
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/691241.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Allison_Argent/Scott_McCall
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Bobby_Finstock, Scott_McCall_(Teen_Wolf),
      Jackson_Whittemore, Lydia_Martin, Allison_Argent
  Additional Tags:
      Cheerleaders, Crossdressing, Crossdressing_Kink, Fingerfucking, Blow
      Jobs, Locker_Room, Humor, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-02-19 Words: 3895
****** Bring It On ******
by marguerite_26
Summary
     When the Beacon Hills lacrosse team made a bet with the Beacon Hills
     cheerleading squad, Stiles should have recognized the smirks on the
     girls' faces and stopped the whole thing right there.
Notes
     Thanks to hardticket for the beta read. And to eleadore who indulged
     me in a crazy-ass email thread about why Stiles might be dressed up
     like a cheerleader. This fic is totally her fault.
     This fic contains a slight modification to canon in order to include
     Lydia and Allison as cheerleaders, otherwise it's canon compliant.
     Ridiculous, yes, but still ~reasonably compliant up to S2. If anyone
     is curious: this_is_the_lift_they_attempted.
See the end of the work for more notes
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.
End Notes
     me_on_tumblr
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
