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plush-rabbit · 2 years

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Rot

Request: happy birthday!!! I know its weird but as a bday request I would love to have you write the most self indulgent fic for yourself if you feel like it because your fics are always a gift for us and since I cant because I cant write for shit maybe you should write something for yourself? idk its an idea more than a request tbh, but happy bday anyway!!

Word Count: 3.7K

A/N: it was my birthday and this took a while to pump out but here it is!! my thing!! because if i cant enjoy my cake, i’ll write about something!! -

He stares into your eyes, his eyes finally adjusting to the dimness of your room. The fan spins above creating a chill wind that has you clutching the blanket in your fists. His body is splayed beside you, arms and legs tense, and eyes focused on the ceiling where the paint has begun to chip. His head turns towards you before his eyes do, and you give him an odd look- expectant and eager. There’s a flex in your jaw, and he hears the little click that it makes. The question hangs in the air.

Your eyes are wide, almost unblinking and owl-like as you try to search his own face for any expressions. The tip of your tongue peeks out, wetting your upper lip and it returns back, hidden inside of your mouth, laying after your teeth. You swallow, and a lump shifts in your throat. You want an answer. Would you be able to tell if he’s lying? Would you even care? Would it just be another thing that you would take- that you would accept because it was just easier that way; because if you questioned it, pried too deep, you might end up hating him. He’s sure he could lie to you and you wouldn’t think twice about it. There’d be a spark in your eyes- content for getting something out of him and a smile would stretch your lips. You’d nod and kiss the corner of his lips, and it'd be your way of saying thank you to him. You’d thank him for being honest and he wouldn’t feel guilty about lying to you and stealing that little bit of trust that you gave to him for no particular reason.

There’s a siren outside, and it’s you who becomes stiff, whose eyes dart to the window. There’s no real reason why you'd be scared of law enforcement- you haven’t done anything to warrant such fear. The only crime you ever committed was when you accidently hit the corner bumper of a car with your own. It’s like you’re still waiting for the police to come and arrest you, as if you don’t have a murder in your bed who just moments ago had you under him.

You really are odd.

It’s not as if you don’t know him. Maybe those first few dates where he showed up to your place with nothing more than the coat on his back. His skin would smell of baby wipes and cologne that you confessed had made your throat burn. Even so, he’s made no attempt to hide who he is. Up until just a few months ago, his crimes weren’t something that the public talked about. Sure, there were deaths that were made public, innocent people who smiled at the camera and had a sort of respectable look towards them, but then there were others who went unnoticed. Scoundrels who had a nasty sneer, who didn’t hesitate to say such cruel words, and who had bloody knuckles. People who didn’t get an obituary and were instead, just labeled as missing because it was easier to say that- to look for them and just reason that they ran off.

But you hadn’t seemed to care. You brought him like a stray cat- let the smell of the cologne that burned your throat and made your eyes water linger in your bedsheets and hands that were never quite soft touch at every intimate part of you- the nape of your neck, the pittering of your heart just above your left breast, the swell of your tummy that was full of food.

Something warm touches just above where his purpled scars begin to creep upwards- right at the middle of the skin that still belongs to someone who has long been forgotten. He gives a start and his eyes finally focus where yours are crinkled with worry. “Dabi? You still with me?” You ask in a small voice, cooing to him like an injured animal. You’re still using his name even if you believe that it isn’t his. In the corner of his eye, he sees your hand lift slowly, and it falls between his chest and yours.

You’re still waiting for an answer. “What’s the sudden interest?”

You blink once. Twice. And once more, and your eyes casted downwards. The sheet rolls off your body as you turn to lay on your back. His throat is dry. He’s made you upset. You won’t tell him, but you’re an open book no matter how mysterious you want to appear. It just isn’t in your nature to hide your feelings.

“I just thought it would be nice to know something more about you.” Your tone is wistful, and your eyes are sad. He wishes he knew what you were thinking. Even if he can read every emotion, he could never read your mind. He can never know if you keep him around because you pity him, or if there’s actually something there, something so perverse and rotten, that it’ll disgust him if he ever knew the truth. “It’s okay.” It isn’t- you're still not facing him. “Names are sacred and whatever.” You’re trying so hard to sound poetic and nonchalant that it’s making acid burn the inner soft part of his throat. Your hand scratches at the side of your temple and you don’t look at him.

All you did was ask if his name is Dabi. That’s it. Nothing more and nothing less. It’s just a simple yes or no answer, and while he knows that you would have wanted to hear him talk more, you would have accepted any of his answers no matter how simple.

You don’t care for any of who he was or who he will be.

“Does it matter if I have any name? I call myself Dabi. Isn’t that enough for you?” It comes out rougher than it should be and his molars grind into each other.

It’s getting harder and harder to look at you, to ignore that pitiful, melancholic look that you give him, the one where he can’t escape his reflection. “I guess so,” you answer, turning your back towards him. Your left arm curls under your head, acting as a cushion despite the pillows being just a few inches away from the top of your head. Your right arm extends outwards, hand limp and fingers reaching down for the ground.

No. No. No, no.

You’re not supposed to look away from him. You’re supposed to be looking up at him- focused and smiling, holding his hand until you fall asleep and you eventually cling to him during the night. There’s always something there, irradiant and gleaming like a pearl that’s been covered in grime and muck. You’re supposed to look at him when you fall asleep, pity replaced with something that he’ll never have or be able to mimic.

Look at him. Look at him. Look at him.

What do you want from him? His name doesn’t matter. Not in the way that you think it does.

The fan spins on and the light creates soft shadows. You must be eager to avoid him if you don’t want to waste another second awake. His tongue wets his chapped lips, the taste of copper faint. “Should I leave?” He croaks out in shame.

You twist in the bed- your legs still facing the wall, your torso twisted, and head turned to him. “What?”

He scratches the thin bed sheet with his nails. “Do you want me to leave?”

You untwist yourself, lifting yourself until you’re looking down at him, and under your gaze, he feels like he’s being pulled apart, as if you’re seeing something that even he can’t. Your head is cocked to one side, and like before, your eyes are wide, staring down at him, trying to look- to see him. He wonders if he’s as emotionless as he makes himself out to be. Your lips purse together. He isn’t like others- he can’t just ask for affection, can’t even put it into words. Neither can you, but at least you try to do something other than sexual, at least you kiss him before anything else. You feed him and hold his hand and all he can do is wrinkle your shirt and sully your body with the dirt under his nails.

“Of course not,” you say quickly, horrified that he would even suggest something like that. “It’s cold out. I’m not letting you go out in the cold.”

His gaze focuses elsewhere; like a child that’s been caught doing something naughty and can’t handle the shame and embarrassment. “I can bum somewhere for the night.” The words taste bitter on his tongue and shame burns in his face and simmers in the tips of his ears.

“Dabi?” His name has never sounded so sweet.

The blanket has fallen from your chest and lays crumpled on your lap. He is still covered, the shirt that you have bought for him loose on his body, and the rest of his patched skin hidden under the covers. He doesn’t answer you, doesn’t give you a look and a part of him hopes that you’ll tell him to leave and a deeper, starved and child-like part of him wants you to hold him and kiss the top of his head. Under the covers, his nails press into the heel of his hand. The sharp pain is enough to make his head stop spinning.

There’s a shuffle beside him, the bed giving off a low creak as you rest once more, this time turning your attention toward him. In his peripheral vision, he can see your hand lift and reach out slowly, and his jaw tightens, but you don’t seem to notice.

Instead, you rest your hand soft on the side of his face. The pads of your fingertips rest just below the half-moons under his eyes, and your palm is nothing more than a phantom that makes his skin prick. You don’t have to give him a gentle nudge to have him face you, he does it all on his own. Eyes half-lidded, wanting to close, to not have to look at you, to not have to see you and see his own reflection, but you call his name in that soft tone, and he stays looking at you despite how much that lingering sense of emptiness is starting to grow and consume him, to stain his being with grime and muck.

“Do you want to leave?” A part of him will always wish that he had never met you- that you got to live your life with someone that wasn’t so rotten and cruel. He’s many things- and soft will never be one of them, he could never be enough for you and even as he lies in your bed, cradling your hand with his, and shaking his head, he feels ugly at having kissed you. You smile, and your body digs deeper into the bed, the blanket covering just below your chest. “Then you’ll stay here, and in the morning I’ll make some breakfast for us.”

He doesn’t want to leave. Not when it’s cold outside. Not when you’re beside him, keeping his old shirts cleaned because you want to. Because you want him to have something nice.

Outside, he can hear a car’s tires squeal and the sound makes your mouth pull into a thin line. It’s better if you don’t see him. Not now. Not when he hasn’t even said ‘thank you’ for letting him stay the night. He reaches over you, your hand falls to your chest and your touch is burned into him. The light is snuffed out, with beads of amber peeking from between the blinds.

The covers and the mattress don’t feel right under him. The fabric is crumpled, wrinkled and overlapping, the stitched lines of the diamonds are coming undone, tickling him and making his skin feel as if ants are walking on him. In the dark, your figure becomes a dark mass to his eyes, and in turn, he must look like that towards you. He doesn't want to be perceived by you at the moment. Even so, it doesn’t take long for his eyes to begin to adjust. His body betrays him, using whatever little light that peeks through the blinds to make out your shape. He can start to see you, little bits that start to piece together- the bridge of your nose, the way your eyes are still open, and the way the blanket shifts as you do, starting to move closer to him.

Sleeping almost feels wrong. The world has beat on him, torn him apart and left him with a never fading scar, and the act of sleeping has been tarnished. He’s been denied so much of his life- had years stolen from him and now he pays the price for it. He’s unable to properly show and control his emotions, often feeling like they're bigger than him- feeling as if they’d burst out of him, swelling him up like a balloon until he’s being torn at the seams of his skin. Holding your hands under the covers feels like it’s too much- like he’s violating something of yours despite already having done so much more with you. This simple act of him reaching forward makes his stomach twist until he feels as if he’s going to vomit and look ugly.

His hands must feel like sandpaper against yours.

Yet, you still hold his hand, squeezing it back and inching closer to him. You still touch him; you still allow him to touch you. You know what’s done. You know who he is. What do you gain from him? Even if he had wanted to make this work, he couldn’t. He has blood on his hands that will never become clean. He has blood that seeps out of him like poison, and he’s going to live with it- and he won’t regret it. He won’t cry and wish to be forgiven, because it can never be forgiven. His actions can never be washed away no matter how many times you wash his back and kiss his crown. You slept with him, not expecting that he would stay the night, not expecting that he would come back like a stray that’s been starved and fed once.

Even tonight, you kissed him and called him pretty knowing that there was a monster feasting on your skin and blood. But even you have blood on your hands. You bite into him to muffle your moans, to keep your whimpers and sounds for him, canines into the soft spot between his neck and shoulder, his pulse quickening as you made such perverse sounds for him. You cling so tightly to him- dug your nails into the scars on his back, not caring for a moment if you were hurting him, forgetting that he was stapled together just above you. And he kissed you- sloppy and teeth bumping into each other to let you know that he was fine, because as much as it stung- as painful as it was, it felt so good to know that you didn’t want to let go of him.

He felt every part of you. Touched and memorized the grooves of your skin, every freckle, ever thin, paled scar, every bit of you that giggled when he let his finger ghost over your sides. Your skin has been nipped at with his teeth- sharp enough for you to whine and curse, to hold the swelling wound. He touches and feels you with such a primal need to mark you, to let his canines drag against the soft squish of your skin.

“What are you thinking about?” You ask, bringing his hand up to examine it under the darkness.

“Breakfast,” he lies.

“What are you in the mood for?”

Your fingertip traces over the rising scar, and he tries to ignore the way that it makes him feel, but even so, he intakes a sharp breath of air. His jaw closes, molars pit against each other in order to keep anything else in. You don’t stop your tracing.

“Whatever you have. I’m not picky.” You’ve started to trace over the lines in his palm and his fingers rise and fall.

“Are you going to stay for the day?” You’re too enamored with his hand to focus on looking at him.

“Yes.” He says too quickly for his liking. “Is that okay?” That question comes out sounding far too wretched for his liking.

“Yeah.” Your thumb runs down his. “There’s this movie I want to see. I think it’ll be fun to watch it with you.” He hums. “It’s about cannibals.” He breathes a short laugh. “It’s like a romantic comedy if that helps.”

“It really doesn’t, but I’ll watch it.”

He’d subject himself to whatever it is that you wanted. You wouldn’t have to pry his eyes open or force him; he’d do it all willingly if it meant that you’d sit beside him. He’d go through a hundred terrible movies- he stops himself. He’s been starting to grin- he doesn’t even know when that had started. He’d torture himself through movies and for what? He’s gone through far worse; the act of thinking that movies were some form of torture is repulsive.

“Your team won’t miss you?”

“Nah. I'm doing a bit of my own thing for a bit.”

He wonders if you would miss him if he never came back. You shouldn’t, but he hopes that you will. He hopes that it would be ugly- that you’d sob and have your heartbroken over him. That’s his only wish for all of this- that you’d miss Dabi enough to wretch and become a mess and a shadow of yourself.

“You’re gonna be okay?” The way you ask that question makes his stomach twist and shame burn the back of his neck.

“Always am,” he says without skipping a beat.

Silence befalls the both of you. You move closer to him, still holding his hand in yours. No other word is uttered, nothing breaks the silence except for the electrical humming in your home. That’s the end of the conversation and he accepts it the way that you accept that he won’t ever do more than stay for a day or two.

Is it cruel of him to want you to miss him? It has to be. There’s some twistedness inside of him, one that he was born with, and grew with and he let the rot fester in him. He’ll never be a saint, he’ll never be a holy, and neither will you- you’ll be sullied by him and even if he knows that you deserve more than what he could give to you, he’s still going to latch on like a parasite, clinging to you for life. Of course, you’d never see him that way. He doesn't know why. In the back of his mind, he’s sure he’s some kind of project for you- something that you can fix and smile when you’re on deathbed.

Your name is whispered, and it feels so foreign on his tongue, heavy and sugar coated that it makes his bones ache. There’s no answer.

It’s presumptuous of him to think that. You don’t try to fix him. The most that you do is wash his back and buy him new clothes that he would never wear outside of your home. There’s a familiar ache in the middle of his throat- swelling and constricting his air. His eyes burn and he’s worried that he’s going to ruin your pillow cases. You’ve let him use your soft towels, he can’t dirty something else for yours with his blood.

You've given him new clothes. Cleaned his old ones, but no matter how hard you tried the dirt and blood of it would never disappear. The blood will always stay there- a soft pink patch that would only get redder by the day. The dirt spreading, darker and thicker with every day. He never used the new ones outside of your home. Never dared to dirty them. Not something of yours- because no matter what, no matter how often you tried to give them to him, they were still yours. Something that you had risked to share with him.

He's bled a few times in your home. Stained your sheets and the first time you looked inconvenienced, a bit disgusted that someone was just bleeding on your items but then he made a pained, pitiful sound, a forced one, anything to get you to look at him with something other than disgust. He wanted you to look at him the way you would look at any other. And it worked, because you held him and bandaged his wounds, held his hands and touched the calloused tips of his fingers.

Should he kiss you goodnight? Does it matter? You’re asleep, you wouldn’t even know if he’s kissed you or not. Kissing isn’t something that’s taboo for either of you, but doing it now- when whatever talk you just had is still lingerie in the air? Is that right for him to do? He wants to kiss you, there’s no doubt about it. Dabi has long grown attached to you and ‘attached’ is the wrong word, it’s something needier, something possessive.

No matter the answer, you’re asleep and it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because he’s going to leave and he won’t return and he hopes that you’ll cry.

The pink of his tongue swipes to wet his lips, and he takes in a chill breath of air that breathes out warmly. With a trembling motion, he leans to peck the corner of your mouth. With no one to witness him, he lets himself linger, letting his hands entangle themselves in your hair, and legs interlacing with yours. He pulls away, only to let his chin rest on the top of your head. Your weight is on his hand, and he closes his eyes.

In the morning, he’ll wake up with you in the kitchen. It’ll be a moment where he forgets just where he is, where his mind hasn’t caught up to him, where he’s caught in a fog and he’ll think that this is his norm- that he’s deserving of having homemade breakfast after all that he is. And while he’s eating and drinking coffee, he’ll wish that you had let him rot on the street.

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devilscastle69 · 1 year

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bnh///a - Severe Thunderstorm Warning

hotw//ings

crosspost from my ao3, 18+ only & pls keep on the kink blogs

chapter 1/?

word count: 4,401

Something is wrong with Hawks. It’s not just the face mask and tacky merch beanie he’s wearing under his headphones, but also the unnaturally stiff stance Hawks has taken on that immediately catches Dabi’s eye,

Hawks hands over the promised files without any preamble and Dabi smirks. “Took you long enough.” He smirks as he lazily thumbs through the manilla envelope. This time the birdie had come through and had actually given him a bit more information than he’d asked him to get. As much of a ruse as this may be, at least the information is generally reliable, though he’ll have to see if all of this actually holds up. “Guess you’re not as fast as they say,” he adds with a click of the tongue.

Hawks narrows his eyes and Dabi waits for the comeback. He keeps waiting as Hawks’ brows tent like he’s confused about something. Then he abruptly jerks his head down into the inside of his jacket. His wings puff up slightly, and he lets out a shaky breath before returning his attention to Dabi. “It’s only been two days.”

Dabi stares at him and Hawks stares back, though his gaze isn’t as focused as usual. Usually Dabi can feel the bird’s eyes pierce through him whenever he’s provoked. It’s more of an insult to not have the usual hint of disgust and aggravation on the hero’s face directed at him. “What’s wrong with you?” He taps his foot impatiently, his beaten up boot rapping the pavement.

Hawks glares and ducks into the inside of his collar again, this time a pathetic noise follows the gesture and Dabi has to wonder if it was a cough or sneeze or some kind of bird noise. Maybe all of the above. “What? Nothing,” he says with an incriminating sounding sniffle.

Dabi raises an eyebrow and shoots him an especially unamused look, though admittedly seeing the aggravation on Hawks’ face has absolutely brought him amusement.

“Might be coming down with something,” Hawks adds with a shrug. His consonants are notably rounded and dulled with congestion. “Might just be the weather, though. Pretty rainy today, huh? Guess it doesn’dt uh, matter to you since you’re basically water…uh- hh …resistant…” Hawks’ eyes flutter shut again and his breath wavers vocally. “H-hehh… kchht! kndtXX!” He ducks again into the fleece of his jacket and his feathers puff up again.

Both of Dabi’s eyebrows fly up to his hairline. So he had been sneezing. It’s almost impressive how unflinchingly silently he’d been doing it before.

“Bless,” he says with an emphatic tone just to be a dick. Hawks sneezes again and something falls to the ground. Dabi grabs it before Hawks can and inspects the object. “Oh. Might be sick, but you’re wearing one of these?” Dabi mocks, holding up the incriminating cold pack with his thumb and forefinger. He throws it at Hawks and the hero fails to catch it. “Running around with a fever?”

“‘M finde.” Hawks has a feather retrieve the item and he shoves it into his pocket. “Are you worried about me? Don’t tell me your heart grew three sizes overnight?”

“Nice,” Dabi mutters. “More that I have no use for a bedridden or dead recruit.”

Hawks sneezes again and Dabi has to stop himself from cringing at how disgusting the inside of his mask must be by now. Not like it’s his problem. Though apparently Hawks is making it his the longer he sticks around.

“Hawks. Go home.”

“Am I gonnda get a call from you this week?” he asks cheekily.

Dabi scoffs. “Will you even be alive by the end of the week?” Dabi can’t see Hawks’ mouth, but he’s sure he’s pouting.

“Aw,” Hawks hums, sniffling wetly before continuing, “You know I’m not gonna leave you high and dry, hot stuff.” Hawks punctuates the sentence with a soft, nasally hum and a suggestive wink. That one night stand was even less than that—it was a one time exchange of handjobs (unlubricated and awkward ones at that) in an alley. The fucking bastard. How Hawks can attempt to hit on him when he looks like he could keel over at any moment is beyond him.

“Whatever, birdie. Go back to your nest.”

Surprisingly, Hawks actually does. He makes a tacky comment before leaving, but usually the chicken tries to push his luck with Dabi’s generosity. Or, well, the lack thereof.

***

It’s overcast and disgusting the next day and Hawks does not answer Dabi’s call. So much for not leaving him high and dry. It doesn’t take a genius to deduce that it's probably because he’s sick. Still, Dabi doesn’t like being ignored and receiving such treatment from the main guy who usually gives him the immediate gratification of attention has him unable to sit still. Nothing gives him a rush like having the Number Two Hero at his beck and call. At least nothing else has yet: this is more like an appetizer to pick at before his main meal. There’s the ongoing debate raging in his head on whether Hawks is fucking with him right now or if he’s genuinely asleep or incapacitated. It’s been a few hours and the day has been tedious and slow.

Dabi is in the middle of creating a rut in his so-called bedroom and growling and grumbling to himself when his phone rings. Oh. Okay. He lets it ring another five times before picking up the call.

It’s spam.

That or someone truly wants to discuss Dabi’s nonexistent car’s extended warranty.

Dabi hangs up immediately. Overcoat angrily shoved on, he slinks out of the hideout and into the weather. It sucks. It’s more rain than yesterday’s drizzle, but as Hawks had pointed out, Dabi can dry off without much effort anyway.

He’d figured out Hawks’ actual address a long time ago and has decided now is a good opportunity to confirm it for himself. Worst case scenario, he’s wrong and has to burn a building. Maybe he’ll do that anyway depending on how the day goes. He’s broken into so many buildings that scaling the fire escape is mundane and easy.

All he needs is the paperclip from his inner pocket to go to work on the patio door. As picks the lock, he’s expecting to glance up to Hawks standing over him, his shoulders looking especially broadened by his large wingspan, eyes fixed on Dabi, talons out and teeth bared and all ready to sink into him. His heart pounds and pounds with exhilaration and soon enough the lock clicks from the joined effort of his and the paper clip. He rubs the back of his neck, fingers brushing against the skin Hawks had pierced during the makeout session that had led to their hookup. The pondering of what else the hero’s tongue can do doesn’t distract Dabi enough to keep the annoyance at bay when he sees Hawks typing away at his laptop on the couch.

“What the fuck?” Dabi mutters.

Hawks has the decency to startle, his wings retracting and rapidly alternating between sharpening and puffing for a few seconds. Admittedly, invoking fear in Hawks is enough to make the trip worth its effort. “Dabi? What…” he trails off, voice cracking. He clears his throat and coughs harshly into the inside of the hood of a hoodie with the tackiest design Dabi has ever seen. He’s never seen such a garish pattern in the ugliest shade of yellow under the sun. The word chartreuse comes to his mind, and he’s not even sure where that word came from. Whatever color it is, it’s bringing out the redness across his face and especially around his nose. “ hghkkSCHhu! EhhGXXtsh!” Hawks sneezes. Dabi wonders with great disgust if he’d even be able to tell if Hawks had gotten snot on his hoodie, and if it would even make it look any uglier. “Scuse mbe,” Hawks breathes, managing to sound self conscious.

Dabi watches as Hawks takes a paper towel and wipes his nose with it. A paper towel. A fucking paper towel. This is Japan’s Number Two Hero. Dabi unfortunately knows secondhand how much someone of that standing makes, and Hawks is sitting here in a barely-furnished room, wiping his nose with fucking paper towels. Hawks wipes his computer screen as an afterthought before tossing it into the wastebasket at his side that’s nearly filled with other paper towels.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Dabi asks, this time directing it towards Hawks.

“Huh? Oh, I‘mb okay. Just a… hKXxtchu!” Hawks pitches forward into the paper towel with a wrenching sneeze and scrubs at his nose. “Just a cold. Ugh, see , hahaha. Gross, sorry.” The laptop wobbles on the blanket draped over his lap and Dabi wills it to fall. It doesn’t.

Dabi can’t even pick what he’s more mad about: Hawks ignoring him, seeing Hawks trying to work, Hawks somehow not noticing he was outside, or the fact that Hawks’ nose is redder than his wings and he’s scrubbing at it with the roughest thing in sight. He chalks it all up to the common denominator: Hawks. Instead of using a towel (paper or otherwise), Dabi takes a moment to dry himself off with his quirk as he glowers over Hawks. He grabs the laptop and shoves it on the table before yanking the blanket off of Hawks and revels in the squawking noise of protest from the stupid fucking chicken. “If you’re going to dodge my call at least have the fucking decency to be asleep,” he hisses.

“What?” Hawks croaks. His eyes widen. “Shidt, sorry I thigk I left mby phonde at work.”

“You—!” Dabi has to cut himself off. Of course he went to work. Of course he got sent the fuck home. “Go the fuck to bed you stupid fucking bird.” He angrily points at the presumed direction of his bedroom.

“Oh hey, is that why you’re here, because I dunndo if—”

“Go to bed and fucking sleep!”

Hawks looks taken aback and Dabi’s face threatens to melt into the same sort of look. What the fuck is he doing? It’s time to go. Dabi’s suspicion has been confirmed, Hawks is of no use to him like this, and he really doesn’t need to catch whatever Hawks has. “Did you combe all the way here just to yell at me?” Hawks snorts, handsome crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes distracting from the dark shadows underneath. Doesn’t change the fact that he’s shivering, teeth clenched to avoid chattering.

“I don’t have to explain shit to you,” Dabi hisses, “Get your bird-flu-ridden, flat ass to bed, chicken.”

“It ain’dt flat,” Hawks protests with such great indignation that his accent slips. He sighs and glances up at the blanket Dabi had stolen and slowly wobbles to his feet. Oh shit. Is he that sick where he’s going to collapse? Hawks shivers. “‘S still pretty early," he says with a soft yawn, and Dabi has to force himself to not follow his lead. Then Hawks reaches for his laptop and Dabi swats his hand.

“I’ll fry you and feed you to your fans, I swear to god.”

“Jeez, hot stuff, alright. I wantd it for backgrou’dd noise.” Thunder booms in the distance and Hawks shivers again. It’s probably sensory hell on his wings from what Dabi knows about his quirk. “You should probably get goi’gg before it gets bad out. Ndot that I’mb kicki’gg you out, but, heh-ehh… ” Hawks pinches his nose for a few moments before releasing it and sniffling. “Doubt you really wandt to catch this.”

Dabi shrugs. He doesn’t. Hawks is right, and he should probably leave immediately; he’d gotten his answer, he’d proved his point as a dangerous villain who should not be ignored and who also knows where Hawks lives (somehow, he’d thought Hawks would be more afraid of the latter fact). But contrary to what Hawks has stated, he really shouldn’t go out in the storm and it’s not like he can call Kurogiri right now. He should’ve known from the tenderness in his joints that it’d storm, but he supposes he hadn’t been thinking straight earlier.

“‘M basically a lightning rod,” Dabi finally says and gestures to his own body. Coincidentally lightning strikes in the window near the balcony door and it absolutely feeds into Dabi’s god complex.

“Oh, uh,” Hawks trails off, sniffling again. The need to sneeze he's successfully starved off before seems to have returned with a vengeance. Something about the way his face scrunches up is almost endearing. “ hehh…ndhtXxch! h’Kndxtshh! Hhh…heh-ehh—hHRRSHhue! Guhh..sorry.” He sniffles hard and groans.

“Damn, birdie,” Dabi mutters. That’d been significantly louder than the stifles he’d heard yesterday. “You gonna live?”

“Yeah, uh,” Hawks’ face goes blank for a few moments before it goes into some sort of neutral expression. “Stay as lo’gg as you gotta, thend.” It’s said in a resigned way that tells Dabi that they’re about equally uncomfortable, and yet it’s not deterring either of them from accepting the situation.

“Are you gonna show me your room or are you gonna keep standing there like you’re not sure why you should cross the road, chicken?” Dabi drawls, picking at his nail beds.

Hawks raises an eyebrow. That hadn’t been one of Dabi’s better burns, he supposes. Still, Dabi stands there, barely regarding the man in front of him who is standing but looks like a gentle breeze could knock him down. “Sure, I guess,” he says finally. He leads the way and Dabi keeps a distance of a few inches. The bedroom is decorated similarly to the living room—it’s not. There’s a large bed, a dresser, a side table that has nothing but a bottle of ibuprofen on it, a closet, and a single painting of an apple that looks like it probably came with the room. It makes Dabi’s shitty bedroom at the current hideout look decorated. Sure it’s mostly with newsprints and wanted posters of himself all over the walls, but at least it has some personality. Even if it’s a shitty one.

“Guessing you don’t really bring people back home much, huh?” Dabi provokes.

Surprisingly, Hawks shrugs. He props the laptop on the dresser before sitting on the bed without another word. Dabi listens as the bird’s chest rattles with a horrible coughing fit. It’s a lot less fun to fuck with Hawks when he doesn’t fight back. He sighs and plops down next to him, giving his back a light pat.

“Easy, don’t bust a lung.”

“I’ll try,” Hawks says with a tired grimace. “Look, I don’t think the couch is a pullout but—“

“For fuck’s sake,” Dabi groans, putting a hand on Hawks’ chest and shoving him. “Just go to sleep. You sound like shit.”

Thunder booms in the background and Hawks flinches again. Now that Dabi’s listening, he can hear the whistles of high speed winds. At least he’s in a safe place for once to wait out the storm. It’s almost relaxing to him, the sounds of the wind and the rain, the occasional roll of thunder. There’s something about being able to observe chaos from a safe distance that makes him feel like he could fall asleep, even if it’s still fairly early in the evening. Hawks has a few feathers retrieve his headphones from a drawer, but just as soon as he plugs them into his laptop, there’s a loud beep and they’re in the dark.

Of course.

Hawks swears. His face is illuminated by the laptop screen and Dabi catches a glimpse of how sickly pale and panicked he looks before he shuts the laptop all together. Dabi stares into the dark and realizes that the bed is shaking. For once it’s not Dabi bouncing his leg, it’s Hawks.

There’s another crash of thunder that hits so hard that the room shakes and then there’s a distinct choking sound that must’ve come from Hawks. Then there’s a whimper and a cough.

“You alright, birdie?” he asks tentatively. He feels Hawks shift and grasp around for something that isn’t there. He doesn’t get a verbal answer, but he doesn’t need one. “Got any candles?” Dabi asks in an attempt to change the subject.

“Ah…maybe,” he says. His voice sounds notably more brittle than it had earlier.

“Well, do you or don’t you?” Dabi mutters before rising and pacing around the room.

Dabi goes into Hawks’ closet and starts snooping around—a difficult feat in the dark. Of all situations to get himself into. He continues mentally scolding himself as he pulls out a box.

“Usually dondate the gift baskets,” Hawks finally mumbles. Then his voice cracks in time with another crack of thunder. Hawks takes in a breath that sounds painful and for a ridiculous moment, Dabi wonders if he’d been sniped somehow.

“What...” Dabi starts. He sighs, resigning himself to the full question. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Hawks croaks, though it’s barely intelligible with how congested he is. “Sorry I sound so gross. Should be extra pillows in the closet on the shelf, though.”

Dabi raises an eyebrow. He’s not even sure if Hawks is asking for them himself or offering them to Dabi, but it doesn’t matter. “Okay,” he mutters, glancing up and igniting a finger to see better. There are some weird looking throw pillows on top of the shelf and he puts out his flame and grabs them. On the way back his boot smacks into the foot of the bed. He swears under his breath, even though it hadn’t even hurt. Thunder hits again and then there’s a whimper and before Dabi knows it, Hawks is sputtering and sobbing and coughing and shaking.

The only reason Dabi doesn’t drop his jaw is because he knows he’ll end up popping a staple. Without his permission, his hand moves to the man’s back only for him to flinch and for a flurry of feathers to smack into Dabi and knock him to the floor. Thankfully, they’re not sharpened. That would’ve been the dumbest fucking way to go out.

“What the fuck?” Dabi hisses, pulling plumes out of his hair. He’s asking himself just as much as he’s asking Hawks. A memory of him comforting his brother after he’d scraped up his knee threatens to surface and he rolls his eyes at himself.

Now Hawks is apologizing as he cries. Dabi has seen a lot of anguish in his time and he’s caused a lot of it too, but whenever he’d caused it, it had been intentional. The sparks of anger have long since been snuffed out. He knows from the extremely brief contact he’d had with Hawks, that the man is burning up with fever, and Dabi knows he’s no treat to be around when he’s sick. He’s spent a fairly significant portion of his life laid up with one illness or another, but the most distressing symptom was always the fever, forcing his quirk and emotions to run rampant and burn through so much of him with little reprieve.

“Sorrysorrysorry—it’s-it’s a bird thing,” he sputters between labored breaths. The wheeze in his chest makes Dabi’s own chest hurt. He’s no stranger to panic attacks, but seeing Hawks of all people having one was not on this year’s bingo board.

“Birdie, it’s just a storm. You’re okay.” Dabi shifts to a more comfortable position but otherwise continues sitting on the floor.

“Look it’s-it’s—just, stop,” Hawks sputters frantically, “Sorry. Just, just give me a second, okay?”

Dabi hums and glances away as if to give him privacy. It’s stupid. There’s no way Hawks can see him well anyway, but what the fuck is Dabi supposed to do? Hawks has gone silent, body shaking with sobs. The room is dark and he can only make out his basic outline. He’s broken into the guy’s house and somehow made him cry, and it’s storming outside. He almost wonders if he should risk getting struck by lightning or getting crushed by a falling tree just to get out of this awkward-as-fuck situation. Luckily, Hawks seems to catch his breath. Dabi is dizzy just from listening to what felt like an hour of Hawks hyperventilating, congestion audibly restricting each breath.

“You good?” Dabi asks quietly.

“ Hehhdt’kue! hh…KSCchh!” Hawks sneezes. He sniffles a few times in succession before it happens again, and in Dabi’s opinion it’s preferable to the sobbing. “ heh’SHHhx! Hrrhshhu! Guhh…”

“Bless you,” Dabi says after a few moments of hesitation.

“Fugk. Thangk you. Hey, uh—“

“Look,” Dabi starts with a sigh. He clears his throat and rubs his elbow which had apparently been bruised during the tumbling on the floor. “How about I get you some water and I let you get some sleep?”

There’s a pause. “Sure,” he takes a shaky breath and sniffles before continuing, “Hah, I forgot you can’t really see me noddi’gg, huh?”

“Yeah. I’ll be right back.” Dabi may be a villain, but he isn’t the kind of person who would kick a sick bird for fun. The last thing he wants is to see Hawks do whatever-the-fuck-that was again. He rubs at an awkward twinge in his chest as if he can rub it away.

Finding a water bottle among all of the coffee cans in the fridge is a struggle. The water is thankfully still cool, though. As an afterthought, he grabs the roll of paper towels too. To avoid startling Hawks again, he raps on the open door before returning to the bedroom. “Here birdie,” he says. As an afterthought he kicks off his shoes before he walks towards him. “Got some water. When was the last time you had some ibuprofen?”

“Dunndo,” Hawks admits as he takes the water. “Uh, also, sorry about—“

“Just drink it,” Dabi interrupts, pushing the bottle into Hawks’ hand. In spite of the bluntness, he keeps his tone fairly soft. The last thing he needs is for Hawks to tell him some sort of tragic backstory about someone dying or that he himself almost died in a thunderstorm or in the dark or some shit. He already knows enough about Hawks’ past to have leverage and anything more makes him too human. He listens as Hawks swallows and as the bottle of pills shakes for him to take one out.

“I’ll take these pillows to the couch. Seems like you should get some rest.”

“Wait—ah,” Hawks starts, “Seriously ‘mb sorry about knocki’gg you downd and y’kndow. Guess I’mb more out of it than I thought.”

Dabi huffs. “Fuck you, I don’t fall unless I want to.” Hawks has the gall to laugh at him and Dabi doesn’t feel any sympathy when the awful coughing starts up again.

“Oh yeah? You wanted to hug my floor?”

“Get a carpet or some shit next time,” Dabi mutters. “Maybe some art or posters or pictures or anything . It’s like you don’t even live here.”

“Pff.” Hawks sniffles. “I’ll hire you as my—ugh wait. Hh h…ihh’—! Dammb, sorry I thought I was gonna… KSHHhu! Okay, well there it is. What was I—“

“Just close your fucking eyes.”

Surprisingly, Hawks lets the commanding tone slide and shuffles around on the bed and gets under the blankets. Dabi’s just about to leave when the bird opens his beak again. “The couch ki’dda sucks, just a heads up.”

Dabi sighs and looks over in Hawks’ general direction. “Probably gonna get bird flu anyway,” he mutters to himself, moving to sit next to Hawks.

“Oh yeah?” Hawks asks.

“What, you’re shy now?”

“Who says I’m complaidi’gg?”

Dabi takes off his jacket, but leaves the rest of his clothes on to avoid any stupid commentary. Hawks is shaking next to him. “You’re obviously cold. Get under the fucking blankets.”

“You sweet ond me?”

Dabi grabs a throw pillow and smacks Hawks in the general direction of his face with it. It’s successful. Hawks sneezes again and Dabi ignores it.

“Combe keep mbe warmb,” Hawks whines.

“Fucking spoiled,” Dabi grumbles, climbing in next to him. The sheets are soft. Hawks blows his nose into another damn paper towel while lounging in sheets probably worth an average person’s monthly rent. Hawks is so bizarre and contradictory that it’s hard to look away.

Hawks shivers again as the thunder rolls. The storm at least seems to be moving away now from the increasing intervals of time between the thunder and lightning. They lie there in a long silence save for the occasional cough or sniffle from Hawks.

“Sorry if’mb keepi’g you up,” Hawks murmurs after a particularly harsh set of coughs. It’s all too intimate. Dabi’s never participated in pillow talk before.

“It’s fine,” Dabi mutters, “You don’t have cold medicine?”

Hawks stiffens next to him. “Can’dt take it.”

“What?”

“Bird thi’gg,” Hawks tells him a little too quickly. “ Hehgxxchh! Ihhgxxtsh!”

Rather than question Hawks‘ statement, Dabi just hums. It’s none of his business what Hawks does really. It’d be easier if he didn’t have to keep reminding himself that; he doesn’t have time to get wrapped up in other people’s shit, but when he looks at the digital clock, there are no numbers there so what happens next doesn’t count. Careful of the wings in their current position, he moves closer to Hawks.

“Did’dt peg you for a cuddler,” Hawks says before sniffling again. Dabi assumes it’s supposed to be a joke, but there’s a certain vulnerable quality to the statement so he doesn’t snap at him.

“You’re shaking like a damn vibrator.”

“Well,” Hawks says with a hesitant laugh, “Thangk you for shari’gg your wambth.”

“Pushing your luck, birdie.”

Hawks hums. “Hey, Dabi?”

“What?” God. What now?

“You’re on mby wing,” he says sheepishly.

Oh. “Shit, sorry.” He moves away immediately. “Uh, here. How do you wanna do this?”

It takes a few moments of moving around before Hawks is mostly on top of him, head on Dabi’s chest. He wonders if Hawks can hear how fast his heart is beating. Hawks is notably shivering less, so at this point Dabi doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that he’s stroking Hawks’ hair. He doesn’t care that he’s definitely getting sick. He doesn’t even think he’ll care when Hawks inevitably coughs or sneezes on him. It’s only when Hawks’ breathing turns to gentle snoring that he actually relaxes enough to join him.

#sneeze kink #snz #snz kink #snzfic #snz fic #sneeze fic #hottestwings #snz fet #sneeze #sneezing #bn///ha #my writing

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