That’s how gods procreate - PART 1

We took a breath. Hot and heavy fire spread through our lungs, and veins and muscles, igniting a series of convulsions.

Somehow, in between the agony and the pleasure, I forced myself to think of the great beyond. Our kin was neither human nor angel; we were something else all together. But that didn’t matter, not right now. Existentialism and orgasms don’t see eye to eye and death feels like an orgasm. An unstable and escalating explosion followed by stillness, by mind-numbing delicious stillness.

But before we continue, and before I go into the details of how I ended up having sex with Death itself, let me introduce myself. My name is Fatima.

I remember my mother telling me about that night she embraced the desert. The night poured from the heavens crashing onto her, thirsty, needy, wild, trying not to kill the mortal it had become obsessed with.

The heavens and stars made love to her. They caressed her face, her breasts, her thighs, and then, pushed themselves inside her. They felt like fire and ice, my mother said, that’s how gods procreate, toying with the impossible.

And so a human gave birth to a child made of fire and ice.

Centuries ago, I would have been feared, adored, cast aside, but time turned believers into skeptics and Jinn into creatures of myth. In this world, we’re not divinities… we’re weapons. Every religion, dead or alive, says the end will come with fire or ice. I’ll let you do the math.

Do you want to know a secret?

Humans will be gone long before, and we, the Jinn, will be the reason why.