His hands are huge. He is huge, of course, but his hands seem especially excessive. They are usually kept hidden, stowed shyly in pockets, but are always capable when called upon for help. The complicated systems of bones and spells fascinates you, but they always retreat too quickly from sight. One day, curiosity gets the better of you and you ask if you can inspect them. He laughs and extends you one, hefting you into his lap with little effort. You balance on his knee and pull his fist into your lap, gently unfurling the fingers to inspect the palm.
	It's a carefully constructed marquetry of ivory, bones coming together in dovetails and mitres to effect a cobblestone surface that reminds you of the masonry of the Inca. There are no interstices for you to pinch your skin, even when you try prying your fingers into the gaps. You lay your own palm against his, and even with fingers fanned wide you do not brush the edges. The fist closes back around your hand, swallowing and obscuring youyou as he grins cheekily at your size. Sliding forward, the pads of your fingers peek out between his knuckles, but you have to stretch to accomodate the breadth between each gap.
	Giving you a brief squeeze and a smile, he re-opens his fingers to let you continue your exploration. You probe at each knuckle, wrapping your hands around his fingers. You discover that each of your fists can loop around a digit each, or three if they collaborate, fingertips steepling around his thick bones. They remind you of an articulated porcelain doll on the macro scale, each phalange and metacarpal swelling at the ends to hinge smoothly with its neighbor. You don't know what magic animates them, but they are plenty strong without the help of tendons.
	Flipping the hand in your lap, you discover that it is much the same in reverse, if more convex. Your hand trail down to his wrist, too small to wrap all around, but fascinated by the gap between his radius and ulna nonetheless. You thread your fingers through the hole, worrying the gap like a loose tooth. He speaks, finally.
	"My turn now, alright?" He gently plucks your wrist from his with one hand, laying your hand in the palm of the other. Pinning you gently, spread like a dissection specimen, his thick fingertips probe carefully at the soft pads of your hand. Ever vigilant of his strength, he carefully squeezes the meat of your thumb, careful not to bruise. He flips your hand and skates fingers down its back, coming down to capture your wrist between his thumb and forefinger. He pulls it against his mouth in his version of a kiss, and gently nuzzles into the scrap of flesh. You press your cheek into his palm, and it easily engulfs half of your skull.