"We're at #12... ARE YOU GUYS TRYING TO BREAK THE SYSTEM?? I love you all.
Like honestly, I had been expecting to reach 19 or something but you guys straight up started drowning a thirsty man with stones. I must say you guys mind-broke my expectations. Not to mention the surge in patreon...
We haven't reached 300 stones but we are near to it anyway and the love you showed to this fic deserves to be rewarded so here is the chapter.
I had spent extra-time editing this chapter, channeling my inner Ditto(if you know, you know), making it more fun to read. Do tell me your thoughts about this writing style compared to the usual one.
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The "long talk about boundaries" ended up less of a talk and more like a courtroom deposition where I was both the defendant and the entire jury, nodding pitifully while Vasha laid down the Law. The final agreement? A treaty signed under emotional blackmail and enforced by weaponized mom energy.
I could keep "tinkering," but only under the sacred and inviolable Code of Vasha:
There is no spark without supervision.Live power shall not flow unless the Watcher stands ready, extinguisher in hand.
Curiosity must yield to caution.That which hums, smokes, or thinks for itself shall remain untouched, lest chaos awaken.
Rest is the ally of precision.The mind that forsakes sleep walks the path of ruin—and shall face the Glare Eternal.
Those words were etched on walls of the apartment to remind me my place...
Enter LQ-73: a fixed-up protocol droid turned part-time babysitter, part-time sous-chef, and full-time witness to my descent into desperate tinkerer withdrawal. One droid wasn't enough. My inner engineer—now fully activated like some tech-obsessed Pokémon evolution—needed another hit of that delicious, forbidden circuitry.
I didn't beg. I was too proud for that. Instead, I weaponized the deadliest tool in my emotional arsenal: strategic mope deployment.
I sat near the workbench like a forlorn anime protagonist post-filler arc, dramatically sighing at loose wires. I traced random circuit paths like they were the lost names of my ancestors. LQ-73 would finish a task and I'd clap like a proud parent at a preschool talent show, only to sniffle softly afterward.
Finally, Vasha caved. She slammed her fork down with the dramatic resignation of someone realizing they've lost to a child in psychological warfare. "Alright. What is it? You've been moping around like a droid who lost its favorite oil can."
"It's just…" I stirred my stew with the melancholy of someone who'd seen war. "Fixing LQ-73 was fun. The most fun I've had since…" (cue emotionally loaded pause) "…since I got here." Tragic poke at a space-potato for emphasis. "It felt like solving a puzzle. I miss it."
She softened, like a marshmallow left in the sun. Her gruff mechanic vibe faded, and in its place was the woman who once adopted a stray goblin-child from the market and gave him soup. She saw that sparkle in my eyes—the one I usually reserved for spare parts or unexpected dessert.
"You really enjoyed it, huh?" she asked.
I nodded like a bobblehead at warp speed. "It's the best! All the lines and pulses… it's like a secret language made of caffeine and electricity."
And then I went in for the kill.
"You get so annoyed with the junk they bring back from the docks. What if…" insert maximum innocent look "…you brought some of the worst ones home? Just the hopeless ones. I could help. I could be your—your secret weapon."
She stared at me. Not in disbelief, but in that tired, resigned way people look at kittens chewing on wires. A slow smile cracked across her face.
"My secret weapon, huh? A seven-year-old with pyshic repair powers."
"Technically a Jedi," I mumbled.
She shook her head, but it was already over. I'd won. Quota-hell had met its match: me, the tiny gremlin with fingers like pliers and a brain that could rewire fate.
So she brought me offerings. Small, sad components that had seen better centuries. She laid them on the workbench like burnt sacrifices to some ancient tech god who only drank battery acid.
Then she pulled up a crate, crossed her arms, and gave me that look: 'I regret this, but I also need to see where this goes.'
"Alright, genius," she said, elbow nearly knocking over my tools. "Show me what you've got. And if it sparks, I'm tackling you. Hard."
She was probably joking.
I tried to focus. I really did.
But then Vasha leaned in.
And her boob—singular, majestic, infinite—landed against the side of my head.
System Error: Brain.exe has stopped responding.
All that training, all those mental boundaries I'd built up like emotional duct tape? Gone. Vaporized. Her presence went from background noise to an airhorn blast in my skull.
I was supposed to do a basic diagnostic scan. No fireworks. Just a neat little psychic MRI of the logic board.
What I actually did was unleash a full 360-degree "BOOM, baby" perception burst like I was trying to win the final round of a psychic talent show.
And Vasha was standing smack in the middle of it.
Usually, I filter people out. Living stuff is messy, hard to read, full of static. I trained myself to ignore it.
But all it took was one accidental tit-to-the-temple, and the whole filtration system fried like a cheap capacitor.
Suddenly, I knew everything. Too much.
Her clothes? Not relevant to my overloaded perception field. I felt her. All of her. Not emotionally. Structurally.
It was like the Force had turned into a cursed body scan machine and gone, "Surprise!"
I felt the exact contour of the breast still pressed against my face. The weight. The softness. The temperature. I became one with boob.
Her breath rose and fell. Her pulse danced under her collarbone. Her thighs were—NOPE. Abort mission. Too late.
It was unintentional, yes. But also horrifyingly complete.
Like my mind had pulled the ultimate Uno Reverse card on my entire sense of decorum.
I didn't move. I didn't breathe. My soul had entered safe mode.
Vasha blinked, unaware of the emotional meltdown occurring six inches to her left.
Somewhere, in the deepest corners of my psyche, a tiny internal voice screamed:
"MY DUDE. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE."
And Vasha—blessedly oblivious, terrifyingly composed—was still staring down at the datapad, giving it the same expression one might give a particularly unimpressive slice of toast. Meanwhile, her boob, the instigating war criminal in this psychic catastrophe, shifted slightly against my temple as she leaned closer.
Casual. Innocent. Weaponized.
"You going or what?" she asked, eyebrow raised in mild impatience.
I might've whimpered. I genuinely don't know. My soul had unplugged and was buffering somewhere in the astral plane.
Inside my head, DEFCON 1 alarms were blaring. Sirens. Red lights. A sad little voice screaming,
"You've made boob contact. You are not prepared."
It wasn't just that I'd felt it. My mind—used to processing high-density psychic input like a living USB 3.0 cable—had archived the entire blueprint. Full HD. 3D. 4D. Possibly smell-o-vision. It was burned into my brain like someone had used the Force to etch it into my hippocampus with a lightsaber.
And the worst part?
I couldn't forget it.
Not quickly. Not cleanly.
Even after pulling my senses back, trying to rebuild the filters, it was all still there. A ghost-map of her body hovered at the edges of my awareness, like a cursed HUD that refused to close. The warmth, the shape, the boobprint—all of it haunted me like a very soft, very inappropriate Force vision.
She was still within the radius. Still warm. Still very much… touching me.
I swallowed. Slowly. Carefully. Like if I made any sudden movements, the embarrassment might physically manifest and beat me to death with a hydrospanner.
"Uh… slight misfire," I croaked. "Might need to recalibrate."
Her eyes narrowed, sharp and curious. "Define misfire."
And because I am a fool with a lizard brain, I looked at her chest.
Instant regret.
My perception flared again like a broken sprinkler system. Warmth, softness, pressure, the gravitational pull of That Which Must Not Be Touched—bam. Back. Full clarity. My brain betrayed me in 8K Ultra Psychic Resolution.
I squeezed my eyes shut like that would help. "I… I can't concentrate."
"What's wrong? What happened?"
I took a breath. This was dumb. This was so, so dumb.
"Your boob," I blurted, "is on my head. It's… distracting."
Silence.
Complete stillness.
And then—the smile.
That slow, evil, "Oh, I'm going to enjoy this" smile. Her eyes lit up like she'd found a switch she wasn't supposed to press, and now it was the only thing she wanted to press.
"Oh, really?" she said, voice soft and delightedly predatory. "This is distracting?"
Immediate panic. ABORT. DODGE. LIE. Fake a nosebleed. Leap through a window. Something.
But before I could even reboot my thoughts, she moved.
Her hand slipped behind my head, fingers threading into my hair with terrifying gentleness. Then—like she was guiding a kitten back into its nap spot—she pushed my face back into the war zone.
Boom.
Impact. Total psychic collapse.Contact reestablished.
My entire face was now cheek-to-chest with the softest, warmest part of the universe, and the Force did not prepare me for this.
Her scent hit me—floral soap, hot metal, and something uniquely, maddeningly Vasha. The kind of scent that says "I fix starships and break hearts."
The fabric of her shirt pressed against my face like a second skin, and under that? The memory data from earlier slotted into place like puzzle pieces. She was right there. The softness. The heat. The boob physics. I could feel her heartbeat—slow, steady, amused.
I made a sound.
A weak, helpless, "Vvvshhaaa!"
My hands twitched like they wanted to help. Help what, I have no idea. Rebuild my dignity? Reverse time?
I was overheating. My ears were on fire. Somewhere, in the control room of my soul, a tiny operator was waving a clipboard and shouting:
"We weren't trained for this! SHE'S USING TACTICAL BREAST CONTACT!"
And then… she laughed.
Low and warm, the sound vibrating through me via her ribcage. It was smug. Wicked. Unfair. This wasn't teasing. This was psychological warfare.
After what felt like a year compressed into five seconds, she let go.
Her fingers gave my hair one last ruffle—like she was clocking out after emotionally breaking a small feral Jedi—and stepped back with the air of someone who'd just beaten a boss level in flirtation.
"There," she said sweetly, with a grin that could melt durasteel. "All better? Got a clear signal now, Sparky?"
I wanted to die.Or evaporate.Or hide in a box forever and never feel again.
Vasha dragged her crate over with all the solemn gravity of someone preparing to witness a disaster and flopped onto it like a mechanic queen assuming her throne. One eyebrow arched. Her posture said: impress me.Her eyes said:
"You alive in there, Sparky, or did my boobs fry your last brain cell?"
I nodded. Stiffly. Like a malfunctioning protocol droid with too much internal shame buffering in the background.
Right. Showtime.Emotions: postponed.Professional mode: engaged.Haunted-boob-schematic embedded in my frontal cortex: still very much present.
No pressure.
I shut my eyes, took a breath, and dove into the motivator like it had personally insulted my family.First—Hyper Perception. I slid it in like a wire through a fried terminal, letting the awareness flow around the damaged circuits, pinging weak points in the internal layout. The structure unfolded in my mind like a 3D map drawn in neon lines.
Then came Psychometry. The fun one.I reached deeper, scanning for the emotional residue—the lingering "vibeprint" of whatever this poor chunk of metal had experienced in its final moments.
...
...
Ah. There it was.Confusion. Frustration. That last "Why am I like this?" feeling before it gave up on booting properly and decided to die cold and unfulfilled like a toaster that saw war.
A dull ache bloomed behind my eyes. The classic psychic hangover.I pulled back, blinking, eyes slightly glazed like a Force-sensitive who'd just watched the entire Datapad Repair for Dummies trilogy on 5x speed.
I looked up.
Vasha was watching me.Not with suspicion.With intensity.
The "I am simultaneously worried, impressed, and considering whether you're secretly a Force ghost" kind of intensity.
"Okay," I said, voice a little breathless because scanning a cursed hunk of hardware while ignoring the memory of Weaponized Warmth is surprisingly taxing. "The main timing crystal's miscalibrated. Off by a fraction—tiny enough to dodge normal diagnostics, but enough to cause a cascade failure during boot-up."
Her brow lifted a little.
"And," I continued, like a tech exorcist mid-ritual, "there's a weak solder joint on the secondary logic board. Fine when cold, fails when it heats up. Classic thermal betrayal."
I leaned in, tapped a spot on the casing with absolute, unwarranted confidence."And the real villain? There's a microscopic metal shaving—factory defect—shorting two processor contacts. Almost invisible. The tiniest betrayal. A metal speck with delusions of sabotage."
Vasha blinked. Then blinked again.
"A metal shaving?" she said flatly. "Kid, you can't possibly know that."
"I do," I said, holding her gaze like an anime protagonist at the final battle.Our eyes locked. My soul flared.Somewhere in the distance, dramatic music probably played.
She stared at me in silence. Her Mechanic Brain™ clearly trying to override what her actual eyes had seen me do. The battle inside her was real.
Then she sighed. It was the sound of a woman realizing she's about to lose an argument she never actually had.
"…Fine."
She reached for her toolkit—but not before grabbing my face with both hands and giving my cheeks a criminally aggressive squeeze.
"But if I open this thing and find nothing," she warned, stretching my cheeks into squish-mode, "I'm gonna… ugh, what can I even do to this cute face?"
I made a noise that definitely wasn't dignified.Kind of like "Mmmffwhuh."It translated roughly to:
"Please have mercy, I'm just a tiny techno-wizard with unresolved trauma."
She let go with a squish-pop and an amused shake of her head, muttering something about "menaces with baby faces" and "this is why I don't date mechanics."
I didn't need to hover or narrate. I just sat on my stool like a guilt-ridden little wizard and let her do her thing.
The apartment filled with the soft, rhythmic clicks of her tools—familiar, precise. Comforting.
She started skeptical. I could feel it radiating off her like static. But that melted fast.
First came the grunt of surprise when she found the weak solder joint. Then a quiet "huh" when her instruments confirmed the crystal miscalibration. And then…
The processor.
She leaned in, peered through the magnifier, and went absolutely off in Twi'leki—not the polite kind.
I didn't need a translator. That kind of swearing transcends language. It was the spiritual equivalent of "Oh my kriffing stars, how in the name of ten broken hyperdrives did he—?!"
She reassembled the motivator in an oddly reverent silence, as if afraid the thing might vanish if she moved too fast. No sarcasm, no grumbling—just focus. The kind of quiet usually reserved for temples or dangerous truths.
When she finished, she connected it to the power supply. Her hand hovered over the activation switch for half a second longer than usual. Like she was bracing for disappointment—or a miracle.
Then she flipped it.
A clean, steady hum filled the apartment.The green indicator light blinked on—calm, solid, perfect.
That light was smug.Like it knew it was fixed and wanted credit for it.
Silence followed. Not the calm kind. The "someone please say something or I will literally explode" kind.
She didn't move.
She slowly lowered herself onto the crate beside the workbench, her tools forgotten in her lap.
But she wasn't looking at the motivator.
She was looking at me.
And her expression…
It wasn't just awe. Or even confusion.
It was the look of someone who'd just seen a puzzle piece click into place they didn't even know was missing. Like her brain was frantically rewriting everything she thought she knew, trying to file this moment somewhere between "mystical tech sorcery" and "very weird child nonsense."
She looked… raw. Walls down. Completely open in a way that made me want to look away and hold her gaze at the same time.
Her reality hadn't just cracked—it had tilted.
And I sat there, all seven years of me, trying not to fidget under the weight of it.Trying not to say anything too stupid.
Or burst into flames.
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The milestones are still left. If we remain in top 20 till tomorrow, thats one bonus chapter, and if somehow, anyhow, we go into top 10, two bonus chappies.
Tell me your thoughts about this writing style and which one would you prefer
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