Mind Dump?

you, soft and only

I’m actually feral!!!!!!!!!! The concept made me think of your writing haha pls tell me you see the vision

Of course, I see the vision, how can I not WHEN STEREK IS THE BLUEPRINT FOR THIS SHIT

“It’s fucking not,” Stiles scoffs. “First of all, he is a fag and that’s not an insult to him either. Jackson would agree. And second of all, I’ve sucked enough dick to earn the right to say fag. If the assholes I went to school would reasonably call me it, I’m allowed to reclaim it. And third of all—”

Stiles cuts himself off when he realizes Derek looks like he just swallowed a lemon. Normally Derek’s faces range from bored to gently amused to quietly homicidal, and this is…different.

“Shit,” Stiles sighs, “you’re gonna be weird about this. That’s kind of hypocritical for someone calling me out on homophobia—”

“I’m not,” Derek huffs, rolling his eyes. “I’m not homophobic. We just don’t talk about—sex.”

It’s true, they don’t. They talk about monsters and magic and weird wolf stuff; sometimes, in their more normal moments (although that depends on how one defines “normal”) they talk about movies and cars and the general cultural development of Beacon Hills. But the closest they’ve come to talking about sex is Derek being weird about that time Stiles found women’s panties in his laundry.

“Sorry,” Stiles mutters at the book in front of him. (He’s at Derek’s new place, a townhouse that doesn’t have any holes in the walls, with central air and a real kitchen, and a bedroom instead of a big bed in the fucking middle of the living room. They’re meant to be looking through their combined collections of occult sources for information about a weird weather pattern Stiles is sure he’s noticed, but they’ve been chatting over Cherry Cokes and a big bag of Cheetos while pretending to read.) “Although I’m not that sorry—so what, dude? You think I spent all that time away at school not getting laid?”

“I didn’t say that,” Derek says with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “I’m sure you—” He winces gently; Stiles is pretty sure his skin is turning red. “Let’s stop talking.”

“So it is the gay thing,” Stiles says, mostly to himself. “Well—the bi thing. You know, straight guys think fellatio is a submissive act, but—”

Derek closes the book in front of him pointedly, two halves slamming together. “I’m not straight. I thought you were.”

Stiles blinks. “What?”

“I’m not straight, and I’ve sucked more dick than you have and I still think you shouldn’t call Jackson a—you know.”

Stiles’ whole brain is flooded with the hypothetical image of Derek Hale on his knees for some guy even bigger and beefier than he is. Or—maybe a different type of guy.

“Stiles.”

“How could you possibly assume I was straight?!” Stiles knows that’s probably not the chief issue at the moment, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind. “I fucking—you knew that I—are you a fucking idiot or just incredibly unobservant?”

Derek sighs, arms crossing over his chest as he leans back in his chair. “I should’ve known because you walked around as a teenager smelling like arousal? That’s how most teenagers smell ninety percent of the time.”

“The ogling!” Stiles all but shouts. “That time in my room with Danny—that was so fucking obvious!”

Derek’s face turns inquisitive, head tilting like he’s trying to recall. “The only people I remember you ogling were women. Girls. Lydia.”

“Holy shit,” Stiles exhales. “That’s crazy, dude. I’m, like, super bi. Horny for all genders. Interested in hotties of all identities.”

“I got it.”

“I thought you were straight.”

One of Derek’s perfect eyebrows arches up. “I wax my chest, Stiles.”

“Straight guys wax!”

“Not any that I know.”

“You’ve only—I’ve only ever heard about you with women.”

“You should be more observant,” Derek says.

“I should be more observant? Me? I was making fuck me eyes at you for two years and you had no idea.”

Derek scoffs. “That look was intentional? I thought you were just naturally twink-ish.”

A stab of embarrassment shudders through him. So Derek did know, at least partly, even if he didn’t understand the meaning. Bastard. “God, I’m glad you’re not so fucking depressed anymore but I liked you better before your ego tripled in size.”

Derek smirks at him. “That was a lie. The second part.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles says without any real heat. He’s defensive, internally cringing at the raw feeling that accompanies dredging up his teenage crush. “So fine, neither of us are straight. Good talk.” His shame sends him to his feet, legs knocking the dining chair out of the way with a too-loud knock against the hardwood floor. “I’ll take these and—”

“If I’d known,” Derek says, interrupting his spiral, “I would’ve said something earlier.”

Stiles hesitates, fingers poised to scoop a pile of books into his arms. “What? About being bi? Yeah, dude, no worries. We can form a queer caucus in the pack—although that’s most of us, to be fair.”

“I would’ve said something about being interested in you.”

For a second, Stiles is pretty sure he heard that wrong. Or—he’s asleep. Dreaming. He’s in bed right now and his hindbrain has resorted to evil trickery because the normal nightmares just aren’t enough; his subconscious has to taunt him with Derek-shaped fantasies too. But he counts ten fingers and he can feel the pain of holding his breath, which means—he’s awake. Jesus.

“I really didn’t know,” Derek says. “It’s not like we really talk about our private lives with each other. We only spend time together for pack stuff.”

“But if you’d known,” Stiles mutters.

“I’d have said something.”

“Something like—what?”

A gentle smile curls at the corner of Derek’s mouth. He’s amused, which is better than the alternative. “Stiles, would you like to stay for dinner?”

Oh, man. Stiles has a lot of ideas about how that dinner would go. Especially the end of it. (Derek Hale sucks dick, his brain helpfully reminds him.) “Fine,” he agrees. “But only if you’re buying. Even your unobservant ass can’t have missed that I’m queer and broke.”

“I can cook. And I have ice cream for dessert.”

Stiles’ cheeks tingle as blood rushes to his face. The look Derek’s wearing isn’t just amused; it’s kind of—hungry. “You’re thinking about me sucking your dick, right? That’s why you got weird—because it turned you on when I said that I suck dick.”

“Stiles.”

“Yeah.”

“Sit down if you’re staying.”

Which is to say: the coffee tastes burnt, the fridge is making a noise that sounds ominously sentient, and Peter is sitting at the kitchen island wearing Derek’s hoodie like he owns it.

Cora is there too, perched on the counter, swinging her legs and scrolling through her phone.

Stiles is also there.

Which is, Derek realizes belatedly, probably the problem.

Stiles is pacing.

Not the usual Stiles pacing, either. This is aggressive pacing. Arms flailing, words spilling out faster than Derek can track, socked feet slapping against the loft floor like he’s trying to wear a groove into it.

“I’m just saying,” Stiles says, gesturing wildly at absolutely nothing, “if you’re going to ignore your phone for twelve hours, maybe you could consider the fact that I might assume you’re dead? Or kidnapped? Or dead and kidnapped?”

“I was at the shop,” Derek says, evenly. Calmly. Patiently. Like a man who has had this argument before. “My phone died.”

Stiles spins on him. “Phones don’t just die, Derek. They give warnings. They blink. They vibrate. They cry out for help.”

Peter hums into his mug. “That last one might be projection.”

Cora snorts.

Derek shoots Peter a look. “Why are you still here?”

Peter smiles sweetly. “Your hospitality is unmatched.”

“Get your own coffee.”

“I did.” Peter taps the mug. “From your cabinet.”

Stiles throws his hands up. “See? This is what I’m talking about. Zero boundaries. No communication. Absolute emotional negligence.”

Derek frowns. “Why are you this upset?"

Stiles opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Opens it again.

“Well maybe,” Stiles says, voice rising just a little, “because when you disappear without telling me, my brain immediately decides you’ve run off on some reckless alpha martyr mission and I don’t find out until I’m identifying a body and-”

“I left you a note,” Derek says.

“You left me a Post-it that said ‘Back later.’”

“That is a note.”

“That is a threat.”

Cora leans toward Peter. “Is this-”

Peter nods. “Yes.”

Derek rubs his temples. “Stiles. I was gone half a day.”

“Half a day is six hours too long when you have a habit of almost dying,” Stiles snaps. “Sorry that I care about you.”

There it is.

The silence lands like a dropped plate.

Stiles freezes.

Derek freezes.

Peter slowly lowers his mug.

Cora blinks.

Stiles swallows, eyes wide, and then - because this is Stiles Stilinski and there is no off switch - he barrels straight through it.

“I mean obviously I care,” Stiles says quickly. Too quickly. “Because you’re, you know…you. And you’re important. And if something happened to you it would be bad. For me. Emotionally. Like, devastatingly bad. World-ending bad. Can’t-breathe bad. Which is normal. For friends. Best friends. Or…whatever we are.”

Derek’s brain has left the building.

Peter’s eyebrows are somewhere near his hairline.

Cora looks between them. “Wait,” she says slowly. “You’re not together?”

Stiles laughs. A little hysterically. “What? No. Why would we-”

Peter cuts in, delighted. “Oh, sweetheart.”

Derek croaks, “What?”

Cora hops off the counter. “We thought you were dating.”

Stiles stares at her. “I’m sorry, what?”

Peter gestures vaguely between Derek and Stiles. “The domesticity. The way you argue like an old married couple. The fact that Stiles sleeps here more than at his father’s house.”

“I sleep on the couch!” Stiles protests.

“With his hoodie as a pillow,” Peter says. “And his scent soaked into it.”

Derek’s ears are burning.

Cora shrugs. “Also you pack his lunch.”

“I pack everyone’s lunch!”

“You cut the crusts off his sandwiches.”

Stiles’ mouth opens. Closes. “He doesn’t like crusts.”

Derek mutters, “They’re unnecessary.”

Peter beams. “See? Courtship.”

Stiles turns slowly toward Derek. “Did you think that we were dating too?”

Derek finally finds his voice. “I…no. well…I didn’t-”

“You didn’t think to mention that?” Stiles demands.

Derek looks miserable. “I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?!"

“That I-” Derek stops. Breathes. Tries again. “That I like you.”

The world stops.

Stiles’ face goes completely blank.

“Oh,” he says.

Peter hums. “There it is.”

Cora grins. “Told you.”

Stiles’ laugh this time is soft. Disbelieving. “You - wait - you like me?”

Derek nods once. Then, because apparently today is the day of honesty, adds, “A lot.”

Stiles sways slightly. “Cool. Cool cool cool. Because I-” He gestures vaguely at himself. “I may have just accidentally confessed my undying devotion in front of your entire family.”

Peter raises his mug. “We’re touched.”

Cora claps. “This is better than TV.”

Stiles looks at Derek, eyes bright and a little watery. “I like you too. A lot. Like…ridiculously. I just didn’t think-”

Derek steps closer. Careful. Like Stiles might spook.

“I was going to ask you out,” Derek says. “Eventually.”

“Eventually,” Stiles echoes. “We live together.”

“I wanted to do it right.”

Stiles smiles. Soft and fond and completely undone. “You are doing it right.”

Peter clears his throat loudly. “So. Are we interrupting or-”

“Yes,” Derek and Stiles say in unison.

Cora laughs and heads for the door, grabbing Peter by the arm. “Come on. Let them figure it out.”

Peter allows himself to be dragged, calling over his shoulder, “Use protection! And labels!”

The door closes.

Silence.

Then Stiles exhales a laugh. “Well. That was a thing.”

Derek nods. “We should talk."

“Definitely.”

A beat.

Stiles steps forward and presses a quick, awkward kiss to Derek’s mouth.

Pulls back.

Grins.

“Hi,” he says.

Derek smiles back, slow and warm and absolutely certain. “Hi.”

I think this is really important to see today. A lot of us are scared about National Guard deployment. We remember 2020, we remember tanks in our streets and helicopters flying over our homes and how similar this already feels today.

But the Minnesota National Guard seems to want to change how their deployment will be perceived, to connect with the community. Contrast this look with ICE: hi-vis vests instead of tactical gear, a smile instead of a mask, and ID displayed instead of hidden (the one talking is a Lt. Col by the way. Not sure if he is base commander but high up. Here's hoping he gets that full bird soon!)

They were out offering donuts, hot cocoa, and coffee to protesters at Whipple. "It's a demonstration of safety and security, we're here to help." Even more this was an expression of TRUST. They trust the community to react appropriately.

He has a paramilitary, but the US Armed forces are so far standing on the side of the people and the US Constitution. This is a gesture of faith and trust and solidarity—and is unequivocally a sign that there is institutional resistance to Trump/DHS/ICE/CBP's violence. We CANNOT WIN without the military. The military is the deciding factor in regimes sustaining or collapsing 100% of the time.