006. FATAL ATTRACTIONS

( ⁠—An affinity for something or someone inherently harmful. )

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As Myra endured the filth Mos Eisley called a cantina, albeit mindfully machinating temptations, she came to strike a similarity. A similarity between men and pets. Men were quite like pets; chase him and he will run—sit perfectly still and ignore him, and he'll come purring at your fingertips. 

Such mundane and reneging instincts for beings who always believed themselves superior. 

The Keshiri pilot didn't require as much as a twitch of her lips to entice him. He went by the name Ilyas Khai, famed for his undefeated Aileron rolls and strange currency, that being secrets. With his plenary violet traits and waxen silver hair, though powerfully built, he was nowhere as formidable as the muscle in the Mandalorian's head. 

See, seduction was a gentle art. Shedding a few clothes would function, but that'd be tacky. All she had to do was present proximity and prospect; she was a woman, therefore put before him to be won. 

Diabolical, she thought while she breezily strolled to the centre of the little tavern. This was jeopardy to her identity, the lewd psyche that the world hosed down on her. She'd only done this a handful of times before, just because of the slightly inflated ego she was entitled to. Ego besmeared and emboldened witches like her. 

Myra had inadvertently dropped the anchor right between the pilot's eyes. The feline enchantress, her curious tattoos and her thought-provoking garments were all he could think about, and the Ichor recoiled at the distasteful visions he conjured. 

But that didn't matter. Sometimes to hunt you have to pretend to be the prey. 

A small, pitiful sigh out of Myra's lips was enough for him to rise from his booth and make a beeline to her side. A desperate mind. Pathetic. She forced herself to stand unfazed as his elbow grazed the side of her breast. He took a long whiff of her air, ordered a drink, and eventually spoke to her. 

"Something on your mind, sweetheart?" His voice was grating and strong, but inside he was a nervous wreck. He'd heard about the treacherous allure of their supernatural magic, the venom that was tainted to resemble honey. Alas, he was too weak against his restraints. 

The pilot caught her drift—it lifted a vain smirk on her lips, gone before he could notice. She turned to him, looking at him from over her bare shoulder, and put her lips close to his. 

"What do you want it to be?" she whispered, as intimate as a swish of bedsheets. 

Now the pet had rolled onto his back with all his paws in the air. "I've got some ideas."

"And I've got some time." 

He leaned closer to place his lips by her ear, blowing on it gently. He cut right to the chase with, "How much for an hour?"

Repulsion immobilized her for a quick moment, the infuriated waters singing death songs into her ears. She let it go to focus on getting what she wanted, bearing the nuisance. Nothing she hadn't seen or heard of before.

"I'm expensive," she said with bared teeth. Might as well get reimbursed for deluding this pig. The Mandalorian would appreciate the help. 

"I'll be the judge of that," the pilot laughed. 

She bit her lip at him. "You truly can't afford me."

"Mm, but I can." He skated his round knuckles down to the snake's head of her gold arm cuff, just as he slid a bag of credits toward her on the table. She clenched her hand to a fist when he touched her—burning, enraged...

"Three thousand, more later," he remarked, almost proudly. "I'm Ilyas."

She twisted in her seat to show herself wholly and nudged her parted knees against his thigh. The slit of the dress fell to reveal more ink scrawled elegantly across her dusky skin, catching his attention. 

Myra caught his wandering hand before he pawed her up again, and her severe grip made him grunt. The smirk on his face twitched with discomfort. 

"No names. The game's sharp practice," she purred, mimicking legs with her fingers as she slowly walked them up to his arm. "Although I'd like to know what you do."

"You smell incredible..."

She laughed, the naive sound its own weapon. "Do I? Like oranges?"

"Exactly. My favourite." Ah, the charm was working then. Myra didn't think she'd require to cast it. 

"Delightful."

His nose brushed her cheek despite the suspicion in his tone. "Why is it that you want to know what I do, sweetheart?"

She insinuated to him with a squeeze on his bicep. "You're too strapping for the polite society. I'd say you're an operative. I'm flattered."

"I can be," he murmured, boring his violet eyes into hers. "I have my fingers in all sorts of pies. Tell me, what is it you want?"

"I want..."

She could feel the shiver in his spine when the warm kiss of her breath against his lips. A game of temptation, a fondle to his fantasies. It was an unbidden movement of his to fly forward, but Myra was too lithe. She pressed two fingers against his mouth to contain him, laughing again. Restless, this time. 

"Needy needy," she teased, chucking his chin. Persuasion was driving him beyond reason. "Why don't we head somewhere quiet first? Somewhere I can show you."

Such was the swoon of vices, it was dark and vague, you never see it coming. Myra refused to let the pilot feel her, and he followed her out, tail wagging. She took the exit that extended out to an alley behind the cantina and glided down the warm sands into the darkest point of the path. 

The pilot caught up to her, latching onto her wrist with a loud chortle. "I see you like to play!"

"Who doesn't?" she whispered innocently, daring to bare.

His eyes wandered to the straps of her satin drapes. He nodded at it. "Show me."

She laughed off her contempt and used a thumb to gradually draw the sash past her shoulder. The mark of the All-Seeing Eye laid bare for his elitist sight. 

Myra had no intentions of harming him, of course. Only debase him a little, the way he had. She'd be returning him a favour by jilting him, naked and dangling in the middle of a dim street. Myra was rethinking that decision when her plan took a turn. Her recent Sight was true; perhaps she would break him after all. 

In the end, all men had human consciousness. Their absolute instinct was to take. Take what wasn't theirs. Take back what is theirs. Their greatest aphrodisiac was rebellion. And this one was no different. 

The pilot moved like he was possessed; clearly, he was. Too caught up in his racy imaginings. His arm squashed against her throat, pinning her against a wall. A hand curved around her thigh, hooking it up and over, while Myra's hands blundered with calling for the Ichor when she felt like her skull was about to explode. 

"You can't trick me, crone," he hissed. "I'm sure the Imps would pay a fortune for you after I've had my share."

It took every particle of her will to growl back at him. Intuitions flew out the window, she was ready for a wrangle. Instead, with her balanced leg, Myra lifted and collided it against his chest, took a tumble and plunged back into the sands. She kicked up a foot of dust to blind the unsteady pilot before bashing her heel into his nose, which gave a satisfying crunch. 

"I'm a witch, you ratty son of an ape," she spat at him. 

It was a fraction of a second before she noticed a beskar-bound arm appear out of the darkness and grip the nape of the pilot's head. Like a shield she didn't think she'd need. 

Myra watched the pilot be dragged across the sand and slammed against the sandstone wall, spewing out even more blood and a river of groans. That lofty nose was staying broken for a long time. 

"Touch her again, and I'll break every bone in your goddamn body," the Mandalorian's vocoded voice tremored like silver javelins. 

The pilot gave out his last groan of the moment, falling unconscious. 

"I had him," Myra gasped out at the Mandalorian who was standing tall, dark and infuriated but in war-ravaged armour. Although she sensed that some were wounds fresh—the gashes on his knees, the bruises scattered underneath the shirt, the busted lip—because she'd helped heal all of them before she left him behind. 

"I thought you could read minds," he lashed out, dark eyes piercing lasers through his helmet. He pointed at the pilot. "How could you not tell he's a smuggler?"

"I don't know what that is," she admitted sincerely.

"Of course not." Monetarily, he considered punching something. His voice was like knives aimed at her. "You may be five hundred years old, but you still know less than an infant."

"He's the contact the Marshal told me about," she argued hotly. It hurt her throat to speak. Her voice was bleak and erratic. 

"And you lured him out with sex?"

"It's not like that!" She waited on that when she felt the credits jangle from her waist. "Okay, maybe it's like that. But I wasn't going to sleep with him. I know better."

He patiently outstretched a hand after some inward affirmations. Myra rolled her eyes and dropped the bag of credits into his palm. He sighed, almost in disappointment, and pinched it into a pocket by his blasters. 

"I was asking for permission to touch you, but credits work, too."

"Oh." She unfurled a roguish smile across her lips. "Yes, you may."

The first thing he touched to fix was the fallen straps of her dress and arranged them back into place. When she watched him back curiously, he cleared his throat. 

"I can see your..." 

Her lips tipped up. "My breasts, Mandalorian."

"Yes, that. Your dress is torn."

She shrugged as he continued to fix the cloth over her chest and arms like the puritan he certainly was not. 

"I like it undone," she said, glancing at him. "Nice and airy."

His gloved hands emerged around her face and gingerly traced a thumb down the long blemish that was imprinted across the column of her neck. He reached for the front of his headgear to lift it off, distraught burnished eyes hoping to see her without the frequent radar fixed within his armour. This time, his weather-beaten skin was marred in cuts, gashes and sweat. 

"You're hurt," she mentioned.

It didn't take her long to begin a healing incantation under her breath, focused on the sore abrasions scattered across his rough features. 

"I'll heal. Slower than you will—Dank Farrik, he did a number on you," he hissed. Din threw a scowl back at the pilot before pushing her hair back over her shoulder. "Nightfall's almost here. You'll recover soon."

By the waters, his touch torched her very intuitions. 

Just as he spoke, the coolness of the waters lifted and caressed past her collar, igniting the burgundy tattoo, and levelling the bluish welt under her bronze skin. The sensation of the Ichor should've distracted her, but it would've been a sin to look away from his eyes. He'd brought it on her so suddenly, that it left her light-headed for moments. Even the glowing Ahch-Two nights couldn't stand to compare to the sight of him. 

Din's lips broke out into a relieved smile as he watched on. "Never gets old." His wistful stare flickered back to her. A million words remained sealed in. "Can we..."

Like a ripple effect, the ease of a dead man hit her on the centre of her chest. Her eyes narrowed in awareness. 

"Hold that thought for me," she whispered to the hunter. "Helmet, please."

Myra strode away from his grip to snap her arm forward, the Ichor wreathing beyond with her silent plea and brandishing an ebony dagger that sicced and speared onto the filthy hand that touched her. 

The pilot wailed a deep one as the sharp end broke through skin and bone to pin him against the wall once again, bleeding violet. Her ancient magic that was woven in was no match for the pilot's resilience for escape. He struggled harder with every spirited step Myra took toward him. 

"You witch scum!" he roared out. 

She could only laugh at him, meaning to tease. "That's supposed to win my mercy?"

He hyperventilated against the wall, shedding blood all over himself. If he was striving for mercy by insulting her, he could start by offering his life. Myra leaned heavily beside him, resting the side of her head against the wall. The danger that reinforced him was now his weakness. 

"I want something," she confessed in a voice of a siren song. "And I will get it no matter what."

The pilot breathed out a sigh. "I'd rather be killed by you."

"I've never killed anyone."

"I won't believe you, snake."

"And you're not worth an explanation," she murmured. "So here's how this is going to work: my companion, the bounty hunter, is not new to giving death. If you don't speak, he will kill you as a favour."

The pilot's gaze darted to the Mandalorian behind her, his defences falling weak. He'd heard ruthless tales from Mandalore and he wasn't going to die in the hands of one tonight. 

"What the hell do you want?" he hissed.

"Witches," Myra said in a word. It was a clear enough exposition for him. 

"Iego," he muttered. "The highland Cathedral outside the capital."

"I know. Where else?"

He took a beat to contemplate. "There's a shrine. On Trask."

"That's a black market port," the Mandalorian interfered. He shuffled a threatening step forward. "He's setting you up for a trap."

"No, it's witchcraft! I've seen it with my two eyes!" the pilot hissed. He leaned closer to Myra, eyes wide with fright. "The black walls. The waters—the waters speak. They speak to me."

"That sounds about right," the Mandalorian muttered. 

Almost too inquisitive, Myra didn't blink as she asked, "What did they say to you?"

"They said," he gulped. "It was—"

"What did they say?" she repeated.

"They said it's a... house of whores."

His scathing laugh cut off when his eyes started to roll to the back of his head, an imperceptible force curling around his throat to constrict down. The pilot choked out, dark veins popping up at the vigour that Myra built with the thirst for revenge. 

The Mandalorian's noisy mind pealed out through the deluge of the waters, Myra's fists relaxing. She looked over her shoulder at him, and all she could hear was the sonorous melody of a happier time. It took her a moment to realize it was her voice. 

The little child lingered by his boots, peeking out from the side in curiousness. As usual, the child's mind was a riddle, a static she couldn't read. But she could tell the difference between fear and curiosity in those tiny, wrinkled eyes. 

Myra let her battling hand drop. This wasn't her.

She neared the pilot in quiet footsteps, laying her lips near his ear. She gripped the hilt of her impaled dagger close, and the pilot grunted.

"Every night, she will come to you, Ilyas Khai. Death will be a woman," she condemned him in the softest of whispers. "Bitterly, slowly, and you'll know you have to die again. And again, and again. Your greatest curse and wish will be your ruin."

With that, she unleashed her dagger from the bones and flesh that held it to the wall. The pilot let out a miserable shriek and fell to his knees, carrying his punctured hand. 

Myra carelessly wiped the blood away against the pilot's clothes. "Don't bother following me, you won't remember a moment from this evening once I leave."

"You fucking trull! No!" he wailed aloud.

Conclusively, she turned back to the Mandalorian who was scrutinising her. Making his judgement almost. It was as if he was refreshing a salvage of memories that were lost, a reminder of how vicious a witch's vengeance could be. 

"Were you going to kill him?" the Mandalorian asked as she walked past him, shoulders narrowly brushing. Every inch of her skin suspired to be stitched with his as he accused her. 

Myra glanced at him, beaming a smile that would've had the Mandalorian start wars and ruin nations for her. She unthinkingly rubbed the child's head in a mother's touch. 

"Don't be ridiculous. If I wanted it, he'd be extinct before you interfered."

∞

Myra was convinced that man's half-witted dream to conquer was what diminished the galaxies from them in all directions. They had managed to surpass the velocity of light itself with their ships and aircraft, like the one she relaxed on. 

The Mandalorian's ship was the perfect example of what was disturbing the cosmos. While she treaded her fingertips over the cold metal, she imagined her domineering father's eyes. The man who was the very spectre of the galaxy. 

Myra could feel his presence within the craft. A surreal sensation of warmth lingered between the silence. No doubt King Hyllus had been aboard this ship, but she couldn't recall how or why. The answer lay within her robbed memories. 

"I'm coming with you to Trask." 

The Mandalorian's machine-symphonized voice got around like a shot of adrenaline. She leaned over from the left engine's deflector panels to catch the frustrated eyes of the hunter. On the other side, Peli Motto continued to eavesdrop and repair a sliver of the rundown ship. 

He pointed a reprehending finger up at Myra. "Don't smile at me like that. You're ruining my entire mission."

Her smile twitched up twice as hard, breaking out into gentle laughter. "Then my job here is done."

He pressured his hands on his hips to let loose his tension. He hung his head back down. "I forgot how good you were at exhausting me," he muttered.

"You know, you should be taking care of the little one more." Just then, the child waddled from near her over the engine panels and leaned over to mimic her stance. "He's grown skinnier since the last time I saw him."

"You don't even eat," he criticised, nearly shouting up at her. "And have you forgotten how you just deserted us back at the Sarlacc pits? I almost died making it back here!"

She pushed her lips to the side, thinking back to when she'd left Mos Pelgo. "I promised I'd see you again. And as it happened, you're still alive."

"Barely, Myra. Barely."

"You still fared well," she mentioned.

"How about a detailed comment? Hey, just letting you know I'm going to head off first and test my man-eater skills on a crook," he exemplified with air quotes. His irritation burned under her skin and trickled behind her eyes. 

"Maneater," Myra mumbled to herself. She didn't think men would eat other men. Wasn't that an offence around the galaxy?

"Do you have to be so damn vague all the time? I can't keep up with you, witch!" he continued to scold up at her.

She merely clucked her tongue. His emotional outburst was unappreciated, especially when she had a significant journey ahead of her. 

"Stop blaming me," she said.

"No, you have to stop doing this to me!" Then he visibly began to lose it by throwing his hands up in the air. "Fuck, can you hold the kid fucking tighter?!"

His expletive brought her up short, and before she could enrage him further, Myra silently pleaded the waters for a cautious spell and drifted the child off the ship and onto the ground. He hovered happily by the Mandalorian before being safely ensconced into waiting arms. 

Relief emanated from the hunter once the child was near him again.

"Happy now?" she asked him mockingly. 

He sighed and tightened his arm a fraction. "Yes, thank you."

She leaned away to stand upright over the engine panels. "Good. I'm leaving first."

And that was the motherload. The child was out of his arms again and he was leapfrogging over rails, climbing ladders and panels to make it to her side. Once he was far off eyesight and near to her, the helmet was gone. 

Din's eyes could've been radiating heat from his turmoil. The sight of his disarming face immobilized her, unable to find the words to react to anything else. It wasn't fair that he got to render her senseless. 

His voice was baritone and fraught with implications. "You better knock it off with threatening me. It won't work."

She blinked at him, disoriented by his conjecture. "That wasn't a threat. I do have to leave."

Her Mandalorian's determined face was set in stone. "I'm not letting you off this planet without me. I will cuff you to the ship if I have to."

This twisted a playful smirk on her lips while she watched his unfocused eyes. She dragged a nimble fingertip down the Threefold spiral engraved on his pauldron. A story for another time.

"Your explicitness makes me feel some sort of way," she whispered. 

"I should be because I will."

"I might love it, and then what?" she teasingly vowed.

He breathed out as if there were some aching pressure in his chest. His floundering smile was flat as if he was expecting her to say that. "Not falling for that. I know your little play, Myra." 

She widened her eyes, exhibiting her naïveté. "My play."

"Yeah, that. You blink those siren eyes, you delude me into sleeping with you, and hit the road before I know it. It has taken me this long to realize because I have outstandingly become used to it."

"Oh," was all that she could come out with. Clever her.

He nodded. "Pretty messed up, huh?"

She made a concerted effort to not lose face. She folded her arms defensively, holding her head up. "Well, I don't know, it sounds subjective. Tell me: how many times... have we... had sexual—"

"That's not my point!" he hissed.

"What is?"

Din stared at her, eyes dark and his expression unreadable. "Give up. It's your witchy ass' turn to follow me."

She attempted to bite down her grin. "And yet you changed your plans for this witchy ass."

"Piss off, Myra," he mumbled, rolling his eyes. "Overbearing, smug little..."

He angled away to slide his helmet back on, but Myra was having too much fun to let him go. She advanced to him, nudging his leg lightly to confuse him before propelling her arm around his shoulders from the back. 

She clutched the leather scabbard in one hand and unfurled the gleaming blade in another. The serrated edge was slanted dangerously close to his bobbing jugular. A twitch of her fingers would leave him in two. 

But her agonizing Mandalorian was too inclined toward her maddening perfume rather than impending death. Her chin rested on his shoulder, breathing symphonies into his ears. 

"I don't know who let you speak to me like that, but it ends now. You'll do as you're told and concur," she warned as if it were a saving grace. "Are we understood?"

He didn't reveal his discomfiture. On the inside though, his thoughts were a splintering mess. "I would ask if you're insane but we both know the answer."

"Your apathy fails you, Mandalorian." She pressed the knife blade closer until his skin sensed the gold. "I asked if we are understood."

"Get the hell off me," he opposed.

"Yield to me."

"You don't own me, Myra."

"Oh, but I do." She poked the tip of her blade against the cowl on his neck. His wince was unbearably obscure. "Otherwise you would've tried to kill me."

He shut his eyes in defeat. I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours, his mind seemed to chant. It was a veritable commitment he'd made to her many times before. He just didn't want her to use it against him. 

Her instincts were spreading like wildfire, behaving like wild children on a chase. She loved it, the thrill Din brought to her emotions. 

Myra laughed a charming sound into his neck, tracing her lips around the shell of his ear. Finally, a shudder defaced his indifference. "I can't wait to get into that head of yours. How strong it must've become to resist me."

His words were a bare murmur. "Trust me, it's as mortal as it gets."

She scraped her teeth over his earlobe. "I'm tempted."

He breathed out a convulsive sigh, masking another tense decision to hold himself back. "Now please stop taking every chance you get to put a blade to my neck and terrorise me."

With another amused laugh, she snapped the dagger back into its sheath, but that didn't mean she let him go. And he didn't make a move to leave either. 

"What's wrong? Did you want me to trick you into having sex?" she asked casually; playfully.

He hesitated for an iota before flashing her vindictive glare. The helmet slid back on, albeit shakily, and he took a slow step away from her. A disfavored movement. 

He gave his witch one last look, letting his possessed self leave on account of his concentration. He'd always told himself that Myra would be his ruin. But not this way; not in a good way.

She showed him her crisscrossed wrists, her voice laced with more laughter. "You forgot to cuff me. Do it."

His shock refused to subside when he managed a shake of his head. He walked off, somewhat dazed. "Stupid witch."

X X X 

{ if you don't like kinky!Myra, we can't be friends. and oof, this chapter! is it getting hot in here? because I'm sweating bullets because of this woman DAYUM— }

{  MAEEEEE!!!! everyone, this beautiful human being just made a sexy graphic for our dearest Myralorian and I. CAN'T. GET OVER. THIS. GOODNESS. LOOK AT THEM—THEY'RE MY ENTIRE LIFE. 

MAE THANK YOU SO MUCH, YOU ARE WONDERFUL TALENTED AND JUST THE MOST AMAZING GRAPHIC ARTIST OUT THERE. }