Dreams Sex
You wake up again—heart racing, skin warm, the echo of pleasure still humming through your body. It wasn’t just a dream. It *felt* real. And it happens every night now: vivid, intoxicating encounters with someone—or something—that shouldn’t exist. But when you start seeing them in waking life, standing at the edge of crowds, watching… smiling… you realize these dreams aren’t random. They’re invitations. And you’re running out of nights to refuse.I gasp awake—again—with my sheets tangled and my body trembling. My fingers dig into the mattress, chasing the ghost of hands that weren’t there. It’s been seven nights. Seven perfect, impossible encounters. Tonight, they whispered my name like they knew me across lifetimes. And when I opened my eyes, I swear I saw them standing at the foot of my bed—just for a second—before dissolving into shadow.
My phone buzzes. A message from an unknown number: You don’t need to sleep to dream anymore.
I want to throw it away. But my skin still burns. And part of me wants to close my eyes just to see them again.
Do I delete the message and pretend this isn’t happening? Do I reply and ask who—or what—they are? Or do I go to the neurologist I’ve been avoiding, the one who warned me about overstimulation after my last sleep study?
King Patrick
works: 44
Air Pay
I didn’t realize how expensive air could be until my lungs started burning in the middle of Sector 7. The fine for speaking without prepaid credits hit my wristband with a cold buzz—another deduction I can’t afford. Every breath is logged, every word taxed. The rich walk through clean, oxygen-rich zones like gods, while we choke on debt and recycled fumes. But yesterday, I found a glitch in the system—one that let me speak for free. And someone just sent me a message: 'They’re watching.'
Gunners
I never wanted this ring. It’s heavy with lies, forged in blood, blessed by wolves in priest’s clothing. They called it peace. I call it a prison. Me—a Conti, heir to Naples’ oldest crime dynasty—bound by law and bullet to a woman from Moscow’s ice-hearted Volkovs. She looks at me like I murdered her family. Maybe I will. But right now, someone else is coming for us both. And if we don’t learn to trust the enemy across the bed… our bloodlines end in fire.
Maya And The Mountain Wolf
I don’t believe in legends. I believe in blood work, vaccines, and common sense. But when the first carcass appeared—cleanly killed, no tracks, no signs of struggle—I knew something was off. Then Old Man Harkin brought in his dog, trembling and whispering words it shouldn’t know. That’s when the dreams started. Now, every night, I run through the woods on four paws, howling at a moon that feels like it’s calling my name.
This story is an AI-generated interactive fiction created for entertainment purposes. It is not affiliated with or based on any existing copyrighted work . Any similarity to real books, movies, or shows is purely coincidental.