Clipped Wings

Starling

Hawks has fed you twice more since you arrived here. You've even caved in and showered, unable to bear the scent of your own pits. You know it's been more than a day but it could easily be two, or maybe three depending on how long you were out that first time.

You've also slept once or twice, just nodding off. It's too hard to stay asleep when your predator senses are blaring danger.

With neither windows nor clock, you have no way of knowing the time. It's disorienting.

When the door opens, you think it will be Hawks with more honeyed words and rich food. Instead, it's an especially tired Eraserhead still in his hero clothes. "Hey there, pretty bird."

Your feathers puff in irritation. The look on your face must scream murder, because he holds out a placating hand and doesn't approach past closing the door.

"Easy, there. I'm not gonna hurt you," he assures in a low, calm tone.

"Too late." You want to tear into him, rake your nails across his face and into his red eyes and—

He winces at the words. "I didn't expect you to fall so hard, sorry about that."

The broken, bruised skin on your chin throbs in memory. "It wouldn't have happened if you didn't fucking kidnap me."

"Look, this is for your own good—"

That's rich. You laugh bitterly. "How the fuck is this—"

"Watch your mouth," he snaps, like you're one of his students, but you keep on.

"—for my own fucking good, Eraserhead? Huh?"

A silent beat passes, he glances aside with a sigh, then faces you again. "Winged heteromorphs are rare and you were out there as though you've never heard of human trafficking rings. You have no sense of self-preservation. Do you have any idea how easy it was to break into your computer? Your accounts? Your apartment?"

"You broke into my home?" You practically roar at him, rising above the bed with your wings flaring around. Only your toes skin the soft sheets.

"Anyone could have." His eyes flare red with his quirk and the two of you are locked in a staring contest. With the blazing crimson and his hair floating around his head, he's rather intimidating.

You refuse to let it get to you. Let him see that you're furious, that you'll remain that way and he and his buddy will never have an easy, eager captive.

A minute passes and he finally blinks. It's not like it matters; your quirk doesn't do anything, it just is. He can't rip your wings off with his gaze any more than he could your eyes or hands.

You can't maintain this long; finches aren't meant to hove like hummingbirds. You drop to the bed and continue glaring instead. "So have you been stalking me since we met?"

"No." He leans against the door and crosses his arms. You can make out the shape of his biceps beneath the black shirt and it would ordinarily be distracting, but now you want to murder him for it. "I've been stalking you for a few years now."

The silence thickens until it practically strangles you. You make a noise through the molasses-quiet in your throat, incredulous, and say, "I'm sorry? Did you say 'years?'"

He nods. "You wrote something about Mic and I sharing a fan; he found it while searching through fanfic about himself. He loves doing that. I took a gander and..." He shrugs. "It's not my fault is was so easy to track you down. Seriously, it's like you don't even try."

"People aren't supposed to stalk the author of fanfic. It's— we're supposed to be anonymous because no one wants to know what kind of loser wastes their time like this."

He stares and you continue to rant.

"Especially RHF writers; we're the most pathetic. I mean, we write about real celebrities, about heroes, who are supposed to be virtuous and good. And I write about them doing—" You can't say it outloud, so you just shake your head.

"I found your portrayals interesting. Some of them aren't far off, either."

You've finished the Daddy/daughter Endeavor fic and moved on to one about Aizawa, just like you'd thought you might. Is he saying that there are heroes who engage in noncon— rape— and incest? In blackmailing their sidekicks?

You can't with this, it's too much.

"As for me, I'm not against sharing." He favors you with a tired smirk. "And I can get a little... over enthusiastic when I find someone I like."

"'Over-enthusiastic?'" You can't believe what you're hearing. "More like obsessive, crazy, fucking psycho—"

His capture scarf wraps around your mouth and his eyes narrow. "I don't like you using that kind of language. You're around children all day; I know you can do better."

You growl and reach up to grab your gag, but it wraps around you wrists as well and you're trapped, helpless as he steps forward. You can only scramble across the bed in a nervous flit of limbs.

His fingers skim your cheek; you pull your face away. "Don't be like that, pretty bird. I love you. You'll see in time." You glare daggers at him as he sighs and withdraws. His capture scarf returns to its place around his neck and he leaves you there, helpless and tired.