DEREK HALE HAS trouble relaxing. This is not news to anyone, but most people do their best to ignore it.
Stiles Stilinski is not most people.
Since he told Scott about the Alpha pack, Scott and Stiles have been spending a lot of time hanging around, despite Derek's many assurances that they should go away. He's told them the Alphas won't go after them — they're after Derek, and there are very specific rituals they'll follow if they want to challenge him — but Scott and Stiles still won't leave. If Scott hadn't made it clear he was there strictly for safety reasons, Derek might have assumed he'd accidentally given them the impression they were friends. Having them around all the time probably isn't doing much for his peace of mind; he's used to being alone, and he wants to settle into his loft, and he can't do that when he's got two teenage boys sprawled all over the sofa in front of his television, playing Assassin's Creed on his — when did he buy a Playstation?
Goddamnit, Peter.
When he gets tired of sighing pointedly and watching Scott shoot cougars (seriously, what?), Derek gets up and moves into the kitchen to get a glass of water. Stiles follows him, the soles of his shoes a little squeaky on the wooden floor, and Derek's going to be so irritated if there are scuff marks on his floor afterward.
"You want a drink?" he asks as Stiles hoists himself onto the kitchen counter, next to the sink.
"Sure, whatever you're having."
Derek's having a beer, so that's not happening. He grabs a can of MGD and a pitcher of filtered water, then takes a glass out of the cupboard above the counter and pours some out for Stiles. He slides it over, popping the tab on his beer and casting Stiles a wary expression to which he immediately takes offense.
"What? Like I would make a play for your stupid beer anyway." He snatches up his glass of water and takes a huge gulp of it defiantly, makes a noise like it's the greatest thing he's ever had in his mouth, and Derek cocks a doubtful eyebrow.
Instead of commenting on Stiles' theatrics (because, honestly, that would take him the next twelve years), he opts for the direct route: "When are you two going to leave me alone?"
One long-fingered hand flies to Stiles' chest, all well I never! "Derek, I'm offended. Are you saying you don't enjoy our company?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying."
"You're no fun." Stiles finishes off his water and starts swinging his legs back and forth underneath him, banging his heels off the cupboards underneath him, until he catches Derek's death glare and stops. He refocuses his energy by tapping his fingernails against the glass in his hands. "Dude, you need to relax. If you don't wanna do it with me and Scott, then do it when we're not here. Play some AC3, jerk off, get high. Whatever. Do whatever you gotta do, just deal with it, 'cause, seriously, you're wound up so tight, if I stuck a lump of —"
"If you finish that sentence, Stiles, I swear to God —"
"Okay, fine, jeeze. Just... chill out, all right?"
The only problem is, Derek doesn't really remember how to 'chill out'. And considering he's still got the Alpha pack and Peter to deal with, relaxation doesn't seem like it should be that high on his priority list.
But actually... Now that Stiles isn't talking (for once), Derek can feel some of the tension leaving him. It's a familiar feeling. It's not one he gets often, but it's familiar. It's not even regular relaxation, it's the special kind, and it actually takes him a minute to connect it to the way Stiles' fingernails are tapping gently against the glass in his hand. It's soft, but he can hear it as clearly as if he's wearing earbuds.
Derek feels the sound the way some people can see music. It starts at the crown of his head and then pours down the back of it, like water from a cup when his mom used to wash his hair in the bath, and then it creeps down his spine, and the sensation makes him shiver.
Stiles stops tapping. The pleasant tingling just below Derek's skin stops, and he abruptly opens his eyes, blinking in confusion when he finds Stiles staring at him. "What?" he snaps defensively.
"No, nothing," Stiles hurries. "You just, you looked a little like you were melting, there."
Derek doesn't know what to say to that, so he doesn't say anything. He just stands there, clutching his beer and hoping he's not turning as red as he thinks he is.
"Just —"
Derek contemplates heaving himself out the window.
"Was it the tapping? On the glass. Was it making you feel like..." Stiles gestures exaggeratedly at his head. "Scalp tingly?"
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "Why are we talking about this? It's a normal thing, it's a physiological reaction, everybody gets it —"
"No, they don't."
"... What?"
"They don't. It's not a normal thing." Stiles sighs when Derek only stares blankly at him. "There's nothing wrong with it or anything, but it's not common. It's called ASMR. Just look it up, okay? Scott and I'll go. Just promise me you'll look it up."
HE DOES LOOK it up. There's not a lot of scientific stuff on it, but there's enough that he's able to get a basic handle on the idea. ASMR is an acronym for Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response. There's been some scientific interest in it, but so far no one's been able to come up with a reliable way to measure it, so it isn't recognized as a legitimate phenomenon. And yet, YouTube is all over it.
Derek spends close to four hours on YouTube that afternoon. ASMR is typically characterized by tingling under the skin (usually in the scalp or spine), and feelings of extreme relaxation. There are certain things that trigger ASMR events, and there's an entire subculture of people on YouTube who make videos devoted to ASMR triggers. There are videos of people tapping glasses. There are videos of people rubbing crinkly bags of ramen noodles. There are videos of brushing their own hair.
He makes it a point to figure out exactly what triggers him. One of the most popular triggers seems to be personal attention, and the number of ASMR roleplay videos on YouTube proves it. He watches a few of them. He'll let the Alpha pack rip him apart before he admits it, but he watches a video of a twenty-something who looks directly into the camera like she's looking at him, talks directly to him, and then gives him a makeover for the date he has that night. And he watches a video of a brunette giving him a cranial nerve examination. He spends twenty minutes watching a pretty blonde woman who looks like his kindergarten teacher, Ms. Franklin, fold towels with careful hands, narrating her actions in a light European accent.
For four hours, Derek sits at his laptop, wearing a set of headphones and watching video after video. He subscribes to most of the channels he finds, not stopping to investigate who's behind them, because he's too caught up in the feeling. It's not a sexual feeling at all, it's just... nice. And it isn't often that Derek gets to feel nice anymore. He feels all gooey and loose, like he could fall asleep without even trying, and sleep for days, but he doesn't want to, because then he'd have to stop watching these videos.
It blows his mind a little, that he spent his whole life thinking this was a thing everyone experienced, and then he finds out that no, it's actually pretty rare. That all those times when he got tingly and fell asleep when his mom dragged her fingers through his hair, that wasn't something everyone experienced and nobody talked about. He wonders if Stiles gets it too, or if he just knows about it because Stiles knows something about everything. He didn't seem weirded out when he mentioned it earlier.
When Derek finally pulls his headphones off, his arms feeling boneless, he picks up his phone and pecks off a text message.
So do you get this too?
guilty
How do you stop watching these videos?
There's no response right away, which makes Derek frown, because Stiles' first response had been almost instantaneous. Then:
you're watching videos?
Yeah, why?
Again, there's a hesitation before Stiles' response comes through, and the pause makes Derek's pulse skip nervously in his throat. He can't help but feel like he's done something wrong, even though that's stupid. There's nothing he could have done to upset Stiles in the space of the ten seconds it took for those texts to go through.
if i ask you not to do something, will you just trust me?
Oh god.
What?
do not watch any videos by whispurred
Derek immediately searches YouTube for the channel belonging to the user called Whispurred.
Contrary to popular belief, Derek's not stupid. The only reason Stiles would have told him not to watch a specific user's videos would be because those videos embarrassed or upset Stiles specifically. And the only reason those videos would embarrass or upset Stiles specifically would be—
Derek's phone buzzes.
you're totally doing it, aren't you
There it is. The channel. Derek clicks on it, and a page of twenty or so ASMR videos fills his laptop's screen.
i'm so mad at you right now
Each thumbnail is Stiles. Every single one of them. His face, his hands, his mouth in close-up. Derek doesn't get it right away, because Stiles has never triggered him like that, but hey, what the hell, right? He puts on his headphones and clicks the first video.
we're fighting. we're in a fight
It's just a whisper video, with the camera focused on Stiles' hands. He traces back and forth over some fabric, doodling nonsense pictures and letters with the tip of his fingers, and rattles off about absolutely nothing, but he's barely audible. And it occurs to Derek that that's the first time he's ever heard Stiles legitimately whisper. He's heard Stiles stage-whisper before, obviously, but never whisper when it wasn't a life-or-death situation. When things were calm and there was no immediate threat hanging over them.
He's not prepared for the effect it has on him. He probably should be, because it's an ASMR video, on an ASMR channel, and it has over 100 000 views and 1500 likes. It still hits him like a Mack truck. The tingles explode under his skin, shooting straight down his spine and through every one of his nerve endings, like the sharp crack of a whip. It's so intense he can only handle it for a few seconds before he hits the space bar to pause the video and tugs off the headphones.
For a few long moments, he stares at his laptop. Then he snaps the lid closed, pushing away from the desk as he swipes his phone off the top of it. He's going to take a nap before he gets himself into any more trouble.
But first...
He pulls up his conversation with Stiles and taps out one last reply.
Nice hands.