Gray Tale, A Star Wars Rebels Story Micro-Perception II (R18 )

Disclair for readers: It would not be the kind of R18 content you would be expecting.

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I had planned to move on to sothing more complex—a circuit board, maybe, or a chanical part with dozens of moving pieces. But after what just happened, that idea felt… reckless.

That was just a rock.

A boring, homogenous, mineral blob. If I'd gotten stuck in that, what would've happened with sothing truly intricate? I could already imagine it—getting lost inside a tangled ss of silicon pathways and fried copper traces, until my mind fragnted into a committee of arguing microchips.

Nope. Hard pass.

I picked up the stone again. It might be the world's dullest training partner, but at least it wasn't trying to kill .

I adjusted my posture and tried sothing new. This ti, I split my focus. One part of my mind stayed on guard—repeating quietly, I am Alex. I am in a body. I am not a rock. The other part dipped back in.

I don't know how many rounds I went through before it happened again. Seventh? Tenth?

The shift was subtle. One mont I was feeling the grain of the stone's internal structure—the familiar press of interlocked crystal patterns. The next, I wasn't just sensing the stone.

I was rembering it.

Except they weren't my mories.

I was part of a cliff, once—high, sun-baked, tiless. Then ca the grinding push of water. I was cracked, dragged, carried. Broken off not by hand, but by ti. I tumbled through a stream for years or centuries—hard to tell. The river smoothed down, one scrape at a ti, until I was round, small, silent.

Eventually, I ca to rest. Sowhere still. Sowhere warm.

And then—contact. The soft pressure of a hand. A lift. Movent-

The beep-beep-beep of the datapad tir snapped back like a punch to the gut.

I gasped, back in my body, the stone still in my hand. My skin tingled with ghost sensations—cold water rushing over stone, the subtle drag of current, the slow weight of ti.

I stared at the rock.

It didn't look different. Sa dull shape. Sa smooth surface. But now, I couldn't see it without rembering what it felt like to be it.

Not just held—eroded. Tumbled. Forgotten.

Sothing inside shivered.

I set it down gently, like it might crumble if I wasn't careful. My fingers wouldn't stop tingling. My spine buzzed like I'd been plugged into sothing ancient and enormous—too big to understand, too deep to explain.

I sat there, unmoving. Breathing. Not thinking. Just adjusting…

Because how do you co back from that?

How do you go from being ti-worn stone to being skin and breath and bone again? The previous ti it was a bit manageable, but this ti it was not. It was too much…for my pre-pubescent mind.

I wasn't scared, exactly. Not yet. But there was a yawning edge to the sensation—like standing too close to a cliff in the dark. I couldn't tell how far I'd fallen, or if I'd even co back whole.

What if part of was still down there? Drifting in cold riverwater, waiting to wear away?

After a long ti, which I didn't whether was a minute or hour did I recover.

I flexed my fingers slowly. Counted each one.

One-two-three-four-five.

Still .

I hoped.

Now ca the ti for question. What the fuck was that?

mories of a damn stone? Do stones even have mories?

…So then does everything?

The thought crawled into my head and refused to leave. I couldn't stop it. Couldn't un-feel what I'd felt.

If a rock can rember being tumbled through water...Then what else rembers? The floor beneath ? The air in my lungs? The dust in the corners of this room?

Do they hold on to sothing?

A whisper. Or a Scar. Maybe the air rembered being a fart once. Maybe the water rembered being piss once. The realizations were as terrible as they were funny.

I stared at my hand like it might answer . Skin. Flesh. Cells that die and renew and die again.

Where does mory even begin? Only in brains? Or does it go deeper? Do things rember?

Is everything… alive?

No, not alive. Not in the way we define it. But maybe—maybe alive enough to echo.

Then what the hell was it?

That hadn't just been so weird illusion. I hadn't imagined it. My powers had yanked out of my body before—but this was different.

This wasn't out-of-body. This was out-of-mind.

It reminded of a scene from a movie—Constantine, I think. That guy who could touch newspapers and see the mont it described. Like the object rembered what happened to it.

What was that called…?

Psychotry. Yeah.

That was the na.

Suddenly, it didn't feel so absurd.

I an, the Force probably has this kind of thing too, right? There's a power for everything in that universe.

Ghosts of ancient Sith lords lingering on Korriban. Spirits of the Nightsisters. Echoes clinging to lightsabers, temples, bones.

Maybe objects really do hold weight in the Force. Maybe they rember.

Maybe that's what I tapped into—sothing like that.

Not the mind of a stone, but the impression it left in the world. The shape it carved into the fabric of ti by simply existing long enough.

That thought wouldn't let go. It just... hung there in my skull, massive and still, like a planet pretending to be an idea. My fingers were still buzzing—literally buzzing—from the stone. Too much. That thing didn't just have history. It was history. Trying to read it felt like plugging my brain into the tectonic record.

I needed a reset. Sothing lighter. Recent. Not so... prival.

That's when I saw it. The spoon.

Plain. Basic. Utterly forgettable. It sat next to my ration pack like it had nothing better to do, gleaming faintly in the overhead lights.

Spoons don't have mories, I told myself. At worst, maybe soup trauma.

So yeah, I picked it up.

It was cool, smooth. Kinda boring. I liked that. I figured this was just a test run, a control case. A simple, lifeless object. Sothing to calibrate against.

I opened that ntal door again, just a crack. Let my awareness stretch, just a little. No deep dive. Just a toe in the water.

And imdiately—

Wham.

Heat. Pressure. tal slamming into shape. Hydraulic presses. Sparks. Noise.

Okay. So spoons have trauma too.

Then darkness. Silence. Years in so box, probably wrapped in plastic and forgotten on a warehouse shelf. No thoughts. No motion.

Then—

A hand.

Warm. Familiar. Confident grip. I knew that hand.

Vasha.

The connection was instant. Her presence poured in with that first touch. The sll of ozone and grease, the dry wit, the half-smile she never fully gave anyone. It was all there, woven into how she held things.

And then... oh boy.

Her lips.

Her mouth.

I felt it from the spoon's perspective, which sounds ridiculous until you realize how much a spoon goes through. Her lips parted, and I was suddenly inside. The temperature shifted. Everything got wet. Tight. Warm.

And then ca the tongue.

Not a polite tap. Not a flick.

A full-on exploration.

She licked the inside of the bowl like she ant it. Like the spoon had offended her and she was reclaiming it. Her tongue swept across the curve with slow, deliberate pressure. There was no hesitation—just confident, almost lazy dominance, or it just how people used their spoon, but from spoon's persepective or more like my perspective as a spoon, it felt like that.

And I, being unfortunately very aware of what the spoon was feeling, felt all of it.

Every. Single. Motion.

The swirl. The drag. The soft pressure of taste buds skimming steel.

It wasn't like watching sothing sexy. It wasn't visual. It was physical—pure sensation, funneled straight into my nervous system with zero filter.

And holy stars, my body-no, my mind responded.

Fast.

Hard.

And confused.

Because this wasn't . This wasn't even about her, not really. It was a spoon. It was the routine repetition of eating. Just normal, daily stuff.

Except… it wasn't.

She did it a lot. Over and over. That sa sequence—lips, tongue, breath, sound. Again. Again. Again. Like a ritual. It had pattern. Rhythm. Muscle mory. Intimacy.

And that repetition? It didn't dull the effect by even a single degree, infact only amplified it did.

Every lick built on the last. Every breath ward the handle more. Every hum of satisfaction vibrated down the tal and into my skull. It was stupidly sensual. Embarrassingly so. Like, I actually started to anticipate the next move—felt it coming before it happened, because the spoon rembered the choreography.

And my body? Yeah. It kept reacting. Heat in all the wrong places. Muscles tensing. Jaw clenching. I was starting to sweat. My heart was doing this weird fast-slow-fast rhythm like I was running and drowning at the sa ti.

I snapped out of it.

Like jerking a plug from a socket.

Reality slamd back in. I sucked in air like I'd been underwater. The spoon clattered from my hand and bounced on the table with a loud clink, like it was pissed about being dropped.

I just sat there. Breathing like I'd done a workout. Hands shaking. Face burning. And yeah—very aware of how not okay I currently was. I was young enough that I don't think there were any sex hormones in , but this whole feeling was more on the ntal side than the physical. The mind of a 27 year old who had distinct mories of bird and the bees.

I had to remind myself

It was just a spoon.

It was just a spoon.

But I knew everything about it now. I knew what her tongue felt like against its curve. I knew her pace. The pressure. The way her breath fogged the handle. The sounds she made when sothing tasted good. The way she paused between licks, like she was savoring both flavor and texture.

And worse?

My brain—traitorous, curious, too-smart-for-its-own-good brain—was already whispering.

If I could feel the entire, horrifyingly intimate history of a spoon—every lick, every hum, every wet, possessive slide of Vasha's tongue—then what about sothing that had actually been on her? Sothing that had clung to her skin, soaked in her sweat, moved with her body?

Would its "mories" be different? More… personal?

This was a genuinely scientific question. Totally pure. Academic, even.

Bullshit.

My logical mind said: I needed air. Space. A cold shower and possibly a brain reboot.

My monkey mind didn't say anything, it just acted.

I glanced down at the loose tunic I'd been wearing since yesterday. Her tunic. Stolen—borrowed—after my own clothes got wrecked in training. It slled like her. Felt like her. And now, with this stupid psychotry thing, it might as well be a holocron of Vasha's most private monts.

This is just for practice, Ezra. Pure, objective, scientific practice.

Pure research, I told myself, crushing the flicker of guilt under the weight of scientific curiosity. Understanding my new ability was critical for survival. And hey, maybe it'd be funny.

Let's see what this thing rembers.

First ca the imdiate stuff—the weave of the fabric, thick and slightly nubby against… well, against everything around it. The lingering warmth trapped in the fibers, like the ghost of body heat. And the scent—oil, soap, that warm floral note, and sothing deeper, muskier, the sll of hard work.

Okay, baseline established. Now… dig deeper. Older.

I pushed my intent, not just perceiving the now of the fabric, but hunting for the echoes imprinted on it. It was like tuning a comm through static.

Fragnts flickered in and out—a sudden scrape of durasteel against the shoulder, Vasha's frustrated curse. Engine work. A wave of warmth, sunlight baking down, the rough texture of a permacrete bench beneath her. A sigh of contentnt. Sitting outside, maybe on a break. Then a rhythmic thudding against the chest area—her heartbeat, or maybe just her walking fast.

Boring. I an, sure, feeling soone else's heartbeat through fabric was kind of intimate in a weird way, but I wasn't here for the slice-of-life HoloNet special. I wanted the recent stuff. The juicy bits.

I concentrated, trying to will the sensory tiline forward, skipping the filler episodes. The chaotic fragnts blurred, then sharpened into sothing… softer. Warr. More enveloping.

Sensation flooded in.

Overwhelming warmth—not sunlight, but body heat. Deep, pervasive, radiating into the fabric like I was subrged in a warm bath. The scent of her soap blood stronger, cleaner, mixed with that underlying musk. It was… nice. Comforting.

Then ca the real pressure. Not rhythmic, but constant. A broad, yielding, incredibly soft weight pressing firmly against the chest and shoulders of the tunic. It was like being hugged by two warm, pliant pillows. My disembodied perception registered it as pure tactile input—fascinating, alien, and undeniably… squishy.

Whoa. Okay. That's… uh… distinctive.

I lingered for a fraction of a second, the sheer novelty overriding any guilt. It was just data. Anthropological data. About Twi'lek… support structures.

But then, amidst the overwhelming softness, my perception snagged on two subtle, distinct points.

Two points of focused pressure. Nestled in the warm softness, like small, firm pebbles sunk into dough. They pressed against the fabric with a defined, almost insistent presence. Not painful, just… there. Anchors in the yielding warmth.

Huh? What are those? Stitching? Decorations?

I tried to focus on them within the mory-echo. They felt… organic. Not part of the tunic, but part of what the tunic was pressed against. And they were definitely… pointy. Not sharp, but distinctly projecting, creating concentrated little dents in the cloth.

Pointy… amidst the soft… oh. Ohhhhh.

SNAP!

I slamd back into my own body on the bed, gasping, the tunic crumpled in my suddenly sweaty hands. My face burned. I stared at the innocent fabric like it had just bitten .

Okay. Okay. Deep breaths. Twi'leks. Right. Mammalian humanoids. Lactating species, presumably. Biology is biology. Totally natural. Nothing weird about scientifically perceiving secondary sexual characteristics via psychotric resonance on recently worn clothing! Nope!

I let out a nervous, high-pitched giggle that died in my throat. My eyes darted back to the pile of clothes. I scanned it, my mind racing.

Where is it?

Tunics, coveralls, soft pants… all outerwear or sleepwear. Nothing resembling structured undergarnts. Nothing that looked like it would provide the… containnt or support my little Force-voyeurism session had just so vividly illustrated the need for.

Did she just… not wear anything under this? The thought was alarming. The sheer physics of what I'd felt… that kind of softness needed structure! Unless…

Fragnted mories from Ezra's life surfaced—Mira Bridger getting dressed in the morning, folding laundry, working around the comm tower. Tunics. Robes. Simple shifts. Soft undershirts sotis, but…

I rifled through the ntal filing cabinet. Bras. Corsets. Underwires. Sports bras. Bandeaus. None of the visual mories matched. Just… more fabric. Soft, supportive-looking fabric sotis, but fundantally just… cloth.

Then, like a rogue cot smashing into my brain, a long-buried piece of trivia surfaced. From late-night wiki dives in my past life. About Star Wars costuming.

There weren't any bras in Star Wars.

Not as I knew them. No straps under tunics. No molded cups. No clasps. The aesthetic was layered tunics, wraps, bodysuits, or—apparently—just letting biology do its thing with supportive fabrics. The concept, as a distinct undergarnt, seed absent.

Holy. Fucking. Sithspit.

I stared at the tunic in my hands, then at the pile, then down at my own flat chest. A hysterical laugh bubbled up.

I just used the Force to feel up a Twi'lek's tits through ti and space. And she wasn't even wearing a bra! Because they don't fucking EXIST here!

The sheer absurdity, the cosmic violation, the utter weirdness of it all crashed over . I wasn't turned on—I was mortified, scientifically fascinated, and profoundly creeped out… mostly by myself.

Okay. New rule, I thought, throwing the tunic back like it was on fire. Absolutely NO psychotry on recently worn clothing. Especially not Vasha's. ESPECIALLY not the soft, warm ones.

I scrambled off the bed, putting as much distance between myself and the Pile of Psychotric Peril as possible. I needed to bleach my brain. Or maybe just jump out the window.

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