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SW Gray Tale 11 : Micro-Perception II(R18+)
🕑 Added 2025-07-08 08:35:43 +0000 UTCSorry to you guys for editing the chapter up a bit. There is a slight difference in events happening but result is same mostly so you can try reading it again if you want an more r18 type of spicy content
Warning for readers: It would not be the kind of R18 content you would be expecting so be warned, just for formality sake.
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I had planned to move on to something more complex—a circuit board, maybe, or a mechanical part with dozens of moving pieces. But after what just happened, that idea felt… reckless.
That was just a rock.
A boring, homogenous, mineral blob. If I'd gotten stuck in that, what would've happened with something truly intricate? I could already imagine it—getting lost inside a tangled mess of silicon pathways and fried copper traces, until my mind fragmented into a committee of arguing microchips.
Nope. Hard pass.
I picked up the stone again. It might be the world's dullest training partner, but at least it wasn't trying to kill me.
I adjusted my posture and tried something new. This time, I split my focus. One part of my mind stayed on guard—repeating quietly, I am Alex. I am in a body. I am not a rock. The other part dipped back in.
I don't know how many rounds I went through before it happened again. Seventh? Tenth?
The shift was subtle. One moment I was feeling the grain of the stone's internal structure—the familiar press of interlocked crystal patterns. The next, I wasn't just sensing the stone.
I was remembering it.
Except they weren't my memories.
I was part of a cliff, once—high, sun-baked, timeless. Then came the grinding push of water. I was cracked, dragged, carried. Broken off not by hand, but by time. I tumbled through a stream for years or centuries—hard to tell. The river smoothed me down, one scrape at a time, until I was round, small, silent.
Eventually, I came to rest. Somewhere still. Somewhere warm.
And then—contact. The soft pressure of a hand. A lift. Movement-
The beep-beep-beep of the datapad timer snapped me back like a punch to the gut.
I gasped, back in my body, the stone still in my hand. My skin tingled with ghost sensations—cold water rushing over stone, the subtle drag of current, the slow weight of time.
I stared at the rock.
It didn't look different. Same dull shape. Same smooth surface. But now, I couldn't see it without remembering what it felt like to be it.
Not just held—eroded. Tumbled. Forgotten.
Something inside me shivered.
I set it down gently, like it might crumble if I wasn't careful. My fingers wouldn't stop tingling. My spine buzzed like I'd been plugged into something ancient and enormous—too big to understand, too deep to explain.
I sat there, unmoving. Breathing. Not thinking. Just adjusting…
Because how do you come back from that?
How do you go from being time-worn stone to being skin and breath and bone again? The previous time it was a bit manageable, but this time it was not. It was too much…for my pre-pubescent mind.
I wasn't scared, exactly. Not yet. But there was a yawning edge to the sensation—like standing too close to a cliff in the dark. I couldn't tell how far I'd fallen, or if I'd even come back whole.
What if part of me was still down there? Drifting in cold riverwater, waiting to wear away?
After a long time, which I didn't whether was a minute or hour did I recover.
I flexed my fingers slowly. Counted each one.
One-two-three-four-five.
Still me.
I hoped.
Now came the time for question. What the fuck was that?
Memories of a damn stone? Do stones even have memories?
…So then does everything?
The thought crawled into my head and refused to leave. I couldn't stop it. Couldn't un-feel what I'd felt.
If a rock can remember being tumbled through water...Then what else remembers? The floor beneath me? The air in my lungs? The dust in the corners of this room?
Do they hold on to something?
A whisper. Or a Scar. Maybe the air remembered being a fart once. Maybe the water remembered being piss once. The realizations were as terrible as they were funny.
I stared at my hand like it might answer me. Skin. Flesh. Cells that die and renew and die again.
Where does memory even begin? Only in brains? Or does it go deeper? Do things remember?
Is everything… alive?
No, not alive. Not in the way we define it. But maybe—maybe alive enough to echo.
Then what the hell was it?
That hadn't just been some weird illusion. I hadn't imagined it. My powers had yanked me out of my body before—but this was different.
This wasn't out-of-body. This was out-of-mind.
It reminded me of a scene from a movie—Constantine, I think. That guy who could touch newspapers and see the moment it described. Like the object remembered what happened to it.
What was that called…?
Psychometry. Yeah.
That was the name.
Suddenly, it didn't feel so absurd.
I mean, the Force probably has this kind of thing too, right? There's a power for everything in that universe.
Ghosts of ancient Sith lords lingering on Korriban. Spirits of the Nightsisters. Echoes clinging to lightsabers, temples, bones.
Maybe objects really do hold weight in the Force. Maybe they remember.
Maybe that's what I tapped into—something like that.
Not the mind of a stone, but the impression it left in the world. The shape it carved into the fabric of time by simply existing long enough.
That thought wouldn't let go. It just... hung there in my skull, massive and still, like a planet pretending to be an idea. My fingers were still buzzing—literally buzzing—from the stone. Too much. That thing didn't just have history. It was history. Trying to read it felt like plugging my brain into the tectonic record.
I needed a reset. Something lighter. Recent. Not so... primeval.
That's when I saw it. The spoon.
Plain. Basic. Utterly forgettable. It sat next to my ration pack like it had nothing better to do, gleaming faintly in the overhead lights.
Spoons don't have memories, I told myself. At worst, maybe soup trauma.
So yeah, I picked it up.
It was cool, smooth. Kinda boring. I liked that. I figured this was just a test run, a control case. A simple, lifeless object. Something to calibrate against.
I opened that mental door again, just a crack. Let my awareness stretch, just a little. No deep dive. Just a toe in the water.
And immediately—
Wham.
Heat. Pressure. Metal slamming into shape. Hydraulic presses. Sparks. Noise.
Okay. So spoons have trauma too.
Then darkness. Silence. Years in some box, probably wrapped in plastic and forgotten on a warehouse shelf. No thoughts. No motion.
Then—
A hand.
Warm. Familiar. Confident grip. I knew that hand.
Vasha.
The connection was instant. Her presence poured in with that first touch. The smell of ozone and grease, the dry wit, the half-smile she never fully gave anyone. It was all there, woven into how she held things.
And then... oh boy.
Her lips.
Her mouth.
I felt it from the spoon's perspective, which sounds ridiculous until you realize how much a spoon goes through. Her lips parted, and I was suddenly inside. The temperature shifted. Everything got wet. Tight. Warm.
And then came the tongue.
Not a polite tap. Not a flick.
A full-on exploration.
She licked the inside of the bowl like she meant it. Like the spoon had offended her and she was reclaiming it. Her tongue swept across the curve with slow, deliberate pressure. There was no hesitation—just confident, almost lazy dominance, or it just how people used their spoon, but from spoon's persepective or more like my perspective as a spoon, it felt like that.
And I, being unfortunately very aware of what the spoon was feeling, felt all of it.
Every. Single. Motion.
The swirl. The drag. The soft pressure of taste buds skimming steel.
It wasn't like watching something sexy. It wasn't visual. It was physical—pure sensation, funneled straight into my nervous system with zero filter.
And holy stars, my body-no, my mind responded.
Fast.
Hard.
And confused.
Because this wasn't me. This wasn't even about her, not really. It was a spoon. It was the routine repetition of eating. Just normal, daily stuff.
Except… it wasn't.
She did it a lot. Over and over. That same sequence—lips, tongue, breath, sound. Again. Again. Again. Like a ritual. It had pattern. Rhythm. Muscle memory. Intimacy.
And that repetition? It didn't dull the effect by even a single degree, infact only amplified it did.
Every lick built on the last. Every breath warmed the handle more. Every hum of satisfaction vibrated down the metal and into my skull. It was stupidly sensual. Embarrassingly so. Like, I actually started to anticipate the next move—felt it coming before it happened, because the spoon remembered the choreography.
And my body? Yeah. It kept reacting. Heat in all the wrong places. Muscles tensing. Jaw clenching. I was starting to sweat. My heart was doing this weird fast-slow-fast rhythm like I was running and drowning at the same time.
I snapped out of it.
Like jerking a plug from a socket.
Reality slammed back in. I sucked in air like I'd been underwater. The spoon clattered from my hand and bounced on the table with a loud clink, like it was pissed about being dropped.
I just sat there. Breathing like I'd done a workout. Hands shaking. Face burning. And yeah—very aware of how not okay I currently was. I was young enough that I don't think there were any sex hormones in me, but this whole feeling was more on the mental side than the physical. The mind of a 27 year old who had distinct memories of bird and the bees.
I had to remind myself
It was just a spoon.
It was just a spoon.
But I knew everything about it now. I knew what her tongue felt like against its curve. I knew her pace. The pressure. The way her breath fogged the handle. The sounds she made when something tasted good. The way she paused between licks, like she was savoring both flavor and texture.
And worse?
My brain—traitorous, curious, too-smart-for-its-own-good brain—was already whispering.
If I could feel the entire, horrifyingly intimate history of a spoon—every lick, every hum, every wet, possessive slide of Vasha's tongue—then what about something that had actually been on her? Something that had clung to her skin, soaked in her sweat, moved with her body?
Would its "memories" be different? More… personal?
This was a genuinely scientific question. Totally pure. Academic, even.
Bullshit.
My logical mind said: I needed air. Space. A cold shower and possibly a brain reboot.
My monkey mind didn't say anything, it just acted.
I glanced down at the loose tunic I'd been wearing since yesterday. Her tunic. Stolen—borrowed—after my own clothes got wrecked in training. It smelled like her. Felt like her. And now, with this stupid psychometry thing, it might as well be a holocron of Vasha's most private moments.
This is just for practice, Ezra. Pure, objective, scientific practice.
Pure research, I told myself, crushing the flicker of guilt under the weight of scientific curiosity. Understanding my new ability was critical for survival. And hey, maybe it'd be funny.
Let's see what this thing remembers.
First came the immediate stuff—the weave of the fabric, thick and slightly nubby against… well, against everything around it. The lingering warmth trapped in the fibers, like the ghost of body heat. And the scent—oil, soap, that warm floral note, and something deeper, muskier, the smell of hard work.
Okay, baseline established. Now… dig deeper. Older.
I pushed my intent, not just perceiving the now of the fabric, but hunting for the echoes imprinted on it. It was like tuning a comm through static.
Fragments flickered in and out—a sudden scrape of durasteel against the shoulder, Vasha's frustrated curse. Engine work. A wave of warmth, sunlight baking down, the rough texture of a permacrete bench beneath her. A sigh of contentment. Sitting outside, maybe on a break. Then a rhythmic thudding against the chest area—her heartbeat, or maybe just her walking fast.
Boring. I mean, sure, feeling someone else's heartbeat through fabric was kind of intimate in a weird way, but I wasn't here for the slice-of-life HoloNet special. I wanted the recent stuff. The juicy bits.
I concentrated, trying to will the sensory timeline forward, skipping the filler episodes. The chaotic fragments blurred, then sharpened into something… softer. Warmer. More enveloping.
Sensation flooded in.
Overwhelming warmth—not sunlight, but body heat. Deep, pervasive, radiating into the fabric like I was submerged in a warm bath. The scent of her soap bloomed stronger, cleaner, mixed with that underlying musk. It was… nice. Comforting.
Then came the real pressure. Not rhythmic, but constant. A broad, yielding, incredibly soft weight pressing firmly against the chest and shoulders of the tunic. It was like being hugged by two warm, pliant pillows. My disembodied perception registered it as pure tactile input—fascinating, alien, and undeniably… squishy.
Whoa. Okay. That's… uh… distinctive.
I lingered for a fraction of a second, the sheer novelty overriding any guilt. It was just data. Anthropological data. About Twi'lek… support structures.
But then, amidst the overwhelming softness, my perception snagged on two subtle, distinct points.
Two points of focused pressure. Nestled in the warm softness, like small, firm pebbles sunk into dough. They pressed against the fabric with a defined, almost insistent presence. Not painful, just… there. Anchors in the yielding warmth.
Huh? What are those? Stitching? Decorations?
I tried to focus on them within the memory-echo. They felt… organic. Not part of the tunic, but part of what the tunic was pressed against. And they were definitely… pointy. Not sharp, but distinctly projecting, creating concentrated little dents in the cloth.
Pointy… amidst the soft… oh. Ohhhhh.
SNAP!
I slammed back into my own body on the bed, gasping, the tunic crumpled in my suddenly sweaty hands. My face burned. I stared at the innocent fabric like it had just bitten me.
Okay. Okay. Deep breaths. Twi'leks. Right. Mammalian humanoids. Lactating species, presumably. Biology is biology. Totally natural. Nothing weird about scientifically perceiving secondary sexual characteristics via psychometric resonance on recently worn clothing! Nope!
I let out a nervous, high-pitched giggle that died in my throat. My eyes darted back to the pile of clothes. I scanned it, my mind racing.
Where is it?
Tunics, coveralls, soft pants… all outerwear or sleepwear. Nothing resembling structured undergarments. Nothing that looked like it would provide the… containment or support my little Force-voyeurism session had just so vividly illustrated the need for.
Did she just… not wear anything under this? The thought was alarming. The sheer physics of what I'd felt… that kind of softness needed structure! Unless…
Fragmented memories from Ezra's life surfaced—Mira Bridger getting dressed in the morning, folding laundry, working around the comm tower. Tunics. Robes. Simple shifts. Soft undershirts sometimes, but…
I rifled through the mental filing cabinet. Bras. Corsets. Underwires. Sports bras. Bandeaus. None of the visual memories matched. Just… more fabric. Soft, supportive-looking fabric sometimes, but fundamentally just… cloth.
Then, like a rogue comet smashing into my brain, a long-buried piece of trivia surfaced. From late-night wiki dives in my past life. About Star Wars costuming.
There weren't any bras in Star Wars.
Not as I knew them. No straps under tunics. No molded cups. No clasps. The aesthetic was layered tunics, wraps, bodysuits, or—apparently—just letting biology do its thing with supportive fabrics. The concept, as a distinct undergarment, seemed absent.
Holy. Fucking. Sithspit.
I stared at the tunic in my hands, then at the pile, then down at my own flat chest. A hysterical laugh bubbled up.
I just used the Force to feel up a Twi'lek's tits through time and space. And she wasn't even wearing a bra! Because they don't fucking EXIST here!
The sheer absurdity, the cosmic violation, the utter weirdness of it all crashed over me. I wasn't turned on—I was mortified, scientifically fascinated, and profoundly creeped out… mostly by myself.
Okay. New rule, I thought, throwing the tunic back like it was on fire. Absolutely NO psychometry on recently worn clothing. Especially not Vasha's. ESPECIALLY not the soft, warm ones.
I scrambled off the bed, putting as much distance between myself and the Pile of Psychometric Peril as possible. I needed to bleach my brain. Or maybe just jump out the window.
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