009. LEAVE NOTHING TO THE IMAGINATION

( —to present (something) in a very stark or obvious manner. )

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Surprise was an emotion Myra had never taken easily. She had laboured under the illusion of a possibility through the Sight that surprise was near to impossible.

Her head snapped in the direction of the door upon sudden footsteps. The Mandalorian, in all his winner glory and warrior blemishes, stood suavely with a hand resting on the frame. As if he were contemplative about stepping in and minding his own business. 

She had spent too much of vehemence on keeping the village safe while the raiders had attacked and procured her own collection of bruises and wounds on her body. She sat at the foot of the bed, her shredded dress hanging in scraps as she cleaned the wounds with a damp towel. On a footstool near her was a basin of crimson coloured water, which she continued to soak in and scrub down her bruises.

"I never said my thanks," he started in a polite voice. But only, Myra didn't want to return it.

"For?"

"Helping out there."

"I did that for the tribe," she sighed. "Not you."

"Myra," he tried, exhausted about the feud between them. He had come in with no holes barred, the least she could do was hear him out.

"Just come in," she spoke clearly, shaking her head. "Platitudes are dead anyway."

Relieved that she had not put up a fight, the Mandalorian walked in slowly. The room was concise for a witch grown in the captivity of the doctrine, the floor matted with gold dust from her footsteps. He questioned it for a moment before seating himself beside her feet. His armour chinked with the movement to which, Myra cast him a weird glance. 

His hands had born another stalk of flowers, this one tight-budded and rosy hued. It was something you find among waterbanks, a little drowsy and leaves drooping. She luckily fought off a smile as he placed them beside his thigh as a peace offering. 

The Mandalorian's thought revolved around her accepting it, sly eyes watching her move and hesitate at the gesture. She pulled her hand back for what seemed like the third time before giving up and taking them into her fingertips. She smiled at him in thanks, sighing out loud.

"So," she murmured, trying to fill in the silence with a small conversation. "No rifles, no blasters, no braces—just you."

He patiently waited for her to finish. He knew there was more to it than just a statement.  

"What do you want from me?"

"Nothing," he answered easily. "I just want to talk."

"Not sure if that's your forte," she replied under her breath, pulling her legs away to create more space between them. Simultaneously, the dress that she had hiked up till her hip was pulled down and her eyes set straight ahead on the wall.

The Myra he had seen on Arvala-7 was all kinds of exultant of her beliefs, speaking as if she had a vice and packing paramount confidence. Like silk over a glass, she had radiated an original sort of beauty. The one he was seeing now was anything but, mangled up in her flurry of thoughts and powering enough anxiety to fire up a village. She was disturbed for some reason, ready to put one foot in the grave if she had a chance.

"Please say something," she said, her voice was softer than a whisper. It held a plea rather than a command, torturing her if he didn't. "I need to distract myself from... your loud... thoughts."

"Are you listening to them?" He asked, curious.

"No," she shook her head, her hands evidently fisting as if facing a conflict with herself. "I won't anymore."

"It's okay," he tried to say when in reality, he wanted to say so much more. He kept it short and firm. "I don't mind."

A sly smile came on her lips as the towel plopped back into the water. "You make compromises as if I mean something to you."

He fell quiet; only because he didn't know how to respond to that. He had a single answer that rounded his head but he knew that the time wasn't right. She had a way with her words, a linguistic stroke of genius to her magical ways. 

Myra was impertinent to the inability to read from one's voice. Conflicted with her inbuilt nature to pry into someone's head and, to remain true to the Mandalorian and his firm requests. To seem him bend to her likings was odd for the flat-toned, monotonous hunter. While trying to stay neutral by the gaze that he was feeding her, she couldn't help but grumble about the material she was wearing. In a haste for release, she tore the sleeves with a grunt.

"I hate this stupid fabric," she hissed, pushing the train of her dress away promptly. "How do women move in this?"

He let a smile gather on his face under the helmet. "Then, change out of it."

"People stare," she mumbled under her breath. 

"People stare at me, too," he shrugged. "I don't care."

"This is different," she mentioned, amused. "They look at you in respect; admiration. Mine is a different sort of the same."

A laugh left him, simple and curt. Myra lifted her head to hear it in disbelief, never having heard him laugh. It was the sweetest sound in the galaxy—a deep, throaty hum and cheeky when it lasted. 

"I had a Sight," Myra sought to say, tilting her head. Her moist palm rubbed the side of her neck with the symbol of forewarning, thinking to last morning and breathing out softly.

He looked at her in compliance, nodding. "And?"

"It was different," she said truthfully. "Strangely, I was..."

She had been right here. Trapped at this moment only it was, as she had stated, different. The Sight that had indelibly left an imprint on her mind proceeded to move behind her eyes, bringing her back to the sultry vision. 

"Were you harmed?" he demanded.

"No, no. It's not like that." She exhaled all at once. "I can't stop thinking about it."

"You could talk it out."

"Talk?"

"To me." He was testing the words on his lips. "About what you saw."

"Yes, well. Um." That untamed sensation she'd felt—how was she supposed to explain that to him? 

A dull whisper for her name made her turn to the Mandalorian, except he had never said anything. It was as if something exploded at the back of her mind, delicate hands that traced her skin and soon, soft lips that followed. The Sight was disturbing her with a rote pleasure, forcing her to act on her repressing instincts. 

There was only one person she shared this innate connection, who could touch inside her with ease, stroke her passions and extinguishing the storm that brewed. She began to realize the tremble in her hands that was the result of the chaos in her head. 

"Have you ever taken your helmet off in front of someone?" She blurted out, regretting it the moment it left her mouth. Yet, she persisted her stare on him and waited for him to react. Her mouth had run dry after.

His answer was quick and as if ingrained in him to repeat it. "I can't."

"Is it a by-law or—?"

"No living thing has seen me without it," he muttered. "If it does happen, I can't wear it ever again."

And, that did it. Waves of relief crashed into and soaked right into her bones. The anxiety that was pent up released her slowly, enabling her to breathe commonly again. Her tense muscles relaxed and a little laugh left her lips at her predicament being solved. All this fuss over a simple rule.

"What?"

Myra reached a hand out to his, thankful that his braces had been off, and placed it over her chest. He didn't refuse her touch, allowing her to do so. Obliviously, she cast her mind into his and began to listen. His thoughts had dimmed to undertones, all his focus on the warmth between them. 

"What do you hear?" She asked.

"Nothing," he answered, honest but frantic. "Myra, what—"

"I'm no living thing, Mandalorian," she shushed him, her smile tugging on the corners of his heart. "I would have a heart if I did."

Her statement was a glorious entropy. Torn between feeling reassured or repelled, he let his palm travel from her chest to her neck and still feeling no pulse underneath. It was agony at its finest, to never able to nurse a broken heart or a full one. But to him, it was satisfaction. Not having the barrier of steel standing between their emotions. 

"You do it," he prompted her, taking off the gloves from his hands. 

Myra looked from beneath her lashes, considering the feat she would have to achieve. In assent, she reached to sides of his helmet, her hands trembling and lips fluttering with quick inhales. She tipped it over and she swore, it was as if her heart had restarted all over again. 

"Hi," she mumbled out foolishly.

The man underneath looked fitter than anything she had anticipated, the kind that stopped you in your tracks. Upon her mumble, his lean face had stretched into an amused grin that slowly spread to show all his teeth. Sun-kissed skin paired with an exotic touch to his features; thin, kissable lips and a slender nose that hooked forward. A prominent jaw curved beautifully around and the depth of his neck exposed in the twining fibres of the muscle that shaped his entire, armoured body; strong arms, bold thighs and calves, a firm chest and abdomen. 

"Hi you," he whispered back, eyes searching hers — a little shocked, a little dumbfounded, a little more in love. An embodiment of a goddess, he thought. Myra's lips twisted upon hearing it.

Dark curls of hair had flattened over his forehead from the weight of the helmet. Her finger reached out to push the locks away from his face but, she stopped abruptly to ask permission. "Can I—"

"I'm not a witch," he joked lightly. "Go ahead."

She watched how his eyes were a hickory shade as rich as the soil, deep pools that swirled with a depth of a thousand untold secrets. She didn't need to read his mind to sense the awe that she was seeing in them, the exact marvels that crossed his beautiful mind. 

"Can I touch you?" He asked breathily and she laughed, nodding.

"Yes, please."

Except he didn't just touch her. His hand swept into her hair to bring her close and his lips catching hers. She was stunned for a moment, soon falling for the bliss of warmth she had been gifted with. Their foreheads relaxed against each other; breaths shaking, mingling and becoming one. Wavering and invigorated from the tautness, he closed the distance between their parted lips and kissed him warmly. Her lips lifted to a smile when she tended behind, taking shallow gasps to fill the silence.

"Say my name again," Myra implored, her burning eyes set on his shuddering lips. "Say it for me, Mandalorian."

"Myra," he whispered. 

Her eyes fluttered close briefly, revelling in the sound.

Din, unable to hold back any longer, held the nape of her neck to pull her back for a more passionate kiss to fuel his dominance. The world itself was falling away and he didn't want to let go. She ran her fingers up his spine, reaching to tangle her arms around his neck. His hands as if on cue drifted to her hip to yank her into his chest, making her straddle his waist in a haste and his eyes blinked open to watch her give him the biggest grin she had seen her wear. 

"Can I ask you something?"

She nodded.

"What does this mean?" He asked her curiously, pulling down the torn sleeve to her elbow, to see a three-pronged triangular scar that was imprinted over her shoulder. His thumb rubbed over the ink over her silky dark skin. 

She smiled at him. "How did you know it means something?"

"You wear it so bravely," he continued to prod the tattoo quietly, not looking at her eyes. She wanted him to. "I just know."

"That is," she breathed out, "the rune for a promise. An oath."

His eyes glazed over when he let his stare drag from her shoulder to a little above her breast, a sly finger tracing the mark slowly. It was a symbol with two-open triangles, fit between each other. 

"This?"

"That is for the divine interaction; a union," she said what she had learnt when the tattoo was imbued on her body. "When a witch accepts the ways, she must connect. Unite with every energy she feels. I thrive off links," she tapped a finger over his temple, "the mind," and then his chest, "and the soul. Which is why—"

"—you read minds," he completed for her. He looked like he adored it, dragging his hand down to her wrist to tap on the flat side. A rolling, intricate magenta ink had caught his eyes this time.

"And this?"

"That," she said with a small laugh, "that one is yours."

His brows crinkled in amusement. "That looks nothing like me."

She chuckled through her nose. "Stop it."

"I look way better," he kidded.

"I got it the day I met you," she shook her head, chuckling lowly. "A witch procures a moon-glyph, like this, once in her life. So in a twisted way, it's yours."

He brought her wrist to his lips, pecking it lightly. She watched on—confused—and how he had hooked it behind his neck. When she had expected a snide remark, his arms had only held her tighter at her waist, smirking up at her.

"Officially the first to see my face," he said to her, all sorts of amused, reaching out to push a hair behind her ear. She watched how he had begun to touch her more than ever as if taking advantage of her acceptance. 

"The name's Din Djarin. Nice to meet you."

She made a face at him, shaking her head. "That's the spookiest name I've ever heard."

"Compared to 'Myra the Golden'?" He cocked a perfect brow. She rolled her eyes, withholding a laugh. 

In a gradual pulse of absent minds, Din's hand had buried in her hair with a breath, watching it tumble as he released it. All the while, she never stopped him; questioning what was on his mind that he wanted at that moment. Her eyes followed his fingertips, almost amused, and he cast her a dry look.

"What?"

"Are you usually like this?"

"Cut me some slack," he rolled his eyes. "I just kissed a witch."

Her grin was toothy, her eyes shutting on their own accord to lean into him again. As if he were starving for more, his lips caught hers and at that moment, he couldn't get enough. It was his freedom, his outlet, his drug—all at once, not that she was easy or naive, but he knew well enough she would never let another man worthy of her kisses touch her. 

A playful finger of his had tugged on a button at her back, yanking it open. Myra was to occupied to care, his fingers reaching down bravely to pop open another one. He let his head fall to a side when her warm kisses trailed down his jaw, darting open a few more buttons. He saw the long trail of whimsical runes and symbols etched on her back in a beautiful catastrophe. He trailed a finger down the ink, as always so captivated by it, and his illusion had come crashing down. 

Myra had him pinned to the bed, a slender hand forcing down on his windpipe and his fist hovering a little above ready to pummel his face to juice. He choked on nothing until Myra came to her senses, her gaze wavering to his hardened eyes in horror and pulling back with a hand over mouth.

"Are you okay?" She whispered, pushing herself off his chest and helping him up. "I'm sorry, I didn't know what I was—I'm so sorry. Are you hurt?"

He coughed out, rubbing a hand down his neck to soothe the congestion away. She wedged a gap between them, scared to touch him as he started to cough again.

"Wow," he shook his head as if to rid of a trance and looked at her with a sheepish smile. "Those reflexes are amazing."

"I don't know what that was," she whispered, placing a hand over his arm, "I'm so sorry, I—"

He silenced her with a soft kiss. "It's okay. Everybody wants to be pummeled by a beautiful woman."

She laughed, stroking her nose with his gently before reuniting her lips with his. In the quiet moment of action and stillness, the air around them had become dense enough to slice through. Her ambivalence had shifted to enthusiasm, thinking of how he was the only man on earth who could set fire to the waters of Ichor itself. 

His mind was still preoccupied with the shade of her skin as he detached the ribbons holding her dress together. "You've done this before?" 

Inwardly, he hoped it was a no. She must've heard it because she breathed out a snicker. "Something like this."

"You can't say that and expect me to go easy on you, enchantress," he growled, ghosts of a threat tinged in his voice. 

From that instant of clothes were a hindrance, his fingers almost electric as he strived to provide a solution to the problem. As her hands moved along his strong shoulders to his chest, his mind was in a state of transitory paralysis, unable to process the pleasure her petal-like hands were bringing him. They were timorous on their journey, down the crevasses in his abdomen and feeling his skin shudder at her touch. A smile lifted on her lips as her mouth widened in the kiss, admiring the effect her touch brought him. Slowly guiding him, learning the language his body spoke; Din did the same. Myra didn't move as he did, she was stiff yet, elegant. Her fingers wrapped around him, stroked him, made him be at her liberty, and he went all too willingly. 

Like molten gold had been spilt over her body that was instead an altar, she was everything at once and nothing at all. Breaths scaling high between her legs, Din watched the most beautiful spectacle unfold, Myra's head falling back with a stifled grunt into the mat, her lank hips bucking, her gleaming teeth biting down, oh-so-addicted to the drug called desire with his fingers crawling higher and higher to where their shared intimacy was tasteful. Of all sweetness and light, Myra was the most real—he's simply sensed it the minute she'd let go. A mere tremble was what it took to tell him that she was indeed here and not another one of his imaginations, a satisfied sigh that followed after. Brown clashed with gold; the ferocity of the woods with the luxuriance of the tinsel ore, lavishly finding a place to reside in their passion. 

 And at that sweet moment in the twilight room, their fingers caressed each other's skin as if afraid a more onerous touch would divulge their intoxicating magic. They had become one; one mind, one purpose and one utterly drunk in love for the other. Her hands were tightening, begging for another release but unable to articulate a response. Lips caught between their teeth to stifle their hushed pleasures, they were arching into each other intemperance and the natural cadence of the dance that was embedded in their life. 

The breezy room had turned warmer than her silk-over-glass skin, her eyes speaking the same words as her body. He found it hard to hold back, to make the moment last until he had every crater and every crevasse in her body ingrained in his memory. But, was that not always the way—to be caught amid the intoxication of a climax and prolonging a moment they never wanted to end. 

∞

When Din woke up, the bedside was empty. He lifted his head off the pillow with a groan leaving his lips, blinking the light out of his eyes to search the room. A strong swerve of a headache crashed into his skull and a small smile lighting his lips, wondering if last night were too good to be true. 

"Myra?"

No answer. 

The blemished cotton dress that she seemed to condemn hung neatly over an armchair and the presence of an ethereal woman in the room missing. The gold dust that trailed behind her was missing, too, making him shoot up in concern. The strange child cooed somewhere far away between other giggling children, manifesting panic as he jump-leapt out of the mattress. 

His hand travelled to his neck, recollecting the memories of the perfect night he had in a while. Myra's lips lingered where he touched, feeling her soft breaths and quiet, sweet nothings in his ear. The grin widened as the twilight reminiscences clearly played in his head, tracing his own lips and hoping to feel Myra's. 

"Hey," he called out unthinkingly. "You know, last night was..."

His hands found his Mandalorian helmet resting where she had been that night and something crimson near it caught his eye. He grasped it between his fingers, careful to be gentle, the silver chain that hooked the brilliant ruby stone together was crushed between his palm. A small, paper note laid together with it and inside, in dark gold, cursive handwriting, it read: 

𝒦𝓮𝓮𝓅 𝓂𝓎 𝒽𝓮𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝓈𝒶𝒻𝓮 𝓊𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓁 𝓘 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝓎𝓸𝓊 𝒶𝓰𝒶𝒾𝓃. 

      - 𝓜 

X X X

{ me rn: 

yoncestark, I don't appreciate you enough but I do love you and your comments make my day brighter. 

}