#clone art

The cargo bay on the lower deck smelled like oil and recycled air. Crosshair stood near the center, a blaster rifle cradled in his arms, his posture slack but his eyes sharp.

He didn't greet you. Just pointed to a pile of equipment near the wall.

"Target practice first. Then we see if you're worth the effort."

The training began with the basics. How to hold the weapon. How to align the sights. Crosshair's instructions came clipped and precise, each one followed by a demonstration that seemed effortless in his hands. He made it look easy. Natural. Like the blaster was an extension of his body.

Then he handed it to you.

The weight was wrong. The grip sat awkwardly in your palm, and the barrel kept dipping toward the floor. You adjusted your stance the way he'd shown, but your arms already ached from holding the thing up.

"You're thinking too much," Crosshair said. "A blaster doesn't care about your thoughts. Just pull the trigger."

You lined up the sight with the first target. A simple circle painted on a durasteel sheet. You fired.

The shot went wide. Hit the wall three feet to the left.

"Again."

You fired again. Closer this time, but still missing.

"Again."

The cycle continued. Reload. Aim. Fire. Miss. Crosshair corrected your grip. Adjusted your stance. Made you do it over and over until your shoulders screamed and your fingers felt numb.

After what felt like hours, you landed a shot on the edge of the target. Not center. Not even close to center. But it hit the circle.

Crosshair grunted. Said nothing.

Then he activated the moving targets.

Small disks that zipped across the bay on wires, unpredictable and fast. You missed the first fifteen. Then twenty. Your frustration built with each failed shot, a hot knot in your chest that made your hands shake.

"Breathe," Crosshair said. "You're choking the trigger."

You exhaled. Slowed down. Waited for the next disk.

It shot across the bay, and you tracked it with the barrel. You squeezed the trigger, smooth and steady.

The disk exploded into sparks.

Crosshair's expression didn't change. But he nodded once. A tiny motion. Almost imperceptible.

"Better."

You lowered the blaster, your arms trembling. Sweat soaked through your shirt. Your lungs burned from holding your breath.

From the doorway, someone clapped slowly.

Hunter leaned against the frame, his arms crossed. He'd been watching. You hadn't noticed when he arrived.

He didn't say anything. Just held your gaze for a moment, something warm flickering behind his eyes. Then he turned and walked away.

You made it to your bunk on autopilot.

Your legs gave out halfway through the door. You collapsed onto the mattress, face-first, not bothering to remove your boots. Every muscle in your body had turned to something between jelly and stone. Your trigger finger throbbed. Your shoulder felt like someone had driven a spike through it.

A soft knock.

"Come in."

The door slid open, and Hunter stepped inside. He sat on the edge of the bunk, the mattress dipping under his weight. For a long moment, he just looked at you.

"You did good," he said.

You groaned into the pillow. "I missed twenty shots."

"You hit the last one. The moving one. That's what matters."

You rolled onto your side to look at him. The light from the corridor caught the lines of his face, softening them.

"Crosshair is hard on everyone," Hunter said. "He's been like that since we were cadets. It's not personal."

"It feels personal."

"It might be. A little." He shrugged. "But that's his way of testing you. If he didn't think you could handle it, he wouldn't waste his time."

You let that settle. It didn't make the soreness go away, but it helped. A little.

Hunter shifted closer. "He's my brother. I share everything with him, without hesitation. If he thinks this training method is the best, I won't stop him."

"I know."

"But..." He paused. "I can still massage your soreness. If you want."

You couldn't help it. You smiled, pushing playfully at his elbow. "You're ridiculous."

He caught your hand, his fingers warm around yours. "I'm offering a legitimate medical service."

"Very legitimate."

He leaned down and kissed you. Soft at first, then deeper. His lips moved against yours with a familiarity that made your chest ache. You remembered everything. His weight on top of you. His breath in your ear. The way he'd said your name like it meant something.

The kiss ended too soon.

He pulled back, his eyes dark, his thumb tracing your jaw. "Get some rest. You'll need it tomorrow."

He stood and walked to the door. It slid open, and he stepped through.

The door closed.

You lay there, your lips still tingling, your heart still hammering. You pressed your fingers to your mouth and smiled. Then the door slid open again.

Crosshair walked in without knocking.

You sat up, startled. "A knock would be welcome."

"I don't do that." He crossed to the foot of your bunk and dropped a rifle on the mattress. It was smaller than the one he'd given you earlier. Sleeker. A carbine of some kind. Then he tossed a single ration bar next to it.

"Tonight, both of us are going on a mission."

You stared at the rifle. Then at him. "What kind of mission?"

"You'll find out when we get there."

"That's not helpful."

"It's not meant to be." He turned toward the door, then paused. "Might want to say goodbye to Hunter's bed tonight. You won't be in it."

Your face went red. Blazing, blistering red. You could feel the heat spread from your cheeks down your neck.

Crosshair's expression stayed flat. But something shifted at the corner of his mouth. The barest hint of a grin. Almost hidden.

He left without another word and you sat there, your heart pounding, your face on fire. The grin. You'd seen it. Just for a second. And it made you feel warmer than you expected.

The shared living space hummed with the sound of a holoprogram. Wrecker sat on the sofa, his massive frame taking up two-thirds of it. Omega was curled beside him, her head resting on his bicep.

On the screen, a sitcom played. Two characters argued about something involving a misplaced shipment of cleaning supplies. The dialogue was cheesy. The laugh track was canned.

You settled onto the empty cushion next to Wrecker, keeping a respectable distance.

Wrecker's laugh boomed through the room when one of the characters slipped on a wet floor. The sofa trembled under you. Omega giggled, her small shoulders shaking.

The show continued. The character tried to explain what happened to his boss, his excuses growing more absurd with each line. You found yourself grinning despite the exhaustion pulling at your bones.

Omega shifted, curling closer to Wrecker. Her eyes drooped.

Then Wrecker's arm came around you.

It was casual. Natural. He pulled you against his side, his hand resting on your far hip, tucking you into the space beside him. His body was solid. Hard muscle under soft fabric. He radiated heat like a furnace.

You tensed for a moment, unsure. But he didn't seem to notice. He just kept watching the show, laughing when the joke landed, his arm heavy and warm around you.

You tried not to think about it. About the way his bicep pressed against your shoulder. About how easily he'd pulled you close. About how comfortable you were, pressed between him and Omega.

The show ended. Another one started. Something about a family trying to run a diner in the Outer Rim.

You blinked. Your eyelids felt heavy. The warmth of Wrecker's body, the steady rhythm of Omega's breathing, the low hum of the ship—it all blended together.

You let your eyes close.

You woke to a soft laugh.

"Told you she was tired."

Wrecker's voice, low and rumbling. You blinked, disoriented, and realized you were still pressed against him. Your cheek was flush against his chest. His arm was still around you.

You looked up. He was grinning down at you, his face split with amusement.

"Didn't mean to fall asleep," you mumbled.

"Nothing to worry about." He shifted, letting you sit up. "Glad such a pretty girl was so close during all this time."

Your face warmed. But it was a good warmth. A flattered one.

You smiled back at him. "Thanks."

You looked at the chrono on the wall. One hour until Crosshair's surprise mission. Time enough.

You stood, stretched, and walked toward the cockpit.

Hunter sat alone in the pilot's seat.

The stars stretched ahead of them, endless and quiet. His hand rested on the console, his eyes fixed forward.

You dropped into the empty seat beside him.

"Hey."

"Hey." His lips curved into a smile.

Silence. Comfortable. The kind that didn't need to be filled.

Then Hunter turned to face you. His expression shifted. More serious.

"What are we?"

The question caught you off guard. You blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I mean..." He ran a hand through his hair. "I enjoy your company. Last night was amazing. I want you to stay. But that doesn't mean I want the classic life. Dating. An animal. Two kids. None of that."

He leaned forward, his eyes holding yours.

"The Bad Batch is my only priority. If you become part of it, I'll be ready to die for you. But I can't prioritize you over any of them. That's why I don't want anything more than what we're sharing right now."

You absorbed his words. Let them settle.

Then you nodded.

"That's okay," you said. "I like how things are right now."

Something in his shoulders relaxed. He reached out, his hand cupping your cheek.

He kissed you.

His tongue brushed against your lips, and you parted them, letting him deepen the kiss. The heat rose fast. His hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer. His other hand traced your hip, your ribs, your side. He groaned softly against your mouth.

A throat cleared.

You broke apart.

Crosshair stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. His toothpick shifted from one side of his mouth to the other.

"If you hear me approaching," he said, "and you do, given your hyperaware senses, you could have the decency to stop before I arrive."

Your face burned. You couldn't look at him. Hunter chuckled softly.

Crosshair turned to you. "Ready?"

You nodded, rising from the seat. You followed him out of the cockpit, down the corridor, down the ladder to the lower deck.

A holomap glowed on the table.

You stepped closer to look.

It showed a forest, dense and dark, with markers scattered across the terrain. Dozens of them. Small crosses that dotted the landscape like spots on a fever chart.

Crosshair tapped the map.

"Your mission is simple. We go to each of these points and check if supplies are still there. They're strategic resupply points from the war. Clones used them during active campaigns."

You studied the map. The forest looked thick. Impassable in some sections.

"The forest is known to be very dangerous," Crosshair said. "Wild animals. Venomous plants. No trails."

He looked at you.

"Ready?"

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

Crosshair turned without another word and walked toward the equipment lockers. You followed, your legs still sore from training, your mind spinning with what you'd just agreed to.

He pulled off his armor piece by piece, setting each segment into a storage compartment. You watched, trying not to stare, but it was impossible. The blacks underneath clung to his frame like a second skin. Long and lean, every muscle defined without the bulk of his brothers. Where Wrecker was a mountain of mass and Hunter had that tapered V-shape with shoulders that seemed too wide for any door, Crosshair was all wiry tension. Rope-like cords running along his arms. A narrow waist that somehow still looked strong. He moved with a precision that made you think of a serpent coiling before a strike.

You realized you'd been staring when he spoke without turning around.

"Could you stop checking on me. I know I'm far better than my brother but I still'd rather have you concentrated."

Heat flooded your cheeks. You looked away, fixing your gaze on a crack in the floor plating. "I wasn't—"

"Save it." He pulled a carbine from the locker and handed it to you. Same one from earlier. "You're going to need both hands for this."

You took the weapon, grateful for something to focus on. Your fingers found the grip, the familiar weight settling into your palms. You checked the charge pack the way he'd shown you during training, then slung it across your back.

Crosshair finished gearing up, pulling on his armor with practiced efficiency. His helmet tucked under his arm, his main rifle already in hand. He grabbed a small backpack and tossed it to you.

"Supplies. Water, rations, extra power cells. Don't lose it."

"I won't."

He didn't look convinced. But he turned and climbed the ladder to the upper deck without waiting.

The Marauder hummed around you as you followed. The transition to hyperspace had already smoothed out, the stars becoming streaks of light beyond the viewport. You found your way to the cargo bay, where Crosshair was already running a systems check on a small speeder bike strapped to the floor.

You helped him secure a few cargo nets to the bike's rear rack, then stood back as he finished the check.

The descent took less than an hour. Through the cockpit window, you watched the forest planet grow from a green marble to a carpet of tangled canopy. Hunter brought the ship down through a break in the trees, setting it on a clearing barely large enough for the landing struts.

"Keep your comms open," he said as you passed through the cockpit. "Anything goes wrong, you call."

Crosshair grunted something that might have been acknowledgment. He dropped the ramp, and the forest air flooded in—thick with humidity and the smell of damp earth. Something rotting. Something alive.

You stepped off the ramp, your boots sinking slightly into the mossy ground. The trees stretched high above, their branches interlaced so tightly that the sky was barely visible. Patches of light dappled the floor between shadows that seemed to move when you weren't looking.

Crosshair touched his earpiece. "We're heading northeast. First cache about three klicks."

"Copy," Hunter's voice crackled back.

You started walking.

The forest was quiet in a way that felt wrong. No birds. No insects. Just the rustle of leaves when the wind pushed through, and the occasional snap of a twig under your feet. You kept close to Crosshair, matching his pace, trying to read the terrain the way you'd seen him scan a room.

He stopped abruptly.

You didn't have time to react. Your chest collided with his back, your hands instinctively bracing against his shoulders. He was solid, unyielding, and you felt the muscle beneath his armor tense.

"Watch it," he said, his voice flat.

"Sorry. Why did you—"

He raised a hand, cutting you off. His eyes were fixed on something ahead. You followed his gaze but saw nothing. Just more trees. More shadows. He waited a beat, then continued walking without explanation.

You fell back into step, giving him more space this time.

It happened again. He stopped so suddenly you nearly tripped over your own feet. This time you caught yourself before impacting, but you still ended up close enough to smell the oil on his armor.

He turned his head, his jaw tight.

"All right. You're going in front."

"What? I don't know where we're going."

He pulled a small holomap from his belt and shoved it into your hands. "You have the coordinates. Lead."

You stared at the glowing blue map, the markers scattered across the terrain. The first one was about two klicks northeast. You looked up, trying to orient yourself. The trees all looked the same.

"I can't—"

"Figure it out." He gestured with his rifle. "I'm tired of you running into me."

You swallowed your protest and stepped past him, taking the lead. The holomap showed a faint path, though it was barely visible on the ground. You picked your way through the undergrowth, checking the device every few steps.

Crosshair followed in silence. You could feel his gaze on your back, measuring, waiting for you to make a mistake. The pressure made your palms sweat.

But you found the first marker. A small clearing with a rusted supply crate half-buried in moss. You stopped, and Crosshair moved past you, kneeling to inspect it.

"Not bad," he said, his voice carrying a note of surprise.

You felt a small thrill. "Are you impressed?"

He looked up at you, and for a fraction of a second, the corner of his mouth twitched. "Not yet."

But there was something in his eyes. A glint. Playful, almost. It made your chest warm in a way you didn't expect.

He pried open the crate, revealing a cache of old ration bars, a few lighters, and some small boxes of ammunition. He handed you the ammo and told you to take anything electronic you found.

The next four caches followed the same pattern. You navigated, Crosshair opened, you loaded the supplies onto the speeder bike. The work was tedious, but the rhythm of it settled something in your bones. By the time you reached the fifth cache, the sky had begun to darken, the canopy turning the forest into a cavern of shadows.

The fifth cache was different. A larger bunker built into a hillside, hidden by a slab of durasteel covered in moss. Crosshair found the latch and pried it open with the butt of his rifle. The door swung outward with a groan, revealing a dark staircase leading down.

He descended first. You followed, your boots echoing against metal steps.

The space below was cramped, filled with shelves and stacked crates. Dust hung in the air. Crosshair clicked on a lamp, revealing rows of supplies—more than the previous caches combined. Rations, medical kits, power cells, even a few crates of components that looked like they belonged on a ship.

You worked in silence, sorting through the inventory. Crosshair pointed to a stack of wiring and circuit boards. "Echo and Tech will want that."

You loaded it onto the speeder, which was now parked at the top of the stairs. The bike groaned under the weight, but it held.

After ten more minutes of searching the cramped bunker for anything useful, you finally climbed out into the open air. A deep, guttural roar stopped you cold.

A massive creature with four glowing eyes lunged from the shadows. Before you could react, Crosshair stepped in front of you, his rifle already raised and firing. The creature swiped at him, claws raking across his waist, but his shot found its mark. The beast crumpled to the ground, dead.

You rushed to his side, dropping to your knees. Blood seeped through his black undersuit. You pulled the fabric aside, relief flooding you when you saw the wound was shallow. "It's not too deep," you said. "I need to bandage it."

He nodded, a sharp motion.

"Thank you," you said. "For protecting me."

He looked at you, a faint smirk. "You wouldn't have done the same."

You laughed softly, surprising yourself. "Probably not. But still."

You convinced him to let you bandage him properly. Finding a relatively clean spot on the bunker floor, you helped him peel off his armor piece by piece. The black undersuit came next, and you helped him pull it over his head, revealing the lean, chiseled lines of his torso. You couldn't help but let your eyes linger.

He noticed. "So," he said, a hint of amusement in his voice, "better or worse than Hunter?"

Heat bloomed across your face. You looked away, fumbling with the medical kit. "You're both very different. That's for the best."

He smirked, watching you as you took out the bandages. His stare sent a chill down your spine.

You cleaned the wound carefully. He hissed, a low groan escaping his lips, and his hand shot out to grip your thigh for grounding. The pressure of his fingers sent a jolt through you, but you forced yourself to focus on the wound.

You bandaged him gently, your fingertips brushing against the hard planes of his muscles. When you grazed his ribs, goosebumps rose on his skin.

When you finished, he was still watching you. You stood and offered him a hand. He took it, pulling himself up. Then he reached for his armor.

"I can help," you offered.

"No." He began fitting the pieces back on himself. "I've got it."

You watched him finish, then said, "We should stay here tonight. Call the others."

He grunted in agreement.

You called Hunter, who confirmed they'd arrive at first light. The bunker's door sealed, and you settled in for the night—Crosshair on the cot, you on the floor. The aches in your body were deeper now, but you felt a quiet satisfaction. You closed your eyes, the adrenaline fading into a warm exhaustion.

The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy like the humidity still clinging to your clothes. You lay on the floor, staring at the dark ceiling, your body aching in places you didn't know could ache.

"So," Crosshair said, his voice cutting through the quiet, "are Hunter and you... a thing?"

You blinked at the ceiling. The question hung there, unexpected. You thought about it, really thought about it, letting the words settle.

"No," you said. "It's probably just about being attracted physically and sexually to each other. It'll probably always stay this way. Just some sort of... sexfriends."

You heard him shift on the cot. A creak of old springs.

He nodded, though you couldn't see it. You felt it in the pause that followed. "I'm honestly happy you two aren't official or anything."

"Yeah, I know." You let out a breath. "You're not a big fan of me. You want me leaving. You don't want your brother to grow attached."

"No." His voice cut sharper now. "Not only that."

You turned your head, looking at him in the dim light. He was propped on one elbow, his silhouette dark against the grey of the bunker wall. His eyes found yours.

"Me and my brothers," he said, "we share everything with each other. If you stay here, I'm happy to know I'll get the pleasure to make you blush without getting Hunter jealous."

Heat flooded your cheeks. You felt it spread from your neck to your ears, and you cursed yourself for being so transparent. He saw it. Of course he saw it. The smirk that pulled at his lips was just visible in the low light.

You stared at him, not knowing what to say. The silence stretched.

He tried to shift on the cot, adjusting his position, and a wince escaped through his teeth. His hand went to his bandaged side.

"Careful there," you said, pushing yourself up to sit. "You'll reopen the wound."

He gritted his teeth, waiting for the pain to pass.

You couldn't help yourself. "You want a magic kiss to help ease the pain?" you asked, your voice carrying a teasing edge. The kind of thing you'd say to a toddler scraping their knee.

He looked at you. "Yes."

The word landed like a stone in still water.

You searched his face. No hesitation. No mockery. Just that flat stare, steady and waiting.

Your heart picked up its pace. You rose from the floor, your joints protesting, and crossed the small space to the cot. You lowered yourself beside him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body. His eyes stayed on you, tracking your movement.

You leaned in. Slow. Your breath mingled with his. Your lips brushed against his, quick and light, a peck that lasted less than a second.

You pulled back.

He chuckled, low and rough. "You usually have to kiss the damaged area."

"You're not the doc," you said, matching his tone. "I am. And I know what I'm doing."

He murmured, his voice dropping, "I have to admit... I'm not totally opposed to you staying with the Bad Batch anymore."

You watched each other. The space between you felt charged, humming with something unspoken. His eyes moved to your lips, and you felt the pull, undeniable.

You leaned in again.

This time, the kiss was slower. Your lips met his, and you let them linger, letting the pressure build. His mouth was warm, surprisingly soft against yours. He made a sound, a soft grunt that vibrated against your lips, and his hand came up to grab the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair.

He kissed you back.

Your hands found his chest, fingers splaying across the hard planes. You were careful, avoiding the bandaged side, letting your palms trace the lines of his muscles. Heat pooled low in your stomach, spreading through your limbs like warm syrup.

He broke the kiss just long enough to rise, shifting to sit upright on the cot. His hands found your hips, and he pulled you onto his lap without ceremony. You straddled him, your knees bracketing his thighs, and he kissed you again, deeper now.

His hands moved down. Cupped each of your ass cheeks, squeezing hard, and forced a rocking motion against his lap. His tongue invaded your mouth, and you let him, your own hands tangling in his hair.

You felt him growing hard beneath you. Each rock of your hips drew a soft grunt from him, the sound rough in your ear. His grip on your ass tightened, guiding your movements, and each back-and-forth sent sparks straight to your core.

You were drenched. You could feel it, the wetness pooling between your legs, soaking through your underwear.

He broke the kiss, both of you breathless. A smirk spread across his face.

"Now *this*," he said, his voice a low rasp, "is a magic kiss."

You swallowed, your pulse hammering.

"I'd like to see if your other lips are also magical."

Your face burned, but you nodded. You climbed off his lap, your legs unsteady, and reached for the waistband of your pants. You pushed them down, along with your underwear, stepping out of them in one motion. The air was cool against your bare skin.

Crosshair unbuckled his belt. He pushed his pants and undersuit down, and his cock sprang free, hard and ready. You took a moment to look at him. Long. Thick. The sight made your mouth water.

You climbed back onto his lap, positioning yourself over him. The head of his cock pressed against your entrance, teasing.

He looked at you. "Ready?"

You nodded.

He raised his hips, meeting yours, and pushed inside you.

A moan escaped your throat, low and trembling. He filled you completely, stretching you in a way that made your vision blur. You started to move, riding him, finding a rhythm that made both of you gasp.

His head fell back, his eyes closed, his lips parted. You watched his face shift through pleasure, the hard lines softening just a fraction.

He grabbed your ass cheeks, guiding your movements, pushing you faster. His cock pressed deep, bullying against your cervix, finding a spot that made stars burst behind your eyes.

A loud slap echoed through the bunker.

You heard it before you felt it. The sting bloom across your right cheek, sharp and bright. He was still moving inside you, and the mix of pleasure and pain sent a jolt through your system.

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in. Sweat and blood and something sharp that was just *him*. Tears pricked at your eyes, overwhelmed, and you felt his chest rumble with his own pleasure against your cheek.

Another slap. Left cheek this time. Your eyes flew open, wide and startled.

He chuckled, his hand massaging the sting away, fingers kneading the flesh.

"You feel so good," he murmured against your ear, his voice ragged. "Your pussy clenches every time I slap your ass. You like it, don't you?"

You couldn't answer. You could only moan, your nails digging into his shoulders.

He came inside you with a violence that shook his whole body. You felt him pulse, felt the warmth spread, and you collapsed against him, spent and trembling.

You stayed there, pressed against his chest, your breath evening out. A warmth spread across your belly, warm and wet, and you looked down.

His bandage had shifted. Blood seeped through, a slow trickle that ran down his side.

"It's not bad," you said, your voice hoarse. "But I need to redo it."

He laughed, a breathless sound. "Can't even have a moment of peace."

You climbed off his lap, your legs wobbling beneath you. He watched you, his eyes tracking every movement, a filthy grin spreading across his face.

You grabbed fresh bandages and cleaning supplies from the kit. This time, you sat on his lap as you worked, completely naked, completely exposed to his gaze. He didn't look away. He watched your hands, your face, the way your breasts moved as you leaned forward.

You finished the bandage, pressing it firmly into place.

He pulled you against him, positioning you on his side so you wouldn't press against the wound. He didn't kiss you. There was nothing romantic in the gesture. But you felt it anyway. A shift. A certain respect that hadn't been there before.

"I'm not having sex with you because I want you to like me," you said, the words leaving your mouth before you could stop them.

"That changes nothing," he said, his voice low and steady. "You still desperately need training. You're a talented medic, I admit. An even more talented pussy. But you suck with a blaster. You'll still have to prove yourself with that."

He paused, his hand resting on your hip.

"But if you want to stay and get special training more often..." His fingers traced a lazy circle on your skin. "Well. I'm more than okay with that."

You nodded against him, grateful.

The bunker was quiet. The supplies sat stacked near the door. The speeder bike waited above, laden with everything you'd found. And here, in the dark, pressed against a man who'd wanted you gone just hours ago, you felt something settle.

You closed your eyes.

Sleep came quickly, pulling you both down into its depths, tangled together and completely spent.

Hope you enjoyed