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salvador-daley · 1 year

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Clone | Part 1

Robert Sheehan x Reader x Female!Robert Sheehan | 🍆🍑👀

A/N: I’ve been sitting on this forever and it just seems like a waste to have it languishing in my WIPs folder, so I’m gonna split it into three (increasingly sexy) parts and give y’all one a week. It’s not strictly RPF - more like original characters based on you-know-who. If you like this chapter, please lemme know coz it’ll motivate me to write the *ahem*… climax.

CW: Smutty but very tame by my standards. Includes numerous health & safety violations at work culminating in a blow-job related accident.

Words: 2.5k

Gif by @circumstellars

THE LAB is quiet. Everyone else went home hours ago. As you raise your head from your microscope, you’re not expecting to feel two soft hands enveloping your eyes. The sensation startles you, but then a gentle Irish voice whispers in your ear, “Guess who?”

“Graham Norton,” you say with confidence.

He lifts his hands from your eyes and pops his head over your shoulder.

“Do I really sound like Graham Norton,” he says, pretending to be offended.

You reach up to your boyfriend’s face with a smile and bring his familiar lips to yours.

“Only sometimes,” you say once your mouths part. “How did you get in here? Didn’t you get stopped by security?”

“What, old man Joe on the door?” he asks, perching on the lab stool next to yours. “Nah, we’re old friends, me and him.”

You give him a questioning look.

“I signed some stuff for his granddaughter,” he says by way of explanation.

You roll your eyes; Joe is such a pushover. Considering the kind of work you’re involved in, one would think your employers would be keen to enforce stricter security protocols.

“It should not be that easy to get in here. This is highly sensitive work,” you say, shaking your head as you carefully pack away your slides.

“What’re you working on, anyway?” he asks, squinting to look down your microscope.

You slip your hand over it, obscuring his view.

“Listen, Irish,” you say, using his preferred nickname, “this is top secret shit, okay? You can’t just come in here and start messing around.”

“C’mon,” he says, flashing you his trademark smile. “I’m just trying to take an interest in my girlfriend’s work.” His hands loop around your waist and he draws you closer. You feel his hot breath on your face as his lips find yours again, kissing away your protestations.

His face comes away and you look into his deep green eyes. Much like old Joe succumbs to his charms with frightening regularity, Irish has on more than one occasion convinced you to bend the rules for him with his formidable powers of persuasion.

This is different though, this could get you into a lot of trouble. The lab might be deserted, but still you look around to check if the coast is clear.

“Okay, if I show you this one thing you have to promise me you won’t say a word to anyone,” you say.

He raises three fingers to his forehead and smiles.

“Scout’s honour,” he replies.

“This is Pedro,” you say, lifting the small white rabbit from its cage and holding it tightly to your body.

“Aw, hey, Pedro!” Irish says, reaching out to pet the shivering creature’s ears. “Is this what you wanted to show me? Because I’ve seen a bunny rabbit before, you know.” He pulls his hand away and lets out an exaggerated gasp, reaching up to his cheeks in simulated shock. “You’re not going to dissect Pedro, are you? You monster!”

You bat him lightly on the arm. “No, don’t be daft, I’m not going to hurt him,” you say, carrying the small animal to the other side of the lab. “We’re just going to do a little experiment, aren’t we, Pedro?” you add, murmuring into the rabbit’s soft fur.

You lead Irish and the rabbit to the end of the lab, where two large Perspex cylindrical booths reach from the floor to the ceiling. A short series of satisfying pips accompanies your fingers on the keypad belonging to the left booth, the curved wall of which rolls open, allowing you to carefully place Pedro on the floor inside. A few seconds, the door slides closed automatically and you move to the large dual computer monitors at a nearby desk, tapping away at the keyboard.

“If you’re going to make him disappear, wouldn’t it be easier to use a big top hat?” Irish quips.

“Shush, I’m concentrating,” you admonish him. Finally, and with a flourish, you hit the Enter key.

“Cloning sequence initialised,” says a computerised voice, followed by a flurry of electronic whirring sounds that echo around the empty lab.

Irish’s eyes search for the source of the noise before settling eventually at the end of the lab. Slowly, both cylinders begin to fill with neon green smoke until the rabbit has disappeared completely beneath the heavy fog.

“Pedro!” he cries. “You fucking gassed him!”

“Don’t worry, he’ll be fine,” you assure him.

He steps forward and presses his hands against the Perspex tube, his face illuminated by the bright green mist.

“This is mental,” he whispers, watching as the coloured gas swirls inside the cylinder, before finally being sucked into a vent at the top.

“Subject discharged,” says the computerised voice and the door of the left cylinder rolls open again, a puff of the remaining gas escaping into the lab. Unmoved, Pedro hops out and you scoop him up, placing him on the desk.

“See?” you say, indicating to the rabbit. “He’s totally fine.”

Irish reaches out to pet him and Pedro’s tiny nose twitches with excitement.

“Hey buddy,” Irish whispers.

Now the gas begins to clear from the right cylinder. You both turn to watch as the cloud of green smoke shoots up into the vent.

“Cloning sequence complete,” says the computerised voice.

The door to the right cylinder rolls open and you crouch down to reach inside, pulling out another small, white rabbit.

Irish’s jaw falls open as you stand, bringing the animal over to the desk.

“This,” you say, allowing the two rabbits to make their introductions, “is Petra.”

“What the fu-” Irish says under his breath.

“She’s identical to Pedro in every way. Well, every way but one, obviously. All of the clones have come out female so far. We’re still working out some of the design kinks.”

“You invented a fucking cloning machine?” he says, the magnitude of what he’s just witnessed finally dawning on him.

You shrug: “Well, I helped.”

He crouches down until his head is level with the desk, watching with fascination as the two rabbits sniff each other with curiosity.

Pedro hops around the desk, then approaches Petra from behind, mounting her without hesitation and beginning to rut with a certain level of determination.

Irish gives out a high-pitched laugh: “Ha! They seem to like each other.”

“Oh,” you chuckle, “yeah, they do that sometimes.” You lift Pedro off his female counterpart and place him back down on the desk. “Horny little buggers.”

“Gives me an idea,” he says, rising and turning to you with a familiar look in his eyes.

“Here?” you ask, incredulous.

“Yeah,” he says, wrapping his hands around your ass and drawing you closer. “All this clever clogs stuff really turns me on,” he growls, biting his bottom lip.

You put up a weak protest as his mouth begins to travel around your neck. “Someone might come in…”

“No one’s gonna come in, there’s no one here,” he says, his lips dotting the space behind your ear with persuasive little kisses.

You let out a gentle sigh, signalling your assent. You know it’s risky to fool around in the lab, but you have to admit it’s been a long-time fantasy of yours. Besides, you always let him have his own way in the end - he’s just too damn hard to resist.

“Mmmn… you smell so good,” he murmurs into your neck, his voice melting any lasting trace of resistance on your part.

You run your hands underneath his tank top and press his body to yours, feeling his warmth envelop you.

His lips are on yours now, his tongue teasing your mouth open as his hands move under your clothes.

You start to remove your long white lab coat, but he stops you, tugging it back over your shoulders.

“No, no, leave the lab coat on,” he whispers with a smile, “it’s sexy.”

Now he’s pressing his hands into your flesh over your clothes, drawing you closer as his lips move to your ear.

“Your big fucking brain turns me on so much,” he says, nibbling the side of your neck. “I just want to bend you over one of these lab benches and fuck you senseless.”

As fun as that sounds, you have other ideas. Pulling away from him, you lift his tank top over his head and his fluffy curls bounce around his ears as you drop the garment to the floor. He grins that irresistible grin at you - the one that sparks something raw and animalistic inside you. Feeling bold, you press your palms into his chest, pushing him up against one of the cylinders.

“There’ll be time for that,” you say, allowing him to feel your breath on his face before your lips seek him out again.

He moans into your kiss, his breaths becoming short and staggered as your hands find his belt buckle. You tug on his fly and reach inside for his cock, feeling him already straining against the thin material of his underwear.

His eyes close and he presses his head against the curved Perspex as you palm him, rolling him between your lightly tented fingers.

He exhales one long, jagged breath: “Oh, you’re teasing me,” he complains with clenched eyes, his voice straining under your feathery touch.

You love to watch him like this, each stroke of your hand releasing more whispered pleas from his lips.

Now you’re tracing tiny kisses down the length of his body, dragging his clothes off as you go. You pull his trousers down to his ankles and he shakes his feet out of them, kicking his flip flops off at the same time.

Kneeling in front of him, you grab his naked ass and pull him towards your face, rolling circles around him with your tongue.

“Ah, please, please,” he begs under his breath.

He whimpers as you finally take him into your mouth, pushing his hips against the curved plastic wall behind him.

Slowly, indulgently, your mouth moves over him, pulling him towards you with two firm hands clasped around his ass.

As your lips reach the light scattering of hair at the base, he releases a heavy exhale, the air leaving his lungs in one, long relieved chuckle. You cast your eyes up to meet his and he reaches down to stroke your hair, a delighted smile on his face.

“You look so good like that,” he says, moving his hips in a tentative rhythm.

You start to pick up speed, swirling your tongue around his length with each bob of your head until his back is pressed against the booth, his breathing coming now in short, anguished gasps.

Before long, you’re diving on him, aided by your hand, sucking and slurping, drooling and gagging. He begins to thrust his hips into your face and you sense he’s getting close.

Approaching the edge, his legs begin to buckle and he reaches behind him to steady himself, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on whatever they can find.

As his moans of encouragement ring around the lab, you hear a short series of satisfying pips.

His cock pops from your mouth and you look up at him. “What was that noise, was that the keypad?” you ask.

“Huh? What?” he says, looking down at you over his heaving chest, unable to hide his displeasure that you’ve suddenly stopped sucking his dick at the crucial juncture.

At that moment, the cylinder door rolls open and he topples asslong inside the tube, smacking his curly head hard against the inside wall and landing in a naked heap on the floor.

“Irish!” you call out, scrambling to your feet.

Before you can react, the cylinder door has closed around his unconscious body, trapping him inside.

“Irish!” you call again, hammering on the cylinder to wake him up, but he’s out cold.

Your fingers are frantic, hammering on the keypad, but in your panic you hit the wrong buttons and the machine beeps at you in stubborn refusal.

You race around to the desk, but you’re a split second too late. You watch as Pedro does a slow-motion bounce across the keyboard, giving the Enter key a firm smack with his furry foot as he leaps out of your way.

“Cloning sequence initialised,” says the computerised voice.

“No!” you cry. “No, no, no, no!”

Your shaking fingers bash uselessly at the keys, trying to find a way to stop the sequence, but you know it’s futile - there’s nothing you can do at this point.

“Shit. Shitshitshit.”

You watch as the cloud of neon green gas begins to curl around Irish’s body and you run back to the cylinder, crouching down as he disappears beneath the lurid fog.

“Irish! Irish, wake up! Irish!” you shout, still banging on the Perspex as his bodily form sinks beneath the gas.

“Oh God, ohgodohgod,” you say in quiet panic, pressing your palms and forehead to the tube as it fills until you can no longer make out his form beneath the fog. After what feels like an age, you hear the familiar sound of the vent springing to life, sucking the neon mist off his body.

“Subject discharged,” says the computer as the door swings open.

You crawl inside, choking on the remaining gas as you lean over his crumpled, lifeless form.

“Irish, Irish, baby, wake up,” you plead, cradling his head and slapping him on the cheeks.

His pretty green eyes blink open and he grimaces as he comes to, a hand seeking out the back of his skull.

“Ow. Fuck, my head!” he manages, wincing.

“Oh, thank God. I thought you were dead.”

“No, I’m fine,” he says, struggling to sit up. “Just a bump on the head is all, I’ll live.”

You reach around his head to feel for lumps inside his soft curly hair. He’s not bleeding, but he’s clearly dazed.

“Maybe we should take you to the emergency room, just in case. You could have a concussion,” you say, fussing over him.

“No, seriously, I’m fine, I’m fi-”

“Cloning sequence complete,” interrupts the computer, the synthetic voice bouncing around the lab.

He freezes and looks at you, his eyes wide.

“It only works on rabbits, right?” he asks.

You shake your head, terror visible in your face. “We’ve only ever tested it on rabbits,” you squeak, unable to hide the panic in your voice.

You lift him to his feet and emerge from the cylinder just as the door to the other tube rolls open, releasing a light gasp of green gas into the lab.

You both stand there, your mouths open, as one long leg emerges from the vestibule, then another, followed by a slender figure. Your eyes take in the tall torso, the narrow hips, the slim waist, the small, perfectly formed breasts, the head of long, chocolate-coloured ringlets and then, finally, those unmistakable green eyes.

“Oh, fuck. Irish, what did we fucking do?”

Check back in this time next week for Part 2. And if you enjoyed this, please give it a little reblog. Go on, the button is right there… 😘😘

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salvador-daley · 1 year

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Clone | Part 2

Robert Sheehan x Reader x Female!Robert Sheehan

A/N: Oops - forgot to post this earlier in the week. Forgive me, I am old and senile.

CW: No filth, just some very intense flirting. Bisexual awakenings akimbo. But the next instalment? Pure wall-to-wall smut. 🍑🍆

Words: 5.5k

IRISH STEPS forward and so does she. His mouth falls open and so does hers. He reaches out to touch her and she reaches out to touch him. Their fingertips meet in the middle and he tilts his head in awed fascination. Her head tilts in the opposite direction, but instead of looking back at Irish, her eyes meet yours.

“Aren’t you guys gonna say something?” the woman asks.

“Oh my God, she talks!” cries Irish, leaping backwards with a squeal.

“Of course I talk,” she says in the same Irish accent as his, looking a little offended. She gazes around the room, taking in the long lab benches, the cages filled with small animals, the woman in the long white lab coat, the naked man in front of her. “Who are you? Where the hell am I?”

“It’s okay, you’re safe,” you say, trying to sound authoritative and calm. “We can explain everything.”

“Can we?” Irish squeaks in your ear, staring at you now with a look of blind panic.

“Look, just fucking calm down, okay?” you hiss at him. “You’ll freak her out. And put some fucking pants on.”

“Pants… pants…” he mutters, searching the floor for his discarded clothes. He manages to find his underwear and stumbles into them.

You step towards her with your hands out, as if approaching a wild animal. “Do you feel ok? Are you hurt?” you ask the woman, whose truly striking resemblance to your boyfriend is all the more apparent the closer you get.

“I feel fine,” the woman says with a shrug, fingering the tube she just stepped out of and taking in the rest of her surroundings.

“She seems very chill for someone who was just magicked into existence,” Irish whispers.

You nod. She’s certainly the calmest person in the room at this moment. Her whole demeanour is one of zen stillness and quiet curiosity, despite being thrust into being just a few seconds ago.

“W-what’s your name?” you ask.

She thinks for a second, her brow furrowing in an uncanny way.

“I-I don’t think I have one,” she says, approaching the desk now and proffering her fingers for one of the rabbits to sniff.

“We should give her a name,” says Irish into your ear, still cowering behind you.

“We can’t name her, we’re not… we’re not qualified!” you say in a hushed voice.

“Well, we created her,” he says, insistent. He thinks for a second. “I think she looks like a Robin.”

“Robin?” you repeat.

“Ooh, that’s a nice name,” she says, apparently listening the whole time.

“See, she likes it,” says Irish.

“Robin it is, then,” you say with resignation. “Robin, sweetheart, we’re going to explain everything, okay? But first, we have got to get you out of here.”

Irish grabs you by the shoulder. “Get her out of here? You want to take her with us? Shouldn’t we call someone? Isn’t this kidnapping?” he hisses at you.

You turn to him and level your gaze at him. “Look, she can’t stay here, okay? And we can’t call anyone, I’ll be fired. And they’ll do all sorts of experiments on her and shit. We’ve got to get her out of here, right now. Understand?”

He nods, realising the gravity of the situation. “Okay, okay, w-what do we do?” he asks.

You start to shimmy out of your lab coat, going into problem-solving mode. “There’s some flat shoes in my bag under the desk, go grab them.”

He darts under the desk while you attempt to dress your boyfriend’s naked double.

“Here, Robin, put this on,” you say, holding your lab coat out for her to slip into.

She inserts her arms into the sleeves, then turns so you can do it up, watching you with quiet fascination as your shaking fingers fumble with the buttons. She tips her head slightly as she observes you, a soft smile playing on her lips.

Irish returns with the shoes and you help her to step into them.

“Hey,” she says once dressed, looking down at her body and smoothing the lab coat with her hands: “this is kinda sexy.”

Irish pauses and smiles, then looks at you: “See? Told you so.”

“Get dressed!” you growl at him.

“Right, right,” he says, searching the ground again for his scattered clothes.

“Okay, g’night Joe! See you on Monday!” you call out to the elderly security guard, hoping your voice sounds breezy but so breezy that it sounds like an invite to conversation.

“All finished for the night, are we?” Joe asks. To your disappointment, you see him moving around the reception desk, clearly looking for a chat.

“Yep, all done, gotta head on home,” you say, attempting to usher Irish and Robin through the building’s revolving door.

“Oh, I didn’t realise there were three of you here tonight? I was sure I only counted two,” says Joe, checking the sign-in sheet on his clipboard.

You realise now that despite Joe’s advanced age that it was ambitious to imagine you could smuggle out a 6ft tall adult woman wearing nothing but a lab coat.

“Nope, three of us,” says Irish, stepping in with his characteristic charm. “You’re going senile in your old age there, Joe.”

“Oh, I feel I would’ve remembered you,” says Joe, looking at Robin. He proffers a hand to introduce himself.

“How nice to meet you,” says Robin with a wide smile, shaking his hand.

“This is my friend,” you say, improvising now. “Professor, um, Doppelgänger.”

Irish shoots you a look that says: Doppelgänger, seriously?

“She’s been helping me with some research,” you add.

“A professor?” says Joe, impressed. “And what’s a smart, beautiful woman like you doing in a place like this?” he chuckles.

Robin’s mouth falls open as if to reply.

“Oh Joe, you old flirt!” says Irish, slapping him on the back before Robin has a chance to answer. “Anyway, we better be off. The, er, professor has a train to catch,” he adds.

Irish bundles you both through the door before Joe can say another word.

“You guys are terrible liars,” says Robin once you get outside. “Even I could see through that, and I was literally born five minutes ago.”

You wake up late, the excitement of the previous day having expended all your energy. The soft sounds of a high-pitched tune spread through the flat on a gentle wave, rousing you from your slumber. There is no sign of Irish - he must have gone out. You rise from the bed and head into the living room. Robin is sat cross-legged on the pull-out bed. The wide neckline of the oversized T-shirt you gave her the previous night has slipped down over one of her shoulders, her curly hair haloed by the morning light as she plays happily on a penny whistle. She stops when she sees you, flashing you that familiar smile.

“You can play that?” you ask.

She shrugs: “I guess so.”

Even Irish can’t play it that well. You wonder for a second what else she can do, then you remember you’re being a bad host to your new houseguest.

“You must be starving,” you say, heading to the kitchen. She follows you and perches on one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “What do you like?”

She shakes her head and waves her hand through the air.

“Of course,” you say, “you have no idea what you like because you’ve never eaten before.”

Following last night’s escape from the facility, Robin had taken the news that she was a clone created in a lab accident surprisingly well, you felt. She didn’t panic or freak out or try to call the cops.

“So I’m… you?” she had said, pointing to Irish. “And you’re me?

“Yes, well, technically you’re female me,” he had said, foundering in his attempts to explain.

“And how did you end up inside the machine?”

“Err…” Irish’s mouth had fallen open and his eyes had darted to you in a panic.

“You know what, we can go over all the details in the morning,” you had said, stepping in to spare him the embarrassment. “I’m sure you’re tired and it’s been a crazy night. A lot to take in.”

“That’s a great idea,” Irish had announced. “Let’s all get a good night’s sleep and we can talk some more in the morning.”

You open the fridge and peer inside. Amid all the chaos, you had forgotten to buy food. All you have is gin, milk and orange juice.

“Let’s start with some coffee,” shall we?

You head over to the coffee machine and begin to fiddle with it, becoming aware of her 6ft form looming over you as you work.

“You put the water in here,” you say, demonstrating, “and then you put this in here, and press this button, and then the coffee comes out here.”

She’s watching you, but you have no idea if she’s listening. Silently, she reaches out to brush a stray strand of your hair behind your ear and you catch yourself blushing.

You clear your throat. “Cereal? I have cereal.”

You grab a couple of bowls from the cupboard and begin to pour corn flakes into them.

Watching you, she rests one elbow against the counter, stretching her long body out in front of her. She seems just as comfortable in her own skin as Irish is, a quiet confidence exuding from every pore.

You fill the bowls with milk and press one of them into her hands. She looks at it, then at you.

“Spoon!” you remember. “You need a spoon.”

Her ass is blocking the cutlery drawer and you have to nudge her out of way with an awkward “‘scuse me” in order to reach inside, your hand brushing against the silky smooth skin of her hip.

“Here you go,” you say, plopping the spoon inside her bowl.

She gives you another blank look.

“See?” you say, raising your own bowl and lifting the spoon to your mouth, “like this.”

Although seemingly a little hesitant, she follows your lead and you both stand there for a moment staring at each other and eating corn flakes in silence until you hear the door opening and Irish clattering through it with handfuls of grocery bags.

“How are my two best girls this morning?” he sings, plonking his bags on the breakfast bar.

“Your girlfriend is teaching me how to eat cereal,” says Robin.

Suddenly feeling quite stupid. You turn to look at her now. “You already know how to eat cereal, don’t you?”

Robin shrugs an apology. “You were on a roll, I didn’t want to hurt your feelings,” she replies. “I know how to do a lot of things.”

Before you can question her further, Irish grabs you and pulls you to one side, leaving Robin to eat her corn flakes in the kitchen.

“So, how’s it going?” he asks in a low whisper.

“Really bad, Irish!” you say. You try to keep your voice down but it comes out as a high-pitched squeal instead. “You left me all on my own and I have no idea what I’m doing!”

“Calm down, okay? I went to get food, there’s only gin and orange juice in the fridge.”

You put your hands to your temples and squeeze. “I’m freaking out, man. I mean, how does this even work? Does she have your memories? She can play your penny whistle!”

“Really?” he says. “That’s interesting.”

Irish cranes his neck back into the kitchen area. “Hey Robin, how many siblings have you got?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” she says, munching a mouthful of cereal. “I don’t think I have any.”

“How’d you get that accent?” he asks.

“What accent?” she replies, giving him a quizzical look.

He turns back to you: “She doesn’t have my memories.”

“This is so crazy. Your genetic double is eating corn flakes in my kitchen and I think I’m losing my mind,” you say, hyperventilating now.

“Look,” he says, holding you by the wrists. “Everything is going to be fine, okay? Let’s just get to know her a little bit.”

He leads you back towards the breakfast bar and you sit at the twin stools as Robin finishes off her breakfast.

“You still hungry, Robin?” asks Irish, reaching into one of the grocery bags. “Why don’t you try some of this, I just got it from the Japanese place down the road.”

He removes the lid from a small sushi platter and places it on the breakfast bar.

She selects a piece of nigiri and holds it up to her face.

“Go on,” he urges.

She pops the fishy morsel in her mouth and chews, her eyes widening as the novel mix of flavours ignite her tastebuds.

“Wow, that is amazing,” she says. “What is that?”

“Yellowtail,” he says. “My favourite. Here, have another. What’s mine is yours.” He pushes the platter closer to her and her fingers dance over it as she decides which piece to eat next.

“No offence,” she says to you, “but this is much better than cereal.”

“None taken,” you say, holding your hands up in defeat. “Okay, so we’ve established that you both like sushi. What next?”

“Ooh, I know!” says Irish, jumping down from the breakfast bar and running over to the bookcase in the living area. He returns with a book of collected poems and flicks through it until he finds what he’s looking for, passing the open book to Robin. “Have a read of this, tell me what you think.”

Robin scans the page for a few minutes, absentmindedly scratching her neck as she reads. You watch as Irish raises his hand to his own neck, floating his fingers over the same spot.

Eventually, she rests her hand on her chest with an awed expression. “That is beautiful,” she says.

“I know, it’s one of my favourites,” he says.

“So you’re both poetry fans,” you say. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but how do you know how to read?”

“I don’t know, I just do,” says Robin. “It’s like muscle memory. I can do everything he can do.”

“Can you drive a car?” he asks.

“Yes, but not very well.”

“Bit hurtful. Can you ride a bike? Can you ride a horse?”

“Yes. And yes.”

“Do you pee standing up?”

“Do you?” she returns, one eyebrow cocked.

“Fair play,” he says quietly.

You give him a look.

“What?” he says, “I like to read.”

You shake your head. “I think we’re getting way off track here,” you say. “Robin, do you have any questions for us?”

“Not really,” she says. “Although you never did tell me how you ended up in the cloning machine.”

Irish releases a nervous chuckle. “Oh, I don’t think we need to get into all that,” he says, bringing his hand down hard on his forearm to swat a mosquito. “Ah, you fucker!” he exclaims, inspecting the site for bites.

“Ow,” says Robin under her breath, rubbing her own arm in the same place.

“Guys, let me just try something,” you say, moving around the breakfast bar. You grab a cocktail stick from the kitchen drawer and return to your seat. “Stick your hand out,” you say to Irish. He puts his hand on the counter and you jab him on the tip of his thumb.

“Ow! What did you do that for?” he says, pulling his hand back and shooting you an accusing look.

At the same time, Robin shakes her hand in the air with a soft “Ah!” and sticks her thumb in her mouth.

“Ok, that’s interesting,” you say. “Let me try something else now.”

You move around to Robin and stand behind her.

“Can you lift your arms for me for a second, honey. It’s for science,” you ask.

“Sure thing,” she says, giving you a sideways smirk.

You tickle her under the arms, knowing that it’s one of his most sensitive spots.

Robin laughs and squeals, meanwhile he writhes in his seat, as if ghostly fingers were invading his armpits.

“Ah-ah! Stop! What are you doing to me?” he screeches.

“Well, that proves it. You two have some kind of weird connection,” you say, releasing Robin and returning to your seat. “It’s like a sensory telepathy or something. She feels what you feel, and vice versa.”

His brow knits in confusion, his mouth gaping. Then his expression changes and his eyebrow curls towards the ceiling as a realisation dawns on him.

“Well, that could be fun,” he says, a wicked glint in his eyes now.

“I’m depending on you not to abuse that,” says Robin, extending a finger at him and wagging it in his face.

“Well, I could say the same thing to you,” he says, turning defensive.

“I’m going to use the bathroom,” Robin says. “Try not to stub your toe or anything while I’m gone.”

She pats you on the shoulder as she leaves, allowing her fingers to linger on your skin for a split-second too long. The gesture doesn’t escape Irish’s attention and he crosses his brow, watching her with a hint of suspicion as she leaves. His mouth opens as if he’s about to say something, but you interrupt his thoughts before he can articulate them.

“Irish!” you hiss at him, grabbing his attention. “Now what do we do?”

“I dunno,” he shrugs. “Maybe we should take her out, you know, let her see some of the city.”

You look at him with a baffled expression. How is he approaching this whole thing so casually? Did that bump on his head shake some of his screws loose?

“Have you lost your mind?” you say, your voice pitching higher. “We can’t wander around town with your female clone like she’s some kind of visiting relative. We’re not taking her anywhere, we are staying right here until we figure this out.”

“Why not?” he says, leaning in closer to you. “Look, she’s 34 years old and she hasn’t experienced anything of the world. We can’t keep her cooped up in here forever.”

“But she’s not 34, she’s only a day old,” you insist. “What if something happens to her, what if she gets hurt?”

“She’s 6ft tall and she can do everything I can do, right? That means she can throw a punch if necessary,” he replies.

You know deep down that he is right. Keeping her locked up in your flat indefinitely wouldn’t be feasible or fair. And Robin seems perfectly capable of looking after herself, if a little naive.

“It’s interesting actually,” he continues, “I wonder if she can act. I’ve always wanted to play Lady Macbeth on the stage...” His mind is wandering now, indulging in some egotistical fantasy in which both his faces are on the poster.

“Irish!” you snap, nudging him back to the present.

“Right, yeah, sorry. Come on, let’s just go out somewhere, show her a good time. Everything will be fine.” He rubs your thigh as he speaks. You can already feel yourself giving in to him, once again.

“Ooh, are we going out?” says Robin, returning to the kitchen.

“Come on,” says Irish, pleading with you. “I think we could all use a little fun. What harm will it do?”

You look at Robin, those green eyes begging you to say yes, mirroring Irish’s expression. His persuasive powers are hard enough to resist at the best of times, let alone when there’s two of him.

You sigh. “Oh, fine,” you say, waving your hand in a gesture of surrender.

“Robin, my love,” says Irish, turning to her now, “how would you like to get drunk for the first time?”

Robin emerges from the en-suite bathroom in a towel, a couple of wet tendrils escaping from the nest of curls piled into a loose bun on top of her head, her wet skin glistening in the soft light of your bedroom. A light curl of steam follows her from the bathroom, wrapping around her slim ankles, caressing the tanned skin of her long legs. In her hands, a bottle of lotion, which she applies with care to her arms, allowing her fingers to drape over her skin with gentle, massaging strokes, skimming over her collarbone, the curves of her chest.

She tilts her head to meet your eyes. “Is everything all right?” she says.

In that moment, you realise you’ve been staring at her and you force yourself to snap out of it.

“Yes, er, yes. Let’s, erm, let’s find you something to wear,” you say, heading over to the closet. You throw open the doors and gesture at everything you own. “Just help yourself to whatever you want,” you say. “You are ever so tall, but I’m sure you’ll find something. We will get you some clothes of your own later, this is just for now.”

“Thank you,” she says, allowing the towel to drop to her feet and reaching up for the jeans on the top shelf. Her breast meets your eyeline and you avert your gaze, feeling the blood rush to your face. She certainly seems comfortable being naked, but then that shouldn’t surprise you - Irish seems to resist being fully clothed at every possible opportunity. You head over to your dressing table and finish applying your makeup, trying your best not to spy on her through the mirror.

“So, what kind of place do you want to go to? Somewhere lively with lots of people, or somewhere a little more chilled out and relaxed?” you say, attempting to make casual chit-chat despite the circumstances.

“Well, I don’t really have any frame of reference, so I trust you to make the call,” she says.

“There’s a great little place in town that does cocktails and finger foods. All of the drinks are named after famous… writers…” you trail off as your eyes fall on her approaching form.

She is dressed now and you take in her selection: a pair of extremely tight skinny jeans, in a shade of distressed dark grey with strategically placed rips up the legs, a tiny black bralette you can’t remember buying, over which she has chosen a sheer knitted top several sizes too big, the neckline draping loosely off one shoulder, the front tucked into her belt buckle.

“What’s the matter?” she says, observing your slack-jawed expression as she rolls up the sleeves. “Is this not ok?”

You blink hard and shake your head. “No, no, you look great. It’s just…” You bring your eyes up to meet hers and she shakes her curls loose from her bun. “You dress just like he does.”

“Ooh! These are pretty,” she says, fingering the box of bracelets and trinkets on your dressing table.

“Oh, those belong to Irish,” you say. “But I’m sure he won’t mind.”

She sits down on the bench next to you, rolling his beads and leather bangles up each arm.

“Well, he did say what’s his is mine, right?” She says, glancing at you with a smile. For a split second her eyes rest on your lips and you feel your heart pick up speed.

“Yes, yes. He did say that,” you laugh, trying and failing to hide your nerves. You go back to applying your lipstick under her watchful gaze. After a minute, you withdraw the product from your lips and offer it to her. “You want to borrow it?” you say.

She shakes her head. “That is something I definitely don’t know how to do,” she says with an apologetic smile. “You could do it for me?”

Of course, she can only do what Irish can do and he definitely can’t do makeup. The one time he tried for a Halloween party he looked like a melted Liza Minnelli waxwork.

“Okay, sure,” you reply.

You turn to face her and apply a thin coat to her lips. As you work, her sea-green eyes scan your face, the intensity of her gaze causing your hand to falter.

“Oops, hold on,” you say, correcting your mistake. For a brief second your eyes meet as your hand cups her face, your finger sliding under her bottom lip, your faces merely inches apart. Your pulse beats so loud and so hard that you worry she might hear it.

You pull your eyes away and clear your throat. “There we go, all done,” you say.

But she doesn’t move and neither do you. She holds you captivated in her gaze like a tractor beam.

“How are you girls getting on in here?” says Irish, sticking his head through the door. “You nearly ready? The cab is waiting downstairs.”

You jump as if caught red-handed. “Yes, all done here,” you say, a little too loud.

Robin rises and walks over to Irish, beginning to circle him. The two of them look each other up and down in the doorway like two wild cats sizing each other up.

She leans into his ear as she exits: “I’ll meet you two downstairs,” she says in a low voice. She pats him on the ass and gives you a wink as she leaves.

You hear the front door close behind her and throw Irish a shocked look.

“She is flirting with you!” you say, stating the obvious.

Irish scoffs: “From where I’m standing, it looks like she’s flirting with you!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you say, bending down to put on your shoes, hiding your blushing face from his eyes.

“Well, think about it,” he says. “I’m attracted to you, therefore it makes sense that she’d be attracted to you, too.”

“Yeah?” you say, standing now and facing him in the doorway. “Well, why is she apparently attracted to you too?”

Irish gives you a shrug, a guilty smirk passing over his lips. You nudge him in the ribs.

“Because you’re so fucking in love with yourself!” you say, only half-teasing.

Irish laughs, ruffling a hand through his curly hair. You roll your eyes at him and fold your arms with an exaggerated sigh.

“Look, everything’s going to be fine,” he says, holding you by the shoulders. “Let’s just go get a drink.”

“You were getting a blow job?” asks Robin, incredulous.

“The door just sort of swung open and I smacked my head on the wall. I was knocked out cold for a good few minutes. And when I woke up, well, there you were,” he says.

Robin turns to you with an open-mouthed expression.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” you say, cringing. “I wish we had a better story to tell you.”

Her face creases and she releases a high-pitched laugh. “You guys are hilarious,” she says. “Do you do that a lot, sex acts in public places?”

Irish shrugs, opening his mouth to speak.

You cut him off before he can embarrass you further. “No!” you insist. “No, we don’t.”

The more drinks that are consumed, the more the conversation veers towards sex. Irish is being his usual giddy self, telling stories and making crude jokes. Robin, meanwhile, is becoming increasingly tactile, clasping your shoulder as she laughs, pressing her long fingers into your arm as she fires questions at you.

Her displays of affection seem to be making him territorial. Every time her hand brushes against your leg, his follows. Or perhaps they are just mirroring each other; echoing each other’s movements and mannerisms. Either way, you are sitting between them and it’s starting to make you feel like a baby goat in the tiger enclosure.

The worst part, you decide, is how alike they are. Robin seems to agree with everything he says, especially his drunken ideas. Stay out longer? Great idea. More shots? Great idea. Go to another bar? Great idea. You are outnumbered. And now everything is starting to get hazy and wobbly, furry around the edges.

“So, do you both have jobs? I know you’re a scientist, but what do you do?” asks Robin, gesturing to your boyfriend.

“I’m an actor,” Irish replies, puffing out his chest. “Been doing it since I was a kid.”

“Wow, that sounds like so much fun,” says Robin, her eyes widening. “I’d love to do something like that.”

“Of course you would,” you mutter under your breath.

“Did I say something wrong,” asks Robin.

Her brow furrows in the middle. You can see Irish glaring at you out of the corner of your eye. He thinks you’re being rude. You instantly feel bad for being crabby.

“No, honey, I’m sorry,” you say, reaching forward to clasp her knee. “It’s just… well, you two are so damn similar! It’s actually kind of infuriating.”

They both laugh at the same time, then look at you: “What’s the matter, are you feeling left out?” they say in perfect unison.

Realising their thoughts have synched, they immediately turn and point at each other: “Oh, we both said the same thing!” they say at the same time.

“Ok, stop that, it’s freaking me the fuck out,” you interrupt, not wanting to find out how long they can do that for.

They share a look, synapses firing at the same time, cogs turning in synchronicity. The chemistry between them, between the three of you, is palpable and it terrifies you as much as it excites you.

Robin looks at you, then at him.

“You know what I think, Irish?” says Robin, leaning her head towards you. “I think your girlfriend…”

“Our girlfriend,” he corrects.

“Our girlfriend,” she says, walking her fingers up your thigh, “needs to lighten up.”

Robin’s face is centimetres away now. Her eyes, at first locked on yours, float down to your lips, then back up to meet your gaze again. She tilts her head slightly and you feel your breath deepening, your heart beginning to race in your chest.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

She shushes you gently as she cups your face, allowing her thumb to trail over your cheekbone.

“Just relax,” she whispers, bringing her mouth down on yours.

As her plump lips part yours, you are struck by how similar the experience of kissing her is to kissing him - only softer, gentler. And as her tongue inches across the inside of your lips, you feel him join in, trailing a string of delicate kisses down the side of your face, down your neck.

They each wind an arm around your body and you suddenly remember that you are in a public place, giving the patrons of this bar something to stare at. And they are staring - you feel their eyes boring into you as two hands belonging to two separate owners begin to pass over your legs.

Robin lifts her head, moving to your neck, and her mouth is replaced with his.

“Guys,” you say in between deepening kisses, your voice trembling, “we have to get out of here.”

They lift their heads and look at each other, then at you. “Great idea,” they say together.

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