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Title: "Triplicate"
Author: monimala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Spoilers: "Morning After", "MtD"
Rating/Classification: 'R', angst, L/J/I-ish, physicality, vague oral smut.
Disclaimer: Jason Katims owns them and I refuse to give them back!
Summary: Jim Valenti seems to be in the center of a very bizarre triangle
that spans a few planets, a few lives, and a few perversions.
Dedication: To MareJ for daring me to write Jim/Lonnie in the first place.
To the rest of the gang...you each better know who you are and how you
helped shape this story! And, lastly, to Nabokov for creating Lolita, a
timeless image of man's weaknesses and strengths.
Date: January 2001.
I.
The
shining silver sky and the glaring sun make the hovering carriage glow like
a shapeshifter in mid-change. He squints as the door slides shut, with a
rattle and a whir, and the princess's long shadow move closer and closer
across the scorched earth.
It is
Day Six of the War.
She
has come to see the general, to let the curtain of his tent close behind
them as her low, urgent, murmurs drift across the camp. Important
talk...news from the palace...adjustments to their tactical formations.
She
moves in light, in shadow, her proud head held high as her cool brown eyes
take measure of him. He is compelled to reach out...to touch the edge of
her gown and feel the fabric slide between his grimy fingertips as she
offers a few words of cursory greeting for an aging sergeant.
He
twists in the damp cotton sheets, jolted out of the haze by his own
screams.
Her
voice still haunts him...the familiar coquetry falling from her dark mouth
like bloodstained water as a royal ring gleams, starkly unfamiliar, against
her lip: "I'm sorry, Sheriff...I'm sooo not mechanical."
II.
As
night drags him into that place between dream and sleep, she is undulating
above him, stretching her arms like the hide of an uncoiling snake. He
blinks and they are muscled, ink-stained, covered with strange symbols
...blinks and they are once again smooth, flawless porcelain. He swallows
convulsively and the Jeep fades away from around them, replaced by the
interior of a dark sedan as she peers down at him with calculated,
kohl-lined, victory.
Her
teeth flash from between her moist, parted, magenta lips as they form a
deceptively childish pout. "Hey-a, Jimmy Boy. Miss me?"
He
doesn't answer...thinks that he shouldn't talk to strangers, even in his
fantasies...or his nightmares. And part of him cries out, "But you
know her...you know her...you know her." He doesn't...he can't...he
swears it isn't true. The barbell in her tongue scrapes his cock and his
body jerks with sensations he doesn't want to name, with questions he has
no answer for. And he cries out a name he has never heard, never before
spoken, never known: "Vi...lan...dra!"
III.
"Va-LENti."
A tongue tapping against impossibly white teeth, licking a full,
berry-black bottom lip as the last two syllables of his name run together
and the 't' slides down her impossibly long throat.
He
wakes up sweating and uncomfortable and vaguely dirty, seeing Isabel Evans'
face and knowing, now, that it wasn't her. That the voice was hers...but
the way his name was sucked dry wasn't.
An
alien Lolita with short, purple hair, and death in her cold, brown eyes.
They
say her name was 'Lonnie.'
They
say it with disgust and fear and he sees the revulsion shake Tess to the
core as some memory of New York dances up and down her spine.
Disgust
and fear and revulsion...he understands the emotions. He knows them all too
well as he hugs his lumpy pillows and tries to force down a hard-on with
the sheer force of his will...and then finds that his will is weak, is
weaker than he had ever thought he could be. As he faces the morning sun
and wishes Isabel Evans wouldn't say his name with such class, such
precision: "Va-len-ti."
IV.
The
princess floats away from the tent on light feet, her smile betraying
nothing but her station, her mission. She feels pale blue eyes watching her
progress with the unwilling hunger that the old have for youth, for beauty.
She
smiles, tasting bitter copper on her tongue, reaches out and gently
caresses a weathered face, feels the warmth of skin beneath her palm. His
lips part and she hears him whisper a name that is not hers.
Three
haunting syllables of such reverence, of such devotion, that it almost
gives her pause...*almost*.
And
then the carriage beckons and she is swallowed up in the darkness.
As the
vehicle hastens towards the city, towards her lord, the memory of Rath's
form lying prone on the tent's dirt floor begins to fade...as does the
crumpled body of the hapless sergeant outside.
But
she cannot help but wonder...
And
the question follows her all the way to Khivar's warm embrace... to her
whispered, "it is done, my love"...to his silky praise and his
mouth on hers...to the cool steel sliding beneath her skin and the shock of
death.
Who is
Is-a-bel?
--End--
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