Work Text:
Ever since, what the media has oh so affectionately dubbed, the Paranormal Liberation War Dabi has been holed up in some ancient run down mansion in the middle of fucking nowhere. His only company are dumb and dumber as well as Mophead’s shadow daddy.
He’s pretty sure he could have no worse company if he actively looked for it.
The Lizard has been having an internal but painfully visible crisis of faith. Mophead has been either cosplaying a corpse or screaming and writhing in pain, his body contorting in unnatural ways like he’s possessed by a demon. The Potato Head overlord himself has been just sitting there, the permanent creepy grin stretched over his face, while he waits out Shigaraki’s… metamorphosis or something. Dabi’s not sure what is supposed to happen to the crusty wretch, but if he turns into a giant bug, Dabi is burning both the mansion and the forest down.
Truthfully, outside of picking at his new scars and staples and practicing his speech in the mirror all Dabi has to entertain himself is a shitty old television. It looks like it’s been made in a whole different era. It’s a big, heavy box with a screen made of thick convex glass. The picture is absolute garbage, grainy and faded, and the stupid thing loses signal every so often, and the only way Dabi can fix it is to kick it hard in the side.
All of that he could deal with if only ANYTHING was entertaining to watch. Right after the battle, it had been glorious. The news channels had been showing nothing but the greatest hits from the battle, running the rising casualty numbers in one corner while the voices of hosts speculated on this and that over the footage. Blame had been flying from all corners, pointed at the villains, at the government, at the heroes, even at ordinary citizens. Everyone had a theory on when and what would happen next.
It had been the best days of Dabi’s life.
And then suddenly it just cut off. All of it gone. The news reported on ordinary, fucking mundane, tragedies in between all the happy uplifting stories. Outside of that, the channels only showed boring shit, old movies, bubbly competitions and uplifting shows.
It was as if the whole country was holding its breath, waiting for the heroes to say something.
It has been weeks of nothing but this plastic hollow slog.
Truthfully, the only thing holding Dabi back from creating a situation is the way All for One can stare him down even without eyes.
So here he is, slumped on the couch, spread out on it in a boneless heap. One hand holding the remote loosely as he flips through the channels aimlessly. His eyes aren’t even focused on the flashing images, thoughts far away, as his knee jumps up and down with nervous energy.
And then the screen flashes white with big capital letters that say “EMERGENCY BROADCAST”.
Blue eyes blink into focus, glowing with excitement.
It’s the first time Dabi has felt awake in a long while.
He shifts slightly, just so he has a better view of the TV. What follows next is the live footage of a giant room filled with rows and rows of tightly packed chairs, followed by rows of desks. The room is filled with people, with reporters sitting on chairs, packed tight behind desks and standing shoulder to shoulder against the walls. He sees notepads and laptops and recorders, and microphones. All the cameras are set up behind them, showing just how big and packed the room is. It looks like every single reporter in the country is there. Right on the other end of the room, facing the crowd, is a long wooden desk with three microphones and three chairs.
Chatter fills the room, too loud and too chaotic to make sense of.
And then a door, barely visible on camera, opens, and in walk three people.
There is dead silence.
The first person in is the baby giraffe himself, Best Jeanist. Someone forced the slurpee straw necked asshole into a suit, the white collar reaching all the way up his chin somehow making him look like a sickly Victorian child. Right behind him is the giant form of his father. Enji walks in with a slumped posture, looking defeated. His scar stands stark and bright against his pale face. Yet his eyes, as he stands behind the middle microphone, are filled with firm determination.
And right behind them both is the traitor himself.
Keigo Takami.
Dabi watches his every move, eyes darting across the grainy image.
He looks good… for someone who almost burned to death just a few short weeks ago. His wings are completely gone. His hair is short and frizzy, no longer a fluffy mess that is just begging you to run your fingers through it, begging you to grip it in a fist and pull. There is a pang of regret somewhere in Dabi’s chest over it. He really will miss the high little notes he could get his bird to sing when he pulled just right. Hawks’ face is framed by wounds and burns, the dark blood red filling in for the missing wings. Dabi tilts his head as he watches, noting the stark white bandages climbing up Hawks’ neck, just barely visible over the white collar of his button-down.
What catches his attention the most is the way Hawks moves. He’s stiff and careful about it, back ramrod straight and barely moving as he walks and then stands, as he slowly sits down once they greet the reporters. Dabi flashes his teeth at the TV in a feral smirk. Those burn scars on his back must be giving him quite a lot of trouble. A constant reminder of what Dabi had done to him, a constant and painful reminder of Dabi himself.
Dabi’s smirk falls in favor of displeasure as he registers something.
Hawks’ expression is blank and emotionless. It’s a dead stare into the void.
Now that just won’t do.
And Dabi might just have a way to ruin that carefully crafted hollow mask.
Dabi has kept one single red feather.
It's not one of Hawks' biggest feathers. He hadn’t been able to get his hands on one of those beautiful long primary feathers, and with how Hawks fights, he’s not even surprised. No, the feather Dabi has is not particularly impressive, but it’s nice and long all the same. It is slightly longer than his palm, and that is more than long enough for what he intends to do.
He has been keeping it on him since the battle, hidden in a pocket at all times. Over the past few mind-numbingly boring weeks, he has been fiddling with it. Caught between two desires, burning the feather and hoping Hawks’ feels it or keeping it for himself, a war prize he’s more than earned. More than once, he’s caught himself playing with it as he weighed the pros and cons of both options. He's been running his fingers over it, pulling on the barbs, and tempted to rip the vane into ribbons. On one occasion, has even bit down on the end of the shaft, on the very tip of it, as he imagined the expression Hawks would make.
But he has always stopped himself so far.
He wants, no, needs Hawks to be up and aware, to know exactly what Dabi is doing to a part of him. He also has to know, needs to see the expression on Hawks’ face when he realizes that there is one more feather out there, and who exactly has it. And, wouldn't you know it, there Hawks is, all nice and suited up, sitting beside Jeanist and his own failure of a father, as every reporter in the city stares them down.
And there Dabi is, alone, but for a single red feather pinched between his fingers.
It feels almost staged.
First, he needs to check if the hero can still feel the feather, of course, no point in playing with the feather if his pretty bird has no idea what’s going on.
He starts running his fingers over it. At first, he gently runs his fingers through the fluffy, messy parts, teasing the downy barbs and the detached afterfeather. His eyes are locked onto the grainy image of the hero, blue and wide and unblinking. When he gets no reaction, he runs his fingers further up, running the soft vane along his fingertips, watching it bend around them, enjoying the way it tickles his skin. But… there's still no reaction from the hero.
What else can he do but up his teasing?
He runs his fingernail up along the edge of the vane, listening to the sharp, low sound it produces. He then scratches his way down the bony middle bit. For a moment, lost in anticipation, he mourns the loss of Hawks' wings. For all that he had to burn them, for all that they burned oh so beautifully, for all that he had reveled in watching blue consume the red and leaving nothing but charred remains, he still misses how easy they were to read. Misses how telling the tiniest of twitches were. Misses how reactive they were. Misses how emotive they were, despite Hawks' blank face meeting his smirk.
Right as he's running his fingernail back up the shaft, every so often slipping off to scratch at the barbs just to watch them come close to tearing apart, there it is, the thing he’d been waiting for. It's small, subtle. It’s the smallest of eyebrow twitches followed by gold eyes darting from side to side, from person to person, from camera to camera.
That’s all Dabi needs for a vicious smirk to spread across his face
He does it one more time, wants to announce his intentions to the bird, wants the hero to know exactly where this is going, wants him to realize he's stuck and at Dabi's mercy.
Hawks doesn't disappoint, of course he doesn’t, never has.
His eyes widen with panic as realization sets in. It’s not obvious enough for the reporters to notice, oh no, the hero is too well trained for that, but Dabi does. Dabi notices it. Dabi drinks it in. He's been waiting for it after all. Hawks stares right into one of the many cameras, and by sheer chance, it is the one Dabi is watching him through. He bares his teeth right back as that delicious panic is shoved down in favor of the dead-eyed stare.
But that was more than enough. Dabi now knows that Hawks knows. He knows that the bird can still feel the feather, that he knows about it.
Looks like it’s time for the real fun to begin.
Dabi slips the end of the bony bit of the feather between his teeth, putting just enough pressure on it to feel it bend, putting just enough pressure for the bird to feel it, for him to know where it is. He stares at the TV, waiting, and when there's no reaction... he glares and runs his tongue over the very bottom of it, over the sharp end, teasing the tiny part that hangs inside of his mouth.
Hawks' shoulders jerk at that, which is enough for now. It’s enough until Dabi gets comfortable. He can give the bird a moment of quiet, of anticipation.
His tongue drops away as Dabi shifts on the couch. He pulls himself up so he's sitting, facing the TV. He fiddles with his belt, roughly jerking it open before he pushes his pants down enough to pull his cock out. All the while, he rolls the feather between his teeth and watches Hawks for the most minuscule of reactions. His eyes devouring every single tiny jerk and twitch the hero feeds him.
Dabi’s cock is still soft, but that is not an issue, not for long. He can already feel his own arousal simmering, cock twitching with interest as he watches Hawks' mouth twitch with annoyance.
Dabi scoots himself forward, pulling his hips towards the edge of the couch as his legs fall open. He leans back, allowing himself to relax into the corner of the couch, wiggling around until he’s comfortable. After a moment of thinking he pulls one leg up, digging the heel of his boot into the shitty half rotten couch cushion. Finally, one hand wraps around his cock, immediately starting to languidly move up and down the quickly hardening length. His other hand, meanwhile, removes the feather from between his teeth before he starts to twirl it between his fingers.
Dabi lounges, soft and lazy, and considers how to start the torture.
He taps the tip of the feather against his top lip as he thinks, his other hand continuing its slow movements. His eyes are locked on Hawks, ignoring everyone else in the room with him. The hero is slowly growing twitchier and twitchier. He gives a sad sigh. It really is unfortunate that he hasn't kept more feathers, that he's stuck with just the single one. It would have been so exciting to ruin one, to bite it and lick it and turn it into a crumpled wet mess while watching Hawks struggle, only to then pull out another one and do the whole thing all over again. Unfortunately, he has only one feather. Which means that he has to be something he's never been.
Gentle.
The feather tickles his still-healthy lip, sending small zaps of pleasure right down his spine. Shame he has to stop. This isn't about him after all. Dabi puts the feather across his lips fully, pressing the softest of kisses into the center of it. Hooded eyes stare at the TV over it, drinking in the sight of Hawks sucking in a sharp breath. Golden eyes turn glassy as he focuses on just this one last feather.
How unfortunate for him that that is all the sweetness Dabi has in himself to give.
Dabi’s lips slip open, and his tongue licks all the way along the feather, all the way from the downy barbs to the very tip of it. The feather starts turning a darker red as his spit soaks in. Hawks jerks in his seat, back ramrod straight as his pupils constrict into barely visible slits of black. Dabi's lips pull into a vicious smirk.
Maybe he will ruin this feather after all. Not right away, no. Once he’s had his fun. He doubts Hawks will allow him another perfect opportunity like this.
Dabi gets one half of the feather nice and wet, lets the spit drip from it down his chin and onto his chest. The cold liquid sends goosebumps as it lands on his heated skin. Hawks' grainy image twitches, eyes narrowing into a harsh glare. A reporter squirms in his seat. Dabi's lips twitch into a wide grin, that expression can't be good on the optics. There’s no way it’s helping Hawks’ image.
He catches another reporter shifting awkwardly and dropping his gaze under the golden glare.
Dabi lets out a sigh as he settles into the couch further, thump gliding across the head of his cock. He's fully hard now. Dabi glides the wet side of the feather across his cheek, along the staples, makes sure it catches on every single one, makes sure that it passes over his scars, makes sure that there's no doubt about who is teasing the bird. It won’t be long before he starts leaking precum.
Dabi cocks his head as he wonders if Hawks will be able to feel the difference if he were to mark the feather with his cum. Just how sensitive are the feathers? Exactly how much can Hawks feel through them?
And then a devious thought occurs to him.
He pulls the feather to his lips again.
"Hello, Hawks," he breathes the words out, voice a low rumbling growl.
There is no response, not even a twitch, not even a blink. Oh no, that would have been too easy. He's pretty sure the hero can hear him through the feather, but he has to confirm it. He needs to.
The hand on his cock picks up the pace as he jerks himself firmly. He does it just how he likes it best. Long twisting strokes from the root to the tip where he squeezes and presses his thumb into his slit. It never fails to make him moan, and this time is no different. A deep moan escapes him, glides across the red feather, ruffling it. It’s soft and breathless, just the sort of thing he never let Hawks hear in person.
Hawks reacts beautifully.
His whole body jerks in his chair, eyes losing focus as they widen in shock, his fingers scratch helplessly across the desk. Dabi has no wish to stop the smug smirk from spreading across his face.
"There you are, pretty bird," he says in that exact same sultry, breathless, deep tone. Satisfaction oozes from it. He hopes Hawks feels every single syllable glide down his spine.
The shiver the hero gives is magnificent.
A few reporters exchange glances before refocusing on whatever his father is blathering on about.
Dabi relaxes back into the couch. He's not even sure when he started leaning towards the television in the first place. "It's been a while, hasn't it, sweetheart," he says, voice a low purr. "Guess you've been too busy to check in on little old me."
Hawks' expression twitches with annoyance.
"You've caught me at kind of a bad time, though."
Hawks' eyebrows jerk before he forces them back into a neutral expression.
"You see, baby... I'm kinda," Dabi twists his hand around his cock again, thumb pressing in to make himself moan just as he says, "busy."
Hawks fingers curl into claws on the table as his glare turns into something more birdlike. He stares down into a camera, eyes flashing with annoyance.
"Wrong camera, pretty bird," he whispers as he taps the feather against his lips.
Golden eyes dart to a different one.
"No... no... try again... ah, there you are," he says with a wide grin. Arousal curls in his gut as Hawks’ eyes seem to focus right on him, staring right into his soul with anger.
Dabi can hear the cameraman shifting under that burning golden gaze.
Hawks' eyes are nothing but gold, lids narrowed into a harsh glare. It makes Dabi moan, something deeper and choked. Hawks' shoulders flex, fingers twitching.
"Miss your wings," he whispers the secret to the feather.
The glare gets narrower, pointed, and accusing.
The cameraman is restless.
"They were always so expressive, so telling, bet everyone in the room would know what is happening if you still had them."
Hawks leans back in his chair, one eyebrow jerking up.
"Really, you should be thanking me," Dabi muses, something cruel entering his tone.
Hawks' hands are tight fists, and the glare is somehow even harsher. Fortunately for the little traitor, besides the cameraman and the few reporters right in front of Dabi’s camera, no one has noticed Hawks’ emotions. All attention in the room is on Enji as the hero drones on and on about some stupid sweet lie he’s trying to sell.
Dabi presses another kiss into the feather just to watch Hawks' arms jerk and his fingers twitch out of the tight fists. He twirls the feather between his fingers as he thinks, tapping the tip against his lips every so often.
"I see that you put on a suit for this farce."
Hawks' fingers tap on the table as Dabi stalls.
"Can't say what the goal of that is supposed to be. Looking professional?"
For just a second, Hawks' lips twitch with amusement.
"You look like shit in it by the way."
Blond eyebrows twitch.
"You look like some dead on the inside salary man," he continues the joke just to get more.
One eyelid twitches.
"You look like the biggest excitement in your life is when your favorite beer goes on discount."
Dabi watches as Hawks barely stops a smile from spilling across his face.
"Its fucking pathetic," he says with a hiss.
Hawks looks begrudgingly amused.
"Can't say i like your hero costume any better," his hand slowly twists around his cock, his tongue darts out for another lick.
Hawks' fingers are curling.
"It was too loose on you, covering up everything worth looking at," Dabi stops talking there, too busy slowly edging himself. He forces moan after moan from his lips. The feather hovers between his parted lips, soaking in every single little moan and harsh breath he lets out.
Hawks sucks in a forcefully slow breath. After that, his breathing is regular, intentionally slow, like he’s counting down every single inhale and exhale.
One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three-
Dabi teases at the head of his cock with his nail, forcing that delicious bite of pain and too much, as he bites down on the tip of the feather and throws his head back with a loud groan.
Hawks’ focus is absolutely shattered, irises wide dark pools of black as his eyes are wide with shock, with need-
"Bet you miss it now," Dabi pants over the feather, "your cock must be painfully hard. I remember how desperate you were, how easy it was to turn you into a needy moaning mess," he breaths the words into the feather, tongue darting out for a lick.
Hawks' fingernails are starting to dig into the table.
"Bet that fucking suit hides fucking nothing. Bet everyone would see what a desperate needy whore you are if you stood up," Dabi growls out.
Hawks' breathing is right back to that unnatural, steady rhythm.
"Guess it has some uses after all," Dabi says with a teasing grin. "I can only imagine how tight it must be. Is the seam digging into your cock Hawks? Does it hurt in the best way?" As he teases Hawks he presses his thumb into his slit.
Hawks shifts in his seat, eyes locked forward and back to being empty and hollow.
That just won't do,
"Are you leaking already, baby? Has your precum already ruined those nice tailored pants you have on?"
Hawks' eyes dart down so quickly that Dabi almost misses it. The hero sits stiffly in his chair, eyes focused on one camera. His fingers are digging into the table. There is just the slightest dusting of red across his cheeks.
The one reporter notices and points it out to his friend in a whisper.
Dabi grins at that, it's all the confirmation he needs. "Oh, sweetheart," he coos into the feather.
Hawks' lips move, and Dabi knows he’s chewing on the inside of his lip, so painfully desperate to keep it all in.
"Already?" He mocks. "Do you miss me that much?"
The glare is back, but it loses all the harshness because of Hawks’ reddening cheeks.
"Miss you too, you know," he says in the softest of fond whispers.
Hawks looks stunned for a second, caught by complete surprise at the confession.
"Miss the way your tight ass gripped my cock. Miss the way I could make you fall apart. Miss how pretty you looked drooling around my cock."
The more Dabi talks, the redder Hawks' cheeks become, the more reporters notice. He's sure to leave scratch marks on the table at this point.
"Miss the way you moaned my name when I swallowed your cock," he says in a desperate, rough voice and watches Hawks jerk in his seat. Dabi’s mind focuses on the way it seems like his bird started to roll his hips.
"Can you imagine if I was there?"
Hawks’ pupils are back to hair thin slits.
"If I was under that table."
The aborted hip roll is more obvious this time.
"With your cock down my throat."
Hawks’ lips part, and Dabi watches him barely close them and harshly swallow.
"Really disappointing I can’t be there with you, pretty bird," Dabi sifts further forward, rolling his own hips into the tight fist around his cock. "I am willing to take a request from you, though,” he says with a low groan. “With how painfully desperate you look, even I feel a little bit bad."
Hawks is unnaturally still in his seat, gaze back to that hungry bird of prey stare.
The cameraman notices and starts to whisper nervously.
"Would you like that baby?" he asks, and Hawks gives the smallest of nods.
Dabi's grin is a cruel, feral thing.
He wrestles it down almost instantly, putting on a softer expression, a soft smile that tells nothing about how cruel he's about to be.
"What would you like me to do, baby?"
Hawks gives a frustrated huff that makes Dabi chuckle.
"Would you like more kisses?"
As soon as Dabi asks Hawks sucks in a sharp breath. It’s all Dabi needs.
With painful slowness, Dabi presses the lightest of butterfly kisses into the feather, right in the middle by the downy barbs. His eyelids fall, eyes hooded so only a slip of blue fire is left staring at the screen. Hawks is frozen in place, staring down the camera with wide golden eyes. Slowly, so painfully slowly, Dabi glides the feather down his lips, pausing every so often to press another soft butterfly kiss to it. He pants into it between kisses, gives it breathless little moans and low groans. When he gets to the tip, he gives it one final kiss before his teeth clamp down and his tongue darts out for a taste, for a tease. Hawks is shaking in his seat.
More and more reporters are starting to notice that something is wrong with Hawks. Even Jeanist shifts and glances in his direction.
"Or maybe you want me to get you nice and wet?"
Dabi curls his tongue out of his mouth so he can glide the feather down the whole width of it. He does it slowly, carefully, eyes locked on Hawks' shaking form. Dabi grins at the TV, staring at the suddenly stiff form of Hawks. He twirls the feather between his fingers as he follows every little involuntary twitch and jerk Hawks makes, his other hand is wrapped around the head of his cock squeezing and moving up and down in fast short jerks. His cock is drooling, precum dripping out of his slit in thick drops. It starts covering his whole cock as he moves his hand, spreading it further.
Now there's an idea.
"Tell me, little bird," he says as he lets go of his cock and turns his palm around. It's wet and sticky, precum reflecting the bright light of the TV. "Can you feel the difference?" he asks the feather right before he slowly drags it through the mess on his palm.
Oh, Hawks knows. The hero can feel it, there’s no doubt about that.
His eyes hungrily drink in the struggling image of Hawks. He watches with satisfaction as the hero jerks up in his seat, the way he sits straight and stiff, the way his hands jerk towards himself and down, so painfully desperate to touch his own hard cock. He barely manages to jerk them back into place, to plant his palms on the table and spread his fingers wide. He seems to be pretending they are glued in place.
But the absolute best part is the way Jeanist shifts back to fully look at Hawks around Enji’s large form. Even his father’s flat speech stutters for a second as his eyes glance down in Hawks’ direction.
"I think you know," Dabi says as he pulls the feather back to his mouth. He licks it again, just to see what Hawks would do. Dabi grins as Hawks stops breathing altogether. "It must be painful by now, how desperate you are," Dabi tilts his head, twirling the feather. "How lucky for you that you don't have to talk now, I doubt your voice would be steady... and there's no way you'd be able to keep your helpless little chirps down. You never could. Everyone in the mansion knew how much you loved my cock."
Dabi gives a sad sigh, plays at being disappointed. "It really is disappointing that's over." He taps the wet feather against his lips right before he lets a cruel grin spread across his face. "How about I let you feel it again, just one more time, for old times’ sake?"
Hawks twitches and gives the smallest of head shakes, too bad Dabi is done being nice.
He's not sure of the best way to do this. Can't say he's ever jerked himself off with a feather, but this is just too good to pass up.
"Enjoy yourself, hero," he tells the feather before placing the feather across his sticky palm. His precum soaks into the feather, sticking the red vane to his skin. Then, carefully, he wraps his palm around his cock. It feels weird, the vane sticks both to his palm and to his cock, sticking and unsticking at the slightest of movements, which feels almost ticklish. It sends quick zaps of discomfort and pleasure rushing down his nerves and forcing moans out of him. Bony bit in the middle, on the other hand, is a noticeable hard line on his cock. It's almost painful the way it digs into the sensitive skin and reactive nerves with the slightest of pressure. The cocktail of sensations hits him just right, arousing in a way he's never experienced before.
For a long while he gets lost in it, in moving his hand up and down, in squeezing his cock in different places just to feel that sharp zap of pain. He loses himself in the way the discomfort and pleasure and pain switch and mix and change. For a long moment, he forgets everything else, too busy jerking himself to completion, to the cliff's edge. Moans fall from his lips with no shame or fear. His breaths are sharp and heavy, cut with deep groans.
He's not sure what gets his attention, what nudges him out of the fog of pleasure. It must have been some noise from the TV, a murmur or a shift, it doesn’t matter. Whatever it was gets him to remember what he's doing.
His eyes peel open slowly, small slits of glowing blue staring right at the TV and oh how much better that makes everything. Because there Hawks is, the hero is shivering in his seat, eyes empty glass as he stares down at the floor without focus, his fingers are curled and Dabi can see where his nails have dug into the wood, where the grain is split and cracked. His lips are bitten red, open just the littlest bit as air escapes him in short, desperate pants.
Dabi so desperately wishes the camera had a better angle.
He wishes that he could see what is going on under that desk. Wishes he could see Hawks' hips twitching and jerking as the hero desperately stops himself from rolling his hips. Wishes he could see the dark wet patch over the bulge of Hawks' straining cock.
In that moment, he so desperately misses those giant red wings that could hide nothing.
Then Hawks gives a full body jerk, body stilling as he slowly turns his head up and stares right down into the camera and meeting Dabi's eyes. His eyes are nothing but black bottomless pools.
That's what does Dabi in.
His eyes snap closed as his spine is forced to straighten from the force of his orgasm. His shoulders dig into the couch painfully. His heel almost slipping off the cushion. He quickly wraps his palm around the head of his cock, making sure Hawks know just how much he made him cum, makes sure to mark every single inch of the feather with his cum.
"Keigo," falls from his lips in a desperate whisper.
He's lost in it for a long, quiet moment before he has the strength to pull himself together and look back at the television.
Hawks is unnaturally still, posture more bird of prey than human.
It is the sort of focus that has to be unnerving the whole room, but Dabi has no strength left to pay them any mind. It feels like Hawks is staring through the camera and right down at him.
Dabi's cock gives a painful jerk of interest. How regrettable that he doesn't have more time. Slowly, with a lot of wincing and pauses, he peels the ruined red feather off his cock.
"Hope you enjoyed your show, Keigo.”
Hawks’ pupils constrict the second Dabi says his name.
Dabi plants one final soft his into the feather, tongue darting out to lick the wet mess off his lips.
"Goodbye, hero. Next time I see you, I'll kill you," he says and lets blue flames consume the crimson feather.
Hawks jerks back to himself, fear entering his eyes before he can push it down. It’s just as the final crumbs of black ash slip from Dabi's fingers, Hawks jerks himself out of his chair and awkwardly stomps out of the room.
Every single eye in the country watches him leave.
