"His Hands"

The pads of Arthur's fingers pressed into the underside of Merlin's jaw. He could feel the strength humming behind them, sliding over the knuckles and fanning out through the whorls, stoking the flame simmering in his belly. He wanted them everywhere on his body; grazing his flesh, pressing into the shallow dips of his skin, folding under the crease of his knee.

He wanted them to mold him, strip away the excess, and whittle him down. He wanted them to part him, to open him up, to know him.

Arthur's fingers moved, poetry with touch.

'I'll know you.'

***

The tip of Arthur's thumb brushed the corner of Merlin's mouth, slow, exploratory, and sensual. The rim of Arthur's nail scraped his bottom lip as he traced a path to the middle. He applied pressure. Merlin parted his lips. His tongue swiped the tip before the thumb was pushed fully into his mouth. He sucked, tasting dirt, grass, and faintly, leather.

He needed to have the full taste of Arthur cooling on his tongue, salty against his lips, bitter sliding down his throat. He needed to feel Arthur with his mouth, skimming his throat, his chest, the curve of one flank.

He needed Arthur's taste to flood him, sluicing through him, permeating his veins, intoxicating him. He needed it to be ingrained onto his lips, his hands, and stuck beneath his fingernails.

Arthur's thumb moved slowly in and out, sliding wetly against Merlin's lips, paint smeared across canvas.

'Need me.'

***

Arthur spread his fingers against Merlin's jaw, dragging them over his cheek to press the palm of his hand against his face.

There were promises in those palms. They filled the channels of Arthur's hands as he slid his palms down Merlin's neck, his shoulder, dropping to his hip. Those promises trickled down his wrists, flowing around the tendons that rolled beneath smooth skin. They gathered in the pleat of skin, in the crook of his arm

They promised to curve beneath the frame of his ribs and lift him, cradle him, restrain him. They promised to press against the length of his spine, tracking each rivet of bone as they journeyed up and down, up and down.

When Merlin fell, they promised to catch him, hold him, anchor him. They promised to slide under the shelf of his shoulder blades and support him. They promised to smooth over his thighs, over the knob of his knees, down his calves and ankles.

They promised to learn everything about him, mapping his contours, staining them in invisible ink.

Arthur pushed his palm against Merlin's hip, a hot brand held against pale flesh.

'Don't worry, I've got you.'

***

"Merlin," Arthur said, his voice low and gruff, strained. Merlin shut his eyes. Arthur's thumb slipped away. It was replaced with his mouth.

Arthur's hands spell words on his skin.

'My love.'