The Notebooks.
A/N: A little silliness which came to me while writing a longer, bleaker fic. Set circa S2 (slight liberties with order of events). Rated for sexual imagery and language. I hope you enjoy it.
I dedicate this to anyone who has ever written fiction.
Stiles has a notebook. Well, he has 17 of them now. Each of them contain his spikey handwriting in ballpoint or gel pen, in many colours (often several on the same page). Each notebook contains a series of short stories, anywhere between 1,500 and 15,000 words, which are sometimes illustrated with simple line drawings, also in ballpoint or gel pen. One notebook is only half filled with his scrawl; the remaining 16 are completely full, cover to cover.
Writing in longhand might be considered laborious and somewhat surprising for a computer-savvy teenager, but Stiles finds this an enjoyable, perhaps therapeutic, process. And, of course, as someone who has dabbled in computer hacking (and has lost numerous unsaved documents and whole thumb-drives of backed-up school work on more occasions than he cares to count), he is also acutely aware of the limitations of electronic permanence and privacy.
The notebooks hold Stiles' stories, conceived and executed by him, purely for his own entertainment.
No-one else has read any of his stories; no-one ever will. They are not intended for publication; not for money, nor for backslapping reviews on certain self-publish websites. They will never top the New York Times best sellers list, nor head up Amazon's 'most downloaded freebie fiction' list.
His notebooks are for his eyes only.
When he's old and wealthy enough to write a Last Will and Testament, he will leave instructions for all the notebooks to be packed up without so much as a glance at a title page, and to be destroyed (he'd like to stipulate 'by fire', but that seems inappropriate given the tragic backstory of one of the leading characters).
No, these stories are private creations that Stiles enjoys reading to himself as much as he enjoys the process of dreaming up the plots and writing them down.
Of course, perhaps 'plots' is too strong a word for the scenarios Stiles scratches onto shiny paper in the wee small hours. Fan fiction aficionados have an acronym for Stiles' sort of narrative: PWP. He has seen this explained as 'Plot What Plot?', and also 'Porn Without Plot'; both meaning that the text is merely a vehicle for sexually explicit antics, without the hindrance of any narrative structure or storyline. His own work does contain some elements that might be generously construed as 'plot', but really, it's only there to hang the porn on (so to speak).
He likes to think that he's a little more inventive, plot-wise, than the average online porno, and he knows that his porn is way more exciting than any adult movie he's ever watched. Stiles can incorporate anything he wants into his writings; he doesn't have to worry about censors or critical acclaim (or, it would seem, limit himself to just what's physically possible). The only critic who matters is Stiles himself, and he understands exactly what his audience requires of him.
The plot, such as it is, always revolves around two main characters, Miles and Eric, who are madly in love with each other, and destined to be together (One True Pairing, soul-mates and what have you), but they don't yet know it. Along with the obligatory UST, Stiles weaves in elements of comic confusion, bickering, empty threats, life and death situations leading to opportunities for hurt and comfort, and some classic rom-com shenanigans.
Stiles lists his influences as Buffy and Spike (he is a voracious devourer of Spuffy); Jane Austen (think Alicia Silverstone in Clueless and Colin Firth's Mr Darcy); Claudette Colbert and Clark Gable in It Happened One Night; and the entire creative works of Marvel and DC Comics and associated fan fiction (primarily, it must be said, Steve and Tony slash fics).
And then there's the not so classic rom-com sex. Yes, his stories always end with a satisfying intimate climax (pun unavoidable). That's non-negotiable, and possibly his works' raison d'être.
The sex is always the best ever, and might be slow and caring, or fast and rough, depending on how Stiles is feeling in the moment, and happens many, many times, in many different positions. It will never be vanilla (unless the plot demands it) and will always require supernatural stamina (viz: werewolf, alpha; and boy, horny teenage).
The storyline is just as likely to depict bottom!Eric as bottom!Miles (Stiles is an equal opportunities author) and there may be adult toys and/or bondage involved. Lewd behaviour in a public place is a recurrent theme.
Some stories have featured one, or more, additional cast members: the Hawaiian god-made-man, Dee; and the enigmatic Dom and Sub tag-team, Elle and Jay; have all had recurring guest spots. One memorable ficlet introduced a tentacled monster from planet Zorg (oh, the fun he had with that!).
It has to be said that Stiles is not exactly experienced in his chosen field.
Miss Petrov, his English teacher in seventh grade, told him never to write anything unless it was from personal knowledge. Well, any fool could see that was baloney! Did that mean that only people who had worked in a forensics lab or a mortuary could write CSI-type thrillers (really?); or that only law enforcement employees could write police procedurals? Conflict of interest, anyone? ('No Sheriff, he didn't resist arrest but I shot him anyway because my reader demographic demands a pithier plotline.') Hmm.
If Miss Petrov had her way, the entire genre of science-fiction would cease to exist (swallowed by an anachronistic wormhole in the space-time continuum, no doubt).
Besides, what are Wikipedia and YouTube for (baby klipspringers [check it out], and comedic cats excepted), if not to flesh-out one's narrative with sufficient factoids to make the action plausible, without one's readership feeling they were wading through the Beacon Hills Police Department Manual with a turquoise highlighter pen? (Stiles has, in fact, already done that for them. You're welcome.)
No, Stiles is a writer for a new century; he's proud that his compositions are informed by Messrs Google and Yahoo!
Need an outside location for some earth-shattering sex with stunning vistas? Googlemap.
Looking for a new sex toy to play with (on paper – he still lives with his dad, people)? Then check out the adult shopping websites. (Did you know you can get butt plugs that vibrate in time with your MP3 device? Stiles does now. And so do Miles and Eric, much to their two-dimensional delight.)
Thanks to the good folk of Wikipedia and a certain hackable University course website, Stiles is now pretty much an expert on human anatomy, as his descriptions of Eric's musculature will attest. And because of Eric's little lycanthropic issue, Stiles has also studied wolf biology, including anatomy, ecology, social and territorial behaviours, mating and reproduction, and is (if you'll forgive the bragging) a world-class expert on wolf mythology.
His sex scenes are informed by the best academic texts (and adult entertainment sites) available to the casual hacker, and though he may occasionally take liberties with endurance, refractory periods and, um, angle, he handles the material in a way that makes it wholly believable, at least to his reader.
He is both the author and his entire readership and he LOVES it.
All the stress of being the pale, skinny, discombobulated, human sidekick; of being Robin to Scott's Batman? There's none of that in his writings. (There's no Scott at all, actually, because, holy god, that would be awkward with a capital 'AWK'.)
No, in his stories, Miles is every bit the hero that Eric is; theirs is a partnership of equals. Anything Eric can do, Miles can do too, sometimes using his intellect, and laser-like focus, to give him an edge that his toned, agile body lacks when compared with Eric's more overtly muscled physique.
Graceful and poised, Miles is always in full control of his limbs, moving with the easy precision, and hidden power, of a big cat. His utterances are erudite, clear-cut, and babble-free, and he has a reputation for always being ready with 'le mot juste'.
Miles is a gifted intellectual (but not a geek), an all-round sportsman, a talented musician, and a passionate, skilful and inventive lover (and most definitely not a virgin). In short, he excels at anything he puts his mind to.
Thus, unfettered by school or fathers or societal expectations (or reality), Miles is a free agent who lives life to the full and has copious amounts of sizzling-hot sex.
Stiles can admit to living vicariously through Miles. Hell, sometimes the thought of being able to step into Miles' shoes (or stepping out of his hug-fit boxer briefs) later, is the only thing that gets him out of bed in the morning.
For example, if Stiles has been tortured in Chemistry all morning, and ends up being stretchered off the lacrosse field in the afternoon (or been bored rigid on the bench, more like), he knows he'll spend his evening saving Eric, and humanity, from marauding aliens, or assorted supernatural creatures, before personally converting them all to human love (and peaceable ways), and then banging Eric for all he's worth.
His stories are the only way he can survive pack meetings and sundry run-ins with the pack alpha, Derek Hale. With Derek, he has to cope not only with his own uneasiness at having to be in the same room as the man (werewolf) he has a humungous crush on, but he also has to worry about Derek ever finding out about said crush. That can never happen. Like, ever. Nuh-huh.
Which leads to some pretty bizarre behaviour on Stiles' part; like always having to stand downwind at pack meetings for fear that Derek (or one of the other werewolves) will pick up on his pheromones, hormones, or whatever the hell they are, the scent of which he knows screams 'arousal; sexual desire, passion, lust' louder than a YouTube fan video. It's borderline demeaning.
So, all that real-life unrequited love and sexual frustration? Well, in his tales, he can manipulate his characters to bring about requited love, followed by heaps of 'the dam has burst' sex.
So, while real life leaves much to be desired (sucks!), his fantasy world is divine and is what keeps him sane. He knows this.
But he also knows that, on some deep level, his carefully-crafted fictional idyll is ultimately unsatisfying. Like a toy box you can only play with after school, he mourns its loss all the while that he's forced to exist without it. If he could just jump into his stories like Mary Poppins into a picture chalked on the sidewalk, he wouldn't hesitate and would never, ever come back.
Those thoughts make it harder to get through the day, but usually lead to some inventive storylines, and no-holds-barred sex, later that night. On paper.
Here's the thing: The 'on paper' aspect is wearing thin, ha ha. And Stiles is sick of it. He's writing grade A+ sex scenes, hot and explicit, and he's still to lose his v-card. How is this his life?
Well, this particular evening his life must decide it's had enough, because, without a 'by your leave', it clambers into the hand basket marked 'Hell. No Stopping'.
He's had a nightmare of a day at school, with Harris and Finstock both riding his ass (and not in a fun way, even if that were remotely possible with those two and, oh … now Stiles wants to vacuum out his brain and sterilise it with those tablets you can use to keep your sex toys clean). He blames the pair of them for him not being his usual attentive self, and for the resulting awfulness.
Because right after school is the dreaded, and yet strangely desired, pack meeting, which turns into the worst since records began (and Stiles would know since he is the official keeper [self-appointed] of those records).
The meeting starts off much the same as usual; Scott moaning about why he doesn't need to be there because he's never gonna join Derek's lame-ass pack, Jackson growling at just about anything that moves (and plenty that doesn't), and Isaac curled up hogging the popcorn.
Derek struts and paces and looks good in leather (indoors, seriously?) like he usually does, and then…
Oh, Stiles can barely think about it, it's so horrific. Because Derek draws himself up and … sniffs. Sniffs the air and narrows his eyes – at Stiles.
And, holy crap, Stiles is upwind. Upwind! Because Derek has actually spent some money on making his loft more comfortable for his pack (yeah, someone check if the earth is still on its axis), and has invested in an electric fan. One of those tower jobs that sways slowly from side to side looking like a music speaker that's chillin' to some Sixties psychedelia shit.
Putting him upwind. How did he not notice?
Add that to the fact that his heavy-duty deodorant/body spray combo only managed a splutter and a gasp after his shower at school after the game, and he knows he's in deep doo-doo.
His whole body spasms. He drops the industrial-sized soda bottle he's carrying (werewolves are blessed; they can drink the stuff and never need a dentist), which tips up and falls, its cap hitting the sharp edge of the metal racking that Derek's using as a coffee table. The cap shatters and the up-turned bottle rockets (yep) up to the ceiling, spraying everything and everyone with generic cola. Not even a brand name!
It's not pretty.
Derek stalks towards him, leather jacket and hair dripping brown liquid stickiness and Stiles freezes, doing his best impersonation of Bambi looking down the barrel of a shotgun. He doesn't have the mental capacity to figure out that when a wolf is on the prowl it's probably best not to look like a food source.
"You. Out. Now."
Well, Stiles doesn't need to be told twice. He's hightailing it out of the loft like Lucy Liu is after him with chocolate-coated stilettos like in his nightmares (it's a dream thing. Don't ask.).
He doesn't stop until he and his Jeep are all the way over the other side of town in an unfamiliar drugstore parking lot.
He takes his time choosing his new body spray. It's guaranteed for 48 hours (ew!) and smells so pungent that Stiles wonders if he can use it without hurling. He figures a bit of nausea is worth not seeing Derek sniff the air like he did (better he hurls than Derek, right?), so he buys it anyway (and the matching body wash, because he's a belt and braces kinda guy when it comes to murderous alpha werewolves).
Adding wet wipes to his basket, he then cleans up in the drugstore restrooms (the cola has dried and is beyond simple cleaning with water and rough paper towels), but refrains from trying out his new body spray (that horse has already bolted).
Before he goes home, he treats himself to a double-choc-supa-sundae, an ice cream that comes in a cup that moonlights as a family-sized popcorn bucket. Don't judge; it's a well-known fact that ice cream is good for shock.
He does end up spewing and, sadly, can't blame the body spray (which is still safely inside its can like any self-respecting cold war nerve agent). No, Stiles has to hold his hands up to this and admit that he may have been defeated by 46 ounces of chocolate-chip ice cream with caramel drizzling. He thanks the PTB that the parking lot is rarely frequented by anyone he knows, so there's no-one to witness his fall from grace and report back to his dad (who would presume 'alcohol' way before 'ice cream').
He rinses out with the mouthwash he keeps in the glove compartment (he's no stranger to roadside puking – he's a teenager) and drives slowly home, sipping from a water bottle (he knows he needs to rehydrate – he's read it on WebMD).
If Stiles thought that his day couldn't get any worse, he was delusional. Beacon Hills? Werewolves? Kanimas? The luck of Stiles Stilinski? Yeah, right.
So, back home, he lets himself in, grateful that his dad won't be back until morning, and eager to throw himself into his next story so he doesn't have to think about the debacle at Derek's a moment longer than he has to.
He opens the door to his room, steps in and throws his bag into the corner by the bookcase. And then he forgets how to breathe.
Sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bedroom floor is Derek, with one of Stiles' notebooks open on his lap. One of those notebooks.
The rest of those notebooks are heaped in a jumbled pile in front of him.
Those. Notebooks.
Derek is looking at him with a raised eyebrow as if he expects Stiles to be able to speak. Yeah, that's not happening anytime soon.
Derek gives up waiting: "Miles and Eric?"
Stiles squeaks. He didn't mean to. Didn't think he could. But, yes, it's official: Stiles can make a sound like a frightened mouse. Can the ground just open up a swallow him now? Please?
"Do you publish these?" Derek asks, expression and tone in neutral, and Stiles can't get a beat on just how mad the alpha is. "On the internet? Or anywhere?"
Stiles shakes his head because: words? He can write them down apparently, but it seems that just at the moment he has been stripped of the power to vocalise them. He doesn't feel like himself.
"Has Scott read them?"
"Oh my god, no!" He finds his voice quickly enough at that. "A world of no. These are private." He stresses the last word to show just how out-of-line Derek is for going through his notebooks. For pity's sake, they're even marked with 'Private' and 'Very Personal Property of Stiles Stilinski' in fat red marker pen on every cover. This is such an invasion of privacy.
"So, no-one has read these?" Still Derek's voice and face are without emotion. This guy should try his hand at high-stakes poker.
"No! Only me. And, well, now you, I guess. Which is a totally crass and disrespectful thing to do fyi. Why would you even think to – "
"I came to find out what was behind what happened earlier. Imagine my surprise when I got here to find you gone, but your … scent … still here drenching these exercise books."
"Oh." Well, really, what is he expected to say to that? "Um, sorry?" He wants to throw up but there's nothing left in his stomach.
"What are you sorry for?"
Stiles is tempted to say 'existing' but a small part of him knows that won't help.
Derek points a finger at Stiles and then points to the floor on the other side of the pile of books. When Stiles doesn't immediately hop to it, he repeats the gesture, adding a scowl. Stiles sits.
He thinks the room is spinning a little slower down on the floor but it's still just as hot.
"Well? What are you sorry for?" Derek's face is blank again. "Writing these? Or me finding out?"
"Um. Is there a right answer here? 'Cause if so, I'll go with that one."
"The right answer is whatever the truth is. Are you sorry for writing these?"
The truth, huh? Always seems the best policy in theory but… Oh, to hell with it. Stiles shakes his head slowly.
"But you wish I hadn't seen them?"
Stiles imitates a bubble-head dog on the dashboard of a car going over cobbles.
"What if I told you...?" Derek stops then, his face pinched, brows doing that silent semaphore thing they do. "I'm sorry, Stiles. I should have respected your privacy. It won't happen again."
The werewolf stands up and thrusts his hands deep into his pockets. Stiles struggles to his feet too.
"Uh, you, uh, you're sorry for reading my … notebooks?"
This was turning into an episode of the Twilight Zone quicker than he could eat a bag of Cheetos and he could do that before Scott and his werewolf nose could smell that the bag was even open. So. Fast. Just saying.
"Yeah. Well…" Derek looks away. When he looks back, he's staring right into Stiles' eyes, like his pupils are those grains of rice with stuff inscribed on them for tourists and Derek is trying to read what's written without bothering with a magnifying glass. "I'm not sorry I read them. Only sorry I broke your trust."
Huh? "Huh?" Eloquent, Stiles, real eloquent.
"I think you have … talent," Derek says, stepping over the books to stand up close and personal. "Talent and a vivid imagination."
"Uh… Sorry?"
"No. You shouldn't be sorry. Unless all this is just words. Are your books just words, Stiles?" A hand is out of his pocket, angled towards the books at his heels. "Or are they blueprints?"
"Blueprints?" Dammit, his voice just slid up an octave.
"What I mean is: do you plan on turning your stories into reality?"
"I, um, I…" What the hell is he supposed to say to that?
"Okay. How about," the werewolf is speaking quietly and very slowly, "does Stiles like Derek, the way Miles likes Eric?" And now there's a tiny smirk on Derek's face like he knows something Stiles doesn't.
Stiles nods just once.
"Does Stiles want to do the things Miles does?"
Stiles swallows, looks to the door, looks back at Derek. Nods, barely.
"Do you think Derek wants to do the things that Eric does? Those things Eric does with Miles?"
Derek must have moved closer because his breath is cool on Stiles' heated cheek and Stiles is finding it difficult to breathe again. He manages to move his right shoulder up a fraction in an approximation of a shrug.
Then, teeth are closing around Stiles' ear lobe and tugging – he'd say playfully if it was anyone but Derek doing the tugging – then Derek is releasing his ear, stepping back and … smiling. Oh. My. God. Derek Hale is smiling. No good will come of this.
"What if I told you that he did, Stiles? What if Derek wants to do the things that Eric does. To Miles. To Stiles. What if I told you that thinking about doing those things – to you – keeps me up at night?
It takes Stiles a second or two, as he struggles to control his breathing, to realise that the loud b-boom, b-boom he's hearing is from his blood pounding in his ears, no doubt racing south (and why is it so freaking hot in this room when the god-damn window is half open?).
"Confessions of an alpha werewolf. Dot. Com," Derek says as he makes his way out of that same window and on to the Stilinski's roof. "Check it out. Then come see me. Bring the cherry-flavoured lube I can smell in your nightstand."
Stiles thinks his jaw has probably hit the ground.
"Confessions of an alpha werewolf," Derek says again (like Stiles is ever going to forget any part of this conversation). "You know, the only difference between you and me, is that … I've been published."
And then Stiles is alone with his notebooks. And an idea forming for a new PWP involving some cherry lube, a published author and absolutely no notebooks.