Reincarnated as a Mushroom?-Chapter 69 - 68: Velvet Foresight, Curdled Threats, and Kimchi’s Tender Restraint

Chapter 69: Chapter 68: Velvet Foresight, Curdled Threats, and Kimchi’s Tender Restraint

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 me 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 mercy. "Go on, bud. You’ve earned at least four naps and maybe a mental breakdown."

With a grateful slump, he vanished toward his quarters, leaving me in the cockpit alone.

The viewscreen had already gone dark—standard procedure once FTL hit, converting all external panels into inert brushed metal. 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 something wonderful.

---

Between one breath and the next, a lithe figure manifested herself into my lap with a languid psionic purr. Dark-skinned, emerald-eyed, and wearing nothing but confidence and green light, Onyx curled herself around me like a velvet python.

No words.

Just lips.

She kissed me immediately—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 me, 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 meteor 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 me absolutely terrifying, which means this trip will be delicious."

She gave me 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 me or kill me.

"Wait. If you didn’t see who picked us up—what the hell have you been doing?" I asked.

Onyx’s pout deepened into something 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-fragment—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. Me," 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 me like she was afraid of how much she adored me.

Then she kissed me so hard I forgot my name.

And vanished.

---

I blinked.

Looked down.

My sleek black voidsuit had a wet sheen across the crotch, like someone 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 me, 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 claimed 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 me. Her legs tightened. Her grip could snap femurs—but to me, it was comfort. It was security. It was love in the shape of constriction.

I let the pressure lull me.

And drifted into sleep.

---

Kimchi woke before me.

As always.

The moment her eyes opened and she saw my sleeping face beneath her, something in her heart softened. It happened every time. Like gravity rediscovering mass.

She didn’t want to get up.

But duty was duty.

She gently laid the blanket back over me (the blanket was her tail, by the way), and made her way to the door. The ship responded to her movement, metal 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—something self-composed and off-key—when a voice slithered directly behind his neck.

"Prey cultling. Where is the food?" freёweɓnovel_com

"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 something twice, the third time involved screaming. And blood.

"R-right this way, Mistress," he stammered, 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 moment 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 meat. 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 meat? No. Smells like pig. Prey is stupid."

She claimed a steak.

Real bovine. A slab of Earth-animal muscle meant 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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