His fingers. Damn how Stiles worshipped Derek's fingers; their size, length, texture. Stiles loved taking them in his own, holding them, making loving gestures to them. Stiles
also loved what they represented. The strength they posed, the animalistic indication they had, the way they absolutely claimed Stiles. Derek's fingers caress Stiles like he
was a finely tuned instrument that only played a fine, secret melody to the wolf. Whether they were simply put on his neck with soft pressure during the day, or creating
delicious sensations inside his very core in the hushed heat of the night, they had a way of grounding Stiles down to earth from the chaos of his mind. Derek's fingers
anchored him to the world, and for Stiles, who had always drifted, will lovingly be eternally grateful.