Clipped Wings

Black Swift

Your laptop is open and a few WIPs up in your internet tabs. That's the best place to keep them in your opinion. You can access them anywhere and it's easier to send them to beta readers.

You've been trying to write all day, but your brain keeps cycling back to the red-winged menace at work. Would it be unprofessional to write about him? Probably.

Who would know?

You would.

But it might help get him out of your head, smarmy asshole.

You wiggle your mouse to brighten your screen before the machine falls asleep again, poised to open a new doc—

A little black circle with the white silhouette of a bird blips out of existence on your Present Mic WIP (in your defense, there is no way that man isn't kinky as fuck). You haven't even linked your beta to this one yet, so how did someone get access?

You scroll through the WIP to see if anything has changed, but whoever it was didn't leave any tracks. Frantically, you search through the rest of your docs, but again, nothing.

There's no way you imagined it.

You text your beta just in case. Maybe you sent the link and didn't realize? <<< Heeeeyyyy, were you just on one of my docs?

The message comes not two minutes later.

>>>Not today got new stuff for me?

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Someone has access to your docs. This is unbelievably terrifying.

You grab a bottle of wine and a glass and decide to sit watch on your laptop. Maybe whoever it is will come back if you're idle long enough. They may have thought you were working on that doc. It's only luck that it was open and you caught them.

You poured a generous helping and switched to your favorite veg-out show.

The icon doesn't pop up again while you're waiting. You wind up shutting your laptop and going to bed after the second glass, buzzed and irritated and in no mood to write.

Somewhere outside your apartment building, your watcher opens up docs on mobile. His eyes scan what he hadn't been able to read before you logged on. Every word is delicious; he's probably your biggest fan. Who else would have tracked you down to learn all about the mind that created the best smut he'd ever read. Perhaps he's a bit biased, as the subject of the first piece he'd read.

He wonders if any other heroes have read your work. Has your boss?

He didn't think so, otherwise the number two hero would have acted on it. There's no way someone could read your work, peek inside that mind, look at you, and not desire you.

He closes out of the program and rubs at tired eyes. He needs to get back to his patrol.

You wake with a slight wine headache the next day. There's also that gross, bitter taste in your mouth. You cringe and wash it away with caffeine.

Only when you've eaten breakfast and allowed the caffeine take hold do you remember what happened the night before. You scramble to your laptop and login to search your docs; there's nothing. Not a hint that anyone else was on them last night.

The temptation rises to throw your laptop across the room, but that wouldn't help the situation at all. In fact, it'd just make writing harder, and you'd have to go through the pain of buying a new laptop and transferring all of your files that you could salvage.

You sigh and close it again. "Fuck."

What now? What if it wasn't a glitch or your imagination? What if someone is stalking you?

To read your smut? You snort. Yeah, sure, someone is breaking into your docs to read your WIPs because that's the only way they can get their jollies off. Wow, can you be any more arrogant? Next thing you know, you'll wake up to your wings molting and growing in scarlet.

You should do something productive with your time, like laundry. Or grocery shop. When was the last time you bought fresh produce? It's been a while.

That's what you decide to do.

You dress in a cute little romper low enough not to irritate your wings and wrap in a nice, comfy, pink, red, and plum scarf to keep the cold at bay. You don't like covering your wings when you can help it, but wind can be a bitch. Unlike some people, you don't have endless funds to spend at a heteromorph store. You refuse to compromise cuteness to buy bargain to accommodate your wings, so...

You have gloves as well, opera length and soft, fake velvet material. They're purple, your favorite color, or so you tell everyone.

The market isn't far and you walk/ flyto give yourself a little exercise. It's pleasant to stretch your wings, and reminds you that, once you're in the air, your natural cold resistance kicks in. The gloves go in your purse and you are refreshed.

Your quirk is the best.

"Ooooh, sale on sunflower seeds!" Shelled or not, nuts and seeds are your absolute favorite. There's something to be said for spitting out the hard shell and feeling like a badass, though eating them without is much easier (and nothing gets stuck in your teeth; sometimes you wish you were born with a beak, too) You add them to your basket alongside your berries and veggies. It really sucks that you have expensive taste in food, though at least you can afford it on the new salary.

Chicken is next, protein another integral part of your diet, and not just from nuts. You aren't about to eat insects, so fellow bird it is.

The feisty fuckers.

Once grocery shopping is crossed off the list, your two lightly filled bags hanging off an arm each, you decide to treat yourself to a coffee. You hop a happy little step, your wings flap, and the cement beneath your feet drops away.

"Miss! Excuse me, miss!" Is that voice directed at you?

Feet fall back to the sidewalk and you peek through the space between feathers to find a dark-haired man with a hand outstretched. He's handsome, scruffy, and the bags beneath his eyes look heavier than your groceries. In the outstretched hand is a folded piece of paper wrapped around a red card.

Oh shit.

"You dropped this," he growls and his low, rumbly voice is suited to his appearance.

Eyes flit between the hand and his face, then you turn so fast, so tight, only someone with your little finch wings could manage it. You snatch the card and read your name across the bottom, then bow low enough you think you brush the ground. "Thank you so, so much!" This homeless-looking guy has saved you from at least a week of panic over finances. You fumble in your purse as you right yourself again. "Please allow me to repay you for your kindness."

"No, that's not necessary," he mumbles, holding out a placating hand.

"I must," you insist. You have no cash, because who carries cash in this day and age. But as your eyes flick around in panic, you remember your purpose and inspiration strikes. "Oh, come to coffee with me!"

He blushes all the way to his ears. It's adorable and lifts about five years of exhaustion from his face. "I, uh, I couldn't—"

"Really, please." Your eyes widen as you implore him, your best impression of pathetic neediness. "I could use the company."

He scratches the back of his neck beneath all that long, dark hair. "If you're sure..."