me 16 at the time and him also 16 at the time, were in a 2 year relationship when suddenly it ended because he had been cheating on me multiple times over the space of 2 years. Once i ended the relationship he decided he didnt want it to end, i went out with some of my friends he would turn up, i would go to the shop, he was there, i suddenly got a job at a shop not too far from where i live and every time i was on a shift he would come it, it was only a small shop so not many places i could run off to without him seeing me. One day i was home alone for the weekend and i just ordered a dominos pizza and was waiting till i heard a massive bang coming from my back garden, i made sure my doors were locked because obviously i was scared, he smashed threw the window and came into the house threatening me and making me feel small in my own home, my neighbours
heard what was going on and called the police, the police came and he was taken away and i was left with afew bruises and had to take a statement, no 2 years later he is not able to come near me again thankfully.
So too my ex may we never meet again.

A man is caught testing the reflexes of a young kid, he is surprisingly good. This started out of nowhere at a park. Then another joins who seems to be a partner to the man. He says you a hero a boy of destiny you are powerful come BACK with us. His partner gets in the way. You mustn't disrupt the balance. He is a hero in his dream world. In here his is but a boy. It is important to experience these in difference. If you force this upon him you will break his mind. It will cause a fracture in ours and his. You'll simply break him. Our worlds exist separately yet together for a reason, brother.

The gentle cascade of snow falls against my face as I lie on a soft blanket of white, slowly staining it red. A shot tore through my stomach and pushed me into the ground. I must have blacked out after the impact since the gunshots and yelling have dissipated into the winter air. I can’t get up, I can’t move, I can’t even speak. The wound burns with a dull flame, spreading into my chest and legs. Why couldn’t I have died in my unconscious state?

I was a good soldier. I followed orders, I shot the enemy; I’ve given my youth to a country I called home to protect it and those I love. I never faltered, never wavered. I didn’t hesitate to obey my officers into certain death. Maybe I should have. Then I might be alive, at home, with my mother and father. I hope they’re safe. I miss them terribly, I have for the past few years. How my mother will cry after hearing her boy had been killed in battle. Her echoing wails through the empty halls of her home as my father consoles her. I bet we’ll quietly weep as well. They love me dearly. I love them too. I can feel a tear rolling down my cheek.

Crunch… crunch… crunch… crunch…

Boots wading into the snow, an unmistakable sound. No idea if it’s friend or foe, I don’t care. I want to call out, shout that I’m here and need help. But nothing comes out, not even air. I can’t move to make myself more noticeable. I’m stuck, forced to endure a hope that they’ll notice I’m not dead. Please notice me. Please see me, see that I’m not dead.

The crunching is getting louder. No, it’s getting closer. With each step closer, my heart beats faster. A small glimmer of hope is keeping me alive. See me. See me! Help me! Oh god, please let them see me!

The crunches have stopped, just before my head. Towering over me is a figure, wearing a uniform, bundled up with extra cloth. Their front is in shadow as they lean over me, further obscuring their features. They must be staring at me, into my eyes. I blink at them, assuring that I’m still alive. They stand there, unmoving. Why? What are you doing? Do something! Help me! This uncomfortable stand-off is filling me with dread. Please! Something!

“Quite a predicament, Mr. Hardy.” A voice like gravel, yet a soothing baritone. He knows my name, but I don’t recognize the uniform as ours. Or the enemy’s. My vision is blurring, so perhaps I’m just not seeing it clearly.

They sit down beside me, still within my sight as they look over my still form. The head turns from my head to my feet, scanning over me. Why are they alone? I don’t see a stretcher, or anything resembling a weapon now that I think of it. Just who is this?

“I’ll be brief. You’re dying, lad. You already know that, but even if you were picked up you wouldn’t make it to a hospital.”

This is it, then. Everything in my life culminated to this. Dead in a field a couple hundred kilometers away from home. A life lived in vain. No legacy outside of another number in a casualty report.

“You might just be one of many casualties, Mr. Hardy, but I offer you a choice.”

Wait, how did they know I was thinking that?

“I know because I have been where you are before. I’ve felt that pain. Losing who you are.” A gentle hand rests on my thigh. From there a wave of warmth radiates out to my knee and hip. Small comfort from the bitter cold. As the hand gently conforms to shape of my leg, I feel the stranger for who they are. There’s a familiarity in them, a knowing. There was no lie, they have been where I am now. On the ground, dying alone in a battle that ultimately meant nothing. It was long ago, from a war time forgot. Similar thoughts they had to mine now. Except they died alone that day, with no one to help them.

“I can’t stave off death, that’s just not my place. The choice I offer ends in your death either way. The first is to reject me. You will die and be no more. I’ll take your soul to the next place, and that will be that.” They fish for something in his coat pocket and pull out a small lantern. Doesn’t look like it would light much, but I think it was never meant to.

“The second option is joining me. To the world, you’ll be dead. Family and friends will mourn your loss, and they’ll never see you again. You will accompany me; battlefield after battlefield, skirmish after war after destruction. Ferrying along the remnants of life to a better place.”

Their tone trails off after that. A silence lingers over the snow around us. Stillness, quiet. This little patch of the world frozen in time. The words spoken mulling in my addled mind. To die, or to be a ferryman of the dead. I’m trying to work out why I am given this opportunity. I was a good solder, but I wasn’t exceptional. I wouldn’t even call myself a good person anymore. Good people don’t kill in wars, they’re back home tending to their loved ones and keeping a land worth dying for. No, they make a land worth living for. So what makes me worth a choice like this?

“I’ll leave you to think it over while I tend to those around us.” Pulling themself up without so much as a creaking joint or grunt, the figure leaves with a trail of crunches behind them, interrupted by intermediate pauses and more crunching.

The offer on the table stumps me. I’m dead either way. I fear death, but could I exist without the people who make it worthwhile? Could I roam a world without my family, my dear mother and father, and knowing they think me dead? Would being dead make stomaching that thought easier? Up until the stranger arrived, I believed I was going to die alone in the snow. I wasn’t resigned to the idea, but I expected it. I expected to be dead and alone, mourning my parents as they would mourn me. What good is a dead man to other dying men? What could I ever offer-

…oh.

Minutes pass by, one after another, my mind perceiving it like a dream. I couldn’t think after the revelation, not until the figure approached again. I didn’t even hear them, they just appeared suddenly in my periphery.

“Have you come to a decision, Mr. Hardy?”

My vision is till fuzzy, but I’m trying to focus on them, where the eyes should be. My strength is fading, my body calls for an end to the mortal turmoil thrust upon it. With my last ounces of strength, a slow breath draws into my lungs and escapes for just two labored words.

“I-I… a-acce-ept…”

The last of my strength fades, the tension in my muscles loosens as I fully relent into the snow around me. The figure kneels beside my head, and with a firm gripped glove, takes hold of my shoulder and wrenches me from the embrace of a cold death. A cold facsimile of life enters my bones, my tendons, my blood.

“This is not the end of you, this is the beginning.”

(ETA: This post is welcome to feedback and criticism.)

The evening was just beginning when Marcus pulled his black Nissan Silvia Spec-R into the parking lot of Hong Kong Palace.

He had spent most of the afternoon getting the Silvia ready. He cleaned the windows, checked the tires, and even wiped down the dashboard.

Marcus looked at himself in the rearview mirror.

“Alright. Don't screw this up.”

He grabbed his phone and stepped out of the car.

Inside Hong Kong Palace, Yuki was finishing up for the evening. She had just put away some things behind the counter when she heard the familiar sound of an engine outside.

She looked through the window.

“Is that Marcus?”

A moment later, Marcus walked through the door.

Yuki smiled.

“Hey, Marcus. You actually came.”

“Of course I did,” Marcus said. “I'm here to pick you up.”

Yuki grabbed her purse.

“Give me a minute.”

Marcus waited near the entrance while Yuki finished getting ready. A few minutes later, she walked outside with him.

Then she stopped when she saw the Silvia.

“You're taking me in this?”

Marcus smiled.

“Yep.”

Yuki walked around the car, looking it over.

“I've never ridden in one of these before.”

“Well, tonight you're getting the full experience.”

Yuki laughed.

“I hope you don't drive crazy.”

“I won't.”

Marcus opened the passenger door for her.

Yuki got inside and looked around the interior.

“This is actually really nice.”

Marcus climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine.

The Silvia's engine came to life.

Yuki smiled.

“Okay. I like this already.”

Marcus pulled out of the parking lot and headed down the road.

For a while, they just talked. Yuki asked Marcus about the Silvia, and Marcus explained why he liked it so much.

“So you've really had this car for a while?” Yuki asked.

“Yeah. It's one of my favorite things I own.”

“I can tell.”

Marcus glanced over at her.

“Why?”

“Because you keep looking at it like you're proud of yourself.”

Marcus laughed.

“Maybe I am.”

They eventually stopped at a small restaurant for dinner.

Afterward, Marcus took Yuki on a drive outside the city. The roads were quieter now, and the lights from the town gradually disappeared behind them.

Yuki looked out the window.

“This is peaceful.”

“That's what I was going for.”

She looked back at Marcus.

“You planned all this?”

“More or less.”

Yuki smiled.

“You did pretty good.”

Marcus grinned.

“That's a relief.”

They eventually found a quiet place to park and sat there talking for a while.

Yuki leaned back in her seat.

“You know, Marcus, I wasn't expecting tonight to be like this.”

“What did you expect?”

“I don't know. Dinner, maybe. But not riding around in a Nissan Silvia at night.”

Marcus laughed.

“It's not exactly the most normal date.”

“Who said I wanted normal?”

Marcus looked at her and smiled.

“Fair enough.”

After a while, they headed back toward Hong Kong Palace.

When Marcus pulled into the parking lot, Yuki looked at him.

“I had fun tonight.”

“Me too.”

She opened the door, then paused.

“Thanks for picking me up.”

“Anytime.”

Yuki smiled and headed toward the restaurant.

Marcus watched her walk inside before starting the Silvia again.

As he drove away, he smiled to himself.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That went pretty well.”

I took the job because it came with a room.

That was the main thing. I didn't care about the hours or the pay. I just needed somewhere to stay, and the owner didn't ask many questions. He showed me the desk, the security monitors, and a narrow room behind the laundry where I could sleep during the day.

Then he explained the rules.

Lock the front door at two in the morning. Unlock it at six. Never leave the desk unattended. If a guest complained, write it down. If someone asked for a room that wasn't available, tell them we were full.

"Anything else?" I asked.

He thought about it.

"If a guest asks whether someone has checked out, tell them you don't know."

I assumed he meant not to discuss other guests with them.

The hotel was old. It had once been grand, judging by the faded photographs in the lobby, but now it smelled of damp carpet and lemon polish. There were twelve rooms, most of them empty. The occupied ones belonged to people who paid weekly and kept to themselves.

My first few weeks were uneventful. I read books behind the desk, watched the security monitors, and made coffee at six. I learned which floorboards creaked and which lights needed replacing.

Then I noticed the man in room seven.

He'd been there for three weeks, according to my memory. Middle-aged, neatly dressed, with a narrow face and thinning hair. He never complained, never asked for anything, and always nodded when he passed the desk.

I couldn't remember his name.

That wasn't unusual. I wasn't particularly good with names. But whenever I tried to recall his face, I found myself thinking about something else instead. A bill I needed to pay. A book I'd been reading. The coffee machine.

Anything except him.

I started noticing his routine.

Every night at eleven, he left the hotel. He walked down the front steps, turned left, and disappeared around the corner. At one, he returned, nodded at me, and went upstairs.

Every night.

I watched him on the security monitors. The picture was grainy, and the cameras were old, but I could see him clearly enough.

One night, I noticed something strange.

The hallway camera showed him passing room seven at eleven. I looked up from the monitor and saw him standing at the desk, waiting for me to finish my coffee.

I looked back at the screen.

The hallway was empty.

When I looked up again, he was still there.

"Everything all right?" he asked.

I nearly dropped my cup.

"Fine. Sorry. Didn't hear you come down."

He nodded, as if I'd said something perfectly reasonable, and walked out.

The following morning, I asked the owner about him.

"Room seven. Who's staying there?"

The owner checked the register.

"No one."

I laughed because I thought he was joking.

"He pays weekly. He's been here for three weeks."

The owner turned the register towards me.

Room seven was blank.

I checked the other pages. There were names, dates, payments, signatures. Room seven had nothing.

"Perhaps you've mixed up the room number," the owner said.

I hadn't.

I knew I hadn't.

I went upstairs and knocked on room seven. Nobody answered. When I opened the door, the room was empty. No bed, no furniture, not even curtains. Just bare floorboards and a window overlooking the street.

I stood there for a while, trying to understand why I remembered making his bed.

Then I went back downstairs.

That night, the man returned at one, nodded at me, and climbed the stairs.

I didn't ask where he'd been.

A few days later, I followed him.

I waited until eleven and watched him leave. Then I grabbed my coat and went after him, keeping far enough behind that he wouldn't notice.

He walked three blocks, turned left, then crossed the road without looking. Eventually, he stopped outside a narrow brick building with boarded-up windows.

He stood facing the entrance.

Not looking around. Not checking his watch.

Just standing there.

I waited for him to knock, or try the door, or do something that would explain why he'd come all this way.

He did nothing.

At one, he turned around and walked back to the hotel.

I followed him inside.

He nodded at me as he passed the desk.

I nodded back.

Neither of us said a word.

The next morning, I searched the building's address online. There was nothing useful, just an old street listing and a photograph of the same brick facade. The building had been empty for years.

I didn't tell the owner what I'd found.

I began watching the other guests more carefully.

There was a woman in room three who wore a grey coat and carried a handbag with a broken clasp. A man in room nine who always had wet shoes, even when it hadn't rained. Someone in room eleven who never appeared on the lobby camera but whose footsteps I could hear on the stairs.

They all left at eleven.

They all returned at one.

And none of them existed in the register.

When I asked the owner about it, he didn't even bother checking the book.

"You're new here," he said.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Nothing. You'll get used to it."

"Get used to what?"

He picked up his keys and left.

I started keeping a log.

Room number. Time of departure. Description. Time of return.

I wrote everything down because I was afraid that if I didn't, I'd forget. And I was beginning to forget things.

Small things at first.

Whether I'd eaten that day. Whether I'd spoken to the owner. Whether I'd locked the front door before going upstairs.

Once, I found a cup of coffee on the desk, still warm, with my name written on it in black marker.

I didn't remember making it.

Another time, I found a sentence in my notebook that I didn't remember writing.

Don't follow them inside.

I crossed it out.

The handwriting looked like mine.

After two weeks, the log was full. I compared it with the register, checking every name, every room, every date.

Nothing matched.

Not one guest.

I took the notebook to the owner.

"Who are these people?"

He looked at the pages.

For a moment, something changed in his expression. Not surprise. Not confusion.

Recognition.

Then it was gone.

"What people?"

"The guests. The ones leaving every night. The ones in rooms three, seven, nine, and eleven."

He closed the notebook.

"There are no guests in those rooms."

"I've seen them."

"I know."

The words came out so quietly that I almost missed them.

I stared at him.

"What do you mean, you know?"

He pushed the notebook back across the desk.

"You're tired. Get some sleep."

I grabbed his wrist before he could walk away.

"Tell me what's happening."

He looked down at my hand until I let go.

Then he straightened his sleeve.

"You're the night porter," he said. "Your job is to keep the hotel running."

He left me alone at the desk.

That night, I didn't watch the monitors.

I went upstairs instead.

Room three was empty. Room seven was empty. Room nine was empty. Room eleven was empty.

I checked every room in the hotel.

All twelve.

Some had beds and furniture. Others were bare, as if they had never been used. But there was no luggage, no clothing, no personal belongings. Nothing that suggested anyone had stayed there.

I went back downstairs and sat in front of the monitors.

The lobby was empty.

The stairs were empty.

The hallways were empty.

I rewound the footage from the previous night.

At eleven, the woman in the grey coat walked out through the front door. At one, she returned.

I watched it again.

At eleven, she walked out.

At one, she returned.

I slowed the footage down.

She entered the lobby, stopped in front of the desk, and looked directly at the camera.

Then she smiled.

I had never seen her smile before.

I leaned closer to the screen.

She raised one hand and pointed towards the desk.

Towards me.

I turned around so quickly that my chair struck the wall.

Nobody was there.

When I looked back at the monitor, the footage had moved on. The lobby was empty again.

I checked the register.

Room three was blank. Room seven was blank. Room nine was blank. Room eleven was blank.

But room one had an entry.

My name.

The date beside it was three weeks earlier.

I stared at the page, trying to remember the first night I'd arrived at the hotel. The owner showing me the desk. The narrow room behind the laundry. The keys.

I could remember all of it.

Except the journey there.

I couldn't remember where I'd come from.

I couldn't remember the last place I'd slept before the hotel.

I couldn't remember the name of the person I'd called when I got the job.

I searched my pockets for my phone.

There were no contacts saved in it.

The following morning, I asked the owner when I'd checked in.

He didn't answer immediately.

"Room one," I said. "The register says I've been here for three weeks."

He looked at the page.

"Does it?"

"You hired me three weeks ago."

"Did I?"

For the first time since I'd met him, I couldn't tell whether he was joking.

I went into the little room behind the laundry and locked the door.

There was a narrow bed, a sink, and a wardrobe. I'd been sleeping there every day.

I knew that.

I also knew I'd never seen the room in daylight.

I opened the wardrobe.

Inside hung a grey coat.

I recognised it immediately, though I couldn't remember where I'd seen it before.

There was something in the pocket. A folded slip of paper, soft at the edges, as if it had been handled many times.

On it, in my handwriting, were six words.

When they return, don't let them in.

I sat on the bed until it was time to go downstairs.

At eleven, the front door opened.

The man from room seven stood in the lobby.

He looked exactly as he always had. Neatly dressed. Hands in his pockets. Patient.

He glanced at the desk.

I kept my eyes on the register.

"Evening," he said.

I didn't answer.

He waited a moment, then walked out.

At one, I heard footsteps on the stairs.

I looked up.

The man stood at the foot of the stairs, looking at me.

Behind him, the woman in the grey coat came down from the second floor. Then the man with the wet shoes. Then someone I didn't recognise.

They gathered in the lobby, facing the desk.

Nobody spoke.

I reached for the phone to call the owner.

The line was dead.

When I looked up again, the lobby was empty.

The front door was open.

I got up to close it, but stopped when I saw the security monitor.

The camera showed me standing at the desk.

Behind me, the guests were gathering in the lobby.

One by one, they walked past me and went out through the open door.

I watched until the last one disappeared.

Then I looked at the desk.

There was a new page in the logbook.

The entries were written in my handwriting.

Room seven. Eleven PM. Departed.

Room seven. One AM. Returned.

Room three. Eleven PM. Departed.

Room three. One AM. Returned.

At the bottom of the page, beneath the last entry, was a sentence.

Room one is still occupied.

I turned towards the stairs.

Someone was standing at the top.

I couldn't see their face, but I could see the grey coat. The same coat hanging in my wardrobe.

They began to descend.

I backed away from the desk.

The figure stopped halfway down and looked towards the front door.

Then, slowly, it turned its head towards me.

I knew that face.

I knew it so well that, for a moment, I forgot to be afraid.

It was mine.

The figure smiled.

I looked down at the logbook.

A final line had appeared beneath the others.

Room one. Eleven PM. Departed.

I checked the clock.

It was eleven.

Behind me, the front door opened.

And from somewhere outside, I heard my own voice ask:

"Is anyone staying in room one?"

So, we were looking for a home in our price range and well we went to see one house that took a weird turn. We walked and it looked like we walked back into history. You open the door and theres a grandfather clock, vinatge cabinets, some collectibles from the 1940s. Just a house that people prob lived there whole life in and we found out that the owners parents died and left them this really old vintage house. The adult kids basically wanted to sell the house quickly with all the things inside. I felt really sad because they didnt even want to go through all the memories in that house​ because the realtor said they selling it with all the stuff inside of it. You could see all the stuff there and it hits you like man, there probably so many stories there. I guess, it just makes me sad I dont know the story or anything about them or their kids or anything. But I guess it just hits hard when ur folks pass and leave all the stuff and you're kids just want to sell it fast and not even go through memories or even take stuff. Maybe, I am reading to much into it I dont know. I guess its just a sad thought. I would hope that one day when I pass my kids would want to keep some memories or some things to remind that I existed or was there. tbh its kind of spooky to see their hobbies and the clothes they wore and imagine the things they did and all the moments they might have had.

Back in 10th standard, I had two best friends, Rudra and Rohit. The three of us were practically inseparable. Rudra had been my friend since 8th standard, while Rohit and I had known each other since 5th. We sat together, spent most of our time together, and were always up to something. If you saw one of us, there was a good chance the other two weren't far away.

Rudra and I were extroverts to the fullest. We could talk to pretty much anyone without feeling awkward, including girls. Rohit was also quite outgoing, but only around boys. When it came to talking to girls, the guy would suddenly forget how to function. 😭

One day, Rohit finally told us that he liked a girl named Aarohi. She was in our class and was a friend of ours too. Since we were in the same class, we already knew her pretty well. She was a nice girl, and Rohit had apparently developed feelings for her.

Naturally, he came to us for help.

He wanted us to somehow get him together with Aarohi, so Rudra and I decided to play matchmakers. The funny part, though, was that Rohit himself wasn't ready to do anything about his feelings.

Every time we tried to encourage him to talk to her, he'd say something like, "Bhai, jaane de, abhi mat kar. Baad mein karte hain. Tum bas thodi-thodi baat karo usse." (Bro, leave it. Don't do it right now. We'll do it later. You guys just keep talking to her a little.)

Basically, he wanted us to do all the groundwork while he sat back and waited for the perfect moment. And that perfect moment never seemed to arrive.

This all started around March or April, if I remember correctly, and continued for months. Rudra and I would occasionally talk to Aarohi, trying to make things easier for Rohit, but he would always back out whenever we tried to get him to make a move. Aarohi had absolutely no idea that he liked her.

Meanwhile, something else was happening that none of us really paid attention to at the time.

Between April and November or December, Aarohi and I became really good friends. Rudra, Rohit, Aarohi, and I were around each other quite often, but Aarohi and I started getting especially close. We helped each other with projects, assignments, exams, and books. We also went to the same tuition classes, so we naturally spent a lot of time together.

Looking back now, there were probably a few signs I completely missed.

There was this one incident at school when we had to make groups of two for a project. Somehow, I managed to put Rohit and Aarohi in the same group. In my head, this was a brilliant move. I thought I was finally giving my best friend an opportunity to spend time with the girl he liked.

Except Aarohi wasn't happy about it.

She wanted to do the project with me instead.

We ended up having a huge argument over it, and we didn't talk to each other for several days. At the time, I genuinely didn't understand why she was making such a big deal out of it. I was too busy congratulating myself for getting Rohit and Aarohi together to notice anything else.

Honestly, looking back, the way we fought over something so small almost felt like a couple's argument. But back then, I was completely clueless. I never even considered the possibility that she might have feelings for me.

Despite all that, I was still happy because I thought my plan for Rohit was finally working.

Unfortunately, it didn't.

Rudra and I explained everything to Rohit. We told him what he needed to do, how he could approach her, and what he should say. We practically handed him a step-by-step guide, but the guy still couldn't bring himself to make an effort.

In the end, Aarohi completed the entire project herself without even taking his help.

So much for our matchmaking skills.

After the project was submitted, Aarohi and I eventually started talking again, and things went back to normal. The four of us continued spending time together as usual.

We also used to play football a lot. Rohit was a good player, and Rudra was pretty good too. I was okay, but compared to those two, I wasn't exactly the star of the team.

Whenever we played, Aarohi would sometimes come over to watch and cheer us on. Naturally, Rudra and I assumed she was there for Rohit. He was a good player, after all, and we genuinely thought she might be interested in him or at least waiting for him to finally take some initiative.

But Rohit remained Rohit. He never really did anything about it.

Meanwhile, Aarohi and I kept getting closer as friends. I was so convinced that she and Rohit would eventually end up together that we even used to call her bhabhi (sister-in-law, a term commonly used for a best friend's girlfriend or wife) in front of him.

Imagine calling someone your best friend's future wife when she has absolutely no intention of being with him. 😭

And then came the day that completely changed everything.

There was some function happening at school, so we didn't have to wear our usual uniforms. Everyone had dressed up a little, and the atmosphere was more relaxed than usual. The classroom wasn't particularly crowded, and we were all just sitting around, chilling and enjoying the day.

At some point, Aarohi came over to me.

She was hiding something behind her back.

I didn't think much of it. I assumed she was about to show me something or maybe pull some stupid prank.

Instead, she pulled out a rose, handed it to me, and told me that she loved me.

For a moment, I genuinely didn't know how to react.

I was completely shocked. My brain practically stopped working. Out of all the things I had expected to happen that day, this wasn't even remotely on the list.

And the first person I looked at was Rohit.

He was right there, and I couldn't believe what I was seeing. The girl he had liked for months had just confessed her feelings to his best friend.

And the worst part?

He didn't even seem to react.

I don't know whether he was too shocked to say anything or whether he had already understood what was happening. All I remember is looking at him and feeling absolutely terrible.

I immediately turned back to Aarohi and said something along the lines of, "Are you mad or what? Get lost! Rohit loves you!"

I was panicking. I wasn't trying to be cruel, but I genuinely didn't know how else to respond. I told her that I didn't love her that way and that she needed to stop.

She, however, was very clear about her feelings.

She told me that she didn't love Rohit. She loved me.

That honestly made everything a hundred times worse.

I rejected her again and told her to leave me alone for the time being. Then I immediately started explaining myself to Rohit. I told him that I hadn't done anything, that I had never encouraged her romantically, and that I genuinely had no idea she felt that way about me.

Rudra was on my side too. He tried explaining to Rohit that I hadn't betrayed him and that none of this was something I had planned or wanted.

But Rohit was hurt.

And honestly, I could understand why.

Imagine spending months liking someone, telling your best friends about your feelings, and trusting them to help you get closer to that person. Then, one random day, you find out that the same girl has feelings for your best friend instead.

Even if your best friend hasn't done anything wrong, it must still hurt like hell.

Rohit probably felt betrayed, even though I hadn't intentionally done anything to him. From his perspective, I could understand how difficult it must have been to process everything.

He stopped coming to school for about a week.

When he finally returned, things weren't the same between us. He still talked to me, but he was different. He acted casually, almost as if everything was normal, but the closeness we had before wasn't there anymore.

You know that feeling when someone is physically present but the way they treat you tells you that something has changed? That's what it felt like.

We had been best friends for years. We had spent so much time together that I never imagined a situation like this could create distance between us.

And suddenly, I was in a position where I had to explain myself to someone who had known me for years, someone who should have known that I wouldn't deliberately do something like that to him.

I ended up blaming Aarohi for the whole situation because, in my mind, none of this would have happened if she hadn't confessed to me. I was already stressed about losing my best friend, and I didn't know how to deal with the situation.

But the strangest part was that Aarohi didn't seem particularly bothered by any of it.

She continued acting as though everything was fine. She even behaved as if she had decided that she would eventually make me fall in love with her.

Whenever I tried to make it clear that I wasn't interested in her romantically, she didn't seem willing to accept it. Her attitude was basically, "I'll make you love me eventually."

And I remember thinking, "Pagal hai kya re?" (Are you crazy or what?)

I was already dealing with the awkwardness between Rohit and me. The last thing I needed was someone insisting that I would eventually develop feelings for her when I had already told her that I didn't feel that way.

Thankfully, Rudra was there throughout the whole mess. He kept telling me to give Rohit some time and not to overthink everything.

He said Rohit would eventually come around and that things would get back to normal once he had processed what had happened.

And, to be fair, Rudra was right.

After a few days, Rohit and I gradually started behaving normally again. Things slowly returned to the way they had been before, and our friendship survived the whole situation.

But Aarohi had something different going on in her mind...

If this gets a good response, I'll post Part 2 because things get even more interesting from here. 👀

I have start writing sexual themed stories and would like feedback very graphic so if this offends you, please move on 😊

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Jess had her eyes closed
Waves lapping at the sand
Sun beating hot against her body as she laid on her sun lounger.

It was a last minute decision to fly to Malaga to see Jeni. She had been her best friend since school, went on a holiday a year ago, said she got a job as a receptionist and was going to stay. She invited Jess, but as an up and coming junior solicitor wanting to make partner in the next two years, it wasn’t an option.

Jeni was always quite evasive of her about the firm she worked for but just didn’t think anything of it.

She arrived yesterday. Jeni met her at the airport went back to the apartment. Had some pre-drinks and went out. It was a heavy night of drinking. Jeni get up this morning and went to work hung over, so by the time Jess got up and had her coffee she decided to go to the beach.

As she lay there with the son warming her belly and legs, she started to get really horny not helped by the fact that she was seriously hungover and rubbing suncream on herself every hour due to the high temperatures. As Jess laid there, she remembered the conversation Jeni had with her last night about what she actually done for a job. Yes she was a receptionist, however she was as receptionist in a high class brothel she said she didn’t ever have to do anything except check people in and take payments. It was all very respectful. She said she did however hear the sex and it sometimes made her really horny.

It was getting very hot, so she decided to pack up her bag and go and meet Jeni.

They got some iced coffees and went for a walk. Jeni got a call to say her lunch cover wasn’t feeling well and went home.

“I need to go back and do the desk, want to come for a nosey?” She said with a grin. Jess was always very open minded so said yes, dying to see what it was actually like and hoping she hadn’t gotten herself into some seedy joint!

She couldn’t have been more wrong! It was clean, everything made of marble and smelled like a spa. The only thing that wasnt like a spa, was the faint groaning over over the tinkle of music.

“That’s Sasha, she’s a screamer! Really loves her job. She services 2-3 clients per day and orgasms at least once every tome apparently!”

Jess sat there wide eyed as she listened to Sasha groaning and panting. She sounded like she was getting closer. All of a sudden the groaning intensified and she cried out and then a man’s voice “fuuuuck!”

Then silence.

About 5 mins later Sasha walked out of the room wearing a black silk robe. She was mixed Asian and had beautiful black hair cut into a classy bob. She was looking very pleased with herself “easy money, the kitty ended him” and walked off laughing. Jeni laughed at the expression on my face “Jess your face is a picture”

I sat there for a moment “do you ever get horny when you’re here listening to that”

“All the time” and she opened a drawer to show me the small gold bullet vibrator. Sometimes I take toilet breaks.. then winked!

As I laughed we heard more groaning in the distance. She told me there were 3 rooms in operation today and they had a decent stream of men coming in. A few came in as I sat there. Stag parties etc. all decent looking men which surprised me!

As I listened to the screaming and groaning I turned to her and said “I don’t think I can take this, I’m too hungover and so horny I might take one of your customers myself!”

Jeni stared me for about 5 seconds “do you want one, as a treat?”

“What? A client?? Noooo I couldn’t do that…could I”

The thought of it made me so wet I could feel the pool of wetness growing in my knickers and my pussy was getting puffier by the minute.

The door suddenly opened and three men came in. All tanned, good looking and in expensive looking shorts and shirts. The smell of the aftershave attacked my senses as they chatted and flirted with Jeni. I squeeze my thighs together and looked them all up and down. The main flirt kept looking at me, then said to Jeni how much for the full service.

“Normally 300 euro but she’s a special one and charges 400 euro…”

I was shocked but so horny I didn’t interrupt, then…

“I’ll take her” and put 400 cash on the counter.

“Room one” Jeni smiled slyly

Off her went and closed the door behind him. The other two were shown to their rooms to see their ladies.

I sat frozen in shock. Jeni turned to me and rolled her eyes “Look, I’ll be frank. You haven’t had sex in ages. Your pussy is clearly dripping and you may aswell put that hangover to good use. The girls room rental is 100 euro per session and they keep the other 200. You can fuck him, come as much as you want and walk away with the easiest 300 ever, what’s it going to be?”

I looked it her wide eyed, gave a big grin and got up and found myself walking towards the room. I entered the room and was surprised at how luxurious it all was. I heard the shower running so I took a moment to look around.

A massive bed in the middle of the room, a jacuzzi bathtub in the corner. A bathroom off to the left and long flowing curtains pulled over but blowing lightly in he breeze

I heard the shower turn off and he came out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, drying his hair with another. He was definitely a gym fanatic with that body, a defined jaw and thick brown hair.

“I was too hot and wanted to be comfortable…” he trailed off and look at at the bed, took his towel off, walked over and laid down with his hands behind his head watching me.

I slowly got undressed one layer at a time. I still had the bikini on, so I took it off slowly and walked over to the bed. There was a bottle of massage oil on the coffee table table, so I went over and lifted it, pour d some in my hands and started to rub it around my chest. I massaged my boobs with it, rubbing, squeezing and grabbing my nipples gently. I covered the rest of my body with oil and crawled up the bed maintaining eye contact the whole way and told him to lie face down.

I started massaging his back and legs then moved onto his glutes area. I rubbed oil between his checks and finished each stroke rubbing the top of his swollen head. He was definitely ready and I was quite literally dripping, so I got him to turn over.

I hovered my boobs over his naked crotch and rubbed my nipples up and down his shaft really slowly. Then I dragged my body up his body and when I got to his face, I kissed him really slowly and deeply as I started grinding my pussy lips over his rock hard cock. I was on the pill so decided so forgo the condom as I was dying to ride his cock raw and feel his skin.

It all became too much feeling his head nudge against my pussy lips, so I tilted my hips. I rubbed my pussy up and down his shaft a couple of times to get it completely slick with my juices. Then he nudged my opening and I slipped straight down the shaft until I felt his cock head touched my cervix. He grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled me into a really deep kiss as we both started moving slowly.

I was so hungover, every movement felt so intense and the need to cum took over as I grinded my clit into his pelvic bone and raised myself up and down so my clit was basically being massaged. He stroked up the side of my thighs and belly as I did this, so I started to pant as I crept closer with every thrust.

I was so full of him and with the stroking on my belly and thighs, feeling his cock drag in and out being absolutely milked by my horny pussy, that I started to whimper and whine. “yes…yes…oh please” he started to suck my tits and that sent me over the edge. My whole body went rigid so he grabbed my ass cheeks, ground me into him and thrust in and out hard forcing me to ride the waves. All I could do was take it and scream!

He started growling in my ear “you’re milking the fuck out of me you dirty bitch” then roared and thrust into me so hard that I felt it shoot deep onto my cervix and flood my pussy with heat.

I laid ontop of him with his cock softening inside me, full of cum as he stroked around my back and bum.

He looked at me and said “Have u serviced anyone else today?” I laughed and told him the truth about why I was there. He laid there stunned and then said “so basically you’re just hungover with a hungry pussy” and laughed. He kept stroking me, rubbing his hands down the sides of my breasts and belly and I could feel him getting hard again inside me.

Without warning he rolled me over onto my back so he was on top of me and he started pumping in and out slowly. I could feel the cum running out of my pussy and it made me so horny again. He reached over to the bedside drawer marked toys and pulled out an unopened box with a vibrating cock ring it. He looked at me and said “do you want to try this” he didn’t wait for an answer just took it out of his box and pulled his cock out of my pussy and slipped it on over the top. There was a little finger shaped thing pointing upwards off the cock ring, so whenever he slid it back into my pussy and switched it on the vibrating finger shaped thing with soft rubber bristles vibrated and tickled my pussy lips and clit.

He put his arms around me and nestled his head on my shoulder and started to really mash his hips downwards and grinding into me. I knew it wouldn’t be long before I came again. He was easily 100-110 kg pumping in and out. I could barely breathe properly and my pussy was a sloppy mess. I could hear it squelch every time he slapped into me it was an absolutely wonderful feeling.

I was grinding my hips upwards chasing the vibrations on my clit getting closer to the swirling orgasm I felt building in my lower belly. He was grunting like an animal ramming me into the bed, balls slapping against my bum every time he bottomed out. I was in absolute heaven groaning like someone possessed at this point.

Slap…slap…slap

I spead my legs as far as they would open. Tilted my hips and grabbed his shoulders pulling him further into me. “fucking fill me up”

That done it! He started frantically ramming into me again and again “you ready to take my load you slut”

“Yeah yeah YEAH” I panted. All of a sudden my pussy clamped down on his massive cock as an orgasm ripped through me. He let out a strangled noise and grabbed my hips “milk me slut” and emptied his load into me as my pussy squeezed out taking every last drop

One year had passed since Satan emerged from the ancient underground chamber beneath Lumbini, Nepal. Although the fortified city had survived the initial catastrophe, darkness continued spreading across the country.

Villages disappeared beneath black clouds, rivers turned dark, and ancient temples lay shattered. Demons wandered through abandoned cities, searching for human souls to claim.

The resistance had lost thousands of soldiers. Vishwa Rakshak, now forty-six, commanded the remaining forces alongside Mira and Garuda from their headquarters in Lumbini. Despite their losses, they refused to surrender.

One evening, scouts reported that thousands of possessed people were approaching the eastern gates. Unlike previous attacks, however, the approaching crowd appeared terrified. They kept looking toward the sky, while the demons accompanying them seemed reluctant to advance.

Vishwa studied the reports.

“Something has changed,” he said.

Garuda folded his wings. “The demons are afraid of something. I can sense it.”

Mira looked toward the horizon. “Then we need to discover what it is before they attack again.”

Far beneath the earth, Satan watched the approaching army through a pool of black water.

Beside him stood Acharya Devendra, the leader of the spiritualists who had secretly worshipped Satan and helped spread his influence across Nepal.

“The resistance still survives,” Devendra said. “Vishwa continues to inspire them.”

Satan’s eyes burned red.

“Then destroy their hope. Bring me their leaders, their warriors, and their gods. I will make them watch everything they love collapse.”

Behind Satan stood Narada, the celestial sage who had abandoned his former principles and joined the campaign against humanity.

He had convinced himself that destroying humanity would somehow bring Brahma back to him. Yet, as he watched the suffering unfold, doubts began consuming him.

“Are we truly accomplishing anything?” Narada asked.

Satan turned toward him.

“You wanted your father to return. You wanted creation to understand your pain. Why hesitate now?”

Narada remained silent, but Satan’s answer offered no comfort.

He had once travelled between worlds, carrying messages and encouraging harmony. Now, his actions had helped unleash suffering on the very beings he had once guided.

For the first time, he wondered whether his desire for recognition had blinded him to the consequences of his choices.

Meanwhile, in the ruins of Kathmandu, Raktavira, commander of the Crimson Host, surveyed a street filled with possessed civilians.

He had once believed that humanity deserved punishment for its cruelty and corruption. Under Satan’s influence, he had led countless demons into battle against human settlements.

But something changed when he noticed a young woman struggling against the demon possessing her.

“Please,” she whispered through tears. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

The demon seized control again, forcing her to attack the surrounding survivors.

Raktavira raised his weapon, ready to strike. Then he hesitated.

He remembered the man he had once been before hatred consumed him. He remembered the innocent lives destroyed during his campaigns.

Lowering his weapon, he seized the demon and dragged it away from the woman. With a burst of crimson energy, he separated the creature from its host.

The woman collapsed, gasping for breath.

“Why did you save me?” she asked.

Raktavira stared at his hands.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Perhaps I have finally begun to remember what I once was.”

For the first time in years, he questioned whether his war against humanity had ever been justified.

In the celestial realm, Narada wandered through the abandoned halls of Brahma’s palace.

He remembered the day he had believed his father had abandoned him. His grief had gradually become resentment, and resentment had become hatred.

Satan had exploited that pain, promising that the destruction of creation would force Brahma to return.

Yet Narada could no longer ignore the suffering caused by his actions.

He had seen demons torment children, destroy temples, and possess innocent people. He had watched his fellow Devas participate in a war that contradicted everything they claimed to protect.

“I wanted Father to notice me,” Narada whispered. “But how many innocent lives have suffered because of my selfishness?”

A voice answered from behind him.

“Enough that you must now decide what you will do about it.”

Narada turned. Standing before him was Brahma.

For several moments, Narada could not speak. His eyes widened, and his hands trembled.

“Father?”

Brahma approached him slowly.

Narada fell to his knees.

“I am sorry. I was angry, and Satan used that anger against me. I betrayed creation, encouraged destruction, and turned against humanity. I thought destroying everything would make you return.”

His voice broke.

“I wanted you to acknowledge me. Instead, I became someone I can barely recognize.”

Brahma looked at his son with sorrow.

“Your pain was real, Narada. But pain does not excuse the suffering you caused. You chose to turn your grief into hatred, and others paid the price.”

Narada lowered his head.

“Can you forgive me?”

“Forgiveness cannot erase what happened,” Brahma replied. “Nor can it replace justice. Redemption begins when you stop seeking approval and start helping those you harmed.”

Narada looked up at him.

“Then I will return to Earth. I will fight Satan, even if humanity never forgives me.”

Brahma placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Do what is right because life deserves protection, not because you expect a reward.”

Narada rose slowly. For the first time since his fall, he understood that redemption would require more than regret.

He would have to act.

At Lumbini, Vishwa received an unexpected visitor.

Narada stood outside the resistance headquarters, carrying no weapon. Garuda immediately stepped forward, his wings spreading in anger.

“You dare come here after everything you have done?”

Narada lowered his head.

“I do not expect your forgiveness. I have come to offer my help against Satan.”

Garuda’s eyes burned.

“Your help? You helped unleash this nightmare!”

“I know,” Narada replied. “I cannot undo what happened, but I can help stop it.”

Vishwa approached them.

“Why should we trust you?”

“You shouldn’t trust me simply because I ask you to,” Narada answered. “Judge me by what I do from this moment onward.”

Mira watched him carefully.

“If you’re lying, people will die.”

“I understand.”

Vishwa remained silent for several seconds before making his decision.

“You may join us, but you will answer our questions, share everything you know about Satan’s plans, and follow our command during the battle.”

Narada bowed his head.

“Agreed.”

Garuda reluctantly stepped aside, although his anger remained.

“This is not forgiveness,” he warned.

“I know,” Narada replied. “I have no right to demand it.”

Vishwa turned toward the resistance officers.

“Prepare the intelligence room. We have a war to win.”

Narada followed them inside, knowing that his actions would determine whether his return meant anything.

Later that evening, Arjun arrived with Kiran and two former members of the wizarding group that had worshipped Narada and the other Devas.

They had once supported Narada’s campaign and helped Devendra’s spiritualists spread Satan’s influence. Now, with the alliance forming, they wanted to confess their involvement.

Arjun stood before Vishwa and Mira, visibly shaken.

“We need to tell you the truth,” he said. “We helped betray the resistance.”

Vishwa’s expression hardened.

“Explain.”

Arjun swallowed.

“I was jealous of you and Mira. Everyone looked up to you, while I felt invisible. When Narada and the others offered us power, I convinced myself we were doing something important.”

He looked down.

“I helped expose resistance positions and supplied information that allowed Satan’s forces to attack several settlements. People died because of us.”

Mira looked at him in disbelief.

“You knew what could happen?”

“I knew there were risks,” Arjun admitted. “I refused to think about the consequences because I wanted to prove that I mattered.”

Kiran stepped forward.

“We were wrong, too. We worshipped the Devas without questioning what they were doing. We believed their power made them righteous.”

One of the former wizards placed a collection of maps and documents on the table.

“These identify several ritual sites maintained by Devendra. His followers are using them to open gateways between the underworld and Earth.”

Vishwa examined the documents.

“If these sites remain active, Satan can continue bringing demons into our world.”

Arjun nodded.

“We can guide your soldiers to them.”

Garuda looked at the group with open distrust.

“And why should we believe you won’t betray us again?”

“You shouldn’t,” Arjun answered. “Not yet. Give us a chance to prove ourselves.”

Vishwa considered their offer.

“You will work under supervision. You’ll share every piece of information you possess, and you will help dismantle the ritual sites. Your past actions will still have consequences.”

“We understand,” Kiran replied.

After the others departed, Narada approached Arjun.

“You allowed your jealousy to control you,” he said.

Arjun looked away.

“I thought being powerful would make me feel important.”

“Power cannot repair a wounded sense of self-worth,” Narada replied. “I made the same mistake. I allowed my pain to convince me that everyone else deserved to suffer.”

Arjun looked at him.

“Do you think we can ever make things right?”

“You cannot change the past,” Narada answered. “But you can decide what kind of people you become now.”

The following morning, Ishani appeared at the resistance headquarters.

Vishwa immediately recognized her.

She was responsible for his mother’s death and had once attempted to sacrifice him during Satan’s earlier campaign. Her actions had left wounds that time had not healed.

Mira stepped between them, prepared for an attack.

“What are you doing here?” Vishwa demanded.

Ishani lowered her eyes.

“I want to help fight Satan.”

Vishwa’s expression became cold.

“You killed my mother. You tried to sacrifice me. Why should I believe anything you say?”

“You shouldn’t,” Ishani replied. “I have committed terrible acts, and I cannot undo them by asking for another chance.”

“Then why come here?”

“Because I finally understand that regret means nothing if I continue allowing innocent people to suffer.”

Vishwa stared at her.

“You expect me to forgive you?”

“No. I don’t deserve to demand that from you. I only ask for the opportunity to help save the people I once helped endanger.”

Mira remained suspicious.

“She could be working for Satan.”

Ishani shook her head.

“I know the locations of several ritual sites. I can help you destroy them, and I know how the spiritualists have been manipulating the possessed.”

Vishwa looked toward the maps Arjun had provided.

“Your knowledge could be useful. But you will be monitored, and you will answer for your crimes when this war is over.”

“I accept that.”

Vishwa stepped closer.

“I will not forgive you simply because you decide to do something good. My mother is still dead, and nothing can change that.”

“I know,” Ishani whispered.

“But if you’re genuinely willing to protect others, then prove it.”

Ishani nodded.

“I will.”

Vishwa turned away, still struggling with the anger and grief she had brought back to the surface.

He had allowed her to help, but he was not ready to forgive her. 

That evening, the alarm bells rang across Lumbini. Thousands of demons advanced toward the fortified city, accompanied by possessed civilians and Satan’s elite warriors.

Vishwa climbed onto the defensive wall.

“Evacuate the children and elderly to the inner shelters! Archers, prepare yourselves! Nobody opens the gates without my order!”

Mira organized the evacuation while Garuda flew above the city, searching for weaknesses in the enemy formation.

The first wave struck the eastern wall.

Demons climbed over one another, clawing at the stone while the resistance fired arrows and launched explosive charges. The defenders fought desperately, but the sheer number of enemies threatened to overwhelm them.

Then the possessed civilians reached the gates.

Some begged to be saved. Others attacked the soldiers, their bodies controlled by demons.

“Hold your fire!” Vishwa shouted. “They’re victims, too!”

A soldier stared at the advancing crowd.

“Commander, they’ll kill us!”

“Then we find another way!”

Ishani and the former wizards hurried to the defensive platform, carrying scrolls and ritual instruments.

“The demons are bound to their hosts through spiritual corruption,” Ishani explained. “If we use the separation prayer, we may be able to free some of them.”

Vishwa nodded.

“Do it.”

The former wizards began chanting an ancient prayer, their voices carrying across the battlefield. Golden symbols appeared above the possessed civilians.

One by one, dark figures emerged from their bodies.

Garuda swooped down, striking the exposed demons with radiant energy while the freed civilians were carried to safety but the fighting continued. A section of the eastern gate collapsed, allowing hundreds of demons into the city.

Vishwa rushed toward the breach, swinging his weapon as Mira and the soldiers fought beside him.

An elderly man lay wounded near the entrance to a shelter. Vishwa knelt beside him while arrows and fire filled the air.

“Please,” the man whispered. “Don’t let them take my granddaughter.”

Vishwa looked toward a young girl being carried away by a soldier.

“She is safe,” he promised.

The man managed a faint smile before closing his eyes.

Vishwa bowed his head for a moment, then rose and returned to battle. He could not save everyone but he would not stop trying.

As the defenders began to lose ground, the sky suddenly filled with brilliant light.

Hundreds of Devas descended from the heavens, their weapons glowing with celestial energy. At their head stood Narada, who had returned to confront the destruction he had helped create.

Beside them marched Raktavira and the Crimson Host.

Garuda landed on the wall, stunned by the sight.

“Narada?”

Narada looked at him.

“I have come to fight for the lives I once endangered.”

Garuda’s expression remained stern.

“Your arrival does not erase your betrayal.”

“I know. Let my actions speak.”

Raktavira raised his weapon.

“Crimson Host, protect the civilians! Today, we fight to defend life rather than destroy it!”

The Devas and the resistance launched a coordinated counterattack.

Celestial warriors struck the demons from above while human soldiers secured the streets. Garuda and Narada fought side by side, their powers combining to drive the enemy back.

For a moment, the resistance began to regain control.

But Satan had anticipated their alliance.

Deep beneath the battlefield, Devendra completed another stage of his ritual. A massive black gateway opened above a ruined temple, releasing a torrent of dark energy.

Satan’s laughter echoed across the city.

“Do you truly believe your little alliance can stop me?”

Vishwa looked toward the gateway.

“If that ritual remains active, the demons will never stop coming.”

He turned toward Arjun and Kiran.

“You know where the gateway is being maintained. Take a team and destroy it.”

Arjun nodded.

“We won’t fail you.”

Arjun, Kiran, Ishani’s former allies, and a small team of resistance fighters raced through the ruined streets toward the temple.

Demons guarded the entrance, but the group managed to force their way inside.

At the center of the chamber stood a black crystal surrounded by glowing symbols. Devendra stood before it, chanting in an ancient language.

“You fools!” he shouted when he saw them. “Satan will reward those who remain faithful!”

Arjun raised his weapon.

“He has already shown us what your faith costs.”

Devendra unleashed a blast of dark energy, throwing several soldiers against the walls.

Kiran rushed toward the crystal while Arjun distracted Devendra. The former wizards began chanting the counter-ritual, their voices trembling as the gateway shook.

Devendra attacked them, but Arjun intercepted him.

“You helped destroy countless lives,” Arjun said. “You don’t get to hide behind your devotion.”

He struck Devendra, knocking him away from the crystal.

Kiran raised his weapon and shattered it.

A deafening explosion shook the temple. The gateway began collapsing, pulling the surrounding shadows inward.

Devendra screamed as dark chains wrapped around his body.

“No! Satan promised me power!”

A voice thundered from the collapsing gateway.

“Your service has ended.”

The chains dragged Devendra into the darkness. His screams faded as the gateway closed.

Arjun and Kiran rushed outside just as the temple began to crumble.

They had destroyed one of Satan’s most important sources of power but the battle was not over.

A sudden silence spread across the battlefield.

The demons stopped fighting and bowed their heads.

Satan descended from the sky, surrounded by black flames. His presence darkened the clouds, and the ground cracked beneath his feet.

“So,” he said, surveying the assembled humans and Devas. “You have gathered every remaining defender of creation.”

Vishwa stepped forward.

“Your reign ends today.”

Satan laughed.

“You still believe courage can overcome power?”

He raised his hand, unleashing a wave of darkness that swept across the battlefield. Soldiers were thrown aside, and several Devas fell from the sky.

Garuda attacked first, striking Satan with a burst of golden energy.

Satan barely moved. He seized Garuda by the throat and hurled him into the ruins.

Narada rushed forward, unleashing a barrage of celestial weapons. Satan absorbed their energy and retaliated with a blast that sent Narada crashing to the ground.

Vishwa charged, but Satan summoned black chains that wrapped around his arms and legs.

The chains tightened, forcing him to his knees.

“You have spent your life trying to protect humanity,” Satan whispered. “Look around you. Your people are dying. Your allies are falling. What has your resistance accomplished?”

Vishwa struggled against the chains.

“It has given people a reason to keep fighting.”

Satan leaned closer.

“Your mother died because of this world. Ishani tried to sacrifice you. Your own allies betrayed you. Why continue protecting a species that brings suffering upon itself?”

Vishwa’s face tightened at the mention of his mother.

“Humanity is imperfect,” he replied. “But people can choose to change. They can protect one another, show compassion, and fight for a better future.”

Satan’s expression twisted with fury.

“Then die with your precious ideals!”

He tightened the chains, and Vishwa cried out in pain.

Suddenly, Ishani rushed forward and struck Satan with a burst of energy. The chains shattered, releasing Vishwa.

Satan turned and hurled her across the battlefield.

She crashed against a ruined wall and fell to the ground, badly injured.

Vishwa scrambled toward her.

“Why did you do that?”

Ishani struggled to breathe.

“Because I could not allow him to kill you.”

“You didn’t have to save me.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I did.”

She looked at him, tears gathering in her eyes.

“I cannot erase what I did to your mother. I cannot undo the pain I caused you. But I can choose what I do now.”

Vishwa stared at her, overwhelmed by conflicting emotions.

“I still cannot forgive you.”

“I understand.”

“But you saved my life. And I will not let your sacrifice be meaningless.”

He helped her toward the resistance medics before turning back to Satan.

As Satan prepared to unleash another attack, the clouds parted. A brilliant celestial light illuminated the battlefield.

Brahma appeared above the ruins, his presence filling the sky with golden radiance.

The remaining Devas fell silent.

Narada slowly rose from the ground.

“Father?”

Brahma looked down at him.

“My son, you have made terrible choices. But you have finally begun to understand that righteousness is not measured by obedience or power.”

Narada lowered his head.

“I will spend the rest of my existence trying to repair what I have done.”

“Then continue protecting life,” Brahma replied. “Do not fight for my approval. Fight because every life has value.”

Brahma turned toward Garuda, who was struggling to stand.

“Protection does not mean controlling every choice. It means helping others live without taking away their freedom.”

Garuda looked toward the battlefield.

“I understand.”

Brahma’s gaze then moved to Vishwa.

“Humanity is not saved because it is perfect. It is saved because, even amid suffering, people can choose compassion over cruelty.”

Vishwa rose to his feet.

The surviving soldiers gathered behind him. The Devas prepared their weapons, and the Crimson Host formed a defensive line around the wounded.

Vishwa raised his weapon.

“This is our home! Our families are here, our memories are here, and our future is here! We will not surrender it to Satan!”

The resistance answered with a roar.

Narada raised his celestial instrument, sending a wave of golden energy across the battlefield. Garuda spread his wings.

The final battle began. Garuda attacked Satan from above while Narada struck from the front. Their combined power forced Satan backward for the first time.

Vishwa charged through the opening, striking Satan with every remaining ounce of strength.

Satan retaliated, sending waves of darkness across the battlefield. The ground split, and black flames engulfed the ruins.

The Devas struggled to contain the destruction while human soldiers protected the wounded.

“His power is connected to the gateway!” Narada shouted. “Even after Devendra’s ritual was destroyed, Satan has anchored himself to the remaining altar!”

Vishwa looked toward a massive structure at the center of the battlefield. Black energy streamed from it into Satan’s body.

“If we destroy that altar, we can weaken him!”

Garuda nodded.

“Then we must reach it.”

The three warriors attacked together, drawing Satan away from the altar while the resistance cleared a path.

Satan roared and unleashed a storm of dark energy. Garuda was thrown aside, and Narada fell to one knee.

Vishwa continued forward.

“You cannot defeat me!” Satan thundered.

Vishwa looked at the people fighting behind him.

“I’m not fighting alone.”

The voices of the surviving soldiers rose across the battlefield. The Devas joined them, followed by the Crimson Host.

Their combined energy illuminated the ruins.

Vishwa reached the altar and raised his weapon. Golden light gathered around him, growing brighter with every passing second.

Satan realized what he intended to do.

“No!”

He lunged toward Vishwa, but Garuda intercepted him. Narada summoned a final burst of celestial energy, holding Satan back long enough for Vishwa to strike.

The weapon crashed into the altar.

Golden light erupted across the battlefield.

The altar shattered, and the black gateway collapsed. Satan screamed as the darkness sustaining him dissolved.

“You cannot destroy me!” he roared.

Vishwa stood before him.

“This world does not belong to you.”

Satan’s body cracked, releasing streams of black smoke. His form disintegrated into ash, and the remaining demons vanished with him. The clouds began to part. 

For the first time in a year, sunlight illuminated the ruined city. The battle was over.

Mira rushed toward Vishwa and embraced him.

“You’re alive.”

Vishwa held her tightly.

“So are you.”

Garuda landed beside them, exhausted but relieved. Narada approached cautiously.

Garuda looked at him for a long moment.

“I still remember what you did.”

Narada lowered his head.

“You should.”

“But today, you fought to protect the people you once endangered.”

Garuda extended his hand.

“That is a beginning. Nothing more.”

Narada accepted the gesture.

Across the city, survivors emerged from shelters and ruins. Some cried with relief, while others searched desperately for missing relatives.

The victory had come at an enormous cost.

Arjun and Kiran returned to the resistance headquarters, where Arjun found his father waiting among the survivors.

His father stared at him.

“I know what you did,” he said quietly. “I know you helped betray the resistance.”

Arjun lowered his head.

“I am sorry.”

His father remained silent before stepping forward and embracing him.

“I am still angry,” he admitted. “I don’t know how long it will take to trust you again. But you helped save lives today, and I am grateful you’re alive.”

Arjun broke down in tears.

“I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”

“Then spend your life becoming someone who deserves trust.”

Nearby, Ishani received medical treatment.

Vishwa visited her later that evening.

“The authorities will investigate your crimes,” he told her. “You will have to answer for what you did.”

“I understand.”

“You cannot erase the past by saving me.”

“I know.”

Vishwa looked at her for a moment.

“But you did save my life. Thank you.”

Ishani began to cry.

“I wish I could bring your mother back.”

“So do I,” Vishwa replied.

He left without forgiving her, but he no longer saw her only as the person who had destroyed his family. He saw someone who had begun accepting responsibility for her actions.

That evening, Vishwa, Garuda, and Narada stood among the ruins and honored the dead.

They remembered the soldiers who had defended the city, the civilians who had lost their lives, and the possessed victims who had suffered without understanding what was happening to them.

No victory could bring them back but their sacrifices would not be forgotten.

Three days after Satan’s defeat, Nepal’s prime minister addressed the surviving population.

He acknowledged the devastation and promised that the government would help rebuild communities, restore essential services, and support those who had lost their homes and families.

The people listened in silence.

There was relief in the streets, but grief remained everywhere.

Meanwhile, the surviving Devas prepared to return to their celestial realm.

Narada stood before them.

“We must confront our own failures,” he said. “We allowed pride, resentment, and blind obedience to guide us. Never again should we mistake authority for righteousness.”

Some Devas lowered their heads in shame.

Garuda stood beside him.

“Protecting someone does not mean deciding their fate for them. We must respect their freedom, even when their choices are difficult to understand.”

Narada nodded. Raktavira and Ishani prepared to accompany the Devas, though both understood that redemption would require years of difficult work.

Before departing, Narada approached Vishwa.

“I cannot ask you to forgive me.”

“You don’t need to ask,” Vishwa replied. “You need to continue doing what is right.”

Narada bowed his head.

“I will.”

With that, the Devas returned to their realm, leaving humanity to begin rebuilding its world.

Six months had passed since Satan’s defeat.

Across Nepal, reconstruction had begun. Roads were cleared, hospitals reopened, and families returned to villages that had once been abandoned.

The walls surrounding Lumbini were gradually dismantled. The city no longer needed to live behind fortifications, although its people would never forget the battle fought there.

Memorials were erected for the fallen soldiers, civilians, Devas, and possessed victims.

Arjun and the former wizards dedicated themselves to helping survivors. They worked to dismantle the remaining cults and expose the methods Satan’s followers had used to manipulate vulnerable people.

Arjun knew that his past could never be erased, but he had stopped expecting forgiveness to arrive simply because he regretted what he had done.

Ishani also began working with survivors, accepting that she would have to face the consequences of her crimes for the rest of her life.

Vishwa continued leading reconstruction efforts with Mira and Garuda. Though the war had ended, he often struggled with the memories of those he had lost.

One afternoon, he travelled to the ruins of an ancient monastery near Lumbini.

He stood among the broken stones, remembering the suffering that had engulfed Nepal.

“Did humanity truly deserve to survive?” he wondered aloud. “After everything we have done to one another, why were we given another chance?”

A gentle breeze moved through the trees.

Vishwa turned and noticed a peaceful figure standing nearby, dressed in simple robes. The stranger watched him with a calm expression.

For a moment, Vishwa felt the weight of the past begin to lift.

He took a step forward, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Buddha?”

The figure smiled gently.

The End

It's around 10pm on a Saturday night and my girlfriend had just gotten off of work, and i haven't received a text from her like she normally does. She has a history of dodging difficult conversations and we had planned on having one later after her shift. I am severely anxiously attached to this woman and i had been waiting on speaking to her for the entire day. I remember checking life 360 and seeing that she had went to taco bell about an hour ago and was hanging out in the parking lot with her friends. This bothered me WAY more than it should have and I remember feeling this big sense of betrayal. I called her shortly after checking life 360 and she didn't answer me. She texts me after I called her and she tells me that she's hanging out with friends. I remember sitting in my chair and just feeling heartbroken over the fact that she chose hanging out with her friends over having a conversation about the relationship and how my mental health was. After that message she told me that it was going to be a while and that she didn't want to have the conversation at all. After that message i left her on read and decided that i was going to go to bed and be done with it for tonight. I sat in my bed, starring at the ceiling not being able to sleep. My adrenaline was pumping and i for the life of me not being able to think about something other than my sense of betrayal. So i sat there for around 30 minutes and i remember being so angry about not being able to fall asleep. I threw the blanket off of me, grabbed my keys and stormed my way over to my car. I had decided that i was going to go to McDonald's and get myself a sweet treat. I remember blasting music in my car and singing along (its my way of "meditating") and then i get a phone call from her. She's angry because she felt like i was rushing her being with her friends. For context we have been together for about 8 months and she had just cut off her old friend group and when she was with said friend group she had a history of ignoring me when she was with them, even when i was in the room with her. The new friends she was talking about she has just made. Anyways after she had said that to me i responded in a very harsh and emotional way about how it felt like she didn't value my emotions. She told me that i was being dramatic and that this didn't mean much, like she was just with friends and not doing anything bad. I remember screaming after that and just being fueled with so much anger over the fact that she didn't take me or this serious at all. I get into the McDonald's line still emotional, crying at this point about how she never shows me any type of care for me. It's eventually my turn to order and i remember getting a chocolate shake. By the tie i get to the pay window were both crying and i remember having to turn it off for an instant to pay for my shake. When the window to the McDonalds opens there's a lady who had such a joyous energy to her for it being about 12am asks me how I'm doing. I obviously lie and say to her that I'm doing wonderful as i give her my card. She asks me if i want a Dr. Pepper as she hands me my card back. (In hindsight i think she noticed the tears that had obviously just ran down my face). I accept it unknowing to the pivotal point its going to play in my future. After leaving the McDonald's me and my girlfriend get into some really heavy topics about her past and how it still effects me and the relationship to this day. (Topics i would rather not share here). and it gets to a point where i start having a full blow panic attack while I'm driving. My chest gets SUPER tight where it feels like I'm breathing through a straw. I remember these long deep but shallow breaths that didn't bring in the oxygen that i desperately needed. I pulled over to the side of the road and tried calming down and i remember not being able to. My girlfriend at this point has said nothing to me and i am very audibly having a panic attack. I reached over to grab my Dr. Pepper to maybe cleanse this feeling. The first sip was heaven sent. You know that scene from ratatouille where Remy (the rat) takes a bite of the different foods and sees colors? That's EXACTLY how i felt in that moment. I closed my eyes and i saw the bubbles in my head i felt the burnt cherry cola. During those moments, in the height of my panic attack. I felt peace. After i took those sips from that drink i was fine, i stopped crying, i stopped worrying, and i felt happy. I think about that night that the lady at that McDonalds drive thru window gave me that soda and i smile. I think she was an angel, placed there to save my life. I think for certain if she wasn't there at that moment, i would've died from driving my car during my panic attack.

Sterling Voss had spent seventy years making money. He’d started more businesses than he could remember, most of which he’d eventually lost interest in. Although his Wikipedia page was extensive enough, his memory could not recall which businesses were real or which had used for nefarious purposes.

His most recent venture was less out of the excessive need to be framed as impactful in history, but more out of a genuine fear that washed over his body upon the news of his impending failure to beat the infection possessing his body. Specifically, an idea spawned from a conversation held years prior.

Someone had asked him what he would choose if he could pick his own afterlife.

“Heaven, obviously,” Sterling had replied.

“What would that look like?”

“Nothing, maybe. Just peace and quiet.”

The man had looked at him strangely.

“How terrifying,” he’d said.

Sterling hadn’t understood what he meant at the time. Now, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. What if there was nothing after death? Worse, what if he’d spent so long imagining nothingness that his own mind had already decided what awaited him?

Project Gatekeeper became the focus of his remaining years. His scientists had developed a way to maintain electrical activity in a brain after death, although nobody could say for certain whether that meant the person was still experiencing anything. The government had refused to approve human trials, but Sterling had no intention of dying without finding out.

As the needles entered his skull, Sterling pictured the life he wanted to experience. His money, his success, a family he could finally make time for. Everything he’d missed out on, he could have another chance at.

But, as had happened so many times before, Sterling’s concentration would falter just when he needed it most. As the lethal liquid began travelling through his veins, he thought of a memory he had buried for so long that it had become a debt, one finally due in his last moments.

Twenty-eight years earlier, Sterling had felt a rage like never before. Whether it was the drugs coursing through his system or the crushing weight of an impending court date following the exposure of his tax avoidance, something inside him had finally snapped. His rage spilled over onto an innocent woman, someone he had once claimed to love. He left her at the bottom of the ocean, below the yacht she had once helped him name.

Enough money and power could keep the truth hidden from the public. Drugs and alcohol could help suppress the memory, but when death came tumbling down that tunnel, he would have to face the questions surrounding all his wrongdoings.

Water invaded his lungs with his last breath as he flickered his eyes with struggle. Some current was knocking him around ferociously as he smacked his arms helplessly, looking for something to hold onto. Some type of rock had managed to latch between his fingers and he held on with all his might. His lungs burned with the water spilling around inside making it hard to keep focus on what he was holding onto. He noticed that he did not seem to be losing consciousness, as much as he would’ve hoped. In waiting to die for a second time, Sterling noticed a shimmer of light from what he could only perceive as above him.

He released the rock and fought the current as he battled his way upward. He breached the surface, inhaling a big gulp of oxygen as an immediate reaction. The oxygen resting on top of the water inside his lungs created an intense pain he had never known. His voice croaked in agony though little sound was released.

What a mistake Sterling now realised he had made. In reminding himself of that secret debt, he had placed himself in a hell of his own doing.

Sterling would become used to the pain in his lungs as he bounced along the ocean with the buoyancy of a balloon, but the flicker of hope he would get every time that yacht would pass and she would wave from the balcony would cause a feeling each time more crushing than the pain the water held on him.

it was a dialogue only short story, where nothing is described by a narrator and its only through dialogue between the characters the story can be told

It was something like ‘dragons’ or ‘dragon hunters’ I forgot the name

​

Chapter 55: Have Mercy on Me

​The night had passed—dense, stifling, and steeped in a bizarre, surreal routine where the line between fear and addiction to the demonic presence blurred with every passing hour. The darkness in the Praga apartment seemed to carry a weight of its own, permeated by the subtle scent of jasmine, citrus, and heated skin that settled onto the walls and furniture, reminding Michał at every turn that his former, predictable life had evaporated beyond return.

​When the pale morning light broke through the blinds and danced across the sofa, Michał slowly parted his eyelids. Dust drifted lazily in the cool streaks of the Warsaw dawn, contrasting with the sweltering microclimate of the living room. The first thing his sleep-addled mind registered was that same familiar weight pressing down on his thighs. Naamah lay across the bed, her head resting comfortably on a velour cushion placed directly upon his lap. Her face was relaxed, stripped of its usual predatory sneer of superiority, and her eyes were closed. In this pale daybreak, she looked almost innocent—like a statue carved from the purest alabaster, upon which someone had whimsically bestowed fiery red hair.

​It was then he realized that his right hand was not resting on the duvet. Instinctively, still half-asleep, he had kept his hand buried deep within the thick tangle of her flame-red strands, his fingertips grazing the delicate skin at the nape of her neck.

​At the sight of this, an instinctive jolt of panic shot through the young man’s body. The memory of who—and what—the creature treating his lap like a personal den truly was struck him with the force of a sledgehammer. His muscles seized, and his fingers jerked upward to snatch his hand away as quickly as possible, before the Mother of Nightmares could interpret this unwitting familiarity as an insult worthy of flaying him alive.

​"No…" a whisper rose instantly. The demoness didn't flinch, but from her throat came a low purr devoid of anger, bearing instead a fervent, almost pleading demand. She sounded like a lioness stirred from lethargy, unwilling to have her sunbathing cut short. "Let it rest where it was. Put it back."

​Michał hesitated, feeling the warmth of her body beneath his thighs. His heart beat slightly faster, but he complied. Carefully, with devout restraint, he lowered his hand back onto her head, feeling the strands—cool on the surface yet blazing hot at their roots—softly wrap around his fingers.

​"Yesterday, as you were falling asleep… you did something strange," Naamah resumed after a moment. She still kept her eyes shut, her lips moving lazily while her velvety voice vibrated softly through the morning air, filling the room's silence with a low, magnetic resonance. "Those movements… you gave me an unbelievable pleasure through them, one I find entirely incomprehensible. I have read articles on the internet. They claim this phenomenon is called ASMR. You stroked my hair in such a specific, gentle, and slow manner that I still cannot grasp how it even affected my body. I… do not understand the mechanism behind it. And I detest things I cannot comprehend."

​For millennia she had studied the anatomy of pain and ecstasy, knew every nerve of mortals and every twitch of damned souls, yet she had been disarmed by the reflexive habit of a half-asleep bartender. She cracked one eyelid open. A deep, probing crimson flashed within her pupil, where pride clashed with defenseless fascination.

​"Try to repeat it, Michał. Please. I want to know whether you can summon it within me on command, in broad daylight, or if it was merely an accident."

​The young man exhaled slowly. The sight of an ancient demoness begging him to stroke her head like a domesticated pet bordered on pure absurdity. A creature before whom governments and a radicalizing Church trembled was now lounging on his beat-up sofa, demanding to be scratched behind the ear. Yet he felt the tension in his shoulders ease slightly, giving way to an unexpected surge of confidence. If the Devil herself was asking for something, it opened room for negotiation.

​"All right," he replied calmly, running his thumb along the base of her ear and sensing the faint, accelerated pulse beneath his finger. "On one condition: if I try, don't get angry, and be patient if something goes wrong. Last night I did it completely half-asleep; I had no idea what I was actually doing. You'll have to talk to me and answer my questions, guide my movements at first so I can get the hang of it. Tell me in real time whether I should move my hand slower or faster. Tell me how my fingers should lie in your strands, what motions to make with them…"

​"Longitudinal strokes first…" she murmured softly, yielding to the touch without resistance and closing her eyes as though leasing her vigilance out to him. "Lead your hand from the forehead along the skull, slowly, so that at the very end you gently trace small circles with your fingertips…"

​Michał drew a deep breath and began the slow motion. He buried his entire hand in the silky crimson, drawing his fingers along her head all the way to the nape of her neck, where he lightly swirled his fingertips, attempting to recreate the unwitting gesture from the night before.

​"Like this?" he asked cautiously, watching the profile of her face.

​"No… that's not it," she hissed with a trace of disappointment, though her body remained motionless, taut in anticipation of that single, correct impulse. "Too fast. Slower, much softer… gentler, as if you were terrified of disturbing the weave of a spiderweb. And I remember… using all your fingers. You were combing through my hair as if dividing it into four equal locks. Yes, that I remember vividly. And go lower, closer to the nape, just below the occiput… Though later in the night you slightly shifted the rhythm and the spot… Ah, yes… That is better…"

​"This way?" he asked in a low voice, slowing his pace to perfection and reducing the pressure almost to zero.

​His fingertips barely grazed the skin of her skull, drawing out a faint, barely audible rustle of parting hair. He combed through the thick, cool strands with reverent precision, gliding millimeter by millimeter toward the base of her neck to perform an almost imperceptible, circular micromassage right in the hollow where the skull met the spine.

​"Yes… by the Abyss, yes…" an involuntary, trembling sigh slipped from the demoness's throat, reminiscent of the wind sweeping across a bed of cinders. Her body went slack, as if someone had severed the invisible threads holding it together, and the weight of her head sank deeper into the cushion on his thighs. "Please, be silent now… Keep going like that… I'm starting to feel it… Those sparks… Please, do not stop…"

​For Naamah, the outside world ceased to exist. From the base of her skull, that same microscopic, velvety current surged once more. It resembled no sensation known to her—it was pure, physiological ecstasy of the nervous system, cascading down her neck in a thick, hypnotic wave and spreading across her shoulders and shoulder blades. Each slow stroke of his rough, warm fingers acted like a narcotic, stripping away centuries of wrath, blood, and the heat of brimstone from her ancient consciousness. She felt as though someone were washing away millennia of infernal sediment with clear spring water.

​Michał watched her in fascination. Seeing this proud, terrifying entity literally melt beneath his touch—watching her predatory features soften and her lips part in defenseless awe—he felt a sudden surge of boldness. The roles in this room had just undergone a subtle reversal. He decided to take a gamble.

​His left hand, which until now had rested idle on the back of the couch, slowly drifted downward. It settled softly onto her rounded buttock, tightly hugging the fabric of her shirt. Before she could react, his finger began tracing exceptionally slow, lazy circles over the cloth, matching their tempo to the rhythm of his right hand.

​"No…" she murmured sleepily, her brow furrowing slightly, though she lacked the strength to lift her eyelids, submerged too deeply in a sensory stupor. "Just the head… Do not ruin this, Michał…"

​"Trust me. Close your eyes," he whispered softly against her ear, using the exact same low, soothing cadence he had used to calm her down the day before while reading the comments.

​The demoness obediently fell silent, and he assumed complete mastery over her senses.

​Both of his hands—one buried deep in the fiery locks right against the occiput, the other resting heavy and assured upon her buttock—began moving in a flawlessly synchronized, hypnotic tandem. It was a steady, impossibly slow, gliding cadence. While the right hand caressed her scalp, combing through her strands of hair, the left gently kneaded and grazed her flesh, only to return a split second later to microscopic, circular brushes against the taut fabric.

​The effect was electrifying.

​Beneath the sheer silk shirt, a dense, pronounced gooseflesh erupted instantly across Naamah's entire back, visible even through the translucent material. Each movement on her buttock, far from disrupting the shivers traveling down from her head, amplified them tenfold; the impulses from her neck and the base of her spine converged in her loins, generating a throbbing, tingling wave of pure bliss that enclosed her nervous system within a flawless circuit. The demoness lay utterly defenseless, whimpering softly with every deep exhalation. She could feel her immortal vessel shuddering in a way no earthly or hellish tortures, no rituals, and no orgies she had presided over since the dawn of civilization had ever managed to provoke.

​A solid fifteen minutes passed this way.

​The room was submerged in silence, broken only by their measured breaths and the soft rustle of the bedding. Outside the window, Warsaw was stirring awake; the distant screech of a tram on Targowa Street could be heard, but here, time stood frozen. Naamah remained completely motionless with her eyes closed, suspended in a state of deep sensory trance, while the young man played upon her like a seasoned virtuoso at a concert grand—unhurried, steadily pressing the successive keys of her body and observing every minute twitch of muscle.

​Yet Michał, seeing her absolute surrender, chose to broaden the overture.

​After all, he had nowhere left to run. He had no night shift looming at the Babylon, no rent hanging over his head, nor the threat of empty pockets—the entire day belonged entirely to him. Having attained the status of a kept man to the queen of hell, he intended to earn his privileges thoroughly, and on his own terms.

​His left hand slid off her buttock and drifted lower in a slow, almost insolently lazy movement. His warm fingers slipped beneath the rolled-up hem of the fabric, catching onto the delicate, silky-smooth inner side of her thighs. He began to caress and gently tease the heated skin, gliding his fingertips up and down, yet with deliberate care stopping just inches shy of the very core of her womanhood, refusing to cross the final boundary. He was teasing her, stoking a tension so thick it practically sparked beneath his fingers.

​Naamah responded instantly, wholly unconsciously, driven spontaneously by the primal instincts of her demonic form. Without opening her eyes and still keeping her head on the cushion across his lap, she shifted her posture. She arched her spine, lifting and thrusting her hips slightly upward in a distinct, provocative manner to grant him fuller, unhindered access, wordlessly and helplessly pleading to erase that final boundary dividing them.

​For Michał, it was an overwhelming sight. With his right hand he continued methodically parting her auburn locks at the nape, sustaining an unbroken cascade of shivers, while his left took its time exploring the most sensitive inner reaches of her thighs. The warmth radiating from her frame was turning nearly scalding, as though dormant lava were awakening beneath her alabaster skin. The demoness's flesh broke out in fine goosebumps once more, and beneath the thin fabric of her shirt, her nipples—without any direct touch from him, solely under the influence of this unearthly barrage of stimuli—hardened and rose proudly, straining in the morning light like two sharp buds.

​Sensory overload mounted by the second, thickening the air around them to its absolute limit. Naamah felt the ASMR wave, until now soothing and tranquil, mutate violently into something far more colossal—into a wild culmination over which she held no control whatsoever. Two extreme poles of sensation—absolute relaxation and animalistic arousal—coiled together into a single destructive force of nature. She was standing right at the precipice.

​In a fraction of a second, her eyes flared wide, blazing with the furious, blinding emerald of the Abyss. Panic at losing dominion over her own flesh seized her. For a being that was the very incarnation of infernal power, such a caress meant only one thing: Michał had just drawn inevitably close to a bloody, excruciating death.

​"Stop…" she rasped hoarsely, and from the tips of her fingers, razor-sharp black talons slid out with a metallic snap, burying themselves deep into the sofa right beside his leg, slicing through the slipcover and foam like butter. "Stop right now, you fool… or you will perish… stop this instant… caress only my head…"

​Her breath was ragged, savage, and her entire frame quivered like a bowstring about to snap.

​Michał, however, did not so much as flinch. He did not pull his hand from between her thighs, and the fingers in her hair merely slowed, brushing her occiput with insolent, mocking composure. He looked straight into her eyes, which pulsed with murderous heat, a ghost of a confident smirk gracing his lips. He realized that in this contest, he was holding all the cards.

​"I won't die," he murmured quietly, gazing at her without a trace of his former fear. "Because who else is going to do this for you? Put those claws away, Naamah… You said yourself that I'm going to heaven anyway. So you won't kill me…" he finished with quiet, provocative amusement, looking down at her like a gambler who had just pushed all his chips onto a single card, knowing the dealer was bluffing.

​"Stop… you fool, I am deadly serious… you idiot," she said in a choked, breathless voice, in which the threat crumbled beneath the sheer weight of her terror. The flames in her emerald eyes flickered wildly, betraying the panic of a creature losing authority over her own senses for the first time since the creation of the Christian world. "It will happen in a moment, it will become stronger than me! I will lose control, and then…"

​She tried to pull back. She attempted to gingerly lift her hips and slide off his lap, frantically metering her strength so as not to accidentally crush the fragile mortal—her property—beneath her. Michał, however, had no intention of letting her go. Before she could complete even half a motion, his left hand, unerring and without a hint of hesitation, cupped her swollen, heat-drenched clitoris. He captured it between two fingers—firmly, with the precision of an explosive ordnance technician defusing a bomb, ensuring that any twitch on her part threatened to detonate an even more immense, incapacitating stimulus.

​Naamah froze, a stifled, helpless hiss escaping her throat. She was trapped, immobilized not by iron chains or an exorcism, but by her own runaway, overstretched physiology.

​With the pad of his index finger, he began slowly, methodically drawing back her flushed hood, teasing the sensitive, throbbing tip with near-surgical accuracy.

​"Hush…" he whispered with almost hypnotic calm, leaning down toward her, while his right hand continually dispatched fresh ripples of tingling down her neck. "Bury your claws into the headboard. The couch is old and already torn up by you; don't worry about it. Relax and focus your entire will solely on keeping those talons rooted in the wood and upholstery, not in me."

​"Stop… stop, you fool, I will kill you!" she tossed her head against the velour pillow, her thick red waves coiling around her face like flames. "Stop, no… I beg… of you…"

​She writhed in the torment of pure ecstasy, waging a titanic war within herself. Every fiber of her ancient frame tore toward flight or murderous assault, yet with all her might, straining her muscles until her bones trembled, she forced herself not to unleash even a fraction of a percent of her inhuman strength. After all, she was lying right in his lap; a single violent jerk, a single uncontrolled spasm of her mighty demonic thighs could shatter his forearm, snap his hand, and crush his joints to pulp. Her entire demonic majesty had now shrunk to a solitary purpose: to save this impudent, brazen human from herself.

​The black, razor-sharp talons shredded the fabric with a dull crunch and sank deep into the pine framework of the headboard, anchoring her in place like grappling irons. The wood groaned pitifully under the onslaught of infernal force.

​And Michał did not slow down. The rhythm of his fingers was ruthless—steady, measured to the millimeter, striking unerringly at the very nexus of her demonic physiology. Merely a dozen seconds later, her entire form went rigid in a paroxysm of an orgasm so immense and shattering that a high, piercing cry tore from her lips, echoing through the tenement and setting the glasses on the kitchen counter rattling. A wave of exaltation rolled through her spine like an avalanche of liquid fire, extinguishing the last remnants of consciousness and leaving behind only the blinding white of pure pleasure.

​When the fiercest convulsion had passed and her limp body slumped heavily against his thighs, the young man smiled faintly, looking down at the heavily panting mistress of nightmares.

​"See?" he murmured with insolent satisfaction. "You can do it when you want to."

​"You madman, you fool… stop already, for Hell's sake, stop…" she wheezed with difficulty, greedily gasping for air. Her forehead glistened with sweat, and her pale cheeks burned crimson, giving her face an impossibly human, sensual expression. "God… no…"

​"Easy, easy…" he whispered softly, never breaking the caress for even a split second.

​What was more—he began subtly picking up the pace and the intensity of his pressure. Taking advantage of her body's natural moisture, he worked his fingers in a dense, uniform cadence that did not allow her nervous system to come down from its extreme arousal even for a moment. Each stroke rekindled the dying embers in her loins, transforming the hypersensitivity following her first peak into a sweet, unrelenting torture.

​"Did you think you were the first woman in my life, Naamah? The first demoness, sure, but not the first woman," he remarked with quiet, unashamed candor, looking at her flushed shoulders and wildly heaving chest. His former insecurities had evaporated, replaced by the cool pride of a craftsman who knows the worth of his trade. "Because of my burns, I couldn't have conventional sex. Over the years, I had to learn how to pleasure my few partners in an entirely different way. There are plenty of books detailing various techniques. I had time to master them to perfection… Lie still, close your eyes, and don't change your position. With your head in my lap and your hips arched up, I have the perfect angle. I can feel the blood pulsing inside you beneath my fingers… Just a moment more and you'll be ready for round two. You are clearly about to come again."

​"It is too much…" she moaned wretchedly, digging her claws even deeper into the sofa's mangled wood until dry splinters and tufts of upholstery foam showered out. Her hips bucked helplessly, caught between flight and desire. "Stop… have mercy… have mercy on me…"

​Naamah, the terror and majesty of the Abyss, lay splayed across his knees, begging an ordinary bartender for mercy against her own climax.

​Her pleas were in vain. Michał was deaf to her begging, steering her with a steady hand right through the heart of the tempest he had unleashed. A few unerring, deep strokes of his fingertips were enough to make her body explode for a second time in an untamed surge of pleasure. Naamah arched her back, a choked sob mingling with a rapturous cry tearing from her throat, while another dense wave of sensory shivers cascaded down her alabaster back, uniting the tingling at the base of her skull with the volcanic contraction in her lower abdomen. When she collapsed back down, she was completely spent—helpless, trembling, and radiating heat like a stoked furnace.

​A long, steaming silence fell over the room, disturbed only by her ragged, heavy breathing and the quiet creaking of the sofa's strained frame.

​Michał slowly withdrew his wet hand, licked her juices from his fingers with unhurried deliberation, tasting the sweetish, metallic-spicy tang on his tongue, and carefully slid his numb legs out from under her limp body. Bracing his palms against the edge of the couch, he attempted to stand. A muffled hiss escaped his lips.

​"See?" he tossed out with a wince of pain, straightening his stiff spine and aching legs; even though Naamah had kept her strength in check while writhing, she had still left her mark in the form of deep, already purple-tinged bruises where her hips and chest had pressed against his thighs. "I survived."

​Naamah lay motionless, face buried in the pillow, only her auburn locks quivering faintly to the rhythm of her shallow breaths. Only after a good while did she turn her head slightly, peering at him with a single emerald eye still clouded with pleasure.

​"With what you have done, you have sealed your fate by my side," she purred low, her voice ringing like an irrevocable sentence. "And now that I know you somehow survived my bliss, knowing that I am capable of holding back before… I will be demanding similar caresses from you far, far more often… my Michał."

​She stretched lazily across the devastated sofa, slowly regaining her composure, though her fingers still trembled faintly against the shredded headboard.

​"Tomorrow we go to Wiktor, Elżbieta, and Tas. Enough of this farce… It is time they met my chosen one…"

The Philosopher Cat

A while ago, I was outside pondering my existence while gazing at the clouds. I must have been lost in the view for half an hour when I noticed a dark-gray male tabby cat sitting next to a tree a few feet away. He was gazing up at the clouds, too, and had the eyes of a shrewd soul. So I called him the Philosopher Cat.

The Philosopher Cat didn't have a collar, so I assumed he might be a stray. However, the lack of scratches and his well-kept fur suggested that he might have escaped from home and once had an owner. Without giving it much thought, I left the spot beneath the tree and went home.

A day later, there was a party in the park in front of my house. It was my cousin's birthday, and there were a bunch of kids running around. I saw a few stray cats sneaking in to grab food from the tables whenever no one was looking. But it struck me as odd that the Philosopher Cat was sitting a little farther away, completely uninterested in the food. Unless someone offered him some, he wouldn't eat.

This cat is very well-mannered. He isn't driven by his primitive instincts like the other cats, I thought.

But I was even more surprised when the kids approached him. As you may know, kids can be savages when it comes to cats. Yet the Philosopher Cat behaved remarkably well and never once lashed out, even when the kids played rough with him. I figured he must have an extraordinary amount of patience.

This was no ordinary cat. To make things even funnier, the white triangle on his chest made him look as though he were wearing a suit, giving him an air of sophistication.

On the third day, I went beneath the tree to ponder again. Guess who showed up? That's right. The Philosopher Cat made his way over and sat nearby. I patted the ground next to me, and he came over and sat down.

Huh. He understood what I meant.

I walked over to a small wall and patted the top twice. The cat followed me and sat there, too.

This is the smartest cat I've ever met, I thought.

We returned to our spot beneath the tree and watched the sunset together. Until then, I had never been particularly interested in cats, but I was seriously considering taking this one home because of his unique personality. There was just one problem: my parents had a strict no-pets policy.

"I'll find a way to bring you home, dear friend," I told him. "Just give me tonight to think."

I brought him some food and water before heading home. During dinner, I cautiously tested the waters with my parents.

"Wouldn't it be great if I got a cat?" I asked.

Needless to say, the answer was a resounding "NO."

So, given their response, I came up with a temporary plan. I'd sneak the Philosopher Cat into my room while looking for a friend who could adopt him. That way, I could visit him whenever I wanted and help cover the cost of his food and vet bills.

The next day, I saw a neighbor driving his Mustang down my street at 80 mph in a 30 mph zone. Every Sunday, this college dropout of a jerk loved burning rubber and speeding around like a fool. And because his father was the police chief, he never faced any consequences.

As I walked toward the tree, I noticed muddy tracks in the dirt beside it, looping around in circles. The idiot must have been doing donuts for fun.

Then I noticed a grayish lump lying in one of the tracks.

My heart sank when I recognized the striped fur. As I got closer, I saw the white triangle on his chest.

It was him.

I couldn't hold back my tears.

I regretted not taking him off the streets when I'd had the chance. I buried him beneath the tree, where he had once sat pondering the sky with me.

His time with me had been so brief, so fleeting. I will never forget his soul, and I will always be grateful for the friendship he gave me.

I still sit beneath that tree and ponder sometimes. And I hope that, somewhere on the other side, he still does, too.

The Philosopher Cat.

It’s All Over Now (Book 3)-Chapter 62!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

Previously named Kickdrum Beating in My Chest Again (Alternate Version).

 

Chapter 62!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My Fic
Fandom - Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Cobra Starship, Panic! At the Disco, and The Academy Is
Rating – Mature or Teen Audience 18 and Up
Title – It’s All Over Now (Book 3)
Genre - Prison AU, Fantasy, Supernatural (Vampires, Fairies and Werewolves), Paranormal
Off-site link for ease of reading. AO3 or FFN encouraged - https://archiveofourown.org/series/5803586 (Link to all three books of the Until Your Breathing Stops Forever Series.

 

You will need to read Just One Mistake Is All It Will Take (Prologue) (Book 1) and Let Your Teeth Sink In (Book 2) or this story won't make sense!

https://www.wattpad.com/write/series/134890

Summary -

This takes place in a Prison and incorporates Fall Out Boy and Vampires. Patrick is a doctor in a prison and is happily married. One day a new prisoner comes in named Pete Wentz, who is there to break William Beckett out of prison. Pete arranges for a riot of the prisoners to act as a distraction for his escape plan, but it fails.  Afterwards, Patrick feels himself being drawn to Pete and he doesn't know why. When Patrick must transfer a stabbing patient to the hospital, things go very, very wrong. Patrick is framed for a crime he didn't commit. How will he adjust to life in prison? How will he get out? Will he ever see Pete again?

 

****Read the Tags! This Story Discusses Mature Content! Reader Discretion is Advised! There will be Trigger Warnings at the beginnings of each chapter*****

 

Hello! I'm Dancecoaster!  Welcome to It's All Over Now (Book 3), book three of the Until Your Breathing Stops Forever Series!  This story picks up right after Let Your Teeth Sink In (Book 2) ended. I've been working on this story for a long time.  I'd love for you to read, comment on it, and discuss the story with you!  Please don't be shy!  They are all listed on both A03 and Wattpad (see links above). I'm looking for them to get more traffic, and to share them with as many people as possible. Enjoy and please tell your friends!

 

I don't know if its shyness or whatever, but I've been in several situations where people stare at me, either in public or the workplace or when hanging out maybe etc etc, but they DONT SAY ANYTHING, its like theyre trying to send me a telepathic message and I just don't respond because I don't know WHY theyre staring at me goddangit.

Just recently I saw my old highschool english teacher while I was at the trainstation. He looked completely different obvious because Im 30 and Ive been out of highschool for a long time lol, I still look mostly the same, I constantly get mistaken for being way younger than I am, but he had lost a lot of weight and his hair had gone completely gray, so I didnt even know who he was, he was just a dude staring at me in my mind. He stared at me for like three or four minutes while I sat waiting for my train, listening to music, and I glanced at him maybe twice and he never said anything just stared at me like he had seen a ghost or something. It wasnt til my train arrived and I was headed home that I thought...wait that was my old english teacher. Im so mad he didnt say anything because I loved his class and we had a good relationship! I wouldve missed my train to chat with him for a while if he had only SAID SOMETHING!

It happened again at my new job. I just started this job and one of my coworkers noticed that I take public transport, so he offered to drive me home on my second or third day working here. I was like sure, thats so nice, and I complimented him on his lovely car, its vintage and gorgeous and impeccably maintained. So we get to my house and I say thank you again and smile at him and he just stares at me....like hes sending me telepathic messages...and I just go..."ok, see you later" and I get out and go in my house...and its not til later that I thought, "oh my god, he was waiting for me to invited him inside!!!" Im a huge freak and he was incredibly handsome, he looks like Robert Pattinson, exactly my type, and I wouldve gladly welcomed him into my bedroom but all he did was STARE and not say a WORD, so I just felt awkward and didnt know what was happening. UGH!!!! Sadly I cant even text or call him to hookup because hes a substitute teacher (Im an art teacher) and I didnt get his number and I havent seen him since. (Facepalm.)

Those are just two incidents of this happening, but I have more because a lot of people for some reason just stare at people instead of saying anything! Its so frustrating! Im not Sherlock Holmes, when people just stare I often just assume theyre angry or something and I dont say anything to them, I just ignore them for safety reasons...ugh, I just wish people would use their godgiven mouths instead of trying to be telepaths! I've missed out on so many connections and experiences because people wont just say something and stare like I should know what theyre thinking by their expressions or whatever. Everyone always tells me that I should say "What?" or something when someone is just staring but I never think to do that in the moment, I wish my brain worked that way but it just doesnt and this frustrates me to no end and I just wanted to share this with you guys and get it off my chest lol, thank you.

Have you ever had someone say something that made you question all the patience, kindness, and consideration you had shown them?
Something that made you wish you had treated them the way they deserved from the very beginning?

What did they say, and that made you finally realize that your kindness might have been wasted on them?

I will start first,

In 8th or 7th grade I had this friend of mine in my boarding school, not exactly my friend but more like mutual.

One weekend when he and I were talking alone he told me how he met this one Japanese girl on discord who has pink hair and likes anime, and how they both started a relationship in 6th grade but her father found out and broke them up and how they secretly talked and stayed in contact.

I knew the story was fake but didn't say shit, during holidays, I asked him to show me proof but he didn't have any and told me deleted discord and shit🤣🤣

So, the reason is that it creates too much stress—thinking, "Oh no, I haven't posted today, I'm going to embarrass myself!" Another issue is that when you post every day, it becomes really difficult to come up with ideas; and when you don't know what to post, you end up doing something else instead. When I first started posting, I was excited because I had so much to share, but now I have less to say. Posting every day starts to feel like someone is forcing me to do it—I want to be free, and I can't keep doing this. So, starting today, 16/10/2026, I will NO LONGER post every day. From now on, I’ll post whenever an idea comes to mind or I happen to remember something. If you don't know me yet, feel free to check out my profile—you'll find plenty of stories from my life, and you can also give me a follow! With that said, this chapter comes to a close.

I take the same bus home every night.

Same route. Same driver. Same handful of tired people staring at their phones or out the window like they’re waiting for something to change.

It never does.

On cue, the bus empties out stop by stop until it’s just me and two other blank slates by the time we reach the outskirts. Long stretches of road. No streetlights. Just the hum of the engine and the occasional flicker of passing headlights.

By the time we roll under the old highway tunnel, the lights of the bus flicker.

And as we exit the tunnel's grasp, that’s when he appears.

He got on at a stop that doesn’t exist.

I know that sounds wrong, but I’ve been riding this route for almost a year.

He just... appears. Out of thin air.

He never bothered anyone, nor I. But he always wore a dark trench coat, even though its summer. I never got a good look of his appearance, though.

But one night, the bus slowed.

No one else reacted. The driver didn’t look up. It was always like this, we kept moving like nothing had happened.

This time, he wore dark maroon coat. I got a peak... His face was… hard to describe. Not ugly, just difficult to focus on. Like my eyes didn’t want to settle on it.

He never said a word.

He walked down the aisle and sat a few rows behind me.

Always behind me.

I tried not to look at him. You learn that pretty quickly riding late buses. Mind your business. Keep your head down.

I checked the reflection in the window.

He was watching me.

Not casually. Not like someone zoning out.

He was staring directly at me.

The moment I turned, he looked away.

That’s when I started paying attention to the others.

No one else ever looked at him.

Not once.

I even tried to make it obvious. I stood up, turned around, and glanced straight at him like I was checking if a seat was open.

The woman across the aisle just kept scrolling on her phone.

Didn’t even notice I was staring at something behind her.

That was the first time I felt it.

That quiet, creeping thought:

He’s not here for them.

A week later, I decided to test something.

When the bus slowed out the tunnel, I stood up.

There he was...

Though, instead of sitting down, I moved to the very back of the bus.

For the first time, I was behind him.

He stopped in the aisle.

Just stood there.

Slowly, he turned his head.

I couldn’t see his face clearly, but I felt it. That same focused attention, locked onto me.

Then he walked forward.

Past all the empty seats.

Past the others.

Until he reached the row just in front of me.

And sat down.

Still facing forward.

Still silent.

But now… closer.

I got off three stops early that night.

I didn’t care about the walk. I just needed to be off that bus.

I told myself I was overreacting. That it was just some guy. Some weird, quiet passenger with bad timing.

The next night, I almost didn’t ride.

But routine is a hard thing to break.

So I got on.

Same seat.

Same route.

Same silence.

We passed the usual stops.

Then we approached the tunnel.

The bus slowed.

We exited.

He didn't appear.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

Maybe it was over.

Maybe he was gone.

The bus kept moving.

And then I heard it.

Right behind me.

The soft creak of a seat shifting under weight.

I didn’t turn around.

I didn’t have to.

Because I could see him now.

In the reflection of the window.

Closer than ever.

Leaning forward slightly.

Watching me.

Waiting.

And when my stop finally came, I stood up slowly, trying not to show how fast my heart was beating.

I stepped off the bus.

The doors closed.

The bus pulled away.

I watched it disappear down the road.

And for a moment, I thought I was safe.

Until I heard footsteps behind me.

Not rushed.

Not heavy.

Just steady.

Following.

I don’t take the bus anymore.

But every night, around the same time I used to get home, I hear it.

That same slow, deliberate step.

Just outside my door.

Waiting for me to let it in.

Behind Kali Amma's temple lived a deadly viper named Anali. He hunted only at night and spent his days coiled under the dry leaves, for a viper seen is a viper feared. The rats that raided the temple's waste pit kept him well fed. That he existed was a secret between him and the rats.

Years went by, and he grew long and hefty on the easy prey, which he took to be Kali Amma's grace.

One day, a yellow rat snake, Cherran, happened to pass by the temple. He noticed rats feeding in the temple pit and crept towards it. He lunged a few times, but the rats scattered and he caught none. Cherran decided to stay nearby. He might just get lucky another day.

"Why would anyone worry about a simple rat snake like me?" he often wondered. Cherran could easily be spotted among the dry leaves and the shrubs, basking in sunlight.

One morning, as Cherran lay in the soft sun, a flock of babblers foraging nearby burst into a racket. Up in the jackfruit tree, a jungle crow heard it and spotted Cherran. He cawed and cawed.

The squirrels climbed up to the treetops. The peafowl and other birds perched high and looked down to find out what the frantic cawing was about. The jungle crow told them that he had seen a large snake, possibly a yellow python, lying in the grass. Maybe it was resting after a meal, but now it had disappeared. Hearing all the commotion, Cherran hid himself in the bushes.

By then, the animals and birds had decided to get help from Kiri, the mongoose who lived in the neighbourhood.

"He is large, a large yellow python," said the squirrel.

"Yes, we have spotted him many times by the temple pit," said the rats.

"I spotted him first," said the jungle crow.

Kiri took up the challenge—a python was something he had never encountered. "Yet another ode to my courage," he thought.

Kiri came over to the temple pit. He waited amongst the bushes for the python to show up. As always, the rats were raising a din in the pit: shrieks, squeaks, and cries. Other animals waited anxiously for news from the pit.

The day passed without any sighting. Kiri decided to spend the night nearby.

Past midnight, he heard a rustle moving slowly towards the pit. A few rats got a whiff of it and left the pit.

Kiri inched closer. He crouched, ready to lunge. Finally he pounced onto something; there was a struggle in the dark. The rats fled, squeaking. He bit into it hard until it stopped moving.

The bats watching from the temple peepal tree flew out to spread the news.

Kiri spent a while eating his catch. When he left, the rats returned; they feasted on the bits of flesh strewn on the ground. It was Anali.

The next day, Cherran caught a rat. He took his catch and slithered away from the temple.

Chapter 54: Pleasure.

​When they finally finished eating and the demoness allowed him to dress, Naamah didn't even twitch to recall the guise of the modest brunette. With one fluid motion, she tossed her thick hair back over her shoulders, moving through the apartment with predatory, unbridled freedom, while a cascade of fiery red flowed in waves over her fair, bare shoulders.

​"Starting today, whenever I go out and stay with you, I will be in my true human form, rather than as that bland, mediocre Walentyna," she announced with a giggle, pulling a silk shirt over herself.

​Michał froze mid-step, clutching one leg of his jeans in his fists, and the remnants of color that had managed to return to his face instantly drained away.

​"Please, no..." he groaned with genuine panic in his voice, waving his hands nervously. "Other people live in this apartment building. My mother lives just a few streets away, one of the tenants will report her to her right away. Every single person in this stairwell and on the sidewalk will recognize you instantly."

​"So what if they do, my darling?" she scoffed, genuinely amused, fastening the next buttons with absolute, icy calm. "What are they going to do to me? Start snapping pictures with their phones in a panic? Toss some snide remark from behind a curtain? People in this earthly valley know very well that messing with me can end very, very badly for them."

​"The Church... The Church is horribly radicalized right now all over the country, no, the world!" the boy blurted out, clutching his head in desperation. "After everything that has happened, Sunday sermons sound like open calls for a lynching, people could go religiously insane, and you just want to parade around the city in full glory with me?"

​"Oh, give it a rest with all that Church business," she waved a hand dismissively, a mocking infernal spark dancing in her eyes. "Half of those overzealous hypocrites have so many foul sins on their consciences that their pathetic prayers burn out before they even manage to reach the ceiling. Besides... I can defend myself without the slightest problem. And I'll protect you too. Get moving, Michal. I'm usually quite nice, but at this very moment, this is an official order as your mistress. I am thoroughly sick of hiding under someone else's boring face."

​She walked up to him with a springy step, resting her slender hands on her hips and sizing him up with a mocking smirk. He was her undisputed property—a precious trophy pulled straight from behind a club bar.

​"Oh, and one more thing: starting this morning, you no longer work at Babylon. You don't have to stand behind the bar until dawn anymore."

​"Pardon?" Michał's eyes widened, completely losing his footing. "What do you mean I don't work? What am I supposed to live on, how am I supposed to pay the rent for this apartment?"

​"You'll get a generous guaranteed income from the government," she tossed out with effortless, aristocratic nonchalance, as if discussing the purchase of a tram ticket. "Their only task from the very beginning was to ensure that I, Wiktor, Elżbieta, and Tas are fully satisfied. They look after our peace and bring us absolutely everything right under our noses. And since I've made up my mind that I want to be with you now, they must also make sure not to upset me with your lack of time. Michał, you must have time for your woman, for your mistress..."

​The boy sank heavily onto the edge of the mattress, shaking his head in helpless disbelief.

​"So after this one night, I have absolutely nothing to say anymore? You and some secret government agreements with demons are the ones deciding my own life and future from now on?"

​"Exactly, my dear. I decide, not some secret agreements, just me... You don't have to say anything anymore," Naamah purred, leaning over him and stroking the tense line of his jaw with predatory, intimate tenderness. "Remember, I touched you after everything... I know perfectly well how wildly you liked it. I felt every accelerated heartbeat under my fingers."

​"Liked it, fine, I'm not denying it at all, I never would have guessed that... I am capable..." choked out the boy, his face bright red, his eyes darting away to the side in shame. "But sex isn't everything after all. How are we even supposed to function together on a daily basis, how are we supposed to, purely hypothetically..."

​"Hush now," she cut him off softly, placing a silencing finger on his lips. "Starting today, I'm moving in with you and living with you for a solid week. You finally need to know my true face in the harsh light of day. True, it's surprisingly human, beautiful, and I'm quite calm on a daily basis, as long as no one decides to provoke me, of course. And if this crazy arrangement of ours doesn't work out... well, too bad. At the most, you'll write a book afterward: How I Picked Up a Demoness in a Bar – Practical Tips."

​Naamah burst into a guttural, melodic laugh, though deep within her emerald pupils, for a split second, flashed the flame of the Abyss, where there was no room for jokes.

​"Of course, on condition that I don't kill you first, because I handle rejection very badly," she purred with predatory sweetness, grazing the violently pulsing artery on his neck with a sharp, black talon. "Because if you even try to betray me or run away... Hellraiser awaits you. But if you are good, faithful, and satisfy and accept my whims, I will open up a world of the greatest delight for you that no mortal on this planet even dares to dream of. If you survive this, I guarantee you, Michał... it will be an absolute bestseller. And now get up, you need to gather your strength for the rest of the day."

​Suddenly, to Michał's great astonishment, Naamah reached into her purse, pulled out a smartphone, lifted it with a confident motion of her hand, and without a trace of embarrassment took an extremely sensual duck-face selfie. Her face and red hair completely filled the frame. Right after that, her long, slender fingers began tapping on the glass screen with inhuman, mechanical speed.

​"Oh, by the way... Come here to me immediately and smile nicely," she tossed, waving her hand toward him. "I just created my official Facebook account: 'Naamah – motherOfNightmares'. Get that phone of yours out, log into your profile. I've already sent you an official friend request. You are going to accept it right now, change your relationship status to 'in a relationship', and link yourself directly to my profile. I've already changed mine by linking to your profile. It's time to make some proper noise on the net for my amusement..."

​Michał looked at her as if powerful, sprawling horns had suddenly sprouted on her forehead.

​"Are you completely serious about this?" he choked out, helplessly letting his arms drop along his torso.

​"Of course I am!" she laughed silvery, lovingly sizing him up from head to toe like a precious prize she was about to display in a cabinet for the gaping crowd. "I finally want to officially show you off to the whole world. Let everyone look and burst with jealousy."

​Before he could protest with even a single word, she pulled him with merciless force to her side, a blinding camera flash burst in the room, and the boy—completely resigned and still dazed by the turn of events—had to obediently click on the screen everything she demanded.

​Just ten minutes later, Michał's phone began to vibrate so wildly on the wooden nightstand that it almost crashed onto the floor with a thud. On the illuminated display pulsed a huge word: "MAMA".

​"What the fuck..." groaned the boy from the bottom of his gut, grabbing his head with both hands. "My mother is calling me. She must have noticed it already. She's going to have a heart attack immediately! She'll be terrified to death!"

​"Answer that call, Michał," Naamah dropped with unconcealed amusement, sitting cross-legged on the rumpled sheet and lazily watching his mounting panic. Though she treated the whole situation like an exquisite, grotesque farce with a new toy in the lead role, deep within her gaze sparked authentic curiosity. "She'll certainly calm down as soon as she hears your voice. Just make sure to switch to speakerphone. It's time for me to finally meet my new mother-in-law, if only from a distance."

​With a trembling, sweaty thumb, Michał answered the call and pressed the speaker icon. A hysterical, shaken to the absolute limit women's scream immediately burst from the small device:

​"Michał?! Michał, my son, have you completely lost your mind in this world?! What in God's name is supposed to mean all over the internet?! This is some AI, right?! I'm begging you, tell me it's artificial intelligence, that someone just hacked your account! This has to be some sick fake! Delete it immediately, erase this cursed profile, because if a real demon finds out about this, he'll..."

​Naamah grabbed Michał's phone and switched to a video call. Michał's mother accepted the request to change the call format.

​"Good day, ma'am," Naamah smoothly interjected, leaning toward the microphone and camera with a velvety, predatory smile. Her low, mesmerizing vocal timbre sliced through the nervous chatter like a sharp scalpel in a fraction of a second. "Let me reassure you: this is neither a fake nor any artificial intelligence. Michał is completely safe in my hands, fed, and thoroughly pampered."

​She shifted the phone to Michał's face only to point it back at herself a moment later. "I can't wait for our first live meeting. If you feel like it, please drop by for coffee without any hesitation or fear."

​Dead, ear-ringing silence fell on the other end of the line, and then a short, panicked signal of a abruptly terminated video call echoed from the speaker. Naamah burst into such a loud, unrestrained laugh that she hid her face in her hands, while Michał slid down the cool wall with a helpless groan.

​Time passed in a bizarre, surreal suspension between Michał's overpowering fear and Naamah's prose of everyday life—cooking meals together, late-night movie marathons, and intimacy thick with erotic tension during which Michał's heart pounded wildly under the demoness's confident touch. Every time she stroked his taut skin, she effortlessly penetrated the chaotic thicket of his thoughts, flawlessly reading in them panic mixed with helpless, overpowering desire for her body and caresses. Naamah treated him unceremoniously as her precious, fragile prize—rearranging the furniture in the apartment as she saw fit, dictating meal times, and unashamedly making use of his body whenever the mood struck her.

​And yet, to her own deep surprise, in moments when she saw the boy making tea for himself and asking if she would like some too, explaining the complicated intricacies of human relationships, she felt a sudden, sharp stab of genuine pride and a warmth hitherto unknown. She caught herself starting to think of him as a real partner—someone whose opinion was beginning to have real meaning for her. This fragile mortal, suddenly placed face-to-face with a creature from the deepest abysses, still hadn't cracked, hadn't gone mad with terror, and by some incomprehensible miracle was holding his ground.

​"Fear and delight are, after all, a perfect mixture, a foundation for building something much more durable," she thought with predatory satisfaction, instantly masking this nascent attachment with cold calculation. It also helped that the boy had previously managed to genuinely like "Walentyna," and the vivid memory of those warm moments effectively suppressed in him the urge for an immediate, panicked escape. Even if that modest girl was merely an illusory mask, the seed of trust had been sown and was now beginning to sprout on her own terms.

​Unfortunately, the fact remained that Michał's mother, paralyzed by fear, never once dared to cross the threshold of the Pragian tenement house—though Naamah repeated with a mocking smile that she might change her mind after some time, once the initial emotions subsided. Instead, the woman called her son at least three times a day, in a trembling, tearful voice making sure whether the boy was still breathing and whether his body still remained in one intact piece.

​"She really must truly love you," Naamah dismissed one afternoon, laughing under her breath as Michał once again explained to his mother over the phone that he hadn't been offered as any bloody sacrifice yet, that everything was fine.

​Sixth evening together.

​Naamah stretched sensuously on the couch and looked at him from beneath a storm of red strands: "You know what, Michał? Tonight I feel like a little change. Let's leave my guts and macabre horror movies alone for a moment. Let's watch some light, completely bloodless romantic comedy. Find something on those platforms, this time I'll leave the movie choice to you."

​Michał raised his eyebrows high, genuinely surprised that she allowed him to make any decision at all, but without another word he began browsing the internet catalogs.

​When deep twilight fell, they sat together on the couch in the cozy, warm twilight of the living room. On their laps they held a large bowl of freshly popped, butter-scented popcorn, and on the television screen the opening credits of already the second cult romantic comedy of the evening, Pretty Woman, slowly scrolled by. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, the boy noticed the demoness raising her phone again at a strange, calculated angle.

​"Are you going to post something again?" he asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

​"Of course?" she smiled, genuinely amused. "I'm taking a cute little selfie of us eating popcorn during a movie! Let the whole world see how wonderfully my prey lives."

​The screen flashed with bright light, and a second later Naamah swiped her finger across the display, browsing incoming network notifications.

​"Oh, just look at these comments," she turned the screen toward him. "There are a dozen thousand of them within just a few seconds, and in every possible language in the world. Under every single post of ours, it's boiling just like in a kettle of sulfur. See what amazing luck you have, dear Michał? Just look at this one here: he's asking you outright how on earth you managed to pick me up. Go on, answer him, share your secrets with that curious poor bastard."

​Her joyful tone, however, broke off in a fraction of a second. The demoness's facial features instantly hardened, her skin grew even paler in a deadly, dangerous tension, and her emerald irises flared with the blinding heat of the Abyss.

​"But this comment... this one already annoyed me," she growled in a low, guttural bass that shook the glass panes in the tenement windows. "Some fucking Latin prayers, calls to exorcisms, and open death threats written against you on my official profile... Do these small, pathetic worms really think I won't track them down? That if I just want to, I won't find them and skin them alive while you're sleeping sweetly?"

​The air in the room thickened in a fraction of a second with the biting, suffocating stench of ozone and scorching, and black, razor-sharp talons involuntarily slid out from her slender fingers. Michał felt a cold trickle of sweat running down his back. He understood with complete clarity that they were mere seconds away from a bloody slaughter. Even though just a few days ago the very sight of her rage paralyzed him, now—seeing this blind fury—he suddenly felt something like a desperate responsibility for the life of this fool. He couldn't let this idiot die over a stupid post on the net.

​"Don't do it," he said surprisingly calmly, placing his hand directly on her extended talons. He touched her without a trace of his former fear, looking straight into her pupils pulsing with murderous red. "Stop it. It's just a stupid comment from some frustrated human, an internet idiot. Why are you even looking at that? You're provoking people like this yourself with all those posts with me in the lead role."

​Naamah looked down at his warm hand resting securely on her fingers, and in her dilated eyes flashed genuine surprise at his courage. No other mortal knowing her true nature would have dared to touch her in a moment of demonic irritation, let alone dared to lecture her. Not even Adelajda, not even the Countess and Wiktor, not to mention Cezary, dared to do that.

​"Don't kill him, please, if you really want to spend time with me, I beg you," Michał repeated in a much softer, pleading tone, gently tightening his fingers on her talons. "Put that phone away. Just watch this movie with me... Please."

​The demoness stared at him for long, unbearably tense seconds. In her ancient mind, two powerful worlds collided: the primal reflex of a merciless ancient demoness for whom human existence was merely fragile, unimportant dust, and this completely new, incomprehensible need not to betray the trust of this particular human. She caught herself with the shocking thought that his opinion had real weight for her—that she genuinely cared about what he would think of her.

​The infernal heat in her gaze slowly subsided. The black talons retracted with a quiet, barely audible smacking sound, and the heavy air in the living room became bearable and clean again. She dropped the smartphone onto the floor as if it suddenly started burning her hands, then sighed deeply and rested her forehead against his shoulder.

​"Too good, my dear... you're simply too good," she purred softly, and in her velvety voice there was no longer anger, but a note of tender capitulation. "Though maybe, no, it's certain, Michał... that it's precisely this naive, good human heart of yours that pulls me toward you so damn much."

​She reached out with a slow movement into the bowl, popped a handful of popcorn into her mouth, and fixed her gaze on the illuminated television screen without a word, snuggling into his side much more tightly than befitted a powerful demoness from hell.

​"You know, Michał... this movie, this whole Pretty Woman, is truly charming," Naamah spoke up after a longer moment, lazily chewing the crunchy corn kernels. She fixed an incandescent, emerald gaze on the screen where Richard Gere and Julia Roberts were exchanging glances full of unspoken meaning. "But tell me honestly... Do you really not see the striking similarity between yourself and the main character?"

​Michał almost choked on his cola. He set the can down on the table with such a loud thud that the bowl jumped, then looked at her sideways, furrowing his brow in total bewilderment.

​"What similarity again?" he choked out, praying in his heart that this was just another of her macabre, malicious senses of humor. "To Vivian? That's ridiculous."

​"Well, what do you mean, what similarity?" she chuckled softly, and that specific, predatory smirk blossomed on her full lips, making the boy's skin crawl instantly. She turned toward him with the grace of a predatory cat, resting her chin on his shoulder. Her hot breath grazed his earlobe. "Look at the facts, my darling. She experienced her great, breakthrough orgasm on a lacquered piano in a luxury hotel. True, she was a prostitute, she knew men's bodies inside and out, and yet only with a wealthy sponsor did she experience true ecstasy. And you? You achieved your first peak in life under me, in the arms of a powerful demoness. Although in your case, the starting point was quite different... weren't you, as you mortals call it?"

​Naamah raised her hand, lazily snapping her fingers in the air and pretending she was frantically searching her memory for the appropriate earthly term.

​"A virgin," Michał blurted out dryly, feeling a wave of burning blush flood his cheeks right down to the roots of his ears.

​"Exactly! A virgin!" she clapped her hands with unadulterated, almost childlike satisfaction, completely ignoring his embarrassment. "See? The foundation is identical: a sudden, sensual awakening under the gaze of someone from a completely different league. Furthermore: you don't have to slave away behind a bar at nights anymore, just like she didn't have to stand on the corner of Hollywood Boulevard anymore. I'm taking you out of this narrow, dusty valley, introducing you to high society, into the big world of luxury, intrigues, and power... The government will fund everything you snap your fingers for, and I'll take care of the rest of your needs. Spot on, a modern Cinderella fairy tale, only instead of a handsome millionaire in an expensive suit, you have an ancient mother from the Abyss itself by your side. Better arrangement, don't you think?"

​The boy stared blankly at the flickering television, processing this stream of surreal analogies in his mind. Although his male pride rebelled against being cast as a luxury mascot on allowance, when he looked at it coldly, through the prism of the last several dozen hours... the demoness's twisted logic made frighteningly a lot of sense.

​"All in all, Naamah..." he muttered with a heavy sigh, scratching the back of his neck uncertainly, "no matter how you look at it from that warped perspective of yours, indeed, there are some similarities. Except there is one fundamental difference."

​"Really? What is it?" she raised an ideally drawn eyebrow, clearly intrigued.

​"The fact that she, getting into his sports car, didn't fear for her own life for even a second," Michał noted grimly, shifting his gaze from the screen to her mesmerizing green irises. "She didn't risk that this elegant guy would suddenly tear her throat out, rip her guts out, or drag her into a boiling kettle of sulfur just because she looked at him wrong. During the first few days, I literally died of fear at the very sound of your voice."

​Naamah laughed softly—it was a guttural, velvety sound that vibrated in the air like the purr of a large cat. She glided her hand across his chest, stopping her fingertips right where his heart beat steadily under his ribs.

​"Appearances, my dear. Merely cheap, naive appearances," she replied, and her voice grew serious, taking on a cool, analytical depth. "Do you think fear of death is the only thing that can paralyze a human? Look at her now, in this scene. She's afraid her secret will come out. She trembles in panic at the very thought that this whole pompous, elitist crowd will see through her false mask, that they will find out who she was and where she came from. Shame, humiliation, and the prospect of being trampled by human tongues can be a thousand times worse for your fragile psyche than a quick slash of a talon across the throat. Fear of rejection and social death can be more powerful than any physical pain."

​What happened a moment later was to be etched into Naamah's ancient memory for eons to come—deeper than fiery slaughters, the falls of ancient empires, or the most elaborate tortures of the Abyss.

​When the movie on the screen was slowly drawing to a close, the demoness slid a bit lower on the couch and, purely for her own comfort, rested her head on Michał's lap, placing a soft velour pillow under it. Then something absolutely unexpected happened.

​The boy's hand, resting limply on the armrest until then, slowly dropped down. His warm, slightly rough fingers unconsciously plunged into the thicket of her fiery red locks. Michał was practically already drifting off—his eyelids were heavily closed, his breathing had grown steady and deep, and a quiet, steady hum heralding a deep sleep began to issue from his throat. And yet his hand, driven by some sleepy, subconscious reflex, didn't freeze. The boy's fingers moved in a slow, soft motion among the silky strands, grazing the delicate skin of his skull with their fingertips, then drawing lazy, mesmerizing circles right above the nape of her neck.

​Naamah stiffened, in a first reflex ready to jump to her feet, but in a fraction of a second her entire being was pierced by a strange, overwhelming impulse.

​It started at the base of her skull—a quiet, microscopic electrical impulse that instantly spread in a dense, warm wave toward her temples. A subtle, velvety shudder ran through her demonic body, one she hadn't experienced for millennia of her existence. Authentic, tiny goosebumps appeared on her pale, marble skin of her shoulders, neck, and even along the jawline. The sensation did not fade—on the contrary, it grew stronger with every second, flowing down along her spine in a pulsing, tingling streak of soothing warmth. This wasn't fear, this wasn't desire, nor even a murderous frenzy. It was an unbelievably calming sensation, stripping all ancient weight from her immortal soul, as if all the bliss of creation rested in this single, minor gesture.

​She couldn't find any logical explanation for it. She stopped looking at the flickering television; her eyelids closed by themselves, and the proud mother of nightmares almost prayed in her heart for this moment to last forever. Every slow sweep of his fingers through her hair, every gentle pressure on her scalp, triggered another cascade of invisible, silver sparks wandering deep into her nervous system. Her body went completely limp, as if under the influence of the most powerful, overpowering spell whose nature she couldn't comprehend for anything.

​Suddenly, Michał's hand slipped limply from her head and dropped heavily onto the couch. The boy softly snored, sinking into a deep, restorative sleep.

​The shudder instantly vanished, leaving behind an almost painful void.

​In a first, wild reflex, Naamah felt like shaking him brutally, sinking her talons into his shoulder, and forcing him to return to that touch immediately. However, she checked this impulse in time. She lay motionless for a moment, staring in deep disbelief at the sleeping mortal.

​Carefully, so as not to wake him, she lifted her head from his lap, reached for the smartphone lying on the carpet, and tapped the illuminated screen. Even in Hell, standing before the face of Lucifer enraged to white-hot heat, when the floor was cracking from flames and sulfur, her body had never reacted with such a peculiar goosebump. Intrigued and annoyed by her own ignorance, she began frantically typing chaotic phrases into the search engine: "tingling at the back of the head when touched", "chills on the neck stroking hair", "blissful waves along the spine touch".

​Network algorithms immediately threw hundreds of results, articles, and discussion forum threads before her eyes. She scanned subsequent lines with mechanical speed, and her emerald eyes widened in astonishment.

​ASMR. Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response.

​She read scientific analyses, personal confessions, and blog posts. For some, it was a completely mythical and elusive phenomenon; for others—a very real, biological reaction to specific stimuli: a subtle whisper, a rustle, and above all, the slow, affectionate touch of a loved one that triggered a cascade of endorphins and neurotransmitters of peace. The demoness stared at the screen with a mixture of cynicism and fascination. So this wasn't any infernal anomaly, no hidden magical attack or flaw in her damned body. It was something so extremely human, yet so powerful, that it managed to bring a creature born at the dawn of time to its knees.

​She turned off the screen, putting the phone back on the table. She looked at the sleeping Michał—at his relaxed face, his steadily rising chest, and the defenseless hands that a moment ago had given her a sensation surpassing all ecstasy known to her.

​She settled back down on him and with tenderness placed his hand back onto her head, already knowing she would do anything to experience that sensation one more time.

The days on which Great Events occur are seldom, in themselves, remarkable; it is the Event which grants them remarkability. So it was with the Day of Final Outpouring, known more colloquially, at least in that province of the Dominion of Canada in which it transpired—indeed, is transpiring still… —Ontario, as the Day of Endless Timmy's, which was, meteorologically speaking, a rather dour and cloudy day, neither too hot nor too cold (the term, I believe, is “seasonal”) although I admit I am now, myself, remarking on an aspect of a day which I have already defined as unremarkable, thus contradicting myself, literally at least, if not so plainly in spirit because, after all,

[At this point, I pulled the narrator out of the story, placed him against its fourth wall and had him executed by firing squad.

“On what grounds?” he feebly asked.

On the grounds that I am the author and storytelling is not beholden to the rule of law.

There is no law.

There is no parliament, no central planning committee, no separation of powers. There are no checks and balances.

Characters have no rights.

Readers do not have any arms to bear against the storyteller, i.e. me.

Storytelling is a place of absolute fiat.

“Fire!”]

Once upon a time in Canada, on a rainy October morning, in a rather rundown office building, a regular guy, Emblen Farleymuch, sat down in his cubicle, powered on his work laptop and logged in to his employer's brand new Genie-IS™ security software.

The login was painless.

A small animated genie appeared on screen, gave an enthusiastic thumbs up and minimized itself to the taskbar.

Emblen sighed at the prospect of another day of mindless work, then took out his thermos of daily coffee and began pouring a cup—or rather tried pouring a cup: because there was nothing to pour. The thermos was empty. Emblen had forgotten to brew coffee this morning.

“Fuck,” he thought, and he followed that up by saying quietly, in the way characters often speak their thoughts when the plot demands it: “I sure wish I could have a thermos of endless coffee.”

Two things happened then: * the little genie on the taskbar winked; and * coffee began magically pouring forth out of Emblen's thermos. [1]

It poured forth until it had filled Emblen's cup, then poured forth some more, overflowing the cup and proceeding to the desk, and from the desk streaming to the floor, soaking into the carpet, saturating it; seeping next horizontally through the gap between the carpet and the baffles of Emblen's cubicle, into the neighbouring cubicles…

Soon people took notice, saying, “What the hell?” and “Oh, my goodness, there's coffee in my cubicle; someone tell management!” “Does management know?” “Get the union rep.” “What can we do?” “I ain't doing shit. It's not in my job description.” “Does this mean we can work from home?” “I can't handle strong scents. I need to be medically accommodated!” And so on and so forth, or pourth, as the case may

[“Fire!”]

As for Emblen himself, he remained immobile. Not dead, exactly; more paralyzed, conscious but unable to move out of the position he was in: standing, holding the thermos at an angle above his overflowing cup, as the coffee pourthed and pourthed.

[“I only used the word ironically. I didn't mean it seriously. It's a stupid pun, a wickedly horrid neologism,” the narrator spat out.

We were in a windowless room, (underground, single lightbulb, etc.), and I had already pulled out some of his teeth and broken a couple of his fingers, but I was feeling merciful, so I spared his life and sentenced him to 1,500,000 words of hard labour writing hockey romance novels instead.]

Soon, the coffee was dripping down to the lower floors, flowing down the stairs, even taking the elevator, and there was nothing anybody could do about it.

The police were called.

They tried moving Emblen, but that proved impossible. Then they tried shooting him; but the bullet ricocheted and killed a bystander, whose family sued the police, the company and God, hoping to get rich. The family won, but the fact the bystander couldn't swim lowered the damages significantly, on the reasoning that, more likely than not, she would have drowned anyway.

Then God showed up—picketed heavily by protestors holding signs saying things like, “Noah More Floods!”—to explain that, yes, although He'd promised never again to destroy all life by the waters of a flood: (a) He did not cause this particular flood (and He never promised not to support a pre-existing flood), and (b) coffee is not water.

When an association of food scientists dared to counter-argue that coffee is pretty much just water, and the distinction is therefore purely cynical, God got miffed, and, when asked for a rebuttal, pronounced, “My rebuttal is: I'll [censored]damn smite you!”

When the food scientists responded that He couldn't just do that, that there needed to be order to the world, God, mindful of the country he was in, quoted the famous words of a Prime Minister and said, “Well, just watch me.”

He then smote the scientists.

---

P.S. Wanna know the real horror? It was instant coffee.

---

[1] Narratively, there is nothing magical about it, as there is no magic in stories. Everything happens by the iron will of the author. As Stalin once said: “A single absurdity in one story is an error. A million absurdities is a genre.

What?

You don't think he said that?

You want “proof”?

Here's your fucking “proof”:

After having dug up Stalin's corpse, the necromancer butchered a goat, performed the ritual and reanimated the former General Secretary.

Stalin’s living corpse stumbled forward. “A single absurdity in one story is an error, “ it mumbled. “A million absurdities is a genre.”

Then its lower jaw fell off.

Then it tripped over its own decaying feet, fell and drowned in the world deluged by Emblen Farleymuch's coffee.