A/N: Last part of the promised 3. As 3 chapters of kinda R18 content might be fatiguing, I have written this one (actually rewritten, original one was still smutty but I felt that pacing needs to change a bit).

Any of people who had objections to previous two chapters should probably skip this (through the votes tell me few if none had even O of objection). There isn't any great consequences of this chapter that previous two chapter didn't do already but I had felt it was needed to complete the sub-plot about Vasha that I wanted to tell.

Treat it as omake if you want, I won't object to that. I had written it just for fun.

From next chapter onward, we would be back to Ezra's progress and all and major time skips.

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[Vasha's POV]

[Vasha's POV]

Vasha exhaled as the fresher door hissed shut behind her, the steam curling around her ankles like a guilty thought. She leaned against the hallway wall, the cool plastoid a shock against her still-damp skin. Kriff. That kid's hands were witchcraft. Every knot, every ache from hauling scrap—gone. Melted away like cheap solder under a blowtorch.

She'd agreed to let him do it again.

The memory of Ezra's bright, hopeful eyes flashed in her mind. "Can we do this again sometime? You work so hard…" Stars, how could she say no? He was just a kid trying to help. A kid who didn't understand why her breath hitched when his thumb grazed her nipple, or why her muscles locked when his fingers brushed… elsewhere.

It's fine, she told herself firmly, pushing off the wall and padding barefoot toward the bedroom. Just gotta steer those magic fingers clear of the… sensitive zones next time. Easy. He was oblivious. Sweetly, mercifully oblivious.

She sank onto the edge of the bed, the thin mattress creaking. The deep, liquid ease he'd worked into her muscles was still there, a luxurious counterpoint to the sudden, restless thrum under her skin. It wasn't him. Couldn't be. It was the damn relaxation. Letting her guard down for the first time in… how long? Years?

A dry, humorless laugh escaped her. Twenty-seven next rotation. Virgin. Never even held hands romantically. Back on Ryloth, it was survival—protecting her siblings, dodging slavers. Then the dockyards: grease, exhaustion, and the constant hum of engines drowning out anything resembling desire. Her body had been a tool, a thing to push until it broke. Pleasure? A luxury for people with time and credits.

Now? Now she had a fraction of both, thanks to the kid. And her traitorous body, finally unchained from pure survival mode, was waking up. Demanding attention. The warmth pooling low in her belly wasn't about Ezra's touch. It was about years of silence finally screaming to be heard.

Guilt prickled, sharp and familiar. Ezra. That brilliant, terrifying mind. He should be in some Coruscant academy, dazzling professors, not playing mechanic in a scrap shop. Every time she'd tentatively floated the idea—"Kid, with your head, you could…"—he'd shut it down like a blown fuse. His insistence on staying… it did things to her insides. Warm, complicated things.(not sexual!!)

A soft thump came from the fresher. Ezra. Still in there. Good. She had minutes. Maybe.

Her hand drifted down, fingertips skimming the soft skin of her inner thigh—not where his fingers had brushed, but higher. The wet touch sparked a low, insistent ache. Kriff.

Neglect had consequences, apparently. She squeezed her eyes shut. Later. When he was dead asleep. Deep, dreamless sleep. Like always.

She hoped to every forgotten Twi'lek goddess she hadn't left her lone, discreet vibro-massager in the cracked drawer of her old apartment. It was going to be a long night.

And Ezra was a heavy sleeper anyway. (A/N: I think not jajaaj)

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[Ezra's POV]

The bed was a lie, one that was soft, plush, and utterly deceptive. Like being cradled by a cloud with ulterior motives.

Being the little spoon to Vasha wasn’t unusual. But tonight? After that shower? My brain had officially short-circuited. Every shift of her body, every warm exhale against my neck, every accidental press of distractions against my back, my hands remembered too much. Traitorous, tactile memory.

Sleep wasn’t happening. My body had other priorities. Specifically, the lower half had declared mutiny. I lay there, stiff as a board, trying to convince myself that counting blurrg was a valid relaxation technique. (Spoiler: It wasn’t.)

Then, movement. A slow retreat. The warmth at my back vanished, replaced by cold, empty air. I stayed frozen, committing to the most convincing asleep act this side of Coruscant. Maybe she was getting water. Or murdering a spider. Or—

"Ezra?"

Nope. Not home. Currently offline. Please try again later.

"Kid? You awake?"

I doubled down—head lolled, mouth slightly open, maybe even a hint of drool for authenticity. Be the rock. Be the log. Be the guy who definitely wasn’t hyper-aware of her every movement.

A pause. Then—

"Stars, you sleep like a corpse. Good."

Good? Why was that good?

Through the barest slit of my eyelids, I caught her shifting away with a quiet sigh.

Then—oh.

Oh no.

She tugged her shirt up. And there they were. The enemy. The same twin distractions that had haunted me since the shower.

My brain screamed at me to close my eyes. Too late. The damage was done.

Her hand slid south.

I should’ve shut my eyes completely. But no. They stayed at half-mast, just enough to witness the absolute catastrophe unfolding—Vasha, thinking I was dead to the world, getting hot and bothered with herself.

A soft gasp. A shudder. The mattress gave a tiny, traitorous bounce.

I squeezed my eyes shut. Too late. My brain had already saved the footage in high-definition. Is this the result of my monkey brain taking over my hands and mind in the shower? If so, it was tiny bit understandable...

Silence. Then rustling.

Maybe she was done. Maybe I could pretend this never happened.

Nope.

She moved again, this time toward the locker.

I braced myself. What now? A snack? A Glass of Water? Girls lose too much water during these activities so it was vital to be hydrated!

The mattress dipped once more.

And there, cradled in her hand like some kind of unholy prize, was a small, pale blue egg. Not the breakfast kind. Smooth, plastoid, and—judging by the quiet hum, very much active.

Of course. Of course the galaxy had personal massagers. Some things were universal, no matter how many laser swords or planet-killers existed.

This one was sleek. Menacing. Buzzing with the low, persistent drone of an astromech on standby.

She flopped back onto the bed like she owned it (which, technically, she did). Zero modesty. Shirt still rucked up. Shorts somewhere around her knees. Knees bent, feet planted like she was settling in for a mission.

Then—click.

The egg roared to life.

BZZZZZZZZZZZZ.

I was officially in hell.

Her breath hitched. She guided the buzzing monstrosity south with surgical precision, her free hand already busy elsewhere—kneading, pinching, like she was tuning a stubborn comm frequency.

"Kriff…" she muttered, voice thick. A slight adjustment, a harder press. "Stars… Ezra…"

My brain flatlined.

Why was my name in this sentence?

She wasn’t thinking of me—I knew that. Maybe this was just pent-up stress, leftover heat from the massage, years of tension finally boiling over. But hearing my name tossed into the mix like some kind of involuntary commentary?

Nope. Nope nope nope.

She even had the audacity to apologize to my "sleeping" form.

"Shouldn’t… shouldn’t be doing this… right beside you…" Another sharp gasp. "But you… you sleep like a corpse… God…!"

Yeah. Totally asleep. Not internally screaming. Not questioning every life choice that led me here.

Just a corpse. A very aware corpse.

The buzzing intensified. The mattress creaked in protest.

I was going to need so much therapy.

The buzzing hit a fever pitch, syncing perfectly with the jackhammer rhythm of her heartbeat. The sounds escalated—moans deepening into guttural groans, gasps turning into ragged, air-starved pulls. The mattress developed a concerning tremor. It was like being front row at the most unhinged holodrama ever made, with surround sound cranked to obscene and absolutely zero plot.

Then—FLIP.

No warning. One second she was sprawled out, the next she’d launched herself onto all fours, face buried in a pillow like it had personally offended her. Her shorts were still tangled around her knees, her blue ass raised like a flagpole aimed at the far wall. The pose screamed business time, and business was clearly booming.

Me (internally, soul evacuating): WHAT FRESH HELL IS THIS. DID SHE JUST GO DOGGY STYLE… ON HERSELF. SINCE WHEN IS THAT A THING.

The soundtrack shifted. The steady buzz faded, replaced by the sharp, wet schlick-schlick-SCHLICK of fingers working fast, layered over the reactivated BZZZZZZZZZZ of the Egg, now presumably pressed somewhere strategic. The pillow tried to muffle her. It failed. Spectacularly.

Vasha (muffled but enthusiastic): "F-fuck! Yes! Right—right there! Oh, kriff!" (Bed frame creaks in protest) "HARDER! YES!"

Me (internally, mentally folding into origami): I AM A STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND, AND THIS LAND IS LOUD, WET, AND HAS A VERY ACTIVE BED. IS THE WALL CRACKING.

The bed wasn’t just creaking—it was pounding against the wall. Her hips pistoned back against her own hand like she was trying to win a speeder race. The sheer force of it was terrifying. How much backlog was she working through? A decade? A lifetime?

The crescendo hit like a freighter crash. A high-pitched wail tore through the room, her body locking up like a droid hit by an ion blast. She held there, trembling violently, before collapsing face-first into the mattress with a gasping sob. Silence. Blessed, panting silence.

Me (numb, tallying the damage): …Climax number two? Three? I’ve lost count. Please let it be over.

Nope.

Vasha lay there for a solid minute, breathing like she’d just sprinted across Tatooine. Then, slowly, she pushed herself up on shaky arms. Sweat glistened on her skin, her lekku plastered to her face like wet ropes. She looked wrecked. Flushed. Exhausted.

But her eyes.

They had the look of a predator who’d just tasted blood and decided the buffet was still open. A look that screamed Round Four starts in five… four…

Me (internally, resigning myself to fate): I’m never sleeping again. Caf and existential dread will sustain me. Also, my spine is now a single, terrified plank.

…

Surely that was it. The human body had limits. Even Twi’leks had to tap out eventually.

The Universe: LOL. LMAO.

…

Vasha gasped for air, limp for exactly thirty seconds—just long enough for hope to flicker. Then, with a groan that sounded like a womp rat with unfinished business, she moved again.

Muffled whimpers. Choked gasps. Her whole body curled inward like a dying star, trembling violently before—

Vasha (strangled): "F-FUCK—!"

A full-body seizure of pleasure. Limbs locking. Toes curling hard enough to shred sheets. A sound escaped her—half sob, half war cry—before she collapsed, boneless, into the mattress.

Me (mentally tallying, shell-shocked): …Five. FIVE. IS THIS A RECORD? IS THERE A TROPHY? WILL SHE GET A COMMENDATION FROM THE CHANCELLOR?!

The room smelled like a cantina after Mardi Gras. Sweat. Lots of sweat. And something musky that made my nose wrinkle despite other parts of me being deeply invested. Vasha's breathing was ragged, like she'd just survived a death march. Meanwhile, I was drowning in secondhand exhaustion, my own body stuck in "tense statue" mode.

Then she moved again.

Vasha sluggishly pushed up onto her elbows, looking like she'd gone twelve rounds with a rancor and lost most of them. She wiped her hands on the already soaked sheets beside her with the grace of someone who had given up on life.

Me (internally): …Gross. Vas. That's DISGUSTING. We LIVE here.

She flopped onto her back, chest heaving, lekku splayed out like she'd been electrocuted. A slow, blissed-out grin spread across her face.

Vasha (hoarse, satisfied): "Damn… forgot how kriffing good that feels."

Me (brain short-circuiting): FORGOT?! HOW LONG HAS IT BEEN?! BEFORE THE EMPIRE?! BEFORE THE INVENTION OF WHEELS?!

Any lingering guilt I had? Gone. Evaporated. Vasha wasn't just relieving tension—she was excavating ancient ruins. The sheer stamina was terrifying. The desperation was legendary. I'd just witnessed a one-woman siege on her own nervous system, and I was the collateral damage.

Then she rolled off the bed.

Naked.

Zero shame.

Just strolled to the kitchen like this was normal, her bare feet slapping against the floor. The tap ran. GULP GULP GULP. Hydration check: CRITICAL.

She returned, swaying slightly, a water droplet trailing down her throat, between her breasts, and vanishing into the valley. (My brain: NOTED. ARCHIVED. NEVER SPEAK OF THIS AGAIN.)

Then she stared at the bed.

Vasha (nose wrinkling): "Huh. Forgot about that mess too."

The "mess" in question was a soaked disaster zone roughly the size of Tatooine's second sun. Her side of the bed looked like it had been rained on. And then her gaze—oh stars no—drifted to my side.

Dry. Pristine. A sanctuary.

Me (internally screaming): STAY. ON. YOUR. SIDE. OF THE SWAMP, VASHA. THIS IS NOT A TIME-SHARE.

She did not stay.

With a tired grunt, she crawled back onto the mattress—not into her own biohazard zone, but directly toward me.

Me (brain melting): WHY?! WHAT IS THE STRATEGY HERE?! IS THIS A HOSTILE TAKEOVER?! AM I PART OF THE CLEANUP PROCESS?!

She slid right into my space, her body radiating heat like a freshly fired blaster. The scent of sex, sweat, and victory hit me like a freight speeder.

Vasha had transformed into a cuddle monster. A naked, post-apocalyptic cuddle monster.

One second I was a statue, the next—BAM—I was being absorbed into the Vasha Vortex™. Arm around my waist? Check. Leg wedged strategically between mine? Ohhhh, check. And the worst part? The worst part?

The Wetness.

Not just damp. Not just moist. We're talking "swamp biome" levels of hydration. My pajama pants were now a crime scene.

Me (internally): SHE'S USING ME AS A TOWEL. A HUMAN TOWEL. IS THIS A WAR CRIME?!

Her thigh pressed right there, and—oh, fantastic—my stupid, traitorous body decided now was the time to pitch a tent.

My Dick: HELLO, YES, WE ARE AWAKE AND READY TO PARTICIPATE.

Me: NO. NO WE ARE NOT. STAND DOWN, SOLDIER.

But the real kicker? The absolute galactic-level audacity?

She sighed. A happy, satisfied sigh. Like she hadn't just turned our bed into a water park and was now using me as a post-coital body pillow.

Me (mentally):Oh Abyss, claim my soul. My actions had yielded consequences, as said in the sacred scrolls, the consequence of dildo arrives unlubed...or sometimes very very naturally lubed....

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As some beta readers had requested had wanted explicit versions of this one too, I had written an draft of that which is up on patreon. If any of you guys want it, I can post an link to google docs.

If you want to support me or read advanced chapters, you can do so at Patreon. I would be highly appreciative of that and it would support me very much in my writing endeavors.

Link: www(dot)patreon(dot)com/Abstracto101