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As long as they’re Women and 18+ ! 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

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𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི

Robin noticed it after rehearsals.

You’re sitting beside her in the dressing room, shoulders slumped forward while absentmindedly trying to smooth down the feathers around your waist. The soft halovian plumage there is slightly ruffled, just uncared for in the way feathers get when someone’s too busy, too tired, or simply not used to maintaining them properly.

Robin watches quietly for a moment.

Then she gently catches your wrist.

“You’ll damage them if you keep tugging like that,” she murmurs.

You immediately flush in embarrassment. “I’m trying, okay? They’re just annoying. They get dirty so fast…”

Robin’s expression softens almost painfully.

Because she understands.

Halovian wings weren’t just decoration. They were sensitive, delicate, personal. Caring for another halovian’s wings was something intimate in the quietest way possible. An act of trust.

And you looked so frustrated with yourself.

So Robin smiles warmly and pats the space beside her.

“Come here,” she says. “I’ll help.”

At first, you’re stiff with embarrassment while she works. Robin sits behind you carefully, handling your wings with such unbelievable gentleness that it almost makes your chest ache.

Her fingers separate the feathers one by one.

Checking for bent plumes.

Smoothing tangled layers.

Cleaning away dust gathered near your waist where clothing rubbed against them constantly.

“These ones need the most care,” Robin hums softly. “You really have been neglecting them…”

“I know…” you mumble into your hands.

“But that’s alright.” Her voice turns impossibly tender. “You have me now.”

It becomes routine after that.

Some evenings, Robin simply appears beside you carrying a brush and oil with a knowing smile.

Other times she’ll tug you into her lap before you can protest, humming softly while preening your feathers with patient affection.

She especially loves your waist wings.

Claims they’re “the prettiest shape.”

You insist she only says that because they’re the easiest for her to reach.

But secretly…

you start taking pride in them because of the way Robin handles them.

Like they’re precious.

Like you’re precious.

The wings behind your ears, though…

Those are different, far more sensitive.

The first time Robin touches them, you nearly jolt out of your skin.

Her fingertips barely graze the downy feathers hidden behind your ear before you let out a startled noise, shoulders instantly rising.

Robin freezes.

“…Oh?”

Her tone shifts immediately—softer now, curious.

Meanwhile you’re covering your face in humiliation.

“S-Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

That laugh of hers fills the room.

And from then on, Robin becomes impossibly smug about it.

Not cruelly.

But she notices how your breathing changes whenever she carefully preens those tiny feathers behind your ears. Notices how you instinctively lean toward her touch despite trying to hide it.

Sometimes she’ll brush her fingers there absentmindedly while talking.

Just to watch you lose your train of thought mid-sentence.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” you accuse weakly one evening.

Robin only smiles innocently from behind you, continuing to smooth the feathers near your ear.

“Doing what?”

You turn to glare at her — only to completely fail when she presses one final delicate stroke along the sensitive feathers.

Your wings fluff immediately.

Robin’s expression melts into pure adoration.