"My cute little brother!"
I crashed into her embrace with the enthusiasm of a genuinely excited brother, and Rosaluna hugged me back with fierce affection. Her arms tightened around me as if she was reluctant to let go, and I could feel the lingering warmth of magic that always seemed to radiate from her skin these days. She smelled of woodsmoke and the crisp scent of winter air that clung to the forest around Isadora’s tower.
"Did you miss me?" She asked, pulling back just enough to look down into my eyes with a grin that was both affectionate and slightly mischievous.
"I missed you, yes," I nodded earnestly, allowing genuine warmth to color my voice. Despite everything else, my feelings for Rosaluna were uncomplicated—she was my sister, and I really loved her, present in my very short list with Isabella.
She laughed delightedly and lifted me bodily from the ground, her strength enhanced by months of magical training. Then she settled onto my abandoned stool, pulling me onto her lap as if I weighed nothing at all. At eight, Rosaluna was growing rapidly—not just physically, but in magical power and mental acuity as well. The shy girl who had accidentally set fire to the barn was becoming quite a girl under Isadora’s teachings.
"You’re quite late, Rosaluna," Isabella observed mildly, not looking up from where she was carefully wiping down her worktable. The day’s preparations were finally complete, dozens of small vials and pouches arranged neatly on wooden shelves for future use.
"Master Isadora kept me longer than usual," Rosaluna explained, unconsciously straightening her shoulders at the mention of her mentor’s name. There was respect there, but also a hint of wariness that hadn’t been present when her training first began.
I tilted my head back to look up at her, making my eyes wide with curiosity. "Did you learn new magic today?"
Rosaluna’s expression shifted, becoming more guarded even as she maintained her smile. "I did learn quite a lot, actually," she said carefully. "Master Isadora has been teaching me advanced flame manipulation techniques."
"Can you show me?" I asked, injecting just the right amount of eager anticipation into my voice.
"No, no, no," Isabella intervened quickly, finally turning away from her now-spotless worktable. "No magic demonstrations at home, and certainly not right before dinner. We’ve talked about this."
The memory of the barn fire was still fresh in everyone’s minds, even months later. Rosaluna’s control had improved dramatically, but Isabella wasn’t taking any chances with their modest home. The wooden walls and thatched roof would provide little protection if something went wrong.
Rosaluna chuckled and pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead, her lips warm against my skin. "Another time, little brother. When mother isn’t watching so closely."
"I heard that," Isabella said dryly, but there was amusement in her voice.
As if summoned by the mention of dinner, my stomach chose that moment to rumble audibly. Both women laughed, and Rosaluna ruffled my hair affectionately.
"Come on," Isabella said, moving toward the small kitchen area that occupied one corner of our main room. "Help me get dinner started, Rosaluna. Your brother has been very patient today."
I slid down from Rosaluna’s lap and watched as my mother and sister began their familiar dinner routine. It was a dance they’d perfected over the years—Isabella handling the more delicate tasks while Rosaluna took care of the heavier work. They moved around each other with unconscious grace, reaching for ingredients and utensils without getting in each other’s way.
The kitchen, though small, was well-organized and functional. Dried herbs hung in bundles from the low ceiling, filling the air with their complex fragrance. Clay pots of various sizes lined wooden shelves, containing everything from flour and salt to more exotic spices that traveling merchants occasionally brought through the village. A small but efficient wood-burning stove provided both heat and cooking capability, its chimney drawing smoke up and out through the thatched roof.
I perched on a three-legged stool near the kitchen area and waited patiently.
Rosaluna peeled potatoes with quick, efficient strokes while Isabella prepared the rabbit that had been hanging in their small cold cellar since yesterday. The meat was fresh, hunted by one of the village men who occasionally paid for Isabella’s healing services with game instead of coin. It was a fair trade—we ate better than many families in the village, even if we had little in the way of material wealth.
"How are your studies progressing with Master Isadora?" Isabella asked as she sectioned the rabbit with practiced movements.
Rosaluna’s hands paused for just a moment before resuming their work. "Well enough," she said carefully. "She’s... demanding. But I’m learning things I never imagined possible."
There was something in her tone that made me pay closer attention. Rosaluna had always been enthusiastic about her magical training, excited to share what she’d learned each day. This new guardedness was unlike her.
"Is everything alright?" Isabella asked, echoing my own concern.
"Of course," Rosaluna said quickly, perhaps too quickly. "Master Isadora just has very high standards. She says I have potential, but that potential means nothing without discipline and proper control."
The conversation continued as they worked, but I noticed that Rosaluna deflected most questions about her training with vague responses or changes of subject. Whatever Isadora was teaching her, it was clearly more complex—and possibly more dangerous—than simple flame manipulation.
An hour later, the three of us sat around our small dining table, the simple wooden surface laden with the fruits of their labor. The rabbit had been roasted to perfection, its skin crispy and golden while the meat remained tender and flavorful. The potatoes had been fried with wild onions that Isabella gathered from the forest, their earthy sweetness complementing the rich meat. A pot of carrot soup rounded out the meal, its vibrant orange color brightened with herbs from mother’s garden.
The food was simple but satisfying, made with care and love rather than exotic ingredients. It was certainly a far cry from the elaborate meals I had once enjoyed in my previous life—the five-star restaurants of New York City with their artistic presentations and complex flavor profiles seemed like something from a dream now. But there was something deeply satisfying about this humble meal shared with two people I loved.
"This is delicious," I said sincerely, savoring a bite of the perfectly seasoned rabbit.
"Your sister did most of the work," Isabella said with a smile, reaching over to squeeze Rosaluna’s hand. "She’s becoming quite accomplished in the kitchen as well as with her magic."
Rosaluna blushed slightly at the praise. "I had a good teacher," she said, glancing meaningfully at our mother.
I had to admit, both of them were excellent cooks. Over the years, I’d picked up quite a bit of culinary knowledge myself simply by watching and occasionally helping. In fact, I had obtained even the Skill for it.
As we ate, the conversation flowed naturally between topics—village gossip, plans for the next day, stories from Rosaluna’s childhood that I pretended to find fascinating even though I’d heard them dozens of times.
About half an hour after we finished eating, it was time for bed. Just as I was starting to feel sleepy, Rosaluna stretched out her hand toward me and said gently, "Come, Harold."
Lately, I had been sleeping in my sister’s bed more often than my own. I used to switch between sleeping with her and sleeping with our mom, but recently, Mom had been pretending not to feel well. That way, she could send me to Rosaluna’s room without making it seem too obvious. I was pretty sure she was just nervous about her strange dreams.
"Um... I want to sleep with Mom tonight," I mumbled, not really meeting Rosaluna’s eyes.
She looked at me with a hurt expression, her lips pushing out into a little pout. "You don’t want to sleep with your big sister?" She asked, clearly disappointed.
It wasn’t like I hated sleeping in her bed. The only problem was that every time I did, she’d cling to me all night long like a pillow, wrapping her arms and legs around me like she never wanted to let go. It was sweet, sure, but kind of hard to sleep that way. And to be totally honest... I liked sleeping with Mom more for a lot of reasons...
When I looked at Isabella, she gave me a look I couldn’t quite understand—something between concern and knowing. She crouched down so she was at my eye level and said softly, "If you have another nightmare, you can come to Mama anytime, okay?"
Wow. She was getting really good at figuring me out and she was learning to counter me.
I nodded silently, giving up on arguing, and let Rosaluna take my hand and pull me along with her.
When we got to her room, she casually took off her clothes right in front of me like it was no big deal, then pulled a nightgown over her head and tied her hair back. She climbed onto the bed and gave me a bright smile, her eyes sparkling.
"Come on, Harold. I won’t let you have any nightmares," she said proudly, puffing out her invisible chest. "If any monsters try to get in your dreams, I’ll burn them to ashes."
I couldn’t help but smile at that.
I got into bed with her, and—just like always—it only took about ten minutes before she wrapped her arms tightly around my chest and locked her legs around my waist. I let out a long sigh and stared at the ceiling, deciding to stay awake a little longer.
To be honest, I was secretly hoping that Mom was having another nightmare. That was the only time I could give her the night treatment—otherwise, she’d just wake up, and I wouldn’t dare try anything. If she wasn’t having nightmares, I held myself back. Always.
Because she would wake up immediately by a single touch of mine if it was a simple dream or just a simple sleep.
One day, not long ago, she’d nearly caught me. I’d barely managed to deflect her sleepy curiosity with a dumb lie about craving milk so why I sucked her nipple—"I was just... thirsty"—and somehow, by grace or naivety, she’d bought it. Her sleepy smile returned and she’d curled back up against me without a second thought, mumbling something soft and trusting into my neck. That night, I’d stayed. Tonight, I wouldn’t.
Time stretched. The minutes gathered weight. I waited... half an hour maybe. My bones ached to move but I didn’t stir until the rhythm of her breath steadied into deeper tides. Eventually, I yawned, forcing a fake one to keep the illusion. "Let’s try tomorrow night—" I whispered, barely audible, like I was convincing myself. I even let my eyelids fall shut halfway.
Then I opened them again, smiling in the dark.
Carefully, gently, I untangled myself from Rosaluna’s embrace. My arm slid out from under her neck. Her leg slipped off my thigh. A quiet sigh escaped her as she rolled slightly, still sound asleep, lips parting just a little.
Every step I took toward my mother’s room, the tension in my chest grew tighter, hotter. Her door was closed, but I could already hear her. Low sounds—unsteady breathing, rustling sheets, and faint, broken words whispered into nothing. A nightmare had taken hold of her again.
It came fast tonight.
I slid into the room and closed the door behind me.
She thrashed gently beneath the sheets, murmuring incoherently, her brow furrowed, lips twitching with phrases she never finished. She was caught in it, deep. I’d learned over time that these spells wrapped her like chains—but they also made her unreachable, unshakable, immune to waking. No matter what I did.
And I did a lot.
Crossing the room, I climbed onto the bed beside her.
I leaned in close, my lips brushing the shell of her ear as I whispered, "Don’t worry, I’ll make you forget these nightmares, Mother."
Because it was true.
Every time I touched her, every time I dragged her over that edge again and again, the terror faded from her sleep. Her legs would stop twitching. Her breath would slow. And she’d melt into the sheets, slack, spent, her body utterly at peace, her face gone soft and blank and truly restful. My touch was the only balm that ever worked. No pills, no therapists, no long talks ever reached her the way my hands did.
I reached out, fingers tracing the warm skin of her legs where the blanket had fallen away. Her thighs were bare. I stared at them—long, strong, yet so feminine it hurt. Her calves, her knees, the elegant taper of her ankles—God, I could’ve stared for hours. I had. Dozens of times. Memorizing every freckle and curve like a monk copying scripture.
I imagined those legs spread wide for me, trembling with every thrust. Or clamped tight around my waist, heels digging into my back, drawing me in deeper, always deeper. I imagined her mouth open in those soft cries she made just after climax, when she forgot even to be ashamed.
I reached for the hem of her nightdress—soft cotton, pale lilac, nearly translucent when it caught the light. I pinched it between thumb and finger and began to lift, slowly, savoring each inch I uncovered. Her thighs tensed slightly under my palm, reflexively. I stroked them with my other hand—thick, luscious, the flesh yielding but still firm, full of strength that made me tremble.
But as I lifted the dress higher, expecting to see her pussy, I paused.
White.
My breath caught.
She wore panties.
It was the first time. Always before, she’d been bare beneath her nightdress, thighs kissed with dew, scent soaking into the sheets so strongly I could still taste it on my fingers hours later. But tonight, a barrier. A soft white cotton thing, stretched snug across her mound, the shape of her slit still faintly visible beneath the thin fabric along her white bush.
Why?
Maybe... maybe she’d started to notice the wetness. Waking up confused by damp sheets. Juice smearing the mattress. Maybe she’d gotten nervous. Ashamed. Trying to cover it up. Maybe even suspecting—but unable to face the truth.
Whatever the reason, the result... was exquisite.
The panties made everything worse in the best way. They cupped her perfectly, riding the swell of her hips, hugging the plush curve of her mound, and that small central dip—that mouthwatering cleft—I could already see the faint outline of moisture starting to gather. She was reacting. Even in sleep. Her body remembered me.
Damn, Isabella.
Wearing that? You’re making it even harder for me.
Even more exciting.
I reached out again, fingers hovering over the waistband of her panties. Slowly, I began to tug them down.
But it was no use.
She was lying on her side, one leg stacked over the other, those lush thighs locked together in a way that sealed her sex away from me. I tugged again, a little firmer this time—but they wouldn’t budge more than an inch or two. Her hips resisted, her legs unmoved, and I froze. The last thing I wanted was to wake her too soon. I’d said she wouldn’t stir, no matter what I did, and that was mostly true—but I knew there were limits. If I got greedy too fast, if I pushed too hard, she might jolt awake. And then it would be ruined.
I hovered there, stuck in place, one hand still gently pulling at the fabric while my mind raced.
Meanwhile, her breathing changed again.
Not calmer—worse. Sharper. Faster. Her hands clenched at the bedsheets, bunching them in tight fists. Sweat beaded along her brow. She whimpered—a raw, choked sound, pained and breathless. The nightmare was tightening its grip.
Dammit...
I glanced at her face. Lips parted, brows pinched. Her chest rose and fell like she was sprinting in place. My hesitation crumbled.
"Okay... fine," I muttered under my breath, surrendering to what I had to do.
I reached out, heart pounding, and pressed my palm gently to her shoulder. Her skin was burning slightly, damp with sweat. I applied just enough pressure to urge her onto her back. It felt like trying to disarm a bomb—one wrong twitch and the whole thing could explode. But slowly, blessedly, her body gave. She rolled. Her limbs shifted. She landed on her back, limbs loose and unresisting, breathing still ragged but undisturbed.
I let out a slow breath of relief.
Now I had space.
The skirt had bunched slightly in the roll, already halfway up her thighs. I lifted it higher again—higher and higher until her panties sat fully revealed in the dim glow, the soft cotton now stretched across her mound from a new angle. My fingers found the hem again, pinching lightly, and I resumed the slow descent.
This time, her legs were parted just enough.
The waistband slid inch by inch down the curve of her hips. My breath caught as the first hint of her was revealed—a triangle of white curls, soft and thick, barely clinging to moisture that glistened faintly even in the dark. I licked my lips unconsciously.
I didn’t pull them off entirely—she was still lying on them, after all. But I got them down far enough. Far enough to bare her.
It was more than enough.
Instead of positioning myself between her legs, I knelt beside her, one knee resting near her hip, the other angled just behind. From here, I could see everything. Her chest rising and falling, breasts shifting under the thin nightdress with each breath. Her lips parted. Her thighs relaxed just enough to give me access.
God, her scent...
It wrapped around my brain like a drug. Every time I smelled it, I felt like I was going mad, like my blood ran thicker. My pulse pounded in my ears, and my hand trembled slightly as I steadied her panties down with one finger, holding the fabric away from her pussy while I lowered my head.
I didn’t dive in all at once.
She smelled of salt and sweetness, woman and heat, something uniquely hers that clung to my tongue even before I tasted her. My nose brushed her curls, damp now, and she twitched slightly, a shiver running through her hips.
Then I let my tongue out.
Just a flick. A teasing pass through her hair, trailing down until I touched skin. A second flick, deeper this time, parting the curls and gliding against the slickness gathering just at the seam of her lips.
"Ahhnn~" She whimpered—more than whimpered. It started as a broken moan of fear, the noise she’d been making in her nightmare—but it twisted midway, melted, reshaped into something else. Pleasure. Her hips bucked slightly. Her legs parted a fraction more.
She didn’t wake.
I smirked.
Her body knew me.
She’d grown so used to being licked here, to my tongue tracing every line, every fold, that even unconscious she responded like she was ready for it. Her clit pulsed under my breath before I even touched it, and I saw a glimmer of wetness growing where my tongue had passed.
I pressed my lips to her now, licking again—slower, deeper, pressing between her folds, dragging upward in a long, steady stroke that ended with the tip of my tongue circling her clit. My hand stayed in place, holding her panties away, my thumb brushing against the soft skin of her inner thigh.
"Mmnhh... ahh... ohh..."
Her moans deepened.
Her hips shifted again, instinctively, rolling upward to meet me, even as her eyes stayed shut, lost in sleep. Her body knew this. It wanted this. The nightmare was already loosening its grip—her face was smoothing, her breath growing heavier but less panicked.
I licked again. Then again. Each time slower, more focused, my tongue tracing an invisible pattern against her wetness. I played with her—alternating between featherlight flicks and long, hungry strokes, sometimes focusing on her entrance, sometimes flicking just below her clit, then pressing against it in slow, circling pressure.
Her thighs twitched.
Her breath caught.
Her body arched, and a gush of slickness coated my tongue.
I moaned into her, half mad with need, tasting her deeper. My hand shifted to cup her mound, two fingers spreading her folds so I could devour her more thoroughly. Her juices trickled down her ass, soaking into the sheets. Her hips rocked in slow, instinctual rhythm against my face.
And still—she didn’t wake.
But she moaned.
And she no longer pained.
I rose my face, licking my lips as I looked at her sleeping peacefully, a contended smile on her lips.
Tonight’s treatment is over.