#bo-katan week 2023

[the-obiwan-for-me]

Scars of the Heart

Bo-Katan Week

Day 4: Scars

AO3 link here.

When a mission goes wrong, Bo-Katan worries she may lose the only person that matters to her.

“Get out of there now!” Bo-Katan shouted into her comm too late as the building crumbled with another deafening blast from the canon. She watched in helpless horror as the stone and glass shattered, feeling as if her soul was shattering along with it.

Korkie had been in that building, leading a dangerous rescue mission. 

If she lost him…..

She shook her head, fighting back against the rush of panic, swearing under her breath as she forced herself to focus. Be calm. Her first impulse- to fling herself at the crumbled building and dig out her nephew with her bare hands- was foolish. The Imps were still around, looking for signs of life, waiting to blitz even more Mandalorians into star dust. She would do no one any good if she got herself killed in her foolishness. 

Instead, she muttered icy calm instructions and commands into her commlink, forming a rescue mission for the rescue mission. When everything was put into place, she sat back on her heels to wait out the Imps. “Look after your boy,” she prayed to the sister who’s soul seemed still tied to hers. “I’m not ready to lose him.”

Bo-Katan sat in the med tent, exhaustion heavy on her bones, clutching Korkie’s hand. It was cool now, though the day before it had been hot to the touch as he spiked a fever, infection trying to spread as he fought his way back to the surface of consciousness. 

He was a fighter and the medics were good, considering the camp’s limited resources, and the fever and infection had been wrangled into submission. But still Bo fretted over her nephew. The medics swore to her he would be fine. They said his brain just needed time to heal and reset. They swore the bleeding was under control and the swelling was going down and he would wake in time. The other things, the minor things, the broken bones and dislocated knee, those wouldn’t even slow him down once he was awake.

Bo tried to believe them, but her exhaustion was making her pessimistic. He was a fighter, sure. Kryze pumped through his veins just like it pumped through hers, and his mother’s and his grandfather. His heart was forged from beskar.

But sometimes even beskar cracked, and she was terrified this would be the fight he would not win.

“Come on, ad’ika,” she whispered, squeezing his hand, reaching instinctually to brush an unruly lock of his burnished gold hair away from his eyes. But she pulled her hand back quickly. His hair was gone, shaved to accommodate the medics desperate attempts to relieve the pressure on his brain. Now, in place of his hair was a bandage. She sighed. “Please come back to me.”

She laid her head on his bed, still holding his hand. She would close her eyes for a few minutes. Just rest them for a moment.

The next thing she knew, she felt a hand in her hair and heard a raspy, whispering voice. “Auntie?”

She sat up quickly, sleep leaving her disoriented. And there he was, awake, his blue eyes blessedly like his mother’s and not the father he hadn’t known, open and searching. 

“Hi,” she said softly, squeezing the hand she still held. To her relief, he squeezed back, not as strong as he normally would be, but strong and alive and vital. 

“What the hell happened?” he asked, his eyes casting about the room. “Is there water?” he rasped before she could answer the first question.

Bo looked around and found a jug and cups left nearby. She pulled her hand from his and poured him some, then offered it to him, holding the straw to his lips. He drank greedily before she pulled it away. “Careful. You’ve been out for a week.”

He scowled and she sent a little prayer of gratitude to the stars. If he was well enough to be grumpy, he was going to be ok.

“What happened?” he asked again, his voice sounding more like his own this time, though still barely more than a whisper.

“You were too brave for your own good and your rescue attempt got blown up by Imps,” she told him, offering him another small sip of water.

He furrowed his brow in confusion for a moment, and then a dawning recollection crossed his face, then pain. “Oh no. No, no-”

“Hang on,” she cut off his spiral of grief and guilt. “You did good, ad’ika. Everyone got out.”

“Really?” 

She nodded, taking his hand again. “You had a feeling things were about to go bad, so you sent everyone down, to an old bomb shelter, instead of up, like I told you. We had to dig you all out, but you got them all out.”

He seemed to melt into the thin mattress with relief. Then another look of confusion crossed his face. “Then why am I here?”

She smiled a sad little smile. “Because you’re too much like your parents. They said you were behind the group, helping a couple of the kids. You got them through the door, shoved them through, but you were a second too late. You didn’t make it to the shelter.”

His face sagged a little. “Oh.”

She reached over and took his hand again, squeezing it. “Now that you’re awake, you’ll be ok. Your brain just got rattled around. Maybe it knocked some good sense into you.”

He laughed a tired little laugh. She pressed a call button- someone should probably look at him before he dozed back off. “Hopefully not too much. My total lack of sense got ten prisoners out.” He lifted his hand, touching the bandage, then smiled at her with a bit of the mischief she was not in any way ready to lose. “Is it going to scar?”

She laughed at their old, inside joke. When she’d met him, eight years earlier, the only scars he bore were the typical kid scars from scraped knees and elbows. He’d asked her that same question after Gar Saxon had hit him with a crushing fist in a moment Bo tried not to relive. These days, he carried the scars of a warrior, marks left from fighting an impossible enemy.

She squeezed his hand once more as a medic swept in. “Your hair will cover it,” she promised, and stepped aside.

She watched the medic tend to her nephew, asking him the types of questions you ask a head trauma patient. She took a deep steadying breath. He was going to be ok. “Thank you,” she whispered to his mother she felt still so near. 

She had plenty of her own physical scars. They hardly mattered to her. The scars that did matter, though, were the unseen ones on her heart, from what, who, she had lost. If she lost Korkie, the weight of that scar would be too much for her to bear. He infuriated her to no end, and she knew he felt the same for her, but she loved him. He was her last bit of family, the only physical reminder she had of the sister she abandoned then betrayed, save a few trinkets here and there. His loss would break her, and she prayed that that would be a scar she would never have to carry.

[kalevalakryze]

Taungsdays, Am I Right?

For Bo-Katan Week Day 5, Mand’alor Characters: Axe Woves, The Armorer, Bo-Katan Kryze, Original Mandalorian Characters (background) Pairings: Bo-Katan Kryze/The Armorer, Bo-Katan Kryze & Axe Woves, Axe Woves & The Armorer Warnings: none Notes: Look, listen, I’ve been reading nonstop between American government books, and everything I can find about the Taungs and old Mandalorian ruling structures. But, keep in mind, I am not a wise man. And my pen ran out of ink during all my notes, so I had to just. . . stop taking notes because I have no other pen, and I can’t concentrate without handwritten notes lmao. Maybe this counts as more of a character study. And it’s a little shorter than I’d like, but I think ending it where I did is the best option right now Word Count: 1,929 AO3 Link: Here!

“She does not stop often, does she?” The Armorer questioned to one of the few who held the title of the Mand’alor’s most trusted. The mug of pot soup was passed towards Axe Woves  as she lowered herself into a seat beside him. 

Bo-Katan had been moving nonstop as of late, between sitting through the many different politics required of a new world leader, expanding the new rule to the rest of the Mandalore system, and ensuring her people were still given an equal amount of her time, between training, to rebuilding, and even just to aid them in small errands, Bo-Katan Kryze was a blur of near constant movement. They only had nineteen hours in a cycle in the system, and yet, she was often busy for nearly fifteen hours each day. 

“It’s how she’s survived,” Axe surmised, taking the offered food with quiet thanks. His gaze did not move from the woman in the middle of the small arena, how she walked the younglings and even some of the children of the watch through a training exercise, stopping often to fix posture and offer words of encouragement between them all. “Kriff, might as well be in her DNA,” 

The light that filtered into the cavern from the green hued crystal above highlighted the yellow in her eyes, irises seemingly caught in an illuminated glow as she looked towards her two spectators with a small smile puling at her lips. 

“Would you elaborate?” The woman requested as she settled herself in, nodding her head in acknowledgment of a youngling that seemed excited by her presence. 

“It was always a rumor, that some of the oldest clans may have descended from the Taungs, our Progenitors,” The next time the Mand’alor glanced at them, her eyes seemed a warm amber, than the illuminated yellow they had been. “Their songs have been sung for eons, though much has been lost to history,” 

“The Taungs used warfare as a personal honor, but also to appease a god,” His gloved hand brushed over his stubble as he racked his brain for the name. 

“Ka Ha’rangir,” The Armorer supplied. The Children of the Watch did not have as much information as many of the Niteowls who had lived their history on the front-most lines, their convert had followed in the paths that were laid out by Mandalore the first themself. 

“Yes, and like with most religions based on an omnipotent being, there is a clearly defined ‘good’ and ‘bad’, for the Taungs, they strived to remove themselves from Arasuum’s temptation of stagnation and idleness. This was not a trait that died with the Taungs,” He gestured to the redhead that was now rolling on the floor with one of the children of the watch, giving a visual for how the moves she’d just taught would be used in combat. 

“Under Mand’alor the Ultimate, when the Taungs truly started to accept other species among their ranks, cross breeding was frequent, though many humans had been, supposedly, unable to survive the birth of a Taung, even if the child was only half Taung. Not all of our oldest clans have survived from those days, it was mainly Riduuroks that kept bloodlines alive as well, so, while unlikely to have found a Mandalorian descended from the first,” When he gestured to Bo-Katan again, it was to the woman wrapped in a headlock, before her sharp teeth pierced through the flight suit and arm of her opponent, until they’d released. 

“Even with less than a percentage of genetics that may have been passed down, they showed much more prominently in Bo-Katan, than they had in The Duchess Satine,” Axe had seen them both, and compared to Mandalorians’ they were obviously a different breed, in their own way. Even the Vizsla’s hadn’t been able to hold a flame to the traits of the Taungs that had stood out sharply in Kryze genetics. 

“It is safe to assume that these traits have clung so tightly through the bloodline, that she is simply hardwired like a Taung,”

“She is still human though, is she not?” The Armorer finally questioned, watching as Bo-Katan helped put bacta on the Mandalorian’s arm she’d bitten, who she’d sent off for water before jumping back into the lesson. 

“Without a doubt, and that has always been one of her flaws,” Axe shook his head “Worship and belief of Ka Ha’ragnir and Arasuum fell out of favor long before our time, though, with the way our lives, hers especially, have been led, I can understand some kind of base decline to the instincts of the Taungs. We have our songs, our ancient recordings, but we also have the behaviors passed from generation to generation about how our lives were to be lived and how to react.”

It was no secret that they’d all done unimaginable things in the name of survival, and their culture. It had always been written off as their bullheadedness and their way of life, though many had forgotten that it had once quite literally been in their blood. “Her flaw is not that she is human,” The Armorer’s voice was slow, steady, trying to ensure that she’d heard him correctly, while making sure her own point was known.

“No, no. That isn’t her flaw, but the activity is. When she… for lack of a better term: forgets that she’s human. The Taungs may not have needed to rest as often, and that may have been a leading factor to their belief and devotion to Ka Ha’ragnir and their pursuance of growth and change that she’s chasing subconsciously,” 

“You seem to have given this a great deal of introspection,” The Armorer noted. “We have not had a great deal of resources about our earliest ancestors, aside from the creed and the moments in history w have found that had defined a need for our existence as well,” 

“Being home has granted me more than my share of time to learn. We are all given an opportunity our ancestors had not, to be good at something other than war,” It was an echo of Bo-Katan’s own words. Axe was becoming a scholar and a rather skilled diplomat, now that they had access to records from the New Republic, and the old records from the Imperial Academy on Mandalore as well. He finally had the time to sit down and stimulate his brain with history, over battle strategies and espionage. “Lady Kryze has quite the extensive knowledge as well, more so about the more… dry aspects of our history. She has not limited herself to the governing past, or the past of warfare, but has extensive details about our prior trade, exports, and many other details I am sure had sparked her interest before the New Mandalorian rule had her splitting off.”

“What are we talking about?” Bo-Katan questioned as she dropped herself into a lower level of seating in front of the two, armored back pressed into both of their legs as she leaned back and actually sat for the first time all day. 

“You,” The Armorer provided, a gloved hand reaching to smooth out loose strands of sweat slick hair to calm any rising thoughts she could see gathering beneath a furrowed brow. 

“Why are we talking about me?” The redhead questioned as the convert member shed bitten earlier brought over an extra canteen of water, receiving a quiet thanks as the rest of the class let out, either back to the surface, their mentors, or their duties. 

“You are a big part of Mandalorian history,” Axe pointed out, when Bo-Katan’s lips parted to argue the point, he was quick to continue. “Think about it, Bo. For the first time in our history, Mandalorians are not at war, not with each other, not with the dar’jetti, and not with the republic. Our people are united under a common banner, and for the first time since our Progenitors, the Mythosaur is back, and has revealed itself to only you, You have wielded the dark saber on more than one occasion, and yet, you have proven that a successful Mand’alor does not need to hold a weapon to be successful. You’ve led us to a new age,”

Bo-Katan shifted uncomfortably against their legs as she drank and wiped sweat away from her brow. “That’s a lot,” The woman shed her gloves and reached to scratch at the back of her neck with sharer than usual nails. “But I didn’t do it alone, and I never would be able to do any of it, without either of you, and without Din Djarin, or without Paz.” There were many among their ranks that had given much more than her, had sacrificed more of themselves than her in the pursuit of their home. 

“That does not exclude your leadership and influence through it all, however,” The Armorer reminded, causing the redhead to nod as she processed. 

“This is true, I supppose,” A pause, and a small smile. “Mandalorians are becoming something new,” 

“Like those who were formed directly from the Taungs,” Axe chimed in, bringing an excitable expression from the Mand’alor.

“That’s actually so true,” There was a knowing smirk on Axe’s lips as he forced his elbow into The Armorer’s side, as their Mand’alor went into an extensive tangent about their similarities to the first Mandalorians, and the fall of the Taungs that had secured their system, how, in regaining their planets and moons from Imperial control, they were almost like the crusaders of old. It was almost comical, the way the woman of near fifty standard years could turn into an excitable teenager the moment their history was mentioned. It was a side that he’d never seen much of until they came home, but one he enjoyed nonetheless, as he’d always find something new to learn from her. 

Koska joined the trio some time later, her arm draping around The Armorer’s shoulders as she dropped her chin on Axe’s shoulder, listening as the Mand’alor spun the stories of their people with excited hand gestures and the like. 

Truthfully, it was the most down-time Bo-Katan had given herself since the most recent bout of hyper-activity. She kept herself leaning on The Armorer and Axe’s legs, one arm tossed back to rest on The Armorer’s thigh as she explained the Taungs’ last stand, and the different ways their culture had branched off since the split. 

Their history was sprinkled with the hazards and the costs of war and destruction, even her sister, who’d done all she could to do better by their people, had not achieved such a feat. Many of the prior Mand’alor’s held titles that would have them remembered for eons, such as Mand’alor the first, Mand’alor the Indomitable, Mand’alor the Ultimate, and Mind’alor the Great.Bo-Katan would be remembered as the World Strider, the Mandalorian who brought their people back to a life like under the rule of Mand’alor the Uniter. 

Their system found safety and security under her rule, and they found a boom in hundreds of those oppressed by the Empire to create new clans, searching for a people and a purpose among their ranks. 

Mandalore was thriving once more under their rule, because it wasn’t truly hers alone, no matter who they’d allowed to hold the title, they had each poured themselves to get to this point, and as long as she was standing, Bo-Katan would ensure their songs would never be lost, that they would be seen not as just another soldier in a war, but as the foundation of their rebirth. 

[mandogab]

Day 4 || Scars

Bo-Katan would like to move on with her life, but scars from the past prevent her from doing so. After all, it's been so little time since Fenn's death...

Will she be able to start a new life without him?

@bokatanweek

[cirr0stratus]

bo-week adjacent art: Tao Kryze the foundling

[projectorthus]

Last day I’m so sad ):

I had to draw Korkie at least once so I added him to this one. I nearly had a stroke figuring out the dates and ages here so hopefully I didn’t screw them up too bad. Bo and Satine’s age gap wildly fluctuates depending on what I’m writing so don’t take any of this as my solid headcanon.

Anyways thank you all for reading, I had so much fun this year! I can’t wait to do it all again next year! It’s always so much fun. Bo Week admin ily /p

[weekofobitine]

Announcing Obitine Week 2023

Join us September 17–23 for Obitine Week, a celebration of the relationship between Star Wars' Obi-Wan Kenobi and Satine Kryze.

As usual, we'll have daily prompts to inspire your fanfic and fanart, but this year, we're also introducing a friendly competition! 

Each day will have three prompts. You can choose to use all three prompts in one fic ... write three ficlets for each prompt ... or just use one or two prompts and ignore the others! 

The prompts for this year are:

But for those who want a little more competition, we also have the Obitine Week 2023 Bingo Card, which includes all 21 prompts.

You'll also notice three bonus prompts: TCW Season 2, TCW Season 3, & TCW Season 5. You get extra spaces if you set any of your fics in those time frames.

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to complete a full line (or lines) going horizontally, vertically, or diagonally. For the highest achievers, you can also attempt a blackout and use every prompt on the list!

Those who achieve at least one Bingo will be entered to win a prize!

Direct questions to @the-obiwan-for-me and @duchess-of-mandalore. Artwork by the inimitable @callmevexx

[thegirlsinthecity]

Bo-Katan Week Day 5: GirlLoser Era (Alternate Prompt)

[flowers-and-beskar]

🌷Bo-Katan Kryze🌷

[sandwrrm]

Bo-Katan Week (alternate) day 1 — Sisters ✨

literally plugging scenes from my own fic lmao

[bokatanweek]

☆Bo-Katan Week 2023 Prompt List☆

DAY 1: Bo-Katan and Ahsoka

DAY 2: Wedding/Marriage

DAY 3: Bo-Katan and Satine

DAY 4: Scars

DAY 5: Mand'alor

DAY 6: Bo-Katan and the Armorer

DAY 7: ★FREE DAY★

**Remember to use the tags #bo katan week AND/OR #bkw2023 so I can find your creations and share them here! Rules/Info

☆Alternate Prompts☆

Bo-Katan and Grogu Ursa & Bo Being Besties Bo-Katan and Sabine Sisters GirlLoser Era Armor Death Watch

[the-obiwan-for-me]

Living Ghost

Bo-Katan Week is here!

Day 1: Bo-Katan and Ahsoka

AO3 Link here.

She had felt the news of Ahsoka’s death like a punch to the gut. 

Bo-Katan hadn’t seen or heard from the young woman in a long while, but that wasn’t unusual. For the safety of both of them- Bo, the leader of the guerilla forces fighting for Mandalore’s existence, and Ahsoka, a not-Jedi Jedi- it was best they kept their communications few and their meetings even fewer. 

It was old news for Sabine when she mentioned it, offhandedly around the campfire, though it was clear that the young Mandalorian and her two Jedi still grieved Ahsoka’s death. Bo hadn’t even known Ahsoka had been running around with another Mandalorian or that she had found more Jedi.

Bo felt the news like it was a fresh blow. Like it had just happened, instead of two years earlier. It was just another death in the long line of deaths in Bo’s life. But Ahsoka’s presence in Bo’s life had felt different, despite how little they were able to interact. 

Ahsoka was grounding, calming, wise beyond her years. Bo had been drawn to her, even when they had been enemies instead of allies….friends, even. 

And now she was gone, joining the parade of souls from Bo’s life, crossing into the stars, or the Force, or whatever afterlife there was when it was all over. Maybe, Bo mused, days after the news, sitting alone in one of the few seedy bars still operating in Sundari, nursing some watered down tihaar, maybe Ahsoka would haunt her like Satine haunted her. 

She could only hope to be that lucky.

A hand slapped lightly on the bar beside Bo, a little closer than she was ever comfortable with strangers. She began to turn, planning to scowl menacingly at the interloper. Then she noticed the deep maroon of the nail beds and the tawny skin of the offending hand.

A vambrace, finely crafted, shiny, and familiar, peeked out from underneath a worn cloak.

Bo turned more fully, looking up at the face hidden beneath a cowl.

Clearly, she was being haunted. This had to be a ghost.

“Hi, Bo.”

Bo swallowed. She wanted to scream. She wanted to shout. She wanted to jump up and throw her arms around the young woman. 

“Hi,” she managed in a near inaudible whisper. 

The ghost sat down beside her, got the attention of the bartender, and gestured for a tihaar like Bo’s.

They sat in long silence, the ghost watching Bo as the bartender sat a glass down in front of her. She took a sip, her eyes never leaving Bo’s face. 

Bo finally found her voice, but barely. “You’re dead,” she choked out in a hoarse whisper.

The ghost looked down at herself, patting her body, then looked back up at Bo, giving her a little mischievous crooked grin. “Yeah, I thought I was, too. Strange times.”

Bo found her voice easier. “I was told you died two years ago. Those Jedi, the ones running around with Sabine Wren, said they watched it. Said it was….” She paused, looking around the bar, then leaned in closer to her ghost, keeping her voice low. “They said Vader killed you.”

Her ghost stiffened, closing her eyes for a long beat, then sighed. “It’s….complicated.”

Bo snorted an indignant laugh. “Ahsoka, I am no stranger to death. Death is not complicated.”

“I used to think the same thing,” Ahsoka said before taking a sip from her tihaar, grimacing a little at the burn. She’d never been much of a drinker. She sat the glass back down and turned to face Bo, taking Bo by the shoulder and swiveling her on her stool to face her.

“Look, Bo-Katan, if I told you what I’ve been through, you would never believe m-”

“Try me.”

Ahsoka’s face markings pinched in a frustrated scowl. “Maybe one day. But this isn’t the time.” Her hands fell to rest on Bo’s knees, and she sighed again. “I have work to do. Some promises to keep, but I’m here. Ok? I’m back.”

Bo studied the younger woman, seeing new sadness deep in her eyes. She’d been sad for a long time. Losing everyone and everything you love did that to a person, but this was a new sadness. A new weight. She placed a hand over one of Ahsoka’s, and squeezed it.

“We’re friends, right?” she asked.

Ahsoka nodded, blue eyes meeting Bo’s. 

“Good. Then don’t do that to me again. Don’t disappear. No dying and reappearing. We both have work to do. I get it. But stay in touch. Like really in touch. Let me know you’re alive. That you’re safe. I want to be able to help you if you need it.”

Ahsoka smiled, the expression warming her features, chasing away some of the cool sadness. She turned her hand to be able to grasp Bo’s. Took the other one. “I want to help you, too.”

“Then it’s a deal. We’re going to check in. Be ready to help each other if we need it. Talk if we need it. Right?”

Ahsoka nodded, letting go of Bo. “I can do that.”

“So can I.”

In unspoken unison, they turned back to the bar, elbows touching. Bo waved down the bartender and ordered food for them. Then sipped her drink. “How does one get murdered by Vader, then come back to haunt their friends?”

Ahsoka chuckled. “You thought us Jedi were weird before….”

[kalevalakryze]

Bleed It Out

For Bo-Katan Week Day 6: Bo-Katan and The Armorer Pairing: Bo-Katan Kryze/The Armorer Characters: Bo-Katan Kryze, The Armorer, Din Djarin (mentioned), Axe Woves (mentioned) Warnings: NSFW, explicit, not safe for minors Word Count: 4,125 Notes: don't look at me, I realized I only wrote bosoka smut for this week, and I couldn't just not remedy that... AO3 Link: Here!

nsfw warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Blood, Sex on the Rougher Side, Spanking, Don’t Worry There Will Always Be Aftercare, Crying During Sex, But Not for Bad Things, You Ever Trust Someone So Much You Just Gotta Cry?, Or Miss Someone So Much You Have To Fight Everyone? Anxiety, Bo-Katan Is A Biter, Who Needs Thrown Around Sometimes

To say Bo-Katan got a little ‘antsy’ around the anniversary of Satine Kryze’s death and life days was an understatement. The entire week prior to both anniversaries would lead to progressive alcoholism and violent outbursts towards those closest to her.

Din Djarin had been on the receiving end of one of these outbursts not long after he’d arrived with Grogu. He had only been trying to help, had been trying to learn more and understand from the woman he called his Mand’alor and his friend. Yet, when he’s asked her what was troubling her, the woman had lashed out. She hadn’t attacked the man’s character or religion, but she had thrown insults, many of which couldn’t even apply to the man in the shining armor. When she’d shoved past him to exit the small Mandalorian bar they’d built in the ruins of Sundari, her pauldron had scraped across his chest, leaving a streak of blue across the metal with the force she’d used to shoulder past him.

He had been receptive to her reaction of his presence and had to change his plans to go to the forge to buff the streak out. It was there he’d seen The Armorer and had questioned her on the Mand’alor’s state. She hadn’t known, of course, she’d taken notice, but had yet to voice her concerns. It was in the form of Axe Woves that they’d learned of her annual devolution of her convictions.

The Armorer had helped Din repair his armor, before sending everyone away from the forge, with the mission to find the woman and send her that way. The Armorer could understand the tension in the woman, but she needed to help her find some way to let it off, before she went after more than just Din, who she was lucky enough to have been a very understanding person.

It took a few good hours before anyone had been able to get a hold of her, and she’d heard over the comm channels that Axe would be in the med bay for the night.

When the woman entered the forge, her boots landed heavy on the stone, her helmet covered the way her face was no doubt twisted in irritation. When she came to a stop just feet away from The Armorer, it was with a defiant jut of her hips and her chin raised, shoulders squared and muscles tense, like she was waiting for the most opportune moment to start a physical altercation.

“You called?” There was a strain in her voice, as if civility was physically painful. The Armorer did not doubt that it could have been, if the volatile energy that was brimming just over the surface was anything to go by.

“I hear Axe Woves will be spending the night in the infirmary,” she started, shifting her attention away from her workstation to focus intently on the woman before her.

“He shouldn’t have touched me,” the woman defended herself with a snap, body weight rocking on her heels. “He had it coming,”

“He shouldn’t have, this is true. And yet, you should not have responded by attacking him,” the woman’s foot moved forward, though The Armorer’s hand raised to both stop her advance and stop her rebuttal. “Whatever your feelings about the Duchess Satine’s death, reacting in anger is no way to mourn,”

“You don’t get to tell me how to mourn my sister,” Bo snapped, fingers flexing into tight fists. It was clear that the Mandalorian was ready to snap, that she was looking for somebody who would give her a proper fight. The Armorer was not loathe to the fact that it would be her to spur the coming altercation.

“You are mourning a woman who could barely be considered Mandalorian. A woman who gave up her armor and way of life, and then pushed it on to everyone else, banning those who did not wish to conform. Is she worth wasting the breath, now?”

Bo-Katan’s windup was fast, just enough to register in The Armorer’s brain and give her body a moment to tense. Her head snapped to the side, shuffling backwards to regain her balance with the force of the woman’s fist crashing into her face. “You don’t get to talk about her like that,” Venom dropped from her voice, fingers flexing from the spasming of muscle in her hand. There would forever be permanent damage from the way her hand had been broken, leading to what could be considered a merciful punch, despite the way it still had hit like getting kicked by a Bantha.

The next punch was met with empty air as The Armorer moved around her fist to land her own blow into the woman’s chest. The woman was sent off kilter, but responded in turn with her foot kicking out into the leather padding of The Armorer’s shin.

Blue dodged out of the way of the grappling attempts from gold, feet and fists lashing out between the two women. The Armorer stayed silent as she moved around a leg sweep, her elbow driving into the hard metal on Bo-Katan’s back, thanking whatever power led to the woman leaving her jetpack at home for the day.

Bo-Katan lost her footing at the downward pressure applied to the small of her back, a feral sounding growl leaving her helmet’s vocoder as she stumbled. The Armorer pulled up against the woman the moment she found an opening, forcing her arms under Bo-Katan’s elbows, locking behind her back, and then forcing the woman into her workbench with a loud slam, the wooden legs of the table creaking with the force the Mand’alor was shoved into it.

Bo twisted and turned, writhing to find some way to break the impenetrable hold. Her hips bucked back against The Armorer, who leaned her body into her to keep her pinned, her feet kicking into her shins, stomping on her boots, and catching on her apron in her vain attempts to free herself.

When The Armorer tried moving both of Bo-Katan’s wrists to one hand, the woman managed to free herself. The bench moved back with the force of the woman shoving herself away from the pin, when she turned, her foot raised to plant firmly into The Armorer’s gut and shove her back.

The uppercut that The Armorer retorted with was enough to have Bo-Katan’s head snapping back, the pressure seal of her helmet breaking with the force of it and leaving the armor askew and clouding her gaze. There was no gentleness in the way Bo-Katan removed her helmet and threw it to the floor, where it scraped across the stone and jagged rock formations that littered the inside of the forge.

Her hair was a mess, her cheeks reddened, lips dry and chapped from the heavy breathing that moved her entire chest. Her eyes held an intense anger, though the thrill and excitement of being evenly matched was clear. Purple bruises were already forming along the pale skin of her jaw and cheek, with darker purpling closest to her cheekbone where the helmet had bashed into her face with the hit.

Bo’s arms spread, urging The Armorer to swing again. When she did just that, Bo managed to force her knee up into The Armorer’s stomach with force, keeping her doubled over enough that she’d put a hand on the top of her helmet and shoved her backwards.

With the space created between them, the two warriors began circling each other, Bo, with a snarl on her lips, and The Armorer, with a practiced indignation. When she’d passed her workbench once more, the blacksmith slid her hammer from the surface, hefting its weight in her hand as they continued their walk. This seemed to only excite the fiery woman more, as the vibroblade inside her gauntlet unsheathed quickly.

When they met again, it was with metal meeting metal, knife meeting hammer. With the proximity, Bo-Katan had managed to kick into The Armorer’s bad knee, sending her down to one knee and causing her to drop her weapon. In the next second, the woman’s boot found her chest plate and kicked her to the floor.

“Get up,” Bo rasped as she put distance between them again. She was tiring, but the anger still vibrated the core of her being, keeping her blood burning as she kicked the hammer back to The Armorer as she raised on her knees.

The Armorer’s leg wobbled from the hit, a decade old pain shooting from her knee and leaving her leg practically locked. She took up her hammer once more, testing its weight with her flared up knee injury, staring down the bellicose woman across from her.

Teeth bared, Bo-Katan charged once more, the hammer swung into her side, but to no avail, without being able to put her full weight on her leg, she wasn’t able to put enough power behind the swing to divert her course. The redhead slammed into her with the force of a hundred mythosaurs, leaving The Armorer just enough time to dodge her head out of the way of the bladed gauntlet aimed towards her visor.

She’d have to call it, but Bo-Katan was very much out for blood, pushing herself far enough to chase her anger and her thrill. Over exerting herself, The Armorer jammed her knee upwards as the redhead moved to straddle her. Their positions were reversed in short order, both panting, hot breath filling her helmet as blood and spittle dripped from the Mand’alor’s mouth.

With enough of a struggle to have her wheezing, The Armorer managed to roll Bo-Katan onto her stomach, forcing one arm behind her back, while carefully avoiding the blade in the gauntlet, and forcing her other arm against the ground. It was a struggle to remove the grappling wire from the armor with one hand, but she wasn’t an expert in her craft for nothing.

Once the length of grappling wire was removed, she started forcing the redhead’s other arm behind her back. Bo-Katan kicked and tried to throw her off, but the woman was heavier, and she’d worn herself out, her muscles aches and screamed their protests with each contraction as she writhed.

The wire was wrapped tight from her wrists, halfway up her forearms, locked in tight with the grapple hook. Bo-Katan seethed beneath her, insults in a mixture of languages, basic, mando’a, huttese, even the growls and grunts of Tusken left the older woman as she tried to free herself.

As she struggled, and The Armorer fought to regain herself while keeping the woman pinned, the woman was able to decipher the confusing insults: none of them had been directed towards the people she’d lashed out at, but herself, instead. “Lady Kryze,” she tried to call, one last attempt to soothe the inferno that was the youngest Kryze sister.

Her hand reached around to try and still her writhing head, to stop her forehead from smashing into stone. Instead, she was met with the feeling of sharp teeth sinking into the thick leather of her glove, a stinging pressure behind four too-sharp-to-be-human canines, and the warm mixture of blood and spit soaking into her glove.

Her other hand reached away from bound wrists to tangle into sweat damp hair, yanking back hard enough to have the woman yelling out, releasing the hand in her mouth as her head was wrenched backwards.

The woman’s writhing form stilled for as long as The Armorer kept her hair pulled in her fist, the woman’s response to the painful stimuli was telling, and while it was something they’d talked about when this had first begun between them, The Armorer had yet to see Bo-Katan in such a state.

She was used to burning herself out in these fits of anger, would fight anyone who got close enough until no one would come near her, and then take several days to recover, no one had ever stuck around long enough to attempt to aid in releasing the violent energy (not that she’d wanted them to, there wasn’t anyone she’d ever really trusted like this, to give back what she put down, and still offer some sort of care in return). The Armorer’s weight shifted once more, sliding off the redhead’s back. With a violent shake, the taller woman tried to break her bonds, to no avail.

The Armorer hauled her up by the wrists, before she found herself once more slammed into the workbench. The kicking and squirming resumed, though each hit that landed felt like nothing as the woman spent herself on the thought of freedom.

She preferred to take her time with the woman, to go slow enough and give her a clear way out each time, instead, with her hand reburied in Bo-Katan’s hair and pressing her face into the cool metal of the work bench, The Armorer levelled her head near a red-tipped ear. “You are going to tell me if I have to stop, and you are going to get the attitude fixed,” She growled, low and venomous in her ear.

Bo-Katan growled and bucked back against her. “Go fuck yourself,” she snarled, even as she arched her back and pressed her hips up into the warm hips that kept her against the table. The anger was still palpable, but there was no doubt that the arousal was there, that the wire digging into her flight suit and scratching the paint on her gauntlets didn’t do something to her.

There was no one she trusted enough to fight like this, and even less people she trusted to bind her arms uselessly behind her back like this. Even through the cloudy haze of seething anger, Bo-Katan could still recognize the relative safety of the situation.

Her armor was tossed away with as much care as her helmet was., her flight suit ripped at the clasps, only the upper half of anything remained, the leather holsters attached to her belt hung loose against shaking, sweat and slick damp thighs. The ripped remains of her flight suit pooled uselessly around her greaves and ankles. When cool air met flushed skin and a warm cunt, the woman clenched around nothing.

The Armorer did not bother to wait, not with how violently the woman was contortioning herself to keep fighting. She yanked off her glove in one fluid motion, before shifting to stuff the leather in Bo-Katan’s mouth, leaving the woman confused when she’d snapped at the prospect of digging her teeth into flesh again, and met only the thick softness of leather filling her mouth, without the promise of flesh and blood inside.

Two bare fingers slipped into the Mand’alor, who groaned and growled against the glove in her mouth. She could spit it out, if she’d truly wanted, though, between the lewd squelching of her fingers setting a brutal pace against Bo-Katan’s cunt, she could hear the creaking of the leather in her mouth as she’d chewed on the thick hide. Drool dripped from the corner of the redhead’s lips, while her hips bucked back into the harsh pace that was set.

When The Armorer’s fingers slipped from her spasming cunt, Bo-Katan’s forehead dropped against the metal of the table with a hard thunk, her foot once more trying to land a substantial hit back against The Armorer’s bad knee.

Instead of sending The Armorer down once more, Bo-Katan was met with a sharp sting against her ass and the sound of flesh smacking against flesh ringing in her ears. She’d gasped hard against the glove in her mouth, back arching as her ass raised into the air.

The next smack was expected, but the relief and arousal was not minimized one bit. Tears sprang to her eyes at the register of pain, though she did not let one fall, even as The Armorer set a pace that involved dipping her fingers into her cunt, only to retrieve them and smack her ass again. Red marks painted her backside, from the bottoms of her thighs, to the seat of her ass, though each time the palm of The Armorer’s hand smacked against her absolutely soaked cunt, Bo-Katan’s writhing would increase tenfold. The tears started to fall by the fifth repeat of the torturous pleasure, until she was breathing in deep, muffled gasps from behind the glove. Cheeks painted as deep a red as her ass, pupils blown wide, and a mix of blood and drool in a nearly dry river from the corner of her lips.

When The Armorer’s fingers dug back in, there were three nimble digits to spread her out. Her hips jutted back into each rough thrust, with her tongue, she pushed the glove from her mouth, letting it fall against the workbench with a wet thunk. Her breaths came heavy and uncontrolled, chest heaving and arms pulling at tight restraints as she lost herself to the rhythm of fingers curling into the textured coil inside, on the fires that spread from the knot in her stomach all the way.

“Ekur ni,” Bo’s command came out raspy, hesitance thick, despite the anger ebbing into the tone.

The Armorer responded smoothy, her free hand moving from the back of Bo-Katan’s neck to curl around her throat. Pressure was applied to the front of her throat, causing the woman’s eyes to roll to the back of her head, her walls clamping down on The Armorer’s fingers as her orgasm crested the horizon. Each breath came in a restricted wheeze, though the woman rode herself hard back on The Armorer’s fingers with each breath.

She could feel the moment the fight had finally left her body, released with the slick that coated The Armorer’s fingers and the insides of her thighs, when she went to remove her hand from the woman’s throat, there was a quiet command of “Don’t,” Too quiet to hear, she would have missed it if she hadn’t been watching her face so intently for some signal of discomfort.

The Mand’alor kept herself leaned into the hand that was cutting off her air, even after the other woman’s fingers slid from her cunt, she seemed lost in the world of her own wheezing breaths. Wiping off the mess from her fingers onto the ripped back of Bo-Katan’s flight suit, The Armorer started to categorize each injury on the both of them, as far as she could look still leaned over Bo and holding her throat in the palm of her hand.

“I am going to let go now,” The Armorer warned, once the redhead’s eyes started to cloud and each breath grew more of a struggle to take. She was gentle in releasing her bruised throat, guiding her head to rest on the table instead of letting it smack against the metal once more.

From her position, she could see the dark bruises that covered the front and sides of shaking thighs, along with the red-hot sting of abused flesh across the backs of her thighs and her ass. Shoving up part of her flight suit, The Armorer prodded the bruised skin across her ribcage, frowning to herself when she felt the displacement among her ribs. The Armor should have protected her from the swing of the hammer, though they had fought quite a while, and the edge of the table had found the already damaged space on more than one occasion.

Bo-Katan stayed limp against the table, allowing The Armorer’s hands to roam across her spent body, her breaths still coming in deep and uncontrolled. When she was sure the older woman would not lash out again, the wire around her wrists was carefully undone and tossed to the side with her discarded armor. The fabric around the cable had ripped and torn into flesh with the Mand’alor’s struggling, though the woman did not seem phased by any of it.

“You’ll take care of me..?” Bo-Katan rasped as The Armorer started to peel away the rest of her armor and ruined flight suit, shifting with each tap against her body as fabric and armor was pulled away.

“Always,” The Armorer promised fervently, her bare thumb pressing into the damp skin on the insides of her wrist. “How is your hand?” She questioned as she pressed into the curled up extremity. Without her glove, the bruising and swelling was substantial, fingers twitching with every press into damaged tissue, though she was unable to straighten any of her fingers.

Bo-Katan went silent once more, body lax against the table as The Armorer waited for a response. “Mesh’la,” She called, raising a hand to card through and straighten out her hair, wincing to herself at the strands of hair that came free with her hand.

There was a quiet, keening sound from the woman who’d pressed her face against the cool table. The quiet sniffle and near hyperventilative breath had worried The Armorer, who caught the wet shine of tears pooling down her face and dripping onto the table, the small pool streaming to the edge of the caving in table in thin rivulets.

“Cyar’ika,” She tried again, as Bo-Katan’s body shook with a mixture of emotion and exhaustion.

“Don’t want to talk,” She whispered into the metal, before she started to shift her body just enough to push herself up on shaking arms.

The Armorer nodded her head in understanding, shifting back to allow the woman to rise up once more and to aid her in turning around to face her. The Armorer then assisted the Mand’alor into jumping back up onto the table, though they were both immediately hit with the startled yelp of pain from the woman, who’d leaned as much of her weight into the woman in front of her to ease off her ass.

“Let me help you to the room,” The Armorer spoke after a few moments of Bo-Katan’s heavy breathing in her ear. When Bo nodded, The Armorer helped her up once more. Truthfully, they’d both leaned on each other for support as The Armorer led the way to the small room that occupied the great forge. Bo-Katan stood bonelessly against the wall beside the door, watching The Armorer move around with tired eyes.

They kept everything they needed in the room, from bacta, to sedatives (a long story), to any other item they may need, including extra clothes and flight suits. With the small fire lit and casting dancing shadows across the room, The Armorer went about gathering supplies.

“Come,” She called once she settled against the edge of the bed, her leg spread out to take pressure off her knee. Bo came obediently to stand between her legs, her nose crinkling at the sharp smell of bacta invading her nostrils. Generous amounts of patches and salve were spread across damaged skin, and a scan was taken over her ribs with the small handheld device that confirmed the crack. “You are going to take it easy, six weeks, at least,” The Armorer spoke with no room for argument, leaving the woman to simply nod in a quiet understanding.

There was a small shift in the woman, before Bo-Katan was being tugged gently and guided across her lap. The pliable woman allowed herself to be moved, relishing in the moment to press her sweaty forehead against the hot/cold feeling of her apron. A cool sensation numbed away the stinging heat of her backside, applied with more care than Bo-Katan figured she’d deserved, enough to nearly bring tears to her eyes once more.

When she was finished, Bo-Katan, still pliant as ever, allowed The Armorer to shift and move her around as she pleased, until she was resting back in the soft furs and the downy sheets from Coruscant. The Armorer did not lay back with her, which rose a sound of argument from the exhausted redhead.

“My leg,” Was the only response Bo-Katan received, though she’d understood easy enough. She had landed a pretty solid hit to her weak point, she’d doubted it would feel much better without heaps of bacta either.

“Do you need help?” She questioned, even knowing she would be turned down. The most she’d seen of the woman’s skin had been of strong hands, hardened by a long life of work. It was truly an honor to see as much of the woman, one she would never believe she was worthy of, but one she would never take for granted.

“I need you to rest, Mesh’la,” The Armorer’s voice was soft as she reached to card her fingers through Bo-Katan’s hair until the woman’s eyes drifted closed, the crackling of the fire and the soft sound of the woman’s voice reciting old poems giving her a serene soundscape to fall asleep to.

Translations: -mesh’la – beautiful -cyar’ika – darling, sweetheart -ekur ni – choke me

[mandogab]

Day 2 || Wedding/Marriage

Fenn Rau is one of the survivors of the Great Purge. He returns home to his family, to his wife... and her feelings are no longer what they used to be. Bo-Katan loves someone else...

@bokatanweek

[cirr0stratus]

Bo-Week day 3: Bo-Katan and Satine

[projectorthus]

IT’S BO WEEEKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And it occurred to me that I’ve never done a bosoka comic! This one is set roughly some time during Rebels.

[minamartinart]

Bo-Katan Week 2023  Dаy 1: Bo-Katan and Ahsoka @bokatanweek