A/N: So we passed 1000 motherfucking stones, so I decided to grace you guys with an unexpectedly bonus chapter in addition to the regular chapter (well, following 2 chapters are also R18 ones so I wanna get them over with as soon as we can.)
So I understand if many of you guys might be pointing your judgy finger toward my hypothetical avatar in your mind about me writing and posting around 3 or more chapters about a supposedly 8 year boy being featured in chapter of this kind so let me give you a bit of disclaimer + warning about it anyways.
The R18 stuff is not smut per say, but more like mc looking at an event through eyes of a 27 year old guy while Vasha, in the event is going on with assumption that mc is just a little boy, and being a careless mommy with rhylothian culture being a bit too open.
If you are incomfortable with such scenes, you may skip the scenes (I will put in a disclaimer at start of the scene as well as where the events end) as well as give a summary of what happened in the following scenes. Just read the chapter note at the start of next 2-3 chapters to discern the nature of the chapter.
Also as many people were asking me about when does the actual fun part begin( Present scenes are fun for me), let me give you a rough timeline estimate to keep your interest piqued.
[Chapter 27] has few months times skip
[Chapter 28] has 2 year time skip
(I have written til there only, but in subsequent chapter of above, time would move fast with very frequent time skips/lapses to show mc's progress)
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With the shop secured, our lives turned into a full-blown logistical cyclone.
Vasha, unsurprisingly, thrived in it. She transformed overnight into a clipboard-wielding, commlink-juggling whirlwind, juggling everything from power grid permits to haggling over industrial-grade shelving with freight captains and surplus dealers. It was like watching a tactical commander coordinate a small war, except the enemy was red tape and overpriced fasteners.
My role was much simpler: be adorable, short, and strategically useful.
I was the pint-sized assistant who occasionally deployed a bit of psychic sleight of hand to score us a discount. A well-timed pathetic sigh, paired with a subtle Force nudge toward generosity, could melt even the crustiest scrap merchant into something resembling charitable.
It was disturbingly effective.
Even in its most malnourished form, the Force could tip scales. A sigh here, a sad-eyed glance there, and suddenly we were walking away with ten percent off and a free cargo net.
Of course, knowing how easily that kind of influence could be abused made me uneasy. It didn't take much imagination to see how the darker variants could spiral.
Force Suggestion. Domination. Full-scale memory wipes.
You like someone? Nudge them into your bed. Don't like the consequences? A little mental housekeeping, and boom—no awkward morning after. No trauma. No consequences.
The very idea made my stomach twist. It was intoxicating and horrifying in equal measure. That was the moment I etched the line in stone: never use the Force like that on friends for my own benefits...
Call it hypocrisy. Call it a half-baked moral code. Whatever.
But I wasn't about to give up the sheer convenience of skipping small talk with complete strangers. I was a dyed-in-the-wool introvert, after all. If the Force let me avoid awkward haggling and fake pleasantries, then yes please, pass the cheat codes.
Today's mission, though, was something else entirely.
This wasn't about saving credits on shelving brackets. This was about securing our entire business model.
Which is why we were currently packed into the ozone-scented confines of Zako's office, buried deep in the rust-slicked heart of Capital City's largest scrap heap.
The "office" was a repurposed shipping container that still smelled faintly of burned lubricant and hot metal. The desk? A repurposed starship hatch with plasma scoring still visible around the edges. It groaned under the weight of scattered datapads and grease-stained flimsies.
Zako himself was a mountain of meat stuffed into a stained vest, his jowly face fixed in a perpetual sneer. His small, calculating Sullustan eyes flicked between us as Vasha laid out our pitch.
"We're offering a flat monthly fee," she said, voice smooth as repulsor oil, "in exchange for first access to high-grade electronics and unsalvageable droids. Before they're sorted. Before anyone else sees them."
Zako leaned back, chair creaking like it was seconds away from collapse. He steepled his stubby fingers and stared.
"First look, eh?" he said, voice like gravel in a blender. "The big recycling corps pay top credit for sorted metals. They don't like it when someone cherry-picks the good stuff."
He shrugged, the motion sending a ripple through his jowls. "But they bid in bulk. A few tonnes missing here and there? Won't even notice."
Then he leaned forward, the chair letting out a pitiful squeal. "The real question is... what's a pretty Twi'lek and a pipsqueak gonna do with high-spec droid junk? Most of it's fried harder than a junk moon's surface."
"Component extraction," Vasha said without missing a beat. We'd rehearsed this line in our sleep. "We've developed a method to salvage viable micro-components from damaged logic boards and motivators. Off-world hobbyists pay good credits for them."
For a moment, silence.
Then Zako burst out laughing.
It wasn't a polite chuckle. It was a full-throated, wheezing roar that made the shipping container ring. He slapped a meaty hand on the hatch-desk, nearly knocking over a precarious stack of datapads.
"Compo—! Oh, stars above," he gasped, wiping tears from his bulging eyes. "Sorry. Sorry. Didn't mean to laugh at your... innovative business model."
His tone dripped with condescension.
He looked from Vasha's professionally tight smile to my wide, practiced doe-eyes. The ones that said please believe us, we're tiny and honest and totally not lying entrepreneurs.
"I'm just trying to picture your profit margins," Zako said with mock sincerity. "After all that time and credit spent digging through mountains of slag for a few salvageable chips?"
He leaned back again and waved dismissively, as if brushing away a persistent smell.
"Well, not my problem, is it? You want the junk, you pay for the junk. What you do with it after… that's your own miserable business."
He named a price.
"Three times my standard intake rate. Per kilo. Upfront."
Vasha didn't even blink. She furrowed her brows in all the right ways, voice cool and clipped as she launched into a well-rehearsed debate about market rates, processing costs, and the general unfairness of it all.
It was a convincing performance.
Inside, though? We were already celebrating.
Junk, even the "good" kind, was still sold by weight. Droid brains didn't get heavier just because they used them to steer freighters.
Three times the going rate for scrap was still pocket change compared to what a repaired protocol unit could sell for on the open market. It wasn't a gouge. It was a gift. Zako just didn't know it yet.
After a few more minutes of performative bargaining and dramatic sighing, Vasha leaned back, folded her arms, and gave in with reluctant grace.
"Fine," she said. "You win."
Zako's grin returned full-force. That smug, jiggling kind that made me want to telekinetically yeet his desk out the window.
He commed someone, barking out a few clipped phrases in Huttese. A moment later, a lanky Rodian slouched into the office, chewing on a stim stick and radiating terminal boredom.
"Take the lady and her kid to the high-spec yard," Zako ordered. "Tally up whatever they pull. On their credit."
"Actually," Vasha said, all silky smooth professionalism, "we'll start pulling tomorrow. No transport today. Just wanted to finalize terms."
Zako barely looked up from the stack of credits she slid across the desk.
"As you wish," he grunted, already turning his attention to the glittering pile of our advance payment.
As we turned to leave, I paused at the threshold. He was leaning back in his groaning chair again, that smug expression blooming across his jowly face like mold on bad cheese. He thought he'd just fleeced the pretty Twi'lek and her dumb kid.
I didn't say anything. That would've been petty.
Instead, I did something far more satisfying.
I focused—just a flicker of attention—on a dense, fist-sized compressor unit perched precariously on the edge of his desk. Right above his boot.
The humming vibrations of the nearby power converter gave me just enough resonance to work with. I nudged. Subtle. Controlled.
Thunk!
The metal cylinder dropped like it had been waiting for this exact moment, slamming directly onto Zako's foot.
"YEEOWCH! Son of a mud-eating nerf!" he bellowed, leaping up and clutching his foot like it had just caught fire.
I spun, wide-eyed and full of innocence.
"Oh no! Are you okay, Mister Zako?" I asked, voice pure as starlight. "That sounded ouchy."
Vasha froze mid-step and looked back. Zako was hopping on one foot like he'd been stung by a thermal detonator. Her gaze slid from him, to the fallen compressor, to me.
Her eyes narrowed.
I blinked up at her, lips slightly parted in mock concern. Then I looked back at Zako.
"Did something fall?" I asked sweetly, tilting my head. "You should be more careful! My mom says a messy desk is a sign of a messy mind."
For a second, the entire room paused.
Zako gawked at me, stunned. The insult was wrapped so snugly in childhood innocence, he couldn't decide if I'd just roasted his soul or recited a nursery rhyme.
Beside me, Vasha made a strangled sound. Her mouth twitched. Then she coughed once—too sharp, too sudden—and clamped her lips shut with obvious effort.
"Come on, Ezra," she said through a strangled voice. "Let's not… bother the man while he's tending his foot."
She grabbed my hand—tightly—and pulled me out of the office, through the door, and into the sunlight-streaked chaos of the scrap yard.
We didn't speak. Not until we were well clear of the building, tucked behind a tower of corroded starship hulls and broken engine blocks.
Then she lost it.
Vasha leaned against a rusted wall, doubled over with laughter. It wasn't the polite, professional kind either. This was full-belly, eyes-watering, can't-breathe laughter.
I grinned, watching her, feeling that perfect glow of mischief well-earned.
"A messy mind," she gasped, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. "Stars, Ezra. You just broke him."
She reached out and ruffled my hair, maybe a little harder than necessary.
"Kriff, kid," she said between chuckles. "You're going to be the death of me."
I gave her my most solemn nod. "Oh no. Death can't go past me like that, Vas."
She blinked.
Then howled with fresh laughter.
With Zako's foot (hopefully) still throbbing from our parting gift, our operation launched into full swing.
We returned to the scrap heap at dawn the next morning, a rented grav-sled humming impatiently behind us. The place was a graveyard of forgotten tech—towering mountains of shattered droids, gutted starship husks, and the skeletal remains of machinery picked cleaner than a bantha carcass in a krayt dragon's den.
Trying to handpick individual components from this disaster zone would've been suicide. Instead, we went broad. Anything vaguely intact and not actively spewing toxic smoke went onto the sled.
Droids were priority targets—their distinctive silhouettes stood out like beacons in the metallic wasteland. But we also grabbed anything that looked expensive. Ship components were the holy grail: nav-computers, stabilizer arrays, even a few cracked but salvageable holo-projectors. The kind of gear that could fund our entire operation if repaired right.
Not everything was for resale, though. Vasha had a mental checklist of parts we needed for our own repairs—low resale value but packed with high-quality guts. Zako wasn't entirely wrong; for a normal mechanic, salvaging usable bits from this junk would be a nightmare.
But normal mechanics didn't have a psychic shortcut.
I focused on specific failure patterns. Blown power relays? Fried processors but pristine connectors. Crushed chassis? Useless as-is, but the internal motivators might still be gold. What would take a tech days of testing, I could diagnose in seconds with a flicker of the Force.
By the time we loaded the last crate, the sun was a molten coin sinking behind the scrap heaps. We'd hauled enough to keep us busy for weeks.
And then there was the bed.
Oh, that bed.
After years of lumpy couches and Vasha's ancient, squeaky mattress, this thing was a revelation. A sprawling, cloud-soft monument to comfort. You'd think something this massive would grant personal space.
You'd be wrong.
Somehow, Vasha had decided I was her designated living teddy bear. Every night, without fail, she'd drag me into the little spoon position, tucking me against her like a backpack full of warmth.
And the worst part?
I was getting used to it.
Look, I wasn't happy about it. But the unholy trinity of body heat, soft lekku, and even softer everything else was doing things to my seven-year-old vessel that felt criminally inappropriate. My old-life instincts were colliding with my new-life limitations, and the result was… problematic.
Being the little spoon was strategic. It hid the boner problem.
Because yes, that was a thing now.
I didn't know if it was my 27-year-old mind dragging adult reactions into a prepubescent body, or if this vessel was just defective, but the slightest friction turned me into a walking embarrassment. If I tried to be the big spoon (which, at my size, would look like a mynock latched to her back), the morning wood situation became glaringly obvious.
That was a conversation I'd rather die than have.
I just had to survive until puberty. Then? Then I was doomed.
I thought I had a handle on it. Keep my mind clean, endure the cuddles, and never make eye contact with my own traitorous anatomy.
But then the incident happened.
[R18 Content Ahead. Tread ahead with caution and don't alert the FBI]
The fresher in our new place was… excessive.
Suspiciously so. Maybe the previous owners—a Devaronian with a smirk that suggested too much and his Togruta wife—were into aquatic gymnastics. Whatever the reason, the shower area was bigger than our entire old apartment's bathroom, where two people couldn't stand side by side without exchanging life stories.
It was a lazy weekend morning. I was mid-scrub, blissfully lost in the rare luxury of hot water, when the fresher door slid open without so much as a courtesy chime.
First thought: Which absolute nerfherder dares violate this sacred space? I will summon the CorSec. The Jedi Council. The entire Hutt Cartel if necessary.
Second thought: Oh. Oh no.
Vasha stood in the doorway.
A threadbare towel hung low on her hips.
Nothing else.
My brain, which had previously processed her existence via clinical psychic scans, short-circuited.
Data was one thing.
Reality was a war crime.
The gentle slope of her stomach, the toned arms from years of wrestling engines into submission, and—oh kriffing hell—
Those.
The bad boys were out.
Unbound. Unfiltered. Unfair.
Her breasts—stars above, her breasts—swayed gently as she stepped into the steam. Droplets clung to the underside, catching the light like liquid jewels. Dusky blue nipples, peaked from the cooler air, stood at attention.
My psychic scans hadn't lied about the size, but the presence—the sheer gravitational pull of them—hit me like a speeder bike to the face.
Wow.
Wow.
WOW.
A familiar, traitorous heat flared in my gut. Not now. Down, you rebellious little Sithspawn.
"Kid?" Her voice, rough with sleep, snapped me back to reality. "You planning on hogging all the hot water?"
I jerked my head up, face burning. "N-no," I stammered, voice cracking like a pubescent Womp Rat. "Just… spacing. Compressor units. Y'know." Smooth, genius.
Vasha snorted, entirely unconcerned, and strode past me toward the main spray. Her bare arm brushed mine—a fleeting, electric contact—and my entire nervous system lit up like a festival firework.
She tilted her head back under the water, a low groan escaping her lips as it cascaded over her lekku. It sounded dangerously close to pleasure.
Focus.
Tiles. Grout. That suspicious rust spot near the drain.
Too late.
The traitor in my briefs had already reported for duty, tenting the soaked fabric into a very undeniable, if miniature, peak.
Kriff.
I subtly angled my hips toward the wall, praying the steam was thick enough to obscure certain developments.
Vasha grabbed the soap, lathering her hands with brisk efficiency before scrubbing her shoulders. My gaze followed the suds as they slid down the smooth plane of her back, catching on the ridges of her spine.
She twisted, trying to reach the middle of her back, fingers straining.
"Fucking impossible," she muttered, scowling at her own shoulder blade.
An idea popped into my head—reckless, suicidal, inevitable.
"I… could?" The words came out strangled. "Get your back? Smaller hands, better reach?" And a one-way ticket to eternal shame.
Vasha paused, soapy hands hovering. She glanced over her shoulder, one eyebrow arched. Then—a shrug.
A glorious, heart-stopping jiggle accompanied the motion.
My breath hitched.
"Yeah, alright," she conceded, voice casual. "Beats dislocating something. Be gentle alright? My bones are a little soft"
I gulped.
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