HIS MOLES ARE SAYING THAT YOU SHOULD WRITE WINGFIC
I imagine you mean sexy wingfic, but when I think of Stiles and wings, what comes to mind is:
“Stiles, you’re—” Lydia chokes off a laugh.
“What, what am I, what?” He tries to get a look over his shoulder. His left wing helpfully flares out, hitting him in the face. “Oh my god, where is the off switch for these things, I can’t—”
“Hold still,” Lydia says. She puts an open compact in his hand and steers him into the bathroom, Scott and Derek trailing along behind. “See for yourself.”
He takes a minute to get the mirror angled right, not sure he wants to see for himself.
Oh. That’s — not so bad, maybe? His wings are sort of pretty, gray-brown with long stripes of white, black, and iridescent blue. Raven black would’ve been more badass, and swan white would’ve played better with the ladies — in theory, anyway; girls are into angels and shit, Stiles could’ve sold it — but this isn’t horrible. At least his wings — his wings, fuck — aren’t flamingo pink or rainbow colors or something, that would’ve been awful.
He likes the blue stripes.
The blue stripes are weirdly familiar, actually. Why does he recognize that pattern?
“Mallard,” Lydia supplies, smirking. “It’s very distinctive.”
Stiles makes a horrified noise. “Mallard like the duck?”
“Been bitten by any mallards lately, Stiles?” Derek’s voice is quiet and sharp. What, is he mad Stiles got the bite from a freaking duck? Stiles is the only one who gets to be mad about that, and he will, he’ll be mad as hell once he stops feeling mortified with every atom of his being. A duck. A wereduck? He’s a fucking wereduck.
“We, um,” Scott says unevenly, one hand over his face. “You — when we were by the river, and you kept throwing bread at those ducks? They seemed pissed about it, and then—”
“One bit me,” Stiles remembers. “You kept talking about West Nile, oh, Jesus, I’m a duck.”
Derek sort of convulses. Oh, fuck him, he isn’t mad, he’s laughing.
“This isn’t funny,” Stiles insists. His wings quiver, spreading out a little. He’s done enough duck spectating in his life to recognize a back off when he sees one. Scott laughs, dropping his hand from his face.
The moment Scott starts laughing, Derek is gone, laughing so hard his eyes are watering.
“All of you suck,” Stiles mutters, folding his arms. His wings curl in, gray-brown feathers edging his vision.
“Out,” Lydia orders Scott and Derek, shutting the bathroom door. He can still hear them laughing in the hall. “It could be worse, you know, it isn’t like—”
“I know, I know, I could be a flamingo, I’m grateful,” Stiles says. Lydia gives him a look. “That wasn’t what you were going to say, was it?”
“Flamingo,” Scott says. He and Derek sound like a pair of dying cats. Stiles hates them both. He hates everything.
Except for his shiny blue stripes. He likes those.