Impulse
We live as we dream. Alone.
- Joseph Conrad
The mirror is a plain silver thing most cheap lodgings have. Probably have. Not that he'd know. Clone Commander Bly's rugged face is impassive, eyes unreadably blank as any doll.
The white-knuckle grip on the sink betrays him. The reflection today fascinates him. He has never needed a mirror before.
His mirrors walk beside him everyday, all carbon copies of the same man. Hell, he could probably shave if one of his vod copied his movements.
Today is the first time he has ever really looked at his own reflection, searching swarthy features he can't completely call his own. They belong to his vod, to all of his brothers.
Something is new though. Something he does not share.
Slowly he raises a trembling hand to pull the collar of his jumpsuit down. Dark eyes stare unblinking, unable to look away.
The smooth silver surface of the mirror reflects the bruises. The ones his brothers don't have. The marks.
When she pushed him hard against the wall he thought she'd sensed another one of those damn droids, the place was rigged, something threatening and lethal.
The odd intent predatory look on her face was one he'd never seen her wear, not even in the heat of battle.
Had it been anyone else he would have fought. But this was General Aayla Secura, who hadn't led him wrong yet.
Bly throws his head back and presses a hand over his eyes in frustration. He can still feel the slight throb on his skin and the imprints of her teeth are still on his neck.
And his shoulders.
He can picture them with crystal clarity behind his closed lids. The event plays over and over in his head, seeping in to taint every thought.
Had he done something? Was she angry?
What did she want?
Why didn't the normally talkative Jedi say anything? The relief he felt when she discarded her weapon with his own evaporated when she'd gone for his armor.
Then he started to struggle. She could damn well explain what she wanted.
The silver circle winks mockingly in his frustrated face. The taunting reminder of something he half wants to forget, to scrub off until his skin is bloody and raw.
Long fingers trail across the purple discoloration, a shudder slides up his spine.
Half of him wants to forget, to pretend it never happened.
Half of him wants to feel those blue lips caressing his skin again.
Oh.
She wanted his body.
The thought was dim, hidden somewhere in the mess his mind suddenly was. She tasted like blood and flowers, mouth hard against his own. Bly made sure he kept completely still, not sure how to react, unsure if he really wanted her to stop.
His body felt strange, alive in a way it hadn't before.
So. That was..."sex." A concept not included in his training, and from what he'd gathered from the bits and pieces of information his career had taught him, sex could mean a lot of...something, a little, nothing, and everything.
The bench in the sparse room is hard and uncomfortable but he sits anyways, a nervous hand reaching for the familiar stock of his rifle. The utter foreignness of the situation makes his palms sweaty. Give him a battle or a good ambush anyday.
Not this.
Was it too much to ask for sex to come with a manual like all his equipment did? I-just-fucked-a-Jedi For Dummies? Wait, was sex with a Jedi different? They weren't allowed "attachments" - clones weren't exactly people did they even count? – and did their powers make it different?
It had felt...like life was running across his skin and even the dirt beneath his hands was full of blood, pulsing with a vitality all its own.
Bly isn't sure he likes the feeling.
Whatever she was doing was scrambling his brain.
His mouth was latching on to hers without his consent, a thing he probably would've been disturbed by if he could have formed a coherent sentence. He was hyperaware of every touch, but didn't know if he wanted more contact or less.
She didn't seem to have the same problem, touching whatever skin was within reach.
A muscle jumps in his neck as Bly grinds his teeth in frustration. When had life gotten this...complicated?
Three days and five hours ago. Like he can forget.
The messy unfinishedness of it eats at him, spilling out of his neat mental boxes in an alien tide of worry and confusion. Tan hands slide up and down the barrel of his rifle, trying to sooth away the visceral need for answers.
Jedi do not answer to clones. Jedi are few, precious and protected. Clones are many and expendable.
He does not question that. It is as natural to him as breathing. Not even worry so strong he has thrown up twice can erode his nature.
Hell, clones were identical. He might just have been a handy body. Available.
Disposable.
It was like a dog and a bone, he can't let it go. Like a past battle he knows could've been fought better all the details are mentally cataloged and inspected.
An obsession.
The contrast between his tan skin and her blue was oddly mesmerizing. He couldn't seem to look away, fascinated by how she moved as she rode him, by the small sounds she made.
By how she said his name.
Her nails left bloody wounds in his skin. His skin felt like it was too tight, his whole body too sensitive. It did not last much longer. Bly didn't know if he was relieved or disappointed.
He can still fucking hear it, the breathy low murmur of his name. Real enough his head snaps up to scan the tiny room, looking for her.
This must be abnormal. Wrong.
It feels wrong to be this obsessed over one small act.
Civilians and non-clones speak of sex as though it was nothing. A matter of need and convenience.
Do female Jedi simply use clones and discard them? The thought of being convenient doesn't bother him, but thinking of her with others tightens his throat and burns in his stomach.
He can still hear his name on her lips, voice breathy and low. The marks on his neck throb dully.
Booted feet begin to move erratic steps carrying him back to the mirror, carrion fowl circling a rotten corpse. A dog worrying on a bone.
When he woke she was gone.
He half-hoped it had all been a dream but the bite marks and scratches showed it had been very real.
The silver pieces fall like a shimmering rain around his feet, the butt of his rifle still firmly thrust though the frame.
He has to fight the urge to stare into one of the shards.
A war is on and he has men to lead.
Bly wraps a small piece of silver glass in gauze before slipping it into a pouch.
The marks on his neck ache dully.
A/N: Yes I know it has been...ages. I apologize for the delay. When I first started this fic was right before the Clone Wars cartoon came out and...I never got around to watching it so if anything doesn't quite go with Star Wars: The Clone Wars cannon I do apologize.
I hope y'all enjoy it still, any reviews are welcome!