A/N: 

A retelling of "The Book of Boba Fett" but with a BobaDin omegaverse twist. There will be a lot of scenes pulled straight from the show, but there will also be a bunch new scenes. Be warned: these chapters are long. 

Something things you should know:

1) I absolutely loved the Tusken Warrior woman in Boba's tribe and I was so heartbroken when she died that I decided she survived the massacre of her tribe in this fic, and that she and Boba are the only ones left. Her name is Hadu and she's my wife.

2) I know Alpha/Omega/Beta are considered "second-genders" but, like, it's basically just different reproductive-organs and/or different hormone levels, which doesn't necessitate gender (which is a social construct, anyway), so I'm just calling it their secondary-sex and/or their secondary. I know I'm probably just thinking too much about it, it's just fanfic, it's not that deep, but alas I've been given the power to write what I damn well please and I am going to abuse that power to its fullest.

Vocabulary:

Solus
: a term used (commonly for alphas) when a human goes into their reproductive cycles without someone there to accompany them through it. (example: a solus alpha. A solus omega.)

Posturing
: When an alpha displays territorial or aggressive behavior leading up to a rut. 

<><><><><><><><>

The smell is most noticeable.

It's not the typical smell of sand and sweat woven into the locals' clothing, nor the odor of musty fabric and bad nerves hanging off the arms of spectators like curious monkey-lizards, both eager to witness how today's court proceedings will go. Nervousness thickens the air like a foul-smelling smoke, reminiscent of the incense Jabba had burning through all hours of the day that still somehow lingers on the walls, even all these years later.

But that's not what has fingers dancing along the hidden outline of weapons and eyes darting to the rounded flight of stairs leading out of the chamber.

It's the smell of an alpha in pre-rut.

And not just any alpha, but the new self-proclaimed Daiymo of Tatooine lounging on Bib Fortuna's throne at the head of the courtroom, perched where Jabba himself used to preside. The visor of his helmet tints dark in the low light and the heavy green of his armor pops against the sandy-yellow walls like a tangible shadow. He sits with his legs spread, arms lying on the armrest—neither slouching nor rigid.

Leisure, yet attentive.

That's one thing his visitors can take solace in. Boba Fett is in a good mood.

It'd be easy to tell otherwise. His scent sits just as heavy as the smoky nervousness, falling on the shoulders of anyone who stepped foot inside the palace. It lingers in every hall, corridor, and chamber. A constant reminder that this is his territory and to watch your step.

Those who've arrived early, to watch and relay today's court to their masters later, do so from a distance. Those who've continued working the palace, despite Bib Fortuna's demise, watch with cautious eyes and open ears. And those who've come to formally greet Boba and congratulate his succession of the (former) Hutt's territory only get close enough to be polite.

Garfalaquox, the Aqualish Don of the Agokrin crime family, keeps his tone carefully light. His curling grunts and short grumbles are friendly, if cautious, and he takes extra care to keep his gestures loose, though his eyes keep straying to the figure at Boba's side.

Boba can't entirely blame him. It's not easy to focus while a Tusken Warrior, clad in dark robes and thick coils of fabric falling to her shoulders, stands behind his throne. She holds her gaderffii tightly, shoulders braced, as still and solid as stone pillars. A fearful and intimidating sight for anyone who knew of Tuskens, and everyone in this courtroom would.

Next to the Aqulish Don, a lanky Roch Hive 8D-series droid listens attentively, and when Garfalaquox finishes speaking, presenting a large chest for Boba, the droid says, "The Agokrin crime family welcomes Lord Fett to Tatooine and recognizes him as the new master of this palace. In hopes of having a prosperous relationship going forward, they do offer you this gift as a token of their friendship."

The wording doesn't escape Boba. It's not the new Daiymo they recognize him as, but the new "master of this palace." A temporary placeholder until someone new—someone fit for the job—comes along and inevitably takes the throne.

But Boba can be a gracious person. Patient, even, though many would laugh at the idea. Normally, if he did react and make the don regret his slight, it'd be taken as a sign of strength. But with his rut on the horizon, doing so would achieve the opposite of that, and his hold as Daiymo was already fragile as is.

Besides, he expected underhanded compliments reworded to appeal to his ego, testing him for a reaction. It's nothing he hasn't seen when dealing with upper-class employers, or a hunter waiting in this very chamber for his next job.

The Aqualish opens the chest, revealing credits of all types inside. A good show of wealth, but nothing they'd be unhappy to lose. A skim off the top, if nothing else. But it's a friendly offer all the same and the Agokrin family had come in peace.

Boba nods in acceptance of the gift. Fennec, who stands at his right, nods to 8D8 in turn, who takes the offered chest.

"Lord Fett gives his thanks," the droid says, handing the chest off to one of the other staff to be examined and vetted with the rest of the gifts later.

Garfalaquox half bows, nodding respectively to Boba, and then Fennec, but is unable to tamp down a glimmer of distaste for the Tusken. It's not much, just a pinch between his brows and the faint quiver of his tusks. Boba shifts imperceptibly, scent becoming sharper. The Aqualish glances back at Boba and quickly schools his expression.

He nods a final time and heads for the stairs.

The news that Boba had a Tusken in his gotra came with much controversy. The Sand People are as hated as they are feared, and their reputation among the cities—while not as bad as the villages and farms more frequently attacked—was rivaled only by the previous Hutt that ruled the planet before.

Many had likely come to see it for themselves. They will all leave unhappy with what they find.

To his credit, the Aqualish does a better job at keeping his composure than most locals, but that's to be expected of one of Tatooine's notorious crime families. He does eye the silver Mandalorian guarding the steps with considerable interest but keeps a healthy distance all the same. Mando watches Garfalaquox go with only the faintest tilt of his helmet.

The Aqualish had come without his personal guard, which was smart. Bringing armed personnel to Boba's palace on a day for tributes and congratulations would've been taken as an insult. To bring them into a pre-rutting alpha's—newly established—territory would've been taken as a threat.

Word of Boba's... condition had spread quickly.

It's only been two standard weeks since he shot Bib Fortuna in his cowardly hide and took the throne. There was a lot to be done during that kind of shift in power. Resources to seize, staff to vet, communications with the crime families to begin, and financial books to review. In that time, rumors spread like sands on a dune, whispering about the hired gun who dared seize the title of Daiymo. Stories of how he clawed his way out of the Sarlacc's stomach, adopted the brutal ways of the San People, and returned to the house of his master to take it for himself. A vicious, rutting alpha so hungry for power and control, he's willing to go head-to-head with the Hutts to get it.

"Let them tell their stories," Boba told Fennec when she'd reported as much. "It gets the word out, at least. Less work for us." To which she'd given him a hard look, told him this was going to come back and bite him in the ass, and then left to finish setting up the sensors she'd synced up to her holopad.

And now, finally, the official introduction between him and the crime families and a show of those who've accepted him into their social hierarchy. Or are, at least, pretending to.

8D8 straightens and gestures to the entrance. "Presenting Dokk Strassi, leader of the Noxus crime family, protectors of the city center and its business territories."

Mando stands a little taller, knuckling his long silver spear, as a scaly reptoid descends the steps. Boba doesn't blame him, he's fought his share of Trandoshans and if you value your life you didn't let them get too close, even one as pampered as this. Especially this one.

Still, Boba can't help but chuckle softly. Fennec raises her eyebrows, so he leans in to mutter, "It's just weird. I used to work for him." He looked back at Strassi, huffing softly. "Always tried to skim a little off the top."

The corners of Fennec's lips twitch. "Sleazy doesn't do well for business."

Boba hums in agreement.

Strassi stops in the middle of the room, taking the spot the Aqualish had been. He licks the air, throat rumbling as he tastes the scents in the room. His beady eyes focus on Boba, sharp with recognition, likely recalling all the jobs he'd fired Boba to do back when their positions were reversed.

"A thousand tiding to the New Daiymo," Strassi greets in a rock-salt rasp that all Trandoshans are known for, bowing and holding out an offering of pelts. Boba can only imagine how sour those words must taste.

"It's an honor to be welcomed to Mos Espa by you, Dokk Strassi," Boba nods back, tamping down on his amusement.

Strassi hums, eyes flickering over Boba's body as if looking for a weakness to exploit. "Last I heard, you had perished with your former benefactor, Jabba the Hutt, in the Dune Sea. It was an upsetting fate to hear of one of the galaxies' most formidable bounty hunters."

"My bounty hunting days are behind me and I look forward to carving my own place among the rest of the crime families."

Strassi licks the air again, throat clicking. "Hmmm, yes." His eyes drift to the Tusken as his side. "And with such interesting company. I heard rumors of those you hold in your court, but I wasn't sure they were true. Then again," his eyes gleam, "you always did surround yourself with the barbaric sort."

The air spikes with an influx of pheromones. A warning that Boba barely pulls back before it's taken as a threat. The people closest to the throne still shuffle uncomfortably, and Strassi's eyes flicker to them, then back at Boba. He inhales the acrid scent and bows his head.

"But, of course, I am glad to see you in better health." He turns, handing the pelts to 8D8. Empty-handed, he half bows. "May you never leave Mos Espa, Lord Fett."

He turns to leave.

"That's reassuring," Fennec leans over to whisper, pressing herself against his armrest. Rein it in, the gesture says. They don't need to start a feud with the Noxus family so soon. There will be plenty of time for that later.

"A Trandoshan's compliments always were as back-handed as their threats," Boba agrees and redirects his thoughts, as well as the irrational urge to stand in front of Hadu and shield her from insults she didn't yet understand. His instincts had long since accepted Hadu as one of his pack, and a slight on her was a slight on him, and with his instincts as riled as they are now, anything from a twitchy finger to a dark look could be taken as a threat.

"I told you they weren't going to be happy with Hadu," Fennec adds from the corner of her mouth.

Who cares, his alpha snarls. We'll rip apart anyone who tries to hurt her.

Outwardly, Boba shrugs. "If I am to be the New Daiymo, they'll get used to seeing her in my outfit."

Fennec makes an "if you say so" noise and leans back, hands resting in her lap. On his other side, Hadu tightens her grip on her gaffistick. Just as he'd come to learn the Tusken's rough language, she had come to learn his. She's still learning. Not everything makes sense to her, but bits and pieces click together to form a hazy picture.

Ironically, she doesn't want to be there just as much as the locals want her gone. The Dune Sea is her home, with all its rolling plateaus and vast canyons. With bantha's and massifs, and a tribe of brothers and sisters harvesting black melons and traveling the sands. Reading the changing seasons by following the migrating paths of krayts and bantha's, and meeting with allied tribes for marriages, traditions, and birth celebrations.

It was her life as it had become Boba's. It had been like finding a pearl inside the rotting remains of a krayt dragon's corpse when he'd found her among the smoldering tents and smoking bodies of their kin. Life still beat in her chest, the raspy breaths coming from the grills of her mask like the rusted engine of an old ship, growing rougher and weaker.

He'd spent days at her side, tending to her wounds, digging up black melons to flush out infection and keep her hydrated. When she was well enough to talk, they'd mourned their fallen brethren together, performing the funeral rites, though Boba had already dressed and gathered the bodies and burned them in a pyre, as was their custom. Allowing their bodies to fester in the sun was too much for him. They needed to be put to rest.

Unable to bear the idea of being separated, they left the Dune Sea together, clinging to one another so tightly they may as well have melted into one being under the twin suns. Leaving her desecrated tribe and following Boba and his pursuit of Mos Espa had been hard on her.

It's still hard on her, even if she fights to keep it from showing.

It makes Boba's chest ache in a way it rarely did before the tribe. He'd never been close enough to someone to feel pain for them in such a way, except a father he'd known for only a fraction of his youth. To care for someone else in the bounty-hunting trade, especially when it took over one's life like it had Boba, was a recipe for tragedy.

Fennec presses against him again, and Boba quickly redirects his thoughts. Keeping control of himself is vital, especially now when his every emotion can be picked out of the air like burl nuts on a weedlewood tree.

"Presenting His Excellency, Mok Shaiz, Mayor of Mos Espa and its surrounding plateaus," 8D8 announces with a robotic flourish of his arms.

A soft orange twi'leck reaches the bottom of the stairs. He gives Mando a cursory look and strides to the middle of the room, holding the long, sweeping sides of his green robe.

"The Mayor's Majordomo, actually," he corrects the droid and gives Boba an amiable smile, opening his arms courteously and dipping his head.

Fennec leads forward slightly, scowling. "We were told the Mayor was coming to pay tribute."

"Ah," the Majordomo nods. "Indeed, yes. With apologies. I understand how one might draw such a conclusion from the correspondence."

There's something about the way this twi'leck talks that tugs on Boba in annoyance. He's polite. Or, at least, polite enough to get away with the condescending lilt of his voice. A tone just short of mocking. Being in pre-rut, his emotions tend to fly off the handle more easily, and Boba bristles, agitation flaring up his spine. He firmly presses it down. This is fine. This is expected. It was only a matter of time before someone showed him a little resistance.

"Very well," Boba says with a brief wave of his hand. "Extend my greetings and appreciation for the Mayor's tribute." He motions for the next guest, but the Majordomo lifts a finger, tilting his head up as if to get Boba's attention.

"Another understandable misunderstanding," the Majordomo holds his hands out placatingly. "However, I'm afraid the only, uh, tribute I bear is the Mayor's heartfelt welcome, which I express in his stead." He sweeps his hands out in demonstration of the aforementioned heartfelt welcome.

A beat of silence follows.

Fennec slides quietly to her feet and takes a threatening step forward. "So, you bring no tribute?"

The Majordomo frowns, eyes dancing between them in mock confusion. "The Major's heartfelt welcome," he reiterates as if that's more than enough. "And regrets that he's been drawn away by pressing matters, milady." He adds the last bit like it's an unimportant afterthought.

Fennec's hand drops to the blaster hanging from her hip. The beings around the room fidget, some slipping back as to put distance between themselves and the Majordomo, while others drift to their weapons in preparation. By the stairs, Mando adjusts his grip on his spear. He'd been scanning the crowd for threats, and now, with the charge of a potential fight, his helmet tilts down in anticipation.

"If you had spoken such insolence to Jabba, he'd have fed you to his menagerie," Fennec's eyes bore into the Majordomo as she took another step forward.

The Majordomo holds his hands up in bewilderment. "Apologies. Apologies," he says in a "pacifying" tone that grates on the bone of Boba's teeth.

It's amazing how a being so harmless has the power to be so irritating.

His patience for irritating things becomes null when his instincts bubble to the surface as they are, brought out by his inner alpha intolerant of those pushing his boundaries.

Boba takes a small breath. It would be bad to fly into a rage over something so small, especially in the presence of so many spectators bearing witness to it. The Mayor likely sent his Majordomo to do just this. To push him. Disrespect him in the throes of pre-rut with fake pleasantries and hidden mockery, to test his self-control.

An indication of just how little the Mayor cared for his Majordomo's safety. Or a demonstration of his own arrogance.

But Boba's time with the Tuskens taught him much about patience. He motions for Fennec to stand down, though his eyes never stray from the twi'leck. "You tell the Mayor that I'm here now. Not Bib Fortuna and his lazy arse."

"He knows," the Majordomo says politely. "And he extends his heartfelt welcome."

And that's enough of his conversation. Boba needs this twi'leck out of his courtroom before he sends his head back to his master in a bag. A younger Boba would've shot the Majordomo and kicked his cold dead body off a cliff for the sake of watching it hit the ground. He could easily have Fennec do it. She was probably chomping at the bit to do so. He could send Mando to deliver the package with specific instructions to throw the sack right on the Mayor's lap and snap a picture so Boba can see the look on his face.

Amusing himself with these thoughts, Boba leans back on the throne, raising his hand in dismissal. "Perhaps another time, then. When the Mayor isn't so indisposed."

"Actually," the Majordomo lifts his finger again. A finger Boba imagines breaking. "There is one other matter, if I may."

Boba takes a huge karking breath. "What?"

"The matter of tribute."

Everyone in the courtroom goes very, very still. Fennec's hand curls around the handle of her blaster as Boba's head tilts down, visor gleaming. It's obvious what the Majordomo is implying, but the sheer audacity of it had taken the room by the throat.

"I'm confused," Boba says, leaning forward, using the same careful tone as the Majordomo, but with a more threatening edge.

Fennec keeps her eyes on the Majordomo as she leans down to clarify. "He wants you to pay him."

Boba hums, the sound rumbling in his chest, borderline a growl. "That doesn't make sense," he tilts his head at the Majordomo, who's looking between them coolly. Boba will hand it to him, he's good at keeping face.

Or just very stupid.

"Want me to kill him?" Fennec asks.

For the first time since arriving, the Majordomo tensed. As good as he is at keeping face—excellent even—he's still soft. Used to the protection provided by his status. As the Mayor's representative, there's a lot he can, and probably has, gotten away with. His eyes flicker between them, trying to gauge how serious they are.

Boba let him sit in his own uncertainty, pretending to mull it over as his scent stretches. Not every species can smell the pheromones of a human's secondary-sex, but twi'lecks are one of the unlucky few who can not only detect it but are especially sensitive towards it. Boba's scent is 10x stronger to the Majordomo than it is for any other being in the room, and this time, Boba doesn't hide his contempt.

"No," he decides after a long, tense moment.

Fennec sighs and pulls her hand from her blaster, repositioning it behind her back. A collective breath escapes the room. Hadu relaxes her grip on her gaffistick and Mando leans back against the wall.

"Lord Fett offers the gift of your leave unmolested," Fennec says, staring down at the Majordomo hard.

"Hmm," the Majordomo considers, and the tension in his shoulders trickles away. "Apologies and appreciation," he bows. "The Mayor may take it differently, but I shall indeed convey your sentiment." He heads to the stairs, but stops halfway to add, "I would not be surprised if you receive another delegation in the near future."

He doesn't look at Mando this time as he ascends the stairs.

"Keep an eye on that one," Boba mutters.

"I keep an eye on everyone," Fennec drawls. She makes eye contact with Mando, tipping her head, and Mando nods back.

Court proceeds from there with little fanfare. Two Gamorrean guards, former bodyguards of Jabba, are offered as tribute; to be killed or used as an example at Boba's leisure. But why waste such a resource? They're strong and loyal. Fierce warriors. Survivors of both Jabba and Bib Fortuna's reign. It's an impressive feat that should be rewarded, not punished. They accept eagerly when he extends an offer to join his staff.

After that, there are only a few more tributes from surrounding businesses before court ends. Mando waits until the room is completely empty of spectators before joining Boba, Fennec, and Hadu by the throne.

"We need to do something about the Mayor's lack of tribute," Fennec says, rounding the throne with her arms crossed. "It was a blatant sign of disrespect."

"As of right now, there's not a lot we can do," Boba reminds her, pulling himself out of the throne and taking his helmet off. "The Mayor's got more forces than us. More people in his pocket. The Majordomo is a prominent member of his staff. Killing him would only cause more problems."

"Maybe," Fennec concedes, tapping her blaster hilt with a finger. "But doing nothing isn't better. If you allow one to walk all over you, more will follow."

Boba huffs. "They can try." He rolls his shoulder to get rid of the tension lodged in his upper back. "But I doubt many will take that risk. Not right now."

Fennec leans against the throne, expression becoming deadly calm. "Good point. So, what are you going to do about your rut?"

Boba turns away, trying not to tuck his shoulders in bristled defense. "I've already tried suppressants, but they hardly work anymore, and scentblockers aren't helping. When the time comes, you'll just have to lock me in my room. Let me ride it out."

Mando cocks his head to the side, one hand on his spear and the other on his hip. "What if you get out? That's going to put you in a compromising position. A vulnerable one, too."

"Yes," Fennec scowls at Boba, "it is. The entire court knows you're going into rut and word is spreading. Fast. If you hurt anyone in that state, it'll be hard to bounce back from. Hell, if you get hurt, you're going to go ballistic."

"I know," Boba seethes, roughly running his gloved hand along the scars on his scalp, making them tingle unpleasantly. "But there's not much else I can do. There's no stopping it, and Mos Espa won't put itself on hold for anyone's benefit. Especially mine."

"Is there no one to spend it with?" Mando asks.

Boba shakes his head once, cutting the air with his hand in a universal sign to drop it.

Fennec doesn't drop it. "Well," she says, picking at her nails, "there is one option."

"Fennec," Boba growls.

"There are plenty of pleasure houses around here who'll offer the new Daiymo a body to spend his rut with," Fennec ignores him. Something she's become quite comfortable doing, considering she's supposed to be in his debt. "I've already gotten a few offers."

"No," Boba slashes a hand in the air, cutting the conversation in its tracks. "Most of those houses are run by slavers. I will not force someone to lie with me, especially if they've already been bought and sold."

Fennec blows out a breath harshly, exasperation creeping onto her face. "I know, Boba, and I respect it. But we've got to do something about this. Maybe not now, but soon. You've already started posturing. No one is going to come to court if they're worried about getting mauled."

"It'll give them a reason to watch their step," Boba growls. "And to hold their tongue."

Hadu, who'd been following the conversation carefully, gestured to Boba, signing with her hands. "They already do. They watch themselves carefully, as they watch you. You must proceed with caution."

Boba huffs under his breath.

Fennec lets him pace for a minute before carefully saying, "There is one place. Locally run and not involved in the slave trade. Its escorts are treated well and paid generously. It's one of the more respectable places in Mos Espa, considering its trade, but it's very expensive."

Boba snorts dryly. "Credits aren't the problem."

The corners of Fennec's mouth twist up and Boba glares suspiciously. "Good," she says, pushing off of the throne, "because it's in our rounds today. We can stop by and have a chat with the headmistress."

Boba's face shadows in displeasure. He's not sure he's comfortable with how easily she's learned to read him in the time they've spent together; made more irritating because she's right. Rutting alphas are avoided for a reason, especially if they're solus. They get aggressive. Territorial. Short tempers with even shorter fuses. The smallest perceived slight can set them into a blind rage. If pushed, they could hurt themselves, and anyone nearby, in an effort to protect their territory.

Without a mate to focus all that energy on, it becomes a thousand times worse.

And it's only going to get worse for Boba from here.

Hadu's hand falls on his shoulder, gripping it firmly. Boba softens under her touch, the fight trickling out of him.

"Fine," he sighs, turning to Fennec. "Where is this place?"

<><><><><><><><><><><>

The Sanctuary doubles as a cantina and pleasure-house and had quickly become one of the most popular establishments in the city when it was first founded years ago. It was the place one goes to satiate their physical needs as well as their thirst, which was never in short-supply in a city like Mos Espa.

Music whirls through the air like twirling ribbons, wrapping around eyes and feet and luring passersby in closer. Like every other building on the street, The Sanctuary is a dusty yellow-white, built from sandstone and rubbed with a rough, grainy paper until it was smooth to the touch. How it differentiated itself from its neighbors is with an array of large, colorful woven banners that hang from the roof edges, and intricate patterns carved into the base of the stone.

Vendors don't bother hiding their stares as Boba strides down the street, shadowed by the rest of his entourage. If the silver Mandalorian carrying a beskar spear larger than himself didn't get people talking, then the Tusken Warrior clutching a gaffistick with two hands, glaring at anyone that dared make eye-contact, did.

Hadu would be the first Tusken to venture into one the bigger cities of Tatooine. The tribes typically kept their raids to small villages and isolated farms. For many, this is likely the first time they've ever seen a Tusken.

The stories won't pull her any favors.

He asked if she'd prefer to stay at the palace while they made their rounds, but she insisted on joining. She was more than capable of handling herself, but he still worried. Tatooine is not a kind planet, and here, surrounded by unfamiliar terrain and people who glare at her in disgust as she walks by, it is so much more dangerous.

Only a fool would try to attack her while she is already walking on a razor's edge, but so few know how to read a Tusken's body language.

Boba tilts his head, listening to the whispers that follow from the crowd. No attacks yet. Just curiosity. The street is thick with human scents, all ranging from alpha, beta, and omega. He dials up the filtration systems in his helmet to mask most of the smell, allowing just enough to slip in so that he'd be able to pick out any aggression aimed his way.

He doesn't pause at The Sanctuary's door, merely brushes aside the sheer fabric that flutters in the frame, and crosses the threshold into a large, spacious room already crowded with customers lounging around tables, escorts sidling up to potential investments, and droids roaming the tables to drop off drinks and bring back new orders. Large green, potted plants stand guard on either side of the entrance and line the perimeter of the room in a lavish demonstration of wealth.

Green is a rare color on this planet. Sure, Tatooine has a handful of indigenous flora, but mostly just dry shrubs and stocky trees. If anything green were to grow here, it would be during monsoon season, and even then it wouldn't last long. Only the richest, most powerful, have the water to keep plants like this alive.

Boba, personally, visited enough green planets to be unimpressed. But for Hadu, who's only known the Dune Sea her entire life, a plant like this is as foreign as a tropical paradise. Through the corner of his eye, he sees her recoil from the plant, as if caught by surprise. Carefully, she grazes one of the large, ovular leaves with a gloved finger, reverent.

Perhaps he'll invest in a few plants for the palace. It'll add a splash of color if nothing else.

The musicians playing in the corner trickle to a stop when they notice him, creating a ripple effect that draws the attention of everyone else in the room, and the overhang of conversation abruptly dies.

People are generally skeptical of his presence, and conversations tend to wither in his presence, especially during his bounty-hunting days. Completely at ease with this, Boba descends the last few stairs to the primary level of the room. A droid rolls up to him automatically, raising a small tray with an offered drink, beeping inquisitively.

"No," Fennec says, barely glancing at it as her gaze sweeps the room. "We're not here for drinks. We have business with Garsa Fwip."

The droid beeps and scurries off.

Boba's helmet automatically adjusts to the dim lights, a welcome reprieve from the glare of the twin suns for The Sanctuary's inhabitants; not too dark to make seeing difficult, but just enough to be a gentle comfort for the eyes. He inhales, taking in the scents of the room, but most of them hide behind a wall of enticing perfume and incense. Through it, he can pick up hints of other species, human secondaries, and general body odor from those who've sweated too long in the heat.

The main room is a large, ovular chamber that's decently full considering the time of day. There are a few connecting hallways that lead farther into the building, and a staircase across the room being guarded by a stocky Yarkora, likely where the more pleasurable side of the establishment took place.

A half-dressed woman in silks who's lounging on a couch looks away as Boba's helmet turns towards her in his scan of the room. Another man in nothing but a tight pair of undergarments that leave little to the imagination, leans farther into the plush red cushion of his seat, unsuccessfully hiding behind the Mirialan he'd been cuddling up to.

Given Boba's scent, and the circulating rumors, there's only one reason they'd assume he'd be here and none of them wanted to catch his attention.

A heavy silence passes before two Twi'leks enter through one of the opposite halls and make their way across the room, towards him.

"We understand you are here for the Headmistress," one of the Twi'leks, a male with cool-green skin, says, bowing his head. He smiles pleasantly, in a way that has likely sparked interest in many visitors. He's dressed to show himself off, wearing nothing but a pair of tight, brown leather pants with a fancy white breechcloth. His large, muscled bare chest draws the eye with nothing to distract from it, save a handful of golden ornaments that decorate his arms, twinkling softly in the low light. "Would you like your helmets serviced and cleaned while you wait for Madam Garsa?"

"No," Fennec says, waving him off, just as Boba nods and says, "Sure." He takes off his helmet. Feeling a little petty, he gestures to hers as well. "Here, take both of ours."

Fennec's jaw twitches and she glances at him for a split second, before begrudgingly handing hers' over to the bright yellow female Twi'lek, wearing a similar outfit to her coworker, but with a decorative metal top that shows off her cleavage.

Taking the helmets carefully, the two Twi'leks turn to Mando, who only stares back impassively.

"He will keep his," Boba says for him, and gestures to Hadu. "They both will."

Not that it mattered. The only attention they'd given Hadu was a nervous glance that they attempted to hide behind a pretty smile. Nodding, they head back the way they came.

As they go, Fennec scowls at him and Boba represses a smile. She'd been the one going on about tradition.

"You should've let them carry you in a litter," she'd said as they walked down the street, following the predetermined route she'd marked before leaving the palace. "Things would go a lot smoother if you accepted their ways."

She has a point. Things probably would go smoother if he allowed them to parade him about like an overstuffed Hutt, but he's gained nothing by letting someone else do the legwork for him. There's a reason he was known as the best bounty hunter in the galaxy, and it was because he got the job down with his own two hands.

Besides, the whole thing feels overly pompous, anyway. Too exposing. What is he supposed to do up there as he's slowly carried through the streets?

Huffing quietly, Fennec nods to Boba's other side as another Twi'lek appears from the hall. The crowd parts easily for her as she strides towards him. Her soft orange skin is reminiscent of a gentle sunset and her smile is just as radiant. The hem of her luscious black gown scrapes the floor softly, the skirt threaded with silver designs, and gold belts that curl loosely around her waist and up to her neck. An extravagant headdress covers the base of her lekku, twinkling in the light. The cape hanging delicately around her shoulders sways as she comes to a stop in front of him.

"Welcome to The Sanctuary," she greets him, gracefully sweeping her hand in gesture to her establishment. Like flipping a switch, the room relaxes.

The Madam of the house has taken control of the situation, allowing the band to timidly begin playing again, slowly followed by quiet conversation.

Garsa Fwip. Fennec had informed him of her and her business through the comms in their helmets, as they sped across the desert in their speeders. There wasn't much information to go off of, just that she had one of the most popular pleasure-houses in the city and rumors that she was once a runaway slave. She'd done well to keep details of herself hidden.

She smiles graciously, but her polite demeanor doesn't fool him. Some of the most ruthless people he's met hid it behind a kind smile.

"Would you care to partake in our many sundry offerings?" She asks.

The emphasis isn't lost. She'd probably smelled him the moment he'd walked through the door.

Fennec was the one who suggested this place, meaning she'd scoped it out and deemed it trustworthy—or as trustworthy as it got on Tatooine. Boba trusts her judgment. He reminds himself of this even as his gut narrows its eyes in suspicion.

"Perhaps another time," he says, dipping his head in acknowledgment. "I'm here to talk business."

Madam Fwip's surprise is only evident in the faint curve of her perfectly trimmed eyebrows. "Oh," she's still smiling, "then business it is." She glances behind him at Hadu and Mando, and like Garfalaquox, she's good at keeping her thoughts to herself. "Can I offer you food or refreshment as we discuss?"

"No, this won't take long."

"But we would prefer a more private setting," Fennec adds, giving the room a cursory sweep of her eyes. Boba schools his expression, but can't help the sour edge of annoyance in his scent. Fennec isn't letting him off easy then.

One of Madam Fwips lekku twitches, but she maintains her polite expression, as if she hadn't picked it up at all. "Of course, my office is this way."

Through the corner of his eye, Hadu hesitates, squeezing the shaft of her gaffistick, before reluctantly following. Eyes trail after them, prickling his skin like little bugs, and he can only imagine how much worse it is for her. He'll make this as quick as possible for her sake.

Madam Fwip's office is surprisingly modest. Large potted plants line the room, like the main chamber, and tasteful tapestries hang on the wall. The lights are warm and the cool air is a balm to Boba's skin. The heat dried his skin faster than normal, irritating his scars. He can already feel a prickling itch creeping across his head.

Instead of leading them to her desk, she directs them to a plush sitting area, gesturing for them to take a seat, as she grabs the datapad off her desk. Boba accepts the offer, but Fennec and Hadu remain standing on either side of him. Mando stops by the door, ensuring that it stays closed during the duration of their meeting.

"Well them," Madam Fwip sits across from Boba, clasping her hands over the datapad in her lap, "what business are we discussing today?"

Boba gestures to Fennec, "This is master assassin, Fennec Shand." He gestures to Hadu, "Tunig Hadu, greatest warrior of her tribe." He gestures to Mando. "And Mando, the best bounty hunter in the parsec." He nods to himself. "And I am Boba Fett. I have replaced Bib Fortuna as Daimyo of Tatooine."

"Oh, my apologies, Daimyo," Madam Fwip dips her head. "I'm afraid I didn't see your litter."

Boba lifts his chin, annoyance spiking in his scent once more before he reins it in. "I wasn't carried on a litter. I walk on my own two feet."

Madam Fwip chuckles softly, though there's no real humor in it. "Apologies."

"I'm just here to introduce myself and assure you that your business will continue to thrive under my watchful eye."

Madam Fwip nods in polite appreciation. "Well, thank you, Lord Fett." When Boba doesn't continue, she adds. "Forgive me, but if that is all, it seems like a small matter to bring to the privacy of my office. Is there, perhaps, something more you wish to discuss?" Her hands open in invitation for the other matter Boba so clearly came here for.

"Yes, there is one more matter Lord Fett would like to discuss," Fennec says on his behalf when he fails to do it himself, all but hitting him over the head with her voice, encouraging him to get on with it.

"You may be aware that I am approaching my cycle," he forces himself to say. "In my acquisition of Fortuna's throne and seizing the palace, I have been unable to find a partner to spend it with. I understand your establishment deals with sensitive matters such as this."

Madam Fwip's smile is a little more pleasant this time, though her eyes are no less sharp. "I have heard such rumors that a powerful figurehead was entering their species' cycle. Imagine my surprise that it's our own new Daimyo." A lie. Boba holds back a snort. "Our establishment does, indeed, dwell in such matters. Fortunately, I think we can spare one of our lovely attendants."

"That would be greatly appreciated."

"In that case," the datapad in Madam Fwip's hands flashes to life, "let's get started. The Sanctuary offers a variety of attendants of all shapes and sizes. What are your preferences? Female or male? Omega, beta, or alpha? Or perhaps a different species? Any specific body type or genitalia that you find most arousing?"

Boba blinks and sits a little straighter, fighting the urge to clear his throat awkwardly. Well, just getting right to it, then.

It's not that he's prudish, by any means. Debauchery was prevalent in the many establishments and employers he got his jobs from, particularly in the palace he's ruling now. But just because he's been in such locale's, doesn't mean he's inclined to spout off his bedroom preference to a Twi'lek he doesn't know, especially in front of his gotra.

"I don't have a preference," he forces out, equally blunt. "As long as they're willing to spend my rut with me, of their own free will, I will accept any that are available."

"Oh? Very well, let's waste no time then," Madam Fwip shuts the datapad off and gets to her feet.

By the door, Mando's arm shoots out, forcing it shut just as it starts to open. Boba waves him off, and while he keeps a firm grip on his spear, he obediently steps back. A small group of skimpily clad attendants enter the room; a beta male, an omega female, a petite blue Twi'lek male, and a large, yellow Nautolan female. The fact that they are already on call is more than telling.

Madam Fwip greets the group as they line up, smiling more genuinely than she has since she first approached him outside. Boba hauls himself up, as well.

"Here are some of our finest attendants in the house," she says, stepping aside so Boba can look them over. "They all have experience dealing with human cycles and are well equipped to handle the most...enthusiastic of you."

Boba hums, but deigns not to comment. They look appealing, there's no doubt about that. The omega smells a little too sweet, though. But the beta has an enticing, smoky aroma. The Twi'lek is a little too small for his taste, as opposed to the Nautolan who is large and sturdily built, with almost a head of height between them. Definitely a good contender.

He inhales as he walks past them, picking out their scents. After a moment he frowns, stepping back.

"None of them."

"Lord Fett?"

"None of them will do."

Madam Fwip comes to his side, looking over her employee's as if searching for whatever imperfection is offending him. When she finds nothing, her smile tightens. "I assure you, they are the very best in the house."

"I will not lay with someone who doesn't want to be there," Boba says, turning sharply away. "And I assure you, Madam Fwip, none of them want to be there."

There were many changes that humans underwent while entering their cycles. Their hormones increase, their pheromones get stronger, and their instincts sharpen. Their senses heighten.

These attendants are good and smiling and looking pretty. Good at making people think they want you, as is their job. But beneath the pageantry and fantasy, they can't hide their scents. It's easier to pick it out in humans, but other species have it too. Underneath the sweet smell of perfume and oil is unease and discomfort.

They don't want to be picked.

There's no doubt they would spend his rut with him if paid, but they wouldn't truly want to be there and his instincts would pick up on it. Call him a foolish romantic, or a picky knot-head, but he has boundaries. He knows what he likes and what puts him off, and a partner that would rather be on the opposite end of the city than in his bed isn't particularly appealing.

"Our business is concluded," he says, turning and giving Madam Fwip a respective nod. "Don't worry, I will continue to protect your establishment regardless of this matter. Thank you for your hospitality." Fennec and Hadu fall in line beside him as he heads for the door. He stops to add over his shoulder, "I request that this meeting be kept to those in this room."

If Madam Fwip is offended, it's as tangible as a mirage in the noonday desert. Not a thread out of place and her smile as accommodating as when they'd first made eye-contact from across the room.

"Of course," she says with a small bow. "Apologies that we did not find what you were looking for. But feel free to join our little slice of paradise whenever you see fit," she looks up, meeting his eyes, "as it is yours now."

With a final nod, Boba leaves with Fennec and Hadu at his back. Mando is the last to go, closing the door behind him.

In the main chamber, the conversation dulls only marginally as they reappear, but it's more curious than cautious. The two Twi'leks from earlier are waiting for them by the entrance, and upon closer inspection, Boba quirks an eyebrow at the mound of credits nestled inside his polished helmet. A smaller, but no less impressive, mound is inside Fennec's.

"Well, that could've gone better," Fennec mutters, weighing her helmet in her hands, "but it could've gone worse."

Boba snorts, tucking his helmet under his arm.

They aren't leaving with the solution they came for, but he stands by his decision. Forcing himself with a partner won't work. His inner alpha agitates, snapping its teeth at the thought.

This won't be the first time he'll endure his rut alone. Despite being the most well-known bounty-hunter, he hadn't always had someone to lend him a hand. Sure, he'd come across partners who were more than willing to share the rut of the notorious Boba Fett, either getting off by sleeping with someone dangerous or simply wanting the bragging rights. But he rarely allowed himself to be so vulnerable with another person.

Ruts usually entailed taking off his armor, and in a galaxy like this, that rarely turned out well. It was rare to find someone he trusted enough to spend his rut with, more so in a place besides Slave I where he felt comfortable enough to even have it. He'd found a few people, most—oddly—in Jabba's palace, but it didn't happen nearly as often as people liked to think.

Most of the time, he locked himself inside his ship and took care of it himself. Not an ideal situation, but it was the safest.

Having a fortified room within a well-protected palace, with plenty of toys to see him through his cycle, was hardly the worst situation he's been in.

Then again...

Being trapped in the sarlacc did more than physically scar him. It scarred his alpha too. His biology. His cycle didn't come in the first year and a half he was with the Tuskens, his body too focused on healing from the sarlacc's stomach acid and adjusting to the harsh new environment of the Dune Sea. For a while, he'd thought they were gone permanently, his body too broken and scarred to permit it.

But, by year two, it returned. Overwhelmingly so.

The sarlacc was hardly Boba's first brush with death, but it was the one that nearly succeeded the most. Being so close to his own demise triggered something in him. His body kicked into overdrive. Now adjusted to the stress of the Dune Sea, his cycle came back with the force of a Kamino storm, hellbent on making up for lost time.

Or maybe his body was worried he'd die before producing an offspring. Stupid evolutionary survival banthashit like that.

His first rut that second year was more intense than any rut he'd experienced before. It hit him with the heat of the Twin Suns, painful, grueling, and burning him from the inside out. His body secreted pheromones in waves, desperate to draw in a mate.

Tusken's don't have secondary-sexes like humans do, so they didn't understand what was happening to him. Most were confident he was dying. They'd prepared funeral rites.

Boba couldn't blame them. He felt like he was dying. It felt like he was being eaten from the inside out and all his exposed bone and tissue were drying up within the heat of his body, leaving him an empty, lifeless husk. He could smell the overwhelming musk of his own pheromones and it revolted him how rancid they were—sour and pungent, heavy with pain and desperation. His scars cracked and bled, his skin dried, and his joints felt rusted and broken. No matter how many black melons he drank, it was never enough. He was so weak he couldn't even muster the energy to posture or claim territory—thank the stars for that. The Tusken's definitely would've killed him if he attacked them under the influence of his rut-addled brain.

It was the longest week of his life.

His second rut wasn't as bad. It was still more painful than normal, but it was manageable. His alpha whined, growled, cried, and roared, hungry for a mate he didn't have. It demanded he reproduce before death took him for real. His aggression began building, his territorial urges came back, and this time he explained to the Chief what was happening. They gave him a tent he could claim as his territory, which he set up as far from the tribe as he could without coming across as an easy snack for predators. He hardly left it during the week of his rut.

By year three, the Tusken's offered him a partner. One of their own he could spend his cycles with under the condition of marriage. Tusken's don't undress for any but their spouses and children. It was a custom they would not break, even for him, and he respected that. It was a generous offer, and an even greater honor, to be given the option, but marriage...

That wasn't in Boba's directory.

So he endured them. One by one. Grueling rut after grueling rut. Secreting far too many pheromones to be normal, no matter how many scent-blockers he got his hands on. If he could endure his cycle at its worst in the Dune Sea, he can endure it now inside his fancy new palace.

Besides, there are more important things to deal with than his rut.

"Jabba had many vassals," Boba says, re-emerging onto the street, squinting slightly as the harsh suns drive away the soothing, coolness of the building. "We've got a lot of ground to cover if we are to keep his empire intact."

Hadu shakes her head, shoulders rolling in amusement. She claws one hand and bounces it between her chest and sternum, and points firmly at him. "Your empire now."

Boba smiles. "Yes, my empire."

"I can make the rounds without you," Fennec says, back to scanning the street. "Jabba rarely left his chambers."

And never had to handle matters while in pre-rut. Is what she doesn't say.

Boba huffs. "Jabba ruled with fear. I intend to rule with respect."

Next to Hadu, Mando cocks his head, whereas Fennec considers this with pursed lips.

"If I may..." she says.

Boba gestures for her to continue, "Speak freely."

"In difficult times, fear is a surer bet." She gives him the hint of a wry smile, like he's unaware that he's taking the longer, more tedious path.

Be that as it may, Boba prefers tedium that leads to respect than fast-results that come with fear. All one needs is a blaster or, worse, money and power and it's more than enough to get results. It was what kept Bib Fortuna on the throne. But as soon as he took a bolt to the chest, all his servants and guards either disappeared or swore loyalty to Boba.

Anyone can rule with fear.

To rule with respect meant so much more.

It meant loyalty. A firm foundation, which is necessary for a planet such as Tatooine. A building can't withstand a sandstorm if its bedrock isn't solid. Boba doesn't want people who'd run the first chance they get. He needs people who can endure strong winds. Who can stay on their feet and stare down the storm.

Before he can respond, movement catches his eye. His hand flies to his blaster, but Mando is faster, hitting the darkly clad being in the chest before they even hit the ground. An excellent shot. Boba's impressed, but it's a minor thought as he falls into a defensive stance as several more similarly dressed beings emerge from rooftops and buildings, surrounding him and his gotra in under a minute.

The street erupts into chaos.

Hadu cries out fiercely as her gaffistick spins in her hands, raised to fight, and within the blink of an eye Mando grasps his spear. Fennec drops her helmet, scattering credits, as she draws her blaster, getting off one shot just as their attackers lift their arms and glowing, orange energy shields grow from their gauntlets.

Not only surrounding Boba and his gotra, but caging them in.

The sudden rush of adrenaline crashes into Boba like a hit of spice, flooding his veins with a sharp, crackling energy that lights up his entire body. The unexpected threat, so far from the safety of his territory, overtakes his brain in a matter of seconds and his instincts roar at him to break out of the cage now, now, NOW! He lifts his arm without thinking and fires one of the small concussion rockets from his wrist gauntlet with a savage snarl.

That's his first mistake.

Instead of splitting the shields and scattering his attackers, the rocket explodes against the barrier and sends Boba and the rest of his gotra off their feet. His helmet flies out of his hand, bleeding credits as it rolls across the ground. Civilians hiding behind stands, barrels, and low walls leap to their feet, unable to pass up the opportunity to grab a fistful of it and run.

Through the rancid smoke, Hadu is the first on her feet, using her gaffistick to pull herself up and swing it out, driving the sharpened point into the shields. She stumbles, grunting, as the force of it sends her arm back. Similarly, Mando uses his spear to pull himself onto one knee that he braces himself on as he swings the pointed tip to the exposed legs of their attackers, but its reach is limited. Spears are ideal for open spaces, not enclosed ones where it might just as easily skewer an ally than an enemy.

Fennec rolls onto her feet and goes back to back with Boba as he scrambles for purchase, his alpha seething. He snarls, going for a gap in the shields, but his punch ricochets off with a burst of power as the shields come back together.

With their free hands, the attackers raise long, spear-like poles simultaneously and Boba shouts as one of the points snap past the barrier and jabs him in the shoulder. Pain flashes down his arm and across his chest, spreading in the seconds it takes for him to jerk away. Another spear tip crackles and pops behind him, but when he whirls around to block it, another jabs him in the back. His skin feels like it's crawling with fire-ants, the areas prickling and numb where he'd been struck.

Behind him, Fennec shouts, likely experiencing the sharp sting herself. On Boba's side, Mando jerks back as one finds itself between the cracks of his armor. When another one tries to jab Boba, he blocks it with his arm guards, knocks it away, then blocks another, only to take a hit to his knee. There's no room to move. Fennec is at his back, Hadu on his right, and Mando on his left. Their limited space closes rapidly as the shields come in closer.

By now, Mando has dropped his spear in the sand and is using his blaster. Hadu is using the end of her gaffistick to ward off the spears, but her movements are tight and limited. At this rate, they'll be prodded until they either fall unconscious or die from electrocution.

With a growl, Mando yells, "Get down!" and pumps his arm once. There's a faint, building whine from his gauntlet and Boba immediately drops. Sharp whistles fill the air as small projectiles fly out of Mando's gauntlet, zipping through the cracks in the barriers like flies and lodging themselves into their attackers with a quick explosion of sparks. The barrier breaks in an array of surprised shouts as some attackers pull their shields back to defend themselves, and others drop dead.

It's all Boba needs.

With the prowess of the four of them combined, the fight sees a quick end after that. Fennec descends on the attackers closest to her, followed by Hadu who hooks the end of her gaffistick around one such being's neck and yanks them off their feet. She drives the tip of her gaffistick through their eye and deep into their skull. Now that they're no longer boxed in, Mando grabs his spear, blocking another strike from a stun-spears just before it hits him. Side-stepping, he throws them off balance before knocking them hard in the head.

Boba's skin prickles, the corners of his eyes tint red. He growls deep in his chest and lunges, punching one of his attackers in the face and whirls around as feet shuffles behind him, catching the shaft of a pole just as it's about to knock him over the head. He kicks this attacker's feet out from under them, twists their spear out of their grip, and drives the tip into their shoulder.

But another bolt of electricity courses down his back and he shouts in pain, dropping the spear and stumbling to one knee. He turns in time to grasp the new spear before it hits him again. Small zips of blue electricity arc from the tip, sizzling so close to his fingers he can feel stray arcs shooting through them, searing his nerves. Teeth clenched, Boba tightens his grip with a snarl and forces himself up.

Behind their black mask, his attacker's eyes widen, trying to pull the spear back, but Boba doesn't let it go. He bares his fangs, snarling again, and drives his fist into their gut. As they double over, he grabs their throat and slams them back into the ground, twisting the pole out of their grip as he does. Spinning it, he seizes the shaft, lifts it above his head, and shoves the tip deep into the assassin's stomach.

His heart soars, satisfaction bleeding into his scent as their body spasms and jerks, eyes bulging and mouth gurgling as they weakly grasp the spear in a futile attempt to pull it out. Boba drives it in deeper for good measure. The tips of his fingers tingle, but his blood crackles like he's still got electricity coursing through his veins, filling his chest with a wild, burning pressure like he's about to explode.

He feels good. He feels alive.

But the taste of victory is short-lived as two more assassins descend on him. They slam their spears into him at the same time and he seizes with a shout, dropping to his knees and only barely catching himself on his hands. When he tries to rise, the points drive in deeper, forcing him onto the ground, limbs convulsing.

Somewhere to the side, Hadu shrieks in Tusken and then her gaffistick is slamming into one assassin's head, cracking their skull like an egg in a spray of blood. She knocks the other assassin's spear loose with the butt of her gaffistick, then spins it in her hand and shoves the point tip deep into their chest.

Boba gasps for breath, muscles spasming through aftershocks so violent he can't pull himself up immediately. He feels cooked in every sense of the word, inside and out. Feebly, he tries to get to his feet, but his joints scream in protest.

Hurt. Away from his territory. Surrounded by enemies. His alpha gnashes its teeth in displeasure, ears pinned back, fangs bared.

A hand curls around his bicep and Boba lashes out with a growl. He seizes and twists their wrist so they let go, kicks their feet out from under them, and rolls on top of them with his fangs bared.

"Boba," says a calm, familiar voice, "It's okay. It's over."

Shiny metal glints in the sun, so bright it hurts his eyes. He squints. A dark T-visor stares back. Beskar. Mando.

It's just Mando.

Boba climbs off of him, too riled to apologize. His eyes zip around the street, seeking the last of the assassins, but the two that remain are already in retreat. Fennec is in pursuit of them, scaling the buildings seamlessly as they attempt to get away from the rooftops.

"Alive," Boba shouts hoarsely after her. "At least one alive."

She glances back at him once then disappears among the rooftops.

Now that the fight is over, Boba sags. His insides prickle, his skin burns, and his joints ache. Areas where the sarlacc's acid had eaten away his nerves are unaffected, but the sensitive scar tissue still healing feels like it's being digested all over again. The thought slams into him with a rush of panic. It seizes his thoughts in one mighty sweep, flinging him back in time.

The bits of blood on his face suddenly feels hot and biting. The suns are an opening far, far above him that he can't reach. The heavy smell of the civilians' fear, where it lingers in the air, is suddenly his and every other one of Jabba's employees who had fallen into the pit as well.

He grasps Hadu as she hooks one of his arms across her shoulders, keeping him up. He imagines the texture of her robes through his gloves and latches onto it, desperately trying to ground himself as he takes a shuddering breath.

She says something in the harsh vocal language of the Tuskens, and Mando responds likewise, hooking Boba's other arm across his shoulders so they're both keeping him on his feet. Boba barely registers as they begin walking, mind overcome with memories of wet, slimy walls. Darkness. Suffocation. The putrid sour stench of acid, the dead, and the dying.

He stares at the ground, one hand wound tight in Hadu's robes, and the other grasping the edge of Mando's pauldron, as he attempts to pull himself out of the sarlacc's stomach once more.

<><><><><><><><><><>

Boba feels as heavy as wet bags of sand by the time they get back to the palace. His body is one overwhelming, itchy burn that makes him want to tear away his clothes and peel off his skin. Being back in his territory, surrounded by his scent, relieves a small part of the coiled tension trembling throughout his body.

He barely notice's they've reached his room until Hadu lifts his hand to unlock the door. They hobble to the bacta-pod set up at the back of the room and lower him onto the bench of his work-table. Hadu begins undoing the straps of his armor and Mando steps back, hands hovering in the air.

Hadu grunts at him in Tusken. Boba's ears are ringing, so he only deciphers bits and pieces. "Leave...will provide...as is custom..."

Mando nods once and leaves without another word.

She strips Boba until he's down to nothing but his blacks, and when she starts to undo these too, Boba waves her hands away, blearily reaching for the pod. Understanding, she helps him to it.

Liquid splashes over the walls as he collapses inside, but the cool relief seeps through his blacks and chases away the ache. He sighs as his muscles relax and the grimace on his face softens. He's faintly aware of the respirator being fitted over his mouth, padding his mouth with a saccharine taste that makes him wrinkles his nose. The pod closes with a hiss, beginning to fill, and Boba sinks into it with a soft sigh.

<><><><><><><><><><><>

He doesn't leave the sanctuary of his room right away, even when his stomach starts aching with hunger.

Sessions in the bacta-pod usually give him an appetite. Typically there'd be a platter of food waiting for him on the bed-side table afterward, but it was blaringly empty when he'd eventually climbed out of the pod, cold, wet, and starving. None of the staff would dare with-hold evening meal from him, and the droid that usually delivered it to his room, punctual to a fault, was absent. So, unless the palace inexplicably ran out of food, there's only one other conclusion he came to: Fennec is trying to draw him out.

She wants to talk and Boba does not.

His alpha paces under his skin, rumbling with an irritation that he expresses by growling softly under his breath. Aggravation for getting jumped isn't what's keeping him in his room, carving a path in front of the door as he stalks too and fro. It's the fact that he'd been beaten so easily.

He'd lost focus, gave into his instincts, and been wounded for it. His gotra had been wounded for it.

He appreciates Hadu and Mando for getting him back to the palace, but that didn't excuse the fact that he had to be carried here. Tatooine is not kind to the weak. Frailty isn't something he can afford, especially with his succession of power as unsteady as it is. There will be consequences of this fight and they won't be pleasant.

But he can't hide in his room forever. Fennec likely has a lot to say and it'll be better to get it out soon than allowing it to fester any longer than he has. Sighing, he waves off the two dressing droids that have been hounding him step by step, unsuccessfully trying to get him out of his wet blacks and into a robe. He slaps away the pesky three-fingered hand tugging on his sleeve.

He's feeling humiliated enough, he doesn't need it worsened by relying on droids to get him dressed.

"I've got it," Boba growls when one of the droids rush forward, fingers clicking eagerly, as he begins unstrapping his blacks. He dumps them on the floor near the pod, which the other droid snatches up immediately, rushing off as if it expected Boba to pursue. He slips on a clean flightsuit and starts strapping on his armor.

"I've got it," Boba growls again when the second droid tries to forcefully lift his foot and shove it into his boot. It backs up, gears whirring in frustration, but quickly finds new purpose in simply holding out pieces of armor for him to take.

Boba sighs.

He meticulously assembles himself into the cold-faced hunter he's familiar with seeing in the mirror, securing every magsnap and buckle with practiced ease. A process hammered into his bones through years of muscle memory and maintenance.

Still, despite taking his time, it's over too quickly.

May as well rip the bog-slug off now.

He takes his helmet from the droid and, sighing, leaves the room.

The suns have already set and night has taken over. The palace is barren aside from a few guards on the night shift, who patrol the grounds and watch the gate. Boba's not so foolish as to think Fennec retreated to her own room, and is expecting it when he peeks inside the kitchen and sees her sitting at the ovular table in the middle of the room, fingers knitted together, holding a tray of food hostage in front of her.

He's a little more surprised to see Hadu and Mando with her. Hadu standing next to a column near the table and Mando leaning against a wall at the back of the room.

Fennec greets him with a single raised eyebrow. "It's about time."

Boba stops lurking in the doorway. "What of the assassins?"

"Got one. Alive, like you wanted. He's in the dungeons."

Boba grunts in approval, stopping at the opposite end of the table. He can smell a spicy aroma from the bowl and his stomach growls wantonly for it.

He stays perfectly still, waiting.

"Any idea who sent them?" He asks.

Fennec shrugs without breaking eye contact. His alpha begins to prickle defensively. "A few. But we'll get to that later."

He huffs. "What is it?"

"I think you know."

"The assassin won't go unpunished."

"True," she agrees, simply, "but that's not what I'm talking about."

Yeah, he knows what she's talking about. Is very aware of it, in fact. He crosses his arms, scowling.

Fennec crosses her arms back. "You slipped."

His alpha bristles. "I know."

"This is why we need to figure out your rut now," Fennec says, leaning forward in her seat, jabbing a finger into the table. "We can't have you doing that again, especially in front of a crowd."

"I know," Boba growls, shoulders rising. It's not like he hasn't spent the better part of an hour seething over it, pouring over every angry, sloppy mistake he'd made. Engrossed in all the ways that battle should've gone. How it would've gone if he wasn't saturated in instincts and hormones.

But she has the right to be upset. His mishap could've gotten them killed.

With a rut-partner on the line, it would've kept him smart and careful, more concerned about making it back to them instead of chasing down every barve in the street that smelled even slightly antagonistic. It would've given him a purpose outside of flailing and going for the quickest, easy-out solution his alpha cooked up.

That's why solus alpha's are regarded as so dangerous. Without a partner to focus all that attention and energy on, they get twitchy. Reckless and paranoid. Like he did today.

Hadu moves out of the shadows to stand next to Fennec in support of her, and Boba takes a deep, careful breath, forcing down the growing, defensive prickle rising up his spine. When he's no longer about to snap, he asks, coolly, "And what do you recommend?"

Fennec rests her chin on top of her knitted fingers. "We go back to The Sanctuary. See if they have anyone else who'll appease your alpha. If not there, we'll try other pleasure houses. Anything before this gets more out of hand."

Boba glowers at the rough-stone table. "Those attendants wouldn't have worked, even if I wanted them to. I can tell they didn't want to be there, just like the others in the lounge. I'm not going to force myself, or them."

"Then we'll try somewhere else," Fennec says, frustrated.

"Somewhere that doesn't deal with slavers?"

"There are a few."

Boba gnashes his teeth at the air, irritation spiking. He paces the floor in front of the table, shaking his head. "None of them will after what happened today."

Solus alpha's gone too long in their heightened instincts and hormones are more prone to lashing out and getting aggressive. The more violent and scummy may even try forcing themselves onto the first attractive person that comes their way. And if they do happen to find someone so late into their rut, they can get so possessive they may hurt their partner in an effort to keep them there.

It won't matter to any pleasure house or attendant that Boba is only in pre-rut. Word of the ambush will spread, recounts of how he'd lashed out and been injured. A solus alpha is dangerous. A solus alpha who feels vulnerable is a risk few will take.

His options are frighteningly small.

"Well, what are your big ideas?" Fennec demands, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms in mimicry of his. Her scent fills the air between them, sharp and thick like the smell of blaster smoke, heavy with annoyance. Being a beta, it's slightly dampened compared to an omega or alpha, but it's no less detectable.

"I don't know," Boba snaps back. "I haven't had to worry about this since the sarlacc."

"I'll do it."

Boba's eyes snap towards Mando. He hadn't said anything throughout the entire conversation. He may as well have been carved into the wall with how blank and motionless he was, like a statue welded to the floor. The illusion breaks as his helmet tilts slightly to the side, catching the light.

"Mando?" Fennec says, as if she's not sure he's the one actually speaking.

"You'll..." Boba lets the sentence taper as he stops his pacing, taking a moment to scrutinize the Mandalorian more closely. He never got the sense that Mando had much of a sense of humor, but surely he's joking.

Mando shrugs. "I owe you. I'll do it."

And just like that, Boba's bewilderment shatters. "You don't owe me anything," he says, waving the ridiculous notion off.

"You helped me rescue Grogu from an Imp," Mando says, tilting his helmet the other way. "You didn't have to. You could've left me on Tython, but you stayed. I owe you."

Boba waves him off more aggressively. "My debt wasn't paid. I promised the child would come to no harm, and he was taken. I did what I had to. You owe me nothing."

Mando shrugs again, brushing off Boba's insistence like it's nothing but a piece of lint. "Your debt is repaid. Mine is not. You still brought me to Tatooine when I asked. Gave me a place to stay. This is the least I can do."

"I will not spend my rut with someone who feels forced to be there," Boba hisses, eyes flashing.

Mando gets up from the wall, his vow of stillness completely broken as he walks towards Boba. Tugging on the collar of his cape, he dislodges the scent blockers sewn into his flight suit and bares his neck. "Does it smell like I'm being forced?"

It takes a moment for his scent to fill the air, but when it does, Boba recoils in surprise. Fennec straightens, wide-eyed.

"You're an omega?" She asks.

Mando nods.

It's unnecessary for alpha ruts' to be spent exclusively with omegas, nor omega heats exclusively with alpha's. Everyone likes something different. But omega's do tend to handle knots the easiest, which is beneficial if they're spending a cycle with a rut-crazed alpha. They can assimilate to the conditions of a rut quicker than the other two secondaries can.

Personally, Boba's never had much of a preference. On the handful of occasions that he did share his ruts, he's done it with beta's, omegas, alphas, and even a few beings from other species. He hadn't given the Mandalorians secondary much thought. It's impossible to tell without his scent, and while Boba liked to know as much as he could about the people he worked with, the Mandalorian's secondary had never become an issue, thus he hadn't pushed.

Some people were born casteless, with no secondary at all. Without a scent, or outward signs of what the Mandalorian's might be, that's what his brain defaulted to.

Mando still has his neck bared, patiently waiting, and Boba only hesitates a second longer before closing the distance between them and inhaling his scent deeper. He steps back, surprised.

Mando smells...calm. At ease. No sour fear. No stench of nervous sweat. His body is open, shoulders relaxed, and breaths easy. He's not aroused or eager, but he's not giving Boba massive signals to keep his distance. He straightens when Boba gives him back his personal space, the emotionless glint of his helmet staring back as he refits the blockers into place and adjusts his cape.

Fennec looks between them. "Well?"

"He's..."

"I'm okay with it," Mando reassures them both. "You won't be forcing me, or twisting my arm." He gestures with a hand, as if extending a gift. "This is my offer to you, Fett. Allow me to settle my debt. If not for you, then for me. This is the way of my Creed."

Ah, so Mandalorian honor comes into this. Boba should've known.

Mando doesn't owe him shit. Any and all debts were repaid before they'd even landed on Tatooine. To spend his rut with the other man all because of a baseless obligation sours his stomach, yet...Mando truly seems content with this. Scents don't lie.

They can be masked, but rarely faked.

The silence stretches, and Fennec watches Boba expectantly, tapping her finger against the table, sending all kinds of telepathic promises to kick him out a window if he refuses the perfect solution that had fallen into his lap.

Well, it wouldn't be the first time Boba had sex with an ally. It's been a while, for sure. But if Mando is willing...well, with all that armor and prowess, he certainly isn't unattractive.

"Fine," Boba relents. "If you're truly okay with this, Mando, then I accept your offer."

Fennec's shoulders relax and she lets out a sharp sigh of relief. "Wonderful. Now that that's settled." She frees his dinner, sliding it across the table. "Eat. We'll interrogate the prisoner tomorrow."

Grabbing her blaster off the table, she strides past him, clapping a hand on his shoulder before heading to the door. "I'll work the night shift for a few hours and check on patrols. See you all at first sunrise."

Hadu stares at Mando for a long, hard minute before slowly nodding. She bids Boba goodnight.

Boba picks up the bowl with a heavy sigh. "Well, may as well start sooner rather than later." He motions for Mando to follow him.

It's quiet all the way up to Boba's room.

He ambles to his work-table, prying his helmet off with one hand and holding the bowl in the other. He plops onto the bench with a sigh, not bothering with utensils as he sips the spicy, earthy broth. Behind him, Mando holds his footsteps like he treasures them, barely making a sound as he takes in the large, circular space of his den. Bare, as far as both a Daiymo's and an alpha's would be. Boba didn't have a lot of stuff to move in with, and interior decorating isn't on the top of his list of priorities.

As someone who's worn armor for most of his life, he's impressed with how quiet Mando can be.

He's halfway through his stew before the scent from downstairs reaches his nose and his alpha shoots up in alarm. Dens are meant to be the safest place someone can be, and Boba's room isn't privy to a lot of people. It's marked with his scent from one end to the other, so heavy with it it's like a shroud. His initial response to this foreign scent is to bare his fangs and force the intruder out, with violence if necessary. But Mando's scent is soft and peaceful, barren of hostility, which puts Boba's territorialism on pause.

He turns to see Mando stripped completely out of his armorer and loosening the magsnaps of his flight suit, dislodging the blockers again. His scent fills the air like it's stretching out its arms, exhausted with being bottled up for so long. Boba's alpha scuffles and sniffs the air again, curious, but unsure, of this new presence.

Mando doesn't strip past his flight suit, but pulls his collar down, exposing the pale brown skin of his neck. He walks carefully towards Boba, steps heavier without his armor, which comes across as strange to Boba until it clicks that he's being purposefully loud, so it doesn't come across as him sneaking up on him.

Boba turns back to his soup with a grunt of acknowledgment.

Mando slips next to him on the bench. Not close enough to impede Boba's personal space, but it's the closest they've ever been to each other outside of a fight. The Mandalorians scent permeates the space between them and Boba can't help but inhale it again.

"Still okay with this?" He asks, lips hovering over the rim of the bowl.

"Do I smell different?" Mando returns, visor glinting as his helmet shifts to face him. The only piece of armor he'd kept on.

Boba inhales again.

"No," he says.

Mando nods.

"Have you eaten?" Boba asks.

"Yes."

"Were you injured today?"

"A few burns."

"Have you taken care of them?"

"Yes."

Boba takes a delicate sip of broth. "You did well today," he turns to look into the visor. "Our victory is thanks to you."

Mando hums.

Boba's lips twitch upward. "You're not a man of many words, are you?"

Mando's helmet cocks slightly to the side. Such a small, inquisitive action, like a foreign creature curious about the sounds coming out of his mouth. "Would you like me to be?"

Boba shakes his head. "No. As long as you communicate clearly, we should be fine. If you want to stop this at any time, we'll stop. If you're uncomfortable with this at any time, let me know."

Mando's head tilts to the other side. "My helmet stays on. If you are not okay with that, I will leave now."

Boba shrugs, tearing apart a piece of bread that he stirs around in the dregs of his stew. "If that's what you want."

Mando nods again, satisfied.

"Have you ever done this before?"

Another nod.

Boba doesn't ask for further clarification, nor does Mando offer it up, but the reveal surprises him. In the short amount of time he's known him, Mando's always come off as a bit...modest. But it might just have been the rigid Creed he's molded his life around that gave him the impression. What were the rules for his armor surrounding heats and ruts, anyway? Mando hadn't gone into detail about his tribe, or any of their customs outside of a dedication to children and never taking off his helmet. Surely there was some leeway for those with cycles.

He doesn't realize he's staring until his eyes drift down Mando's throat, watching the muscles of his neck flex as he shifts his head, watching Boba back. It's such a strange sight to see him without his armor. Boba's only known him for maybe a month, but it sits wrong in his stomach. Like seeing a crustacean without its protective shell. A krayt without its scales. Fleshy and vulnerable.

A sharp, swelling emotion balloons in Boba's chest, imbuing him with the irrational urge to shut all the windows, lock the door, and sit Mando in a corner, safe and out of sight.

Mando moves his head to the side, baring his throat, and the urge intensifies. Boba stops himself from leaning into it, looking at Mando for permission.

"Go on," Mando urges softly.

Bowl forgotten—it was almost empty anyway—Boba tips into Mando's space, twisting his body for a better angle, and warily hovers his nose over his skin, just shy of the scent glands. He tugs aside Mando's collar and Mando adjusts the angle of his neck to give him better access.

Every scent is unique, like a fingerprint, distinct to a single person. Of course, there are smells Boba expects from Mando. Blaster smoke, armor polish, sand, and sweat. But there, beneath it all, his scent is unmistakable. Earthy, spicy, and bold, with an undercurrent of sweetness that crooks its finger, encouraging him closer. It's solid and perspicuous, fitting Mando so perfectly that Boba can't imagine him smelling like anything else. Like a cog refitting itself so seamlessly into a machine, it's a wonder he didn't notice it was missing.

If he were to pick up this scent in a crowd of hundreds, he'd know exactly who it belonged to. He could follow it like a set of footprints, guiding him through the mass like a tracking fob.

Boba's alpha rumbles with interest.

He scents Mando carefully, so as to not scare him away. A silly notion, yes. It'd take a lot to scare off a Mandalorian. But the faint twitch of Mando's shoulders when Boba touches his skin reminds him of a skittish animal that's merely allowing him in its space. An animal that's perfectly capable of darting away if it feels threatened.

So he touches carefully. Scents him gently. Holds off from touching too much at once, or coming off as aggressive. Or, at least, he tries to until Mando's hands curl around his arms and tug him in closer. A flash of heat warms Boba's gut as Mando leans back under his weight, body warm and inviting through his flight suit. One leg lifts over the bench so he's straddling it, opening his body up to Boba's scrutiny. He leans back on one arm, gripping Boba's shoulder with the other to keep him from jumping back.

Boba's own scent gets heavy in the air, becoming so thick it's beginning to overpower Mando's, so he buries his nose in the crook of the other mans' neck to get as much of it as he can before his pheromones expand any more.

He pulls away a few minutes later, light-headed, like he'd inhaled too much spice. Mando follows him up, still gripping his shoulder, but allowing more space between them. His hands are warm under his gloves and Boba is struck with a desire to rip them off, press them to his skin and soak up all their warmth.

"That's enough for tonight," he says instead, voice rough. "Come again tomorrow morning, before the suns rise."

Mando nods, finally extracting his hand, and Boba immediately grieves its warmth. He returns to where he'd stacked his armor next to the door, putting himself together piece by piece. Boba follows from a respectful distance, soaking in the last of that rich scent before it's hidden away.

Before he leaves, Boba adds, "Thank you for helping me here, today." It prickles saying the words out loud after sitting on them for so long.

For years, the only person he's ever needed to rely on was himself. Help from others always came with a price or a hidden agenda. Somewhere within the weeks that he's worked with Mando, he's developed something like respect for the other man. A hunter recognizing the skill of another hunter.

After having had his shortcomings on display for the Mandalorian, it's...uncomfortable.

Mando cocks his head, an action that is becoming increasingly amusing to Boba. "Of course, Daimyo."

Assuming that's that, Boba nods, but Mando suddenly takes a step forward, melting into Boba's space like he's already carved a spot there. He's taller, deceptively so with his helmet on, and broad. Boba's seen the way he fights. Cold, calculated, and precise. A savagery hidden beneath it all. He uses his body like it's a weapon he's mastered. To any other person, this kind of proximity would be dangerous.

To Boba's rut-addled brain, it should've made him bristle. He should be snapping his teeth, warning this threat out of his personal-space lest they be bitten. To posture and puff out his chest like a ruffled bird. But Mando's hands are gentle on Boba's hips, warm and solid, and it pets down his plume of feathers, softening his apprehension. One hand drops slowly, caressing the top of Boba's leg, and squeezes softly.

"K'udessi jahalla, Boba."

The words don't mean anything to him. He used to know, when he was a boy listening to his father speak the language of a people that would come to forsake him. Forsake both of them. Once upon a time, Boba had been very good at speaking those clipped, abrupt phrases.

But things change. Life has a way of taking you in a different direction, and Boba shed those words like a skin, leaving the dead cells behind. Hearing them now pricks at a hastily sewn stitch, unthreading an ache he'd once fought so hard to suppress.

Mando doesn't stay long enough for Boba to construct a response. He squeezes his thigh once more, warm and teasing, and withdraws. Boba feels it the moment his alpha focuses, its attention turning sharp and fixated, catching onto Mando's implication. The teasing. The suggestion. The willingness to be chased.

Damn. However long Mando's been doing this, he does it well. Very well.

With a flutter of his cape, Mando leaves, closing the door behind him.

Boba shakes himself out of the narcotic state Mando's scent had wrapped him in, and returns to the worktable to finish off the last drops of his dinner before stripping out of his armor in exchange for a softer robe. His bones still feel weary, despite soaking in bacta for hours. A side-effect of age, maybe. Or the life he's lived since learning how to survive on his own. He's not sure.

Maybe both.

But while his body ghosts with aches and pains, his instincts feel fresher than ever. Wide-eyed and full of energy. Younger in a way he hasn't felt since the sarlacc.

He turns over in bed, back to the door, refusing to wring the air for the last bit of Mando's scent that still lingers. But he can't deny an underlying eagerness for morning to come soon so he can smell it again.