Sep 102009
 

Title: My Lioness
Fandom: ST XI
Characters: Spock, Kirk
Rating: M
Warnings: Will eventually be smut, if I get off my ass.
Notes: This was another crackmeme fill — sadly, one I have been unable to finish. OP wanted K/S in Egypt with bellydancing.


From this prompt:
Vulcan, to me, screams Egypt. Always has, always will. So can we get a fic where Spock goes to Egypt, idk on vaca maybe, and he’s fascinated. Maybe he even cries a little because he misses home.

But more to the point I’d like to see him do some awesome bellydancing for Kirk and then have sex. bottom!Spock please


They stood together in the temple ruins — even more ruined than it had been, back in the nineteenth century, when it’d been discovered. The statue in the courtyard had been reconstructed, though, the lion-headed woman, spilling fresh water between her wide-spread legs. Tefnut, the guide had called her.

Spock already knew her — her form, if not her name, from his studies in the superstitions of Pre-Reformation Vulcan. T’Masu, he’d always called her — "from the water". And here she stood, one hand upraised, with her serpent-staff, and the other outstretched in welcome. And he found that he already knew how to greet her.

Kirk had never seen Spock as he was, in that moment. When that Vulcan’s eyes first lit upon the goddess, no man could have told Jim Kirk that Vulcans felt no emotion. The man nearly lit up, in the late afternoon sun, open and longing. The guide was rattling on about the rains — in Egypt, the rains always come in the afternoons — but Kirk held up a hand to silence him, nodding in Spock’s direction.

"Your friend, he’s going to get very wet, if he stays out here," the guide warned, but Kirk just laughed.

"He has a way with water, I think."

By this point, Spock was moving inexorably toward the great lioness, and her falling waters. Beneath a waxed-cloth canopy, on the other side of the courtyard, several local musicians finally found their rhythm, swinging into a tune that wound through the ruins like vines and serpents. Spock could feel his hips swing in time to it, as he walked. She had been waiting for him, calling to him through thousands of years of dust, to come and share her water, and finally he had arrived.

"Nash-veh la, T’Masu," he called up to her, unfastening the robes he wore, to the waist, and letting the top fall from his shoulders, as he stepped into the pool at her feet, letting the water that fell from her wash away the loneliness and the seeking. Bare-chested, he spun, in the falling water, bending back to touch the ground behind his feet, one foot rising to offset his balance. He stood in the water, and everything else faded away.

Spock might not have heard the gasps from around the courtyard, but Kirk did — and the way the band’s music shifted to match him, even as he set his own motions to it. Kirk stepped closer, taking a seat on one of the boundary stones of the pool, to watch Spock dance, not to the music, but with it. At some point, the robe had gotten tied into some sort of double-skirt configuration, and it highlighted every twitch of Spock’s hips, as he twisted and shimmied, bending himself into implausible configurations. Kirk thought it was rather like watching Orion girls dance — but even that didn’t do it justice in his mind. Orions danced because they were trained to do so — they danced for the effect. Spock seemed to be in motion because there was no other way for him to be, at the time, and to see him so wholly possessed was like nothing Kirk had ever seen, if he was perfectly honest with himself. It was, unquestionably, one of the significantly more enticing visions to which Jim Kirk had found himself subject. And as he watched Spock wend and arch beneath the falling water, he found in himself a need to see that heated grace tangled with his own body in obscenities even he had only dreamed.

On the other hand, he was James T. motherfucking Kirk, and if it was going to be a dirty rut in the sand, he’d take that and smile about it, too. It was a good thing to always be prepared for these sorts of emergencies, but he still wasn’t sure he could talk Spock into it.

Kirk wasn’t sure when the guide had wandered off, but he was almost grateful the man was gone, at least for a little while. By now, Spock had danced so long, the sun had moved, visibly, and still he showed no signs of tiring. Still, the musicians played on, occasionally hollering and cheering, at particularly spectacular displays of Vulcan grace, like the one they were presently observing. Kirk was convinced he had the best angle — watching the Vulcan bend backward toward him, water running down his chest, skipping the long, taut neck, and cascading out of his open mouth, after rebounding off the roof thereof.

The sensations that shot through Kirk’s body, at the sight, were hot and electric, and a lingering crackle remained in his hands and his groin. Had he not been wearing a galabeyah, he was certain, the resulting erection would have been on display like a flagpole.

As Spock rose, standing again, both hands raised high above his head, the settling clouds of the afternoon cracked open, water falling from the sky itself, in the form of a light drizzle. The first two fingertips of his left hand slid down his right arm in exactly the sort of outrageously obscene way he would never have confessed to even considering, in other circumstances. His arm stretched out, body twisting, slightly, so that his outstretched hand came to rest, palm up, with those same two fingers pointing at Kirk. The rest of his body followed, shortly, and he stalked out of the shallow pool, catching up to his hand, like a cat stalking its prey.

"Lamekh-salan," he whispered, stopping mere centimetres from Kirk. "Jim, we desire you. You must take us. Masu t’etek terish k’t’du."

Kirk really didn’t speak Vulcan, even after all these years, but that was fine by him. He’d understood the part in the middle, and as far as he could tell, that was the important part.