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SW Gray Tales 26: Things are moving
🕑 Added 2025-07-23 09:15:33 +0000 UTCBreakfast was normal. Mostly.
Vasha moved through the kitchen like nothing had happened, humming some off-key Rylothian drinking song while flipping what she insisted were "pancakes" (though they bore suspicious resemblance to repurposed engine gaskets). But every few minutes—bam—her cheeks would flare that deep indigo blush. No reason. No warning. Just blush city.
I stabbed another forkful of rubbery synth-meat, watching her over the rim of my juice cup. What the hell is going on in that head of hers?
"Stop staring," she muttered, not even looking up from the pan.
"I’m not staring," I lied.
"You’re chewing like a Kowakian monkey-lizard watching prey."
I swallowed. "That’s… weirdly specific."
She flicked a chunk of pancake at me. It hit my forehead with a wet splat.
Wow. Mature.
I wiped it off, licked my finger, and grinned. "Tastes like regret and poor life choices."
Her left eye twitched. Bullseye.
The rest of the morning passed without incident. Unless you counted Vasha nearly choking on her caf when I "accidentally" brushed against her reaching for the sweetener. (The way her breath hitched? Absolutely worth it.)
The shop was… functional.
That’s the kindest way to describe it. We weren’t winning any design awards. Unless "organized scavenger’s den" was a category. But it paid the bills. The front had a few sad display shelves with refurbished droids and comm units that mostly worked. The rest? Pure back-alley hustle.
LQ-79, our resident protocol droid turned salesman, was currently verbally waterboarding a customer who’d dared ask for a cheap datapad.
"And as you’ll note, this model’s motherboard features the rare Fondorian tri-phase capacitors, which were only produced during a six-month window in 17 BBY..."
The poor bastard’s eyes glazed over like frosted transparisteel.
I leaned against the counter, smirking. "Think he’ll make a break for it by minute three, or is he a masochist?"
Vasha nudged me with her elbow. "You sure you didn’t accidentally upload an engineering textbook into LQ’s memory banks?"
I shrugged. "He asked for ‘salespersonality upgrades.’ Blame himself."
"Uh-huh." She gave me the look. "And the fact he now lectures like a Coruscanti university droid on screw metallurgy? Totally unrelated to your weird machine's past vision thing?"
I grinned. "Hey, if he wants to be the galaxy’s most boring salesman, that’s his funeral."
She rolled her eyes and turned back to the R2 unit we’d salvaged, currently missing half its motivator and one hundred percent of its dignity.
I hunched over my usual corner, a graveyard of high-end junk spread before me. My fingers traced the fractured circuits of a gutted navicomputer. Hyper Perception kicked in instantly. Flashes of error logs. The ghost of some Imperial officer screaming about a miscalculated jump to lightspeed.
But today, my focus kept short-circuiting.
Because Vasha was right there, bent over the workbench, her shirt riding up to reveal the smooth blue dip of her lower back. The fabric was knotted at her waist, the loose top barely clinging, and every time she leaned forward—stars—the neckline gaped, giving me a generous view of—
Focus, idiot.
I wrenched my eyes back to the navicomputer. Another flash of data. Corrupted memory banks. I scribbled the issue down, then grabbed the next piece of junk: a comms array from some luxury yacht. The moment my fingers touched it, I got slapped with a memory of a Corellian banker screeching about static during a call with his mistress.
Ugh. Rich people drama.
I tossed it onto the salvage-for-parts pile and—kark it—glanced back at Vasha.
Worse idea.
She had one foot propped on the workbench now, knee bent, tightening a bolt. The position hiked up her shorts just enough to show the curve of her thigh, the way her muscles flexed as she worked. And that shirt. Barely buttoned. Slipping off one shoulder. The swell of—
Nope. Not doing this.
I grabbed the next scrap, a fried power regulator, and shoved my face into the data stream like it could drown out the distraction.
It didn’t.
Vasha straightened, stretching her arms overhead with a groan, and I felt the way her shirt pulled tight across her chest. My fingers twitched against the regulator. Hyper Perception fed me useless specs while my brain blue-screened over the way her lekku swayed.
"You missed the tertiary capacitor alignment on that R2," I blurted.
She froze. "What?"
"Third stabilizer ring. You didn’t lock it before sealing the housing." I tapped my temple. "Visions, remember?"
She popped the panel back open. "Kriff. You’re right." A glare. "Show-off."
I grinned. "Just keeping you honest, Vas."
She flipped me off, but there was no heat in it. Just like always.
Except today, I was the one overheating.
Two more hours of this. Scanning. Noting. Occasionally tossing a fixed component her way with a smug "told you so." Routine. Efficient.
But efficiency didn’t stop me from cataloging every shift of her body. Every glimpse of skin. Every time she bit her lip in concentration.
And it definitely didn’t stop me from wondering how loud she’d scream if I just walked over and—
Nope. Bad thought. Bad, bad thought.
I grabbed the next broken gadget like it had personally offended me.
---
Ezra's POV (continued)
The shower was a blessedly solitary affair this time—no accidental brushes, no awkward tension, just me and the hot water washing off the grime of the day. Not that I hadn’t kind of hoped Vasha might join me—communally, of course, because two people totally counted as a community—but she’d been elbow-deep in that hydraulic gearbox when I left, cursing at a bolt like it had insulted her ancestors.
Her loss.
I took my time. Let the heat soak into my bones. Scrubbed off the grease, the sweat, the day's distractions—well, most of them. A part of me still half-expected her to barge in like we were starring in a bad holodrama. But the fresher door stayed shut. The steam stayed undisturbed. And by the time I stepped out, wrapped in a towel and vaguely disappointed, I told myself I hadn’t been holding my breath.
Spoiler: I had.
I wandered back into the main room, towel slung low, rubbing at my hair—and froze.
The universe, apparently, had a sense of humor. Or maybe mercy.
Vasha was by the fresher door, her back to me, mid-change. Pants already halfway off, shirt gone, the soft lines of her bare back catching the light, her lekku brushing her shoulders. She didn’t see me. Too busy wrangling with stubborn fabric. I should’ve looked away. Should’ve announced myself. Should’ve done anything other than stand there like a stunned moisture farmer.
But I didn’t.
And when her pants finally slipped free, it felt like my brain hit a hard reboot. The strength in her legs, the flex of her muscles, the graceful way she bent to grab the discarded cloth—my mouth went dry.
Then she turned her head. Stopped. Froze.
Our eyes met.
For a heartbeat, the air went still. Her cheeks flushed darker, lekku twitching—but she didn’t cover up. Just exhaled, slow and deliberate, like she was bracing for something. Or maybe daring me to say something.
My heart pounded loud enough to echo.
She moved first. Grabbed a towel off the hook, swung it over one shoulder like she did this every day, and walked past me without a word. Her arm brushed mine—bare skin against bare skin—and I swear lightning crackled between us.
"You didn’t use all the hot water, right?" she asked, tone maddeningly casual.
I blinked. "Plenty left," I said, surprised my voice didn’t crack.
"Good."
Then she stepped inside the fresher. The door hissed shut behind her.
Didn’t lock.
Never locked.
I stood there, towel dripping, heart racing, wondering if this was some kind of game. Or a test. Or maybe just her way of saying she hadn’t forgotten a single second of last night.
Either way, I wasn’t sleeping any time soon.
This was torture.
Beautiful, perfect torture.
---
The next few days settled into a rhythm that was simultaneously comfortable and utterly nerve-wracking. Vasha, bless her obliviously comfortable Rylothian heart, seemed to have fully internalized the "He's just a kid" mantra. The awkwardness from the shower and the bed incident? Poof. Gone. Vanished like credits in a Hutt's pocket. Or maybe it was just that the tit sucking sessions had done the job, brought her out of her shell, so to speak, and inside the shell was a very very casual Vasha.
Her newfound casualness manifested in ways that were pure, unadulterated torture for my adult-mind-stuck-in-a-peanut-body situation.
Our bedroom became her personal runway. Need to swap work coveralls for a sleep shirt? She'd strip right there, facing the closet(sometimes), completely unconcerned. I'd be "absorbed" in a datapad schematic, Hyper Perception screaming at me about the curve of her spine, the sway of her lekku, the perfect, distracting jiggle of her ass as she stepped out of her pants.
The post-shower routine was its own special torment. She'd emerge from the fresher wrapped in a towel, steam billowing around her like a blue goddess. Then, without a shred of self-consciousness, she'd drop the towel right there on the bedroom floor to lotion up. Watching those hands glide over smooth blue skin, over her stomach, down her thighs—while I sat cross-legged on the bed, pretending to stifu (and failing spectacularly to not track every movement via Hyper Perception)—was a special kind of hell.
My "peanut," as I'd come to think of it, would occasionally twitch in useless, frustrated acknowledgment. Pathetic.
Then there were the bending-over incidents. Retrieving a dropped hydrospanner? Grabbing a box off the lower shelf? Leaning over the workbench to reach a circuit board? Each time, the hem of her shirt (often tied up or just loose) would ride up, offering generous views of the smooth swell of her lower back dipping into the cleft of her ass.
Sometimes, if she was really stretching, the shorts would hike up, revealing the taut muscles of her upper thighs. My brain would short-circuit, Hyper Perception feeding me irrelevant details like the grain of the durasteel floor or the micro-fractures in the spanner handle while my actual focus was laser-locked elsewhere.
And therein lay the core of my frustration. My body was useless for any kind of meaningful self-relief. Jerking off felt… wrong. Deeply, fundamentally wrong. It wasn’t just the size—though staring down at something resembling a slightly swollen raisin wasn’t exactly inspiring—it was the context.
My mind screamed for release, for the familiar tension and relief, but my body felt alien, childish. Touching it felt like committing a violation, even against myself. Like P-Diddy diddling… well, you get the picture. Grand theft auto of my own damn libido.
So, I adopted a strict policy of avoidance. Cold showers (metaphorical and literal), intense focus on tech schematics, vigorous telekinesis practice (levitating nuts and bolts was the limit of my abilities, through not satisfying in the least), and fervent internal chants of "Amitabha, Buddha, hold the damn fort!"
Bedtime remained a complex dance. Vasha still curled around me, the big spoon to my perpetually trapped little spoon. Her arm slung over me, her warmth pressed against my back. It was comforting, undeniably, but also a constant, low-level provocation.
Thankfully, the marathon solo sessions from that one memorable night didn’t recur. However, shorter "races" were still frequent. I’d often wake, not fully, but enough to register the subtle shift in her breathing—a little quicker, a little shallower. The faint, rhythmic tension in her arm resting on my side. The tiny, muffled gasps she tried to swallow.
Sometimes, the scent of her arousal would subtly permeate the sheets. My grandfather’s voice echoed: "An orgasming mind is a happy mind." True enough. She seemed lighter, less burdened since leaving the soul-sucking dock job. The business, the fixing, the control over her life… it suited her.
This is where my inner conflict raged. Through carefully crafted "innocent" questions ("Vas, did you ever have a boyfriend?", "What’s marriage like?", "Do you want kids someday?"), I’d gleaned that her past stress had left zero room for romance. Key phrase: the past.
Now? Now she had time. Energy. Confidence blooming. The terrifying thought of her finding some charming mechanic or smooth-talking trader… of him touching her, kissing her, being with her… it sent a jolt of pure, irrational possessiveness through me.
It was selfish. Cruel, even, to deny her that connection. Logically, I knew that. Emotionally? My inner caveman roared "MINE!"
I wasn’t blind to her needs, though. I gave her affection—hugs, leaning against her while working, genuine praise for her skills. But it was familial, platonic… safe. And the work kept her busy, engaged.
But was it enough? The fear that it wasn’t gnawed at me. So, I got… creative. Unethical? Absolutely. Effective? Oh, stars, yes.
When I sensed her starting one of her nightly "races"—that shift in her energy, the subtle increase in heart rate I could feel through her arm—I’d tap into Hyper Perception. Not to see what she was doing (Force, no, that felt like a step too far), but to feel the emotional current.
I’d find the vibrant, pulsing threads of her building arousal, like shimmering cords of heat and light in the Force. And then, ever so gently, I’d… amplify.
It was like turning up the gain on an audio receiver. I’d nudge those threads, feed a little more energy into the feedback loop of her own pleasure. The effect was immediate and profound. Her breathing would hitch sharper. The tension in her body would coil tighter. The soft gasps would become little moans she couldn’t quite stifle.
I’d push a little more, feeling the crescendo build within her through the Force—a rising wave of sensation. When the peak hit… kriff. It wasn’t just a release; it was a detonation. A full-body convulsion, a choked cry ripped from her throat, followed by utter, boneless collapse.
She’d slump back, breathing ragged, radiating a profound, almost stunned satisfaction. Utterly spent. "Bright as the sun" the next morning? Understatement. She practically glowed with contentment.
Vasha had no idea. None. She’d sigh, stretch languidly, maybe make a comment about sleeping really well. She attributed it to stress relief, a clear conscience from honest work, maybe even the Force itself smiling upon her.
The intensity? She probably just thought her body was finally catching up on years of pent-up tension. She never suspected the small, seemingly asleep bundle beside her was playing DJ with her nervous system, cranking her pleasure dial to eleven.
Was it ethical? Hell. No. I was essentially roofie-ing her with space magic. Manipulating her most intimate moments without her knowledge or consent. If there were still Jedi around, they’d probably Force-choke me on principle before tossing me into a Sith oubliette for good measure.
I was firmly camping in the "Morally Gray" sector, probably setting up permanent residence. My justification? Flimsy. Self-serving. If I didn’t help her blow off steam like a thermal exhaust port at maximum capacity, she might seek a real partner. And I couldn’t handle that.
So, Dark Side points? Accepted. Welcome. Sign me up.
For now? It worked. She was vibrantly happy, fulfilled, and sexually sated (thanks to me, the unseen phantom vibrator of Lothal). I was… coping. Barely. Fantasizing about things my body couldn’t deliver and wrestling with guilt only when I wasn’t too busy being horny or possessive.
And the Force? Well. The Force could kriff right off and mind its own damn business. Maybe it was getting a kick out of the whole messed-up situation. Wouldn’t surprise me.
----
We are done with the Melo-Dramatic Half-Erotic, Half Pyschotic Situation and ready to move on ward to our main journey.
Next chapter up we are going to move on with larger time skips and time lapses.
Omake is also going up after this one!
Comments
adolf gitler
They aren't but me and readers are. It's easier to keep track of timeline that way. I couldn't find info about actual system of years used in star wars except for that one so that's why I used it, through it stretches the plausible believibilty quite a bit.
Geisterlos
How the f r they counting in BBY?!
