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21 - Friends - Ordinary - 100 words - And ordinary is definitely the wrong word.
22 - Enemies - Luck - 100 words - It seems strange that he and Albert were enemies at one time.
23 - Lovers - Stop - 1,501 words - Albert would curse the size difference, but why bother? It makes it so damn easy to carry writhing, squirming Lincoln up the stairs.
24 - Family - Kilt - 1,049 words - I found it in the closet. Tom Lincoln was Scottish, you know.
25 - Strangers - Bathhouse - 1,950 words - They never did that where Lincoln grew up.
26 - Teammates - Slang - 100 words - He has such trouble understanding slang.
27 - Parents - Never Been Kissed - 1,817 words - Experience means nothing to Lincoln. Everything is either theoretical, or something you just do.
28 - Children - Underdog - 750 words -Imagine you’re the one kid in the class who doesn’t get a single Valentine.
29 - Birth - Between a Rock and a Hard... - 100 words - And there’s nowhere he’d rather be.
30 - Death - Perplexing - 100 words - “Open the door, Six Echo,” Merrick says.
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Notes on Accuracy of the Fic - I began writing the Island100 in between the theatrical run of the film and the DVD release, and my memory is not perfect. As soon as the DVD came out I got a copy, and made some notes about the accuracy of the fic so far, and about my impressions of the movie in light of the fic. Here they are:
First: Lincoln does not, in fact, have a black leather couch. But he could. It would go with the decor well, so I'm letting that slide. We'll pretend he has any damn furniture I say he has.
Second: The layout of Tom Lincoln's house is seriously weirdass and makes no sense, try as I might to sketch out a floor plan. It's as if Michael Bay in his nonexistent wisdom found two really cool modernist staircases, and couldn't choose between them so he used both. And for all I know, there are two different sets of stairs going to two distinctly different upper levels. For the purposes of this fic (#23 - Stop) , I'm using the open stair case with the treads catilevered out from the concrete wall, because I wouldn't want Lincoln to bump his head on a railing.
Third: Lincoln Six Echo is, as I thought after seeing the movie twice in the theatre, the most adorable and huggable and squeeworthy 3-year-old-adolescent-in-the-body-of-a-30-something year-old and I heart him for fucking ever.
Fourth: Djimon Hounsou is possibly the most gorgeous hunk of man in existence AND he's cute, even if my daughter thinks he looks scary (which, come to think of it, might be the very reason he makes me wet my panties.) She didn't believe me at first when I told her he was the same guy who played Mateo in In America. Maybe if Albert took his shirt off she would recognise him... *hopes and prays for an extended edition in which Albert changes his clothes or takes a shower or something.* Late breaking news - Ewan McGregor agrees! He said about The Island in an interview, and I quote, “And Djimon [Hounsou] was f---ing gorgeous in it, and brilliantly mean in it and cool.”
Fifth: BAD SCIENCE. But I don't care. I forgive it all just for the great face Djimon makes when Sean Bean asks him if he likes Picasso.
Sixth: It's worth rewatching the movie just for the line in the helicopter after Laurent asks if they can reconfigure the instrument to detect the frequency of Lincoln's synaptic scan devices, and the tech says he thinks they can and Laurent says "DO IT" and I have a spontaneous orgasm.
Seventh: Laurent's company is indeed called Blackhawk Security *listens to the wetting of many soldier porn loving panties* and his “men” are ex-Delta. Uh-huh.
Ordinary
It’s almost surreal, to think that he is friends with a clone. Such a strange notion, that Lincoln is so different, when he seems so… so ordinary.
No. Different might be the wrong word. And ordinary is definitely the wrong word.
Laurent sneaks a look at Lincoln, who sits quietly, hands folded in his lap, looking out the window, wide grin on his face. The kind of grin that makes his whole face light up in beautiful anticipation.
Different, sure. But then, everyone’s different.
Not ordinary at all. Lincoln is most definitely extraordinary.
Luckily, Laurent is not so ordinary either.
Luck
It seems strange that he and Albert were enemies at one time. Lincoln has difficulty fathoming that Albert was once hired to kill him. That Albert believed, for a time, he had killed Lincoln. Only luck and quick thinking made him kill the wrong man.
Lincoln sneaks a look at Albert, and the small bump on his forehead from dropping on the steering wheel repeatedly. The same wheel his hands grip tightly, afraid to let go.
Hands that will soon be gripping Lincoln.
While Albert fucks him.
Lincoln bets that Albert is extraordinarily grateful that he killed the wrong man.
Stop
Laurent notices the faint aroma of pancakes in the kitchen area. Blueberry. Lincoln’s favourite. He wishes he could have been there when Lincoln made them, but he had an early meeting that morning. Pancakes are such a serious endeavour for Lincoln. He insists they be perfectly round, perfectly browned, perfectly cooked all the way through. It’s a wonder to behold, such intense concentration on Lincoln’s face over something so trivial as pancakes.
Lincoln drops his coat on the couch and turns to face Laurent. He’s got that same intense look.
“I was quiet and still all the way home,” Lincoln announces. “What’s my reward?”
Laurent does not stop to think. No thinking is required. Or possible.
He picks Lincoln up, slings him right over his shoulder, and heads for the stairs.
“Albert!” Lincoln yelps, and he might be yelping ‘Bear!” but Laurent doesn’t care. This is the fastest way to get Lincoln where he wants him, and that’s all that matters.
The bedroom isn’t strictly necessary. Lincoln has fucked Laurent on the couch. And on the floor. And, once, in the shower, but that had to be stopped and continued later in the bed. Laurent can only crouch like that for so long, and Lincoln can only raise himself up so much when he goes on his toes.
Albert would curse the size difference, but why bother? It makes it so damn easy to carry writhing, squirming Lincoln up the stairs.
When Laurent drops Lincoln on the bed, he realises that the size difference isn’t as much as he’d thought. He’s a bit out of breath; Lincoln is solid, and not easy to carry when he’s squirming.
Lincoln is laughing. Not at Laurent though – he’s being joyful.
“Did that get rid of some frustration?” Lincoln asks between guffaws.
Laurent unbuckles his belt. “Not a single bit,” he growls, slightly menacing but mostly horny.
Why does Lincoln do this to him? Or rather, how? He simply shreds Laurent’s hard-earned discipline as if he’s sweeping away a spider’s web. But spider’s webs are stronger than they look. When you push them aside, the strands wind together and make themselves even stronger.
Laurent pulls out his cock and gives it a few firm strokes. That’s what he likes to see – Lincoln wide-eyed and eager.
Laurent’s never pulled his cock out while the rest of him is fully clothed. It reminds him too much of being in a hurry, and worrying about being caught. He likes to take his time with Lincoln; there is nothing to worry about.
He keeps one hand on his cock while the other deftly unbuttons his shirt. “Aren’t you going to get undressed?” he asks. “You’re not the only one who got a manicure, you know. I want to test my fingers…”
Lincoln gulps...
“…inside you.”
…and rips off his shirt so fast a button pops off and hits Laurent’s bare stomach.
Laurent rids himself of his trousers, and Lincoln of his. No time for tantalizing strip teases. He needs skin on skin, lips on lips, fingers on… ah, fingers.
Lincoln’s fingers are like satin. And his hair is like silk. Just what Laurent ordered when he set up the appointments at the salon. But he could never order the way Lincoln is pressing against him, so demanding, so urgent.
Lincoln’s cock is as hard as Laurent’s, and Laurent hopes it will stay that way when he’s fucking Lincoln. Some guys go a bit limp when they get fucked. At first. Laurent wants Lincoln to thoroughly enjoy every second of it. His hands are on Lincoln’s ass, and it’s hot and firm and soft and Laurent wants it desperately. His fingers tease at the cleft, flex on the swell or it. Hesitate.
“Albert, Albert,” Lincoln says, as breathless as Laurent was at the top of the stairs, “don’t tease me,”
What the hell would Lincoln know about being teased?
Laurent brushes his fingertip over hot, tight asshole.
Too tight?
No. That would be absurd. After all, Lincoln fits inside Laurent, and his cock is as big.
The rest of Laurent, though, is so much bigger. Big enough to crush Lincoln if Laurent’s not careful.
“I’m afraid to hurt you,” Laurent says.
“Good,” Lincoln says. “That means you’ll be careful. Now get your cock in me!” He shoves his hips against Laurent in a way that makes it impossible for Laurent to fuck him, since their cocks are lined up side by side. But that isn’t the problem.
“It’s not that easy.’ Laurent says.
“I know; where’s the lube?” Always so practical, Lincoln is.
“I mean…”
“Albert! I’m not joking. You said you wanted to fuck me!”
“I do!”
“So, why are you stalling?”
Lincoln rolls on his back, spreads his legs in wanton invitation.
His cock is still rock hard.
Laurent slides back on the bed so he’s between Lincoln’s legs, and keeps sliding until he’s kneeling on the floor at the end of the bed, and drags Lincoln down so his ass is at the edge of the mattress and his legs are slung over Laurent’s arms.
And he’s at the perfect height.
It completely eliminates the danger of Laurent crushing Lincoln. He can be over him, and get plenty of leverage to fuck him hard, if that’s what Lincoln wants, but he won’t actually be on top of him.
Lincoln realises this at the same time Laurent does, at the same time their eyes meet. Lincoln tosses him the lube.
“Fuck me, Albert, and then we’ll really be lovers.”
Laurent slides his hands down to the backs of Lincoln’s thighs.
“I’m going to feel you inside me.”
He is, Laurent thinks. All of him.
“You’re going to love it inside me.”
Laurent cannot remember there being a course on dirty talk at the Facility, but Lincoln seems to have mastered the art. Self-taught. Quick learner.
“It’s going to feel so good.”
Laurent has no doubt. The two fingers he’s slipped inside Lincoln feel pretty fucking great already.
“Can I come first?” Lincoln asks suddenly.
Laurent stops fucking Lincoln’s ass with his fingers. “Do you mean, ‘before’ me, or ‘before I fuck you’?”
“What if I come before you fuck me?”
“You’ll be loosened up. Easier to fuck.” Laurent can’t believe they’re discussing this. They should be doing it. He starts to move his fingers again, letting the tight ring at the entrance squeeze them and the smooth walls caress them.
“Do you want easier?” Lincoln asks, stuttering a bit, but that’s to be expected when Laurent is teasing around his prostate like that.
“Do you?” Laurent demands.
Lincoln is pondering. How the hell he can ponder with two fingers up his ass and an erection that stiff…
“Maybe the first time should be easy—”
The word is cut off by a yelp.
Laurent sucks Lincoln’s cock earnestly. It is such a good idea. He’s got enough lube worked into Lincoln’s ass to ease the way, but the contractions of an orgasm will soften him up the rest of the way. He’ll be hot and smooth with no resistance at all.
“Oh, your fingers!” Lincoln gasps.
Laurent twists his smooth fingers and curls them and sucks hard and gets a low moan in response. He runs his thumb over tight balls. He’s going to get a mouthful of come any second now.
“Fuck me!” Lincoln says when he starts to come.
With pleasure. Laurent only catches the first spurt in his mouth. He moves up fast. Lincoln’s cock is still shooting, and his asshole flutters against the head of Laurent’s cock.
“Fuck me fuck me fuck me,” Lincoln chants, like he’s trying out one of his new phrases. Laurent knows it’s bound to become a personal favourite.
And there is no resistance.
Lincoln hisses; it has to burn a bit. But Laurent slides in so smoothly it’s magical. Lincoln’s fingers dig into Laurent’s shoulders, which would hurt if Laurent could feel anything beyond the slick heat around his cock and the heels digging into his back. He can’t remember putting Lincoln’s legs over his shoulders, but they’re there, and the position gives him unimpeded access. Lincoln twists under him, but it isn’t as if he’s really trying to get away or anything. Not really.
“Stop,” Lincoln pants. His eyes are squeezed shut.
Laurent freezes.
“What if I tell you to stop?” Lincoln asks.
“You just did.”
“No, I mean stop.”
Stop. As in stop. Pull out. Laurent grits his teeth; that would hurt. “I would stop,” he whispers. Honestly.
“You would,” Lincoln says.
Laurent nods. He’s suspended above a bottomless gorge, and it’s not pleasant, but he’d gladly fall if Lincoln told him to.
“You want me to stop?” Laurent asks.
“Hell, no! I just needed to know you would.”
Laurent takes a split second to analyse that. About the time it takes to sight a target, or notice a traffic light has changed from red to green. “Tease,” he growls.
Lincoln grins. “Fuck me!”
So Laurent does.
Kilt
Laurent cannot believe what he is seeing. He knows it must be real, because he is here and Lincoln is there, saying hello. And he can feel the solid counter under his elbow and the floor beneath his feet.
Plus, he’s had nothing to drink all day. He hasn’t chewed qat in over a decade, and he quit amphetamines the day he left the GIGN. He might smoke a spliff every now and then, but nothing that could result in a hallucination of this magnitude.
Doubts about his grip on reality are allayed by the glass of single malt Lincoln hands him, which is very solid.
“Lincoln,” Laurent says slowly, carefully. “You are wearing…”
Lincoln smiles at him brightly and nods.
Laurent downs the alcohol. He tries again. “You’re wearing a kilt.”
“I found it in the closet. Tom Lincoln was Scottish, you know.”
“I do know. But… you’re wearing a kilt.” It’s a mostly green kilt, with thin white and yellow lines crossing the larger green blocks.
Lincoln nods again. “Is that a problem?”
“Not really…”
“Tom’s father was a Lincoln, but his mother was a MacAlpin. Really, it’s the only family I have. Makes me feel like I belong to something.”
“I see,” Laurent says, not really seeing anything but the way Lincoln’s legs are bare, except for the ginger-coloured hair and a pair of black socks that droop a bit at the top of his black, high-top sneakers. “I don’t know if you’re supposed to wear running shoes with a kilt.”
Lincoln shrugs. “It’s all I could find. My motorcycle boots would have looked silly.”
Laurent disagrees with that. Vehemently. But the thought of Lincoln in the kilt and high black leather boots puts him into a frame of mind that leaves him unable to argue the point. A change of subject is required. But not too much of a change of subject.
“I’m not sure you’re supposed to wear it with a black t-shirt, either,” Laurent says. It’s a very tight black t-shirt, Laurent observes.
“There was a white blousey thing with it in the closet…” Lincoln admits.
The t-shirt stretches across Lincoln’s chest, and he really does have beautiful musculature…
“…but it looked too fussy for my taste.”
…and the sleeves are riding up his biceps a bit. Biceps that are also nicely developed. Lincoln’s been working out.
“There was this weird hairy sort of pouch with it, too. I think it’s supposed to go in front.”
“A sporran,” Laurent says automatically.
“That’s it! How did you know?”
“Lucky guess,” Laurent says.
Lincoln perches on the tall stool and the kilt slides open a bit, exposing pale thigh.
Laurent sighs and tries not to stare at Lincoln’s thighs. “Lincoln,” he feels obliged to point out, “we’re in a bar.”
“Yes, Albert.”
“In public.”
“Yes.”
“This is California, not Scotland,” Laurent explains. “People aren’t used to seeing men in skirts.”
“Do you think I should talk like Tom so it doesn’t seem weird?”
“No,” Laurent says quickly. He doesn’t want to associate Lincoln Six Echo with Tom Lincoln any more than is necessary. “It’s not that odd. Just a little odd.” Laurent tries very hard not to stare at Lincoln’s thighs, because it’s not that kind of a bar but the kilt and the legs make him wish it was. “Could you please put your legs together,’ he asks quietly, and nods to the bartender for a refill.
And inwardly curses himself for ever suggesting they meet for a drink instead of going over to Lincoln’s place.
“It’s called a kilt,” Lincoln says.
“I know that, and I’m pretty sure there’s supposed to be a pin there to hold that closed,” Laurent says.
“I know. I wasn’t sure where to put it. Maybe you could help me with that.”
“What makes you think I would know anything about the proper way to wear a kilt?”
“You knew about the pouch.”
“I once did a job with a couple of Scottish field ops.” Mercenaries, really. “After it was over, they brought me home with them for the local Highland Games.”
“Wow, that must have been fun.”
Laurent wouldn’t call it ‘fun’, exactly. He can still feel the awkwardness. He had been, in all likelihood, the first African to attend the festivities in this particular town as anything other than a tourist. Some of the participants, the mercs’ kin, got a bit surly and competitive with Laurent.
Fortunately, Laurent could toss that damned tree trunk farther than all but the regional champion, so the surliness quickly turned into rowdy good fun and Laurent can almost imagine that he can still feel the hangover.
“It was an experience.”
“So you must have know all about kilts.”
“I know enough.” Laurent looks down again. He can’t help it. He double curses himself for not suggesting one of those kinds of bars.
He can’t even understand why they’re in a bar.
Oh, yes, now he remembers. The counsellor from the Facility suggested Lincoln get out more, mingle with others, get more comfortable in public. So. Here they are.
“Did you compete?”
“Only for fun.”
“Did you dance?”
Laurent laughs. “Yes, actually. But only for fun.”
“What else did you learn?”
Everything is always about learning for Lincoln. “Well, I learned what a real Scotsman wears under his kilt,” Laurent says slyly.
“Oh,” Lincoln says. “Did I get that part right?”
“I don’t know. What are you wearing under there?”
“Nothing.”
Laurent would choke on his liquor, but the bartender is only refilling his glass now.
He triple curses himself for suggesting they meet so damn far from Lincoln’s place.
But they’re only a few blocks from Laurent’s apartment.
“I’m not sure if you got it exactly right. Why don’t we go to my place, so I can examine you in more detail.”
Lincoln slides off the barstool. “My bike or yours.”
Laurent does choke on his liquor. “You rode your bike in that?”
“Wasn’t easy,” Lincoln says.
“I bet.”
“Want to find out what else I can ride when I’m wearing a kilt?”
“My truck,” Laurent says. “Out front. We’ll pick up your bike later.” He tosses some bills on the counter.
He doubts they’ll make it to the apartment before he succumbs to the urge to examine the kilt.
Bathhouse
“…so, when I woke up in the alley, after being in the hot sun for so long, I had one hell of a headache,” Albert says simply.
Lincoln is horrified.
“It was my own fault,” Albert admits. “I was not trained for surveillance and covert ops. The city was unfamiliar, there were more people around than I was used to, and my opponents were highly skilled operatives.”
Lincoln still can’t get over Albert being knocked out in an alley. “How did he manage to overpower you?” he asks.
“He was big.”
“You’re not big?”
Albert stares blankly at Lincoln for a moment.
Lincoln gestures at Albert. At his size. His bulk. His naked, bulging biceps where they lie over Lincoln’s thigh.
He’s really glad Tom Lincoln bought such a huge bed, because it gives plenty of room for Albert and him to sprawl across on a lazy Sunday morning. Lincoln loves sleeping in, even if it doesn’t involve a whole lot of sleeping. And when Albert decides to sprawl across a bed, he covers a lot of ground.
A lot of warm, rippling, beautiful, incredibly sexy ground.
Albert gives him one of those smiles that make the whole room glow. And he kisses Lincoln’s hip. “You think I always looked like this?”
Lincoln hasn’t really thought about it. He’s sort of accepted Albert the way he is. Why wouldn’t he? He’s perfect.
“I was just a kid back then. I was this tall, but I was scrawny.”
Lincoln tries not to laugh, but the image of a scrawny Albert is a bit much to take. Especially since Albert has rolled away from him and is propped up on one elbow, and the sheer mass of pectorals would be overwhelming, and even a little scary, if Lincoln didn’t already know that Albert was his.
“Plus, I was still recovering from my injuries.”
Lincoln doesn’t want to think about that.
“And I didn’t really know what I was doing.”
Lincoln refuses to believe that.
“It was foolish of my employer to put me in the field in that situation. I was too young, too raw. I was used to a different sort of warfare. But it was good training, or at least it convinced me I needed better training. And I did owe the employer a lot; he recognised my potential, paid for the surgery, brought me to North America, gave me experience.” Albert unconsciously rubs his back where the surgical scar covers the knife wound where his kidney used to be.
Lincoln curls up and around Albert so he can lick the slightly raised scar, and Albert shivers.
“Cold?”
“Au contraire,” Albert growls.
Lincoln disengages. On purpose. He’ll never hear the rest if he doesn’t push. “Tell me more of the story.”
“No. I don’t want to talk. Not about that.” Albert pulls Lincoln up into his arms and Lincoln is tempted to drop the subject in favour of something more current. Immediately current. And hard and digging into Albert’s stomach. But he wants to know the rest of the story, too.
“What happened next? Was your boss upset?”
“I didn’t tell him. I picked up the subjects as soon as I was able, and followed them to their meeting place. It was a bathhouse.”
Lincoln knows that things have changed a lot since then. He may be just shy of four years old, but he’s not ignorant. But a bathhouse? People used to take baths together? Was there a water shortage? “Bath house?”
“Yes, it’s…” Albert is hesitant, which is unusual. “Not for baths, really. It’s a place men go. Just men.”
Just men. Lincoln can understand that. He used to live in sex-segregated quarters.
“They sometimes have them for women, too. But this one was just for men.”
That’s good, because Lincoln is pretty sure that no matter how scrawny he was. Albert would have trouble passing for a woman.
“And men…” Albert looked uncomfortable, “…go there to have sex.”
Sex.
“With strangers.”
Well. They never did that where Lincoln grew up.
“In public.”
Sex with strangers in a bathhouse. In public. With other men around. So other men would watch. Each other. Each others. Having sex while watching others have sex. Albert in a bathhouse, surrounded by men having sex while others watched.
“You had sex with strangers in a bathhouse?” Lincoln asks.
Albert laughs. “No, not when I was working.”
But did he have sex with strangers when he wasn’t working? “What then?”
“I followed the Americans to the bathhouse, where they met with the Russian. I watched them have their preliminary meeting, and then waited for them to leave the room where they had their, uh, private meeting.”
“Did they have sex in the bathhouse?”
Albert laughs. “It certainly looked like it. The older American looked quite dazed when he came out. And the Russian… he looked…”
Albert doesn’t want to say it. Lincoln doesn’t want him to say it. Lincoln hopes he won’t say it.
“And the one who knocked me out, he definitely looked like he’d been fucked.”
Lincoln can’t help blushing a bit, because he knows that Albert likes the way Lincoln looks after he’s been fucked.
Fucked. Fuck. It’s a great word. When Lincoln found out what it meant, he was scared to use it at first. But he’s practised. He knows how to use it to swear, as a noun and an adjective and a verb, as well as how to use it in its proper sense. And he loves it, because it has a great sound. The ‘f’ is soft, and the ‘u’ is like the grunt he makes when he’s stretched open and the ‘ck’ is just rough enough to make him think of…
Albert is staring at him and licking his lips. “You look like you’ve been fucked,” he says.
“I have been,” Lincoln answers honestly. He certainly hopes Albert remembers. It was a wonderful way to wake up. He wishes Albert would quit working so he could wake up that way every morning.
Or maybe every second morning. He likes to fuck Albert too.
He also wants to know the end of the story. “Come on, Albert. What happened next?”
Albert runs his hands through Lincoln’s spiky hair. “I still didn’t tell my boss. He wouldn’t have liked the three of them meeting like that after he’d put them on opposite sides of the operation. He couldn’t have done anything about it anyway.”
He traces the shape of Lincoln’s shoulder idly. “The Americans made a deal with the Russian, and they finished the job as a team, and even though it wasn’t exactly what was planned, the boss never knew and I got paid enough to go back to France and get myself some proper training.”
He runs his fingertips over Lincoln’s right nipple, not so idly. “I joined the army and was accepted into the Special Forces faster than any recruit in the history of the GIGN.”
Albert bends his head and licks across the nipple, quite red and hard from what his fingertips were doing.
Lincoln grabs a bicep, or what his hand can grab of a bicep. “Ahhhh.”
Albert licks up to Lincoln’s chin. “And that’s the story. I never did find out what the British agent was doing there, but I don’t care. My former employer was eliminated in a plane crash a few months after the operation, so I was no longer obligated to anyone involved. I never saw the Russian again.” He kisses Lincoln lightly. “And as to the Americans, I did see them again, but that’s a whole other story. Can we stop talking now?”
“About that,” Lincoln says. “But tell me more about this bathhouse thing. That sounds interesting.”
Albert screws up his face. “You don’t want to go to a bathhouse, Lincoln. It would be full of men staring at you, wanting you.”
Lincoln doesn’t think so. He thinks the men would be staring at Albert and tells him so.
“You would take me to a bathhouse?” Albert asks. “But how would you have sex with a stranger if I was there? You want me to watch?”
“I don’t want to have sex with a stranger. But with you…” Lincoln is suddenly embarrassed, which hardly ever happens. He’s pretty sure Albert knows why.
“You liked that, in the truck, with the kilt,” Albert whispers against Lincoln’s throat.
Lincoln is thankful Albert’s not looking him in the eye. He’s squirming enough as it is.
“You liked it when I went down on you and people could have seen.”
Lincoln hadn’t really liked it at first. Albert had waited long enough to start the truck and move it into the alley behind the bar, but that was as far as he got before he bent around the gear shift and shoved his face under the kilt. Lincoln had gripped the dashboard hard and tried not to yell loud enough for anyone to hear. He was scared they would get in trouble.
He had flashbacks of proximity warnings.
“You liked worrying about getting caught.”
Oh, yes, he had. Once Albert had those perfect lips wrapped around his cock, and his tongue was doing things that made Lincoln want to scream, and his hand was running up and down Lincoln’s thigh, and he was making those low, desperate moans that rumbled in Lincoln’s stomach and made him feel weak, no, Lincoln hadn’t minded at all. He’d spread his legs as much as the truck would allow and enjoyed.
Every time someone had walked across the entrance to the alley, there’d been a spike of fear, but that had quickly added to the pleasure, and pretty soon Lincoln had wanted people to walk right by the truck, because he was getting the best blowjob ever and he didn’t care who knew.
Albert nibbles on Lincoln’s collarbone. “You’re such a naughty one,” he breathes our over Lincoln’s skin.
Why does that make Lincoln’s cock hard? Not the breath. The breath he’s felt before. He knows what hot breath does to his skin. But the ‘naughty’ part. Why does that…
It doesn’t matter. Albert’s on top of him, kissing him deep and hard. Lincoln’s spreading his legs, even though he knows he’ll be sore if Albert fucks him again so soon. Albert is hard, very hard, and he’s rubbing against the inside of Lincoln’s thigh.
“Naughty boy. You want strangers.”
“I don’t want to fuck a stranger,” Lincoln moans. “I only want to fuck you.”
“You want strangers to watch,” Albert says hoarsely.
No, no strangers. No sex in public. If Albert fucked him in public, strangers would see Albert’s beautiful cock and his perfect ass and his long, long legs and his broad back and even the surgical scar that runs over the knife wound, and those things aren’t for anyone else to see. Lincoln wants to be the only one who sees those.
“No,” he says, hugging Albert with his legs. “No, only us.”
Albert pushes Lincoln’s legs together. “Good,” he says. “I don’t want anyone else to ever see you naked.” He straddles Lincoln’s hips and reaches for the lube. “Now, fuck me, Lincoln.”
Lincoln, it seems, does not have a choice.
Lincoln, it would appear, is having the best morning of his whole life.
Albert is careful, very careful, not to put all his weight on Lincoln when he sits on his cock. This is the first time they’re done it this way, and Lincoln is absolutely loving it, because he can touch Albert’s cock with both hands, and he can look into Albert’s eyes, and Albert can lean down and kiss Lincoln. Deep and hard.
Lincolns forgets all about bathhouses.
Slang
Lincoln is confused.
He has such trouble understanding slang. People say ‘cool’ when they mean ‘hot’, and ‘whatever’ when they really care, and when they talk about cars or stereos, he’s lost. It’s bewildering and frustrating. He curses everything he’s missed. He wishes he were a computer and could download the last 30 years of pop culture references.
A girl said Lincoln was cute, and the other girl said, “Forget it, he plays for the other team.”
And for the life of him, he can’t figure out which team she meant.
Albert’s no help at all. He’s too busy laughing.
Never Been Kissed
Lincoln Six Echo’s navel is perfectly formed. It is symmetrical, and placed at the centre of what seems to be a carefully designed array of finely-tuned nerves, in the middle of an exquisitely crafted abdomen (not too hard, not too soft) and is of the exact right depth for Laurent to swirl the tip of his tongue inside and be rewarded with an appreciative moan, without having to strain at all.
Laurent knows this because he just did it.
But now he pauses, because he realises that this is not, in fact, a naturally-occurring navel. It was not formed by the removal of a regular umbilical cord; it was once a receptacle for a nutrient conduit from a machine.
Laurent has studied clone anatomy. He knows how Merrick designed his agnates to function as closely to humans as possible. Delivery of nutrients directly to the bloodstream via an abdominal intake valve not only mimics nature, but is the most efficient solution to the problem of supplying the massive amounts of material required to grow an entire, fully-functioning, adult-sized humanoid in such a short period of time.
But does that make Lincoln less than human?
Lincoln has said that his friend Mac told him he wasn’t really human. Laurent will never forgive Mac for that little slip of the tongue.
Speaking of tongues…
“Mmmm, Albert, that’s…” Lincoln sighs.
Laurent wonders if Lincoln is so sensitive there because the wound is so freshly healed. After all, that’s what a navel is – scar tissue. Healed over completely, not painful, but it’s a scar nonetheless. Laurent got his forty-six years ago. Lincoln’s is less than four years old. It probably has more nerve endings or something.
But that wouldn’t explain why Laurent feels so damn good when Lincoln’s fingers trace patterns on his scalp, and when Lincoln’s foot rubs the back of Laurent’s thighs. And Laurent never enjoyed the sensation of a slightly furry belly against his cheek this much before. So age probably has nothing to do with it.
Lincoln has to do with it. Lincoln is the reason everything feels so fucking good.
Laurent closes his lips over Lincoln’s navel and creates enough suction to make hands claw at his shoulders, hips writhe beneath him, legs shake.
Then Lincoln laughs.
“Tickles, “ Lincoln explains breathlessly.
Laurent adds some irregular tongue flickering to the suction.
“Oh, no, not that!” Lincoln gasps.
Laurent hopes Lincoln will never discover the sorts of thoughts he sometimes has while exploring Lincoln’s body. Lincoln is adjusting to life in the real world so well. If he found out that Laurent ever, even for the briefest moment, questions his humanity…
“Albert!”
Laurent stops sucking and is surprised to see how dark the skin is around Lincoln’s navel. He kisses it gently. No tongue. No suction.
Lincoln squirms.
Laurent moves up the bed to cover Lincoln’s body.
Does it really matter that Lincoln's organs and flesh and bones and blood were created in half a year instead of thirty? Does it matter that he came from a machine that was working from a blueprint containing information from Tom Lincoln’s DNA, brain and body scans? That he has no parents, no childhood, no past?
His body is as much like a human’s as anyone else’s. And the other things… they aren’t so unusual. Laurent hasn’t had parents for almost forty years. His childhood was cut so short it might as well have not existed. At least he doubts he was ever innocent. He’s tried so hard to forget some things from his past they might as well be memory implants.
Sketchy. Detail-less. It’s safer that way. Less upsetting.
The past is of no concern. How he got here, how Lincoln came to be, these things are immaterial when he has Lincoln naked in his arms, sighing and rubbing his back in slow circles as his pelvis presses up rhythmically.
Grey eyes look up at him with a hint of concern.
“Albert, you seem preoccupied.”
“Only with you,” Laurent assures him. “I am only thinking of you.”
“What about me?” Ever curious. Never knowing when to let it slide. Lincoln sounds innocent enough, but Laurent imagines there is suspicion in his voice.
Product of a guilty conscience.
He brushes his fingertips through Lincoln’s hair. “You’re perfect,” he says, not lying at all. “I want to kiss you all over.”
Lincoln laughs nervously.
He takes everything literally. If Laurent were to say he wanted to hug Lincoln to death, it would take a few seconds for Lincoln to recognise the exaggeration. If Laurent were to say, “I could eat you up,” Lincoln would be wary of Laurent’s teeth for a little while.
So Lincoln is busy imagining all the places Laurent could kiss him. He’s probably imaging the few places he’s never been kissed.
Laurent resolves to find every single one of them. With his lips. And his tongue. Because he was not speaking figuratively.
Lincoln, as it turns out, has more ticklish spots than Laurent would have guessed.
The inside of his ankle. (Lincoln goes into hysterics when Laurent flicks his tongue out against it just so.) Behind his knees. (The mere brush of Laurent’s beard across the pale skin does the trick.) Under his arms, of course. (The giggles are also moans.) Right where the ridges of muscle that angle down from his hips fade into flat groin. (But Laurent already knew about that one.)
Lincoln’s laugh is not from ticklishness when Laurent pushed him onto his stomach and gives the very base of his spine a lick. It’s nervous again.
“Albert?”
Laurent licks down to the coarse hairs between Lincoln’s perfect cheeks.
“Albert! You don’t have to kiss me everywhere!”
But he does, because it’s what he said he wanted to do, and beyond that it’s what he wants to do, but mostly because it feels and tastes so good, so hot, so intimate.
Laurent pushes Lincoln’s legs apart. Lincoln pushes them back together, mildly panicked. That makes his buttocks clench so the cleft is deep and tight. Laurent makes his tongue really wet and slithers it up and down the crack.
Lincoln’s legs spread like magic.
Laurent can’t help feeling grateful.
And, Lord, Lincoln tastes good. The tight little ridges radiating form his opening have a strong, rich flavour and the salt of the sweat that clings to the straight hairs compliments it perfectly.
When Laurent licks with his tongue flat and wide, Lincoln moans. When Laurent jabs, tongue speared and stiffened, Lincoln grunts. And when Laurent spreads Lincoln’s cheeks wide and kisses hot and hard, Lincoln yelps his name.
“Can you can you can you,” Lincoln chants as Laurent tongue fucks him. Or maybe it’s ‘you can you can you can.”
Laurent feels like he can do anything.
He tonguefucks harder, straining to get more of his tongue inside the delightfully twitching little hole. The wrinkles have softened, the opening unclenched. Lincoln has drawn his knees up under his chest and is wide open.
Laurent has to stop to catch his breath.
“Can you do that until I come?” Lincoln asks in a rush of air.
Breathing is for pussies, Laurent decides. He’s completed dangerous ops with less oxygen. He dives back with a guttural moan, forcing his tongue inside, sinking his fingers into Lincoln’s flanks. He has to get inside, somehow. Better than fucking. Lincoln is making the best noises ever, he keeps pushing back, asking for more, opening up more and more. Amazing.
Laurent can’t even reach Lincoln’s cock, Lincoln is so tightly doubled over, but he can touch balls, so he gently strokes and squeezes, lifts them up to rub the skin over his beard and he keeps licking and fucking and kissing and tasting all of Lincoln.
Lincoln makes a squeak and pitches forward, with Laurent following, pressing into him, hands kneading his ass and thighs, mouth relentless. Lincoln’s leg’s spread out and Laurent can squeeze a hand between them to grip the hardest cock he’s ever felt. Lincoln is rocking back onto Laurent’s tongue, and Laurent wishes he could do more. So much more.
But apparently, it’s enough for Lincoln. He starts to come and Laurent shoves his tongue in as far as he can so he can feel everything deep inside.
Now he’s kissed Lincoln everywhere.
Lincoln stays like that, on his hands and knees, panting into the pillow and moaning, for quite some time. Laurent licks up Lincoln’s spine and kisses the back of his neck before pulling him on his side. Lincoln’s never been this pliable before. There is no resistance at all. He simply flops down and sighs.
Laurent wants to hold Lincoln close, but he doesn’t want to jab Lincoln with his hard cock. He keeps his mouth attached to Lincoln’s neck, but holds his cock away.
“Mmmm,” Lincoln murmurs, lazy and hazy and feline. “Aren’t you going to fuck me now?”
Laurent would dearly love to, but it seems like taking advantage.
“Albert,” Lincoln purrs. “Fuck me.”
It’s not taking advantage after an invitation that clear. He shifts his hips forward and his cock, wet at the tip, slides against moist asshole. He has to add a bit of lube. The spit will dry up to fast. He’d hate to cause any damage to that perfect asshole. He reaches over Lincoln for the lube and is met by Lincoln’s mouth.
Is this a good idea? Do you kiss someone after you rim them? It’s something Laurent doesn’t have a whole lot of experience with.
Experience means nothing to Lincoln. Everything is either theoretical, or something you just do. His tongue tastes strangely sharp in comparison. Lincoln moans and nibbles Laurent’s lower lip.
“Fuck,” Lincoln whispers without really letting go.
Laurent flips open the lube one-handed and slicks his cock. He slides inside with not resistance at all, and Lincoln bites his lip.
“Easy,” Laurent growls, more to himself than to Lincoln.
“Mmm, goes in easy,” Lincoln purrs. Stretches. Takes Laurent all the way in.
“Perfect,” So perfect it’s a wonder they’ve never done this before.
Lincoln will want to try it next. He’ll want to kiss and lick Laurent everywhere, and he’ll want to end it by licking Laurent’s asshole until he comes, and Laurent will not be able to contain himself. He will come over the sheets and he’ll spill out all his emotions and he’ll tell Lincoln how much he loves him and how he couldn’t live without him and how they were meant for each other all along.
But it will be too late, because he’s doing that now, as he slides his cock in and out slowly, and holds Lincoln against his chest, and bends his legs up so they press against Lincoln’s legs and the two of them are one person in the middle of the bed.
Lincoln is perfectly formed and perfectly human and Laurent is perfectly content.
Underdog
“They’re just children.”
“I’m sure they’ll survive,” Laurent says absently. He’s adding a column of figures in his head and he’s not coming up with the positive figures he needs to make the product viable. He’s not sure if it’s the base price of the technology or if the system is overly complicated. He’s sure there will be overruns, and there isn’t enough of a cushion to make it work.
“Albert!”
Laurent looks up from the rough schematic his designer gave him and the scribbled figures beside it. He’s not been entirely following whatever Lincoln is ranting about. Something about children, Valentine’s Day and the inherent unfairness of popularity contests.
“You’re not listening.”
Laurent has never had much use for Valentine’s Day.
“Don’t you care?”
Laurent thinks. No, he doesn’t. But Lincoln does, and that’s what matters. “Lincoln, you’re getting very upset about this. Why don’t you give it a rest? I’ll stop working and we’ll have some dinner.”
“I don’t want dinner! And what have you been frowning about all evening, anyway?” Lincoln snatches the paper form Laurent’s hand and scans it.
“It’s business. A potential product.”
“I hope not. Those mag locks are going to interfere with data transmission.”
“What?”
“And I think the self-esteem of millions of school children is more important.” Lincoln crumples the paper. “The fingerprint scans are redundant, and they’re fallible. A randomly variable combination with a…”
Lincoln goes on about logarithms and data encryption.
It’s amazing, what Lincoln picks up when his retina scanner malfunctions and he decides to do some research into high-end home security.
“So what about the children?” Lincoln asks.
“They can take care of themselves.” Laurent has always been practical about these sorts of issues.
“Shouldn’t I be complaining to someone?” Lincoln suggests.
“About Valentine’s cards?”
Lincoln takes things so personally sometimes. He sees a person in trouble and imagines he’s in trouble. Hears about danger to some obscure wildlife creature and immediately sees himself as the human equivalent. He’s overly empathetic, that’s what he is.
Not that Laurent blames him for that. In fact, he admires it. After his experiences, Lincoln could easily have gone the other way and become as ruthless and unfeeling as… as Laurent used to imagine himself.
“Imagine you’re the one kid in the class who doesn’t get a single Valentine.”
Laurent studies Lincoln carefully. As incredible as it may seem, Lincoln is actually imagining himself as the kid no one likes. Absurd. If Lincoln were in high school, Laurent would have to beat off the suitors with a two by four.
He tried to imagine the origins of this obsession with the unfairness of Valentine’s Day. And then he spots it. Under a “Private Security Monthly” magazine and a hefty book entitled “Your Guide to Constructing Your Personal Black Ice”.
A collection of antique comic strips.
Peanuts.
For some bizarre reason, Lincoln has decided to identify with Charlie Brown.
And this is his first Valentine’s Day ever. Really.
“Lincoln, you know, where I come from, Valentine’s Day isn’t really—”
“I know.”
“I don’t celebrate those sorts of—”
“I know.”
Laurent gets up and crosses the room to where Lincoln is perched on a stool with his arms wrapped tightly around his torso.
Laurent wraps his arms around Lincoln’s torso as well. Kisses the top of his head. “And I don’t see any reason to make a big deal about one day. There’s nothing special about it.”
“There isn’t?” Lincoln asks.
“No. Not when I have you every single day of the year.”
Lincoln wriggles his arms free and snakes them around Laurent’s waist.
And for the first time in his life, Laurent understands what this Valentine’s Day thing is supposed to be all about.
“Ditch that whole idea. It’s unnecessarily complicated, and there isn’t enough added security to make it worth the cost or the headaches,” Lincoln mumbles into Laurent’s chest.
It takes Laurent a second to realise Lincoln is talking about the sketch.
“I think your designer has too big an ego.”
And under the Peanuts comics is a volume on Freud.
Laurent fights the urge to lock Lincoln in the house without access to outside information. All this knowledge is bound to change him, and Laurent hasn’t discovered anywhere near enough about Lincoln to be comfortable with that.
But no matter how much Lincoln learns, he still identifies with the underdog. And maybe he always will.
Laurent holds tight, glad that Lincoln is strong enough to withstand his embrace.
Between a Rock and a Hard…
Lincoln Six Echo has to stifle a laugh when Albert Laurent tells the story of his birth. Albert was so early, so tiny, and so frail, his mother feared he would never grow to be big and strong.
Lincoln is not being mean. He’s not mocking a poor, helpless infant. It’s just that…
Albert is.
Big and strong.
Big enough and strong enough to lift Lincoln clear off the ground, wrap Lincoln’s legs around his waist and kiss him. Hard. While grinding against him.
Lincoln is trapped between big, strong Albert and the wall.
And there’s nowhere he’d rather be.
Perplexing
Doctor Merrick had claimed he’d given life to Lincoln Six Echo, hence he could take it away.
As it turned out, it was Lincoln who delivered death to the doctor.
Which is what makes this so very perplexing.
Because it is Lincoln who feels the cold hand of death squeeze his chest, as he looks through the security system monitor at the hard, green eyes of Doctor Merrick.
Who is at this very moment standing on his front porch.
Looking right at the camera.
“Open the door, Six Echo,” Merrick says.
And that makes Albert Laurent reach for his gun.
Next: 31-40 Island100
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