#4. OF SAINTS AND SINNERS

[ EXTRA SCENE ]

( —It's domestic Myralorian fluff, y'all. that's it. just sweet, funny and heartful softness. )

»»————-————-««

Din Djarin had always thought that if Myra ever experienced laughter of any sort, it would only be with him. For him, because of him and only him. It was selfish to think that way but, it bothered him more than he liked to admit. 

Sometimes, Myra made her affection seem cloying. The way she flashed a pearlie-white smile for everything, the way she played ecstatically among the children of the village as if she had never seen young ones before, or even worse, disappeared for hours till the end without warning. 

Kids were fine, really. 

More than fine; they were perfect company for her. Blend innocence with naiveté, it was an amalgam of the galaxy's perfect solvent and solute. But anyone other than himself?

It was as if his innards had caught fire. Heat sat deep in his guts, broiling and catching a fever as he regarded the feeling of jealousy in the blink of an eye. 

Din knew it was crazy to consider that he owned Myra. Oh, he wished he did. Possessive of her, stigmatizing if anyone besides him tried to touch her; he just didn't know how to handle the fascination. He wanted to hurl something at them, yell at them about her number one, most absolute rule—don't touch her without his permission. 

Her permission, he grumbled in a correction. No one cares about your opinion anymore. Not after what you did.

It was quite evident—Myra was driving him insane. He could neither find her nor talk to her. For days, the duo had been indulged in the game of cat-and-mouse, nothing as enjoyable as it sounded. 

She had the most meticulous escapes from the common eye, his last glance of her lasting a mere five seconds. It would usually go like this—locate Myra, try to catch up to her, receive the most stunning scowl of malice (very rarely, a blow to the balls), and for the closing act, her obvious departure. 

This time, he had her cornered. And, thank the gods, she was alone. 

"Don't fool yourself, Mandalorian."

He steeled himself against her scalding spring of rage and mind-reading. As if she had surprised herself with her frostiness, her glare fell to tight lips. 

Din really couldn't care about her wrath—he practically relished it like it was the nectar of the gods. But, right then, his focus was distorted. Oh wow, that was very, very naked. 

"Um," his mouth ran unchecked with an embarrassing hum.

Would he ever get over how lucky he was despite her giving him a hard time? The answer to that was an ingrained memory, a mere gaze of her perfect, caramel-skinned form, the surface glistening with the aftermath of her bath at a river nearby. He couldn't help it, the image ran behind his eyes over and over again. If the gods were present, then Myra was their masterpiece.

"Have some shame and turn around."

Her silver-tongued warning was explicit and he found himself spinning faster than a top, controlling the mustered roguish grin that split on his face. A clang went through his helmet, resembling the ringing of a bell, indefinitely hurting the back of his head. 

He silently said, "Ow."

"Stop smiling then," she grumbled. 

"I've seen you naked before," he tried to crack out without laughing. 

"I'm still a female with fast limits."

"Touché," he mumbled.

Amidst the soft babble of a stream nearby, he heard the quiet sifting of satin over her body, trying to hold the invasive thoughts at bay. But her mere presence was tempting—redirecting his thoughts elsewhere. The pointed tops of the trees. 

The virescent shade of the leaves. The opaque lumber of the bark. The way the ribbons on her dress gnashed as she tied. The sharp scuttling of the silk over her body depicted her ferocity.

And then, absolute silence.

"Myra?" He called out. 

No answer. 

"Damn it," he hissed. "I knew she'd pull this—grr!"

∞

As the Ichor heaved her out onto a nearby clearing, Myra fell onto her knees laughing. She felt strangely vivacious, like a child playing hide-and-seek. The lively, playful, puppyish side of her found little expression but with the Mandalorian around, it was as if she were possessed by a sprite; a young one wanting a piece of attention. 

Before Myra had achieved her Transference, she was the youngest at the Cathedral. A little girl who barely stepped out of the shadows of the hill and if she did, it was when the city slept.

There was one time she did, out of curiosity and ignorance to warnings, and she didn't dare leave the Cathedral during the bustling times. She had curled up into Luna's lap, bawling her eyes out and vowing to never step foot outside ever. 

Upon her languid thoughts and pace through the forest floor, Myra failed to glean the sound of the second pair of footfalls close by. Before she had alerted herself to react, it came at her like a force to be reckoned with. 

One minute she stood. The next, her feet had left the floor.

She was swung up into strong arms as if she weighed nothing more than a ragdoll, a sharp grunt leaving him when her knees dug into the chest plate. Myra's head lolled between shoulder blades, his pauldron biting into her ribs.

"Put me down!" She shrieked, so shrill that the leaves shuddered with her yelp.

"No."

He continued his pace through the forest, his hand secured over her waist, and Myra tried to lift her upper body with a grunt and pushing the dark ringlets of invasive hair behind her back.

"I can't see with all this damn hair—let me go!"

"No," he repeated in a tone that she guessed was mischief, this time. 

She let her body go limp with a groan, the armour once again piercing into her ribs. She felt his sneaky hands inch south from her waist, his mind already a swirling mess of chaotic thoughts. Myra mustered the purpose to slap his hand.

"Don't touch," she bit out.

"Why are you so angry with me? Is it a witchy thing that I don't know about?"

"Put me down and I'll tell you," she bargained, lifting her head with a smirk.

"Not happening."

"It's a hex to abuse a witch!"

"I'll take my chances, princess."

"I'm not a—urrgh!"

A childish whine of discontent left her throat, flailing her legs hard to show her objection. She hoped to strike him the family jewels but unfortunately, she couldn't aim that low. Myra's irritation peaked when nothing worked out for her. She banged her fist into his back. 

"You infuriating, stuck-up, half-witted, scruffy-looking nerf herder—let. Me. Go!"

He stopped in his tracks. Myra, surprised, readied herself to be let down only for him to ask another question. "So, you forgive me?"

She half-laughed dryly, rolling her eyes. His obtuse jealousy and hormonal, thick-headed methods to establish dominance over her were too punishable to ignore.

"I'd rather eat my own hair."

"Okay," he shrugged with one shoulder, "then we're walking into the krill farmers like this."

"You wouldn't," she scoffed in disbelief. 

His voice-modulated laugh maddened her further. "Was that a challenge?"

Myra remained silent at his question, deciding not to prod at his impulses. She let herself hang silently once again, shifting a little to get herself comfortable. If this was how it was, she might as well go with the flow. 

"Comfy there, princess?" The Mandalorian teased, feeling the fight die out in her. 

"Snug as a bug in a rug," she muttered, holding back a sharp curse that she wanted to fling at the horrid nickname. 

"You know, you've got a cute butt."

"I beg your pardon?" She scorned with a grunt of incredulity. She was in disbelief at what she had heard, wondering if it really were the Mandalorian who spoke the sentence.

"I said you've—"

"Don't say that!"

"Why," he toyed with her playfully, "does it make you nervous?" 

She let out a faltering laugh, clearly affected. She felt the Mandalorian's mind lift with pleasure with her sound, having achieved his purpose.

"And you know that thing you do when you kiss me right over my d—"

"Okay, okay! Fine!"

Victory rolled off him in prideful waves, his chest filling with content. He patted her thing in acceptance.

"What'd you say?"

"Okay, you're forgiven," she said. But before Myra was adjusted to be let onto the ground, her mouth worked faster than her brain. "But, that doesn't make you any more right."

The Mandalorian stopped his motions short. "Protecting you makes me wrong?"

"Protecting me is fine," she argued. "Trying to own me is wrong."

"I don't own you, I love you," he clarified.

A scoff left her instead. "Aw, that's what every woman wants to hear."

"You make it so hard, Myra. And I can't hold back because—" you're so goddamned gorgeous and I'm a six-foot, boatload of insecurity!

The Mandalorian did not need to speak the rest. She heard it clear and loud in his head, twisting up the words that coiled in her throat. Using his obliviousness as an upper hand, she slid off his shoulder and landed on her feet.

As if on cue, her fingers tipped the helmet over from the rim, laying her eyes over the breath-taking pair of warm, chestnut eyes that resembled the colour of his bedraggled hair. She traced a finger down the bridge of his nose with a soft smile, shrugging easily.

"I understand," she nodded. "It's okay."

"You do?" He asked quietly, his eyes darting to the elegant, magenta tattoo that swirled on her neck. He never could hold her gaze for longer than a few minutes; it was too indulgent, too easy to get lost in them. 

"It's always you," she nudged his forehead with his, imitating the sweet gesture he had in his culture. In realization, his lips stretched to a broad smile. 

"Just you."

∞

[ awwwww, these two, amirite? they have my mind, body and soul—the cutest of the cutest. anyhoo, this might be the last one for a while because I'm working on "BEWITCHED" and let me tell y'all...you are not ready. 

Also, surprise surprise! Here's a little excerpt from the upcoming SEQUEl to keep you guessing—

"𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘦," 𝘓𝘶𝘯𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥. 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘦, 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. 

"𝘎𝘭𝘺𝘱𝘩𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯," 𝘔𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘺. "𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩." 

 "𝘚𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘩𝘪𝘮? 𝘍𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴?" 

 𝘔𝘺𝘳𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘎𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘯, 𝘰𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘵, 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘩 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴𝘢𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦. 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘺 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥, 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘱 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯, 𝘔𝘺𝘳𝘢 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳.

🤗😏 ] 

TO ALL THOSE WHO HAVE COME THIS FAR, THANK YOU FOR YOUR ENDLESS SUPPORT FOR THIS BOOK AND I HOPE YOU'VE ENJOYED IT. "BEWITCHED", THE SEQUEL IS UP NOW AND ON MY PAGE. ENJOY!

 - DEIDRA 🖋