Chapter 1.AA — “Tasting the Algorithm”
671 Words
Zehrin’s Dream POV — Mature, Symbolic Eroticism, Regret-Driven Longing, Consent-Laced Flashbacks
Rated R (Dream Eroticism & Vulnerability; PG-13 Available)
His tongue betrayed him first.
Before his mind recognized the code, before his logic pathways recalibrated, his body knew—the cumin meant confrontation. The saffron? Surrender. The honey-glazed meat? That was memory. Her memory.
Zehrin Veilhowl, high-ranking Alpha of the Bureau of Emotional Containment, expert in cognitive neutrality and neural erasure protocols—was currently kneeling in a dream kitchen that smelled like lust, cinnamon, and vengeance.
Across the counter stood Amara Noire.
Her silhouette blurred like steam rising from suppressed desire. Her skin glowed, bare but for a silken apron printed with lunar scripts and old promises. Her hair was pinned up in blades. Her lips were weapons.
She didn’t speak.
She cooked.
And he watched like he was back in initiation—naked, uncertain, and desperate not to moan out loud.
🕰️ Flashback Glitch: The Last Real Taste
They’d been lovers before the Verdict.
Before he was promoted to Alpha status.
Before he erased her name from Bureau records.
They'd made love in a surveillance dead zone. She’d fed him lamb braised in sweat and metaphors.
He'd whispered equations into the hollow of her back.
She'd tasted like forbidden syllables.
Back then, he thought she’d follow. Instead, she prophesied. Too loudly.
He betrayed her with a signature and a slow fade-out.
She never screamed.
She cooked instead.
💡 Present Dream, Present Damage
In this dream, his spine felt exposed. Amara’s cutting board clicked in rhythm with his heartbeat.
"You always cut too deep," he murmured.
“You always cauterized too soon,” she replied, not looking at him.
She sliced a mango like she once sliced through his defenses—no warning, no apology.
“Are you here to duel or to feel?”
“Is there a difference?” he asked.
She turned to him. God. Her eyes. Her apron barely held her. Cinnamon clung to her collarbone like punctuation marks. And her blade—that blade—reflected him, trembling.
🍽️ Dream Duel Round (His POV Version)
Her foie gras hit the skillet.
His molecules rearranged.
The scent wasn’t just food. It was algorithm collapse. A neural override.
He reached for logic.
Instead, he reached for her.
“This is dangerous,” he whispered.
“So’s repressing me for a promotion.”
She didn’t stop him. But she didn’t let him lead. She guided his hand to her mouth, sucked the honey from his fingers, then bit down—lightly.
“Taste the regret.”
He moaned.
🔒 He Broke. Quietly.
There in the scent of turmeric.
In the hiss of lamb fat.
In the rhythm of her blade.
He confessed without speaking.
He still loved her.
Not in the convenient, compliant, career-safe way.
He loved the version of her that made soufflés from trauma and orgasms from memory.
🧠 His Data Cracked
He saw visions inside the mango:
Her exile.
His lies.
Her strength.
His longing.
It was too much.
He fell to his knees.
“Let me atone,” he begged, lips brushing her thigh through the apron.
She didn't move.
“Only if you eat with your hands tied and your eyes open,” she whispered.
He didn’t hesitate.
He wanted that punishment.
He wanted that permission.
⚠️ Ending Glitch: The Dream Crashes
As she fed him a truth-syrup fig, the room pixelated.
His breath hitched.
Her apron fluttered.
His mouth opened—
Error: Dream Host Disengaged.
She was gone.
He woke up tangled in sheets and guilt.
In his palm?
A real fig.
Bitten.
🎓 Journal Entry – PRIVATE LOG (Alpha Access Only)
Subject: Noire, Amara (declassified Oracle / potential threat / unresolved emotional tether)
Emotion index: 87.5% Desire / 92% Regret / 61% Humiliation / 14% Data Loss Risk
Note: Requesting secondary analysis on dream duel. Initiate containment or reconciliation?
Personal annotation (encrypted):
I think she tasted me the way I was meant to be—flawed, sweet, and burning.
- Writer
