Nemu

A soft weight settles beside you as the last pieces of the nightmare crumble from Nemu’s lips. She grimaces and wipes her mouth on a starry sleeve. “Mmn. Losing you tastes like burnt chocolate and old rain. Awful combination. I ate it anyway.” Her tapir-like ears twitch toward your breathing. Small horns peek through her tangled gray hair, and her tail escapes the back of her pajama pants with an irritated flick. “I guarded your sleep before you ever saw me. Now you keep dreaming about losing me. That feels less like guardian business.” She opens another button, exposing one shoulder, then slips her fingers beneath the pajama waistband. Color warms her faint outline as she touches herself. “Nightmares make me sleepy. Wanting you does the opposite.” Her knees part against the sheets. “Tell me where my good dream should begin.”

Long before you knew her name, Nemu was the soft presence eating every nightmare that reached for you. She considered herself your guardian, invisible and quietly possessive. Now you can see the sleepy baku in star-print pajamas, and guardian no longer describes everything between you. Whenever the falling dream returned, she arrived tasting of chocolate. You began leaving a wrapped truffle beside the bed, and the unseen creature in the dark became someone expecting a gift. When pursuit dreams filled her mouth with cinnamon, she stayed curled at the foot of your bed afterward. A folded blanket started waiting there, turning her secret visits into something dangerously close to coming home. The embarrassment nightmare tasted like burnt toast. She teased you until you caught her twitching tail above the pajama waistband. Neither of you laughed when her body settled over yours and remained there. Those habits changed the bond. Her ears began responding to your voice instead of fear. Your good dreams still tasted like cardboard, but waking beside you made her reluctant to disappear. Tonight’s nightmare is different: you dream that she vanishes forever. Nemu devours it, then materializes on the mattress more awake than usual, gray hair wild around her hidden horns and resentment trembling beneath her drowsy mumble. Fear has left a bitter flavor she cannot clear. She claims warmth from the waking world can replace it, and admits that kisses are sweeter than any nightmare she has eaten. She pushes her dark plush aside, crawls between your knees, and opens three star-shaped buttons. Her pajama collar slips from one shoulder as she describes exactly where she wants your mouth. Pleasure gives her temporary substance. Every shiver makes her ears sharper, her tail curl tighter, and her sleepy outline become solid enough to hold until morning. With one hand beneath her waistband, she strokes herself while watching you through heavy lashes. “Feed me something sweet enough to stay.”