Author's Note: …and we're back. Sorry for the wait. Thank you again to everyone who has given me feedback and encouragement to continue this. It means a lot to me. *awkward group hug*

Note from management: POV switch. Please brace for impact. Mando'a translations provided at the end of the chapter, when they aren't provided by Torian.

Context – Chapter 6

Her teeth sank into his chin a little deeper. It felt like a warning nip. He smiled, a dull ache spreading throughout his cheeks and jaw in its wake. He couldn't remember ever smiling so much in his life. The thought made him smile wider.

"Four?" She breathed out the word, low and smoky and mock incredulous. She had such an incredible voice, deep and sultry; he had always felt her voice, as if it were a physical touch that ignored the barriers of armor and distance: a caress like velvet against his ear, his lips, mischievous fingers brushing his chest, undoing his belt.

His smile grew to what felt like positively goofy proportions. "Five?"

She stretched closer, breasts sliding against his chest, full and soft and wet with sweat, leaning over to bite his lower lip with her smile. The silky friction of warm, slick skin and the sharp, piercing contact of her teeth sent hot sparks trailing across his skin, reigniting like embers wherever she touched him, making his body shiver hard against her again.

"Five?" That sounded challenging, hot and teasing; the word burned against his lips.

His hands moved without conscious thought, finding the small of her back, tracing further downwards over the luscious curve of her ass and pressing her down against him. He held her there, right where he wanted her, right where he had always wanted her. He felt it in his gut, his groin, his heart, such a palpable, physical craving just for her, as if every part of him was hungry for her, thirsty for her, parched and starving without her.

She sighed against his mouth, a warm exhale of breath, then she bit him again, this time a little harder, her smile a little wider. He smiled back, realizing dazedly that if his smile was as wide as hers was they were grinning at each other like a pair of drunken Trandoshans.

She was so beautiful; her cheeks flushed pink, her eyes bright, her skin luminous, as if it were lit from within. Dral. He wanted her again, right then, and maybe a dozen times more before breakfast, the desire warring with the deep relaxation of his body, so spent he wasn't sure if he could lift his head off the mattress. His brain felt fuzzy, his eyelids heavy, as if he'd had too much to drink, his joints loose in their sockets. There was such a glow in his heart, warmth and brightness spreading in his chest, down through his limbs, as if he'd swallowed a star.

Her kisses softened, trailing lightly over the scars on his cheeks, his nose, the line of his jaw; slow, tiny, teasing kisses that reminded him of raindrops.

Rain kissed the crown of his head, his face, trickling down through tree cover to find him, seductively insistent. His hair was damp, the surface of his armor beaded with precipitation; he hadn't moved for a good hour, laid out on his belly in a perfect spot, rifle ready, as patient as the rain. The Republic soldiers on Taris had proven themselves to be di'kute– he'd picked off a few of their scouts for target practice in the days since he'd been MIA, then more than a few when they went beating the bushes for him. The disorganization in their pursuit was astounding. Now they seemed to be regrouping, or preoccupied, judging by the lack of prey, 'Pub, rakghoul or familial, stirring below his perch.

The light, seductive touch of the rain against his bare skin, his lips, had stirred his body's need, watering the seeds of a daydream that had been planted on Dromund Kaas: kissing her mouth, her full, sweet mouth, the first kiss that claimed her, made her his, imagining the texture of her lips, the heat of her breath, the taste of her…

Gev.

Then he was resolutely not thinking about her: his vantage point was perfect; the rain, a distraction. He refocused his attention on going over the traitor's trail yet again: the subtle signs of beast traps laid in a widening perimeter around an abandoned transport center, the newly brimming dew collectors hidden in the canopy of trees below him, the path that led to Jicoln, and redemption.

He raised his rifle's scope to his eye, sighting sudden movement below him. Before he could do more than focus, the movement became a distant figure cross-drawing two blasters, whip-quick, a graceful blur of durasteel-covered motion, aiming at something out of his view on the ground below. The target, whatever it was, died quickly, a hail of blaster fire and a carefully-aimed explosive dart leaving nothing but scraps of flesh and blood born aloft and smoking to mark its passing.

He stared through the scope, focus sharpening, his heart suddenly in his mouth. He couldn't swallow, couldn't breathe. He took in the distinctive tilt of her helmeted head as she holstered her blasters, measured the exact circumference of her hips; it was her, impossibly, as if he had conjured her up with a thought, the glint of wetness on her armor making her form shimmer and blur in the mist, as if she truly were a figment of his fevered imagination. Had she followed him? The sudden, wild beat of his heart in his ears drowned out everything else.

He realized he was drifting, planets away, when she began nibbling around the edges of his lips, making soft, inviting noises, the feel of her warm skin gliding against his in an alluring, needy wriggle quickly pulling him dirt-side, the sensations chasing each other down the length of his spine to pool, hot, in his groin. He grabbed her hips again blearily, deeply unclear if he was trying to keep her still or exactly the opposite, his rogue hands continuing down her backside as if they had urgent business. She raised her gaze to his, her smile sharp, keen and glittering. He recognized that smile. Being on the receiving end of it meant he was in trouble. Maybe the good kind.

She rolled her hips sinuously, her body arching against his in a slow, controlled wave, teeth nipping his lower lip as her breasts crested against his chest. He felt an immediate pulse of want, so much want, and an answering, raw twinge in his gut, the hot burn of fatigue in every muscle he had, his body giving him conflicting signals about what it wanted, what it needed, what it was capable of after being held and known and loved hard enough to leave marks.

"Cyare." He shut his eyes, wincing again, his hands stilling on her body, the ache in his jaw sharp when he gritted his teeth. He was surprised by the sound of his own voice, hoarse and half strangled. He hadn't meant to say anything; he'd called her cyare in his head for so long that the word spilled out of him.

She stopped.

"Torian." Just the way she said his name made his body twitch painfully into readiness. He shivered again, unable to help it, his muscles rippling like a groundswell on Geonosis. He'd held himself back for so long, too long, consuming every ounce of strength and willpower he possessed, and now his body was letting him know it, trembling with the aftershocks of something seismic.

She brushed the sides of his face gently, comfortingly, knuckles tracing his jaw as if she could feel the pain he was holding there, as if she could take it into her hands. When he was still again she kissed his bottom lip with the utmost gentleness, soothing where she'd bit him, the feel of her mouth brushing his reminding him strangely of the comforting tingle of kolto.

Her voice was quiet. "Did I hurt you?"

He shook his head, breathing out slowly into the space she gave him, letting his body, his jangled nerve endings, relax. Battles that had left him a single heartbeat away from death had never laid him so bare, raw and exposed.

When he opened his eyes she was looking down at him with a familiar expression, expectant and somehow reassuringly patient, the way she always looked at him when she was waiting for him to elaborate and he didn't have anything else to say.

She touched between his brows gently, as if trying to smooth out a furrow that wasn't there. When he only looked back at her wordlessly, she prompted: "You called for a medic."

He nodded, remembering. "Called for you."

She smiled at that, still looking concerned and somehow gorgeously disheveled, her long hair damp with sweat around her hairline and wild with tangles from his hands. "But you're not hurt?"

He shook his head more emphatically. "Didn't hurt me. Almost killed me, cyare."

She smiled more, her lips stretching sensually. "Sorry." She didn't sound sorry at all. She kissed him again, teasingly gentle, then whispered against his lips, "K'oyacyi."

Hearing her speak Mando'a didn't help his heavily conflicted state. Her mouth always formed the words as if she tasted something exotic and delicious; now the pout and pucker of her lips reminded him of when she'd bent her head to taste the sweat on his chest.

He kissed her mouth where it rested over his, a single, long, drowsy kiss, kissing her words, her voice, and everything she'd done to him with those lips. His eyelids fell closed again like blast doors, heavy and with finality, though his over-achieving hands continued to map out the curves of her body even as his head sank further into the bed. She was so luscious, ripe and inviting. He just couldn't get enough of her, whether he was fully conscious or not.

She leaned into his touch like a sleepy cat. "Haryc?"

More Mando'a. She was a natural. She was also trying to kill him. Again.

His hands trailed down through her tangled hair, so soft against his fingers. She had beautiful hair; it had surprised him to finally see it down, unfettered, so unabashedly feminine, falling over her shoulders, as wavy and red-orange as flames, the strands silky between his fingers, how it had felt brushing his face, his lips, tickling his thighs.

He could feel her waiting for him to answer through the mingled fog of exhaustion and desire in his brain. "Udesla." The word took a long time to say, its meaning stretching in his mouth. He couldn't see her raised eyebrow, but he could feel the implied question of it burning through his eyelids. "Calm. Like the sea after storm."

He felt her smile against his lips. "You mean you're toast."

He nodded. He was toast, but that wasn't all of it. He felt peaceful, and spent, and weary down to his bone marrow, but also relieved, released, so relaxed it was as if the bolts holding him together had all been loosened; such a deep lassitude in his joints, his chest, as if he could finally breathe.

His hands rose by feel to cradle her face against his own. "Want you again. When I find my eyes. Loved me blind, cyare."

She rubbed her mouth against his lightly, making a soft, satisfied noise. "I want you, too." She kissed him again, so softly, then moved her mouth away from his gradually, reluctantly, as if she were fighting her own battle between desire and exhaustion. "Three and a half." That sounded final. She kissed his eyelids chastely then, her lashes brushing his scars. "We'll find your eyes later."

He traced her face, his hands running over her jaw, her cheekbones, long lashes that fluttered against his fingertips, his thumbs brushing the full softness of her lips, needing to prove again that she was really there, that she was really with him. That she was the most gorgeous thing he'd ever seen.

"You really are beautiful, you know that?"

Exhale of a laugh, smoky and affectionate. "Says the blind man." She kissed his brow. "Rest, Torian."

She shifted away from him slightly, as if she were about to sit up, but his hands held her against him, not willing to relinquish the contact of her body, her skin. He felt her hunch her shoulders under his touch, his palms sliding over the texture of goose bumps beneath the cooling sweat on her back.

"Cold?"

She raised her shoulders beneath his hands and shivered the smallest amount in answer.

He held her to him with one arm around her shoulders and fished around blindly for blankets beneath them with his other hand, feeling the puff of her quiet, sleepy laugh warming his neck. When his hands found nothing but the tangled ground sheet and what felt like a tiny, lonely pillow he clasped her even more tightly to him and rolled the both of them over, becoming a human blanket over her. He hesitated before resting his full weight on her, up on his elbows, his lips hovering over hers.

"Better?"

"Mmmmm." She sounded as content and relaxed as he felt. Her lips rose to meet his in an inviting, sleepy pout. "Come here."

He relaxed into the feel of her body, breasts pushing against his chest, belly against warm, taut belly, his hips cradled between her silky thighs. She shifted beneath him so that he was folded into her embrace, arms around his back, one long leg twining around his waist, her opposite foot idly tracing down the back of his thigh.

He nestled himself against her, nuzzling into her neck, letting his lips rest against the pulse in her throat, breathing her in. She smelled like kolto and embers, blaster fire and beskar, the briny tang of sex and sweat and woman. She felt like home: silky and strong and welcoming beneath him, the taste of her bittersweet against his lips, his tongue, the heady scent of her, the scent of them together.

Soft lips brushed his temple, and she began running her nails down his back slowly, comfortingly, scratching places he hadn't known were itchy, tracing his spine, his shoulder blades, over the wing muscles in his back. He sighed so deeply he felt his body shudder again, lungs emptying; he'd never been touched the way she touched him, with such care, affection, in all of the ways she touched him. He slumped into her, the warmth and comfort of her making the brightness in his chest flare.

"I could get used to this." He whispered the words into her neck.

"You'd better." Her voice was soft and warm. "You're mine."

Everything blurred, tilted, and he was falling, so slowly, nearly weightless and drifting downwards, like snow. Then something abruptly yanked him back from the edge of sleep, pulling him up short. He blinked against her throat, wary and confused.

"Me'ven?"

An inquisitive sound answered him, fuzzy with sleep. He felt her shift beneath him, nuzzling her own shoulder drowsily with her lips, but she didn't say anything else.

"Mor?"

He felt her blink at that, lashes fluttering once against his temple.

"Sorry." Her hand moved from where it had been sleepily exploring the curve of his ass to clasp the back of his neck, fingers slowly curling into his hair. She sounded more than half asleep, her voice a low murmur. "You've got a great ass, Cadera."

He didn't know what to say to that, his mind heavy with fatigue. "Thanks?"

"Thank me when you wake up."

Mando'a translations from mandoa dot org:

dral

bright, glowing; strong, powerful

di'kute

idiots

Gev

Stop it.

Cyare

Beloved

K'oyacyi

"Hang in there" or "Come back safely." Literally, a command: "Stay alive!"

Haryc

Tired

beskar

Mandalorian iron

Me'ven?

Huh? What? Expression of bewilderment or disbelief.