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During his early years with the Commission, Hawks had tried very hard to follow their training perfectly, to perform flawlessly and pull off any move without a hitch.
As a hero in training, a lot of the exercises they forced on him were necessities, drills every hero student had to go through.
Basic lessons in quirk training, martial arts, the rules and guidelines of hero work.
But the Commission didn't want just another hero, they wanted the best. And they wanted the best to be forever under their control.
So Hawks learned how to control his feathers to perfecting, receiving lashes with the belt for failed assignments.
He forced his avian-based instincts to wither and die, the Commission beating his fingers with slick sticks for raptor grips, refused him food for craving raw meat, and forcing a muzzle on his face for bird-like sounds.
Teaching him to wear a bright smile or a seductive grin, Hawks was turned into the perfect public figure: easy-going and laid-back for the younger generation, sexy and charming for his lady fans and businessmen of importance, reliable, strong, and powerful for his fellow heroes.
For eleven years, Hawks' transition into the perfect hero, the unfailable role model, had been completed, his debut at eighteen placing the cherry on top.
To mold Hawks into the exact shape they desired, the Commission thought him lessons no school of the state would ever dare to teach.
The higher he rose, the more dangerous the winged hero became, gaining extensive knowledge of the government's inner workings, information on each important figure burned into his mind.
Unknowingly to the public, Hawks had honed his skills in deception and bribery, as well as blackmail and undercover work.
The commission instructed him which body parts to go for to permanently incapacitate his enemies, where to attack to kill the quickest and quietest way.
There was blood on Hawks' hands, and no matter how desperately he tried to wash it away, no life he saved made up for the ones he had taken.
Hawks had deluded himself into thinking he would be free with his debut, or at least regain some form of independence, but the Commission ran his agency behind the scenes, picking his employees, choosing Hawks' public appearances, and demanding daily updates.
A gilded cage was still a cage.
Like a carrier pigeon, Hawks found himself back in his owner's hands one way or another, entrapped, confined, isolated.
There were certain rooms for different occasions, a deep fear ingrained into Hawks from a young age for the one with the dark red door, glinting like fresh blood.
As a child, he had dubbed it The Punishment Room, spending agonizing hours coughing blood on polished white tiles.
Sometimes, they restrained him, keeping his leg chained to the floor, chest tied to a table, wings fastened together with tape, or neck choking on a collar on the wall. Today, they didn't bother, knowing full well Hawks didn't have any room to escape. His very existence was tied to the Commission, his money, public status, hero license, hell, the very clothes he wore were specifically made by the organization.
The young adult had been placed in a chair, cold metal digging uncomfortably into the space between his wings. He kept a cautious eye on his handler, who was discussing something in hushed voices with two black-clothed Commission agents.
A doctor was sorting through small-labeled vials on a metal tray (not the same doctor that had been treating him since he was a child. That one had suddenly disappeared, which just so happened after Hawks told a certain firestarter some of his less than child-friendly encounters he'd had with her as a kid.) If Hawks found ashes in her apartment, that surely was just a coincidence.
"Hawks."
He snapped his head back around, meeting his handler's cold eyes head-on. He had long since stopped fearing most of the handlers he'd had over the years. Hawks was no child anymore, desperate to prove his worth. He was the Number Two Hero, and he had damn frickin' self-respect.
"Yes?" he asked, crossing his ankles, smirking at the man's angry face, Hawks' sharp teeth flashing in the artificial light.
"What happened out there? We trained you to function without eyesight, and still, you were easily defeated by a common criminal. She not only managed to use her quirk on you, but she also got away with the money she stole. How do you think that reflects on you, Hawks, and on your agency? People will lose their trust in their Number Two Hero if you can't do the job we have spent years' worth of money, resources, and time on."
Hawks wanted to scoff. Earlier that day, he had fought a woman robbing a bank, her quirk allowing her to ensheathe anything and anyone in total darkness. It was true that the Commission had used blindfolds to heighten the sensibility of his feathers before, allowing Hawks the deflect and attack even if he physically could not see his opponents.
The robbery had set off a row of small explosives, not dangerous enough to shake the bank, but Hawks had still chosen to evacuate civilians rather than chase the criminal. Years ago, when he had still trained to operate in the dark, maybe he would have been able to do both, pursue the woman and take innocent bystanders to safety, but Hawks hadn't touched a blindfold in years, focused on other aspects of hero training.
Which was what landed him here, the Commission's president apparently deciding he needed another dose of torture to remember to be their good little soldier.
The doctor passed one of the vials to Hawks' handler, the blond hero watching with dread curling in his stomach.
There was a reason he detested this room, why his heart always seemed to beat out of his chest whenever he saw the crimson door. When he was younger, before his debut, most lighter punishments had been woven in with his regular training, meaning longer hours or harder drills. But some punishments, the ones where Hawks had really messed up, were taken to this room, the sound-proof walls ringing with Hawks' screams and pleas.
He hadn't understood as a child, but it wasn't hard to piece together now; the Commission had conditioned him to fear this room, so the mere threat of being taken there would ensure his total compliance.
"What is that?" the twenty-three-year-old asked with bated breath, eyes locked on the transparent liquid inside the vial his handler was now examining.
"Apparently, Hawks, your blindfold training did not take fruition the way we expected it to, as you failed to apprehend today's villain. Therefore, the president decided to take your training up again and move on to the next level.
"This," he showed Hawks the vial "is a temporary blinding acid. It will disable your eyesight for three days."
Hawks watched his handler wide-eyed, heart beating like a roller coaster. His breath hitched, wings twitching before he got his Quirk under control.
"You... you want to blind me? For three whole days?! What if there's a villain attack? Hell, what about my usual patrol? And the League? I still have to meet with Dabi if he calls!"
Hawks can't. He's never been a fan of darkness, ever since they had first forced the cloth over his face, but... three whole days? Blinded? He can't! Impossible.
Yes, his wings could read his surroundings, but they couldn't see. They felt; the lightest vibrations, footsteps on the floor, breaths in the air, fingertips on walls.
But he'd still be trapped in complete darkness, no escape for three whole days. He'd be helpless against the monsters of his imagination (and boy, he had many of those) and the monsters of reality.
But, in the end, he was also helpless against the Commission. There was no discussion, no bargaining nor pleading. The President gave a command, he follow it.
"You have been excused from patrol and we will be posting an official tweet on your behalf to reassure the public.
"As for extended hero work in terms of public appearances, calls for backup from other heroes, or if Dabi were to make contact within those three days, you will be given an additional briefing and the Commission will discuss the dangers and profits of sending you in the field."
Hawk's fingers clenched and unclenched at his sides, mouth suddenly dry, throat working around a heavy lump.
This was not the most extreme punishment he had been given, not even in terms of training, but three days with no eyesight and no hero work? It sounded like hell.
Like torture.
He decided not to throw that thought around his mind too much.
Steeling himself, Hawks rested his head against the back of the chair, eyes pried open and hands wrapped tightly around the chair's metal arms.
With a satisfied expression, smug smile curling his thin lips, Hawks' handler pinched the skin around the hero's eyes, making sure they wouldn't close, and used a pipette to trickle three drops into gold orbs.
Hawks swallowed, his handler releasing his skin, allowing him to blink any leftover moisture away.
Then he turned to the blond's second eye, repeating the process swiftly.
Hawks repressed a relieved sigh as the man stepped out of his personal space. "The drops will have taken full effect in around thirty minutes. I want you to be in training room B3 before that."
Hawks nodded, faint tremors hidden by his hero outfit. "No prob," he quipped, giving a two-finger salute.
With a disgusted huff, his handler told Hawks to leave the room. His legs felt weak, wobbly in the knees, but he felt unbelievable gratitude to be able to leave his handler behind for the time being.
Training room B3 meant rescue drills. Saving civilians from collapsing buildings, pulling people out of rivers, clearing areas that were under attack.
It also meant Hawks' feathers would get an overload of input, hundreds of different things happening all at once.
And if he failed again, he was sure the President would prolong his punishment.
By the time he reached his destination, colors and contrasts had started to fade, every image tainted a numbing gray.
Sweat gathered between his shoulder blades, wings shivering in agitation, his fingers were tingling, nervous energy clawing at his insides.
He still had fifteen minutes to kill. Leaning against the hallway wall, Hawks breathed deeply, using the techniques for calming his breathing the Commission had taught him.
Just then his phone buzzed, starling Hawks so violently, he banged his head against the wall. "Shit," the hero cursed, rubbing the sore spot with a tight expression. Fishing the blaring device out of his pocket, Hawks squinted at the screen, vision blurring and shifting. A headache was starting to pound behind his eyes, and Hawks scrunched up his eyebrows in concentration.
After a moment's struggle, he could identify the Caller ID as Dabi's, sending Hawks' heart plummeting. Worst fricking timing! If Dabi wanted to have another meeting, Hawks was in no position to refuse, needing to stay in the villain's good graces to finally be introduced to other League of Villains members.
But the mere thought of having to meet the villain in his condition caused Hawks' insides to freeze, breath caught in his throat, stomach tightening uncomfortably.
With a heavy heart, he accepted the call, clawed fingers trembling around the phone (though that was mostly thanks to the black spot somewhere to his right, the blindness already dominating part of his vision).
"What's up?" he chirped, succeeding in keeping his voice annoyingly cheerful, just the way Dabi hated.
"You free to meet up at the old fishing pond just next to that KFC you got those chicken wings from last time?"
"So good to see you, too, Dabs. How was your day? Kicked any puppies lately, maybe set a bag of kittens on fire?"
The villain huffed, his eye roll tangible through the phone. "Just answer the damn question, Bird Brain. I ain't got all day. And stop with that fucking nickname before I set you wings on fire."
"So bossy," Hawks pouted, ignoring the fact that he could no longer see the opposing wall. He swallowed against the fear growing inside his chest. "And since when do I get a choice? You going soft on me?"
"Fucking hell, asshole, I saw the news. Getting caught in that weird darkness Quirk and shit. If you're trapped inside some hospital, setting a meeting seems kinda useless, no?"
"How considerate," Hawks crooned, masking the raps inside his voice expertly. By now, his vision had completely vanished, not even vague shapes registering anymore. His feathers twitched, sharpened senses going mad as he took note of faint footsteps.
Seemed like his handler was coming back. "Just... gimme a sec," he said into his phone, waiting until he was sure he was in his handler's line of sight. He pointed at his phone, mouthed Dabi, and mimicked throwing fire with his unoccupied hand.
When his handler stomped on the ground twice, Hawks gave Dabi his affirmative, promising to be at their rendezvous point in twenty minutes. It was a system the Commission had invented at his very first blindfold lesson. One stomp meant no, two meant yes.
"Report back to us after the meet-up, Hawks, then we will resume your training."
The Number Two nodded, kicking off the wall.
He send a few feathers ahead as he made his way out of the building he grew up in, taking to the sky as soon as he stepped outside. Up there, no noise confused his sensitive feathers, no grabby hands touched the crimson weapons, and nothing overwhelmed his stressed mind.
All too soon, he reached the spot for his and Dabi's meeting, touching down with careful movements. No need to fuck up his landing, too.
His feathers itched, Hawks turning his head toward the person watching him from behind. Heat seeped off of them in waves, and Hawks' nose caught the scent of charred flesh and smoked cigarettes. "Dabi," he greeted, falling into a casual pose, back hunched, hands buried in the pockets of his pants, legs spread. "What'ya want from me this time?"
"Info. I need the routes of the Number Eight's patrol."
Hawks groaned, though he was secretly relieved Dabi still stuck with the errand boy type of mission. Anything else would be a damn bother.
"Information again? Come on, Dabi, I want some action!" he complained, if only to stay in character. The fire user scoffed at him, stepping closer. "Not yet, hero." Hawks pouted, cocking a challenging eyebrow as Dabi invaded his personal space. "One day you're going to have to use my full potential, Dabi. And whether you know exactly what I'm capable of or not is up to you."
A scarred palm drifted beneath the material of his flight jacket. Hawks' breath hitched, the hero moving out of touching range. Whatever was going on between them (what do you even call occasional sex between two people who didn't trust each other and knew full well they'd end up on different sides of the battlefield?), Hawks was not going to let Dabi close while he was so vulnerable and strung up.
"Not in the mood, Dabi. If that's all-"
The villain's fingers encased Hawks wrist, the hero's feathers sharpening in warning. "What's up with you today, Birdie? You're all twitchy. And your eyes keep flittering back and forth like a fucking broken jo-jo."
Hawks' lips curled into a sneer. For a moment he thought about breaking Dabi's hold on him, but he was trying to convince Dabi he was against the Commission and hero society, so telling the truth might actually be helping his point. But then again, maybe Dabi would simply choose to use his defenselessness against him. Though it was not defenselessness per se, Hawks was still dangerous, deadly even, without his eyes, but Dabi was a formidable opponent on a good day and would pose a real threat to Hawks' life if the hero fought handicapped.
On the other hand, Dabi had no reason to turn on him now. Hawks could still be of use to the League, and so far, they had profited greatly from his intel.
"The Commission is pissed I messed up putting a stop to that bank robbery. So they blinded me."
Hawks heard Dabi's sharp intake of breath, could feel the villain's eyes on him. Hawks kept himself carefully still. "The fuck do you mean, the blinded you?"
"They used some weird drops that made my eyesight go all black. I should be back to normal in three days, though, so I can still do the research for you."
Dabi was quiet for a moment, his grip on Hawks' wrist loosening. "That's fucked up," he finally ground out.
"Duh."
A hand sneaked up his thigh all of a sudden, and Hawks let out an embarrassing squealing sound, jumping back a few paces. "What the fuck, Dabi?!"
"You going all blind heightens your other senses and feathers' sensibility, right?"
"Do I even want to know how you know that?"
"No, you don't."
Hawks warily wrung his hands. "And if you're right?" Fuck, why was he even encouraging this? He was no idiot, and it was pretty clear where Dabi intended for this to go.
"Tell me, hero," whispered the black-haired man huskily, arm encircling Hawks' waist, fingers splayed across the small of his back. Their hips were pulled flush together. Hawks groaned, head tipping back. "Where do your Commission owners think you are right now?"
"Training," Hawks breathed, heartbeat speeding up for an entirely different reason than fear. He forced himself to keep his hips still, not yet sure he wanted the night to end this way. He did still have to report to his handler.
"And what do they want you to do after training?"
"Train more," his voice was strained, and he really wished he could see if Dabi was faking his nonchalance or if Hawks was the only one affected, especially as Dabi sneaked warm fingers beneath Hawks' shirt.
"So, they wouldn't notice you being gone for a little longer, no?"
They would definitely notice, but his handler did seem happier the longer his meet-ups with the villain went.
And fuck this, but Hawks had three days of absolute hell ahead of him, and despite Dabi's occupation as an arsonist and serial killer, the villain seemed to value consent in the sexual aspect greatly and had never tried to force himself on Hawks (Dabi would have gotten a sword to the back if he tried, of course, but it was the thought that counted).
So Hawks could take one night of indulgence and sin for himself.
"No, they wouldn't."
Dabi's smirk was obvious even without eyesight, and Hawks gripped onto the villain's shoulder as Dabi's hips moved leisurely against his, the delicious friction sending his blood down south. "Fuck," he moaned, panting.
Dabi moved his hands to his chest, pressing Hawks against a tree. Stapled palms ran over his skin, sending shivers down his body. Two fingers pinched his right nipple, Hawks moaning shakily, arching into the touch. Heat coursed through his veins, limbs shaking slightly.
Dabi pressed bodily against him, their clothed erections rubbing against each other, a soft sound falling from scarred lips. Hawks desperately wanted to be able to see the flush surely blossoming on Dabi's unmarred skin.
A hot mouth attacked his neck, strong teeth scarping over his pulse-point with intent, Hawks angling his head to the side to give Dabi better access. Little moans and breathless whines escaped the hero, pleasure slicing through him like a wildfire.
Dabi sucked a mark behind his ear, the soft tissue tingling pleasantly, and Hawks keened, pressing his hips closer to Dabi's. Fingers were still working on his nipple, and Hawks jerked every now and then, breathless pants filling the night. "Please," he moaned, barely able to keep his knees from buckling as Dabi's unoccupied hand touched his belt buckle.
Dabi's breath was hot against his neck, shudders wracking the hero, lost to the sensations stimulating his body. "Whatever you want, Pretty Bird."
And God, did Dabi keep that promise.