Chapter 68: Velvet Foresight, Curdled Threats, and Kimchi’s Tender Restraint
Not long after we breached the silence of faster-than-light travel, Ronnie—heroic, exhausted, deeply underpaid Ronnie—approached with all the sag of a man who’d been dodging Hive authority, atmospheric turbulence, and his own anxiety for almost two full days.
"Permission to rest, Fa—Irvine?" he asked, already swaying.
I gave a slight nod, the gesture of a generous emperor granting rcy. "Go on, bud. You’ve earned at least four naps and maybe a ntal breakdown."
With a grateful slump, he vanished toward his quarters, leaving in the cockpit alone.
The viewscreen had already gone dark—standard procedure once FTL hit, converting all external panels into inert brushed tal. No stars, no swirling void, no dreamlike streaks of hyperspace. Just silence.
Nothing to see.
Nothing to do.
So naturally, I did what any lonely soul in a sealed vacuum chamber does: I spread my legs and summoned sothing wonderful.
---
Between one breath and the next, a lithe figure manifested herself into my lap with a languid psionic purr. Dark-skinned, erald-eyed, and wearing nothing but confidence and green light, Onyx curled herself around like a velvet python.
No words.
Just lips.
She kissed imdiately—slow and heavy, like she was trying to seduce the air from my lungs. Her teeth grazed my lower lip in a playful bite that may or may not have drawn blood depending on her mood.
Only after pulling back did she survey her surroundings.
"Oh, good," she said with a pleased hum. "We’re inside the stealth ship. That’s ideal. Now, tell , my love—did Sophia send Ronnie or Samantha?"
Her foresight never showed certainty, only likelihood. In her vision-locked mind, a coin toss between two cultlings could branch a thousand futures.
I rolled my eyes and channeled a bit of motherly scolding.
"Sweetheart. You’re not supposed to be using your foresight for trivial drama. You know what Crystal said about backlash."
Her smile didn’t move, but her thoughts did—specifically away from anything Crystal-related.
"Fine, fine. I’ll behave," she said, pouting theatrically. "But only for you, my perfectly sculpted teor of malehood. Now... was it Ronnie or Samantha?"
I blinked. "Ronnie. Who the fuck is Samantha?"
Onyx clapped like a child on birthday cake. "Yay, Ronnie! That poor cultling finds absolutely terrifying, which ans this trip will be delicious."
She gave a wink charged with chaos and leaned in again before pausing, the next words honey-dipped with restrained malice.
"Samantha was our second option. Out of the entire infiltrator cult, she’s the closest to becoming a full convert. Thinks I’m a god. Worships my precognition. It’s exhausting. Even I have limits."
I didn’t hear the last part.
Because my brain was stuck on: Wait, a full convert already? The infiltrator cult hadn’t even existed thirty years ago. That kind of compatibility was alarming. Or impressive. Or both. Depending on whether she wanted to fuck or kill .
"Wait. If you didn’t see who picked us up—what the hell have you been doing?" I asked.
Onyx’s pout deepened into sothing more annoyed. But she answered.
"Well, darling," she cooed. "While you were out here playing space diplomat, your psionic origin—that screaming baby of a soul-fragnt—started throwing a tantrum. It wanted to surge your power early. Because it misses Crystal. So I had to suppress it."
I blinked. "Suppress my origin? You?"
"Yes. ," she said, flipping her hair. "While your big blue feline—Kiya, right?—just sat there watching like it was a telenovela."
I blinked again. "If you hadn’t been there, my nervous system would’ve liquified. I’d be drooling in a coma right now."
"Correct," she purred, leaning into my touch as I ran fingers through her hair.
She was warm. Not temperature warm—emotional warm. And she responded to affection the way an overclocked AI might respond to a hardware upgrade: instantly, and with dangerous levels of enthusiasm.
Her eyes flickered green.
But she didn’t spiral. Not yet.
She caught herself.
She wanted a reward.
---
Later, as her limbs coiled around mine and the soft hum of ship systems filled the silence, we let passion blur into ritual. I can’t describe everything we did together—there are guidelines, and we walk the tightrope. But what I can say is this:
Onyx left traces.
Physical. Emotional. Viscous.
She moaned into my palm as I held her tight, her body curling tighter with every rhythm I fed her. There were fingers. There was pressure. There was chemistry written into the fabric of entropy.
And when she reached her peak—her climax drowned in stifled screams and spasming limbs—she looked at like she was afraid of how much she adored .
Then she kissed so hard I forgot my na.
And vanished.
---
I blinked.
Looked down.
My sleek black voidsuit had a wet sheen across the crotch, like soone spilled wine made of hormones.
"Well," I muttered. "Guess I should’ve asked Ronnie about spare clothes."
With a sigh and a grin, I licked my hand clean—don’t judge , she tastes like starlight and sin—and made my way toward the sleeping quarters.
Inside, I found Kimchi.
Sleeping like a razorblade in silk.
She’d claid the ship’s single bed, her limbs sprawled out in a display of relaxed dominion. There was no room left. So I did what any space-harem protagonist would do:
I stripped.
And climbed under her like she was a weighted blanket with murder issues.
Even in her sleep, she reacted.
Her arms curled around . Her legs tightened. Her grip could snap femurs—but to , it was comfort. It was security. It was love in the shape of constriction.
I let the pressure lull .
And drifted into sleep.
---
Kimchi woke before .
As always.
The mont her eyes opened and she saw my sleeping face beneath her, sothing in her heart softened. It happened every ti. Like gravity rediscovering mass.
She didn’t want to get up.
But duty was duty.
She gently laid the blanket back over (the blanket was her tail, by the way), and made her way to the door. The ship responded to her movent, tal folding away into itself to let her pass.
She’d seen doors before. Kicked through many. Most prey thought they were safe behind locked doors.
They weren’t.
Now she just had to find the food.
---
Ronnie was in the cockpit. Alone. Mopping.
He was humming a little tune—sothing self-composed and off-key—when a voice slithered directly behind his neck.
"Prey cultling. Where is the food?"
"AAAAH!"
He spun, mop raised like a ritual staff—ready to throw hands, soap, or both—until he saw who it was.
Kimchi.
The Mistress.
He dropped the mop like it burned him.
"M-Mistress Kimchi! I—apologies! I didn’t realize—!"
She didn’t care.
She repeated her question, with slightly more malice and slightly less patience.
"Where is the food."
Ronnie swallowed. His mother had a voice like that. When she said sothing twice, the third ti involved screaming. And blood.
"R-right this way, Mistress," he stamred, abandoning his cleaning.
Kimchi followed.
She studied him as he walked. Watched the back of his head. Observed his posture. Catalogued his flaws.
He wasn’t ugly. He wasn’t attractive.
He was simply... prey.
Blond hair. Blue eyes. Average height. Middling strength. Slight unibrow. Lips that barely existed. Eyes like a rabbit’s final mont before the hawk swooped down.
She followed him anyway.
Because Irvine liked him.
So she would be nice.
---
They arrived at the food storage hatch.
Ronnie opened it.
A breath of cold air swept out.
"Mother Sophia stocked this ship with more than processed paste," he explained while keeping his gaze locked firmly on the floor. "There’s at. Greens. In case you—or rather, Irvine—has particular cravings."
Kimchi ignored him.
She stepped inside, her eyes glinting. She could read human script now—thank you, devoured linguists—so she perused the labels with lazy interest.
"Hotdogs," she muttered. "Dog at? No. Slls like pig. Prey is stupid."
She claid a steak.
Real bovine. A slab of Earth-animal muscle ant to be devoured with teeth and reverence.
Ronnie stayed outside the room.
Head bowed.
She never acknowledged him again.
Not as she left.
Not as she returned to the quarters.
She had her prize.
And she had her mate to feed.
---
To Be Continued
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