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Hawks was alone in the LOV base. This was the perfect time to gather intel, a golden opportunity, or, well, it would have been.
He moaned, shuddered, let his wings fall limp by his sides. The feathers hung like curtains, blocking out the rest of the world, but they couldn’t hide him from this.
The fucking machine kept moving, steadily thrusting at a maddening pace, too slow to come from, too fast to adjust to. He couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t focus, couldn’t think.
He should have been doing his job. It wasn’t like he was tied up. He could get out of this, or at least send his feathers off to scout, there were so many things he should have been doing right now.
Shigaraki had told him to stay.
Dabi had called him a good little bird, run fingers through his feathers until he was cooing beneath his touch, held him still while the dildo was pushed into place and the motor started up.
Shigaraki hadn’t even threatened him, he had never said there would be a punishment for disobedience, he had simply issued the command.
Hawks was a good little bird.
It was the last thing he should be.
It wasn’t easy to be good for the commission, they had drilled obedience into his soul, but there had never truly been the opportunity to satisfy.
The better he did the more they would want, the easier it became to disappoint, and then there was the morality of it all. It was hard to see the greater good he was serving, hard to see anything past the blood on his hands, the bodies on the floor.
These villains, their evil felt abstract beyond the nastiness of the initiation, and when they had started doing this… they made it so dangerously easy to please.
It was a terrible weight to lose.
If a bird flew high enough they would eventually die. There was reason for the clipping of his wings.
His chest heaved, head dropped between his shoulders, hanging limp as his wings. It was all he could do to keep himself on hands and knees, to not collapse beneath the steady thrust of the machine.
Had they been kind, they’d have positioned him so he could lie down while he took this, they’d have left him bound with nothing to do but take what they gave him.
They hadn’t wanted him to be able to relax. They wanted him to have to fight to be good.
He whimpered, burbled, closed a hand over his lips. He screwed his eyes shut, trilled into his palm.
He wouldn’t even need to move, he could send out a feather, flick a switch on the machine, ease it up or send it into overdrive. He didn’t know which outcome he was craving more, he just knew it was all he could think about.
He wanted to come, but he feared what would happen if he did. The machine would show no mercy, wouldn’t pause for the overstimulation to pass, it would just keep fucking into him, unrelenting and cold.
The idea was enough to force his hand back to his bed, needing the additional stability while his body shuddered.
His back arched, wings fluttered.
The pleasure was building slowly, amplifying with time, even at this inexorable pace he was aware it would eventually tip over. Maybe into an orgasm, or it would just shift into pain, discomfort from use far longer than anyone was supposed to endure.
His arms trembled.
That idea, that too, they were pushing his kinks to whole new heights, or maybe he simply hadn’t known.
He liked this, he liked it so much, it felt true in a way that nothing in his life did.
Hawks wasn’t a real person, and Takami Keigo was dead, his personhood was nothing but a construct. The body, though, that was real. Sensation crashing over his head, filling his lungs, rushing through his veins.
He understood, now, the addictions that had ruined his parents. He got it.
He was just as weak to this.
He had lost track of time, but he didn’t look at his phone, he didn’t want to. The eternal ebb and flow of this, the inexorable push against places where there had once been resistance, was a concept that benefited from the absence of time.
Somewhere out there his lovers were probably killing people.
He didn’t care.
He was increasingly unsure he had ever truly possessed a morality. If he had, the commission had burnt it away.
One day, he would probably go down with the league, no matter which side he found himself on.
He wasn’t bothered by that concept, any more than the rest of them seemed to be, they’d all been pushed so far beyond.
When your entire life was violence, when simple pleasures were so consistently denied, it became necessary to take what one could. With utter selfishness, blatant disregard for the rules. He understood that now.
The villains had taught him how to want.
He lowered himself to his forearms, let his head press against the bed sheets, screamed.
Not because he had to. He simply could.
It was hoarse and loud, pulled from the depths of his chest, it echoed in his ears.
There weren’t words for what he was feeling. They had been trained out of him, long ago, just like tears and reactions to pain, his head was devoid of words. His heart was still.
He screamed like an animal. Angry, hurt, joyful. It felt good. He did it again.
He knew which side of this war he had found himself on.
It was so freeing to be allowed to feel like a creature, rather than a machine, to feel the restraints of his body break away. To just exist.
Sometimes it was hard to know you were wearing a mask until you felt it crumble to pieces.
His face was contorting, screwing up in pleasure, mobile in a way that wasn’t photogenic at all. He’d spent a lifetime camera ready. He let drool slip between his lips, dampen the bedding. His hands fisted in the sheets.
He wanted to come, but he also wanted to stay like this, true feeling was something like ecstasy.
“Having fun there birdie?”
He jumped, groaning when it made the dildo grind against his walls, looked up to see Dabi leaning nonchalantly against the door frame, smirking down at him.
He reached for words, for sass or wit or goddamn anything, and found it all gone. Panic tightened in his chest, but with it there was also relief.
He couldn’t pull the mask back on, despite what his instincts were screaming at him, he was too far gone.
Dabi was looking at him, the actual him, the one without a name.
No one had ever seen the animal heart of him, he wondered if Dabi knew, if he could comprehend what he was seeing.
Shigaraki’s presence pulled his attention away, before he could get his brain working enough to decipher Dabi’s expression, stealing all the air from the room.
It was amazing, how he could slouch through the door with a hood over his head and his hands buried in his pockets, and still feel like the largest thing in the room.
His eyes weren’t glowing, but they might as well have been, when they fixed on Hawks.
“Did my machine break the pigeon?” The question wasn’t even directed at him, like he wasn’t right in front of them, like he wasn’t person enough to answer.
He wasn’t, fuck, he wasn’t.
Whimpers and coos and high little chirrups, those had replaced the concept of words.
Dabi laughed, locked eyes with Shigaraki.
“Don’t need to ask me boss. You heard the way he screamed.”
His eyes fluttered shut. His body ached. His chest was a door with the hinges broken open.
He was exposed, prone, helpless.
He trusted them far more than he should, because he wasn’t even afraid.
His wings didn’t raise into a defensive posture. His feathers simply fluttered beneath their attention.
The machine was loud in the return to silence, the steady whirr of motors, driving a thick dildo into the depths of him. Over and over while his toes curled, his drool created a wet patch on the bed.
He hadn’t even thought about his cock, for fuck knows how long, it was a shock when a hand closed around it.
Dabi’s skin was distinctive, so he didn’t need to go to the effort of lifting his head from the bed, he knew the texture of that hand.
He jerked in his touch, and a second stapled hand gripped his shoulder in warning, keeping him down.
He hadn’t been able to drift without them here, but now he could feel his eyes glazing fast, the fuzzing in his head.
He burbled, sound indistinct and birdlike, felt Dabi’s hand slip down his shoulder blades, wrap around the base of his wings, give them a squeeze that made his entire body tremble, before he raked his fingers through feathers.
Hawks’ heaving, shuddering, breaths were the closest he could manage to a sob. They were all the same in that.
Dabi hummed, low and satisfied, and sunk his fingers deeper.
It was an effort not to flap his wings, but not as much as it used to be, he’d become far too familiar with his touch. It lacked the hesitancy it had once held, Dabi was no longer worried about damaging his feathers, he knew how to touch in a way that felt good. So good, cataclysmically good.
They weren’t supposed to end up like this.
Dabi was supposed to mistrust. Hawks was supposed to be afraid.
He was supposed to betray them both. He wasn’t supposed to fall in love.
With anyone, really, but especially not them.
He knew what the commission did to traitors.
It was too late to turn back now.
When they hunted him down he would have no regrets. He would die as an animal, rather than a weapon, who had known how it felt to love.
Dabi pumped his cock, slowly and gently enough to keep him suspended, as he had been for far too long. The hand in his wing was the bigger threat, that could push him over in an instant.
He was trapped beneath him, a choice he would always make, pinned between him and the machine.
A part of him had assumed that Shigaraki was simply feeling antisocial and overstimulated, curled up in a corner of the room with his usual coping mechanisms, paying them no attention at all. He often got like that after a long day out, it wouldn’t have been a surprise, one of the big advantages of a three person relationship was the ease with which he could slip away when he needed space.
It had been an incorrect assumption.
“Don’t let him come,” that was the only warning he got, and still it wasn’t directed at him.
Dabi reacted fast, gripping tight around the base of his cock and removing the hand from his wings entirely, right as Shigaraki flipped the machine to its highest speed.
Hawks yelled, loud and wordless, bucking hard while Dabi held him in place with a few muttered swearwords, dodging his fluttering wings and putting his weight on the space between his shoulder blades to stop him instinctively flying away.
Shigaraki hissed.
“Naughty bird. Down,” voice stern and biting.
A tingling heat raced across his body.
He stilled, ducked his head in contrition, spread his legs wider and tucked his wings neatly behind his back.
Without thinking.
Without anything.
The pleasure inside him was blinding, but Shigaraki’s command still loomed larger.
He wanted to please him so badly. Both of them.
There was a limit to what he was willing to do, saving people was still an imperative that stood before them all, but there was nothing of himself that he was unwilling to give.
It had never belonged to him to begin with, but he was willing to steal it, for the sake of presenting it to them. He would drop it at their feet, hope that they would care enough to pick it up, but he would give it for them to trample just the same. He would let them turn him to ashes and dust.
His devotion was a broken thing, formed in cruelty and vicious training, he was not made for a gentle kind of love.
Neither were they.
All three of them were sharp edges and fraying fabric, snagging on one another’s wounds, but sometimes they did the impossible.
Shigaraki’s hands were gloved, but still he kept a finger raised on each hand, as they ran careful up his thighs, skimming over the curve of his ass but not lingering, following the honed muscles of his back.
He had expected a slap, further reprimand, a punishment for his momentary lapse in composure. He didn’t expect the kiss that was pressed to the dip of his spine, the fingers digging into muscles that had grown tense with the amount of time he had spent in this position, he didn’t expect the words that Shigaraki murmured.
“You’ve done well. So obedient for me. I barely had to do anything and you stayed here all day, took it like a good pet, did exactly as you were told. You deserve a reward.”
He walked around the bed, leaned down until they were eye to eye, pressed a palm to his cheek. Hawks leaned into the touch, cooed low in his throat.
“You can come any time you want. Dabs, make him scream again.”
He kissed like tectonic plates do, a harsh grinding collision that rocked the earth, shook deep in his stomach, in his bones.
You didn’t keep up with Shigaraki, you simply held on.
Hawks gave in to the shaking of his earth, the gaping maw of Shigaraki’s need. He, once again, fell in love with destruction.
The machine rocked him against Shigaraki, until he stilled him with a firm grip at the base of his wings, held him by them while he panted into his mouth.
His body was nothing but tingling pleasure, an overabundance of sensation that burned behind his eyes.
Dabi’s hands returned, one on his cock and the other in his wing, and this time he didn’t play around.
The machine was grinding against his prostate on every thrust, quick sharp movements that never slowed. Dabi was rubbing at the sensitive skin beneath his feathers, twisting his palm about his cock. Shigaraki gripped him tight, held him suspended in that space while he kissed the breath from him.
He came with the scream that Shigaraki had asked for, and didn’t miss the way Shigaraki kissed him more ferociously, like he wanted to pull the sound into his own lungs.
He heard Dabi’s breath hitch, felt his hands clench while he worked him through it.
The machine kept going, just the same, that was the thing about unfeeling metal.
He whimpered, flinched into their hands, brows screwing up as the pleasure turned bright and stabbing.
Neither one of them let him go.
It was overwhelming. He was exhausted, his body had taken so much, every inch of him ached.
There was something to the being held.
The inescapability of pleasure.
The way they could simply keep him in this place, as long as they wanted, could force orgasm after orgasm from him until he was a quaking shell of the person he once was.
There was a stillness, in the midst of this storm.
He felt so terribly safe. He loved them, in so many awful ways, he loved the things they would do to him.
A tear slipped from the corner of his eye, wound its way down his cheek, and suddenly everything stopped.
The machine was off, the dildo was gone, he was lowered to the bed.
“Birdie,” Dabi’s voice was low, eyes watching like a- well, some other kind of bird.
“Mhmm,” he mumbled, barely able to form the sound with his sluggish tongue.
“Alright, pigeon?” Shigaraki’s voice was slightly more hoarse than normal. He could feel his eyes on him, watching just as intently.
He sorted through the haze of his mind, resurfaced enough to find words.
“Awesome.”
He was probably imagining the way they both exhaled, like tension releasing from an overblown tire.
Dabi chuckled, wiped away the tear, throat bobbing like maybe he’d swallowed.
“Course you are, pretty bird, just came harder than anyone I’ve ever fucking seen.”
Hawks stretched out his aching limbs, yawned.
“Should hope so, that machine was giving it to me good, for so long I thought I’d die from it.”
Shigaraki curled up on the bed beside him.
“You could have turned it off.”
Hawks was the one to swallow now.
“You told me to stay.”
Dabi’s hand ran through his hair, gentler than anyone would believe.
“You stayed.”
Words that meant far too much.
A shifting of the earth.
“Yeah.”
Hands traced across his skin. He did not flee the touch.
He stayed, they all did, they all would. For as long as they could. For as long as they could take.
That was the thing about villains. Nothing was guaranteed. Nothing was given.
Sometimes, somehow, they found it anyway.
Once they had it, they would never let go.
Hawks was greedy like that.
He let his talons sink in.
He felt them lock.