BONUS CHAPTER!! Thanks you guys for showing so much love to the books (and thanks to the patrons from showering love to my wallet)
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I[Skip]|||| DUE TO UNFORESEEN ERROR OF HAVING CHAPTER CONTENT REPEATED AND NOTICING IT TOO LATE, I HAD TO IMPROVISE AND DELETE REPEATED CONTENT WHILE ALSO TRYING TO KEEP THE COMMENTS INTACT, HENCE THIS SKIPS TAGS. MOVE FURTHER ALONG AND YOU SEE THE POINT FROM WHERE YOU CAN KEEP READING. SORRY FOR THE INCONVINIENCE! (this might not work T _T )
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I figured the whole "let's start a business" thing would be a slow burn. A marathon, not a sprint. We'd take our time—crunch some numbers, stalk a few listings, spend a couple nights lying awake wondering if we were out of our minds. I was bracing for a long, simmering arc of cautious optimism and spreadsheet-induced insomnia.
Vasha, it turned out, was not here for slow burns. She was here to yeet herself off the entrepreneurial high dive with zero hesitation and maximum splash radius.
She proved this when she came home late one night looking like she'd just mainlined pure ambition. There was a manic gleam in her eyes that said something had gone very right or very wrong, and I wasn't sure which until she tossed a greasy bag of takeout onto the counter and practically vibrated on the spot.
"Found a place," she said, grinning like a lunatic.
My space-noodles froze halfway to my mouth. "Wait—you actually went looking?"
"Of course I did. You don't win by thinking about stuff, you win by doing it." She whipped out a datapad and shoved it in my face like a proud parent showing off baby photos. "Old cargo depot, two blocks away. Empty for a year. High ceilings, reinforced flooring, isolated power grid. Perfect. Only catch is, they're doing a full power conduit refit, so we can't move in for eight days."
Eight days. That was practically tomorrow in business years. It gave her time to sell off the mountain of repaired tech taking over our living room, and me time to plunge face-first into the local junkyard net like a raccoon with a data addiction. And best of all, it meant she could finally quit her soul-eating dockyard job.
The downside? My dream of reclaiming the couch was now a dead fantasy. The apartment was still a techpocalypse, and for the foreseeable future, my nights would continue as they had been: me, the little spoon, trapped in a loving, inescapable cuddle prison.
Not that I was complaining.
After years of solo sleep and cold walls, having someone wrap around me like a sentient, warm blanket was basically therapy. Vasha held me like a treasured plush toy and I let her. Her chest—stellar, magnificent, weaponizable—had become my default pillow. They weren't just boobs. They were boobs+. Galactic tier. The kind of softness that could broker peace treaties if properly televised.
But lately, my focus had… drifted.
To her lekku.
One of them lay draped across my shoulder, casually, innocently, like a decorative scarf that might slap me if I touched it wrong. I knew they were prehensile. Muscle-based. Technically not decorative. But they looked so smooth. So inviting. Like tactile mysteries begging to be solved. My inner engineer—deranged and thirsty—demanded data.
So, purely for research purposes, I began a slow, careful ascent with my hand. Just a light test. A brush. A whisper of contact.
That was the plan.
In practice, I may have... grabbed. Not hard! Just... firm. Accidentally enthusiastic. Science is messy.
The reaction was instantaneous.
Vasha went rigid behind me like I'd just hit her with a surprise taser. She sucked in a sharp breath, the lekku snapping away from my hand with a dramatic flail. I froze, my face on fire, utterly betraying my gremlin motives.
"Okay, whoa," she said, half-asleep but clearly alarmed. "No hard grabby, gremlin."
"I didn't—! I wasn't—! I was curious!" I squeaked into her chest like a shamed cryptid. "Scientific curiosity!"
"They're sensitive," she murmured, hugging me tighter. The gentle suffocation was both comfort and warning.
But. But.
She didn't say "no grabby" in general. She said no hard grabby.
Which meant... soft grabby might be okay?
My brain lit up with dangerous hope. My inner chaos demon clutched a notepad and wrote down "LEGAL LOOPHOLE???" in all caps.
"They just look like pillows," I mumbled, defeated and full of regret.
That earned a low, sleepy chuckle that rumbled through her chest and into my bones. One of her lekku moved again—slowly, deliberately—and this time it wrapped around my hand.
Not to punish. To trap.
It curled like a soft restraint, firm enough to let me know who was in charge, gentle enough that I wanted to test the limits. It was warm. Smooth. Just slightly cool. Like being handcuffed by a sensual snake made of dreams.
"These pillows," Vasha whispered, her voice half-amused and half-deadly, "have a soft-touch only policy. Got it?"
I nodded against her. "Got it."
I had, in fact, gotten so much. Empirical evidence. Textural data. A full tactile report. I was encased in boob and lekku, smothered by alien affection, and forbidden from being a menace—but only partially.
I was thriving. Emotionally wrecked. Possibly in love.
Also, I was absolutely going to try again later.
For science.
...
...
The eight days passed in a blur of fried circuits, ration-bar breakfasts, and the strangely grounding weight of a Twi'lek arm thrown over me every night like I was her favorite stuffed animal. The apartment had officially transitioned from "lived-in" to "tech gremlin horde," the kind of place OSHA inspectors have nightmares about. But hey—every half-melted motivator and caffeine-fueled soldering session was just another rep in my psychic gym.
And those reps were paying off.
My Hyper Perception was starting to flex. What used to be a shaky two-meter awareness bubble had stretched out to two and a half meters—on a good day, with focus, hydration, and maybe a little forehead kiss from Vasha beforehand (I'm not saying it helped, but I'm also not saying it didn't). I could slip in and out of a device's history with way more control now, like tapping an old memory on the shoulder instead of getting ambushed by it at full speed. Less "psychic freight train," more "selective archive access."
But the real glow-up wasn't just in the Force stuff. It was in the neurons. The brainmeats. I was finally starting to see how this galaxy's tech worked—not just mimic it or follow schematics like a good little monkey with a multimeter, but understand it. Strip away the hyper-capacitive flux chillers and the quantum spin-field balancers, and it all boiled down to the same principles I knew from back home.
Electrons are electrons, baby.
Sure, their resistors had glowing bits and could probably play music if you stared too hard, but their job in a circuit was the same. Power goes in. Something resists. Something stores. Something channels. It was engineering jazz, and I was finally hearing the melody.
My whole perspective shifted. Alien tech stopped being magic. It became Lego. Complicated, sometimes literally explosive Lego—but Lego all the same. A few parts still operated on "don't-think-too-hard" physics, like whatever black box components made hoverpads hover or sabers saber. But I didn't need to understand kyber resonance harmonics to know which wire made the laser sword go vwoom.
And with my perception sharp and my nerd brain glowing, I knew it was time to face my one remaining shame.
Telekinesis.
The runt of my Force ability litter. The one trick I could never get to sit, roll over, or do literally anything useful.
The good news? I was improving.
The bad news? That improvement was measurable only with archaeological tools.
I sat cross-legged for hours each day, sweat beading on my forehead as I stared at the same river stone like I had beef with it. Which I did. This rock had bested me in mental combat for weeks. Every attempt to lift it felt like trying to move a parked starcruiser with sheer willpower. My brain felt like it was short-circuiting itself just from the strain.
Then, finally, it happened.
A breakthrough.
The stone lifted. A whole millimeter.
It hovered, trembling like it was having second thoughts about existing, for twelve entire seconds. I held it there with every ounce of focus I had, until my nose started bleeding and my soul threatened to crash the OS and reboot.
It was glorious. It was tragic.
It was humiliating.
I'd been training for months. MONTHS. I could read the emotional residue of a dead toaster from twenty feet away, but I couldn't Jedi-slap a coffee cup off a table if my life depended on it. The idea of using this for actual combat? Hilarious. I wouldn't be able to flick a paperclip at a Stormtrooper. Hell, I couldn't even commit Force groping from a distance—not that I was planning to!
...
Okay, I wasn't not planning to.
But let's be honest here: even if I had mastered the art of mid-range squeeze attacks, it wouldn't matter. The Third Sister didn't have boobs. Seventh either. I'd checked. Strictly for research purposes.
God, what was I even doing with my life? The Force didn't want me to be cool. It wanted me to be weird. Spiritually sweaty. Psychically constipated.
Whatever. I'd take my one-millimeter stone lift and call it a W. We all start somewhere.
....
"I thought we were just getting a shop or something? You didn't tell me anything about moving home!?"
The words shot out of me in a sputtering panic, hydrospanner still clutched in my hand like a weapon against the creeping realization that my entire life had been packed into boxes without my knowledge.
Vasha didn't even pause. She just kept loading things like a very attractive, very efficient demolition droid. A stack of my worn flimsiplast manuals tilted in her arms as she glanced over, brows raised in honest confusion. "Oh. Kriff. I didn't?" She blinked, then gestured vaguely at the apartment-turned-storage-disaster. "I swear I told you. I mean—obviously this is a package deal. We can't pay rent for two places on Lothal. We'd be living off nutrient paste and tears."
"Package deal," I repeated, numb.
"Yeah. The new place is a converted cargo-hauler depot. Kaelen—guy who had it before us—was a freelance salvager. Devaronian. Real 'vanishes before rent is due' energy. Took a better gig off-world or got hunted down, either/or. Left the workshop fully wired. Living space in the back's about the same size as here. Maybe a little smaller."
Smaller. Of course. Naturally.
Just this morning, I'd been worried about a busted power converter. Now I was moving into a half-abandoned warehouse with a woman who made major life decisions like she was speedrunning adulthood on nightmare difficulty and thought "communication" was an optional side quest.
It was… honestly, it was very on-brand for her.
The move itself was a fever dream of boxes, duct tape, and muttered swearing. Our personal items fit into one crate—two if you counted my tragic attempt to save my poster collection. Our tech, however, filled an entire rented grav-sled. LQ-73, bless his twitchy little soul, packed it all with the precision of a Tetris god. I suspected he might be emotionally bonded to the toolbox now.
By the time the twin suns dipped below the horizon, casting golden shadows over the dusty city, we were officially standing in our new life.
The workshop was exactly as advertised: big, open, full of potential, and saturated with the glorious scent of machine oil and ozone. A gearhead's temple. The back living space… well. Cozy was the polite word.
Tiny kitchenette. Fresher unit that looked like it had come with the building. And floor space. That was it. A blank slate. No couch. No beds. No corners to hide in. Just floor.
My own bed, whispered a hopeful, innocent voice inside me. A new chapter. An era of self-respect and spinal health. I would wake up refreshed. Alone. Dignified.
That voice would soon know pain.
"Okay, last load's here!" Vasha's voice rang out from the workshop, full of cheer and zero situational awareness. "Need a hand!"
What last load? We'd already brought in the tool chests, parts crates, and personal bags. What was left?
I wandered into the front, half-dreading what she considered "not worth mentioning." The grav-sled idled just inside the roll-up door, and on it sat something big. Lumpy. Covered by a tarp the color of bad decisions.
"What's that?" I asked, pointing like it might explode.
"Kaelen's bed," she said, grinning like a con artist with a coupon. "Apparently his Togruta wife liked to sprawl, and the bed was too big to haul. He said he was gonna scrap it, so I bought it off him for twenty credits. Guy had nearly dumped it the scrapyard when I came to know bout it. Brought it right away after seeing the baby. Barely used. Total score."
I stared at the tarp.
Then at her.
Then at the space where a second bed could have been.
"The bed?" I managed, voice cracking under the weight of crushed dreams.
"The bed," she confirmed, slapping the tarp like it was a starship she was trying to sell. "C'mon, grab a corner. This beast is heavier than your guilt."
We wrestled it through the doorway, nearly flattening LQ-73 in the process. Once inside, we dropped it into the living space—and it devoured the room like a black hole of soft upholstery. It wasn't a bed. It was a continent. A sprawling landmass of plush, slightly-suspicious fabric. It probably had weather patterns.
I stared at it, hollow inside. My dream of personal space died right there on the floor. It didn't even go out with dignity. Just a quiet gasp and the whisper, "I thought we were gonna have bunks…"
Vasha, meanwhile, flopped onto it with a pleased little bounce, arms spread like she'd claimed the final boss arena. "See? Perfect! Plenty of room. And no more worries about you rolling off the couch and breaking something. Like, say, my rarest motivator."
I nodded slowly, because what else could I do? It was over. I wasn't escaping the cuddle zone. I had been upgraded into it. This wasn't just a continuation of the spooning nightmare—I mean dream—it was an escalation.
This bed didn't offer boundaries. It encouraged violation of personal space. It was basically designed for smothering.
So this was my fate. A human-sized plush toy, permanently booked into the galaxy's most aggressively affectionate Twi'lek sleep trap.
I let out a long, resigned sigh. The kind a man makes when he's lost a battle he didn't even know he was fighting.
At least the pillows looked bigger on this one.
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I was thinking, that maybe we are going too happy right? And if you guys saw it or, the book also has a
Someone gave me (Ch 18 Paragraph comment if you guys can sniff it out) an excellent idea.
eheheheheh
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. (We have reached 150 dollars a month, the day we do 200, expect an bonus chapter, both here and on patron. I have a couple of omakes in oven too)
Link: www(dot)patreon(dot)com/Abstracto101