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The Dispossessed 1

Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Sharing may be a fact of life in the GAR, but Crosshair has never found anything he would like to share less than the ugly, wonderful fantasies he's just stumbled across.

Or Crosshair starts reading Holonet porn.

CrosshairXOFC. Smut and clone-shipping ahead, you have been warned

Most things were shared among the clones of the GAR. There wasn’t much to go around and as the war raged on, what little was available became even dearer. Besides, most things were standard issue anyway. There were important exceptions, customized armor, a favorite blaster, anything you’d made yourself. Precious things to distinguish you among the other 5 million yous. But even then you were still expected to cough up whatever tools you found to make these. It’s why so many of the tattoos and transport paintjobs looked alike. It was just good sense.

As with most things, Clone Force 99 had its own peculiar way of handling it.

They were a small unit, closeted in small quarters, with small supply access. Everyone sort of used the same knives. Wrecker’s bombs were everyone’s bombs. Even Hunter’s bandanas got reclaimed for rag usage when they wore out. Tech’s datapad and Crosshair’s rifle sometimes got a pass for sheer practicality. No one else could use them like they could. But even so, Tech downloaded schematics and holos for everyone and most members of the Batch got at least a couple of training sessions with Crosshair’s rifle, if only because it was a good idea for everyone to be able to use everyone else’s weapons. Wrecker was usually excused on account of how often he just, well, wrecked things.

It was a hard balance to maintain and Hunter was a good enough leader to do so. In the field he took advantage of the lay of the land. In the Marauder, he made do with his team members’ starkly defined tastes. It didn’t matter how little there was to go around, in time, in space, in supplies, because Clone Force 99 members rarely wanted the same things.

Tech had his binary-basic quarterly glossary with probably 5 readers across the entire galaxy. Wrecker was partial to popular Rylothian holodramas that made him alternately laugh or cry so loudly there was nowhere to hide from it in the entire ship. The stars only knew what Hunter listened to, holed up alone in the cockpit when he kept a solitary lookout.

Crosshair liked holonovels. Historical, military holonovels. He kept them in the limited storage capacity of his wrist comm and was the only one stubborn enough to slog through endless, stodgy recountings of things like the Jedi-Mandalorian wars or Old Republic politics, displayed through the holo of his wrist comm, in what little privacy a bunk or cot or trench could provide. Tech said it was a wonder he’d never damaged his eyesight with them. Hunter bitched about the blue light glow affecting the entire common area, kriffing up his ability to have a shut eye. Wrecker tried getting him to read one aloud to him once, hoping there’d be some good battles, or at least some explosions, but it was mostly long-winded, overly detailed descriptions of battlefield formations and (of course) sniper lookout posts and the eternal time they spent stalking other snipers, looking to snuff each other out. Hunter had laughed at them good-naturedly and told Wrecker to get back to his soap operas and leave Cross alone.

Tech was the only other member who could stand his brother’s tiresome historical holos for long.

When for whatever reason, it was the two of them alone in the Marauder, whether it was their turn for watch or the other two were out on some mission or training exercise that didn’t require them, Crosshair would turn on the audio option with a grunt of assent and they would sit together and listen. Tech tinkering with their ship and communications, Crosshair, disassembling and reassembling everyone’s blasters for cleaning. The others so rarely did maintenance.

It was good sometimes, that nothing belonged to any one of them really, stuff got passed around, but so did the work.

Knives were always sharpened. Blasters always crisp clean. The Marauder’s console was always up to date. And no one ever had to worry about running out of ammo because Wrecker would never allow such a thing.

There were few things Wrecker was reliable with, but ammo and perpetual cheer were always in supply.

Unfortunately, so were well-intentioned (and very loud) intrusions.

“Wind it back!” Wrecker had boomed out one day, after he and Hunter had come back smelling faintly of charred durasteel from a field briefing that had turned into a field assignment. “That’s the good one! With the angry jedi chick and her Mando boyfriend!”

Crosshair had almost choked back his toothpick and hissed out disdainfully that this wasn’t about a boyfriend, before Hunter had told him to shut up and wind it back up because he’d missed last chapter’s explanation on Mandalorian sociolinguistics and it had been a long fire-fight back to the Marauder and they all could use some entertainment on their way home to Kamino.

Two very unpleasant realizations had immediately followed after Crosshair had turned the audio option back two chapters. Realization number one: Everyone had been listening to his last holonovel, not just Tech, in spite of numerous complaints on dry passages about Jedi philosophy and Mandalorian genealogy (the complaints should have, in fact, been his first clue that Hunter and Wrecker were paying attention). Realization number two: If not exactly about a boyfriend, this holo was, without a doubt and to Crosshair’s everlasting disgust, a romance.

There might have been no declarations of love (Wrecker complained) and no steamy scenes (Tech had been thankful, since even shared masturbatory material was something he insisted be discussed and agreed to beforehand), but the two characters carrying the narrative certainly… gravitated towards one another. It didn’t matter that 8 standard hours into a 17 hour long audio reading, neither the “angry jedi chick” nor the “moody Mando idiot” had yet to kiss, or that Crosshair had curled his lip up at Wrecker’s enthusiastic commentary and told him, a Mando youth who was tired of fighting, who had grown weary of murder and intrigue and war, and a jedi padawan who struggled to follow the code, who hated and killed more freely than her Mando counterpart, were obviously the best vehicle to give a full, comprehensive view of the military conflict, the fact was that however naturally this was to end in one or both of their deaths, it would also probably end in affection.

Hunter had laughed at him again when they had headed out together for the next mission and then added that he looked like he’d sucked on a Roonan lime whenever Wrecker was right about anything. While Crosshair sighted the target Hunter had found for him and grumbled about Wrecker’s romantic holodramas being “cheap predictable garbage” Hunter had asked him why he hadn’t predicted this one then?

Not even the satisfaction of a clean rifle shot and an eliminated target could erase the sting of that.

Nor of the third unpleasant realization in a row: That when indeed the tired, young Mandalorian warrior had died to keep the padawan alive, her lightsaber smashed beyond repair, their enemies surrounding them; when she had buried him not with the beskar’gam he had come to despise but with her saber’s still glowing kyber crystal around his neck, her heart gone into the cold, hard earth, and taken up the mantle of war and clan, not for honor but in hope for life and legacy, a legacy of something other than death and murder… he was as moved by the gesture as he was by the author’s obvious reference to a certain obscure Mandalorian clan’s unknown origins. The insignia the author described could certainly be an early form of the modern ones, a veiled reference to a kyber crystal if one squinted. It was diabolically clever to imagine it to be another fairly unknown padawan who had founded the clan. And Crosshair was sure she would appear as missing-in-action if ever he were to consult the Order’s records. It wasn’t just a smart bit of research but trust placed in the reader’s ability to have read the histories for themselves and come to the conclusion that hope had not been misplaced: their legacy had survived through the ages.

But all of this paled in comparison to the most irritating of all his recent realizations: That he wished he’d been reading on his own when he’d come to this end. That he would have liked some privacy and quiet to digest this story and perhaps not Tech’s immediate Holonet search for a sequel or Wrecker’s very loud sniffling at the tragic finale.

It had felt like a discovery to Crosshair, this marriage of the minutia of war and the minutia of deep emotion, and he wished it had been entirely his own.

Crosshair had always known himself to be somewhat difficult to live with, rude and most certainly selfish. He’d known his brothers put up with a lot from him, just like he was willing to put up with a lot from them. But this newfound desire of his, for a moment alone, for the sole possession of a feeling… it exhilarated him almost as much as it made him want to hurl.

He didn’t think he would have been willing to put up with it if it had come from the rest of the Bad Batch.

So it felt a little like robbery when he’d borrowed Tech’s datapad instead of just asking for the downloads. He’d looked through everything else the author had and downloaded the driest, heaviest volume in the roster for later perusal in his bunk. In private.

It wasn’t a war story. Not exactly.

There was a lot of genealogy again and people marrying or almost marrying or thinking about marrying. A lot of adoptions, which accounted for the extensive family trees. And a lot of covert assassination. He liked that part, even with all the poisoning.

A good chunk of the holonovel was dedicated to a sort of military training that felt familiar. Fleet exercises were not really Crosshair’s thing but there was a certain precision to them in the author’s descriptions that appealed to him. Even through his limited knowledge he could understand the brilliance of some of these naval strategies. He also found himself liking the meticulousness of following the rise of these two noble families. Remembering all their nonsense names and all their nonsense vendettas. It wasn’t the raw allure of military history, but it held his attention. And without Wrecker booming color commentary in his ear, he was able to see the romance more clearly this time, even before it came about, even before the two noblemen even met each other. He could see it in their petty grudges and their inevitable betrayals of each other’s allies, even separated by rank and loyalties. He could see it in the way they matched one another’s ruthlessness even as he knew the impossibility of it in their character, in the one’s tragic devotion to his family and the other’s relentless pursuit of social ascendance.

He felt oddly seen.

He’d rather be offed by a clanker than ever be a delicate little fop who had never seen a real battlefield and depended on poisoned stilettos to do his killing for him but… he felt as if the violence of his envy, the selfishness of his impulses, the savagery of his hatreds was being called beautiful.

He felt flattered.

He’d shut down his wrist comm in a fury when they’d both died. To save their petty, squabbling planet of warring families. To leave with their deaths a dying, cold sun to a dying, cold people. It felt cheap. Like a copout. It left all the ugly things between them unsaid and untested. It wasn’t the death by combat of her Mandalorian boy, finally at rest from a war he was tired of fighting. It was not the burial of the kyber crystal and all the beliefs that came with it. It was her first holonovel, he had checked in the archive. She must have gotten better, more skilled at making endings ring with emotion. It only made this one seem more hollow.

Closer to what he knew to be true of a soldier’s life. That there was little meaning in death.

He wasn’t sure if he hated it or loved it.

The author didn’t have a lot of other historical novels, but what she did have, was a hell of a lot of porn.

He didn’t touch it at first. During their next round of missions he let Wrecker put on his holodramas and tuned them out as best as he could. Trekking through an unknown jungle for the third time in as many rotations, he still hadn’t been able to shake off the idea. It wasn’t something he was remotely interested in, even Tech didn’t read his porn, and he was a freaky little shit if there ever was one. But after Hunter had growled at him to concentrate, the tree beside him still conspicuously smoking from blaster fire Crosshair should have intercepted already, he’d swallowed what lingering embarrassment he still had and opened the file he had, tellingly, not already erased from what little storage space he had in his wrist comm.

“Whatcha reading Cross?”

They’d been on their way to their next mission aboard the Marauder, tight quarters and little privacy for at least 24 standard hours. Crosshair had nearly jumped out of his skin when Wrecker had hung out of the top pull out cot to peer into his own and bellowed in what he probably considered to be an indoor voice. Crosshair had in fact managed to hit his head on the cot above him and used it to disguise his irritation at being interrupted.

“Something with syllables,” he hissed out, rather more venomously than he’d intended. “Nothing you’d be interested in.”

Quite unexpectedly, Tech had come to his rescue with what was not quite a lie about his last datapad downloads, “Is it the early Outer Rim colonization period piece you asked me for?”

And that was as far as Wrecker’s interest went. He had no taste for the lovingly detailed descriptions of historical slug-throwing rifles Crosshair favored in his pioneer era holonovels. Though if he had looked further into this one, the one Tech had inadvertently suggested to him, perhaps he would have found the handsome young widow stranded in a homestead an appealing enough character. Crosshair didn’t. She stunk too much of the lurid, badly scripted stories Wrecker favored. If a gallant, lonesome gunslinger had saved her from (or doomed her to) her inevitable ravishment, Crosshair would have puked and abandoned the whole enterprise entirely.

Perhaps then he would have been free at least.

But it had been soldiers who found her. He wasn’t familiar with that particular Old Republic war but the novel called them Union soldiers. And they did as soldiers often do, at least soldiers who weren’t GAR. And he’d been glad that Wrecker was finally asleep, that Tech was working late as he so often did and that it was Hunter on watch because he would always shut himself in the cockpit, when he’d felt again that gravitational force between the widow and one of the soldiers. A vicious young man, who raped her as hard as any of the others and made Crosshair feel again, uncomfortably, nakedly, that someone was looking into some very ugly, very foul parts of his soul and calling them desirable. Crosshair’s fingers had tingled with the itch to pull a trigger when the widow had put the young soldier’s slugthrower right between her tits and told him he might as well do for her, if he let the others touch her again.

Him, she would take, but no one else.

He hadn’t jerked off to that particular story. Not yet. He’d lain in his pull out, hard and ready, breathing deeply, trying not to think about how pathetic he must look. He cursed that for once patience had not served him and he’d neglected to wait until he had the relative privacy of his bunk in Kamino to do this. But even with Wrecker’s snores, even with Tech giving him a knowing look on his way to his own pull out, Crosshair had felt a subtle charge of electricity at the pit of his belly.

Desire.

He’d felt such a thing before. He wasn’t blind, he was in fact much less blind than the rest of his brothers. He had no self-righteous sense of responsibility to hide behind the way Hunter did, no awkward misunderstandings the way Tech often had, no cloying need for affection like Wrecker. He liked to fuck, and that was that. He did it as often as he could, with as many beautiful partners as he could find willing.

He thought he’d known himself well enough. He thought he’d known he’d liked to possess. But he hadn’t known anything.

Now he did. Now he laid there, in the quiet low glow of hyperspace, with the sound of the world, his brothers, trying to intrude on him, knowing himself to be rotten to the core because he wanted so many impossible things. He’d laid there, eyes closed, dick still hard, thinking of the widow and her soldier and her lips wrapped around a cock as easily as they had wrapped around the barrel of a slugthrower. And he’d cursed himself for wanting the wet warmth of someone’s tongue around what was deadliest and most vicious in him.

He should have cared more that it had killed her in the end, as any minimal amount of blaster safety instruction should have made clear it would. But he cared more that the widow had been killed by her soldier when he could no longer hold to the promise he had made her. That he would be the only one to touch her. He cared more that she had found a fierce joy in the moment of her death, because of what it had meant to her and her soldier.

Possession.

As soon as they reached the next spaceport for refuelling, Crosshair had needled Hunter until he let them blow off some steam in the local cantina. Most planets under Republic rule wouldn’t begrudge a free round or two for Republic soldiers. Part of him had been glad to have Wrecker go with him, would have been even more relieved if Tech or Hunter had deigned to come along, to make it as normal as possible, even as he had bristled at the knowing smile Tech had thrown his way, wondering furiously, eaten through by jealousy, if his brother had read any of the stories Crosshair had stashed away in the privacy of his own comm device.

Ownership.

“You pick someone,” he’d grumbled at Wrecker once they’d ordered their drinks. “I don’t wanna have a kriffing negotiation over it. But get a girl, and a good one, not just someone who’s impressed by your biceps.”

He had downed his drink in a single gulp he knew he would regret, his eyes watering at the cheap alcohol, but he’d needed very badly not to be sober enough to think.

Most things were shared in the GAR, even this, especially this, particularly for them. They might have never liked the same partners, Wrecker favoring sweet, Tech strange, Crosshair swanky and Hunter fellow soldiers who would give him the least shit possible, but they liked each other better than any Regs, knew how to close ranks, how to protect their own. When Tech had been too nervous to make a move alone, Hunter had his back. He’d gotten him a pretty Nautalon and they’d fucked him together, just to make sure Tech wouldn’t have to talk to him alone. When Wrecker wanted to impress a frisky, young thing from the Outer Rim, Crosshair had deigned to talk dirty in her ear while Wrecker went down on her and got to come off as a gentleman in comparison to his bantha-shit brother who’d called her enough names to get her pussy wet and ready for him. They were the Bad Batch, after all. Clone Force 99. If they weren’t willing to make a united front with each other over this, who would?

Tonight he’d called in the favor. He wasn’t willing to make the effort of being civil, hence, it was easier to just have Wrecker charm a girl for them. A lot of people liked muscle, and soldiers, a lot of people especially liked that in a GAR uniform. Because even Crosshair was far less likely to be an asshole to civilians, than say, a wandering bounty hunter or a Hutt enforcer.

It was just sensible really. It was normal, kriff it, to have Wrecker pick out their lay tonight. And it got results. And if it got him a more buxom, more garish, more coyly sweet human girl than the lithe, beautiful twi’leks Crosshair favored, then she at least had a nice tight pair of pants on. A pair of pants he was going to pull down as little off her legs as he could while he fucked her.

Which he did, with her ass in the air and her hands and mouth trying to wrap around Wrecker, hearing them both make noises which would have usually spurred him on. To show his brother up, but also to make certain their girl knew who fucked her best. Clones. Defective ones. Not such a bad batch after all? But tonight he found himself trying to drown those moans in the slapping sound of skin against skin, in the burning need of his dick, trying to drown out everything but the thought of fucking a woman like this, her clothes barely off, her mouth occupied with someone else’s cock, just like the widow’s soldier had fucked her.

He tried not to think but couldn’t help it, couldn’t help himself when he’d pulled her off his protesting brother with a tug of her hair and hissed against the nape of her neck, “Say it’s me and no one else.”

She hadn’t been able to answer, caught between an orgasm that left her sprawled all over Wrecker’s lap and drooling erection, perhaps not having even heard Crosshair well through Wrecker’s own characteristically loud noises, his sweet babbling orders to get her back on his dick and her own eagerness to have both of them cum into their ion condoms, as close to inside her as they could.

When they’d headed back to the Marauder even Wrecker had noticed his unusually sour mood after a good fuck.

“Hey,” he’d asked in a voice softer than any he usually employed. “Everything okay Cross?”

And that was the moment Crosshair had finally felt guilty for the whole thing. Had slung his rifle more securely onto his back to cover the tension in his shoulders. Because he had wanted Wrecker there, and Wrecker had done exactly what his brother had asked of him, down to the position and gender of their lay tonight. It was Crosshair who had not been able to tell him what he had really wanted. To fuck a girl together and have her tell him it would be him and no one else.

Him or death.

He hadn’t even pretended to not want to read the next story. It was about a Zygerrian woman and her slave. The girl could play the hallikset and did so at the feet of her mistress, silently hating her, silently planning her demise, with a venom and viciousness Crosshair couldn’t help but approve of. It was the worm-eaten underbelly to how deeply she also wanted the Zygerrian. He let himself sink into it this time around. The growing intimacy of it, not two people orbiting each other, but the increasingly vengeful growth of one woman, tangled in the twin threads of desire and destruction. When they finally tumbled into the sheets, when the Zygerrian mistress opened her legs for her slave girl, for her clever hallikset fingers, there was a delicious irony to her assumption of dominance, to her ignorance of the battle inside her slave girl, who buried her face in her mistress’s sex and hated her for how good it tasted. When the slave girl at last put her hands around her mistress’s neck, in her panic, the mistress was never to know that her choking the life out of her, straddling her, sex against sex, naked and panting, was not an act of hate but of the ultimate love. And when Crosshair finally relented and put his hand down his blacks, on a night out in the field when he was supposed to be asleep and the rain and the heat and the bloodsucking insects had driven half the camp insane, he did so thinking of a voice he had never heard. A voice telling stories. A girl writing romances. A girl who thought the rot in his soul beautiful. Telling him how much she hated him for making her want him.

He devoured everything else she had written. When there was blaster fire all around him. When his Firepuncher jammed on him and he had to make a split second decision to switch weapons. When the screams washed over him and he turned to whoever was making his life kriffing harder that day just to give him a piece of his mind… he thought about her. About her hateful jedi, her conniving aristocrats, her soldier, her slaver and all the others. And he almost smiled, telling a reg he should go do what regs did best and just karking die already. Write that down, he would think, for your next story.

It was a bunch of bantha-shit, that’s what it was. He didn’t know her. For all he knew she was really a 60 year old Mon Cala or a bored Chandrillian hag with too much time on her hands. For all he knew she could be the natborn broad of his dreams and writing this garbage for money and nothing more.

He didn’t know which would turn his stomach more.

In his foul moods, he would come close to deleting all of them. The two holonovels. The porn. Even the search history in Tech’s datapad, as much as Tech would bitch to him about it.

On the worst days, he would read all of them again and again and again wondering what this girl knew of war and death and blood on your hands. He’d imagined her beautiful, like that senator Wrecker liked so much. Or pretty like general Skywalker and his blue, blue eyes. And he’d tell her, I’ve shot a separatist boy in cold blood before he even realized the GAR was there. I’ve heard men and women dying, sometimes up close, sometimes so far away the recoil of my rifle was their only death rattle. What do you know of the rot on my soul?

And the best part of the whole kriffing affair, the part that still delighted him, scratched the itch like a well-placed shot, was how utterly private it all was. His late nights. His reading. No more audio option. No more Wrecker not understanding. No more Tech understanding too much. No more Hunter mocking him for the boring, tedious story, for the increasing number of lays he was turning away, in bars, in the GAR, for never giving a reg a chance, for being too good for army dick or cantina pussy.

Just him, and whoever it was on the other side of the holonovels.

“She’s put up a new story,” Tech had told him the night they were back on Kamino for rest and a briefing. For once, his twin’s voice had grated on his nerves so hard he’d snapped back: “Like I have fuck all to do. You read that drivel, it’s the only tail you get anyway.”

He headed for the shooting range in a temper after that, spent the next hour shooting bull’s eye after bull’s eye imagining shooting the lenses right off Tech’s helmet, while he tried to scrub his head free of any thoughts. Woulda worked better for Wrecker, he’d thought viciously and refused the notification for getting back to their barracks by zero-hundred hours.

He’d read the damn thing in the empty shooting range, silently hating that it was Tech who had taught him how to splice into the holonet connection of Tipoca City with his wrist comm.

This one barely had a story. He’d figured it was about Force users. He figured there was some Jedi and Sith poodoo in it. A master and an apprentice, something. She called him her god and master and that was all Crosshair needed. He’d turned the audio option on inside his helmet and jerked off on the floor of the shooting range. It was good and vicious and private. And half of it wasn’t even about the stupid, delicious story, half of it was imagining himself, holding her at rifle point, saying it through the gritty audio of his helmet with a snarling hiss, tell me a story.

He’d laid there, panting and drained, with the afterglow of what had humiliatingly been one of the best orgasms of his life, wondering what the fuck was wrong with him.

He’d kept on wondering as he used the holonet to look into the writer’s profile, the messages other users had left for her. Not a lot. Mostly on the kinky shit. There had been a tingling of deep erotic foreboding when he’d opened the live link to the Mandalorian war novel and left her a message, badly spelled in his haste, nothing special. He’d forget about it tomorrow.

Anonymous I dunno why you bother with the rest of this garbage. This one’s the real deal. Missed a date in that last battle. Don’t know if any Jedi would go for this shit though. Sounds like youve never even seen one. Would introduce you but their boring as all kark.

He had no code he’d cared to write this under. No username. He’d never needed one before. Tech was the one who knew how to set that trash up. A standard minute passed. Two. After five, Crosshair had let out a breath he hadn’t even known he’d been holding. It didn’t fucking matter. She’d uploaded the kriffing thing hours ago, she couldn’t possibly–

The response popped up 6 minutes after.

FairHairedChild12 A hater is just a fan in disguise. Especially a hater who invests 17 standard hours into hating. Thank you for the message, this story never gets any love. I do know some Jedi. Just the one. Just when I consult manuscripts. There’s an article on a variant take on that battle’s date but you’re right, the other date has better historical support for it. This date just worked better for the story. I can send you the article if you’re interested in the Mandalorian Wars. Send me your username.

#tbb crosshair #tbb crosshair smut #tbb crosshair fanfic #tbb crosshair x oc #tbb fanfiction #tbb wrecker #tbb hunter #tbb tech #clone force 99 #cloneshipping #tbb smut #tw: noncon #tw: noncon fantasies #my smut #my writing

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