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Bo-Katan has never really been one to be able to count her blessings. Her life has been marred by dark misfortune, her fate the Force’s damned punchline. Every victory she’s earned has come with a great cost, and every defeat she has suffered has been relentless and unyielding.
Bo-Katan is more than certain her story has been rife with more banes than boons, and given the herculean tasks ahead on the path to Mandalore’s reclamation – between the incessant work of clearing the rubble and reforging new structures, the time spent making herself over as a leader before a warrior, the petty squabbles of tribes who don’t know how to get along outside of a fight – she’s sure there will be even more hardships ahead.
But then again, finding out that your girlfriend has a small, private armoury just beside the city’s main forge is quite the blessing, and it’s one she’ll happily claim.
There are a few havens for the two of them that dot Sundari’s ruins, places where Bo-Katan can shed the mantle she worked so hard for and simply be herself. She’s happy to spend time relaxing in the older gardens, reminiscing on the vegetation that used to inhabit the area and regaling the Armourer with as vivid descriptions as she can manage. Between the two of them, she’s hardly an artist, but even with her gaze covered by an opaque black visor, Bo-Katan can imagine the wonder with which the Armourer regards her when she shares these memories.
As beautiful as it once was, though, she’s found that serenity slipping the more her subjects catch the two of them sneaking off to spend their time together in the gardens. This means Axe and Koska snickering between each other and hurling barely-veiled suggestions her way, all of which she rebukes and each of which only causes those bucketheads to snicker more. Children of the Watch found amusement in exploring the old ruins to sate their curiosity of what Mandalore once was, even as the Armourer had apparently told them off for it. Bo-Katan can’t help but wonder if they suspect her girlfriend of sacrilege, removing her helmet beyond their scrutiny for the one person who wouldn’t tell a soul if she did.
Obviously, that hasn’t happened. It’s been weeks and even Bo-Katan doesn’t know the face of the woman who fills her chest with such warm adoration, who holds her hands with such care and devotion, who time and time again manages to stoke fire in her cheeks and beneath her breast with the husky tones that wrap every utterance of her name–
The less said about the actual sacrilege they’ve engaged in on the shores of the waters, the better.
Still, with a day’s work to her back, an open invitation to find the Armourer at a new sanctuary for them, and the memories of their last tryst inviting her in, Bo-Katan marches promptly towards where her girlfriend had directed her earlier.
Bo-Katan nearly snickers at the moniker; girlfriend. Such a common word, one people might say is bereft of the importance entitled to the Mand’alor, but here she is, older and weathered, the veteran of countless conflicts and with the scars to prove it, getting giddy about being able to say she has a girlfriend.
If her young and lonely self could see her now, tear her eyes away from vindictive spite and unrequited passion…well, she can’t even say if she’d be on this path anymore, or if she’d just find another excuse to end up exactly where she is now. This is the way her life has gone, but at least it’s brought her here.
Here, of course, being the heavy draping curtain hanging over a stone archway. A small etching decorates the otherwise unremarkable doorway, taking the shape half of a Mandalorian visor, half of the skull of a mythosaur; idly, Bo-Katan’s thoughts flit to the similar adornment on her right pauldron, cut of pure beskar and glimmering, unpainted, even in the dim light of the subterranean metropolis.
The rhythmic clang of metal chimes past the curtain, a steady beat guiding the echoes and each of their silences in turn. The telltale brush of a flame underscores the metal, a perfect harmony of creation that she has only just now begun to reconcile the beauty of.
Ages ago, she’d held nothing but contempt for the traditions of her people, fixated solely on the culture’s place within her rather than her place in the culture. To reclaim Mandalore for Death Watch was a misguided outpouring of frustration twisted by a selfish interloper, and to reclaim Mandalore during the civil war was led by a silent apology she would never see accepted.
To reclaim Mandalore now, though, was inspired. It was true. It was to see those who helped bring her back experience the world she’d been born to, and to let their aspirations guide her back home.
Despite this, there is still an unresolved frustration which coils in her gut, simmers beneath her skin, threatens even to melt the beskar off her frame. As hot sweat beads down her forehead and plasters auburn locks to her temples, her mouth goes dry against tepid, shallow breaths. She’s still remembering how to want without wariness, how to take without fear of rebuttal, how to accept again despite past mistakes.
She lifts a gloved hand to pull the curtain aside, catching a quick glimpse of the Armourer before she lets herself fully into the hot chamber. Her presence doesn’t seem to interrupt the Armourer’s work, if the continued steady rhythm of metallic percussion is any indication, and Bo-Katan allows herself a moment to watch as she lounges against the stone archway.
The forge’s blaze casts the Armourer in a brilliant light, cascading over the strong silhouette ornamented by bronze armour while the white of the flame catches in the deep black of her focused visor. Her head is turned down towards a pauldron — what seems to be one of many pieces of armour which line the walls — and, even veiled by her helmet, her focus is hardened and intense, each stroke of her hammer shaping the metal to her unspoken whim. What a strong will she must have to imagine this metal shaped to her design, and what a strong arm she must have to see that through.
And Bo-Katan knows she’s strong: even hidden beneath a woolly cowl, the Armourer’s frame betrays that strength. Here in the forge, as in a battlefield, the blows dealt by her hammer shatter armour, fracture bone, strike with a precision even Bo-Katan could envy were she not more fascinated by it. With her prowess, the Armourer could have taken Mandalore’s throne, and yet she’s more than content reserving her strength to supply her people – their people – with these means of both survival and tradition.
How strong must she be that even the Mand’alor would bend in her grasp?
What shape would the Armourer make from her?
Bo-Katan’s cheeks flush at thoughts of work and flexibility, of heat and haggard breaths. Her chest knots around her heart as it pounds in tandem with the ringing permeating the chamber; if her skin were any thinner, the Armourer would likely be able to hear her raucous heartbeat against her breastplate. She has half a mind to strip out of her armour now, to find some kind of release from the heat overtaking her, but something in the way her cheeks buzz and a small hiccup of a gasp escapes her lips tells her that that would have the opposite effect.
Now she’s really counting her blessings.
Between the chimes of metal on metal, the Armourer’s voice sounds out, sonorous and deliberate. “Lady Bo-Katan,” she says expectantly; the command she holds over her domain is exemplified by the way Bo-Katan’s breath shudders and her chin juts at the greeting, her prowess distilled into this single moment of reverent anticipation.
The reverence is for her, of course. Bo-Katan regards the Armourer with the respect her station demands, the admiration her leadership has inspired, the affection she has been privy to in gentler moments. Her mind, however, can’t shake the tension of what else she could be shown, what kind of attention she could be granted. Her body – with hairs standing on-end and warmth thrumming beneath her skin – can’t shake it either.
There’s another clang of metal before the Armourer sets her work aside, heat waning off of half-shaped beskar. “How might I be of service?”
Bo-Katan strides forward, somehow both self-assured and self-conscious at once. “I just wanted to see how work was coming along on the replacement gear. I admire your work.”
“And I admire yours,” the Armourer replies. Bo-Katan can’t tell how much her helmet is modulating her voice and how much of it is coming through in a deliberate rasp. The Armourer’s gaze tracks across her figure and stills just barely at her chest as she says this, and it invokes that same heat it always does.
Bo-Katan’s lips spread into a thin smirk, one that barely contains the small giggle she’s so desperate to keep tucked away. No Mand’alor should be caught fucking giggling .
The Armourer steps out from behind her station and slinks towards Bo-Katan, letting her tongs clatter against the anvil as she fingers the tips of her gloves. “I presume your presence is not solely for business.”
“And what gave you that idea?” Bo-Katan offers a wolfish grin. She doesn’t want a single suggestion to go unnoticed.
“What other kinds of conversations would the Mandalore have with her Armourer in such clandestine fashion?” the Armourer counters smartly, taking another step closer. The tips of her fingers graze the worn metal of her station as she strides past, finally closing the distance between herself and Bo-Katan. Then, in a much quieter rasp, “How might I be of service, my lady?”
Bo-Katan swallows and lets her gaze fall to where that husky voice came from. She remembers those lips — dry but sweet, breath tasting of iron and smoke — and her chest constricts at the thought of tasting them again.
Again, her body flushes with heat, and a wilting breath passes her lips. “I think there might be something wrong with my armour,” she confesses.
She imagines the Armourer’s eyes tracking down to the weathered breastplate atop her chest, wonders what thoughts might pass along behind that black shield of a visor.
Of course, she doesn’t have to imagine the Armourer’s touch as it comes to rest on the collar of her breastplate, deliberate fingers seeking the curve of her armour as she drags her fingers down to caress the armour’s shape.
“Surely not,” she says, a hint of a smile in her wondrous voice. “Your armour is the purest of Beskar. You wear it well.”
Bo-Katan can hardly stifle the shudder that wracks her at those words, and instead opts to lean into the sensation. A wayward hand rises to take the Armourer’s wrist, a gentle grip guiding it back up slightly to meet the curve of her breast. Even through the metal, the touch is enough to send her heart racing.
“Oh, but you see,” Bo-Katan purrs, her voice sultry and coaxing, “there’s something that it can’t protect me from. No matter what I do, there’s this heat that I keep feeling, and when I’m around you, this armour doesn’t stop it one bit.”
Bo-Katan’s cheeks burn at her own words, prickling with what must be a rich blush. She’s never had the opportunity to speak like this, to arm herself with desire for a willing target. It’s intoxicating, a power that surpasses what the throne could ever give her, and it only serves to enkindle her more when she hears the faint echo of the Armourer’s breaths growing deeper.
“Curious,” the Armourer notes quietly; her hand remains fixed on the curve of her armour, but her thumb gently traces the outline of an old scratch in the grey paint. “I’ve faced similar afflictions.”
Bo-Katan barely holds back a small snort of a laugh. “Sounds serious.”
The Armourer hums. “Maybe so. I might have to take a look at it.”
Her touch drags backwards along Bo-Katan’s breastplate, coming to rest near one of the leather straps affixing the armour to her chest. The tips of her fingers snag briefly on the space between armour and cloth, and she feels closer than she ever has before. It makes Bo-Katan shiver and cling to that sensation even as that touch moves elsewhere.
The Armourer idly toys for a moment with the strap, running her fingers along the edge of the old leather. Her gaze seems affixed to Bo-Katan’s armour, still, and once more her mind runs off with all that she might not be admitting, what wants and what ideas might simmer behind that focused, black visor.
Bo-Katan knows what she wants. Why else would she be here, seeking the touch of this remarkable woman when she knows damn well she could just ask for it. The world has bent the knee to her once again, allowed her to triumph in the face of old scars and bitter defeat. She can decide what she wants of her people, of her culture, and even now she remains unchallenged in her desires.
But that’s not what she wants. She would never ask the Armourer to bend the knee, nor to challenge her claim to the throne.
Like the Beskar she shapes day in and day out, she would only ask that the Armourer bend her to her own will, too.
When the Armourer does speak, it’s with an admiration she wishes she could return tenfold, if only to make her own affections truly known.
“Do you mind if I…?”
Bo-Katan brings her hand to match the Armourer’s grip, twining their fingers together beneath the straps holding her armour in place. “Please.”
One word. One command. It’s something she rarely utters, and that inexperience betrays itself in the withering tone she uses to ask for what she wants. Regardless, the Armourer accepts, and in moments the space between them has shrunk yet again, with the Armourer near-flush against Bo-Katan’s chest as she works to separate the breastplate from its restraints.
Her touch harbours no restraint, every brush of her palm against the flight suit covering her seering skin focused and deliberate. Bo-Katan would wonder whether or not she knows the effect her hands have on her, but with the way her fingers hover near blatantly sensitive spots and the care she takes to drape each strap rather than simply releasing them gives the notion pause.
Finally, the breastplate is loose enough for the Armourer to press her fingers beneath the metal seams and peel it away; as she does, a deep, warm breath rushes in to fill her lungs, her chest suddenly unconstrained. She’s been made to grow so used to her armour. In the years since the Empire’s conquest of Mandalore, she’s rarely taken it off, her fears weighing her down along with it. There could never be a moment where she could let that guard down, never a moment where she could remove the burden of her station and just breathe.
Even though now, she’s secluded from those who would likely benefit to see their leader at peace, the breaths she takes feel sweet. Freeing. She accepts each one graciously, wavering as they may be while the Armourer fondles her ‘gam with delicate care. The Armourer’s head tilts as her gaze seems to track between to her breast — where exposed circuitry and base plates betray her rapid breaths — and the Beskar shell that hid so much of her for so long. The eyeline she imagines invites a rich blush to grace her cheeks and flush down to her collar.
“How do you feel now?” she asks. It sounds clinical, but Bo-Katan can catch a playful tone to the question.
“Still hot,” Bo-Katan murmurs. “Perhaps you need to take a closer look?”
“Perhaps not,” the Armourer responds quickly, turning the armour over in her hands. “I know your armour well.”
“I’m quite aware,” Bo-Katan says with a smirk that tilts wry and impish. “You’re very good with your hands.”
Despite her cool demeanour (and how much of it she hides behind her helmet), the remark gives the Armourer pause, the thumbs tracing the lines of Bo-Katan’s breastplate stilling for a moment as her head snaps up in surprise. Bo-Katan can practically hear the stammer crackling in her vocoder, and can’t help the small flush of pride that colours her expression.
It’s cute, seeing her get so flustered (or as flustered as Bo-Katan can see of her). She tries not to giggle at the sight, even as the urge pulls at the corners of her mouth, but the opportunity to turn the tables and gain the high ground is just too enticing.
“Remind me,” she coos, “how again is it that you’re so familiar with my armour?”
The Armourer, still palming the breastplate that Bo-Katan is all but ignoring, remains static for a moment before she clears her throat and glances down quickly again at the armour in her grasp.
“I’ve watched you closely for some time,” she confesses, then slightly raises the ‘gam to align with — but not join against — Bo-Katan’s breast. “It’s exquisite work. It contours your frame excellently. It bolsters your already strong resolve.”
“You’ve watched me, huh?”
The Armourer’s head tilts again as she pitches forward slightly. “Is that not allowed, my lady?”
“It’s encouraged,” Bo-Katan responds, her tone thin between breaths. “You think my resolve is strong, then?”
The Armourer hums in thought, drawing slowly closer as she pulls the breastplate lower again. “Normally.”
Bo-Katan allows herself a moment to preen, though the affirmation does set a gentle flame beneath her chest. “And what else do you think of me?”
“I think,” the Armourer drawls, dragging her gaze up to Bo-Katan’s, “that you’ve got quite the mouth on you, my lady.”
Bo-Katan bristles at the remark. “Perhaps you’ll have to find some way to shut me up, then—”
The air that she’d so graciously swallowed back moments ago escapes her lungs in a rush, her phrase cut short by the feel of a heavy but gentle touch caressing her waist. Her skin beneath the Armourer’s hand simmers and warms, her body singing for more within her embrace. Between her thighs, that heat spreads even more.
Bo-Katan is silent for a moment, and she’s so painfully aware of her own silence. The words she’s left unspoken hang stale in her mouth as the final bits of breath fizzle away, returning shallow and wanting. She stammers around each one, and her own surprise coupled with the Armourer’s touch — trailing languidly below her waist and behind her — dry her lips and colour her cheeks.
“How is that heat now, my lady?” the Armourer asks, as if she has no idea what’s doing to Bo-Katan. It’s almost infuriating how easy it is for her to rile her up; instead, though, it’s intoxicating.
“So much hotter,” she murmurs faintly; the Armourer’s hand continues to grip her ass, and Bo-Katan’s breaths turn to a stutter.
“Then perhaps you’d like me to work a bit deeper?”
“Yes,” is Bo-Katan’s clipped response, and before she has a moment to recollect herself, the air is briefly alive with the sound of metal clanging to the stone floor. In a single, impressively swift motion, the Armourer reaches past her to one of the panels on the wall, and the lights to this sacred, intimate forge go dark and leave her unable to see. The familiar hiss of a helmet being removed sounds in the stifled, lightless chamber, preceding the immediate taste and feel of the Armourer’s lips as she pitches up and brings them to hers.
The kiss they shared in the Living Waters had been, at the time, more than Bo-Katan might have dreamed of. It had been passionate, adoring, unbridled in all the ways she’d never received before. Within the Armourer’s embrace and on the banks of such a monument, she’d felt alive, ecstatic, enveloped by an adoration that dotted the stars — an adoration that she could reach for and finally claim, once and for all.
Now, their kiss is messy. It’s salacious. It’s needy.
Bo-Katan feels her lips scrape along the swollen flesh of the Armourer’s lips, drawing small chimes and moans of delight to ornament the silence enveloping them. Her skin surges hotly with every crash of lips and every wandering grasp, and she can feel herself melting beneath the Armourer’s careful but deliberate touch.
Fuck, this kiss is intoxicating.
A forgotten piece of armour clatters at her feet, which she quickly kicks aside as she pulls the Armourer backwards, her fingers twining into the wool of her collar. She’s careful not to let her hands wander much higher; the last thing she wants to do right now is forsake such a rapturous moment by reminding the Armourer of the creed she’s taken and — as a result of her — is more or less breaking.
Besides, is what they’re doing now — the Mandalore and her advisor — not sacrilege enough?
A leg brushes against her thigh, jolting her senses at the sudden surge of pleasure it evokes. Even through her thick jumpsuit, the sensation sinks into her, inviting that pooling warmth between her legs to bristle and burn, reminding her of what she came here for in the first place.
Bo-Katan whines at the feeling as the Armourer’s lips brush hungrily against hers; she can feel them parting into the fairest hint of a smile, and she doesn’t need to see her face to know what kind of expression she wears.
“Mesh’la,” Bo-Katan whimpers, causing the Armourer to pull her lips away for the briefest of moments, hovering inches away from Bo-Katan’s chin as her fingers idly toy with the seams of her suit.
She’s always been so attentive, so respectful. She always listens with rapt attention to what Bo-Katan has to tell her, mundane as it may be, and she pays enough mind to know how to cool the inflamed temper currently burning beneath her skin. It makes Bo-Katan want her more. It makes Bo-Katan want to submit to her every desire, trust that she’ll be handled with the care she’s been denied for so long, be shaped and used and pleased whichever way the Armourer leaves unspoken in her thoughtful silence.
“What is it, my lady?” she asks, the words slipping off her tongue with a low rasp to her voice. She’s almost idly toying with the zipper on her flight suit, until Bo-Katan notes the faint sensation of canvas peeling from clammy skin.
Bo-Katan shudders at the feeling and wraps her fingers around the Armourer’s wrist, tugging it down until her breast is exposed. “Can you please me, mesh’la?”
The Armourer remains silent for a moment, her thumb grazing the weathered steel of her lowered zipper to match her silent consideration. “How would you like me to please you?”
“However you want,” Bo-Katan all but demands, “as long as it’s dirty.”
The Armourer hums — a low, clear sound that makes Bo-Karan’s chest rumble hungrily — before she leans in to kiss her once, kiss her twice, and kiss her once more, each one deeper and more thoughtful than the last, until, “I have an anvil that should support you.”
Bo-Katan’s lips part barely in puzzled amusement. “You…want me on your forge?”
“If it pleases my lady,” the Armourer responds, and Bo-Karan’s confusion fizzles at the notion of such lewd acts being performed at such a sacred altar to the Armourer’s work and tradition. It warms her heart as it sizzles her skin, and Bo-Katan raises a wanting hand between them.
“Lead me,” she asks, and the Armourer’s focused grip is delicate in her own. “I can’t see in this darkness.”
“Come with me, then. This way.” The Armourer gives her hand a light squeeze before drawing her closer, turning away for a brief moment and guiding Bo-Katan through the unlit chamber.
“This way?” Bo-Katan asks as she shuffles along. “This…is the way?”
There’s a pause, and the Armourer sighs wearily before it makes way to a small, airy chuckle.
“And here I thought you respected my station,” the Armourer drawls playfully, to which Bo-Katan can’t help but shrug nonchalantly — an action which hardly allows her a moment to react to the Armourer’s tug that pulls her the remaining few steps.
She’s stopped inches from the anvil, the cold metal of which she can feel against her thighs. She’s far enough away from it to feel safe, protected as the Armourer holds her near it, all while she indulges in the burning rush of having been handled so roughly.
It makes her ache more. It makes her want to turn around and kiss the stupid smile she knows her lover is wearing off that face she’s never seen but fallen for all the same.
But when the Armourer speaks, her voice robust and commanding, all her wants dissolve to her desire.
“Bend over,” she demands, running her fingertips down from the small of her back to the curve of her ass.
Bo-Katan shivers, at the words and at the contact. “Here?” she asks, tracing the flat metal top of the anvil; she knows the Armourer can’t see what she’s touching, but it’s more for herself, anyways.
The Armourer’s leathers creak behind her as she slinks closer, palming a cheek with ungloved fingers. “Where else?” When Bo-Katan doesn’t respond, too enraptured and too coiled with anticipation to find her own words, the Armourer gives her a squeeze. “Bend over, my lady.”
Bo-Katan flares with heat at the suggestion- no, the command. She’s rarely taken orders from anyone, her pride too swollen to accept the rule of others, but her respect for the Armourer swells past what ego she’s nurtured after all these years, and the coiling heat between her legs burns even hotter than that respect.
Bo-Katan does as she’s told, stripping the remaining garment from her skin until it sits armourless around her thighs. She palms the anvil, cold to the touch in a way that invites a sharp gasp, before gently sliding forward. Behind her, the Armourer guides her with a knowing hand that cascades down her back, where old, faint scars have the chance to be adored by a firm but devoted touch.
A small warmth spreads around her hammering heart as she settles herself onto the anvil, her ass up behind her and her knees scraping old stone. She knows she’s in good hands. She knows all that she is, all that she’s done, only serves to warm her lover’s heart. Bo-Katan can hardly remember the last time she trusted anyone else with her body, let alone let someone whose entire path in life is devoted to the metal shells worn atop it.
Then again, Bo-Katan can’t even begin to imagine how dexterous that line of work would make the Armourer.
She hears her sidle up behind her ahead of two calloused hands that move to cup her ass, kneading them aside as Bo-Katan stifles a small gasp.
“You’re wet,” the Armourer notes, and even with the rapt hush that coats her voice, the blunt statement manages to crack a small grin across Bo-Katan’s lips, however one that quickly melts away as the Armourer draws her hand towards her sex, the tips of her fingers skating deliberately across her folds.
“It’s all for you,” Bo-Katan manages through the moan that wracks her voice. The heat that surges between her thighs flares once more, a hopeless want causing her muscles to tense and her breath to still. “Do what you will with me, mesh’la.”
The Armourer hums in acknowledgement as she traces along the line of her sex. Bo-Katan’s mind races with all that she could do to her, all that she could be made to feel and sound like and want. Her heart feels like a drum, a loop of heavy beats slamming against her breast, and – vulnerable as she is in this moment – she’s never felt bolder, shuffling back against the Armourer’s hand in impatient invitation.
And then, the Armourer gets to work.
The first pump sends a hot surge of pleasure through Bo-Katan. She tenses around the Armourer’s fingers as she pushes two fingers deep inside of her, barely managing to hold back a shaky moan at the feeling. It’s not a feeling she’s unfamiliar with, no, but for the first time she’s allowing the hand to belong to someone other than herself, trusting them with her body and her pleasure.
With only darkness ahead, Bo-Katan can focus solely on each thrust of the Armourer’s fingers deeper inside of her, try to measure her breaths as each one is pushed out of her with every sharp arch of her back. She knows the Armourer can’t see her either, but hopes the show she’s putting on is good enough for her.
And what a show it is, to have the Mand’alor strewn across a steel anvil as her Armourer drives her fingers between her legs, pulling every strained moan and hot gasp out of her that she can. But there’s nothing embarrassing about this, nothing that Bo-Katan doesn’t want from this. She’s given her trust over, and every second that the Armourer is inside of her – every second she’s warm putty in her adept hands, every second her skin sears and sizzles with no armour to shield her from the bristling heat – strikes her with a desperate need to see how she’ll come out on the other side.
The Armourer drags a hand along her back, stoking fire in its wake, as she moves to grip the back of Bo-Katan’s neck. She pitches forward and kneels beside her, kneading the nape of her neck as she thrusts again into her.
“You know,” she purrs, her breath sizzling against the shell of Bo-Katan’s ear, “you’re much easier to work with than my usual materials.”
“Yeah?” is all Bo-Katan can manage. It’s weak, it’s shaky, it’s beneath her own breath, and yet the sound of her own voice – pathetic at the Armourer’s words – only serves to make her hotter.
The Armourer hums and leans in, pulling her hand between Bo-Katan’s wound shoulder blades, trailing over the remnants of scars she’s never seen. “Of course, like my other materials, you’re strong.”
To emphasise her point, she digs the tips of her fingers into the tight muscle, sending a shiver up Bo-Katan’s spine.
“What makes you much nicer to work with, however,” she murmurs, still palming the tight muscles of her back, each stroke earning a small whimper, “is how responsive you are. Beskar rarely tells me what feels good. But you…”
And Bo-Katan surges with white-hot pleasure as the Armourer’s thumb – the one resting still against her sex – strikes her clit with a quick but deliberate stroke. Her eyes roll back and she sees the only colour she has in the pitch-black chamber, and the uneven breath she swallows back sharpens the anticipation building in her chest.
The Armourer chuckles, clearly pleased with herself. Bo-Katan would be lying if she said she wasn’t just as pleased.
Without another word, the Armourer resumes, pumping into Bo-Katan with the same ardent fervour she’d given to her work before. Bo-Katan is sure to broadcast her bliss, offering small whimpers and moans and gasps at every right touch, every deliberate stroke. She knows the Armourer is listening, can feel her applying what she learns to her body, and it only serves to bring Bo-Katan closer to completion.
“Mesh’la,” she whines, gripping the edge of the anvil, “I’m close.”
The Armourer’s response comes as her thumb presses deep against her clit again, wracking her with a passionate flare of ecstasy. She does her best to buck against her lover’s hand, desperate to bring herself closer to climax, but in her state she can hardly manage to match the Armourer’s resolute, practised rhythm. All she can bring herself to do is gasp against the building pleasure in her chest before it bursts, clenching her eyes until that release comes.
When it does, her vision goes white again. Heat burns out from her chest, up her throat and into her voice as she whimpers from her climax. Her strength fails her as bliss surges to replace it, numbing her arms and bringing her low against the anvil. The cold shock of metal against her sizzling skin buffets her bliss, stretching it past her own waning moans until she feels spent against it.
Letting out a full, satisfied sigh, Bo-Katan slumps onto the stone floor to rest against the anvil as the Armourer pulls her fingers from between her legs. There’s the sound of wet slick drawing against skin ahead of the slide of leather; even in her state, Bo-Katan can’t help but wonder if the Armourer might enjoy her taste, too, next time.
“I’m turning on the lights,” the Armourer announces, albeit smoothly, gently, as the sound of her helmet returning to its place echoes in the chamber.
Bo-Katan, suddenly, feels panicked, moving to collect her equipment. “Should I–”
“No,” the Armourer states. “I want to see what I’ve made of you.”
Bo-Katan goes hot again, breathless, as she lets the zipper of her flight suit fall again. Her chest constricts, something anxious coiling in her gut. She’s never been seen by anyone in such a state, and even as much as she’s given the Armourer her faith, she can hardly bear the thought that she might find the shape of her unappealing next to the contour of perfected beskar. It wouldn’t be the first time Bo-Katan has unwittingly bucked the expectations placed upon her.
The lights flare into being, and Bo-Katan squints as her eyes adjust. Even if they’re still at a low setting, she’s been so used to shadow until this moment. The Armourer stands at the end of the chamber, her deep black visor catching some stray reflections as she regards Bo-Katan.
At first, she wonders if she should strike some sort of pose for her. After all, how she is now must hardly be attractive, with a red flush dyeing her skin and the remnants of her arousal pooling at the crotch of her suit. Then again, Bo-Katan wouldn’t even know what kind of pose to strike if it were asked of her.
Her fears, however, are dashed when the Armourer lets out a content little hum and nears her. Bo-Katan watches in rapt anticipation as the Armourer approaches before kneeling before her; even with a veiled gaze, she can tell she’s being studied, and hopes that she’s also being admired.
Finally, the Armourer pulls forward slightly and raises a gloved hand to Bo-Katan’s cheek. Bo-Katan melts at the soft touch, her skin cooling to a comfortable warmth as the Armourer says, “It’s such a shame someone so beautiful was forged in such a harsh flame.”
Bo-Katan blinks, only somewhat surprised by the statement. “I wouldn’t consider that a bad thing,” she responds, though her voice is laden with doubt.
What she’s seen, what she’s done , has made her the warrior she is today, instilled pride in her breast where regret and grief would otherwise ferment. The scars she bears – many of which her lover can now witness – are storied with determination and resolution, the map to her ultimate destiny atop the throne of Mandalore.
And still, none of the pain she’s endured compares to the delicate touch granted to her now.
The Armourer closes what little space remains between them, touching the surprisingly warm brass of her helmet against her forehead. “I like what I’ve made of you, my lady.”
“And what’s that?” Bo-Katan asks, barely above a whisper.
And when the Armourer speaks again, it’s with a quiet, intimate reverence she’s sure none of her subjects could ever match in their endless deference to her station.
“Happier,” the Armourer purrs sweetly.
Bo-Katan doesn’t resist the smile that threatens to spread across her features, nor does she fight the urge to pull back and place an adoring kiss to the shaped metal of the Armourer’s cheek. Truly, if this is where her destiny has brought her – if this is what she’s meant to become, the shape she can finally take – then perhaps destiny is kinder to her now.