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kalevalakryze · 1 year ago

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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

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