi’s breasts, the way the staples frame her, glinting in the light.

“It’s spring,” Hawks repeats helplessly, near maniacally. She’s struggling with the concept of full sentences. What did she do before Dabi had her in her sights? “Bird. Spring. Mating season. You know?”

Dabi laughs, but it’s without her usual cruel humour. It’s low and soft and affectionate, almost, and Hawks realises that the proximity is getting to her head. 

“So you’re medically horny?” Dabi poses. Hawks squeezes her eyes shut as another slick dribble makes itself known. It’s distinctly humiliating, to stand in front of Dabi and leak. To stand in front of Dabi, where Dabi can smell her, where Dabi can see her. 

“Something like that,” Hawks says through gritted teeth. “I don’t control it. I just deal with it.”

It’s a distinct weakness, which is why Hawks keeps it so deeply under wraps. Any public knowledge of it can be used against her, used to manipulate her. Of course she notices that the HPSC specifically trims her caseload in the spring. 

She can still do her damn job. She’s wet, not an invalid.

Then again, she’s supposed to be working right now. Just because she’s at home doesn’t mean she’s free from the drudge of breaking down Dabi’s walls. She’s still a traitor, still duplicitously loyal to the League of Villains. Hawks doesn’t want to be loyal to anybody in the comfort of her own home, but while Dabi’s here, Hawks has no choice. 

“Y’need a hand?” Dabi asks.

Hawks finally steps back. Dabi’s hand slips from her wrist; not because Hawks overpowered her, but because Dabi chose to let go. Hawks clears her throat.

“Not from you,” Hawks says, keeping her tone carefully cheerful. She can feel the damp patch spreading. Her legs tremble. She’s pulsing with need. “I’ve got it covered.”

“Oh,” Dabi says. She sits back, pretends to examine her blunt, bitten fingernails. Hawks finally notices the shoes on her couch, and she’s pissed off, but somewhere in her synapses, her irritation just adds fuel to the fire in her lower stomach. “I get it. Too good to fuck a villain, ain’t ya?”

Always this. Always Dabi needling at Hawks’ softest parts. Hawks is half-convinced that Dabi’s Quirk isn’t the raging blue fire; in fact, it’s the ability to look Hawks up and down and dissect her with a speed that even Hawks can barely keep up with.

Always Dabi picking at Hawks’ morals. Hawks isn’t a paragon of virtue; she strives to be, and yet when Dabi implies that Hawks is trying too hard, Hawks wants to kick and scream and destroy everything she’s built.

For what? So she can prove Dabi wrong?

Of course Hawks wants to fuck a fucking villain. Of course she wants Dabi to pin her to the bed and lap her up and make Hawks forget her stupid name and her stupid responsibilities and stupid spring.

And that irritates Hawks to no end. Dabi makes her act up, makes her want to do everything she shouldn’t. What is Hawks palming the moral high ground for? So she can kick Dabi out and jerk off grumpily and picture Dabi fucking her anyway?

“You’re so annoying,” Hawks seethes. Ornery because of her own misgivings, because of her own guardedness, because she’s been so unbearably horny for weeks and nothing will fix it. 

She stomps around the couch, even though the savage animal part of her wants to vault straight over the back and expect Dabi to catch her. She has half a second to revel in the shock on Dabi’s face, finally beaten at her own game, before she swings her leg over Dabi’s lap and plants herself on the villain who makes her life hell.

Hawks hooks her arms over Dabi’s shoulders. She lets her wrists dangle, fingers absently winding into Dabi’s hair. Dabi smells like smoke and sweat, the scent of a day spent busy. Her palms ooze heat when she rests them on Hawks’ thighs, almost shy now that Hawks has cornered her.

“Think you can keep up?” Hawks murmurs. It takes everything in her power to hold her hips still, to not grind on Dabi’s legs. Her beige trousers stretch across her thighs; they’re stained dark around the crotch, a soft seep. Hawks can smell herself, potent and fecund and familiar. 

Dabi tilts forward and kisses her, just the barest press of her lips, the barest warm heat, and Hawks comes. 

Hawks’ orgasm barely makes a dent in her oceanic want. Untouched, unobtrusive. Just the mere thought of Dabi’s mouth on her is dizzying. Her breath hitches, the barest of gasps that makes Dabi pull back anyway. Hawks can feel her wings flared wide behind her, every feather on high alert. Stupid, cumbersome, honest things.

She begins to shed her primaries, but Dabi’s hands tighten on Hawks’ thighs. 

“Keep ‘em,” Dabi mutters. Dabi’s hand slide up, curling around Hawks’ hips. Hawks wants to melt into a puddle, her desire pounding in her ears, the room fuzzy and unclear.

It takes everything Hawks has in her to summon her feathers back, for her to be complete and angelic and powerful.

Maybe Dabi’s waiting to chip Hawks down to her most vulnerable before she destroys her. Hawks’ wings are her greatest strength; Dabi’s flames are her biggest weakness.

Hawks decides not to dwell on it. If she doesn’t come again in the next minute, she’s going to die anyway. She shifts forward, dragging her crotch against the thick canvas of Dabi’s stapled trousers, and dives back in.

Contrary to her own mental belief, Hawks and Dabi have never kissed.

It feels like they have, a hundred different times. It feels like they’ve come achingly close, in warehouses and docks and dark spaces outside of the periphery. Hawks hopes Dabi never sees the amount of time she’s had her in her head. It’s a job that has become an obsession. Hawks isn’t prone to obsession, but Dabi has always been an exception. 

Dabi kisses Hawks like they’ve already tried this before. Like they’ve done this a hundred times before. It’s a dance with steps they’ve both already learned. Hawks sighs, wistful and weary, as Dabi’s teeth nip at her top lip, as Hawks’ tongue nudges the seam of Dabi’s scar. Dabi’s hands tug Hawks’ hips forward, and Hawks rocks into the friction. She aches. She aches so much she could burst with it, could cry with it, and she doesn’t realise how much she’s shaking until Dabi’s hands smooth up her sides, following her ribs.

Dabi’s hands slide to Hawks’ spine. They press Hawks forward, until their bodies are flush, and Hawks’ hips jerk, and Hawks comes again with the kind of bitten-off cry she only keeps to herself.

She shudders more through her second orgasm, pulsing with it. She drops her forehead to Dabi’s shoulder, panting. Dabi’s hips shift beneath her, still searching for the rhythm, her hands still grasping Hawks’ spine.

“That all you got?” Dabi murmurs against Hawks’ ear, voice verging on a whisper. Dabi rolls her hips, purposeful, and Hawks groans. She’s dripped all down the back of her thighs. Her flight suit is completely wrecked. Her orgasm has barely taken the edge off the animal thing in her. 

“Just take me to bed,” Hawks replies, appropriately huffy for Dabi’s degree of snarkiness. 

“Alright,” Dabi rasps, and stands up. 

Hawks yelps, her arms automatically tightening around Dabi’s neck. It’s embarrassing to cling, but Hawks isn’t convinced that she can make the twenty feet walk between the couch and her bed, and Dabi’s hands are so warm, curved around her ass. 

“You don’t weigh anything,” Dabi huffs, as she takes the first few steps down the hall towards Hawks’ bedroom.

Hawks doesn’t ask how Dabi knows where to find it. Hawks decides she doesn’t want to know.

“That a bad thing?” Hawks counters. Her thighs press either side of Dabi’s hips. Just one shift and that delicious friction is back; Hawks’ wings flutter behind her, nearly upending a half-drunk mug of coffee from a side table. She can barely think straight, and she presses her nose to Dabi’s neck, huffing that smoky smell as Dabi staggers the two of them to the bedroom. The tips of Hawks’ wings brush the walls either side of the hallway, through the dimness, through to the impersonal mess of Hawks’ room.

She can’t remember how she left the bed. Unmade, probably. Hawks doesn’t care. If there’s no mess already, there’s going to be one by the time Hawks lets Dabi out of her clutches. 

Dabi drops Hawks on the mattress without preamble. Hawks bounces, hiding the wince as her feathers crush beneath her. 

She should put a towel down. She knows how she gets. She hates clearing up the mess.

The absent thought is whisked away when Dabi clambers on top of her, sliding a thigh between Hawks’ legs. Her hands plant into the mattress either side of Hawks’ head. Hawks can see her vest flaring with the gravity, falling away from her skin.

For a moment, the two of them stare at each other. The light is bad. Hawks is wearing too many clothes. Hawks can barely breathe, trapped beneath Dabi. She’s never been this turned on in her life, not in any of her previous springs. She’s never given in like this, has always just pushed the urge aside, waited for later, extracted the bare minimum to make her life less a living hell.

She’s never had this, Dabi poised above her, looking just as hungry as Hawks feels.

Three feathers hook into the hem of Dabi’s vest and tug it over her head. Another feather flicks on the lamp beside Hawks’ bed, so that Dabi’s tipped golden. 

Dabi’s not wearing a bra. Her breasts swell heavy with gravity, pale even in the lamplight. They’re remarkably untouched by her scars; the scar that crawls down her chest flirts with the shape of them, but when Hawks reaches out, transfixed, to cup Dabi’s left breast in her hand, the skin is soft and flexible. 

Dabi’s hair spills over her shoulders, dark as an oil slick. Her eyes don’t leave Hawks’ face, the irises even darker.

For a brief, remarkable moment, Hawks forgets all about her own horniness in favour of running her thumb over Dabi’s peaked nipple. Dabi sighs, her thigh shifting between Hawks’ legs, and leans down. Her hair tickles Hawks’ neck, but Hawks doesn’t pay it any mind; her mouth parts for Dabi’s tongue, another sigh syphoning down her throat.

Hawks doesn’t know when the desperation shifted to something far too intimate. It’s slow and it’s soft. Hawks assumed Dabi would throw her to the bed and immediately divest her of her clothes, but Dabi’s almost gentle when she cups Hawks’ face, tilting further into the kiss. Hawks’ heat has dropped to a quiet simmer, the beast purring in its gilded cage as Hawks massages Dabi’s breast, the weight heavy and warm in her palm. 

Dabi hikes her thigh higher between Hawks’ leg. Hawks grinds down, the choked gasp echoing through the room. Her flight suit has hiked further up, and the friction of the fabric increases with each shift until Hawks has to tilt her head against the mattress, battling for breath.

Dabi sits back on her heels. She tugs at Hawks’ trousers. 

“Off,” Hawks agrees, nodding helplessly to an unasked question. Dabi slides off the bed, and Hawks hears the heavy thunk of her boots hitting the wooden floor again.

“Are you still wearing your fucking shoes?” Hawks groans, momentarily distracted. 

Dabi just shrugs. “I got waylaid by a horny bird.”

Hawks rolls her eyes. She shoves Dabi away, as much as it destroys her to do so, and shucks her trousers herself. In the time it takes Dabi to unlace her boots and kick them into the corner of the room, Hawks is halfway through unbuttoning her flight suit, peeling it away after a day spent sticky.

Dabi smacks Hawks’ hands away from her flight suit. She hooks her fingers into the skintight fabric, peels it away from Hawks’ shoulders, from her chest, from her stomach. 

Hawks isn’t embarrassed by her body.

There must have been a time, way back when, where Hawks was embarrassed to take up space. Where she shrunk into herself, tugged her sleeves down her arms, curled into her feathers. Where she was fluff and shy looks. 

She feels it, sometimes, moments that set her on edge. Too much time at the scene of a crime, too long spent doing paperwork, too many eyes on her as she sidles down the street. She wants to grow small. She wants to shrink. 

But she can’t be embarrassed. She can’t be small. 

She has no choice to be, not when she’s poked and prodded into perfection by the HPSC, but with Dabi’s incandescent eyes on her, she wants to squirm.

“Stop squirming,” Dabi says.

“I’m not,” Hawks snaps. 

The effect of her rebuttal is lost with Dabi’s eyes trained on her tits; Hawks shifts, her abdominal muscles clenching and loosening as she tries to decide how to look. Hawks’ nipples have been hard since spring hit; she doesn’t have to look to know that she’s standing to attention. Her flight suit presses around her hips, the fabric bunched tight over her skin. She’s pinpricked on display, just for Dabi. She’s nearly naked and the shadows are making her breathless, Dabi perched above her like a predator. 

“You gonna finish what you started?” Hawks asks, because she’s soaked and chafing and starting to chill with the exposure. She lifts her chin, reaching for defiance. Banishing her smallness.

It’s spring. Hawks is larger than life, and she deserves this. 

“So impatient,” Dabi tuts, but Hawks doesn’t have time to retort back before Dabi peels the rest of her flight suit off. 

Dabi throws the flight suit to the other side of the bed; it slinks to the floor, all lightweight polyester, and the cool air in the room makes Hawks want to shiver. She wants to clamp her legs shut, the air frigid against her soaked cunt, but Dabi presses her hands to Hawks’ thighs and holds them open, bares Hawks on display for her.

Hawks’ wings flap uselessly against the mattress, the sound a ricochet through the room. Her cunt throbs. She’s teetering on the verge of her next orgasm, nearly ripped from her with the soft fondling and the cool air and the perfunctory removal of her clothes, but Dabi’s doing nothing but sitting back and staring.

“Look later,” Hawks all but snaps, “and help me now.”

“Bossy,” Dabi grins, but she does climb over Hawks’ body again. Her bare chest presses against Hawks’; Hawks sighs into Dabi’s impossible heat, the pinpoint contact where the fire radiates out from Dabi’s skin. The soft muscle of her breasts squashes against Hawks’ chest; Hawks’ breath catches when the swell of Dabi’s breast rubs against one of her nipples, lightning friction. 

One of Dabi’s hands cups Hawks’ vulva. Dabi strokes through the cropped hair above her slit, fingers flat against Hawks’ folds. Her staples are cool against Hawks’ mound, a jagged line that Hawks keens against.

“You’re soaked,” Dabi whispers, almost reverential, against Hawks’ mouth.

Hawks bucks into Dabi’s hand. One of Dabi’s fingers teases her slit, rubbing slowly through the wetness. The slick is a physical, viscous entity; Hawks can feel it dripping down her perineum, leaking around the emptiness she so desperately wants to fill.

The heel of Dabi’s hand presses against Hawks’ clit. Hawks shudders into her third orgasm, gasping into Dabi’s mouth.

It’s not enough. Dabi’s hand stills, but Hawks just bucks into her palm again, rocking for more friction. It’s too wet, too slick. Hawks can’t get enough sensation, Dabi’s fingers gliding uselessly through her folds, barely teasing her entrance. 

Again, Hawks isn’t predisposed to dramatism, but she wants to sob. She’s so sick of the pervasive feeling that follows her everywhere, the heaviness, the scattiness, the fact that nothing’s enough, not even three orgasms at the hand of somebody else. 

Every stupid spring. She can’t wait for the summer, because surely Dabi’s going to run the fuck away after this, when they both realise that this was far too stupid, even for the two of them. Sexual tension doesn’t justify a grave mistake. 

Hawks can’t even be pissed off when Dabi grabs a corner of the bedcover and wipes up the mess. She feels another gush of slick dribble down to replace what Dabi just cleaned up, but when Dabi’s thumb rubs over her clit again, it’s enough friction this time for Hawks to rocket back to the edge, breath coming in short, harsh pants. 

“Come on,” Hawks mutters. She hooks her arm around Dabi’s neck, tugging Dabi down to meet her. Against Dabi’s mouth, between loose, open-mouthed kisses, she urges, “Harder.”

And then Dabi slides two fingers inside of her, and Hawks nearly blacks out.

There’s hardly any stretch at all, not with Hawks’ body primed and prepped and ready for a damn baby she doesn’t want. She does want Dabi’s fingers though, long and lithe, massaging the rough texture of her walls as she pants into Hawks’ mouth, tongue occasionally lapping at Hawks’ lower lip. Dabi’s trousers drag against the bare skin on Hawks’ thighs, over-sensitive, but Hawks doesn’t want Dabi to move, not when the angle’s just right and Hawks’ legs are shaking and her breathing’s fast and hot and she’s right on the edge. 

Hawks never takes the time when she’s sorting herself out. She never explores, never goes further than she needs. She doesn’t have the time, doesn’t have the luxury, to hang out in bed and play with herself when she has a job to do.

So this is very, very different. Hawks prickles all over, eyes clenched shut of their own volition, as Dabi drags out the pleasure, as Dabi finds all of the points that Hawks would hone in on and brushes past them for different, more interesting pastures. 

Hawks is going crazy with the way Dabi purposefully avoids the spots that make her squirm, dipping shallowly in and out of Hawks’ cunt, running her fingers alongside Hawks’ clit, brushing her knuckles against Hawks’ inner thighs. 

Hawks snakes her hand between her legs. Dabi smacks her away. 

“Hurry up,” Hawks heaves. Sweat beads at her hairline, sticking all the baby hairs to the skin, and she’s desperate for her next release. Her cunt tries to clench around Dabi’s fingers, but Dabi keeps sliding out too fast for Hawks to feel like she has a grip on anything. 

“So impatient,” Dabi mumbles. She presses her mouth beneath Hawks’ ear, breath hot and wet against her skin, and coaxes Hawks into her fourth orgasm with a purposeful, deft flick of her thumb over Hawks’ clit.

With each orgasm, the bone-deep itchiness that Hawks has been carrying for the past few weeks begins to fade. She’s not good at this by herself, only doing barely enough to take the edge off, but Dabi doesn’t seem put-out in the least by the persistence of Hawks’ sticky desire. 

In fact, Dabi starts to suck the skin beneath Hawks’ ear, her mouth trailing hot, wet spots down Hawks’ neck, pausing to nibble marks into the tan skin. Hawks tilts her head to the side, trapped by Dabi’s whims, temporarily boneless, her labia pulsing slowly. 

Dabi’s hand, coated in Hawks’ slick, glides up Hawks’ toned stomach, starts to knead one of her breasts, rolling the nipple between finger and thumb. She pairs the action with a purposeful trail along Hawks’ clavicle, practically gnawing on the bone, her mouth leaving wet trails all over the skin. Every wet spot sings in the air, just a catch of the cold that makes Hawks’ hairs stand on end. She can do nothing but sigh, her hips rocking minutely against nothing, as Dabi’s mouth closes around her other nipple, teeth scraping the soft areola. 

“You have such good tits,” Dabi mutters, her face buried in Hawks’ chest. She has a hand wrapped around each of Hawks’ breasts, nuzzling between them, right where Hawks’ heart is pounding.

Something within Hawks squeezes. She laughs, mostly helpless, definitely breathless. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Dabi mutters. She mouths at the underside of Hawks’ breast, nipping at the skin. She squeezes, massages. Hawks thinks her breasts are pretty average, but engulfed in Dabi’s hands they look small, littered with red marks in the shape of Dabi’s mouth, nipples dark and inflamed from attention. 

“Can you take your trousers off now?” Hawks asks, now that Dabi’s migrating and her head is clear enough for her to talk. 

“You don’t like ‘em?” Dabi shoots back. “You were creaming all over ‘em earlier.”

“Ugh,” Hawks says emphatically. “I’ll never be able to look at them again. Please take them off.”

“Alright,” Dabi concedes. “Since you’re so desperate to get me naked.”

Hawks rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t pretend she isn’t looking when Dabi unbuckles the complicated belt around her waist. It clinks gently as Dabi pulls it from the loops, and Hawks watches raptly as Dabi eases the zip down, the sound nuclear in the quiet. It feels like Hawks accidentally walked into something she wasn’t supposed to, a spot of intimacy that she isn’t justified in witnessing. She can see the dark fabric of Dabi’s underwear, plain and unassuming. Hawks is greedy for the spray of white hair descending into the darkness. 

Dabi hooks her thumbs in her waistband, pulls both items of clothing down at the same time. Hawks’ eyes catch on a scar that wreathes her left thigh, the staples shinier than the dull metal lining her face. And then Hawks isn’t thinking about the scar at all, because she’s more focused on the crop of white hair where Dabi’s thighs meet, the ends clumped together with wetness.

It eases something in Hawks, to know that Dabi’s wet. She can see the dampness on the insides of her thighs, catching the light. Nothing like Hawks’ veritable tsunami, but Hawks doesn’t think anybody in the world is as wet as her at the moment.

“Now come back,” Hawks says.

“You’re the neediest pigeon in the world,” Dabi proclaims.

“I’m in heat,” Hawks grumbles.

“That is so stupid,” Dabi says, laughing through it. She looks young and open, her hair cascading over her bare shoulders, her mouth quirked into a rare smile without maliciousness. She quietens suddenly, and then says, “So if you’re in heat, can you lay eggs?”

“No!” Hawks snaps. She pauses, blinks. She’s never thought about it. She chews on her lower lip; Dabi’s eyes flicker down. “I don’t think so.”

“You never tried?” Dabi leers. “You wanna try?”

“Shut up,” Hawks groans, even as thick heat whorls through her again. Stupid body. Stupid bird instincts. Her eyes alight on Dabi’s staples, glimmering, and she needs Dabi’s mouth on her immediately. “C’mon then, you can make one with me.”

Dabi pounces on her, the two of them tumbling onto the mattress. Hawks has been slowly shedding features since they migrated to the bed, and her remaining feathers go all askew when Dabi pins her down. Hawks fights her wince, subtly sheds the rest. They litter the bed, downy and soft, and Hawks rolls the cramps out of her shoulder blades. 

“You still got gas in tank?” Dabi pants. In the tangle, she’s ended up straddling Hawks’ thigh. She’s hot and slick against Hawks’ leg, her hands braced on Hawks’ ribs. Her hips keep twitching and it’s driving Hawks crazy. Hawks doesn’t care who comes next, just as long as somebody does in the next five minutes.

Hawks sniffs. “How rude. I don’t have gas.”

“Way to ruin the mood,” Dabi says, but she slips closer when Hawks widens her legs, until she’s grinding down on Hawks’ mound, her satisfied grin growing wider when Hawks’ breath hitches. Her thigh rubs at Hawks’ vulva, a friction that isn’t quite enough but is getting Hawks going again, helped along by Hawks’ self-afflicted lubricant. 

Dabi hangs her head as she humps Hawks’ leg like a dog, either unbothered or unaware of how she’s using Hawks as a thing to get herself off on. Hawks could replace her thigh with a pillow and Dabi probably wouldn’t notice.

But it is deeply satisfying for Hawks to grip Dabi’s hips, thumbs pressing into the divots beneath the bone, and hear Dabi’s breathing shudder. There’s no plan anymore, just the chase and the friction, and Hawks is transfixed by the way Dabi’s tits bounce with the movement, all liquid gravity.

Hawks jerks her leg and Dabi tilts forward, catching herself in Hawks’ feathers. Hawks knows she should send them somewhere safe, because they’re going to be a task and a half to tidy up afterwards. She should, but even without her feathers being attached to her body she can feel Dabi’s hands on them, can feel their limbs crushing the vanes, and it’s suffocating but Hawks can’t get enough of it, an additional sensation she didn’t know she could utilise in this way.

Dabi’s all over her, under her, the room and the body and every feather quivering with the touch. 

Hawks winds her hands in Dabi’s hair, kisses Dabi filthy and uncoordinated, just lets herself be animal and unbeautiful as Dabi rocks her hips into her, the two of them wet, the two of them messy.

And Dabi’s noisy. Needy and noisy, all choked whines and high-pitched gasps, rumbling moans when Hawks bucks her hips to meet Dabi halfway. Hawks’ cunt throbs, the friction driving her to the brink. With Dabi rolling her hips into her, she can almost imagine the fullness, almost imagine Dabi’s fingers fucking her deep, filling the wide empty space, taking her to the edge and tipping her over.

Dabi comes with a groan and a shudder, twitching all over Hawks’ mound. Hawks can feel Dabi’s slick on her vulva, wet and hot. Dabi’s groan into Hawks’ mouth is enough for the animal to rear its head, to flutter into a soft orgasm, more the journey than the result.

Dabi collapses on top of Hawks, heavy and unapologetic for it. Hawks weakly tries to shove her off, but Dabi just makes herself heavier, their tacky skin pressing together. Dabi’s staples jut into Hawks’ skin; Hawks prickles, but she doesn’t think it’s a bad feeling.

“What’s that?” Dabi poses, voice husky. “Five to one? I gotta catch up, birdie.”

Hawks snorts. She fiddles with Dabi’s hair, absently picking at the strands. “Call me when you’re in heat.”

“I’m always in heat,” Dabi says. Her temple rests on Hawks’ breastbone, a peculiar pressure, her breath ghosting Hawks’ nipple. She raises her hand above her head without looking up, blue flames licking over her fingertips. “See?”

“Can you not be lame for once?” Hawks counters, to disguise her pounding heart. The fire throws blue auroras over the walls, intermingling with the gold lamplight. It’s dizzying to be in such close proximity to Dabi’s greatest weapon. It’s dazzling to be in cahoots with it, to temporarily be on the same side as it. 

“You ready to go again?” Dabi asks. She rests her chin on Hawks’ chest, peering at her. A staple by her mouth is coming loose; Hawks rubs her thumb over it, over the smallest of scabs, until Dabi smacks her hand away. 

“Leave it,” Dabi says. “It’ll be fine.”

So Hawks leaves it. Dabi’s patchwork soul isn’t Hawks’ to handle. Instead, she smiles, lazy and slow and wanting, and says, “I’m just gettin’ started.”

“Great,” Dabi says, so honest that it pierces Hawks right through the heart. “‘Cause I gotta eat you out before I die.”

Hawks’ laugh is lost to a groan when Dabi descends down her body, smearing her mouth over every part of Hawks she can reach. She traces her tongue through the trail of golden, near-invisible hair below Hawks’ belly button, following the path down to a place she’s already committed to memory with her fingers. 

As Dabi descends, she hooks her hands beneath Hawks’ knees, pushing them back to Hawks’ chest. Hawks feels another slick dribble leak from her cunt, staining the sheets, dampening the feathers that are crushed beneath their bodies.

“Have you—” Hawks tries between hiccuping breaths, dizzyingly turned on in a way she’s never been before. “Have you done this before?”

Because Hawks hasn’t. Nobody’s touched her like this, decoded her like this. And Dabi’s fingers are one thing, because Hawks knows what that feels like, to have fingertips prodding her open, understands how it works. 

But she can’t damn well go down on herself, and she’s never let anybody close enough to try. The way Dabi travels is confident, but Hawks has always found it hard to figure out if Dabi really does know what she’s doing or if she’s even better at pretending than Hawks.

Dabi’s tongue laps at Hawks’ swollen clit and Hawks’ whole body jerks.

“How hard can it be?” Dabi murmurs, right into Hawks’ wet heat, and it’s not an answer to the question but it tells Hawks enough, and then Dabi’s flattens her tongue against Hawks’ labia and Hawks forgets to be worried about it. 

“Fuck,” Dabi groans, the sound vibrating right through Hawks. Hawks can hear her sniff, a deep, wet inhale that would be gross under any other circumstance. “You smell so good.”

Hawks shudders, knees drawn to her chest, heels occasionally dropping to Dabi’s shoulders. Her fingers curl in the covers, tensing and easing with each movement of Dabi’s tongue through her folds.

Dabi’s tongue drags peculiarly, and it takes Hawks a moment to figure out what feels strange through her blood-bubbling pleasure. 

Stitches. She remembers now. She caught sight of them once, stitches that sit halfway down Dabi’s tongue, winking tantalising from between her teeth.

And now those stitches are lapping at Hawks like an animal, fortified by Dabi’s groans.

Hawks can feel the hard jut of Dabi’s teeth when Dabi opens her mouth wide enough, the lightest scrapes of pressure against her clit when Dabi’s tongue presses inside her, cleaving her open. Hawks can’t breathe past the feeling, past Dabi’s tongue flicking in and out of her cunt, deft and long and strong, somehow, the same sharp tongue that Hawks leans towards in warehouses and alleyways.

The pressure builds and builds. It builds like a tsunami, fearsome, and Hawks has the sudden panic that she’s going to let something go that should stay buried when Dabi’s tongue swirls around her clit and it’s all over.

Hawks nearly sobs as her orgasm, far stronger than any previously, gushes through her, leaking out from her cunt. It keeps going; Hawks is full of it, slick as oil, like she’s had years of buildup that never quite broke the dam, but Dabi just groans and keeps working at her.

Hawks can hear Dabi swallow, her throat working around the slick, gulping Hawks down like a drink. Hawks wants to pull away, but Dabi’s hands are vices around Hawks’ thighs, keeping her close as Dabi laps her up.

The pleasure turns overstimulating. Hawks flinches away from Dabi’s tongue. 

Dabi finally peers over Hawks’ mound, a wolfish smile on her face.

Hawks’ come drips off Dabi’s chin, caught in the tips of Dabi’s hair. Hawks is too shaky to do anything but look, but when the ringing in her ears subsides, she realises that she just squirted all over her primary villain mark.

Hawks snorts, and when Dabi’s expression flattens, she flat-out laughs. 

“It’s not nice to laugh at the person helping you,” Dabi says snottily, but she still has that dazed, soppy look in her eye, and she dips her head to lap at Hawks’ slit again, still leaking.

“It can’t taste that good,” Hawks murmurs. 

“It’s the smell,” Dabi admits, far more honest than the situation calls for. “You’re drivin’ me crazy, birdie. You smell so fucking good.”

“That’s ‘cause I’m attracting a mate,” Hawks says sardonically. She squints at Dabi, her head lolled against the pillows. “Is it working?”

Dabi just looks at her over her mound. Without saying anything more, she buries her face in Hawks’ cunt, her eyes drifting shut. Her breath ghosts over Hawks’ folds, tongue occasionally darting out to lap up the mess. 

Hawks can’t believe it’s come to this point, but she’s too fucked out to jump right to attention. She’s worn out and aching, whole body buoyed with radio static. The animal feeling will return soon, because Hawks can never keep it at bay for long, but she just sighs and sinks into the sheets as Dabi sniffs her like a dog, rubbing her face on every part of Hawks she can reach.

She wants Dabi to put a stupid baby in her.

She doesn’t, but it really feels like she does. Dabi specifically. She wants to create Dabi’s progeny, bear it, nurture it, protect it with her life. Maybe it would have Dabi’s blue eyes, Dabi’s monochrome hair. Maybe it would have wings alight with flame.

Dabi slips three fingers inside Hawks and Hawks keens, legs spreading further. Her body wants the fullness, wants to feel like it’s bearing something, creating life.

Hawks hates stupid babies. She hates stupid spring. Dabi would laugh it up if Hawks admitted what was going through her head right now.

Or maybe, the beast murmurs somewhere in the back of Hawks’ mind, maybe she’d be into it.

It’s almost routine; Dabi twists her fingers and Hawks comes, shuddering, legs twitching through it. She bats Dabi’s hand away, pants on top of the bedcovers as she finally, finally lets herself be done. She hasn’t felt this content, this good, in so long. She can’t believe Dabi was the one to do it for her.

Shit, she owes Dabi big time for this. Hawks is the world’s most solipsistic lover, chasing her own animal need, but she has no choice. The way Dabi groans and hums when she’s capturing Hawks’ pleasure for her doesn’t exacerbate Hawks’ guilt; surely Dabi’s getting something out of it too.

Hawks excuses herself to the bathroom shortly after. Her legs are shaky, core aching. She takes her feathers with her; her wings collect at her back as she pads down the hallway, fluttering, wild. 

In the damning bathroom light, Hawks’ reflection is wrecked. She looks fucked out and fucked up and very pleased with herself; Hawks doesn’t realise she’s smiling dopily until she sees it on her own face in the mirror, at which point she forces herself back to stillness. Her neck is ringed with small, purple bites, her hair sticking up in odd spots from Dabi’s fingers in it. Her thighs are wet and sticky, and even as Hawks watches her own reflection, another dribble creeps down her right thigh.

The sight makes Hawks dizzy. She doesn’t know if she’s turned on by her own reflection or the fact that this is what Dabi’s done to her. The bird inside her preens, wants to follow the shiny trail between her legs and see where it leads. It wants more.

Hawks sighs as the heat builds again. So much for thinking she managed to curb it.

Hawks splashes water on her face and ignores everything else, because even though her hair is a wreck and her feathers are all skewed and her thighs are wet, there’s nothing she can do about it with her horniness swelling inside of her. 

She returns back to the bedroom, her feathers quivering at the outline of Dabi leading her home. 

Only by virtue of leaving and returning does the stench of sex smack Hawks in the face. It’s mostly herself she can smell, highly attuned to her own springtime scent, but beneath the heady scent is another smell, Dabi’s smell, come and sweat and smoke.

Hawks’ legs are still shaky. The smell doesn’t help.

When Hawks approaches, Dabi’s lounging on the bed, something dangling from her fingers that Hawks completely forgot existed. A lone cardboard box, unobtrusive and plain, sits opened on the sheets by her feet. 

Dabi clearly went rummaging beneath the bed. Hawks is infinitely grateful that she did.

“What’s this?” Dabi says.

Hawks flops onto the bed. She eyes the straps dangling from Dabi’s hand. She curls her hand around the silicone dildo that Dabi tossed into the sheets, vibrant red against the white bedcovers. It’s a sleek thing, with a smooth shaft and flared base. She offers Dabi a flat look, holding the toy up between them. Her cheeks are flaming, but Hawks has always been good at pretending things like this, unabashed conversations around sex, don’t bother her. “You know what it is.”

Dabi hums, faux-thoughtful. “Sure. The question is, why d’you have a strap under your bed that you forgot to mention?”

Heat prickles down Hawks’ spine. There’s no denying that the red would look incredible against Dabi’s hips, all criss-crossing sexy that Hawks isn’t allowed to advertise for, but Hawks sends a prayerful thanks to her previous self for being too embarrassed to get rid of the package when the deal fell through.

“It was a PR thing,” she explains. “This company sent me some stuff, but the HPSC didn’t want to go through with the ads in the end.”

Dabi’s eyebrows crawl up her forehead. Her smile is positively wicked. Hawks inches closer. “How naughty. What else did they send you?”

“Fuck me first,” Hawks says, finally giving into the urge and crawling onto Dabi’s lap, “and then we’ll talk.”

“You’re not tired?” Dabi asks.

“No,” Hawks replies. She slings her arms over Dabi’s shoulders. She grinds purposefully into Dabi’s lap, her cunt grazing the thick whorl of hair above Dabi’s slit, promising more. “Are you?”

“No,” Dabi bites back, all challenge. Hawks doesn’t think Dabi would admit to exhaustion even if she was on the brink. It’s not Hawks’ problem if Dabi can’t keep up; Hawks’ll just have to go back to sorting herself out.

And wouldn’t that be a shame?

“I’ll fuck you,” Dabi says, “if you keep the wings on.”

Hawks pauses. She draws back. 

“They’re not a fashion accessory,” she says, even as her mouth floods with spit, even as the animal in her shrieks and rattles the bars of its cage, at the thought that Dabi wants all of her carnal parts and then some.

“No,” Dabi agrees. She leans in close, her breath ghosting Hawks’ lips. “But they’re sexy.”

Hawks shivers. “Fine. But make it worth my time.”

Like Hawks could be anywhere else but here. Like she’d let anybody else fuck her, and it probably says something about her messed up moral compass that she’ll choose Dabi over any run-of-the-mill suitor. 

A lot of people want Hawks, and Hawks wants the one person she can’t have. Like this, though, with Dabi’s hands on her ass and Dabi mouthing at her neck with the luxury of time, she can imagine. She can imagine that Dabi wants her in a way that isn’t just curious, in a way that isn’t just reactionary.

Opposite sides. Grave mistakes. If Hawks has to die this way, so be it. 

Dabi tips Hawks off her so she can wrangle her legs through the straps, sliding red fabric into place around her hips. She tightens the buckles with an intense focus. Hawks just watches, carnal and profane, as the harness frames Dabi’s ass, criss-crosses over the patches of scar on her thighs. It’s the same red as Hawks’ wings; Hawks is sure that was on purpose, but the colour on Dabi makes everything within her clench tight, possessive.

Hawks continues to watch as Dabi hooks the base of the dildo into the ring, fussily adjusting the angle until the tapered end stands upright. It looks bigger, strapped to Dabi. Hawks’ has to bite her tongue.

Dabi sees Hawks looking. For a moment, Hawks swears she sees hesitation in Dabi’s eyes, peeking out from the tips of her dark hair. It’s gone a moment later, when Dabi shakes it off and lays back on the bed, stretching out her legs so that her foot hits Hawks’ thigh. 

“You do the work,” Dabi says. She tucks her hands behind her head, lounging beneath Hawks with her cock out. “Since you’re gagging for it.”

Hawks wants to scowl, but Dabi isn’t wrong. She wants to impale herself on Dabi’s cock as soon as possible, feel it press deep and luscious, feel Dabi’s body tense beneath her as Hawks rocks into her. 

But Hawks has a stupid idea first. She positions herself between Dabi’s legs and ducks her head; she nuzzles against the dildo, the silicon smooth and unobtrusive against her cheek. She flicks her gaze up to see what Dabi’s doing; Dabi’s staring right back, somewhat gobsmacked, but less incredulous and more curiously horny. 

So Hawks closes her mouth around the tip, just to see what it’ll feel like. 

The silicon doesn’t taste like anything. It has the faint tang of plastic, and it’s soft on Hawks’ tongue, and she feels the kind of horny-adjacent thrill that this is what sucking dick is like. Dabi lets out a low moan from further up the bed. She can’t feel it, so maybe it’s just – Hawks. Maybe it’s just the sight of Hawks on her knees in front of her, the two of them playing into a pleasure that isn’t real, right until it becomes physical.

Hawks relaxes her tongue, slides her mouth further down Dabi’s cock. Spit leaks from the corners of her lips, and when she bobs her head back up, the shaft is shiny, glinting in the light.

Hawks trails her hands up Dabi’s thighs, careful of the scar, careful not to split the seams. She palms Dabi’s skin as she bobs her head again, curious to see how far she can go. The pressure at the back of her throat presses on her, but she just flicks her gaze up, mouth full of silicon, to see Dabi gaping at her. 

Dabi looks young, when surprised. Hawks is addicted to it.

Dabi laughs suddenly, a sharp huff of breath like it’s taken her by surprise. The cock jolts in Hawks’ mouth, presses harder against her palate.

Hawks pulls off. Her face heats. Maybe this was stupid. 

“What?” she snaps.

“Nothin’,” Dabi says. She cups the side of Hawks’ face, almost tender. Her staples press against Hawks’ jaw. She grins down at Hawks. “Just that no one’s gonna believe me when I tell ‘em I got my dick sucked by our very own Number 2 Hero.”

Hawks swats her hand away. She clambers up Dabi’s body. 

“Don’t get used to it,” she says as primly as she can manage, like she wasn’t attempting to deep-throat a bit of plastic thirty seconds ago.

As Hawks positions herself above the dildo, her heart begins to pound. She remembers testing the toy once, a few years ago, when it was first delivered to her. And then the Commission got all weird about the ads – Hawks is still relieved about that, because she didn’t want to be the face of a sex toy company at nineteen – and she shoved it beneath her bed to be forgotten about. 

She remembers being vaguely unimpressed. It didn’t do much for her, the lazy pistoning in and out, but Hawks doesn’t remember being this hungry for it. As she positions herself above the head, a few errant drops of slick drop from her cunt, splattering onto Dabi’s thighs. 

“Birdie,” Dabi wheezes.

Hawks seats herself on Dabi’s cock.

She means to go slow, she really does. She grips the shaft with one hand as she eases the head from her clit to her hole, breath hitching as it prises her open. But then Dabi shifts, and Hawks twitches, and then she’s seated on all seven inches and it’s splitting her open, filling her to the brim, and Hawks breathes out the most vulnerable thing she’s ever uttered, a shaky, “Oh.”

Her eyes flutter shut at the fullness. She can feel the tip prodding the top of her cervix, and it’s not exactly comfortable but Hawks doesn’t want to lose it either. 

Her wings snap open. Every feather is poised, sharpened, stretching wall-to-wall as Hawks shifts her hips, rocking into the fullness. Dabi’s pupils blow wide, transfixed by Hawks on top of her or Hawks’ wings or the situation at hand, Hawks doesn’t know. Whatever it is, the dull flush between Dabi’s scars is wonderful, and the cocky smile is long gone, wiped off in favour of an elusive, yawning awe.

With a flap of her wings, Hawks rises again, fucking herself on Dabi’s cock. She tilts her head to the ceiling, hands braced on Dabi’s stomach, as she feels that fullness pierce her over and over, hitting exactly the spot that spring wants filled. She’s leaking and shaking and she stampedes right through one orgasm, rhythm stuttering as her come floods down her legs. Dabi moans helplessly beneath her and Hawks just pushes through it, fucks herself down harder and harder until the bedframe is shifting and each breath that leaves her chest is forceful, wheezing.

“Dabi,” Hawks sighs, because it’s the only word that hasn’t fled her as she rolls her hips onto Dabi’s cock. She’s babbling, foolish, but she just wants to talk and she wants Dabi to do something, to touch her. “C’mon.”

One of Dabi’s hands fumbles on Hawks’ thigh. It worms itself into the spot between Hawks’ legs that’s red-hot and throbbing. Her fingers keep skating off Hawks’ clit, with the way Hawks is in an incredible hurry to impale herself on Dabi’s cock over and over, but every brief touch makes Hawks sigh, a kind of remedy that Hawks has been so desperately deprived of.

“That’s it,” Dabi pants, as Hawks begins to whimper, caught between the cock buried inside her and Dabi’s fingers massaging uneven circles into her clit. “Come on. That’ll put a baby in ya.”

“You’re so— ah!” Hawks’ annoyance is blasted away as her cunt constricts around the strap, pulsing as she seats herself on it, legs trembling. Her orgasm is nearly painful, her hole overworked and desperate, eking out every last drop all over Dabi’s legs and stomach. 

“Annoying,” Hawks pants, as her orgasm tapers away. She so desperately needs a shower, but one wrong move and the night will be over. She doesn’t know what time it is, how late it is, how noisy they’re being. She just knows Dabi and her pleasure and her wet thighs and the mattress soaked to the springs. She doesn’t want anything else, can’t conceive of anything else ever again. “You’re so annoying.”

Dabi just grins up at her. She’s fondling her tits with one hand, massaging the muscle as she gazes up at Hawks. She looks good sprawled beneath Hawks, all sharp lines and tapering angles and wicked, wolfish eyes. 

“You’re hot,” Dabi replies, unaffected by Hawks’ petty insults. 

Dabi suddenly flips them over, and Hawks lands on the mattress with a yelp. Her wings spread beneath her, her feathers hanging either side of the bed, and Hawks feels like she’s syphoned all of her energy into Dabi as Dabi lines up between Hawks’ spread legs and eases her cock inside her. The angle is less cruel, but having Dabi loom over her makes Hawks flush harder. 

Hawks is exhausted and sweaty and run-down. Her cunt aches from the pounding, her abdomen wrung out with tension. But Dabi starts to fuck into her, hands tight on Hawks’ hips, and Hawks can only moan helplessly, defenceless against the movement, eyes fluttering shut as Dabi pistons into her in a deeply satisfying rhythm.

“Harder,” Hawks breathes, despite herself. She moans again, louder, as Dabi adjusts, her face coming to meet Hawks’. Hawks is too tired to kiss. She just groans into Dabi’s mouth as Dabi licks into her, as Dabi fucks her into the mattress in long strokes. Hawks doesn’t want to babble at Dabi, but she’s too exhausted to hold back, too fucked out to be embarrassed as she grunts and utters, solemn and needy, “Harder, harder.”

“You want that stupid baby?” Dabi pants into her mouth.

Hawks groans again. She imagines Dabi filling her up, the weight of her, the care of her, Dabi’s mouth and her heat and the way she gazes at Hawks like she’s always been hungry.

“Yeah,” she admits, the heat curdling within her, her cunt desperately searching for more. Breathlessly, she says, “Yeah, I want your stupid baby.”

Dabi dips her head into Hawks’ neck, hips stuttering. Hawks bites down a cry as Dabi’s teeth find their new favourite spot, the marred length of her neck that Hawks is going to have to cover. Dabi kisses and sucks and licks her way down to Hawks’ tits, rhythm faltering. Every time her hips stutter, every time the dildo slips out of Hawks’ soaked cunt, Hawks lets out a pathetic whimper, tears pricking at her eyes. Every time Hawks lets out a pathetic whimper, Dabi whispers “I know” into her skin, running her hands up Hawks’ thighs and hiking her closer.

Hawks comes like that, Dabi’s teeth closed around her left nipple and Dabi rolling her cock into her cunt. She comes long and hard and desperate, and she’s soaked again, and all she can do is lie there as Dabi pulls out and fingers herself between Hawks’ legs, moaning against Hawks’ breastbone.

Hawks thinks she falls asleep after that. She’s too fucked out, too exhausted, to keep her eyes open, but she does stir when the bed shifts and the rough drag of a towel makes itself known against her damp thighs.

“Y’don’t have to do that,” Hawks mumbles, slitting her eyes open to watch Dabi fruitlessly cleaning her up. It’s not going to last, and the mattress is a wreck anyway, but Dabi just shrugs. The dildo is gone, and Hawks watches Dabi unbuckle the harness, clambering out of it and throwing it somewhere into the mess they’ve made.

Dabi flops down beside her, her hair tickling Hawks’ bare shoulder. Hawks almost feels cold, exposed to the room, but Dabi slings a heavy arm over Hawks’ stomach and she’s so warm that Hawks can only groan weakly, turning into the heat.

She doesn’t ask Dabi to leave. Dabi doesn’t make any moves to scarper. Hawks doesn’t even manage to turn the lamp off before she’s drifting again, seeking Dabi’s peculiar warmth in the bed beside her.

“Is this weird?” Hawks mumbles into Dabi’s shoulder, the light distorted through her eyelashes.

“Yeah,” Dabi mumbles back. Her hand drifts to Hawks’ hip, fingers tracing small shapes in Hawks’ bare skin. “But ‘s fine.”

“‘Kay,” Hawks replies. She yawns. A lone feather, drifting, finds the light switch, and then it’s just darkness and Dabi. “Don’t kill me in my sleep.”

“I won’t,” Dabi whispers. Hawks folds herself further against Dabi, tucking herself beneath Dabi’s chin, mindful of the staples. “We gotta do that again first.”

Hawks laughs, soft and rough. For the first time in all of her springs, with Dabi taking her on and wrenching an atrocious amount of come from her, Hawks falls asleep and she’s dry.