trelkez:

jerakeenc:

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. 

Source: lonewolfed

3 May 2398 zowrites Permalink

stilesflybooty:

captain-snark:

stilesflybooty:

When Derek turns around Stiles is no longer behind him, which is usually preferable, except Derek was actually having a conversation with the kid and now he’s just talking to the off brand princess Barbie he picked up to inspect. But as far as conversational partners go, Derek has had worse.

He huffs an annoyed sigh and shoves the doll back on the shelf and stalks off to try and find the teenager. How Stiles managed to drag him to the mall on a Saturday afternoon is beyond him but Derek is pretty sure Stiles owes him lunch, and actual lunch, not the food court which Stiles has tried to convince him on multiple occasions is a legitimate dining experience.

The aisles of the toy store are overcrowded and too narrow and Derek can’t find Stiles anywhere, so he tries to drown out the sound of screaming and whining children and hone in on his heartbeat. He picks up Stiles’ laughter instead and follows it to the back of the store. He spots Stiles’ broad shoulders by a large display of stuffed animals and surrounded by several giggling children.

He tries to ignore the picture it makes as he moves forward. “Hey, Stiles,” he huffs. Stiles ignores him, but he can tell from the tension in his posture that he can hear him.

“Stiles,” he says again, tapping him this time on the back of his shoulder. Stiles whips around and Derek jerks back, caught momentarily off guard by the large fake moustache adorning his upper lip. Stiles grins widely and twirls it delicately beneath his fingers.

“Zere is no one names Stiles here!” He shouts in a piss poor attempt at a french accent. A little brunette girl with big pigtails screams with laughter and Stiles grins down at her. “Hon hon hon!” He adds, for good measure. Derek stares at him in utter disbelief.

“Stiles,” Derek sighs again. Stiles feigns shock, and points to himself and shakes his head, dislodging the beret perched jauntily atop his head.

“Non non non,” he says. Then he whips out from behind his back a nerf gun. Derek has no idea where he was hiding it, but he raises an eyebrow in question. “Je suis un…Pamplemousse! Donne-moi tout vous croissants!” He shouts.

“You’re a grapefruit…and you want my croissants?” Derek asks, remembering only very little of the French he took in high school.

“oui oui!”

“Stiles—“ but Stiles has already begun pumping the gun whole heartedly, tiny foam balls rocketing out of the plastic barrel and bouncing off Derek’s head.

“I hate you,” Derek supplies, turning around.

“oui oui!” Stiles shouts from behind him, firing the last of his rounds at his retreating ass. 

sCREAMING OMFG

Source: pilts

3 February 977 swingsetindecember Permalink