Vocabulary:

Preening

: a term used (typically in regard to alpha's) to describe when a human is emoting in a way that depicts self-satisfaction or pride over their endeavors, behaviors, or actions, typically in a way to earn the attention of a (current or desired) mate/partner. This is most prevalent during reproductive cycles when they are trying to find/lure in potential mates.

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

Boba tries not to linger on Mando's skin for too long.

As requested, Mando appears at his door an hour before first sunrise. Boba is already dressed in his armor, helmet held in the crook of his arm, when he opens the door and steps aside, letting the Mandalorian in. Like last night, Mando methodically strips off his armor and detaches his cloak, placing both neatly on the worktable, before turning around and unclipping the flight suit around his neck.

Boba inhales deeply, drinking in that rich scent like a warm cup of caf, nerves tingling in equal parts fascination and caution. When Mando gives him permission—a subtle tilt of his helmet—he leans in, crowding the Mandalorian against the worktable, and noses along his neck. Mando tips his head back to give him better access, content in being boxed in as Boba braces his hands on either side of him.

"Fennec up?" Boba asks for the sake of conversation, despite Mando's disinclination towards small-talk. He gets it, he's the same way. But it feels better to acknowledge the man he's running his nose along rather than ignoring him until they head down for first meal.

Mando nods his head softly, bumping slightly against Boba's cheek. "She says to get your ass downstairs before the sun's reach high noon."

Boba snorts, rolling his eyes. He doubts that woman even sleeps. Just roosts in her room, tuning up her blaster until it's an adequate time to be up and stalking the halls again, ragging on Boba to do the same.

"And Hadu?" He asks.

"Also up. She's with Shand."

Not surprising. Hadu is distasteful of the palace and all the staff on a good day. Outside of Boba, the closest person she sticks with is Fennec. Mando, too, on account that he knows Tusken and she can actually have a decent conversation with him. It alleviates a little of the pressure in his chest, rooted there from a guilt he touches every time he catches Hadu miserably sulking in a corner. She was such a confident, lively presence in the Dune Sea, surrounded by her customs and culture. Out there, her technique was unmatched and her love for her tribe like a third sun burning deep in the desert sands.

But here, she hangs back, clutching her gaffi stick and scrutinizing any that come across her. She sticks close to his side, watching from over his shoulder, examining the way he interacts with the locals to pick apart and understand what it is they're saying.

It's good that she has someone besides him to talk to, but it doesn't ease the ache behind his breastbone where the rest of their tribe still resides.

"Udesii," Mando murmurs, lightly skimming his knuckles against Boba's chestplate. "Easy."

Boba grips the edge of the table, irritation flaring. The fact that his grief is so easily picked up on grates against his bones. It wasn't like this before the Sarlacc. Scentblockers worked back then, at least. And even then, he could still tuck his thoughts, his emotions, close to his chest and keep them there without anyone the wiser.

Now, every emotion pours off of him like he's a karking teenager again, fumblingly trying to manage the sudden changes in his body and all the complicated instincts that came with them. He has to relearn how to control the out-put of his pheromones and master his instincts, but on a much larger, more painstaking scale. It'd be easier if the Sarlacc had just permanently ruined his cycles. At least casteless, he wouldn't have to worry about broadcasting his vulnerabilities to anyone within proximity.

"Easy. Easy," Mando murmurs, sliding his hands up Boba's sides and baring more of his neck.

Boba buries his nose just under Mando's helmet, focusing on the other man's scent. Solid and immovable. Boba's used to be like that too. A scent like durasteel, firm and unbreakable. He ruled his body, his body didn't rule him.

He takes a deeper breath, falling into the headiness of Mando's scent until it soaks his thoughts like syrup on sweetcakes, guiding him from his irritation. Slowly, his hands soften and he leans into Mando, grumbling low.

"Didn't mean to overload you."

"You didn't," Mando reassures, lightly squeezing the sides of his torso. Boba's alpha jumps. It's still unsure of this pursuit. Of Mando and his receptive interest in their cycle. But, slowly, it's latching onto the Mandalorian as a rut-partner, turning him over in its hand to get a feel for him. Deep within Boba's instincts he's silently pleased that his pheromones succeeded in luring in a potential partner, even if he's still testing the water. Despite knowing that Mando only offered out of a non-existent debt.

Still, it's nice having his alpha focused on something other than who's entering his palace and which of them looks the shiftiest.

He indulges a little longer before pulling away. The suns are rising and if they take any more time, Fennec is going to climb through the window and snipe him in the ass. Mando will leave first, so they're not seen together.

"Best we keep this arrangement secret for the time being," Boba says as Mando adjusts his vambraces. "The less people who know, the less likely someone will try breaking in to look for the omega stashed in my room." He smiles wryly. "I assume you want your secondary kept secret too."

Mando nods once, grabs his spear where it's leaning against the wall, and leaves.

"Who sent you?" Boba demands, staring down from his throne. The assassin looks up and the HUD of Boba's helmet scrolls with data as its sensors pick apart every twitch, breath, and heartbeat that passes through his prisoner's body.

Human male. 5'6. 130 lbs. Secondary: beta— though Boba can smell the latter evidently enough. Faint circles hang underneath the assassin's eyes, suggesting he didn't sleep very well in the dungeons last night. Good. He also favors his left side, slightly hunched over it, where Fennec had jabbed him with his own electrolyzed spear. Crusted in blood on his temple is an inflamed, purpling spot where she'd then used the butt of that spear to knock him out.

The assassins' eyes harden under Boba's scrutiny and he straightens, staring back silently. It'd be a more intimidating sight if his stomach didn't flex under the strain and his red and black uniform wasn't so wrinkled with dust. He flinches softly as Mando walks behind him, the tip of his spear grazing the metal grating he's kneeling on with tiny metallic scratches.

Still, Boba commends his resolve.

Fennec removes his mask, revealing a lean, twisted face, before climbing the dais and taking her spot at Boba's right side. Hadu stands at his left, rigid as a wortwood tree. The assassin's eyes flicker to her, narrowed and skeptical. He's either visited Tatooine enough to know of the Tuskens, or has been here long enough to hear the rumors.

He does a good job keeping himself controlled, all things considered. His scent doesn't give away any sign of nervousness or fear.

"What were your orders?" Boba tries again, and is once again met with silence. Not that he expected an answer. If someone were sending assassins after him, they wouldn't pick ones who'd squeal so easily. "Well, then, if he doesn't want to speak, he doesn't need his head." He looks up at Mando, who twists his spear upward in his grip and kicks the assassin's back, forcing him to bend over himself as he presses the tip of the spear against the base of his skull. A trickle of blood runs down the assassin's neck.

"E chu ta!" The assassin hisses, the words seeping through his teeth as he grunts, bound arms flexing under the desire to ease the pressure on his wounds.

Boba makes no outward signs that he's offended, but his scent sours with irritation. He represses the urge to broaden his shoulders and puff his chest to make himself look bigger and more threatening, especially in the presence of his pack. (Gotra, he reminds himself).

Mando adjusts his grip on his spear, moving solidly into Boba's view. Boba's attention redirects to him, searching for signs of distress, and when he finds nothing, his ruffled feathers ease. If there were trouble, if this prisoner posed as a viable threat, an omega and their finely tuned senses would be the first to know.

Mando is calm and confident. He is no threat to us, his presence says.

The muscles in Boba's shoulders relax and the biting edge of his scent softens.

"I spared your life," he reminds the assassin, lifting his chin, "after you tried to take mine. You'd do well to keep that, and how easy it would be to correct it, in mind."

He stands. "What do we know of our prisoner?"

8D8 ambles forward, waving his arms in stiff gestures as he says, "He is of the Order of the Night Wind."

"Assassin for hire," Boba nods, having figured that out already. He doubted this man, or his associates, had acted on their own. There was no reason to unless they had a vendetta against him, and Boba made it a point to know all his enemies. This man's face bears no familiarity and Boba rarely dealt with the Order of the Night Wind.

They were bought by someone with enough prestige to catch the Night Wind's attention, and enough credits to convince them to risk attacking an alpha in pre-rut, especially if that alpha was him.

"They are very expensive," 8D8 says, gravely.

Fennec rolls her eyes. "Overpriced," she corrects, eyes boring into the assassin's, daring him to argue. "You're paying for the name."

"Their reputation is legendary," 8D8 argues, with as much inflection as a droid as old as he can. He turns to Boba, gesturing more emphatically at their prisoner, every circuit and wire in his body confident in his declaration. "There is no way this one will talk."

"I know of their reputation," Boba waves the droid off. Like Fennec said, the heftiness of their prices came from the organization's name and long-standing history. Once upon a time, they would have been a force to be reckoned with.

But as with most hunters that age out of the field, and fail to properly pass on necessary skills to their replacements, the quality has dulled. They're decent enough killers, but any mediocre assassin can be made better with expensive weaponry and a group with just enough skill to get the job done. Take their weapons and split them apart? They're hardly a force to be reckoned with.

"They're just people...in hoods," Fennec smirks, and the assassin glares against the metal grating, agitation spiking in his scent.

And egos. They all have substantial egos.

"There is no way he will talk," 8D8 insists. "They fear no man,"

That's the thing about droids who stay inside palaces, they never see any action. Or if they do, it's always from a distance. 8D8 was programmed for sadism, wired to torture the other droids in Jabba's employ for information or for pleasures' sake. Organics were above his pay-grade, so Boba hardly trusts his opinion on the matter.

Hadu turns to him, hands moving in sharp, stilted gestures. "I can get him to speak."

The assassin can't see the danger of Hadu's words, but he leans up into the tip of Mando's spear in agreement with 8D8. His scent levels out again, solid and pleased. Pride with his own resolve, as if laying down his life for a flimsy title, for an employer who won't care whether he lives or dies, is something to be proud of.

Boba huffs softly. This is why he never joined a group, Or, stars help him, the Bounty Hunters Guild. Too many strings attached, too many rules, and too many pompous, overstuffed, retired hunter's who spend more time reminiscing about their glory days than properly running a business. None of who actually care about what happens to their guns-for-hire. There's an endless supply of killers in a galaxy like theirs, after all, so what's one more barve eating the barrel end of a blaster?

Still, Boba sees bits of himself in this man. The drive. A resolve to finish the job or die trying. At least, in that respect, he'd die with some dignity intact.

Boba shakes his head, signing as he spoke aloud, "No. There is another way."

Fennec smiles cruelly. "Indeed."

Her eyes shift to Mando as she leisurely leans over the armrest, finding the decorative rancor heads embedded on both sides of the throne. "Perhaps he fears the rancor."

Mando steps back just as the assassin's head shoots up, narrowly avoiding getting skewered by the spears tip, and moves to the side, off the grating. The assassin's scent barely has time to flood with fear before he's falling through the panel beneath him. Automatically, the dais crawls forward, stopping at the edge of the grate so they can see into the chamber below. Mando sits on the edge of the dais, next to Hadu, who grumbles unhappily under her breath.

Below, the assassin stumbles to his feet, bound hands scrambling in the sand. His breaths are heavy in the empty space, loud and panicked. A frantic noise escapes his lips as the large iron grate across from him begins to slide open.

"Do you really think this will work?" Mando asks quietly.

"He better hope it does," Boba props his head against his hand. "Otherwise, I'm giving him to Hadu."

Hadu leans over the dais, suddenly way more eager to see how their gamble will go.

The assassin stumbles away from the gate, eyes jumping between it and them, as if expecting Boba to call it off. By the time the gate is half open and Boba still hasn't moved, panic puppets him completely.

"I was sent by the Mayor!" He screams, falling as he stumbles back, looking up at them desperately. "The Mayor sent me! Let me out!"

"Well, I'll be damned," Mando murmurs, sitting back.

Hadu grunts in irritation, stepping off the dais.

Boba smirks. The gate opens with a resounding clang, much to the assassin's dismay as he flinches, eyes frantically searching the shadows. Slowly, his fear morphs into confusion.

"It's empty, Assassin of the Night Wind," Fennec calls, not bothering to hide her mocking contempt. The more time Boba spends with her, the more he's come to realize how much she enjoys playing with people. Especially the ones she doesn't like. Like a loth cat batting around its prey for the sake of entertainment.

Getting up, she rests her blaster against her shoulder. "Shall we visit the Mayor?"

Boba pulls himself to his feet. "No point waiting."

"Yes, but," she stops him with the back of her hand to his chestplate, "you're preening."

Boba frowns, staring at her in confusion until he realizes, in horror, that sometime in their interrogation his shoulders had broadened and his body had opened, chest puffing up in smug delight that he'd bested the other man. His scent is heavy with it; a sweet undertone relaying that he'd been the one to come out on top. He's grateful to have his helmet on as his cheeks pink, appalled that he's been acting like a young buck protecting their territory for the first time.

What's more is that he's now realizing that he'd immediately looked towards Mando too. Look how well I protect , his instincts sang, searching the Mandalorians demeanor for approval. Boba winces.

What's worse than irrationally posturing is intentionally preening .

The corner of Fennec's lips twitch upward, and he growls in warning. She doesn't bring it up, but the curl of her smirk does more than enough damage to his ego to make up for it. She nods subtly to Mando, mindful of the servants entering the room.

"Take a moment to calm down," she says. "I'll have our entourage prepared."

Boba's eyes stray to the Mandalorian, who's staring at him, waiting next to one of the pillars by the throne. Waiting for him. A thrill shudders up Boba's spine. Though his alpha isn't sold on Mando just yet, it still rumbles happily at the idea that they'd impressed their interested party.

"No litter," he grunts, and is careful to keep his stride casual, as to not convey his eagerness to get to the other man as soon as possible.

"Fine," Fennec calls over his shoulder. "We'll walk all the way to Mos Espa. Far be it from me to prevent the Daimyo from pulling a hamstring."

Boba ignores her as he disappears down the hall, past the throne, with Mando following a few feet behind him as his bodyguard. The Mandalorians presence is like a tangible weight on his back, and if it had been just a few days earlier, he wouldn't have tolerated it. Even now, he still doesn't like it, but for entirely different reasons.

It lasts only another minute before he can't take it and steps to the side to allow Mando to walk next to him, which the other man does seamlessly. His agitation instantly smooths. At least now, he can gauge Mando's intentions and, more importantly, his continued interest.

They don't talk as they stride through the hall, passing doors on either side, and the countless rooms beyond them. Boba eyes the walls, considering opening a door at random so they don't have to go all the way to his room, but Mando is especially guarded with his second-sex. It's unlikely he'll want his scent lingering where anyone can detect it.

Boba finds that he doesn't like that idea either.

When they get to his room, Mando doesn't strip off his armor, merely loosens his chestplate and unclips his cloak and the upper-magsnaps of his flight suit, only enough to dislodge the scent blockers and bare his neck. Boba takes off his helmet and closes the space between them immediately, crowding Mando against the wall and inhaling. Despite his best efforts, now that he's alone with the omega, his scent thickens again with smug victory and it's harder to fight back his insistent preening.

Mando's hand curls around the nape of his neck, not tight enough to be alarming, but warm and solid, keeping Boba's nose close to his scent glands. Boba's insides flutter pleasantly, happy that Mando is so open to his presence. That he wants to keep him in his space.

"You were impressive out there," Mando says, baring more of his neck so Boba can fill the offered space.

"I was preening like a damned idiot," Boba growls, but he can't force a lot of heat into it as his alpha laps at the praise like a dehydrated massif.

"You did well," Mando insists, squeezing Boba's nape in emphasis. "You were defending your territory."

I was! His heart soars.

"I was acting like a fool." Boba argues.

"You won," Mando's says, and his words are like honey coating Boba's skin in a golden glow. This time he's unable to help the way his chest puffs, satisfaction flooding the little pockets of space between them. "You did so well."

Boba rumbles in his throat, nipping at the skin just a few inches from Mando's scent gland, making him jump. He waits to see if that was okay, and rumbles again when Mando relaxes a few seconds later. Slowly, his senses hone in on the Mandalorian, the headiness of his scent, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the taste of skin as Boba's tongue darts out, licking the spot he'd nipped and reveling when it makes Mando's breath hitch.

"We've got to be careful though," Mando murmurs, strained as Boba continues licking and nipping up his neck. "I noticed the look you gave me. We can't let people know about us."

Boba pauses, a coldness dousing the warm fire spreading through his body. His insides quiver with the desire to roar and proclaim to all that this is his pursuit, and to keep their distance from the Mandalorian. The fact that Mando wants to hide it away suggests shame, like he doesn't want to be here. Boba goes to pull away, but Mando's grip on his nape tightens, pulling him back. His other hand curls around Boba's back, gripping the hard edges of his jetpack and using it to pull him farther into his body.

"I want people to know about us," Mando says softly, encouraging Boba back to his neck, where his scent is still steady. "But we have enemies." Boba growls, pushing Mando against the wall, using his own body as a shield for whatever barve thought it a good idea to attack them. Mando chuckles quietly, "None of them will come for us if they don't know."

That makes sense. Boba rumbles in agreement, his alpha nodding along with the logic. People can't attack what they don't see. The best way to keep Mando safe is by keeping him a secret, which means no more preening for his attention, no grand displays of protection, or obvious means of courtship. He'll have to watch from the shadows, to intercept if he had to, but he won't showcase Mando as his rut-partner, as much as his instincts roar with the need.

Yes. This will work.

They stay like that for a few minutes and Boba takes extra care not to leave too much of himself on Mando to keep up their ruse. Eventually, Mando's grip softens.

"Fennec will be waiting for us."

Boba keeps himself locked into position for a moment longer, before humming in agreement and peeling away. He watches Mando stitch himself back together, snapping his flight suit closed (though grinning, pleased, at the mark's he'd left on Mando's skin), adjusting his cloak, and tightening his chestplate. When finished, he follows Mando out, all too happy to have the man in front of him, right where he can keep an eye on him.

But eventually, the haze over his brain recedes and Boba shakes his head, dislodging his rut-infused mindset to think more clearly. And then stares at the other man's back, marveling at his tact. If the Mandalorian wasn't doing this as a favor, he'd be a little alarmed at how well he navigated Boba's alphian mindset. A little impressed at the thoughts that he'd planted in Boba's head, sweet and soft, that his alpha latches onto with clenched fists.

He shakes his head again and switches places so the Mandalorian is taking up the rear, falling into the role as his bodyguard once more.

While his rational thought returns, his alpha is still hardened with the resolve Mando had coaxed him in. Even so, it was satisfied that their preening had earned the attention of its intended audience. Mando had responded positively to it and now they have a clearer plan to appease him and keep him interested.

His alpha is very pleased with itself.

Boba is too, though he squashes it down. He's not preening anymore, having gotten his desired response, and when they meet up with Fennec at the palace hangar, she squints and sniffs the air, picking at his demeanor.

"Did I pass?" Boba asks wrly, grabbing one of the speeders she'd arranged for them. One of these days she's actually going to make him walk all the way to Mos Espa.

She stares at him a little longer before her brows soften, appeased with what she sees. "Shall we then?" She swings her leg over her own speeder, the one that has the assassin bound, gagged, and strapped to the back. Hadu is on the speeder next to it, staring at the assassin like she's considering bashing him over the head with her gaffistick to stop his squirming.

Boba nods, baring his fangs in a grin behind his helmet as Mando slips onto the speeder next to him. "Yes. Let's pay the Mayor a visit."

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

Fennec leads the assassin with a rope, pulling him after her as they follow Boba to the city center.

As one of the richest places in Mos Eisley, it's also one of the cleanest. There were less open-stand booths cluttering the edges of the road, and more sturdy, four-walled shops. The people here are better dressed. The air isn't heavy with sun-baked, rotten food, and the streets are free of littered trash and animal droppings.

Some things, of course, don't change. Like customers picking through wares and haggling with the shopkeepers for lower prices. The smell of haroun bread and stew wafting from eateries, though these are rich with spices that the penurious bakers in the outskirt slums can't afford. And an eagerness to get out of the dry heat as quickly as possible.

Something both the poor and prosperous also share is a nervous curiosity for Boba and his gotra. Passersby skirt around them, dipping their heads so as to not draw attention to themselves, before descending into whispers as soon as they've strode past. Others disappear into shop openings entirely.

A group of Trandoshans sitting around a table, playing cards, stare unabashedly. One of them hisses as Boba walks by, tracking him with a pair of slitted eyes. He forces down a reciprocating growl and keeps his gaze forward.

Another pair outside an eatery stare openly as well, bent over their drinks like canyon krayts looming over a sandrat. Boba's skin itches as agitation crawls up his spine. Word of yesterday's attack must've spread here, and the thought of these people knowing what happened—of these Trandoshans snickering over his shortcoming—nestles in the cavity of his chest, as thick and prickly as a bushel of thorns.

It doesn't help that the streets are so wide and open. There's limited cover on the ground, and plenty of hiding places on the rooftops. He's only just left the palace, but he yearns to return to its familiarity and safe walls. After all, the last time he was away from his territory, he'd ended up in his bacta-pod.

Unguarded territory, his alpha growls, though Boba knows it's not true. The Gamorreans are watching the front gate, and Fennec synced the security systems to her holo. If anything were to happen while they were gone, they'd know.

Still, that he isn't there seeing it with his own eyes puts a sliver of doubt in his alpha. The only way to be certain it's safe is if he's the one guarding it. He bites the urge to ask Fennec to check her holo. He can only imagine the look she'd give him in response to his fretting.

The Mayor's headquarters rises above the rest of the buildings at the very end of the street. It's a large, white-sandstone building with pillars carved up the front and around the sides. Decorative bronze designs run along its hem and curl inward to a thick metal door being guarded by two men, who shift in their positions as Boba approaches. They don't stop him from going in, but the weight of their eyes follows the back of his head.

The room inside is spacious and exponentially cooler, driving off the afternoon heat. A gaggle of data specialists are bent over a table in the far corner, scrolling through holopads alight with codes. Another pair of guards are stationed on either side of the door, where a handful of tired locals sit on benches, waiting for their appointment. A beta woman near the wall smells of frustration and motor oil, and the omega man next to her is sharp with anxiety and sweat. Across from Mando, an alpha woman looks up from her datapad. Her eyes rake over his silver armor with a raised brow.

Boba's alpha grouses and he takes mental stock of where the rival alpha is—not rival, karking hell, this rut is messing with his brain—as he stops in front of the front-desk. The receptionist fumbles with his holopad, a dot of sweat on his brow.

Boba steps to the side as Fennec yanks on the rope tethered to the assassin, sending him to his knees with a startled grunt.

"Tell the Mayor that Boba Fett is here to see him," he says.

The receptionist, a beta human male with a curled mustache, smacks his lips together nervously. "Boba Fett?" He swallows, scrolling through his holopad. "Do you, uh, have an appointment?" He asks in a small voice, looking between it and Boba.

Boba nods down at the assassin. "I found one of his stray pets. I'm here to return it."

The receptionist smacks his lips again, going back to the holo. He clears his throat. "I - I don't see your name on the schedule," he says, glancing between Boba's blaster and the list. "You'll have to—oh," relief floods his face and Boba stifles a groan as the Majordomo appears from the side hall. He places a hand on the receptionist's shoulder, nudging him out of the way, and the receptionist surrenders his position eagerly.

"Pardon the lack of pomp for your entrance," the Majordomo says, flashing Boba a smile he wants to rip off and grind beneath the heel of his boot. "However, I did not see your litter arrive."

This again. These people and their obsession with parading around authority. It's karking belittling being carried everywhere, nor is it tactically sound. Any assassin with a sniper and a clear shot can do damage, regardless of how many guards he has on hand. He doesn't have the Hutt name to scare off hired guns; just because they can walk around without fearing a blaster bolt in the back, doesn't mean he can.

He'll ride on Fennec's shoulders before he steps foot on one of those decorative deathtraps.

Saying all that might come off as whiny, though—and he, indeed, feels very whiny about it—so he goes for his tried-and-true method for dealing with idiotic subject matter and says nothing at all.

A long moment passes and the Majordomo dips his head, continuing, "Nevertheless, we are both honored and delighted by your serendipitous visit. However, I regret to inform you—"

Yeah. Right.

Boba shares a look with Fennec, who rolls her eyes, and they both round the counter, Hadu following him to the right, and Mando following Fennec to the left.

"—the Mayor is indisposed for the rest of the week," the Majordomo continues, backing up with them, frustration flickering across his face for the first time since they've met. "And there are—this—this area is restricted."

Boba jabs the door controls on the side.

"No, you're not supposed to—" the Majordomo winces, hands up, but unsure what to do with them; unprepared for the circumstances that his orders aren't followed immediately. He hops forward to get in front of Boba, but yelps in surprise when Mando grabs his arm and yanks him back.

Strong, Boba's alpha purrs, and he tells it to get over itself and focus.

"Apologies for the intrusion," the Majordomo calls over their heads, rushing to the front of the group as soon as he's able to squeeze past them. He bows his head with an apologetic flourish of his arms as he climbs the small steps of a dais and stands next to the Ithorian Mayor, wringing his fingers.

Sitting atop his throne, the Mayor, Mok Shaiz, stares down with dull, tired eyes. The long curve of his neck is relaxed, and his shoulders slumped as he takes them in, hands clasped in his lap.

"Terribly sorry, Your Eminence," the Majordomo says again, bowing his head.

Mok Shaiz squints, the mouths on either side of his neck flapping as he speaks; the interpreter devices fixed over each one comes to life, speaking over the deep, rough garble of his peoples' language, translating it into Basic.

"Who is this who enters unannounced?" The tone of the interpreter is soft and pleasant, which is a stark difference from the heavy rumble of his naturally layered voice.

Boba steps forward. "You know damn well who."

He's kept his calm this long, but he doesn't take kindly to being attacked. Mando helped soothe his riled edges, but the memory lingers in his mind like heat shimmer over metal. The assassins were a threat, but they were held by the Mayor's leash. His fingers itch to grab the T-shape of the Ithorian's head and snap it violently to the side.

A notion that must translate into his scent because the guards around the room shift in position, lifting their blasters.

"It is the new Daimyo, Boba Fett, Your Excellence," the Majordomo says, looking a little green as he gestures to Boba, still trying to maintain his controlled, diplomatic temperament.

"If you don't know who I am," Boba says, grabbing the assassin's rope and yanking him forward, sending him sprawling onto the ground, "then why did you send this man to assassinate me?"

"I can assure you, the Mayor had nothing—"

"He's a member of the Order of the Night Wind," Mok Shaiz interrupts and his Majordomo falls silent.

"Then you admit it," Boba growls.

Mok Shaiz gestures loosely with a three-fingered hand and one guard stationed against the far wall drew his blaster, shooting the assassin in the back. Hadu is next to Boba before the body can hit the ground, gaffistick outstretched, as Fennec and Mando turn, leveling their blasters at the closest guards. Boba fires up his own with a low growl, deep and in his throat.

Mok Shaiz settles in his seat, clasping his hands over his stomach again. "The Order of the Night Wind is not allowed to operate outside Hutt space," he says, dipping his head. "Thank you for turning him in. I'm actually quite impressed that you hadn't killed him already given you're," he gestures offhandedly, "condition."

Boba's lips curl upward, baring his fangs, though it goes unnoticed beneath his helmet. The Mayor was probably counting on him killing the assassins in a fit of alphian rage. It would've taken care of the issue that illegal assassins roamed the city, solidified the notion that he's nothing but a power-hungry alpha with no self-control, and gotten rid of any connections that tied it all back to the Mayor.

Clever plan. But Boba isn't a karking idiot.

Further adding insult to injury, Mok Shaiz gestures to his Majordomo, saying, "Give this man his reward."

The twi'lek bows, veering off to the side, and the guards relax, dropping the noses of their blasters to the floor. Boba forces himself to do the same, and signals the others too as well. Hadu lowers her gaffistick with a huff but sticks close to him.

"I am not a bounty hunter," he says, forcing himself to calm.

"Is that so?" the Mayor cocks his head. "I've heard otherwise." He squints, as if studying him. "I know you sit on the throne of your former benefactor. You have quite the reputation, despite your perceived demise."

"Bib Fortuna was not my employer," Boba growls.

"It was Jabba the Hutt's throne."

"Yes," he agrees, coolly crossing his hands over his blaster and urging his agitation to follow suit. "And now it is mine. And I will take this payment," he tips his head to the Majordomo, who returns, holding a small pouch of credits, "as what you should have brought me as tribute."

The Majordomo gives the pouch to Fennec, who weighs it in her hand, unimpressed, shooting him a look as she clips it to her belt.

"You should remember, you serve as long as the Daimyo of Tatooine deems it so," Boba says, turning to the door. He's had enough of this place and the zealous pheromones coming off the guards. It's like they're trying to tempt him into a fight.

They probably are.

"Before you threaten me," Mok Shaiz says at his back, giving him pause, "you should ask yourself, who really sent the Night Wind?" Boba glances at him over his shoulder. "I have no motive. As you said, I serve at your pleasure."

"I am not a fool, Mok Shaiz," Boba growls, hefting his blaster. "And those who thought otherwise no longer draw breath."

"Here is the tribute I offer. Some advice." The Mayor's eyes glint, meeting him beneath his visor with a fierce gleam. "Running a family is more complicated than bounty hunting."

The word family catches on Boba's skin like a loose nail, tearing him open with a raw, violent twist. It's a word he's shied away from since well into his teen years. A word associated with firm hands as they lifted him in the air and settled him back on his father's lap, to get a better view outside the Slave I's viewport. A familiar, gentle voice that pointed out constellations and planets, painting a map that Boba could use in the case he got lost out in the black. The smell of blaster oil and spiced food. Rain on windows and his father wrapping him in a blanket.

His gut twists and he feels a little sick.

"Is that it?" He asks, automatically falling into the dull, clipped drawl he used when dealing with employers, and berating himself for it.

Mok Shaiz settles back into his seat with an amused huff, as if seeing through it, and Boba's desire to snap the Ithorian's neck resurfaces.

"Go to Garsa's Sanctuary," the Mayor says. "You'll see what I speak of."

He'll do just that. Not bothering with anyone else, Boba strides out of the room, a growl lodged in his throat and his stomach roiling.

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

The Sanctuary is more lively than the last time they visited. A band plays a jaunty tune in the corner, conversations are loud and celebratory, and drinks flow between tables.

Like Boba said, he isn't a fool. If the Mayor is aware of the Sanctuary, and held it in such redeem, then there had to be a reason. It gave him grounds to go. Fennec vetted the place, and if she trusts it—or whatever passed as trust to her—then Boba will too.

But something is definitely going on.

Brothels and cantina collect information like a barrel collects rain. People don't hold their secrets as tightly when they have a heavy drink and a warm body to cuddle up to. Either Boba can get Fwip to ally with him, or she's already aligned herself with someone else.

Scantily clad escorts roam the room, catching the eyes of patrons and sidling up to those who beckon them over. A bright yellow twi'leck looks up at him and her coy smile falls. She beelines across the room, leaning in to whisper to Garsa Fwip, who was in the middle of entertaining a group of well-dressed Bourges with a bright smile and laughing pleasantries.

Fwip's eyes jump to him, surprise flickering across her face. She quickly replaces it with a warm smile, tighter than usual, and opens her arms in greeting. "Ah, what a surprise. Thank you for the honor of your patronage, Mr. Fett. Please," she gestures to the room, "have a seat at the bar. I'll see if I can free a table."

Telling the Daiymo to take a seat at a bar instead of freeing a table right away is telling enough. He considers her a powerful ally, but she might not hold the same sentiment for him. At least, she doesn't have the same mocking smugness that the Majordomo does. He might actually kick open a wall if she did.

This party, on the other hand, doesn't sit right with him.

"What's going on here?" he asks, falling into the cold, inflexible tone he used when dealing with employers trying to dupe him out of the credit's he'd earned.

"In what respect?" She asks, but her smile is strained.

"Mayor Mok Shaiz sent me here as though there is something I should know," he tilts his helmet carefully. His pheromones give away his distrust, and given the faint twitch of Fwip's lekku, she knows he's not buying into her bantha fodder. More so as he steps closer, adding, "And now you're sweating like a gumpta on Mustafar. So what is it that I need to know?"

Fwip's amiable mask slips suddenly, as she frowns. "You haven't heard?"

He glances back at Fennec, who shrugs.

"Heard what?"

"The Twins have laid claim to their late cousin's bequest." She constructs her words carefully, guarded, as if expecting him to fly into a fit of rage. Boba crosses his hands over his blaster, forcing himself to rein it in.

"The Twins are too preoccupied with the debauchery of Hutta to bother with any ambitions on Tatooine."

Fwip opens her mouth, but it snaps shut, eyes canting to the curtain covering the cantina opening. Boba hears it too. A faint drumming from outside. The music dies and the conversations fade as the patrons pick up on it as well.

The streets are in a clamor when Boba steps out, rushing to get out of the road as the drumming grows louder.

"Watch my back," he says, descending the steps. Hadu and Mando fall into step on either side of him as Fennec hangs back by the entrance, scanning the rooftops and crowds.

Slowly, a litter turns a corner down the street, carried by a group of fancily dressed servants, led by their drummer. The litter dips towards the middle, struggling under the massive weight of the Hutt Twins who lounge, curled around each other in all their wrinkled behemoth glory. Sasseu the Hutt fans herself languidly, a comical imitation of royal ladies hiding themselves behind silken fans. Her brother, Sarrgu, rolls his gaze around those who remain on the streets, delighting in the way they shy away from his presence.

When his eyes land on Boba, Boba stares back, unflinching. He's worked with Jabba, one of the cruelest of them. These Twins, who are still fairly young by Hutt standards, were hardly intimidating in comparison. Still, they are Hutt's, and even the smallest of them held substantial weight, and he didn't just mean their incredible girth.

The litter stops a few meters away, paused by their drummer, who abruptly halts, and the silence that follows is deafening.

Sarrgu licks his lips, as if tasting the weariness of the people off to the side, trapped in place lest they attract his unwanted attention. "Boba Fett," he rumbles in Huttese, gesturing with a short, flabby arm. "There is business we need to discuss."

"This is my territory," Boba replies, also in Huttese. May as well get straight to the point. None of this prevaricating banthashit.

The drummer marches forward, opening a tablet as Sarrgu says, "This is Jabba's territory." The tablet displays rows of glowing words likely outlining all the ways this used to be Jabba's territory. "And now it is ours," Sarrgu says, reaching into the pail next to him, pulling out a furry, writhing creature trying to wriggle out of his grasp.

"I don't care what your tablet says," Boba says in Basic, dropping the Hutt's language. "This is Mos Espa and I am Daiymo here."

"Oh," Sasseu says behind her fan, leaning into her indifferent countenance, though her eyes are sharp and cruel, just as vicious as her brothers.

"Is that so?" Sarrgu laughs, squeezing his snack, turning its frantic chirps into choked warbles.

Boba's gaze snaps to the side as a low growl rolls from behind the litter. Slowly, a large, black-haired wookie rounds the Hutt's entourage, a glare already fixed on his face, but deepening as it lands on Boba. Long dreadlocks fall over his immense shoulder, decorated with long and thick golden ornaments that sway slightly as he moves. The little hair Boba still had on his arms stood on end and he broadens his shoulders in response, looking the wookie down.

Black Krrsantan, famed Wookie Gladiator of Durr. Unbeaten and unbowed.

And bounty hunter, Boba thinks, looking the hostile over from the tips of his spike-plated pauldrons to the thick, golden bandoliers running criss-cross on his chest. The large blaster rifle in the wookie's hands isn't comforting, less so than the thick knuckle dusters that crackle slightly as Krrsantan flexes his fingers.

Boba can't quite control the way his pheromones unfurl, spreading wide in the face of this newer, more physically adept threat. Krrsantan's lips curl in amusement, a nose like his can pick up a scent days old in the middle of a crowd, and he inhales deeply, taking in Boba's agitation like its freshly baked haroun bread. The surrounding people, those who can detect secondary human pheromones, step back, looking between them like they're a pair of thermal detonators seconds away from going off.

Krrsantan stops to the right of the litter, closer to Boba than he's comfortable with, and growls again. A deep, throaty thing that drives into Boba like a hook, pulling his own growl from his chest. It's just beginning to bubble from out of him when Hadu and Mando step a little farther out, announcing themselves as his guard. Through the cover of his helmet, Boba glimpses Mando ( omega, his alpha says intensely), putting himself out front in an open display of protection.

We're supposed to be protecting, his alpha whines in frustration, clawing at the ground. If they want to keep this omega interested in them, they need to keep him intact first. Starting a fight won't end well, Boba rationalizes with himself. For any of us.

This, at least, his alpha agrees with.

He turns back to the Hutt's. "You can bring as many gladiators as you wish, but these are not the death pits of Durr and I am not a sleeping Trandoshan guard," he directs this at Krrsantan, who snarls back, revealing a pointed fang that makes Boba want to bare his own in return. He resists, not only because he will not put his gotra ( omega, his alpha croons) in a useless fight—away from his territory—but because it will go unappreciated from behind his helmet, anyway.

"This territory is mine," Boba says, prying his focus from Krrsantan. "Go back to Nal Hutta."

Unease rolls around him, the scents of other human castes filling the street. Sasseu hides her mouth behind her fan and mutters low to her brother in Huttese, too soft for Boba to make out.

"You've upset my sister," Sarrgu says, pointing his wriggling snack at Boba like he's admonishing him. Carelessly, he throws the creature aside, and it scrambles to its feet, happily escaping down the street, alive for however long until the next creature comes around and snatches it up for a light snack. "I'm more patient than she is," he says, eyes taking on a cruel gleam. "She thinks we should kill you."

Krrsantan grumbles, conveying his approval, and Mando tilts his head at him in warning. Hadu doesn't know Huttese, and her understanding of Basic is limited, but she quickly grasps their body language and moves her gaffistick towards Krrsantan, ready for the first strike.

Sasseu's eyes drift to Hadu and she snorts, disgusted, whispering to her brother again. Sarrgu laughs a slow, rumbling laugh, evocative of Jabba when he had something particularly cruel in mind. "Perhaps we will," he says, also looking at Hadu. "Considering how you've lowered yourself more than you already were, bounty hunter."

Boba snarls at him, gripping his blaster. "I can say that I have the same sentiment." He lifts his chin. "Your cousin Jabba is dead. His cowardly Majordomo usurped his territory and then I killed him. All that is his belongs to me now. Your sister is right," he tilts his visor down, glaring. "If you want it, you'll have to kill me for it."

The crowd murmurs in hushed alarm, a few braced and ready to bolt, even at the risk of attracting the Hutt's attention. Resting his hand on his blaster, Mando angles his body in a way to easily reach his spear. Behind him, Boba hears the soft click of Fennec's blaster.

Sarrgu hums, placing a grounding hand on the winding slug body of his sister, who breathes harshly, eyes glinting with challenge. She leans in, murmuring to him again, attempting softness, but no Hutt is ever soft in manner, behavior, or tone. It goes against their biological nature. She returns to her languid position once she finishes, fanning herself indifferently, and Sarrgu nods.

"Bloodshed is bad for business," he tells Boba, waving his hand impassively. "This can be dealt with later." He gestures to his servants, who snap back to attention. "Sleep lightly, bounty hunter."

With that final threat, the drummer begins his beat again and leads them back the way they came. The bearers carrying the litter grunt and waver, struggling to turn, and Boba pities them for their job. As much as he'd loved to watch them drop the two overstuffed twins, doing so would surely result in a very painful death. That is, if they weren't crushed beneath them first.

As they go, Sasseu leans in to whisper to her brother, casting a final look Boba's way. Her eyes are sharp and intelligent. Though Sarrgu had done all the talking, she was the one feeding him words. Out of the two, Boba's gut tells him to be more wary of her. It wasn't just Jabba's cruelty that made him feared; it was also his intelligence. He surrounded himself with pretty dancers, slimy food, and even slimier beings, but no one could run a criminal empire like his without being smart about it. Bib Fortuna, certainly, had not held the same business intuition of his former master.

Really, Mos Espa should thank him for taking out that barvo when he did.

Krrsantan growls one last time but follows his employers obediently. The farther he goes, the more Boba unwinds. Not calm, by any means, but not wound into a pressurized spring, either. The crowd disperses carefully, whispering amongst themselves, looking over their shoulders with wide eyes. Fennec comes up behind them, and Mando steps to the side to allow her room next to Boba.

"They're Hutt's," she says, watching the entourage go. "You'll have to get permission if you wanna kill 'em."

"Maybe it's settled," Boba says, tracking Krrsantan before he inevitably disappears around the corner.

Fennec rolls her head to the side, eyebrow arched. "You really think so?"

Boba sighs a hard breath through his nose. "No."

He turns, heading back to the Sanctuary.

Garsa Fwip waits for him by the door, having watched the proceedings from the safety of her establishment. A wiser choice than the people who watched out in the open. Her pleasant hostess mask is back in place as they climb the steps to the entrance.

"May we have a chat?" Boba asks.

Fwip's eyes dart in the direction the Hutt's left and those who still linger in the street. A couple of Trandoshans had followed them from the city center, pretending to survey shops or play cards next to a building nearby. The moment Boba stepped outside his palace, he expected to be under surveillance.

"Allowing you back inside will put me and my business at risk," she murmurs, expression trenchant. "Your enemies are powerful."

"So am I," Boba says firmly. He didn't become the best bounty hunter in the galaxy by running away from a fight, or knowing how to take care of himself in one.

She stares heavily, eyes cutting. "And your protection?" she questions bluntly. "Is it so strong as to go against the Hutt's?"

Boba shifts his stance and takes his helmet off. It always had a way of looking cold and intimidating, which was why he wore it so often. But baring his face, giving them a piece of vulnerability, he's found, goes a long way. It did with Fennec, at least. He lifts his head, easing back his riled pheromones so as to not bombard her with aggression still honed on Krrsantan's arrival. "You and your establishment shall remain guarded. You have my word."

Fwip's eyes wander back to the street, before meeting his again, and smoothly she brushes aside the curtain, putting on a practiced smile. "Then let us talk."

It's less lively in the Sanctuary. The tension outside had seeped in and most patrons were bent over their drinks or engaging in a stiff game of cards. Many stare at him unabashedly, eyebrows reaching their hairlines, claws tapping against their hands, tusks quivering slightly. The fact that the Hutts were gone and Boba remained must be surreal, and now their gazes follow him, heavier with something else.

The band plays again as Fwip leads them back to her office. Boba takes his place on the couch, Fennec and Hadu on either side and Mando at the door. This, his alpha decides, is good. Mando is in his line of sight, arms crossed and shoulders relaxed, leaning against the door, calm, and that settles an agitation deep under Boba's skin.

"What is the subject of this chat, Mr. Fett?" Fwip asks, setting a pair of glasses on the polished transparisteel table between them and a fancy bottle of spirits. Unlike last time, she doesn't put on an airy, pleasant demeanor, stroking his ego plaintively, as expected of most figureheads. Her words are precise and to the point. The Hutt's, after all, are a powerful enemy, and they aren't the only ones lurking in the city.

"Your establishment is one of the most successful and profitable in Mos Espa," Boba says, accepting the drink, but simply holding it in his hands.

Fwip smiles in played flattery, dipping her head. "An honoring compliment, Mr. Fett."

"Not a compliment. A fact," Boba corrects. "People like to talk, even when they're not supposed to, and places like yours are rich with information."

"Indeed," Fwip agrees, a knowing look crossing her face as she picks up where Boba is taking this.

"And I'm sure you hear all of it."

"I can't be everywhere," she states, taking a sip from her glass.

"You hear all of it," Boba affirms.

Fwip merely sips her drink again, watching him coolly.

"I want to know what the people think of me."

This, actually, makes Fwip pause in surprise. Her eyebrows lift slightly and then furrow. She sets down her drink, turning to him more fully, expression guarded, like he's trying to play a trick on her. "You want to know what they think of you?"

"More or less," Boba shrugs. "I already know what the crime families think of me, and that they're betting heavily on my rut making me lose control. But what do the people think?" He leans closer, resting his arms on his knees. "What's coming in through your doors?"

Fwip sits back, adjusting the long, silky skirt of her white dress. "Most you should already know," she says, pointedly. "They're unsure about you. They don't trust you. Many know of you as a bounty hunter, and many simply see you as another despot looking to wring them of the few credits they have." She tilts her head slightly. "Many also think you won't hold this position for long because, as you said, your alpha going out of control."

She knit her fingers together, frown becoming sharp. "I've had many alphas enter my establishment, Mr. Fett, and many more roam our streets. Not many of you are gracious or thoughtful. I've seen more than a few of you human alpha's grow territorial and cause havoc. I've kicked out even more for trying to harass my workers, especially," she jerks her chin at him, "when they enter their cycles. You'll forgive us if we're a little skeptical."

Her words are brutal and honest, and Boba appreciates that. Too often, beings try to skirt around the issue with flattering words and sugar-coated truths. At least, now, she confirmed his suspicions.

"As I thought," he sighs, leaning back on the couch.

Fennec knocks him companionably in the shoulders. "We expected as much, remember?"

"Yeah," Boba grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

Hadu sets her gaffistick against the couch to say, "But we have a plan for that."

Fwip purses her lips over her glass, watching Hadu's hands in confusion.

"Yes, we do," Boba agrees, signing it as he speaks. "Doesn't mean they'll trust me any faster."

"We'll just stick with our plan," Fennec says, shrugging. "They'll come around in their own time. And if they don't, well, not everyone is going to like you."

"A lot of people don't like me."

She smiles wryly. "Gee, I wonder why."

"Winning their favor will make it easier," Boba says, ignoring her. Besides, he doesn't want to rule over a people who hate him. He may as well have just let Fortuna keep the throne and sunk back into bounty hunting, if that were the case.

Fwip sits up, leaning in with her hands in her lap. "There are some who are...surprised with how well you've been acting. With your rut approaching, that is," Fwip adds, and she's got a look in her eyes that reminds Boba of bartenders and informants when they dig for information, smelling something new to sink their teeth into. "None of my escorts were to your liking, but am I to presume you've found someone else who is?"

Boba is careful to keep his scent-neutral as he regards her indifferently. Mando is hidden from her view but doesn't react to the assumption either. Fwip is perceptive. Sharp-minded. A good ally to have, indeed.

"No," he says. "There is no one."

Fwip hums, bringing her glass with her as she leans back. "Well, your restraint is impressive. Especially after that wookie challenged you."

Boba growls internally at the reminder and his scent must've soured because Fwip's lekku twitch and a small smile plays on her lips. Boba picks up his glass, takes a sip, and sets it back on the table, for courtesy's sake. "Will you keep me informed of anything else you hear? About the other crime families and the Hutts?"

"You ask a lot of me, Mr. Fett," she says, calmly nursing her drink. "Those who see you enter the Sanctuary will tell their masters. And even if those you seek come by, feeding you information will put a target on my back and all I house here."

Fair enough.

"Then will you at least keep me informed of my reputation among the citizens of Mos Espa? And if it's too dangerous, do what you must to keep your people safe."

Fennec grips her blaster tightly, but says nothing, and follows Boba as he stands up.

Fwip rises as well, not quite believing it either. "And we will still be under your protection?"

"You will still be under my protection," Boba affirms, and with that, he heads for the door. "If you could keep the subject of this meeting within this room, that would also be appreciated." Mando steps to the side to let Boba pass and is once again the last to leave.

Back to the palace, he grumbles in relief. It's been a long karking day.

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

Unfortunately, going back to the palace didn't mean immediate rest. Fennec argued about his "negotiation skills" with Garsa Fwip on the way back, worried that she was going to turn on them and feed their information to their enemies.

"What information?" Boba argued over the wind as they sped across the sands. "That I want to know of my reputation among the people? That I know the crime families expect me to go feral?"

"That you might have a rut-partner stashed in your palace," Fennec shot back, veering her speeder dangerously close to his.

"She doesn't know that."

"She suspects it."

"But she can't confirm it."

Fennec made an aggravated noise. "Your heart's pretty karking soft for the supposed greatest bounty hunter in the galaxy."

Boba smiled beneath his helmet. "Good thing I'm not a bounty hunter anymore."

She made a show of trying to kick him off his speederbike and then shot ahead, leaving him in a cloud of dust. Back at the palace, she pointed at him to head up to his room to "go calm the fuck down," and stalked away with her nose buried in her holopad, rifling through the palace security to see what had happened in the hours that they were away.

Mando escorts him inside and takes his own leave to his room. It'll be a few minutes before he sneaks up to Boba's, so Boba sheds his armor, places it on the rack near his worktable, and climbs into bed with a sigh.

His alpha won't stop pacing in his chest, fixated on Krrsantan, where he might be, and how much he doesn't want him there. The fact that Boba itches to grab his gaffistick and stalk the perimeter is telling enough that his instincts are ramping up.

He huffs at himself. This was never a problem before the Sarlacc. He could go on jobs in pre-rut and no one would ever be the wiser. He could hand off a bounty, collect his payment, and find somewhere isolated and safe to park his ship and ride out his rut within a day of each other. All without wanting to gnash his teeth and rip apart the first sleemo that looked at him wrong.

"Fucking Sarlacc," Boba mutters, running his hands over his face. Whatever that sand demon did to him was really getting on his nerves, and he's not even talking about the scars and nerve damage. Said scars that are dry and itchy, and really not helping his mood.

A knock on his door pulls him out of his irritation and opens when he tells Mando that it's unlocked. A shiny silver head pops inside, followed by the rest of him as he steps in and locks the door. Good, leaving it unlocked was also grating on Boba.

Leaning back against the pillow, he watches Mando as he goes through the process of undressing his armor. He really needs to get that mana rack so he doesn't have to keep putting it on his worktable. Any dust that clung to the Mandalorian's armor is gone, and looking at his own, Boba realizes his armor needs to be cleaned as well.

After Mando leaves, he decides. It's been a long day for all of them and the other man probably wants to sleep. Stars knows Fennec will have them up by first sun-rise again.

"You did well out there today," he says.

He's only known the Mandalorian for a short while, but it didn't take long to clock him as an honorable man. Dangerous and silent, but with a code. A code that didn't allow him compliments, it seems.

Mando grunts.

"You think differently?"

"Should've anticipated those guards pulling their blaster," Mando says gruffly, placing his blaster on the table a little too hard. "We were exposed."

Boba shook his head. "If it were that easy, the Mayor would've just killed us. He'd call it self-defense and claim I'd gone after him in a fit of rage."

Mando huffs, setting down the last bit of his armor, and opens his flightsuit. Boba didn't realize how much he missed his scent until it was wafting over him, filling his chest like a breath of fresh air.

"I'm your guard," Mando says, walking over to him. "I'm supposed to worry about it." He stops at the side of the bed. "Do you want me here?"

Boba appreciates him asking. Beds are intimate. Places for sleep and comfort. Typically, the safest place you could be. Boba's alpha is open to Din's approaches, eager for his scent, but it isn't so sure about opening his safe space just yet.

"No," he says, relocating to the edge of the bed. "Not yet."

Mando shrugs and goes to his knees, laying his arms across Boba's legs as they swing over the edge of the bed. Boba stares at him, startled, his alpha standing straight up and wide-eyed.

"This okay?" he asks, cocking his head softly, and Boba forces himself to swallow.

"That is a very vulnerable position to be in, Mandalorian," he says, hands digging into the blanket.

"Is it okay?"

Boba considers. Without the armor, Mando's body heat seeps into the thin outer clothes Boba wears. He's warm, leaning his chest against Boba's knees, head resting on his crossed arms, loose and open in a way Boba hasn't seen him before. Kneeling before someone, for any being really, is incredibly risky, especially in their line of work.

He trusts us, his alpha purrs, lidded and soft.

"You can scent me on the bench if this is too much right now," Mando suggests, the low static of his vocoder giving pleasant zips up Boba's spine.

"No," Boba's hand falls on Mando's shoulder, suddenly very unhappy with the idea of him moving an inch. "It's fine." He curls his fingers around his arm, massaging it gently.

Strong, his alpha adds, delighted. Healthy.

Mando relaxes and Boba relaxes with him, like they're tied to the same wavelength. The contact soothes the jagged edges of his nerves and realigns his rolling thoughts, held captive by the warmth against his legs and the glint of Mando's visor as it looks up at him.

"Are you really that unconcerned about the Twins?" Mando asks, and Boba's alpha perks up, leaning forward, wanting to reassure him that he'll be safe, nothing will happen to him, and to stick close to Boba at all times.

"Some of it was show," Boba admits, waving aside such pesky thoughts. "The Hutt's are dangerous. Anyone with any sense would steer clear of them."

"So, not us," Mando says.

"Not us," Boba agrees with a wry grin, fiddling with the edge of the other man's flightsuit. He hums thoughtfully to himself. "It doesn't bode well if they're here for Jabba's territory, after all this time. If they wanted it so badly, they could've easily taken it from Bib Fortuna."

"He did give them shares from the spice profits he collected," Mando points out. "Maybe that was enough to sate their appetites at the time."

"No, they're up to something," Boba murmurs, staring off to the side as he loses himself in thought. "The Twins are young and not as established as their older kin. They may be looking to build their own empire. They're a greedy species, and if it seems like a pointlessly expensive endeavor, none of the Hutts will throw their lot behind them. If they really wanted this territory, they would've seized it the moment Jabba died."

"So, you think the Twins are acting on their own," Mando summarizes.

Boba shrugs, not wanting to put too much faith in the theory just yet. "Their kin won't leave them completely helpless. They'll have credits, just limited support."

Mando hums contemplatively.

Boba brushes gently against the skin above Mando's scent gland, and the man shivers softly. "Have you ever worked for the Hutts?" he finds himself asking, genuinely curious.

"I took a few jobs from Pazda," Mando murmurs. "And a few from Jabba."

"Really?" Boba's hairless eyebrows rise a little. "I worked quite a lot for Jabba. I've never seen you."

"It was only a few times," Mando shrugs, settling deeper onto Boba's legs. "When I was first starting out. Didn't enjoy working for him all that much." He fidgets a little. "The credits were good, but I got word there was another bounty hunter in the area. One wearing Mandalorian armor." His helmet tilts to the side in a way Boba thinks means he's amused. "I was intrigued, but my alor insisted that they were no ally and to steer clear of them. Having two Mandalorians in the same parsec, working under the same employer, would've drawn too much attention."

"That was probably for the better," Boba admits, running his thumb along the arch of Mando's helmet. "I might've tried to shoot you."

Mando leans into the touch. "I might've shot back."

Boba chuckles softly, running his finger down the visor to the edge of the helmet, tipping it upward so Mando was looking straight at him. "I rarely took my helmet off back then," he says, smirking. "Might've been mistaken for someone of your creed."

"If that were the case, I would've approached you as a friend requesting aid."

And Boba wouldn't have given it to him. He wasn't very fond of Mandalorian's back then. Still isn't, if he's being honest with himself. One of them, he thinks, thumbing the edge of Mando's helmet, happens to be better than the others he'd run into.

Boba inhales deeply, drawing in Mando's scent, and Mando takes that as a sign to rise, bracing his arms on either side of Boba, with his helmet just centimeters from his. He leans his head to the side, baring his neck, and Boba falls forward, eyes dark, scenting him again. His own pheromones expand, trying to lure Mando into scenting him in return.

"Sorry, I can't..."

"Don't apologize," Boba says, gripping the sides of Mando's flightsuit. "You're doing more than enough."

Mando's helmet bumps slightly against his head. "Thank you." Boba's alpha rumbles in pride, delighted that it was doing so well luring in their potential partner.

"You're good at this," he notes, hands dropping to Mando's slim waist.

"I've...had some practice," Mando admits carefully. "There were many of us with cycles in the covert. We did what we could."

"You help a lot of them?"

Mando huffs. "Don't ask questions you don't want answers to."

Yeah, probably for the best. His alpha bristles at the idea that he might have to challenge anyone else who's held a previous interest in Mando. A paranoia that they might come back, looking to lure him away. A stupid, fleeting thought that makes him roll his eyes, but Mando still presses a hand on the back of his neck, urging him close to his scent glands, molding Boba's alpha into a sated shapely purr.

He's really good at this.

Boba wasn't a bumbling fool in this department, by any means. He can play the alpha his partners want him to be. Can court and tease, and play the game their cycles indulged in, but those were few and fleeting. Dangerous sometimes, too. The last thing he needed was to get attached to someone. Or worse, them getting attached to him.

Playing the part for sex was one thing. Developing feelings was another. Cycles had such a way of preying on one's thoughts and emotions that it wasn't even logically sound most of the time. It made him want to attach himself to whoever he was rutting with, make a few pups, start a family, and live a domestic life on a far-off planet, building a farm or harvesting krill ponds. It's just their bodies wanting to procreate, tricking them into wanting things they may not actually want, because Boba, in no way, wants to become a krill farmer.

Maker, he grumbles belatedly. He's gonna want Mando to carry all his babies by the time his rut hits him. He's probably going to try to convince the Mandalorian to run off with him and start a pack in Beggar's Canyon.

Maybe he should hole himself up in the palace until his rut passes. There'd be no coming back from confessing his undying love to Mando in the middle of the street if the man so much as touched his shoulder a little too warmly.

"You're stressing yourself out," Mando murmurs.

"I'm not," Boba says, redirecting his thoughts.

"Is it about Krrsantan?"

Boba clutches him a little tighter. It wasn't before, but now it is.

Mando chuckles softly, and that eases some of the pressure in Boba's chest. He scents him for a little longer before forcing himself away.

"Same time tomorrow?" Mando asks, and Boba nods. The Mandalorian dips his head, squeezes Boba's thigh, and gets up, heading for the worktable.

Boba lays back, staring up at the ceiling. However Mando helped back in his covert, he'd gotten an excellent system down. This is a man who knows how to direct an alpha, guiding Boba's attention by putting himself in his line of sight, managing his temperaments with soft words, and conveying his interest through firm touch. His hands held meaning. The tilt of his helmet was intentional, and the shift of his hips was meant to draw Boba's eyes.

Don't think about it, he reprimands himself. Just the notion that Mando did this with someone else makes his instincts snap, angry and frustrated. How many will come looking for the Mandalorian? How many will challenge Boba for his right to be with him?

"Do I need to stay longer?" Mando asks from across the room.

Boba waves him away. "No, it's just," he knocks his head with his knuckles, "rut thoughts. Getting worked up over nothing."

Mando shakes his head. "I shouldn't have told you that."

Boba grumbles. "I shouldn't have asked."

Mando leaves, bidding him good night. Boba already aches for his scent. In a moment of pathetic weakness, he lifts the robes Mando had been pressed against and inhales what remains there, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Ugh, I hate ruts," he grumbles, and drags himself up, grabbing a rag and canister of fresh paint to touch up his armor. It'll be a good distraction.

At least, for a little bit. 

A/N: 

It does not distract him. He thinks of Din all night (¬‿¬)