Even beyond their significance in Vulcan Culture, hands fascinated Spock.
His own tapered fingers, the palms crisscrossed with dull green veins, his nail beds a light sage color beneath his nails, captivated him.
He sat at his consol, flexing his fingers to form fists, marveling at the way his knuckles bulged beneath his smooth skin; the way his wrists turned and cut a most pleasing angle when he typed, fingers flying over the keys. None of the other Alpha shift members seemed to notice he was intently studying his own hands rather than the science station, and for that he was grateful.
He looked across to Chekov, watching as the young Russian chatted animatedly with Sulu, waving his hands about excitedly as he no doubt tried to assure the older man of some invention originating in Russia. Fingers splayed and arched with emotion, palms coming together with excitement, Spock memorized the movements.
Sulu watched the young navigator with a complacent smile, one hand idle on his control panel, the other gracefully propping up his chin. Spock felt his throat tighten as he looked at the strong tendons standing out under Sulu's darker skin.
Lt. Uhura sat primly, her slender and graceful hands folded neatly in her lap as she listened intently to the subspace frequencies. As she heard interesting, but he assumed unimportant tidbits of transmissions he saw her lips curl, and fingers twitch. So long and slender were her fingers, perfect to ghost over skin and too delicate it seemed to belong to so fierce an officer.
Dr. McCoy walked onto the bridge, a scowl on his face as usual, one broad hand massaging his jaw as he glared at the PADD in his other. Spock felt his skin tingle as he watched the Doctor's hands. They were so large, so rough looking, but in Med Bay they worked with unerring precision and the lightest of touches. The nails were bitten to the quick from stress, calluses thick on his fingertips no doubt from his childhood in rural Georgia. The tanned skin called to Spock's eye.
Scotty was also there, accompanying the Doctor to complain over something to the Captain. Spock twisted uncomfortably in his chair to see the engineer's hands covered in grease and gripping a shop rag so tightly the whites of his knuckles gleamed through the dirt. He felt his breathing grow erratic, and concentrated on quelling at least the outward signs of his fascination. He felt his blood grow warm, and knew his ears at the least must be blushed green. He could see Scotty's hands twist and collide with each other as he gestured angrily—about what Spock was almost ashamed to admit he didn't know; he was too distracted by Scotty's fingers; grime caked beneath uneven and broken nails. Fingers that were as quick and deft with a wrench or sonic screw driver as Dr. McCoy's were with a laser scalpel.
Working hands were always a great fascination to him. Hardened by use and toil, but impeccably agile when needed for the smallest task, hands that could grip tight and rough but also be gentle and teasing were his undoing.
Spock groaned under his breath, so low that none of the others heard him. His own hands fisted the material of his pants as he braced them on his thighs. He tore his gaze from the chief engineer's hands to those of his Captain.
Kirk sat in his chair with an air of bemused calm as he listened to the irate Scotsman and Doctor complain. One hand rested on his knee, limp fingered, dangling just so. The other sat on the consol of the Captain's chair. His finger tips gently traced the buttons of his com panel, thumb tucked under his palm. Spock stared intently at the slow circling and tapping of his left hand's fingers. With each movement, he felt his body react. Tap went Kirk's middle finger against the alert klaxon button; Spock's stomach flipped. Kirk's pointer finger circled the ship wide com button, slowly, teasingly; Spock's nipples hardened under his science blues. Kirk's hand moved to clasp his other as he shifted his seat and Spock's mouth went dry to imagine his hand held so.
Spock's heated gaze must not have gone unnoticed, he realized when McCoy grabbed the Captain's hand roughly in his own. At Kirk's surprised noise the Doctor simply mentioned seeing a throbbing vein and was curious. McCoy flipped over the Captain's hand, prodding, examining, twisting fingers and massaging the palm.
He pushed back the Captain's fingers, revealing the slight bulge of muscle under each; Spock's eyes widened and he felt the blood rise in his face. Air popped in the Captain's knuckles and Spock felt his gaze rivet onto the sight of that strong hand being examined.
But just as suddenly, McCoy dropped Kirk's hand, gruffly saying nothing was out of the ordinary—it must have been his imagination. Kirk just laughed, his hand flapping at the Doctor before returning to his lap.
Spock closed his eyes and wrenched around to face the science station, desperately trying to control his body's physical responses. His pants were tight, his pulse erratic, breathing labored, and he was sure his face was flushed a dull green. Spock chanted Vulcan meditation mantras in his mind until he felt in control again.
The Doctor and Captain would surely tease him for such a fetish, as they would call it, but Spock was Vulcan and as such did not have a hand fetish. No, he was Vulcan, what he had was merely a hand… fascination.
Wow, it's been quite a long time since I've written anything for here, neh? And this story TOTALLY isn't based off of one of my personal fetishes, nope, not at all.
...who am I kidding, if someone asked me to roleplay as a Vulcan with hand foreplay, I'd ask 'em to marry me on the spot.