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Consumptive

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    Yuuki has nightmares about being eaten.

    The nightmares in themselves, as in, the idea of nightmares is not frightening to him. With everything he has seen, nightmares come to him, if not often, then often enough. However, since Inga, and more, since Kazamori…

    Inga touches him, her fingers trailing his arm, his leg, brushing casually through his hair. It is soothing, and terrifying, and lately she watches Yuuki jump with a wide toothy grin, hair shading wicked eyes. Yuuki, does not even think of protesting. Inga leans into him, and when they sleep, he presses himself, warm and there and so curious against Yuuki’s back. And Yuuki will lie awake, staring out into the dark.

    Sometimes, most nights, from somewhere in the room, Kazamori is staring back. If Inga touches too often and too casually, Kazamori’s eyes never leave him. She speaks to him from traffic signs, computer terminals, cellphones and radios. She is not only human-natured, but inhumanly brilliant, and her words follow him like a tangible caress, her eyes dissecting him wherever he goes.

    A month ago, Yuuki walked in on them. Kazamori looked like a doll (she is though, isn’t she, truthfully) still, and crumpled, being savaged by a wild animal. Inga was still a boy, though her eyes glowed and burned in the dim lit room. He was too shocked to speak. Inga looked up at him, and that mouth was ripped wide in a brutal grin, and even as her hips pistoned in and out, Inga let out a howling laugh, and Kazamori’s head tilted back to watch him.

    “Welcome home, Shinjurou.”

    He could feel his heart racing, and they were still watching him when Inga suddenly froze, pale white hips stilling in their frantic thrusting, and made a choked whine that Yuuki knew well in a more feminine register. Kazamori shudders, and pale doll lids fall closed, red doll mouth falling open. Yuuki wonders what she can feel. Her tiny pale pink nipples have tightened into delicate points.

    With nothing to say, he walks past them, and into the bedroom. He can hear Inga laughing, and Kazamori’s even, ringing tones, programmed in his head.

    Inga holds his hand, and pets his hair, and on one terrifying occasion, grips his face and kisses him, eyes wide.

    And Kazamori watches them. Sometimes she smiles a little, as though to herself. Sometimes she doesn’t.

    And some nights Yuuki dreams about being eaten, about being dissected and devoured and consumed and he wakes up shaking, his body broken out in cold sweat.

    Inga will murmur sleepily behind him, and Kazamori will blink, her eyes luminescent in the dark. He will wonder if the nightmare is over at all.