Chapter 2: Saturday Night In With Oliver Stark
The rain was a soft, persistent patter against the skylight, a gentle drumming that matched the rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor on the television. Kenny was buried in the crater of a giant beanbag, a half-empty box of cold pepperoni pizza wilting on the floor beside him. On screen, a firefighter dangled from a crumbling overpass, his eyes wide with a terror that looked suspiciously like good acting.Kenny wasn’t really watching. He was tracing the contours of Oliver Stark’s face with his gaze—the sharp cut of his jaw, the surprisingly soft mouth, those intense, storm-cloud blue eyes that seemed to hold a universe of stubborn resolve.
“Wish you were here,” Kenny murmured to the flickering image, the words dissolving into the sound of simulated sirens. It was less a yearning and more a casual, habitual temptation, like prodding a bruise.
The bed in the corner of the living room, a puffy, quilted monstrosity that looked like a rejected prop from a low-budget sci-fi film, emitted a low, responding hum. It was different from the bedroom version; this one sounded like an overworked appliance, a fridge struggling to keep cool. A faint, ozone-tinged light pulsed from beneath its rumpled comforter.Kenny didn’t even look over. He kept his eyes on the screen, on Oliver’s character barking orders through the smoke. The hum climbed in pitch, then snapped off.The room felt suddenly quieter, the rain louder.
A warmth pressed against the side of the beanbag.A bare arm, decorated with a tapestry of black ink, brushed his own.
Kenny turned his head.
Oliver Stark—or a perfect copy of him—was curled on the floor beside the beanbag, propped on one elbow. He wore nothing but a pair of tight grey boxer briefs that did little to conceal the thick outline of his cock, already half-hard against the fabric. His dark hair was mussed, and his famous blue eyes held a look of bemused curiosity, as if he’d just woken up in a strange but interesting place.
“This is new,” the clone said, his voice a rough, Manchester-edged contrast to the American accents on TV. He glanced at the screen, where his own face was now smudged with ash. “Huh. That’s weird.”
“You get used to it,” Kenny said, his heart doing a slow, heavy thump against his ribs. The clone’s physical presence was immediate, a solid heat cutting through the room’s chill. He reached out, his fingers brushing the tattooed sleeve on Oliver’s forearm.“Come up here. You’ll get a crick in your neck.”
Oliver—Kenny’s mind assigned the name, a convenience—took the offered hand and let Kenny pull him into the spacious beanbag. He settled in with a natural ease, his back against the soft upholstery, and Kenny immediately shifted, draping himself against the clone’s side, his head finding a comfortable spot on the firm, tattooed chest. Oliver’s arm came around him, warm and heavy.They watched the rest of the rescue in silence. Kenny could feel the clone’s heartbeat, a steady, comforting rhythm under his cheek. He could smell him—clean sweat, the faint, crisp scent of whatever shampoo the magic had conjured, and underneath it all, that same charged, ozonic tang of creation.On screen, the crisis was averted. The credits rolled, casting shifting light over the cluttered room. Kenny’s fingers, which had been resting idly on Oliver’s stomach, began to move. They traced the lines of a intricate compass inked high on his ribs, then drifted down to a detailed rose wrapped around barbed wire on his bicep.
“Tell me about this one,” Kenny said softly, his fingertip circling the rose’s petals.Oliver looked down, his expression softening. “That one’s for my nan.She loved roses.Tough as old boots, though. Had a wit sharp enough to cut you.” He smiled, a private, genuine thing.“The barbed wire was my idea. A reminder that beautiful things can have claws.”
Kenny absorbed this, the intimate fiction of a memory that felt utterly real. He let his hand slide lower, over the hard planes of Oliver’s abdomen, to the waistband of his briefs. He hooked a finger there, feeling the coarse hair beneath.“And this?” he asked, his voice dropping, no longer about tattoos.
Oliver’s breath hitched.The bemused curiosity in his eyes sharpened into a focused, dark heat. “That’s not a story,” he growled. “That’s an invitation.”
“Yeah?” Kenny challenged, tilting his head up. “What’s it inviting me to do?”
In answer, Oliver shifted, rolling Kenny onto his back in the deep, yielding beanbag. He loomed over him, his body a cage of warm muscle and ink. The rain hammered the skylight now, a frantic accompaniment.
“To shut up,” Oliver said, and then his mouth was on Kenny’s, hungry and all-consuming.
This kiss was nothing like Brian’s tender goodbye or Taron’s fierce claiming.It was pure, unadulterated appetite. Oliver kissed like he was trying to devour him, all tongue and teeth and desperate noise. Kenny surrendered to it, his hands flying to Oliver’s hair, gripping tight, pulling him closer. The clone’s hips ground down, and Kenny could feel the full, rigid length of him even through the layers of fabric. A broken moan escaped Kenny’s throat.
Oliver broke the kiss, his lips trailing wet fire down Kenny’s neck, sucking a mark just above his collarbone. His hands were everywhere—yanking Kenny’s sweatpants and boxers down in one rough, efficient motion, then shoving his own briefs down past his thighs. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, the head already glistening.
“Fuck, look at you,” Oliver muttered, his gaze raking over Kenny’s naked body sprawled in the beanbag crater. He spit into his own palm, a crude, effective gesture, and slicked himself up before aligning his hips. He didn’t ask.He just pushed.The invasion was brutal and perfect. Kenny cried out, a sharp, guttural sound lost in the rain.There was no gentle easing, no careful preparation. It was a claiming, a filling, a blunt answer to a hollow question. Oliver buried himself to the hilt in one relentless stroke, and Kenny saw stars, his back arching, his nails digging into the clone’s inked shoulders.“Oh, god, yes,” Kenny choked out.
Oliver began to move, setting a pace that was less rhythm and more punishment. Each thrust was a deep, driving impact that shook the beanbag, that pushed the air from Kenny’s lungs. The clone’s face was a mask of fierce concentration, his blue eyes locked on Kenny’s, watching every flinch, every gasp.“Take it,” Oliver grunted, his voice raw. “Just take it.” His thrusts became harder, faster, the slick, slapping sound of their joining punctuating the storm outside.
Kenny was unmoored, his world reduced to the relentless piston of Oliver’s hips, the crushing weight of his body, the searing stretch that bordered on pain and tipped over into blinding, mindless pleasure. He was talking, begging, a stream of filthy, broken praise. “Yes, right there, fuck me, please, don’t stop, you feel so fucking good, so deep—”
Oliver’s control snapped. His rhythm fractured into a series of frantic, shallow drives, his whole body tensing. With a roar that drowned out the rain, he slammed home one final time, his cock pulsing deep inside Kenny as he came, his release hot and flooding.The force of it, the sheer animal finality, triggered Kenny’s own climax. It ripped through him without warning, a convulsive, silent explosion that left him trembling violently, his own come striping his stomach in weak spurts.
Oliver collapsed on top of him, a heavy, sweating weight. They lay there, a tangled, breathless mess in the wreckage of the beanbag, the only sounds their ragged breathing and the slowing rain.
After a long moment, Oliver shifted, pulling out with a soft, wet sound. He rolled onto his back beside Kenny, staring up at the shadowed skylight.
Kenny stared at the ceiling too, feeling spent, emptied, the static in his mind louder than ever. The warmth beside him was already beginning to leach away, the vivid reality of Oliver fading back into the room’s permanent twilight.
“That was…” Oliver started, his voice hoarse.“I know,” Kenny finished, his own voice flat.
He didn’t look over.He just listened to the clone’s breathing slow, then stop. He felt the presence beside him dissolve, leaving only a slight indentation in the beanbag and a damp, cooling patch on his skin.The bed’s hum had gone silent. The rain had softened to a drip.
Kenny lay alone in the quiet dark, the ghost of a story about roses lingering in the air, but all he could feel was the profound, echoing ache of the emptiness inside him, an emptiness that now felt wider and deeper than it had before anyone arrived.