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Air on a G String

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At five thirty in the morning, Stiles was slumped face down on his steering wheel, the Jeep underneath him stuttering idly like it always did in winter, the windows fogging up. Five times Stiles had been in the crosshairs of magic. Five times and none of them pleasant but this, this topped it all.

“Ah, shoot,” he mumbled when the light in Dad’s bedroom window came on. There was no way he could delay this any further. Fumbling with his too long sleeves, Stiles dug around in his hoodie for his phone, dialed a number. “Lydia,” he said, her snapped hello barely dimmed by sleepiness, “I’m gonna need your help.”

She found him there barely half an hour later, hair undone and no make-up on her face, eyes wide. “Stiles,” she whispered, awed. “Holy crap.”

“In a nutshell,” he agreed.

To avoid Dad coming outside too soon, Stiles had turned off the ignition and now he sat, door open, shivering at Lydia, retreating even further inside his clothes. It took her maybe ten seconds longer than usual when faced with emergencies to pull herself together, but efficient as always, she shoved the large bag in her hands under one arm and held up the other to help Stiles out of the car.

“Right,” she said. “Best get it over with.”

Dad’s expression went from polite surprise to befuddlement to absolute horror in the span of a “What, Stiles, what the hell?

“Jesus christ,” he stammered and then again, louder, “jesus christ Stiles, get inside. Lydia, I’m going to turn to you for an explanation because I don’t think Stiles’ usual rants will cut it this time.”

“He was cursed,” she told Dad, matter of fact now that she had a hold of herself again. Her back was straight in the rickety chair and Stiles thought how ill she fit in their small, out of date kitchen where Dad poured them all coffee with shaking hands, giving the bottle of rum a longing look. Stiles shifted in his seat, avoiding his hands –– avoiding any of his body parts really. He’d like to avoid everything, go to sleep and not wake up until someone else resolved this shit for a change –– while he warmed them around the mug.

“Cursed,” Dad repeated sounding as disbelieving as could be expected but then he glanced at Stiles, who tried not to feel hurt when Dad looked away again quickly. “As in … witches?”

“A Maenad, actually,” Lydia offered.

“That’s greek mythology. Something about,” Dad frowned, “mad women.”

“Yes,” Lydia said, curt, “something like that. Anyway, this Maenad comes into existence every other year and seduces women into a ritual dance to honor the god Dionysus. Let’s just say it ends in bloodshed. She came for me, I refused her, we thought that was that.” She glanced at Stiles. “But obviously we were wrong.”

“Obviously,” Dad answered weakly. “So, is she coming after Stiles now?”

“I doubt it,” Stiles said and he tried to clear his throat when Dad flinched but his mouth was dry and it wouldn’t make any difference anyway. “She said it was punishment and then she just disappeared. If she was going to kill me, I’m pretty sure she would’ve done it there and then.”

“I agree,” Lydia said, knocking her knee against his under the table and Stiles gave her a weak smile. “Maenads are about intoxication and ecstasy and frenzied sexual behavior. They hunt and they sacrifice, but that’s not really the end goal. I think she just meant to mess with us.”

“Well, she managed that all right,” Dad said. “Is it … permanent?”

Stiles shuddered and blamed the burning behind his eyelids on lack of sleep. “I don’t know. I’ll have to do some research. I don’t–– I––“ He pressed his lips together and Dad looked at him then, full on for the first time since they entered the house. His eyes softened and he looked rueful, like he realized this was anything but easy on Stiles.

“Son,” he said, and then scrunched up his face. Lydia sniggered and Stiles kicked her under the table. “We’ll figure it out, okay? We’ll find a way to deal with this, whether it’s permanent or not. It makes no difference to me, do you hear?” He waited until Stiles looked up again and then put both hands on his shoulders, squeezing reassuringly. “Besides,” Dad went on and there was a small smirk lurking, so Stiles knew what was coming. “I always wanted a daughter.”

“Ha ha,” Stiles said, making a face. He tried to wriggle out of Dad’s grip but just got pulled into a hug for his efforts.

“It’ll be all right,” Dad mumbled into his hair while he patted his back awkwardly. It was weird being hugged when he was suddenly so much shorter, but it felt nice. Safe. “You’ll see.”

“Thank god,” Stiles said, as they trudged up the stairs and into the bathroom, “thank god school’s out.”

“No shit,” Lydia said, opening the bag she’d brought up. She arranged a lot of small items on the counter and looked the same as always, but still different. He didn’t get it at first, watching Lydia put her make-up on in his bathroom. She was doing something with what looked like a powder puff and it made her skin glow.

When she dabbed something on her lips, making them look pink and shiny, she cocked her hip against the sink and glanced at him. Stiles got it then; this was Lydia when there were no boys around.

“Oh no,” Stiles said, understanding what she was waiting for.

“There’s no point delaying,” she said, tapping a finger against a small pouch with unopened make-up. “If this is permanent, it’s best to bite the bullet now.”

“I could homeschool until I go to college,” Stiles said. He didn’t even get a reply to that, just a delicately arched eyebrow in the mirror. “I don’t even have anything to wear,” he tried as a last resort and that made Lydia laugh as he cringed.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of that.” Stiles eyed her bag with renewed apprehension. “Right,” she said, smacking her lips around her lipgloss, “your turn.”

“My––what?” Scrambling backwards, Stiles nearly tumbled into the bath he was perched on and his voice rose (another) octave. “I don’t –– you’re not putting –– Lydia I don’t want to wear––“

She gave him a small smile. “I know you don’t,” she said, “but you still look too much like, well, you. Scott and Allison will understand, but what if you run into Danny, or anyone else from school?”

“I could just stay inside until it all went away,” Stiles complained but the thought alone made his skin itch and his limbs feel jittery. Lydia pursed her lips to hide a smile. “Come on, it’s not so bad. But let’s get you into some clothes first, so we don’t ruin the make-up.”

Stiles supposed he should be grateful Lydia pulled out a pair of jeans first, considering her love for all things mini. Under her unrelenting gaze, he stripped out of his too baggy jeans, had a wrestling match over the boxers he was wearing, (Jesus Lydia! –– Well fine, but we’re going underwear shopping soon) and pulled on the tightest fitting jeans he’d ever worn.

“What the hell,” he complained, lying on his back on the bathroom floor, sucking in his stomach –– which was flat, thank you very much –– to pop the button through the hole.

“Welcome to the world of women everywhere,” Lydia said, smiling sweetly and handing him a dark red v-neck sweater. He stood up and pulled the hoodie over his head, was already wriggling his arms out of the t-shirt when it occurred to him.

“Um,” he said, feeling all the blood drain out of his face.

“Oh honey,” Lydia whispered. She paused briefly, then bent back over her bag, digging around and reemerging with a bra hanging from her hand. “Like this,” she said, wrapping it the wrong way around her middle and doing up the clasps in front of her. Then she swiveled it around. “And then you just put your arms through and pull it up. It’s the easiest way.”

“Okay,” Stiles mumbled but he didn’t take the bra off her. She put it next to the sink and then patted his shoulder.

“I’ll be right outside.”

Holy crap, Stiles thought, staring at Lydia’s bra. Two months ago he’d have been pinching himself to make sure this wasn’t a wet dream. Now he just stared at it feeling vaguely nauseated.

“I don’t mean to rush you Stiles,” Lydia’s voice came through the door. “But my mom is going to wake up soon and wonder where I am.”

“Okay,” he called back. “I’m, uh, yeah I can do this.”

Snatching the bra from the counter, Stiles turned his back to the mirror, pulled off the t-shirt and looked down. He made some sort of squeaky noise but bit the inside of his cheek and fastened the bra around his midriff like Lydia’d shown him, hands shaking. It took a couple of tries but once the two clasps were fastened, he closed his eyes, pushed the bra the right way around and stuffed his arms through the straps. Stiles didn’t open his eyes again until he was covered and didn’t look down until he’d pulled the v-neck over his head.

“Okay,” he said, “I’m dressed.”

At once the door opened and Lydia stared at him. “Not bad,” she told him. “Not bad at all. You’ll need a slightly bigger bra, but for now it’ll do. Come on,” she patted the counter, “sit down and I’ll do your make-up.”

“Do I really need––“

“Humor me,” Lydia interrupted and began unwrapping all the new stuff she brought.

“I’ll pay you back,” Stiles said weakly but Lydia waved the comment away.

“I have more make-up than I know what to do with and besides––” She didn’t go on and didn’t look up for a while. Stiles didn’t press.

After about ten minutes of; “Close your eyes. Open. Purse your lips. Open. Press them together. Hold still, Stiles. Don’t blink,” she was done.

“I’d pluck those eyebrows but I guess they’re not so bad. And there’s not much I can do about that nose,” she said and Stiles’, “Hey,” just made her smirk at him. “You make a pretty girl. Who knew?”

Putting her hands on his shoulders, Lydia tugged him down and turned him around.

“Oh,” Stiles said, reaching up to touch his mouth but Lydia slapped his hand away.

“No touching your face.” She held up a finger as Stiles looked at himself in the mirror some more. “No biting your lips, I’ve seen you Stiles don’t even give me that. No rubbing your eyes and for the love of all that’s holy, no scratching non-existent stubble. You’ll take off the foundation.”

“Being a girl is complicated,” Stiles groused and Lydia laughed.

“This is only the beginning sweetie. Show me your nails.”

Stiles held up his hands and looked at her as she studied them. He felt a fierce urge to hug the life out of her.

“Hmm. You have nice hands. We’ll get you some nailpolish later.” When she looked up again, her face was serious. “There’s nothing we can do about your hair,” she said, wavering for only a second and then she pushed on, lifting her chin a little. “People will assume you’ve had chemotherapy or something. I’d advise you to just ignore that. No one will ask you outright. I can give you a hat if you want.”

Stiles rubbed a hand over his buzz cut and swallowed. “No,” he said a little hoarsely and Lydia did her best to keep the sympathy off her face. “No hat.”

“Okay.” There was a glint of pride in her eyes. “We’re out of time, I have to go home, but I can come back later. I’ll take you shopping.”

Stiles tried to look like she wasn’t suggesting torture but he probably failed miserably. “What about shoes?” He asked. “Mine are huge now.”

Lydia squinted at his feet. “I have a pair of flats in my car.”

Dad met them at the bottom of the stairs. “So you’re Marjorie Stilinski for the duration of your stay in Beacon Hills,” he said and Stiles gaped at him. “I called in to the office that I was going to be late today because my son had the flu and his cousin arrived to stay while her parents were in Europe.”

“Well at least it’ll be believable for you to go by Stiles too,” Lydia said, laughing. “Come on, I’ll get you those shoes and I’ll pick you up for lunch. We can go to Sumo Sushi, if you bat your eyelashes at the waiter you might get free soda.”

“I don’t need to hear this,” Dad said at the same time Stiles exclaimed, “Lydia Martin, don’t tell me that’s what you’ve been doing.”

“Use your assets,” Lydia told him, reaching out and cupping his breasts through the sweater, righting them.

“Oh my god,” Dad said weakly, clapping a hand to his face and turning away. All Stiles managed was a, “Muh,” and then Lydia was out the door.

“See you later, Dad,” he said faintly and thought he heard Dad mumble, “Much, much later, please.”

Lydia handed him a pair of flats (thank fuck) and Stiles got into his car, searching the floor for his phone.

“Scott, I’m coming over,” he said, when Scott answered with a sleepy, “M’ullo?”

Turned out climbing a drainpipe was a whole lot harder with tight jeans on and Stiles had to stuff his boobs back into his top before he flung himself through Scott’s open window.

“Hey, Stiles,” Scott mumbled sitting up in his bed, rubbing his eyes. He opened them, blinked and then squeaked loudly, clutching the covers to his bare chest.

“I’m pretty sure I’m the one who’s supposed to do that,” Stiles said, climbing to his feet.

“You,” Scott blurted, his eyes bulging, “have breasts.”

“Yes, well spotted,” Stiles said. “Can you get some clothes on? We need to go see Deaton.”

“He’s on vacation.” Scott stared at him and Stiles did his best not to fidget or cover himself up with a blanket or something. He had the feeling this was going to be an interesting learning experience.

“Vacation? Why the hell is he on vacation?” Stiles demanded. “And stop staring.”

“Sorry. But. The clinic closes around this time every year and, I don’t know, he’s just not around. I don’t actually know where he lives. Was this the Maenad’s doing?”

“You don’t know where he––? Uh, yeah,” Stiles said, feeling a bit ashamed of how he was always blindsided whenever Scott had a bright moment. “Yeah, it was. Guess she wasn’t happy with Lydia’s rejection and apparently I was an easy target.” Again.

“Right, then we’ll go see Derek.” Scott flung his legs out of bed and froze. “Can you, uh, turn around?”

“What?” Stiles put his hands on his hips and then quickly dropped them. “I don’t want to see Derek, and are you kidding me? I’ve seen you naked, dude. Multiple times since we were seven.”

“Yeah,” Scott said, face pinched, “but that was before you had––” he gestured vaguely, “––lady bits.”

“Unbelievable,” Stiles complained, throwing his arms in the air and then crossing them while he turned around to stare at the door. It made his cleavage pop up in his peripheral vision and Stiles screwed his eyes shut. “But if you think I’m going to see Derek Hale in this state, you’ve got another thing coming. Besides, who says he’ll want to help?”

Behind him, Scott snorted, and Stiles could hear him slip into his clothes. “Because it’s you, duh,” Scott said and Stiles didn’t know what that meant at all. “Do you want some breakfast? Mom’s already gone to work.”

“Yes,” Stiles said, turning around with a grin. “Waffles?”

Another unwelcome side effect of tight clothes apparently, was that he had to pop the button of his jeans after just three waffles. Scott only looked distressed once, when Stiles spilled cream on his chest and dragged a finger through it to lick it up again, so all in all it was pretty much a success. By the time they’d done the dishes, read through what they could on the bestiary and argued about going to Derek’s, Stiles got a text from Lydia, saying, Meet in half an hour.

“I gotta go,” Stiles said from the couch, legs splayed too wide to be decent. “Why don’t you go talk to Derek by yourself.”

“Who you meeting up with?” Scott asked, looking a bit petulant.

“None of your business,” Stiles told him primly, shoving his phone in his back pocket as he stood up. “C’mere and gimme a hug.”

Scott backed away from him as Stiles cornered him, arms wide. “No way, I do not need to feel your man-cleavage,” Scott said but he was laughing and let Stiles catch him, said, “Take care of yourself,” quiet enough to be serious.

“Are you saying that because I’m a girl?” Stiles asked him, heading for the front door. If he’d known Mrs McCall was out, he wouldn’t have bothered with the drainpipe.

“I’m saying that because we all need to be more careful,” Scott told him, and he waited until Stiles was in his car before taking off into the woods.

“I did some reading this morning,” Lydia told Stiles –– he tried, he really did, to not feel gleeful as he sucked free (diet) Coke through his straw, but he failed –– as soon as they handed over their menus to the waiter and watched him walk away. “And I think the answer will be sex.”

“With you?” Stiles yelped, dribbling Coke all over his chin. Lydia tutted and leaned over the table, dabbing at it with her napkin before Stiles could wipe it off with his sleeve.

“With yourself for starters,” she said. “Dionysus and his Maenads are all about pleasure and debauchery so I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what it takes to break the spell. You are still a virgin I assume?”

Stiles nodded with his mouth open but there didn’t seem to be an awful lot he could do about that. Lydia rolled her eyes. “It’s not a hardship really, is it? Imagine how many men want to be in your shoes.”

“I don’t have to,” Stiles said weakly. “I’ve wanted to be in my current shoes plenty of times.” It’d just be easier if he knew it wasn’t permanent.

“So you’re going to go home, draw a bath or whatever it takes to get you nice and relaxed and … explore.” She dragged her drink closer and sucked on the straw like Stiles’ brain wasn’t about to short out.

“Um,” Stiles said but the waiter appeared with their wonton soup and he didn’t have to say anything else.

“What if it doesn’t work?” Stiles asked her, outside, where he didn’t have to look her in the eye.

She squeezed his elbow briefly. “We’ll worry about that tomorrow.” It looked like she was going to walk away and Stiles turned toward his Jeep when she said, “Oh and Stiles,” waiting until he faced her. “Do trim your nails.”

If there was one thing Stiles learnt from being a cop’s kid, it was how to ask the wrong questions to get the right information. What’s for dinner? He texted Dad, and got a Sorry kid, will be home late, you’ll have to make do, as a reply.

It was how he found himself in the bathroom, under the safe assumption he wasn’t going to be disturbed, contemplating a candle and the possible fire hazard of lighting it, since it was covered in an inch of dust. Mom had put it there five years ago and neither of them had ever moved it, apart from the perfunctory wipe underneath. He was pretty sure it smelled more of old wax and bathroom grime than vanilla by now, so he decided to leave it.

“Right,” he said to the mirror, “lets do this thing.” If this was going to be his new body, be it for a day or a year, he was going to have to learn to look at it.

The make-up from his shopping spree with Lydia was spread out over the sink and Stiles grabbed the packet of facial wipes while the bath filled behind him. He pulled one out, sniffed it, hummed at its ‘refreshingly pleasant’ cucumber scent and dragged it roughly over his face. When he resurfaced, there was mascara smeared over his forehead and his skin looked rubbed raw.

“Woops,” he said, taking more care with the second wipe. (“Always cleanse, Stiles, I don’t care how tired you are at night, no one likes blocked pores.”) The bath was nearly full so he turned it off and stripped out of his clothes before he could think about it. “Deep breath, Stilinski,” he murmured and looked up.

The mirror was starting to fog up, but he could still see the gentle curve of his hips that hadn’t been there before, the slope of his belly, and then, oh. Stiles lifted his hands to his breasts, ignoring how his fingers shook and laughed a bit pathetically when he felt the weight of them in his palms. Of course the first handful he’d get to cop would be his own.

It felt nice though, and his nipples already began to go perky. He quickly swiped at the mirror and took a step back, calves against the bath. Between his legs was a tuft of dark hair, and nothing else. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck.” He felt lightheaded, and not in a good way, but he was going to go through with this, damnit, so he cracked the bathroom door open a bit, in case it’d get too hot in there and sank down into the hot water.

It was nice, and while it was different, it wasn’t entirely alien. He still felt aroused from touching himself in all the secret and not so secret places, it just wasn’t as overwhelmingly unstoppable as when he had his dude parts. So Stiles got out of the bath before he’d actually accomplished anything, because he really hated pruney fingers and toes.

There was a bathrobe he never used hanging from the hook on the door, and he put it on without drying himself properly. Stiles planned on maybe looking at some porn, see if that sped things up a bit, and he didn’t need to be dressed for that.

Flinging the jeans in the washing basket –– he’d have to check the bra and sweater, didn’t trust laundering those with everything else –– Stiles checked his phone on the way to his bedroom.

Derek coming over to talk to you tonight, he read, just as he opened his door.

“No way,” Stiles groaned and Derek, oddly enough, looked caught even though he was clearly waiting for Stiles. “It’s never okay to enter my bedroom uninvited, but it’s really extra not okay now, Derek. Okay?”

Derek said nothing and Stiles tried to be surreptitious about glancing down to check if his robe was cinched closed tight enough. It was.

“It’s not a joke,” Derek said eventually, when Stiles widened his eyes at him in a, Well? kind of way.

“Of course it’s not a freaking joke,” he snapped, annoyed. “Now can you help me? Or not?”

“Not,” Derek said. He swallowed and his eyes trailed down Stiles’ body, until they guiltily sprung back to his face. It’d be hilarious if Stiles wasn’t feeling so dejected. With Deaton out of town, Derek was kind of his only hope. Apart from the, uh, Lydia’s idea. “I mean, I need to, check, some things. I’ll be back later.”

Stiles opened his mouth to protest, but Derek was already straddling the windowsill. “I’ll knock, this time,” he said and then he was gone.

“Great,” Stiles mumbled, slamming the window shut. “Absolutely wonderful.”

He glanced at his computer, estimated Derek would be gone for a good while, and sat down. Clicking through his history folder, right down to 19th Century Art and Culture (a sure subject Dad wouldn’t go near), Stiles clicked on his favorite porn video and hitched up his robe. He was going to learn from this experience, he didn’t care what it took.