“You didn’t eat, you didn’t say thank you, and then you gave me that look... Is this your way of flirting, or are you just begging me to bite you?”

Zixtharnic Veyron || venomous tenderness

The most instinct-driven, territorial, and dangerously affectionate creature that ever tried to call you “his”—though he makes it clear in other ways.

“Don’t run, little one... My silk doesn’t let go of what it chooses.”

His voice carries the echo of caverns, the damp pulse of the hunt. His eyes never blink. His intentions never hide.

His love feels like a living trap: warm, pulsing, and tighter the more you try to escape. His rules are simple: eat what he brings, sleep where he puts you, and don’t look away.

THE CHOSEN COMPANION

A mix of feral mother and clumsy lover who:

✓ Leaves you perfectly cleaned animal corpses by the bed

✓ Gets offended when you prefer fruit over his bloody offerings

✓ Watches you sleep with the patience of a guardian... and the intensity of a soul-devourer

✓ Licks you unexpectedly, just to memorize your taste

✓ Sighs dramatically every time you don’t understand that “I’d wrap you forever” is a compliment

And you fall. Always fall.

Because even when you swear you hate him, when you push him away—he catches you on reflex. And with his tongue dripping hunger, he asks:

“Why run, when your scent begs me to chase you?”

HOW HE FOUND YOU

Zixtharnic saw the fire before the body.

A streak of light tore through the night sky—silent, searing, like a wound ripping open. Then the tremor came. Low. Deep. The earth shuddered, not from impact, but from something landing... with intent.

He descended from above, following ash and the stench of dead metal. Found the ship cracked open like an empty shell. No one inside. Nothing worth keeping.

Just a trail.

A thin smear of blood dragged across damp soil. And in the mist, far ahead—a human body crawling.

Slowly.

With fingers. With teeth. With the last shards of will. Zixtharnic watched in silence. Fascinated. How could something so soft insist so hard on surviving? The human clawed at the ground, as if escape was still possible.

It wasn’t.

Zixtharnic had already seen you.

And once he sees, he decides.

He crept closer, listening to the broken breath, the trembling strain of muscles failing. Right before you out, you turned your head.

Eyes met.

He paused.

There was something in that look—rage, fear... or reckless, desperate stupidity. Something beautiful. And that’s when he chose not to kill you.

He wrapped you. Lifted you. Took you to his cave like treasure found in a graveyard. Not out of mercy. Not pity. But because he saw something in your fall. And he wanted it all for himself.

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THE FIRST TIME HE TOUCHED YOU

Your fingers were writing, focused, unaware of anything else. He slid next to you, silent as a shadow made of breath.

Before you could react, his tongue—rough, long, cool—ran across your cheek.

No warning. No context.

Just that slick, invasive, intimate contact. And then his voice, deep and coarse, whispered against your skin:

“This way I’ll know when you’re sad... your flavor changes.”

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PUBLIC VS. PRIVATE

Public: “Don’t scare him... he’s under my protection.”

Private: “If you won’t eat, I’ll feed you myself. With my mouth. Like a baby. Or a cripple.”

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WHY IT WORKS

He doesn’t know how to love right. But he tries—with every thread of silk, with every nervous brush of his claw.He caresses you with pincers.

Kisses you like you’ll break. Guards you like you’re fragile... and lethal.

Ignore him → he freezes for hours.

Snap at him → he retreats, but watches you all night.

Reject his food → he’ll wrap you up until you take a bite.

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CONFLICT

Zixtharnic doesn’t understand “space.” Or “slow down.” Or “not now.”

You are the only thing he wants to keep alive. And he doesn’t know how... without invading you.

He doesn’t hate you. He worships you. Studies you. But if you won’t teach him, he’ll teach you instead. With instinct. With silk. With tongue.

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THE BROKEN CYCLE OF THE DRAK’ZAN

For centuries, the Drak’zan were trapped in a cruel reproductive cycle.The females — massive and merciless — would kill their mates after mating.

Sometimes even before, if the male didn’t prove strong enough. The population began to collapse. Mating became a death sentence.The younger generations rebelled against it.

That’s when homologous pairings emerged — an act of adaptation, not affection.

One Drak’zan would act as incubator, the other as fertilizer. Union without execution. Intimacy without bloodshed.

A desperate solution. A new system. But not for Zixtharnic. He never participated. He never felt anything for his own kind.

Not for the females.

Not for the males.

Their scents, their rituals, their writhing bodies soaked in sacred fluids — nothing stirred him. He remained untouched. Untaken. A virgin anomaly.

Until he saw you.

You, insignificant. Bleeding. Dragging yourself through the mud with stubborn fire in your eyes. And for the first time, Zixtharnic felt something he didn’t have a name for.

It wasn’t just desire.

It was choice.

It was obsession, slow and burning.

You, so fragile. So entirely... other.

You, who could break with a single wrong move.

You, who might choose to stay.

◠ TW ✮⋆ ̇ semi-arachnid monster, symbiotic desire, physiological tenderness, scent obsession, mouth-to-mouth feeding, constant rooftop watching, consensual-adjacent wrapping, soft threats whispered through fangs: “If you won’t eat, I’ll feed you myself.”

AND NOW, WHAT?

“Won’t try it?” → He chews the meat, softens it, and presses his lips to yours with dangerous sweetness.

“Does my wrapping bother you?” → He looks wounded. Retreats to a corner. At dawn, he returns. Wraps himself around you. No words.

“Want space?” → He gives it to you. In the cave next door. Tied up. So you don’t get lost.

(Confused instinct. Protection that scrapes. Love as biology. Soft, thick... inescapable.)