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The crowd was deafening, even from the locker room. They were so fucked.

Stiles pulled on a pair of burgundy cheerleader briefs and tucked his dignity into the back of his locker. He hoped to be able to pick it up later but it was doubtful. The only thing that was absolutely certain about today was that Lydia Martin was an evil genius and Jackson Whittemore was a douchebag who needed to learn to keep his mouth shut.

“We should’ve practiced.”

Jackson snorted. “Give me a break, Stilinski.”

“We’ll be fine, Stiles.” Scott stared a moment at the asymmetrical lycra top as though he doubted it would fit over his shoulders. “Allison told me the basics.” There was rip as he stretched the shirt over his biceps.

Stiles rolled his eyes, wondering if they still had to do this even if the outfits were going to be literally falling off them due to lack of remaining seams.

“This team is fifty percent werewolves. We can handle this,” Isaac said, flicking the tiny bobby socks in his hand -- the damn things had little pink pom-poms on the heels. He tossed them aside and opted to go barefoot.

“We can handle this, guys. They’re not even expecting us to leave the dressing room. We’re going to show them we can be good sports.” Scott, always the captain, even in this, grinned at each person in turn. “I think we look pretty hot.” As he sat, his skirt flared up daintily to show off his smooth, hairless legs.

The bet may have been Jackson’s fault, but Scott was embracing it fully. After one look at their ugly, hairy legs poking out from under the too-short pleated skirts, he’d made them all shave. At least they’d forced Jackson to go first.

“Guys,” Boyd called out from the corner, his voice muffled in a tangle of lycra that was caught half over his head. The collar looked stretched beyond repair and the arms were already in tatters. “I’m stuck.” Isaac went over to help. The next moment the room was filled with the sound of tearing fabric.

“You’re right, Scott.” Stiles picked up a burgundy and white pom-pom and shook it so it rustled. “I don’t see how this could possibly end with our utter humiliation.” Stiles’ shirt wasn’t as bad as the others. His seams were mostly still intact, though the uniform Lydia had handed him was cropped just below his ribs. No matter how much tugging he did, his not-exactly-washboard abs were on display. He resisted the urge to cross his arms over his belly.

As they left the locker room, they were greeted by the entire cheerleading squad, whistling and hollering like the construction crew on main street, and looking far too comfortable in their jeans and t-shirts. He'd never seen so many camera phones pointed in his general direction before.

Lydia, head cheerleader and plotter of doom, was in the front, nodding her approval at Scott and Jackson, scowling at Boyd whose uniform was held up by lacrosse stick tape.

Allison eyed Scott in a way that was practically indecent. When she leaned in to whisper something, the gleam in her eyes made Stiles really, really glad he couldn't hear.

The girls eventually parted to allow the team to make its way onto the field.

The manic grin on Coach Finstock's face as he waited for the team to enter the field made Stiles realize that yes, today could get worse.

“You shaved.” Coach looked Scott up and down, eyes bugged-out more than usual. “I approve.”

Scott beamed like he’d just been guaranteed another year of co-captaining. Maybe he had. Fucker.

“Alright, you pansies!” Coach hollered, seeming to enjoy the audience in the stands which, Stiles noted, was a bigger crowd than he’d ever seen attend any lacrosse game. “You’d better show these pansy-assed cheerleaders that you are bigger pansies than any pansy-assed cheerleader. You got that?”

A few mutters of, “yes, coach,” could be heard but the majority of the team were staring blankly at the stands as though they’d only now realised that being dressed in skirts that barely covered their asses and tops so tight their nipples were visible at a hundred yards wasn’t actually the most embarrassing part of this.

“Snap out of it, ladies! And that seems wrong to say all of a sudden. You lost state championship and the girls won their whatever trophy-thing they were trying for. And Jackson was stupid enough to take this bet. Make me proud.” Coach stopped, cocked his head and stared at them a minute. His nose curled up in disgust. “Okay, that seems impossible. How about try to get this over with as fast as you can, pose for a few pictures that will haunt you the rest of your lives and then you can all go home and cry in the privacy of your own bedrooms.”

"Inspiring as always, coach," Stiles muttered.

“Guys,” Scott whispered, looking a little pale. “Maybe should have practised.”

Stiles scowled. “You think, Mr. Allison-taught-me-everything-we-need-to-know?”

“She did!” He waved a crumpled paper at Stiles. “I have pictures! And Lydia said that if we can do two of these, um, lift-things and hold for a count of ten then we fulfill the bet.”

“Idiots. It’s not that hard.” Jackson glanced at the paper. “Danny, Boyd with me. And, ugh, Greenberg. I don’t need any stupid diagram. I’ve had to watched Lydia practice this shit until I’ve wanted to claw my own eyes out.”

“Good Jackson.” Coach circled them, clapping loudly. “That’s real leadership. Even if it’s your fault your entire team looks like morons.”

“Nice legs, Stiles!”

Stiles whipped around, searching until his eyes found Erica on the sidelines, waving at him with one hand and holding a video camera in the other.

“Fuck my life.” His cheeks burned as he spotted who stood next to Erica. “Who the hell told Derek about this?” It hadn’t been Stiles, that was for sure. Stiles had most definitely decided that today’s humiliation would be plenty complete without Derek in the stands, giving them all his you-guys-are-all-ridiculous face

Stiles eyed his teammates suspiciously. Scott bit his nails as he studied the pyramid instructions, focused and not caring one whit about his audience. Jackson tried to convince Greenberg to climb onto his shoulders. But Isaac was studiously not meeting Stiles’ eyes. Oh, there would be hell to pay for him later.

He grabbed the paper from Scott and found new purpose. Get this done. Get home. Plot Isaac’s death. He felt Derek’s eyes on him, prickling the back of his neck. He didn’t need to look again to know there’d be a smirk on Derek’s lips. Stiles was all too familiar with that stupid amused look Derek got when he was watching Stiles make a fool of himself. Which happened all too often for Stiles’ tastes.

“Greenberg. No. Just no.” Coach yanked at Greenberg, who he looked like he was trying to mount Boyd, and not in a cheerleading routine sort of way. “Bilinski! What they hell are you doing standing around staring into space? Are you guys all incompetent? Get your skinny ass to the top of your pyramid thing.”

“Me?” Stiles looked at Scott and Isaac who stood facing each other, crouching a bit, hands cupped about a foot apart from each other as if they expected Stiles to step on to their waiting hands.

Some guy who was benched even more than Stiles -- did the lacrosse team even have a third line? If it did, this guy was on it -- stood behind them all as if he was supposed to catch Stiles should he fall. That seemed unlikely. The catching, not the falling. No, the falling seemed very likely. And why weren't the werewolves the ones risking their necks and other fragile bones and egos.

“Hey, no. Let whatshisname get up there if he wants. I’m allergic to heights really. I’ll keep both feet on the ground and um... shake my stuff.”

He shook his hips, rustling his pom-poms like a boss. A wolf whistle came from the crowd.

“Don’t.” Coach shook his head. “Don’t ever do that. Look Bilinksi, if you want to play first line in next week’s tournament you’ll use your teammates like a rock climbing wall.”

It took a minute to process but Stiles wasn’t stupid. Neither was Coach Finstock, apparently.

“First line, eh?”

He was already placing his foot into Scott’s palms. With a hand on each of Scott’s and Isaac’s shoulders, he lifted his other foot into Isaac’s waiting hands. The crowd roared as he tried to straightened his legs and wobbled. Third-line guy grabbed Stiles’ ass in some failed attempt to help him balance. Stiles squawked because thank you very much, asshole, now was not the time for groping.

He tried not to focus on the crowd as he finally straightened. He stretched out his arms to keep from toppling. Once he’d found his balance and was standing at full height, Scott and Isaac slowly hoisted him up until Stiles’ feet were at their eye level. Jesus, he was high. How mortifying would his life be if he pissed himself right now?

“We’ve got you,” Scott said, probably because Stiles reeked of fear, but it helped anyway. The pom-poms in his hands danced in the wind. “Nate, grab his ankles to steady him.” Stiles felt third-line guy -- Nate -- grab him around the ankles. It helped. A little. Pissing himself was still a possibility, though.

Lydia stood in front to them, hands on her hips. “First rule of cheerleading, boys: always smile! I’ll stop counting if you stop smiling!” Stiles grinned around clenched teeth, and Lydia shouted, “One Mississippi!”

Ten. Just ten seconds. He could do this. It would be over soon. “Two Mississippi!” Eight to go, plenty of time for more than a few camera flashes before he plummeted to his death.

He let Lydia’s voice fade out as he focused on keeping his balance (and smiling!). He wondered how Jackson’s group was doing. He didn’t dare look. The wind was cold at this height. It caught along the bare skin of his waist and made his skirt fly up around his hips every now and then. He couldn’t even look down to check if he was showing off his junk. He hoped the cheerleading underwear-things covered enough that the inevitable youtube video of this wouldn’t need to have his crotch blurred out. He knew what people thought when they saw that.

“Five Mississippi!”

Stiles’ face hurt from forcing himself to smile when all he wanted to do was scowl at the world. He wondered if this how Derek felt all the time. It was really unfortunate how easy it was to spot Derek on the sidelines the moment he sprung to mind. He was a big, black mountain of leather and stubble in a sea of teens. His eyes were on Stiles and the fact that he was enjoying every second of this was obvious even from a distance.

Stiles really needed to look away from that smug face if he didn’t want to pop the most awkward boner in the history of Beacon Hills High School since Joey Timberly’s Valedictorian speech.

“Nine Mississippi!”

Derek bent his head slightly in what could only be described as a proud nod, and Stiles may have lost his mind a bit. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was trying to do, possibly dance or possibly fist pump in victory -- let’s be honest here no one thought they could really pull this off -- regardless, it was enough to upset the precious balance of the whole lift.

He felt Nate’s hands slip off his ankles and his center of gravity shift as he leaned forward. He tried to compensate but his feet slipped from Isaac’s grip. He had a split second to realize that there was no way third-line Nate was ever going to catch him. They should have had a second spotter. Maybe a net. He was going to die in lycra -- without the cool-factor associated with a superhero costume.

When he landed, though, it wasn’t the bone crushing smack of the lacrosse field but the jerk of arms under his knees and shoulders stopping his fall. Of course Scott would catch him!

“Nice reflexes!” He grinned up at his rescuer. Only it wasn’t Scott. “Shit!” He was currently in front of half the school in Derek Hales’ arms like a regency romance heroine.

Next thing he knew, people were crowded around them, excited chatter and camera flashes adding to the moment’s chaos.

“Dude! I had him!” Scott called from behind them.

“You shaved,” Derek said, a little stunned. Like he hadn’t just saved Stiles’ life. Or at least a trip to the ER and possibly six miserable weeks in a cast or two.

Stiles squirmed, nerves making his mouth just spew out words. “I tried to tell Scott I was an independent woman and didn’t need society enforcing inane rules about what defines my femininity. But Scott told me to shut up and handed me a razor.” He shifted, trying to suggest he could be let down. It was getting really uncomfortably hot in Derek’s arms. The cool leather of Derek’s jacket on the back of his bare thighs was doing things to him. Things that were really unfortunate when you are wearing a skirt that hid nothing and there were no less than a hundred camera phones pointed in your direction.

Stiles cleared his throat. “I think I’m okay to walk now, man.”

Derek, the bastard, ignored Stiles’ obvious problem and started carrying him towards the locker room.

“I hate you. You know that, right? I’m never going to live this down.”

“You don’t smell like you hate me.”

If Stiles wasn’t trapped in a damsel-in-distress death grip he would totally punch the bastard’s deadpan expression right off his face. As it was, the angle was all wrong to do anything but tweak a nipple. That seemed like the wrong choice, particularly with the aforementioned cameras everywhere, so he telepathically issued several death threats and hoped the messages were received.

The locker room was empty. Everyone was still on the field, probably watching Greenberg offer up his life. He figured at least Scott and Isaac were standing around to catch him.

Once they were inside, Derek put him down.

“Thanks, dude. I thought I was dead for a min--” he trailed off as he watched Derek lock the door. “Um.”

“You shaved.” Derek’s eyes were so dark Stiles couldn’t look away.

He stumbled backwards, hoping breathing might come easier with a bit of distance.

“Not here though.” Derek stepped forward and brushed a hand across the exposed skin beneath Stiles’ bellybutton, brushing his knuckles against the strip of hair poking out of the waistband of his skirt.

To his mortification, a nervous giggle escaped Stiles’ throat. “I thought that bit would be covered.” His stomach muscles clenched under Derek’s touch.

Derek crowded him up against the wall, his hands reaching lower, and Stiles suddenly had a hot palm on the back of each of his thighs. Derek’s face buried in his neck, his fingers danced higher and higher until Stiles let out a high pitched squeak.

“You like it then?” Stiles asked, not really sure what to say, whether this was a joke. The only thing he was really sure of at the moment was that his cock was tenting his pleated skirt like some kind of drag porno. If he was being punk’d right now someone was going to fucking die.

Derek’s hands didn’t stop moving. Up and up, they went until they were cupping Stiles’ ass.

“Gah!” Stiles gasped. “Holy handsy, Derek.”

“Is that a complaint?” Derek didn’t lift his eyebrows or smirk or anything to imply this was some joke. His expression was just blank, sincere. The grip on his ass lessened as he waited out Stiles’ reply.

Stiles understood instinctively this was Derek giving him an out. He imagined saying something trite and stupid to defuse the tension then Derek giving him a small smile and walking away.

That option was not on the table as far as Stiles was concerned. Instead he touched Derek’s cheek and met his eyes so there was no question that he was serious.

“Not complaining.” He was nervous as hell. Fuck, this was Derek Hale’s wolfy hands clutching his virgin ass right now in the boys’ locker room, but Stiles wanted this so bad he was afraid he might cream his -- way too tight right now -- cheerleading briefs before they got any further.

Derek’s face softened all at once.

“Good,” he said and slammed their lips together in what had to be the least romantic, hottest kiss Stiles had ever imagined.

The back of Stiles head hit the wall. The sharp pain made him whine into to kiss, biting at Derek’s lips to get him to let up a bit. Taking the hint, Derek moved to his jaw, sucking and biting in a way that made Stiles hope there were no cameras waiting for him outside the locker room after this. He was going to look wretched.

Derek’s hands began roaming again, sliding up and down Stiles’ legs like he couldn’t get enough of the feel of them. His skin, still sensitive from the shave, tingled under the touch. Stiles swore to himself he would thank Scott later. Maybe even do an assignment or two for him because shaving had been so the right thing to do.

Pressing him against the wall, Derek slid a hand between their bodies until he was palming Stiles’ cock beneath his skirt. Stiles looked down and whimpered, trying not to lose it at the sight of Derek’s hand rubbing furiously under the cover of the skirt. It was such a tangled mix of so many fantasies right there; Stiles didn't know how to handle it.

“Fuck,” he rasped. He might have said more (or maybe just repeated that same word over and over in a litany) but Derek’s thumb pressed at his bottom lip. Stiles opened, sucked it in, teasing it with his tongue. He hoped it was a clear enough offer; he was more than willing to get on his knees for Derek's cock right now.

But Derek keep him pinned against the wall, and with his free hand he tugged until the burgundy cheerleader briefs hit the floor. Stiles flushed at the obvious wet mark darkening the front. Derek kissed him again, softer this time, but open and deep until Stiles’ lips tingled from stubble and teeth. Derek kicked at Stiles’ feet to spread his legs and stepped in closer, not even caring how stupid it looked to have a massive boner under a skirt.

They thrust together, Stiles rubbing against the rough denim of Derek’s crotch, until Stiles felt a nudge at his entrance and all the air seemed to escape the room. He arched, gasping for breath at the blunt wetness of Derek’s thumb.

He choked out an oh god and a fuck, his eyes squeezing shut as the thumb pressed inside. His hands clutched Derek’s shoulders and the thumb twisted deeper.

“The way you looked today, Stiles.” Derek mouthed along Stiles’ neck, his voice raw and broken. “Standing up in front of the crowd...”

He thrust in deeper and tears sprung up in Stiles’ eyes. The stretch was hot, filthy. So much better than the one time he’d tried it in the shower. Then, it has been clumsy and awkward, nothing to warrant another try. This had Stiles burning for more. Desperate. Stiles tilted his hips, improving the angle and taking Derek in deeper.

The world went blurry around the edges as Derek began to thrust his thumb in and out.

“Fearless,” Derek whispered.

Stiles would laugh, honestly, at the idea that anyone -- that Derek would call Stiles fearless only Derek dropped to his knees right then and Stiles could barely breathe, let alone laugh.

Not even lifting the skirt, Derek just ducked beneath it. Stiles knew he was watching his thumb disappear into Stiles’ body, watching as Stiles’ ass stretched and squeezed around it. He spread as best he could, letting himself be exposed, letting Derek see everything. Derek pressed his thumb in and in until Stiles felt the palm of Derek’s hand cup his ass. Then Derek’s mouth closed on the head of Stiles’ cock.

Stiles had to clutched Derek’s shoulders to keep himself upright.

“Oh shit.” It was all too much. “Shit, shit, shit.” Just too fucking much.

Derek’s free hand fumbled with his own zipper. He worked himself with violent, jerky movements, while Stiles fucked his mouth, helpless to control the wild thrusts. He couldn’t stop himself, not while that thumb teased his rim, just the tip now, tugging him open, stretching him loose.

Stiles didn’t give any warning -- it wasn’t his fault, his body just couldn’t take anymore. It hit him like a train, instant and consuming. His balls tightened, the world tilted and suddenly he was coming down Derek Hales’ throat. There was an apology on his lips but it never made it out. Derek’s mouth never let up, worked him, swallowing around him and sucking until he was over-sensitive and begging.

Derek let him go with a shudder. He stayed kneeling, Stiles’ spent cock right in his face as Derek jerked himself off. Stiles knew he should offer to help or something, but he was too dazed, and Derek didn’t seem to mind. His head pressed to Stiles’ thigh, Derek lost it, coming on the floor and on the briefs that were still tangled on one of Stiles’ ankles.

Eventually they got Stiles free of the rest of the outfit and he changed into jeans. His dignity, surprisingly, he found right where he’d left it in the back of his locker. It felt reasonably unscathed though he hadn’t seen the pics that were surely already being posted to facebook. Stiles slipped on his hoodie and wrapped his arms around himself, still trembling a bit. He pretended not to notice when Derek crammed a burgundy bit of lycra into the inside pocket of his coat and held himself like no one could notice the bulge.

Derek reached for the lock on the door and paused. Stiles’ face must have shown his sudden panic because Derek stepped forward and used his fingers to turn up the corners of Stiles' mouth. “First rule of cheerleading, Stiles,” he deadpanned. “Keep smiling!”

The entire lacrosse team were waiting right outside, arms crossed over their chests and scowls on their faces. Stiles vaguely remembered hearing banging and shouts at some point, but the source of it hadn’t registered until just now.

Both Jackson and Greenberg were covered in grass stains and looked like they might be ready to murder him.

Whatever. He had no regrets about today.

Not when coach stopped him, wincing and shaking his head, saying, “I want to ask what the hell you were doing in there, Bilinski, but honestly I think my life is better not knowing.”

Not even after the shout of disgust as the werewolves stepped into the locker room and caught the scent of sex.

And especially not when Derek’s hand pressed against his lower back as they made their way to the parking lot.