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Title: Room With A View
Author: heartofslash
Fandom: post-The Island
Pairing: Lincoln Six Echo/Albert Laurent
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: This didn't happen in the movie, I don't own the characters. Total fiction. honest.
Note: It helps to be familiar with my Island100 stories (which I will get up on my as soon as I can!) The short version is this: Lincoln and Laurent, having overcome any reservations about their relationship and finding life a little hectic in the States, go on a long journey, from Lincoln's ancestral genetic homeland to Laurent's home village. So far, they've reached the Alps…
Dedication: For woosgirl, who gave me wicked ideas from a picture of Ewan McGregor sitting in front of a glass table on which sat a bowl of fruit. Or maybe it was flowers. I don't know. I was distracted byt he pretty. So I cloned Ewan into Lincoln Six Echo and let my imagination (and Albert Laurent's) roam.
A Room With A View
"This is a beautiful hotel room," Lincoln Six Echo said solemnly, looking at the beautiful sitting area, with the modern furniture and the coffee table with the bowl of fruit. Even the drapery was beautiful.
"Yes, this is a beautiful hotel room." Sharp brown eyes darted to each corner, every potential entry or exit point, assessing every possible threat, calculating all the angles.
"Very cozy, for its size," Lincoln noted.
A broad nose twitched. Clean. No unnecessary chemicals. Good air flow, but not chill from the mountain air outside. That might change if Lincoln were to open the curtains, which he would, because he was Lincoln and he liked to look out at the world, but the heating unit across the base of the window would compensate as required.
"Cozy," Laurent agreed.
There was a rustle of fabric and the roll of tiny metal wheels when Lincoln pulled the curtains open.
"Oh, Albert, look at the view!"
A smooth brown hand spread over the heavy tempered glass of a coffee table. Shook it to test the strength of the welded metal frame. Approved. Trailed paler fingertips over the cool surface…
"Beautiful," Albert Laurent agreed.
The decorative complimentary fruit bowl was moved to another table.
Oil slicked the surface of the glass, a thin layer but enough to make Lincoln slide a little when Laurent twisted his fingers inside him.
Laurent was very happy for his long, long arms; he could lie comfortably on the floor under the table without having to strain at all.
The most perfectly-engineered ass on earth pressed against the glass above him, no less beautiful for being somewhat squashed against the tabletop. He watched Lincoln's body open to accept his fingers. Lincoln's fingers curled around the rounded edges of the thick glass. Lincoln leaned back, head hanging, and Laurent spared a moment to study the shadow running up the centre of Lincoln's arched back, the tension in his shoulder blades, the strain in his arms, and the sound of Lincoln moaning for more.
Then back to the ass, from beneath, an angle in which he'd never had the opportunity to indulge before.
Fuck the view.
Lincoln worried about the table. Glass is breakable, everyone knows that, and even thought it was remarkably thick glass, and Albert had assured him that the frame was designed to support the glass with maximum efficiency, and the glass was highly unlikely to break, he still worried.
But not enough to distract him too much.
Besides, the glass was tempered.
Tempering is a process of strengthening the very fibre of a substance. In this process, the material is heated and cooled, sometimes heated and cooled again, as many times as is required, at temperatures and intervals dependant on the properties of the material in question. The inner layers and outer layers expand and contract at different rates. Molecular bonds are broken and healed, stronger than before, more resistant to breakage, more able to withstand blows.
Tempering could be performed on a variety of materials. Glass. Metal. People, Lincoln suspected.
Did it make it more or less flexible? Lincoln couldn't remember. But then, he couldn't think clearly, let alone remember the particulars about glassmaking or metallurgy.
The oil and the glass had been cool at first. They'd warmed quickly, but that was only from the heat of Lincoln's own body. The next heat had come from outside Lincoln. He wasn't sure if it was from Albert's touch or his look.
Albert's hands had started at Lincoln's ankles and worked their way up, caressing his calves, stroking his thighs, urging his penis to grow into a cock. Lincoln had been acutely self-conscious, sitting up on the cool-soon-to-be-worm glass table top with Albert lying beneath.
"This is weird," he'd said.
"Weird and wonderful," Albert had murmured, voice thick.
With a little urging, Lincoln had put his feet on Albert's chest.
"Lean back."
That was when things started to get really hot.
Lincoln scrunched his toes and gripped hardened nipples with them. Albert's fingers moved inside him, and on his inner thigh.
They'd travelled all this way, all the way to this spectacular resort in the mountains between Switzerland and Italy. They'd taken their time, made it a journey with short legs, so they spent as much time walking around towns and in the country as they did biking. Lincoln suspected Albert had planned it that way so he wouldn't get sore. So he could build up his muscles gradually. It was working - he felt fit and firm all over. He was getting used to riding for extended periods. They'd biked up to Seattle first and flown to the UK from there, then made their way up to John O'Groats, and then slowly south.
The flight had been long. After all the preparation for the journey, Lincoln had trouble sitting still. He'd already grown used to a workout every day, using his thighs and his butt and his whole body to manoeuvre the big bike. Sitting all the way across the States, across the ocean, had made him twitchy.
Lincoln had worried about the bikes in the cargo bay. And during the layover, when they had to be moved form one plane to the next. And he'd worried he would get cramps in his legs from sitting for too long.
Lincoln - taken out of his comfort zone, the only real home he'd ever known - worried a lot. In the very back of his mind, he still worried about the glass tabletop. And whether anyone would get upset that they were doing this on a glass table in a hotel room.
Outside he could see only magnificent mountains. No one could see inside. Could they?
The only thing he wasn't worried about what Albert was seeing. Albert always liked what he saw But he was worried that he didn't look his best. From that angle. Squashed against the oily glass. In front of the open curtains with the sun shining in and glinting on the mountaintops.
"Beautiful view," Albert murmured.
Fuck the Alps, Lincoln thought.
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