Work Text:
How hot is the skin under his hands? Soft skin, arched in open invitation, dotted with scars like a sky full of stars. Nebulae, irregular. Takahiro worships the arms of spirals within spirals and tastes iron.
Dabi shifts under him, stretching. The sheets under him are soft, embracing; they part like a sea and cling like waves, wrinkling when he moves—and he moves often—under the careful touches. His chin tips back, eyes shut tight. He’s red under the lightest brush of freckles, some careless flick of an artist’s brush haphazardly laying them out.
Takahiro stares; catches himself. He runs the firmest part of his palm up ribs he can count by touch alone, and back down again. Dabi bites his lip on a groan, low and slow and deep from his chest. Takahiro chases the sound with his thumb, presses in deep, hears a heart beat strong and fierce.
How hot is the skin under his hands?
Like fire. It’s burning hot and his palms sing with it, shivery heat that stretches like a cat, lazy, to touch his soul. Heat pools in his center and reaches outward with soft paws. He rubs his cheek against relaxed abs, feels them clench, unclench, firm and undecided.
How hot is Dabi?
Like burning, obviously. Fucking obviously. Aside from the turn of his face, lovely like a punch to the throat and just as vicious, there is something else to him. Touching him, being near him, is warming all on its own. Dabi is a sun, heat and light stretching from him, hitting Takahiro deep.
Unmaking him.
Dabi is a sun, hot under his hands, and Takahiro is a dry-mouthed Icarus. He can’t look away, much less stop touching. Doesn’t want to. Wouldn’t. He scrapes his chin across skin, and hands several degrees warmer than they have any business being tangle in his hair. The air of the room feels colder in comparison, a breeze from the AC betraying the bubble they’ve built around them.
Gooseflesh—ha—spills up his back and Takahiro shivers. His wings stretch, entirely unbidden; cocooning, draconic with shadows, around them, like cupped palms protecting a lighter’s flame from the wind.
“Touya.” He manages, wrecked. His beard leaves little raised red marks, rapidly erased by a wave of flushed skin.
Dabi looks down at him, panting. His eyes are all pupil and Takahiro feels his stretch to match. One of the hands frees his hair and pushes his bangs back, instead. Heat rolls across his forehead, sinks into his roots. He swallows.
His mouth drops open.
Dabi looks no better, quiet emotion twisting every facet of his expression. He doesn’t look away.
A thumb brushes fire across his temple, a sigh lifts on the wind, and Takahiro dips his head to mouth at Dabi’s cock, straining in his jeans. Dabi tenses like a livewire.
His scarred hands cup Takahiro’s face.
“Hawks.” He swears, prays, voice a ragged thing desperate in the soft dark. Both hands come to frame his face; welcoming, gentle, searing.
Takahiro burns.