SW Gray Tales 24: I was murdered...by a Twerking Twi'lek (R18+ Official) - Meme Version

A/N: If you find at any point during reading this that this isn't fun, you can always jump wagon to the sensual version. Those who do like it or beared with it, do tell me your thoughts
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[Ezra's POV]

The bed was a lie. A luxurious lie. Like being hugged by a cloud that secretly wanted me dead.

Being the little spoon to Vasha was normal. But tonight? After that shower? My brain had upgraded from "awkward" to "full-system meltdown." Every shift of her body, every sigh against my neck, every time her very distracting assets pressed against my back—it was like my hands had developed memory. Tactile memory. Traitorous memory.

Sleep? Ha. My body had other plans. Specifically, the lower command center was staging a mutiny. I’d been lying there, stiff as a board, trying to convince myself that counting blurrg was relaxing. (Spoiler: It wasn’t.)

Then—movement. Not the usual sleepy shuffle. No, this was a full tactical retreat. The warmth at my back vanished, replaced by the cold void of abandonment. I stayed frozen, playing the most convincing "asleep" performance this side of Coruscant. She’s just getting water, I told myself. Or murdering a spider. Or—

Footsteps returned. Stopped. The mattress dipped.

Vasha (whispering): "Ezra?"

Nope. Not home. Ezra is currently offline. Please leave a message after the—

Vasha (poking me): "Kid? You awake?"

I doubled down on my Oscar-worthy coma impression. Head lolled. Mouth slightly open. Maybe even a tiny drool trail for authenticity. Be the rock. Be the log. Be the guy who definitely didn’t just hear that.

A pause. Then—

Vasha (relieved): "Stars, you sleep like a corpse. Good."

Wait. "Good"? Why is that GOOD?

A rustle. A click. The snick of a locker opening. My mental alarm bells went from "mild concern" to "RED ALERT." Through my very discreet eyelid crack, I saw her pull out… something. Something small. Something mysterious.

Then—oh.

Oh no.

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

My Brain: CLOSE YOUR EYES.

Me: I AM. (I’m not.)

Her hand slid south.

Me (internally): ABORT. ABORT. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.

But my eyelids? Betrayers. They stayed at strategic slit-level. Just enough to witness the horror—the beautiful, terrible horror—of Vasha getting creative while thinking I was in a coma.

Vasha (softly): "Mmm…"

Me: SWEET MOTHER OF—

I snapped my eyes shut. Too late. The damage was done. My brain had already saved the footage in 4K Dolby Surround Sound.

A gasp. A shudder. The mattress did a little happy bounce.

Me (dying inside): COOL. COOL COOL COOL. JUST GONNA LIE HERE AND RECONSIDER ALL MY LIFE CHOICES.

Silence. Then—rustling.

Me (hopeful): Okay. She’s done. Crisis averted. We can all pretend this never—

Nope. She was going back to the locker.

Me (internal screaming): WHAT ELSE COULD SHE POSSIBLY NEED?! A SNACK?! A BLINDFOLD?! A—

The mattress dipped again.

Me (resigned): …I’m gonna need therapy.

The click echoed in my skull like a thermal detonator counting down. T-minus ten seconds until my sanity evaporates.

Vasha had gone back to the locker – the source of all my newfound trauma. And now, cradled in her hand like she’d just won the podrace lottery, was… an egg. Not the breakfast kind. A smooth, pale blue, plastoid buzzing egg. About the size of a large thumb. Oh. Oh no. That wasn't a kitchen appliance, a spare droid part, or even a really optimistic paperweight.

Me (internally): Universal constants confirmed: 1. Gravity. 2. Lightspeed. 3. Sex toys. WHY, GALAXY, WHY?!

Even surrounded by laser swords and planet killers, some things remained stubbornly, embarrassingly familiar. This was the deluxe model. The Cadillac of personal massagers. Sleek. Menacing. Humming with the low, persistent drone of a sleepy astromech who really didn't want to be awake.

She flopped back onto the bed like she owned the place (which, technically…). Zero modesty. Top still hoisted like a victory flag. Shorts still pooled around her knees like discarded packing material. Knees bent, feet planted firmly on the mattress. She looked… focused. Determined. Like she was about to deliver a TED Talk on Advanced Solo Techniques: Volume II – Electric Boogaloo.

Then—CLICK.

The Egg: BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. (Louder now. More… insistent.)

Me: SWEET JABBA’S PAJAMAS, SHE ACTIVATED IT! ABORT MISSION! ABORT—

Vasha’s breath hitched like a speeder hitting a pothole. She guided the Egg of Perpetual Torment southward with the precision of a surgeon defusing a bomb. Her free hand? Already engaged. Busy kneading, pinching, rolling the nipple like she was trying to get a stubborn comm signal.

Vasha (muttering, voice thick): "Kriff…" [Adjusts the Egg, pressing harder] "Stars… Ezra…"

Me (internally, brain bluescreening): WHY AM I IN THIS SENTENCE?! DID SHE JUST DROP MY NAME?! IS THIS A REVIEW?! "Ezra, 3/10, terrible audience, didn't even applaud"?!

She apologized. To my "sleeping" corpse form. Like, "Sorry, kid, just gonna perform open-heart surgery on my libido right beside you. Don't mind the high-decibel buzzing or the imminent structural failure of the bed frame…"

Vasha: "Mmmph!—shouldn’t… shouldn’t be doing this… right beside you…" [Another gasp, sharper this time] "But you… you sleep like a corpse… Force…!"

Me: CORRECT. YOU SHOULDN’T. AND YET, THE BUZZING INTENSIFIES! IS THAT A CREAK? IS THE BED FRAME PROTESTING?!

The buzzing climbed to a fever pitch, syncing perfectly with the jackhammer currently impersonating my heartbeat. The sounds escalated. Moans deepened into guttural groans. Gasps became ragged pulls for air. The mattress developed a worrying tremor. It was like being front row at the worst (best?) holodrama ever filmed, with surround sound cranked to "Deafening" and zero plot coherence.

Then—FLIP.

Zero warning. One second she’s starfished, the next she’s… launched. Onto all fours. Face buried into a pillow she’d dragged over like it owed her credits. Magnificent blue ass raised like a defiant flagpole towards the far wall, shorts still tangled around her knees like the galaxy’s most confusing belt. It was a pose radiating pure, unadulterated "business time," and business was booming.

Me (internally, soul leaving body): …WHAT FRESH HELL IS THIS?! DID SHE JUST GO DOGGY STYLE… ON HERSELF?! IS THAT EVEN ALLOWED?!

The soundtrack shifted. Gone was the steady buzz (mostly). Now it was the sharp, wet schlick-schlick-SCHLICK of fingers working fast and deep, layered over the reactivated, higher-pitched BZZZZZZZZZZZ of the Egg, presumably pressed somewhere… strategic. The pillow tried valiantly to muffle her cries. It failed. Miserably.

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

Me (internally, rocking in a fetal position): I AM A STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND, AND THIS LAND IS LOUD AND WET AND HAS A VERY ACTIVE GEOLOGY! IS THE WALL CRACKING?!

The bed wasn't just creaking; it was developing a rhythmic thump against the wall. Her hips pistoned back against her own hand with the force of a turbo-laser blast. It was raw. Primal. Like watching a Wookiee win an arm-wrestling match against itself. The sheer, desperate force of it was terrifying. How much backlog was she working through?! A decade? A century?!

The crescendo hit like a freighter crashing through the roof. A high-pitched, keening wail tore through the pillow’s valiant defense. Her body locked up rigid, trembling violently like a droid hit by an ion blast. Held. Held. Then collapsed forward onto the mattress with a gasping sob that sounded suspiciously like relief mixed with exhaustion. The frantic schlicking and the angry bzzzzzz cut off abruptly. Silence. Blessed, heavy, panting silence.

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

Nope.

Vasha lay face-down for a minute, breathing like she’d just sprinted across Tatooine. Then, slowly, with visible effort, she pushed herself up on shaky arms. Sweat glistened on her skin. Her lekku were plastered to her face like wet ropes. She wiped a forearm across her brow, pushing the damp tendrils back. She looked utterly wrecked. Flushed. Breathing hard. Like she’d gone ten rounds with a rancor.

But her eyes…

Her eyes scanned the room, landing briefly on my "sleeping" form, then drifting with a terrifying, glazed determination. They held 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… maybe four… seconds."

Me (internally, weeping digital tears): I’m never sleeping again. I’m going to live on caf and existential dread. Also, I think my spine has fused into a single, terrified plank. Send help. Or a memory wipe.

The silence after Round Three was the kind of heavy that could suffocate a Hutt. Just Vasha’s wrecked, wheezing breaths and the thump-thump-THUMP of my heart doing its best impression of a hyperdrive failure. Okay. Surely. SURELY that’s it. The human body has limits. Even Twi’leks must tap out eventually.

The Universe: LOL. LMAO, EVEN.

Vasha lay there, gasping like a landed fish, for approximately thirty seconds—just long enough for me to start hoping. Then, with a groan that sounded like a dying womp rat mixed with unfinished business, she moved again.

This time? Side Mission Activated.

She rolled onto her side, facing away, knees drawn up like she was trying to fold herself into a suitcase. The wet schlick-schlick resumed, quieter but no less determined, layered with the Egg’s buzzing, now set to "vengeance" mode. Muffled whimpers. Choked gasps. Her whole body curled inward like a dying star, trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. Then—

Vasha (strangled): "F-FUCK—!"

A full-body seizure of pleasure. Limbs locking. Toes curling hard enough to rip the sheets. A sound escaped her—something between a sob and a 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—movement.

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—oh no—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 dark blue curls below. (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, oh no—but directly toward me. Naked. Glistening. Smelling like a very active nightclub.

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): Ohhhh no. No no no. You don’t get to do that and then snuggle like a tooka. This is war**.

Time for Operation: Sleepy Revenge.

[Vasha’s POV]

Ezra shifted in my arms with a sleepy grumble.

Me (instantly tense): Kriff. Did I wake him?

Then—

Ezra (mumbling, voice thick): “…Mom?”

Me (relieved): Oh thank the stars, he’s still asleep. Just dreaming.

Then his tiny, devious hands pawed at my chest.

Me (internally): …Uh.

Ezra (dreamy): “Mmm… milk…”

Me (brain short-circuiting): MILK?! KID, I DON’T HAVE—

LATCH.

Me (physical recoil): HOLY—

A jolt of pleasure shot straight to my spine. My back arched. My thighs clenched.

Me (panicked): THIS ISN’T SUPPOSED TO FEEL GOOD. THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE WEIRD. WHY DOES IT FEEL GOOD?!

But Ezra? Ezra was a natural.

His lips sealed. His tongue flicked. His free hand cupped my other breast, thumb rolling over the peak like he’d been trained for this.

Me (internally screaming): WHO TAUGHT HIM THIS?! WAS IT THE FORCE?! WAS IT A HOLONET TUTORIAL?!

I bit my knuckle to stifle a moan. My hips shifted restlessly.

Me (weakly): …Okay. Maybe just… a little longer.

Then—TEETH.

A light graze. Barely there.

Me (full-body shudder): OH STARS NO—

Too late. Another wave crashed over me, whiting out my vision. My legs shook. My fingers tangled in his hair—not pulling him away, just holding on for dear life.

Finally, finally, he slowed, popping off with a sleepy sigh.

Ezra (murmuring): “…’s good…”

Then he nuzzled into my chest like a satisfied tooka.

Me (staring at the ceiling, shattered): …What just happened.

Ezra? Out cold.

Me? A trembling, overstimulated wreck.

Me (weakly pulling him closer): …Just in case he gets hungry again.