Masterpost of other authors taking prompts!
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            He smells him the moment he walks in the door, nearly washed out with the smell of Jack and… and is that Soco? Making a face, Derek sheds his jacket and hangs it on the shabby iron peg near the door. He tips his head, listening for the heartbeat as he moves into his apartment. It’s sluggish, and he thinks Stiles has probably passed out or at least fallen asleep.
            Sure enough, Derek finds him in the kitchen, leaning up against one of the cupboards, a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand. He stirs when Derek nudges him and begins mumbling so thickly Derek can’t understand most of it, except Scott’s name. Rolling his eyes, Derek crouches and slips the bottle from Stiles’ hand, taking it easily even when Stiles begins to grasp at it and protest. His eyes are gummy with sleep as he cracks them open to glare at Derek.
            "S’yer fault," Stiles slurs at him, pulling his hand away from Derek’s as Derek reaches for it. His head makes a hollow clunking noise as it hits the cupboards.
           "What’s my fault?" Derek asks, humoring him as he ignores Stiles’ flinchy body protests and scoops him into his arms. He’s lighter than Derek expected.
            "Isaac," Stiles tells him, and when Derek hesitates he can’t tell if it’s because of the name or the way Stiles wraps an arm around his neck and buries in face against his chest. His next words are muffled by Derek’s shirt, but he hears them all the same. "You made him all sexy and now he took my best friend. He was my best friend.” Stiles pauses and Derek can hear his heartbeat rush and then slow as Stiles’ fingers curl into his shirt. He can smell the tears.
            "He’s still your friend," Derek assures him quietly as he moves across the loft. "He’ll always be your friend."
            Stiles makes a rough, bitchy noise of irritation in the back of his throat. “H’likes Isaac more,” he bites out, digging the tips of his fingers into the pad of Derek’s shoulder, not quite enough to hurt. The sigh he let out suggests the weight of the entire world is pretty damn heavy.
            Derek is glad Stiles can’t see his eye roll the moment before he gently deposits Stiles on his bed. There’s no way he’s driving Stiles home to the sheriff because that was Derek’s bottle of Jack and Stiles is in no state to drive himself out of the parking lot much less back to Beacon Hills proper. Stiles flops onto his back as Derek disappears and returns a moment later with a glass of water, which he presses into Stiles’ hands. Stiles watches in mild confusion as Derek shucks his shoes and moves around to the other side.
            "What’re you do’en?" Stiles asks, his words slurring into a yawn.
            "It’s two in the morning, Stiles. I’m going to sleep." He doesn’t pull back the covers, just stretches out on top of them while Stiles watches. "I suggest you drink that and do the same."
            Stiles looks at the water in his hands like he has no idea what it is, but he sits up a little and downs the entire glass. He doesn’t see Derek watching every gulp. When he is done, he sets the glass on the floor and without any warning at all, wriggles his way over to Derek’s side of the bed.
            "Stiles," Derek says, and the name is an argument more than anything else.
            "Derek," Stiles answers, like a stern rebuttal and Derek really doesn’t feel like arguing with a drunk teenager. It won’t go anywhere useful.
            "I’m sorry about Scott," he offers instead, and Stiles snakes an arm over his belly and curls into Derek’s side.
            "Go to sleep," Stiles tells him, closing his eyes, Derek’s heartbeat a steady rhythm under his fingers, thumping in his ears. He doesn’t want to talk about Scott.
            Derek just sighs and threads his fingers into Stiles’ as he closes his eyes.

Masterpost of other authors taking prompts!

—————-

            He smells him the moment he walks in the door, nearly washed out with the smell of Jack and… and is that Soco? Making a face, Derek sheds his jacket and hangs it on the shabby iron peg near the door. He tips his head, listening for the heartbeat as he moves into his apartment. It’s sluggish, and he thinks Stiles has probably passed out or at least fallen asleep.

            Sure enough, Derek finds him in the kitchen, leaning up against one of the cupboards, a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand. He stirs when Derek nudges him and begins mumbling so thickly Derek can’t understand most of it, except Scott’s name. Rolling his eyes, Derek crouches and slips the bottle from Stiles’ hand, taking it easily even when Stiles begins to grasp at it and protest. His eyes are gummy with sleep as he cracks them open to glare at Derek.

            "S’yer fault," Stiles slurs at him, pulling his hand away from Derek’s as Derek reaches for it. His head makes a hollow clunking noise as it hits the cupboards.

           "What’s my fault?" Derek asks, humoring him as he ignores Stiles’ flinchy body protests and scoops him into his arms. He’s lighter than Derek expected.

            "Isaac," Stiles tells him, and when Derek hesitates he can’t tell if it’s because of the name or the way Stiles wraps an arm around his neck and buries in face against his chest. His next words are muffled by Derek’s shirt, but he hears them all the same. "You made him all sexy and now he took my best friend. He was my best friend.” Stiles pauses and Derek can hear his heartbeat rush and then slow as Stiles’ fingers curl into his shirt. He can smell the tears.

            "He’s still your friend," Derek assures him quietly as he moves across the loft. "He’ll always be your friend."

            Stiles makes a rough, bitchy noise of irritation in the back of his throat. “H’likes Isaac more,” he bites out, digging the tips of his fingers into the pad of Derek’s shoulder, not quite enough to hurt. The sigh he let out suggests the weight of the entire world is pretty damn heavy.

            Derek is glad Stiles can’t see his eye roll the moment before he gently deposits Stiles on his bed. There’s no way he’s driving Stiles home to the sheriff because that was Derek’s bottle of Jack and Stiles is in no state to drive himself out of the parking lot much less back to Beacon Hills proper. Stiles flops onto his back as Derek disappears and returns a moment later with a glass of water, which he presses into Stiles’ hands. Stiles watches in mild confusion as Derek shucks his shoes and moves around to the other side.

            "What’re you do’en?" Stiles asks, his words slurring into a yawn.

            "It’s two in the morning, Stiles. I’m going to sleep." He doesn’t pull back the covers, just stretches out on top of them while Stiles watches. "I suggest you drink that and do the same."

            Stiles looks at the water in his hands like he has no idea what it is, but he sits up a little and downs the entire glass. He doesn’t see Derek watching every gulp. When he is done, he sets the glass on the floor and without any warning at all, wriggles his way over to Derek’s side of the bed.

            "Stiles," Derek says, and the name is an argument more than anything else.

            "Derek," Stiles answers, like a stern rebuttal and Derek really doesn’t feel like arguing with a drunk teenager. It won’t go anywhere useful.

            "I’m sorry about Scott," he offers instead, and Stiles snakes an arm over his belly and curls into Derek’s side.

            "Go to sleep," Stiles tells him, closing his eyes, Derek’s heartbeat a steady rhythm under his fingers, thumping in his ears. He doesn’t want to talk about Scott.

            Derek just sighs and threads his fingers into Stiles’ as he closes his eyes.

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