Work Text:
The itch had been building for days.
It started as a faint tingle at the base of his wings, easy to ignore. But by day three, it spread like wildfire—sharp, persistent, and insatiable. Every time Hawks moved, it felt like something was caught under his skin, begging to be scratched out. It wasn’t exactly painful. But he sure as hell was in discomfort. Constant, suffocating, mind-numbing discomfort.
He hated molting season.
His apartment was a wreck. Discarded feathers littered the floor like scarlet leaves, some plucked out with a little too much aggression. His wings were a mess—patchy in places, frizzed in others, the once-pristine symmetry now dull and uneven. He couldn’t preen his wings properly; not with how much discomfort he was in. His back was sore, his shoulders ached, and his hands and fingers cramped every time he tried to reach those few impossible spots along the curve of his scapulae.
And worst of all, he'd purposefully been slacking on his double-agent duties.
He hadn’t seen Dabi in over a week.
Not because he didn’t want to. But because he didn’t want Dabi to see him like this.
Not the grumpy, disheveled, molting version of him who winced every time he moved his shoulders and snarled at his own reflection for looking more bird than man.
He’d stopped replying to texts. Avoided calls. Even canceled their last two meetups with vague excuses.
Which, in hindsight, was a catastrophic mistake.
Because now Dabi was at his door, pounding hard enough to make the hinges rattle.
“HAWKS—open the damn door!”
Hawks winced and shuffled out of bed, dragging the nearest hoodie over his head to hide the worst of his disheveled state. He opened the door just a crack, only for Dabi to shove it open with one hand and storm past him.
“You ignoring me now? Flaking out on meetings?” Dabi snapped, looking around at the mess. His eyes swept the feather-strewn floor, the rumpled blankets on the couch, the half-eaten takeout on the counter. “...What the hell happened in here?”
“Molting,” Hawks muttered quietly, barely audible, dragging a hand through his hair and grimacing when a few stray molted down feathers came with it.
Dabi turned, glaring at Hawks. “Wanna repeat that, birdbrain?”
Hawks let out a frustrated sigh. He really didn’t want to deal with this today.
“I said,” he replied through gritted teeth. “I’m molting.”
Dabi looked at him, a bit dumbfounded; a strange comparison to his usual stoic, blank demeanor or bored glare that he usually plastered on. “You’re… Molting?”
“Yeah. Congrats, genius, you cracked the case,” Hawks deadpanned.
“And instead of just telling me, you ghosted me?” His voice rose, sharp and irritated—but his eyes were already scanning Hawks more closely now. The paleness, the hunched shoulders. The way he shifted his wings, mostly hidden under the oversized hoodie, peeking out from beneath the hem and drooping like they were too heavy for him to hold up.
Hawks looked away, sounding tired. “Look—Can you just leave? I didn’t want you or anyone else to see me like this.”
Dabi frowned. “Like what? Scraggly-feathered and moody?”
“Scraggly-feathered and fucked up.” Hawks snapped, suddenly defensive and venting out his frustrations on the nearest available target; in this case, Dabi. “I can’t fucking preen right. My skin is blistering and torn open where the new feathers are coming through, I keep yanking feathers out because everything fucking itches, my wings are ugly and patchy, and I feel like—like I’m crawling out of my own skin. So yeah, I didn’t want to see you .”
Dabi was quiet for a moment, a bit stunned by the sudden angry retort.
Then he walked over to him, slow and deliberate, and swiftly tugged the hoodie off Hawks’ shoulders before he could put up a fight about it, exposing his bare chest and wings, loose down feathers fluttering up into the air with the movement.
“Hey—!”
“Shut up.” Dabi peeved, fingers ghosting lightly over the curve of a half-molted wing, Hawks instinctively flinching at the touch. “You look like shit, birdie. Do you always get like this in spring?"
Hawks blinked, furrowing his brows. “How do you—?”
“—Because I did my research on you, idiot. Last year, you disappeared for two weeks at around the same time, too.” Dabi gave him a crooked smile, eyes lacking their usual icy demeanor. “Let me help.”
“No,” Hawks firmly stated.
“Why not?”
“You don’t know how to preen. It’s not—” Hawks gave him an incredulous look and gestured vaguely at his wings. “It’s not an easy task. You can’t just tug feathers out. It’s delicate—You could hurt me.”
Dabi raised a brow, offering a small smirk. “You think I’d hurt you?”
Hawks gave Dabi another incredulous look. “Really?”
Dabi pursed his lips and paused. Then he sighed, and sat down on Hawks’ couch, patting the space in front of him. “C’mere.”
Hawks hesitated, still looking at Dabi like he'd lost his damn mind.
“Hawks,” Dabi said, voice low. “Let me help.”
Hawks looked away, muttering something under his breath and crossing his arms petulantly.
“Pardon?” Dabi asked, annoyance seeping into his voice again. “Didn’t quite catch that, birdie.”
“You can’t,” Hawks hissed, a little too quickly. His wings gave an awkward twitch behind him, coming up to half-heartedly shield his shoulders, as if he was unconsciously trying to protect himself.
Dabi narrowed his eyes, repeating his earlier question. “Why not?”
Hawks opened his mouth, then shut it again. He stared at the floor for a moment, cheeks flushing a bright red, before mumbling, “Because it’s—it’s not just you grooming my feathers.”
Dabi looked at him sideways, confused. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“It’s a… It’s just a thing, okay?” Hawks shifted on his feet, his hands fidgeting with the drawstring of his sweatpants. “Birds don’t let just anyone preen their wings. It’s not like asking someone to scratch your back—it’s more like…”
He trailed off, face flushing more.
Dabi leaned forward, clearly enjoying this and how flustered Hawks was becoming.
“More like what?”
Hawks shot him a glare, feathers bristling slightly. “Mating behavior, okay? It’s intimate. You don’t just let someone near your flight feathers unless you really trust them. Or… Want something more.”
Dabi blinked once. Then slowly, a grin spread across his face—something warm and teasing, but not mocking.
“Oh,” Dabi said. “So that’s why you’re acting like a skittish pigeon.”
“I am not—” Hawks huffed, flustered. “Look, it’s instinctual, alright? Even thinking about letting someone else mess with my wings triggers this whole spiral of, like—heat, and vulnerability, and—it’s just a thing, okay?”
Dabi let that sink in, his expression softening a bit.
“I see,” he said, quieter now. “And you’re uncomfortable because if you let me do it, it means something.”
Hawks nodded, still red in the face. “…Yeah.”
There was a beat of silence.
Dabi raised an eyebrow, tilting his head with that lazy smirk of his. “Is it really all that weird, though? Considering we regularly have sex?”
Hawks sputtered. “That is completely different!”
Dabi’s grin widened. “Is it?”
“Yes!” Hawks stood his ground—though the redness in his cheeks creeping down his neck betrayed him, repeating some of his earlier statements. “The sex is… physical. Casual. Preening is—it’s instinctive. It’s about trust and—comfort, and—affection. It’s…” He rubbed at the back of his neck, letting out a frustrated sigh. “It’s not just as simple as letting you touch my wings.”
Dabi leaned back against the couch cushions, arms draped along the top as he regarded him with amused curiosity. “So you’re saying that letting me touch your wings is somehow more intimate than letting me fuck you into a mattress?”
Hawks groaned. “Christ, don’t say it like that.”
“Why not?” Dabi drawled. “I think it’s kind of sweet.”
“You would.”
Hawks folded his wings tighter around himself in a failed attempt at further shielding both his body and his pride. “I’ve spent years training myself not to let anyone near them. The Commission, the media—even other heroes. My wings are…” He hesitated. “They’re the only part of me that still feels mine. Letting someone touch them, really touch them—preen them—that’s not just a favour, Dabi. That’s permission to see me vulnerable.”
Dabi was quiet for a beat, and when he spoke again, his tone had lost all teasing.
“So, let me.”
Hawks looked up, startled.
“I’m not asking to mess around with you, Hawks. I’m asking to take care of you—the way you won’t let anyone else.” Dabi sat forward, elbows resting on his knees. “You’re clearly in some sort of pain. You’re trying to pluck half your damn feathers out just to stop the itch. Let me help before you tear your wings to shreds out of stubborn pride.”
Hawks stared at him, throat tight. “…You’re really not gonna let this go, huh?”
Dabi gave him a small, but genuine smile. “Not when you’re hurting like this.”
There was a long silence. Hawks shifted his weight, glanced down at the discarded feathers on the floor, letting the implication of Dabi's offer sink in. Then, finally—finally—exhaled a deep sigh and moved toward the couch.
“Fine,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “But don’t make it weird, okay?”
“No promises.”
“And if you mess up a single feather—”
“—I’ll buy you dinner and apologize to your wings personally,” Dabi said dryly, patting the cushion in front of him, rolling his eyes. “Now sit, you ridiculous, molting mess.”
Still blushing furiously, Hawks sat between Dabi’s legs and let his wings slowly unfurl.
The first touch was gentle. Careful. Dabi’s fingers combed through the downy sections with surprising precision, thumbs working through tangled barbs, loosening stuck sheaths, and smoothing the quills with slow, deliberate strokes. Hawks shivered despite himself, biting the inside of his cheek.
Hawks clenched his jaw.
He would not make a sound.
He focused on the floor. On breathing. On anything other than the heat climbing up his neck and the low, prickling sensation of relief that spread like warm static under his skin.
But then Dabi’s fingers found the spot just between his scapulae, right where his flight muscles knotted from stress—and Hawks made a noise.
A small one. Barely audible, but it was there.
“You good?” Dabi asked, slowing his movements, voice low.
“Fine,” Hawks choked out. “Keep going. Just—ignore me.”
Dabi’s smirk was practically audible. “Wasn’t planning to ignore anything, actually.”
Hawks curled his hands into fists in his lap, feathers twitching with each slow pass of Dabi’s fingers. The ache in his wings dulled little by little, replaced with warmth, satisfaction, and contentment. The kind that burrowed deep into his bones and made him want to sink back into Dabi's chest and fall asleep with the other's arms wrapped around him.
Dabi continued to move his hands, scraping his nails lightly down one of the longer primaries, and Hawks couldn’t stop the sound that escaped him—half sigh, half broken hum.
He instantly stiffened.
Dabi froze.
Then, Dabi slowly leaned closer, chin brushing Hawks’ shoulder. Hawks could practically hear the smirk in the other's voice. “Was that a moan?”
“It was not a moan!” Hawks practically shouted.
“Sounded like a moan,” Dabi mumbled, leaning back.
“I’m molting!” Hawks said, exasperated. “Everything feels abnormal, okay?! That was just—just—relief.”
“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?” Dabi replied, amused.
Hawks groaned and covered his face with both hands. “I hate you.”
Dabi snorted. “No, you don’t.”
“I'm never gonna live this down,” Hawks said through his hands.
“Absolutely not.”
Despite his flushed cheeks and mortified grumbling, Hawks didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned in closer, pressing back into Dabi’s touch like it hurt not to. His wings fluttered softly, no longer trembling with irritation, but instead pliant—open in a way they almost never were.
Dabi resumed with a little more smugness than necessary, but Hawks couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when every careful stroke undid another knot in his muscles. And not when Dabi’s hands knew, somehow, exactly where to touch without overstepping.
Still, he muttered through his fingers, voice muffled and humiliated: “This is biological betrayal.”
Dabi snickered. “You’re just mad that you enjoy having your wings stroked.”
“Shut UP!"
Dabi let out another snicker, but kept any further comments to himself, busying himself once again.
Hawks took a deep breath.
It was fine.
It was totally fine.
Hawks could handle this.
Sure, his wings were hypersensitive, and sure, Dabi’s hands were calloused in just the right way to graze across the nerve endings that extended into his flight feathers. And maybe the slow, rhythmic motion was doing something dangerous to his breathing. But he wasn’t going to say anything. Not after that embarrassing definitely-not-a-moan that he had let out.
However, as Dabi continued, he could feel the way his body was betraying him, and the next pass of Dabi’s fingers made him release a breathy gasp.
His hips shifted forward on reflex, a sharp jolt of sensation tugging low in his gut. He froze immediately afterward, mortified.
Dabi paused, fingers stilling mid-stroke.
“…Hawks?”
Hawks didn’t answer.
Mostly because his entire soul felt like it had just left his body.
Dabi’s tone dipped into amusement again. “Is there something you wanna tell me?”
“I—I think it’s a nervous system thing,” Hawks stammered, making up any excuse he could think of, keeping his eyes trained forward, absolutely not making eye contact. “Feathers connect to pressure points and—uh—there’s overlap with other—nerves, sometimes.”
He was lying.
He knew exactly what this was.
Instinct. Intimacy. A vulnerable body reacting to attention in the way it had been evolutionarily designed to. Molting made everything worse—his temperature, his awareness, his sensitivity. He should have known better. He did know better. And yet, he still chose to let chaos incarnate himself get closer to him than he’d ever let anyone before.
Dabi’s hands continued to keep moving, slower now. More deliberate. As if the bastard was trying to rile him up further.
And Hawks bit down on a quiet whimper when a knuckle skimmed just beneath his covert feathers, right over a spot that made his toes curl.
Dabi leaned in, voice close enough to feel his breath ghost across the shell of his ear.
“You’re blushing again,” Dabi whispered.
“I’m not.”
“You’re fidgeting.”
“I’m always fidgeting,” Hawks retorted.
Dabi’s lips brushed the shell of his ear. “You’re hard.”
Hawks groaned and buried his face in his hands again. “Piss off.”
“Thought you said not to make it weird,” Dabi said, grinning.
“This is weird!”
Dabi only hummed, clearly far too entertained. “You could’ve just told me you had a wing kink.”
“It’s not a kink, it’s biology!”
“Uh-huh,” Dabi said, clearly amused. “I’m sure that’s what everyone with a wing kink says.”
Hawks breathed out a frustrated groan. “God, you are so annoying.”
“And yet you’re still sitting in my lap with your wings spread and a hard-on.”
“Dabi!”
He brushed a thumb down the arch of Hawks’ wing again, softer this time. More reverent than teasing.
“As much as I enjoy teasing you, you know I’m not gonna ridicule you for this, right?”
Hawks hesitated, heartbeat thundering in his ears.
“…I told you that I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he said quietly. “Out of control, needy. Like—like some overgrown, libidinous pigeon in heat.”
Dabi rotated Hawks enough so that he could cup his chin, turning his face gently.
“Hawks. I’ve seen you cocky. I’ve seen you reckless. I’ve seen the way you turn nearly predatory when taking down villains, and I’ve seen the way that fake-as-fuck PR smile of yours falters when you think no one is watching.”
He leaned in, breath warm against Hawks’ cheek. “You think I’d be scared off by needy?”
Hawks blinked, throat tight. Then, he whispered, “I don't want you to think that I'm asking for sex.”
“I know. And I don't.”
Dabi kissed him—soft, grounding, the kind of kiss that made the tension in his chest ease, like exhaling after holding his breath for too long.
He settled back into Dabi’s lap, letting the heat simmer between them, trying to let the hands on his wings soothe rather than tempt, at least for now. The arousal didn’t vanish—but it folded into something warmer. Something steadier.
Desire threaded with trust.
And for once, Hawks let himself sink into those feelings.