Kismet flash fiction of a morally dubious nature
This started off as an attempt to write Kismet porn. It ended up, though, as just some rather gentle character pieces that happen, for the most part, to include sex. They all take place in the hypothetical, not necessarily mutually exclusive future (i.e. after Hunter's Moon) and should not be considered canonical at all.
There is nothing in here that deserves any worse than an "R" rating, but these do contain sex, along with couplings in various gender combinations ... and one goofy little friendship piece at the end.
Surprises: Signy/Fleetwood
Over her long lifetime, Signy had learned more than she wanted to know about sex. It was hard to surprise her in bed anymore, but Fleetwood did. Repeatedly.
He surprised her by turning out to be a far better lay than she'd expected. Not as good as he said he was, or thought he was ... but better than she expected from a man who'd lived three decades to her eight.
He surprised her by pleasing her, by being gentle and attentive to her needs. She would never have expected that from him.
And he surprised her again at the end, after they'd gasped their way to separate climaxes, when he lay with her head cutting off circulation to his arm, and they talked for hours. She would have pegged him for the "roll over and go to sleep" type, but instead, he wanted to talk. So she talked about her life, and he talked about his, and they argued about Tertian politics and giggled about the lousy holovids that they'd seen. It wasn't a grand cathartic sharing moment; it was just a simple, silly conversation, the sort that lovers have, that friends have.
He surprised her because she liked him, and it had been a very long time since she'd had sex with anyone she liked.
And when she thought she was done being surprised by Fleetwood, she found that she had managed to surprise herself. Lying with her head resting against his shoulder, their voices having trailed away drowsily in the dark, she realized that she was falling asleep. And she couldn't remember the last time she'd felt safe enough in someone's arms to do that.
Healing: Linton/Colette
He was forty-six years old, and he'd slept with exactly two women in his life.
The first was Janna, a Sec-Aid worker on Secuba. He'd lost his virginity to her, then lost her to a guerilla's bullet. She had been sweet and soft and beautiful, and he couldn't believe that she was real. On the first night they made love, he'd found himself whispering "Wow", over and over again, as he discovered each tender nook of her body. Janna, who wasn't a virgin, had laughed softly, but not in a cruel way.
The second was Sarah, his computer-assigned wife on Tertia. They had not loved each other, and there had been a quiet duty to their lovemaking. It was pleasant, if never passionate, and over time, he'd learned her body almost as well as he knew his own.
He dreamed of Sarah, often, as one dreams of a familiar place. He never dreamed of Janna, but in all his waking fantasies, no matter what he tried, the features would slowly melt into Janna's. He couldn't really remember what she looked like, not after nearly thirty years, but in his fantasies, he knew her.
Colette was like neither of them. For one thing, she was a virgin, and her clumsy, soft touches awoke something gentle and protective in him -- something neither Janna nor Sarah had called forth. He found himself desperately afraid of hurting her, and wanting beyond all reason to make her first time sweet and special, as his with Janna had been.
Of course, he ended up accidentally sticking his finger in her eye, and then she rolled over too suddenly as he tried to move her into a new position and whacked him in the nose with her elbow. This was followed by much giggling and apologizing, and after that, somehow it wasn't nearly as awkward anymore.
She came when he did, which genuinely surprised him. It had never happened with Janna, and very rarely with Sarah, and Colette was a virgin so he wouldn't have expected her to climax at all. On the other hand, Colette was nineteen and he was forty-six -- apparently their bell curves of sexual vigor were currently crossing, in a way he hadn't experienced when he was having sex with women his own age.
Afterwards they lay wrapped up in each other, sweating and sticky. Her breathing was quick and harsh, and he was afraid to look at her, afraid of seeing a polite smile pasted on her face, and pain in her eyes. Afraid, even more, that he'd see her face melt into Janna's soft, half-remembered features.
Then he had no choice but to look at her, because she'd rolled on top of him and rested her hands on either side of his head. Her small round breasts brushed his chest, and her eyes were wide and shining, her face flushed. "I liked that. Can we do it again?" she asked eagerly, sounding for all the world like a kid asking for a pony ride. And she looked like herself -- mismatched eyes in a coltish face just starting to grow into beauty. She wasn't Janna.
That night when he slept, with her long angular body stretched out beside him, he didn't dream about Sarah. Not once.
Tomorrow: Fleetwood/Linton
Linton wasn't his type.
Too old, for one thing. And too, well, stable, and plain, and dull, and all the things Fleetwood had never sought in a lover.
He knew it was shallow, but he loved beauty and flash and danger; he loved tasting alcohol and cigarettes on another's lips; he loved to have sex while he or his partner were drunk or high or both. He liked angry sex and makeup sex; he liked to bite his lover's lips until he drew blood, and if he did that, he wanted him or her to bite him right back.
He'd never gone for the whole professor/librarian archetype, at least not unless it was a librarian like the part-time one at the Kismet municipal library, the one with tattoos and six lip piercings, the one who had a boyfriend built like a brick shithouse who worked as heavy muscle for the mob. He only knew this last part because he'd spent one too many afternoons asking obscur research questions in order to watch her bend over her terminal. Eventually her boyfriend had had a little "chat" with him behind the Galactic History C-F stacks, which had left him with a bloody nose and a hard-on for the boyfriend as well as the librarian.
No, Linton wasn't his type -- and that was why he was puzzled and confused by the way Linton made him feel. It wasn't the fierce, hot, sparkling sexual attraction that he normally felt for people he wanted to sleep with. It was more like a warm glow. At first there was just that, with nothing sexual at all. And then, quietly, almost without his noticing, Linton began to creep into his fantasies as well. Even there, it was different. He rarely imagined sex; it was kissing, and holding hands, and lying curled up on a couch in front of a holovid.
The thought occurred to him, finally, to wonder if this was falling in love.
By this point he knew that Linton was one of those confirmed straight people, the sort who just didn't swing that way at all. Normally, this wouldn't have been much of an impediment. He'd hit on straight men and lesbians by the bucketload. He pestered Frank Bernetti unmercifully, and he knew Frank was straight, or at least about 90% straight, and unlikely to change anytime soon.
But again, it was different with Linton. He didn't want to say anything because he knew that it would change things between them, most likely for the worse, and he didn't want that.
There was a chance ... a tiny, infinitessimal chance ... that if he said, "Come upstairs to bed with me", right now, Linton would take his hand and only ask what had taken so long. But he knew the other man well enough to be sure that it wouldn't play out that way. And Linton might say he didn't mind, and he might smile and act like everything was fine, but it wouldn't be. The easy camaraderie that had grown so slowly between them would be gone. They might be able to build it back up again, but they might not -- and even if they could patch it up, it wouldn't be the same.
Fleetwood had lived his life as a risk-taker. It surprised him, amazed him ... but this was one risk he wasn't willing to take. He wouldn't gamble the small chance of becoming Linton's lover for the very large chance of losing Linton's friendship if he tried.
And even if he gambled and won ... his track record with lovers was considerably less than stellar. He just wasn't cut out for a long-term relationship. He could do friendships fine, at least with the handful of people who were willing to tolerate his eccentricities over the long haul, but he had realized long ago that anything deeper than a fleeting love affair required a level of selflessness he just wasn't capable of maintaining. Inevitably, his affairs ended in betrayal, in hurt and anger, or just in a slow, smoldering resentment.
For Linton, he thought he might be willing to make the effort. But he didn't trust himself to be able to do it. And that, if nothing else, convinced him that he was in love with the man. He didn't want to have sex with Linton because he didn't want to hurt him.
So he just went day to day, like always. And he was happy -- at least, happy enough. He had lovers and he had friendship, and if he couldn't seem to find them in the same person, that was all right. It had always been that way.
Sometimes he told himself that he'd talk to Linton, tell him how he felt ... tomorrow.
Always tomorrow.
Partners in Crime
Jackie would never in a million years have expected it: Linton and Fleetwood, pranksters, partners in crime.
No one ever expects Linton to have a sense of humor when they first meet him. Jackie herself certainly didn't. It is part of how he disarms you, puts you off guard. The impish sparkle of light that sometimes appears in his eyes is as unexpected as the cold-blooded killer he also hides. She has now seen both sides of him, and yet he can still surprise her.
In any case, the whole prankster thing is funny when it's happening to other people, but, Jackie thinks, they've really gone too far this time.
"Which one of you overgrown children is responsible for this?"
They both look at her with equal expressions of innocence: Fleetwood with that wide-eyed little-kid face that has never fooled her, and Linton with his "I am just a dumb file clerk" expression which she actually used to believe.
"Why Jackie," Fleetwood says, "that's a new look for you."
"The ISC must have a new dress code, sir."
"Really? Guess I missed the memo."
Okay, now she knows they're both in on it. There's no way they could have the Hope and Crosby Road Show routine down to such perfection otherwise. Besides, if they're not the guilty parties, they would have burst out laughing as soon as they saw her. The fact that they're holding back is as incriminating as a full confession.
Jackie crosses her arms as best she can; the ruffles tend to get in the way. "Someone appears to have reprogrammed the ISC showers so that they only do clown costumes. Neither one of you knows who that person might be, do you?"
They look at each other. "Linton," Fleetwood says in a mock disappointed tone.
"It wasn't me, sir."
"Wasn't me either," and he grins cheekily at her, looking like a demented squirrel.
"You two will pay for this. I promise you that."
As Jackie marches off to find a shower repairman, she hears Fleetwood call after her: "Hey, Jackie! I'll give you five creds not to warn Jude!"
Jackie has to bite the inside of her cheek hard to keep from laughing. She'd never give him the satisfaction of a reply, but little does he realize she's already made that decision herself. Jude always come in at 9:00 ... and it's 9:05. Ndari has been hiding outside the locker rooms with a camera since 8:45.
Maybe she'll sell Fleetwood copies of the pictures later, to make up for the fact that any revenge that she could perpetuate on the two of them will pale by comparison to whatever Jude will undoubtedly come up with.
But she's going to charge a lot more than five creds.
There is nothing in here that deserves any worse than an "R" rating, but these do contain sex, along with couplings in various gender combinations ... and one goofy little friendship piece at the end.
Surprises: Signy/Fleetwood
Over her long lifetime, Signy had learned more than she wanted to know about sex. It was hard to surprise her in bed anymore, but Fleetwood did. Repeatedly.
He surprised her by turning out to be a far better lay than she'd expected. Not as good as he said he was, or thought he was ... but better than she expected from a man who'd lived three decades to her eight.
He surprised her by pleasing her, by being gentle and attentive to her needs. She would never have expected that from him.
And he surprised her again at the end, after they'd gasped their way to separate climaxes, when he lay with her head cutting off circulation to his arm, and they talked for hours. She would have pegged him for the "roll over and go to sleep" type, but instead, he wanted to talk. So she talked about her life, and he talked about his, and they argued about Tertian politics and giggled about the lousy holovids that they'd seen. It wasn't a grand cathartic sharing moment; it was just a simple, silly conversation, the sort that lovers have, that friends have.
He surprised her because she liked him, and it had been a very long time since she'd had sex with anyone she liked.
And when she thought she was done being surprised by Fleetwood, she found that she had managed to surprise herself. Lying with her head resting against his shoulder, their voices having trailed away drowsily in the dark, she realized that she was falling asleep. And she couldn't remember the last time she'd felt safe enough in someone's arms to do that.
Healing: Linton/Colette
He was forty-six years old, and he'd slept with exactly two women in his life.
The first was Janna, a Sec-Aid worker on Secuba. He'd lost his virginity to her, then lost her to a guerilla's bullet. She had been sweet and soft and beautiful, and he couldn't believe that she was real. On the first night they made love, he'd found himself whispering "Wow", over and over again, as he discovered each tender nook of her body. Janna, who wasn't a virgin, had laughed softly, but not in a cruel way.
The second was Sarah, his computer-assigned wife on Tertia. They had not loved each other, and there had been a quiet duty to their lovemaking. It was pleasant, if never passionate, and over time, he'd learned her body almost as well as he knew his own.
He dreamed of Sarah, often, as one dreams of a familiar place. He never dreamed of Janna, but in all his waking fantasies, no matter what he tried, the features would slowly melt into Janna's. He couldn't really remember what she looked like, not after nearly thirty years, but in his fantasies, he knew her.
Colette was like neither of them. For one thing, she was a virgin, and her clumsy, soft touches awoke something gentle and protective in him -- something neither Janna nor Sarah had called forth. He found himself desperately afraid of hurting her, and wanting beyond all reason to make her first time sweet and special, as his with Janna had been.
Of course, he ended up accidentally sticking his finger in her eye, and then she rolled over too suddenly as he tried to move her into a new position and whacked him in the nose with her elbow. This was followed by much giggling and apologizing, and after that, somehow it wasn't nearly as awkward anymore.
She came when he did, which genuinely surprised him. It had never happened with Janna, and very rarely with Sarah, and Colette was a virgin so he wouldn't have expected her to climax at all. On the other hand, Colette was nineteen and he was forty-six -- apparently their bell curves of sexual vigor were currently crossing, in a way he hadn't experienced when he was having sex with women his own age.
Afterwards they lay wrapped up in each other, sweating and sticky. Her breathing was quick and harsh, and he was afraid to look at her, afraid of seeing a polite smile pasted on her face, and pain in her eyes. Afraid, even more, that he'd see her face melt into Janna's soft, half-remembered features.
Then he had no choice but to look at her, because she'd rolled on top of him and rested her hands on either side of his head. Her small round breasts brushed his chest, and her eyes were wide and shining, her face flushed. "I liked that. Can we do it again?" she asked eagerly, sounding for all the world like a kid asking for a pony ride. And she looked like herself -- mismatched eyes in a coltish face just starting to grow into beauty. She wasn't Janna.
That night when he slept, with her long angular body stretched out beside him, he didn't dream about Sarah. Not once.
Tomorrow: Fleetwood/Linton
Linton wasn't his type.
Too old, for one thing. And too, well, stable, and plain, and dull, and all the things Fleetwood had never sought in a lover.
He knew it was shallow, but he loved beauty and flash and danger; he loved tasting alcohol and cigarettes on another's lips; he loved to have sex while he or his partner were drunk or high or both. He liked angry sex and makeup sex; he liked to bite his lover's lips until he drew blood, and if he did that, he wanted him or her to bite him right back.
He'd never gone for the whole professor/librarian archetype, at least not unless it was a librarian like the part-time one at the Kismet municipal library, the one with tattoos and six lip piercings, the one who had a boyfriend built like a brick shithouse who worked as heavy muscle for the mob. He only knew this last part because he'd spent one too many afternoons asking obscur research questions in order to watch her bend over her terminal. Eventually her boyfriend had had a little "chat" with him behind the Galactic History C-F stacks, which had left him with a bloody nose and a hard-on for the boyfriend as well as the librarian.
No, Linton wasn't his type -- and that was why he was puzzled and confused by the way Linton made him feel. It wasn't the fierce, hot, sparkling sexual attraction that he normally felt for people he wanted to sleep with. It was more like a warm glow. At first there was just that, with nothing sexual at all. And then, quietly, almost without his noticing, Linton began to creep into his fantasies as well. Even there, it was different. He rarely imagined sex; it was kissing, and holding hands, and lying curled up on a couch in front of a holovid.
The thought occurred to him, finally, to wonder if this was falling in love.
By this point he knew that Linton was one of those confirmed straight people, the sort who just didn't swing that way at all. Normally, this wouldn't have been much of an impediment. He'd hit on straight men and lesbians by the bucketload. He pestered Frank Bernetti unmercifully, and he knew Frank was straight, or at least about 90% straight, and unlikely to change anytime soon.
But again, it was different with Linton. He didn't want to say anything because he knew that it would change things between them, most likely for the worse, and he didn't want that.
There was a chance ... a tiny, infinitessimal chance ... that if he said, "Come upstairs to bed with me", right now, Linton would take his hand and only ask what had taken so long. But he knew the other man well enough to be sure that it wouldn't play out that way. And Linton might say he didn't mind, and he might smile and act like everything was fine, but it wouldn't be. The easy camaraderie that had grown so slowly between them would be gone. They might be able to build it back up again, but they might not -- and even if they could patch it up, it wouldn't be the same.
Fleetwood had lived his life as a risk-taker. It surprised him, amazed him ... but this was one risk he wasn't willing to take. He wouldn't gamble the small chance of becoming Linton's lover for the very large chance of losing Linton's friendship if he tried.
And even if he gambled and won ... his track record with lovers was considerably less than stellar. He just wasn't cut out for a long-term relationship. He could do friendships fine, at least with the handful of people who were willing to tolerate his eccentricities over the long haul, but he had realized long ago that anything deeper than a fleeting love affair required a level of selflessness he just wasn't capable of maintaining. Inevitably, his affairs ended in betrayal, in hurt and anger, or just in a slow, smoldering resentment.
For Linton, he thought he might be willing to make the effort. But he didn't trust himself to be able to do it. And that, if nothing else, convinced him that he was in love with the man. He didn't want to have sex with Linton because he didn't want to hurt him.
So he just went day to day, like always. And he was happy -- at least, happy enough. He had lovers and he had friendship, and if he couldn't seem to find them in the same person, that was all right. It had always been that way.
Sometimes he told himself that he'd talk to Linton, tell him how he felt ... tomorrow.
Always tomorrow.
Partners in Crime
Jackie would never in a million years have expected it: Linton and Fleetwood, pranksters, partners in crime.
No one ever expects Linton to have a sense of humor when they first meet him. Jackie herself certainly didn't. It is part of how he disarms you, puts you off guard. The impish sparkle of light that sometimes appears in his eyes is as unexpected as the cold-blooded killer he also hides. She has now seen both sides of him, and yet he can still surprise her.
In any case, the whole prankster thing is funny when it's happening to other people, but, Jackie thinks, they've really gone too far this time.
"Which one of you overgrown children is responsible for this?"
They both look at her with equal expressions of innocence: Fleetwood with that wide-eyed little-kid face that has never fooled her, and Linton with his "I am just a dumb file clerk" expression which she actually used to believe.
"Why Jackie," Fleetwood says, "that's a new look for you."
"The ISC must have a new dress code, sir."
"Really? Guess I missed the memo."
Okay, now she knows they're both in on it. There's no way they could have the Hope and Crosby Road Show routine down to such perfection otherwise. Besides, if they're not the guilty parties, they would have burst out laughing as soon as they saw her. The fact that they're holding back is as incriminating as a full confession.
Jackie crosses her arms as best she can; the ruffles tend to get in the way. "Someone appears to have reprogrammed the ISC showers so that they only do clown costumes. Neither one of you knows who that person might be, do you?"
They look at each other. "Linton," Fleetwood says in a mock disappointed tone.
"It wasn't me, sir."
"Wasn't me either," and he grins cheekily at her, looking like a demented squirrel.
"You two will pay for this. I promise you that."
As Jackie marches off to find a shower repairman, she hears Fleetwood call after her: "Hey, Jackie! I'll give you five creds not to warn Jude!"
Jackie has to bite the inside of her cheek hard to keep from laughing. She'd never give him the satisfaction of a reply, but little does he realize she's already made that decision herself. Jude always come in at 9:00 ... and it's 9:05. Ndari has been hiding outside the locker rooms with a camera since 8:45.
Maybe she'll sell Fleetwood copies of the pictures later, to make up for the fact that any revenge that she could perpetuate on the two of them will pale by comparison to whatever Jude will undoubtedly come up with.
But she's going to charge a lot more than five creds.