How bout the kdph girls x fem reader who has big fluffy wings
pairing- Huntrix x reader
a/n- hey guys sorry i haven't done any more requests, im in a moving process right now !
analysis- how Huntrix manage with your wings
cw- fluff, reader has wings, polytrix
Your wings were a problem.
Not in a “knock-things-over-by-accident” kind of way—though, yes, Mira still slightly upset at you for breaking her favorite mug when you turned around too fast last week.
But the issue wasn't in the sense of your wings being a burden, the real problem is that the girls won’t leave them alone.
You’re stretched across the couch, reading, when Zoey practically dives onto your back with zero warning. A puff of air flutters your feathers as her arms snake around your waist. She lets out a content sigh
“You smell like sunshine,” she mumbles into your shoulder, muffled and smug. “And clouds.”
“She always smells like clouds,” Rumi says from the kitchen, pouring the kettle of hot water into her ramen. “Like—spring air. It’s not fair. You get wings and a signature scent?”
You playfully roll your eyes, flipping the page as Zoey tries to snuggle into even deeper.
Mira plops down on the other side of the couch, poking at your wing gently. “It’s molting season, right? Are we allowed to keep feathers? Asking for science.”
“It’s not molting season,” you mutter, though a few stray feathers have been shedding lately.
Zoey perks up. “So if one comes off naturally, I can keep it?” eyes already scanning the carpet like a dragon hunting treasure.
You groan into the couch cushion.
Rumi strolls in last, tosses a blanket over the pile of limbs that’s become your body, and sits on the armrest. “You know, when I was younger, I use to think I would get wings...” she says lightly, plucking a feather from your hair. “then i realized i was half demon not angel”
“Then stop petting them like they’re your emotional support plushie”
Then there was the incidents.
You wake up to a very suspicious silence.
The sun filters in through your window, warm on your back. You stretch, flexing your wings lazily—and instantly freeze.
There's a girl in your bed.
Well, technically on your bed. Zoey is sprawled out right beside you, your wing draped over her like a second blanket. And in her hand—your feather.
“Zoey,” you say slowly. “What are you doing?”
She doesn’t even look guilty. “You dropped it,” she says cheerily, twirling the long, silvery plume between her fingers. “So I’m keeping it.”
“It’s not a friendship bracelet,” you deadpan, rolling over.
“It is now,” she beams, clutching it to her chest. “You shed a part of your soul. I’m honored.”
You flop onto your side, wing puffing around her in exasperation. “You’re unbelievable.”
She grins, burying herself deeper into the fluff. “Yeah, but you like me anyway.”
Later that day you took note of the string around her neck that held the feather next to her dear heart.
You’ve said it three times now.
Mira, stretched out on your couch with a devilish glint in her eyes, ignores you completely. Her fingers twitch like she’s resisting a very powerful urge.
“I’m serious,” you say, tucking your wings tightly behind you.
She raises an eyebrow. “You say that, but every time I touch them, you go all quiet and flustered. So, like—are you lying?”
You throw a pillow at her. She dodges.
“Touch my wings and I’ll throw your rare beauty blush into a blender,” you threaten, only half-serious.
Mira just grins, eyes narrowing like she’s already planning something evil. “That a promise?”
You’re doomed. You know you are.
Fifteen minutes later, she’s perched behind you, arms casually around your shoulders, hands buried deep in your wing fluff. You’re red-faced and totally silent, biting your lip hard.
“See?” she murmurs, smug. “You love this.”
You can’t even argue. All you do is squeak.
You’re sitting on the floor in front of her, sipping tea and reading, when you feel it: the careful, rhythmic comb of fingers through your feathers.
You don’t flinch. Not with her.
Rumi always asks with her hands. Gentle, slow, respectful. And you always let her.
“You missed a few spots,” she says softly, smoothing down a ruffled patch near your shoulder. “Want me to help?”
She continues working, her fingers moving carefully, reverently. There’s something soothing about it—about her presence. No teasing, no loud remarks. Just comfort.
“You take care of everyone,” she murmurs. “Let someone take care of you for once.”
You glance over your shoulder at her. Her expression is unreadable, but her eyes—warm and steady—say more than her voice ever could.
You lean back just a little. Let her keep going.
Maybe this is what softness is supposed to feel like.
