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You’d learn, long after the night was over, that finding Rex in the bar in the first place had been a bit of a miracle all on its own; it had apparently taken multiple lost bets and a direct order from his commander to get him to take a single evening off.
You didn’t know that at the time, of course; you could barely tell that he was off duty, if not for the setting. He’s wearing his armor when you first see him across the bar, helmet resting on the floor between his feet, his posture rigid like he was ready to stand at attention at any moment even as he laughed and swapped stories with his men. He’d only come in about an hour ago, but is still nursing his first bottle of beer. He seems–distracted. Like part of him is still off on some distant front, fighting the war for the Republic.
You notice all this because you’re already tipsy yourself by this point, and have long since abandoned any pretenses about your intentions: you’re here to have fun, get drunk, and ideally, not end the night alone. As a medic at a research institute right next to the Grand Republic Medical Facility on Coruscant, you’ve had plenty of time to get to know your fair share of clones. Each one with their own personality, tastes, and desires… but you happen to know that there’s a particular endowment they all share that makes them excellent candidates for the kind of evening you have in mind.
You’re on your second ebla beer when you hear your name shouted across the bar. “Hey, medic!” Kix calls, waving at you from his booth. “Over here!”
You brighten immediately and extract yourself from your friends; the conversation around you has been mind-numbingly boring for the past fifteen minutes. “Need a competent medical opinion for once, Kix?” you ask as you slide into his booth. You can tell he’s already quite drunk.
Kix rolls his eyes, and introduces you. “She’s the best medic at the KryTek Research Institute. Specializes in weird alien bioplans, the kind of xeno-anatomy that needs highly specialized medical care. So I figured you might believe her when she confirms that all Alvoxians do have three breasts, the males females and the neuter gender, and when aroused these things can reach the size of…”
Soon you’re introduced to all of Kix’s friends: Jesse, Fives, Echo, and of course, across from you: Rex. You recognize him from the war holos: the captain who serves with General Skywalker. You can see his eyes linger on you as you reach across the table for his hand, which you hold on to for just a moment longer than is strictly proper. “Charmed,” you say.
He holds your gaze, lips slightly parted, before giving you a swift nod in return. “Nice to meet you, ma’am,” he says gruffly. You smile and rejoin the conversation, but you can see him out of the corner of your eye, furtively looking you up and down. You’d pulled out all the stops tonight, and you’re glad someone is appreciating it. You lean over as if to listen more carefully to the conversation beside you, allowing the edge of your dress to slip down and giving him a little peek of the bare skin underneath. You turn your head slightly and–oh, he’s looking. But then–damn, that military propriety kicks in, and he quickly shifts back to his ramrod-straight position, staring determinedly ahead.
Well, you’ll see what you can do about that.
You wave to get his attention. “Pass me that revnog,” you say to him. You’re already drunk, and it might have come out a little bossy, but what you aren’t expecting is:
“Yes sir,” Rex says, grabbing the bottle and handing it to you.
You quirk an eyebrow. “I thought you were off duty.”
Rex’s face flushes as he realizes his slip, and he looks down briefly before returning your gaze. “Sorry, uh, ma’am. Force of habit.”
“Yeah, get your head out of the war for once!” Jesse hollers from across the table. You barely hear him. Your eyes are fixated on Rex, who seems to be far more embarrassed by his slip-up than is reasonable. You hold his gaze for one long moment as you raise the bottle to your lips, and then wink.
He drops your gaze immediately and takes a long, deep swig of his beer.
Oh, tonight is going to be fun.
The night wears on. Someone suggests a drinking game, and to your absolute delight Rex loses–badly. It helps that you and Kix quickly band together to make sure he gets at least as drunk as the rest of you by the time the game is over. Kix seems to find endless amusement in seeing the captain so undone, and you… well, you have your own reasons. Rex protests against the unfairness of it all, but still dutifully presses his lips against the bottle again and again.
You’ve stopped hiding how much you’re watching him. After his second drink his posture went from rigid and upright to low and relaxed, and now his body is splayed languidly across the bench of the booth. He’s taken off most of his armor, too, and he’s enough of himself to still stack the plastoid plates in a military-standard arrangement underneath the table. But more importantly, now you can see the shape of him. You can see his muscles, taut against the tight fabric of his body glove, sweat shining on his olive skin where he’s rolled his sleeves up.
Hours into the evening, Rex excuses himself to the men’s room. You get quite a view of his other side as he walks across the bar, and you’re busy imagining your hands wrapped around his ass when Kix leans over and whispers, loudly, “You trying to pull the captain?”
You turn towards him and raise your eyebrows in what you hope is the picture of drunken innocence. “What makes you say that?”
Kix laughs. “Like you’ve ever been subtle. And I know my captain. He’s been staring at you all evening. Something’s on his mind, that’s for sure.”
A thrill runs through you at that thought–of what Rex has been thinking, fantasizing about as the night draws on. You’ve had your own thoughts all evening, but heat grows between your legs as you imagine him thinking about–against the rough edge of the booth–in one of the bathroom stalls–spread out in front of his men–on his knees under the table–
You shake your head to clear it–no use getting ahead of yourself. “So you think I have a shot?” you ask, rubbing your finger around the lip of your beer.
Kix winks, and for a moment you’re filled with an entirely different set of memories and desires. Then he motions for you to get up, and slides out of the booth behind you. “Jesse!” he shouts over the din of the bar. “Tell Fives about the time we took down three assault tanks with a busted blaster and a basket of overripe meiloorun.” Then he sits down on the other side of the table, leaving– oh , leaving the seat right next to yours the only one open. You sit back down quickly, mouth a quick thank you across the table, and make a mental note to express your gratitude properly sometime before Kix’s next deployment.
Rex doesn’t even seem to notice the seating swap when he returns, sliding in next to you without a second thought. Now you can feel him, the heat of his legs pressed against yours. You shift positions in what you hope is a subtle motion, leaning into him slightly as you uncross your legs and–stars, he feels strong, every inch of him covered in tightly corded muscle.
And–oops, you’re staring. He’s looking back at you, his lips twitching into a small, crooked smile. You expected everything about him to be absolute symmetrical perfection, and the sight of that one-sided smile just makes him more irresistible.
The night continues. You keep inching closer and closer to him until you’re practically on top of each other. You’ve taken every excuse you can get to touch him, watching his face heat every time you reach over to trace one of his scars or brush a piece of lint from his shoulder. At one point the clasp at the back of your dress comes undone, and you ask him to fix it. His calloused hands are surprisingly gentle as he does you back up, and he lets his hands linger on your shoulders for a moment before quickly pulling away.
Later in the evening, Rex is finishing another war story–some anecdote about going undercover as a servant to infiltrate a weapons depot suspected of selling ammunition to the Separatists.
“I’d think a bigshot like you would be more used to giving the orders,” you tease.
Rex laughs, low and easy; a testament to his drunkenness. “Believe me, I follow Skywalker around enough that I’m pretty good at taking them, too.”
Isn’t that a pretty thing to imagine. Stars–you can’t help yourself. You’re impatient. “So,” you whisper into his ear, “What do you think about coming back to my place after this?”
His eyes go wide. His cheeks flush. “I’d like that,” he finally says, sounding slightly strangled.
“Look at you. It’s like you’ve never taken someone home before,” you tease.
This time, he doesn’t blush–just sighs. “Course I have. Just not… just not for a while. The war… ”
You press a finger to his lips to quiet him. “Hey,” you whisper. “There’s no war here. Okay? Not tonight.”
His eyes close, and you move your finger to briefly trace the edge of his jawline before dropping your hand back in your lap.
“No war,” he echoes, as if trying to convince himself. “Not tonight.”
You wink. Someone has to bring the mood back. “That’s the spirit.”
“So… I’ll, uh, call us a cab, then?” Rex offers, already pulling out his comm. But you grab his hand, leaning sideways against his chest to stop him.
“Let’s walk.”
He frowns. “Are you sure? This time of night it can get pretty seedy out.”
“I live close by. Besides—” you lean in close to whisper into his ear “—I’ll protect you,”
Rex’s eyebrows raise, and then he laughs. “Alright,” he says. “We’ll walk. And you’ll protect me.”
“But first…” You reach over to a bottle of prow–ordered by Jesse hours ago and sitting half-empty in the corner of the table–and pour yourself a shot. Then, as an afterthought, you tilt the bottle questioningly at Rex. He laughs and nods, and you pour him his own.
You think you need to be just a bit more drunk to say what’s on your mind.
You clink. “To the boys in white,” you say, and he grins.
“To the boys in white!” Fives shouts from the end of the table, and suddenly the whole bar is full of hollering as everyone around you raises their glasses.
You toss back the prow, and it slides down smooth. You stare at Rex as he takes his: how he tips his head back, closing his eyes afterwards, lips parted and glistening. How he leans back against the worn cushion afterward, that crooked smile spreading on his face. Kriff, he’s hot.
The alcohol is buzzing in your chest–just what you need. You lean in and say, voice low and dark: “When you come back to my place, how would you feel about taking a few more orders?”
He freezes, but you can see the blush spreading like fire across his cheeks and maybe the alcohol has made you just brave enough to try one last thing: you lean in closer and whisper, breath hot against his ear, “Be a good soldier for me ?”
He exhales, fists clenched against his thighs, and you can see–kriff, he’s getting hard, swelling against the black fabric of his pants. Your hand reaches down for his thigh, ghosting a touch over the very edge of the fabric. He shivers, and you squeeze . He can’t hold back the choked noise he makes at that, as your hand slides up his leg, closer and closer to the bulge under his pants… and then you let go.
“Or we could just have a good time,” you offer. “I could have fun either way.” You rest your hand lightly on the top of his leg. He doesn’t answer, but he leans into your touch, as if subconsciously trying to make you touch him again, touch him harder–
Oh, but it’s just so fun to tease him like this. You lean in close and whisper, “Stay still.”
He locks in place. Soldier’s discipline. In the din of the bar, only you–pressed up against him, leaning in so close you can feel his breath against your cheek–can hear the strangled moan he lets slip through his lips.
“Thought so,” you whisper. He’s trying, struggling to regain the composure he lost around his third bottle of beer. You squeeze his thigh again. His breath hitches.
“So, is that a yes?” you ask, your voice low.
He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he breathes.
It’s almost enough. “Yes what?”
“Yes, sir,” he says, and–stars, that sends a spike of arousal through you so strong you can barely bite back a moan of your own.
“Good soldier,” you whisper, and finally your hand comes to rest on his cock. He sucks in a breath, eyes darting back and forth–has anyone noticed? –but everyone else at the table is still listening to Jesse’s war stories. It’s like you’re in your own world–just you and him, and his cock twitching beneath your fingertips.
You press down. He groans, eyes fluttering closed. Your free hand slides into your own underpants, as your other hand starts to slowly, methodically, work your hand up and down the outline of his cock. He can hardly keep himself together, biting back moans with every push of your fingertips.
You consider ordering him to be quiet, to watch him struggle to keep down even the small sounds he’s making, but you don’t know if he can in his current state. He groans again and you grind your palm against your clit, your own breath hitching. He’s still frozen in place, but his eyes are cast downward–he’s watching. You push your dress to the side to give him a better show. You fuck yourself slowly, making sure that your hand on his cock is never quite enough to push him over the edge.
You think again to your fantasies–right here, right now. You think about straddling him, sinking down on his cock and showing all his men who he really belongs to–but even as drunk as you are you know that might require a little more discussion beforehand. So instead, you give one last squeeze of his cock, slide your dripping fingers out of yourself, and whisper: “Let’s get out of here.”
You push your way out of the bar, Rex trying to pack up his armor subtly and then valiantly ignoring the hoots and hollers of his friends back at the table. You turn around and blow them a kiss before looping your arm back through his.
Stars, you barely make it home. You can’t keep your hands off each other. You’re walking right beside each other, ostensibly to keep warm–and you stay gentle, at first. A hand slipped under his shirt. Fingertips dragging along his ribs. It’s when he looks at you with that crooked smile and says, “You won’t break me, you know,” that the dam breaks. You slam him against the wall of some closed-down shop and he lets you, all the strength and muscle of his body utterly unresisting. You hear someone behind you wolf whistle as you press your body against his, but you’re far beyond caring. Your hands dig into the curve of his ass and scratch trails down his back. You don’t know if it’s the pain that does it for him or just the submission, the choice not to fight back but take it, but when you bite down on his lip hard enough to bruise he whines like a desperate animal. And yet he touches you so gently, even when you have a hand around his throat. He slips his hand softly, tentatively, under your dress and cups your breast– and you can hardly kriffing take it. You kiss him hungrily, pulling at his lips with your teeth, pushing your tongue deep into him. You grind against him, hard enough that it nearly brings you over the edge. Then he lets you pin his hands against the wall, and when you move your lips from his mouth to his neck he moans so loudly that all of Coruscant must have heard him.
“You’re mine,” you whisper in between kisses, and he whimpers. “All mine.”
You do make it home, eventually. The cool Coruscant air is sobering, and when you finally open your apartment building door, you’re both far steadier on your feet. You pull him inside the cramped building, hands fumbling through your purse for your key card. When you’re finally inside, Rex sets his armor down by the door and stands awkwardly in the middle of your cramped living room, looking unsure of what to do. You close the door, locking the deadbolt, and hang up your coat.
Then you turn around and pull him forward into a long, bruising kiss. Your hands are on his head, digging into the skin of his scalp, keeping his face locked against yours. His hands find your hips.
Finally you pull away. Rex is flushed, his breathing heavy and uneven. The soft curve of his lips is bruised with red.
You take a step back. “On your knees,” you whisper.
Rex falls to his knees.
You reach out and grab his chin, roughly, tilting his head to the side. It’s not a threat so much as a reminder. This is what I can do to you.
“Is this okay?” you ask softly.
Rex nods vigorously, his eyes blown wide. “Kriff, please don’t stop.”
You brush your thumb over his lips and he parts his mouth just slightly, just enough that you can slip your thumb into the warm wetness of his mouth. He moans, a soft and dirty thing. He closes his eyes, lashes fluttering, as you push further into his mouth.
“Suck,” you order, and he does. He takes your whole thumb into his mouth, pulls at it with his tongue, his teeth. You slip another finger in, exploring the edges of his mouth.
“Good soldier,” you hum. “Taking my orders so nicely.”
He moans again, the sound choked around your fingers. You look down and see that his palm is on his groin, his hips rocking back and forth to grind against it.
You pull your fingers from his mouth and slap him.
You don’t hit him hard. He probably takes worse blows every day on the battlefield. But it’s enough to leave a wide, red palmprint across his cheek, glistening from the saliva that coated your hand. His eyes fly open and he looks down, moving his hands back by his side.
“You do only as I say. You take only what I give you. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir,” he whispers.
“Good,” you say. “Then take off your shirt.”
He stays on his knees as he does it, pulling off the top of his body glove and laying it carefully on the floor. He doesn’t meet your gaze, his expression set in something that looks almost like self-consciousness.
“Get up.”
He rises. At his full height he towers above you, but his gaze is still fixed on the floor.
“At attention,” you hiss, and he locks in place again. His shoulders straighten, eyes staring straight ahead.
You circle him, slowly, running your hands up and down every inch of his skin. You cup your fingers around the muscles in his chest and wrap your hands around his biceps. He feels like he’s made of iron, the strength of him like a wire pulled taut. All yours. All at your command.
Your fingers trace his scars, one by one: blaster burns and shrapnel wounds, so old no bacta could heal them. He shivers under your touch, but keeps his body stiff and even. And then, of course, there’s your handiwork from earlier: a scratch mark from your fingernails that runs down his ribs. The faint crescent moons from where you dug into his shoulder. The line of soft red bruises you left on his neck and collarbone. You touch these too, pressing your fingertips into the soft flesh until you can hear his breath hitch.
You’re still standing behind him when you reach up and wrap one of your hands around his throat–tight enough that his breath can only escape in tiny gasps. The other hand slides into his pants, finding his cock. You tighten your hand around his throat as you start to pump up and down, sliding your hand across the sensitive head.
His breath is shallow, but he stays standing at attention, swaying just ever so slightly. You grind against his ass, pushing your clit against the curving muscle, dragging him against you by the neck.
Finally, you release his throat. “At ease,” you say, and he gasps for breath. You circle back around to face him, and only give him a moment before you put your hand on his chest and lead you to the bed. He lets you push him down, staring up at you with those wide amber eyes. You pull off his pants and his cock springs free. Then you lift up the edge of your dress.
He wets his lips as he stares at you, eyes blown wide. He watches as you slide out of your underpants and straddle him on the bed, keeping a hand pressed down on his chest. And he moans–loud, unrestrained–as you sink down on his cock. You’re dripping wet by this point, and his cock glistens with it as you slowly begin to rock back and forth. He’s huge, the feeling of him filling you up. You let your fingernails dig slightly into his skin and he whines, his hands finding your hips and holding on like you were the only thing keeping him afloat.
You notice your underpants, soaking wet and discarded on the edge of the bed. Still rolling your hips against his, you grab Rex’s hands roughly and loop them through, knotting the soft fabric around his wrists. It wouldn’t be enough to hold him if he were fighting to escape–but he’s not fighting. He’s just lying there, breath ragged with pleasure, chest shining with sweat and dotted with hickeys, his hands bound by your soaked-through thong. His cock twitching inside of you as you grind against his hips.
You wish you had a camera, something to freeze a holo of this forever. Instead, you grab his wrists and pin them to the pillow behind his head. You start to move your hips faster, pushing him deeper inside of you, sending waves of pleasure through your body.
“What were you thinking about? In the bar.” Your free hand finds your clit and you begin pushing against it, timing it with the thrusts of your hips.
“You,” he breathed. “I wanted to be on my knees. Eating your cunt–”
Kriff, you’d been right.
“–and not caring who saw.”
“I would have kept you there,” you say. A groan escapes your mouth. “At my feet, where you belong.”
You’re still thrusting back and forth, faster now. You slam into him and he moans, his hands pulling slightly against their makeshift bindings. He had looked so uptight at the bar, like he was ready to stand at attention at any moment. And now look at him: his face tight with pleasure, lips parted and glistening, moaning each time you thrust into him. Coming apart at your every touch.
Rex groans your name, and that nearly sends you over the edge. You can tell he’s getting there, too–the way his cock throbs inside of you, the way the sounds he makes are getting louder and less restrained. You lean forward and start sucking a bruise on his collarbone, and he gasps and moans and cries out beneath you as you work your way up over the sensitive skin of his neck. You bite down hard enough to bruise just as you clench your walls around his cock, and he groans in pleasure and pain. Finally, you reach his jaw, and then you’re surging against his mouth. He kisses you back desperately, needily. Your hair brushes against his face as you lean over him. Marking your territory, claiming him as your own. When you break away, he heaves for breath.
“I’m close,” he gasps. “Please, I-I need to–”
You stop moving, all at once. He whines, and starts bucking his hips up–but you put a hand on his belly, pushing him back down to the bed. Your other hand takes his wrists and loops them over the bedpost, holding him in place.
“No, don’t–don’t stop,” he rasps.
You drag your hand from his belly towards his head, letting your fingernails leave shallow scratches in his chest. “Who gives the orders here?” you hiss, leaning down over him.
“You,” he gasps, and your hand finds his throat.
“That’s right,” you say, and your hand squeezes down on his throat as you begin thrusting back and forth again, harder and faster, pushing him deep inside of you. You’re close, and getting closer with each thrust, with each choked sound he makes from around the hand you’re pressing into his windpipe. You hit an angle that nearly knocks the air out of your lungs, and you push harder, faster, dragging your pleasure out of him.
You come like a starcruiser crashing into a planet. Waves of pleasure spasm through your body, and you can hear Rex making such pretty, strangled noises as you clench around him. Finally, you come back down, your chest heaving. Part of you wants to keep going, taking orgasm after orgasm–but you’re not sure if he can last another round like that. So instead, you slide off of him. His cock lies flat against his muscled chest, slick with your juices. He looks at you and pulls slightly against the bindings holding him to the bed.
“Don’t worry,” you say, reaching up and tracing the line of his jaw. “You’ve been such a good soldier, taking my orders so well. Now I’ll take care of you.” Then you lean forward and lick a long trail across the length of his cock. You work him with your mouth and your hands, tracing patterns with your tongue on the sensitive head while slowly pumping your hands around the base.
He’s lost every ounce of his restraint. He’s moaning loud enough that the whole building probably knows what you’ve been up to. You don’t mind–they’ve all heard far worse from your apartment before–but you still reach out one of your hands and clap it over his mouth, muffling him. You’re moving faster now, taking his cock deeper into your mouth, stroking it harder with your free hand. Finally, when it seems that he’s about to come crashing over the edge, you pull your hand off his mouth.
“I’m–kriff–I’m close–” he gasps. "P-please-"
You pull your mouth off of him. “Come for me,” you breathe.
“Yes, sir,” he moans, and his whole body tenses all at once. His release spills across the olive skin of his stomach. His chest heaves and his breath comes out in ragged gasps as his orgasm rips through him, his mouth shaped in a soundless O of ecstasy.
You slide onto the bed next to him, propping yourself up on your elbow, and watch as his breath steadies. When he finally opens his eyes and looks at you, you smile.
“There’s tissues on the nightstand,” you say after a pause, one of your fingers tracing idle circles through the pools of cum on his chest.
He laughs, looking down at his torso, then back up at his hands. “I’m a little… tied up at the moment.”
Right. You’d forgotten. You sit back up and gently unhook his hands from the bedpost, unwinding your underwear from his wrists. “Like you couldn’t have torn yourself free of those in a heartbeat,” you tease, throwing the underwear in the vague direction of your laundry basket.
“I didn’t want to rip them!” Rex protests.
You laugh, and reach over to the tissues. Even though his hands are free, you still wipe up the pools of cum on his chest yourself, your hands gentle on his scratched skin. “I own more than one pair, you know,” you say.
“Clones only get three pairs of regulation underwear for every deployment. Ripping or losing them can be very serious. I, uh, couldn’t take that risk,” he says, his voice dropping at the end in mock-seriousness.
You laugh and flop back down next to him, resting your head on his shoulder. “Always the hero,” you murmur.
He hums in contentment and closes his eyes. After a moment, you do the same.
* * *
When the sun rises, you’re wrapped around each other in your small, sweat-stained bed.
“When I was a rookie, I’d take people home more often–well, their homes, of course. No privacy in the barracks,” Rex is saying. “Even then I always let them take the lead. Nobody’s… nobody’s ever done it quite like you, though.”
You’re struck with the idea that you might have just given Captain Rex the best sex of his entire life.
“So, it was good, then,” you say, pressing a kiss into his collarbone. “Are you gonna be able to tell Kix you took full advantage of your time between deployments? I’d hate to have him on my ass for failing to unwind you enough.”
Rex stretched his arms behind his head. “It was relaxing.”
“Maybe next time we can try out a few of those fantasies in 79’s,” you say conspiratorially.
“Oh, yeah. That would inspire confidence in all our good soldiers out on the front. The famous Captain Rex, war hero, on his knees and begging for a faceful of cunt.”
“Mm. I’d find it very inspiring, personally.”
“Someone would probably take a holo,” Rex says, and he doesn’t sound half disinterested.
You make a mental note of that for next time.