Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Din was going to kill Bo-Katan.

Hadn’t he done everything she’d asked him? He ran from one end of the galaxy to the other to talk to Clans he had no idea existed, bearing the brunt of sneers and curled lips and the occasional blaster burns between the gaps of his battered, durasteel armor. Every second of his day had been nonstop trying to appease the red-haired Alpha, but it seemed nothing he did would forgive his blunder of picking up that stupid laser sword.

He still had scars from when Axe Woves and Koska Reeves slammed him into the walls, the floors, through a computer terminal, their snarls drowning out his pained yowls as he tried to fight against the assault. He hadn’t even caught his breath from defeating that Moff who’d had it before they tore into him, hadn’t even known that Bo-Katan wanted to kill the Moff herself, but when a black laser sword was coming for his head, what else was he supposed to do?

He wasn’t to ever speak a word of what happened in that room, when Bo-Katan’s two lackeys wore him down to where she could sweep in and put him on his back. When she picked up the sword from the floor where he’d dropped it, and made him swear that she won it in combat as was the Way.

It was no Way he knew of, and he was certain she’d been mocking him for it.

The bindings pinning his arms to his back dug into his skin as he once more tested them, the braided cord biting into raw patches of flesh and sending numb tingles up through his shoulders.

Hadn’t he done enough? She wanted to unite the Mandalorian people, to resettle the planets long abandoned by both man and beast and lost to time. He’d followed every rumor and suggestion until he found the forgotten sector at her direction, he’d helped discover the Clans and Tribes scattered across the galaxy and tell them the news, just as he was told to do. He’d even guided them through the asteroids and uncharted swaths of space, until they were setting down on Mandalore, left untouched by sentient hands ever since the Dral’han.

Oh, how it’d taken his breath away, to see the stretches of glass and sand, to see the old veshok trees known only in half-forgotten stories, to see blue skies and clear water trickling through the earthen scars. To walk ancient streets with tiny wildflowers peeking through the cracks and vines growing up the broken walls.

It was wild. It was free.

And this was how he was repaid- tied up and chained like a dog, naked and blindfolded in this temple to some old god he did not know, Bo-Katan’s smirk the last thing he’d seen before he was blinded and dragged into the cold heart of the structure.

“To awaken the old gods, we will need a sacrifice,” Bo-Katan had told him when Woves was wrenching his arms back until he could barely feel his fingers, the cord winding and winding and winding until he was trussed up as a pretty present. “Don’t give me that look- you should be thankful, some beta nobody being given to the gods to help our people.”

The stone was ice against his knees, seeping into every old injury and into his bones. Sometimes he could relieve the pain by leaning forward, forehead pressed against the stone to give slack to the chain that was collared to his neck and pinned to the floor, but he didn’t like the position. It made him feel extra vulnerable, open and ready to be taken by the first being to find him.

His Tribe hadn’t cared that he’d been presented as a beta. They hadn’t cared that he bore the omega features down below with the viciousness of an alpha coursing through his veins. He had the alpha’s fangs without the venom, he had the slender omegan waist and silent prowl. He was tenacious, cunning and dangerous, without the need to reek like a bullheaded alpha and throw his scent around, no need to take time off for heats or ruts. The Tribe had only cared that he was strong and that he could provide, and he had. He had.

But then one mission he’d returned, and they had been gone, the walls scorched black and bodies long since picked clean and burned to ash.

Din felt hot pinpricks in the corners of his eyes as he let himself lean forward, his lungs struggling to suck in a proper breath as he settled his forehead to the cold tile. He missed his Tribe. He missed the little ade who’d come running to him after returning from a hunt, eager to see what sort of treats he’d managed to sneak for them. He missed the Armorer and her forge, the rhythmic clang of her hammer settling the wildness in his soul. He even missed Paz, who knew how to drive him up a wall and yet also knew how to spar him until that vicious creature that lived in his veins was finally satisfied. He missed the kind touches, the friendly words, the inside jokes and the warm bodies that occasionally curled alongside him to ward away the evening chill.

He wished they could be here, to see the homeworlds of their people. To see the trees and the flowers and find a home among the ancient decay. But they weren’t here. Bo-Katan and the people she wanted were here- all prideful alphas and stubborn omegas- and Din was only here to satisfy old rites he’d been mocked for not knowing. Silly beta Foundling, not knowing the old gods. What had they been teaching him in his Tribe, how to be a coward?

She’d only told him a little before he’d been thrown in here. Alor of a Thousand Children, but what he (they?) stood for, he did not know. It could be the Alor himself, it could be one of his many children. It could also just be one of Bo-Katan’s allies, coming into fuck him raw while he was chained down, and he wouldn’t know the difference. Whatever it may be, it was supposed to help the Mandalorians reawaken the rest of the gods and help them all settle. Repopulate. Reclaim the Mandalorian homeland.

He didn’t want any of it. He didn’t want to be touched, to be restrained and used. He didn’t even want to be on this cursed planet anymore, not even in this sector. He wanted to be home.

(But there was no home for a lost beta).

A quiet scrape of a boot against the stone somewhere behind him jerked Din up, chain snapping taut as the collar dug into his throat. A furious warning growl ripped through his chest, baring his teeth and flashing sharp fangs as he tried to twist himself towards the noise. His back arched and hunched, the hairs on the back of his neck bristling as he pulled his stiff legs inward, tucking himself small to protect himself in his vulnerable state. Back off!

The blindfold prevented him from seeing who was there, his ears straining to hear and nostrils flaring. He’d always had a much more sensitive sense of smell, able to sniff out individuals even with his helmet on. Bo-Katan hated it when he wore his armor so much, didn’t understand his Creed and thought poorly of his Tribe, but even if Din had thrown away his Creed (he hadn’t meant to, oh, he was so sorry-), he didn’t trust Bo-Katan or her ilk not to hurt him outside his armor. His armor was his safety, his protective little shell between himself and the cruel galaxy that did not care for him. And they had stripped it away from him, stripped him down until he was bare and exposed and he refused to roll over and present himself to even a god.

The scent he pulled into his lungs was familiar, tickling the back of his tongue as the furious wildness roared through his veins. The gentle draft of someone moving towards him displaced the cold, stale air with something hot and dry. Arid. It drew up the memory of twin suns high overhead and dunes stretched out for leagues before him, the gentle sway of a bantha and the taste of roasted hubba chips.

“Easy. Easy.”

The hand that settled on the back of his neck was large, the leather warm against his frigid skin. The moment the touch made contact, Din was already lunging towards the rumbling voice, a snarl that rattled over the ceiling as he snapped. His heart was pounding in his chest, lungs heaving as the metallic tang of blood from torn skin along his arms and throat stung his nose.

Strong fingers squeezed into his neck, a scruffing that did nothing but keep Din from wrenching against his chain again. Pressure slowly forced his head downward, and as soon as his nose brushed fabric his teeth were sinking into it, biting mouthfuls of harmless cloth.

“Shh, it’s okay little one, shhh-“

The hand on his neck moved, not away like Din wanted, but stroked down along his spine, then back up for another pass down, smoothing over the numerous scars that littered his skin. His whole body felt like it was rattling against the touch, the chain clinking as his teeth gnawed on the fabric in the being’s lap, unable to find anything of use.

Every pull of breath into his lungs pulled in the scent of sand and spice, of blaster oil and armor polish and bantha wool. It tickled at memories of long ago, of his days on Tatooine when he’d proven himself with the Tusken tribe, of times longer still when he sat alongside the warriors of his own Tribe, watching them clean their weapons and carefully traced a detail paintbrush over the metal curves of their armor.

It reminded him of better days. When he knew he was loved and cared for and wasn’t just some loose end no one knew what to do with, some unwanted nobody kept around to order around because he was the only one with a sense of honor that had seemingly died in these people whom Bo-Katan wrapped around herself. That same honor being used against him, pulling him along on a leash at Bo-Katan’s whim, but it was so very clear she was bored of him now, and every job he came back alive from only made her angrier.

The burning in the corners of his eyes had spilled without him realizing it at first, hot, salty tears slipping down to immediately be soaked into the rough-hewn fabric of his blindfold. He was angry, he was hurt, he was so many things all jumbled up into an aching tangled knot in his chest, and he just wanted to go home but where was home-?

A sharp snap filtered from the buzzing in his ears, and Din’s arm’s finally slumped out from their confines behind his back. But instead of fighting, his hands fisted themselves into the fabric, ignoring the tingling sensation radiating throughout his limbs. He clung on, and he cried, cried for his lost Tribe, for those simpler, happier days, for himself. He cried because the bottle he kept crammed within his heart had broken, and he didn’t know if he could get himself to stop even if he wanted to. He cried because everything was so fucked up and he was so desperate for any sort of kindness that he clung to this stranger whose fingers were carding through his tangled curls, down his neck and following the valley of his spine.

All fight trickled out of him in bits and pieces, leaving Din shaky and so very tired. He found himself with his legs curled up on the floor, his upper half all but buried into the other’s lap. The warm hands never left him, one now permanently making itself at home in his hair as the other rubbed soothing circles along his shoulders. He could barely smell them anymore, not with how clogged his nose was, but he pressed his cheek against a strong thigh and could imagine it so vividly in his mind. The scent of Tatooine. Of his Tribe. Of all the little scraps of goodness he clutched in his fists.

“You’re alright.” The low, gravelly voice was so tender, a thumb finding his ear and stroking leather along the shell that made Din tremble. He didn’t know this voice, but he knew them, so familiar to his heart and soul with a steadfast certainty despite not knowing them at all. He felt… he felt safe here, under their eyes and gentle touch and earthy tones.

He wanted to crawl into this being’s skin, to settle into their chest cavity and stay there, curled and small and protected by a cage of ribs. A cage would always be a cage, but if he had any choice, he wanted to be within this one’s snare than be chained to an impossible debt to Bo-Katan that seemed to wax and wane however the way she was feeling that day.

“Oh, ner beroya,” the voice sighed so sadly, thumb slipping down his ear to his neck (when had the collar been removed?), tracing so tenderly around the hidden lump of his scent gland, undeveloped due to his beta status. It wasn’t necessary for a mere beta, who were always a means to an end. Second best. Bodies to be used to sate the instinctual hunger of omegas and alphas alike when all other options weren’t possible. He knew, on the others, that the flesh would be sensitive, would welcome others to tuck their noses close and scent them for familiarity and bonding.

Betas scents were just too mild for most omegas or alphas to smell. Boring.

But the thumb pressed against his skin, finding that invisible gland with the soft leather, sending a rattling shiver through Din’s body. It didn’t hurt, but it made something within ache, a trembling, fragile little thing. It made him want things he couldn’t put names to, for things he knew he couldn’t have even if he could get the words to fall from his tongue.

“Are you going to fuck me?” he whispered, weak voice muffled as his lips brushed against damp fabric that had once been in his mouth, soaked with his own saliva and tears. Because that’s what Bo-Katan had sent him in here for, wasn’t it? A sacrifice, an encouragement to the gods to favor them as they repopulated their old stomping grounds. To be bent over and taken over and over until he forgot his own name, used to satiate a payment he didn’t know had been set and one he hadn’t volunteered for.

“No,” the being replied lowly, that too gentle touch returning to the back of his neck, resting their large palm there. “Not when you are so unwilling.”

A sharp pang stabbed through his chest. Din’s fingers curled tightly into the fabric of the being’s lap, so very afraid that he’d just fucked this all up, he shouldn’t have opened his mouth-

“Please don’t punish them,” he begged, causing the circles being traced against the bones of his spine to pause. “They just wanted to belong somewhere again. Please. I’m sorry-“

“Shhh.”

Fingers squeezed once more in a gentle scruff, only this time Din allowed himself to melt under the touch, the coiled tension in his muscles melting as he slumped into the hold.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head,” the being crooned, low like the winds in the tall desert canyons. “I won’t bring them harm. Rest now, ner beroya. You did so well, so brave, but it’s time for you to sleep.”

Sleep was the last thing on Din’s mind, yet when that warm voice whispered to him, it gently coaxed him deeper into the darkness. He settled against the warmth of the being, his nose unclogged enough to smell the spices and warm sands and armor polish. He let himself drift under soft touches, eyelashes catching on the blindfold as they fluttered closed, chasing after bright oranges and yellows and the leagues upon leagues of wilderness he could lose himself into.

His last wish before he slipped beneath the gentle waves of sleep was that he could remain in this safe embrace forever.

Chapter Text

Someone was pounding on his door.

Years of hypervigilant instincts forced him upright in a blink, heart in his throat and sleep blotting his vision. The sight of his sleeping quarters on board the Crest greeted him, the walls bare and room small, confined and safe with the door shut and indicator light on the lock a welcoming red.

It took a moment for him to realize they weren’t banging on his quarters’ door inside his ship, but the entrance to the ship itself, the muted thumps reverberating through the metal walls. He racked his brain for clues, trying to remember if there was some meeting Bo-Katan wanted him at first thing in the morning and he’d somehow overslept instead of waking up every hour on the hour as per norm. There’d been a meeting the day before, hadn’t there?

His armor being stripped. Arms bound tight and chained to cold floors. The warm scent of sand-

The temple.

He wasn’t in the temple anymore. He wasn’t even naked, his flightsuit snug against his frame and safe back on the Crest with no memory of how he got there. He had been inside the temple, hadn’t he? He’d been chained down, tied up and left to be used. He was certain of it. Or, he had been.

Din shoved his sleeves up, gaping and running his hands over his unmarred arms where the memory of rope gnawing into his flesh bright behind his eyelids. The injuries were no longer there. There weren’t even any bruising.

Had it… had it all been a dream…?

Something rough was tickling his exposed elbows, and he looked down to his lap, expecting to find a blanket. His heart stopped in his chest as he stared down at a black, bantha wool robe that’d been draped over him in replacement for the usual threadbare throw he was currently laying on, the weave so familiar it made something small within his chest ache.

Hands trembling, Din sank his fingers into the fabric, the texture so familiar he could almost taste the sand on his tongue. He didn’t think before he brought it to his face, pressing the robe against his cheeks as he breathed in deep.

Bright suns and warm sand. Hot, arid winds. The scent of black melon juice and the half-forgotten taste of dewback jerky. Armor polish and blaster oil. A strong thigh and strong, gentle fingers through his hair. An earthy voice that spoke in kind, soothing tones despite unable to recall the words.

Not a dream. Not a dream. It’d been real.

The banging had stopped suddenly, and that was just as unnerving as the banging itself. It could mean they were lying in wait for him, setting up a trap, an ambush.

They’re Mandalorians, a part of his brain whispered.

They’re not ours, another part wept.

Din forced himself to peel the robe off his lap, bare feet touching the cold metallic floors of his ship. He didn’t want to leave, but he knew if it was Bo-Katan on the other side of the door, she’d be more pissed off if he didn’t immediately acknowledge her.

Din wanted to be angry at her. Wanted to bare his teeth and ignore her and leave her at his door in a rage. He wanted to feel the need to confront her, to let his voice drop in fury at the way she’d been treating him. They were supposed to be Mandalorians, they were supposed to respect each other, or at the very least acknowledge him for all the help he’s done for her.

But all he could feel settling in is the bone-deep tiredness of resignation, the lonely yearning ache in his chest that just simply wanted to be- if not loved, then to be tolerated. Bo-Katan wanted the rediscovered Mandalore to be someplace they all could call home, but home was a place with playful teasing and warm meals they ate with backs turned to keep their Creeds.

No matter how beautiful this planet was, Din didn’t believe he would ever belong to it.

When he finally got the ramp door to hiss open in his stumbling daze, Din had never been so thankful for to find a baar’ur to be standing at his doorway in his life. He didn’t know their heritage, their skin a beautiful lavender and their thick, seafoam hair braided in dozens of tightly-bound braids. Yet they stood tall and furious, glaring down at a furious Bo-Katan who paced at the foot of the ramp, hands clenching and unclenching as if debating whether or not it was worth leaping up the ramp to attack despite the disadvantage. The scent of aggression was thick in the early dawn air, setting his teeth on edge as he flicked his eyes between the two warring Mandalorians.

“This is a private medical check-up!” the baar’ur snapped at the alpha before turning towards Din, the white cultural markings on their cheeks stretching under the stress of trying to hide their teeth.

 “May I come in?”

The question took him off guard, blinking at them. No one’s ever asked him if they could enter his ship before- Bo-Katan and her colleagues thought little of his need for space and constantly invaded, spreading their scents all over and making his sinuses feel clogged for days afterwards. It destroyed the careful balance of safety he tried to seep into the space, and he’d spend far too long trying to air out his ship and unable to sleep peacefully with their stink all over.

To them, it wasn’t like they were trespassing into an unknown omega’s nest, or an alpha’s den. Betas didn’t do those things. Didn’t need to, so it shouldn’t matter. Din didn’t matter.

Din glanced down at the still very pissed off Bo-Katan. She wasn’t prowling anymore, but her eyes are hard and mouth curled to expose the flash of fangs as she watched the exchange. She was rearing for a fight but knew fighting against a baar’ur would be a bad idea. That was like trying to fight against a goran- it just wasn’t done (at least that was something shared between Din’s Creed and these other Mandalorians).

He found himself shuffling out of the way to allow the baar’ur into the Crest, locking the door behind him before Bo-Katan could change her mind and try to lunge for it

“I’m fine,” he promised the baar’ur as they wheeled around and honed their sights on him, their sharp blue eyes narrowing, unimpressed.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” they snipped, making a hand gesture that had Din suppress a sigh, tension bunching in his shoulders as he reluctantly did as he was told and began to peel the flightsuit off.

“Kryze was insane to pull the stunt she did,” the baar’ur stated bluntly, their scent turning burnt and bitter in their anger. Omega, from how he could taste it on the tip of his tongue- alphas were more sensed in the back of his throat like the burn of alcohol. “You could’ve died from exposure, or from suffocation from the position you were put in, or lost all circulation in your arms from how tight your bindings were, and I don’t think she would’ve cared.”

Din suppressed a wince as they went to work, checking over his arms and throat, their mouth in a thin line as they examined his skin- his perfectly fine, normal skin, where he knew should be rubbed raw and stinging with healing scabs. Even the numbness was gone as they made him flex his fingers and bend his wrist and elbows, carefully pinching areas to test for nerve damage without finding a single fault.

“For what it’s worth,” the baar’ur murmured after the tense silence, their lavender-toned fingers tracing delicately over his throat in search for the bite of metal that was no longer there after quietly asking- once again- for permission to touch such a vulnerable area. “I am sorry.”

It was the only apology he’ll likely ever receive.

Din swallowed, unable to find the words as their fingers slipped away from his throat. Their anger had simmered down, the awful taste on his tongue fading to a scent of something floral and fresh-dug earth. Soothing- it was a good scent to have as a baar’ur.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say all of last night had been a drunken hallucination,” they told him, leaning out of his space to allow him to zip up his flightsuit. “If you feel any numbness or shortness of breath in the next few hours, please let me know.”

“Elek, baar’ur.”

They huffed at him, but there was a crinkle in the corners of their eyes that meant they were smiling. Din didn’t know how to feel about it, their kindness, so he didn’t think about it. They’d been doing their job, nothing more.

Their scent- thankfully- didn’t seem to linger as he popped the lock to let them back out again, suppressing a sigh as Bo-Katan stood waiting at the bottom of the ramp, arms folded over her chest. The baar’ur ignored her entirely as they walked past her, and while her mouth attempted to curl, her lips didn’t pull back to expose her fangs.

As soon as they were out of arm’s reach, Bo-Katan was halfway up the ramp, bee lining straight for him.

“Which one was it?” she demands without greeting or apology, and a bit of that anger he wished he could keep hold of bubbled out from the knotted bundle of hurt he kept tucked small to his heart.

“Where’s my armor?” he questioned instead, refusing to bow to her demands and stood firm in his doorway, a physical barrier in keeping her outside what little refuge he had left to return to.

“That can wait.” And didn’t that made Din bristle, his mouth curling to bare his teeth at her. Armor was his life. It was all he had, now that he’d lost his Tribe and unwillingly became an apostate. He may not be considered Mandalorian according to his Creed, but… but he was still a warrior. A beroya. It still meant something to him, even if all he followed now was the memories of what he’d lost. “I had Axe standing guard and patrols saw nothing and heard nothing, so I know you didn’t somehow managed to sneak out of the temple. Now, which god was it? Was it the Alor? The Hunter?”

“I’ll tell you when I get my armor.”

Bo-Katan rocked back onto her heels, nostrils flaring. She never liked it when he refused to immediately do as she said, refusing to play the obedient beta who listened to his betters. He only did the jobs she asked of him because he was honor-bound, not because he respected her. Her quest to reunite the Mandalorians was honorable and noble, but her handling of Din himself left much to be desired.

She did better with the others- most likely because she respected these true Mandalorians, not someone of Din’s breed and background.

Din wasn’t blind to the looks and occasional remarks. His armor bore no Clan symbol and no familial colors. He had not earned his own Clan name when he lost his Tribe, and while Paz had offered to extend his Clan and House to him, he had respected Din’s decision to earn his own way. His Tribe respected him for his skill and his ability to provide for all despite being one man, but here he was merely a Foundling beta Mandalorian with no one to stand by his name. They did not know his reputation, nor the reputation of his Clan or family as he had none. He was simply no one at all.

With Bo-Katan being the one to bear the Darksaber, the others merely followed her lead in regards to him.

Bo-Katan seemed to have noticed that he wouldn’t back down, her lips pulling back in a quick flash of unhappy teeth and her scent souring to something acrid in the back of his throat.

“Fine,” she snapped, jerking her head in silent order for him to follow as she trudged down the ramp. Din took a moment to try and shake the tension out of his shoulders before shutting up his ship and following after her.

The morning dew was cool against his bare feet, the grass soft and tickling against his skin. The encampment was more of a cluster of ships parked on the edge of a valley, between the overgrown city and its residential temple and rolling hills of grassland looking over the slope of the mountains. His own ship was tucked away behind a copse of trees in some attempt to give himself some privacy and security around all these strangers.

The camp was mostly asleep at this early hour, the central fire only just coaxed back to life from dying coals. Only a handful of people were awake, sentry patrols and early risers. Some of them were out of their armor, nursing cups of campfire caf, while others lounged in their kits, helmets off and boots stained with grass and clumps of moss.

Heads started to turn as they approached, no doubt smelling Bo-Katan’s strong alpha presence. Din resisted the urge to curl in on himself to protect his vulnerable middle, the twisting defenselessness curdling his belly. Even after he lost his Way, he felt unsafe exposing himself so readily to so many eyes, and some of the indignation of being stripped bare the night before came rearing its ugly head from within, making his grit his teeth inside his closed mouth.

The baar’ur was nowhere to be found, but Koska Reeves sat among the early risers, legs stretched out from the log she was sitting on, sharpening a knife. She looked up with the others, a smirk curling her lips at the sight of them.

“Look who it is,” she leered at Din, giving her knife a showy flip. “Enjoyed getting rutted into like a needy little slut?”

“Koska.” Bo-Katan’s tone was unexpectedly sharp and reprimanding, eyes narrowing down at her clanmate. “His armor.”

Koska’s face twisted into a sneer, the tips of her fangs exposed as the alpha huffed. She didn’t argue with her Clan’s leader, instead stabbing the knife into the trunk before rising to her feet, heading off towards their ship without another word.

“Were they nice?”

Din’s eyes slid to one of the other side of the fire, gazing at the wide, curious and hopeful golden eyes of the Pantoran sitting on a supply crate. He seemed impossibly young despite most likely being in his late teens or early twenties, his white hair fluffy curls around his head with his cultural tattoos two large stripes of yellow running down from hairline to jawline vertically down his face and over his eyes and cheekbones.

He also seemed to be one of the few around the fire who was polite enough to rein in his scent, and for that alone Din was grateful enough to speak.

“They were,” he admitted quietly, knowing full well Bo-Katan and the other’s turning their ears towards him, their loud scents spiking with curiosity that their postures did not convey. “They were…”

Kind, strong hands on the back of his neck. The scratch of bantha wool against his wet cheeks as he sobbed for things he could no longer have. A rich voice soothing his hurts, a promise settling into his bones that gently peeled away the fear of ruining everything for everyone when he knew, deep down, he wanted them to have a home, even if he could never be a part of it-

“They were honorable.”

“Will they help?”

The question came from one of the patrollers, standing just within the glow of the fire that reflected off the aged scratches and divots of their armor. Togruta, based off the montral shape of their helmet, and judging by the sheer size of them and the length of their lekku, an omega of their species. Their scent went into ranges most humans and humanoids couldn’t detect, but Din could taste it somewhere near the middle of his tongue as he breathed in a slow breath, metallic and hints of spiced sausage currently roasting on a pan on the coals on the edges of the flames.

“They won’t harm us.” It was the only promise he could give them, and that at least satisfied the Togruta, who hummed low in their throat. But he could sense Bo-Katan’s scent souring and he clenched his teeth once more as it choked in the back of his throat.

“You still haven’t told me which one,” she ground out, Din slowly turning towards her with a growing frown.

“I still don’t have my armor,” he reminded her, watching as her whole body bowed up with aggression.

“Listen here-“ she began, but that was before Koska’s scent punched its way back through to their noses as she waltzed in, a bundle of armor held together by a single strap in her hands.

“Here,” she stated smugly, unbothered by Bo-Katan’s ire as she interrupted the moment. She tossed the armor at Din’s direction, only mildly disappointed when he caught it, but the scent of multiple alphas was pungent in his nose now.

“What did you do?” The words growled out from his teeth, ripping out low from his chest as he gripped his armor with growing rage and horror. The durasteel plates, which had once smelled like the delicate, fading scents of his Tribe and his own scent, were now saturated in multiple alpha scents, overlapping each other until there was no making heads or tails of which one was which. He ignored the sudden straightening up of everyone around the fire at his growl, his eyes snapping up to Koska even as Bo-Katan took one sniff and reared back without ever getting closer to him.

“Koska!” she snapped, almost equally offended as Din was.

“What? It’s not like he’s even a real Mandalorian!” Koska argued, jutting a hand sharply towards his direction. “Even he says he broke his stupid Creed. Just because he got to bend over and present to one of our gods doesn’t make him any less of an aruetii. He needs to learn his place!”

It was humiliating. It was degrading. His armor, once a lingering harbor of his home, reeking like others he did not trust. They had stolen his armor off his body and rubbed their stench over it, leaving not even a sliver of metal untouched. It was to prove their dominance over him, to show to everyone he was weak and unable to protect himself. That he wasn’t anything more than the stray local bitch that anyone could use.

It was something once used on omegas in some parts of the galaxy. Still was in rare pockets, where alphas thought themselves superior. But Mandalorians should not care, as omegas and alphas were just as stubborn and vicious and able fighters.

Even for a beta, there was peaking aggressions for all present parties, the Togruta taking a looming step closer towards Koska and the Pantoran’s teeth bared as others rumbled low, dangerous noises in the backs of their throats. Even Bo-Katan looked pissed, scruffing Koska’s neck and wrenching her closer, hissing something that was making her clanmate’s face pale.

But Din didn’t care what happened, turning heel to march back to the copse of trees and to the Crest, his feet picking up speed until he was running across the damp grass.

The door locked behind him as he slammed his fist into the controls, his chest heaving and stomach twisting. He was so angry, hurt and upset and ashamed. His armor, his life, was now tainted by the horrible stench of domineering alphas. He knew Koska didn’t think much of him, and neither did many of Bo-Katan’s Nite Owls and clanmates, but still… to stoop so low-

The armor clanged against the back of the decontamination chamber as he threw the bundle into the machine, latching the door shut and punching the side of it until the buttons lit up. He cranked the dial to its longest, strongest setting, the shrill beep doing little to pierce through the tangle of doubts and anger that were knotting themselves in his head.

He found himself slipping down to sit on the floor, watching the lights inside the little viewport, sitting there for hours as the machine rattled and grumbled and made high-pitched squealing until it dinged. And then he cranked the knob and start the cycle all over again, watching as rusty red paint slowly peeled itself off the metal and flake away and the machine accidentally scorched the edges of the chestplate black.

And then he’d restart the cycle again.

And again.

And again.

Chapter Text

The next few days left Din feeling off kilter. The mismatched armor he wore since his days serving honorably as the Tribe’s beroya had been stripped right down to the base layer, exposing the true colors of the various alloys underneath. Not a flake of paint or ghosting scent remained, his nose only catching the bitter notes of soot that had stained the edges of the plating in the weaker metals.

He was a foreigner in his own armor, the familiarity of every inch and curve lost within the decontamination chamber. It was a struggle to put it on, the once negligible weight now a heavy burden across his shoulders. He really was an aruetii pretending to be a Mandalorian- wearing armor without a scrap of beskar and his face exposed time and time again for all to see. He’s trampled and spat on his own Creed, and the Armorer beyond his reach to decree any sort of penance.

But he couldn’t not wear it. Every time he tried to leave it behind, his body started to tremble. His armor was his home as much as the Crest was, a tangible source of safety and comfort in this cold, cruel galaxy. It wasn’t much, but it was his, and Din may have broken the Creed, but he so fervently wished to honor by it all the same.

Broken, but not abandoned.

Never abandoned.

If anyone thought poorly of his unpainted, beskarless armor, they never mentioned it to Din directly. In fact, ever since his emergence from the temple and Reeves’ stunt, there had been a shift among the encampment.

For the most part, Din had been largely ignored previously by the Mandalorians that Bo-Katan had collected. There had been a few sneers and thinly veiled aggression pointed his way, but as a beta, he was a nothing more than an extra set of forgettable hands. He hadn’t gone out of his way to cause trouble or interact beyond the occasional sharp rebuff, and so he was easy to forget in the background beyond Bo-Katan’s ilk.

Yet ever since the temple, Din could feel the eyes following him whenever he came into view. Some started to nod to him in silent acknowledgement, and the biting insults had dropped to the bare minimum. Even Bo-Katan had backed off in a manner, treating him less like an indentured servant and more like a person she didn’t particularly liked but was forced to get along with. She would still order him around, but it didn’t hold the usual bite and sneer.

Reeves hadn’t said a word to him since the incident, but he saw her skulking about out of his peripherals near the fringes of camp or in the shade around the area he was assigned to for the day. She would linger for several minutes, hesitating before taking a few steps towards them then stop, her face doing an interesting series of twists and grimaces before she would turn around and stomp off again.

Din was better off not knowing what that was all about.

Most surprising of all was the two allies he suddenly had in his corner.

Baar’ur Tyrmiir apparently took it upon themself to make sure Din was fed since it seemed no one else was doing so and Din’s dietary habits clearly weren’t meeting their satisfaction. The omega would bring food from the communal supper, knocking and waiting at the entrance to the Crest or leaving them at the foot of his ramp when they knew he was elsewhere. He would also get an insulated container shoved into his hands every morning. “For lunch,” Tyrmiir stated primly the very first morning of the new tradition, tossing their dozens of seafoam colored braids over one shoulder and staring him down until he accepted the dish with a mumbled thanks.

It reminded him of when Umak, one of the Tribe who would give him a stack of premade meals before he left for his hunts. The Tribe sometimes did not have much in ways of variety, but it had never been any less comforting so far from home.

This, too, wasn’t plentiful in variety of foods. Some of the Mandalorians had brought with them large food supplies for the journey, although they were made for extended space travel and long shelf life and thus were a little plain. The planet provided more and more of their nutrition as Bo-Katan sent out a small squad every morning for exploration, mapping, and limited foraging in the areas surrounding the overgrown ruined city and temple. They were on a learning curve trying to source edible fauna and flora from oral history passed down through the generations, and scans could only get a person so far on unknown species, but the knee-tall rabbit-like creatures one exploration team brought back provided plenty of meat to fill up the container when Din cracked open the lid to find some sort of rice dish with an odd burgundy colored sauce that tasted both tangy and salty that eased the gaminess of the giant rabbits.

It was a kindness he didn’t understand what he did to deserve.

The second ally came the same way Tyrmiir did. Or, rather, he was living with Tyrmiir as their ward, and it was a simple jump in logic in thinking that since the baar’ur was interacting with Din, then he was free to do the same.

The young Pantoran’s name was Havarti. He was a lot taller than Din had been expecting, having only seen him once before sitting on a crate, almost half a head above the quiet beta. The armor paint contrasted sharply with Tyrmiir’s calmer purples and teals with an array of oranges and yellows that stood out as brilliant as the morning sun, and his personality was just as bright.

Every time he caught sight of Din, his whole face would light up, causing the parallel gold bars on his face to warp under the force of his smile as he would abandoned his tasks and lope towards him or wave frantically, always with a “Hi Mr. Djarin!” that would make whichever partner or group he was with to laugh or roll their eyes and tell him to come back and get back to work.

Today they’d been paired up to break down one of the more dilapidated buildings to use the materials for repairs on one of the larger buildings left largely intact during the Dral’han. The hard work of the last few days between all the groups was paying off, as the overgrown street had been cleared from the area immediately in front of the temple to reveal a square made entirely out of what once had been a beautiful array of mosaic tiles. The building chosen to be the first to be repaired was kitty-corner from the vine-encroached steps of the temple- three stories but wide with many rooms and a spacious courtyard. It wouldn’t look pretty, but it would be enough to have a roof over their heads and a starting point towards the rest of the nearby buildings in preparation for the next steps in Bo-Katan’s plans of reinhabiting the planet.

The building Din and Havarti were working on was just behind that building. The whole roof had been caved in, the brickwork scorched and cracked. The foundation was beyond repair, but there were metal support struts in the walls that were in perfect condition and the resident plumper in the surprising form of Axe Woves who had requested in an oddly subdued posture and tone if they could salvage some of the piping out of the building while they were at it before they demoed it to prevent an accident.

Din hadn’t known what he’d expected working alongside Havarti, but they moved together more efficiently than some bounty hunters Din had the misfortune of working with in his time with the Guild. The Pantoran surprised him by not being as needlessly chatty as he’d thought he’d be, instead he was focused- speaking up with ideas to move bricks or calling out where he could another support post and cheerfully volunteering himself to make runs with the hovercart one of the other Mandalorians had donated to the cause to move the salvageable materials over to the other building to stack in neat piles along the exterior wall for the repair team to go through.

Havarti still did most of the talking, but Din found himself not minding, and the young Pantoran had yet to groan or make a snide comment about his occasional one word replies, sighs, and tilts of his helmet.

“What is she doing?”

Din let his helmet drop back down over his nose from the cursory sniff of the lunch Tyrmiir had given to him that morning, looking over where Havarti was staring at. Over the rubble of a decimated structure he could make out the red hair of Bo-Katan march with purpose towards the square. A cluster of saplings blotted out his view, and then Bo-Katan was coming back up the street past the rubble.

She too noticed this as she stopped, her face just visible to see it twist and her teeth bare. She turned heel, ducking down a side alley and cutting forward once again for a different approach.

A furious curse from somewhere behind them a minute later only proved it that attempt to be just a futile.

“Huh,” Havarti blinked, his chopsticks clacking together as he plucked them out absently from his own premade meal. “I guess she must’ve really did piss off your god to get that kind of runaround.”

His what?

“What?” Din rasped, causing Havarti’s bright golden eyes to turn to him, a purple, spiraling noodle halfway sucked up into his mouth.

“Y’know, your god, the one Alor Kryze tried throwing you at. Tyr hated she did that, thought it was the most ridiculous, ignorant thing she could’ve done. Said she could’ve at least had the decency to ask you first. Tore her a new one, I think the entire camp is terrified of them now-“

“How does that make him mine?”

Havarti lowered the chopsticks from his mouth, worrying his bottom lip for a moment.

“Tyr told me not to bother you about it, but, well, you kinda smelled like cheese.”

Din stared.

“…Cheese.”

“I mean, not like you stink!” The Pantoran backpedaled, shoulders rolling up to his ears in a defensive posture. “And it’s not your scent, I don’t think. It’s just, it reminds me of my mom, and you never smelled like that before until after you came out of the temple and at first I didn’t even notice but it’s starting to get a little bit, uh, thicker? More concentrated? And it’s not just for me- I overheard Reeves saying you smell like scorched metal and rotting blood in the sand, but I don’t smell that at all.”

Din slowly lifted his helmet once more as Havarti rambled, tucking his nose into the neck of his armor for a cursory sniff. The metal didn’t smell of much, and at first all he could smell was his own sweat-tinged scent. But then, on the back of his tongue, he caught the hint of black melons and roasting meat over campfires under the billions of stars of a Tatooine night and warm sands.

He’d been sleeping with the bantha wool robes as a makeshift blanket, Din realized, suddenly feeling very distant from his body and bound tight between his ribs all at once. The scent must be slowly rubbing off on him despite him never catching a whiff of himself on the rough-woven fabric, seeping into his flightsuit and onto his skin.

“Rest now, ner beroya.”

His time in the temple felt more like a dream than reality, drifting from his thoughts like the overhead clouds throughout the past few days. But then that earthy, gravelly voice came to him as if it was just now whispered into his ear. The warm, heavy hand along his spine, the gentle kindness from a being who exude the power to tear him and everyone else apart without a second thought. The bantha wool robe currently folded neatly on his bed.

It had been common for mates and lovers within the Tribe to leave each other something that carried their scent for when they were off on their respected duties. Those wishing to court would also leave a sample of their scent for their intended in a place where they would find it in hopes in the near future they too would clutch a piece to their chest.

Had this… had this been a courting offer?

Din’s chest and mind were instantly cluttered with too much. He didn’t know whether all Mandalorians followed a similar pattern as his Tribe, didn’t know if the gods of these Mandalorians knew of it. What if he was overthinking this entirely, and the robes were just something to wrap him up in for his own dignity and a sliver of kindness for a nobody beta. Who would even want him after the mockery he made of his own Creed? He didn’t even know this god, didn’t know any god. The Tribe focused on the community, on things and people who were closer, more tangible than a greater power. He didn’t even know if he had been a god at all, didn’t know what said god looked like, only knew of the strong hands and thick thighs and the rumbling voice that soothed him as he trembled and cried.

“…It’s not like what Reeves did, I’m pretty certain. It’s not overpowering like that, it’s rather subtle and you have to be rather close or be sniffing really good to notice. Tyr thinks you smell like flowers and sea air, if that helps. I don’t think Alor Kryze noticed yet, and Reeves is keeping it on the down low I think.” The poor kid was rambling- he’d been sitting shock still for far too long, not even breathing from the way his chest burned and worried golden eyes staring into his visor and a hand hovering over his knee as if afraid touching him would set him off. Maybe it would- Din didn’t know.

He didn’t know a lot of things, it seemed.

“I smell like cheese?” It was the first question he could get himself to say, his voice almost lost somewhere between his teeth, but Havarti perked up and gave him a smile that was part relieved and part sad.

“Yeah, my mom was a cheesemaker, y’know? Found buir passed out in one of her caves and carried him armor and all back home over one shoulder. I remember helping her out in the kitchen and being her “favorite little taste tester”. Then buir did something to draw attention from the wrong people, and then the Empire was knocking on our door, but mom refused to lay down and went to fight them by herself. Buir said by the time he arrived, she managed to take out a whole squad before she was taken down. We had to leave the planet after that, and then I was raised to be a Mandalorian until the Republic shot my buir in the back just after my Verd’goten and then I’ve lived with Tyr ever since! Anyway, the scent reminds me of cheese my mom used to make.”

“…So cheese smell connects me to a god…?” His lips were numb and tongue heavy, but he gripped onto Havarti’s rambling like a lifeline. He could focus on this as he sucked in a slow, deep breath, his heart a frantic, painful drum underneath his chestplate.

“Well, it kinda makes sense, doesn’t it? I smell cheese, Tyr smells flowers, and Reeves smells dead stuff, but at least me and Tyr can’t smell what the other smells, and it’s not your scent because everyone says you’re a beta and not supposed to smell, and no one else I know of can make selective scents that’s not really possible, and it did start after the trip to the temple so… maybe the presence of the god imparted something on you? Or something?”

“…Why would he do that?” Din hated how weak he sounded, so small and confused. But something told him Havarti wouldn’t hold it against him like many of the others would, and so he let himself hunch over, looking down at his untouched meal. He wanted to ask who the gods were, why would one’s presence still want to linger on his person, if leaving scent samples were still a sign of courting- so many questions tumbled around in his head, but none of them could make it around the tangle forming in his throat.

“Maybe he likes you.” And didn’t that send Din immediately into a tailspin at the thought. “Anyway! You should get to eating, Mr. Djarin. Tyr won’t be happy if you don’t eat at least a little. They say you need more meat on your bones!”

Din couldn’t really taste the food he put into his mouth, eating quickly so he could dive back into work and focus on that and not the tumult of thoughts that haunted him. But they kept circling back to it even as he was shoulders deep into walls or stacking bricks, Havarti cheerfully working alongside him. The Pantoran was correct, this wasn’t like Reeves’ stunt. Instead it was something he hadn’t even noticed himself, soft and unobtrusive. He would’ve gone for ages without realizing, and he dreaded to think what that meant.

Perhaps he was overthinking that a god would ever bother trying to court him and it was just a kind gesture, but… would he want a god to court him? Was it rude to ignore the invitation?

Din was a beta. He had once been the Tribe’s beroya, a position he fought for with everything he had until he proven strong enough to represent them. He had broken his Creed inadvertently and now had no means to atone. He’d rediscovered Mandalore and led the Mandalorians back to their ancestral planet. He’d been stripped bare and presented as a sacrifice, and the god had been only kind to him when he’d been a crying, vicious little mess.

The god left him his bantha wool robes, and his scent was starting to rub off on him.

He smelled of home and better days.

The sun was painting the skies in pinks and deep purples as dusk settled upon them once again when Din found himself doubling back under a murmured pretense that he’d forgotten something at the worksite. Instead he retraced his steps and moved beyond them, up to the foot of the overgrown staircase that led up to the temple grand, ancient doors.

He lingered there at the steps, wondering if this was a good idea for just a single moment before he took a breath and rolled his shoulders back, punching a hole through the coiled nerves with a sudden bout of confidence he didn’t know where he’d managed to scrounge up from.

“I don’t know who you are,” he told the temple. “But I’d like to, even if this is all just a big understanding.”

A quick flick of his wrist had his knife pulled out from its sheath from his belt, making quick work of the edge of his grey cape from a section wrapped close to his neck. He knelt down, stabbing the scrap of cloth into the cracked stone, pinning it in place with the knife so it wouldn’t blow away in the evening breeze.

The bantha wool robes still smelled like warm sand and the unique spices of Tatooine as he curled up under it that night, the wind having picked up to rattle the Crest. Din couldn’t detect his own scent imprinting on it as it normally would, slowly taking over until it was all but his own. No, it was still as fresh as it was the day he woke up with it wrapped around him, keeping him safe.

Din may have lost much of his hope since the loss of his Tribe, but he couldn’t help but rub the rough fabric against his non-existent scent glands on his neck. It wouldn’t do much, but it did make him feel better. Pressing his nose against the weave to breathe in once more, he sank himself into this single, fragile wish he allowed himself to have, cradling it so careful and tender against his fractured heart despite the risk of it only hurting upon awakening.

Just this once, he wished to have something good for himself.