A/N: Apologies for not uploading chapter yesterday, got an nasty headache after the trip (motion sickness is a bitch ngl) so was just laying dead whole day.
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The shop was functional, to say the least.
That's the nicest thing I could say about it. We weren't winning awards for aesthetics unless "scrapyard chic" was trending on Coruscant. The front had a few sad display shelves: refurbished droids, comm units, the occasional translator fish. Mostly working. Mostly.The real action was in the back—our glorious mess of tools, parts, and expensive once-junk, now repaired components that sold for heavy bucks.
LQ-79, our protocol droid turned overachieving salesman, was currently unloading a full verbal assault on some poor customer who dared ask for a "budget" Flux Channelizer for his speeder.
"And as you'll note, this model contains the rare Fondorian tri-phase capacitors, manufactured exclusively during a six-month stretch in 27 BBY…"
The guy's soul visibly left his body somewhere around "tri-phase."
I leaned against the counter, watching the trainwreck.
"Think he makes it to minute three or taps out early?"
Vasha elbowed me. "You sure you didn't upload a full engineering dissertation into LQ's processors?"
"Hey, he asked for 'sales personality upgrades.' I just added some spice."
"Uh-huh," she said, giving me the look. "And him suddenly lecturing like a Coruscanti professor on screw threading has nothing to do with your weird junk-reading vision?"
I grinned. "If he wants to be the galaxy's most aggressively boring salesman, who am I to stop him?"
She rolled her eyes and went back to the R2 unit we'd hauled in last week. Missing half its motivator and all of its dignity.
Meanwhile, I had my usual corner: a shrine to broken high-end tech. My fingers found a wrecked navicomputer.Hyper Perception flared on contact—error logs, corrupted nav data, and the ghost of some ex-Imperial screaming about hyperspace miscalculations. Standard.
But I couldn't focus. Not today.
Because Vasha was right there, bent over the workbench.Her shirt had ridden up just enough to flash the smooth blue curve of her lower back. Fabric knotted at her waist. Neckline loose. Every time she leaned forward—stars—the gaping collar offered a front-row seat to temptation.
Focus.You're surrounded by expensive junk and semi-exploding tech. No time for thirst.
I yanked my eyes back to the navicomputer. Another data burst. Corrupted core. Scribbled it down.Grabbed the next scrap—a comms array from some luxury yacht—and immediately caught a memory of a Corellian banker whining about static mid-call with his mistress.
I chucked it into the parts pile and—bad choice—glanced back at her.
Even worse.She had one foot up on the bench, knee bent, working a bolt. Shorts riding higher. Thighs flexing. The shirt clinging to all the right places, slipping off one shoulder.
And there it was again—my brain doing the Windows XP error noise.
I buried my face in a burnt-out power regulator like it could save me. Spoiler: it couldn't.
Then she stretched. Arms overhead. Shirt riding up. Chest straining. Her lekku swayed with the motion, slow and teasing.
My fingers twitched around the regulator. Hyper Perception fed me meaningless specs while my brain ran an internal panic loop.
"You missed the tertiary capacitor alignment on that R2," I blurted.
She paused. "What?"
"Third stabilizer ring. You didn't lock it before sealing the housing." I tapped my temple. "Vision stuff."
She popped the panel back open. "Kriff. You're right." She narrowed her eyes. "Show-off."
I smirked. "Just keeping you honest, Vas."
She flipped me off without looking. Classic. No heat behind it—just our usual back-and-forth.Except today, I was the one overheating.
Two more hours of that. Routine. Productive.Fixing parts. Tossing her the occasional save. Pretending I wasn't clocking every time she bit her lip or bent just a little too far.
And wondering—definitely wondering—how loud she'd get if I just walked over and kissed her like I meant it.
Nope.Bad thought.Put it in a box. Set the box on fire. Bury the ashes.
I grabbed another busted component like it owed me money.
...
The shower was a gift from the gods.
No tension. No "accidental" sight of any girl. No chance of catching cooties...
Just me, the hot water, and my best shot at cleansing the day off my skin and out of my head. Not that a part of me didn't kind of hope Vasha might suddenly decide communal showers were a team-building exercise.
She didn't.
Last I saw, she was wrist-deep in a gearbox, cursing at it like it owed her money.
Her loss.
I took my time. Let the heat melt the stress and maybe, hopefully, erase the mental slideshow of her leaning over every bench in the shop. By the time I stepped out, towel slung low and hair dripping, I told myself I hadn't been hoping for drama.
Vasha stood by the fresher door, mid-change.
Shirt already off. Pants halfway down. Her back bare, relaxed, muscles stretching as she wrangled with fabric that clearly wasn't cooperating. One lek twitched behind her shoulder, casual as anything.
She hadn't seen me.
And I absolutely should've turned around.
Instead, I froze. Water still dripping from my hair, towel hanging low on my hips, standing there like I'd been hit with a stun blast. Her pants slid off, slow and smooth, and she stepped out of them like it was just another chore on a long list. Nothing deliberate. Nothing posed. Just real, natural movement—soft skin, strong legs, and that completely unbothered confidence she always wore like armor.
Then she glanced back. Just a casual flick of the eyes, like she was checking if I'd left the kettle on.
"Done in there?" she asked, not missing a beat.
I swallowed. "Uh. Yeah. All yours."
She bent, grabbed her towel, and slung it over one shoulder without even looking. Brushed past me on the way in, arm to arm—warm skin on warm skin.
No flinch. No awkwardness. She just gave me a side-eye, like I'd forgotten to take out the trash again.
"You left your tap dripping again. I told ya to put a bit of force in yer hand," she added, voice dry.
"Right. Sorry."
The door slid shut a second after that.
Never locked as always.
I stood there, towel dripping, brain in shambles.
This was normal. Totally normal. Just two roommates in a tiny junk shop apartment on the edge of the galaxy. Regular domestic routine.
This wasn't some big moment.
But it still knocked the wind out of me.
I exhaled and scrubbed a hand down my face.
Gawd dammit Vasha, why are so you beautiful!?
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The next few months 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? Poof. Gone.
Vanished like credits in a Hutt's pocket. Or maybe it was just that the treating him like an towel cum warm huggable doll after wanking 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, my mind screaming about 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.
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. Not a word needs be told about them for anyone who has read enough doujins.
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 kinda wrong. More than the realstic shota size of it, staring down at something resembling a slightly swollen raisin wasn't exactly inspiring.
My mind screamed for release, for the familiar tension and relief, but my body felt childish, like committing a intergalactic FBI level crime.
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 tools 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, an comforting but undeniably unintended 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 flirting with 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. Sexual desires were as fundemental to an life form as is eating or drinking. People are programmed to find others and get hot and bothered together.
So, I got… creative. Why would anyone go looking for relief outside when relief by yourself will bring you the ultimate pleasure. The climax of a thousand suns exploding if you may.
Unethical? Absolutely. Effective? Oh, stars, yes.
It took a bit of practice but as I was using my most basic application of hyper-perception anyways, it was easier.
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 the fuck out of them.
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… It wasn't just a release; it was a detonation so profound that Death Star could only dream to achieve.
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 the right thing to do? 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 fuck 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.
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