Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

NOTE : Chapter 2 is where story starts.

-Alpha/Beta/Omega!Universe? Gotta research this stuff. I like the idea, just not overtly sexualized.

-Dropping/Guarding seems like an interesting aspect, especially amongst Mandalorians. HC that Mandalorians have a strict training regime to discourage these from happening. Dropping into a state that ‘plays dead’ would be an embarrassing and dangerous thing for Omega Mandos, and Guarding could be useful as a last stand, but unwise due to the loss of control. Everything becomes a threat to which there is no logic, and reason is lost. They have a different culture regarding the treatment of the hierarchy, and skew it slightly to find positive aspects in each instead of one being segregated as upper class, middle or lower class. 

-Alternatively, Nest-Egging (Alphas) and Nesting (Omegas) are both instincts that can arise with extremely compatible pairs. Not sure I like the idea of Nesting being the Omega equivalent, as it is probably a common thing for Omegas to feel with Children and a Mate. Should have a more serious version that is unnecessary, but wanted because they want to spoil their mate. I entertained the idea of Omegas wanting to please their Alpha to extremes, but I do not like the servant-like nature of it. Seems like an outdated, sexist concept that the ‘bitch’ would want to please their Alpha because of their nature/duty instead of their own desire.

-Secondary genders are not common. Not with a galaxy of other species and sub-humans. Due to Mandalorians being a Creed and not a race, there are very few humans that bear secondary genders amongst the variety of species. Even still, they can affect other species that possess a heightened sense of smell and are well known enough for others to be wary of them or have their own stereotypes. 

-Omegas are embraced because of their distinct skill at perceiving others’ emotions and being able to influence them with their scent. Extra scent glands and empath abilities make them favoured in the community. Able to quell unrest amongst the verde, soothe Foundlings and ade, provide comfort and care to those in infirmaries as well as unite the Clan. Under training (CotW secret technique), they can almost hypnotize Alphas into doing what they want through scent alone, and with compatible Alphas it is hard to deny any requests. They are not viewed as weak when they have heightened senses and can infer intentions, manipulate others in an otherwise tense and dangerous situation, and be highly protective of their Clan and younglings. Yes, they can reproduce, but this is seen no more as a biological possibility that affects non-humans as well— heats are just how menstruation is to us; a very annoying inconvenience, except it requires segregation to not affect others. This is more out of courtesy and modesty than anything. Foundlings are the Future, and being pregnant as a Mando could be dangerous or just purely unwanted due to vulnerability or personal choice.

-Betas are welcomed and wanted amongst Mandalorians. Core Worlders would think all Mandalorians are or want to be Alphas. On the contrary, betas provide great balance and middle ground between the ideals and natures of O/As. They can be influenced by Omegas’ allure and empath/influencing abilities, but not as strongly as Alphas. Similarly, they are not as hard headed as Alphas, nor as aggressive. Goran’e are perfect roles for Betas, needing a calm touch that is free from influence and bias, as well as other jobs requiring patience VS. brute force.  Peacemakers after the battle is won, infiltrators and interrogators, negotiators and such.

-Alphas, though often stubborn and easily provoked, make great warriors. Alphas make up the Fist of Mandos; loyal, and protective of those they call Clan. Omegas can be fierce when singularity approached, but a threatened Clan is a threatened Alpha. Often serving protection roles, enforcers, commandos. Alphas were often only chosen as Alor within Clan ranks if they had an Omega to counter their aggressive tendencies, and/or with a Beta Goran to help mediate it was even more effective.

-Either way, Mando’ade are trained to not be prey to these instincts. It is good to accept them, acknowledge why they are feeling them, and use them to their advantage. Similar to Jedi teachings. No one is lesser than the other, and not all Clans follow what designations are best suited for which job based on secondary gender. They use it as a guideline for education, making sure children are given the knowledge about abilities and things as they grow so they can be in control of them, instead of the emotions having control over them. They are not restricted from choosing what they want to do in life, merely learn the best way to navigate it safely. 

-Death Watch differs in these views, trying to reinstate the barbaric and outdated ways of Omegas being no more than servants and bitches to Alphas, whereas Betas are seen as useless and worth no more than doing manual labor. Alphas are always Alor’e, and do not often listen to anyone but themselves. They view other Alphas as a threat or a tool, along with the other designations. They are trying to reinstate the need for blood-children, forgoing the way of Foundlings. Harsh, strict, and cruel Mando’ade are drawn to Tor’s cause, seeing Mereel and the Haat’ade as weaklings and ones that would water down their conquering and bloody history. 

-The New Mandalorians don’t have a view, pretending that the hierarchies do not exist, and those that follow these instincts instead of repressing/blocking them are slaves to their emotions. They view all Mandalorians who follow the Resol’nare and embrace their designation as no more than animals and barbaric on par with Tor. 

-The Haat’ade do contract work as honourable mercenaries, pickings the sides of war based on morals more than payout (though, they are still Mercs. Gotta make money somehow, and war is always somewhat unethical), helping planets in need in rebuilding from devastation (for fair compensation as in a place to stay safe for their own neverde, trade, and potential remuneration when repairs are complete), protecting and rehoming children, eradicating slavers and Freeing slaves, and protection contracts. They are seen as honourable warriors, though still brutal Mandalorians to the Core Worlders. Yet, compared to Tor, the difference is obvious to blooded Mandos. Haat’ade do not rape and pillage, they try to not let children get caught in the crossfire and will make an effort to get them, civilians, and elders out of the war zone, and follow Jaster’s Codex in the heat of battle. It is a job; they are not there for pleasure. Enjoyment of fighting, sure, but not Tor’s indiscriminate lust for destruction. 

-Timeline? DW and Tor just reclaimed the ‘saber/planning to? Jaster is Al’Ori’ramikade and been claimed as Mand’alor by his peers. The name Haat’Mando’ade is quickly striking out to Clans shying away from the ‘New Mandalorians’, very much going strong on Concord Dawn (to which he is still exiled from? For now…?), Concordia, and surrounding planets/moons. They embrace their view and approve of Jaster’s Codex vs. DW’s bloodthirsty raiding, so the number of Clans claiming him as Mand’alor are rising. This pisses Tor off, and now has his eyes on Old Clans that are rejecting him.

-Jaster has said the Vows to Jango roughly 2-4 years ago, making him around twelve? No idea how old he was when Jaster originally picked him up, but he looks young. He’s recently had his Verd’goten and Jaster keeps him close for protection when he can. Jango might be a little upset about that, thinking his buir doesn’t trust him for missions. 

-There is a little disagreement and rude discussion towards Jaster’s choice to take in Jango, disapproving of an Alpha taking care of a child without an Omega mate. This is far and few between, and is not a common belief amongst the Haat’ade, or even most Mandalorians. It is still a stereotype that they struggle with, though Jaster is an excellent buir just like many other  parents without mates. 

-Children of the Watch are not affiliated with Death Watch, but are an older Tribe that has remained neutral for hundreds of years. They practice and teach the ancient Creed, practicing the no-helmet-removal policy amongst outsiders and those not direct Clan. Some choose not to remove them at all, depending on personal choice. It does not make one dar’Manda if it’s removed in battle or for injuries, but sharing face is still deemed sacred. Despite these teachings, they still temporarily host those who do not practice these ways while they are there for training, so it is not so shocking to see helmetless Mando’ade. Though others try to respect their ways while on the Covert’s grounds and take their buy’ce off in private. 

-They provide a home for those Clanless, looking for a more strict religious Tribe focused on educating those of the Old Ways, operate as a middle ground for Foundlings, being the ones to Find many and offer as a Main base before relocation or assimilation. They have verde that specialize in tactiles, textiles, armour and then those who specialize in missions. Finders, Slaver Infiltrators, Information gatherers, Beroya’se with specific quarries, Protectors who team with a Beroya on their Hunts for protection and backup, their own Super Commando training, etc.

-Very secretive despite it all, instilling a need to be on a low radar. This way they stay uninfluenced by other Houses or strife between those on Manda’yaim (very wisely, too). They are not nearly as secluded as in the show, affiliated with the Fighting Corps and taking verde to train when they were over-capacity or had those well suited to their way of life. They have an age-old contract that is secret to most, and only entrusted to those who would not betray their Way. 

-Din is a Provider specializing in large payouts or high-demand items, and capable of hunting anything the Tribe needs. He is the top Beroya of the CotW, and the only adult Omega in the Tribe. He is well-respected and cherished amongst them, adored by all the Foundlings and appreciated for his fighting prowess amongst the verde. All of their young Alphas (—save his ori’vod Paz), and eventually their Betas, tried courting him to no avail. 

-The Armorer (Din’s buir) is Haunted by the amount of approvals they’ve had to give since he turned eighteen. They’ve begun to bribe Paz to discourage attempts if he knows Din doesn’t like them back, however shameful. They have to be impartial and give everyone who wants a fair shot at Courting as long as the Offer was worthy of Din’s stature— a price that has risen far past what many can now afford. Din’s a pricey bitch, being top of the Guild and the best bounty hunter in ten parsecs. 

-He has already upgraded to his beskar armour, completing a different bounty that still includes Kuill, IG-11, Jawas stripping his ship, and a Mudhorn that he ends up killing by the skin of his teeth. The beskar had been found through honest intentions, the local law enforcement (Cobb?) finding it amongst a dead warlord’s spoils and willing to give it to a Mandalorian for ‘fair trade’. Din’s honourable like that, willing to make a deal for it instead of just killing them. The Empire not existing lowers everyone’s’ desperation and suspicion, as well as Mandalorians being more common in the Galaxy than in the show. 

-Din, out Beroya-ing and coming across those funded by powerful people experimenting on a Force-sensitive child and evidence of past children not surviving the testing/torture, slaughters the guards and scientists. He and Paz just had an argument and had split up to look for leads, so he’s on his own. When he realizes the magnitude of the people he’s just made enemies of, he decides to take Grogu and run, intentionally breaking off communication/contact to his Protector (Paz) and Tribe to protect them. It is now his priority to Hunt down those Demagolka'se after children while protecting the one in his care and try and return them to his family.

-After a few months of using his Omega skills, he realizes Grogu was taken from a lonely place he cannot remember and does not wish to return to.  He accepts Grogu as his ad and being a Buir and their connection is stronger than ever, almost S3 like and more in sync with each other’s capabilities. 

-Jaster with Jango are out fighting DW, get a little over their heads, and Din passing by lends a hand. Jaster immediately asks him for courting rights to his hand in marriage for his fighting prowess and protecting Jango. Not recognizing Din’s Clan symbol and missing the small Ja’hai’ade symbol painted on his left vambrace (Left for hunters who come home providing, right for protectors who serve as an extra fist. Each position in the Tribe has a corresponding spot for their Purpose), puts him at a disadvantage. 

-Jaster is somewhat educated of the stricter courtship employed by Old Clans, knowing he must at least go to his buir or Alor for approval, but is unaware of how deep it goes for the CotW. With Din being the Tribe’s only Omega, he is put on a very high, expensive pedestal that is even higher for those not of the Tribe. A Tribe’s member already proves themselves to be able and willing to contribute to the Tribe, while an outsider has to include a donation worthy of their betrotheds’ stature.  Being the top Provider and one of the most valued members of their community, Jaster would have to provide what Din is able to provide if he was to be absent— which is an obscene amount between the seized beskar, countless credits, important vaccines and medicine, and other priceless things Din brings home. 

-Din, scandalized while also beyond flattered, says absolutely nothing which breaks Jaster’s poor romantic heart as perceived as a no. Grogu-Hunters show up and Din bolts, not willing to pull them into his fight. 

-All give chase, Din vanishes, Jaster and Jango kill and interrogate the ones after him with the help of a new Mando (Paz).

-Jaster makes a comment about getting shot down by the most amazing Mando’ad and Paz, knowing exactly who he’s talking about (Mister Gets Paz to Beat his Admirers’ Offerings Off with a Stick because He Can’t Communicate that he Doesn’t Like Them), decides to give poor Jaster a shot. Din actually talked to Jaster, so that's something.

-Secret, Din likes Jaster. Handsome, strong Mando protecting his son who was just as Mandokarla? Hook, Line, Sinker.

Chapter Text

The Armorer was not often caught off guard, long since settling into their role as an unchangeable, emotionless face. In their youth and prior to their Apprenticeship as a Goran, Ravi once shared face and opinions endlessly, relishing in the entertainment of playing with people. They had always had an excellent read of people’s character, allowing them to push and pull others with words and subtle actions like other children manipulated dolls. As a Beta, they did not have the empath or hypnotic powers that Omegas could have, but they were blessed with an enhanced sense of smell, a patience to observe that most children and some adults do not have, and a keen understanding of behavioural nature. 

Ravi had grown up poor, scrambling for scraps amongst four older siblings and two parents working themselves to the bone to provide for them. When the mine was still operational, their hometown on Concordia had been busy with miners, merchants and people. The town had run dry with the vein, leaving only the natives of the town who had made a decent living before riches turned to rust, soon only travellers passing through to busier places. This had happened during Ravi’s prime development stage for communication, and in those few years, they had learned to read people off the streets. Who would be susceptible to the begging eyes of a child, who would be willing to put a child to work, who could be stolen from without it making an impact. They had not always done honourable things to provide, but when their family finally ventured into more populated areas, Ravi was prepared for the endless personalities and motives of people. It had helped them survive long enough to find a purpose. 

Ravi had not been skilled enough to never be not caught, no child is, but the smart ones learn not to again. Until they found their purpose as a Goran under their teacher, they had a life of poverty full of schemes. They had learned to be more empathetic over time, once their Mentor taught them the difference between using their skill for personal gain and for the betterment of the community. When they admitted to their Goran'alor the guilt of their ways in their youth still persisting into adulthood, he had suggested going to the Children of the Watch. The Tribe would benefit from someone willing to submerge themselves to the cause, not just for atonement, but to help others find their own purpose where they’d otherwise be lost. That had struck a chord in Ravi, finding the commitment of the Creedbound enlightening instead of a burden. Turning their face to buy'ce was easy when they had been nobody before, and leaving a family that had already been so distant and self-absorbed even more so. Knowledge and servitude of a Tribe fit them much better. 

Their life had become one of studying, advising, learning and training, and smithing. They were not in situations often that tested their patience more than anything they had grown up with, up until one of the Beroya'se specializing in Finding came home with a small dark haired child with even darker eyes. 

Ravi was not unused to the antics of ade, much less the mischievous ones residing in their Covert. They consisted of the ade of the skilled hunters and warriors of the Children of the Watch,  along with all the other verde and neverde specializing in techniques that were secret to those not handpicked to train by the Fighting Corps or part of the Watch. These children were part of their Tribe, therefore privy to the skills most Mando'ade did not know existed, and were teaching their Foundling vode to be just as good troublemakers. 

Din Djarin was a different sort of trouble. It was not his fault, nor done on purpose— most of the time—, but the jate'kara he followed led him to it. In the near twenty years since Ravi had spoken the Gai bal Manda to him, along with the Vow between all the Tribe’s highest ranking members and advisors to protect the Children of the Watch’s only Omega by educating him to their fullest capabilities, Din had surprised them all countless times. 

He came to them silent and small, and they dared to throw him into the roughness of Mandalorian training when he would not speak. It was hard to know what would affect the boy, often emotionless in his quiet. Din surprised them all in the early days of trying to communicate by eventually signing his name. He knew a simplified version of GSL with an interesting vocabulary, one taught to young children but mixed with adult signs that they had to pull out of him with time and trust. Din did not like to speak, preferring to observe and use his knowledge to his benefit. Paz was most often the source of his rare taunting, the boys eventually bonding over it in time. It reminded Ravi of their own childhood, watching Din spend more time evaluating people’s emotional weak points rather than their physical ones. 

It was why they had spoken the Vows, hoping to guide him to an honourable purpose to his observation skills. That kind of nature could turn to cruelty when left to fester, when it becomes true entertainment for the sake of curing boredom. Killing for pleasure instead of purpose. They had nothing to worry about, in the end; the boy possessed anger, yes, but he had a heart full of love and kindness that trumped his loss. They loved him deeply, and began looking forward to a life of surprises. Din sneaking to and asking for lessons from Johri, one of the Tribe’s resident hand-to-hand specialists, before a training tournament to get the upper hand with his smaller frame had been one of the first, memorable surprises. He’d excelled at it faster than they all could have predicted, fast and fluid like an experienced dancer in the body of a child. That particular style had been a struggle with the lengthening of his limbs, but Din took a bite off of every Tribesman’ offered plate and left them all stunned with the strong, mandokarla verd they were all raising. How effortless he excelled at everything they could teach, save for the sentient interaction part. 

Ravi had tried to train him in the art of communication for years, until giving up and realizing this one would only speak with fists and gesticulation. Until Din surprised them again once he began Hunting, how easy it was for him to pick up languages during his travels. It wasn’t something he bragged about, but a skill they learned from small observations. Languages spoken to Foundlings who knew no other, and which no other member of the Tribe could speak, new hands signs and countless dialects of Sign Language, and an endless remembrance for phrases, swears, and basic words in many others he was not fluent in. He did not like to speak without necessity, but he liked  languages. Din increased his own profitability with his endless patience and observation, his desire to learn and be educated never fading.

The day Paz and Din announced they wanted to be a Provider and Protector duo, none of them had been surprised. It was the one thing Ravi knew would happen, without uncertainty, when it came to their son. In the beginning, they had hoped Din would choose the path of a Goran. It included the quiet and solitude he so enjoyed, and he took to repairing beskar'gam circuitry and beskar plating imperfections like a Shriek-Hawk to the sky. Though it included a hated activity and lacked an ambitious one. Din would have to advise, as that was the true purpose of a Goran in a Clan, and was hidden away in the Forge, away from Glory. Din wanted to provide back to the family who had rescued him and taken him in, as well as prove to himself that an omega out hunting in the Galaxy would bring the Tribe and himself honour. Going against what the Galaxy thought about the rare sub-gender human population, thinking of omegas no more as breeders and proving them all wrong by making a name for himself by bringing them home riches and financial security. Then there was the countless surprises with the things Paz and Din brought home for them, but this—

This was the first, good surprise the duo came home bearing that had nearly knocked them speechless. 

A camtono filled with ingots of the purest grade beskar they’d seen in years, in the hands of their son who had his crimson-scuffed-brown cuirass bent and hanging on by its straps. The majority of his beskar'gam was holding on by less while his Protector wrung his hands nervously beside him. It made for a shocking sight, Din quiet and nonplussed while Paz fidgeted with guilt. Din had managed to get away from his Protector again, but somehow this had been the reward. Ravi refrained from sighing, knowing they would have to get the full story out of both of them; doing that was like pulling teeth. They could at least get the small details now, with the passing verde now gathering behind them to stare at their gleaming, precious metal obnoxiously covering the short-legged tabletop. 

“And what caused this damage?” they say, glad their modulator hides the almost pressing tone to their voice. Their ad had never come home so damaged, Ravi’s work dented and gouged beyond repair, with some of the corners pried up. Din had encountered something big and powerful, judging by the height of the gouges and the substantial damage. There was mud dropping out between the gaps of his armour and flight-suit in big chunks as he shifted, the rest of his black kute and cape that was now brown flaking off bits of dried crust. Fighting an enormous strong enemy in a mud pit; that would cause the disadvantage. Even Ravi can see whatever the specifics, Din had been one wrong move away from death.

“A Mudhorn,” Din says flatly, and the other Covert members behind his shoulders are not disciplined enough to hide their flinches and side glances. Those familiar with these large beasts knew they were very aggressive when approached near their den, even more so when their young was threatened. Not many survived a direct encounter with the beast and their natural habitat of sloppy mud. A fitting adversary for a Mandalorian who is much the same. 

“My armour has lost its integrity,” the man adds on as an afterthought, sounding ashamed of the damage. It protected his life and did its duty, even now still attached due to the quality of their tailors. Most of the Tribe’s clothing was given an extra protection of being a mix of duraweave and their own specially crafted beskar thread. It had taken years of experiments with Ras’cal, the most experienced of the textile workers, to get the thread made just right. Going off age-old texts from their predecessors of the Tribe was nothing when paired with no skill and practice. It all pays off when it keeps the most damaged of clothes together, still protecting their wearer as they put it through haran. For him to be ashamed about the damage had all their hands on their hips, one even muttering ‘Verd ori'shya beskar'gam’ in place of where Ravi could not. 

“A worthy opponent. You have earned your signet. There is enough beskar here to restore what is damaged, and add some additional protection.”

Din clenches his hands, and they know he hates when they give him offerings like this. The man would deny all that he could, if Ravi was not both his buir, Goran and his ver'alor. They know his next words by heart, believing it is the most repeated words out of his mouth other than ‘This is the Way’. 

“Reserve some for the Foundlings.”

“This is the Way.”

“This is the Way,” the rest of the verde repeat, echoing in the chamber as they begin to disperse, well trained in hearing the hidden inflection in Ravi’s voice to scram.

“Your armour seems to be in fine condition, Paz,” they remark once it is just the three of them, watching as his massive shoulders hunch over his head even more. They refrain from sighing again. It would not help to make him feel more guilty than he already was, especially when it was most likely nobody’s fault to begin with.

“I… was Hunting.” 

Well, that was interesting. And punishable.

“And Din was…?” They hold up a hand to their son’s staticky modulator, telling him to let Paz speak his piece. Even more interesting that Din would be willing to speak to cover up whatever it is that they are hiding. It takes a moment for the blue verd to speak, trying and failing to come up with a believable story. This one was always osik at lying.

“Also hunting.”

“Did you take too many jobs at the Guild?” They asked strategically, already having an idea where all this disorganization came from to a pair that was normally so efficient.

“It was not a Guild job. A sheriff Din knows found the beskar amongst a Warlord’s spoils and wanted to trade it to him. I should have known it would go to shit,” Paz spat with Din hissing at him to shut up, “That Alpha was practically dripping after you, and I hate his smarmy face.”

“Oh?” they say and it’s all it takes for Paz to hike his shoulders up again. It is amusing to them; whatever it is about this Sheriff has the verd so riled up and willing to speak plainly in their presence like they weren’t there. The not so amusing part is hearing about aruetii Alphas thirsting after their ad, let alone any member of the Tribe. There were strict Courting Rules and Rituals within the Watch that celebrated their old history of worshiping their Omegas, a ritual Kyr'tsad has spit and stomped on. There were even more rules about courting Din, one that has become well known within the Tribe, and one that was privy to the three of them. 

The first was that due to Din’s ostentatious reputation as a Beroya— putting all the Guild hunters to shame in ten parsecs and keeping his top Hunter title for over ten years since they started at eighteen— his bride-price was worth more than most could afford. True, Din could choose a mate that could not pay the price, but it was also another matter that the Tribe would expect no less than a warrior of just as high caliber to meet that value in its place. Everyone loved Din Djarin here and would tear the limbs off an Alpha not willing to treat him with the grace and riches of a Queen, because he was their Queen, even to the ones that didn't have a sub-gender designation. The fierce loyalty and protectiveness the Tribe displayed as a pack towards their only adult Omega was enough to frighten most outsiders off. The bar was set high by their entire community, wanting nothing but the best for Din and willing to maul to protect that honour. 

If the others even knew there was an Alpha out there with their sights on Din, but wasn’t willing to make an offer, they would make sure that Alpha, and all the Alphas in the parsec, knew it was an insult punishable by death. By the sounds of the Alpha Paz is speaking about, he would not meet the muster of the rest of their warriors. Din had the equivalent of fifty buir judging any date walking through the door, and the biggest judge of them all was Din himself. Not a single member of their Tribe around Din’s age had passed the offering stage, to which there had not even been heartbreak, but more of a lost chance. Even the most arrogant of their Alphas had known Din deserved a greater catch, though they loathed knowing it would not be a Creedbound. The man had turned down them all, which led to the second more secret agreement. 

Due to the Goran’s position within the Tribe and Din’s buir, they were the first and second person to approve of Court offerings before they could be given. This was to make sure that in the happenstance of another also wanting to make an offer, they could be given the choice of a duel or being evaluated down to their toenails for the right to offer first.

Secondarily, it was to make sure the Gift was up to standing for the stature of the warrior they wished to court. If they were useful or invaluable, a temporary worker or a Full-Fledged Tribe member, how much they contributed and how much it would affect the Clan if they lost them, if they had children also needing to be provided for. Everything was taken into consideration, even the overall opinion of the Tribe towards a person made a difference to how high the price would be set. It was worth being said that the hope was an Alpha would always offer more because their personal value of the Omega should always exceed that of the Tribe’s, the whole affair a trap by the Alor'e to see how genuine the love was. Love would always be priceless to an infatuated Alpha. 

Besides that point, Din was one they could all afford before he continued to raise the price. Ravi was haunted by the amount of offers they had to begrudgingly accept once Din turned eighteen, whether or not they thought the person was right for Din, but because they reserved that choice for Din to make. To which the answer was always no. So, to eliminate these situations from continuing to happen, Ravi had enlisted Paz to give people ‘hints’ if he knew Din didn’t like them back to discourage them from even trying. Meanwhile, Din was persuading Paz to also beat the court offerings off with a stick because he hated doing it himself. Paz was the only loser in this equation, but he made up for it with the notion he was Din’s chastity protector along with his physical one.

Din, now catching on that they were borderline cross they had not been informed of yet another offerer, pipes up,

“Cobb is a friend, and I’ve told him such. He respects that, though he still likes me. It will wear off with time. Paz has an inflated sense of righteousness when he thinks someone is hitting on me.”

“And this leads to you two splitting up, how?” 

Their son gives one of his long suffering sighs, resigning to the fact it would be fastest to get it all out now. Paz gets lost in the details, and clearly the man was missing half of them himself. It had nothing to do with the Sheriff, but all in how they operated during their mission. 

“The acquisition was in a place that required the riding of an animal to get to. Paz agreed to ride ahead with his natural skills to check the camp and survey while I got lessons from a local resident. Paz comm’ed me and said it was a piece of cake and an assassin droid took them all out, so he was coming back with a cold body. We agreed to meet back at the ship, to which there was no ship. Jawas stripped it, and Kuill the local ugnaught, helped me broker a deal with them to get the parts back. They wanted the Mudhorn’s egg, though at the time all I understood was that they wanted something out of the cave. An error on my part; my rifle and I got jammed in the mud, and I got it with a lucky vibroblade hit. Paz arrived and we put the ship back together, came home and got the beskar for the body.”

“Did you learn anything vital during this mission?”

“Don’t split up,” they both said together, both with different levels of frustration. 

“You are free of punishment this time, as it is your first offence in five years. Don’t do it again. Paz is to watch your back for reasons like this, and Din leads the hunt, no matter if you hate who you’re working for. Rushing will only lead to tripping.”

“Elek, Gor’alor.”

“Good. I will grab you for test fitting when it is complete, Din. Go and relax, both of you.”

They both nod and rush out of the Forge, eager to be safe from any more chastisement. 

Din knew better than to not listen to his buir.

He was old and wise enough now to know they knew better than him, and that their lessons were worth heeding. To not listen to them was to be an idiot. Still, Paz was grinding all his gears and when he got to that breaking point where he was either willing to throttle him or see if he could persuade him to walk over a cliff, Din stormed off instead of doing either of those things. Paz knew better than to follow within shooting distance, and over the years of them arguing, had stopped following entirely. That angered Din more. The rift grew.

His buir would argue the word he was looking for was hurt, if he dared to tell them. Paz's ambition was growing so that being Din's Protector wasn't enough, and he still didn't understand why. He'd let Paz go his own way if he understood why he was being left behind. All he got were grumbles about politics or his wacko Uncle that was starting a civil war because he wanted to prove his dick was bigger than Jaster Mereel's. 

Din firmly kept his nose out of politics. He chose hunts away from Mandalorian space, went to the Mid-Rim when he was hunting for higher pay-outs, and tried to keep out of it. All he bothered to learn about what was going on in the Mandalorian sector boiled down to three things.

The first, Mandalore and the New Mandalorians deserved no more than his spit.

Second; Kyr'tsad, Death Watch led by Paz's dini'la ba'vodu Tor, deserved only soulless deaths.

Third, and the most important, the True Mandalorians led by Jaster Mereel, were alright.

To be considered alright in Din's book was a high honour. Most of the Galaxy had an agenda, and therefore avoided at all cost other than when business demanded it. Still, he doesn't waste his breath with most of them, the rest not even worth air to speak. The Haat'Mando'ade were led by an honourable man, and though they were the other side of this Civil War, Din knew which he'd rather stand behind if it came down to it. He'd read Mereel's Codex, was pleasantly surprised with how much he personally agreed with, then decided they were worth his avoidance, but not his contempt. 

Back to Paz, who was somehow obsessed with this again, spewing far more information than Din cared to learn. He didn't even know what the two proclaimed Mand'alore looked like other than their sigils, he didn't want to know what they were fighting about now. It's been bubbling for almost five years, mostly Tor getting louder and louder and Mereel just doing his merry mercenary thing. Din tried, again, to use his buir's wisdom to understand. This was the last attempt. If it failed, Din was walking away or he was going to beat him to death.

"I do not understand your interest. We are Ja'hai'ade; we do not choose sides."

Paz's glare was cutting, and Din stiffened to keep from lashing out. He hated that look, the one he gave Din when he thought he was being immature.

"This will affect us eventually. Whoever wins will decide how we approach the Nu'Mandos; they represent the warrior population. We need a Mand'alor on Mandalore."

"It does not mean we decide it," Din bites out, "If you go, how many vode will follow? How easy will it be to forget our duty?"

"I knew you wouldn't understand," Paz snaps, and so does Din. He turns on his heel and starts marching a different way before it turns violent. He's trying to understand, but Paz always loses his temper before they get anywhere. He gets why Paz wants to help, sees the picture he's painting of their future. Still the fact remains; once Children of the Watch start leaving to support other's wars instead was the day their Tribe dissolved. They were history preservers, protectors of their dying culture. To throw away that promise for someone else, a Mand'alor who hadn't even truly called on them yet, was to throw away their future.

If he wants to go, let him. That's what his bitter heart was saying, that boy who had lost everything piping up. Before buir had claimed him, and Din was still alone. Surrounded, but alone. If they didn't want to stick around, Din wasn't going to make them; he had assumed they would leave eventually. That's what kept him from choosing a mate, and from really fighting with Paz over this. It was easier to push him away than hold on with him struggling to be free. Din would find his glory elsewhere, and he hoped Paz found what he was looking for. 

Din… finds something else instead. Paz, no longer following and still heading towards their original bounty, is a few klicks ahead. He's rushing again, and if Din doesn't follow, he'll rush in himself. Di'kut. Still, this is interesting, and Din takes a moment to survey this rundown building that has an excessive amount of guards. Far too many for such a decrepit place, far away from the rest of the populace. There's many reasons why one needs a remote building, and many of them came down to illicit affairs. Din doesn't want to stick his nose into it, but then he hears something he cannot ignore.

A high-pitched short wail, cut off by another shocked shriek that comes from being struck. Din's blood is boiling instantly, knowing that pitch as a child's. They're scared, hurt, and if Din just correctly heard one of them hit a child, there would be hell to pay. It doesn't take long for the beroya to secure a route into the building after picking off the guards outside, determining their numbers manageable on the inside with the thermal vision. They're not organized or skilled, relying on  the numbers of the outside patrol alone. Shitty plastiod armour, but good quality weapons. Din pockets a couple extra blades for throwing purposes. 

He can hear the soft crying the second he enters the building. There's no doors on the rooms, cries echoing down the wide corridors. There's a few adults in the dilapidated foyer, one complaining about brats that can't keep quiet, and Din picks them off quickly. One almost yells out before he gets a dagger through the neck, and the rest fall before they can make a noise. He gives the abuser a chance to drown in his own blood before he slits his throat. Din follows that horrendous whimpering sound down the hallway to the final two heat signatures, the much larger one drawing Din's already raised blaster.  

The moment they see him step into the doorway, they're raising their hands and protesting. They're wearing medical garb, and all Din can see is the small, terrified eyes of the green child strapped to the table. He shoots them dead before the Demagolka can even get two words out.

Instantly, the base quiets, right after Din slips his blaster back into leather. The child is silent, and Din does not speak for a long moment, swivelling his head and looking for a release to the cuffs keeping them in place. When he walks over to the terminal and finds the button he's looking for, he notices from the corner of his eye how the youngling tracks him. There's a bruise forming on their head, and that makes his heart rate spike in anger, but he keeps his posture loose and nonthreatening. 

The cuffs clink loudly when they release, prompting a startled squeak from the little green creature. It's definitely a species he's unfamiliar with, wrinkly face, large ears that remind him of one of the plants the medic used for burns, and expressive eyes. Still, Din's nose tells him what he's looking at. The second he turns his body to face them fully, brown eyes locking through tint, Din's heart stops.

It flutters, he struggles to breathe, then it passes. Din is familiar with this feeling, the ache in his chest every time he meets a child not destined for him. He gets it with every new Foundling, Din's omega instinct burning to protect, to comfort, to raise. It's why he spends every spare moment with them, trying to satisfy that urge and dull the hurt. He wants one of his own, but there is no time, there is no mate, and Din—

Is standing before a child that needs him now. Whatever his own personal qualms about child-rearing, now's not the time. Din slowly pulls out a bottle of bacta-spray, holds it aloft in his hand so the kid could see it clearly, and approached with light steps.

"Hi, ad'ika," he starts, and berates himself for not doing a few practice rounds on a muted mic. It comes out gravelly and hoarse, almost a growl and not very friendly sounding. He expects the child to cringe from him, but instead they cock their head with curiosity, ears flickering and raising the slightest bit from where they'd be pressed flat against their head in fear. Din continues at his stroke of luck.

"I see you got a boo-boo," Din starts again, his language switching over to the rudimentary one he used for the kids at home, "Can I make it better?"

He doesn't know if the kid can speak, or whether they even understand him, but Din lifts up the spray and gives it a little wiggle in his hand before using his other to point at the forehead of his buy'ce. The kid cocks their head and stays silent, but they do scoot closer to him after a moment.

"Jate," he praises softly, before coming closer and lowering himself to not be looming over them, "It will sting a bit."

Din reaches out with his free hand, gloves barely brushing the kid's face to tilt their chin down the slightest bit. He mists their head on the dark bruise he can see forming, then makes quick work of the ones around their little wrists from the cuffs. They make low sounds of discomfort to which Din soothes with quiet, approving words. When he's done, he uses a gentle touch to rub them between the ears.

"Good job, kid. Now, what do you say about leaving this sh— crap-hole?"

To his surprise, the kid immediately raises their arms, reaching for him. Din's heart hurts, but he ignores it in favour of picking them up, settling them into the crook of an elbow and seeing how they settle. The little one reaches for his shiny new cuirass, long nails clicking on the metal as they curl their knuckles against it. They tuck into his arm, relaxing with a happy sigh, and Din takes that as a good sign. 

The first thing he does now that the child is safe is hack into the terminals. He's hoping to get information about where this one has come from, if Din can return them to their family as is his new mission. The problem is Din gets too much information.

Once he starts looking, it's hard to stop. His gut is growing leaden with horror and rage the more he reads, flicking through the files that seem too invasive to just be medical sheets. Every single one of them is a child, varying from ages equivalent to three to ten years old, and what Din reads in those reports makes him want to bring these bastards back to life so he can kill them all over again. It's torture, abuse at the highest levels. A true Demagol's corpse litters the room, Din's final kill a scientist experimenting on children. His body burns, both from his honour as a Mandalorian and because of his instinct as an omega. Din copies the entire terminal to his databanks, determined to figure out who  sat at the top, who ordered such a thing. They will meet the same quick fate as those here.

That's what Din's planning before he finds a signature on one of the worker's contracts, the scientist's. Din recognizes the name from his minimal upkeep on the news; he needs to know at the least which bounties to avoid and which groups could spell trouble, and this name is at the top of Din's list of avoid-at-all-costs. 

Moff Gideon. The shabuir that's obsessed with Mandalorians, employed by the Empire Corporation. He didn't think the company had this kind of resources, not with their ring-leader getting snuffed a few years ago. Sheev Palpatine had been gearing towards Galactic domination, but due to the Jedi ousting him as a Sith Lord, his plans weren't long for the Galaxy. The Jetii lost six members taking him out, but the scourge was wiped. That's what Din had thought when he read the Holo-Net about it, thinking the Empire Corp was counting down the days until bankruptcy and total disbandment, lawsuits overriding the headlines for months. These reports say differently. Though the information is left scarce and details kept to the mum, Din understands what they are doing. They're focused on midichlorian counts, testing the blood of Force-Sensitive children, and when he checks the other empty rooms of the building, learns what happens when they're not successful in their endeavours. It's why the guard had been lacking; there was only one test subject remaining, and the rest lay in a shallow grave dug in the sand behind the building. He'd missed it on his patrol of the outside, but he cannot tear his eyes away from it now, nor unsee it.

New mission, Din thinks, as he starts messing around with his electronics on his buy'ce. The first he does is cut Paz from his communications, ending their tracking capabilities. Immediately, he gets a message from his protector asking what's going on before he blocks that too. Next up is the Tribe. Din blocks his buir's comm with a thick swallow, then inputs everyone else into the same list. No one will be able to track or find him now through his gear, and that's what Din needs. If the Empire Corp has such funding they're doing this right under the Republic's nose, they're a threat. He cannot give them a link to the Watch when he starts hunting them down. The small Ja'hai'ade symbol on his vambrace will be the first thing to go when he returns to the ship and strands Paz. Payback is swift and sweet, and it's what he gets for going ahead again. The star-port isn't that far. Din won't be covering for him a second time; he'll have to be honest to Din's buir about why he doesn't return with their ad. He feels more remorse for his parent than Paz at this point.

The second thing Din does is take a deep breath and quiet his mind. The hypnosis abilities he had from his Omega designation and the Tribe's training was usually instinctual to him at this point. He had to focus on turning it off, lest he affect everyone around him subconsciously. He stops the meticulous restraint and lets it flood out, able to feel the faint feelings from every sentient in a large range around him. He can even feel Paz and his growing worry, beaming towards Din's last known location. As much as he wants to return to Din's side, for once his independence works in Din's favour. He does not want to stay by Din's side, so Din lets his pheromones waft through his beskar plating until the place was ripe with his scent. He imbues it with as much discouragement and extrication as possible, and even though Paz is used to Din's ability, it's so strong the second he steps near the building, Din's emotions will take over. They'll sync with his own until Paz can't tell the difference and forgets why he was looking for Din in the first place. It won't work for long, but it'll be long enough for Din to ghost him.

Grogu, the little boy whose true age was around fifty, perks up to look at him. Din could only find his name, age, sex, and what they'd done to him in his file. No home-planet, no family contact information. It makes his chest tight, knowing the child will have to stay with him for now. He doesn't seem to be affected by Din's trap, but he's recognizing something from him. There's a long moment where they look at each other before Din feels a slight tap on his shields. Being slightly Ka'ra-Touched himself, he was trained in the art of defence from other Force users, though he struggled to use it himself on the offensive. The power in him wasn't that strong, not as strong as the kid poking at his brain, curious and interested.

"Yes," Din says, humour bleeding into his voice as he pokes him clumsily back, "That is I."

The kid perks up in obvious delight and then starts squeaking and cooing. Din hums in response at the right moments as he treks back to the Crest, figuring out the kid was trying to communicate in his own way. Din won't discourage him, doesn't want him to think he'll be punished for making noise like he had been before. When the child is truly searching for an answer, Din opens up his awareness to try and feel what he wants before using his scent to respond accordingly. The kids got a good nose, species able to understand the fluctuation accurately. First up is food. Kid is hungry, he can tell even before his ears catch his tummy rumbling.

Din figures out their next destination by scouring his hacked material while the kid eats. He makes sure the ship is locked tight, no information coming in or going out, before he gets into the hyperplane.

Din's got Demagolka'se to kill.

Knocking out bases to only find more dead children didn't make slaughtering the inhabitants any better. He only feels more rage and disgust, and doesn't get to enjoy their deaths because Grogu is sitting in a bag, hidden under his cape. Din tries to shield him away from the worst of the violence, but the kid has a strange curiosity towards it that is endearingly Mandalorian. Din wants to keep him, but stays resolute in keeping his eye out for his true home. 

It's been three months since Din found the kid, and Din cannot help that the bond is getting closer to linking. He feels it in his mind, sees it when Grogu looks at him and his eyes are full of pure happiness and trust. Sometimes it's other things, but it's always paired with trust. It's hard to keep from claiming him, and from making the bond complete. They've settled into a routine aboard the Crest while Din continues his hunt and ignores the building emotions.

Grogu wakes him up every morning by crawling out of the hammock Din crafted in his bunk, stringed up above his head. The kid wasn't sneaky enough to not wake him, but he was definitely improving. He'd crawl up to Din's head, stare at his helmeted face and peer through the visor. Then, he snuggles up against his chest and tries to tuck up under his chin as close as he can. Din pretends to be asleep often, watching him back then curling an arm around him to keep him close and dozes for fifteen minutes. Then, he gathers the sleepy boy into one arm and makes them breakfast, watching his own intake with their limited rations. It's not like Din's getting paid for this job, so he has to make do. 

Then, he tracks. He's usually always got a lead, and he can feel that he's getting closer to the top. The bases are becoming larger, more fortified. He thinks they also know he's looking for them now, their defences on high alert. Din's done his best to cover his own tracks, but he didn't stop to wipe any of their personal equipment. If they got glimpse of him on their cams before they died, there's a chance they at least know they're looking for a Mandalorian.

The spare time in hyperspace is done doing various things. First up is Grogu's dingy old tunic that gets viciously scrubbed, then Din blends the entire thing with their Tribe's beskar thread. He has to do it in patches, taking his time to make sure it was woven in tight enough to add true protection. Once that's done, the most important piece, he starts teaching the boy to sign the easy things. Yes and no, by nodding or shaking a fist. Din has to modify most to work for his three fingers, but they develop a language between them. Once Grogu has that and Din's patience in asking questions, he's calling for Din's attention all the time. He doesn't mind, answering all questions and getting to know him. He's shy, but curious. He's a bloodthirsty little womp-rat, but he cares deeply about innocents. He can be brave, but doesn't like strangers. That's what makes his attachment to Din so bittersweet. Din wants, but he shouldn't.

Grogu decides to change that one day. He wakes him up with the same cuddles, they eat an early breakfast, then Din spends the afternoon clearing out the next building. This one is more of a warehouse, used as a cache stronghold. It wasn't on as high alert, not expecting him to start going after their supply chains and stockpiles. Still, a substantial amount of guards that Din takes his time with, starting with cutting the power and blocking their communications. Then, it's happy hunting for him. The best part is all the stuff he gets to pick from when he's done, and a more detailed shipment route than the one he currently has. Perfect. Din takes enough to pack a humongous crate full of goods to send home once he's on a suitable planet to mail it. It'll be a large enough package his buir will get a call from the postmaster, considering Din usually only uses it on long hunts to send home trinkets. 

Din's humming once he's back in the cargo hold of the Crest, the ship in hyperspace and him immensely satisfied. This one's a long trek, the navigator saying at least three days even with his shortcuts. Grogu's watching him with great interest as he strips off his beskar skin, getting down into his flight-suit and disengaging all the plates from his flak-vest. Everything needs a good wash, covered in sweat from his long surveillance and blood from all his enemies. He has multiple buckets in front of him that Grogu sniffs, pulling different faces for each one. He likes the soapy water he cleans his clothes in, before he reuses it to wipe the grime off his plates. He hates the small one with Din's polish for his armour, scrunching up his already wrinkled face something fierce. 

Din lets out a low chuckle, and Grogu looks at him in fascination from the rare sound. He's smiling at him, and it takes him a long moment to notice how much he's projecting before he dials it back. The frown is quick to replace it; he doesn't want to confuse the boy. Din's not wearing his armour, and there was a reason he already had a few, important, beskar pieces. The small ones sewn into his cowl, the plates that protect his hips at the sides of his legs, the helmet; they all helped mask his scent. He went unnoticed as an omega at first glance, needing a really strong sense of smell or attention to detail to notice where his armour sat, if one knew the properties of beskar. 

Not now, with Din stripped down to his kute, the top half unzipped and sleeves pooled around his waist, only in his sleeveless shirt. He's working on his wounds, finally able to use bacta again and for the foreseeable future, keeping one eye on the kid. His arm's bandaged as he stares back at Grogu, wondering what was behind the intense focus he was giving Din right now. 

"What is it, kid?" He rumbles, cocking his buy'ce.

Grogu doesn't giggle like he normally does, but he does toddle closer to plop down in front of him. He stares at Din, before he raises a little hand and places it over his heart. His three claws curl into a fist before reaching out to Din like he holds it in his hand. Din's breath hitches, understanding what he means. He cannot accept it.

He reaches out to cup his hand between his own, oh so gently, before pushing it back to the boy's chest.

"You cannot," Din says, and it's ripe with pain. He feels it like a physical wound, turning him away, "You have a family to return to. I will find them."

Grogu's face scrunches. Din hates it, the look of confused hurt, his ears folding back like they did when he was scared. Then, he does something that runs him through a loop. The boy knocks his fist against his head, then closes his eyes. Din stares.

"Ad'ika? I don't understand."

The eyes open before he points at Din, then his own eyes, then himself. Din sees him. He doesn't understand until Grogu's scent starts wafting security and love. Then, he gets it.

"Yes, I see you," Din says, nodding. He’s not talking about the physical. Then he chuckles at the way the boy pokes at his mental shields,  "Yes, that way too."

Then the boy makes a thinking face, trying to convey his meaning. Din tries not to guess, not wanting to frustrate him. They haven't gotten far into the more complicated signs yet, so he waits patiently. Eventually, he shakes his head, deciding to get to the heart of the matter. He points at Din's head, then mimes him taking helmet off. Din shakes his own head. He thought the boy understood this. Grogu frowns, then says something that makes it all click. It makes it worth it teaching the boy the sign for 'want', his favourite so far.

"I want to see you," he signs, then crosses his arms and squeezes his eyes shut. 

Din gets that's part of it, and the rest Grogu can't articulate. That's still enough, and Din trusts the kid. He does understand Din's facial rule, respecting it more than some adults. He never peers up at him when Din lifts the chin to spit blood out of his mouth or have a sip of something. Din will respect that in turn.

"Okay, Grogu. No peeking,” Din says, then he unseals his helmet.

The boy is so much greener than he thought. Vibrant like the healthiest foliage, cheeks lightly tinted pink, making them almost brown. He's very cute, and Din's omega whines at what he's missing out on. He buries it for now with years of practice, placing his helmet in his lap. He watches how Grogu instantly perks up without the barrier of beskar, able to feel the difference. Still, he keeps his eyes closed.

Din waits, taking in his face until he feels a clearer touch against his mind. This is gentle, practiced, a curious desire to show him something laced within. Din agrees easily, not minding an easier way for him to communicate. It starts with memories, that's what he's sure of at first.

Mostly feelings, and an understanding of passing time. The first caretakers Grogu remembers are kind, loving and warm. He feels secure, yet so very lonely. He does not remember parents or anything of the planet he's from. Then, a time of strife, and Grogu is passed into uncaring hands. Time is wrought with sadness and loneliness, changing hands from some who care at first before losing interest, going to the next highest bidder. Once, he was caged and shown like he was an exotic animal. Eventually, he was found by the demagolka, and that was the worst of it.

The best part, the part that turns his heart into mush from love and heartbreak, is when Grogu first sees Din. The kid can feel his beskar, but he can feel Din's heart that lies beneath. It's what allows him to not be afraid, and then when Din releases his pheromones, he's sure and the trust becomes absolute. It brings tears to Din's eyes, watching himself through Grogu's. He can feel how the boy slowly grows to love him, the way he fits in his arms, how he protects and teaches him, how he cares and then takes him into battle to wage righteous war. 

When Din opens his eyes, his cheeks are wet, but now he finally, truly, understands. Grogu has never had someone like Din, so utterly there for him. Din never would have thought he was enough, but he sees how he's bigger than life in Grogu's eyes. He wants to dissuade the boy from thinking so highly of him, but at the same time his heart swells with honour. The reasons to not commit are dwindling, Din wanting more than anything. 

He slowly puts his helmet back on, then Grogu opens his eyes. They're cautious, but so hopeful. Din won't, can't, deny that when he was asking. Din had asked his buir in his own way, pressuring them into the Vows by questioning why they wanted to spend so much time with him. They make a good pair of troublemakers.

First, he teaches the boy a new sign. He speaks the words aloud as he does them, pointing at himself, then he makes an X with his arms over his chest, before pointing at Grogu. 

"I love you."

The boy's eyes widen, shining with elation and body straightening up. Din asks his next question as smoothly as he can, throat clogged up as it was.

"Are you sure, Grogu? That you want to be my child?"

Din's insecurity tells him the answer, but it's a lie. It's contradictory to everything in Grogu's face, hopeful and joyous and a hint of worry that Din will still deny him. He won't, not when Grogu has chosen him. The kid gave him a sure nod, bobbing and flopping his ears in his enthusiasm. The smile that grows across his own face is tentative, just as slow to sink in as the realization that he was going to be a buir. Still, he gives him a choice.

"It does not have to be me," Din warns, tilting his head, "My Tribe would take you in, and another could love and raise you. You could be free of the violence I put you through."

The boy instantly frowns and shakes his head, reaching out to him. This, he understands without words or explanation. It would have to be him, because Grogu wants him. Din doesn't hesitate to scoop him up, feeling his colder skin through his thin shirt. The kid curls a hand over Din's heart and rests his head on him, a sigh of contentment coming out of him. Din's smile grows wider, his secondary gender's instincts settling for what feels like the first time in his life. A missing piece has been returned, a long lost emotion making its way back to him. Love, so utterly pure and vicious it hurts.

"As you wish. I know your name as my child, Grogu. Ni kyr’tayl gai sa’ad."

Grogu sighed again, even bigger short huffs that came when he was deeply relaxed. Almost like purring, but distinctly unique to his species. Din laughs, seeing how tired the boy was from showing him all those memories. The kid got what he wanted, so now he was satisfied. Din will wait to show him his face, let the bond completely link with eye-to-eye contact. It does not matter so much to him; the physical and mental bond that came with being pack, aliit, was not as important as having him in the Manda. They will be joined in the afterlife whether Din pops off his helmet or not, so Din settles the sleepy boy in one arm and continues his self-maintenance, humming as he goes along. He’s satisfied himself, only one last thing remaining.

He was going to tear Moff Gideon limb from limb.

Chapter Text

Jaster Mereel has been having a strange time of it.

Oh, the best of times, but… not what he thought he would be doing with his life. He joined the mercenary company and started training to become a super-commando firstly because he got booted from Concord Dawn. Being banned from his native planet meant he had to go elsewhere, and Jaster was angry. He'd done a bad thing for a good purpose, and they couldn't get past that it needed to be done. The pig of a superior officer had been rapist scum, and he hadn't been learning any lessons from the slaps on his wrists. He needed a more permanent solution, and the man himself had created the opportunity by trying again on Jaster's patrol.

Still, he never thought that it would lead to him becoming, first, the head of the mercenary group, then elected leader of the the super-commandos with the company he kept electing him as Alor, and then onwards to Mand'alor. The Haat'Mando'ade becomes the company, the verde changing the name in the face of those Nu'Mandos calling themselves New Mandalorians. Disparaging their history and casting away their traditions was one thing, but to still claim to be Mandalorian? Without practicing the Tenants and following the Resol'nare? Jaster thinks not, and so does a large portion of the Mandalorian population off Manda'yaim, which caused the influx of verde joining them, or Tor.

Tor Vizsla was a thorn in his side that would not fuck off. Jaster wouldn't mind Tor having his opinions if he wasn't creating an army to enact them, and subsequently claim himself Mand'alor to issue the call. The problem was, not many answered. This infuriated him, so they got crafty emboldening their ranks with stolen children and brainwashing younger verde. 

That was what started it. The camps full of abused and kidnapped kids, all being indoctrinated into Tor's ranks. When Jaster learned about it, he committed more to the cause. Tor needed to yield or be put down like that superior officer, not going to stop until someone put him in his place. Jaster was determined to be that person if Tor wanted to hunt and kill him so badly, to become the sole candidate as the Mand'alor. 

It peaked back on Concord Dawn, Tor going after the Journeyman Protector that took over Jaster's territory and hoping it would lead to him. It only worked because they had been in the area, but it didn't stop it from ending terribly. Tor left empty-handed, and his troops killed the Fett family one-by-one, the Haat'ade only able to save the youngest child.

That child became Jaster's son. He'd found and protected him, and Jango had been young enough to latch onto him without fear of his title or standing. The boy was an Alpha himself, probably the only thing that kept him alive. He'd make a good addition if they could break him, but there would be no breaking of Jango Fett. The boy was strong-willed, still caring despite the brutality of Tor, still sympathetic despite the warfront Jaster subjected him to.

There'd been a few comments, far and few between and viciously beaten down by his Haat'ade, of Jaster's capabilities as a parent. A single one, mid-thirties, no mate or omega in the picture, and a brutal alpha to match. Jaster wasn't beholden to his natural instincts, trained like many other Mando'ade to control them. Acknowledge them and let them pass, because the moment an alpha starts listening without thinking is the day they become more like an animal than human. Honour was not often at the forefront of their minds in hot-headed situations, but if one practiced instead of playing victim to it, then they could outsmart it. Use it to their advantage. He hated the scrutiny on whether he was raising Jango right, like he couldn't be empathetic and teach a child self-control. 

He ignored them best he could, and he thought he was doing alright. Jango just turned thirteen, bouncing around in his new set of beskar'gam, freshly painted and no long longer durasteel and training leathers. His verd'goten was not two weeks ago, and as promised, they get to go on a private hunt. It had to rely on Kyr'tsad's dealings and whether it was safe to go, for them personally and the Haat'ade to be without an Alor. It seemed like a grand idea at the time.

The moment Jaster realized he’d made a mistake was a moment too late to do anything about it. 

The first mission Jaster felt comfortable taking his young son on alone had turned to shit almost the second the mission ended. It had started well, Jaster being able to educate Jango on the art of Hunting and looking for information that would be beneficial to their job, and subsequently get him thinking about applicable ways to use it in life. Though he was not a Beroya in occupation, he knew enough basic skills to make do and teach Jango what he knew. He had done well on training him to look for threats because Jango had been the one to notice the Kyr'tsad warriors closing in on them at the Marketplace. Jaster, preoccupied with finding his son both a gift and reward for a Hunt well done, hadn’t noticed until they sprang out of the woodwork like silver-blue cockroaches.

Jaster was in the midst of choking one out with his whipcord with frantic energy while another approached his son. There had been a split second of terror when his hand went to his dagger, knowing he was a second too slow from freeing it from its sheath when another blade whistled through the air and through the soldier’s neck. The spray of blood across Jango’s buy'ce and the clatter of beskar'gam on the ground stunned them all still. Before Jaster or the even more confused Death Watch operatives could understand what was happening, a silver blur started decimating them.

The gleaming silver of a beskar spear maneuvered so efficiently, it could hardly be seen as well as the precise, effortless shots of a blaster hitting them between the gaps of their armour. A tall, well-built Mandalorian in pure, unpainted armour was a whirlwind of destruction around them,  getting the Kyr'tsad numbers down to a manageable amount in record time. A no easy feat for any of the Haat’ade; Death Watch’s training regime had been one they’d been struggling to face with their lack of morals and ferocity. This verd fought more on their level, with an efficient brutality that came only from a mixed experience of fighting accomplished warriors and scrappers without honour. There were hints of the Fighting Corps style as well as a variety of others, showing the marks of an educated warrior who persisted in learning new techniques. 

Jaster was in awe of the skill and prowess before the realization came over him that this verd had most likely saved their lives, and he was standing there in a stupor watching them clean up the place.

Jaster lunged towards Jango, gluing himself to his side as they took the remaining enemies together, alongside their unexpected saviour. Jango was used to being his partner on the Front, and this mission was supposed to give him confidence in his own abilities, but now Jaster didn’t think he could ever send him off alone after this. That was too close a call, and he was always confident he could protect Jango as well as let the boy protect himself, as long as they were together. Catching the swinging arm of one verd was easy and letting Jango gut him while he held him still even more so. 

It did not seem to matter so much now, Jaster’s worries, when the Death Watch soldiers remaining were more focused on their new opponent than their original targets. Something had riled them all up, most of them stiffened in outrage and snarling in fury. So much so it was stinking up the place, the smell of pissed off Alpha filling the air with a sour smell. Jaster could tell his son was wrinkling his nose, waving a hand in front of his helmet like it would ward off the stench. The Kyr'tsad shabuire were circling the warrior now, five to one. Jaster noticed three things at once while they inched closer to the spinning group, hoping to get one in the back with his blade while Jango took aim. 

The first thing was the way the verd was positioning themselves, spinning to match the most dangerous looking foe with their right side. They kept a protective arm holding a wicked serrated blade raised over the satchel on their left hip. That satchel held something important enough the honourable Mandalorian would protect it first over their own life. 

The second thing was the faint, underlying scent smothered under the Alpha’s. It was sweeter, with a bitter edge to it. Almost like the scent of an omega; one that was righteously pissed off and filled with fierce, protective loyalty. It was a delicate scent that floated on the breeze, hardly noticeable, but Jaster’s alpha latches onto it immediately as one he likes. He was half convinced it was coming from somewhere else in the Market before his wandering eyes noticed the details of the verd’s beskar'gam. Beskar hip plates on their sides, smaller beskar plating protecting the glands at their throat sewn into the kute fabric, their helmet looked almost purely beskar like the rest of their kit. Almost all of an Omega’s extra scent glands were covered in unalloyed beskar plating that could help mask the smell. 

The third thing he noticed was the insulting filth the Death Watch warriors were spitting at them. The words had Jaster even more enraged, his lip curling under his bucket in disgust, his son stiffening in surprise at the animosity. Their voices were layering over each other in an endless spiel of Kyr'tsad rubbish.

“You Omega filth dare to attack us!”

“An unmarked bitch! Not even a cockless Alpha would pick you, huh?”

“Unbreeded, even!”

“Smell that, Alphas? He’s claimed one that’s not even blood— hrk!”

Even through all the harassment, that was the insult that got the Mandalorian to move. They change angles immediately, pivoting their feet to use their left hand to slash at the neck of the mouthy shabuir behind them that had hedged too close. The man’s clutching his throat while gurgling sounds come through his vocoder, slumping to the ground while Jaster and Jango spring into action. Jaster gets his blade up and under the closest verd’s backplate, severing his spine with one thrust and twist and throwing him to the ground. Jango gets two shots in with his precise aiming, one in the groin across the circle without a codpiece, and another through the neck without a gorget. Jaster sheathes his blade and unholsters his blaster just in time to set sights on one verd grab the satchel strap and attempt to pry it from the Omega’s body while another fights them for their dagger.

Jaster fires without hesitation, relishing in the dropping lifeless body of one who would treat an Omega with such disrespect and try to strip them of their belongings. The said Omega Mando rips the knife from their enemy’s grasp and plunges it between the gaps of his cuirass with enough force to bury it up to the hilt. When the body drops to the ground with a clattering thud, the now deserted Marketplace is quiet. 

It’s blessedly silent for a few seconds before a small coo sounds out, so low that his mics barely pick it up. Jango doesn’t hear it, still looking up and down the streets for more incoming enemies. Jaster looks towards the sound, the silver-clad warrior, and tilts his head in question. He can smell something else, faint and not human and bound to this warrior like Kyr'tsad had said, but it is this verd’s business and it’s not his place to intrude on it. The Omega is staring at him intently, their now empty hand resting on the satchel. Jaster signals for them to approach, not willing to take the first step when the verd was bouncing on their toes, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. 

After another few seconds of hesitation, they come over, leaving their hand on the bag and away from Jaster’s easy reach.

“Udesii, verd,” Jaster gets out, suddenly aware the Mandalorian had a few inches of height on him, wider in the shoulders with a thick waist. The smell of them as they get closer is filling Jaster’s head and he struggles to focus through it. It’s strange, how much it dulls his outer senses so he’s focused only on the verd, pulling his thoughts away from the bag at their hip. He tries to work through it by placing a hand on Jango’s shoulder to bring his attention over to the conversation, using his son as an anchor to the present. 

“We each owe you a Life Debt, saving us from that ambush,” he offers in placation, trying to look for details to guide him through the fog in his brain. He doesn’t recognize the verd’s aliik, a Mudhorn if he’s not mistaken, and they bear no other markings that he can see. He pats Jango’s shoulder in encouragement and the boy takes a step forward. Jaster notices how the warrior does not shy away from his child, loosening their posture as much as they can for the ad to not seem so hostile and defensive. It endears them to Jaster, softening over the fact this warrior annihilated these verde and had no need for their help, but is soft towards children. Not because Omegas should be, but because the best Mandalorians are. 

“Thank you for knifing that one coming at me. I owe you my life. I’m… sorry that they said those things to you. Nobody deserves that, especially when it’s not true. I have plenty of Omega friends who are awesome and kick-ass!”

“Language,” both Jaster and the handsome stranger speak at once, albeit their voice is hardly heard with how soft it is under Jaster’s sharper reprimand. The verd dips their head in apology, for overstepping their bounds Jaster presumes, but he doesn’t mind and waves it off. All he can really think about is the chance to prove his worth to this feisty Omega who’s soft on children and brutal on demagolka scum that were willing to kill his son. He is surprised that the verd turns their attention back to Jango, crouching lower to look at him visor-on-visor.

“You do not owe me anything, ad. Children are the Future. I would not be able to face my own buir if I let these hut'uune live,” they glance again at Jaster before continuing, giving his son some truthful advice, “You do not need to apologize to me. Words are no insult, especially coming from di'kute who would harm ade and spit on the Old Ways. Kyr'tsad scum means little to me, their words even less, and they should mean little to you. Do not weigh on it. Think of how well you shoot when it counts, where it counts. …Nice shot to the junk; now they are unbreedable.”

The Mando snorts before their modulator shuts off abruptly, and Jaster only knows because as a Mando, he’s cut his mic to hide laughter often. Not so much when he wasn’t in situations that demand he be cordial, and he laments at not hearing the rest of this warrior’s laugh. They had a raspy, soft voice that sounded like it would produce even rougher laughter. That draws him to inch a little closer, curious about where this one has come from. Not Death Watch with their obvious disdain for them, but they have not rushed to introduce themselves either, and the verd has done well to stand still for the most part. There’s no movement to their head that would gauge their eye line, or if they’ve even clocked Jaster’s sigils and signets, or what they may think of them; well-practiced in wearing armour full-time, and they have some impressive weapons strapped to them. A hunter or mercenary, he wonders? Jaster watches them reach out with their right hand and pat Jango’s buy'ce before standing up, the blue triangles painted on the backs of their kom'rke making the motion easy to track.

Jaster’s just about to introduce himself, wanting a name in return before he is interrupted. The coo comes again, and this time Jaster is certain it’s coming from the Mando’s satchel. Pushing up against the Omega’s gentle weight of their hand on the flap of the bag is a little green creature, long ears flopping out the top like a plant overflowing its pot. Big brown eyes are peeking at them, the verd’s fingers rubbing between the large ears through the satchel soothingly. Up higher it peeks, even leaning around the warrior’s side as they shift to hide it, and now Jaster can see it. It’s only an ik'aad, not a creature, with little claws holding onto the bag’s opening seam, and a brown tunic that looks recently patched and stitched with shimmering metallic thread. Its face and big expressive eyes speak of a youngling, a Foundling, curiously surveying them while glancing up with loving looks at their guardian.

“A baby!” Jango says with awe, having not seen one in a long while. Not many of the Haat’ade chose to go the biological-children route, not when there were Foundlings. As for Foundling babies, it was very rare they found children that young with no family to take them in. If there are, they usually go to special medics and caretakers to make sure the babies get what they need before adoption. That place was often the furthest place from Jaster and the frontlines, and Jango in addition. Jaster was glad to hear the interest in his son’s voice, not complete discomfort like some older kids could be.

“Elek… Ner ik'aad, ” the warrior says cautiously, taking a single step away from them.

Jaster could understand that the protectiveness they were feeling was instinctual, ingrained. He couldn’t help but ask, even if it scared the verd off more. Jaster needed to know who they were, something about them that could put this attraction to rest or give it kindling. At the same time, his honour demanded he know the answer. An Omega with a pup, alone, wearing pure beskar this far in the Outer Rim away from Manda'yaim? It was not about the manner of skill of the warrior in question, but with a babe in arms, his Codex and his own code say they are entitled to protection and safe passage. No honourable Mandalorian would leave someone with a baby without a Ver'gebuir in dangerous territory.

“I don’t mean to overstep, but… you are out here alone, with an ik'aad? No mate or protection? You can clearly handle yourself, but I know many Clans would be appalled you are out here alone without backup.”

The verd stiffens at the word protection, backing up another step and Jaster panics.

“I would be honoured to repay my Life Debt by helping you! Or, at least, could I know how to contact your Clan with an appropriate payment? Or do you need haven?”

Oh, he was losing his edge now. This attractive warrior was slipping away and Jaster was mashing words together and hoping they got them to stay. He hoped his dull words stuck better than a dull blade. In the end, it wasn’t his words that got the Mandalorian to freeze.

Jango glances back at him with an incredulous tilt to his head and says it loud enough his dry, but sincere words ring through the empty streets, “And maybe your comm number and what you might like as a Courting gift?”

Jaster lightly kicks at him, prompting a startled ‘ow!’ that was more from surprise than from any pain. Though embarrassing,  his son was not wrong about his intentions. He was hoping to ask more subtly than that, but now that it’s been said, the Alpha in him couldn’t let it go. He liked the verd’s scent, the way they fought,  the shape of their body and the raspy quality to their voice. Jaster would be a fool to not court this courageous, honourable Omega that fell into his lap and saved their lives. So he does the only thing he can, still fighting through the foreign urge to walk away. He would not, no matter how intense the feeling was growing, causing his feet to shuffle despite his will to stay right where he was.

“And maybe your comm number, or what you would like as a Courting Gift?” Jaster echoes, ignoring Jango’s snort of restrained laughter. He attempts to subtly kick at the boy again who dodges out of the way with another giggle. Jaster smiles and refrains from doing it again, knowing it would delve back into their Game/Contest/Training/Bet that always ends with Jango bruising the soft parts of his legs.

All at once, the fleeing feeling fades away. He nearly slumps at the release of the pressure, unaware of how strong it was until it was gone. Interestingly enough, the feeling now matches Jaster’s own, the whispering for him to stay inaudible underneath his own longing. He pushes it from his mind, saving it for later to dissect exactly what it was and where it came from. Right now, he was more interested in the surprised jerk of the verd’s body, now tilting their head in confusion.

“A… Courting Gift? For what?” The verd says, their voice full of surprise. 

“For you, for being you,” Jaster says dumbly, confused at the confusion, “I’d throw my gauntlet at your feet if I thought it’d be enough. It is too cheap for a warrior like yourself, so I would rather give you something grander.”

That is something common within the Haat’ade, the sound of metal hitting the ground as someone tosses their vambrace at a mate or riduur they fancied. He’s been researching when and where the marriage proposal trope came from and developed over time. Certainly simplified from swapping beskar'gam pieces with riduur, and certainly not as old as paying a bride-price to a Clan for a mate. This ritual seems foreign to the silver Mandalorian, tilting their head back the other way as they study him closely. An adorable predator, he thinks as he watches the movement that seemed more suited to a loth-cat. Jaster feels the need to elaborate, not wanting to hide his intentions. Why would he when the verde surrounding him in the Haat'Mando'ade flaunted their feelings without care, living with more shereshoy than Jaster knew what to do with sometimes? 

“You’d throw a piece of your beskar'gam on the ground for me?” the Mando'ad says almost incredulously, probably thinking it insulting to treat one’s soul this way. The verd had mentioned Kyr'tsad spitting on the Old Ways before, so Jaster figured they were probably traditional, or at least educated in them enough to respect them. 

“It’s an interesting tradition I’ve seen developing, though I find myself too old-fashioned to do it myself. The verde I see are tossing their hearts on the ground with the knowledge of the sacrifice, historical relevance, and possible rejection. It is done with honour, which is conflicting to say the least. I admire them. 

"I wish to try and court you all the same, if you are willing. To get to know you, and you me. But I like what I already see. You risked you and your ad’s lives to save me and my child. That takes admirable courage and honour, and you wiped the floor with those shabuire. I admire that you could probably wipe the floor with me. You speak to my son with truth and care, and your child clearly adores you. You deserve something special, just for you, because you are the most mandokarla warrior I’ve seen in ages.”

While speaking, a new feeling grows in the pit of his belly. His own words bring forth their own desire, realizing just how right he was. The verd did deserve something special, something that would put a gauntlet or any weapon offering to shame. They’d saved his son, forget about the rest! Jango would not be standing here, able to learn lessons or receive praise and love because he would be gutted in a no-name Marketplace. Jaster had no idea how to put how thankful he was into a present. 

“For me,” the verd says dazedly. They’re staring at Jaster with their undivided attention, now facing him with their whole body as they run an orange-tipped gloved finger along their Foundling’s ear. Jaster dares to take a small step towards them, pleased that they don’t take a step away from him this time. He uses the chance to turn off his buy'ce filters, take a deep breath in through his nose, and inhaling what he can of the Omega’s sweet scent.  It is just as attractive without the hint of anger from before, reminding Jaster of the smell of a fresh spring; clean air purified by rain, the warmth of sunshine coaxing flowers to open. At the same time, there's a sharpness to it, like a looming thunderhead and the ozone of lightning. He’s never come across someone whose pheromones connected with him so deeply, his Alpha instincts feeling soothed and energized simultaneously. 

“May I have your name, Omega?” he says softly, “Where has such a mesh'la warrior like yourself been?”

“Din Djarin, Clan Mudhorn, he/him,” the verd rasps back slowly like he’s unused to introducing himself, taking his own small step forward. Jaster wonders what he smells like to the Omega as he mouths the words under the safety of his helmet. Din Djarin, what a pretty but strong name. Jaster likes how it rolls off the tongue, Din, and wonders even more where his Clan came from. A small one without an attached House, which makes sense as to why Jaster doesn’t recognize his sigil despite having most memorized. Before he can ask more or give his introduction, the verd is asking him his own question.

“Your signet, you’re part of the Haat'Mando'ade?”

“Yes,” Jaster says, balking at telling him he’s the leader of them. It may have been overconfidence or optimism that he’d believed the verd knew who he was. His beskar'gam was uncommon and his signets were unique, becoming recognized on sight to those familiar with him. Then he says something else that has him more hesitant while another part of him burns with a challenge.

“Hm. My buir will not like that,” Din sighs, patting his ad’s head as he looks down at the little creature grinning under his buir’s attention. So far the man has not denied or accepted anything, not his offer of a gift or refusal of his help. Everything at this moment has been set aside into little boxes to be weighed, and Jaster understands. The nature of a good hunter, picking as much information clean before analyzing everything as a whole. This one is smart, calculating, and second by second Jaster is falling in love.  It becomes even harder for Jaster to tell him after thinking it might scare him off, but his son has no qualms.

“Jas’buir!” Jango interjects, “You forgot to tell him you’re the Alor! That’s gotta be a good thing, right?”

Din snaps his head up to stare at him, his body jerking in surprise, “You’re the Mand'alor? I’m just a beroya, you can’t possibly be interested—”

At the same time, two things happen. Jaster’s lost in the abruptness of it all, just like his arrival. A foreign shout yelling about Mandalorians while a blaster bolt pings off the back of Din’s head, throwing it forward and cutting off the rest of his words. They’re all moving in motion immediately, Jaster going to Jango’s side as the bounty hunter spins to see who shot him in the back of the bucket, keeping the babe on the furthest side. When he catches sight of the plastoid, poor-quality armour of the hunters at the end of Market overflowing like a kicked anthill, the Beroya bolts. Jaster shouts at him to wait, but he’s booking it down the Marketplace away from the enemies now filling the place. 

“He’s running away, Jas’buir!” Jango says incredulously, watching his silver hero breaking into a dead sprint the other direction, shooting over his shoulder at the hunters and hitting them with deadly precision. It only aggravates the mass more, at least twenty to thirty of them, and Jaster is raising his weapons wondering what in the haran just happened. It takes him a moment to notice these hunters want nothing to do with him and his son, instead running and shooting in the direction of the fleeing . 

“He’s leading them away,” Jaster corrects, his mics picking up the hunter’s frantic orders to chase the silver one, “They’re after him.”

“We have to help him!”

Jaster admires his son’s courage, but there’s a mass amount of them and after watching Jango almost be killed, he’s torn between throwing himself in there and making sure his son stays unharmed. They have to play it smart and safe, otherwise they’ll become open targets just for being an annoyance. The hunter’s armour was weak, but their blasters were high-caliber and could cause serious damage if hit in a weak spot. The Beroya was right to hightail it, he had an ik'aad to protect and for some reason he was their target. That tore at him even more, knowing he was weighing the risk of his own son’s life in his mind to these two beings he met scant ten minutes ago. 

Before he could dwell on it too much, the rapid, loud echoing chatter of a heavy-repeating blaster filled the Market, pelting down the fleeing mass. It doesn't stop or slow them. When the rest had all turned a corner, the rapid fire stopped with the roar of jetpack engines cutting off as a massive Mando'ad dropped out of the air. The cloud of dust really imparted how large this one was and Jaster eyed his blue paint warily, though he lacked the main silver of Death Watch.

“Shabuire! They’ve drained my tank again! If that dinii would just stay still so I can catch up to his sheb'ika, we could end this! And why does he smell so gross—”

The verd turned to check his other side, clocking them in his haste to refill his jetpack and his furious ranting. Jaster and Jango stared back, wondering what this one would bring them. Also strange, with no aliik, and very minimal markings other than slug dents and other imprints of battle. Jaster was even more confused by what he meant about the smell, because Din Djarin was the only thing his olfactory receptors were picking up. That sweet yet sharp scent unique to that man made him salivate, made Jaster want to get as close as he could. It stuck to him like an arrow buried deep in his flesh, through the bars of his ribcage, and the fact that it's fading on the breeze hurt. Jaster has never felt such burning desire to scent an omega, just, pop his helmet off and stick his nose into all the gaps and crevices of Din's armour like a mannerless mutt. 

“You are Mand'alor Mereel,” the warrior states bluntly, not moving an inch, bringing him out of his honestly distracted thoughts.

“Elek, verd,” he says cautiously, suddenly feeling like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to open this can of worms. It sounded like a big one judging by the warrior’s not-impressed tone. He still isn’t quite sure if he’s friendly or hostile until he asks him a question.

“Seen my Beroya? Silver, quiet, pain in my ass— er, butt? Sorry verd'ika, I’m a little frustrated.”

“Is he your mate?” Jango asks, the despair clear in his voice, “Buir just asked to Court him and he was awesome! I thought he was going to accept….”

The blue Mandalorian flinches in disgust, his big arms coming up to wave off the words, “My vod. Ew,” he whispers dramatically to Jango who giggles again, despair now forgotten. 

That’s when Jaster clocks it himself. The verd has a small yellow sigil on his right vambrace, visible only when he turned his arm. He’s never seen it in person before, only in old flimsi-books and holobooks that hardly held any detail. The Mandalorian Tribe known as the Children of the Watch were isolationists, having no alliances with any other sect of Mandalorians. If they did, it was a secret that had been kept for thousands of years. One of the only tidbits outlined clearly were the unique and special placement of where the Watcher’s put their sigils. Wherever they were put corresponded to their position in their Tribe. Not much was known about the ones on those who did not leave their Covert, but there were a few that had been documented. The Hunters and their respective Bodyguards both had theirs on their vambraces, the former on the left for being the arm that provides while the latter has them on the right for protecting. 

My Beroya, he’d said. This man was not that handsome verd’s mate or just his vod, he was his sworn Protector on Hunts. From the looks of things, the Beroya was giving this monster of a man a run for his money. Jaster was under the impression that the paired duos would work together, not have the bodyguard chase after their charge with an army between them. 

“To answer your question,” Jaster starts, hoping to get some answers of his own, “Your Beroya just saved our lives from a Kyr'tsad ambush.”

He dips his head to the littered corpses of Mandalorians. It would do little good to keep their remains here, he thought with irritation. Another thing to clean up; leaving their beskar'gam to be scavenged by aruetiise would be worse than giving them a burial. To his surprise the warrior sighs tiredly before continuing to refill his tank.

“I will help you clean up. If you do not wish to claim it, we will take the beskar as payments for your Life Debts. Ja'hai'ade do not accept Life Debts as it goes against our Creed, but we make concessions under the right circumstances. Our Beroya helping you kill them is one and you being… you…, we cannot afford to be indebted.”

“What about your Hunter?” he says, tipping his head in the direction the horde had stormed off in. Jaster cannot help but want to go after him, though his mind knows it isn’t the smartest route. Even so, that undercurrent of feeling pulls him to chase, the tendrils of another’s yearning whispering at the edge of his hearing matching his own desire. It takes everything in him to not answer the call.

“He can handle himself, as well as disappear if he wants to. You’d be hard pressed to find him if he doesn’t want to be found; trust me, I know, and so do they. Why do you think they were so determined to get him? He’s a slippery little bugger.”

The man says this very nonchalantly as he picks up three of the bodies. Three. Jaster struggles to sling one in full beskar'gam over his shoulders and help Jango drag another.

“Shabuir couldn’t disintegrate them,” the man mutters to himself before turning back to Jaster, “Tell me you have a ship. I came here on a public shuttle.”

Jango snorts, and Jaster can’t help but grin under his bucket. He knows the exact image the boy has pictured in his mind of this massive Mandalorian in heavy infantry armour on a passenger transport. The disgust in his tone conveys how much he loathed giving up his weapons for the trip, as well as he probably took up two seats. The looks he would have gotten, Jaster can only imagine just as clearly. The aisles were probably cleared four seats in every direction. 

“Yes, verd. Where can I drop you?”

The blue verd stares. Stares some more, while Jaster and Jango stare back. Jaster wishes he would say something, this fucking dar’manda was heavy. 

“You have issued a Proposal,” the verd states bluntly, “And I have to report back. Whether you have a Courting Gift prepared is irrelevant. If you wish to follow through, you must declare your Offer to the Alor'e.”

Jaster blanches. As much as he’d been sincere, he didn’t expect it to move so quickly. He’d hoped Din would accept his offer before Jaster approached his Tribe or buire. There didn’t seem to be a point if Din wasn’t interested, and Jaster had not received an answer. The last thing the man had said to him before he ran off was his incredulous idea that Jaster wouldn’t be interested simply because of their difference in rank. If that was the case, Jaster would be a single lonely man for the rest of his life, for no other Mando'ad could be the Mand'alor at the same time. Unless he wanted to marry Tor Vizsla, the only other one to claim he was so. Jaster would rather die than go on a date with utreekov Tor, who didn’t have two braincells to rub together, and the one he did have was solely focused on himself. 

Still, it seems that the Children of the Watch take proposals very seriously, even if they did not have an answer. Jaster tries to tell him this, not keen on keeping it to himself and having it make him look duplicitous later on. Either way, he would give the verd the beskar from the Death Watch corpses, as well as a ride back home. 

“He did not give me an answer, your Hunter. Should I be asking without his consent?”

“In our Tribe’s tradition for mating our Omegas, you are to state your intention to their Buire or Alor'e, state the price you can afford, before asking the Omega. You might not even be given permission to ask.”

“Price?” Jango ask, modulator not able to hide his incredulity. Jaster stills when the man is done, knowing that Tribes-members would be traditionalists and might have their own Courting rituals, but wouldn’t have expected to have already disparaged them. In this case, the Mando'ad Cabur had not removed his head, and neither had Din when he’d asked. Either it was an offence not punishable by death, or they were being lenient in the face of his ignorance. That is when Jango’s question jolts him back to the present, matching his surprise. He knows of the old ritual, but this is the first time he’s heard of it still being used. Jango must have zoned out when he was giving him lessons. Or more likely, fell asleep while Jaster was chattering on about the new chunk of history he learned during his research. That’s probably it. 

They are lucky too, that despite this verd’s intimidating stature he was just as soft towards children as his Tribe brother. Jaster has read that these orthodox Tribes’ tended to cherish their children and Foundlings more than Mandalorians now. It takes a village, and old Tribes took that saying to heart. Jaster wondered what that looked like, what that felt like, when the Haat’ade already took that so seriously. Kyr'tsad were hateful towards Foundlings, and the Nu'Mandos were killing the concept by opening orphanages, neglecting children that did not fit their pacifist standards. Jaster was delighted to be in the presence of verde that took that ancient tradition that made up the best parts of their culture, nurturing it until it blossomed in their warriors. The verd here speaks to Jango just as the handsome one had, gentle and educating without a hint of bias or reprimand. 

“Our Tribe still asks for a bride-price. That means a potential mate that wishes to Court one of our omegas or any other member of our Tribe, must state what they are willing to pay in contribution to the Tribe. In a way, it is a way to show your worth to the aliit, and how much you value your future mate.”

“But…,” Jango says, hurt colouring his tone, “Having a family is worth more than anything.”

The Protector tilts his head towards him, and Jaster can hear the amusement in his voice, “Precisely. Weed out the weak.”

“It’s a test,” Jaster says, understanding dawning on him, “To see the sincerity. It has nothing to do with the actual amount.”

“Though an actual amount is nice,” Paz comments, matching Jaster’s laugh with a rumbling chuckle.

“I do not know what I have to offer yet, but I will state my sincerity.”

“This is the Way.”

Jaster respectfully repeats the phrase, Jango following suit. When they get to Jaster’s ship, they load the bodies into the cargo hold and they set course for Concordia. Jaster never expected to ever run into a Ja'hai'ad, let alone be allowed permission to enter their grounds. Their location was a well-kept secret, and Jaster marvels that they’ve hid under Kyr'tsad’s nose. Still, he will have to wait and see before he makes any assumptions. For now, he might just go have a private moment locked in the bathroom. He needed a moment to breathe, chest tight at what has slipped through his grasp. So close, the perfect mate standing right before him, and he gets away.  

Good things Mandalorians love a chase. If he's given permission, that is.

Chapter Text

Din is befuddled.

He has never, ever used that word. Never really been so perplexed by something that it was the only word that came to mind. He wasn’t just confused, not understanding. He understood from the man’s scent alone, the quizzical longing. Not quite puzzled, because there was nothing to solve. The man stated his intentions. 

Jaster Mereel had just plain and simply made him incapable of forming a coherent thought. 

Din had lots of thoughts, and hardly any of them were spoken. No thoughts there, not as Din had fled Gideon’s mercs, and for the first time had regretted walking away from a proposal. There had been so many over the years, Din’s skin still crawls when he recalls them. Outside the Covert, Jaster Mereel had been the first to ask in such a way that hadn’t either been humiliating, downright lewd, or less than sincere. Cobb Vanth was a close second, and Din liked him well enough, but he had a feeling it was a short-term thing that the man was looking for. He was not Mandalorian, that man bound himself to nothing, and Din would have had to ask at least for the Riduurok. Din, like Cobb, did not ask for unwavering devotion, so it was doomed to go nowhere. The fact Din had not immediately wanted to dismiss himself or Jaster Mereel was an unprecedented milestone. 

That had stopped the rest of Din’s thoughts dead and from forming any consistency, because never had Din considered anybody. Not any of the Alphas in the Tribe, who he had known had liked him enough to offer, but it had been an attempt to build love, nor any other outsider looking for a fling or a mate. Din didn’t have time for that, nor was he ready to be a buir and share that responsibility. Many mates wouldn’t force the issue, but Mandalorians made vows to each other in marriage to raise warriors. Din wasn’t sure he was capable of such a thing, until Grogu had asked. His buir will be ecstatic; they’ve been low-key making comments trying to ask if Din would take on a Foundling if not a mate, they wouldn’t mind at all watching them while Din hunted and having a bu'ad around— Din is so glad that is something he no longer has to endure, yet he knew they had been mostly teasing. Grogu being his ad came with a different sort of pressure Din didn’t dread; there was no expectations from a mate, only from a child who only wanted love and attention. Din could give that, and he knew his Tribe would spoil him rotten when they finally made it home. 

Jaster Mereel made him wonder if he could give more. Never had the thought crossed his mind, but when the man’s adorable child proudly confessed who his buir was, Din paused to wonder. Well, he froze mostly because he couldn’t believe the Mand’alor, a renowned ori'ramikad the rest raised to be Commander, saw something in him. A no-name bounty hunter from a small sect hardly known to other Mandalorians, let alone the Galaxy at large. Din didn’t agree with the bride-price his Tribe had set, and made a stink every time they raised it. It was superficial, and he understood that it was more a test of character of the alpha offering, yet it still pissed him off that they ledgered everything. Being the only adult omega, the other only six-standard, meant his fellow Tribe’s members obsessed over it to make sure Din got the best of the best for a mate. The bride-price meant nothing in the end, but a warning to those bargaining for an omega: if you think you can stoop so low as to the lowest price available, prepare for round two.

Which was somebody testing their skill in combat. The unfortunate part was any Ja'hai'ad could challenge the alpha if they won the first round, not for the omega, but to test the alpha's worth as a warrior. Din actually almost regretted not saying yes to some offers just to see his entire Tribe beat-down someone for him. Problem was he knows they’d enjoy it too much. Rash especially, a young alpha that had been the first to ask and who lived up to his name. He knew Din would turn him down, but his vod had promised him any alpha that passed the offering stage would have to fight him first. Because they were all stupid and honourable like that, every single alpha who asked next from his Tribe made the exact same promise, thinking they were the first. He loved them for it, the foolish brutes.

Back to Jaster Mereel, who he would not subject to that. If he could help it. Din was already impressed; he had read the Super-Commando Codex, and if the man followed what he wrote, he would be one of the few who understood juggling duty and child-rearing at the same time alone. He would not begrudge Din for it, for wanting to hunt. If he was a Kyr'tsad warrior— and Din would rather eat his own helmet in front of a room full of people— he would expect Din to stay at home and raise the kids, while never sharing the role and letting Din leave. Jaster Mereel had boldly immortalized on paper and as a publicly-available holo-book that no one spouse should take sole responsibility for raising a couple’s children, unless mutually agree upon by both parties. Women would not be forced into the role just the same as omegas because they were seen as equals and worthy of a choice. Din respected that.

At the same time, Jaster Mereel would understand all the looks and comments from outsiders about being a lone parent with a pup, especially as one of a sub-gender population. It was a common stereotype that kids raised under a solo designation would turn out flawed, unbalanced. Either come out too weak or too strong, and betas were hardly even thought of. It was demeaning, and it could only be ignored. Din could only take so many shots at those that dared to insult him to his face, but he couldn’t shoot everyone who gave him pitying looks or whispered behind his back. That’s why Din loved the Tribe so; it was a different culture where everyone respected everyone. That’s not to say everyone personally liked each other, but everyone was family regardless of race, gender, sexual orientation or designation. They evaluated each other through their personal and communal worth. There was no saying what other Mandalorians thought as a whole, other than Kyr'tsad who clearly believed in the opposite. Din wondered about the Haat'Mando'ade, if they really stood up to their name in a way Din could respect. Could join.

Din stopped those thoughts as quickly as they start. Just because the ship was in hyperspace and his child napping, did not mean his thoughts could wander to treasonous, hypocritical, places. He had just given Paz shit for contemplating it, for thinking Jaster Mereel’s cause was strong enough to join in this budding Civil War. Had thought him a fool for wanting to split his loyalty, been angered by him even entertaining the idea. Din knew, along with every other Tribe member when Din had turned them all down, if he was to find a mate, it would be an outsider. He never really considered what that would mean, because that was as far as he got. How could he choose, between the family that raised and loved him and a man who clearly desired him, but did not swear the same Creed? A man that Din entertained the idea of liking back, but at what cost to his Tribe?

Din was normally oblivious to those things. If the man, starting with his child, hadn’t stated wanting to give a courting gift, Din never would have realized. He thought Jaster was trying to repay his life debts to start, the man trying to find loopholes to honour Din saving their lives. Ja'hai'ade did not accept life debts, and Din did not accept courting offers. Until the man gave his spiel, announcing that Din was a fine warrior and a good buir worthy of being provided for. That powered down Din’s brain, automatically cutting off Din’s subtle influence trying to persuade him to walk away. He did not want other Mandalorians involved with his quest, and hadn’t turned off the hypnosis ability he’d been emitting since he’d turned it on full-force. Din was meticulous, knew how much energy to expend and his stamina levels to keep it going indefinitely until he really needed to rest. He’d been using it to keep an eye out for Gideon’s men, for Paz stubbornly still pursuing him despite Din sending him away more than once, to keep people from looking too closely at him, and Grogu in particular. 

Din hadn’t understood at first. Jaster Mereel had fought through it remarkably well, more than anyone else he’s ever tried it on, not counting the species it didn’t affect. Paz was used to it, but it still took him some time to work through it and notice the influence. Din could be sneaky and was familiar with him, knowing they weren’t compatible as mates and meaning Paz could notice it easier than someone infatuated with him. It could work the other way around too, but Paz was just as familiar with him so Din needed to get crafty. Jaster Mereel had clearly been affected, but had fought through it. Din had watched in fascination as the man shuffled his feet when another would have already turned and started walking away. He’d dialled it up, maxed it out, tailored it just for him so his child wouldn’t be affected, just to see what would happen. So much so it should have hit the man over the head like a two-by-four. 

That was when Din started to wonder. How was he doing it? The man could clearly smell him, was an alpha himself, yet he was the first ever to completely resist it. His thoughts and actions remained his own, unaltered by Din’s trap. Then, he repeated his child’s words, offering his own and trying to convince Din to accept. It made sense to him suddenly; they were compatible, and Jaster was too focused on him to be deterred. Fascinating. He contemplated him the second he took in his own inhale, matching the man turning off his buy'ce filters to step closer and take in a big whiff of Din’s scent. 

That had befuddled him, too. The man smelled… delicious. There was no other word for it. Din wanted to bottle it and drink it, had that instinct to get closer so he could get his olfactory intakes as close to the man’s neck as possible. Din didn’t, but he’d wanted to. It was a foreign emotion, and Din had never been so attracted to another’s pheromones. His scent was so distinct and alluring even now, Din could almost taste some notes in his mouth. Like old forests, deep, dark and rich, untouched yet strong. Clean air washed through the filters of foliage, trickling fresh spring water purified through moss, warm, scattering sunlight peeking through the dense layers of leaves. A picture built in his mind of this man, created by the hints of his scent. Determined and as grounding as roots that grew deep, resilient and resolute. He was as transparent as that spring water, yet just as refreshing. Warmth mixed in with the chill, a Mandalorian who could spill blood as well as staunch it. His compassion, strength and honesty was wrought from that alone, and Din… liked it. Immensely.

He couldn’t deny he considered him. Was still considering him. He’d wanted the man to chase him, wanted him to follow despite the interruption of Gideon’s men. Had unconsciously started weaving that longing into his scent, trying to influence the man to give in to the hunt. Din never had that instinct either, willing to lead to see if he’d follow, wanted to leave a trail so he could catch up if he so wanted. What a foolish thought for a bounty hunter. 

Still, Din hoped he did.

In the end, Din focuses the frustration onto Gideon. It was his fault Din couldn’t give Jaster Mereel an answer, along with everything else, so Din poured that anger into finishing him off. He’s definitely getting closer, judging by the hunters Gideon’s sending after them now. It took him long enough to figure out the target was Din, and it was too late to stop him now. Din was on the warpath, and the blood was getting thicker. There was no turning around when it was so deep, the red wake Din’s left behind himself leaving ripples. Holo-news was filled with articles questioning what happened at the buildings Din’s hit, to the piles of corpses and stockpiles he left in them, beginning to connect them to the Corp. Hence, Gideon sending a fucking army after them to try and kill Din, to retrieve Grogu. The Empire Corporation he took over after Palpatine clearly had funds stashed away, offering ridiculous amounts for his shiny head. 

To that, Din said ‘bring it on, shabuir’. 

The next place Din hit was an attempt to purge those emotions. He was still slightly enraged by those Kyr'tsad warrior’s insults, despite telling the Mand’alor’s son different. Din held grudges, but only enacted on them when the time was right. He was angry at the Empire Corp too, for interrupting the most interesting conversation Din’s ever had. One that had more of Din’s engagement than ever before, where Din actually wanted to keep talking, keep Jaster talking. The more he thought about it and had these strange reactions, the angrier he got at his targets. Not enough to become reckless, but enough to want to get this over with. To terrorize them a little. There was a reason now, to finish him more than just for Grogu’s protection and in honourable revenge of all those children that died by Gideon’s orders.

It was obvious, the more Din thought about Jaster Mereel, that he wanted to accept the man’s offer to learn more about each other. The Alpha had been shorter than him, more lean than Din, but Din didn’t mind. Din had seen him fight those Kyr’tsad warriors, and he held his own despite being vastly outnumbered. He was a good marksman too, hardly needing to look down his sight to know his aim was true. The man didn’t seem to mind either that their statures were swapped when it came to stereotypes of Omegas and Alphas, and he’d been genuine in his words. There was no flattery to just get into Din’s pants, but an honest attempt at romance. It made his heart pound at the idea, at what exactly Mand’alor Jaster Mereel would feel fit to gift him. That was if he still wanted to follow through, despite their standing in rank being worlds apart. On the off-chance he will follow, Din was tempted to leave him gifts of his own. Not so much gifts, what his omega instincts desired, but more… enticement. Leave him things that would make him see Din as a greater catch than he already did.

Hence, this Kyr'tsad base as an offering. Din scoured all his stolen information from the Empire Corp, and he wasn’t surprised to find links to Death Watch. Really, it wasn’t that much of a stretch that two groups that stole and abused children would work together to do it. Din was going to put an end to it, but for now he’d start with this base. It wasn’t quite so, more like a low-key holding for prisoners. There weren’t many guards or soldiers, and most of the inhabitants that were here against their will were women, omegas and children. The only alphas were the Death Watch operatives, trying to assimilate these people through long-term abuse and brain-washing. It seldom worked. Their torture ended today, and Din was becoming quite skilled at knocking out these places by himself. This wasn’t like the other Empire Corps’ buildings, wary of being attacked next. These verde had no idea death was hot on their tail. 

Din did, and he relished in it. It was entertaining and vindictive, casting the net and reeling it in. He always starts with the power, with little things they think are just unfortunate coincidences. Interfering with their comms, cutting the surveillance, then finishing with the entire building’s electrical. It pulls guards away from their close groups to investigate, yet they are arrogant enough to think it’s a fluke. Fools. If the back-up generator isn’t kicking in, odds are an attack is imminent. They have no idea, even once Din starts picking off the outside guard. Not a single alarm is raised until well after Din has made it inside, and they’re only tipped off from the corpses Din leaves in the hallways. It’s far too late for it to be any concern to Din.

Din palms open a cell-block with a key-fob he lifted from one of the guards, rifle already raised and his sight set on the single guard at the terminal when they stand. The only thing that can work against him is the prisoners, if Death Watch is smart enough to realize Din has the intention of keeping them alive. They’re not, still searching the base for the intruder and not bothering to increase the supervision on the ones already locked up. There’s shouts of surprise and worry from the prisoners when Din kills the guard, only the ones in the closest cells able to see him until he makes his way over to the terminal. He surveys it, ignoring the questions thrown his way until he finds the release. He punches it, and all the doors slide open to the cells with a loud whump and bang. They don’t move until Din unslings all the pilfered rifles and blasters off his shoulders and tossed them in front of the cells. 

“Protect yourselves,” Din says gruffly, not used to talking after so long surveying this particular base. Not even to Grogu, sitting under his cape. They now speak quite efficiently through scent, sign, and gentle Force prodding, not needing words between them to understand. Din keeps him close at all times, not willing to leave him on the ship. Grogu also refuses to be left behind. Still, he realizes these skittish prisoners will need more words than that.

“I will give the all clear over the loudspeakers when they are all dead. Then, you can lay claim to their vessels and go where you wish.”

“Verd,” one of the braver ones calls when Din steps back towards the door, the rest going for the weapons. Din pauses, tilting his head.

“There’s a girl. They took her maybe an hour ago, for punishment.”

“Where?”

The prisoner points in a vague direction through walls, but it’s enough for Din to plan a route through the map in his mind of the building. This warrior has done him a service, warning him of a potential innocent. He gives them a nod, a silent promise, that they return before picking a weapon themselves. Din makes his exit, sleuthing down the hallways and sticking close to the walls. He uses his thermal vision to pick up the fading heat signatures, three sets of footprints that lead down a set of stairs, one without shoes. Din shuffles his way down, taking his time to make sure his armour doesn’t clink and alert them. A corner offers a hiding spot before the open doorway, allowing Din to hear the two guards inside speaking. He cannot hear the girl, but their words freeze him solid with cold rage.

“Stupid bitch. You should just submit already. That’s all omegas are good for.”

The other alpha scoffs, “It’s because they don’t have any brains. If she knew any better, she’d just spread ‘em.”

“Might have to do it for her. The bitch smells so sweet despite being such filth.”

“Too young for me,” the other says, all humour, “She’s all yours. Maybe you can get the bitch bleeding. Then she’ll be good for something.”

Din steps around the corner and flings a blade towards the one who just finished speaking. It imbeds into their throat, spraying the floor with blood, and hand going to it as they gurgle in shock. The other Kyr'tsad scum spins around, raising their blaster, but Din’s already on them. Din tackles them to the ground, making sure his beskar'gam really crushes the motherfucker on the way down. The girl is to his left, strapped to a chair, matted blonde hair curtaining wide eyes as they stare at him. She’s not as young as he suspected, just a late-bloomer. He’s thankful for it for more than one reason; it’s probably not the first time she has heard such filth from Alphas, despite their words being particularly cruel and lewd, and she is old enough to see death.

The shabuir is still fighting him as Din straddles him, using his weight and legs to pin him from the torso down. He takes one swing at Din’s head before he grabs his arm and twists it sharply, hearing the bones snap under the man’s scream. Din sinks a dagger into his other arm, right where the nerves bundle to keep him from hitting back too hard. Then, Din grabs his helmet and rips it off his head, throwing it away. Din’s own scent is overpowering the room, commanding the man to be still as he tailors it to his disgusting, egotistical scent. The man freezes, eyes wide and scared as his body stops listening to his mind, and starts listening to Din.

“Good for nothing, are we?” Din hisses, his scent turning sharp. The man’s nostrils flare, eyes turning even more fearful as he gets a whiff of Din’s potent rage. He does not expect Din to stand, turning towards the girl as his lip curls under his helmet. He cannot unbind her bounds, and he is grateful to be an omega because if he was an alpha, he wouldn’t have the foresight before ripping out his throat. Din studies him, looks through him, sees how he values strength and dominance, and outmatches him.

“Release her,” Din orders, and his voice is as cutting and confident as the highest-ranking commander. There is no wavering, no doubt, and alphas that respect that most of all are forced to obey.

The man stands like a jerking puppet, trying to fight it. Din repeats himself, sterner, letting more of his authority leak into his voice and scent. He will not be denied, and this man is nothing to him. He walks over to the girl, both their eyes wide and confused, not familiar with this technique omegas can learn. Then, he lifts his vambrace close to the digital lock, letting it scan the release code before they fall away with a loud clang.

“Three steps back,” Din orders now, the man matching him to a tee. The girl is fascinated, the man horrified when Din tells him to turn around. It brings him to a different conclusion, willing to show this girl how useless omegas could be, and to show this alpha wrong right before he dies. 

“The blade in your arm: pull it out.” The man does, not even flinching as he yanks it from his own flesh with his broken arm, blood staining his clothes and soaking his sleeve. His eyes are absolutely petrified now, and Din revels in it.

“Put it to your throat,” He does, pressing the blade into his skin, realization coming into those eyes now, and a sort of weak pleading that cannot change Din’s mind.

“Slit it.”

The man’s eyes widen in disbelief for a split second before his hand moves. There’s not a lick of hesitation, proving Din’s commands reign supreme even over his self-preservation. It proves the man’s weakness, as not many can be persuaded so far. It doesn’t help that Din’s resolve is so strong, wanting him dead more than the man wants to live, and that is a hard feat to beat. He clatters to the ground, his armour making the only sound, then him and the girl are alone.

“How?” The girl rasps, staring up at him with awe.

“We are omega,” Din says proudly, “We can do anything.”

She looks at him with the same disbelief the Demagolka did, and Din cannot help but give her a small, morose smile. The tilt to his head conveys it, his hands soft as he helps her out of the chair. She’s covered in blood and bruises of varying stages of discolouration, obviously a common target for these bastards to abuse. There’s fire in her eyes, though, and the darkest bruises are where the shackles kept her in place. She had fought and tried to get free, uncaring that she was hurting herself. That takes courage, bravery, and a will to survive, the definition of mandokar. Many omegas possessed it, yet they were often taught the opposite. His Tribe was an outlier, firm believers of that being bullshit. There was a saying they took to heart for their female warriors, and it was not limited to omegas— “Ke ba'jurir gar'ade, jagyc'ade kot'la a dalyc'ade kotla'shya.”

Train your sons to be strong, but your daughters to be stronger.

The women, and omega, that made up the Tribe were the strongest, the fiercest of them all. Alphas and males could be physically strong and bigger, but the former were trained and pushed harder. Betas too, because they were so often undermined. Their bodies became their weapons when they were stripped of them, and their minds trained to be more resilient, more calculating, to outsmart brute force. To live in a Galaxy that looked down on them, that thought them weaker, they needed to be stronger. It was a shame that it was not taught universally, and that this young female omega had gone without.

“Are you well enough to stick with me, while I kill the rest?” Din asks her, not willing to leave her on her own. He would not keep her unarmed, but the rest of the prisoners were in the opposite direction of where he needed to go, and they had each other in case the guards come back. 

“Yes,” she answers, and her strength has not waned. Din’s smile widens.

“Good,” he says, handing her a spare blaster. She takes it with familiarity like she’s held one before, but her handling is uncertain. It has been a while since she’s had a weapon in her hands. Din shuffles a little closer, and his scent has changed to more calming notes, losing the hypnotism he was emitting before, and now one more suited to soothe the Foundlings. She doesn’t flinch from his hands as he loosely adjusts her grip to be more stable, before squeezing her hands in place. She holds on tight, keeping the position, and he gives her a sure nod before dipping his head towards the door. She sticks close behind him, enough room for him to fight, but not enough to be separated or an easy target. 

“Wait,” she says, causing him to stop and give her another curious tilt to his head, “What’s your name?”

Din paused, debating. In the end, the answer comes to him quickly. She’s maybe fourteen, fifteen; still a child. This horrible place has stripped her down to nothing more than a designation, a slave in everything but name. He gives her his, just like he did Grogu, because this girl was now in his care if he could not return her to her family.

“Din. Din Djarin. Yours?”

“Arla,” she answers proudly, chin lifting the slightest bit, “Arla Fett.”

The girl swears she has no family left. Din lets it be, and doesn’t push her to make sure. She makes the same tight-lipped look Din had made as a child, to the curious questions asked to a mute child who did not want to say aloud they were now without family. He does not want to return her to the destruction she is dreading, so he keeps her close like Grogu, and continues his hunting. 

The rest of the prisoners had understood Din could do no more than free them, and let them take the spoils of their prison. He had nowhere to send them, and it was bad news to continue to associate with him. Din had tried to persuade Arla to go with them at first, seeing as the older warrior who had told Din about her seemed to be watching over her as a step-in buir. Whether he planned to claim her did not matter, because like Grogu, she had claimed him instead. The man had given him another nod, another unspoken promise between them; Din now had a second ad under his charge, and this warrior was trusting him to protect her.

Din sat her down in the ship, and as he brushed and braided her hair after shoving her into the sonic, he spoke. He washed her clothes, trimmed her nails for her, put ointment on her cuts and bruises. She lets him, watching him with open curiosity as Din settles back into hyperspace. A piece of him always is loose until that moment, never feeling quite safe and whole until the ship vibrated his bones in that tell-tale way. These words come the easiest out of all of his words, just like with Grogu.

Grogu sits in her lap as he explains who he is, where it is has come from, the Tribe that raised him. He keeps the secrets secret, but shares with her all the information potential new members are given before they swear their Creed. Din will not claim her until she knows exactly what she is joining, reciting all the same words buir once told him. Their faces and names are bits of their soul, the equivalency of what they swear to share with their children and spouses, both within the Gai bal Manda and the Riduurok. How they are sacred and shared in life with only those they bind themselves to in the afterlife. That their beskar'gam and buy’cese are the housing and shields of their souls, pieces of their ancestors protecting them while they hunt in this world. How they are to be burned wearing them after they die, so their soul can pass through and bless the next wearers on their way to join the Manda. How Foundlings are their Future, how it is their duty as Mandalorians to not only raise children as warriors, but to find the lost children who already are and guide them home.

This story, he tells her sternly, and does not look away. Explains that he was just like her once, how the universe had killed everything he knew and he had to fight to survive. How he had always had the soul of a warrior, and it had called his Finder to him, just like how the Manda guided him to her and Grogu. She did not have to stay with him, but her Future is now her own. 

“… Do you want me to stay?” She asks hesitantly when Din is done speaking. Din smiles, cocking his buy'ce with exaggeration so she can see it. Din had asked his buir the same question. He had not meant in the Tribe, because they had offered to send him to the Fighting Corps so he could be witnessed by another Clan and possibly adopted, but by their side in particular. 

“I would be honoured, ad'ika,” he says softly, “But I am alone. I have no mate. It will only be I, and Grogu, and the Tribe.”

“That doesn’t matter,” she says, “You’re awesome. I want it to be you, no matter what. And I like Gro’ika, too. I miss—“

She chokes up, tears welling in her eyes. Din shuffles closer and opens his arms, letting her settle in between them. Whatever she was about to say seems to break her, sobbing her broken heart out. Din lets her, and soothes her with quiet words in Mando’a. Grogu doesn’t seem to mind, curling into his future sister’s lap and hugging her midsection. Din lets his scent waft calm and peace throughout the room, the same way he does when the Foundlings are restless, when the Med-bay was overrun and they needed him like a sedate incense. It works, eventually simmering down her rising emotions until they settled completely, Arla’s scent mimicking his. It settles something in him too, and for a moment he’s struck with how blessed he is. He has waited for children of his own for years, and here are two perfect, Mandalorian children, waiting for him just the same.

“Ni kyr’tayl gai sa’ad, Arla Fett, for as long as you want me.”

“Forever,” she whispers against his chest, fogging up his chest plate. Din smiles and rests his beskar forehead on the top of her head, hearing her sigh of relief as she eventually succumbs to her exhaustion. Din knew it was coming, for there is no peace in prison. He scoops her and Grogu into his arms and puts her in his bunk, realizing belatedly Paz would have to move out as he watched his newly, accidentally acquired children snuggle into the blankets and pillows of Din’s measly nest. He’s going to have to work on that too, and stop neglecting all his omega instincts. It’s not only about him, now.

Arla wishes to come into battle with him, once he tells her Grogu’s story. She’s filled with just as much righteous anger over it, already so protective of her younger brother. Din is grateful that he now has a second set of eyes on the boy, but he now has to watch out for two instead of one. One, that had been small enough to sit protected at his back and hip. Arla, who is much bigger, and unprotected. 

The next stop they make for supplies, Din finds a bantha farm and haggles for hide. If he had the luxury, he’d give her leathers from a tougher animal, but as it was with lack of funds, he has to make do. It will take longer, to layer the leather to add true protection, but Arla does not seem to mind the wait when she knows the reward. Din puts the ship back into hyperspace, picking the next base the furthest away. It will work in their favour as well, as the Empire Corps and Death Watch would most likely assume Din wouldn’t zig-zag across the Galaxy, instead choosing the path of least resistance and less fuel. They won’t be expecting him to travel a week in the opposite direction just to hit a smaller base with a smaller reward. They had not quite figured out Din did not do this for profit; he did this for their utter destruction. Until every last base was emptied and destroyed, Din wasn’t finished. He had to do what he could until they figured that out, and his job became more difficult.

Din does not sleep much; he plots. He sits in the darkened hull of the ship under a smaller work light as the kids sleep and sews Arla’s leathers together, and when they are awake, Din teaches. He teaches Grogu the mediation his Star-Touched teacher taught him, continues teaching him new signs that he now includes Arla in, and he teaches the younger omega, first, how to use her weapons as her weapons, not her mind and omega abilities.

“You always start with the physical, the tangible,” Din explains when she asks if he can teach her how to do what he did to her abuser, “You make the motions of your body instinctual, and when that is mastered, you bring in your mental instinct. Your mind as the weapon is the last resort.”

“Why?” She asks, not because she disagrees, but to know.

“It is easier to tap into this power, yet it is easier to rely on it. It takes energy, Arl’ika, much more than physical exertion. If you depend on it and you are unsuccessful, you have put yourself in a dangerous position. They are now aware of what you have tried to do, and now your body is tired to fight. If the motions of your weapons are instinctual, you will have a fighting chance in that state as well. Otherwise, weaken them physically first. It is easier to bend their mind when they are distracted by pain.”

Arla nods, understanding and determined. He does not tell her that he, personally, does need to do so, very rarely. Jaster Mereel was the first in a long time that he would have needed to physically beat down, if he really wanted the man to listen. It had been a good battle of wills. He shakes his head, trying to get his mind off the handsome warrior. All decked out in black, with accents of blood red around his visor and the edges of his pieces, the yellow diamond matching the shape of his beskar’ta in the centre of his chest. How he seemed like he would put up a decent fight physically too, lean and wide in all the right places for Din to grapple with. He’d be fast, agile, more so than Din— Stops thinking about it. He can only hope his blood-offering is enough for Jaster to keep coming, if he’s following at all. It’s no good to dwell and hope on it.

Din follows through showing her katas, letting her spar him with dull blades, and when they land in unpopulated areas to breathe fresh air and stretch their legs, he teaches her to shoot. She knows how to do this, and it comes back to her easier than hand-to-hand. Once that is done and they are all satisfied, Din lets the kids play, and then cleans them up before loading them back onto the ship.

Her and Grogu are both used to him baring face now, more so than he is. It’s when they’re sitting at a shallow riverbank, letting Grogu splash in the water under her watchful eye as Din tests if it’s potable enough to refill the ship’s stores, that she reminds him of what he’s trying to forget. He dumped their refuse at the last port, but they’d wanted an obscene amount to fill it all back up. Din was smart enough to know when he’s being fleeced, and has been grumbling about it since. Arla was smart enough to know when he’s distracted and vulnerable, all of them using the water as a chance to wash the sweat off their faces.

“So… you said you had no mate. Is that by choice?”

Din freezes, the slight chill of the water seeping through his gloves. It’s not that he’s insulted by the question or even very surprised, but it immediately takes him back to Jaster Mereel. Arla reads his face like it’s a slip of flimsi, her grin devilish.

“Sort of,” Din mumbles, turning his face away to watch the current drifting through his fingers, “No one’s really caught my eye.”

His heart rate spikes, and her grin widens, “Liar.”

Din huffs, “Okay, someone offered recently, but I hadn’t the time to give him an answer. I’m not so sure he was serious.”

Again, his heart jumps. He doesn’t want to believe it, but he knows. The man had been, the surety had all been in his stance, in his scent. He wasn’t leaving until Din gave him an answer, and he hopes that him leaving hadn’t been the answer Jaster had assumed. Because, even now almost a month later, Din still thought about him. Thought about his adorable, hopelessly honest son; thought about how good he smelled and how he looked like he could protect him, while also strong enough to let him go. He was capable of at least three of the four marriage vows, and Din did not doubt the man knew how to share. That would be four-for-four.

“Li-ar,” Arla singsongs, causing Grogu to giggle and splash his hands in the water.

Din sighs in defeat, “I like him. I just… don’t know how to do it. Romance. Plus, it’ll be a miracle if it works out. I’m a bounty-hunter, and he’s….”

“He’s what?” Arla asks curiously, cocking her head. She, like Grogu, are already starting to mimic his mannerisms. He doesn’t know if he should laugh or cry.

“The Mand’alor,” Din whispers, almost ashamed to even say it. It was so preposterous, “Jaster Mereel.”

“What,” she says, her grin widening while stars begin to sparkle in her eyes. Din thinks she’s laughing at him.

Din sighs again, hanging his head, “Right? It’s crazy. What the hell does he see—“

“Do not finish that, buir,” Arla says fiercely, cutting him off. Din’s head snaps up for more than one reason, “You’re the best catch this side of the Galaxy. Hell, the whole Galaxy. Just… how did you run into Jaster Mereel? This is like, a fairytale!”

She doesn’t seem to notice, what she called him, and Din doesn’t mention it. He swallows the joy that’s so strong it’s trying to strangle him, not bringing attention that it’s the first time she’s called him buir. What he is going to comment on is the other half of her words, before he gets to the story of them meeting.

“I am just a hunter for a small Tribe, Arl’ika. There is not much to boast about.”

“Bantha-shit—!“

“—Language—“

“Seriously, you’re like… the best!”

The way her blue eyes are so fierce and wide, the indignation and the way she throws her hands up in the air; it’s too much. Din snorts, then this rough laughter is making its way up his throat. He hasn’t laughed like this in a long time, not with him and Paz fighting more often than not on their hunts. Grogu has made him chuckle often too, but this is the first time words have surprised him into laughing in a while. 

He absently wipes a hand under his eye to brush away a stray tear from Arla’s expression growing more scandalized at him laughing in her face. He makes it worse by forgetting his gloves were wet, and he runs it through his long hair instead, shaking his head in fondness as his chuckles taper off. 

“You don’t believe me,” she says, ludicrous, “You can knock out Kyr'tsad bases by yourself. You hunt Demagolka'se, you protect children. You can fight like a nasty shabuir, and you can talk good-for-nothing alphas into killing themselves. You are telling me, if Jaster Mereel was doing all that, you wouldn’t find that attractive as hell? You’re like… Mando-nip.”

Din barks out another laugh, but he supposed he could see where she was going with this. When she puts it like that, those would be attractive qualities he would see in a mate. 

“I’m not even surprised it’s Jaster Mereel,” she states factually, as she pulls Grogu out of the water and wrapping him in a sun-warmed towel, “I’m more shocked that you ran into him. He’s like, the head of a huge mercenary company. How did you find him, and not his hundreds of soldiers?”

“He was hunting, with his ad. A verd'goten gift, I think,” Din answers, remembering the faint smell of the man and his child as he passed them in the Marketplace. They hadn’t noticed him, and they had all been a little slow to reacting to the Kyr'tsad warriors. Din, distracted and making sure the Haat’ad didn’t notice him, yet they had both been vibrating with happiness and preoccupied, scents wafting different levels of joy. The man, pride all in his son, so, so proud Din could taste it in his mouth. The boy, so happy to have all his buir’s attention and that he had done a good job, glowing with gratification. It’s why Din had partially stepped in, though he would have in the end. It would have been a slaughtering of the two True Mandalorians, and the Death Watch scum hadn’t cared one of them had been a child. It was enough for them to die, even without the pure bond between the two.

“He has a child? I don’t remember that.”

“A Foundling,” Din answers as he stands, shaking out his wet hair again before he puts his helmet back on, “Jango, he called him.”

“What?”

Din’s head snaps over immediately, hearing the different tone to her voice. This was all devastation, a hurt so sharp it cut through the air and through Din’s olfactory receptors. It sunk into every scent gland he had, making him move towards her on instinct. He didn’t even remember falling to his knees in front of her and holding out his hands. Arla’s face is as ashen as her dark skin can allow, made starker by the blonde of her hair. Usually it is such a contrast, but not now with hope and sorrow mixed in her eyes, all the blood drained from her face.

“Arl’ika?” He pleads in question, hands still held out in placation. His voice startles her, eyes coming back into focus and she reaches out to grab him desperately.

“My vod'ika,” she whispered, “Jango Fett. I… do you think?”

Din doesn’t bother thinking. He hears what she needs; absolutes. She cannot go on wondering what if’s, if it is her brother alive and son of the Mand’alor, or left dead wherever she was stolen from. Din pulls one hand gently out of her grip, guiding it over to his free hand so she can hold him with both, then he reaches for his helmet. First, he plops it over his wet head, and winds back his footage optically. He goes back to where the boy spoke the most, as he had never taken off his helmet, and pauses the video. Then, he pulls it off his head and plops it over hers.

“Blink twice to play,” he answers instead, knowing she needs to know. Din had the certainty as a child, he knew from that bomb concussion his parents were blown to bits, but he’d watched fellow Foundlings become consumed with the thought until a Finder needed to put it to rest. It was the hardest lesson of all, and Din prayed he did not have to take her back to see for certain.

She must, because Din hears the echo of the boy’s voice out the bottom of his too-big helmet, thanking Din for saving him and having enough empathy to apologize on behalf of the Kyr'tsad warriors’ insults. Din doesn’t quite know what to think as he counts, and it’s only sixteen seconds long before he hears Jaster’s and Din’s layered reprimand for swearing.

Arla heaves in a breath, “Again.”

Din taps at his vambrace, putting the video back those sixteen seconds. He suspected she’d ask, and Din knows when she blinks again before Jango’s voice comes through. He can see her tears drip down the gap of his helmet off her chin, and Din’s heart aches for his child. 

She asks three more times before she removes Din’s buy'ce, places it reverently on the ground beside her, and then launches herself at him. She’s sobbing even harder now, and Din hates to be the one to bear whatever news it is he’s sharing, but he hopes it is a catalyst to her healing. He holds her tight, rocks her, and tries to imbue as much love and security into his aura as possible. Grogu is cooing sadly and staying close, but knowing this was Arla’s moment to process and let Din calm her with whispered words. 

“It’s him. It’s Jan’ika,” she eventually croaks, and Din’s heart soars, before it lurches, on the edge of plummeting. He ignores it, and buries it deep so Arla won’t notice.

“Cyar'ika, look at me for a moment?” Din asks, Arla raising her bloodshot eyes. Her blue eyes are now so crystal clear with hope, “I will reunite you with your vod. Whatever you want to do, and however long it takes for you to decide, you will always be my child.”

“Din…” she says, her lips dipping into the slightest frown.

“I will not separate you from him. But, if you do not like Jaster as a buir, you do not have to stay.”

“You really are jatne'buir, you know that?” She says, and Din’s mouth snaps closed. “You don’t. Di'kut. You’re mine, no matter what. As long as Jango is happy, that’s all I need.”

“He might need you, Arla,” he says softly, to which she instantly shakes her head. Din frowns now, repeating her words, “Di’kut. You are the best big sister, Grogu said so, you know? Jango surely will miss you, and want you around.”

She lifts her head again, a hesitant smile starting to grow, “Really?”

“Really, ner ad,” Din says proudly, confidently, and he really is so happy to say those two words. His child, his baby, his his his. They were all bound, linked through incorporeal ties; Arla and Din, through shared designations and a sub-gender gene, and Grogu linked to Arla through Din and their shared Force-bond. He had claimed them in the Manda, so until they denounce him, they are his. They were Clan, and what is the irony Din had only recently earned his signet, finally made a Clan name that he can pass on and share within his Clan of Three. 

Arla believes him, there’s no way she can’t with Din pouring all his love and belief down these bonds towards his children, in how he was certain they would be exceptional warriors. He would not have Found them otherwise, the Manda waiting to guide him to the most mandokarla ade.

After that, quiets his mind and reaches out, searching for the familiar feeling of his vod. It is easy after hunting for over a decade together, even with their rocky relationship and being parsecs apart. Paz is just Force-Sensitive enough to have a tentative bond with him, one that Din is currently trying to suppress. He’s closer than he had been a few weeks ago, and that makes his presence even clearer, easier to pick out. Similarly, with him, is another presence Din’s mind easily latches on to, despite only experiencing it once first-hand. Din takes in a deep breath from his nose, and he swears he can smell him like he’s right in front of him.

The musk of wood and the slight sweetness of sap, like old flimsi-books being flipped through after ages being closed. Slightly smoky and almost like the leather hide Din had bent over for a week, reminding him of the soot-based ink he preferred when writing rare letters home just for the Foundlings. So many little details to pick out, always so rich and earthy. Fucking delicious is what it is, and Arla giggles when Din exhales, a slight purr rumbling deep in his chest.

Jaster is following, and he’s found Paz as a guide. That means he’s likely to find him, Paz used to his piloting habits. Onwards, then, and Din will be courteous. More so for Arla than Paz and Jaster; he’d be perfectly content to let them chase him around, leaving more blood-offerings for them to find. He’ll leave one more, and then he’ll see if Jaster likes them.

Din hopes so.

Chapter Text

Jaster had never been so thrilled to be invited somewhere in his life. 

He has known about the Children of the Watch for years, and has been eager to learn more of their ways for just as long. They were a secretive Tribe, with techniques and training that were only available to verde who swore their Creed. Only those who were also Creedbound could partake in those secret lessons, vowing that the knowledge would never be spread in case it fell into hands who wished to pervert it. Jaster did not want to be one of those people, but instead one he hoped could learn the deepest, more fundamental values to enrich their people. Lessons that could be shared, implemented more in their communities where they’d been lacking and fraying. Clans needed to be pulled back together, away from where Death Watch and the New Mandalorians have been pulling them. He hoped they would impart him permission for something, but most of all he was hoping for courting rights. 

Jaster knew he would have to ask permission from someone that was not Paz, who he wasn’t sure he’d gained the approval of yet. At least Jaster had done right by telling him right off the bat that Din Djarin was the man he wanted, otherwise Paz might have distrusted him later on if he thought Jaster was hiding something. As of this moment, he was not prepared to ask Din’s buire or Alor'e for permission for anything. Other than offering his services in helping find their missing Beroya, and thanking them for letting him enter the grounds and hoping that leaves them on good terms for a possible, future visit. Jaster needed a gift to present, and with a Mandalorian like Din Djarin— the one who saved Jaster’s own ad while having an ik'aad on his hip, fluidly spinning to keep the babe on his side facing away from potential fire, killing those Kyr’tsad scum trying to snatch the youngling off him with brutal, deserving violence? 

Jaster needed to give him a planet, and maybe two to four moons. Maybe more. He will not offer until the Gift is perfect and deserving, and this man deserved it all. 

Firstly, he deserved safety and security. Safety was the destruction of the mercenary filth after them, and security was the return of his Protector to his side. Those were not gifts, but Jaster could not bring himself to begin searching until the Beroya was with his Tribe and not figuring this mess out alone in the stars. 

“Did you see him?” Comes the whispered voice of an ad, too young to realize they are not whispering. Another shushes him, ‘whispering’ back that he was right around the corner. Jaster was told to wait outside in a hallway, lost in the twisting mazes of the Tribe. Part was above ground, others not so much. A lot of the housing was underground to keep cool, and they had returned at night. Some had woken up it seems, and Jaster was the cause of gossip already. To children, no less. He scooted closer on silent feet, wanting to know what the children could be talking about when it came to a stranger in their Covert.

“-Cabur’Paz mentioned him. Said he was a potential. A potential!” 

One of them sighs dreamily, loud and dramatic enough Jaster could picture them swooning perfectly. “Finally! Beroya deserves someone special, Paz is a mother hen.”

“…But everyone in the Tribe has failed, so he has to be an outsider, right?”

“He’s wearing beskar’gam! Black, red, and yellow!”

“Almost like Dinui’s old set!”

The giggling starts up again, before it quiets down and another curious voice pipes up.

“Do you think Paz means it, him being a Potential Suitor? Jack’al said no one in this parsec could afford him, much less gain his attention. He’s picky, he said. Wants to like them before he tries, which is fair. I wouldn’t want to try either if I didn’t really like-like them.”

“Plus it’s Beroya, he deserves the best! He brings home the best gifts, like those knitted dolls-”

“-And those pink candies!”

“And those picture books!”

“You have a lot to live up to. Those children expect the best for their favourite Provider, as will we all for our vod,” a voice growls out right behind Jaster, who jumps a foot in the air. Paz had no right moving so silently in heavy infantry armour, packing that many weapons. Those children were hoping Jaster would live up to Din’s potential, which meant the Tribe was going to be scrutinizing him for they were all one. The man has whispered so the children still do not notice them eavesdropping around the corner as their Watcher comes to corral them all back to bed. Jaster has an opportunity here for answers Paz may give him, but he’ll never know if he does not ask the questions.

“He is beloved here, your Beroya,” he hedges to which he gets an affirmative grunt as he turns and leads him down a further winding staircase underground. “Does he have more children? I don’t mean to pry, only if I do wish to make an offer, I would need to account for that.”

Paz actually stops on the staircase, almost causing Jaster to walk into him. He has no way of reading the huge Mandalorian’s emotions, carefully hidden just like all the other Tribe’s members here. Did he insult him or surprise him? There’s no way to tell until he speaks, and even then, Jaster can’t quite place the tone.

“What?”

Jaster is now the one freezing, squinting his eyes in confusion. He thought it was a standard question; it would be insulting to not include the man’s ade in Jaster’s courting offer. He’s not sure the reason for clarification, but gives it anyways.

“Does he have more than one ad?” Jaster repeats, “It would be rude if I was to give to one and not another.”

“He… does not,” the man says with some trepidation and Jaster tilts his head in curiosity, trying to deduce what emotions this man was hiding. 

“…But?” Jaster guesses, thinking he hears something left unsaid in the verd’s words.

“… But he is our only adult Omega. We have Beta mothers, but Din is different. He treats all the Foundlings here like his own children until they find a home in buire.”

Jaster wants to ask why the Omega did not claim them as his own, but he understands two things. One, that was a question for Din himself. Two, there was another story there. Paz's voice is bitter and frustrated, but not towards Din. There would be no use in guessing, so he lets it go. 

Plus, he is being led down into their Forge now. He can tell from the smell of soot and the heat baked into the stone walls. Jaster can smell the scent of the one who lives in this Forge, a beta who smells just like the hard stone and hot beskar being quenched; most Goran’e smell something of the like, a firm, unyielding presence that could be smothering if laid on too thick. This one is no different, offering a warning before they even pass through the swinging doors. 

This one wears a golden horned helm and red leathers paired with kamas, their pieces matching the burnish yellow and maroon of their buy’ce and soft clothes. Their stance is remarkably stoic, yet still approachable. Jaster is almost glad Paz asked Jango to stay on the ship until after Jaster pled his case; this one would have scared the Manda right out of him. They give them a polite dip of their head and gesture to the short-legged table with cushions placed on either side. Jaster and Paz don’t hesitate to kneel before the Armourer comes over to join them. Jaster will not speak until spoken to, not here. They recognize this quickly.

“Mand’alor Jaster Mereel. An… honour, to have you in our Covert. I am Goran'be'te'Ja'hai'ade, they/them.”

Jaster wets his lips, “An honour to be welcomed into your grounds, Goran. Thank you for speaking with me.”

They hum, and Jaster barely restrains a twitch. That sound is familiar somehow, he just cannot place it. Instead, they are turning their attention to Paz.

“You have vouched for him, by bringing him here. I would know your reasons. First, I would know why you have returned without your hunter.”

Paz mic crackles, his voice coming out shameful, “He evades me. He is being pursued, and refuses my assistance and protection. I have tried three times since he originally stranded me.”

“It has been almost over five months, and this is the first contact you’ve made,” The Goran growls, Paz bowing his head. Jaster is glad he is not on the receiving end of that, at least, not yet.

“I thought he was pissed at me. I didn’t realize he was hunting something, and whatever it is, is hunting him back. Jaster Mereel was the last to have contact with him, and… graciously brought me home, as well as for other... reasons.”

The tip to Paz’s head is obvious towards him, as well as having a slight hesitant edge like he was walking on a tight-rope. Immediately, the Goran’s focus beams in on Jaster, their visor imposing as their body stiffens almost threateningly. Jaster swallows and holds his ground, knowing what they were going to ask. 

“You intend to Court him?” the Goran’s voice rang out, quiet but sounding like war drums to Jaster’s ears. Paz was bowing his head and he fought from doing the same. He would not lie to a Goran, especially one staring at him with such scrutiny. At the same time, heat was pooling in his gut like he had never felt before. Similar to when he had adopted Jango, a burning need to provide and protect and nurture. This was magnified by thousands in its intensity, radiating above his navel like a hot sun. It begged him to move, to be collecting and hoarding and constructing the most perfect thing— Focus, Mereel! Not the time to be getting lost in primal instincts, no matter how strong the urge was to listen to them.

“I do, but not at this moment. He is not safe, with all these aruetiise after him. I wish to assist your Protector in finding his way back to him while eliminating these cowards. Once he’s in no danger, I will leave to arrange,” and here is where Jaster has to grit his teeth because the words are a struggle, because it isn’t enough, “the perfect gift before my courting proposal to you or his buire. If he has interest in me, of course.”

The Goran cocks their head, and he wonders what he had said wrong. He knows what Paz had said about their customs, but is being as honest as he could about his own views. They are studying him even more intently now, leaning closer and audibly breathing in. Jaster’s scent is telling them something as well, strong enough to be discerned through his beskar plating.  He tilts his own head, curious in what they could be smelling from him when even he was unsure of what he was feeling.

“This gift— it bothers you that you cannot begin searching for it? Not for any reason of your own, but because your instinct is telling you to collect extravagant and glorious things?”

Jaster stalls, stunned by the point-on description. That was what he was feeling exactly, the urge to do as his instincts told him while ignoring all of Jaster’s rationalizations. Similar to the basic drive to protect his son, the primal urge of when he was in a rut and wanting to find someone compatible to connect with, when he smelled an omega in heat that was alluring as the sweetness of fruit ripe on a tree in summer sunlight. Those were common feelings, routine. This… is entirely different. Something in his Alpha instinct was telling him to Collect so he could shower this omega in so many riches, he and his Tribe would want for nothing for the rest of their lives.

“Yes. I feel some kind of instinctual urge to… prepare an excellent offering, to the point it’s ostentatious. I’ve never felt this way before, so it is beneficial if I get some more education in this before I pursue.”

The Goran chuckled, the faint sound accompanying the shaking of the shoulder furs. At once, his anxiety about this unknown problem melts into curiosity.  The Goran is aware of what is affecting him so it is nice that he does not need to go looking far for answers. 

“You are displaying symptoms of Nest-egging. Not unlike Nesting with Omegas, but instead Alphas are consumed with the idea of amassing riches and wealth for their Omega. An Omega will desire to create the perfect nest with what is available, but true Alphas are consumed with making sure their Omega has a swathe of things to choose from to build it. To make them comfortable and be provided with everything, pampering them with an endless sea of gifts. It is where our Courting ritual comes from, with the idea of an Alpha not stooping to a price set by the Alor'e and buire, but exceeding it by mass amounts because they wish to. A truly compatible pair will have heightened instincts towards courting and mating.”

"Fascinating," Jaster says, never being taught this. He'd heard of it, but thought it was either a myth or incredibly rare. 

“That will pose trouble, Gor’alor. Din’s been sweet-talking me into backing off. It worked on me, so it should definitely work on him.”

“It could, or Jaster Mereel can prepare for it and be one of the few to be able to fend it off completely. That kind of command does not generally work on two that have connected. They will be too evenly-matched in wills.”

“I do not understand,” he interjects, “What is sweet-talking? I think I have a different definition of the term…”

Paz snorts, “It’s what we use for slang for Omega’s hypnosis abilities.”

Jaster paused again. In such a short amount of time,  he has learned multiple things unbeknownst to him that they ever existed. He had no idea Omegas had abilities other than their heightened senses and Empathy. Now he was interested, wondering just how many special techniques this Tribe taught their warriors. The Goran, noticing his curiosity as well as confusion, thankfully elaborates. 

“Certain Omegas that possess the skill can enhance their Empath abilities,  enough to be able to persuade others by fluctuating their smell and lacing their words with command. Similar to Alpha commands, but instead of giving a direct order, an Omega can tell what an Alpha is more susceptible to responding to. It requires a deep understanding of the emotions and intentions of the one being sweet-talked, and experienced Omegas can judge one by their smell alone and tailor their demands accordingly. 

"It can work on incompatible or compatible pairs, though there are weaknesses and limits to each. One not compatible, like Paz, can resist it if it is not so subtle they do not notice the influence. They can be overcome if the Omega’s desires outweigh their own. Compatible Alphas are at much higher risk of being sweet-talked because they want to listen, but it loses some bite if they’re mated. It works especially well if an Omega has a strong will and confidence; the stronger one’s desires and determination will strengthen the effects, and they will not need to say much to have one ensnared. Din is such an Omega, and his gift is magnified by how well he understands behavioural nature. Our Beroya struggles with understanding romantic intentions and personal social interactions, but he excels at deciphering motives and emotions. The why is not important to him, only that things are or are not. 

"Paz, could you please elaborate more? Why is Din using it on you, when he knows it may not work?”

“His desire is strong enough it nearly bowled me over. I obeyed it for long enough he escaped before I could break through it. The first time he used it to strand me. The second time, I had caught up to him surrounded by five enemies. I was an unfortunate bystander when he commanded us all to be still. It held us all there for longer than ten minutes, but I was able to shake it off first and kill the rest while they were frozen. It’s getting stronger with his desperation; the third time I caught up to him, he told me to go away and I’d walked two blocks in the opposite direction before realizing what happened. I worry if I catch him again, I will not be able to resist it at all.”

The Goran sighs, “He is a solitary creature, but he does not often dismiss help when offered, much less yours. Something else is driving him to turn us away. There is little that would move him to do such a thing.”

“You think the threat is large enough he does not wish to draw their attention our way?”

“Yes. They must also have great resources and more allies than anticipated.  Whatever it is, it has made Din wary of exposing the Tribe. He has decided it would be better to pick them off one at a time and pose as a singular threat. Do not discount this; he would not choose this path without good reason. It would be wise to use it to your advantage.”

“May I propose an alternative?” Jaster interjects before Paz goes further down the path of least resistance. He would be galled if he did not at least offer his own resources. The Tribe might see it as a type of bribery, but Jaster could only see it as helping fellow Mando’ade who deserved his help. These Mandalorians were honourable, and Jaster wished more sought these age-old views of the Creedbound more than Kyr’tsad’s barbaric teachings. He would be going against his own Creed if he left them to fend for themselves when he had the power and numbers to do something about it. 

“We could claim the Haat’ade are responsible for any attacks. Make the threat to them larger, and more dispersed. Most of the verde would be honoured to help such a noble cause, as well as be willing to draw eyes and bodies away from your Beroya. This should make it easier to catch up with him, as well as assist him in taking out the leader. After that, it’s open season on his pursuers.”

Just like he expected, the Goran answers with a tone that brokers no argument as well as being reminding like Jaster has forgotten an important lesson. 

“The Watch has remained neutral in the standing of Civil Wars for hundreds of years. Our stance will not change without heavy debate, with or without your assistance.”

“I am not asking for fealty. I would do the same for any Clan or Tribe in a similar position, as it is the right thing to do. If it poses a problem, I would ask that it be allowed as a Life Debt payment. He saved my son and I from Kyr’tsad without even knowing us; I owe him that much through honour.”

They sigh, and something about them is remarkably familiar as they tilt their head skyward, almost looking for the Ka’ra to grant them more patience, or perhaps time. Everything was happening so quickly, and one of their Beroya lost in the Galaxy with Hunters on his tail should enrage the Tribe should it get out to the masses. Paz has been unsuccessful, and been entrapped by his own Hunter. Jaster wonders what that subtle influence feels like—

Jaster raises a hand to touch the chin of his bucket, as he often did when he was in deep thought and connecting things. Jango laughs at him for doing it while he reads. The Goran tilts their head, a perfect echo of a silver buy’ce, and his brain branches out to possibilities and ties it to the memory of a dulcet voice saying ‘My buir will not like that’. That was a thought to be examined later, but right now he’s focused on the memory of meeting Din. The hazy feeling in his mind that lured him away from looking at the satchel and instead at Din as well as willing him to walk away. Before it switched once Jaster had told him of his intentions, now telling him to stay. He’d noticed it, but hadn’t known it for what it was. The man had been influencing him the second the rest of their enemies were dead. That brings him to another thought, this one he should share.

“He was sweet-talking me without any words,” he offers the Goran, bringing his hand back to the table, now uneasy. What help would he be when Din has a power over him like that? If he ordered Jaster to go away, would he listen?

“Either way, I will assist you in helping Paz if the Alor'e agree,” The Goran says slowly, “But I do not know if the Tribe will agree to have the Haat’Mando’ade assist. You, as a Potential Suitor, have a chance here to prove your worth to the Tribe. I have a few theories regarding Din and yourself that will prove beneficial to your Hunt. 

“The first is that Din is actively and constantly using it right now. Whether he is speaking or not, his ambition is outweighing all that and is influencing anyone in his vicinity who is susceptible to smelling him, or a human with a sub-gender. Omegas do not always know who will be vulnerable in a group, so it is smarter to use it and feel out who is the weakest and who cannot be influenced. Pairing that with his excellent self-control and stamina, he can afford to do this for a long time before he needs to rest.”

Paz grumbles here, shaking his head, “At this point it is subconscious for him. I’ve given him osik for doing it to me unintentionally.”

“When he’s mad at you,” the Goran corrects, “And this is my other theory. Paz, you do not wish to be a Protector anymore and you and Din have been fighting about it, haven’t you?”

The man freezes solid, giving Jaster another clue when he asks, “Did he tell you?”

“No, just that you two have been arguing more. Splitting up on Hunts, getting caught doing it because I suspect you two have been doing it for a while. You’ve become reckless, you and Din both, and your choices have led to this. As much as you want to find him, your desire to stay is lacking. He will outweigh you every time, and Din knows it.”

They turn their golden buy’ce to Jaster, “This is where you come in. You need to focus very hard on your desire to find Din as well as stay with him. You want to mate him, or at least Court him, and if you are genuinely feeling heightened Courting instincts with him, you will do anything to see it through to a conclusion. That is what you need to hold on to through him trying to tell you to walk away, because Din would not have stayed near you once you posed your offer if he was not intrigued.”

Paz snorts, his head still hanging slightly ashamed but picking up at the underlying humour in their voice. “No, he would have bolted the minute you said ‘Courting’.”

Well, it had been Jango that had said it first. Still it is nice to know that the man’s silence hadn’t been an outright denial. Jaster had worried about it, but he’d told the man he’d do it only if he was willing, and he had not indicated that he wasn’t. That was apparently a good sign, so it meant he still had a chance.

“Like I said,” Jaster starts, excitement growing in his chest, “I will help anyway I am able.”

The Goran gives him a sure nod, understanding him promise, “Then you and I will go speak to the Alor'e. Paz, go rest, verd. You’ve been chasing Din for almost six months, and this is the first you’ve returned. You will need your strength.”

Paz bows his head, and doesn’t argue. He gives Jaster a farewell nod and takes his leave, Jaster sure he’ll see him soon. He has to remain positive. The hardest part was out of the way, with the Armourer not kicking him out after this discussion. The fact he was still in their base and had a chance to plead his case to their Leaders is a high honour. When Din had said his buir would not like him, based on the idea of him being apart of the Haat’ade, he got the impression they were not the only one he would have to please. Paz explaining some of their Courting procedures made it clearer: every single occupant in this base was going to be scrutinizing him. Not because he was Mand’alor, nor a member of the True Mandalorians, but because he wished to mate arguably one of their most valuable members. It was slightly refreshing if not daunting. 

The Goran stands from the short-legged tabletop they had all settled at, Jaster standing with them. They turn to look at him when Jaster lets out a calming breath, feeling better but also the most anxious he’s been in ages. Jaster has gained confidence over the years from being a commander, but this felt like he was a teenager trying out for the Fighting Corps again. 

“Nervous, Mand’alor?” They ask, a hint of knowing in the depths of their calm tone. He’s surprised they are not laughing at him again. 

“Very,” he answered honestly as they left the Forge. He had no qualms about telling them the truth, especially if they were who he suspected they were. The similarities were great, both in mannerisms and speaking patterns. He highly believes that this Goran would hold far more sway, not only with the Tribe, but with Din himself if he was right. 

“You can bring your ad, if you wish to retrieve him from the ship before I lead you further down,” the Goran says politely, interrupting his musing. Jaster appreciates it, now that he knows he isn’t going to be viciously thrown out. Going to speak to the Children of the Watch’s Council would be a great learning experience for Jango, for both of them if he’s honest. He just hopes the boy can hold his tongue during the proceedings with minimal random outbursts. Jaster has hope in his son though; Jango knows the importance of being respectful, only sometimes his mouth opens when he’s surprised. There’s nothing wrong with that, but he needs to remind him to mute his external microphones and make sure it’s something that needs to be said. Still, Jaster finds it adorable and cannot fault him for it. Especially when Jango thinks up things that their adult brains are too jaded to think of. 

He dips his head in agreement and the Goran begins leading him back towards the surface instead of further into the Covert’s depths. They move swiftly, far faster than Paz and Jaster was simply lost. He marvelled over the tunnels and their maze-like quality, obviously built over time and intended to confuse trespassers. Even the different settings on his visor that usually picked up hidden markings revealed nothing, meaning they either relied on memory, maps in their buy’cese, or had another concoction of invisible ink he wasn’t programmed to pick up. Very impressive. It must be fun for the adventurous ade that lived here, exploring these tunnels like they were the first to do so. 

Soon they came up a set of stairs that led to the night sky of Concordia. His ship was a welcome sight, and he could spot Jango catching sight of him from the cockpit glass. There was movement to indicate he was coming out, and when he came down the ramp with a hurried pace, there was worry pressed into his young face. The boy nearly ran up to Jaster, and he could read every thought in his eyes and through his scent. Jango was worried he’d been denied, and when his eyes flicked over to the still figure of the Goran behind him waiting by the tunnel, he came to a screeching halt. He slapped his helmet over his head and gave them a  deep bow, nearly bent in half.

“Apologies for the disrespect,” he panted. Vibrating with excitement, he waited for their dismissal to start hounding Jaster with questions. The Goran responded with a soft and humorous tone, not bothered in the slightest to both their relief. 

“No problem, young one. We do not behold visitors to our Creed, though we always honour those who show their respect. Come, both of you. The wind is picking up and it carries a storm with it. We seal the lower entries in preparation for heavy rain as a flood precaution.”

“Wizard,” Jango said, vibrating even more, “I get to come inside?”

“Yes, young one. What is your name?” They asked politely while they and Jaster both tapped at their vambraces. One closing the hatch door Jango left open on the ship and the Goran closing the flood hatch behind them. Jaster makes a mental note to ask them what returning verde do to know which entry point to use. Did they judge the weather alone once they came on planet, assuming these tunnels to be shut? Would he be given an answer, either as a visitor or a Potential Suitor, or was it private information?

“Jango Fett, of House Mereel, he/him” his son claimed proudly, before tilting his head at them, “Is it polite to ask for your name?”

“It is never rude to ask for a name to use. Names are humanizing. Just do not be surprised by the names given to you, for not all share lightly or honestly. I am known as Goran'be'te'Ja'hai'ade, though you may call me Gor’alor if you wish, pronouns they/them. It is what the other younglings call me. I was going to ask you how much you knew of our Tribe.”

The Goran is guiding them at a slower pace now with Jango in tow, but still they are both distracted enough by the conversation they have no idea where they are. It’s Jaster’s second time down and he has less of a clue. He does not think they are using the same route as with Paz before to the Forge, and this tunnel leads deeper. It’s darker and will require the night vision of their buy’ce as the only way to traverse with no lighting to distinguish this path from the others. It could branch off a thousand times, and he would be none the wiser. Jango snakes his hand around Jaster’s vambrace when it goes pitch black, using him as an anchor incase he lost his footing. His heart soars that his son still feels comfort in doing that despite growing so big so fast. 

“Jas’buir told me your Tribe was very secretive, but very honourable. You do not show your faces, but some of you do to your Clan. There’s not much that is known about you outside of your Tribe. But I know you guys are awesome fighters! The Beroya used moves I’ve never seen before!”

Chuckling softly, Jaster sees them shake their head in fondness. Whether it’s at Jango or the Beroya is hard to tell, but probably a mixture of both. 

“Yes, we are what some would call Traditionalists. We do not differ much from your own Creed, Jaster Mereel. I’ve read your Codex and found it quite refreshing, familiar in some aspects while we are stricter in others. Life Debts are something we omit entirely to remain neutral. It would not do us well to be indebted to a House or vice versa when we are devout to preserving our traditions. We are very used to handling our own affairs internally. That is the bad news for your buir.”

“But,” Jango asked tentatively, “What if it’s the call of the Mand’alor?”

“Astute, Jan’ika! Exactly that is the good news. We are honourable Mando’ade, and we will not refuse the call of the Mand’alor. And I can assure you, there’s not a one of us that supports Tor Vizsla’s useless claim. Names and the appearance of the Dha’kad’au are nothing. We did not support House Vizsla’s theft of the blade during the fall of the Old Republic, and we will not support them now with this crusade against you. You both would do well if you remembered that.”

“But Jas’buir has asked for help,” Jango starts, and then stops the sentence that he wanted to finish. Not wanting to be disrespectful, he dare not ask why they haven’t assisted the Haat’Mando’ade if they agreed so much.

“He has not issued the call, Jan’ika,” they say gently, “He has asked Clans who support his Codex and mission to reclaim Manda’yaim to swear fealty and join the Haat’ade. Many neutral Clans, old Tribes, and Coverts will not answer for this reason.”

“Is it really so simple as changing the wording? I am still asking for their loyalty,” Jaster argued after their brief warning to turn their night vision off. They all had enough time to do so before rounding a sharper corner where a lantern was visible in the distance that would have blinded them had the NVIS filter been activated.

“Loyalty and fealty are not the same thing, Mand’alor Mereel. We respect you, but we do not want to bind ourselves to your war forever. If you ask us to kill pacifists, to do your dirty work because your own soldiers will not, we would be bound by our word despite the actions being dishonourable. If we tied ourselves to any one Mand’alor, they could one day decide we are a group of hired mercenaries instead of a religious sanctuary. If we went out and died in other’s battles, who would be left to pass on our knowledge? If they learn the secrets and history we keep in these tunnels, will they ravage it so we shall never share it again? Still, we will fight when it is necessary and just.”

“I think I understand,” Jango said slowly, “But I’m sure Jas’buir will understand more. He’s a huge nerd and has way too many school certificates in history.”

“They’re degrees, Jan’ika. Certificates can be achieved in a relatively short period of time. My degrees take about six to twelve years.”

“You’re proving my point of being a nerd, Jas’buir. You are working on your third.”

Jaster and the Goran laughed as they all came closer to the lantern to see another staircase downstairs illuminated, with more lanterns leading the way until a slight curve hid the rest from view. 

“Wow, this must have taken forever to be tunnelled out!” Jango said, whistling under his bucket as he looked at the impressive carved tunnel deeper into the earth. 

“This is a temporary location for the Alor'e. It is quite late, and I could not find them in the Council Chambers. I fear we may find them unwinding, which may lead to good or bad things.”

Well, that isn’t unsettling as they come to a large door. Now he can hear quiet chatter and laughter, the smell of incense and what reminds him of what his grandfather had smoked with his buddies in a hookah. Ah, that is what they meant by unwinding. Possibly drinking as well, and Jaster did not know how they would react to an outsider wanting to court Din. It seemed the Goran wasn’t quite sure either. They muttered a quiet ‘brace yourselves’ before pushing open the door, and Jaster wasn’t sure if it was meant in jest as they followed into the room behind them. 

Sure enough, six Mando’ade sitting around a sizeable hookah on a short-legged table and cross-legged on the floor. They all looked up in familiarity, before they stiffened in surprise when they noticed their guests.

“Goran,” one says, orange buy’ce fitted for a twi’lek tilting in confusion while they place the hookah mouth piece back in its holder, “You don’t often bring friends.”

“I apologize for the interruption, for this is urgent.”

Another in a mismatch of colours at the end of the table that looks younger in comparison jolts suddenly. They know what the Goran is speaking from less than ten words, “Is it happening? Finally happening?”

“Yes,” the Goran sighs, clearly understanding and loathing what they were asking. 

The table erupts into small cheers and exclamations of surprise before the one in orange holds up a hand and they all fall silent. Jaster is surprised at the good nature of them, as well as the calm despite being so secretive and having strangers in the room. Jaster wonders how much of their reaction is tempered by their vices.

“We all knew this day would come, as we hoped it would for Din Djarin. He is not here?”

“No, which relates to the urgency.”

“Come sit, your guest and their ad as well. You may share the story, as there is always one with our Beroya.”

“This is the Way,” another in green and blue mumbled with a straw from their glass tucked up under the lip of their helmet.

Jaster’s anxiety lessened at the lack of hostility. The initial outburst seemed more out of shock, though Jaster hoped they wouldn’t interrogate him thoroughly in front of his son. He was already preparing himself incase they asked about his fertility. Still, some were joking and others laughing openly. Two were exchanging credits. Not what he expected from the Alor'e of the Ja’hai’ade, but a few of them seem young and not old and wisened like Jaster had expected. It almost seemed clear, between the suffering looks the older alor in orange was sharing with the Goran, that they were raising the next generation of leaders. He was sure there were more elders hidden in the tunnels, waiting to ambush and question him off the books. 

That’s how Jaster recounts the story of Din swooping in and saving their lives, before running off with a flurry of mercs chasing him, then Paz’s arrival. They all sit quiet, only interrupting twice for clarification when Jaster tried to repeat their conversation as best he could. One even asked Jango what he thought of Din, to which they needed to forcibly end because Jango couldn’t stop gushing about him. In the end, he was not feeling as embarrassed nor put on the spot as he thought he would be. They are all proficient at giving a relaxed air in their body language that does not change with their emotions. Jaster’s never seen a group of leaders react so impartially as a unit, all filled with a calming aura that allows one to speak without fear of reprimand. It’s quite an art, and Jaster wonders if it is part of their training regime. It must be, and if not, it is learned behaviour from mimicking each other to develop their own body language that replaces facial expressions. He can read each of them clearly, until they hide it from him with masterful control.

The one who had spoken out second, excited by the Goran’s appearance with Jaster, leans back with a sigh and crossed arms when the Goran is finished speaking, recounting everything after Jaster’s arrival.

“This sounds so very Djarin-esque, I’d believe it. At least there is no Krayt involved,” they say, causing the others to chuckle, “I am Alor Visenya, she/her, Alor Mereel, Alor’ika. I am in charge of the Tribe’s Operative Missions. If we agree to pursue this path, you and I will be working together. I wish to ask you a question regarding your proposal to Din; when you stated your intentions, what was his immediate reaction?”

Jaster paused, thinking hard about it with the knowledge he recently gained. “I believe when we first started the conversation, he wanted me to leave. I do not know if it because I was a stranger, despite him saving me, or because I questioned his actions and why he was alone. The Goran spoke of him having hypnosis abilities, and I believe he was trying to influence my scrutiny. When I stated that I’d like to get him a Courting gift and have a chance to know one another, the pressure to leave left me. Now it didn’t mind so much that I wanted to stay, and he wanted to hear what I had to say.”

“He didn’t bolt? That’s a first,” mutters the verd next to Alor Visenya, crossing their arms. They introduces themselves when they notices Jaster’s eyes, “Alor Bodi, he/him. I’m in Charge of Hand-to-Hand and Close Combat training. I’m surprised; that’s usually Din’s first reaction to a Proposal if Paz isn’t around.”

“If he is?” Jaster asks, curious.

“Then he hides behind him until Paz turns them down for him. Protector, indeed. The topic of Courting generally makes him uncomfortable and gets him to clam up; the fact he continued to speak to you at all says a great deal.”

“Still,” one speaks up in a shade of dark blue like Paz’s, arms also crossed but much more defensively than because it was comfortable, “An outsider? Are we to throw away our Traditions of staying impartial because our Beroya has a tiny crush on the Mand’alor?”

Alor Visenya shoots them a glare, piercing through her visor, “Do not let your personal feelings get in the way, Rash. Just because Din turned you down along with everyone else doesn’t disparage his chance for happiness. He’s just jealous, Mand’alor. Alor of Long-Range combat.”

“More like bitter. Rash has never lost at anything,” one who’d been trading credits mutters, making their red gambling partner chuckle.

Well, wasn’t that interesting. Jaster hadn’t realized Din was so sought after, and so picky, that his entire Tribe had been turned down. That is what their younglings had meant, gossiping about Jaster. Obviously it was a topic of contention, though it was quickly smothered by their compassion for their vod. Jaster could see how Din marrying one not of the Tribe could be a disadvantage and a possible annoyance or threat. That wasn’t the case with him, and Jaster would never make it so. He would never force Din’s Tribe to do things for him that the Haat’ade were proud to do voluntarily, nor would he not respect whatever boundaries the Ja’hai’ade decided on. This he tells them.

“May I speak?” He says first, continuing at Alor Visenya’s polite nod and Alor Rash’s reluctant one. “As far as I am concerned, this is Din’s home and family first most. I understand your Tribe is a way of life one devotes themselves to, and I do not plan to ask him to sacrifice his life here. I only ask to be apart of his in any way I can.”

“Nice one, Jas’buir,” Jango’s voice comes whispering over their internal comms, and he’s grateful he is also well trained in staying stock still despite his son trying to make him laugh, though he is glad Jango is proud of him. Proud that he liked Din Djarin enough to accompany him here on his plea to Court him, and plead his own case. At his words, the man is stiff until he softens, relaxing into the pillows that lay about them on the floor. Most of them were still in full beskar’gam, though they’d all removed their vambraces and greaves to be more comfortable, placed on a table in the corner of the room. Only the elder Alor had theirs still on, and Jaster is certain the Goran would have sent a message ahead. One they would have received, and the others had not. Still, he had not told them. Jaster wonders if this one was like his grandfather; a schemer and trickster one had to watch out for. Not in a malicious way, but because it made one often the butt of jokes.

“That is a relief to hear,” the one Jaster had been thinking about says, “Din’ika is our only adult omega. We do not stifle and enslave our omegas like that Death Watch filth. They are revered and worshiped here, trained to the best of our collective ability, and it is why we still demand a bride-price. That being said, we are not selling them off. I am Alor Vobas, he/him, Head of the Council, though I do not hold more weight than my fellows here, only experience.”

“Goran'be'te'Ja'hai'ade explained some about your bride-price,” Jaster said, squirming at the reminder of his gift. Jango side-eyes him suspiciously as Jaster’s body becomes restless from the sudden adrenaline filling his veins. The urge to fulfill this goal is unlike any other he’s felt, and it’s difficult to work through it. It’s a feeling that only grows in power the more his chances increase, the possibility becoming closer to reality. He knows what he is about to offer may be enough for the Tribe’s acceptance, but it will not be enough for his personal goal. 

“You are willing to offer assistance to Paz to help aid Din and bring him home safe?” The alor asks.

“Yes,” Jaster grinds out through gritted teeth. Jango stares more at him, body language betraying his obvious exclamation of ‘What the kark is wrong with you?!’ Jaster hadn’t had time to tell him about this particular affliction and didn’t think it would sweep in so quickly again, nor so strong. His heart was thumping hard enough in his chest he worried his ribcage might crack, his blood boiled like the molten cores of planets, his skin itched when he was still like he had a fully body rash that was unbearable to not scratch. Jaster would be an incredibly lucky man if all those with sub-genders or a good nose could not smell his distress and anxiety at the question. As it was, he thinks Alor Vobas notices with a tilted head. Jaster is sure of it when he asks him his next question, though it is spoken gently like one would to a skittish animal.

“Would you offer it as your payment for Din’s bride-price?’

Jaster tries to say yes. The Goran told him that would be the best way forward, as any other gift would be influenced by his own bias. It was not what the Tribe, or Din, would want to see for him to prove himself. A deed of valour was more appreciated than any trinket Jaster could obtain. The words are at the forefront of his mind, he’s dredging up spit to speak them with a closed throat trying to impede him, the three little letters on the tip of his tongue. He knows them well in Mando’a and Basic, yet he can say neither of them.

“Ye— No.”

“Yeno?” The betting partner echos donned in green and blue beskar’gam, speaking up and staring at Jaster in a disturbingly, calculating manner. Jaster was glad they could not see how flaming red his face was from embarrassment as he muted his mic, panting for breath. He tried to calm the shaking of his body that took ahold when he tried to say them, how the second word had been ripped up from the depths of his throat. It hurt to speak it, though he knew it was what he truly wanted. Jaster couldn’t help but try again for the Goran’s sake. 

“El—Nayc,” Jaster burst out, the word coming out as painful as it felt. His whole body shook as he heaved for air. His throat had closed up, allowing no other word to come through. He would not offer that as his gift to Din, for it was a state of being that should be rightly returned to him. It was no price, but his duty as a honourable Mando’ad who owed a debt to those who needed loopholes to accept it. Except, his body wouldn’t allow him to break his own word. His alpha instincts revolted over the idea of paying such a low price, and it infuriates him. How could he be beholden to his own instincts, when he had a fucking brain that was capable of making better decisions?

“Fascinating,” the alor mumbled, forgetting about the playing cards they’d been entertaining themselves with shuffling, “Goran?”

“Your assumptions are correct, Alor Yflotta,” the Goran tells them.

“Yflotta, Head Medic, she/her. I know a lot about what ails you, but I have never witnessed it firsthand. I’d love for you to answer some questions—“

“And we’d love to know what in the haran you’re going on about now,” Rash interrupts.

“Let me prove it first by asking his symptoms, mir'sheb. Hush now, the adults are speaking. Mand’alor, your Courting gift. Have you decided on what it shall be?”

“No. It is impossible to decide and nothing satisfies me,” he answers honestly, his own curiosity wanting to get an honest response in return. These words he does not need to force himself to speak.

“I’m going to throw some items at you and I would like you to respond if anything sounds comparable. Yes or no, please. Ready? A piece of decorative jewelry?

“Absolutely not,” Jaster spits out before he can process the words. The moment ‘decorative’ passed through her modulator, Jaster was denying.

“A piece of beskar’gam or a weapon.”

“No.”

“A ship?”

“No. Not big enough.”

“A planet?” Rash says jokingly, and Jaster slowly turns his head. His restless body has become stock still, Jaster forcing every muscle tight at the fire that burns alight inside him. 

“Please, do not tempt me,” Jaster forces out, the clenching in his chest growing painful at his restraint, “I have never quite understood the conquering nature of our Crusading ancestors, until I began thinking of what to give your Hunter. Manda’yaim is not enough. Concordia and Concord Dawn are not enough. Even the rest of the planets in our sector do not seem to be enough, but I am tempted to try. There must be something I’m missing, because it is voracious. No riches in the Universe are enough, no conquest or item acceptable. It needs to be perfect.” 

Rash leans back in surprise, his tone now serious and one Jaster had not yet heard, “I have read your Codex. You do not approve of conquering and colonization.”

“No. Yet, my secondary instincts are giving me very intrusive thoughts that I’ve never had such difficulties ignoring. These are irrational, ostentatious and almost impossible to obtain. I fear it will drive me mad or feral if I do not act on them.”

“Absolutely fascinating. As a beta, I never knew the alpha’s instinct to provide would grow so strong or consuming. I’ve studied it, but still none of the alphas I’ve treated have ever displayed it," comments the medic.

“Nest-egging, as the sub-gendered human population calls it, is not to trifled with or ignored. You are right to be wary, Mand’alor,” Alor Vobas interrupts. “It can drive an alpha to madness, especially if the omega refuses the gifts continuously. Din is not the type as he would be honoured by your intention alone, but if you do not find a way to direct these feelings, they will become all-consuming. You will have a mind for nothing else, but stuffing a space full of things your omega might want. You will never be satisfied if you do not decide.”

Well, that wasn’t worrisome. Jaster clutched at his thigh plate, letting the hard edges digging into his fingers through the gloves ground him. 

“Jas’buir? Is it really so bad?” Jango asked hesitantly. Jaster sighed, thanking his son for his question and using it to pull himself out his spiralling thoughts. He pats his head with fond gratefulness.

“Yes, ner verd'ika, I have it that bad,” he sighed, smiling at the boy’s responding tense chuckle. 

“So this is serious then, at least on the Mand’alor’s end,” Alor Yflotta’s gambling partner in red says, addressing their fellows, “And based on Din’s reaction, he has shown more interest in this proposal than the countless offers before.”

“Fact,” Alor Vobas confirms, the rest nodding their helms in agreement. 

“And your opinion, Goran?” They ask, and Jaster turns his head blatantly to see their reaction. If they were who he suspected they were, their opinion held a great deal. More than just being their Armourer. 

“I believe Jaster Mereel to be a worthy candidate and approve of his Offer, whatever he decides it to be.”

Rash and a few others moved in surprise, and Jaster wonders how often one got blatant approval like that. They did not move as they stated it openly, almost proudly. The one in red who Jaster has not learned the identity of does not seem surprised, only amused.

“I see. And?”

“See?” Bodi whispers behind a hand to Rash, “I told you letting him hit the hookah would give us entertainment.”

“Alor'ike,” Goran warns them, who sit up straight like students in front of a reprimanding teacher. They turn their attention back to the red alor, who has not moved from staring at them.

“Vod, please,” they sigh with some regret, and Jaster is certain he has heard that exact sound out the Beroya’s vocoder. Finally, the red Mando’ad confirms his suspicions.

“Please, I want to know what you will do if my vod'ad, your son, marries the leader of the True Mandalorians. Rid'alor be Haat'Mando'ade. Rash may like to think Din won’t be pulled in two directions, we all would like that, but it is not a possibility despite the Mand’alor’s promise. Are we to confine Din here away from his mate and blockade him if he feels the call to help him? Should we force him to choose between us, his family or his mate? Sacrifices should be made on both ends, and we should not decide any of it. That is between Din and Jaster.”

“Fact,” the others murmur out, the Goran sighing another time in agreement.

“Elek, I approve as Goran and Buir. I have always reserved the final call for Din, and whatever path he chooses I will support.”

“And you, Beroy’alor Draal? Din was your apprentice as well as him being under your jurisdiction,” Alor Vobas asked.

“All I can say is the verd knows how to pick them. Couldn’t go any higher, just like his bounties.”

“Of course you wouldn’t be surprised,” the Goran mutters, sounding their personal feelings for the first time instead of being religiously professional. Jaster is glad to hear it exists underneath their tough shell that made them seem incapable of being persuaded, “This is your fault.”

“Hey, we got the price we always hoped for, for Din, didn’t we? Could you imagine the rioting verde if Din brought home a dead-beat? At least this one is educated and accomplished.”

“And the Alor of a Tribe that has voted him Mand’alor,” they snap back. Jaster would be insulted if he didn’t catch the faint hint of fear in their words. They worried for Din and what this could mean for him, and Jaster couldn’t blame them. Jaster feared for his son who he gained because of it, but the boy had also lost his parents and sister as the price. He would never want a child at such a high cost, but it was still his duty to protect him the moment he spoke the Vows. The Goran fears Din being in the same position, and the man already has duties to his Tribe. Jaster could be the distraction or influence that leads him to his doom. If Jaster hadn’t seen the caliber of his skill, what an accomplished warrior Din was, he’d share their concerns. He is selfish enough to want to try to Court him, confident in Din being able to protect himself from Death Watch or anyone else who might aim for him because he was beside Jaster.

“Uh-oh,” Visenya whispers to Bodi, ignored between the two siblings glaring at each other, “Here they go again.”

“We knew this was a possibility when none of our verde met Din’s muster. We knew if Din was to take a mate it would be an outsider. Despite us wanting to remain neutral in the face of this Civil War, we could not ask for a better man to respect that than Jaster Mereel. Tor certainly would not. We’ve been looking for a loophole for Kyr’tsad, and here he is, sitting in front of us.”

“We’ve been looking for a way to banish their influence in the Fighting Corps, not become indebted to accomplish it.”

“Tell him,” Alor Draal insisted, “See if this honourable Mando’ad would ask for payment for such a thing. He will not. If he agrees, it will only increase his value in the eyes of the Tribe. Din would respect it as well; he is the one who has been pushing us to snuff them out, scoffing at our excuses.”

Jaster sat in the tense silence, unsure of what they were talking about. Jaster knew much about the Fighting Corps, he’d spent his youth training there when his mother had become ill. He does not know what they have to do with the Children of the Watch, or how Death Watch is connected. Other than suspecting a base being there, Jaster didn’t know how much influence they had over Concord Dawn. Jaster could not check the state of affairs himself, still banned for life. He was working on an appeal and visited his home planet when he was certain he wouldn’t be caught, but he did not make a habit of it. The Goran sits quietly for a few moments, processing it and making a decision. 

“We need the Kyr’tsad officers who’ve risen to power in the Fighting Corps vanquished,” they eventually state, turning their horned helm to Jaster.

“I was not aware there were any,” he hedges carefully.

“Oh, they’ve done well to hide themselves,” Rash hisses out, “But they’re there.”

“This is not something you can do yourselves?” Jaster asks as respectfully as he can. He’s sure they’re capable, but something is inhibiting them from taking care of this problem themselves. Jaster would like to know what it is, if he could find a way around it.

“We cannot,” Alor Vobas says solemnly, “We have a contract with the facility that is thousands of years old. There is not much that would null this agreement, but if we were to kill these shabuire ourselves, we would be breaking the Contract. We cannot raise a hand against anyone employed by the Corps, no matter who is wearing it as a disguise.”

“You are sure they’ve infiltrated the facility?”

“We used to have an unspoken agreement with them, not written in words. Those the Corps deemed fit to send to us, either for training or for full assimilation, have always been a variety of species and designations. There is a reason Din is our only adult omega now, and that is because he is a Foundling who chose to stay within our walls. The Corps has not sent us an omega in twenty years, and now they are beginning to decline in Alphas. Betas and non-humans are the only ones being sent to us now. Can you think of anyone who might have hate for omegas, betas, and non-humans?”

The obvious answer was Tor Vizsla, who has not made his opinions polite or quiet. His view that Mandalorians should primarily be alphas and human was not a popular one, but it was a view that had been steadily growing traction. Even more when Tor gave the discriminators a platform and a group to bind themselves to, and push their ideals onto others. Jaster had not thought the man would be so determined he would begin infiltrating places to stop the influx of omegas, betas, and other species. Would find ways to prohibit Tribes from gaining them, hoarding all the alphas for their own ranks while pushing the ‘leftovers’ onto other Houses and Tribes. Tor does not believe omegas should be trained at all, and that betas weren’t worth the effort. He’s a suspicious possible cause for this problem for the Ja’hai’ade, becoming more likely the perpetrator the more thought Jaster puts into it. 

“This is troubling. How would Tor gain such control of the facility?”

“By putting the right people in the right positions. He does not need to do a complete turn-over of the staff, only the ones aware of our Contract and who make the decisions. It used to be a process we were involved in so our exchange was equal, as we often sent our warriors to the Corps for a variety of training, but it has changed. It started gradually, we did not notice what was happening until they denied us the right to peer review their decisions.” Alor Draal explained.

Alor Vobas continued, “At first, they claimed there was a drop in interest. We investigated, because there had never been such a decline in our records, and found there was a drop, but not in what they were implying. The Corps were denying entry for omegas, so there were none to send. Clans stopped applying for their omegas to go. Then, when we asked the ones the Corps did send us, they implied the facility told them it was the only option for them, like no other would accept them. We had a bigger drop in newcomers because half of those who were sent to us did not know what our Creed entailed, and when we told them, did not want to swear it.

“We solely rely on the Foundlings we find now, and if they wish to stay. We can no longer trust the Fighting Corps to have our interests in mind. We either dissolve the Contract entirely, or we clean house.”

That surprised Jaster, coming out of the Alor’s mouth. There was venom there at the end, and he suddenly understood why. Twenty years is a long time, even if the change was gradual. The Fighting Corps had broken their end of the deal, whether the Heads of the Facility were aware or not. By allowing outsiders to infiltrate in and begin to influence how the facility operated, they have gone against their honour. Jaster was sure it went deeper than that. Where were all these Mandalorian omegas going, if they were not permitted access? Back to their Clan, barred from outside training? Some omega’s Clans did not allow training at all and often ventured out to the facility as a means of escape. What would they do if they are denied? The Gates have never been closed to anybody as far as he knew. It was a foreign and disgusting  thought in his mind as a Concord Dawn native who grew up knowing it as a sanctuary.

That led to the alphas, who were now being removed from the Watch’s intake of new Tribesmen. Most likely, Tor was feeding them into his own ranks. That would explain the sudden influx of soldiers in Death Watch. Loads of older Foundlings who haven’t been claimed make their way there for training, often being picked by buire who come to find Foundlings. Was Tor taking them too, turning them over into his forces for cannon fodder?

“Your Beroy’alor is correct,” Jaster says, lowering his raised hand that had again wandered to the chin of his bucket, “I will not ask for any payment to help you. It aligns with Tor’s views, and I can guarantee he is taking advantage of more than anyone realizes.”

The Alor'e all share a look, and whether they’re conversing through mental projection or on a private comm-line, he doesn’t know. They decide on something, Alor Visenya the one to speak up.

“We fear to send our Foundlings there. In the past, we would send those who were not adopted into the Tribe to the Corps, and some would return to us at their verd'goten, inspired by our way of life and wanting to join our Tribe to build a Clan of their own. Gradually, none would return at all. We’ve been telling the Corps we haven’t been Finding as many, and the ones we did were staying within the Tribe. In secret, we’ve been asking other neutral sects if they have buire willing to take them. Still, we are overwhelmed.”

“Good. That is something I can help you with immediately, while we set plans for the others. Your Hunter remains my top priority, but I vow to help deal with your Fighting Corps problem.”

“You have a ban from Concord Dawn, if I’m not mistaken. Not that you deserved it, in my opinion,” Alor Vobas said, and Jaster was stunned and honoured to hear a resounding muttered ‘Fact’ from the other Alor'e. No one other than his closest Haat’ade have made such a bold statement, especially not from fellow Alor’e. Any Clan Head he’s spoken to has tiptoed around his criminal record, never bringing up the topic of his home planet if they could help it. Jaster always knew what he had done was right, but over the years had questioned his methods. If he had found another way to bring that corrupted officer to justice, he might still be allowed home, might still have a right to his ancestor’s holding. At the same time, it would not have led him down the path to become a super-commando, nor would he have gained such support to be called Mand’alor. It was something he had long come to terms with, but it was nice to hear from other respectful warriors that they did not see his actions as a crime, but a necessity.

“I have appealed for a pardon, despite them dragging their heels. If it does not arrive by the time your hunter is back within your walls, I will pretend it doesn’t exist. I’d like to see them try to arrest me.”

The room was silent at that, but not in disbelief. Jaster got the feeling, and he had evidence from their relaxed body language, smug in Alor Visenya’s case and relieved in the Goran’s, they believed him. Even Rash, who Jaster believed held the title for Devil’s Advocate, seemed pleased by that answer. 

“All in favour?” Pipes up Alor Draal, who gets a unanimous show of raised hands in what Jaster thinks is record time for Mandalorians. Jaster wonders if this kind of quick agreement is common in their Tribe, whereas most Mandalorians struggled to give any ground. He supposes it works because they are a Tribe, not a House with many Clan Heads having an opinion and striving for attention. They all shared the same goal to make the Tribe survive and prosper. There was no singular Alor making the shots, either. This made it easy for multiple points to be argued and smoothed over, making the decision well thought out and having the grace of being examined from multiple points of view. Personalities as well; Jaster can see how each Alor'e here plays a role, and their personalities align with bolstering it. He wonders if they prepare their children with the knowledge they would be suited to a future position, or if they waited to see  how their warriors grew in or out of the role.

‘Omegas are trained to the best of our collective ability,’ Alor Vobas had said. As far as Jaster could tell, there were no omegas on the Council, but that didn’t mean Din couldn’t have been trained for a significant role within their Tribe. He was the Goran’s ad, and his ba’vodu was also on the Council for being the leader of their bounty hunters. Din had been his personal apprentice, they had made a comment pointing that out. Paz had said Din cared for all the Foundlings in the Tribe before they found a home in buire, and that statement made a whole lot more sense now. The way Paz had spoken the words had clued Jaster in to their Foundlings being a touchy subject. Now he nows why, with there being a few beta mothers and Din, who Foundlings were sure to latch onto for comfort in such a tumultuous time. 

There were a few things Jaster knew what he was getting into when he (Jango) made the courting proposal. Din was an excellent fighter, his silhouette was one Jaster would forever look at, and he was undoubtedly soft and good with children. Jaster wanted the opportunity to know more about him, learn everything he could about this fascinating warrior who smelled so delicious when covered in blood. Now, knowing about where Din comes from, it is a little different. It doesn’t dampen his pursuit, but it is quite astounding to know the catch he has made, even unknowingly. A random encounter on a planet barely worth remembering led him to this fabulous warrior that was more ‘educated and accomplished’ than he even realized. It was only sinking in when Rash punted him into the deep end.

“Do you even know who you are courting? A bounty hunter, omega and Tribesman aside. Do you know what deeds we base his bride-price on? How high it is? Paz told you the ridiculous number, right?”

“Are you going to spoil all the surprise? Let Ven’Ja’hai’ad Jaster enjoy his chase, and leave something for Din to tempt with,” Beroy’alor Draal drawls out, leaning to the side to pluck the narrow mouth piece off the hookah, “How old are you, verd’ika?”

Absolutely not, was what Jaster was thinking as he watched the relaxed Alor lean back onto one of the stiff pillows as he stuffed the piece up the chin of his bucket.  Still, he was quite honoured to be called a ‘future Child of the Watch’, and that honour makes him consider it. They must have to religiously clean their buckets after to get everything out; he’s never seen something designed for smoking inside a buy’ce quite like that. 

“I’ll be thirteen next month, Beroy’alor,” Jango replies so respectfully Jaster could cry. The Lead Hunter turns his helm to Jaster, considering, before he pulls the mouth piece out of his buy’ce and passing it Yflotta. Who then sticks it under her helmet and then passing to the next, continuing around the circle. 

“Would you be opposed to your ad staying here with us? He’s of the right age to begin his training in a more devoted way. Have you given thought what career path you might enjoy, young one?”

“Beroya,” Jango immediately says. Alor Draal laughs roughly, genuine and deep from his gut. Jaster is close enough to the Goran to hear their muttered ‘Oh no, not another one…’ and has to mute his mic so they don’t hear his responding laugh. Jango went through phases, but who knew which may stick. All lessons were good ones in Jaster’s eyes.

“I’d be honoured with you offering him to stay, and learn from your teachers. I could not be opposed, seeing for a brief moment your hunter’s capabilities.”

“It’ll be interesting to see what the Mand’alor has taught his ad,” comments Bodi as he takes the pipe, but he doesn’t say it like he was waiting for a punchline. More open curiosity than anything. Still, Jango puffs out his chest like he was proud and shook with restrained excitement at getting to prove himself. Jaster was so proud of him. 

“Aye, it has been a while since we’ve visited the Ori’rami’kade base. Should be time to see if our Foundlings could go to them for training instead. We last did about eighty years ago,” Alor Vobas comments, taking his turn before passing it to Rash.

The man takes it, stuffs it under his helmet, takes a long pull and when he pulls it out and passes it to the Goran, whips his head to stare at Jango, “Quick, kid: knives or blasters?”

“Blasters.”

“Yes!” Rash exclaims, pumping a fist. 

“Oh, I’ll change his mind,” Bodi states, adjusting his crossed arms until he was settled comfortably. 

After the Goran is finished their long pull that has Jaster simultaneously amused and amazed, they tilt the mouth piece to Jaster in question. Jaster has a quick moment to think of it, and the circumstance of them voting in his favour and finishing the vote with a toke of herb that reminded him of his grandfather. In the circle they’ve spun, they’ve left the decision to pass it to Jango up to him. He’d prefer it was older, but he’d ask their opinion.

“Ad’ike,” the Goran comments quietly with a touch of humour, tilting their head at the young Alor'e as Jaster takes the mouthpiece. It slides easily between the gap in his buy’ce and is tapered to slide easily in between his lips. The taste is sweet, just like he remembers, with a touch more spice that tingles in his nostrils. Like apples in cinnamon sugar, his mother’s favourite snack in the summer. He overdraws, barely restraining the tiny cough as he pulls it quickly out of his helmet. 

The chuckles do not phase him and he grins under his bucket, pleased at the tasteful haze in his mind and helmet. It does not purge from the inside all at once, Jaster getting to taste the hints of his childhood. 

“Speaking of, when do you allow your ade to partake?” He asked, tilting his head at Jango and holding the piece aloft.

“After the ceremony for their verd'goten. We try to impart that it is for special occasions, and when the Tribe is at its most secure and powerful: all together. This symbolizes an agreement, but it would apply.”

“Jango?” Jaster asks, leaning back to look at his son more clearly, “Your ba'buir smoked something like this after battles with his burc'yase. It can cloud your mind, but also ease it. Partake responsibly.”

Jango grabs it with a little hesitation, but a sure set to his shoulders. 

“Easy, lad,” Alor Vobas rumbles, smile evident in his voice, “Yflotta is a renowned botanist.”

“I told you our left over bathwater would be good for something. Hydroponics is a wonder,” she sighed dreamily, swooning onto Bodi with a clang who pushed her off with a ‘Nerd’. 

“Yeah, it’s still gross no matter how good it is,” Alor Rash comments, half an eye on Jango as he pulls the mouthpiece out. They all do, a group of helicopter buire making sure he didn’t overdo it. Yflotta had a berry juice bottle ready in one hand, one Jaster recognizes as a highly acidic fruit that would help bring him down.

“It’s… fruity, but spicy,” Jango rasps before bursting into coughs. They all laugh, half at his expense and half because they all remember being there. Jaster pats his back in sympathy, rubbing his backplate in comfort. 

“Now your mind will open, young one. Questions, ask them,” Alor Visenya intones seriously before she snorts at her own humour. She's... not really funny, and he's glad his face is not telling her so.

Jango perks up at the given permission before his mouth opens without restriction, “Why don’t you share your face?”

It is Alor Vobas who answers, quickly without any chance for Jango to think his question as an unwanted one. Jaster is stunned; they must get this question so often it must be tiring, yet he answers like it is a new one.

“In the beginning, those of the Watch who had decided to dedicate their lives to protecting the history in these tunnels and passing it along, wanted a way to distance themselves from political influence. It should not be guarded by one Clan who could dictate who can and cannot learn it. That led to the stripping of aliik, but it was not enough when their faces were recognized. That is where the hiding of faces came about. New Clans could be born within the Tribe, new aliik earned through conquest, and the sharing of face became sacred instead of something used as an advantage.”

“So the beast as Beroya’s aliik, a Mudhorn Jas’buir said, that was earned by conquest?”

“Yes,” The Goran answered professionally, covering the other’s groans, “His highest reward and closest brush with death.”

Well, that was a story he’d rather hear from Din. Thankfully, it seems Jango’s brain is more prone to speeding up than slowing down after smoking jauna. 

“Wizard… So, if Jas’buir and Beroya speak the Riduurok, would we be Clan Mudhorn too?”

“Honorary members, yes. If you swear to respect our buy’ce rules and swear the vows we all do before learning certain techniques, you can become Tribesmen. We will honour Din through this, and though you may remove your helmet at your whim outside the compound, be warned. If you flaunt your access or teach our secrets without our knowledge, not only will you be forbidden, but you taint Din’s name with it. His Clan name would be tarnished by your actions.”

Though Jaster does not get the feeling these particular Mando’ade would hold Din accountable for the actions of others, he understands the lesson the Goran is trying to impart on Jango. His actions would reflect on Din here within the Tribe, just as his actions do as the ad of the Mand’alor. If he betrayed the vows of the Tribe, he’d be betraying Din and putting his opinions forever at jeopardy, tainted by the name of a traitor. 

“I understand,” Jango says, suddenly serious and holding a fist over his heart, “I will never swear a vow I don’t intend to keep for life.”

“Much easier said than done, ad’ika, but we appreciate your words. Hold onto that honour for the rest of your life; do not let any mistakes take that from you. We all have regrets, but remaining who we are through difficult times is what makes us strong Mando'ade.”

Wise words that Jaster couldn’t agree with more. He wonders if Alor Vobas would agree to him using that as a direct quote in his next… book thing. He wouldn’t label it for fear of killing it. Jango hums in thoughtfulness now, pausing to think of more questions so Jaster takes a chance.

“May I ask my own questions?” He starts, only continuing at their eerie, synchronized nod that he tries to hide unnerves him the slightest bit, “Paz said Din does not have more ade. Is there anything his ik'aad needs… that I… can… provide…?”

Jaster trails off as all their heads snap over to him in an instant, a terrifying focus to be pinned under. He feels like an insect on a cork board, each stare like a needle pinning his limbs in place. All of them subconsciously lean towards him, almost like they are trying to tractor-beam him in or inspect him more closely, and Jaster actually shudders from the monotone, yet strictly harsh voice that comes layered out of all their modulators at once. The Armourer’s and Beroy’alor’s especially, so sharp Jaster feels like they’ve drawn weapons on him. The haze of their smoke is long gone, the surge of adrenaline purging them all straight in an instant.

“Din’s what?”

“His…,” Jaster starts, stopping to wet his lips and distinctively reminded of how Paz had froze in the stairway when he’d asked, “His ik’aad. His baby.”

“We know what an ik’aad is,” Rash spits, and Jaster feels the tables turning so fast it almost makes him sick, “What do you mean Din has a baby?”

He understands with a sickening lurch, why they are so adamant and bordering enraged, why the Goran’s body language was suddenly so tense and almost fearful. Maybe why Din had frozen solid when he’d questioned him being alone with a baby, without protection. They do not know, not at all.

“He had a small green child with him. He called them ‘ner ik'aad’, and I could smell they were bonded. I… didn’t realize….”

He left it out. He hadn’t mentioned the little Foundling when he’d told the story, thinking they had already known about them. Din and the baby’s bond had been so strong, linked through intense familiarity that generally took a long time and trust to build. How stupid could Jaster be? Looking at their reactions, they are just upset at the notion of him being without protection as Jaster had been. Why wouldn’t they be, now knowing what he knows? Din Djarin was this Tribe’s Queen, their only adult omega, and how that must be draining, both on Din and the Tribe. Omegas helped soothe those in infirmities, they help quell unrest when the verde were all worked up, they calmed Foundlings; it was an unspoken duty that many omegas took on without thanks or even being asked. Jaster made sure they were paid for their time, and for their energy expended; it was work just like any other job. Many didn’t bother to claim it, seeing it as something they would do regardless. It was one of the highest causes for reprimands in the Haat’ade, superior officers often scolding many of their omega members for not taking advantage of the paid-time. 

“No matter now, Jaster Mereel,” Alor Vobas states calmly, while the others kind of low-key lose their shit.

This is the first time he’s seen them lose composure. Alor Rash’s entire body is trembling in barely contained rage, smelling potent and ripe with fury. Not at Jaster either, because he can pick how he’s wafting it into the universe at an unknown target, and not Jaster in particular. Alor Bodi and Draal are much the same, though their scent is tinted with alarm. Alor Visenya and Alor Yflotta are wrought with worry, their bodies tense as their active minds think of scenarios and begin to prepare for them, as it is with special ops and medics both. The only one frighteningly calm, calmer than Alor Vobas even, is the Goran. The chill that emits off the beta is lowering the room temperature, Jaster can see it dropping in the top corner of his HUD. It isn’t until they speak that their emotions can be read, buried in the depths of their icy tone.

“No matter?” They say, looking at Alor Vobas now, “My ad is out there with a Foundling, doing Manda-knows-what alone without his Protector, and you say it is no matter?”

Alor Vobas does not even twitch, which is admirable. Even Jaster and the others, most of them Alphas, are leaning away from them subconsciously, from the promise of blood flooding out of them. It is purely Mandalorian, this bloodlust that seeps out of their every pour and sweat glands, known to emit from the fiercest of warriors before they go on the warpath. Din Djarin had smelled just like it, mixed in with his own unique scent, just like his buir now. They are both carefully in control of it, and that makes it even more dangerous. 

“I mean it will not change what we will do about it, only the urgency. I recommend Jaster Mereel and his ad get rest, while we work out a plan. If this is agreeable to you, Mand’alor?”

“Elek,” he agrees immediately. Not often is he not involved in the planning process, but he sees the anxious and frantic edge to these Alor'e now. Passionate, and driven at the same time. Jaster has no doubt they will work out something that will help him track this elusive hunter down, so he leaves them to it without a fuss. It is only fair, after he made such a blunder by unintentionally omitting such crucial information. Paz had not brought it up either, and he wonders if it had been a miscommunication and he truly had not known Din was carrying a pup this whole time, or had he been covering his ass? It seems he’s not the only one thinking this.

“Rash,” Beroy’alor Draal rumbles, his smooth voice catching the younger alpha’s attention immediately, “Escort them to their guest quarters, and make sure Paz knows to escort them in the morning. I have questions for him.”

The head hunter was seething like their sibling, but he was much more forward with it. Jaster almost felt bad for Paz, but Rash does not, standing in a hurry and setting his shoulders back with authority. He’s reined in his anger now, focused just like the rest of them. They are all frightening, honestly, and he is just glad that it is not turned on him. Jango and Jaster both immediately stand with him, hearing the dismissal for what it was, and left them to scheme.

He hoped the verdict didn't change by the morning. Otherwise, he had a hunt to plan for and a gorgeous Mandalorian mate to find. Oya.

Arla really, really loved her new buir. 

She never really thought she would say that after watching hers die at the hands of Kyr’tsad, and never knowing if Jango met the same fate once they dragged her away. She’d spent years in that particular camp, the threats and insults endless, the beatings unjustified, and the manual labour had totalled over fifteen hours a cycle, building their stupid weapons. Arla picked at the calluses on her hands with anger, and awaited the day she either died or these bastards did.

It was the latter. Arla was beginning to believe she would never get free, that that was the day their idle threats about raping her came true. It had always been threats, but she smelled that disgusting alpha’s interest deepen when the other had encouraged him to make her bleed. Arla wished for him to die, asked the Manda for it even, and a beautiful silver Mandalorian answered her prayers.

Her buir was beautiful, mesh’la. She would boast it to anyone. Strong, and not just physically; he emitted a confident aura, and a will so strong he could control alphas. Manipulate them like dolls, and Arla still wasn’t quite sure if she understood when Din had tried to explain it to her. It takes constant observation, whether through body-tells or fluctuation in scent, to know how to twist their minds. She had thought maybe he was just controlling them somehow, like alpha commands could. All it took was a strong demand for them against a beta or omega with a weaker will. It wasn’t the same for omegas. 

“It takes more finesse, Arl’ika,” Din had answered with humour, “We either need to outmatch them, to feel more passionately than they do, or we have to, hm, bend them.”

“Bend them?”

“Like, when Grogu does not want to eat his healthy foods, but I persuade him to by telling him they will make him stronger. That is true, but it pertains to this as well. Make them think it is what they want to do, even if they’re lies. If Jaster shows up, I will show you. If he is strong-willed like I think he is, he will deny me. If not, he is not strong enough.”

Arla doesn’t quite know what that means, what her buir is plotting. Arla thinks he’s a genius that spends a lot of time locked in his mind. Crafting leather armour, repairing the ship, speaking multiple languages, welding, sewing, cooking; her buir knows it all. He really is the finest catch in the Galaxy, and she hopes Jaster Mereel has what it takes. It sounds like Din isn’t going to let him off easy, which sounds like fun and Din’s going to let them watch. How romantic and exciting.

Din’buir also takes them on his next crusade. Also very exciting since he wouldn’t until her leather warmed up and she could quick draw and shoot accurately and smoothly. Very protective, and he fusses over her like a momma tooka-cat, grooming her, making sure her clothes were comfortable and sewing her more to her tastes, feeding her as much food as he can after she’s gone so long with so little. 

He takes her in through tunnels under the building, letting her carry Grogu. These were once for sewage but were now thankfully dry. The smell still isn’t pleasant, and he chuckles without sympathy when she tells him so. 

“Guess I’ll have to talk to your ba'buir,” he comments, “I’ll get Paz to send them a message about crafting you a helmet.”

He can’t smell it, she envies, the damn helmet can turn off! Arla’s always wanted a buy’ce of her own, and the fact he promises her one so easily has her heart soaring. He rarely takes his off, and Arla isn’t bothered in the slightest at the idea of following in his footsteps. She wants to be just like him, a fearless omega who can hold their own out in the cruel Galaxy. He is honourable and devout, like the Warriors of Old. One who is patient and kind, yet so vicious and brutal to those who deserve it. He burns cold and hot in all the best of ways, displaying the best dualities of man that so many abuse. 

He takes out a large storage room first, coming up through a small grate in the floor. He barely fits and removes his pauldrons and flak-vest instead of widening the hole and alerting them. Arla has to pass them to him, after pushing on his boots to help him get his generous backside through the vent. Din doesn’t let them come up until he’s done, and Arla never even hears a sound, not even when he puts his armour back on and walks out of sight. 

She flinches when he comes back, not expecting it to be done so soon or silently. He really is one scary shabuir, and Arla is so happy he’s hers. He reaches down for her, Arla grasping his forearms like he does hers and Grogu dangling down her back, before pulling them up. 

“Stay here?” Din rumbles when they walk over to the door. The storage room is mostly rations, and should be ignored once a threat is discovered. There’s no weapons or ammo for them to come for, and there’s about eight littered bodies spaced out around the room, all killed out of sight and so efficiently their buddies had no warning. It doesn’t even have that distinct hot-dry-summer-heat-lightning smell that Din’buir emits when he’s controlling others. He's so wizard.

“What if we want to watch? How will we learn?” She persuades, easily.

Din sighs, and then they sneak down hallways, Din leaving trip wires in the hallways and in front of certain doorways before they come to an open doorway with chattering inside. The beroya signs for them to stay, then he sleuths in the room with no more than a dagger clutched tightly in one hand. Again, not even a sound before he calls softly for her. He passes her a grenade as soon as she enters, already almost out the door.

“Lock it behind me. If they get in, smoke bomb ‘em and blast, cyar'ika. Use that back exit to go back to the storage room.”

“Elek, buir,” she answers happily, closing the door and engaging the lock. It takes a hot minute to splice and change it like he had shown her, but then her and Grogu get to sit in front of the rows of security cams. There’s a gurgling sound from next to her, and Arla just pushes the body off the chair with her feet so she can kick them up, and watch the show.

Din’s good at hiding on cams too. It takes her a while to spot him, in the darkened corner, and he’s further than she thought it would be. He startles some into shooting, and lets them trigger the alarm. Mercs start flooding out of doorways and down halls. Immediately, utter chaos. Some trip the bombs Din placed in the doors, others down the halls, and screaming and swearing starts filling up the base. Arla grins along with Grogu, munching on their blue cookies as they enjoy the show. She hopes Jaster Mereel enjoys it too.

Chapter Text

Paz is still escorting them, the next morning on their way back to the council chambers. Jaster does not know what his situation is, emotions all locked behind his beskar tighter than Belsavis’ prisons. Jaster isn’t going to ask, and Jango doesn’t either despite sending him less than subtle looks. Jaster softly reprimands him on their linked internal comms the third time, to which his son’s shoulders hike up in embarrassment. He pats his shoulder in sympathy, encouraging him to side-eye him out the Tee instead if he wants to stare so much. If he wants to be a good bounty-hunter, he’s got to be able to fool his mark into thinking they aren’t onto him yet. That seems to work, brightening the boy up with a spark of challenge. It reminds him slightly that he’ll be leaving Jango here, and though it won’t be for long and is good experience, Jaster will miss having him by his side. Though, he knows the boy has been waiting for him to give him a little more free-range, independence. It will be good for both of them. He’ll still let his son know he can call him whenever he wants, and if he has to miss the comm, he’d call back.

By the time they get back down to the same chambers they used last night, the temporary location the Goran had said, Jango is doing a much better job. Jaster still hasn’t managed to glean anything out of the hulking blue Mandalorian either. It doesn’t make his nervousness any better, wondering what the verdict would be.

When they enter, they are all seated again, yet this time they are all fully donned in their beskar’gam. It does not look like they have moved at all since Jaster and Jango had left, except for the subtle changes. All the incense has gone out, the hookah is gone and out of sight, they are no longer relaxed and in high spirits. This is almost how Jaster expected them to be. The three of them sit in silence, and once they are fully seated, does one of them speak. It’s Alor Draal, the head hunter, and Jaster is surprised and slightly thankful that it’s not to him. His voice is eerily blank and calm, yet has the faint edge of forewarning like the whisper of a blade leaving its sheath. 

“Paz Vizsla. Tell me why I should let you lead this hunt. You’ve lost one of my hunters, not once, not twice, but four times now. You failed to report vital information, failed to notice it. It seems to me your judgment is compromised.”

Paz doesn’t even flinch. The man straightens up in surety, a confident set to his shoulders that Jaster doesn’t think even he’d be able to pull off in front of this, frankly, frightening hunter. 

“Because I won’t be leading it. I’ll be guiding it.”

Alor Draal tilts his head in an obvious continue motion, though it was tinted with a warning, like Paz was treading on thin, thin ice for someone of his stature. 

“Jaster Mereel wishes to hunt Din. And, from the brief scent I got of Din when he fled after meeting him, Din wants him to chase. I’ll Protect, like I’ve always done, and let them Court in the Old Ways.”

“Protect who?” Draal spits, suddenly angry and leaning forward to glare his visor into Paz’s, “Din, or the Mand’alor?”

Paz stiffens now, “Din is my brother—"

“Yes. And you know your brother. He would not dismiss you, and Din does not ask for loyalty. He, like the rest of us, knows it must be earned. Why did you not outright dismiss him, knowing he would rather hunt alone than say he was without?”

“Because I do not want to leave him,” Paz snarls, “But he is stagnant, and you do nothing about it.”

Jaster flinches back as well as Jango does when Alor Draal makes this loud, rasping swear before lunging out at Paz across the table. It’s the Goran who grabs their brother and pulls them back, pinning his arms behind his back to keep him from swinging.

“You dare, after you said nothing—!”

“I dare! You know just as well as I do what Din wants for himself, yet refuses to have. What you don’t know is Din, miserable on the ship without the Foundlings, without a break to think of why! Always worried he’s not doing enough, not providing enough, that he’s not good enough for a mate or being a single parent. He doesn’t give a shit what you rack up as a bride-price, because he thinks nobody is ever going to notice him and think him worth swearing the Creed for, or even respect it. Refuses to acknowledge he wants a kid of his own, and fills the ache with all the other Foundlings because he’s the only omega, and picking one would be cruel when he loves them all so much. Kark you for making this about whether or not I support Jaster Mereel’s cause over Tor’s, over Din. I would kill for him. I would die for him. But I will not let him live like he’s been living forever. I regret the catalyst, but I don’t regret it happening. It’s been coming for years.”

Paz seems to lose steam at the end, turning more devoted, more sure, and that seems to ease the head  hunter. The younger alpha’s scent is painfully honest, full of frustration and genuine worry for his hunter. Finally Draal stops straining against his vod’s grip, lowering his hands back to the table and lacing his fingers together. Still, he seems upset, but Paz seems to have brought up valid points he cannot argue with. That is a lot of information that Jaster is picking through about his potential future mate, that the man is so devoted to his Tribe he has left himself bereft of his own desires, instead focusing on the Tribe’s benefit. That he would not ask his Protector to stay, but would not denounce him either; letting the man make the final decision himself. Yet, it sounds so lonely and Jaster’s heart aches for this omega. That he does not think he is good enough for a mate. His instincts flare, that desire deepening; he would do whatever he could so that this warrior was living the life he deserved. He would eliminate Kyr’tsad and his pursuers, allow their Tribe to once again be multicultural and diverse, take the strain off of Din and the Children of the Watch as a whole. That was his offering, the Death of Tor Vizsla, and whoever else’s head this hunter was after. He’d do whatever it took to show this omega he was worth fighting for, and if Jaster had to swear to cast away his face, he would. He’d honour their traditions; he seldom took his helmet off around the verde anyways. Doing it would be a small price to pay to be privileged to join his Clan.

“It is your last chance. If you fail again, you will be stripped of your Protector title and placed on probation. Understood?”

“Yes, Alor.”

“Are you two finished?” The Goran asks now, turning their head between the two. They both dip their heads in immediate agreement like scolded children. Then, they turn their helmet to Jaster and Jango.

“I would ask you to do me a favour.”

Jaster gapes under his helmet, before quickly giving them a sure nod of his head. They must be beginning to trust he keeps his word because they ask without him verbally agreeing. He wouldn’t be able to give them words at the beautiful, silver beskar buy’ce they place on the table. It’s an adolescent’s, and it looks exactly like Din’s. Jaster has nothing to say, no idea what they want him to do with this.

“Deliver this to Din. Tell him to send them home with Paz, and that we will take over his rotation.”

Jaster records their words on his helmet as added proof, then gives them another nod. There is meaning hidden in those sentences, more than one that he cannot quite parse out, but it is not meant for him. Jaster doesn’t dwell on it, not when the rest of the Alor’e begin debriefing him on Din’s hunting patterns, how Paz can help guide him through scent and their faint Force bond Din is trying to smother. The Razor Crest, his ship’s capabilities, how far he can go before necessary supplies and where he’s likely to get them. 

Most of all, they impart Din is crafty. He is smart, and unpredictable. Jaster cannot hunt him like he would a bounty, but he cannot hunt him as another hunter either; Din will expect that, that smarter ones would eventually get on his trail and try to outsmart him. The best thing he can do is follow his natural instincts along with Paz’s guidance and their shared private information, and hope that his desire to find Din really outweighs all.

It does work.

Jaster cannot believe it. He pours over star-maps close to where he’d met Din, then branches out. The hunter wouldn’t stick close when he was trying to evade that many soldiers, no matter how much hiding in plain sight could be valid. He has no idea the state of his ship at that point, so he acts like the hunter has a full tank, and tries to think hard of how that mouth-watering man had smelled. Not just the potent hints he got of his unique aroma, but the underlying things that made up his character. What had initially drawn him in closer, wanting more.

Devotion and faith, that attitude instilled in special forces to complete their missions by any means necessary. It was the sharp sting on the exhale, the after-burn that reminded him with every breath the fortitude of this omega was outmatched by any other warrior he’d ever met. That salt of sweat, his body clean, but a steadfast dedication that has etched into his scent, constant, unending, tiring. 

He will need to rest. Whatever his stamina levels, he is devoted to hunting whatever it is he’s after, and this one does not stop. If he’s resting, he’s doing something in the meantime. Jaster also remembers the sour edge of anger when Din had been interrupted, shot in the back of the head by those mercs. How righteously furious he’d been at the Death Watch operatives. Remembers clearly how he had stepped in to help them and save Jango, without even knowing who Jaster was. How he fought viciously, and protected the youngling at his hip with the same fierceness. Where did he find them, is the question at the root of it all. He wonders if the man is just as driven by the settling of scores, if blood is to be repaid with blood.

Pairing his own knowledge of suspected Kyr’tsad bases with what the Ja’hai’ade have told him, he picks one on instinct. This one is a prison camp, not too close and not too far from where Jaster had last seen him, and he’s hoping to find a trail soon, a link to something. Myles, his lieutenant, is spamming him with calls that Jaster can only ignore for so long. He’s pushing it now, but he wants a target before he gives the Haat’ade any orders. The Children of the Watch are allowing him to take credit for the hits, as it seems Din is trying to benefit by keeping the Tribe unlinked to him, and all Jaster needs is a target. There’s a reason for it, his non-contact. Even his buir had told him it’s unlike Din; the last thing they got was a humongous crate six of their warriors had to hike in, full of supplies that seemed distinctly military. Din had scrubbed the logo off of everything, so there was no link to where he got it. That was a few weeks ago, and it had been the first in months. Din writes letters when he can if it’s not safe to use comms, but it seems even Din thinks that is a risk during this mission. It’s like a puzzle he knows he’s close to solving, he’s only missing just a few key pieces. 

When they land on the planet Jaster suspects Din would go to next, he gets a clue, but not who he’s searching for. The base is no longer hostile, or even run by Kyr’tsad. There’s malnourished individuals of all ages in prisoner garb working together to load supplies and rations onto a ship, while some strip Kyr’tsad’s shriek-hawk off the hull. They all stare suspiciously at Paz with raised weapons until they see Jaster, some perking up with recognition and causing the rest to follow in cautious trust.

“Mand’alor Mereel,” the de-facto alor of this rag-tag bunch steps forward to greet, holding out his arm. Jaster grips his forearm surely in a warrior’s handshake, feeling the strength in the man’s grip. 

“You are searching for the silver warrior. What do you want with them?”

Jaster blinks, surprised at the fierce protection this man displays towards the hunter. He squeezes Jaster’s vambrace harder at his hesitation, able to see the strain in his fingers. His title doesn’t matter; this verd would rip him apart if he’s after Din for nefarious reasons.

“He is without protection. We are trying to supply it.”

The man’s eyes widen before he barks out a laugh, “Protection? He took this place out by himself!”

Jaster’s gaze shifts to the littered corpses around the building’s perimeter, “All of them?”

“Yes. Saved a young omega girl too. I would almost feel bad for the ones he killed, if they hadn’t been scum.”

“Show us,” Paz pipes up, not very politely.

“Please,” Jaster adds, giving him an incredulous glance. The man shifts, scolded. Jaster cannot believe it worked.

The verd shrugs then leads them through the base. There’s corpses everywhere, Jaster amazed that Din took this many out alone. He never would have guessed a solo operative caused this amount of destruction. Jaster is getting the trace of Din’s scent now throughout the hallways, but it is nothing compared to the room at the bottom of a set of stairs. Their guide’s lekku twitched as he glanced at them stiffening at the potent rage and hate in the room, all laced with Din’s unique aroma. Being a twi’lek meant he wasn’t as affected; they could detect it, but it wasn’t doing to him what it was doing to the other two sub-gender Mandos. Paz instantly stiffened, matching the emotions of his hunter and angry at nothing in particular. Jaster instantly started salivating, a strange reaction to the gore in the room. One Kyr’tsad warrior is showing signs of being pierced through the throat with a blade, the same move Din used to protect Jango and aimed right under their helmet. It’s the other one that hooks him like a barb, not even sure how Din did it, but he is so fucking impressed his entire body burns—

“Strong, isn’t it? Is that how he got him to do it?” The verd asks, referring to Din’s scent and the other Death Watch guard with a cut throat, ear to ear, and the offending blade still in their own hand. 

“Omegas are not to be trifled with,” Paz responds cryptically, “The strongest can talk most into anything.”

Oh, and how Jaster’s inner alpha howls from that confirmation. That Din can, and had, talked this weaker alpha into slitting their own throat, all to protect a young girl. Had done here what a squadron would have done after more than a week’s planning.That this liberated base is all Kyr’tsad warriors, abusers and demagolka’se, and why, why does Jaster get the impression this was left just for him?

“It is, Jaster,” Paz says softly, glancing at him. Jaster tilts his head in confusion, not realizing he’s read his mind, “You can’t smell that?”

Jaster taps at his vambrace, opening up is olfactory intakes before taking in another deep breath. He’d lowered them to keep his bearings, to not get too distracted by Din’s alluring nature. It’s instant, what Paz means, when Din’s scent floods the inside of his helmet more clearly. The strongest is the rage, the disgust towards these two dead warriors, the most obvious. There’s calming notes closer to the chair they chain their prisoners to, but even fainter under it all is something Jaster hasn’t quite been privy to before. It does something to him, like his torso is trapped in a vice, compressing his lungs and squeezing his heart. It lasts for a second before it settles, but Jaster still feels the tightness. Under it all is longing, not his but Din’s, and a desire to impress. It’s almost child-like, so innocent in its blatant excitement, curious and hopeful. Under the blood, the anger and everything else is a tentative question, tailored just for him. He knows because it feels like it curls around him, a hand reaching out to see if he pulls away, a whispered question hidden in the delicate traces of Din Djarin’s scent.

‘Do you like it?’

A blood-offering. Din has left him a blood-offering like their ancestors of old, courting their mates through impressive feats and hoping to lure them in with deeds of valour. Jaster’s heart pounds, and how did Din know that Jaster had wished for it the first time he’d learned about it? That someone would like him enough to leave him the corpses of his enemies, a trail of blood to follow personally tailored for him? That he would want to do the same for? Din does want him to pursue, had hoped he would and left him a gift on the off-chance he’d been sincere in his courting offer. It gives Jaster just what he needs; a link, something specific to look for. It becomes less daunting, looking for him, because Jaster hears the underlying words Din does not leave specifically. It’s in the determination, the self-confidence: 

‘There’s more where that came from.’

Jaster hopes so and doesn’t doubt it, not able to deny exactly how much this excites him. How thoughtful of him, and Jaster couldn’t be more impressed by this warrior’s skill and strength. That burning feeling of his alpha, lately so restless and impatient by Jaster’s refusal to dive in head-first, settles. It’s as hot as coals sitting in his belly, but it not longer feels like he’ll spontaneously combust if he does not find this warrior a perfect gift right now. This is acceptance, the words Din had not given him, yet spoken clearly in this room and base. Jaster has a chance now; Din has not turned him away, and wants him to chase. When he catches up and returns these blood-offerings, then will he hunt for the perfect mating gift. This….

This is going to be fun.

“I have the security footage,” the twi’lek warrior comments helpfully, and Jaster goes stock still, “This room ran on a separate circuit; it’s why these two had no idea he was coming. I don’t think the rest did either, honestly. All idiots.”

Jaster can only nod mutely, his mouth drying instantly. His heart starts pounding, and a distinct shiver of delight runs down his spine. Din may not be here, but he was, and Jaster can still witness him. He ignores Paz’s soft chuckles when the other warrior points towards the staircase, and Jaster starts making his way up first. In his excitement, he forgets he doesn’t quite know where to go, but he’s still looking up and down the hallways and scenting like he can puzzle it out.

“What’s wrong with him?” The alor says to Paz, Jaster also electing to ignore this as he waits for them to hurry up with the stairs. His foot starts tapping.

“We are looking for my hunter, for protection, yes,” Paz answers with clear amusement as they finally get to the top, “Mand’alor Mereel here is on the hunt for a mate.”

“Oya,” he returns, looking at Jaster with knowing amusement, “The best kind of hunt there is. Your kind can love so fiercely. I’m glad he took the girl with him. I think I would too, if he saved me doing this.”

That almost causes Jaster to stop, wanting to press more on that Din has another child with him now, but the man has led them into a small control room across the hall, bodies left where they fell. Most of them are still seated or near their posts, doing what they were supposed to do and unaware that something was hunting them. He gestures to one of the screens while punching at some buttons. The screen rolls back from an empty room, too quickly to see what happens, before the man presses play. Then the audio and video start, perfectly clear. Jaster wishes it could project smell as well, and he is glad he got a taste of Din’s glorious scent as he killed them. He likes that sharp tang of ozone mixed with Din’s sweeter smell, that distinct tell from those with a score to settle by any means. That same dangerous hint from the first time, a warning of blood.

It’s the horrific and disgusting comments from the Kyr’tsad warriors that flood heat through his body next, and it’s all rage. The girl chained to the chair couldn’t be more than fifteen-standard, and they are talking about sexually assaulting her with such blasé, Jaster wishes he could kill them a second time. He’s glad the verd doesn’t go back far enough to see them cause the fresh bruises, and he doesn’t have to listen to her verbal abuse for long.

A silver gleam shoots through the air, the spray of blade and sudden jerk of one Demagolka’s body more noticeable than the blade through their neck. The other turns towards the doorway before another bigger silver gleam is charging him. Now Jaster is riveted, body stilling completely the second Din comes on-screen. The other alpha is even bigger than Din is, and he’s a deliciously tall and wide man, all in the shoulders and in those birthing hips, fuck him silly, he’s gorgeous. He takes the man down to the ground with ease, and Jaster grins from how he throws himself into it with a little extra oomph, intentionally crushing him under his heavier armour. The way he locks his feet over his thighs as he sits on him, breaking his incoming arm with one twist and stabbing him in the other just as quickly, before ripping his helmet off: it’s satisfying and it excites him for more than one reason. If he had heard that, he would have just ripped the shabuir’s whole head off.

Jaster cannot quite tell what does it, but the Kyr’tsad warrior stops struggling, stops swearing at him, and freezes. He can hear Din’s seething, rough growl of a voice echo— “Good for nothing, are we?” — and Jaster can taste the air of that room in his mouth. It’s then that it comes back to him when Din stands, the man pinned to the floor untouched, that Din has commanded Paz and others to be still before. Yet, this time he did not even have to speak to control this pitiful excuse of an alpha and Mandalorian. What a powerful and deadly warrior he is, and Jaster cannot believe it has taken this long to find him.

Din glances towards the girl, staring at him with her mouth agape as his attention leaves his enemy. Din isn’t concerned, not needing his full concentration to keep the man on the floor. Then, he turns his attention back to the warrior, and his stare is cutting through the visor, calculating, and when he speaks Jaster shivers from the utter authority in his voice.

“Release her.”

The man stands like all his limbs are numb, spasming uncontrollably, and Din repeats himself once before the man straightens up in full confidence. He strides over to the girl, juts out his vambrace at the small digital lock, and does not move until Din tells him to take three steps backwards. This time, there is no hesitation at all. Not when he turns around, not when he yanks the dagger Din had sunk into his arm earlier out. He does not even hesitate when Din tells him to put it to his throat, and Jaster can clearly see the disbelief and desperation in the man’s eyes. He knows it’s coming, and he is having just as a hard time believing what Din is doing as the girl still sitting in the chair. 

“Slit it,” Din says, and it’s as firm and uncaring as a final dismissal. In a way it is, the man opening his own throat without even a plea.

“How?” The girl asks in complete awe, and Jaster heart aches at her question and bursts with pride at Din’s answer.

“We are omega. We can do anything.”

He helps her out of the chair, straightens her threadbare clothes, brushes away the flyaway strands  of her hair out of her eyes. Then, he unholsters a smaller blaster and gives it to her. She takes it with familiarity, but a lack of confidence. Din gently corrects her hands until she holds it proper. Jaster keeps watching until they begin to leave the room, the girl asking for him to wait just before they do. Din stops, and gives her a polite dip of his head. She asks for his name. He only pauses for a moment before he gives it, quicker to a child than he had been to Jaster. He then asks for her’s.

“Arla. Arla Fett.”

Jaster stiffens, knowing that name intimately. It couldn’t be… but it was. She looks just like how Jango had described her, through the grime, neglect and abuse. Long curly blonde hair, darker tanned skin prevalent with those from Concord Dawn, crystal blue eyes. It’s a rare combination of physical traits, and with the name— She’s alive, and the utter shame and anger he feels about it bite in just as hard as the joy. Jango’s sister is alive, and Jaster never even looked for her, thinking she had been one of the burnt corpses in Fett family homestead. At the same time, it is gloriously fitting that Din Djarin has found her. Jaster wouldn’t want it to be anyone else, and even if the man has claimed her as his own, Jaster knows the kind of man he is already. He would not keep her from Jango, even if this courting went south, just as Jaster would not ask to split her from Din. His mind thinks of the silver buy’ce the Goran gave him, telling him to return it to Din, and he wonders if they had known somehow. Most Gorane were Touched, Force-Sensitive, and possessing prophetic foresight. He wonders more, if it truly was Din’s helmet, the same one he had worn at Arla’s age. He regrets Jango is not with him now, but the Goran had asked him to tell Din to send them home, and now that makes more sense with another child in tow. That means they will get a chance to reunite before this mission is over. Jaster is grateful for that, and hopes Din agrees to the Goran’s request. 

“We will purge the tapes after you go through their logs,” the commander says, “The Manda told me to wait, and now I know why. I hope it helps.”

“It does,” Jaster says, and it comes out as a raspy growl. He knows more of Din’s character now, fleshing him out and starting to have a real link to the man. They were similar, compatible, and Din is just more ruthless, conniving. If he wants to follow, he needs to start thinking more like him. First things first is to be thorough, to which he shares the sentiment. They’ll scour this place for any information Kyr’tsad has, and the reason Din picked this particular base. 

He sits in one of the uncomfortable chairs for over an hour, reading while the rest download to a data-stick so he can comb through it later. He’s just ready to close it down with the transfer complete when he catches it. There’s a signature on one of the funding invoices for a donation, and Jaster looks at the cursive print as he tries to deduce why it looks familiar. It’s the name, he realizes, recognizing it from the news and the cautious whispers from other Mandalorians throughout the Galaxy. There was a man obsessed with their culture, a suspected thief of beskar and other cultural heirlooms, but it couldn’t be proven. All there was a warning from others, telling them to steer clear or take out at the first available opportunity. He was linked to the Empire Corporation, where Jaster first learned his name in the articles after their prompt dismantlement after their chief executive officer turned out to be a Sith Lord.

Yet, here is Moff Gideon, one of Palpatine’s seconds, signing a cheque for an ostentatious amount out to Death Watch. For ‘research and development’ purposes. Eight months ago, long after Palpatine’s demise.

Jaster is sure almost the minute he reads it. His comm is pulling up Myles’ number and dialling before he is even done evaluating all the angles, but he knows. This is Din Djarin’s target, this is who funded the torture and unlawful confinement of all these people, who supplies Din’s hunters with their expensive weapons, but not giving a shit about the armour because when there was this much money at their disposal, they could always buy more bodies.

“Jaster,” his lieutenant’s voice comes through his buy’ce right as it connects. His voice is worried and mostly irritated, “Where the hell are you? Am I inheriting the entire company, because I’m fucking running it!”

“Sorry, Myles,” he starts, knowing the man deserves the apology. He is one of the very few who talks to him this way, and he doesn’t mind when he’s known him for decades just like Montross, “I got sidetracked.”

“By what?”

Jaster sighs dreamily. He can’t help it, because all he can see is Din Djarin fighting and commanding worthless alphas into committing suicide like it’s nothing. There’s an awkward silence on the other end, and Jaster can see the suspicious glare his friend is sending him right now even without video.

“A mate,” Jaster states, that sure he will win this omega’s heart. He hopes more than anything. 

“You’ve found one?” Myles says, utterly shocked. That was the last thing he thought Jaster would say. Jaster also realizes his answer may have been a bit premature.

“…Looking for him.”

“What, did you lose him?”

Jaster’s awkward silence is telling. Myles sighs.

“Hopeless. Utterly hopeless. Tell me you’re close to catching up. I’m drowning in complaints of boredom.”

“I am, and I can help with that. I need the Haat’ade to assist.”

“Wait, wait wait wait,” Myles says suddenly, cutting him off from finishing his request. There’s the loud sound of his boots hitting the ground as it sounds like he runs full tilt, then the loud clamouring of many people before they all cut off into silence.

“Say that again?” Myles pants, and Jaster refraining from sighing. He’s got him on speakerphone in the mess-hall, no doubt.

“I’ve found a suitable mate. He did not have time to answer my proposal because he’s being hunted by demagolka’se, because he is hunting them. He is without support, and I need assistance giving it to him while I try to catch up and get an answer.”

There’s whispers and mumbling that break out immediately, proving Jaster’s theory. He continues, hearing no outright denials.

“He saved both Jango and I from a Kyr’tsad ambush. We owe him Life Debts, and I have paid what I can to his Clan. Do I have volunteers to help protect this hunter, as Haat’Mando’ade who value his crusade?”

“Undoubtedly, Mand’alor,” comes the first voice, from Ordo an older ramikad that’s been with him for many years.

There’s loud agreements from other warriors that Jaster can pick out, and a grin starts to grow on his face. He knew he could count on them for this, even if asking for personal reasons almost felt like he was abusing his power. It’s still an honourable cause, and even Jaster as the alor was allowed his one chance to hunt after his true mate and skip work to do it.

“I’m sending Myles all the data I’ve collected. Target is the Empire Corporation; they are not as disbanded as others like to believe, and I suspect they are stealing, experimenting on, and abusing children. They are also funding Death Watch, which adds weight to this theory. I need their camps and stockpiles hit, to draw attention away from my beroya. I assume he has his eye on the new alor. I will pay my debt by helping him achieve this.”

“Your beroya, eh?” Somebody comments, a sly smile obvious in their voice. 

“He will be,” Jaster growls, determination mixed with slight possessiveness flaring to life. 

There’s snickers, cheers, and scattered genuine ‘Oya’s’ from his verd, knowing what their alor was like once he had his eye set on something. Din was a meticulous tracker, a masterful hunter; Jaster was a target-seeking missile, and when he got up to speed, the whistle and contrails left behind him tipped his prey into knowing he was coming. Din leaves his targets with less than a whimper; Jaster takes them out with a bang. Din was already onto him anyways, so he had no reason to be subtle to his verde.

In the end, almost all are happy to split off into squads and start taking numbers for compounds to take out. At the same time, Jaster gives the liberated Kry'tsad prisoners the location of their warship so they can get free medical and the choice of being dropped wherever they wished, or to join the Haat'ade. Meanwhile, Kal and the other plotters, cough, intelligence officers take his information and run, looking for links and for more information on their dealings. Before they even leave hyperspace— and him and Paz are not telling anybody that they just matched the direction the liberated leader had pointed Din’s ship taking off in— Kal sends him copious amounts of news articles and interviews from the last five months, along with a ‘what the hell is your Mando on?’. They are all linked to the Empire Corps, and Jaster’s heart starts pounding all over again.

These aren’t blood-offerings left for him, but they cause him to yearn just the same. This is not the first base Din has hit; he’s hit so many most news outlets from the Core to the Rim are commenting on these buildings left with corpses and otherwise untouched. They are not robbed, there are no other bodies to indicate a gang-war or an attack by another rival group, there is no evidence other than them being left to find and having link to the Empire Corp one way or another. Din is really taking them out, one by one. What a fearsome and devoted creature he is, and it’s getting harder for Jaster to fall asleep at night.

Hence, him and Paz playing Sabacc more often than not during hyperspace, or Jaster knits, but he’s run out of yarn until their next stop. The man’s a good player, but Jaster has him brutally outmatched. The man takes longer and longer to move his pieces, delaying the inevitable of Jaster kicking his ass. If he wasn’t so competitive, he’d let him win one to hurry up the process. Too bad he was that competitive, and Jaster doesn’t even soften his ego by waiting a beat to move his own pieces after he takes an hour to move his. The man gives him enough time to plan out his next ten moves, no matter what the cabur decides to do.

Paz freezes as he’s reaching out, fingertips a millimetre away from his game piece. Jaster cocks an eyebrow, wondering if he’s changing his mind again before he realizes it’s affecting his entire body. He’s not even breathing, his massive chest not moving and when he comes back online, it’s with a great big inhale like an ancient terminal powering up.

“Me'ven?” Jaster asks, slightly worried. He’s never seen the bigger verd act this way, totally seized up like that.

“Din just… did something,” the man answers helpfully. Jaster raises another eyebrow. He huffs, “I don’t know, I’m not very good at it. It felt like he just opened up our Force bond the littlest bit, like he was taking a peek at me. I can’t really describe it.”

“Well, it’s not like I’ve—“ 

Jaster freezes. It felt like something just brushed against him, a hand searching for him in the dark. Not physically, not on his body, but in his mind. He doesn’t know how to reach back, not sure he wants to reach out to the strange sensation, until Jaster gets a hint of recognition. It matches the feeling in that basement, a curious poke to get his attention, the scanning feeling of a scrupulous assessment. Jaster knows it’s Din before he takes in his next breath, smelling hints of him like those he catches trapped in the padding of his helmet.

He’s pleased. Jaster’s belly swoops, able to pick up the excited acceptance as the man realizes Jaster’s following him. It’s in how that sweet summer smell of him puts notes of honey in his mouth. How it feels like Din tugs on him in his mind, telling him to keep coming. The impressed way his presence leaves him, like Din hadn’t expected him to follow through or be able to track him, and Jaster burns. What a feeling this man ignites in him every time, like the heat of battle but magnified and constant. It’s like the man’s got him on a spit over an open fire, his armour beginning to warm up until he was roasting inside it.

“You felt that, huh,” Paz comments, noticing how he had reacted the same.

Jaster can only nod. Jaster is hit with the childish urge to cross his arms and stomp his feet; that little taste of him had been so pleasing, but fleeting. It wasn’t enough; Jaster wanted more. He wanted, he wanted, to cage that omega between his arms, throw his own helmet away without a single care of where it landed, and bury his nose in this man’s throat. Even the delicate glands at his wrists, he’d be satisfied if he could just get it against his skin, get a full dose of that saccharine perfume on his lips. Hear his soft, gravelly voice again, watch that strong lithe body of his convey his subtle emotions.

“He’s got you completely ensnared, Mereel,” Paz says with great humour.

“Shut it, Vizsla,” Jaster growls in jest, “You’ll understand one day when your mate teases you.”

Paz chuckles and shakes his head, finally completing his move on the game board, “I don’t know what you’ve done to him, either. He’s never reached out like that, especially not like how he just did to you. It’s so foreign it almost freaks me out.”

“He’s never really courted? Your Tribe mentioned him turning everybody down.”

“No,” Paz sighs, “Din is… Goal-Focused. And when he loves others, it has more to do with what is inside. He sees the physical last, and it’s hard for him when that’s what everyone notices first in him. Unless he’s in heat, Din doesn’t think about sex, and he never really thinks about romance. You truly are the first.”

That should build his confidence, being given the chance to court this inexperienced warrior, really woo him because he has never genuinely accepted before. It doesn’t really, when Jaster is much the same. He’s fine with sexual relationships and initiating those, but a true, romantic one? Hard to commit when he was also goal-focused. To align with someone on so many  levels could be difficult, especially when he was as busy as he was. He’s lucky he met Din on such a meeting with his son, otherwise there would have been other Haat’Mando’ade present and Din would have most likely never have engaged. 

Jaster does not want to ruin this one shot he has, and he’s determined to see it through. Every place they had stopped where Din had camped on the way to his next destination, which were not many, had been steeped in love. The children adored him, and Din loved them fiercely. Din’s beckoning call, this faint encouragement he has sent across the Galaxy, gives him the confidence to push forward. The omega is giving him an opportunity, and Jaster will not waste it to catch this mandokarla, jatne'buir. 

The next base is one Jaster is familiar with. 

It’s a large camp for Kyr’tsad, hidden off on a little moon. Its location is slightly documented when they hack the encrypted file, but the architectural designs didn’t prove an easy way in. The Haat’Mando’ade have limited information too, but they do know it is highly active with strong defences. They are lucky that doesn’t seem to be a problem for them.

Paz is the one to give him the battle-sign for all-clear, Jaster tipping his head in confusion. He still obeys it, coming closer to the base to see what Paz had with his hulking advantage. There are Mandalorian corpses all wearing Kyr’tsad colours littering, well, everywhere. The outside guards look like they were killed from behind, and there are not many. Most have been drawn inside, meaning their attacker had made it in with them unaware. Inside is another story entirely.

“It’s Din,” Paz says immediately once they enter.

Jaster restrains from making a less-than-polite comment, picking up on that familiar smell too. What he really wants to know is if it fresh before he goes opening his intakes to this second blood-offering. Din makes his instincts go wild whether he’s physically here or not. Paz still picks up on his unasked question from his body language.

“I think so. He feels close, but I can’t say how close. He’s hiding from me again. Smells fresh to me.”

Jaster really isn’t going to worry about it, just hopes that maybe he’ll find a more obvious clue. This base used to be home to all the children they stole, before they shipped them off to different camps, separating families and neighbours alike. Now it seems like it’s just a recon base, filled with idling warriors awaiting orders for their next mission. There do not seem to be any children here, and Jaster doesn’t quite know whether he should feel happy or upset by that information. Still, he can appreciate the gift Din has left him, all these soldiers worse than scum to follow such orders blindly and revel in it.

They both pick a door at random during their exploring, Jaster still distracted by the blood staining the walls and floors of the hallway. His blaster has lowered, they are all cold, and this place is so quiet despite the vast amount of bodies that once livened this hell-hole. There were dozens upon dozens, and they were not picked off one at a time with a silent approach. This is a blood-bath, a one-man army decimating another base full of child-abusers and those that revelled in cruelty. Jaster is in awe of the prowess, skill and just sheer, utter determination to get the job done that would be required to do what Din has done. Jaster wouldn’t attempt it, and he’d never send in a solo operative to do it either, no matter how good they were. It was insanity, but this: it is a masterpiece. Din has used the environment to his advantage and the other warriors against themselves. He’s tricked some into shooting each other, trapped and mazed others like rats behind trip-wired bombs before letting them loose, a body cut in half from a closing doorway and other various tricks. It all shows foresight, constant calculation, Din knowing his prey better than they know themselves. Jaster is not exempt.

Jaster doesn’t realize he’s so close to his prey until the smell of him hits Jaster over the head like a brick, same with Paz. They both stop in the doorway once it opens, their feet frozen to the floor. Jaster can hardly move, can’t even turn his head to see Paz cemented a foot behind him. He tries to force another step, brows furrowing at how it’s like he’s moving through quicksand sucking him down.

“Still,” comes the calm command, still orderly even with his soft voice. Jaster’s body completely seizes up at the singular word, but his head is turned in the right direction. Finally before him, sitting quite comfortably on a crate, is the silver Mandalorian he’s been desperately looking for. Cradled in his arms and settled against his blood-splattered chest plate is the green little ik'aad, and sitting beside him and swinging her legs is Arla. She looks significantly better than she had in the Kyr’tsad base a few weeks ago; well-fed, clean, safe and happy. It’s written all over her face as she stares curiously at their new visitors, and she is wearing leather armour now, equipped with her own weapons. Jaster’s mouth dries when they flick over back to Din, having more first-hand evidence of what an excellent parent he is.

Jaster swallows, seeing how Din stands off the crate with a relaxed air, passing the ik'aad to Arla. He approaches calmly, back-straight, really a sight to behold covered in crimson splashes with his head held high. This warrior is something else in the flesh, and without even thinking, without even commanding it, his body takes one more step forward. Din stops and cocks his head, staring at him with intensity. Jaster cannot help but dismiss his order, wanting to be closer; he’s waited so long, and he’s right there. 

It’s difficult; the most difficult thing he’s ever done, despite it being as easy as breathing most of the time. Jaster knows how to walk. His mother had proudly claimed he was the first to out of all the babies his age when they had all still been crawling. He never had to think about it, but now he had to scream at every nerve, every muscle, to fucking move. It’s jerky, uncoordinated like that Kyr’tsad warrior had been at first, but he takes another step, and then one more, and Jaster has to force his boots to slide along the duracrete to take that final step until he’s standing before him.

He’s heaving for air like it’s taken monumental physical exertion, but Din is right in front of him now. He’s silent, still, staring at him with what Jaster thinks is fascinated curiosity. He has to force his mouth to open, and his mic crackles until he can push the words out.

“You never answered me, hunter.”

Five words, and they should be nothing to him; Jaster was a professional yapper. These are just as difficult to speak as it was to move, but once they are out, Jaster’s body relaxes. He can tell he’s still under Din’s influence, now able to recognize the feeling, but that was all he wanted to do. Get closer, and get an answer. That is his whole purpose for being here; to have Din Djarin accept him, or turn him away. 

Din’s head tilts mechanically slow to the side, assessing him. Then, his chin dips down to his boots then back up to his visor. Jaster waits patiently, feeling the appraisal like he’s standing before him naked. His gaze goes through him, right down to what Jaster had at his core. It’s almost intimidating, and his heart is jumping in his throat, but it’s what he’s waited for.

“I did not, mercenary,” Din starts, and his words are just as calculated like everything else about him is, “Would you like to know what I’ve decided?”

Jaster doesn’t know if it’s harder to nod or speak, but he attempts both. His head bobs clumsily, and a raspy ‘'Lek’ makes it out of his vocoder. 

Din’s head cocks the other way, the same way Paz sort of does when he’s trying to convey a smile with his helmet. He sees it before he even hears it in his voice.

“Yes, Jaster Mereel. I accept your proposal to court me.”

Elation fills his chest, and it feels like it expands so much it shatters whatever chains Din has wrapped around him. Din is saying yes, and what a delight it is to hear his name in this man’s mouth. He takes another step forward, this one all confidence and instinct, the words easy. Jaster is finally in control, nothing holding him back from getting closer and talking to him. He hears the slightly flirtatious way he says the words, and Jaster knows he’s toying with him in his own way, those words an invitation to play. The moment Jaster stepped into the room, it had been a test, and Jaster is determined not to fail. 

“You never told me I was supposed to gift you first, Ja’hai’ad,” Jaster says, mirroring him and tilting his head.

“Eh,” Din responds, like it’s insignificant, “I was more curious to what you thought of mine, Haat'Mando'ad.”

Jaster grins, for multiple reasons. He hasn’t been called, or mistaken as just a True Mandalorian instead of the Mand’alor in ages, and it is refreshing. Din sees him as a mercenary, a warrior, before he does supreme leader of Mandalorians or the head of the company. It had been a worry, with Din so scandalized at the idea when they had first met. The second reason is all because of Din’s gifts. His gaze flicks over to Arla, watching them with a similar teasing grin on her face. She’s enjoying the show. Paz is still frozen in the doorway, forgotten.

“I enjoyed them, Din Djarin. Immensely. I also cannot repay them; you have rescued my son’s sister from slavery and abuse, a life he had thought gone. It is immeasurable, beroya.”

“I did not know.”

“It does not matter,” Jaster returns just as quickly, “You saved all of them from their fate, without an order, without gain. You gave the rest what they deserved. If I didn’t think you were the finest Mando’ad before, I’d be a fool not to now. You are exceptional.”

Din looks surprised, but he still has that fascinated look to him, like he’s studying a new invention. Like Jaster is a creature he has never seen before, a sub-species of Mandalorian that is foreign to him. Where are all the past alphas in the Galaxy that have propositioned this hunter, so Jaster can make them eat their words and rub their noses in it like a piss-spot? The man doesn’t believe in compliments, and it makes him want to throttle somebody. 

“Ori'haat,” Jaster states firmly, straightening up and staring up at this taller bounty hunter with all the honesty he can muster, “I could go on, but words are no gift.”

“What would you give me instead?” Din whispers, taking his own step forward. They’re a few hand-spans apart, Jaster could reach out and touch him, pull him right against him. It’s exhilarating when he hears the man take an audible deep breath in from his nose, taking in Jaster’s scent. It relaxes him, Jaster can see how more of his muscles unwind, less alert and more open. He was still on guard, as one would be after what he’s just done, killing all these soldiers himself. Jaster’s confidence grows, but he keeps his hands firmly pinned to his sides. There’s a hissing sound from behind him, coming from the direction of Paz that matches his noise of annoyance. Din’s visor flicks to look over Jaster’s shoulder, and a shiver of arousal goes through him at the growl Din’s voice turns into when he speaks to his Tribe brother, “Stay still, vod, or I will give you the ultimate order.”

“Could you?” Jaster asks before he can stop himself, knowing what Din means. Is he so powerful he could talk even his vod into putting a knife to his own throat? “Could you give it to me?”

Din’s head turns back to him just a bit, head still slanted like he’s side-eyeing him out the Tee. Jaster gets the indication that what he just said sounded insane, mostly because the tone was all wrong and he can see Arla’s incredulous face behind Din’s shoulder. The first two words were all curiosity, wondering if it wasn’t just an idle threat. The rest were the same, but even more excited when they should sound cautious, hesitant, or maybe even afraid. 

Before Jaster can react, Din is swatting out a hand, smacking the side of his head. He achieves two things with this; Jaster’s skull knocking against the inside of his helmet and distracting him with a burst of pain while he strikes right where the air filtration intakes were. The inside of his helmet floods with Din’s scent as he whacks them into rebooting, refilling the carefully filtered air Jaster had used to keep some semblance of control. It hadn’t mattered before, Din’s scent was so strong even through the filters and the rest of their scent glands, but Jaster belatedly realizes Din had been dialling it back somewhat. This time, he gets a full dose; when he freezes, it’s statuesque. It’s hard to breathe because he hasn’t been told he could, he cannot speak because he hasn’t been spoken to first; he’s been given no permission to do anything. When Din does give him an order, it’s first with relief. Then it’s with absolute astonishment at how he doesn’t fight it all.

“Draw a blade, Jaster Mereel,” Din says, resuming his place just pace away by taking a step back. Jaster has room to pull his preferred beskad when he bends to get it out of the holster down the side of his calve. When he stands back up to await another, it’s then he realizes how little thought it took. His body just did it, complying without hesitation before Jaster had time to process it. The next are the same.

“Put it to your throat,” Din says calmly and still with authority, but his scent is saying something a little different. It’s just as curious, wondering if Jaster will really do it, if he could really make him, and Jaster had asked if he could. That was almost permission for this strange battle of wills they were playing. Him, foggy, trying to squint through his dulled responses, wondering if he was even still in control, or if he was in the passenger seat and just deluding himself. Still, he cannot think of a single reason he shouldn’t listen.

Jaster shifts the longer blade in his hand and does as he’s told, pressing the cold metal to the warm skin of his neck. Din steps even closer, and for a moment Jaster wonders if he’ll really do it. If him asking had been stepping over a boundary, but he doesn’t think so. It feels like he’s still testing him, and Din had accepted his courting proposal, but he had not said yes to taking him as a mate. Until Jaster has proven he is worthy of that, he will trust this honourable man to test him in any way he sees fit. 

“Put it to mine.”

Jaster’s hand moves towards him, first with surety, and then stops halfway. The dagger is raised, it could fit under the man’s jaw if he reached out a little more. But… why? His hand is shaking, pulling against a force that wants to listen. He doesn’t… really want to.

“Jaster,” the man says, softer and always calm until that biting flash of rage. It’s not present now, so Jaster complies only with the use of his name, and relinquished the hold on that measly control. If this is still the test, Jaster will listen. He presses the dagger to Din’s throat with surety, his chin tilting up the slightest bit so he can fit it above his cowl and right into that sharp angle where his neck juts out towards his chin. It’s not enough to draw blood, but he can see how it presses into his skin, the dark stubble that’s maybe a few days old. 

“Slit it,” Din orders firmly, staring at him, and Jaster knows because he can feel his eyes. There’s gasps of surprise, both from Jaster sucking in a sharp breath and from Arla still on the crate. Now he knows why Paz cannot move a muscle, because he is locked tight just the same. He cannot look away from Din, but he hears her take a step closer, and Jaster wishes she would knock his hand away. He doesn’t quite trust himself, not when it’s so compelling. 

Like the first time, Jaster hesitates. This time, for very good reason. Din is testing him, and in maybe the worst way possible. He tells him again, sterner, and Jaster can feel how he is trying to twist his mind into doing it. It’s Din asking, why shouldn’t he listen? He trusts him, doesn’t he? Reckless, yet for a moment, Jaster’s mind listens. It’s powerful, the twisted question of how far are you willing to go, when I ask you to do something?

The answer is a resounding, Not That.

His hand moves lightning quick, though still somewhat uncoordinated. Jaster is still fighting a part of himself that wants to listen to Din. He hears Arla gasp again, but she really has nothing to worry about. It’s moving back towards his own throat, twisting the order around in his mind. This was his future mate; if he was forced to cut the man’s throat open, he would be following him in the same manner, but this time if Din really means it, he can follow suit. He gets the bottom edge of the long blade up under his ear, chin tilted up and ready to follow through, the sting and warm drip of blood proof. His hand goes to complete the motion before another hand is grabbing his arm, keeping it very still. 

“A deep breath in, Al'ori'ramikade,” Din rumbles now, far closer than he has been so far. This is an order he listens to immediately. It’s delightful, not that sharp and almost conniving scent that tried to lure him into killing him, now back to that sweeter smell, soothing now. Calming, just like the man himself, and it must be his natural musk when he’s at rest. The natural one omegas had to focus on exerting to soothe others around them, and Jaster relishes in how quickly it works for him. Usually it takes a little bit, a few inhales to really get that drug into his system, but for Din, all it takes is that one deep breath Din orders him to take. It releases him, Din’s power, and Jaster slumps in relief, finally able to lower his arm with his own free will. 

“Gar atin'la, ori'ramikad,” Din murmurs, so close and clear now, still gripping Jaster’s vambrace even as he lowers it, “Di'kutla, al atin'la.”

“I could almost say the same about you, beroya,” Jaster rasps, and now that his mind is getting clearer, he’s hit with how reckless and insane that seemed. Jaster could have. If he was a weaker alpha like that Kyr’tsad one, he would have cut Din’s throat open just because he asked him to. That was the true test, because if Jaster would listen to Din, he’d listen to others. He’d just proved his devotion in the most horrifying way possible.

“He’s worse,” Paz finally comments, his deep voice coming out as a growl, “Dinii.”

“Fact,” Arla pipes up. Jaster doesn’t bother to disagree.

Din only shrugs, releasing Jaster finally, before turning his head over to his vod that’s coming closer.

“You court strange, Din’ika,” Paz says, “You could have just sparred him.”

“I’ll do that later,” Din says, and Jaster shivers from the simple promise, “But the mental spars are fun too. You put up a good fight. Paz would have done it.”

His vod stiffens, “Only because you are a parasite—“

Din scoffs, “And you are a leech. I’ve told you to piss off, and you keep coming back. I don’t want the Tribe involved.”

“I know,” Paz says, exasperated, “That’s why I brought him. Tion'naak?”

“Jate dinui,” Din answers, shrugging a shoulder and reaching out to his protector in forgiveness. 

With that simple acceptance, Paz reaches out for his vod’ika and grabs him tight, Din struggling for a split second before he pulls him against his hulking chest. Din eventually goes lax when Paz encircles him in his massive arms, even getting around his jetpack hidden behind his cape. He lifts his boots off the ground a few inches, causing Din to grunt as he squeezes some air out of him.

“You’re a buir. You hid my vod’ade from me? I should slit your throat.”

“See: there’s always something,” Din comments dryly to which Paz lovingly calls him a parasite again, before giving him a mirschmure'cya.

“I knew you could do it, Din. You’ll be jatne'buir. Now introduce me, you heathen.”

Paz puts Din down, who just pats his vod on the shoulder before waving Arla over. He is a quiet man naturally, it seems, not just because Jaster had been a stranger. Jaster finds he likes waiting to hear what he’ll say next, already cataloguing his body language that conveys so much more. Jaster wears his armour almost full-time now, finding himself falling asleep in his beskar’gam more and more. Some of the other Haat’ade were the same, but all of them had their own language, used to being exaggerated, obvious, and subconscious with the way they used their body to do the talking. Din, like the rest of his Tribe, are very subtle, until they are not. That is what makes it so stark and eager to wait for, when Din intentionally conveys his meaning. 

Jaster does not interrupt while Din introduces them with quiet words. Paz bows his head to each of Din’s children politely, with far more manners than he shows Jaster. The little green youngling Grogu seems fascinated, reaching out of Arla’s arms, to which the humongous Mandalorian accepts with gentle and experienced hands.

“You ditched this guy?” Arla says to her buir after, jutting her thumb at Paz, “You really are jatne'buir.”

“Arl’ika,” Din chides softly between rough chuckles, “Come meet your vod’s buir?”

She stiffens the slightest bit, looking to him for comfort. Din reaches out towards her, barely, before she’s scooting closer and he’s raising one to encircle her back. He encourages her forward as much as he supports her, and Jaster thinks he is more nervous for this introduction than the first one with Din, than Din’s buir and Alor’e. He doesn’t want to ruin her connection to Jango, but even if she rejects him as another parent, he would never bar Jango from her, even if Jango would rather denounce him and take up Din’s Clan and Tribe. The thought makes his heart ache, knowing he would have to accept it with a smile, and is what makes this so nerve-wracking.

“Su cuy'gar,” Jaster says, the only thing he can say, “Jango speaks highly of you.”

That causes the girl to jolt and stare at him with wide eyes, “He does?”

“Yes. Fondly, too. I… am sorry, Arla Fett. I believed you were dead, and I did not encourage the idea to Jango you were alive. If I had any doubt, I would have come for you. Ni ceta.”

“Really?” She says, eyes narrowing like she doesn’t quite believe him. Din signs something to her quick with one hand and she sighs, her defensive shoulders that had risen lowering, “Why— What made you think so?”

“There were three bodies in the Fett homestead, once we put the fire out. The medic told Jango and I the best medical examining they could provide. There were two adults, one male and one female, and another was an adolescent girl. Jango asked for the height of the body, and said it was close to yours. Ni ceta,” Jaster says again, voice tight but sure. It was hard not to literally kneel in front of her, but he did not want to make it seem insincere. He could only provide her the truth of the situation, and that reminds him of the Goran and their promises. He’ll wait until she speaks, not willing to use it as persuasion to keep in contact with him. 

Arla bows her head, heaving in a stuttering breath, “Melina. A friend of mine was with me, when they showed up. She was hiding, and I’d hoped— Jango didn’t know she was there, and we were roughly the same height.”

Jaster’s heart sinks, so he gives her a promise, “I will not keep him from you, Arla. Whatever you two decide to do, I will support. I will help facilitate you two being together by any means; you will not be separated again. Haat, ijaat, haa'it.”

Arla looks at him with wide, shining blue eyes. Then, to his surprise, she looks at her buir, before addressing him again, “You two are perfect for each other. He said the exact same thing. I would love to see him. Is he here?”

The rollercoaster emotions of this day, holy Manda. Elation at what she had just said, which is a high praise and encouragement from Din’s child about their potential relationship, and that Din had also made the same promise. Just like Jaster knew he would. Unfortunately, he has to give her some bad news.

“No. He is with your buir’s Tribe.” That reminds him of his gifts, since Din accepted before he could offer them. Including that is the Goran’s own gift. Before he can mention them, Din is interrupting, head snapping towards Paz.

“The Tribe? You took him home?!”

Paz takes a few steps back when Din stalks a few steps forward, throwing his hands up in surrender. It made for a funny picture with the man easily being three heads taller. 

“You ditched me, and him with a perceived Life Debt, on Monadorf. Then Jan’ika admitted straight to my face that, and I quote, ‘Buir just asked to Court him and he was awesome!’. I could smell you were thinking about it, because it is so abnormal. You know what happens when a Courting Offer is proposed.”

“Kark you,” Din says now, buy’ce buried in his gloves, “Fuck. My buir….”

“Gave Jaster Mereel their blessing,” Paz offers, the grin clear in his voice, “They are also pissed about not being told they are a ba’buir.”

“Oh, I’m getting the hammer.”

The rest chuckle at his serious tone, even Arla giggling. Jaster can’t himself either, having met his buir.

“They didn’t hammer me, Din Djarin, when I stated what I intended to do,” Jaster states boldly.

“Hm,” Din hums, making that exactly same sound his buir had made, “I did warn you. Did they take their stupid vote? Or tell you my price?”

Jaster’s eyebrows rise, surprised at the distaste in his voice. He shouldn’t be, when Paz had stated once before that Din thought it was stupid. It was one of the only traditions of the Children of the Watch Din didn’t like, and most of it delved down to him hating being the centre of attention. Normally, it wouldn’t be so bad, Jaster thinks, but because he is the only omega, the rest have too much time on their hands to think about it.

“No, I do not know what they claim as your bride-price. They did hold a vote.”

“Interesting,” Din says, turning his head towards Paz with a silent question. The Protector’s voice is still just as humorous. 

“They agreed without an offer unanimously. He’s nest-egging over you.”

Jaster stiffens in embarrassment, while Din’s voice goes up in surprise and with what he thinks is genuine glee, “Oh, are you?”

Jaster’s shoulders continue to rise, more embarrassed than he’s ever been when Paz keeps talking, “You should see him at every rest-stop. Every Marketplace, an hour, minimum. Obsessive. His ship is so stuffed with gifts, I’d be surprised he’s not over weight-capacity.”

“Can we come see? What’s nest-egging?” Arla says, excited, stars in her eyes with her hands clasped together. Jaster gets the distinct hint from her scent she is quite pleased about this, excited like a little kid is over a romantic fairy-tale. Even Din seems to be enthusiastic, looking at him to see his answer. Jaster’s abashment fades away, and nods. Jaster starts leading them out of the base, Paz mumbling to Grogu his own questions, while Din starts explaining to Arla what Din’s buir had to explain to him. 

“A compatible pair will have heightened courting instincts. Alphas will have a desire to supply their mates with nesting materials and other things of wealth and security.”

“So you’ve been collecting nesting items for buir,” Arla says to him, with just the same delight.

“Yes, among other things,” Jaster rumbles, still slightly embarrassed. It mostly has something to do with wondering what they will all think of them. Oh, he hopes he did well. Paz is not wrong about him being obsessive; every time they went to a Marketplace, Jaster’s brain switched off. He felt compelled to go to each stall, just to see, just in case. He often left each one with something. Instinct chose the items and kept him searching, but Jaster had fun with it. It hadn’t been laced with that uncomfortable urgency from before, only exhilaration at his own little hunts.

When he gets to the ship… Jaster just sighs and leads them on board and well, Paz wasn’t wrong about the weight limit either. Jaster had collected so many blankets and sheet types, because he didn’t know if Din liked the slipperiness of the finest silk, or if he liked the thick, tightly woven type that would keep him warm. As for the blankets, it was the same. It was all about texture. He found a vendor that had all sorts, and Jaster has almost picked the woman’s stall clean before he left. Thick, weighted blankets, soft fluffy ones, big ones, small ones, pillows of all sorts of sizes, shapes, colours and stiffness. The only ones he didn’t buy were the knitted ones, as to that is where most of Jaster’s money went: to the softest, most durable and vibrant yarn he could find. He spent most of his time in hyperspace knitting, a great big blanket he made by hand that had a Mudhorn depicted in the centre of it. Otherwise, he crocheted plushies and smaller blankets for the kids, handkerchiefs for the ik'aad because Manda knew how messy babies could be.

Jaster impulse-bought different preserved treats and desserts for the kids, from Mandalorian classics to other cultures’ popular choices. Arla had been in a prison camp for Manda’s sake, she deserved a chance to try some diversity. He did it for Din too, getting both sweet and salty varieties, before the trinkets started. Jaster had collected his wayward weapons he left in his blood-offerings; the dagger the alpha slit his throat with, a few throwing knives, a large beskad that survived an explosion blast when Din decided to drop a grenade instead. He had cleaned, sharpened, and shined them all to perfection, all neatly lined up and prepared to be returned. Jaster had also bought more throwing knives of a similar style, and had found an old well-made dagger Jaster didn’t use anymore. One that he had once engraved the Clan Vhett crest onto the blade, and once tried to give to Jango. The boy did not want anything that tied him to his old Clan, and said that he wanted nothing to do with the remaining members. Arla would be the only exception, and Jaster knows Jango wouldn’t be upset about him offering it to her instead.

Problem was, it was a lot. It did overwhelm the ship, spilling out of storage crates and bins he purposely had to buy because he couldn’t bear to put them on the dirty ship floor. Din stops dead the moment he comes up the ramp and sees it all, his cabur letting out this rumbling chuckle and patting his shoulder fondly.

Jaster clears his throat and trying to move how past Din observing it all with scrutiny. Maybe even astonishment. His scent is saying a bit of both. Instead, Jaster says, “Kids first.”

The kid’s perk up and start bouncing, Arla taking Grogu from Paz who is reaching for her. When she comes closer, with Din slowly following after Paz gives him a push, Gro’ika studies him closely before deciding to reach for him. Jaster takes a quick look at Din for approval to find the man staring raptly, giving him the tiniest of nods. His heart soars and he takes him from Arla. The ik'aad is lighter than he expected, and he wasn’t expecting him to weigh a lot. He settles him comfortably and with the utmost care in his arms, before leading them over to the toy crate that held the majority of their gifts. 

Grogu immediately reaches for the bright blue krill Jaster had crocheted for him, and Jaster may have forgotten how small the boy really was. The alpha rumbles a chuckle at his grabby hands, reaching for the plush that was easily as big as he was. It doesn’t matter when he squeaks and coos happily, squeezing it to his chest in a big hug. Then he signs what Jaster thinks is a thank you with one hand while his face is still buried in it, to which he responds with a polite ‘you’re welcome’. Arla has gravitated to the one he made for her, a bigger loth-cat with a diamond on its forehead. Jango had mentioned they had one that Arla had loved, a great big fat thing that had stripes down its back and white socks to match the little diamond. She had named her as a kitten:

“Princess,” she says, tears welling up in her eyes as she reaches for it with a shaking hand. Jaster stiffens, wondering if maybe he crossed over a line before she looks at him and opens her arms wide for a hug. Jaster, honoured, shuffles a little closer and gives her the arm and side that Grogu isn’t tucked into. She wraps her arms around him as much as she can anyways, heaving in a big breath.

“Thank you,” she says, meaning it. Jaster feels instant relief, glad that they were happy tears. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. 

When she lets him go and the two start looking at the other toys in the crate, he sneaks another peek at Din. The man is running his hand, sans glove, over Jaster’s knitted blanket monstrosity that’s easily as tall and wide as he was. Jaster could knit quickly, plus he hadn’t been sleeping much and didn’t necessarily need his eyes until he was switching colours and needing to pay attention to the pattern he designed. It helped that Jaster had, lazily, developed a scanning program so that if he was knitting and his eyes closed, as long as his hands were in sight of his visor, it could count the stitches and rows and notify him if a change was coming up or if he was deviating off course. Jango had laughed when Jaster had told him he made such a thing, and Din was probably the only other person he’d admit it to.  

The man himself is enthralled. He ponders over each offering, touching each one, running his fingers along the hilts of his blades and inspecting the new ones. It takes him over ten minutes, and by the time he is done, even his kids have finished their examinations and are watching their father do his surveying. At the same time, the man is scenting the fabrics, bringing them up to his buy’ce before neatly folding them again. Then, he turns to Jaster, cocking his head.

“I accept your gifts. They are fine offerings.”

Jaster’s heart starts pounding in his chest, his whole body feeling like it was levitating. He hears how Din is so sincere and touched, how he truly likes all his little gifts after he has given him so much. The smile on his face is wide, and it almost hurts.

“I have one more gift for you,” he rumbles, trying to swallow down that deep growl he got when he was extremely satisfied, “Though, it is not mine to give. From your buir.”

He offers his vambrace, with the comm-connection port exposed. It made it easy for other Mandalorians to transfer data to each other, and it downloaded quicker hardwired. He doesn’t know if Din has one installed in his own vambrace until he’s reaching out to slot them together. Jaster sends him the recording of his buir, telling him to send them home with Paz, and that they would be taking over his rotation. 

While Din’s watching it, Jaster gets the buy’ce they entrusted him out of the special locked case he kept it safe in. Din turns to look and Jaster offers it out with both hands reverently. The hunter sucks in a sharp breath, reaching for it with both hands shaking with emotion.

“They always know just what I need,” Din murmurs, before turning to Arla and Grogu, speaking with a sterner voice, “Change of plans, kids. You’ll go with Paz, meet your ba’buir and Jango. The Mand’alor and I will finish this.”

Arla starts grinning, this sly teasing thing that matches the one on Jango’s face exactly when he was making fun of Jaster for his crush on Din. Not seriously, because Jango had liked the bounty hunter too, but it is adorable that it overlaps. Din understands it too just from the smile alone, and then wags the helmet at her.

“This is for you, ad’ika.”

She gasps, “Really?!” 

Arla steps closer to take it gently from his hands, slightly sagging at the surprising weight. She peers at the visor and face, before turning it to look on the inside, “Wizard. I… can swear your Vows?”

“Your ba’buir officiates,” Din rumbles, placing a hand on her shoulder, “Your brothers can bear witness.”

“But… What about you?”

Din twitches, “You do not have to wait for me, ad. You’ve earned it.”

“I want to,” Arla says sternly. 

“Alright, then,” Din says, and Jaster can hear the honour in his voice, “I’ll try to kill them quickly.”

Arla laughs, giving him another hug and mumbling something about not doubting it. Then she asks about the helmet, excited to know if she can try it on. Din doesn’t hesitate to encourage her, talking her through the start up procedure of the HUD and how to customize it. It fits the girl like a glove, and the second it’s over her head, Din is rubbing the dome of it with his hand.

“Wizard,” she says again, and then laughs at the distortion to her own voice, then laughs more at the sound of her laugh distorting. Din’s chuckling makes Jaster’s body tingle, absolutely enamoured by watching him. He’s sure, so sure, when he sees this man interact with children. This is the mate for him, one he’d be stupid not to marry. Deadly, yet so gentle. 

“Was it once yours?” She asks, voicing the question Jaster had thought himself.

“Yes,” Din rumbles, “You’re ba’buir would have resized it. They always complained I had a big head, even at your age.”

“It fits so well,” she says in amazement, looking around through different settings Jaster guesses. He remembers being just as fascinated when he was first gifted his own helmet from his buir. Who… Jaster should call at the first available opportunity. Before she skewers him by finding out before he tells her the little situation he’s got himself in.

“They are Star-Touched, like Gro’ika. It is best not to question their wisdom,” Din says, both with upmost importance and humour. How he mixes them so well is a hilarious mystery, but it works. 

After that, Paz and Din trade ships. Din gets everything he needs out of his Razor Crest while Jaster loads the children’s toy box onto it. He’d made over a dozen plushies for the Foundlings in the Tribe as part of his offer, remembering what Paz had said about Din treating them all like his children until they were claimed. Din marvels over each one, before giving him this intense stare that makes him blush and shuffle his feet. 

Then, Din says his farewells to his children, and vows to keep in contact once his communications are going safely through the Haat’ade’s channels. Paz gives Din another huge hug to which Din ends by banging his vambrace into his backplate when he starts squeezing him a little too hard. Once that is concluded, they all go their separate ways until they meet again. 

Jaster gets the ship ready for take off, Din having to pull his attention away from all his presents to join him in to co-pi seat. There’s a slightly, awkward quiet moment between them as Jaster waits for Myles to send them the Haat’ade’s next destination so Jaster could catch up. He breaks it with a question he’s been waiting to ask, and one that he’s been slightly apprehensive about due to being a slightly hidden desire. He wants Din to say yes, but he doesn’t quite know the depth of why. The once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, perhaps.

“I wanted to ask…” Jaster says once he puts the ship in hyperspace, “I… would you like me to obey your Creed during our Courtship? I have no problem keeping my helmet on, if you’d—“

“You would do that for me?” Din interrupts, shocked yet so breathless. It stuns Jaster for a moment, cocking his head to observe how he’s softening under all his armour. He sees how his brief hesitation causes Din to hike up his shoulders the slightest bit, and Jaster says them before Din thinks otherwise. Because, truly, Jaster had no problems with it when he was already wearing his armour so much, and it would be such a simple little gift to give him. He sounds quite excited at the prospect, if he’s reading his tone right.

“Of course, Din,” He answers surely, “It would not be difficult, or much of a sacrifice. Especially if… you look forward to seeing me as I do you.”

“Oh?” Din says, and Jaster would be worried about it if the man didn’t sound teasing with that one  sound. He can understand it from the traces of his calm scent; ‘That confident, are you?’

“I’m sure,” Jaster states, knowing what he means, “This Courtship is about me proving to you that I am worthy of the Vows. I already know you are.”

“Hm,” Din says, because really, there are sentences to that little hum. He’s embarrassed and surprised, yet also sounding so pleased about that development. Jaster straightens up in the seat, understanding that Din looks forward to Jaster proving himself. This truly was going to be fun, especially if Din was as serious about him as he thought he was. All this evidence about Din not bothering with past courting offers or romantic relationships in general said that Jaster had a very glorious opportunity here; Din would not be giving him a chance if he was not also interested. That’s what made it thrilling yet kind of awkward: they both knew what the other wanted from them, and what they wanted in return, but without really knowing each other made them tiptoe on the way to getting it. Not wanting to step over boundaries they hadn’t learned about yet, but wanting to know more. Jaster grins, awaiting Din’s answer, because he knows he’s still thinking about it.

“I… would appreciate that, if you truly don’t mind,” Din eventually states, watching him curiously, “It would be nice to share face together.”

“It would be romantic,” Jaster teases with a smile, enjoying Din’s responding soft chuffs.

“I’m starting to get the feeling you are that.”

“For you, maybe.”

Din’s chin tilts down and away, and he can’t help the smile from growing into something fond, “You’re blushing under there, aren’t you?”

“Shut it.”

He is too, Jaster can hear it all in his voice. Jaster laughs, and pulls himself out of the cockpit chair. He goes to show him the spare quarters on his ship he can stay, and build a nest in, if he likes. It’ll take a few days to catch up to the Haat’Mando’ade’s warship, so for now they are stuck together. Jaster is looking forward to the coming weeks especially, getting to work with Din instead of chasing after him. Getting to show his own worth and do some of his own blood-offerings. Plus, it is very romantic that they both won’t know what the other looks like until they are sure of the wedding vows, proving that what they saw inside as being more important than physical traits. Though… Din Djarin had some nice visible physical traits. Jaster had no concerns whatsoever, already aware that he was deeply in love with this man, and that he would only fall in deeper. He just hoped he could do the same for Din. 

At the same time, he hopes the Haat’ade don’t scare him off before he gets the chance.

Chapter Text

Jaster's POV

Jaster’s almost nervous, when he starts the landing procedure for the ship onto the Haat’ade’s war-ship. He doesn’t want his excitable and honestly mannerless verde to scare Din off, not after it took so long to find him the first time. He might really let Myles run the damn company if that happens, willing to follow this omega to the furthest ends of the Galaxy. They were honourable warriors, but they also had  minimal discretion after being together so long in strictly Mandalorian company. Din definitely came from a different branch of their culture, one that exercised restraint and manners. 

Jaster was rightfully nervous.

Din shifts in the co-pilot seat, turning his head to him and leaning the slightest bit towards him. He’s not surprised the man catches on to it.

“Why are you anxious?” He rumbles, his scent spiking to match before it smothers under a forced calm. Jaster’s getting better at reading him already, after only five days trapped on a ship together. Five, kind of awkward days where they tiptoed around each other, gradually learning the other’s habits and preferences. Din keeps himself at arms-length, not having touched him since he stopped him from opening up his own throat, and Jaster does not dare. He does not want to presume he is allowed, and he hasn’t yet built up the courage to ask, which is saying a lot. He is never this cowed and worried of being denied from a romantic partner. Not that he will be, Jaster knows how to swallow rejection with a smile, but with Din— he thinks he’d burst into tears and lock himself in his bedroom to grieve for a month. Maybe longer.

“They’re boisterous,” Jaster answers instead, “Don’t take their teasing to heart. If it makes you uncomfortable, you can tell me to tell them to fuck off, or you can do the honours of kicking their asses yourself.”

“That bad?” Din says dryly.

Jaster sighs, “It’s like corralling over a hundred children, all armed to the teeth and looking for something to blow up. I’m surprised I’m coming back to an intact ship.”

Din chuckles, Jaster perking up the slightest bit as they stand. 

“Let’s get it over with, then,” Din says, more to himself than him. It seems he’s just as nervous, but he hides it remarkably well. Jaster is in awe of how masterfully he locks everything behind his armour, showcasing just how relaxed he’d become in the last five days around him. Jaster hadn’t really noticed, not until everything about him becomes a bit more intimidating, unyielding. Jaster follows him through the ship, but Din gestures for him to go first down the ramp. There’s Myles, Montross, and Mij waiting at the bottom. Oh, not all three of the ‘M’s’ at once. Jaster was in for it. He very seriously debated turning back around, pushing Din up the ramp, and just eloping and joining his Tribe. His buir can find another heir this late in life. Mandalorians will do fine under Tor. 

Ugh.

“Mand’alor,” the first two say in greeting, while the medic stares at the silver Mandalorian behind Jaster’s shoulder and ignores him. Fine by him; all the Haat’ade can do anyways is stare.

“Verde,” he greets, beckoning Din forward who does so with a split-second of hesitation, “This is—“

“Copaani jarose, beroya?” Mij interrupts, laser beam of a glare still honed in on him. Jaster almost feels bad for his intended, seeing as how he freezes at the medic’s biting tone, “When was the last time you had a medic look you over?”

Din is still, and it takes a minute before his vocoder crackles to life, “Over six months.”

Jaster flinches, his voice coming out almost cold at the revelation, “What? You’ve treated yourself this whole time?”

“Elek.”

“You two, I will talk with later,” he says to his ver’alore, restraining from just starting to push Din towards the med-bay. They give him sure nods, and Mij gives him a satisfied dip to his head, before starting his Mij March towards his domain. Everyone knew to get the kark out of his way when the head medic was walking like that, and Din does a quick ‘danger’ battle sign behind his back towards Jaster that he needs to cut his mic for. If Mij caught the sudden bark of laughter that echoes in his helmet, he’d be due for medical attention too. 

“I never did ask you,” Jaster says to him when they finally got in there. It’s blessedly empty, most finding places to lie in wait for Jaster and his new potential mate to pass by. The rest are still on their missions, wreaking havoc on the Empire Corp, “What do you prefer to be called outside of your Tribe?”

“Most just call me Mando,” Din answers helpfully, and Jaster really can’t restrain the snicker this time.

“Won’t jive here.”

The hunter sighs, “Din is fine. Just… keep my surname quiet. That’s what ties me to the Archives on Manda’yaim.”

“You really do keep your name private,” Jaster surmises as he leads him to a cot that Mij points at, getting all his equipment ready. He cannot help but watch as Din takes off his gloves, exposing tanned skin and strong, thick fingers. Jaster mutes his mic again so he can take in deep breath as Din exposes his wrists, and the scent glands that fill his helmet with his pleasant perfume. God damn, that does not get old.

“Not to those I know can keep quiet about it,” Din answers, causing butterflies to burst alive in his stomach. Din is hesitating at removing a vambrace, eyeing Mij and his blood-sampling equipment. 

“Is that necessary?” Jaster asks, gesturing to his medic once he notices Din’s apprehension. 

“For omegas it is,” Mij comments, “What have you been doing during your heats, alone and in enemy territory?”

Din does not answer, and Jaster assumes it’s because that’s pretty personal information he’s digging for right off of the bat.

“Mij,” he reprimands firmly, “You haven’t even introduced yourself. You expect him to answer?”

The beta freezes, seemingly not having noticed they hadn’t gotten that far. He bows his head towards Din.

“My apologies. Mij Gilimar, Baar’ur’alor of the Haat’Mando’ade. Myles composed a list of all your… missions in the last five months, and I worry for your health. Whether you can take care of yourself or not is irrelevant without a trained medical eye, or someone watching your back. This is standard procedure for those who return after such extended solo missions.”

“Understood,” the beroya replies calmly.

Mij nods and starts with a fully body report from his hand-held scanner, looking for obvious or more immediate injuries before he starts taking samples. The machine beeps consistently, Mij asking the state of each healing and fresh injury, Din reporting on his methods of treatment. He’s used to this kind of sit-rep and taking care of himself, and Jaster wonders how they perform this in his Tribe. If they all get trained in basic medical, or just their hunters and protectors who left the Tribe.

Still, the man hesitates to lift his arm so the medic can take a sample of his blood once he’s satisfied with his physical. Jaster and Mij both look at him suspiciously and his guilty body-language, like he’s preparing for a reprimand and it’s quick to understand why. Mij’s machine starts beeping and beeping like it’s having a meltdown. The head medic freezes solid at the readout, before spinning on his heel and stomping away. Din sighs.

“Would you like me to leave?” Jaster asks, wondering if Din was preparing for bad news he was already aware of. He doesn’t want to intrude on his business, even if they were courting. He wanted Din to tell him these things himself.

“No. You may as well know what you’re getting,” Din mumbles the last part sardonically, not meant for him. He has the urge to rest a hand on his pauldron, not liking the self-deprecating tone, but instead lets his fingers curl into his palms at his sides. It’s enough that he’s letting him stay.

Then, the medic comes back with bags in his arms. Like, so many transparent, sterile squishy bags, he cannot fathom how they are all meant for Din.

“Fluids first, beroya,” He huffs, setting up an IV drip immediately. Right after, he presses five ration bars into his hands,

“Eat these with breakfast until you’re done. Come back for more.”

Din stuffs them into a spare pouch, then pointedly looks at the other bags and then back at Mij with his hands on his hips.

“Are you aware of how suppressants and birth control work, hunter?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure? Because, your readouts are telling me you are an abuser of your medication. When was your last heat?”

“… Nine months ago.”

Jaster jerks and stares at the omega in horror. What? Normally it was a three month cycle, depending on the omega. Some had them more regular, others maybe pushing four months; but to go past that usually indicated pregnancy or a problem. That, or an abuse of medication. Omegas could keep taking their suppressants and birth control to mitigate them, often with severe consequences. It could damage their reproductive system, worsen the symptoms of their heats and make them last longer, make the menstruation process after agonizing and dangerous if their bodies decided the price was to be paid in blood. 

It was a lot more complicated than the simple procedure of surgically pinching the seminal fluid line; an easy, reversible natural alternative to a vasectomy. Alphas could still cum and satisfy their omegas, but without the seminal fluid, sperm couldn’t survive the acidic environment of an omega’s vagina. He did not envy what Din was going to go through from his meds, Jaster not needing to take artificial hormones in years. If Din wants a baby, he’s probably the most fertile forty-five year old around if he gets his removed. If… he was lucky enough to be invited into his bed, and if that was something Din wanted from him. He may be putting the carriage in front of the bantha.

Mij does not look surprised in the least by Din’s answer, probably from his read-outs, “We need to wean you off immediately. I need to see what you’ve been taking and your dosages.”

Din pauses again, “It’s been a crap-shoot. Whatever I can get my hands on. I’ve been taking six for my birth control. I don’t use suppressants.”

“Six pills? So, three-hundred milligrams? ” Mij notes, raising his stylus. He doesn’t sound pleased, but he’s not freaking out.

“Six hundred milligrams.”

Mij turns stone cold, his visor rising with fury behind the glass, turning his head to Jaster, “Leave.”

“He can stay.”

“If you wish. Are you fucking insane? Are you aware of the consequences?”

“I’m aware. I also knew what would happen if I got found in the middle of my heat. It wasn’t a risk I could take alone with my kids. They needed me.”

“It stops now. You will need to stay overnight, because I expect you will go through immediate withdrawals the first dose you miss, no matter what I give you. I’m not giving you more than four hundred. It is dangerous.”

“It was what worked,” Din insisted. 

“Then your tolerance is too high, because you have done this before,” Mij accuses. Din doesn’t answer, which is answer of its own. 

“I cannot say for certain when your heat will return,” he turns his head to Jaster, “But if he continues to do what he is doing, it will kill him. His organs can’t take it. I don’t suggest medical leave once he’s weaned off, but he and his partner should monitor for when it begins. He should have a medic nearby once it starts, and especially after.”

Din perks up behind his shoulder just the slightest bit, and Jaster wonders if he’s surprised he’s not being put on leave. He wonders if Alor Yflotta would have. Instead, he agrees with his medic and vows to keep a close eye on him. He was the only partner other than Paz that was going to work with this hunter, he doesn’t give a shit who offers.

“If you want to know… about any potential damage, we can perform an ultrasound. I cannot say for certain what such a high dosage for an extended period does to your reproductive organs, but your hormones are off the walls. I would like to contact your medic, and you should have a discussion with them once your heat passes about birth control options. I would recommend you stay off artificial hormones for the foreseeable future, possibly even indefinitely.”

“I will give you their comm-number,” Din starts, “And I don’t want to know. It is unimportant. I will speak to them when I return home.”

Mij nods hesitantly, glancing at Jaster. He shrugs a shoulder, knowing he hasn’t shared where Din has come from. He’s keeping it secret for Din and the Tribe’s benefit until he has been given permission otherwise. Jaster is also not quite surprised at Din’s nonchalance; his Tribe worshipped Foundlings, meaning producing biological children wasn’t nearly as important. The next bag Mij administers is smaller, but no less critical. Din goes to tuck it into his flak-vest under his armpit, used to the process Jaster realizes with horror, and Mij smacks his hand away. Din’s head snaps up and hisses at him harshly, his scent spiking in anger.

“We are weaning,” Mij snaps, not backing down, “If you squeeze the damn bag, it is not a steady drip.”

Din bristles visibly before he settles, giving the medic a nod and letting him hang it back up. The man was hoping to leave, even when Mij had said he needed to stay overnight. 

“Can he stay with me, Mij? Jango is training with his Clan, so I have extra room and quiet.”

“Make sure he eats real food and drinks water,” the medic acquiesced after a long moment, “And rests, as much as he can. I can give him a smaller dosage tomorrow after first-meal.”

Jaster looks at Din who gives him a grateful nod. Jaster takes the bag, making sure it stays higher than his arm so Din can carry his loose vambrace and the rest of Mij’s fluid bags, and leads him back to his quarters. He takes the back way so they bypass everyone, and when Jaster opens the door to his large living room, Din stops. It’s not much to boast about, but the verde had given him the biggest living quarters on the ship. It was meant for the captain and leader, and it certainly looked like it if one looked past Jaster’s scattered books and Jango’s random socks. 

Din takes in another audible deep breath, surveying the room. He seems satisfied because he steps further in without Jaster leading, and that breaks his hesitation. Jaster shows him the ‘fresher, makes note to get him a spare kute if he wants to use the shower, shows what non-perishable food he has in his cupboards and vows to get him something from the mess-hall so he can eat in private. Din cocks his head into that smile of his, that Jaster can just visualize the shy curling of lips from the tilt and tone of his voice.

“Thank you.”

Jaster feels giddy from those soft words, emboldened by how he seems to shift into a fearsome creature suddenly much more approachable when he was alone with him. Jaster just wants to reach out to touch him when he looked so inviting, his hands itching at his sides. Instead, he leads him on with another polite dip of his helm. He opens the bedroom door for the guest room first, not even going to risk Jango’s room, and lets him have a look. 

Then, still following that desire, he goes to the door across the hall and opens it to his spacious bedroom. The large bed is away from the window looking into space, a small desk and chair covered in more papers in the corner, a dresser and armour stand crowded with bookcases. Jaster had a thing for flimsi, and most of his personal spending money was saved for this little delight and rarity. At least he hadn’t left any on the bed, though there was one on the nightstand on the side he preferred. 

The bed itself had copious amounts of pillows and blankets. He usually ran hot, but liked to snuggle into stuff. He’s hoping it will be Din instead soon, possibly even tonight. 

“You can sleep here with me, if you want. There’s more than enough room. No pressure,” he adds firmly, watching Din’s head turn slowly towards him.

“You… would let me sleep in your space?”

He sounds like the knowledge hits as hard as a fifty gauge slug. Jaster blinks, “Yes? I am sorry, I haven’t been back, or had time to provide you with any nesting materials. Is there anything I can get from the ship—“

Din reaches towards him, and his words die in his throat. He’s been waiting with anticipation for his touch, heart pounding as the man steps closer. The hunter curls his strong bare fingers under the chin of his bucket, tilting his head up as his leans down to press a gentle mirshmure'cya to his forehead. Their helmets make the slightest ting! when they meet, as Jaster stares into his visor and embraces the kiss. What a sweet thing he is, more pronounced by how he steps away with a shaky breath. Jaster wets his lips, wanting to taste his skin on them. It’s such a painful reward that is the only kind of kiss he’ll receive until their wedding night.

“I need nothing,” the hunter rumbles, “Go do what you must.”

Jaster has a small grin starting to grow on his face, hearing his fluster. At the same time, he hates that he is right. He did promise to speak to Myles and Montross, and he can give Din a little privacy to relax, and vet the place for himself. Jaster gives him another nod and excuses himself before he made any rash decisions.

Din's POV

Din was becoming more sure about Jaster Mereel.

He kept it locked tight with everything he had, still not quite sure if the man was as sure as he was growing. Din feared to touch him, because he didn’t know if he could stop once he did. He wanted to scent him, but for the same reason, kept his distance. It was easier to try and talk and learn more about him that way, than it was to see what he was all about in the bedroom. That said a lot, when Din was more willing to speak. The idea of that made him nervous, with such little experience making him not sure about how to initiate or even reciprocate. Yet… the thought of sparring Jaster got him hard almost immediately, and he was so keyed up that if he kept thinking about it, his underwear would grow wet between his thighs. Din normally didn’t produce slick unless he was in a heat, so he berated himself for it and tried not to think of it. It was mostly likely a side-effect from his meds.

Still, it was a pretty good indication of all the pleasurable things this man made him feel. Din used the opportunity of Jaster talking to his lieutenants to check out his ‘fresher, and his actual running water shower. Din couldn’t resist getting in there, taking a quick private moment under the heat of the spray and letting his hand travel between his legs. Quick was the key word when Jaster’s honest display of his home and bedroom turned Din on, loving the scent of love and comfort and just his unique smell that filled the place. At the same time, he remembers vividly how much Jaster needed to be pulled on in that base, to get him to listen to his sweet-talking. Not always, because he trusted Din at the bottom line, and Din had to push until he found an order Jaster wouldn’t obey. He was strong-willed just like he’d thought, tenacious, powerful. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so attracted to somebody mentally before. Din was slippery with two experimental fingers spreading the seam of his lips, already wet. It takes thirty seconds of him rubbing tight circles into himself, washing his orgasm down the drain.

Now he could fucking think. It was an obvious sign his body had been showing him lately, every time he thought of him in the last couple weeks. His body saying, hey, if you’re thinking about that perfect alpha, why aren’t we getting it on? The headaches have become worse, as well as the migraines that Din dulls by increasing the tint in his visor. He was getting hot-flashes at night, then plummeting to ice cold during the day. Din’s body was rightfully fighting his abuse, and Din was fighting back just as hard. It was almost a grateful reprieve to finally be somewhere he could wave the white-flag. He had never planned on winning, but he had planned to be home by now. There would be no surprise in him if his heat didn’t start the second the medic weaned him off his birth control. Yflotta was gonna kick his ass, and yell at him over comms. Great. 

Din also knew the Haat’ad Medic had been right. His body was ripe to wreak havoc on him, and already he could feel how hot he was getting. Even once he turns the water cold, it doesn’t take long for him to get back up to boiling temperatures. He left his armour neatly laid out in a empty corner of Jaster’s bedroom, and by the time he was done building a small nest on the side of the bed Jaster didn’t have his book on, he was dripping in sweat. Din doesn’t bother to put his armour back on, and after a brief debate about wasting water, decides that the cool spray vastly seemed better. 

So that’s where Din is when Jaster gets back, in his helmet and boxers and under a trickling cold drip that cools his neck and back. He’s sitting on the floor, debating if masturbating again will make him feel any better. It’s a good thing he doesn’t try because Jaster knocks on the door when he least expects it, calling out and asking if he can come in. Din says yes because he sounds worried, and he doesn’t really want to lie by saying he’s fine.

The man’s down to his kute and helmet now, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Din’s distracted by the dark, black hairs of his forearms made stark by the white patterns of scars etched into his dark, tanned skin. He’s got slim, long fingers like those of who play instruments. Din’s mind instantly goes places it shouldn’t, picturing exactly what Jaster could be doing with attractive hands like those.

“Din?” Din’s Pure Temptation asks, not even needing to voice the words.

“I’m hot,” he answers simply. 

“I’ll turn the thermostat down out here and in the bedroom,” Jaster returns just as quickly, turning around and marching out. He comes back scant a minute later with a glass of water and a straw. Not a bad idea; he’s been sitting in it, not drinking it. The man crouches close to the lip of the basin, reaching out towards him before he freezes. He carries on a split second later, and Din cocks his head, wondering what that was about. Din shouldn’t stink, but—

Mortification starts stiffening his body, and Din turns away from him, with the glass, and drinks it without looking at him. He can smell him, can’t he? Din knows from his buir’s and Tribe’s teachings what other symptoms highly compatible pairs can display, and Din already knows his nose is fine-tuned into this man more than anyone else. Jaster will surely be the same, be able to pick up the underlying notes others might miss. Like how Din was horny and was trying to try strangle it in a sleeper’s hold. How he had masturbated in this shower not an hour ago. Din only flushes more when Jaster takes in a very calculated, slow breath in, like he’s savouring it. 

“What do you need?” Jaster rumbles, his Concord Dawn drawl thickening something fierce. 

Din swallows. He knows what he wants. That is very different from what he needs. He is lucky Jaster made the distinction when his hands are crossed neatly at the wrists on the basin lip, awaiting the glass back, taking in his measured breaths. There’s husky notes Din doesn’t think he’s picked up before, just as subtle as Din’s own in response. Din’s heart starts pounding all over again, his instincts flaring with  the rollercoaster that is his wacky hormones, when he realizes it’s Jaster’s arousal he’s smelling. He’s trying to smother it just the same, but he can feel his eyes behind the black of his visor, taking in his mostly naked body. It only makes it more pronounced the more time he has to look. 

Still, Din is used to ignoring those primal urges, seeing them as a nuisance. Right now, what he needed was to finish this glass of water, get out of the water, and eat. Whatever he could get down despite the roiling in his stomach from the nausea would help him get through the withdrawals that were inevitably going to take him out at the knees.  

He hands Jaster the glass, and then reaches out with his other hand. He cannot help himself, wanting to feel him grip his hand tightly in his as he helps him up. Din hadn’t been wrong; there’s strength to his fingers, callouses in some place and smooth in others, making for an enticing mix. Jaster wordlessly hands him a towel, then a spare pair of clean underwear and a kute. The man spins around when Din drops his wet boxers without a care, Din laughing at the darkening flush at the back of the man’s neck and smelling how his desire deepens. Nudity didn’t matter so much in his Tribe where they had a systematic communal bathing system. Half of it was a matter of efficiency, the other half nonchalance from being all raised together in a small community, and kids embrace that freedom quickly when their faces are still covered. Even the older foundlings eventually don’t care at all. They had private stalls for washing faces, but the rest wasn’t as sacred and quickly becomes seen as just pel’gam, their soft armour. He still takes pity on Jaster, knowing he’d be just as surprised but no way would he turn around, and dresses himself quickly.

“I brought you something to eat,” Jaster says, “I’ll give you some privacy while I have my own shower.”

Din lets him go with a soft smile, and picks at his food. Jaster chose a variety, most likely to see what he favours and what he doesn’t. It’s unfortunate his med situation makes his stomach twist uncomfortably at the thought of food. Din tries his best in the face of Jaster’s effort, and tries to ignore his curiosity. Still, the man is in there long enough Din follows the temptation to stray close to the door, letting his ears try to feed his imagination.

Running water. The smell of steam and his shampoo, his soap. Jaster’s natural oils and musk. Then, on the edge of his hearing he hears a low frustrated moan and a breathless plea of ‘Manda, what does he do to me?’

Din flushes immediately, and turns back to his food. Oh, that was a bad idea. If that wasn’t obvious by all the blood in his body rushing south, his belly glowing with heat below his navel, it would be in the future by Din not being able to get that out of his head. He knows exactly what Jaster was doing in the privacy of his bathroom, just like how Din had taken advantage of it earlier. It’s an absolute delight in this instance, to know he turns him on, that he’s comfortable enough to do it while Din is in his space. Usually, that’s the first thing people want from him, but Jaster sounds surprised by the depth of his sexual desire. That, Din could relate to, just as surprised at how little it took for Jaster Mereel to get him thinking about things he normally didn’t bother to.

When Jaster finally exits the bathroom, knocking beforehand to let him know he was coming out, he looks more relaxed and Din has almost managed to match him. It’s hard to look at him and not imagine what this man looked like with a fist wrapped around himself, jacking to the barest hints of Din’s orgasm left in the shower. It’s not like it’s Jaster’s fault, so he forces himself to ignore it and lets the man try to subtly fuss over him.

“Not to your tastes?” He asks immediately upon seeing Din’s plate.

“It is. Just, not hungry,” Din says, trying not to sound pathetic.

He sees the way the man cants his hip and shoulder in sympathy, “Nauseous?” 

Din nods, and the man is immediately on the hunt again. He comes back with lozenges made of natural ingredients, one of Din’s preferred brands actually that were kind of spicy. Din takes it with gratitude, popping it into his mouth while Jaster wraps his plate and puts in to the conservator. When he turns back to him, one hand on his hip and confidently relaxed, he pauses. Din takes him in, seeing how he’s shifting his weight between his legs the slightest bit. Nervous, maybe?

“I’m… going to get ready for bed. Would you like to snuggle? Or… would you prefer the other room? I did bring the crate from the ship, if you wanted anything from it.”

“Do you ever stop thinking?” Din says with humour.

Jaster stiffens the slightest bit, before he catches on that Din’s teasing him. He shrugs a shoulder and gives a tiny shake of his head.

“That’s fine,” Din soothes, stepping a little closer, “I like it.”

“‘Lek?”

“Yeah. I’ll snuggle,” Din says with a grin, watching how Jaster takes a chance at decreasing the distance between them a little more, “Just, don’t be offended if you wake up and I am not there. I doubt I will sleep well tonight.”

“You cannot offend me, beroya,” Jaster rumbles, raising a hand like he wants to touch, Din holding his breath and hoping he does, “Break my heart, maybe.”

Din huffs at the man’s dramatics, and when Jaster still hesitates, reaches out himself. He barely brushes his fingers down the back of the man’s wrist to his knuckles, encouraging his hand forward. Jaster’s hand gravitates towards him until it gently settles on his waist. Those nimble fingers give him the faintest hint of a squeeze before stilling. Din’s breath catches in his throat, letting the man reel him closer. 

“May I have another kiss?” Jaster asks, and Din blinks at the breathless want in the man’s voice. Din is surprised he has asked, but he was a bit taller than him, so unless Jaster was on his tippy toes, Din would have to lean down for their foreheads to meet. That earlier kiss had all been impulse, flattered by Jaster’s offer, just like he was now. He wanted to snuggle. He wanted to fall asleep together. He… wanted to wait until the Riduurok to share face and kiss him proper, satisfied to ask for these Keldabe Kisses and other little intimacies until then. 

He doesn’t really need to think about his request. It’s easy to tip his head down, hearing how the man’s breath hitches before he rests the curve of his forehead on the matching curve of Jaster’s buy’ce. Din almost startles at how the commando’s free hand comes up to gently stroke the cheek of his helmet, before he’s melting into the man’s tender touch.

“Ask me for anything,” Jaster rumbles, “I will provide it. Wake me if you need anything, Din.”

Din hums in agreement, unable to keep from nuzzling his head into his the slightest bit. It was strange, being on the receiving end of the provider role. He cannot deny it’s a turn-on, that Jaster was willing to do it for him. It was something that had interested him when he’d originally stated it the first time they’d met.

Din lets the kiss linger, before eventually pulling back. Jaster’s hand shifts, reaching out to grab his and pulling him towards his bedroom, stopping only to grab him another glass of water. When they get back to the man’s room, it is significantly cooler. Jaster has set up portable fans to improve air circulation and has placed cooling packs on Din’s side of the bed to pre-chill his nest. Din’s heart swells, squeezing Jaster’s hand. 

“Jate?” Jaster asks, to which Din nods mutely. Jaster pulls him over to the bed, his nervousness flaring but not overwhelming when Jaster looked so eager. Din could smell his intent, and why he had relieved himself in the shower. This was not about sex. This was about the simple joy of getting to be close, maybe getting permission to touch. He really was a romantic.

He lets Din go when they get to the edge of the mattress, letting Din choose where he wants to go. Din usually slept on his back, and ended up on his side if he was truly comfortable. He decides to take it as it comes and just crawls up there, finally feeling the bed under his weight. It’s deliciously firm, yet soft. The measly nest he had built was all along the edge of the bed, so he, for one, did not create a wall between them, and second, had something to position himself against that contorted to his aches and pains. It was a cheap body pillow made out of scrap pillows and blankets. Jaster does not seem to mind, and doesn’t comment.

He eventually settles on his back, crossing his ankles and folding his hands on his midsection. His half of the bed is fantastically cool, and he’s in direct sight of  an oscillating fan. Perfect. Then, Din watches out the corner of his tee to see what Jaster will decide to do. He doesn’t turn his head so Jaster won’t suspect him watching him, but he thinks he knows. Just like how he knows when the man has his eyes on him. 

Jaster settles on the bed just the same on his back, minus crossing his ankles. His head tips to the side, looking at him obviously. The arm closest to him slowly raises up to the pillows, resting near Din’s head. He can hear the man’s heart pounding in his chest, not really understanding the reason for his excitement mixed with hesitancy. The man doesn’t move, just waits. Then, Din figures it out. He wanted to snuggle. He’s… never really done that unless it was with the kids. Usually foundlings cuddled up to him, but he is not insulted by the offer to do the opposite. Din is quite touched at the opportunity, the last to his buir as a child when he would snuggle up to their side after nightmares. 

Din shuffles a little closer, lifting his head to get it on Jaster arm, before he rolls towards him. Din’s never given someone his belly like this, shifting down until his head was comfortable on the soft cushion of his arm and chest beneath Jaster’s armpit. He curls around him, resting his hand on Din’s back, not even caring that his helmet was digging into his unarmored skin. 

“We should figure out a permanent blindfold, that won’t come off during sleep,” Jaster’s husky voice rumbles, and it comes so clear with his audials so close to the source. How delightful.

Din hums again, wanting to say more, but Jaster was so warm and safe and the chilling pads at his back kept him from overheating. He feels Jaster gently adjust them closer, but his eyes have already slipped closed. He thinks he falls asleep to Jaster humming, gently stroking his fingers down the divots and crests of his spine. 

Din wakes up to his head throbbing, his muscles aching like he’s run a triple marathon in Paz’s beskar’gam, and is covered in cold sweat. He’s turned away from Jaster in his sleep, searching for the cold packs that have long since gone warm with Din’s sky-rocketing body heat. The man still searches for him in his own slumber, Din having to gently lift off his hand from his waist so he can crawl out of bed before he makes it any wetter. It’s surprising he doesn’t wake when Din does it, only making an unhappy sound as he shuffles closer into Din’s honestly shitty nest.

He collects the pads before Jaster can lay on them and puts them back in the freezing compartment of the conservator, goes to the ‘fresher to find a rag to wipe the sweat off his body before standing in front of the fan in the bedroom. His head is foggy and it hurts to stand, and he knows it’s all because of his lowered dosage. It was why Din kept taking more, to dull the throbbing of muscles that was bone-deep, the headaches that were trying to split his head open, the sweating, the chills, the insomnia. 

It was hard to focus and do what needed to be done, but if Din didn’t take them, his heat could come back. Being over thirty and still unmated, unbreeded, meant the scent he produced when his heat kicked in was potent. It broadcasted he was available and was running out of time for natural births, so come get it while it’s hot. It didn’t matter when he was at home, but Din couldn’t risk being out in the Galaxy and having that happen, especially with the kids around. He should warn Jaster about it, really, and mention it to Yflotta when they have their inevitable discussion about his poor life choices. He’d have to put Jaster’s name on the list too, in case it truly happened and the man offered. He’d be the first to have Din’s consideration.

Eventually, Din makes his way back into the bathroom. The shower isn’t an option, Din refusing to use it a third time for his petty needs, and just instead dunks his head and curly mop under the tap. He hardly bothers to towel it before sticking his helmet back on, thanking his buir for the water-proof inside and enjoying the way the cool water drips off his curling ends down his neck and back. Then, he makes his way back to the fan, sitting on the edge of the bed in front of it. He’s not sure how long he stays there for before Jaster wakes up.

He feels Jaster shift on the bed before he hears his rough voice calling out, “Din?”

“I’m here,” Din mutters, half asleep.

Jaster shifts more on the bed, a gentle hand on his shoulder that pulls back immediately before resettling, “You’re really warm and sweaty, cyar'ika.”

Din makes a little mm-hmm sound, but settles under Jaster’s hand. He is cool to the touch, to him. It’s nice. The man’s hand crawls to the hair at the nape of his neck, curling the still dripping ends around his fingers.

“Tell me this isn’t sweat,” Jaster rumbles worriedly.

“Water,” Din answers, “Hot.”

“I know, Din. I’ll get you some more of those cooling pads.”

Din doesn’t have the energy to tell him he put some back in the freezer. Maybe Jaster has more, but Din is too hazy to think on it. The man comes back without them at first, with a cold wet towel that he drapes over his neck, upper back, and shoulders. Then he leaves again, and comes back with the icepacks. This trip takes him longer, and Din has almost fallen back asleep. He startles awake at Jaster’s tentative hand touching the cheek of his helmet, crouched in front of him to not block the stream of air from the fan.

“Should I take you back to Mij, sweetheart? You don’t seem well.”

Jaster sounds so concerned, Din really cannot stop how he leans into his hand. It takes him a second to realize he’s asked him a question.

“There isn’t anything he can do,” Din returns softly, “Not until the next dose in the morning. This is normal. I’m good.”

“What do you normally do?”

“Cold bath.”

“Let’s do that, then.”

“Not a good idea,” Din answers honestly, “I’ll drown.”

Jaster chuckles softly, “I’ll stay with you, make sure you don’t go under. My HUD is saying you’re pushing a hundred degrees, Din. We should get you cooled down.”

Din finally hums an affirmative, trusting Jaster to keep an eye on him. He feels slightly bad about putting him in this position, but the man doesn’t seem annoyed or upset at having his night’s sleep interrupted. He helps Din up with gentle hands, reaching out more and more, but always so hesitant and waiting for him to lean into them. He fills the tub, letting Din test the water until the temperature is right, then helps him shuck off his kute and climb back in, in only his boxers and buy’ce again. Din is too tired to care.

The colder water is an instant relief. He cannot restrain the soft moan as he sinks into it. The tub is the perfect length, Din able to keep his feet at the end and stay supported while also being submerged. He sinks himself as low as he dares, giving Jaster a hand in case he had to pull him out if he really did fall asleep and sunk too far down. Jaster’s touch is gentle and reverent, massaging his hand and knuckles. It doesn’t take long for his eyes to slip closed. They only flutter open at a slight hiss and a big inhale, the feeling of Jaster lifting his arm the slightest bit.

Din tilts his head to the side to see how the man has popped his helmet up the tiniest bit, lifting Din’s wrist to the open gap he’s created. A grin spreads across his face, his voice this raspy, teasing growl.

“That’s cheating.”

“Then I’m a cheater,” the man answers without shame, lowering his arm and letting his buy’ce drop back down. Din’s grin widens. He supposed he shouldn’t make fun; Jaster smells just as good to him, and it’s not like his scent has ever enticed somebody so much before. Arla said she liked it, telling him he smelled like a hot summer with a looming thunderstorm. Hot and humid before dry strikes of lightning. Paz didn’t mind it, but wasn’t attracted to it, hence them being incompatible. His nose picked up the ozone more than anything, Din smelling like melting plastic wires to him. Paz’s rainy scent smelled fresh to others; he smelled like wet dog to Din. 

So Din doesn’t comment anymore, lets his eyes slip closed with the man’s hand wrapped in his and a smile on his face. He can’t wait to see what else this man inspires in him.

Jaster's POV

Jaster knows when Din falls asleep; his hand goes lax in his, and his strong, muscular chest starts falling in a more rhythmic, slow pattern. He sighs in relief, finally starting to see his body temperature begin to drop. Jaster had been surprised when he woke up; not that Din wasn’t lying beside him as he did give him a warning, but how clammy his skin had felt when he’d first touched him. The number his HUD was supplying as it scanned Din’s body heat had been worrisome, especially if it continued to rise. Din seemed unconcerned and used to the symptoms, but that hadn’t made his concern any better. It only made him wonder how often Din went through this, stubbornly putting his duty above his own health.

He doesn’t dwell on it, only makes a list of things to ask Mij about. Not so much about Din’s medical status, but to know of more ways to bring him comfort during this uncomfortable time. Jaster was sure the hot flashes weren’t the only thing; Din’s body had been locked tight like he was in pain, and the man had been absently massaging his leg with one hand while Jaster had filled the tub. Din had said nothing could be done until morning, meaning only his next dose would really mitigate what he was feeling. Mij hadn’t been wrong; the withdrawals were quick to come, and it seems like they hit hard.

Din sleeps restlessly, but doesn’t really need Jaster’s help to keep from drowning in the bath. His legs never relax enough to let him slip down into the water. Jaster uses the opportunity of being awake in the middle of the night to do the other thing he’s been putting off. The time difference excuse and all that.

Jaster optically inputs the comm-code, then mutes his external mic so he doesn’t wake Din. It rings maybe twice, which is not enough time to prepare. He should know this.

“Jas’ika.”

Jaster swallows instantly, hearing the slightly disappointed tone, “Buir.”

The pause between them is a chasm stuffed full of unspoken words. If they held physical weight, it would be the most structurally-sound bridge ever constructed. Jaster didn’t dare say more than what his silence spoke for him; his buir was still the Mereel Clan Head, and though their aliit counted less than twenty people over the years, it was still once a prestigious and reputable House. No longer, but their name held weight as long as they lived, his buir especially. She was an accredited scholar and a fearsome ori’ramikad, beviit bal beviin, stylus and sword. Unless Jaster wanted to be torn a new one with either, he knew when to keep his mouth shut. Unfortunately, his mother knew his silence meant exactly that.

“What have you done?”

“Me?” Jaster defends, “I haven’t done anything.”

“So, when Myles tells me you’ve gone missing on a hunt with your son, you weren’t doing anything?”

Jaster’s going to kill him. Strangle his second in his sleep.

“He meant well. Wanted to know if I’d heard from you,” she says, smooth voice dripping with humour.

“I’ll believe that when Manda’yaim freezes over,” Jaster mutters, causing his buir to chuckle before he gives her the truth, “I think I’ve found a mate, ma.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath, then Jaster can hear the growing smile in her voice, “Really?”

Jaster huffs, trying not to laugh. She doesn’t often waste breath on redundant questions like that, but he knew he’d surprise her. She’s been bugging him for years to find a mate to help support him during all this Mand’alor osik, until he claimed Jango. She stopped then, knowing Jaster was getting annoyed by the influx of the idea from the people around him once he was a single-parent. She would be the only one who could have kept asking, because he knew she just wanted him to have a partner. She’d raised him alone, after all, and knew how hard it was, but that it could be done. 

“Yes. He is beroya, and a good one. I gave him my offer, but he had to disengage before he gave me an answer.”

“You’ve been hunting,” she says, proud. Jaster always feels such glory when she sounds like that, more than any successful mission.

“Elek. I found him. We’re back with the Haat’ade now.”

“Tell me about him.”

“He is a Ja’hai’ad,” Jaster starts, wondering what his buir will know.

“Oh, Jaster,” she immediately chuckles, “A Watch’s Hunter? You did not find him; he let you catch up.”

Jaster grins, having expected that. Din could have left that Kyr’tsad base after he cleaned house; he did not have to stay to give Jaster his test. The man had wanted to. His buir keeps going, Jaster settling more comfortably against the tub on the floor. Story-time with buir was always entertaining.

“Their Alor’e gave you permission?” She asks first, only continuing with his confirmation, “They’re a private Creedbound bunch. I’ll start with their secondary-gender rituals. He is omega, your intended?”

“Yes.”

“How high was his price?”

“They claimed I could not afford it.”

Buir gives a short, impressed whistle, “Yet they allowed you without payment?”

Here, Jaster frowns the slightest bit, mostly so he can guilt her with it, “Elek. I am displaying symptoms of nest-egging, to which their Goran, his buir, needed to educate me on. Know anything about this, ma? I distinctly don’t remember this in your teachings.”

There’s a snort, then a sheepish, “Oh no. Did I forget to go over it? I tend to get lost in the blood-offering section….”

That, Jaster remembers crystal clear. Those particular lessons had lasted weeks, his buir obsessing over the history and cultural relevance. It was why Jaster had such a liking for the idea. How it was almost an exclusively Mandalorian ritual, born from their ancestors also bearing secondary genders. It had been more common in the past, their kind drawn to the pack-like communities Mandalorians revelled in. How children and spouses were revered and protected fiercely, matching the same instincts they naturally had. Just like how the Children of the Watch still used a bride-price, honouring this part of their instincts as way of a test to see how highly an alpha valued true love. 

Blood-offerings were almost always instinctual though, and one did not often realize the subconscious choice of their prey until afterwards. Din may have been hunting for the Empire Corp, but he may not have quite known why he picked a base predominantly Kyr’tsad. The second base, too, with even less link to the Corps and more to Death Watch. Just like how Jaster had gotten the feeling Din had done it for him, but hadn’t been sure until he really evaluated the scent left behind. 

“Yes, buir,” Jaster says with humour, relating so not all that mad about it, “You definitely left out how I would turn into a hoarder.”

“How did your hunter fare?” She asks, knowingly, “They are generally givers, not takers.”

“He struggled, I think, but he accepted them. He left me blood-offerings, too. I think he likes me.”

His own voice turns sheepish here, his buir’s soft chuckles warming his ears, “If he’s leaving you blood-offerings, Jas’ika, he definitely likes you. Who did he hunt down?”

“He took out two Kyr’tsad bases by himself.”

Another impressed whistle, “He really likes you, son.”

Jaster chuckles, shaking his head. He thought so too, though Din was very subtle about it like everything else, until he wasn’t. Two kisses in one day had made Jaster nearly combust on the spot. Not even the skin-on-skin kind where Jaster could savour the taste of him, but the gentle intimacy of bonking helmets. Fuck, pull him out of the oven, he’s over-cooked.

“What’s next?” His buir asks. When are you getting married, is the question she doesn’t ask.

“He’s been saving children from Demagolka’se. I’m going to help him take out the alor of this operation, then I will ask.”

“Probably best to hold off. His Tribe will expect you to prove yourself, more than he will. They are not influenced by infatuation. I wouldn’t ask until you go before the Tribe again.”

Jaster sighs, expecting that too. Alor Rash had made an off-hand comment about testing him and then had firmly closed his lips after the slip when Jaster had pushed for more information. He suspects they have other trials for him, more than just a bride-price. That was just the ticket in the door, the chance to prove he was worthy of even a chance. It wouldn’t be the only tradition they had in regard to courting. Especially with him being an outsider. This does remind him of something, his other offering for the Tribe. He hopes it’s not cheating, asking his buir for help.

“Agreed. I do have another question for you: what… do you know about the Fighting Corps and the Tribe’s relationship?”

“Much,” she returns quickly, and Jaster can picture the sharp grin on his mother’s face, “I was recommended to the Tribe through the Fighting Corps when I was Jan’ika’s age.”

Jaster did not know that. It makes sense; she was an outstanding warrior, even young. She’d held records at the Corps for decades. Knowing more about the Children of the Watch, he’s not surprised she never told him. It was on a need-to-know basis.

“Why didn’t you join?” Jaster asks instead, curious.

“I was still the Head of the Clan, Jaster, or going to be. There were so little of us left. They understood that my duty to my aliit was more important, but the Alor told me I was always welcome back.”

“Interesting,” Jaster says, thinking it was most definitely Alor Vobas, and that would mean the man would have known the relation. Then, offhand because his brain is heading that direction, though he’s been thoroughly sidetracked, “They let Jan’ika stay to train.”

“He won’t need to go through the Corps,” she says knowingly, laughing at her own humour. Jaster smiles, already predicting that, but feeling better with the confirmation. The boy wouldn’t be able to go until Kyr’tsad was dealt with, even if he wanted to. The Tribe had offered a great alternative, and also had warned him of an even greater risk.

“I ask because the Tribe has a problem with the Corps breaking their Deal, and that Kyr’tsad has infiltrated their ranks to influence this and other arrangements.”

“Really?” She says, tone now deathly serious. 

“Yes. Din is the only adult omega in his Tribe, and none have come from the Corps. Whoever is in charge of sending them verde is a bigot, or a full-fledged Death Watch member.”

“The Tribe, among others, cannot really question the Contracts with the Corps. This makes raising concerns complicated.”

“Why?”

“They need the Corps more than the Corps needs them. It has been a threat uttered for centuries. But, there comes times when the Fighting Corps is overloaded, they will often send them to these Tribes for training, especially the more devout ones who may have interest in joining. These Tribe will only sponsor their own Foundlings who do not wish to swear their Creeds to the Fighting Corps in return. If the Corps is not so full, they will send their younger Creedbound warriors just for the diversity and experience.”

“Apparently, the Corps has been denying people entry.”

“What? Since when?”

“I don’t know, and my pardon has not gone through yet. I am also… busy. Could I trouble you to look into it for me?”

“How does your beroya feel about this?”

“I know from his Tribe he’s not happy with it. I plan to….”

“Gift it to him?” She says with cheek, the grin obvious.

“Yes, buir,” he sighs.

She chuckles, “Tell me about your hunt, Jas’ika, and don’t fret. I’ll look into the Fighting Corps and let you know.”

Jaster finishes the call telling her about the hunt like she asks, and more about Din. She laughs when he tells her about his test, stating that Din was as dramatic and as sneaky a bastard as Jaster was. Mostly he talks about Din’s two children, and Arla in particular. By the end of it, his mother seems quite enamoured by Din, boldly stating she couldn’t wait to meet him. That was rare, as she preferred to stay in her library of solitude in her retirement. 

Din wakes up not an hour later, Jaster putting him back to bed in his now chilled nest. The man must not spend a lot of time and effort on building them, this small cocoon that Din barely snuggles into. He doesn’t really mind, finding it quite cute and hopes that he gets to watch Din settle and feed it more blankets over time. Jaster will start by moving a few bookcases around and pushing Din’s side flush with the wall. He saw the cot in his Razor Crest while loading the toy crate, and the bed had also been along a wall. Din was most likely used to having something to build his nest against.

Once Din is asleep, he finishes all his backed up paperwork. He does it with half a mind, the other half a million parsecs away. Most of it is Din, unable to stop thinking about him when his scent was starting to mingle with his in his home. It was so very satisfying, the way they blended together. Jaster normally couldn’t pick up his own scent, but he could pick up how Din’s summer smell enhanced the woodsy one he exerted, how the sharp scent of ozone complimented the smoky hints of his own. A lightning strike and its resulting wildfire. Fitting.

The best yet, the one he had to stop sniffing for, was Din’s sexual frustration. He knew the poor omega was suffering, and that it was most likely born from his medication abuse. It was why he did not mention it or offer to help satisfy him, as much as he wanted to. Jaster wasn’t at all surprised, not even able to imagine what almost three missed heats would build up to. He got a taste of it when he first entered the bathroom to see the man sitting in the tub, faucet trickling cold water down his neck and back, his head bent forward and knees pulled up. All the man’s beskar was off, which usually mitigated his scent until Din was consciously exuding it. The room had been ripe with it, and when he’d ventured closer to the tub, he got a hit of exactly what other relief Din had given himself while he’d been gone.

It had been faint, but he’d known, and promptly tried to ignore it and ward off getting hard. It was easy then, focusing on his worry. When he’d taken his own shower, he took his chance to quickly enjoy it. With the privacy to remove his helmet and be standing right where Din had been standing, it comes to him crystal clear. It also surprised him, how that faint sweetness of ripe summer fruit and Din’s unique aroma drugged his whole body. Jaster’s cock had stiffened to fullness near immediately, the hairs along his body stood on ends despite the water trying to flatten it down, he salivated so much he wondered if something was wrong with him, his teeth and jaw ached. It had taken less than a minute to cum. Din’s scent had been nearly washed away, but that little taste made him more aroused than he’d ever been in his life. That might be the hardest test of this courting game, to be chaste. Jaster was Mand’alor, he was ori’ramikad. He will be patient. He could wait. Din was his future Rid’alor’be’Haat’Mando’ade, Riduur’be’Mand’alor; he deserved to be courted to the upmost sincerity and lavished with everything Jaster could offer him. His body he will offer last, once the Empire Corp has been dealt with. Plus, it would be so sweet to be able to taste him, to see him, during their intimacy if Jaster could be chivalrous enough to wait for their wedding night. That couldn’t come soon enough.

An unrelated thought to the ones prior: where the fuck was Moff Gideon?

Arla's POV

Arla was nervous at first, being in the Crest with this hulking blue Mandalorian.

Scared shitless honestly, because he was quiet like Din, but also huge. Just as hard to read physically, but an alpha. Arla had not had good experiences with alphas in that last few years, all of them Kyr’tsad scum. Din had told her not to worry, that his fellow Tribe’s members were nothing like Death Watch, their alphas especially. He had told her they would all treat her with as much dignity, respect, and care that he had. She didn’t believe it, until Paz proved it within hours. Once the ship was in hyperspace, the man starts fussing over the both of them, just like Din.

Paz has a Ritual, just like buir, once the ship is in hyperspace. She used to think it was the time pilots relaxed, kicked their feet up. Not with these two. There was always work to be had, and hyperspace was perfect for all the stuff they couldn’t do when they were being shot at. Firstly, he goes over all the ship-stuff. Fuel calculations, water storage levels, stocks of rations and other things. He makes sure everything is tickety-boo so they won’t die in space. Paz does it much slower manually than Din, and she wonders why they don’t use a droid. Din is obviously the main pilot and takes care of these things.

It is familiar and comforting they are still on the Crest, and that means they get to sleep in Din’s nest. Paz lays out a bed-roll in the cargo-hold for himself, not seeming to mind. The sleeping compartment could hold two, and she wondered if Din and Paz slept in that honestly cheap-ass double cot together. It was wall-to-wall, and the only way on and out was by crawling up the foot of the mattress. Picturing those two in the same bed, Paz trying to get his very generous backside off the bed without waking Din, was a hilarious thought. 

Still, Din’s scent in the ship helped her settle, and Grogu regularly informed her with a set of hand-signs that Din was still alive and well, connected through their minds. When Paz was done all the menial work, he turns to look at the two of them, just like Din does. Hands on his hips and an expectant tilt to his head. The two of them had come to learn that it means that it was their turn to be taken care of. The man is quiet most of the time, just like Din, and they both spend more time talking to themselves than they do them. This is when it changed, it seems, where these Tribe brothers hone in on them with their full attention, and this time is utterly theirs to spend with them. It’s joyous to look forward to, and Arla finds that she already feels comfortable enough to let Paz do it in Din’s place. She immediately pulls the hairbrush out of the drawer Din had assigned to her, filled with all the valuable things he’d bought for her. It was so surreal after having no possessions for years. Once she’s grabbed it, she sits on one of the large cushions on the floor, and holds it over her shoulder for him to take. 

For a split second she wondered if she had presumed before she heard the larger alpha’s steps coming from behind her, Grogu still in her lap. Arla appreciates that he has seemed to notice her skittishness towards him, but does his best to approach slowly, to not make sudden movements, or to loom over her. He settles on the other cushion with a grunt behind her, taking the brush from her without a word. 

It’s when he really starts brushing her hair that she relaxes, and understands. He’d taken off his gloves beforehand, and his hands are as gentle as Din’s. He braces her hair instead of yanking on it, slowly brushing the knots out tip to root. Once he’s settled into a rhythm he begins to speak. Just like buir, and his voice is just a deeper, but similar melodic rumble.

“Did Din tell you my role?”

“You’re his protector,” she answers, and it about sums up her knowledge, “You’ve been together a long time.”

Paz chuckles much more freely than Din does, “Yes. Din was eight, I was ten, when one of our Finders brought Din home. That’s almost quarter of a century, Arl’ika.”

She giggles at the use of the same pet-name, “Have you always been friends?”

“No,” he says with another laugh, “We beat each other up a lot. I had a big head, and Din was mouthy while being mute. An infuriating combination. Then we became friends, when we realized the other was a good fighter and good person under all that adolescent drama.”

“He is good at that,” she concedes, having seen Din either piss people off or make people piss themselves with only a silent stare. He was so good at conveying body language, even aruetiise could clearly understand him. 

“We have been fighting,” Paz admits, “It is partially why he ditched me.”

Arla is surprised he has shared this. Din only grumbled about why he was alone, and didn’t want to talk about Paz anymore. There was still bitterness between them until they had made up in that Kyr’tsad base, at least on Din’s end.

“Why?”

“I was pushing him for change. I was planning to ask the Tribe to consider pledging to Mereel’s claim, if he truly called on us in the face of Death Watch. Din… does not think we should. I wonder if Mereel knew the only way to get through to him was to show him first-hand what kind of man he is.”

Arla laughs at this, Paz and Grogu joining in with solidarity. 

“You think he is right for buir, then?” She asks.

“I think Din is more interested than he’s ever been, in somebody. Normally he ignores them, or gets me to tell them he isn’t interested via human-shield. Jaster is also… bucket over boots.”

She grins, “This nest-egging is a big deal, huh?”

“It’s strong in him. It’s rare to begin with, but he’s displaying very acute symptoms. I wasn’t exaggerating when I mentioned him at marketplaces. He could not be impeded, nor persuaded. He was so focused on finding ‘the perfect things’ he didn’t even hear me talking to him. Ignored everything but the shopkeepers. It was a good thing I was his stand-in cabur; he wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings at all.”

Arla almost shakes her head in fondness. Din had kind of the same detached mindset when he’d cleaned those bases out. He became so focused, like it was more than just a duty. It was like it was life or death, like if Din didn’t kill every shabuir who resided there, it would be disastrous. He’d had the same edge of tension and focus like he was defusing a bomb, while having such a vicious urge to rip them apart without thought. It was fascinating to witness, to watch, to smell. That lightning scent of him became so pronounced, it was a wonder they didn’t all run for cover like they’d be struck down next. 

Paz is still brushing her hair, so she barely restrains herself from making the motion. She’s relaxed now, with Grogu starting to nod off in her lap and Paz becoming a comforting presence. He emitted the same aura as their buir, not as strong as an omega’s abilities. Still, he oozed calm, and trust, and love, just the same as Din. They were children; they were Foundlings. This verd worshipped them, just like the rest of their Tribe apparently did.

After that, Paz fussed over them to make sure they washed their faces, brushed their teeth, that they were comfortable in the bunk and if they needed anything. Arla didn’t have as hard a time as she thought, falling asleep. This was Din’s Protector, and that means he was theirs too. 

When they got to Concordia and landing in the Tribe’s Courtyard, Arla could certainly say she’s never been so nervous to be invited somewhere in her life. 

The Tribe’s grounds were a neat square of out-buildings, only interrupted by a large, impressive gate joined by two pillars. Directly across the Courtyard from the gate was a slightly sloped entrance into a tunnel that led underground, reinforced with stone and what looked like sliding metal doors. Paz pats both of them on the head as they stare down the ship ramp, both bleeding their anxiety into open air.

“It is alright. You are Din’ika’s ad’ike. The Tribe has waited for years for him to finally adopt. You will be spoiled rotten.”

That kind of softens it, but makes her nervous in other ways. What if she didn’t live up to muster, or find her place amongst them that contributed enough? Still, she was Din’s ad, and she would make him proud. He had made her this leather armour and accepted her because he believed she was worthy. Arla focused on the leathers pressed and curled around her, almost like a hug that follows her everywhere she goes. It helps her stand tall, like Din was right behind her. She carries Grogu down the ramp, Paz’s hand a gentle, supportive weight still on her shoulder. She can smell the excitement coming from the older man, almost proud too, like he’s brought home the greatest gift in the universe. She sort of understands why as soon as her boots hit dirt.

A few Mando’ade are peeking out of the stone buildings, out windows and doors. There’s a few that have come right out to stare at the Crest. All of them stare at her with rapt attention, and just like Din, they are hard to read off the bat. She hopes she learns how to perfect that; it was scary and awesome as hell. Once they see her clearly, and Grogu, they all soften and start whispering to each other, but Arla gets from the tone of their body language they are just as excited as Paz. They don’t approach though, Paz encouraging her forward towards the tunnel that led underground. When they pass, they dip their helmets in respect, or welcome. Arla isn’t sure, so she asks.

“Why do they bow?” After the twentieth one they pass says nothing, but still puts their chin to their chest politely. 

“When our Beroya’se and Cabure come home, their final duty is to report to the Goran. This is how we are greeted, until we have completed our mission.”

Arla hums, understanding that means they shouldn’t speak to anyone either. The Hunt wasn’t complete until they dropped off their gains and are finally off the clock. She guesses it might have something to do with retaining the information from their journey; not getting distracted by menial conversations when they return. Arla appreciates it in this instance.

Paz takes the lead once they get into the tunnels, winding her and Grogu down from where the tightly packed stone and clay walls melded into mostly clay. There are string lanterns along the left side, but they cut off at the first branch, replaced by torches that must be extinguished at night. It must leave the place pitch black and eerie, confusing and misleading outsiders or invaders, and the ones who lived here must rely on memory. It’s impressive, and wizard. She wonders if they have invisible ink on the walls, but she doesn’t want to wear her new buy’ce too much until the Vows were sworn. 

They pass a few verde, but they only dip their heads at them just the same, and let them pass in silence. After a while, the temperature and smell of the air begins to change. Arla has never quite felt such a comforting as well as dangerous presence before, totally unlike Din and Paz. It’s a beta, she realizes in wonder, never realizing they could emit an aura that could seep into the stone walls that begin leading to the Forge. That is obvious by the heat and smell of fire, and the Goran’s scent is just the same, melding with the dry drag of hard stone; unyielding, unbreakable, at first glance.

When they get through the swinging doors, there are two Mando’ade near a pit that must be the smelting area. Arla has never met a smith before, or been in their domain. Din had offhand mentioned his buir being one to craft her helmet, so they must be the Goran. Arla hopes she doesn’t disappoint; Grogu is too cute to be a letdown.

They both wear maroon colours, thought one has a horned, golden helmet. They strike out as the most impressive, and they stop speaking to their guest when they enter. Their eyes settle on them, and Arla can feel the scrupulous weight of their stare before they soften completely. Arla watches it run down their body, just like Din did in their presence, their fierce predator persona melting into parental affection. Arla can also recognize it instantly, that this is their ba’buir. Din mimics their body language almost identically, and already does she have an insight into this intimidating Mandalorian. 

It’s the other Mandalorian, with a maroon buy’ce matching his plates and a black kute, that speaks first. She does not expect him to, and Arla is fascinated by the rough growl of his voice. He, too, speaks and acts like Din.

“You have been successful,” he comments, looking at Paz after a quick glance to the kids. He is the first to speak to them, and she wonders what role he holds to be able to speak before the Goran. 

“Yes. Din has accepted Jaster Mereel’s Courting offer, as well as accepted his help to eliminate Moff Gideon.”

“As he will accept ours. The Haat’ade’s medic called us.”

“What happened?”

“Din's been abusing his meds again, so plans have changed. I will personally assess if you are ready to return to your role without probation. The children will go back with Yflotta.”

“I accept, Alor,” Paz says simply. 

“Very well,” the Alor says gruffly, then he starts making his way out of the Forge. He only stops when he goes to pass by them, dipping his head politely at the both of them.

“I apologize for the curt greeting, vod'bu'ade. Your father has called us to Hunt. Ret'urcye mhi.”

Their great-uncle, she realizes, and she gives him a small smile. He’s like buir, too, “Mhi nari.”

He gives her a nod, then passes out the door. Paz gives her a rub on the head with another farewell, and one for Grogu, then follows him out. That leaves the kids with the Goran, who has not taken their eyes off them. Similar to Din, their gaze lands heavy; it was hard to not know when they were staring through their visors. She sees where he gets it from now.

“Come,” they say softly, turning towards another door at the back. Arla follows without hesitation, now very intrigued. They were exerting just the same curiosity, calmness, and excitement as Paz displayed. A bite of nervousness too, one that they buried just as well as Din did. They were just as hesitant of making a blunder as Arla was, maybe more so. Grogu didn’t give two-shits, the confident little gremlin.

They lead them into a back room that seems more like their private quarters. There is a curtained bed along one wall, a desk along another, pieces of individual pieces of beskar’gam stored on shelves, bookshelves covered in real flimsi books. In the centre of the room is a table, and around it are two wooden carved chairs. They are old, and marked with use. On the back of one is the small, red handprint of a child, and Arla realizes it must be Din’s when there are small bowls of coloured paints on the table with a collection of newer chairs around the table. They have different supports and cushions, some with arms and others without. An impressive eclectic collection of wood-carvings.

They stand behind what must be their chair, and look at them calmly, “If my ade has claimed you, then I know you in my heart as my grand-children. As is tradition, you may pick a chair and mark it with a colour of your choice. You may mix the colours if you wish, and if none of the chairs meet muster, we can bring more to sample.”

Arla wonders about this strange ritual, but does not deny it. She lets Grogu decide his chair first, placing him into different highchairs specifically carved for his size. When he picks one, he nods a fist at her in a yes, then she puts him on the table so he can choose a colour while she chooses her own chair. She likes one with comfortable, wide arms and cushioned bottom and back. It is quite regal, and nothing like Din’s, which is very basic, square-edged, straight-backed and rigid. Quite like the man himself. He has a cushion for his lower back and butt, but that’s about it. Grogu picks a vibrant, blood red to mark his; Arla picks a stark white. They are both symbolic choices. Once their handprints are on the back of the chairs, and they’ve wiped their hands with a rag and bowl of water the Goran offers, they sit and the conversation begins.

The Goran’s voice is melodic and soft, just like Din’s can be. It is instantly soothing and commanding, which is a strange mix that does just what it needs to, “I am Ravi, the Goran of the Children of the Watch, and Din’s buir. It is wonderful to have you in the family.”

Arla dips her head politely, “I am Arla Fett. This is Grogu.”

They cock their head, “Relation to Jango Fett?”

She nods, “My brother.”

“Fate. My son follows these paths,” They say proudly, causing Arla to give them a small smile. Din does seem to fall into these things.

“I will summon him here, or take you to him whenever you wish. I do wish to speak with you first, if you choose so. You do not have to.”

Arla nods again. They continue with her acceptance.

“Din has told you about our Tribe, and Creed?”

“Yes, Goran.”

They chuckle, “You can call me whatever you wish, but inside these walls I prefer my name. You are aliit; I am just the Goran to the rest.”

Arla blinks, and then smiles, “Elek, ba’buir’Ravi.”

She watches how it strikes them dumb just like it did Din when she’d called him Din’buir. If she hits him with the Din'bu, or gets Grogu to say anything resembling buir, he melts in his beskar’gam until it’s like he’ll just slip through his plates. He’d hugged them so tight after like he was using them to keep himself from spilling out, and Arla had wished in that moment she had waited to see his fleshy face when she’d said them. It would have been filled with the same love that enveloped her when his arms wound around them. 

They wiggle happily in their chair, just the tiniest bit. Arla can’t hide her smile, not minding the questions now, especially if this was the warrior that raised Din to be such a caring parent. They also seem ecstatic to be named such, so points to Arla.

“You truly wish to swear our Vows? It is a strict Creed, Arl’ika, and a busy life. However, you will always have a family within these walls. Though we have small Clans within our Tribe, we are a Clan as a whole.”

“Buir explained it to me,” She says slowly, choosing her words carefully, “And for two years I have had choices stripped away from me. I was only what I looked like, what I could produce in the future, a slave. I would be honoured to join the Children of the Watch, and I choose to join, not just because of buir. But because I can be more than just an omega, or just a Mandalorian. I can contribute for people I love, I can have a family again, I can choose freely whether to have a Foundling or a blood-child. Your lifestyle offers me freedom.”

The Goran’s hands slowly reached upwards until they unlatched their helmet. When they pull it off their head, then expose a beaming smile and shining eyes. A beautiful, wise face with dark ebony skin and hair as black as pitch. The five horns that come out their head that match their buy’ce are also a burnish yellow, standing out in the dark parts of their silky hair. It amazes her, how long it is, yet hidden in tightly woven braids and pleated close to their head. They are just as mesh’la as buir, with the same welcoming love in their eyes.

“Well said, Arla Fett. You sound just like your buir, and me once. You choose for the right reasons. Do you wish to swear now?”

Here, she shakes her head, “Can I wait for buir?”

Their face softens even more, “Oh course, ad’ika. A considerate choice. He would love to bear witness.”

“May I wear my helmet in the meantime?” She asks hesitantly. 

“Of course! It is protection, and a gift. Just like Din’ika’s leathers to you. We protect what we hold dear.”

Arla smiles finally, the biggest one yet. She didn’t want to presume, but having the permission makes her excited. She will restrict from wearing it in safe places until she swears the Vows, no matter how much she looks forward to wearing it all the time. She should embrace what little time she has left, before only aliit can see her. Though, there is no one else in the Galaxy she would rather have look at her face-to-face. 

They all speak a bit more, the Goran understanding Gro’ika’s sign-language, as well as able to communicate mentally just like Din’buir. They get to witness Din finding him, and all their missions since then. Arla even gets to share the stories of Din’s blood-offerings for Jaster and his Ultimate Test, to which they laugh. Arla can’t help but blink and match them with a toothy grin, feeling a hint of affection for them already. They have sharp little fangs that enhance their smile and a beautiful laugh, and really, Arla is very lucky to have been Found. Fate, just like their ba’buir had said.

Eventually, Arla cannot help but ask to be lead down the other string of Fate Din has brought her to. The Goran does not hesitate to rise and don their helmet, picking up Grogu on their way. Arla rises with them and follows them down the tunnels again. She wonders how long it takes for the residents here to remember all the winding pathways. Arla almost feels nauseous by the time she is lead through a big pair of doorways. There are probably a dozen young Mando’ade all sitting on benches or standing to spectate an older Mandalorian in green and blue beskar’gam teaching them hand-to-hand. 

It’s Jango sparring, holding his own against the bigger Mando. He’s hesitant and doesn’t strike out as impulsively as he used to. She gets to watch him lunge out with calculation a few times, his opponent batting his hands away, pushing and pulling him. They praise and scold him, correcting his stances and encouraging him when he listens. Arla watches him improve real time, until he sees her in the doorway.

He freezes completely, mid-strike. The other Mando slaps him upside the bucket, but doesn’t reprimand him too harshly when they see why. Their voice is quite the gentle admonishment. 

“That will get you killed on the field, Jan’ika. You’re dismissed.”

Jango nods, and beams towards her. 

“Arla?” He says, disbelief in his voice as he reaches out. Arla cannot help but throw herself at him, struggling but managing to lift him off the ground the slightest bit. He’s gotten so big. She chokes on a sob, and they both crumple to the ground. The other younglings and teacher slip out of the room, leaving only the Goran.

Jango grips her just as tightly, finding the gaps of her leathers like she does his beskar’gam to find the soft parts. Digging in their fingers so they know the other is real, and they both cry for a long time until Jango sucks in enough air to breathe.

“How? I thought….”

“It… was Melina you found. Death Watch enslaved me in one of their camps. Din saved me.”

“Really?” He breathes, “It doesn’t matter. You’re alive.”

“You too,” she whispers, sharing that she had feared the worst for years. If Jango was found and had been indoctrinated, he wouldn’t survive. Her brother was too proud and resilient for that, to join them. They’d kill him before he broke.

“I ran into your buir,” she admits.

“That means he caught up,” Jango grins. She knows with him wearing the helmet.

“Yes. He tested him good,” she chuckles wetly, “But he passed. They’re going to your Haat’ade.”

“Did… beroya adopt you?” Jango says. Arla worries her lip with her teeth.

“Yes….”

He instantly shakes his head, “No, that’s good. I’m glad. Jas’buir won’t mind either; he’ll be happy it’s beroya because he’s a good person. Jaster will also let me see you whenever I want, and whenever you can. He’d probably even tell me I can join the Tribe if I wanted to be with you, and would prepare a whole appeal to the Alor’e or something.”

“You don’t have to. I’m happy you’ve found a home too. Mhi aliit dar'tome.”

“Elek, ori'vod,” Jango whispers, squeezing her a little more. 

After that, they share their first family dinner in years. They sleep deeper than they have since their parents died, jagged edges smoothed over with their perceived loss being returned. At the same time, they both have newfound admiration for the other’s new buir, and hope that this Riduurok happens for more than the sake of their Clans merging once again. The more stories they shared, the more they realized how perfect they were together, despite having similarities and differences. Din carried an electrified forked bayonet equipped to a nasty disintegration sniper rifle that must cost a fortune; Jaster carried an old-fashioned, but reliable heavy-gauge repeating blaster with a long serrated blade fashioned as a bayonet on the barrel. They both let their kids kill abusers and toss grenades. Taught them lifesaving and valuable lessons, loved them unconditionally, supported them with whatever they wanted within reason. Jaster Mereel and Din Djarin were both fearsome and accomplished warriors, dangerous and educated, cunning and ruthless; they were both honourable and religious men, following the Tenants strictly and not making excuses for not following them. If they put the two of them together, they would be unstoppable.

Arla can’t wait to join the Haat’ade, and watch it happen. It’s been over a week, and she’s sure they’ve already started to fall in love. It was infatuation before, some kind of primal longing urging them forward. Somewhere buried in their instincts was a little voice telling them they were perfect for each other. It truly was like a fairytale. Luckily, she won’t have to wait long to see. Their ba’buir prepares them a travel bag filled with homemade treats, and introduces them to all the Foundlings who wish to go to the Haat’ade too. She’s surprised by how many children reside here once she’s introduced to them all, dozens of them gushing and asking her questions about Din. What it was like to hunt with him, if he was as cool and awesome as they thought, could he really take out entire bases himself?

She answers them the best she can, and then the next day the Fett siblings are loaded onto a ship with a dozen other kids, and one peeved Medic. Not at the kids, but she can hear her grumbling about Din under her breath when she thinks they can’t hear. She watches the teacher from the lesson scrub a yellow symbol off the back of her bucket, chuckling as she rants. After that, they board, the medic introducing herself as Alor Yflotta before takeoff, another Foundling raised with Din and only a couple years older. She's used to his antics it seems, and is planning on sparing him no mercy. However, if this was also her future Tribe medic, there was no way Arla was covering for him and having the medic’s eyes on her.

Poor buir. 

Jaster's POV

Jaster does not usually mind being in meetings.

They were normally productive, and that made him feel good. In this specific setting, with Montross arguing with Kal, Myles trying to butt in with relevant information to help come to a solution, and Jaster pressing his buy’ce into his forehead like it’ll dull the building headache; it ain’t happening. There are so many other things to be doing, like resettling all the Foundlings from the Watch, scheduling interviews so they could find the right fit. A lot of them were older, closer to their verd'goten and able to make the choice not to swear the Tribe's Creed. It worked because many of the Haat'ade were mercenaries and other active warriors, meaning they would be looking to teach hands-on just as these children were looking for a caring mentor. If they weren't ready for armour, it could be dangerous, though the Tribe sent them pre-outfitted with beskar'gam. Thankfully, Alor Yflotta seemed to be settling them in okay, available Haat'ade helping when they can.

On the other hand, Din's in a rough patch of his weaning. Not like the first night, but he's been more quiet, reaching out to touch often then stopping himself. He turns that affection onto the kids, like he's afraid to give it to him. Jaster respects his decisions to pull away, knowing at the end of the night the man would still curl up with him in his bed. The emotions in the man are raging, quick to rise and quick to fall, and it is entirely because of his hormone imbalance.  Jaster wishes he could leave and go find Din, maybe go get Grogu out of class so he could have some comfort, but this conversation isn’t ending until somebody gives.

“I don’t understand why this is so important,” Montross snaps, beating this point like a dead horse. It couldn’t get any deader, “We were doing fine as a unit. Splitting so many groups up is just asking for miscommunication.”

Jaster doesn’t know why Montross is so determined to go back to hitting Kyr’tsad stockpiles instead of their basecamps, upset at using smaller hit teams instead of battalions. He thought his old friend would be ecstatic at getting to organize their destruction, but instead he seems angry. Kal Skirata, another trusted advisor of Jaster’s and long-time friend, seems to not be getting it either.

“Because it is risky,” Kal snaps back, “Our information hasn’t been accurate, or it’s being leaked to Kyr’tsad. If we send in a huge unit instead of recon groups, we’re asking them to be ambushed when we’re wrong about their numbers. This way they can make their own call before they engage, before they are noticed, and we can supply backup if needed.”

Kal’s anger is understandable. He’s been doing the majority of the intelligence gathering, and takes care of the mission planning for reconnaissance. He hasn’t been able to figure out how Death Watch seems to switch it up as soon as the Haat’ade learns about it, and Kal’s warning of there possibly being a traitor is becoming more likely. Jaster pushes his buy’ce into his face more. It’s an ugly thought that can create an ugly community, if everyone starts pointing fingers at everyone. 

“Bullshit,” Montross growls, “If this crazy omega of Jaster’s can do it solo, we can do it with larger groups. It’ll be faster, give them less chance to regroup.”

Jaster’s temper flares, not appreciating the tone or the way he speaks about his intended, “Montross. Kal has a point. It’s better to play it safe than sorry. If you cannot compromise or provide a solution, you’re dismissed.”

Jaster doesn’t expect him too, but Montross snarls, spins on his heel, and stomps out. His anger spikes, but lets him go. They’ve been at it for hours, going over mission planning and all their intelligence, trying to determine where their weak links were. Out of the four of them, Montross seems the most determined to believe they do not have a rat problem. Even Jaster, who does not want to believe it, knows it’s a highly likely possibility with all the evidence. He won’t blind himself to it, but he doesn’t know where to start looking. 

The three of them remaining let out a deep sigh, so Jaster continues, “Maybe we should leave it here. We’re not getting anywhere.”

“You just want to go find your pretty hunter,” Myles comments, the corner of his lips quirking upwards. Jaster doesn’t mind this accusation, hearing how his friend is teasing him.

“Yes, I do,” Jaster says, standing from the table at the same time someone knocks on the door. He calls for entry and in walks Mij, a slight scrunch to his eyebrows.

“What is it?” Jaster says, not unkindly. He knows that worried press to his friend’s face.

“Have you seen Din? He forgot his shot this morning….”

Jaster straightens up, frown matching Mij’s, “No. Is he in danger—?”

“No, it’s not dangerous to miss it,” the medic instantly soothes, “Just, he’ll have a hard time regulating his emotions. He’s used to it, so I’m not surprised he’s forgotten, but it will lessen the withdrawal symptoms if he takes it.”

Jaster sighs, giving the others the hand-signal for a dismissal. He’ll have to track down his stubborn beroya, already lifting his arm to comm him when his vambrace starts beeping frantically. The pattern makes him stiffen, seeing the emergency alert on his HUD. It’s Jango’s crisis number, one that he stressed to his son was to only be used in life or death situations. Jaster instantly starts out the door, the other Haat’ade hot on his heels and knowing just as well as Jaster does what it means. He tries to connect the call, but it’s just a distress signal, meaning his son doesn’t have his helmet on or cannot answer. Thank the Manda it sends Jaster a pin of his location, and he’s not surprised to see he’s in the hanger Silas spends the majority of his time in, but he is worried about why. What the hell could go wrong in a docking bay when the majority of their verde was off-base? 

Jaster rounds the corner, calling out for his son even before his eyes lay sight on something he struggles to comprehend, “Jango, what—“

Din's POV

“I can’t wait for you to meet Silas, and the rest of the Haat’ade, but he’s my best friend,” Jango was rambling, pulling Arla along by the arm.

Din had snuck down to the docking bay they did most of the ship repairs in, looking for something to do. The reason he sneaked his way down here had nothing to do with his scary Tribe Medic on board the ship somewhere. He gets to watch the kids stride across the hanger towards the youngling that has kept Din silent company. A young beta, named Silas, who liked to tinker like him when he was anxious. He’s fixing a droid, and that Din cannot help him with, so he leaves him be. Din himself is half-in and half-out of a ship’s guts, all of his upper pieces sitting in the pilot’s seat as he works, save his helmet. Nobody is around here, and Jaster is supposed to be in some meeting with Myles and Silas’ buir. It was quite peaceful, until these two bounced in, but he has no problems being a quiet bystander. It also settles his heightened instincts, just knowing where they are.

Din wasn’t planning on interrupting; he’s got his fingertips around this stubborn bolt buried in the heart of this thing, and it’s submitting slowly but surely to Din’s superior stubbornness. He plans to defeat it so he can fix this ship, hearing from some verd it was Jaster’s favourite fighter, but the problem eluded them. Luckily, Din knew what it was and if this damn bolt would not have a foot-long threaded shaft and be almost impossible to get at, he’d have it done by now—

“Seems you came back, Jan’ika,” comes another adult voice, and Din doesn’t like the tone one bit. It is not welcoming like the rest of the Haat’ade’s, but almost sneering. Din recognizes the voice, and he peeks out the contorted position he has himself in, seeing a familiar verd with black and blue beskar’gam. It’s one of Jaster’s lieutenants, and he wonders why he is not in the same three-hour long meeting the rest of them are in. Jaster said he would send a comm-message when he was done, and he hasn’t had an alert on his HUD or heard his vambrace beep. 

Din is debating if he should mind his own business before he catches a whiff of Jango’s scent as he passes by first. It’s annoyed, mostly angry on the surface, but underneath it all is slight fear. He’s scared of this older alpha, and though he smothers it real well underneath the tang of irritation and forced apathy, Din’s sharp nose can pick up the underlying notes. The boy doesn’t say anything, just keeps walking towards his friend and dragging a confused Arla while the bigger alpha is sauntering behind him. The man speaks again, and that’s when Din starts to quietly disengage his body from where he’s buried himself. 

“I’m surprised you did. You don’t have what it takes, boy, to live up to Jaster’s name. You would have been better off joining that bitch omega’s cult.”

Din freezes, and so do Jango and Arla. Din can see Arla’s shoulders rolling up in that defensive way she always does when she feels cornered, and Din can taste his daughter’s bitter anger. She’s going to spin around, mouth opening and ready to defend Din’s honour. He can see Silas’s face twisted in upset and shock, and Din matches the sentiment; he has yet to hear a Haat’ade talk with such language, and is surprised it is coming out of the mouth of one of Jaster’s seconds. To his son, a child, no less.

Jango tugs on his sister’s arm, “He’s not worth it. He doesn’t like the idea that Jaster is maybe training me to succeed him. He’s a hut'uun who doesn’t even know for sure. I’m just a kid.”

“You’re an annoyance,” Montross hisses, “You have distracted him from our true mission, and this new mate,” this he spits, “is the same. I bet he found this sister of yours just to worm his way in. Typical.”

“Jas’buir would kill you if you said that to his face,” Jango snarls, now truly beginning to get annoyed. Not for himself, but on Din’s behalf. What a sweet, honourable child he is, more defensive for people being insulted behind their back than to people spitting insults about his own character to his face. 

“I don’t see Jaster around, do you?”

Now Din was truly insulted, and he’s glad he’s now pulled himself out of the ship. Din’s debating if the kids can hold their own until he puts his upper pieces back on, so he can really teach this besom a lesson, before he catches it. Din turns slowly to look towards the alpha’s back, Din still partially hidden behind the nose of the ship, and takes in a big, slow breath from his own nose. Something like fire starts flooding his veins when he understands what it is.

Ambition. Ambition so strong it’s willing to kill. So much bitterness towards Jaster and his child it’s festering and turning treasonous. 

Din’s lip curls and he’s stalking forward before he even realizes it. Din feels like he’s been possessed by something, an ancient Mandalorian god of retribution maybe, or just pure insanity. His hormones still haven’t regulated, and Din has been more possessive lately. It’s been hard to leave Grogu in the schooling for all the younger kids, and let Arla reunite with her brother, and Jaster off Mand’alor-ing. Din wants comfort, and he wants to know they are safe. Before, Din knew he could convince himself to work on something menial and meaningful because this war-ship was secure, but that has changed. Right now, none of them are safe with this dar’Manda ready to do anything to get to the top of the food chain. He’s lucky his camera footage had been running since he noticed Jango’s fear, knowing if he wanted to bring forward a complaint of misconduct, he’d need proof. He definitely needed it now.

Arla sees Din coming, and she’s the one pulling Jango back towards Silas, knowing what comes with him. Montross turns, but Din’s arm has already reared back. There are no thoughts in his mind other than this man being a danger to his family that needs to be eliminated.

Din punches his helmet so hard he sends him reeling, and Din doesn’t even register the sharp crack or the bloom of pain in his knuckles. It’s too late, because he’s lunging out, grabbing the man’s helmet and ripping it off before he sweeps his feet from underneath him. That first action he saved for those he found undeserving to wear it, not worthy of joining the Manda, letting them get a full dose of his ability before he kills them. Din seethes, his scent pouring out of him so strong the man chokes as Din pins him, fingers twitching with the urge to scramble at his throat. The hunter is satisfied watching blood fill his face as Din’s silent command seizes up even his lungs. Din leans down until his visor is right in front of his terrified eyes, restraining the urge to just bash his head in.

“I see you, aruetii,” Din snarls, “I can smell what you plan to do. You may hide it well, but you cannot hide it from me.”

The man’s eyes widen, and Din does this more for Jaster’s sake than his own. He knows the man will have to hear it, “Tell me what you’ve done.”

Montross finally heaves in air, permission granted to breathe when it’s needed to speak. Din’s hold is unbreakable in this moment, not when his Clan was at stake. Nothing could outmatch him, not even this coward’s ambition.

“I’ve been leaking information to Death Watch,” the man says instantly, and Din can see how his eyes widen even more, near bulging out of his sockets. He is forced to say them when Din asks, and when everything in his being is pulling at this man to spill his secrets, he’s helpless.

“About our camps, our numbers, missions, everything. Even you, that Jaster is infatuated with some hunter from a no-name Creedbound Tribe. I would have told them exactly where if Jaster had told anybody. I’ve been helping them plan to kill Jango Fett.”

“Why?” Din growls, knowing Jaster will need to know this too.

“Because he’s been dragging his heels. Too busy training the weakling instead of focusing on our cause to challenge the New Mandalorians. Tor is the winning choice when Jaster has gone soft. He’s weak, not an ounce of the man he was ten years ago.”

Din knows he shouts a creative insult in another language so the kids won’t understand, but that’s about it. He starts swinging, at the man’s unprotected spots, at his face, even punching his armour.  It doesn’t even register he’s still bare-handed. At some point Din’s rage overcomes the sweet-talking because Montross starts fighting back. They’re exchanging blows and rolling on the ground, the hunter hissing and spitting like an animal, the traitor hitting back as hard as he can at his opponent’s unarmored chest. Neither of them notice the children’s frantic arguing about comm-ing Jaster or one of them running to grab the closest adult, both too furious at the outcome. Montross, cover blown; Din, too close to his heat and hormones off the walls, half-feral at the thought. Din gets a knee in the gut and the bigger Mandalorian manages to roll him, pinning him with his heavier weight. Din keeps fighting back even when the man goes for the chin of his helmet, attempting to rip it off like Din had done to him. His failsafes hold, but he yanks Din’s head something fierce, sending a sharp jolt down his neck and spine. He fights even harder when the bastard wraps his hands around his throat, cutting off Din’s air.

Din can hardly hear Arla screaming at him to get off, to stop, his ears stuffed with cotton. One of Din’s hands is around the man’s wrist, trying to pull him off while the other goes straight for the bastard’s eyes. The man screams when Din gouges his thumb right into his eye socket, but Montross only bears down on him harder. So much so, Din worries he’ll just crush his trachea and have him self-suffocate, but keeps digging his nails into this bastard’s cheeks, scratches welling up and blood riveting down his face. The hate in his remaining eye is burning, and Din knows he’s determined to kill him right here, right now. He’s got nothing left to lose. 

There’s black spots dancing in his vision, his lungs burning, and Din can tell he’s running out of time. Montross too, by how Din’s fingers slack around his wrist and how he becomes more determined to squeeze the life right out of him. His legs, that had not stopped trying to drill his knees into this bastard’s back and buck him off, are starting to scramble at the ground uselessly, barely kicking out. Montross lets him go with one hand to shove Arla who’s coming at him with a spare wrench, and Din watches her head collide with a storage crate on the way down. That gives him the strength to hold on, but it’s futile when Montross still doesn’t give him any air and returns both hands to his throat to finish the job. Din wishes the kids would leave; the second he loses consciousness, whether or not Montross strangles him to death, the kids will be next. They have moments, maybe minutes judging by the manic glare in the dar’Manda’s eye that says he’s planning on not letting go until Din’s no longer breathing. 

“Jango, what—“

“Buir! Buir,” Jango wails, Din just being able to catch the child’s high-pitched plea more than Jaster’s low baritone, “Get him off! Please, he’s going to kill him!”

Din heaves the second Montross’ weight is off him, the loud clattering of armour not even registering as he hacks for air. He’s rolling to the side, eyes on Arla and her limp form, and the red matted in her blonde hair. Jango is pressed beside her, face pale with worry as he tries to staunch her wound with a spare rag. 

“Din,” says another voice, more panicked than Din thought was possible, the medic’s voice always calm and sure, unless Mij was pissed, “What—“

“Arla,” Din wheezes, “He hurt her.”

Mij instantly pivots, knowing Din would not accept treatment until his daughter was taken care of first. His ears are still ringing, and the burning relief of his lungs as he sucks in air is nothing compared to the ache of his heart. He could have killed her, all because he acted rashly. Din’s heart is in his throat until he sees her eyes fluttering open, and that is all he needs to know. Now the other sounds in the room are coming clearer, and how he missed all the layering voices yelling, Din will never know.

He’s distracted now, a different scent coming to him. It is familiar, and also not. That crisp forest smell has changed from its calming nature, now smelling like rotting, wet wood. The smoky hints are dominant, like a forest fire has surrounded them and is burning all the oxygen away. They do not make for a pleasing mix. It is sour, it is angry, but it is no less attractive to Din. It’s all Jaster, in the same position Din had been before Montross got the upper hand, his lieutenant beneath him as he punches and punches and punches—

He’s screaming at him too. It takes Din a moment to realize it’s Jaster he’s hearing, never hearing him so loud or furious. Buried deep in his voice is betrayal, confusion, not understanding the motives, but knowing what he’d seen.

“What were you doing?” Jaster spits, arm pulling back for another hit, “What were you doing?!”

Din sees Myles go for Jaster’s arm when he pulls back again, and Jaster throws his elbow back and rips his arm out of Myles’ grip. Him and another warrior try again to pull their alor off, and Jaster growls, deep, loud, warning. He hardly has to yank himself away as his subordinates instantly rear back. That’s when Din picks up on the growing sour spike in Jaster’s scent, rage overriding rationality. 

“Din,” Mij says, noticing it too and asking him with only his name. 

Din rolls up to his feet, shaky and sore, and starts hobbling his way over. It’s hard, with so much blood flow being cut off by the traitor’s tight grip. His head is spinning, but he knows what he must do. Montross is bloody beneath Jaster’s fists, and Din isn’t even sure he’s still alive at this point. Myles is looking at him with shock, not daring to approach again when Jaster was half-feral. Din has only smelled that sour edge once, and he’d never forget it. Paz had gone into Guarding mode once, when Din had been severely injured on a hunt and they had both been surrounded. His Protector hadn’t come back to himself until they were all dead, and even then, Din had to talk him back. It had saved their lives, but it had been a frightening moment he wouldn’t forget. Not Paz, never scared of Paz, but scared for him. If he couldn’t find his way back on his own, Din doesn’t know what would have happened. The man had been so guilty after, once Din told him it took half-an-hour to bring him back, and Din had almost bled out by then. It would have been a moot point.

Din is surprised Jaster has done it, gone into Guarding for him; it takes such strong emotions to overcome an alpha like that, for them to let go. Especially Jaster, a man that has excellent self-control over his sub-gender’s instincts. It’s clear it’s all for him and the kids, because he’s the only one who can get close with Jaster snarling over the body he’s determined to rip apart.

“Jaster,” Din rasps, getting down on his knees to scoot even closer. He knows not to loom over a protective alpha.

The man doesn’t seem to hear him, still growling something fierce as he goes to swing again, and Din risks reaching out to curl his fingers around the man’s wrist. He freezes, head snapping over to him as that rumbling picks up. It cuts off the second he sees it’s Din, tapering off to almost a purr.

“Jaster,” Din whispers again, “I need you to come back.”

The Mand’alor shudders, and it wracks his entire body violently. His head cocks, like he’s trying to translate a foreign language. Din isn’t concerned; as long as he was focusing on him, he would come back.

“Jaster,” Din asks again, using his name more than he ever has. Paz had said it helped, but he doesn’t know how well it will work when his words come out so choked, struggling to make their way up his bruised throat. 

The man leans back the slightest bit, crowding Montross’ body less so he can turn as much as he can towards Din instead. His other hand reaches out, the one not still locked in Din’s grip, caressing the tips of his gloves gently across Din’s throat. His growl whines like that of a kicked puppy, and then he’s spinning back towards Montross, pulling his non-dominant hand back to start whaling on him again.

“No, Jaster,” Din says firmly, “You and I have done more than enough. He is dead.”

This, Din can hear. He can hear his own sluggish heartbeat, Jaster’s going wild in his chest, and nothing from Montross. Jaster’s arm stops with his fist beside his buy’ce, cocking his head to listen.

“There is nothing left, but me and the pups,” Din says surely, “You can drop the guard, Jaster. We’re safe.”

The man shudders again, heaving in a huge breath. Din knows he’s making his way back this time, his racing heartbeat starting to slow. The angry notes of his scent are fading away, now dominated by worry, confusion, and concern.

“Din?” Jaster gasped in with his next breath, barely audible. Din catches it.

“Yes,” is all he says. 

“What,” the man pauses to gasp again with another shiver, “What happened?”

“Not now, Jaster,” Mij says, finally inching his way closer, “Your cyare needs medical. You focus on breathing.”

Jaster agrees easily, his brain being pulled back from orbit and into his head. He doesn’t even mind that he’s still straddling the mangled corpse of his lieutenant. He’s too busy looking at Din, trying to calm his breathing as Mij’s bare hands reach out towards Din. A small growl works its way up Jaster’s throat just before he touches him, surprising all of them. Jaster gives Mij a nod as he swallows it down, looking shocked that he did it. Din’s not. Paz wouldn’t stop following him around for a month after, worried he’d drop dead if he took his eyes off him. The only ones he didn’t do what Jaster just did to were the Foundlings and Din’s buir. Even Rash got his ass handed to him when he thought it was funny and pushed his luck.

Mij continues, letting his fingers curl under his jaw at his helmet lip like Montross had done earlier, though with significantly more care. He gently tilts Din’s chin up so he can get a good look at the marks he’s sure are there, and he knows he’ll have significant bruising. The medic’s still got his buy’ce on, and if he is like Yflotta, he’s got special scanners and X-Ray equipment hardwired right in there. 

“I’m sorry, Din,” the man murmurs like it’s his fault, “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“You wouldn’t have been able to,” Din grates out, “It must be what the Protector is Guarding, to call the all-clear.”

The medic nods, but he still doesn’t look happy. His fingers shift down towards the sorest part, and with every prod that pulls a breath of pain out of him, pulls a growl out of Jaster. Din is still holding on to his wrist, and that is probably the only reason he’s not attacked the medic hurting him. It’s done for a good cause, and when Mij’s hands move to feel around the sides of his neck, almost mimicking what Montross had done, Jaster picks it back up a notch.

“None of that,” Din rasps, giving his wrist a squeeze. It cuts off instantly. 

“You’re lucky,” Mij says, “Nothing’s broken, and your blood flow looks good, despite the swelling.  Your heartbeat is regulating. I still would like to keep you overnight for observation. Did you lose consciousness?”

“No.”

“You almost did,” Jaster growls, “I saw…, I saw—”

“Breathing, Mand’alor. Don’t be thinking about what got you there in the first place,” Mij chides while Din gives him another squeeze. That’s when the medic clocks it. 

“Give me that hand, now,” the medic says, not daring to reach towards Jaster. Din complies.

Jaster flinches when he sees it, and Din makes a face. It’s ugly. The other one is much the same when Mij grabs his wrist to bring it up to inspect it.

“What were you thinking?” Mij demands, “Punching him without your gauntlets, on his beskar’gam?”

“Wasn’t,” Din mutters.

“Okay, up,” Mij orders, “Whole family is going to medical, let’s go.”

Jaster instantly rises and pushes Mij out of the way to help Din up. He shares a long-suffering look with the medic, understanding Jaster’s desire and willing to humour him. Mij goes to the kids instead, to which he brings Arla over. She’s reaching out for him, gently looping her arms around his shoulders, careful not to squeeze him. 

“Save them,” Din whispers into her ear, hearing her shuddering breath, “Medical first. Then we can cry.”

Silas grabs Din’s chest piece, pauldrons and vambraces out of the cockpit for him, for which he is grateful. Jango is trailing behind, wringing his hands like he doesn’t know what to do. Myles is now the one picking up the slack for Jaster’s distracted state, ordering clean up, security footage, taking care of all the loose ends. That one is trustworthy; his mate would do well to give him a raise.

Din almost stops, when he thinks of Jaster like that. He supposed it’s not far off, when he had gone into a half-feral state trying to protect their family, and Jaster had done the same for him. It made them quite the pair. At least Jaster was smart enough to be wearing his gauntlets. 

The man has a gentle arm around his lower back, and reaches out to wrap his own fingers purposely around Din’s bare wrist, shucking up his kute sleeve to get at that tender spot. He’s squeezing him enough to get Din’s pulse point through his gloves, reassuring himself with more than touch. There’s a faint edge of horror sinking into the man now. Not at what he had done, but at what Montross almost did. 

Din allows it, feels comfort in his touch as well. It’s almost a reward after awaiting it, not trusting himself to reach out and with Jaster being so chivalrous himself, it’s hard. Not now, with Jaster’s wide, strong hand bracing his hip, red knuckle plates still covered in blood, and keeping Din tucked close to his side. His omega instincts are so pleased by this development, he forgets their destination is one of his least favourite places to be. 

Din sits on a cot, another medic coming over to gently take care of Arla on another. Jaster won’t leave his side, but keeps a close eye on her. 

“It was superficial, beroya,” Mij states before he can ask, “Minor concussion, too, but she’ll be alright. Now, can someone tell me what happened to cause Din to break his hands beating Montross up?”

All the kids hang their heads in shame. Din frowns, willing to speak up to dissuade them of their guilt. They had nothing to be sorry for; that shabuir approached them. Jango beats him to it.

“I’m sorry, buir. He’s been saying stuff to me for years, and I didn’t want to tell you. I wanted to suck it up.”

Jaster’s head snaps up and he beckons his son close, getting a gentle hand around the back of his neck and pulling him down for a kov'nyn. 

“Don’t apologize, Jango. It is on me, that I did not realize—,” Jaster sucks in a sharp breath, “I would have killed him sooner. What has he been saying to you?”

Jango’s lips must glue shut, because it’s Arla that pipes up, “He said he was an annoyance. That he distracted you, and wasn’t worth living up to your name. That he would have been better off staying with the Tribe.”

“All lies,” Jaster says vehemently, shaking Jango’s head the slightest bit in emphasis, “Anyone says anything like that to you, you tell me.”

“I was dealing with it…”

“No, ad’ika. He was an adult. You can solve your own problems with other children, but I will deal with the adults that insult and assault you.”

“He never hurt me.”

“Jan’ika, he did with words. That is enough. By the Old Traditions, I could call a blood feud against his entire Clan. I would for you, understand? You are my child.”

“Okay, Jas’buir….”

“Tell me what happened, gedet'ye. Come sit if you want, son.”

Din’s heart flutters, Jango instantly squeezing on the end of the cot to press against Jaster’s side, not caring about the drying blood on his front. The man has both arms encircling their backs, and when Arla is finished getting slathered with banta-gel, does the same to Din’s side. 

Silas looks at Din who gives him a nod, “Well, beroya and I were in the hangers fixing stuff. It was pretty quiet, with everyone on their missions still. Then Jango and Arla came in.”

“Montross was following me,” Jango admits, “I ignored him, but then he started talking about….”

“About what?” Jaster asked gently.

“About me,” Din rumbles. Jaster's grip instantly tightens around his hip, “The typical stuff.”

“What… do you consider typical?”

Din huffs, knowing he would have ignored the insults like Jango had, if Montross had not smelled so strongly of ambition. He doesn’t really want to answer him, but it’s Arla that pipes up, anger still in her voice.

“Called him a bitch omega,” she hisses, “Said Jango should have joined buir’s cult. Then he claimed buir only found me to get close to you, like… like he was using us to hurt you. Called you weak. Then buir started punching him.”

“Without your gloves,” Mij moans.

“I think it was him punching Montross right in the bucket, though. We could hear it crack. It was kinda awesome. Gross, but awesome,” Silas pipes up.

“Do not do what this crazy man has done, understand?”

“He said what?” Jaster growls under his breath, still processing Arla’s statement. Din sighs.

“I have the footage.”

Jaster gives him a look, and Din doesn’t hesitate to send it to him. He didn’t want to, not right away, worried if Jaster watches it, it will send him right back into Guarding. 

“I could smell it,” Din supplies, frowning at the remembrance, “He wanted to hurt them. Wanted to hurt you. I didn’t think.”

“He’s been working with Death Watch!” Jango says, “Din even got him to admit it!”

Jaster stiffens. He looks at Din again who gives him a slight nod. 

“Well,” Mij says helpfully, “At least you’ve found your traitor.”

Jaster instantly starts punching at his vambrace, calling different people and giving orders. The man’s determined to find more damning evidence, and Din doesn’t blame him. He knows Montross has been a friend of Jaster’s for years, knowing each other since they were in the Fighting Corps together. Din had worried about it. If Jaster hadn’t walked in on Montross trying to strangle him, Din wasn’t sure how open Jaster would be to the truth. He does not seem to be the type to make himself victim to willful denial, but everyone has a line where they are willing to make excuses.

Jaster is thankfully not that man. He doesn’t blind himself to it, and asks the hard questions. Brings every close acquaintance of Montross’ in for questioning, gets somebody hacking all his personal material and his beskar’gam, strikes his name off for an honourable burial. Between him and Myles, no stone is left unturned.

After that, Mij leads him to a private room so he can remove his helmet later, once he’s done hooking him up to all the monitoring equipment. Mij wraps and splints his hands for now, telling him he’s going to get some buckets and fill them from an empty bata-tank so he can dunk his hands later. He’s more worried about future complications from the strangling, and Din knows he would be lucky to walk away with bruises and a sore throat. So little oxygen getting to his brain was bound to lead to damage. Montross’ grip had been so tight, he’d surely been squeezing off the flow from his arteries and veins. Din knew how to hold his breath for a long time, people had tried to drown him before; it wasn’t so much the lack of breathing that had almost done him in. Montross had been slowly killing his brain with only the press of his fingers.

It was a good sign he hadn’t completely blacked out. Jaster got there at the perfect time, and the man seems to know it. Kal comes to collect the kids, and they all go to get Grogu from his lessons. Jaster seems torn, but stays by his side, pulling a chair close to the cot he’s been sequestered to. His hands search for his, taking off his gloves to cradle it gently between both of his. Then, Jaster bows his head, touching his beskar forehead to their joined hands. The man heaves in a stuttering breath, mic crackling.

“Do you mind if I watch it?”

“Go ahead, Jaster,” Din rasps, giving him a squeeze. Jaster is back in control, and Din is here. He’s not worried about losing him back to primal instincts. It’s less than ten minutes of silence, and Jaster does not lift his head from where he is symbolically kissing Din’s fingers. Din knows when he’s done because the man’s shoulders begin to shake.

“Can I ask for a favour?” The Mand’alor asks, and Din frowns at how impassive he sounds, tone carefully stripped out of his voice. Din agrees without hesitation, “Can you shut your eyes for a minute? I just….”

Din’s face softens, and he gives him consent just as easily, pressing his eyes closed. He can hear Jaster remove his helmet, feels the weight as he places it on the bed beside him, hears his rough, wet breathing, and that’s when it hits him. He hadn’t been shaking in anger, the man was crying for him, for their aliit. This strong, brave alpha was willing to show these emotions in front of him. Din’s heart swells with hurt, hating that he has caused him pain.

Then, the warm touch of skin on his exposed fingers. Jaster’s slightly sweaty forehead, the tickle of his hair, the smell of him so much stronger. Din takes in his own breath as Jaster takes a moment, bowed over his broken hand.

“Ni ceta,” Jaster says, voice rough. Din frowns, eyebrows furrowing.

“Whatever for?”

“He was my second. My lieutenant. I promoted a man that abused my child behind my back. A man in a position I trusted that you could go to, for anything in place of me. A man that just tried to kill you. That plotted to kill my son.”

“Oh, Jaster,” Din says, hating that he cannot look at him in this moment. He wants to give him comfort, just does not know how.

“I am not worthy,” Jaster spits, suddenly bitter, “I—”

“Ne'johaa,” Din says sternly, cutting him off, “I will decide if you are worthy. Do you understand me, alpha?”

“I—“

“Do you understand me?” Din repeats, twisting his hand to grab one of his, digging his fingers in painfully, for both him and Jaster.

“Yes,” Jaster finally says, shaky.

“They both hid it. I have an exceptionally good nose, Jaster, and I was lucky I was where I was, that they weren’t bothering to hide it. He was a snake, a traitor once your friend. It does not make you unworthy when he betrayed you. You see the good in people. I admire that in you, because I do not.”

Jaster heaves in a stuttering breath, maneuvering his grip so he holds Din’s hand proper. He lifts his head, and Din wonders if he finally got through to him, or if he’s thinking of ways to brush him off. It’s hard to say when he cannot see his body language, though his voice is so much clearer. Jaster’s accent is thick right now, a drawling rumble that sent shivers down Din’s spine. It pulls words out of Din, ones he hadn’t planned on saying.

“Yet, you see the good in me,” Jaster whispers, and Din tells him exactly why, because he deserves to know.

“I see a warrior, a role-model for my children. It is seen as a great honour in my Tribe, Jaster Mereel, what you have done for me,” he explains, voice turning gravelly from more than his sore throat, “You have proven yourself worthy of protecting me, of protecting our children, our aliit. You still wear his blood for me.”

He feels Jaster twitch, suck in another breath, this one surprised. Then, he returns the sentiment. Din jolts when he feels something warm and soft brush against his fingers. Too soft to be the hands still bracing his, too dry to be his forehead, the sensation strange as it presses against his skin. It’s the warm dusting of breath and the slight wetness of Jaster’s next kiss that clues him in. Din flushes, hunger settling low in his belly. The man’s mouth is tender, reverent, leaving kisses along his fingers that feel like the fluttering of butterfly wings. He’s fine-tuned into what this man is doing even with his eyes closed.

Din’s licking his lips when he feels the man turn his head, nose and lips dragging slowly along his skin until he feels his slightly stubbled cheek. He almost moans from the sensuality of it, such a simple action as Jaster tilts his face towards Din’s wrist.

“May I?” The man drawls softly, always so polite. 

“You owe me,” Din says breathlessly, knowing what he’s asking for.

“It’s all yours, whatever you want,” Jaster returns, sounding just as winded. Din can feel the soft pants of breath against his skin, almost desperate, his longing and gratitude palpable. He hums in answer, at a loss for words. The man smells so deliciously smoky yet clean when he was aroused, the smouldering of dried kindling. Almost like when farmers started to burn the prunings of their fruit trees, the smoke carrying those sweeter flavours. Din loved how it filled up his nose and head, settling nicely in his mouth like a deliciously smoked meal. It makes it hard to deny him anything, distracting Din with his tantalizing smell. 

Jaster gently turns his hand, exposing more of the underside of Din’s wrist. Then he drags his lips down Din’s palm, the fluctuation of sensation as he goes over exposed skin and bandaged alike. Din’s holding his breath up until he gets to the sensitive skin the man’s aiming for. At first, he crests his nose over the scent gland, taking in a deep, unfiltered breath. Din finally lets his go, masked under Jaster’s relieved exhale.

“Manda, you smell…,” the man murmurs, tickling Din’s skin as he shifts to speak them against his bare skin.

Din smiles, “I smell?”

Jaster rumbles out a soft chuckle, “Delicious. Like summer.”

“Does that have a smell?” Din asks, still smiling, teasing him more to distract himself. That little laugh sent warms puffs along his wrist, and Din could be tempted to think of where else he could feel that. 

“Don’t know, but it’s what it reminds me of. I would gladly smell it forever.”

Din flushes at that simple admission, flushing even more as Jaster finally gets bold enough to press a kiss to his wrist. First, it’s chaste and gentle. The second, Din jolts when he can feel the warm, wet flick of his tongue getting a taste. It sends a bolt of electricity down all his nerves, his loins pulsing with want. His little whimper is almost drowned out by Jaster’s heady moan. The man pulls back after another closed mouth kiss, and Din can hear how his breathing has grown ragged.

“Thank you,” Jaster says, sincerely, just as breathless as Din sounded earlier. Din feels him grab his helmet off the bed, and he regrets not being able to see the obvious fluster on his face. What a tease, this man is. Din is almost tempted to reprimand him for it, to ask him how he dared to leave him this way with arousal heavy in his belly. He should be satisfying his omega, should he not? It’s not fair. His hormones are raging, wanting to just give in to that primal instinct. Din is a hunter. He can wait for a mark for days, not moving an inch. He can wait until the vows to see the pleasure on the Mand’alor’s face when he finally wrings it from him. For now, whatever Jaster Mereel smells in his shower after Din takes his is entirely on him. 

“You’re welcome,” Din says, mind finally a million miles away from the hanger and plotting exactly what he was going to ask from this man in payback.

Jaster’s POV cont'd

Jaster rounds the corner, “Jango, what—“

“Buir!” Jango wails, instantly drawing his eyes. Jaster takes a step towards him, seeing how he’s crouched next to the prone body of his sister. His eyes are wide and teary, and Jaster can smell his fear so strongly it sits bitter in his mouth. He thinks maybe there was an accident before Jango finishes, “Buir! Get him off! Please, he’s going to kill him!”

Jango points, and that’s when Jaster sees it. The two Mando’ade on the ground are partially hidden by a storage crate, so Jaster steps closer to see more clearly. That’s when pure, unadulterated rage starts flooding through his veins, brain struggling to process what exactly he’s seeing and body still frozen in incomprehension. Din’s on the ground on his back, without his shiny upper armour and with another warrior straddling him. His bare hands are weakly pushing at the other verd, his boots scrambling at the ground with dwindling energy, losing the strength to fight. Jaster understands why when his brain finally processes it’s Montross he’s looking at, snarling with a bloody face and one gouged eye, bearing down on Din’s throat with all the strength he can muster. 

Jaster doesn’t think, just acts. He hears his son’s plea, sees how scared he and Silas are, the blood matted in Arla’s hair. He can smell Montross’ fury, tainting the room with killing intent. Jango is not wrong; Montross plans to kill him, he can taste it in the air, and the next thing Jaster knows he’s throwing himself at his second, rolling him off of Din. He hears Din take in this gasping, stuttering pained breath, Montross grunting in surprise as Jaster knocks into him. After that, he’s straddling his lieutenant in the same position he had Jaster’s omega in, and his fist just starts flying.

It’s all powered by frenzied fear, anger, utter confusion and betrayal. His mind can’t wrap around it, why the hell Montross had been trying to murder Din with their children as witnesses. He saw him not five minutes ago. Din had hardly been moving. If Jaster had been any later, if he didn’t end the meeting or if Jango had waited just a little longer to send his distress signal: Din would be dead. If he hadn’t let Montross storm out of the room, if he hadn't dismissed him, this might not have happened at all. The more he thinks about it, the more he spirals into his own head, the only image in his mind of his trusted friend strangling his future mate. 

“What were you doing?” Jaster screams with another punch. The question is an accusation and a death sentence all at once, when Jaster knows but doesn’t understand, “What were you doing?!”

He knows. He knows, he knows, he knows exactly what Montross had been doing. It is inexcusable. It is unforgivable.

Jaster’s vision tunnels. All he can see is Din cold on the floor, gone before their lives even start together. Their children having to watch, before Montross left them the same way. It could have been ripped from him, Din could have been ripped from him, all because of this dar’Manda snake. Something tries to grab his arm when he goes for another punch, determined to do so until he was fucking dirt. Without missing a beat, Jaster throws his elbow back and uses the extra leverage to hit the bastard harder. When Jaster feels two more sets of hands try and pull him off, Jaster growls like he never has before. It crawls up from the bottom of his stomach, vibrating his diaphragm, and rumbling loud and deep through his chest until it makes its way out. It echoes and reverberates like a bass note, vibrating spare tools off of workbenches, his helmet buzzing and amplifying the sound. Jaster doesn’t need to breathe to keep it going, coming from somewhere deep in the heart of him. A wordless order to ‘Back The Fuck Up’.

It works. The hands immediately let him go, and Jaster can resume turning this alpha to dust. He’s still growling and he won’t stop until he’s done, until that vision of his mate dead on floor is replaced in reality with Montross. There’s a weak sound he hardly catches and he ignores it at first, seeing it as more distraction. Then something is grabbing his wrist, tightly, and Jaster’s growl spikes as he turns to see who would dare.

It’s his omega. The growl dies with a whine in his throat, turning into this pitiful rumble. He’s talking to him, Jaster can hardly hear his charming voice, but he always looks forward to hearing him say his name. He tries to focus on that familiar rise and fall, but the cadence doesn’t sound right. He’s cocking his head, trying to figure out what’s wrong with his pretty omega. He thinks he hears his name again, causing this shudder to rip through him. Jaster leans back, turning more towards him, evaluating his omega instead. 

That’s when his eyes drift down and see the red marks in the shapes of fingers around his throat. Jaster reaches out, taking great care to trace the marks along his neck with his glove’s tips. That’s why they don’t sound right. This shabuir—

Jaster snarls, spinning back on Montross and pulling his free arm back. He’ll teach him a fucking lesson he cannot come back from—

“No, Jaster,” Din says firmly, this he can hear, “You and I have done more than enough. He is dead.”

Jaster pauses, cocking his head, listening. He doesn’t lower his fist until he’s sure, the traitor's chest emitting no thumping. Just his omega’s struggling heart next to him, and Jaster’s pounding between his ears.

“There is nothing left, but me and the pups. You can drop the guard, Jaster. We’re safe,” his omega reassures softly, and Jaster shudders again, taking in a large breath. Clarity starts trickling through him, his tunnel-vision widening back up. Menial sounds are starting to come back, other people talking, the low growl he’s still producing that he forcibly cuts off. 

“Din?” He asks, unsure. He feels… out of body. He knows what he did, but he feels like it took hours. His body is sore, like he’s been swinging on this traitor for days. Jaster had been right here, but he had felt a million parsecs away. He still does.

“Yes,” the man rasps, and hearing it clearer brings him back. Din was hurting, and here he was with his fingers still wrapped tightly around his wrist, comforting him.  

“What,” he says, pausing to wet his dry lips, “What happened?”

“Not now, Jaster,” Mij says, approaching slow and low, “Your cyare needs medical. You focus on breathing.”

Jaster does as he’s told, even when he watches the man reach out to his throat like Montross had done. A growl rumbles to life, and he feels Din squeeze his hand in reprimand. Jaster, embarrassed, listens, but cannot help all the sounds he makes in response to the hurt ones Mij pulls out of Din by poking and prodding him. Jaster knows Mij, he trusts the man and his medical treatment, he shouldn’t want to attack him when he was the best option for Din right now. It doesn’t stop him from being laser-focused on him, like he would turn out to be just like Montross and suddenly start trying to strangle Din instead.

Then, when the medic notices Din’s beat-to-rat’s-shit hands, Jaster is flooded with guilt. He… got so sucked into killing the bastard he forgot what Din needed in the moment. Jaster should know better; he knows the possible repercussions when the brain gets significantly starved of oxygen like that. He never even thought about other injuries, and Din was missing half his kit. Din is lucky to be alive, and Jaster had squandered time, yet the thought of it all almost sends him right back into Guarding. It isn’t until he has a purpose guiding Din to the med-bay that he can fully bring himself out of it.

Even then, Jaster is distracted. He keeps his focus by staying close to him, by keeping a sharp eye on the kids. The shame he feels when he learns Montross has been harassing his son for Manda-knows how long is crippling, made worse that Jango never felt the need to tell him. Did he come off as so unapproachable to his own child? Did he worry that because they were alphas, Jaster would have ignored his concerns and told him to suck it up? What kind of aura did he exude to make Montross believe that behaviour was acceptable, that Jaster wouldn’t kill him for it if he found out? Jaster is very lucky that Din was there, once the man drills it into his head that both Jango and Montross had experience and skill in masking their animosity towards each other, and that Din had barely managed to notice. Who knows where it would have led, if Montross had grown bolder, if Jango had grown bitter thinking Jaster condoned it?

Still, Jaster does not completely settle back into his body until he watches Din’s footage, seeing the traitor’s forceful confession and how his revenge almost took Din’s life. It’s hard to watch, hearing Din’s breathing stop echoing in his helmet, how he fights so hard until he can’t anymore. It almost sends him right back to square one, seeing Din’s hands scratch and claw at Montross’ face and eyes until all he can do is weakly slap at him, how vindictive satisfaction fills Montross’ remaining eye as he realizes he’s almost won. At first, he’s tempted to go find his corpse and desecrate it some more.

The next second, it breaks him. The worst is after, watching himself through Din’s eyes, beating the man bloody. How he ignores and throws away Myles and Kal, ignores Din until he reaches out to grab his wrist. Jaster doesn’t recognize himself. It takes more than five minutes for him to become coherent, to actually hear the words Din’s speaking. If they had been on the field of battle, those five minutes could have been Din’s doom.

Din doesn’t even hold it against him. He should. Montross should have been treated like a traitor, tried and executed as one, not beaten to death by the Mand’alor who hardly remembers. If he hadn’t the footage, he would question if it was really him. Jaster empties it out the best he can, the frustration, the anger, the terror that had not left him when he realized how quickly it all could have shattered apart. He’s bowing his head over Din’s broken hand, pressing his forehead to his fingers as he tries not to break completely. Din absolving him, still seeing him as worthy, was a gift he didn’t feel deserving of.

Jaster lifts his head, staring at Din’s helm. He glitters so brightly under med-bay lights, and without Jaster’s own visor separating them, he gleamed even brighter. He knows Din is honourable, and would be one of the very last people to peek at his bare face. Still, there’s nerves fluttering in his belly, really hoping he doesn’t break it and see his blotchy face, watery eyes, and wet cheeks. Jaster would not know, with Din's helmet still on and shielding him. Jaster's not afraid to cry in front of him, and how naturally that comes is so strange, but he doesn’t think he’s ready to have him look at him while he does it. Jaster is willing to look at him when he says these next words, knowing they will lead to something, but not sure where.

“Yet, you see the good in me.”

Jaster has a hard time believing he still can. How the ‘good’ Jaster can see in people can be created by naïveté, trusting Montross in friendship to the point he never saw the betrayal coming, could be a positive. On top of that, Jaster had lost himself to primal instincts, had turned on his trustworthy lieutenants. It’s dangerous either way, he realizes that now, but he still can hear what Din has said, or more to the point, why he has said it. Jaster can be open, trusting, welcoming to outsiders; Din is not that person. He is truly what Jaster lacks, but in all the best of ways. He will scrutinize everybody when Jaster gives them the benefit of a doubt. Din is his other half, he just hopes that he is that person for him.

Din’s head turns towards him, the set to his shoulders sure and confident, daring to be disputed. Jaster knows he’s not looking at him, but is turning to show his sincerity. Even without it, Jaster can hear it in his voice, how it has turned rougher from more than just Montross’ damage, “I see a warrior, a role-model for my children. It is seen as a great honour in my Tribe, Jaster Mereel, what you have done for me. You have proven yourself worthy of protecting me, of protecting our children, our aliit. You still wear his blood for me.”

Jaster twitches, giving Din’s hand the barest hint of a squeeze as he sucks in a sharp breath. How? How does this man know exactly what to say, addressing all of Jaster’s unspoken concerns? Paired with the scent he can pick up with his nose in open air, it’s undeniable. Jaster gets it all, unfiltered.

Din, aroused and proud that Jaster had protected him; honoured, because in his Tribe him losing himself to primal instincts was seen as a sign of devotion, because they were trained so strictly against it. Worried and relieved, a strange mix when he thinks about his children that is smoothed over because Jaster is more open, more charismatic and Din is happy that the kids can learn from that, and not just Din’s silent nature. How Din means it when he says Jaster is worthy of protecting their aliit. Isn’t that such a wonderful thought?

Jaster would wear anybody’s blood for that. He’s intoxicated by that statement even before he gets the nerve to press his lips to Din’s fingers. The hand that had not hesitated to punch a beskar buy’ce, to not hit him over and over and not even notice the price his fists were paying. Jaster couldn’t deny he’d felt his own flare of arousal when he’d realized why Din had struck out; the first, in defence of his son, the second because Montross had insulted Jaster personally. This omega would protect their aliit just as fiercely as Din claimed Jaster would, if not more so. 

It’s a fantastical reward, to hear the hitch in Din’s breath when he does it, how he stiffens in embarrassment when he realizes exactly what is touching his hand with his eyes still closed. He cannot help the little flick of his tongue, for his own curiosity and as a clue for Din, but all he gets is Din’s reverent attention and the bitter taste of bacta-gel. That’s what tempts him to turn his head towards Din’s wrist, and being given Din’s breathless permission was worth it all.

Jaster’s still smouldering inside, embers he doesn’t think will ever die. Not now that he knows exactly what those delicate omega scent glands at Din’s wrists smelled like right under his nose, exactly how sweet and rich he tasted. The sound of his omega’s shuddering breath, the growing smell of his arousal. Jaster lasts three kisses. The first, a polite introduction. The second, dangerous. All it took was the daring little lick Jaster was so tempted to give to be rewarded this broken little sound from Din, Jaster’s own surprised moan nearly hiding it. The third kiss was a reluctant farewell, because Jaster knew his own willpower, and Din Djarin could easily break him into a million pieces. The taste of him had been unlike anything, anyone. It lingered in his mouth, Jaster trying to savour the taste despite it making him hungry for more. He feared to stay after that, after Din’s distracted ‘you’re welcome’, sounding like Jaster had yanked all his brain wiring out. Honestly, Din had done the same to him.

When the children came back, Jaster beat a hasty retreat. He knew the kids needed comfort, Jango even politely asking if he could stay, and he’d brought a blindfold so Din could rest without his helmet. Jaster’s whole body had finally relaxed, hearing Din’s chuckling approval, thanking his son for being so thoughtful. Jaster left them to it, promising to return after Din and the kids have had a chance to rest. It’s been a few hours since then, and Jaster’s been going non-stop. After the brief exhaustion post-guarding, he’s perked right back up and is running at full-steam. Maybe it was the deliciously fruity taste still sitting in his mouth driving him forward. 

He can say with certainty now that Montross was definitely working with Death Watch, and he’d been working alone. That takes a lot of stress off of people who were casual friends with him, and an even greater load off of people who had known him for years like Jaster. He doesn’t blame them for their shock and denial at first, until Jaster provides the comm-logs and messages that had been hidden in his personal gear. Jaster had been close to the man, or so he’d thought, and he’d missed it. He’s just relieved that it seems to end there. Montross is taken care of, there are no fellow traitors, and now he can focus on Moff Gideon. Tor will be next, after he gives his pretty little omega a gift. 

Jaster almost stopped in the hallway. His omega? Little? Is he fucking deranged? Did Guarding fuck with alpha’s brains? When did he start calling him that in his mind? At least he got the pretty part right.

Jaster had thought it would end there. That’s until he makes his way into the mess-hall so he could get some food and bring a plate back for Din. He knows Kal would have fed the kids already, but he’ll bring some snacks just in case. He’s immediately distracted by the very large, very suspicious huddle of easily fifty Haat’ade. They are all crowded around something, and they take turns grumbling, swearing under their breath, cheering, then rotating so another row can make it to the front. It’s a sophisticated circle that has obviously been doing… whatever it is they are doing for a long time. There’s no sentry watching, so either they don’t care if Jaster takes a look at whatever it is they got going on, or it is so good even the lookout is sucked into the formation.

He inches his way closer, trying not to be noticed, but it’s quite easy to sleuth. They are either yapping to each other, or riveted on the centre. Jaster catches the tone of their words quickly, all of them upset or even pissed off. Some of it is even admiration and pride, and that makes Jaster stop to listen.

“Alor’s done good. Look at him. Fucking clocks him bare-handed.”

“We need to have a guard rotation when Jaster’s not around. He has more mandokar than we thought, but he is more dinii’la too.”

“How has the alor not married that yet? We gotta’ convince him. That Riduurok needed to happen yesterday.”

“Thumb right in there, attaboy! I like this young one. Got spunk.”

“…Where’s Montross’ body now? No reason.”

There’s honour and pride swimming in his chest now, knowing exactly what and who they are speaking of. Just to see if they are truly so distracted, Jaster unclips his cape and keeps his head low while making his way into the circle. They truly are, too busy gushing and raving in defence of Jaster’s future mate. They don’t even really give a shit about Jaster ripping one of his lieutenants apart, looping the video of Din stalking forward and socking Montross so hard he almost falls over. Din, ripping off the bastard’s helmet easily, snarling loud enough the shoddy hanger-bay cam footage catches it. Din pulling the confession out of Montross with only words, the others marvelling over how Din did it.

Pummelling on him just like Jaster had when Montross calls Jaster weak, and the rest start cheering in encouragement like it’s a live video. They stop the footage well before Jaster comes, retaining Din’s dignity. It makes that worry lessen, that maybe he was such a poor leader he was worth being betrayed. This paired with Din’s surety nulls it completely. These warriors are proud of Din Djarin for doing what he did, and believe Montross got what he deserved— mostly wishing he got more.

When Jaster gets to the front, still unnoticed, he watches it, and then doesn’t rotate with the rest of them for the next viewers. One verd goes to tell him off, and that’s when they realize who is in their midst. Most freeze, the ones on the outskirts slowly backing up, and the chatter dies immediately. Jaster looks at them, looking at him, and Jaster grins this wide, fantastic thing. He wishes they could see it, but it works for a lovely dramatic pause when they don’t know how he’s going to react.

“I told you he was something, didn’t I?”

Immediately, they start crowding him, slapping him on the backplate, some of them even rebuking him for not being more clear that Din Djarin was an absolute catch, or that he hasn't put a vambrace on him yet. They already knew that from his deeds, but seeing it first hand even on footage is something else. Jaster smiles wider. He truly had nothing to worry about. His Haat’ade were with him all the way.

Chapter Text

Jaster thought life was going pretty good, all his plans coming together. Din was almost weaned off his birth control, and the man was determined to Hunt whether his heat returned or not the second the medics cleared him. That meant Alor Yflotta was going to be coming with them either way, but Jaster didn’t really mind. Hunting with Din, witnessing Din hunt, was more important than potentially being an embarrassing lovestruck fool in front of witnesses. So, right now, it was a manner of time, and plotting. Din has his own plans and schemes towards the Empire Corp, and it makes sense the more he shares with Jaster, why the Empire Corp is so determined to take him out. Having first hand experience helps, but Din is an incredibly unpredictable man capable of great collusion along with being a one-man army. To try to think what he would do next would be near impossible even if one knows him, because Din does it expertly. Jaster’s just glad that nature hasn’t been turned on him without the teasing air.

Currently, Jaster was lying in bed, Din curled around him in the early morning. The man was asleep, and he was unable to help himself from lightly tracing his spine through the man’s thin shirt. He was incredibly soft and plush despite his muscles and helmet, Jaster loving how this taller man’s body fit next to his. It was so very satisfying to find him still cuddling him when he awoke, the man not nearly as hot as he’s been running. His temperature and hormones were starting to regulate, the omega more clear-headed, and seemingly more comfortable with Jaster sleeping beside him. The alpha inside felt like it was rolling on the ground, belly up; completely relaxed, so utterly carefree and happy. Not a care in the world.

Then, Din woke up. 

It was fine at first. The man nuzzling his helmet into him, then taking a deep breath in. He hums in satisfaction, snuggling closer and up to Jaster’s neck before sucking in this great big inhale. Jaster stills completely, his instincts titillated by the sound as Din releases it, this faint scratchy rumble coming from deep in his chest. He stays perfectly still, hand settled on his lower back as Din gets his helmet as close as he can get before he does it again, hooking his leg over Jaster’s midsection.  

He can feel the vibration in his hand, from where his chest touches his. Jaster recognizes it for what it is well before Din does, this inexperienced little purr Din is making while scenting him. Heat is pooling in his loins, Jaster’s inevitable morning wood coming back with a vengeance. Din’s hand comes up to turn his jaw away, trailing his fingers down his throat when he complies easily. That purr picks up in its ebb and flow, Jaster’s body simmering from the knowledge it’s because he’s pleased him, allowing him another inhale deeper into the crook of his neck. He cannot help the low moan from his touch, feeling it trace down his nerves right to his cock, so very satisfied with how comfortable Din is in his den. 

Din rears back instantly, that cute purr cutting off. He sits up and stares down at him, chest heaving. The motion jerks Jaster out of his pleasured stupor, not understanding the reasoning for his hasty disengagement.

“Din?” He asks, voice coming out rough. 

The man sucks in a shaky breath, then blindsides him with a question, “When is your next rut due?”

Jaster scrunches his eyebrows, propping himself up on an elbow to look at his omega that has scooted away from him, “Not for another month. Why do you ask?”

“Because you are pre-rut, Jaster,” the hunter states factually.

Jaster chuckles nervously. There’s no way, he’s always been on time, “Just because you were purring?”

Din stiffens, and Jaster berates himself. He doesn’t want to embarrass him if it’s something he’s truly uncomfortable about. Before he can apologize, Din is answering calmly.

“No. Because your scent has changed.”

Nobody has ever noticed the first day before, not before Jaster has recognized it in himself. He supposed that’s fair, that it is Din who is so fine-tuned into him. He’s not surprised, but he is curious, like always.

“How so?”

Din takes in another big breath, “Sharper. Hot.”

“Smokey?” Jaster guesses, as that’s what people usually say.

“Not quite. That was what you smelled like Guarding. This is more… have you been around a Goran, when they are quenching beskar?”

“Elek.”

“Like that,” Din says softly, “The heat of it before it hits the water, the smell of it as it cools. There is a smell to a Forge, and something that demands respect within its walls. You smell like that, and… yes, still woodsy. Like… old-growth forests.”

Jaster blinks, not ever having a rut partner say that. Smoke, burning forests, burning books— the horror of that one—, once, a homey campfire smell. Not like Din’s definition, where he smells powerful, important. Being compared to the forging of beskar is almost respect in itself. Old-growth forests are the same; there was a certain feeling of being so deep in untouched woodland, nature demanding respect of its own. Jaster’s so flattered, he doesn’t even have words.

He clears his throat instead, “I’ll talk to Mij. I’ve never been early.”

Din hums, “The Guarding could have done it.”

That makes sense, somewhat. There was an increase in hormone production during guarding; he wouldn’t be surprised if that shocked the body out of its schedule. Jaster was hoping it would stay on time; he didn’t want to spend it alone, and he was planning on asking Din. The extra month would have given him the courage, the security, to ask. Now, it dips his lips into a sharp frown, frustrated and disappointed. There had been a vision in his mind, Moff Gideon dead and gone, Din his in the Manda, before their respective reproductive cycles. Din speaks again before Jaster can think on it too much.

“I can assist you,” Din says softly, causing Jaster to look at him in surprise. The last thing he was expecting this reclusive man to do was offer. Din chuckles at his look, reading him even with his buy’ce, “Who do you think the alphas in my Tribe look to?”

Jaster growls, and then freezes, mortified. Something had flared inside him at the idea, that Din has comforted all the alphas in his Tribe during their ruts before. It shouldn’t be surprising, him being the only omega and all, but Jaster is surprised by the utter jealousy and possessiveness that runs through him. He has no right, not when it was well before he met him. The man surely would have had his pick of the litter. Din doesn’t berate him for it, only cocking his head in that smile of his.

“Not like that, Jaster,” he says, humour buried in his factual tone, “With scent and touch, not… fornication.”

Fuck, Din is right. He is pre-rut, because the way he settles at that knowledge, the way he’d burned at the original thought, is not regular. Why his alpha had felt so relaxed at Din in his den is obvious now, and when was the last time he’d called his bedroom that? The protective instincts were strong, as was the possessiveness. He wanted to fight the last alpha who asked for Din’s assistance, and all the ones before that too. At the same time, Jaster is recognizing having a potential mate makes all those feelings more intense. Normally, it was just Jango he wanted to keep an eye on, but Jaster already feels overwhelmed and tense thinking of Din and their kids. Especially after Montross. Jaster has the urge to lock them all in their quarters so they don’t leave his sight. It’s the first day; what the hell would he be like when it was in full-swing?

To his surprise, Din settles back down on the mattress next to him, tucking back close to his side. Jaster’s arm immediately winds around his shoulders, pulling him close and pleased when Din brings up a leg again to lay it across him. That protective display of Jaster’s, killing Montross, had killed some of Din’s reservations it seemed. He reaches out to touch him more than he ever has, and it’s the delightful change he has been waiting for. What he doesn’t expect is Din hooking his heel under Jaster’s knee, hand gripping tight along his side as he rolls onto his back, bringing Jaster with him. 

He doesn’t fight it, is more completely in shock from the blatant action than anything. Din has been so hesitant to touch him lately, but Jaster believes it had something to do with his wacky hormones, Din restraining his increased urge for comfort. Still, Jaster does not look gift-banthas in the mouths, especially when it was Din doing the giving. He embraces how Din reverses their positions, him now on his back and Jaster lying half on top of him. He wonders if Din can feel his pounding heartbeat from where their chests touch, kicking frantically behind his ribs like a runaway herd. It makes him short of breath and woozy, all his blood leaving his head and migrating south. There’s something about it, having this omega beneath him, that shorts out his main-brain and sends all production to the hindbrain. There are no thoughts pinging around in there, other than how this hunter feels, smells, how he’s got his blood up so effortlessly. How he’s in a position Jaster’s wanted him in for ages.

Din doesn’t seem to mind the growing stiffness against his leg, and doesn’t comment on it. His own scent is calm, soothing, exuding that drug-like perfume that goes right to Jaster’s head. Din looks at him before very deliberately turning his head to the side and lifting his chin. Jaster doesn’t waste a beat, knowing what permission he’s been given without words. 

He rolls up more, caging his omega between his arms, and returns the gesture Din had woken up to give him. The scent blockers in his helmet are firmly shut off, allowing Din’s scent to flood his helmet without restriction as he buries his helmet in the man’s neck as much as he can comfortably. Jaster’s body instantly relaxes at the full dose, but the urge only gets stronger. He wants, he wants Din to smell like his.

Jaster pulls back a bit, recognizing that desire requires permission. It’s one thing to inhale this man’s musk until he was dizzy; it was another thing entirely to want to imprint his own scent on him. It was as close to claiming as one could get without a mating bond. This little whine sneaks past his lips, Jaster hardly recognizing it as his, at the disappointment, at the restraint. 

Din chuckles, shaking Jaster’s body with them and able to feel the vibration through his chest. He’s so absorbed into that sound, he hardly feels Din raise an arm to stroke his hand over the dome of Jaster’s helmet and down the back of his head to his neck.

“My visor is shut off, Jaster,” the man rumbles knowingly, “And I don’t mind. Go ahead.”

There’s not a second of hesitation before he’s ripping his helmet off, tossing it behind him onto the mattress, and returning to the glorious, homey place that is Din’s throat. He’s pressed right against him, only careful of the bruises along his throat and chest that Montross had left. Din’s hand is still on the back of his neck and pulling him down as Jaster breathes in deeply, all his nerves tingling. 

Oh, how it settles everything in him and makes him burn at the same time. A sedative with the chaser of adrenaline. It’s all instinct for him, like it’s never been. Jaster has always felt like he’s had tight reins on his sub-genders instincts, able to wrangle them up when necessary and knowing when it was time to recluse himself when that was no longer an option. It boggles him, because they have never been this strong, guiding Jaster’s nose like a scent on a breeze. He doesn’t even need his eyes, he doesn’t even need to think.

Din lets out this soft breath when Jaster nuzzles into his throat, and Jaster ducks his head to get around his beskar chin to do it to the other side. Jaster’s scent was flooding the room, happy, pleased, all mine, but he wouldn’t know it when he had a direct line to those scent glands that sit at the base of this hunter’s sculptured neck. He doesn’t even remember reaching out to thread his fingers with Din’s, the palm of his hand fitting perfectly on top of the back of his. Jaster only recognizes it when he’s leading Din’s hand up to rub his wrist at the base of his own throat, smothering his scent with his own.

Din lets him, his other hand settling on Jaster’s lower back. Jaster thinks he can hear that little raspy purr under his ears as he nuzzles his cheek all on him, making sure he’s well and truly claimed. At the same time, Din’s scent has settled him so completely. There’s aches and pains when he wakes up that he hasn’t not felt in years fading away. It unwinds in his neck first, sore from him always hunched over his reading and writing material, to his shoulders which felt like he’d punched and shot as a career for over thirty years. Then, Manda, his back. There’s jarring links and stiffness one grows used to over time, and Din unlocks and soothes each segment of his spine until he feels more aligned than he ever has. Something deep inside him feels right, a missing piece slotted into place, when this hunter lets his body meld with his. They’re both still separated by clothing, and though Jaster had started off with an erection, it’s softening just like the rest of him. Din smells thoroughly like him, mixed with that lovely summer breeze that is uniquely him. Jaster could still track him through his own scent if need be, but he will smell entirely like Jaster to anybody else. Perfect.

Jaster sighs, now the one to settle happily into the crook of Din’s arm, taking the rare chance to rest his cheek on the man’s chest without his helmet. He could hear his heartbeat right clear like this, a kick drum that he feels in his own veins. It calms him more, and his alpha is back in that belly-up position, curled around his strong omega. 

“Feel a little better?” Din rumbles, pulling him closer to his side. Jaster nods, that one simple action relaxing him more than anyone ever has pre-rut. Maybe even more satisfying than sexual release during his actual rut. Every muscle in him is like a piece of dough Din has kneaded smooth.

“How about I keep an eye on the kids today?”

Jaster nods again, appreciating and soothed by that idea. 

“Maybe we can go find Silas,” Din says more absently, “And I can finish your ship.”

Here, Jaster stiffens the slightest bit. He doesn’t want Din or the kids anywhere near that god-forsaken hanger. It melts away when Din runs his hand down his spine like he does to him, that calming smell pouring over him and washing the anxiety away.

“You trust me, don’t you?” Din murmurs, and here is where Jaster understands exactly why the Tribe’s alphas go to him. He forgets sometimes, that this man can talk others into digging their own graves, convince them to crawl in and engulf their own bodies until they forget themselves. In this situation, it’s like Din is unburying him, pulling him out from underneath the weight and suffocation. He’s sweet-talking him, Jaster barely realizes, because it is so subtle, yet it is done with love. Jaster does trust him, and his words are only a command to remember. He nods.

“I will protect them,” His omega says surely, deathly serious, “I won’t lose again, Jaster. We will be here when you return.”

Jaster believes him. Din had attacked Montross out of anger and instinct just like Jaster had, and they both had a terrifying awakening at the realization of what the cost could be. Din still hasn’t quite forgiven himself, attacking him without armour or backup. At the same time, the omega won’t let the kids leave their quarters without their helmets anymore, making them promise to either clip it to their belts or to keep it firmly on their heads. Weapons, too, even on the ship. 

It worries Jaster, because he knows what it means. Din had felt somewhat safe on his war-ship, before a traitor exposed themselves to be onboard. That tentative trust has weakened, seeing this place as no different from the rest of the Galaxy, save his Covert. It makes his heart ache, because Jaster had hoped for, had believed the same. Now it was obvious with his rut starting: the safest place was right here, in his quarters, in Din’s arms. The only way the kids would be safe too was if they were within Din’s reach. That trust was absolute, but Jaster can already tell it will only work for so long. Once his rut is in full-swing, it won’t be enough. 

But for today, it is.

So, in theory, it was. In practice, much harder.

Myles was talking and he was nodding, and he did the same to Kal at the appropriate times. Meanwhile his hands were going a million parsecs an hour under the table. He started with the crocheting, because it was quieter for one, and it would be beneficial to see what it turned out like compared to knitting. It served as great distraction to not think about where Din and the kids were, what they were doing. Knitting would only serve him a higher probability of getting caught, what with the tell-tale clicking of the needles going warp speed and all.

“Jaster,” One of them said. Jaster nodded dutifully. 

“Are you listening?” Jaster nodded.

“I hear Lady Mereel is thinking of taking a husband. Some young buck, younger than you.” Jaster still nodded.

“The verde are holding a gladiator fight-to-the-death ceremony in the mess-hall.” Jaster nodded. Sounds legitimate.

“Some say it’s to be the next to offer to Din if you blow your shot.” 

Here, Jaster’s head whips up. A growl is making its way out of his throat, and before he knows it he’s halfway to the door before he stops himself. His warriors wouldn’t dare. Would they?

Then, Kal amused behind him, “You are pre-rut. Shit, Jast, I don’t think I’ve ever realized it so fast in you before.”

“We know why,” Myles mutters, “No, there is no gladiator fight for your ven’riduur’s hand. It does explain why he was absolutely drenched in your scent. Sit your ass down.”

That pleases Jaster, so he sits his ass back down and gets his bearings. Kal looks disappointed at his crafts project that’s now on the table, because he wasn’t going to put it on the chair or the floor, that he’d tossed in his haste to put an end to these bogus challenges. He picks his string and hook back up, threading the yarn through his fingers, and gets back to work on his self-medication. He’s determined to get through this first day without making a fool of himself. What fucking sends him through a loop is Kal’s next teasing words, and he loves them for it, truly, because he knows they are all hurting from Montross’ betrayal. They’ve all known each other for decades, and in certain moments, these two have been trying to remind him of that. That they still have each other’s loyalty and friendship. He just wishes it hadn’t been that particular running joke.

“Oh, I thought that was maybe because you two had gotten it on. You’ve never been one for that breeding kink stuff, but if there’s any buir that inspires it, it’s your intended. Still, you’re more into intellectual connection, not like Myles here who wants to just stuff ‘em full,” Kal said slyly, Jaster going stock still as soon as he said ‘breeding’. Even worse with his final sentence. Something like hot lead was pouring down his throat, down past his stomach, and settling far below his navel. 

Myles glares at Kal, “So we share that shit over drinks one time, and now you have to bring it up forever?”

“Duh. It’s so cliche.”

“What, it’s not sexy and romantic to want to make babies?” Myles retorts, and then they both seem to realize Jaster’s quiet and frozen state.

“Sorry, alor,” Kal says cautiously, “That was inappropriate.”

Jaster swallows, and nods again, wanting to move past it. He could not think of that anymore. It’s a dangerous, treacherous thought. He will be patient. Myles’ eyes narrow in on him, realizing he’s not insulted.

“What’s your face doing under there, Jaster Mereel? Why aren’t you taking it off anymore?”

He shifts in his seat uncomfortably, willing to answer this. It comes out as a croak, “Din’s Creed. I asked if he’d like me to partake during our courting, and….”

“Oh, you lovestruck fool,” Kal says fondly, while Myles slaps his hand to his forehead.

“To everyone, or just Din?”

He pauses and then shrugs. He doesn’t have to answer them, and he knows why there are asking. They want to know what his traitorous expressions were saying. They ain’t gonna’ get it. Still, Kal likes to test waters and he’s familiar with Jaster’s seas, squinting his eyes at him knowingly. 

“…Was it the breeding thing?”

Jaster twitches, and then locks his entire body tight. Yes, it was the karking breeding thing. Jaster clutched his thigh plate and dug his fingers under the edge into his leg, hard. The breaths he was taking in were measured and controlled, if only just a little too much. Kal was right earlier, too. Jaster has never had the urge to knot an omega multiple times, to keep filling them with his cum until that was the only thing gushing out of them, not even needing their slick. As soon as he pictures Din in that position, any position, he realizes it is a very dangerous fantasy. An omega has to want that, and similarly not all were that cum-hungry, unless it was during their heat. He wants Din to want it so fucking bad—

“Oh yeah,” Myles said, smirking, “It’s the breeding thing. You do want to make babies.”

Jaster growls, “Enough.”

That wipes the smile off both their faces, hearing how he’s serious.

“Have you seen Mij yet?” Myles accuses. Here, Jaster shakes his head.

“Have you spoken to Din yet?” Kal says with exasperation, “About spending your rut with him? Because if you are like this now, Jaster, you’re best to recluse yourself if not.”

“He agreed to be there…,” He answers hesitantly, knowing what his friend will say, but not wanting to hear it. 

“About this? Jaster, you know how intense the urges get. Look at you already, just from the thought. I’m warning you, and so will Mij, that if your omega does not wish to be bred, he shouldn’t be anywhere near you.”

Jaster sighs, and gives them an agreeable nod. Kal is right, even if his alpha is raging at him for his stupidity. No, not stupidity. Clarity, consent. That was what was important, and Din deserved to be aware of it. He hadn’t quite realized how much he liked the idea until Kal voiced it, and he’s glad he did in the end. If Jaster had gotten the urge during his rut in full-swing, Din alone in his bedroom, he doesn’t know how much restraint he would have. Jaster always had enough control to ask for consent, but this brings up multiple concerns. Would he want Din so bad he’d forget himself? Would he pressure Din in the moment, begging and pleading and saying it was what he needed until Din gave in? They’re both sickening scenarios, and Jaster does not want to play a part in them. He will speak to Mij, and then he will speak to Din.

Speaking to Mij was fun. Not.

The medic takes one look at him and points towards his office. Jaster doesn’t even protest, sitting in his guest chair and tapping his foot. He doesn’t make him wait long, thank Manda, but the suspicious glare he’s getting could be less cutting. 

“What’s wrong?”

“My rut is starting.”

The man’s eyebrows raise, “You’re early.”

Jaster sighs, then nods. 

“That have anything to do with why Din smells like you rolled all over him?”

Jaster’s focus intensified instantly. Din is off his shots now, already going cold-turkey. He shouldn’t have need to come here, unless something was wrong, “Din was here?”

Mij’s eyebrows go up even higher, “Easy, striil. His medic dragged him in for a checkup, since he’s been avoiding her.”

Ah, he had wondered about that. Alor Yflotta had been stomping around the ship, glaring at Jaster every time she passed him without Din, and now he knows why. His stubborn omega was professionally evading his medic. 

“He’s down visiting with the Foundlings now, if you want to visit after our discussion.”

Jaster sighs, and finally relaxes. Din and the kids being with the rest of the younglings was the safest place to be. It was close to the evacuation zone, as well as guarded by a rotation of off-duty verde at all times. Once Mij sees him settle, he laces his fingers on his desk and leans forward.

“What’s wrong, Jaster?”

“I’m displaying stronger symptoms than usual, as well as some I’m not used to having. It’s also early.”

“The increased hormonal production during your Guarding episode could have hijacked it. You’re only five weeks out.”

“Din said the same.”

His old friend hums, “He knows a lot, though he acts recklessly and carelessly towards his own body. His Clan’s medic is quite knowledgeable as well. She educated me a lot on what she calls ‘true-pairs’. Tat’runise.”

Twin Souls. Now Jaster’s curiosity is piqued, wondering if she believes Jaster and Din are such, and what she told Mij. He waves an impatient hand for him to continue.

“Expect everything to be heightened. This nest-egging you have, the possessiveness, the guarding, your aim to please and pamper your pack. Then, the physical: your headaches, your migraines, you’ll have fevers and dehydration, then the increased libido. This will all be stronger, Jaster. You’ve removed your cape: are you getting hot already?”

Jaster clocked the HUD displaying his body temperature in the upper corner. Only one degree higher than normal. He gives Mij the so-so sign with his hand, tipping his flat palm in the air. It wasn’t bad yet, and he wasn’t surprised about the rest. His head was already throbbing, the moment Din’s scent started to fade off his clothes and skin. The migraines have always been shit. It’s the increased libido he’s worried about.

“I need to know if I’m liable to lose control,” he states, eventually. 

Mij cocks his head slowly, “Do… you worry you will?”

“Yes, Mij. It is why I ask. For these true-pairs, will I hurt him to claim him? Or will my love reign supreme over my instincts?”

“I’m not sure,” he says, an uncertain frown on his face, “She did not say, but….”

Jaster has heard the same stories. He always believed they were rubbish, excuses from lesser alphas. Losing themselves to the basic instinct of want, blaming that on their reasonings for claiming an omega without consent to bite. Yet, now Jaster wonders. The desire is strong, and his own hormonal production is just starting to ramp up. Once it’s all-consuming, would it truly be? He knows Din would fight him off if he really needed to, could subdue him without help, but Jaster does not want that as a memory for either of them. It shames him to even think about.

“I worry because I want to breed him,” Jaster admits, “And since that is something I don’t usually desire, I fear how strong it will grow.”

Mij shakes his head, hearing his unspoken question, “It’s a natural instinct, Jaster. There’s nothing much that will mitigate it.”

Here he sighs, realizing there was nothing to be done about it other than speaking to Din. The only thing that will help is the act itself, and if it’s not something Din wants, then Jaster will have to respect that. He’ll have to turn him down for his assistance too, because Jaster didn’t even want to risk finding out he wasn’t strong enough. Just like with the Guarding, how quickly he’d lost himself with only Din on his mind.

“There is something else,” Mij starts, and Jaster looks up at the caution in his voice, “Din and Baar’ur Yflotta told me information that I am free to share with you, if you care to know.”

“What do you mean?” He says, already worried.

“Din’s personal information. He has given you access to read it, and he gave me verbal permission to tell you if you asked. So. Do you ask?”

“I— yes, is he alright?”

“He’s fine. It’s all relatively normal, the symptoms he will face are mirrored to yours. He’ll get the same high fevers, headaches, body aches and pains during his own heat. There are subtle differences, both from his birth control and natural reasons. You would benefit to be aware of them.”

“Like what?”

“His scent will be potent, for starters. If you are worried about control, the pheromones he releases will make it worse. Secondly, he still refuses to know about his reproductive status. He may not be able to conceive, so if you are having visions of breeding, it is a discussion you need to have with him. He seems wholly unconcerned.”

That makes his stomach sink the slightest bit, hope dwindling that Din would be interested. He’s such a seclusive person, and he hides his emotions well. Jaster has doubts. It doesn’t quite matter to him, whether Din can or cannot bear children, but he does still crave the fantasy of trying.

“On top of that, his heat will kick in a lot quicker. If you are planning on hunting with him and Baar’ur Yflotta, you need to keep a close eye on him for when it starts. Her and I suspect he’ll have twelve hours, maybe twenty-four, before it is at its peak.”

Yikes. That was a quick deterioration, one that was sure to be brutal for Din. Normally it was spread out over two, three days before he was at his most fertile, and most demanding. It’s an uncomfortable time, but to have it come on so quickly even more so. 

“On top of that, I know you are already aware of the bleeding that comes after. At the first sign of his flow starting, a medic needs to be there, Jaster. Whatever protective instincts you have, you need to let them go and let them approach. It can deteriorate very quickly, and it’s quite possible he’ll need to come to the med-bay for platelet transfusions. It might not clot, understand? He could bleed out if medical attention is delayed.”

Jaster swallows the lump in his throat at the reminder, and gives him a nod. He was aware, but to hear it aloud is another thing. He knew it could be bad, but Mij has clued him in that it could be much worse. Jaster’s grateful for the knowledge now, because it is something he needs to remember. If his guarding and possessive instincts get so strong he won’t let anyone near Din, it could kill him. Jaster needs to be aware of that, and not forget it.

“Good. That’s all I have for you. Is there anything else you wanted to speak about?”

“No, Mij. Thank you.”

“Anytime, Mand’alor.”

Jaster ends up finding Din with the kids and spending the rest of the day together. He feeds him lunch, gives him his arts-and-crafts projects, and then they enjoy the rest of it with the children. Jaster loves seeing Arla and Jango resettle with each other, blossoming anew. Grogu is just as curious and excited to have two bigger siblings carry him everywhere and get him into trouble.

Once they are all done dinner, Jaster cannot help but satisfy his protective and care-taking urges by wrapping them in blankets, making them a pillow fort to keep them contained, and shoving them into it. Din snuggles right up to him while he keeps an eye on them, watching them giggle over Jango's favourite holo-films. Jaster is even more settled by how Din seems to like the blend of shig he made him, his and his mother's favourite.

The day has gone well, but his mind is still busy. Din, like always, notices his anxiety. He’s polite enough to wait until the kids have gone to bed, getting him alone right before they start to strip their armour off for the night. 

“What is it?” Din asks softly. He sounds nervous himself, and Jaster just rips the bacta-patch off before he causes him any more distress. There’s no doubt Din noticed earlier and had done him a courtesy by waiting, despite dreading what it could be. Jaster chided himself, hating the idea of contributing to his stress during an already tense time. 

“I’m concerned about spending my rut with you,” He gets out in a big rush. He watches Din stiffen the slightest bit, before his shoulders droop. Jaster continues immediately, hating the disappointed line to his body, “I’m, I need to be honest about something first.”

It doesn’t make the tension go away, but Din still gives him a slow nod after a moment. 

“I…,” Jaster swallows, then wets his bottom lip. Why are they so hard to fucking speak? “I’m worried I’m going to want to take it further than you’re comfortable with.”

Din cocks his head, “How so?”

“I’m having urges that are new to me. Not so much to other alphas, but,” Jaster starts rambling, “You make me think of things, want to do things, and I… am not so sure about my ability to control myself around you.”

“Do you not believe I could fight an alpha off?” He says here with a bit of bite.

“I know you could,” Jaster says surely without missing a beat, “I just do not want to put you, or I, in that position when I know it’s a possibility.”

Din stares at him, and Jaster does not look away. His next soft words surprise him, changing his disappointment and resignation, now starting to perk up. Jaster’s heart skips a beat, wondering, hoping.

“What kinds of things? Do you want to do with me?”

Jaster licks his lips again, hope tingling behind his sternum, “The helmets need to stay locked on. At least mine. I want to claim you, for starters.”

Mij had clued his dumb-ass in to why his teeth and jaw had been aching lately. He thought maybe something else was wrong, forgetting it was another buried instinct. They itched to sink into his mating gland, the matching one in his own neck itching to be scarred. It didn't matter if they tried it in total darkness; Jaster didn't trust himself in the throws of it, to resist the temptation. Din shuffles a little closer, seeming unperturbed, and the alpha inside him wiggles in happiness, that hope getting stronger.

“What else?”

The blush under his helmet is radiating off the interior metal and glass, cooking his face. He needs to admit it if he wants any chance of Din agreeing, but still. They come out as a whisper, shy and nervous.

“I…. I want to breed you,” he gets out in a rush, and something in him breaks once they’re out. His insides knot and untie all at once, relieved that this naughty fantasy was out in the open. He hasn’t gotten an answer, but he cannot help but plead his case, “I want to have many kids with you, Din Djarin, biological or not. Yet, now, I am consumed with the thought of putting many kids inside you. My kids. I want you so stuffed full of my cum you can’t be anything other than satisfied, I won’t be satisfied until you’re full. If that isn’t something that interests you, I….”

Would be disappointed. Not in Din, but in himself, for being so greedy in this desire. He can’t let it go, hasn’t since Kal said it. It awoke something primal inside him, reminding him that, yes, Foundlings were options, they had three already, but so were children born from where their flesh connected and became one. He wants Din round with his child, angry and spitting at him for making his feet sore and back ache, glowing and growing, and loving the life they had created together just as much as he would. Even if that isn’t a possibility, he wants to whisper to Din sweet nothings about it, wants Din to egg him on like it is.

When he finally gets over his embarrassment, he realizes Din has not moved. He’s standing there coiled tight, and Jaster doesn’t even think he’s breathing. He cocks his head at him in silent question, awaiting an answer. When he still doesn’t move, Jaster frowns and hesitantly reaches out towards his elbow. Before he can touch him, Din’s arm comes up to grab him by the bicep and yanks him closer. His other hand rises until he curls his fingers under the chin of his helmet, making Jaster look up at him. 

“Do you mean it?” This growl comes out of his omega’s mouth, shaking Jaster’s head the slightest bit in emphasis. His fingers are digging into his arm almost painfully, and he has grown used to the feeling of Din’s subtle power trying to influence him. It’s that same feeling of something touching him in the dark in his mind, yet now he knows exactly what it is and who it belongs to. Still, he always lets it wash over him first, accepting it before deciphering it. Jaster can almost feel him back, the emotions driving Din forward. He trusts him, and he does not expect to be tested again, so he always listens.

This is not a test, he realizes with his heart jumping in his throat. This… this is a plea.

“Tell me you mean it,” Din whispers after a long moment of Jaster shorting out, his sweet-talking lessening, but words no less filled with an implore for honesty. He heaves in a shuddering breath, trying to speed up processing that Din does share the same desire.

“Yes, Din,” he says finally, unfaltering, “I mean it with everything I have.”

“Oh,” the man breathes, his fingers slacking the slightest bit, but not letting him go. Jaster can smell his embarrassment intently, and mixed in deliciously with it is longing. There’s no spit left in his mouth, so his voice comes out just as gravelly, feeling Din’s fingers bump against his chin as he speaks, still curled under his buy’ce lip.

“Do you want that from me, Din Djarin?” He starts, and then because he dares, “I'd say I've been saving it, but I know you know I haven't.”

Jaster takes a shot at mentioning it, their shower game, because he does know. The way Din stares at him when he leaves the bathroom is telling, the way Din returns the favour when he takes his own shower. It is unspoken, but they both know it and continue playing. His beroya takes in a stuttering breath, and Jaster watches in fascination how this tremor runs down his entire body. Jaster is right, he knows he’s right. He can taste it in the air, Din’s desire deepening and that ripe late-summer fruit smell becoming more potent. Jaster cannot help but wonder if he tastes just like he smells, because he knows now that is not his skin, his sweat, that he is smelling. That sharp sweetness reminds him of honey over tart berries, and it is entirely Din’s arousal, strongest between his legs. It is another thing he looks forward to discovering on their wedding night.

He awaits Din’s answer patiently, sure of himself in this case. Din would be lying to deny him, and he knows he wouldn’t. He stares up at him with confidence, Din quivering the slightest bit, fingers flexing on his arm.

“Yes,” Din rasps, and it sounds like it pains him, “Yes, I want, Jaster. But….”

Jaster freezes, not expecting a but. He thought victory was certain, and now his stomach was sinking. He fought off the pathetic whine, wondering what he did or said that upset him, that he didn’t like. It was not his turn to share or interject. All he does is nuzzle his helm into his, encouraging him to speak. No matter his personal disappointment, Din’s feelings and opinions mattered to him.

“My birth control,” Din eventually whispers, “My whole status, Jaster. I might never conceive, I might not be able to.”

“Oh, Din’ika,” Jaster croons, bringing up a hand to stroke his beskar cheek, “That does not matter to me. We have our little warriors, and we can Find more that need us. It is the feeling and desire you inspire in me, but if it makes you uncomfortable or brings up unpleasant thoughts—“

“No,” Din interrupts, “That’s… I like the idea, very much. Just as long as you know it might not be truly possible. I do not want to give you false hope.”

Jaster gives him a small nod in understanding, “As for your birth control, it’s not a problem.”

Din cocks his head, and Jaster grins. Something truly inside him has broken, because that restraint no longer exists. He’ll say whatever to tease him, to fluster him and get him hot and bothered. He can’t help himself, letting his accent thicken just because he knows it turns him on, “I can pump you full, baby, and they ain’t gonna’ make it.”

He watches him shiver, his grin turning mischievous and proud. He knew he was right about that, how Din doesn’t mind that hick Concord Dawn drawl he grew up with. Before Jaster squashed it under a crisp, professional neutral accent, he’d sounded like a right-proper country boy. If he really wants to piss Myles off, he’ll regress wholly to Concord Dawn’s ‘ridiculously redacted’ Mando’a dialect. With the accent, the poor man could maybe understand three words out of ten. It was fun, but now even more so.

“You’ve got your line pinched,” Din says, and Jaster chuckles at the breathless excitement now bleeding into his tone. Good, he’s familiar with the procedure. Jaster feels almost giddy, at this little plan they were creating. Din wanted to join him for his rut, was into all the same stuff he wanted to do and try. He wonders if it is something Din enjoys in a partner, before Din turns his world on its head.

“I should be honest as well. I… haven’t really done that before.”

“Done what?” Jaster asks, confused. Then he remembers what he said about the alphas in his Tribe this morning, “Had sex with an alpha in rut before?”

That seems ludicrous to him, but only because he was an alpha that desired him. To Din, it’s probably an offer he’s sick of getting. That makes a difference, makes his desire deepen, his need to please. If he submitted to Jaster, his alpha whined inside him, it would taste so much sweeter than any omega before. Consent has always been a necessity, yet Jaster wanted Din to be vulnerable with him, to choose to peel off all the armour that hides beneath the physical. It would be because Din wanted to submit to him, wanted Jaster for himself and that was the reason behind it all. Maybe Alor Yflotta had been right, with them being twin-souls, because the thought of Din choosing him above all was the ultimate achievement, the best gift Din could give him, one that would satisfy him for the rest of his life. In return, a Vow to satisfy Din for the rest of his life.

His attraction for the man was all-consuming and if Din returned those affections, Jaster would give him whatever he wanted, would lose himself to the task at hand. He wanted it to be memorable, wanted to be all he thought about when he touched himself in Jaster’s shower, when he was away on Hunts, together and apart.

Now that Din has agreed, he can't stop thinking about it. The fact they are alone, in their bedroom and with nothing to stop them from doing whatever they want, is more apparent than ever before. He wants to give Din pleasure no alpha has ever gifted him, put every past heat and partner into a flaming garbage pile compared to the attention he would give him. He’d rode other’s heats and ruts out for fun and relief in the past, but never with this emotional, romantic intensity. Jaster wouldn’t claim him without a discussion and his explicit permission, but the urge was there despite Jaster never feeling it before. That’s why he was sure he needed the helmet on, and why his other desires needed Din's agreement beforehand. After a long moment of silence, Din drew him out of his sinful thoughts with his shocking words. 

“Yes. And… well, with an alpha at all, really. Or… anyone.”

Jaster looks at him, appalled, yet it clicks. His shy body language, his uncertainty to initiate contact and surprise at Jaster’s willingness. Jaster would never dare think it himself, not looking at the gorgeous and powerful man. One did not look at Din Djarin and first think virgin.

It changes the entire game. Now his alpha is focused, one goal on his mind. The same one, but now Jaster has a duty, a responsibility, to show this omega what he’s been missing: what he desires but has never given himself.

“It would be my honour,” he said, feeling it radiate throughout his body like a promise. A vow to show this man how special he was, a chance for Jaster to show his worth. He would give his omega climaxes he thought he would never reach, will give him whatever he wants to make him happy. When the man lets out a relieved breath and leans his head down and forward in a kov’nyn, Jaster instinctively matches him until they are tapping their foreheads together. Jaster is looping his arm around him, pulling him as close as their armour would allow. 

Din shudders against him, tilts his head so he’s resting his buy’ce against the side of Jaster’s and lets out a deep, relieved sigh.

Jaster had never felt so satisfied, nor excited for his rut to come.

When Jaster awoke next morning, he did not feel so satisfied. Din wasn’t beside him, which wasn’t so odd. He often woke up before Jaster, which was an impressive feat for someone who liked to enjoy the peace morning brought. Sometimes, rarely, he woke before him and got to enjoy Din still curled around him, his heat, his scent, his affection. It was disappointing to waken with the bed cold on his side, and Din’s scent fading from the air and only present in the linens. Jaster still takes a spare moment to bury his face in Din’s pillows and inhale what he can.

It soothes him enough to venture out into the main room, finding the kids all wandering around aimlessly. They look at him confusion, because Jaster has slept in for one, and two, Din is nowhere to be seen.

“Haven’t seen him?” Jaster asks Arla, who shakes her head. That makes him worried, but the children are the priority. He makes sure they’re well-fed, then takes Grogu from Arla’s arms and makes them stay with him. The older two immediately protest. Jaster gives them a slight growl in reprimand, the smallest giggling from the vibration in his chest.

“Humour me, please. Until we find your buir.”

Arla nods, and Jango doesn’t question or rebuke him for his terminology. Jaster keeps his filters off and follows his nose, scenting this way and that to try and pick up a trace. He is lucky he has such a connection to this man, because Jaster swears to the Manda the hunter loops over his tracks, creating false-trails that lead to dead-ends and over-lapping his scent purposefully to trick him. His alpha is almost excited by it, thinking it a game, but Jaster is more worried than anything. Surely, Din wouldn’t tease him like this so close to his rut. It’s almost cruel, when he knows Jaster worries for him now more than ever.

When over an hour goes by, the kids start to get alarmed too. No one has seen him. Jaster can smell their anxiety, looking to and fro just like Jaster is. It’s when he’s passing a docking bay for the second time that he catches it. Not so much Din’s scent, as it is faded just like the rest, but this one is fresher and curious. Jaster enters the hanger to where both Jaster’s ship and the Crest are parked. He starts towards the Crest, the most obvious choice and surrounded with Din’s lingering scent, before he stops. That’s not where the other scent goes, the one that had intrigued him in the first place. 

He follows Alor Yflotta’s trail up to Jaster’s ship, and waits for the ramp to lower. Jaster doesn’t really have a chance to ascend it. Sitting right at the top, in a chair from the galley, is the Tribe medic herself. In her hands is Din’s disintegration rifle, aimed right at him. 

Jaster freezes, and not for the right reasons. It should be because of the sniper who does not lower their weapon, not from the scent that floods down the ship ramp towards him. It is not as overwhelming as it could be, separated by more walls and doors, but Jaster knows exactly what it is. He takes one step forward before he even recognizes it, and the Alor clicks back the safety, causing him to stop.

“State your name.”

Jaster jolts at the growl in the female alpha’s voice. It is fierce and protective, and the scent that wafts off of her is all warning. Dangerous. She is not teasing Jaster here; she is aiming because she means it. It snaps him out of his trance, realizing why. The other smell coming out of the ship is undoubtedly Din’s, but it has strong fruity notes as well as the tang of sweat. Of frustration and annoyance, all mixed in with longing. It is strong already, just like Mij had warned him, and utterly intoxicating. 

To his relief, it is not enough to make him forget himself. This alpha was still pointing a weapon at him, protecting her Tribe’s omega that was starting his heat. Jaster respects that, and surprisingly so does his alpha. This one was not a threat, not when she was protecting Din when Jaster was not. 

“Jaster of Clan Mereel,” he answers dutifully.

She locks the trigger back on, “You have permission to come up. I would recommend you place your children in the care of someone you trust before you do.”

“It’s starting?” He asks, despite his nose telling him. He wants the medic to confirm it, before he asks more questions and follows their recommendations. Because, if Din was starting his heat and Alor Yflotta was allowing him aboard, the kids were best to hole up with Kal and Silas. Jaster wouldn’t be leaving unless Din asked him to, not when his rut was so close to starting as well. Something like childlike giddiness starts in belly even before she speaks. He’s never synced up with someone before, and it is so glorious it could be with Din. Especially… with their previous discussion.

“Yes. About ten hours ago. He’s… well, I’ll wait for you to return.”

Jaster doesn’t like the sound of her hesitancy, but still gives her a sure nod. The kids seem to understand and don’t tease him, seeming more worried for Din. They all know this might not be a pleasant or comfortable heat for him. They are all especially worried about Din’s bleeding after, as that is usually the worst repercussion of birth control abuse. He might not bleed at all but experience excruciating pain, or he could be cursed with both. The only thing Jaster was hoping for was to be able to relieve some of his stress and pain before that, and knowing Din has never spent his heat with another makes it all the more powerful a desire. The other thing was reminding himself that Alor Yflotta had permission to come into their nest after, once it started. Jaster knows his possessive and protective instincts will fight him on it, but he’s sure he will win. 

Kal gratefully takes the kids in, then gives Jaster a small, cheeky grin and a wink. He shakes his helm at him in fondness, before giving him his honest thanks. His own alpha isn’t happy about leaving the kids, but Kal and Myles are probably the only exceptions. He’s glad he killed Montross now, because if the snake was still alive and in hiding, Jaster might have asked him, never knowing about his and Jango’s animosity. Kal is still the better choice when he has Silas, already prepared for child-watching. The thought still rankles him.

When he finally returns to his ship, he has to lower the ramp and state his name again for Yflotta before she lets him onboard. Once he’s in the galley and the ramp is closing behind him, Jaster starts to understand the medic’s fierce role here, as well as Mij’s warning. He’d been gone maybe a half an hour, but the scent in the ship has concentrated like a half a day has passed instead. Din is progressing fast, and far faster than normal. 

“Are you with me, Jaster Mereel?” Alor Yflotta asks, sounding like she doesn’t expect him to have the attention span to listen.

“Yes,” he states, straightening up. It’s the opposite reaction he was dreading, and he is so grateful for it. His rut may be starting, and reproduction was a main drive of it, but so was protecting the ones he loved. He can clearly smell Din’s frustration, that he’s uncomfortable and is suffering through it. Jaster holds onto the fact that it is Yflotta that has been sent to Guard Din for this with an iron fist, because it is undoubtedly important and relevant that she is their head medic. This could be dangerous to Din’s life, and keeping him alive and happy are bigger priorities than getting his rocks off.

“Good. This scent of his, it will get worse,” she huffs, “When it does, I will be outside the ship as first defence, understand?”

“Yes.”

“They’ve always been strong for him, because he does not share them. There are a few things you should know before you try going in there.”

Jaster nods, and she continues, “First, you have given permission to enter. Din put your name on the list weeks ago.”

“List? What list?”

“The Tribe’s approval list, for people who can enter a certain omega’s room if they aren’t able to give verbal consent beforehand. You’re the first name Din has ever put down.”

Something starts glowing in the centre of his chest, igniting like a mini-star and taking resident behind his ribcage. It’s all honour and pride, puffing up his chest like he’s a show-bird. He cannot even stop the little wiggle his body does in utter joy, that Din has chosen him, had been sure before Jaster had started his own cycle and offered. Before they’d had their discussion, Din had contemplated him. Before Montross, even. 

“Don’t get too excited there, Mand’alor,” the medic warns, raining on his parade, “There’s more.”

Jaster slumps, “You are worried.”

“Elek. Din… is an antisocial person, you’ve become aware of this? Despite his base instincts normally longing for companionship?”

“Yes.” Hard not to, because Din was quiet and reclusive in almost all aspects of his life. The only time it wasn’t stringently apparent was around his children, Din willing to offer physical contact and speak more to them. Adults were another story entirely. He was a very introverted individual, quite the opposite to Jaster.

“On top of this, you are aware Din is… a virgin?”

She says this cautiously, despite her professionalism reigning supreme. Her green helmet cocks the slightest bit, like she’s squinting her eyes at him and watching him closely for his reaction. It doesn’t deter or excite him too much, knowing this about the man. He’d already had a chance to purge the instinctual delight and excitement in his own shower session, and boy, Jaster’s surprised he’s got any cum left. It took three times to get that energy out, to tamp the desire to go change that horrific yet glorious fact right now. That was something he was going to take his time to enjoy, the time for Din to enjoy it.

“Yes,” he answers again, retaining his dignity, but not able to stop how it comes out throaty.

She relaxes at his own relaxed state, not giving her the reaction she was expecting. He wonders if another alpha would have charged for the room Din was in, because he hadn’t noticed her grip on the rifle had tightened until she’s lowering it. 

“Jate. Then you will hear what I have to say.”

Jaster straightens up in focus, matching Baar’ur Yflotta’s stature turning into that Alor one that demands attention. She can go from caring medic to strict leader in a heartbeat, and it is quite admirable. 

“He has given you permission, but if he revokes it inside, you must obey. If not, either he will kill you or the Tribe will. Secondly, this heat is kicking his ass. It’s stronger than it’s ever been, Jaster, and if you’re thinking that’s great for your favour, I’d think again.”

“I will obey his consent,” Jaster states, sure of it now. He was almost at the peak of his own rut, and Din was nearing the peak of his heat; Jaster should be at his peak obstinance, especially with Din’s scent growing so strong on the closed ship. His alpha was already whining and impatient, growing frustrated at being so close yet still being restrained. Just like he had hoped, Din’s well-being remained the top priority in his mind, outweighing even that. That’s what causes him to ask.

“Is he… not well?” He says once he processes the rest of her words, worry squirming like worms in his belly, “Is there more he needs, that I can get, or—“

“Easy, alpha,” Yflotta says, letting out a light chuckle, “This is a warning for you, Jaster. I mean it in the sense he’s all instinct right now. Why do you think he did his awful hunter bullshit to hide his tracks? He went to the safest, most hidden place he could think of, and that ended up being your ship. Not the Razor Crest he loves so. I believe you are tat’runise, so when Din sees you enter, he is more likely to do the second option. The first is to attack you on sight, because he is not used to alphas entering his nest during his heats. The second is, well, to fuck you on sight.”

“Oh…,” Jaster says, face flaming at the medic’s blunt delivery. He can hear the sharp grin in her next words, and that only makes it worse.

“On top of that, he won’t be wearing his helmet, Jaster. I’ve ordered him to remove it due to his increased fever. You’ll have to go in there blind to find out which.”

Oh…. That… does not turn him off in the slightest. Not once he starts imagining it. Din’s scent will be so utterly ripe in that room without all his beskar, and is Jaster even thinking of self-preservation? Not one bit. Din’s voice will be completely unmodulated, not even with that slight tinny echo when he turned the vocoder off for Jaster. One hundred percent unfiltered, and Jaster will be blind to see it, but every other sense will be heightened to the max. It’s not a disappointment when he knows he’ll eventually get the opportunity once they speak the Vows. It’s like a gift given from the Manda, because they will both get the chance to see how they connect sexually before they are tied for life. From the intense and honestly copious amounts of masturbation sessions he’s had, turned on just by his scent in the shower, he’s sure it’ll be like nothing he’s ever had. It already is, because Jaster has never done it without sight before.

“I see that doesn’t frighten you,” she laughs, “It should, Mand’alor. He might even do both, and since I’ll be outside the ship before you open that door, you’ll have to drag yourself to me if you need a medic.”

Or he might just suck it up. Bleeding for it might make it all the sweeter. She shakes her head in fond exasperation, to which he is not even shamed.

“You are a brave man, Jaster Mereel. Or a foolish one. Perfect for Din’ika either way. Your ship is fully stocked with water and food, so make sure you both stay hydrated and eat when you can. You can comm me if you need anything off the ship, and I will drop it inside. I won’t be able to be around him much, Jaster, that’s how strong it will get, but I know my duty. No other alpha will make it onboard alive.”

“Vor entye,” he says, understanding.

She shakes her head again, this time in reprimand, “No debt, Jaster. There is always a Guard for the door for our omegas.”

She returns his nod, and then turns towards the ship hatch, satisfied he’s got it all. Just before she leaves, she turns her head back to him once more. There’s a sly, teasing tilt to it, familiar because he’s received the same look from both Paz and Din before.

“I’d remove your beskar’gam as well, unless you prefer him to rip it off you.” Then she descends the ramp, closes it again, and leaves Jaster alone with that debate.

Decisions, decisions.

Din thought the day was going alright. The kids were sticking close to him once he and Jaster explained that the alpha’s cycle was starting. They seemed to understand, and mostly pity him. Arla had wagged her eyebrows at Din when Jaster turned his back, to which Jango gagged. Din… doesn’t think he would be opposed to it, if Jaster offered to take it further. He really smelled so delicious, and Din had spent much time in a Forge to find the heat that stings his nostrils homey and comforting. His buir smelled like raw iron to him, and Jaster smelled entirely like the fire that melts it down. The woodsy undertones lure him in just as much, and Din was mortified to find himself almost lying on him to get his buy’ce intakes as close to the man’s throat as he could.

Din had known he’d accept when Jaster’s breathless moan shocked him out of it, caused only by the drag of Din’s fingertips down his throat, able to feel the vibration from multiple points of contact. Never had he been so mindless because of an alpha’s scent, making Din’s head fuzzy with dopamine. To have the man do the same to him, rubbing that delicious scent of his all over him until it smothered Din’s own, was a treat for Din more than Jaster, he thinks. So, he was having pleasant thoughts of the coming days, happy to enjoy some quality time with him before they started their hunt. 

Then Yflotta cornered him.

He was talking to Silas and persuading him to come with them for the day when she snuck up. Din should know better, but he’d been on the constant move, sure she wouldn’t catch him unawares. He doesn't like the idea of leaving the boy to his own devices after Montross, and he makes Jango happy, so he lingered. He'd curse his idiocy if his weakness wasn't children. Her deadpan voice causes him to freeze solid, ice sliding down his spine, and he was really hoping to avoid an audience. He hates talking to her, hence the avoidance. 

“What’s this I hear about you gouging some traitor’s eye out, Dinii?”

“Just taking out the trash,” he replies calmly, shitting bricks.

“Hm. Have anything to do with your hormone levels being disgusting?”

“Maybe.” 

He hears her coming, trying to dodge to the side so she doesn’t just headlock him from behind. She still snags his cape, wraps his arm up in it along with her fist, and manages to wrench it behind his back. Din’s snarling, trying to twist and swat at her with his other hand, but his mistake is reaching out towards her. Her free hand isn’t empty, and she expertly stabs the hypo between his gauntlet and vambrace. 

“Vaccines done,” she says cheerfully while he stops fighting and tries the obstinate technique of pulling away, “You feral man, let’s have a chat.”

“I hate your mind-healing. It makes my brain hurt.”

“It’s working, because it makes you think instead of just doing stupid shit. Struggle again and I’ll punch you in the chest.”

No thanks, not with the bruising Montross left, and she knows it. She must have given him a free pass when he spent the night in the med-bay, but no longer. Din stops struggling, and gives her the loudest, dejected sigh he can manage. It doesn’t even faze her, she just begins pulling him out of the hanger while calling for the kids to follow. If he hadn’t promised Jaster to keep an eye on them, he’d tell them to run for their lives. 

Once they get to the med-bay, the kids park themselves dutifully in some waiting chairs while Yflotta takes him into a private room. She doesn’t even give him a chance to sit down before she’s ranting at him.

“What did I tell you about abusing your birth control? I don’t care if you believe you don’t want to have biological children, it is dangerous to your life! I should send you home and let your buir deal with you.”

“Please don’t.”

“Honestly, Din, having kids around during a heat isn’t even the worst thing. They might be mildly uncomfortable and worried for you, but it won’t affect them like you think it will. Your choices are foolish.”

“I was worried about my scent,” Din snaps, “I fucking reek worse than a red light district. I didn’t want to trap the kids in with me, and there’s no way I could land the ship and not attract every alpha planet-side.”

Yflotta sighs, knowing this about him and not willing to argue that particular point, “Then you should have let Paz catch up.”

Din grumbles, and crosses his arms. He could have, if he wasn’t still pissed off at him. Din had weighed the pros and cons, and didn’t care for the consequences. That’s what he’s thinking until Yflotta voices something he hadn’t quite dared to think himself.

“I hear the Mand’alor’s starting his rut. I can smell that you don’t mind, considering you reek like he rolled on you.”

“What about it?” Din huffs, reminded that he has to tell her about his own choices, considering his offer to help Jaster had been accepted so readily. He doesn’t doubt Jaster would turn him down if it went the other way around, but the Ja’hai’ade had rules about that too.

“You know what an alpha’s primary drive is, right? Procreating. What if that is a desire he has: children with you?”

Din freezes. He pictures it. Jaster, all his, curled around him and whispering sweet words about creating a life together? With how determined and focused that man could be, Din doesn’t doubt the Mand’alor would give him his all. Din… is over thirty and has never slept with anybody. He’s good at pleasuring himself, but that fantasy was entirely dependent on a connection with another person. Jaster, strong and brave and honourable Jaster, with his delicious scent and excellent child-rearing capabilities, giving Din his child? Yflotta has him hook, line, and sinker because Jaster Mereel is the only man and alpha that Din would want to do both of those things with. Take his virginity and give him a child, and fuck, Din’s damage could be irreparable. 

What if Jaster asked? Would he no longer want to pursue courtship knowing Din wasn’t capable of bearing children? He doesn’t think so, but a lot of alphas would see Din as damaged goods. He’d never cared, because he thought they wouldn’t be worth it if that was their view, but he didn’t want to disappoint Jaster. He deserved to have someone carry on his legacy and Clan name if Jango truly did not want to be heir. If Din couldn’t provide that…. He’s disappointed in himself for the very first time, regret pooling low in his belly. Fuck. 

“Do you want to have an ultrasound?” Yflotta asks gently. Din furiously shakes his head, “Din….”

“Lotta. If it’s done, it’s done. Jaster’s birth control is a must, because I won’t risk a baby if my body can’t support it. If it’s something he wants, then… we’ll make that choice together.”

“Okay,” she sighs again. Then, a sly smile is conveyed by the slow sideways tilt of her helmet, “So… that means I should put his name on the List?”

“Ah,” Din says, flushing under his buy’ce, “I was meaning to mention that.”

“My, my, Din Djarin,” she crows, turning into the little shit-head Foundling he was raised with.

“Fuck off, Lotta.”

“All I gotta say is, boy, you know how to wait for the highest bidder.”

“You are the worst.”

“Your ba’vodu said the same thing. I won the bet, so thanks.”

“Ba’vo’Draal said what?” Din says, ignoring that there were bets placed on him doing whatever it is he doesn’t want to know about. That honestly doesn’t surprise him. What does surprise him is that his uncle had a hand in it, and worse, an opinion.

“You know how to pick them, was what he said word for word. Rash was a dick, on your behalf. More so than usual, anyways. I think your buir likes him too, despite his rank.”

“Really?” Din asks, having yet to call them and ask.

“Yeah, Din’vod. Openly joked with him, which is strange for a first time.”

Wasn’t it. Those who were not of the Tribe seldom ever saw his buir’s silly side, and most would claim it doesn’t exist. It’s in there, buried under duty and a hard exterior shell, but they had a dry sense of humour that echoed Din’s. He’d been worried about their opinion of Jaster, mostly because he knows they would never turn down a Potential Suitor for him, even if they hated their guts. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t value their thoughts, or worry about not living up to standards. 

He lets out a relieved sigh, giving his head the slightest shake, “Yes, Yflotta. You may put Jaster Mereel’s name on the List.”

Before she can even ask, he sends the form all omegas are required to sign and date to her through their shared communications. It was dated over two weeks ago, when Din had the original thought but hadn’t the balls to send it to her. She probably wouldn’t have believed it anyways unless he was sitting right in front of her, as Jaster is the first alpha or even person to be given permission to enter his room while in heat. He never really had enough romantic attraction to have sexual desire, not like with Jaster. He’d wondered before, if he should just for the relief, but now knowing how hot Jaster makes him all the time? He’s glad he waited. Din wants him without the hormones during a heat, and that means he’s the only one he wants near him when he was foggy with them. Jaster has his trust to not take advantage of it.

“Good,” she says, accepting the form and logging it into the databanks. The smile in her voice is clear, meaning she clocked the date. He tilts his head in a glare at her, wanting her to spit it out, whatever it was.

Her voice suddenly turns serious, a strange mix of curiosity and caution, “You like him then.”

Ah. He’s lucky he’s not totally in deep shit, otherwise he wouldn’t get this side of his Tribe medic until he left the med-bay. It is most likely to do with them being in an unfamiliar base, and Yflotta’s just as paranoid as he can be outside of their Covert. She most likely checked this place for listening devices, just like Din’s been doing since Montross confirmed himself a traitor. He no longer cares what Jaster says about the man working alone; Din doesn’t buy it, or at the least, doesn’t believe it won’t happen again. Here, she finally has him alone, and they are free to speak.

“Yes,” Din says, “He Guarded me, Lotta. Paz only did that once, and we both know the circumstances.”

She nods, “I remember. You were near death, and didn’t wake up for a week. He was inconsolable. Wouldn’t let anyone but your buir and medics near you.”

“We’ve also known each other for over twenty years. Jaster hasn’t known me twenty weeks.”

“This makes you believe he is genuine,” she concludes, “How do you know you are?”

Din takes a moment to think about it. Not so much why, but how to properly articulate it. Jaster is one of those rare topics that if Din has to talk about it, he’ll spare far more words than he normally does. He could go on and on. It would be easier to just list them, the things he is sure about.

“Jaster is a… rare breed. He’s an intelligent, educated man that does not look down on others with ignorance. An excellent buir that teaches and adores his children. A strong yet fair leader that provides for and protects his Company. His scent to me is like the old forests of my home-planet, yet mixed with the fire of the Forge. He smells utterly like home to me. I was willing to maul that aruetii for him, not even caring I was without my armour, to protect our children and his reputation. I left blood-offerings for him. I… would not be opposed to carrying his child. That alone tells me he is worthy of my Vows.”

“Manda, I think that is the most words I’ve ever heard out of you,” she says with a light chuckle.

Din matches her and shakes his head, “He’s worth it. So yes, I’m sure.”

“Just… make sure to call your buir first.”

Din’s head lifts to stare at her in surprise at her wistful tone. She must be joking. After all the years, she thought he wasn’t going to reap what he begrudgingly sowed? What his Tribe has been lowkey longing to happen for years, pestering him endlessly and saying they didn’t mean the teasing, when they really did? Din may have scowled and acted bitter about it, but really: who doesn’t want their family to go absolutely apeshit over planning the wedding for them? Din could wash his hands of the nitty-gritty, and focus on the four things he and Jaster would be giving each other.

“No,” Din starts, watching her green helmet lined with blue snap up to lock with his visor, “Do you really think I am missing the Wedding I have been promised? Are you kidding? After years of you all planning and obsessing over throwing me the biggest party in decades? I am not missing that for the world.”

“You know what that means, don’t you?”

“You made me the same promise, Lotta,” Din reminds, crooked grin clear in his voice, “Don’t you remember?”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t,” she mumbled, embarrassed, “And I was twenty.”

“Doesn’t matter. You, along with every other silly alpha in the Tribe, owe me a show.”

“You don’t seem worried for your ven’riduur.”

Din’s grin turns sharp. No, he is not. That is the true show, getting to see what Jaster is capable of when it comes to the last hurdle before marriage. He’d wanted to keep the man from it, but the more he thinks of it, the more he believes it will be actual entertainment. Jaster really wants to marry him, and that means he won’t argue, might even be excited for it in his own way. As much as the Tribe will do it to test him, it will also help them accept him. The Tribe had promised him, as the only omega in decades, that if he was to marry it would be a celebration that their youngest generations had never seen, only the elders able to remember what it was like when they had many omegas in the Tribe. It would be even bigger, because Din was the first in ages to provide them the chance to perform their ceremonial customs of spoiling him, and themselves. Though Din had always dreaded it, now he dreams of it. It’s a beautiful fantasy when it’s Jaster beside him, one he looks forward to making reality. 

Yflotta seems to recognize this in him without words, and he can hear the budding elation in his vod’s voice, “You’re excited. Damn, Din, I never thought I’d see the day. Visenya is going to lose her marbles.”

He laughs at the mention of his other Tribe sister, who had always swooned over his predicament. He knows the female alpha would be ecstatic to be in his position, and had always hoped Din would eventually settle down just for the opportunity to plan this ceremony just as thoroughly as she did the operative mission planning. Since they were children, she’s been needling away at picking information from him. What was his favourite desserts, favourite colours and foods, what kind of music did he prefer; she did not miss a single detail over the years, and Din doesn’t doubt it will be exactly what he wants despite never really wanting it before. He’s pretty sure she offered, just like all the rest, just to get to plan it. He’d laughed in her face, and she’d bemoaned about the perfect wedding.

“Congratulations,” Yflotta says, serious and so happy for him Din can taste the joy on his tongue, “I’m happy for you, Din’vod.”

“It’s not a done deal yet,” he huffs, “But I appreciate it.”

“He’s determined, Din,” the medic says, almost a warning, “If it was up to him, you’d be bound already. This is your call, omega.”

Din nods, already aware. Sometimes he’s hit with doubt, wondering if Jaster will change his mind, he knows the man won’t. He never would have asked Din if he wasn’t certain, and since he’d originally asked, Jaster has only grown more sure. He can tell just by how he looks at him, even with his helmet on. Din has begun to feel the same, losing hesitance when Jaster seems so determined, unwavering. 

She gives him a nod in return, before steering the conversation back to unpleasant things, “I assume you want to start your hunt as soon as you’re done weaning. I also assume the Haat’baar’ur is pushing it. I would have cleared you already, knowing your limits.”

“Yes,” Din answers, equally parts amused and annoyed.

“I’m coming with you both, until your cycle is over, Din. I know you’re aware of why.”

Din sighs, not looking forward to the menstruation cycle she’s warning him of. He’s abused his birth control before, and that repercussion is what keeps him from doing it often. The last time, Din had nearly bled out before the guard watching the door could smell the iron from inside. Yflotta has been his watcher for the last three years, since that incident. As a medic, she has permission to see Tribe’s member’s faces in dire circumstances, the only one other than his buir to have the authority. His buir had given him the silent treatment for a week, and Din had been properly shamed. 

“I understand,” he says dutifully, knowing his buir would kill him if he didn’t accept it. Din knows it could be bad, really bad. He’s never gone so long pushing it before, and there’s no doubt it will be worse because of it. It doesn’t negate the fact that Din would have continued to do it until Moff Gideon was dead, if his circumstances had been unchanged.

“Okay. I… think you should share all this with Jaster, Din. Not only because I think you are twin-souls, but because if you are planning to share your heat with him, he should know a medic needs to see you the second you start to bleed.”

“…Do you really believe we are tat’runise?” Din asks, stunned by that to start. He doesn’t mind sharing his medical information with the man; it’s why he let him stay right from the beginning when Mij had started tearing him a new one. 

He’d never met what his Tribe considered True Mates. A few had claimed they were, but Din hadn’t smelled honesty from the both of them. That always made him wonder, how someone knew for sure. He’d like to know now, what Yflotta sees in the two of them to believe they’re Twin-Souls, Cut from the Same Cloth, Two Pieces of a Whole. Din always believed it was bantha-shit, honestly. For two people to truly connect and make a lasting relationship took effort and compromise. Though, he believed Jaster was perfect for him, he doesn’t believe he is the same for the man. He could surely find a greater catch, one from a proper House and Clan with rank that would help with ascension. Yflotta’s opinion could help ease that doubt.

“Honestly, Din, I’ve never seen an alpha display Nest-Egging before, but I’ve studied it. I know all the various severities of it. This man wants to conquer planets for you, despite knowing it’s not something he has aim to do. He’d still do it for you. You, too, with never showing any interest in anyone before, falling as fast and far as you have. It is unusual for you, brother, you must see that.”

Din does. It had boggled him when he first realized he was considering it, but now it felt so natural, he doesn’t know how he would choose anyone else. Even with their semi-awkward living situation, knowing they were waiting for the day to eat face to face, but having to sit behind a curtain Jango had hung by utilizing his throwing knives into the cupboards and ceiling. Their uncomfortable sleeping ritual that Din wouldn’t give up for the world. The knowing game between them, taking turns masturbating in the shower and getting off on the other doing it. Simple things that made him sure that, even if it got harder and they had their downs, it was worth fighting for to reach that high again. It was so easy when so many little things about Jaster made him smile, and thankful to have him in his life everyday. 

“I hope we are,” Din says absently, knowing it doesn’t matter either way. Din was  going to speak the Vows to him, but he was still going to wait. His Tribe deserved a celebration, to celebrate with him, and Din will give Jaster a chance to prove to himself he was worthy of those Vows. Din knows he doesn’t quite think he’s worthy, Din not quite drilling it through his head during their talk in the med-bay. For some silly reason, Jaster was entertaining the thought that maybe he wasn’t good enough for Din. How ludicrous.

Jaster ends up finding him and the kids with all the Foundlings and where all the Haat’ade’s children resided when their parents were away. It was well protected with guards, to Din’s approval. The one watching the door gives him a polite nod, and lets him in without saying a word. Jaster’s mercenaries had been treating him differently since Montross. Before they had been slightly hesitant, exactly the opposite of the boisterous group Jaster had described. Now, they were opening up, some willing to ask him questions about his gear and weapons— looking for friendly spars—, others had asked him about child-care tips. Him. Din hadn’t been a buir a year, and they saw something in him just like their alor did. Others treated him like this verd guarding the ade: respectful, a hint of admiration in their straight spines, just like how they looked at Jaster. It settled Din somewhat, seeing how they were accepting him in their own way. That was a relief, because this was Jaster’s family like the Tribe was to Din. They were bound by choice to this honourable man, and they were welcoming him in as one of their own now that they’ve realized Din has be bound to him the same, even without a mating bite or the Riduurok.

So, Din was quite relaxed entertaining the kids, but he couldn’t say the same for Jaster. His alpha strode through the doorway with anxious purpose, chin tilted high and turning side to side, obviously scenting for him and their ade. It melted away the moment he saw them, his body softening under his armour, the sharp worried tang of his scent fading to those homey tones that tickled Din’s nose. It relaxed Din even more, seeing him. That was another reason he knew that Jaster was to be his mate, if not his tat’runi. Din was running warm again, a common side effect of his body still purging the mass amount of drugs, along with every other uncomfortable symptom he was trying not to let put a damper on his day. For a fleeting moment, he has an urge to sneak away to the Crest and burrow himself in the measly nest. Yet, Jaster’s scent soothes that urge and all the other feelings, smelling how calm he is just by the sight of them.

Currently, Arla and Jango are showing some of his Tribe’s Foundlings some game the Haat’ade’s children play. He doesn’t really understand it, and will let them teach him another time. Right now, he’s got Octavia and Markus both gushing to him about their new buire, and how happy they were for him for finding a mate. He tries to explain that it wasn’t quite so yet, but they just grin devilishly at him. They’re both thirteen— ready for their verd’goten, but the Tribe left that up to the buir and Haat’ade to judge their education, or decide it themselves if they were ready—, and are little shits. They’ve both been in the Tribe since Din could carry both of them with one arm, and since they truly understood Din’s solo position, he became like a fairytale for them. A Tribe’s Queen, waiting for one worthy to marry. They’ve met Jaster now, and when they see him coming, they climb off him and retreat with those giddy smiles on their faces, whispering about his King. No doubt going to hide somewhere so they could watch the most romantic reality-holo ever made (Din’s life now apparently) and giggle about it.

Din’s grateful for their departure either way. He’s focused on Jaster, and how besotted he looks as the kids climb off him and scurry away, how he’s just as focused on Din. He kneels beside him without thought, and Din tilts his head, taking in how he smells slightly anxious still under it all, uncomfortable almost. Then, he notices he’s lacking his blood-red cape, and it makes sense. Jaster’s temperature and symptoms will be just as annoying as the ones Din’s experiencing now, and Din’s sure his scent has traces of it too. It’s natural, so he holds out a hand without thinking too much about it, and is rewarded with his gloved palm sliding over his skin, interlocking his fingers with Din’s. He’s gentle, like Din’s hand was still broken as he lifts their hands to press the back of his bare one to his forehead. Mij had filled bags with bacta, dunked Din’s hands in them, then taped them closed around his wrists. At least the bastard let him go the bathroom before bed, but he’ll give him credit that it worked like a hot damn. He braided Octavia’s hair fine, but Jaster still worries.

The action causes him to suck in a tiny breath, still flattered and blindsided by this romantic man. He flushes under his helmet at the suppressed giggles from the children behind him somewhere, but doesn’t pull his hand away. Din doesn’t do too much bare skin contact with anything, which is a side effect of being apart of a Creed that wore armour full-time. It was a big reason why he got sucked in to feeling all the textures of Jaster's crafts. If he was, it was mostly to children, and even then he does not do it often off-base, and only safe on the ship in hyperspace. Jaster makes him want to get vulnerable, to let him touch him despite the sensitivity, and this man makes the heat rise in him so easily. 

Jaster lowers their hands, but doesn’t let go, “Mij told me you were here, cyar’ika.”

Din flushes a little more, able to connect the pieces with the man’s tone and still worried scent. Knowing yet uncertain all at once. It seems he took advantage of Din’s given permission to look at his medical rap sheet. At the same time, now he's slightly concerned. If Jaster was visiting his medic, was he alright? He had said he was going, but Din still worries.

“I’m fine, Jaster. And I will be. Yflotta is familiar with… this particular aspect you are concerned about."

Jaster’s head bows the slightest bit, a small breath coming out of him. Din didn’t help his anxiety, not really.

“It’s happened before,” the man says softly, not wanting any of the kids to hear. He shouldn’t worry; they’re all busy chasing each other around this jungle gym, or absorbed in games, or in Grogu’s case, arts and crafts. With lots of glitter and glue that means they will be having a bath later. 

Din nods, not wanting to speak on it much. More for Jaster’s sake than his own; he’s not unused to bleeding out. It would only worsen the alpha’s anxiety during his rut to give him such fuel for fear. Jaster doesn’t seem to get the memo.

“Will you tell me about it? So if…. No. I’m sorry, that’s presumptuous of me.”

Din smiles the slightest bit, “So if, what? If you were to return the favour during my cycle, and know what to expect?”

Jaster stills, staring at him. He can feel the intensity through his visor, and doesn’t miss the tiniest of nods Jaster gives him. The man wasn’t going to state it, but he wants to. Well, maybe he could tell him then, if that was the case.

“I tend to fall asleep pretty hard after. That’s a problem when I’m alone, because when I started to bleed, I didn’t wake up for a while. The birth control has thinned my blood somewhat, so when it starts flowing, it doesn’t clot like it should. I remember waking up and trying to stop it with sheets and towels, but I passed out pretty quick.”

“You were lucky,” Jaster surmises, voice tight.

“Elek, Jaster. It will be fine, because I know, you know, Yflotta knows and is prepared. There is no more to do. Don’t worry about it, alpha.”

Din says these final words with a bit of his command, weaving his will into it. He doesn’t want Jaster to worry about it, especially if he wants to truly be with him during his heat. He doesn’t want that at the forefront of this man’s mind during their intimacy. Jaster relaxes instantly, taking in another deep breath. Din takes his chance to ask.

"Are you alright?"

"Me?"

Din smiles the slightest bit at his confused tone, "You visited your medic."

Jaster twitches, like Din asking about his well-being is a surprise. It shouldn't be, really. When the man responds, he sounds dazed like it's a question he's never received, "I'm fine. It's just... a little more intense than usual."

Din hums, relating and satisfied with that answer. A routine checkup; something Din tries to avoid at all costs. The man's smart for it.

“Have you eaten?” Jaster segues. Din blinks.

“The kids have.”

“Eat with me?” He asks, almost shy like he’s asking for the first time.

A small smile grows across his face, “Sure. Do you… want to leave the kids here?”

Jaster looks over at each of them, taking in their relaxed and happy bodies. Then, he clocks each guard and evaluates them like Din did when he entered, personally vetting them first. He gives him a hesitant nod after another moment, Din knowing the alpha was debating it. It was a good sign Jaster still trusted his verde, and their guarding of the children. He’d be more worried about it if he wasn’t. If it wasn’t still the man’s first day, he’d probably deny him.

Jaster lets the kids know they’d be back after lunch while Din puts his gauntlets back on. As they head back to the man’s living quarters, Jaster sticks close to his side, arm closest to him twitching. The third time, Din purposefully bumps his hip into his, a silent and gentle permission to do what he wishes. The amused hint to his own scent clues Jaster in, and the man doesn’t hesitate to fully lift his arm and loop it around Din’s lower back, hand settling on his waist. Just touching Din calms him more, tension unwinding from his shoulders. Poor thing. Maybe Din will let him scent him again after their meal, just so he can get through the rest of his day without stress.

Din puts away their breakfast dishes while Jaster reheats some leftovers from last night. It had been Din’s turn to cook, and they both took unspoken turns feeding each other and the kids. Not for the first time, Din wished the Vows were already spoken. Jaster and Jango had both complimented his food from their side of the curtain, Arla grinning at Din’s flustered thanks. He wanted to see Jaster’s appreciation on his face, and not for the first time, hated that the man had offered to shield it. Though... it did make it more like a Tribes’ fairytale, staying true to their customs, and it was exciting to look forward to sharing together.

Once the food is heated and they sit on their sides of the table, their sounds echo one another. The removal of their helmets, the light clang of them placing it on the table, then the sound of them picking up their cutlery. The quiet is never awkward, yet alway contemplative. There are so many unspoken things between them, and it was a language they were learning without words. It’s when Jaster’s silence goes on for longer than normal that Din questions it.

“What’s bothering you?” Din asks softly, not needing his nose in open air to tell him Jaster’s anxiety hasn’t completely quelled. When the man thinks more than he speaks, it’s because he’s stuck on something.

Jaster’s sigh and unmodulated voice tells him he’s right. He’s hesitant, a tone Jaster Mereel does not use often, but comes out between them more than anyone else, “I… need to speak to you about something later. But I have a gift to give first.”

“A gift?” Din says, surprised. That… wasn’t what he was expecting. The Mand’alor has showered him in gifts already, his nest-egging urge had filled crates to the brim that Din was still getting to the bottom of. There were more crates still on Jaster’s ship that he hadn’t even touched. What the hell could it be? Where and when did he find them, and the time?

“Well, it’s a gift for the both of us, but you inspired me.”

Din smiles, and finishes his plate with excitement simmering in his belly. This man was something else, truly. The moment Jaster hears his cutlery placed back on the table, he clears his throat.

“Stay here a moment?” He asks, and Din hears how his nervousness has deepened. Din knows why, and it’s because he’s asking him to stay, without his helmet on. Din agrees, trusting him not to look as he hears Jaster put his own helmet back on, the sound of him standing from his chair, then as he watches the man’s back and straight-forward head enter the bedroom. Din still trusts him not to look, even when he could. 

He’s a little more nervous when the door opens back up and Jaster is now facing him. Din almost flinches, not expecting to lock eyes onto his visor without his as an added barrier, but it’s instantly soothed as he watches Jaster step forward. It’s cautious and slow, the way he makes his way back towards him. Din assumes he’s shut his visor off and is doing it from familiarity. He stubs his toe on the edge of the couch and swears, Din’s lips curling in a grin as the man feels for the arm and sits on it, facing him still. In one hand is a bulging bag, the other hand tapping a finger against his thigh plate.

“I’ve been thinking…,” the man starts before trailing off.

“Uh-oh,” Din says, pleased by the bark of Jaster’s surprised laughter.

“You sound like Myles,” he chuckles, “Don’t tease me, love. I’ve been thinking a lot because of you.”

Din knows he’s not looking at him, because Din’s face goes beet-red, his ears flaming, heat trickling down his neck. Jaster would surely comment on it; he’s quick to point out he’s flustered him when he notices his body language go all squirrely. Jaster just called him ‘love’ without a second thought, without even a twitch. There’s a smile in his voice, and Din loves the sound of him speaking through laughter. Din twitches visibly at it, eyes focused on how his shoulders shake, how he taps his thigh still. Normally he gets all jittery, not able to look at him long, but the security of him not looking back changes things. Din documents him like it’s their first day together, like it’s their last night. This man gives much, half of them not even knowing what he’s given. Din doesn’t think he’s smiled and laughed as much since he met him.

Jaster continues at Din’s silence, not perturbed by it at all, “So. I knit.”

Din stares, and then giggles, then he slaps his hand over his mouth to block his very not distorted voice. His modulator would have hid that, and Din was almost humiliated to hear how it echoed in the empty living room. It lessens at Jaster’s obvious delight, perking up like a dog thrown a bone. It’s funny because Jaster does not knit. He does something that cannot be tracked with human eyes, nor should be possible with human hands. The man decidedly just creates. The first time Jaster had pulled out a bucket of yarn balls and a pair of needles next to him in the bed, glancing at him periodically to gauge Din’s reaction, he’d dumbfounded him. His hands blurred, the clicking he made almost sounding like music with how fast he could go. Din watched, and pretended to read the book Jaster had left on his nightstand, as the man fell asleep doing it, hardly slowing at all. When he was done a row, the needles expertly changed hands as he smoothed it over to begin again, still fast asleep. Din knows he crotchets too, recognizing the difference in patterns in the gifts he gave, preferring one over another for different results. Once Din knew that Jaster had made them all himself, he’d marvelled over the hours of work and skill required. The Mudhorn blanket he made alone, draped over the bed still in the man’s ship, had attracted Din’s wandering fingers as he counted the rows that would have taken Jaster ages. Not as long as he suspected, now knowing, but still. Jaster shows his love this way, and also purges a lot of his own energy. 

“I’ve noticed,” is all Din says to that silly statement.

“And, as much as I love sleeping next to you, I think we’d sleep a lot better without our helmets, yes? But this poses a hurdle.”

A hurdle, he says, not a problem. Din marvels over the fact that Jaster is constantly taking his Creed into account, and hasn’t made him feel lesser for it once. He’s run into a few Mandalorians over the years hunting, and many of them displayed bewilderment over it, or maybe even horror, like him hiding his face since he was thirteen to outsiders was some kind of abuse or foolish choice. Jaster is one of the very few to show interest, and the first ever to be consistently accommodating. 

“Yes,” Din agrees, still slightly dazed by it all. Now he was curious what was in the bag.

“I… have made us a few options.”

Din grins. This was another thing about Jaster; he thought, a lot, and sometimes the man jumps right over the easy choices. He could offer to sleep in total darkness, shutter the void to space that was already so dim, and blackout the bedroom. That could still be risky, so the man doesn’t even bother with it. It means whatever he’s come up with is fool-proof.

“Trust me?” Jaster asks, in Din’s silence again. Din nods, before remembering he can’t see him. The man is silly for asking this, too.

“Yes, Jaster,” Din says fondly. 

He watches as the man puts the bag between his knees, squeezing it slightly to keep it from going on the floor. Din is watching the way his strong legs move, trailing up to where his thighs join. It’s nice to ogle when Jaster’s not looking, and the man is deliciously shaped. He’s got strong legs and arms, though he’s more lean than Din is in the waist and shoulders. The man’s solid with muscle, and it shows he eats better compared to Din’s ration packs and lack of home-cooked meals. He’s distracted until Jaster’s arms lift to his helmet seals, and now Din’s focused. He wants to look away on instinct, but Jaster has asked him to trust him in this specifically. He keeps his eyes on his face as he pulls his helmet off, and Din stares.

Stares some more. Then, something in his throat starts to tickle and clog up, his breathing getting choppy, eyes watering as he tries to restrain it. He watches Jaster’s body stiffen, because honestly, it sounds a lot like the beginning of sobs until Din’s mouth opens. This peal of rough laughter comes out of him like it hasn’t in years, and when he looks at Jaster’s face again, he utterly loses it. 

He can’t help it, and it fucking hurts with how he can’t stop it. He takes one look at him again, the black eyeless and mouthless balaclava on the man’s head with yellow circles for eyes and a large crescent smiling face, and starts wheezing and hacking like a life-long smoker. If he did it more often, it wouldn’t sound like he was dying, and Jaster has no problem it seems making it worse.

“No good?” The man says, grabbing it slightly below the ears and spinning it around his head. On the back was the T-shape of his red-edged visor, perfectly mimicking his helmet, now following the contours of his face. That makes him lose it for another five minutes. It’s all knitted, or crocheted maybe, so tightly together he cannot even see the man’s hair, that is if he’s not shaved or bald under there. It works perfectly because all Din can get is the general shape of his face, and nothing else, but it looks utterly hilarious. Maybe Din should have told him that not all in their Tribe preferred to have their facial bath masks with the extra sheer fabric over their eyes. It was the face as a whole that was sacred. Still, the man is holding a bulging bag, and if this is what is stuffed in it, then there are many options to choose from. He starts picturing them in his mind, and starts laughing all over again at the thought of a silver one matching his own buy’ce.

“Oh, so worth it,” Jaster says, and Din keeps cackling at the way the fabric moves with his mouth, “You have a beautiful laugh, cyar’ika.”

Din huffs in a big breath, trying to calm himself as he wipes the stray tears from his cheeks. He cannot remember the last time he laughed so hard, and the smile cannot be removed. Din stands, and takes a few quiet steps towards him, peering at him. It works like a charm, despite the goofiness of it, and though the smiley face had broken him, the rendition of Jaster’s visor looks impeccable. At first glance, nothing has really changed. The thoughtfulness of it all has him reaching out, gripping Jaster’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, the fabric whisper-soft under his skin.

Jaster freezes instantly at his touch, after a slight jolt from not hearing him approach. Din tilts his head up the slightest bit while he leans down, lips still curved in a smile as he presses a kiss to his cheek. 

“You are a funny, brilliant man, Jaster Mereel,” he says, voice pitched high and soft with love as he pulls away,  “Can I take a look?”

Jaster’s head is tracking him, his voice, with intense focus, the second his hand leaves him. It’s not like it’s hard, Din’s not far away and stands before him as he sits on the edge of the couch, but it’s so much more noticeable without a helmet. The subtle movements and twitches of his head, the bigger ones that are exaggerated for helmets. Din’s cataloging it all like the man is prey, the most important acquisition he has ever had to hunt. There’s not a detail Din is missing when he stares back with just the same ferocity. 

“Of course,” he answers, sounding slightly dazed. Din grabs the bag, and Jaster spreads his legs so he can take it, “If you don’t like them, I’m sure I can make—“

“Jaster,” Din chides softly, “I’m sure they’ll be perfect.”

The man visibly preens, that sharp scent of him exuding utter joy at a job well done. Din huffs another laugh as he walks back over to the table to start laying them out. Jaster had done some with the eyes exposed, and there are an assortment of colours and types. It seems like the man went a little crazy with the options, most likely just making more and more to keep his hands busy. There are some that are knitted, some crocheted, but all seem to be made from the same type of yarn. It’s all incredibly soft and vibrant, and Din has a hard time choosing one to start. He chuckles at the golden one that looks just like his buir’s helmet, horns and all. Some are plain, some are layered to have a 3D effect, and there is one that is just like his own buy’ce. He tries this one first, pulling it over his head just to see. 

It is undoubtedly soft. It hardly catches on his stubble, and feels like he’s wearing nothing at all once it’s on. Despite the lighter grey of the fabric, he can’t see through it, and he marvels at how the yarn doesn’t grow damp from his breath, nor make him too hot. The only thing is his hair, but it’s easily fixed by getting his hand under the mask to brush it out of where it tickles his eyes. When Din pulls it off, he’s absolutely touched by this man’s thoughtfulness. He thinks he’ll save this one incase he’s ever sleeping in a bright environment, but for Jaster, he’ll choose one with exposed eyes, wanting to share that with him in return. He’d love to be gifted the same, to see what lives inside what other’s call the windows to the soul. Din thinks he knows, but wants it anyways.

He ends up choosing a dark maroon one that reminds him of his uncle. It’s chosen mostly from the embroidered designs patiently added on, flowers, leaves, and vines made of varying shades of grey and black with stark highlights of white. It’s pretty to look at, and Din likes the feeling of the raised patterns under his fingers. It feels just as soft against his face, and when he’s done, he watches Jaster intently as he asks for what is probably the most nerve-wracking thing he has ever asked for. Even the Gai bal Manda had been easier, when he knew his children were destined for him, and that they had already chosen him in return. This is different, such a personal thing, and no adult outside his Tribe had ever seen his eyes, the last Yflotta and his buir. Din’s bath mask did have the eyes covered, so Jaster was truly the first in years, and the only one to scrutinize what he looks like from curiosity alone.

“Tell me what you think?” Din asks, closing his eyes with a huff when he sees Jaster’s excited little nods. 

His ears are straining for sounds, so he catches the whisper of fabric as Jaster removes his facial covering. The small inhale that is sucked in whistles through the man’s teeth, Din cocking his head in interest.

“I wasn’t sure,” the man explains, voice rough, “If you’d prefer to see, if you could with your Creed.”

“Eyes are okay,” Din answers, “It’s my face you have to wait for.”

“I don’t mind,” he instantly reassures, “Do you mind if I…?”

“No,” Din says, swallowing hard. It was why he took the plunge.

He hears Jaster stand, and tracks him just like he did to him as he comes over. Din thinks he can almost feel his emanated body heat as he stands close, choosing another mask that will allow him to look back. His body is almost vibrating in excitement, his brain spinning with possibilities. Will his eyes be bright, light, like the man himself? Will they be dark, matching the dark hairs of his arms? 

“Alright, Din,” the man says, voice almost nervous and closer than Din assumed. 

He turns his body more towards him and peeks his eyes open. Jaster is staring right at him, and he had underestimated the fervent look in the man’s eyes when he has them on him. Din had thought so, but they burn so much brighter than he could have possibly imagined. They’re dark, his irises almost black, yet they shine like twin stars. Din’s amazed by the stark rings of gold, an incredibly beautiful border surrounding his pupil and where the black met the whites of his eyes. He’s got Taung blood in him, proof of his Mandalorian heritage going way back. Din’s never seen it before, yet he knows what it is from his buir’s lessons. 

Those eyes crescent the slightest bit, mask shifting as the man smiles. Din is blindsided by the beauty of it, even with Jaster’s face still hidden. It’s all in his eyes, and his heart starts pounding in his chest from the utter love he’s looking at him with.

“You’ve got the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen,” Jaster says, stealing the words right from his mouth, “As I knew you would.”

His widen, blood filling his cheeks, and he’s glad Jaster can’t see it. He’s not ready for this man to see how much he flusters him, but Jaster can tell just like he always does. It’s decipherable by the twinkling of mirth being directed at him.

“Oh yeah?” Din says, at a loss for words. He’s too busy staring into his eyes, and how they both can’t look away is telling. Din never really thought they were much to look at, a dark boring brown. He wonders what Jaster sees, what he misses when he looks in the mirror. The man tells him.

“Fierce,” Jaster says, stepping closer, “Determined. Perceptive. Yet, you are a caring man, Din Djarin. I can see it all, even without.”

Din blinks, and then he melts. Somehow, those words crack him right open, hearing his honesty, knowing he means every word. Despite the embarrassing novelty, Din is happy Jaster has provided this chance. He sees the same qualities in the Mand’alor’s eyes, and any and all remaining doubt fades away. This is the alpha for him, if this is how they’ll look at each other for the rest of their lives.

Jaster’s eyes squint a little more, his smile growing as these cute little laugh lines show themselves in the corners of his eyes. Din wonders if he can read his mind, smiling back as his hands finally lift from their stupefied positions at his sides. Jaster’s head doesn’t move, but his eyes flick down to track them before meeting his again, patient and waiting to see what he does. The trust is implicit even without seeing it, as Din already knows what this man is willing to do for him. He’d beat a man to death without a second thought with his own hands, and he would slit his own throat if Din asked. So Din does not think about his next actions, nor his words. These are for Jaster, coming from the heart of him.

They rise and rise until they finally cup Jaster’s cheeks, tilting his face up just a touch more. He’s sure it’s there, and he hopes that Jaster can see it; the love he’s showing him reflecting back at him in Din’s eyes. He’s never looked at a man with such longing, such devoted surety, something in him settling into place when even the man’s face seems to fit in his hands so perfectly, just like how everything else about him does.

He rests his forehead against his, and does not look away. Jaster blinks once, and then melts against him, one of his arms looping around his lower back to pull Din closer so their chests meet. The man stares back like Din is his whole world, and Din says them without thinking, wanting to make it a reality.

“Will you marry me, Jaster? When our Hunt is over?”

The words come out as a shy whisper, despite his surety. He’s sure, but the second he says them, he wonders if Jaster will change his mind with Din giving him an out. Just like Jaster had said that one time about him: this man could break his heart if he denies him. Din’s been rolling the words around in his mind, how to ask, and he doesn’t know if he was ready to say them, but he knows they’ll never come out if he doesn’t seize them when he can.

Jaster freezes, his scent spiking in utter surprise that roils in his eyes. Din bites his lip and holds his breath, determined to not speak until he has an answer. He will not persuade him. He’s never asked anybody for their loyalty, for them to stay, and only returned it if it was given. Until Jaster Mereel came along.

Then, something changes. He pulls Din more surely against him, lifting on his toes to press his cushy-knitted forehead harder against Din’s. One of his hands comes up to rest against one of Din’s still cupping his face, and his eyes change to utter determination. Sharp, focused, like he’s looking down a scope, and Din cannot be anything but sure that what will come out of his mouth will be the truth.

“Yes, Din Djarin. I would have said them the day we met, if you were willing.”

Din looks at him, and though he wants to question him, he knows he isn’t lying. This man wafts honesty, and certainty, and sheer joy that Din has asked. The smile that grows on his face is the biggest yet, realizing the wedding he and Yflotta had been talking about would truly become reality. He was excited. Jaster was saying yes.

This was going to be his alpha, his mate. What a lucky man he is, and Jaster was worth waiting for. In return, he’s glad the man waited for him to figure it out. So he smiles, and decides to really stop holding back. If Jaster was his ven’riduur, his tat’runi, he needn’t be scared of rejection. He’s in it for the long haul now.

That’s why he didn’t freak out when, later after dinner, Jaster told him he was concerned about sharing his rut with him. Disappointed, yes, but there could be many reasons why the man wanted to wait. He’d respect them, whatever they may be, but when Jaster had shared why exactly he was hesitant, Din blacked out for a moment.

Hearing the man say out loud, breathless and shy, that it was because he desired to breed him, like it was something so foreign to him, broke him for a moment. Din has been all around the Galaxy, and some of those places had been filled with the lowest of the low. He’d heard language that would make pirates blush. Some of them hadn’t even been from big-mouths cat-calling or what they considered flirting, but courtesans trying to lure them in. Din never thought them lesser for it, it was a job like any other, but he wondered how they could have such a desire to sound so compelling. Jaster saying that made him understand.

All he can picture is this fierce, commanding and smart, loyal and caring alpha wanting to give him his child. Naked, pressed against him skin to skin, filling him for once with something real. Din hates fake-knot toys, and used dildos when the ache was too much during his heats, but because he went so long between his self-pleasuring sessions, it didn’t take much more than his hand to get off.  He’d had more important things to do. It has been harder lately, with Jaster around and leaving that mouth-watering smell of his in the shower and Din unable to resist picturing him in his mind. Needless to say, Din wants more of him, and that is the ultimate gift this man can give him. That instinct that he buried so deeply, to have an alpha almost mindless with desire and purpose to give him their seed, flared to life with Jaster wanting to. 

The fact that he does not care about Din’s reproductive status says it all. ‘It is the feeling and desire you inspire in me’. Din relates. This man makes him imagine how hot their passion could be, what else he could desire from him and what Din would be willing to give in return. How much Jaster would give him, when he has offered him so much already. Thinks even more about how intimate it could be when they could finally share face, and how exciting is it they get a practice round? Jaster seems absolutely thrilled that Din is unexperienced, and Din could smell the ambition on him. Not to claim him, not to be the first to have him, but the first to introduce him to this kind of personal connection. To show him how much care and pleasure and love he could have during his heats, instead of it being a lonely, monotonous task. He’d asked him questions as they laid in bed afterwards, Din flustered but willing to answer. About what he liked, what he didn’t, what he’d be willing to try. It only makes Din’s trust deepen, sure that this was the only alpha he wanted entering his nest during his heat.

That’s what Din believes, until he wakes up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat like it was his first night weaning. It’s different, because his brain isn’t all there. The alpha lying next to him smells delicious, enticing, but this place doesn’t feel like home. It is too exposed, too large, there is no recessed hole in the floor to fill with pillows to curl up in like with his Tribe, and Din longs for small spaces to hide. He’s not thinking as he climbs out of bed, donning his armour through muscle memory, and begins hunting for such a place. 

This warship isn’t like home either, feeling more like the open galaxy to him with it so unfamiliar. Din has enough mind to try and hide his tracks, making enough that any alpha trying to find him would get all spun around, and goes to the one place he feels safe. Still, once he stands before the Razor Crest, it doesn’t feel right. He paces around it, wondering why, and then takes a look at Jaster’s ship parked in the same hanger. Anyone looking for him would think of the Crest, and he is without a guard. Din goes inside just to leave a trail and takes what he needs from his stores before he no longer has the brain capacity for foresight. Then, he boards Jaster’s ship instead, locking it tight but inputting his emergency code. He’s not thinking of Yflotta, as it’s more habit to lock out his door in the Tribe with the code only medics know. Once he’s on board, he settles, feeling comfortable, hidden, safe. 

He doesn’t mean to choose Jaster’s room, but it’s ripe with his scent despite him not being here in a while, and that soothes him too. He builds a small nest on the floor, yet it is bigger than ever before with Jaster’s crates of fibre-crafts available to choose from. Din strips off his armour, remembers having a brief conversation with Yflotta— after growling at her for five minutes when he recognized an alpha was outside the door— where she orders him to remove his helmet when he relays his temperature, and bunks down for what he knows is going to be an awful heat. Already he burns, and he’s so utterly lonely this time around, it hurts like a physical ache in his gut. Hours go by, and Din strips entirely down when he begins to sweat more than he can drink. He's hungry, but his stomach roils at the thought of food. He's horny, but that too isn't being satisfied. Din begins to get angry, buzzing with frustration, when he masturbates and can’t get off. He’s missing something, but he cannot fathom what it could be when he’s always spent them alone. 

That anger is at the forefront of his mind when the door suddenly opens and a sharp, intimidating scent floods the room. It’s somewhat familiar, but Din forgets why when rage is coursing through him, than an alpha would dare. This is his nest, and this alpha thinks they can just come inside, smelling so excited and hopeful like Din would just roll over? Despite the blankets and pillows all smelling similar, this caused a distinctly sharp, hot burst in his nostrils that spoke of an alpha in rut. That makes Din even angrier, because it is almost foreign with how strong it's grown.

At the same time, Din’s face is exposed to open air, and despite how his body throbs uncomfortably to the same tune as his pounding heart, his instincts don’t lessen. There’s a dagger in his hand, lip curled into a snarl, determined to make this alpha a dead one after they’ve broken his Creed and come here unannounced, intruding and staring right at him.

Din lunges, blade first.

Chapter Text

There were an abundance of things running through Jaster’s mind. They were neatly sorted into two categories : Before, and After, Stepping into Din’s Room. Now, Alor Yflotta had warned him exactly what he was getting into, and there was a part of his brain— the part that encouraged self-preservation— that acknowledged those warnings. Then, there was another part of his brain that either decided to dismiss that information, or glossed over how dangerous it really was.

Jaster should know better. He knows Din. Din is the strongest Mandalorian he knows, was capable of fighting under duress, was sure his mind was as strong as his body. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, because Din had only turned on him with cold calculation, that time he gave him his ultimate test. The man hadn’t needed to really move or get physically involved. Jaster had also seen the video of Din attacking Montross, and he does not hesitate, he does not waver, and he fights to the end. It was imprudent of him to be so excited, hopeful even, that Din would look forward to Jaster showing his appreciation, be able to give him pleasure that could encompass all of Jaster’s longing for this man. Finally have permission to display it in physical affection and sensual touch, and say all the naughty words he’s been holding back. He thought Din would remember their plan.

Yflotta had been right the second time. He was a foolish man. 

Jaster wasn’t expecting the door to seal shut behind him, visor pitch black and dead in front of him, and be greeted with a harsh, low growl that echoes loudly in the room. That sweet, delicious scent spikes in those tart notes, Din still leaving traces of electricity in his mouth. It’s a sign that has the hairs on the back of his neck rising, but it doesn’t deter him when his body was so primed and ready to go. It doesn’t help that Jaster is turned right on by how protective Din is, how everything in his life is private, and Jaster is a privileged person to be allowed past that. 

The next breath he takes in rumbles in his own chest, involuntary, induced by how fantastic and ripe he smells in this room. Visions of him flicker through his mind; those dark brown eyes that resemble the richest of freshly ground caff beans, the hard tall length of his body pressed along his, those wide shoulders and thick arms paired with his tapered waist and wide hips. He awaits his low raspy baritone with eagerness, like a good boy sitting and wagging his tail, awaiting an order. His pretty little omega was surely naked somewhere in here, and Jaster doesn’t have to wait to find out where. 

There’s an alert on his HUD that notifies him of potential dangers picked up by audio, and he doesn’t really expect it to flash, which distracts him somewhat. Jaster still raises a hand on instinct, an effort to placate and protect himself. At the same time, that growl gets louder, closer, along with the rustle of fabric, the sound of one lunging footstep, and the whistle of a blade through the air. Din’s hand is on his chest the same time his dagger cuts into his left palm, slicing it open with beskar that cuts so sharp, Jaster hardly feels the sting over the tingles of Din’s palm shoving him back into the door behind him. 

“You dare?!” Hisses the voice of his beloved, that growl still rumbling deep in his chest that causes Jaster’s blood to boil, “You dare enter my nest, alpha?”

Oh, he’s so hot, he could combust from sheer proximity. Jaster doesn’t even need to see him to know he’s beyond sexy. It’s got him wafting excitement despite his predicament, Jaster trembling beneath his hand in barely restrained delight. Everything in him screams to grab him back, but intuition keeps his hands down. Din’s entire body is pressing him into the door, his very naked body, and still he is as firm and unyielding as his beskar’gam. What a warrior he is, and he hardly recognizes Din has asked him a question until he’s pressing his blade to his throat and digging it in. His own voice comes back as a hoarse rumble, heat scouring his lungs from this hunter’s scent. 

“I am on the list,” he says simply, speaking in his Tribe’s facts, “If you wish me to leave, I will.”

“You are not going anywhere,” Din growls, which thrills him until he speaks again, digging his blade in further, “You’ve seen me.”

Ah. Jaster understands his anger now, that emotion that should be making the warning bells go off in Jaster’s brain that were only causing him to stiffen in his kute. Jaster squares his shoulders, looking dead forward, and says it with all his honesty and hopes Din believes him.

“My visor is turned off.”

“I don’t believe you,” Din grits out, fingers curling under the chin of his bucket as a threat. He doesn’t rip his helmet off, but waits to see what Jaster will do. The only worry he had has been soothed, for now. He won’t claim Din without consent, not now, so if Din wants to bare his face, he’ll let him. His eyes will be closed, as they’ve been since Din touched his helmet.

“As is your right,” He states, once again determined to put his life in his hands, “But I assure you, I would not break your Creed. I’d save you the trouble and slit my throat myself.”

That seems to be the right thing to say. All of a sudden, that fruity scent starts flooding his helmet, along with recognition. That makes this make more sense now; Din hadn’t quite recognized him, either with the smell of his rut growing so strong, or because he was so deep into his heat. The latter doesn’t seem as likely when Din seems so cognisable. If this heat is kicking his ass as Yflotta said, he’s doing a remarkable job at keeping his head.

“You almost did that once, for me,” Din says, quieter now, that growl starting to taper off. Jaster’s excitement really begins to grow, feeling how Din eases up on pressing the dagger into his skin the slightest bit. It almost feels like an approval.

“I’d do it again. But I have not seen your face, Din Djarin. I would not, until Vows are spoken between you and I that make it permissible.”

“You can be such a sweet talker, Jaster Mereel,” his omega states after a moment. There is period of quiet before the press of the dagger disappears, but Din still does not speak nor release him. He cocks his head to the side, listening intently, and waiting to see what the verdict will be. Jaster’s word will forever hold true: he’ll leave if Din wants him to leave. Just as he’s thinking he should reiterate it, Din is speaking again. 

“You may stay.”

Jaster slumps in relief, hearing how Din takes a few steps backwards and what sounds like him dropping onto his nest on the floor. He does not move from where he is still leaning against the door, just taking in his scent and hearing how he pants for air. The man’s palm had been hot on his sternum, even through his thinner kute. There are sweeter notes he’s picking up now, trapped in a room with him, something he can’t quite describe. It sits heavy on his tongue, begging for a taste, whatever it is making his mouth water. He licks his lips, trying to regain his senses.

“Do you have everything you need? Water? Would you like something to eat?”

“No,” Din growls, “Take that off, or I will.”

That’s an order he can get down with, another Alor Yflotta warned him about. It was a good thing he’d removed his beskar and leathers because Din sounds impatient already. Jaster immediately starts stripping out of his flight-suit, not minding if he wasn’t a hundred percent presentable. He’d had a quick sonic-shower on the ship, but he wasn’t concerned about that. It was being naked in front of him for the first time, not able to see his reaction. He has seen Din almost naked once before, still in his briefs, but the muscular lines of his limbs are seared into his brain.

“Jaster,” Din’s voice, causing him to stop and listen, “You’re bleeding.”

“I don’t care,” Jaster says, “It is my left hand. I can live with one, if you don’t mind a little blood.”

Din huffs, and Jaster preens at hearing his soft laughter unfiltered. His omega is such a sweet thing, even if he was the reason Jaster was bleeding. If he hadn’t raised his hand, the beroya might have cut his nipple off, or at the least, have left a pretty deep gash in his chest. It didn’t dampen his spirits at all, if anything, it made his attraction worse. He’d never really been into blood-play, but he’ll let Din Djarin cut him to pieces if he wants. 

“Did you bring your masks?” Din asks, voice pitched through a smile, “Or are you planning on wearing that buy’ce all night?”

Jaster freezes pulling his arm out of his sleeve, staring in the direction of Din’s voice. He’d love to agree to what he is asking for, but….

“I don’t want to risk it,” Jaster admits, “I still think there’s a chance of me wanting to bite you.”

Especially with how delicious the man smells. If he takes off his helmet, has a direct source to the traces seeping through, Jaster knows he’ll lose his head. He’ll be reduced to instinct, one thing on his mind to make this man his forever. Whether by being the best pleasure the hunter’s ever had, or by linking them together through a mating bond. Fabric won’t be enough to protect Din from this desire, he already knows this. His jaw and teeth have never ached so much as they do now, like they’re transfiguring into longer, sharper ones, his mandibles itching to bite down.

Once the words leave his mouth, Jaster sags against the doorframe. Not for any reasoning of his own, no. His knees slack for a moment, unable to hold his weight as his brain catches up to the changing notes in Din’s scent. This heat of his has magnified it by the thousands, Jaster able to pick out each emotion, every little reaction he cannot see with his eyes. This little spike in his nostrils makes him weak, knowing somehow that Jaster’s answer pleases Din immensely. He’s happy, he’s amused, he wants Jaster to hurry up taking his clothes off. Somehow he also seems to know that wasn’t the right answer.

“Yes,” he says instead, cautiously, but still remembering to pull his arm out of his shirt sleeve and start pulling the suit off. He’d brought them, but he wasn’t planning on using them. 

Din hums, more pleased by that answer, and… turned on. Oh. Oh. Jaster stops to think about what he’s doing, knowing Din’s general direction and slowing his hasty pace. He stands tall, the upper half pooling around his waist and sleeves surely touching the floor, and takes in another breath. A grin starts spreading across his face, listening to Din’s little huffs he can barely make out, both anxious and excited. Mostly aroused. Jaster’s feet are rooted to the floor, because everything in him wants to dive for the sound of his panting, to ask him how to be of service. A question he already knows the answer to, as is this one.

“Like what you see, Din’ika?”

“Yes.”

Jaster smiles wider, hearing how quick and sure he responded. He wonders if he’s touching himself while he watches, and Jaster will have no idea unless he asks. Does he dare? Maybe there's another way to find out....

He leans down and pulls his legs out of the pants portion, one at a time, before finally being rid of the thick protective material. Now he’s down to his underwear, and he tosses the kute to the floor beside him before pulling them off too. Now he stands before him utterly naked except for his face, which is probably normal for Din and not so normal for him. It’s good he gets an instant hit of Din’s arousal deepening because he wouldn’t know otherwise.

His smile shifts, now something soft and sweet and colouring his tone, “You have to tell me what you’re thinking, cyar’ika. I’m at a disadvantage.”

“Are you?” Din says, and Jaster almost flinches from how close it is. He hadn’t heard him get up or approach, but it’s his voice that hypnotizes him. It’s alluring, teasing, tugging at Jaster’s heartstrings as well as his physical ones. He wants to touch, hand lifting but left in the air when he doesn’t know where to go. Din sounds so close to him, and his own breaths are coming up short, leaving him dizzy.

Jaster twitches at the heat of Din’s hand curling around his wrist, pulling his hand forward and settling it on his waist. His very naked waist, that is smooth and soft and so very warm under his fingertips. Jaster digs them into the fat at his lower back, reeling him in closer. Din makes this soft sound, and without even having to encourage him, presses his body against Jaster’s. Jaster moans at the feeling of his delicious frame fitting into his, his tempered control slipping when he feels Din duck his head to press his face into Jaster’s neck under his helmet. When he exhales this time, the rumble in his chest is stronger, louder, no longer a growl but back to that purr he’d showcased in Jaster’s bedroom. It’s grown stronger, more sure, and fuck if it doesn’t stroke his ego to know he’s the reason why.

Jaster feels like a wild horse, multiple leather straps tied to him and restraining him in a narrow stall of his own making. That snaps another restraint, Din’s next words making him feel untethered. All the bucking and kicking in the world wouldn’t set him free, but Din could. The only thing he needs is Din’s permission, the one thing that will unlock the gate keeping him in.

“Fuck, Jaster,” he mumbles, lips and stubble brushing against his neck, “It’s no wonder I didn’t recognize you. Your scent….”

Din trails off, pushing closer and taking in another deep breath. Those words would make him nervous if it wasn’t obvious how Din liked it. Jaster’s still curious, humming in question as he turns his head more for his access, sliding his hand down to cup his pert ass. The damp heat of his breaths against his throat is tantalizing, his cock stiffening even more with Din’s leg pressing against him.

“Dangerous,” Din whispers, “Powerful. You smell like a threat. I…”

Din trails off, his panting getting heavier, like all the air has been sucked from the room. Jaster relates, hearing how Din likes those qualities to his scent now. What surprises him is how Din jerks away, his body heat leaving him as he takes a few steps backwards. It’s loud and harsh, and Jaster’s lips dip into a frown, taking his own step forward. This is like the first time, when Din had put hasty distance between them like his attraction surprised him. Like he doesn’t know what to do with it, confused by his own body’s needs.

“Din,” he says, holding out a hand in invitation, “Tell me what you need.”

“Need?” Din huffs, the man hardly sounding present now, “I… don’t need anything.”

Jaster frowns more, feeling out of his depth when he cannot see what’s going on. It takes a moment to connect the dots, Din’s hesitation paired with his inexperience, how this man does not satisfy his own needs until his Tribe’s are met. He has to remind himself that Din has never done this before, might not even know how to initiate. Jaster takes a gamble when his hand remains empty, Din still not moving.

“Then, tell me what you want,” Jaster returns, making sure to state the distinction, “And I will give it to you.”

“I want to feel relief,” Din grit out, before his voice goes even softer, more honest, “I want you to fulfill your promise. I want to submit to you.”

There it is. Just the words he needed to hear, and the ones Din had left out. It’s probably somewhat frightening for him, because Din has never submitted to an alpha before. His first instinct had been to attack him. Jaster wants to receive and give all those things, and he still does not lower his hand until he feels Din’s fingers brush the underside of his waiting palm. His knuckles tingle as Din braces the back of his hand and lifts it to his face, nuzzling his cheek into his palm before scenting his wrist. Jaster hums in approval, coming out as a throaty rumble, when Din guides his wrist to his neck and rubs his own scent on it, marking him as Din’s. 

“Then it is yours,” Jaster promises, “Do you wish me to put on my mask despite the risk?”

“Yflotta gave me steel patches.”

Oh, wasn’t that a delightful surprise? A simple little patch that would protect Din’s mating gland from his traitorous teeth and instinct. Jaster didn’t even think of that, had forgotten about them honestly, because the urge had never been a problem to restrain before. He’d never bought them for himself, and he’s thankful the medic thought of it. In fact, it just sets his body on fire, makes his mind spin, and with permission granted….

“You’ve never kissed anyone before,” Jaster says aloud, which was more just the thoughts coming to mind sneaking out, “You’ve never had anyone put their mouth on you, either?”

This sharp intake of breath and Din squeezing his wrist tells him his answer. He can put that eyeless mask on, and bury the lower half of his face so Din still couldn’t see him. He could kiss him if Din just kept his eyes shut. No one’s ever had those opportunities before them, except for Jaster, right here, right now.

“Put it on,” Jaster rasps, taking a step towards him until their chests brush. His tone sounds like an order, and there was a desperate edge to it. Jaster’s body was starting to burn, his instincts screaming at him to cage this omega in his arms and claim him. Claim him by biting, by marking, by tasting, by fucking until he has the relief he so desires, filling him until his wants become needs. 

Din listens without complaint, stepping away from him with a shuddering breath. Jaster hears the rustling of packaging, and then Din’s voice.

“It’s on. My eyes are closed.”

Jaster’s almost grateful for the distance as he removes his helmet. As soon as the seals unlatch and he begins sliding it over his head, Din’s scent barrels into him. He whimpers, halting for a minute with the bottom edge resting just above the bridge of his nose as he breathes. The scent of slick and frustration lingers in the room, the growing excitement pouring out of Din, the man’s arousal strong and potent. There’s something else, the same thing he noticed earlier, sweeter and more tantalizing than even that. It stuns him stupid for a moment, just taking it all in. He can feel the way the reins slack from his hands, Jaster no longer thinking so much about mundane things, and entirely more about how to get his hands, his mouth, his body on this omega that smells so delectable.

Eventually, he remembers to pull his helmet off. He has to feel for his discarded kute with a foot, then rummages through the pockets until he finds what he’s looking for. He can’t imagine he looks too sexy with a black mask with no holes over his head, but he can breathe and smell just fine. Then, he turns back to Din, giving him permission to look. 

“Come here, Jaster,” Din says, slowly and giving him a chance to follow his voice. Once he gets there, Din runs his fingers down his arm sensually, and Jaster throws his brain out of the window. 

He reaches up, finding his neck first before trailing up to the hard ridge of his jaw. Stubble is rough under his fingers, but he can feel his pulse hammering away, how he swallows as he trails them up his throat.

“May I kiss you? Just one?” Jaster breathes, wanting to taste his lips, to introduce him to it and see if he liked it.

“Yes,” Din whispers, hardly a gust of air. Jaster glides his fingers up his cheeks, mapping his face the only way he can until he gets to the ridge of his brows. Then, he trails them featherlight down, encouraging him to close his eyes as they brush over his lids and back down his cheeks. He can hear the man’s excited huffs grow as one hand leaves his face to lift his mask to rest on his nose, before leaning up and pulling him down by the jaw at the same time.

He’s cautious until their lips finally brush, feeling Din’s small intake of air against his mouth. Jaster gently slots their lips together, tilting his head so they fit just right, and softens him into it. It takes Din a moment to fall into his rhythm, experimenting as he pushes for a little more. He outright gasps when Jaster sucks on his lip a little bit, and Jaster uses the opportunity to slip his tongue into his mouth just a touch. There’s the tentative touch back of Din’s tongue, before they both seem to forget themselves. 

Din grabs the back of his head and pulls him closer, slotting their lower halves together so his cock is firm against his leg. Jaster moans from the wetness on his own leg coming from between Din’s thighs, proving just how eager he was other than deepening their kiss. Jaster gives him what he wants, letting the man taste him in return as he curls his tongue with his, until Din grinds on his thigh once. It breaks him, feeling the spread of slick on his leg. Fuck him, Din is dripping, and he’s here kissing him for fun.

He pulls back the slightest bit, panting against Din’s mouth, and out comes his fantasies,  “Want to see me pop a knot while I make you cum?”

There’s a shaky inhale before a hand on his chest is shoving him down and backwards. His legs are jelly, so it doesn’t take much for him to land on his ass on a surprisingly cushy nest. He’s impressed as well as proud; Din hasn’t built one so big yet, he can feel it under his hands without needing to see.

“Yes,” Din growls, “Tell me how, alpha.”

Jaster’s belly roars with fire, his cock stiffening an unfathomable degree. He can feel how his balls tighten up from that alone, Din calling him alpha like he’s his, and he needs to grip himself tightly at the base to keep from finishing early. It’s no fun if Din’s eyes are closed, and he wants him to see what he’ll be getting later. First, he needs to taste him, needs to give the man a head start. Jaster feels around before laying down and stretching out, comfortable in his omega’s nest. 

“Come sit on my face,” Jaster says bluntly, “And you can watch me cum from your taste.”

“Oh,” Din says, before more eagerly, “Oh.”

Din drops to the ground, he can hear how roughly he does it and it almost makes him laugh. Din’s hands are warm and searching as he finds his body and face without vision, before Jaster can feel the weight depression of his knees on either side of his head, and that sweet, delicious scent of him hovering right above his nose. 

“Okay,” Din says, unsure. Now Jaster smiles.

“You may play with me, if you want. Just relax, cyar’ika, and drop down. I don’t care if I can’t breathe.”

Din huffs in amusement, reaching out for his cock first. His strong hand wraps around his length, giving him a few tight pumps that has Jaster curling his toes. 

“Fuck, you’re big,” Din breathes, and now he just sounds enraptured, excited even, as he gives him another stroke. Jaster just knows he’s right above him, so close to seeing if he really does taste as good as he smells.

There was a buzz deep in his chest that he couldn’t contain, a long vibrating hum that no doubt tickled Din’s skin. Alphas didn’t purr, but they had something like it when they were deeply satisfied. It didn’t ebb and flow like an omegas, instead a deep reverberating growl that maintained a low bass note that Jaster didn’t need to feed air to keep going. Jaster has never been so satisfied until now, revelling in the fact he’ll finally get a taste of this fantastic omega he’s been dreaming about. At the same time, it’s fitting. Din deserves to have the benefit of that vibration, to have everything in Jaster’s disposal used against him.

Jaster can’t help it with those words, curling his hands over the tops of Din’s thighs, the meatiest part near his hips, and pulling him down. His scent is so strong here, sweet and spicy just like what his Alor’e had been smoking in their hookah pipe, like a dessert that had flavour bursting in his mouth from smell alone. 

Din jerks away when Jaster finally gets the nerve to run his tongue up the seam of his lips, keeping his pressure light and trying to ease the man into it. Din doesn’t move away completely, settling back to let Jaster lap at him with timed, measured strokes to get him used to the feeling of head. He twitches and sighs, the little sounds he makes clear as he continues to stroke him off. Din matches the pace with Jaster’s mouth, feeling him stiffen and grow in his hand. It makes his head swim, nose brushing along curls and inhaling his natural perfume, the taste of his slick that gets more and more pronounced. Jaster feels intoxicated, Din’s velvety smooth skin under his lips and the heat from his muscular thighs under his hands. The taste of him is more addictive and delicious than he imagined, and all he wants is more.

When he gives Din a little more pressure, the flat of his tongue searching for the nub of Din’s clit, it has half to do with how Din has begun to shuffle closer to him, and half to do with Jaster being impatient. The man gasps, legs twitching on either side of his head as the insides of his thighs brush against his ears. Jaster’s hum of satisfaction deepened, egged on by that sound as he grips close to his hips to yank him closer. Once Jaster finds that little sensitive spot near the top of his folds, Jaster doesn’t give him a chance to wonder what he’s going to do with it. 

Din makes a little meep of surprise that burrows its way into his brain, then Jaster parks his mouth right on it, rapidly flicking it with his tongue as he suckles with his lips. He can feel the way Din clenches, his abdomen tight as his one hand travels across his stomach, how he drenches his face.

Jaster moans in delight, drinking him in as Din starts to rock on his face. That gets his engine right revving, how he’s searching for his pleasure from him. Jaster knows how to eat pussy, and he uses everything he’s got, thankful for the past women and omegas that taught him well. Din picks up his pace when Jaster matches the motion of his grinding hips with his face, he winds them when Jaster swirls his tongue tightly along his clit; they’re connected here more ways than one, guiding each other. Din makes this fantastic, deep moan when Jaster gets bold enough to slide him forward so he can ease his tongue inside him, other hand coming up to thumb at that bundle of nerves. Din gasps, twitching under his hands, and now fully seated on his face. He could die here an ecstatic man. 

Fuck, and the flavour of him. It’s everything he’s been waiting for, sweeter than he could have imagined. He’s running down his face and soaking the front of his mask, reminding Jaster of how in summertime, sun-warmed fruit picked off the tree would do the same thing. Din winds his hips, rumbling out another groan as he sinks Jaster deeper inside him. It’s maddening how he clenches around him, Jaster’s cock throbbing in Din’s tight hold. 

Jaster slides his hand up Din’s chest, feeling how his muscles tremble and how he shivers from his touch. His trump card, one he didn’t even know was in his deck, is when he gets to his pectoral. Jaster can’t help it, having the muscle under his hand and how it feels so soft and fits in his palm so perfectly, so he gives him a firm slow squeeze, closing his thumb and index finger around his nipple.

Din cries out and spasms, a high whine that loops in his mind. Din tightens around his tongue as he jerks erratically, Jaster tasting his cum as it floods into his mouth like a silky dessert. At the same time, there’s a spike of those honey notes in the air, and it takes feeling something warm drip down the back of his hand to make him understand. 

Relief. Din had wanted relief, and his uncomfortable tone made more sense. It wasn’t just sexual relief that was escaping him, but the other symptoms too that the heat brought on. For some omegas, especially with those with babies and even young Foundlings, that meant beginning to produce milk. Paternal instinct ran that strong in some. Their breasts would swell the slightest bit, filling and stretching to accommodate the minor milk production. It wasn’t a pleasant experience, and it often took ridding them of it to give them relief. 

Din lifts off his face as he gasps for air, one hand braced on his chest and the other still on his cock as he heaves, and Jaster doesn’t even need him to do anything. He brings his hand to his mouth, has a sample of Din’s breastmilk, and it’s instantaneous: Game Over. Flavour bursts alive along his tongue, sweet, rich, creamy, and entirely Din. His other hand wraps around Din’s, encouraging him to squeeze his base as he moans. 

“Tighter,” Jaster grits out as his hips jerk under Din’s increased pressure, hearing the man gasp as he thickens in his hand. 

“Oh, wow,” Din breathes, and Jaster gets out a rough chuckle through clenched teeth as Din does he asks. 

Jaster’s not surprised he’s impressed. He’s kind of impressed with himself, actually, because he can feel how his knot swells under the combined grip of both their hands, the heat and thickness of it as it pulses. The cum coating their hands is substantial, and it’s encouraged by the smell and taste of Din on his face and mouth. Din does not let up either, which keeps him hard and leaking as he tries to thrust into his tight hold, before even that becomes too sensitive.

“You can do another?” Din asks, voice rough, maybe even a touch greedy.

“For you, absolutely,” Jaster rumbles, feeling how his balls are dropping already, ready to go again. He’s got loads of cum in him for this man; it’s been building as steady as the sexual tension between them for weeks.

“Did I do a good job?” Jaster asks instead, searching for praise because he cannot see him. He could taste his success, hear it, but he wants his voice to make up for the lack of eyesight. 

“An incredible job, Jaster,” Din says softly now, a smile in his voice and just what he wanted to hear, before, “I… you seem to not mind, with what I was too embarrassed to tell you.”

Jaster grins, “That you are producing breastmilk?”

“Elek,” Din says, even softer and full of mortification.

Jaster lets his voice swell with all his affection, “It is natural, Din. You are an omega with a new ik’aad. It’s your first heat after Grogu, after your med abuse. Do not be ashamed. You taste utterly fantastic, for starters.”

“Really?” A touch shy, a little more open, but he believes him. Jaster’s heart swells, how quickly Din trusts him and his word now. This is asked because Din wants to hear more.

“Oh yes. I could smell it immediately, when I came in the room. It made my mouth water. Have you been lactating?”

Din’s bashful silence is his answer. How delightful.

“No, Din. I do not mind one bit. It only matters if you mind. Otherwise, as long as you put your tits in my face and let me suck on them, I’ll keep cumming. It was instant, Din.”

Din lets out a sigh, “How am I not supposed to look when you say stuff like that?”

Jaster laughs at the absurdity of their role reversal. He thinks that all the time. 

“That sounds like a yes. C’mon, you’ll boost my immune system, and I can make you feel better,” he says cheekily, knowing Din’s will was stronger than his to not look at his face.

He gasps when Din suddenly lets him go, maneuvering hastily to turn around. Jaster licks his sweet-salty lips as Din shuffles lower, Jaster reaching around to find one of the obnoxiously large pillows he’d bought littering Din’s nest. It makes a great prop for his back so he can lean up as Din settles into the crook of his hips, Jaster’s hands gravitating towards his thick thighs that straddle him. 

“You don’t want any prep?” Jaster huffs, dizzy and short of breath as Din sits on his stomach, and his cock that is pressing along his belly. He gasps when Din grinds once, his labia spreading and hugging his shaft as he slides on him with ease. He’s still so wet, both from his arousal and Jaster’s mouth. 

“I’ve been fucking myself for hours, Jaster,” his omega sighs, sounding dazed and happy as he rocks his hips, rubbing his clit and slit on him, “It wasn’t enough. You’re what I was lacking.”

That knowledge makes him shiver, picturing Din using toys or his fingers. He doesn't like the idea of him frustrated, not able to find release. Jaster needs to give that to him, and with Din sounding so sure that he can provide it....

There are no words to say, especially not when Din lifts himself to grab his length, pressing it against his hole. The man's hips twitch, and Jaster doesn’t recognize he’s biting his lip until he tastes iron, too focused on how his head catches the rim of him, his juices wetting his tip. He’s forced to let go when Din’s wandering fingers find his chin, before his thumb is pressing into Jaster’s mouth.

The taste on it drives him absolutely fucking wild, moaning as he sucks his finger into his mouth, licking all the milk he can off of it. Fuck, he must be leaking like mad for it to be so coated and thick. Once, Jaster slept with another omega with this same symptom, and he’d made her cum so hard from head that milk squirted out of her. He swears it almost touched the ceiling, and if he can make Din do that…. 

That picture, pairing with the taste of him and the feeling of Din starting to slip him inside, has him thickening instantly. He leans back so he doesn’t bite his finger when he swears, grabbing Din’s hip in warning. The man doesn’t stop, easing him inside with this low moan that Jaster feels in his hands gripping Din's body. It’s a sound he matches, Din tight around his girth. Jaster feels like he’s stretching him wide open, making him accommodate him, and he keeps perfectly still as Din sinks slowly down. 

“Fuck,” Din hisses, his hand on Jaster’s chest digging its fingers into him, “Fuck.”

Jaster’s hips twitch the tiniest bit despite his restraint, liking the sting of pain from his nails, and Din cries out as he inches more inside him. It’s a tight fit with Jaster so close to popping another knot, apologies starting to fall off his lips. 

Din growls, hand grabbing the back of his skull and pulling him forward. Jaster understands instantly as the man doesn’t lift his head, hauling him towards his chest instead. Din wants him to, wants him to cum and already knows the outcome of where he’s leading him, and that just makes him eager to give it to him. If he wants Jaster splitting this tight cunt of his open, if he’s so desperate to take his knot, he’ll give it to him. The man’s waited long enough, and he was a warrior who could take it.

Jaster surges forward with his encouragement, hand reaching out to cup his growing pectoral and thumb at his nipple. It’s wet and sticky underneath, proving his lactation theory. It also guides his mouth to where it needs to go, latching onto his swollen breast before gently sucking on it. Din makes this soft sound that’s paired with a grunt as he sinks down more on him, determined to have Jaster stuff him full.

Jaster closes his mouth more, suckling his nipple with the intention of pulling milk, and he hums happily as it fills his mouth easily, just waiting for release. Din’s entire body jerks, this relieved moan coming out of him. He rocks his hips, and Jaster can feel the flood of slick enveloping him as his muscles clench around him, turned on just the same. Jaster can’t help but thrust into the wet heat of him, entirely enthralled how his curve feels like it was made to follow Din’s. Jaster groans the same time Din does, the man rolling his hips so Jaster bottoms out, feeling how his abdomen tightens from his grip on his hip, how his body tenses so much his nectar squirts into his mouth. 

Fuck, he tastes like nothing else. Jaster would feel envious if they did produce offspring, would be just addicted as a newborn. He’s sweet and rich, and the way he coats his entire mouth is intoxicating. No wonder they cry for more.

“Again, Jaster,” Din huffs, sounding strained as he rolls his hips, lifting a bit so Jaster glides out of him. It’s so easy with him being so slick, so much so he’s beginning to run down his balls. That has the heat pooling in his loins, that Din is enjoying him so much, is getting pleasure out of him. Has given him an order that he intends to obey. Jaster pushes up into him to hear him gasp once, twice, and then he cannot stop. The sounds he pulls out of him are rhythmic, addictive, and Jaster feels how he’s stretching for him yet still so cinched, like every stroke makes him want to hold him tighter. He takes one more pull, sucking his nipple hard into his mouth to get another swallow, then he pulls off to put his mouth next to Din’s ear. His lips brush against soft hair, his hand now massaging his sore breast as he pumps up into his welcoming heat, and keeps his promise.

“Are you ready, sweetheart?” Jaster rasps, his voice a deep growl that makes his omega shiver, “What a treat you are. Such a mandokarla buir: the perfect omega warrior. You’d make such beautiful pups.”

Din gasps, fingers digging into the mask at the back of his skull. His waist still rocks under his one hand, matching the timing of Jaster’s thrusts. He’s such a tenacious thing, taking all of him without complaint, turned on by his girth stretching him. Jaster can feel how he’s getting tighter, or more accurately, Jaster was growing. The swell of his knot had already begun, and Jaster can taste Din’s anticipation in the air, how he seems to be pouring slick in preparation. Jaster’s never fucked someone who has been so turned on that it is undeniable without even seeing it. His mouth just keeps moving, lost in the heat of the moment.

“Just as strong. Just as gorgeous. I’d pump you full just to get another taste of you, just to witness you raise warriors. I’d be honoured for you to carry my children.”

“Then give them to me,” Din whispers hoarsely, dropping down on him as Jaster rises, the loud slap of their bodies meeting almost drowning out his words, “And I would give them to you.”

Fuck, Din means it too. He can feel the honesty, how Din would sacrifice his hunts, the risk to his body, to create their child. How he longs for the idea, and Jaster swallows harshly, the taste of him still coating his tongue. Like the first taste, it’s all he needs. Jaster’s hand cups his cheek, turning his head to press their lips together. He swallows Din’s next moan, hand still digging into the back of his skull and pulling his body against his. Jaster’s view is still pitch dark from the mask, but he’s got the warmth of him surrounding him, the strength of him in his arms, the taste of him strong and sweet in his mouth. The next thrust into Din feels wetter, his balls pulling up as his length throbs, thickening even more. 

“Yes,” Din grits out harshly against his lips, fingernails digging into his back. His excitement is palatable, the way he’s winding in his lap desperate. Jaster ducks his head again, following his nose this time back to that delicious faucet just because he can. He can’t just give one all the attention. Din bucks the second he gets his lips on him, milking him into his mouth with the gentle squeeze of his hand. 

It works, for both of them. It’s funny, because it takes one to pull the other over the edge. Jaster tastes him, feels how he reacts positively, how he still wants more, and his shaft starts to swell. Din, in turn, feels that: how he begins to fill him, and starts to really grip him in return, his body shaking in Jaster’s hands with this whine building in his throat. He drops, burying Jaster in him, and it only makes Jaster burn hotter when he feels the press of Din’s fingers trapped between them and buried in their pubic hair. 

“That’s it,” Jaster rasps in encouragement, feeling how Din is pleasuring himself as Jaster begins to stretch him, filling him with his seed and locking it in. At the same time, it squeezes so much slick out of Din, walls still flooding around him with Din’s continued arousal, it’s running down his crack and soaking the blanket beneath him. Just to see, he pushes his way deeper inside him, loving how Din tries to restrain a cry as he shakes, his cunt flexing around him but allowing him access. He feels absolutely divine, just like home.

“Oh, fuck,” Din moans, resting his forehead on Jaster’s shoulder, “You just keep getting bigger.”

He’s not wrong, Jaster feeling like he’s inflating twice the size he did earlier. He can only grunt, nodding his head against Din’s as he tries to refrain another pump into the joyous heat of him. He swallows, and thanks the Manda and Din he was able to wet his mouth before, the taste of him still delectable.

“Jate?” He demands, though he knows it’s too late to turn back now. His knot’s at the point where if he was to pull out now, it would only hurt Din more. 

“Yes, just,” His tough beroya huffs, “Stay still.”

“Elek, alor,” Jaster replies dutifully, planting his ass firmly into Din’s nest. The man is still slowly rubbing himself, these little sounds of pleasure still coming out of him and winding him up. Jaster embraces him, Din eventually doing the same when Jaster reaches his peak. They’re locked in for the long haul now, at least until Jaster deflates. He feels absolutely brainless, like he’s emptied everything into this orgasm. His body is still primed for more with every inhale, and he's in awe from how quickly this man makes him want to go again. 

“When I’m soft,” Jaster says on instinct, whispering this into his ear just for him, “I’m going to pull my mask down, I’m going to pull out, and I want you to look at how much I’ve given you. How much you excite me and turn me on. Us, combined.”

The stuttered breath that comes out of him sounds relieved, yet still so excited. It’s another promise he keeps, covering his face again once his knot subsides. Then, he taps Din’s thigh, wanting him to lift off him if his legs weren’t as boneless as his. Jaster gets to feel it intimately as he does, he doesn’t need to see it. How Din’s body squeezes him like he doesn’t want him to leave, the resounding popping feeling of sliding out of him, cock landing still half-hard on his belly. What’s really the cherry on the cake is the amount of mixed cum from the both of them pouring out of Din, pooling on Jaster’s stomach. 

Jaster hopes that was enough to satisfy him to start, and if not, there’s more where that came from. He expects Din to want a break, a chance to rehydrate. Too bad, or lucky for him, that’s not what he’s created.

Since Din's heat started and he'd barricaded himself inside Jaster's ship, passing time becomes difficult to comprehend. It's sorted into two halves; the lonely beginning Din spends by himself, and the fantastic finale from Jaster's accompainment. He hadn't been happy, nor really coherent, when Jaster had first entered his nesting room. Din had been startled out an orgasm that just kept slipping away from his fingers when the door opened. That had surged his emotions up to cataclysmic; he'd grabbed his dagger and lunged, the sharp smell of alpha, a deep rumble from their chest, their visor directly facing him egging him on.

If his brain had clocked it was Jaster right away, maybe he wouldn't have taken a swipe. Rage had been at the forefront, but the man had stayed calm despite him slicing his palm open, and Din been easily persuaded to the truth. Jaster would die for him, and he did not flinch from Din swinging at his helmet with a fist to see if he could get a reaction. Jaster didn't see it coming, didn't move other than to await Din's permission to stay. It was so easy to agree, despite Din never saying yes before. The man radiated honesty, devotion, excitement.

It was a blessing, those masks Jaster had made. If Din was being honest with himself, and Jaster: even if the Vows had been spoken between them, Din does not think he would be confident enough to remove his helmet the first time. To be utterly bare. Only his children and buir had seen his face in over twenty years, and Din did not know what he looked like, subjectively, to others. He can't remember the last time someone saw him totally naked. Would he be handsome to Jaster, or would he be opposite to his physical tastes? Could he handle the thought of that man looking at him with those intense eyes during their intimacy for his first time, having him see Din stare back? He doesn't even know his own response to sharing his heat with an alpha; what if he fucked it up somehow, made a fool of himself? Said or did something that turned Jaster right off?

Silly as it sounded, a helmet or mask protected his self-esteem, not ready for that big leap in this already uncomfortable time. Din had buried his embarrassment by convincing himself Jaster couldn't see him. Maybe not with his eyes, but Jaster made sure to map him with his hands, other parts with his tongue. This alpha had put himself on his back right away for him, submitted to him first and without hesitation. Had made sure to pleasure him first, and something in him burns knowing he's found a keeper. One that wouldn't leave him unsatisfied, wouldn't just use him for his own release and leave him wanting. He touches and holds him with care, shows his love through action, and Din believes in him in every way.

Most of all, he believes Jaster could be the one to finally quiet his mind, even during his heat. It has been pleasurable with Jaster's assistance, but there is still an undercurrent of tension in his body. His temperature is hotter than it's ever been, why Ylfotta had warned him against wearing his helmet, and even the mask for too long. Blessedly, Jaster's skin feels cool against him, a reprieve wherever he touches him. The ache inside him hurt like cramps during his menstruation, pressure only easing off when Jaster directed it to more pleasurable areas. Din always kept his head, held tight and fought against his instincts, especially during his heats. In a way it was a secondary instinct too; without a mate in the room, he was fighting alone against intruders, and that meant a part of him was always on guard. 

For the first time, that switch turns off.

Din stares down at Jaster's muscular chest, half propped up by a pillow, and still heaving for air from his orgasm. Din had never been stretched so wide, the burning feeling of an alpha's girth making room inside him. Jaster had a thick cock to start, not terrifyingly long, but definitely mouth-wateringly shaped. Nice curve, dark hair surrounding his pubic region, a happy trail that led up to his belly button. That knot of his, however.... It had blocked out that strain in his gut, made him think about how Jaster had swelled so large, it was useless trying to separate. How Din had to focus on breathing through the slight sting of Jaster expanding his walls to fit, locking them together. Jaster had twitched once, and Din had to bite back the moan that was half pain and pleasure, like tugging on something bound to rip. Any more, and it truly would have hurt. He can't look away from it now, his cock still red with blood, balls still heavy and full.

Even now, the man was half-cocked, not far away from being at full mast. That, combined with what just leaked out of him as Jaster pulled out, has halted his brain. He clenches, and sees how more trickles out of him, puddle growing on Jaster’s stomach and glistening cock. Something hot is pooling in his belly, deep in his gut, and it takes over his mind. That heat of this alpha’s seed filling him, and now leaving him, wasn’t enough. 

He needed more.

It is a blessing Jaster cannot see him. The way his mouth drops open stupidly, how his pupils widen so much he looks delirious, the hand that trails absently across his lower stomach. The fire that burns beneath his fingertips, roaring and wanting more fuel to demolish, still hungry. It’s like a void opens up in his belly, so empty he’s starving, and only this alpha can fill it. Din feels vacant without him, his walls clenching and unsatisfied, deprived. His cum is so hot as it trickles out of him, Din intimately aware of what he is losing. This whine hums in the silence between them, and Din doesn’t even know it’s him until his head is dropping, frantic hand leading Jaster’s length into his mouth.

Now it’s a happy sound almost buried under Jaster’s sudden growl, those delectable fingers curling into his nest’s blankets. Jaster’s a courteous man, and Din can feel how the man plants his hips down into the floor, giving him the tiniest twitch when Din knows all he wants to do is thrust into his mouth. Din rewards him for it despite his inexperience, finally not giving a shit about it. There was so much saliva in his mouth just from the sight of him, it's easy to focus on how he even stretches his mouth. It's sloppy, not much purpose behind it other than getting to enjoy his flavour and making him hard again.

They taste absolutely divine mixed, Din moaning when Jaster's cum pools on his tongue when he gives him a hard suck. The man is making these fantastic sounds of pleasure, grunts and gasps, whispers of encouragement, and he grows faster than Din expected. The scent of him here, his sweat, all screams alpha. Just like earlier, when Din had scented him and had the sudden urge to drop and present. This time it’s harder to ignore. He trusts Jaster, he loves Jaster, he wants this man to have him like nobody has, to fulfill that final instinct. 

“Din,” Jaster moans, Din humming in response and half lost in fantasies. The man tastes good, he smells incredible and like home, and Din wants him ready to go. How he’s thickening in his mouth is a boost to his confidence, and like a knock to the head.

“Cyar’ika, do you want another?” Jaster huffs, Din glancing up to see how his head has leaned back, sharped tendons straining in his neck that lead down under the mask to his clavicles. Those are strong and defined too, calling for his lips, and this mercenary was dappled in muscles and scars. Chest dusted with dark hair, tanned skin, a treat laid out before him. Of course Din wants another. He hums again in agreement.

“Then pull me out of that delectable mouth of yours, and line me up.”

Din pulls off him with a gasp, body shaking. If he could see himself, he would think he just crawled out of being lost in the wild. Curls pointing every direction, face flushed, covered in sweat, Jaster’s bloody handprints all over his body. Somewhere in his brain Jaster remembered that hand should stay away from sensitive body parts, but that didn’t stop him from touching everywhere else. Din crawls off him, body moving of his own accord and knowing what it wants. At the same time, he knows what is required, what he wishes to give.

“Close your eyes,” Din says, fingers already reaching towards him.

He has to trust that Jaster listens to him, gripping the soft face mask around his neck and pulling up. His own eyes close before it lifts over the man’s jaw and then off his head. Then, he’s pulling it over his own, having a realization the same time Jaster tells him.

“Uh, it’s a little—“

“Wet?” Din says, huffing a laugh as he feels the cooling damp spot on his ear. It causes a strange mix of embarrassment and pride to light inside him, knowing it was from when he was sitting on the man’s face. Jaster had just wafted utter delight, moaning and wiggling happily as Din’s seat, thickening in his hand by the second. It’s something he can live with knowing, because Jaster hadn’t cared one bit that he was drenching his mask on accident. 

“Open them, Jaster,” Din says instead, giving the man a turn with his eyes open, and Din’s face shielded. He knows the second he does, because the man gasps.

“Manda, Din, I’ve covered you in blood,” he bemoans, and he shifts on the nest like he intends to get up, “Let me get—“

Din reaches out and snags him, getting an arm in his unwavering grip.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Din growls, this time meaning them very differently. 

Din pulls him forward as he leans back, getting his back on the ground. His nest is soft and comfortable for once, yet still providing stable support. It’s easy for him to roll over and push himself up. His ears burn under the mask as he pants for air, hating the mix of desperation and awkwardness in his belly. Never has he presented for an alpha, ass up and positioned like a true omega in heat, wanting to be dominated and fucked. Jaster is a man he trusts in a position behind him, and he is so glad he does not need to ask for it.

Jaster growls this deep sound that Din feels, the man grabbing him by the hips to yank him back and into his eager mouth. Din gasps as he buries his face back between his thighs, hands spreading the cheeks of his ass as he runs his tongue up his slit, kissing and sucking at his lips. A tremor wracks his entire body when he pushes his tongue back inside him, getting their mixed flavours right from the source. It breaks him out in a full sweat, feeling him hum in approval. Din’s pussy throbs, this whine sneaking out of his mouth when the man pulls back with heavy breaths, cool against his wet sensitive skin. 

“My word, Din’ika, you’re a wonder,” he rasps, Din whines when Jaster runs a gentle thumb up and down the wet seam of his lips, teasing at his entrance, “Ori’mesh’la.”

“Please, Jaster,” Din gasps, having never begged for anything yet here he was, “I’ve been dreaming about these fucking fingers of yours.”

There’s a harsh moan that comes from the alpha behind him, before Jaster gives him what he wants. A bonus too, as the man nips his teeth into Din’s ass just before he presses his thumb into him. Din’s hips jerk, trembling as it dips his thick digit further inside him. Manda, it’s not enough, but Jaster knows the right buttons to push, and knows he needs more. He pushes his index and middle fingers into him next, and Din twitches from how he's not shy about it, pumping them into him enough Din can feel the cum he's displacing running down his slit and thighs.

"Loot at it all," his alpha murmurs, sounding in awe of it as he gets a frontal view. Din moans and hangs his head, shaking as the man follows his curve with intent, hitting his sweet spot with every stroke. He doesn't need to see it; he can feel it, and how it's not just from their previous climax. He's clenching around him already, every contraction squeezing more of his continued arousal out of him. Jaster milks it from him with the talented fingers he's been imagining touching him like this. The man's other hand is massaging into his muscles, his ass, his legs, tracing scars and connecting beauty marks.

It doesn’t take long until Din’s gushing again, starting to trail down his thighs as he pushes back on Jaster’s fingers. The man’s slipped four easily into him now, pumping and curling them just right. He’s got Din gasping, sweat running down his face and soaking into the mask, every touch slippery and enhanced by his slick. When Jaster bites at the meaty side of his lower hip and back, Din spasms and squeezes his fingers, body coiled so tight milk is dripping out of his nipples and trailing down his swollen pecs.  

“Enough,” Din growls, still thrusting back against him, “I want it now, alpha. Stop playing with me.”

Jaster immediately pulls his fingers out of him, cupped hand sliding over his mound instead. His fingers find that sensitive spot so easily, pressing hard slow circles into his clit. Din moans as he feels him shuffle closer, the way his stiff cock presses in his crack when he pulls his hand away. 

“You’ll get it. I keep my word, my pretty omega,” Jaster coos, and Din cannot even process all the emotions from Jaster calling him such. Not when the man is nodding the fat head of him through his wet lips, coating him in more of his pre-cum, “You’re just gorgeous, sweetheart. I’ve been dreaming about using these handles of yours.”

Din doesn’t quite know what he means until Jaster’s lining himself up, slipping his swollen tip past his entrance. This pleased sound comes out of Din, loving how it still feels like Jaster has to push through the tight ring of him, opening him just a bit wider, Din gripping him just as tightly as he did before the first knot. Then, Jaster’s strong hands are gripping his waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his belly and thumbs into his back, and pulling him back roughly. Jaster fills him to the brim, full balls slapping against his ass and mound before pulling away. All the embarrassment leaves Din instantly at their combine sound of pleasure, and he’s filled with the desire to get what he wants.

Jaster doesn’t even have to move after that; just holds the line. Din is rocking his body, crying out with each push backwards that plunges Jaster deep inside him, how he has to lean so far forward to have his head ride to his edge. This angle is so much different than the first, the man’s curve filling him just right as his tip presses along his walls in all the right places. Din doesn’t even think about how he’s moving against him, until Jaster starts thrusting into him as he sinks back, matching his desperation. The sound of his balls slapping against him as he begins to pull Din back into his timed thrusts is loud in his ears, keeping Din's rhythm going and letting it steadily build.

“Fuck,” Jaster grits out, hand shifting to grab his swollen breast again. He squeezes as he pulls Din back against him, making him lift on his knees and teasing milk out of him. Din can’t help the whimper from the relief it causes, pressure leaving it and instead building in his gut. Jaster doesn’t stop pumping up into him despite Din almost sitting his lap, his other hand cupping his ass to give him enough clearance to drive into him with sounds that echo in the room.

Din feels how Jaster hooks his chin over his shoulder, shivering from his biting kisses. He forces another sound out of him as he massages his breast, making milk dribble out of him and drip down his stomach. He knows Jaster’s watching from how he pants against his neck, how his thrusts grow more purposeful.

"Mine," Jaster growls, Din's heart pounding from how that word reverberates in his very core, "I'd give you many children, Din Djarin. Seeing you like this, the sweetest thing I've ever had, and just bursting with it. Jatne'buir."

Jaster proves his point by purposefully squeezing him, knowing how to tease it out of him. Din bites his lip at the high embarrassing sound that comes out of him along with a stream of breastmilk. The sound Jaster makes in response is all approval, gloried in his achievement. His base is starting to thicken from that alone, Din's loins pulsing in anticipation.

Din can’t believe how much of a turn on it is for the man after thinking it might unnerve him. It had sure unnerved Din, because he had never displayed lactation before. Though Jaster had been right; he’d never had a heat where he’d claimed an ik’aad, and after all the drugs he put into his body…. It’s no surprise they swelled painfully after his heat ramped up. 

Instead, it makes Jaster think he is a better buir for it, for having these instincts, and is reaping the benefits while lending him a hand. He moans as Jaster scrapes his teeth on the steel patch over his mating gland, having enough mind to know it won’t work, but letting the pressure of his canines speak his intent. After that, all Din knows is three things. The blissful feeling of Jaster filling him again and again, the hand at his ass curling over his hips to dip down into his slick-damp curls to tease the top of his folds, and the words he’s speaking into his ear. Din shivers from it all, the way his timing of his hips matches the determined motion of his fingers. He doesn’t even need to be precise when Din is so slippery and his clitoral hood is so pulled up, the nub just as erect as the nipple Jaster’s stimulating. 

“Manda,” his alpha rumbles, Din feeling the vibration from his chest at his back, “The first thing I’m going to do once we’re married is fuck you in this position in front of mirror. You need to see yourself, mesh’la. You’re just dripping for me.”

Din growls and winds his ass against him, rolling him deep into him. Jaster sinks his teeth back into his shoulder, pinching his nipple in retaliation. The cry that comes out of him is all surprise, spasming against his hand with him buried inside him. It’s the way Jaster rocks into him fast, the way he kneads his breast at the same time, the slight pain of his sharp teeth digging in so close to his mating gland. 

“Yeah, that’s it,” Jaster growls against his skin, feeling how Din’s cinching his cock, this keening sound coming from his throat as he bounces in Jaster’s lap, “Cum for me, baby, and I’ll fill you up like you need.”

That does it for him, Din writhing as his belly clenches. His hips are jerking erratically, Jaster holding him tight against him as his other hand rapidly pleasures his clit, pressing hard into the nerves so Din can’t squirm away. Din wails when Jaster continues to slide that thickening cock inside him, riding his growing head right to Din’s edge before sinking into him. The animalistic grunts in his ear make him wetter, feeling how close Jaster is getting to his orgasm. His own cum and slick is gushing out of him with wet sounds, twin running rivers down his thighs. 

His brain is focused on one thing despite his own release, in how it is still not enough to satisfy him. His omega in him still isn’t happy, his insides still aching to be teeming with this man’s seed. He wants more until he feels bloated with it, wants to feel like he’s guaranteed a child. 

“I need it,” Din gasps, hand grabbing Jaster’s wrist and leading it upwards so he can cup both his aching breasts, “I need you, Jaster. Knot me, gedet’ye.”

Jaster moans, squeezing his hands and lifting one to his mouth. Din can hear him suck his fingers, cleaning them of the creamy fluid he is so obsessed with. At the same time, Din drifts his own hand between his legs, fingers spread in a V as he follows his lips until he traps Jaster’s cock between them. It’s debilitating, feeling his girth wet with his juices, sliding between his fingers as he moves inside him. He squeezes his shaft once, and Jaster’s hand whips down to grab Din’s hip, pushing him down so he’s fully seated inside him and resting on his thighs. Din can’t help but moan, shifting his hand back up to his clit as he feels Jaster throb, keeping Din in his lap and buried up to the hilt. 

“Yes,” Din is saying, over and over, but he’s not really hearing himself. All he knows is Jaster is doing that continuous growl, vibrating his back as his knot starts to swell. Din cannot believe how intimate he can feel it, how hot Jaster’s cum is as he empties it all inside him, how Din’s canal feels Jaster’s heartbeat as his knot expands him, to make Din accommodate him until he cannot be pulled free. The slight burn is nothing to how connected they feel, tied together like this.

“Fuck, you’re squeezing me,” Jaster grits out, sounding like it pains him. 

“Sorry,” Din rasps, not able to help how he’s flexing around him. It’s like his cunt is wringing Jaster for more with every clench, so much so Din feels like he might burst by the time the man pulls out. He doesn’t want him to, and that sudden realization makes him squeeze the man tighter, wanting him to fuck him again, fill him with more. 

“Don’t apologize, Din,” Jaster chuckles, “You feel good. Like you were made for me.”

Din’s head nods without his input, feeling the same. Jaster fits him just perfectly, and Din wants more of him like he has no other. Now he understands what he was missing this whole time, and it’s made him insatiable. 

“I want another,” he demands the second he begins to deflate, not caring how. Jaster chuckles, this fond and happy thing. The man doesn’t even reprimand him for his rudeness, considering all he’s shared with him so far. Din can smell how pleased Jaster is to hear him say it, and Din only grows more excited with his next words.

“Lights, zero percent.”

The room plunges into pitch blackness, and Jaster’s careful hands encourage him to turn around. Din whines as he lifts, his alpha’s rough laughter maddening, but he understands his omega’s complaint. The second his head pulls out, Jaster is stuffing four fingers in him from behind, plugging his cum inside him.

“Down now, omega,” Jaster purrs, “Roll over.”

If he was anyone else, Din would tear his head off. Because it is him, Din drops onto his nest and rolls on his back, keeping his pace slow so Jaster can stay buried in him. Then, a gentle hand is carefully peeling the mask off his face, exposing the same view. He cannot see Jaster above him, but he can feel the way his hand maneuvers his legs around his waist, the way they caress his skin. Din’s panting excitedly as he shuffles closer, thrilled to be trying out so many positions with a man who understands what he wants. The next moment, thoughts are wiped from his mind as Jaster pulls out his fingers and doesn’t waste a beat to push his head into him. What’s pure torment is how the man doesn’t give him more than that before pulling out, keeping his tip pressed against his entrance before he sinks back in. It’s the way he’s making him wink for him, his eager hole embracing him and then feeling so empty when he leaves.

He’d be cursing him if it didn’t feel so fucking divine, Din writhing on his nest and searching for more, but so stimulated by just the girth of him. That’s all he needs to feel like he might snap, feeling brittle around the edges. 

“So fuckin’ tight. I can feel how hungry you are for me. Just don’t wanna let me go.”

Din growls, face flushing at how Jaster’s accent has thickened. He hears the smile in his next words, tease that he is.

“Greedy little thing. Think I can make you cum like this? Still stuffed full of me?”

Din huffs, smile curling his lips, “You can try.”

Jaster is the one growling now, seeing that as a challenge. The darkness doesn’t help him prepare for Jaster ducking to suckle his teat back into his earnest mouth. Din bucks underneath him, half an attempt to slip his cock deeper inside him, and half  from the sensitivity of Jaster drinking him in. It doesn’t take long for both of them to lose themselves to passion, feeding off of the other’s reactions, and going at it like rabbits for the rest of Din’s cycle.

It’s certifiably a heat neither of them will forget.