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“That’s three,” Fordo says, low, soft, and his hand, fisted in Savage’s horns, keeps his head pinned with a grip that Savage can't shake. “Just a few more, there we go.”
Savage gasps into Fordo’s thighs, squeezing his eyes shut as those three thick fingers press deeper, smearing lube around inside him, spreading wide. A high, pathetic noise escapes through his clenched teeth, and he twitches all over as the press of curling knuckles grazes something electric, something that sparks up his spine. He can't move Fordo, though, can't shift the way he wants to, even to rock back into the press, with Fordo gripping his horns and a huge body sprawled across his thighs, even though at one point throwing them both off simultaneously would have been easy.
Savage is back in his original body, though, starved-lean and carrying too many scars, and he’s small in comparison to two clone troopers from the Alpha batch. Easily overpowered, easily held down, and that knowledge burns just as hot and sharp as the drag of the three fingers stretching him open.
“Don’t coddle him,” Alpha-17 says impatiently, like Savage can't feel the vicious, focused burn of his want as he crooks his fingers, rolls his knuckles across Savage’s walls, then withdraws. A moment later they’re sliding back in, cool and slick with more lube, and Savage groans, clutching at Fordo's knee, his hip. When Fordo had dragged him up and into his lap, Savage had resisted, startled, the fact that Fordo could almost jarring, but—
The heat of Fordo's thighs beneath his chest, the weight of Fordo's hand stroking over his skin, the tight grip on his horns—it’s all a reminder of what body Savage is in right now. It’s a reminder of here, of now, of the fact that Savage isn't dead on a Sith Lord’s blade right in front of Maul.
“He’s our Jedi, of course I'm going to coddle him,” Fordo counters, and Alpha-17 huffs, shoves. Savage jerks as his fingers slide in all the way to the knuckle, groans as they spread and stroke inside him. The possessive in Fordo's words lodges in his belly, too, tangles with the heat as Alpha-17 finger-fucks him, and Savage tightens his grip on Fordo's knee, belatedly realizes what he’s doing, and jerks his hand away, fear spiking—
Fordo catches his hand, drags it back. “You're not hurting me,” he soothes, tangling their fingers for a moment to squeeze Savage’s hand tightly, then setting it back on his knee. “Grip as hard as you need to. I don’t mind.”
Savage shudders, turning his face into Fordo's stomach, and the slow, sweet drag of Alpha-17’s fingers tangles with something else entirely. He used to break things by accident, drive Maul into a temper, ruin their ships or their bolt-holes or whatever room they happened to be in. He’d hurt Maul, even, outside of training and without meaning to, but—
His old body is small in a way he hadn’t remembered, his own past still tangled up in the green light of Nightsister magic and left hazy, almost impossible to reach beyond the impact point of the ritual. It feels foreign, jarringly unfamiliar, and it’s viciously strange to be something other than the hulking beast the Nightsisters made.
Once, he could have thrown both Fordo and Alpha-17 off of him, broken bones by touching them, cracked skulls with a careless shift. But here, now, they have Savage pinned down between them, his body stretched open for their pleasure, not even a trace of fear in them because they know they can overpower him, and that fact knots in Savage’s belly like a coal set blazing, so hot he can't breathe.
Alpha-17 makes a quiet sound that’s not quite a scoff, pressing in again. Savage groans through gritted teeth as he rolls his knuckles over sensitive nerves, again and again, until Savage wants to squirm but can't with Alpha-17 pinning his thighs down.
“Thinking you could hurt us,” Alpha-17 mutters, derisive. “Karking Kenobi's got more mass than you, sweetheart. If you didn’t have that fancy lightsaber, you’d have gotten murdered months ago. So karking clumsy we have to wrap you in bubble wrap.”
Savage whines, not able to help himself. When he overthinks, when he gets confused about which body he’s in, it’s hard to move right. Dragging Fordo and Alpha-17 out of a fight where they’d been cornered by Grievous helped, because now Savage has something to measure himself against, two bodies always close by that prove he’s really back to his old form.
He still makes mistakes, still stumbles, and having clones to rely on in those moments has left him all tangled up, all caught. Savage has a plan, a path he needs to forge, but—
Alpha-17 and Fordo think he’s a wandering Jedi Master, and they think he needs them, and they’ve stayed close for months now, despite everything.
A curl of Alpha-17’s fingers, and then a brush against Savage’s stretched rim. Savage catches his breath, forces himself not to tense as a pinky drags over the delicate skin, then presses up. Something in his stomach lurches as it presses deeper, stretches him even wider, and he groans, fingers clenching tight on Fordo's skin.
Fordo makes a low sound of amusement, stroking between Savage’s horns, cupping the back of his head. “There we go,” he says. “17’s hung like a bull rancor. You’ll be glad he got a fist in you the first time he gets his pants off.”
“Shut the help up, Fordo,” Alpha-17 says, annoyed, pressing, rocking. The broad stretch of his thick knuckles catches on Savage’s rim, and he jolts, can't help his cry, but Alpha-17 doesn’t hesitate. He pushes in, and Savage can feel the sharp flare of his desire as he watches Savage’s hole swallow his hand, all the way down to the joint of his thumb.
There's a moment of silence as Savage tries to breathe through the ache of the stretch, the impossible pressure inside him, and then Alpha-17 clears his throat and says, the words a little rough, “Besides, don’t act like you're different. Couldn’t even get your cock in that one bitch we shared, back on Coruscant.”
“Ferus?” Fordo asks, amused. “Yeah, wasn’t worth it to put in the work when we only had time for a quickie. But we have our own Jedi now. Don’t have to steal Bacara’s from him.”
Alpha-17’s rude sound says what he thinks of that. “We got the better Jedi anyway,” he says, and then, sharp, like he caught himself saying something positive and can't stand to let that linger, “That’s a low bar for you to clear. You need to stop tripping over your own karking feet when there aren't clankers around.”
“I'm—fine in a fight,” Savage manages to get out, but the words tangle up inside him like silken thread, anchor themselves there even if Alpha-17 had to rush to justify that bit of praise. And—he’s not a Jedi. It’s a lie, meant to give him freedom to move around the Republic when a Nightbrother wouldn’t normally be welcome anywhere. A lie meant for cover as he tries to work out where best to apply leverage, change things, make it so that when he finally pulls Maul off Lotho Minor, he’ll be able to come back to a galaxy that’s safe, without the looming threat of Sidious hanging over him.
But even if it’s a lie, we got the better Jedi still feels like a gilt thread through the heart of him, stitched to the inside curve of his ribs. Savage took two clone troopers as cover, because he saw them about to fall to Grievous, abandoned by the Republic, and thought of the Nightbrother village, of the Nightsisters. Just a moment’s weakness, but now—
Alpha-17’s free hand strokes over his lower back, and he grunts, warns, “Moving.” Doesn’t give Savage time to brace, but slides all four fingers out, slides them back in slicker and colder. Pushes in all the way to the knuckles, and Savage groans, lights spinning behind his eyes as he grits his teeth around a cry, tries not to shove back into that massive stretch as Alpha-17’s fingers spread as wide as they can. The feeling makes his stomach flip, pleasure with vivid edges, and he wants to move, wants to squirm, wants to bite.
“Shh,” Fordo breathes, soothing, even as he tightens his grip on Savage’s horns. “Knew you could take it, look at you. We’re going to get you nice and stretched, and then we’re going to finally fuck you so hard you pass out, sweetheart. And when we’re done, we’re going to find you a nice big plug, wedge something up there to keep you open for us—”
“Don’t make it complicated,” Alpha-17 says, trying for annoyed as he carefully curls his fingers, pins down Savage’s attempt at a jerk. His voice is all winded want, though, and the press of his other hand on Savage’s back is possessive, heavy. “As long as we trade off and fuck him every few hours, he’ll stay stretched.”
Fordo chuckles. “I guess that’s easier,” he allows, and drags his knuckles over Savage’s mouth. “You're so good for us, Savage. So good. You can feel how much we both want you, right?”
Savage shudders, and with Fordo's grip, he can't even turn his face away, hide his expression. He can feel how much they want him. He’s been able to feel it for weeks now, ever since he walked in on them fucking the last time they took a few days to rest. Fordo had invited him to join, a joke, and Savage had frozen, made Alpha-17 turn and look, interest crackling to life, and—
Savage hasn’t slept with anyone since Ventress, in that last life. Even in the Nightbrother village, he was on the fringes, a rabblerouser, not someone the other Brothers wanted to associate with in case it got them caught up in Viscous and Talzin’s wrath. A few were willing to sleep with him if he approached them first, but—rarely. It was mostly Nightsisters, and Savage couldn’t choose them, was never invited as much as ordered.
Fordo's invitation was something new and startling, and it still is. That want they both are feeling is still new, a heavy presence like a tide lapping over Savage’s skin, and he breathes it in, breathes out his own want, and manages a sound of agreement, higher and breathier than he intends it to be.
The slow slide of Fordo's exhale is another coil of want wrapping around him, pulling tight, and he says, a little rough, “17. Give him another.”
“Don’t be impatient, asshole,” Alpha-17 mutters, but he twists his hand, curls his fingers again, pulls back, and Savage whines, grip going convulsively tight on Fordo's knee as Alpha-17’s knuckles drag down his passage, catch his rim. Alpha-17 relaxes them enough to draw them out, but a bare second later he’s pushing back in, fingers slicked with lube again, rolling and stroking and scissoring. It aches, regardless of all the lube, and Savage shudders, sharp sounds breaking from his throat as the widest part of Alpha-17’s hand catches at his rim, sends shocks of silvery-hot pleasure sparking up his nerves, just this side of pain.
There's a quiet groan, a shift, and Alpha-17 pushes up on Savage’s thighs, changes the angle. More lube drips over Savage’s hole, and he squeezes his eyes shut as Alpha-17’s thumb tests the give of his body, then pushes up, slides in. The pressure makes Savage cry out, and Fordo curls an arm over his shoulders, making soothing noises as he pins Savage in place, still gripping his horns. As he holds Savage down, something that would have been impossible in Savage’s other body, something that just twists the burn higher as Alpha-17 folds his hand, eases it in past the knuckles with slow, rocking thrusts.
Savage can't stop the keening noise that’s dragged up from his chest as the widest part of Alpha-17’s big hand slides up into him. The ache settles like a sharp undercurrent to the pleasure, to the impossible, gut-churning stretch as Alpha-17 goes still, hand buried to the wrist in Savage’s ass, breaths rasping so loud in the darkness as he shifts, rubs his cock against the bed, that Savage can't hear anything else.
Fordo's groan is quiet, deep, and he moves carefully, resettles Savage on his lap as Savage just tries to breathe. Shifts forward, leaning in, and Savage whimpers at the prickling burn as Fordo slides his fingertips over the slick, stretched rim of his hole, thumb rubbing there like he can't help but touch.
“Shit,” he says, ragged. “The whole thing, sweetheart. You took it all.”
Alpha-17 grunts, and inside Savage, his hand shifts. Savage twitches, nails digging in hard and breath jarred from his lungs as Alpha-17’s fingers curl, as the stretch gets wider. He keens, trembling, and Fordo tightens his grip, holds Savage still as Alpha-17 curls his hand into a massive fist inside him.
Savage cries out, and he hasn’t even been able to pay attention to his own cock since Alpha-17 got three fingers in him, but there’s a jolt right through him as Alpha-17’s knuckles suddenly press hard against sensitive nerves. He shudders all over, electricity burning through him, and comes without so much as a single touch on his cock, spilling over the mattress with a sob as he claws for purchase somewhere, anywhere—
Fordo curls over and around him, soothing, touching, and Alpha-17 goes still, petting his back, kissing his spine, easing Savage through the tremors. Savage gasps into Fordo's stomach, shivering, and he’s never come like that, never felt like this, as if everything inside him just went quiet and still and empty, despite how he’s been stuffed full. It’s a relief, a strangeness, a vivid sense of calm like perfect glass, and he breathes through it, almost shaken by the feeling, but—even that is distant, muted, easy to handle right now.
“Incredible,” Fordo murmurs, and he kisses Savage’s forehead, stroking a thumb back and forth over his cheekbone. “So incredible, kriff, I almost came just watching you.”
Savage shivers, turns his face into the touch. “Keep going,” he says, raw, because the heat is still knotted up in his belly, the edges sanded down but still there.
There's a pause, and Alpha-17’s hand pauses on his back, fingers curling. “You sure?” he asks, faintly wary. “Want a minute?”
Taking a breath, Savage considers it, lets them see him take the time and think it over, assess how he’s feeling. Alpha-17 acts as though he doesn’t care, or like it’s offensive if someone implies he’s anything but rough and graceless, but—the first time Savage tried anything with them beneath clothes, when he’d rattled himself with a memory of one of the Nightsisters, Alpha-17 had been the one to call things off, to drag Savage away and out into the woods, then sit with him as he calmed down. Just knowing that makes the assessment easier, somehow, and Savage closes his eyes for a long second, checking his body’s responses, how he’s feeling, and then shakes his head.
“I'm fine,” he says, and turns his head, laying his cheek on Fordo's thigh. “You wanted to fuck me. I want that too.”
With a quiet hum, Fordo leans down, and the angle is awkward, but he still kisses Savage softly, a slow slide of lips and tongue and a bare edge of teeth. When he pulls away, he’s smiling, and the stroke of his knuckles over Savage’s cheek is warm in the low light. “We’ve always wanted that,” he says, light, like it’s a joke, but Savage can feel the thread of seriousness beneath the humor in his golden-brown eyes. “Right from the moment you bodied Grievous with the Darksaber and saved me and 17. We knew we’d fistfight whoever your commander was to have you as our Jedi.” His grin is quick, full of teeth in a way that Savage has always appreciated. “The whole command class was lucky no one else had called dibs yet.”
Savage snorts, and when Alpha-17 shifts, he catches a breath, closes his eyes. The slow, careful slide of Alpha-17’s fist pressing deeper into his body makes him swallow down a whine, and when Alpha-17 rotates his arm, draws his fist back, Savage can't stop his groan.
“Want a turn?” Alpha-17 asks, and there’s a raw, almost ragged edge to it. He’s only just barely holding himself back from rubbing his cock against the bed, against Savage’s thighs, and Savage can feel the boil of his want, thick and heady. “If not—”
Fordo shakes his head, stroking his fingers through Savage’s horns. “I want him after you're done,” he says. “You know I like it best when they’re well-used and sloppy with it.”
Savage shudders, can't fight the high, sharp, needy sound that tears from his throat. It makes Fordo chuckle, and he leans in close, kissing the slant of Savage’s cheekbone, the curve of his eye socket.
“What, you hadn’t realized that?” he asks, low, almost gentle. “Guess 17 and I don’t share enough people to make it obvious, but I always go second. I really, really like it when you’re all stretched out, full of his cum, trying so hard to clench down on me as I fuck you—”
“Because you're a kriffing freak,” Alpha-17 says, unimpressed, making Fordo snort without protest. Savage moans as he carefully eases his hand out of its fist, draws it back. The feeling of the massive presence of it sliding out leaves Savage squirming, moaning, clenching stretched-out muscle around a gutting feeling of emptiness, and Alpha-17 huffs and grips his hip, holding him in place. “You're the one with the good hands,” he tells Fordo, and Fordo pauses, glances up at him.
Savage can see they share something, though he can't get a sense of what it is. Whatever the message, though, there's a bare second before Fordo huffs and leans down, kisses Savage’s forehead again, and slides out from under him. Savage twitches back, but before he can do more than push up on his elbows, Alpha-17 is there, catching him by the shoulders, rolling him over, dragging him up. Savage gasps at the flare of heat from the slick feeling inside him and the manhandling equally, clutches at Alpha-17’s elbow, and Alpha-17 snorts and wraps both arms around him, pinning Savage on his back in his lap.
Sliding between Savage’s thighs, Fordo chuckles, strokes up his legs. “Easy, 17,” he says. “All right, Savage?”
“Yes,” Savage says, because the clutch of Alpha-17’s arms is…far from unpleasant. It makes him entirely too aware of the fact that he’s no longer Alpha-17’s size, though, and the broadness of Alpha-17’s chest as Alpha-17 curls over him is enough to make his blood heat even more. He breathes, turns his head so that Alpha-17 won't catch one of his horns by accident, and asks, rough in his throat, “You changed your mind?”
Fordo glances up from where he’s slicking his hand with lube, and that smile is perfectly light and easy, like Savage hasn’t seen him throw himself headlong into the most ridiculously dangerous situations without any sense of restraint. “17 got to make you come like this,” he says. “I didn’t want to get left out of the fun.”
Savage shudders, clutching Alpha-17’s arm where it’s wrapped across his chest like a steel band, turns his face into Alpha-17’s shoulder. It makes Alpha-17 snort, and he presses his cheek to Savage’s, tightens his grip. “Tell the freak to stop and he will,” he says, gruff. “But I've seen you get it up again this fast, so just indulge him and it’ll be over soon.”
“Don’t make me sound like a disease,” Fordo protests, though there’s no heat to it, and a moment later, he presses two fingers up into Savage, twisting and scissoring. There’s not nearly as much resistance as there should be, and Savage swallows, tries to keep his breathing even—
Four fingers, sliding in, and Fordo's hands are leaner than Alpha-17’s, without as many calluses, without the overwhelming size, but when he folds his thumb in, pushes right up into Savage without hesitation or any further stretching, it jolts through Savage like pure electricity, and he jerks, breath hitching hard in his lungs, a cry locking up in his throat.
“Kriff,” Alpha-17 mutters, and his gaze is fixed on Fordo as he carefully pushes up, deeper and deeper. Savage groans, feet digging into the blankets, and it feels like more this way, when he can see Fordo's hand inside him, the way Fordo's gaze is fixed on the clench of Savage’s hole around his wrist.
“Yeah,” Fordo says, and glances up. The hunger on his face, coiling around him like a living thing, drags a ragged sound out of Savage’s throat, and Fordo breathes out, curls his fingers one at a time, stroking over Savage’s inner walls as he carefully forms a fist. “Oh, sweetheart. Look at you. Kriff.”
Savage groans, squeezing his eyes shut, pressing his face into Alpha-17’s shoulder. He’s not hard, but it feels like he should be, like the burning lurch of arousal is rising again, knotting in his belly, and he can't help but rock back into it as Fordo fucks him with his curled fist, slow strokes that slide deeper each time. Alpha-17’s arms stay tight around him, and Savage only registers belatedly that Alpha-17 has their temples pressed together, is breathing with Savage, helping steady him. The ripple of relief that washes through Savage is as sharp as the desire, and he leans into Alpha-17 in return, braces his feet on the mattress, rocks back into each of Fordo's thrusts.
His head feels fuzzy, empty, quiet, and each one of his breaths rasps loud inside his own skull, but—that shivery quiet is the furthest thing from unpleasant. Savage could stay like this forever, he thinks, could spend the rest of his life stretched open like this, feeling the burning wash of want for him lapping over his skin, Fordo inside him, Alpha-17 holding him tight. Each thrust rocks him, sparks through him, but Savage is almost drifting, almost lost in that pleasure as it climbs.
The orgasm, when it washes over him, is almost a surprise. Savage hadn’t even realized his cock was half-hard, but he comes over his own stomach with a shuddering cry, clamping down on Fordo's hand, and feels the rumble of Alpha-17’s groan almost more than the head-spinning pleasure of his release. He moans, low, shivering, and the hand inside him relaxes, eases out. A moment later, Fordo slides up to settle on his chest, kissing his collarbone, his cheek, nosing in to kiss his throat.
“So good,” he murmurs, and there's a shift. Alpha-17 passes Savage over, and Fordo catches him, uncoordinated limbs and all, tugs Savage flush against his chest and sinks back on his heels. “Hells, that was so good, I've never wanted to fuck someone more, sweetheart—”
Alpha-17 grips Savage’s hips, settles against his back, and the bump of his cock turns into a long, thick slide before Savage even has the chance to register what’s happening. He jolts, but with Fordo's arms so tight around him he can't move, has to just take as Alpha-17’s big body cages him in, traps him between them. His cock is massive, almost as big as his fist, and Savage moans, high and thready, as it slides in, easy with all the lube in him, with the gaping stretch of his body, with the laxness of his muscles.
Grunting, Alpha-17 pushes in to the hilt, then just rolls his hips there, like he’s testing the give of Savage’s body. “Shit,” he groans, and then pulls back. The long slide makes Savage shudder, not even able to make a sound, and there’s a hard shove, a jolt that makes Savage gasp, winded, darkness swimming in the corners of his vision.
“Just take it,” Alpha-17 orders, short, and his hand closes in Savage’s horns, tightens. He holds Savage in place as he thrusts again, draws back, drives in. A hard rhythm, but not fast, and it sinks into Savage’s gut, winds up slow and steady but doesn’t jar him out of that sense of drifting pleasure, of lying still as it rises and rises. He can feel Alpha-17’s need, on the edge of desperate, the way he ruts into Savage’s body, slams into him again and again like he can't possibly get deep enough.
“Easy, 17,” Fordo says, though his voice is tight with contained need. His grip on Savage is even tighter, almost bruising, and Savage feels small in his arms, held still against his chest, each one of Alpha-17’s thrusts crushing him into Fordo's body.
Alpha-17 grunts, breaths coming rough and hard against the back of Savage’s neck, grip bruising. He curls into Savage like gravity is dragging him down, like he can't keep any distance between them, and his soft groans as he sheathes himself make Savage’s head spin. He finds Alpha-17’s hand on his hip, presses his own hand over it, and Alpha-17 turns his wrist, catches Savage’s hand even as he slams himself in once, again, a third and fourth time, and then comes with a sound that’s almost a shout, pouring himself out into Savage’s stretched-wide channel.
There's another groan, but not from Alpha-17. Fordo shifts, and Alpha-17 huffs in disgust but moves with him, lifting Savage up off his cock. Savage gasps, but he barely has time to feel that gaping emptiness, the slick drip of lube and cum, before there's another cock pushing up inside him. They put him down right on Fordo's cock, not even shifting apart, and Alpha-17 drags Savage back against his chest as Fordo slides in to the hilt with a pleased groan.
“Shit you're loose,” he says, winded, and Savage shudders, a high sound breaking from him as the wet, slick sound of Fordo's quick thrusts fills the quiet room. He turns his face away, not able to breathe through the feeling, the easy slide, the impact of each hitch of Fordo's hips. There’s a burning rising, rooted in his soft cock, and Savage moans, even as Alpha-17 hauls his head back by the horns, bites at the column of his throat.
Fordo laughs, a bare breath of sound, and slumps forward, kisses Alpha-17, kisses the curve of Savage’s jaw. “Shit,” he says again, almost reverent, and squeezes Savage’s soft cock. Savage cries out, clenches down as that burning oversensitivity spikes through him, and Fordo groans, does it again. He grinds into Savage as Savage tries desperately to tighten up around his thick cock, and Savage can feel how his control slips, how he rams into Savage with abandon, clutching, gasping, cursing as he drives his cock up through slick lube and spilled cum, through fluttering muscle that can't clamp down nearly as hard as normal, and it all drives the vicious want higher, spirals it up and out of control like a wildfire in the wind.
There's a jerk of his hips, a cry, and then he bottoms out, forces his cock as deep as it will go, and comes with a ragged moan, slamming his mouth to Savage’s. Savage takes the kiss as best as he can, uncoordinated and dazed, and feels a mouth against his nape, the press of big hands over his stomach, like Alpha-17 is trying to feel out the outline of Fordo's cock through his body.
“Kriff,” Alpha-17 murmurs, right in Savage’s ear. “I guess we really have to keep you now.”
Savage shudders, turns his head. Alpha-17 slants their mouths together without hesitation, even as Fordo lays a trail of kisses down his throat, and Savage just…leans there for a moment, pressed between them, breathing carefully.
“Need a second?” Alpha-17 asks gruffly, and when Savage manages a nod, he catches Savage’s thighs. Fordo helps ease him off his cock, steadies him as Alpha-17 sprawls him out in a clean spot on the bed, and Savage reaches, uncoordinated, not even sure how to put what he wants into words.
It doesn’t matter, though. Alpha-17 thumps down beside him, gathers Savage up in his arms with a huff, and lets Savage curl in close against his chest. His big fingers stroke through Savage’s horns, and Savage closes his eyes, just catching his breath.
“I’ll get a towel,” Fordo murmurs, leaning in to kiss Alpha-17 and then Savage’s cheek, and the bed creaks as he slides off. Savage just drifts, that heady sort of quiet still stitched beneath his skin, filling his head, and—it’s good. He likes the feeling, even if it’s new.
“Hell of a sub-drop, huh?” Alpha-17 says, low. The stroke of his hand down Savage’s back, then sliding back up, is a gentle wash of comfort, like getting pulled into a tangle of Nightbrother bodies after a rough return from the Nightsisters’ temple. And—Savage always hated being chosen, hated having to drag himself back through the swamp to the village with every inch of him aching, but…those moments almost made up for it. The feeling now, pressed so tight to Alpha-17 that it’s like they're one body, is all the comfort without the pain and terror beforehand, and Savage presses his forehead to Alpha-17’s broad chest and just breathes.
“It doesn’t always have to be like that,” Alpha-17 says after a long second. “77 and I usually take it up the ass just fine.”
Savage grunts, rubbing his cheek lightly against wiry hair, thick muscle, and—Alpha-17 is so much bigger, like this. Savage misses his old body sometimes, but right now, the feeling of being cradled, held—he wouldn’t give it up for anything.
“I like it,” he says, a little rough. “That you're so big.”
There's a pause, and then Alpha-17 snorts. His arm tightens around Savage, and he says to Fordo, a warning, “That had better be warm.”
“What do you think took me so long? The hot water here takes longer to wake up than you do when it’s cold.” There's a brush down Savage’s thigh, then a warm, damp cloth gently wiping away the mess. Savage huffs, shifts to give Fordo more room, but can't manage anything else, and Fordo makes a sound of thanks, kissing his hip.
“We can share the shower in the morning,” Alpha-17 says dismissively, and as Fordo hands him the cloth, he rolls halfway over, pulling Savage with him like he weighs nothing. Fordo slides into the gap, settling against Savage’s spine, and when Savage curls back into him, letting Alpha-17 clean up, Fordo hums, pleased, and gathers him close.
“No bad memories?” he asks, soft, and Savage grunts in denial, slotting their fingers together.
“You two are…very different,” he says, rough.
“Doesn’t mean bad memories will never happen,” Fordo says easily, and rests his forehead against Savage’s nape, careful of his horns. There's a long pause as he strokes Savage’s chest and Savage just breathes, drifts, and then he asks, quiet, “We have a few days before we need to head for Concordia, right?”
It’s hard to want to think about anything except how good he feels right now, but Savage drags his thoughts back to coherency with an effort, pauses as he tries to calculate the timeline. From what he’d gathered on the holonet, pieced together from his memories of his and Maul's time on Mandalore, there’s going to be a secret meeting of the Death Watch’s top commanders soon, discussing the potential of allying with Dooku. But—
Savage has the Darksaber, and he has information from one of the old True Mandalorians who liked to ramble when she got deep in her cups, back when he and Maul lived on Mandalore, and he has a plan. He’s going to claim to be Jaster Mereel's successor and student, the first Mandalorian Jedi since Tarre Vizsla, and leverage the Darksaber to get himself named Mand'alor. And then—
Sidious is a threat to Maul. The Jedi are a threat to Maul. Savage needs a base of power that doesn’t rely on either of them, because once he reveals Sidious's identity, the Republic is going to fall into chaos. Savage needs to position himself to take over the Confederacy, to forge it into a shield, and the Death Watch can help him do that.
They need to get to Concordia in time to crash that meeting, defeat Pre Vizsla, but—
There's time, too, for this. Savage knows how to be patient, now that he has his senses back, his reason, doesn’t tumble into a berserker rage the moment he gets annoyed or angry. Being back in his old, smaller body is a trial in many ways, but—having his own mind again is a far greater relief than Savage could have imagined when rage and darkness was all he knew.
“A week, about,” he says, and reaches out. Alpha-17 comes, settling in, thumping down on the mattress and curling close, and Savage rests their foreheads together and just…enjoys it.
There's time. The war is still in its early stages. Grievous is dead, Dooku is looking for a new general, and Savage has the Darksaber, stolen away from where Pre hid it. Soon he’ll have Mandalore, and then he’ll use it to forge safety.
For Maul, for himself. And for Alpha-17 and Fordo, as well. For any clones who want to come, for the Nightbrothers when he offers them an escape. For Feral, still alive, a hazy, aching memory that Savage can't quite grasp and doesn’t dare to reach for. For all of them.
Savage closes his eyes, arms around him, bodies caging him in, pleasure still humming through his veins, and lets himself imagine home and safety and something permanent, for the very first time in his life. It’s tangled up in this close press of bodies, in the twin heartbeats on either side of him, the care and gentleness, and Savage has never, ever been good at holding on to hope, but right now, he thinks he’d like to try.