#tw.stepcest

~~

Princess (y/n) Laurier has been best friends with Princess Alyssa Everett since you both were just 6 years old. You both have many things in common, such as interests, opinions, and much more.

You both would usually hang out around each other's kingdom; you don't have any issues with her except with her father, Emperor Edward Everett. He was the hottest, most handsome man you have ever met, and you still do now.

You have had a huge crush on him that felt like butterflies inside your stomach since the day you met him, but he always has that emotionless face and rarely smiles unless at his wife, your best friend's mother. You know this from Princess Alyssa; she would complain about how cold and serious he is.

You still ignore those and try getting to know him, but he just looks annoyed or just straight-up ignores you, but you ignore it and still continue liking him. Not only that, you're not the only one; it's obvious that everyone that has met him, females and even males, all drool for him.

You still have some sense in you, and you also have to respect the Everett queen and Princess Alyssa since she is your best friend. You can't just let some love ruin the relationship you both had. You can't. She is like a sister to you. She helps you when you're confused; she protects and defends you when you were getting laughed at; she is there when you needed someone the most. It's not worth losing a relationship like this, and so your liking toward his father slowly dies down.

But things change when you grow up and start having features and curves and in the end, you become a gorgeous woman, many people are jealous of you even Princess Alyssa confesses to you about it and some desperately want you. You reject all of them since none of them are worthy of you, and you're disinterested in them.

Your intense gaze and soft complexion, with your structured face and striking presence, are on par with an iconic beauty, paired with the warmth and softness in your expression, which are very delicate. You would struggle to not look at yourself when there is a mirror.

You still have some feelings toward Emperor Edward, but you manage to hide it and be able to not think about him when talking to him.

The worst thing that could have happened was that the Queen of Everett died from childbirth while trying to give birth to the heir to the throne, but it went to a disaster. It was devastating news to hear from everyone.

The emperor was absolutely devastated and even despised the child. From that moment on he would never talk to anyone unless it was part of a duty, but other than that he would ignore the servant's advisers and even his own kids, which left Princess Alyssa depressed since she had to bear her mother's death, her father's coldness, and the baby boy that her mother lost her life to.

That week she came crying to you when you came to visit her and attended the funeral of the Everett Queen death. You decide to stay at Everett Palace for a few months before going back to Laurier Kingdom.

You promised Princess Alyssa that you'd take care of her and her baby brother, and so you did. After all, back at your kingdom and your family, you have 6 siblings, plus you, and you are the third eldest, which makes you the middle You have experience with babies after the experience of you sibling that you swear are more naughtyer when you take care of them.

In those months of staying, Emperor noticed that you had to take care of the baby boy and Princess Alyass when he found you singing a lullaby for them to fall asleep.

At that moment something in him awoke, something dark, horrible, and disgusting. He knew this was wrong, but who was there to stop him? Not even himself could do that.

From that moment on, he would try getting close to you and getting to know you better; by that, he would call you into his office or into his chamber. When talking, he would get close to you, too close, to the point that he's invading your personal space by burying his face in your hair, breathing in that sweet, gentle scent, or sucking and biting your earlobe.

You knew this was wrong. You both knew this was wrong, but you guys still continued. Your brain keeps telling you to stop and that this is your best friend's father, but your gut tells you to continue. For your best friend Princess Alyssa's sake.

At one of those meetings, you confess to him that you don't want to continue these "meetings" to respect your best friend Alyssa and her baby brother Prince James.

But when he hears that you swear you could feel the air getting tense and his face looks tense as well, and with clenched fists, he looks like he could kill someone that might have been you or others.

He then pushes you onto his office desk and forcefully rips your clothes off. All you can remember that day was just horror, pure fucking horror. It haunts your dreams, memories, and everything that you see that can somehow be related to the day you and he were together.

The cherry on top is Emperor Endward sends an arranged marriage to your kingdom between you both; you pray that your parents would reject this offer, but no. Instead, they accept it and send you a letter telling you the reasons that this could help our kingdom very much and this could give you a better future and more, but all you care about is that you're trapped with him. They also added in that they would be unable to see because of the distance of the two kingdoms and that it is time to set you free.

Oh, how you wish it were true to let you spread your wings and have your own freedom.

You hated everything, mostly yourself. You hated yourself for not being more alert and not telling anyone, not even your own family or close ones; you—you can't even describe the feeling that you're feeling at that point. You quite literally were disgusted by yourself.

You cry all day long to the point where Princess Alyssa hears it and finds you, and you vomit out all the things that happened while still crying. You wish the earth could just eat you whole, make you disappear from the earth, from this world, from this life.

You keep pressuring yourself that this is your fault for days till your hair has a few strands of white hair that you have noticed.

The wedding was within the week, and you both got married and wed. That very day and night of the "honeymoon," he slams you against the bed carelessly and forcibly spears open your legs with his hand while another pins both your head on top of your head.

You whisper near your ear,True to be told, I have actually noticed that since you were just a little girl, you always had a crush on me, so technically you wanted this to happen, so don't cry like last time, dear."

Your eyes go wide when you hear that he actually noticed. He knows that you have no words—absolutely no words.

That night was as horrible and traumatizing as the night you both had together. Princess Alyssa personally tries to help you escape; even after the marriage, she still supports you, even knowing the fact you are technically her stepmother.

But she accepted you, and you were quite stunned at how she handled the situation. Even though it was like hell, she still helped, whether by holding you while you were crying or whatever she was still there. It felt like she was starting to take care of you instead of you taking care of her like how you first promised.

In one of the many attempts of you trying to escape and her helping you with it, you both were caught, and Emperor Edward decided to punish you by isolating you and sentencing Princess Alyssa to be beheaded, his own daughter.

And you were forbidden to give her any visits after the situation. You didn't get the chance to even give her the last hug or talk or anything, not even a goodbye. You even threatened to kill yourself if he didn't allow you to see her, but he just laughs at you and tells the guards to throw you inside a dungeon where there's nothing, not even a window, so you have to rely on the fire outside.

Just like that, she's gone forever. You cry for days and refuse to eat, sleep, or even drink. The king himself has to personally force-feed you so that you don't die. You even scream and beat him as hard as you can in rage whenever you see him, but he just stands there, not unbothered. You might as well think that he doesn't even care or feel anything anymore, no remorse, no nothing, just disgusting lovesick eyes looking at you.

"I just can't get enough of you, love~"

Your life goes on until you have had enough, like enough one more year of this. You seriously don't think you want to be reincarnated into another life. You desperately want to feel things instead of being trapped in the shared chamber all day long, only allowed to go out to the garden for 1 hour to get fresh air with a few ladies in waiting and your own trusted servants near you to keep being aware of you and make sure you're not doing anything harmful to yourself or escaping.

You came up with the stupidest and most shameful idea. You decide to frame yourself for cheating on Emperor Edward and confess to him that you cheated. Making up fake clues for others to notice and gossip about, but the emperor refuses to believe it, so you told him personally.

"I cheated on you, Edward."

"You must be joking, dear. How would you even be able to do that, hm?"

but you just keep repeating the sentence, "I cheated on you."

This makes him overthink and triggers him, and he ends up struggling with you to death in the process. You still keep repeating the sentence, which forces him to grip your neck even harder till you are no longer breathing—not even a single movement, just soulless eyes staring straight.

When he realized that it was too late and there was no turning back, he let go of your neck, and you collapsed onto the ground, dead. He kneeled down next to you; finally, at this moment, he felt guilty for everything. He reflected on the things he had done to you, the amount of damage. Why didn't he think about this earlier? Maybe that could help him.

No, it's your fault for cheating on him. How dare you filthy women cheat on an emperor that has done everything for her sake? To this day he still blames you, but part of him does regret not caring what you felt and thought. He only treated you like a toy, a glass doll that would easily be broken. But he just couldn't help but love you with all his might, even if it meant hurting you.

He tried to keep your body from decomposing and rotting and would soak you in water to slow down the decomposing. He even went mad and brought you to the throne room for events, dressed you properly, stuffed you with cotton to keep you looking more alive, and said to others, "My wife is doing well; look at her, she's such a sleepy head; look at her sleeping, hehe…"

Sadly, eventually, he had no other choice but to finally bury you because your body was decomposing and smelling really bad. At the funeral, he gives a speech on how she was in his life and how he can't believe she died before him from 'sickness' and oh how sad he was and how he saw her glowing up into an elegant woman and more.

Prince James also gave a speech about how you try helping out, that he always sees her as a mother figure, and how (y/n) has always tried her best. He was innocent in all of these; as well, he even balled his eyes out when he found out that you died.

At the very last moment of seeing your face, he cupped your cheek one last time.

"Oh, how much I will miss you oh how I wish that I could go with you as well, but it's fine you don't need to worry love In my will, when I die, I'm going to be buried right next to you." He says that while chuckling while feeling remorse.

~~

Noisy steps raining hell on aged basement stairs, acting as a siren, telling everyone 'I'm here' before they can even see you.

"Pervert." You're crying when you reach the bottom. Your lips moving on their own accord, fighting off your self-restraint with ease, "I know what yo-you're hiding you disgusting, filthy, pervert."

"I saw everything." You confronted the crowded room, hot tears rolling down your cheeks, your eyes frantically scanning for Mike, who was already staring at you. But he wasn't the only one.

They were all staring at you. Dustin, Lucas, Will.

Their faces twist with confusion and concern, and a layer of disgust they couldn't even pretend to hide. Or maybe they didn't want to, would rather you see it written on their face, the turmoil your presence brought. It's unwanted.

And Mike, who stood from his seat and laughed perfunctorily, the corner of his eyes crinkling as they met everyone rounded at the table.

Probably his way of diffusing tension, you can't tell. You can barely breathe.

"Let's get you some water." He walked towards you, smooth and unconcerned strides. And he placed his palm atop your back to guide you upstairs, "Go ahead and continue without me, guys." He reassured his group before disappearing with you.

The kitchen is where he saw your grief, your jagged breaths; your desperation.

The part of you that sought comfort in someone you're so sure you should be running from. It's a tether, but that didn't stop you from sobbing your heart out, only pushed the confessions to pour from your trembling mouth.

And he's not denying it.

He didn't outright say 'no', if not, talked circles around your accusations. Telling you not to believe everything you see, like you're being fooled by media.

"You're being ridiculous, do you hear yourself? I stole from you? I keep a collection of you?" He's telling you more than he's asking you anything, and he said it with genuine disbelief, bewilderment clouding his expression.

"I mean, what is this? Where is this coming from? I'm your brother." He scoffed, reminding you of his place in your life, like that means anything.

You know men who do worse for less, real brothers who hurt their real sisters.

Girls who are turned into statistics, who are horror stories for the Hawkin's news, who showed up on in your mothers warnings after your father remarried. And one of those warnings, the first person you look at for reassurance, the only person you believed wouldn't be depraved enough, existed quietly with you.

"I know what I saw." You defend yourself, even if weakly.

"What'd you see?" There's a vague urgency in his voice, but it's subtle enough to brush off.

He'd pin it on some bullshit concern if need be.

"Ph-photos of me in bed," your speech faltered, uneven in its inflection, your throat clicking as you swallowed dryly, "al-almost naked."

"And where's the proof for that?"

"I..." You paused, blinking as the realization settles, his words ringing in your head.

You didn't have any of it, any of what he asked for, of what you've so confidently accused him of, of what you dragged him out of his dungeon for.

"I don't have it on me." You admit curtly, the tremble in your voice slipping through, your knees threatening to give out from beneath you.

And his gaze softened immediately, responding to your vulnerability with a tenderness only he was capable of. That reeled you into his comforting arms, that held you soft and kissed you warm.

"You know what I think it is?," He's pressed his lips against your temple, sighing, "you're jealous, hm? Jealous I don't spend all my time with you anymore, right?"

You soaked in his words and shook your head. "N-no," you sniffled, crumbling into his embrace and giving in.

"Don't scare yourself into seeing these things," he whispered, "You'll just worry yourself sick."

What had you seen?

And how can you be so sure any of it was yours?

How are you so sure any of it was Mike's?

The second time it happens, you're in his bedroom, helping him look for a book for his new campaign.

You weren't meant to be in there for more than a minute--you knew you needed to be quick because everyone's waiting for you downstairs. Mike, Dustin, Lucas, Will, and tonight, Mike's girlfriend.

Still, it calls your name as you pass by it on your way out.

A piece of notebook paper, crumpled to its smallest form, abandoned in a metal bin, asking to be left alone.

Ignorance is bliss. Ignorance is always bliss, you convince yourself.

A mantra you've recited day-in and day-out since then, like a prayer that's set to salvage scared bodies from further terrors.

But you reach for it anyways, prying open its furled body with curious hands. You make out a few things. Like the fact that it's only a fragment of a longer entry. Handwritten print of your name tacked alongside a mention of items.

Of your items.

Words about your hair after shampoo day, your sleeping body and every way it contorts when you're in a deep sleep, what time of night you're deadweight, a thin swipe of your current lipstick, a comment about the shade of your soft nipples, and the color of your thighs when stretched taut.

Your cycle. Your college schedule. How warm you'd like your coffee those Fall mornings.

There's an uneasy certainty etched into his writing- unequivocal observations that make your skin crawl, telling you to stop while you can, to stop.

Stop.

Stop.

Instead, it set you off. Sent you to his dresser, pulling open his drawers and the rest is blurry. Anxious hands diving wherever they can, groping blindly, begging for something to prove you right, or wrong, or anything to keep you grounded.

But it all comes up blank.

So you tripped into his closet, crawled into every nook and cranny. Tossing back pants and shirts that'd knock against the door behind you, that forced the door into the wall, a resounding thud with every throw, but you didn't care. You couldn't.

Your knees ached, pressed harsh into thin carpet that's certain to give you a burn, trembling fingers rummaging through everything it can find, until they land on a shoebox. On a lid that's thrown off within seconds, that sends reality crashing down you.

The room feels like it's spinning, tossing you every which way, and blood is rushing to your head. Bile sticking to your already dry throat, that just burns and crawls and digs into your chest, makes your heart quake.

Lingerie, undergarments, patterned and printed, socks, all ones you had emotionally grown out of after your last birthday. A few you mentioned wanting to throw out, because you were a different girl now. Because you were grown up and going to college and wanted to feel it, too.

"So weird, I was gonna toss out a bag of clothes but I can't remember where I put it..." You mentioned.

"Huh, that is weird," Mike followed, "but I guess if you were gonna toss them out anyways, doesn't matter where they went, right?"

And you agreed, stupidly.

It's all hitting you at once.

Tubes of spent gloss. The last of your signature roll-ons tucked into their own corner. He built a home out of you. A vault of your past and present, kept you hidden.

Was he going to do that you?

Keep you hidden?

Kept away from everything and everyone, just like everything in this box?

You kept looking, you don't know why, but you couldn't stop, finding yourself in front of a familiar stack.

Dirtied polaroid's bound together by a tan band that snaps open at your distress, pictures slipping from your head, broadcasting inscribed dates and descriptions and photos of you, your body, every angle possible.

And you can feel it crawling up your spine.

That night worming its way out of every dark corner in his room, closing in on you, enshrouding you icily, when your eyes land on the photo.

A photo that was meant to be a fairytale, something you had scared yourself into believing, something you hallucinated because he said so. Because he was spending time with his girlfriend and you were jealous, he said. That's what he said, and he promised. So why is it here? Why is it real and firm in your clammy fingers, why can you see it?

Your heart beats so loud in your ears you don't hear the shoes on carpet, or the weight shifting beneath your reddening knees.

"What are you doing?" His voice is what slams you back to the present.

Your heart skips a beat, a thick silence lingering between you.

"Mike..." You tremble, but you're refusing to look at him, staring into the galleria of your life instead.

He doesn't respond to you, though.

He reaches over to close the box, nudging it back in place, then he steps away, picking up after you. You hear it, the way he calmly folds tousled articles of clothing, placing them onto his bed.

"I saw-" You're cut off as soon as you speak.

"You don't know what you saw." He brushes off your concern, a cold edge to his voice, stripped of the affection he'd always meet you with.

Devoid of any patience he'd previously carried all those times you'd gotten too close.

When you'd run into his room, excited about some band, or some news, or something he'd set aside his day for. And he'd pretend like he wasn't just adding to his trophy of a shoebox, like that one night.

But he wasn't angry, you could tell. He was never angry, not with you, at least. He was indifferent, uninterested in your tears, and for some reason that was worse.

For some reason- some disgusting reason- you wanted him to care, to make it feel better, to pull you into his arms and against his chest while you doze off to some track on his vinyl.

It makes you want to curl into yourself, so you can hide from him, from your feelings.

You thought that maybe if you hid underneath your hands and cowered, you'd be small enough to trigger a shell, one that'd take you in and protect you from his hostility. Replace his job as your brother.

"You can't be doing this t-to pe-people," you mustered up the courage, slurred speech and all, but you said it.

You can feel the warmth of his body radiating onto yours, hugging you, tempting you.

"Doing, what?" He's on his knees, draping himself over your frame as he speaks, his chest pressed into your back. "What am I doing?" He asks with soft lips, dragging them across your skin.

It makes you shudder.

"Normally," the palm of his hand rests on your arm, weighing on you and warming you, comforting you as his thumb rubs in lazy circles, "you shouldn't be making a mess in someone else's room."

His comments churn in your brain.

They push on all the right buttons--that was his thing, seeing people for who they were.

What made them weak or strong, what made them tick, what they want or don't want to hear. And him, always knowing when to reach what.

"You know," His words are a serrated knife; threatening to break the seal. "You worried everyone tonight." He punctured.

You forgot. Everyone was still here.

You made a scene, you know that. You gave him no choice.

Mike recalled what he told the group. That you were probably hurt, that this isn't anything new, and that you probably just need your big brother. Telling them you don't know how to be by yourself.

And he didn't say it, he just made you feel it. Expertly chipped away at your confidence.

You've spoiled their night because you needed your big brother to save you, needed him to watch you throw your tantrums, because you don't like it when he's with his girlfriend and without you.

It is your fault yet again. Had you kept to yourself, you would've never seen what you did. You wouldn't have ruined tonight, you would've been downstairs with everyone.

"You shouldn't be doing this to people," his words crept against your earlobe, hardly above a whisper.

You whimpered in response, the only thing you do, and it sounds pathetic. Like you were going to cry.

"I know, I'm being so mean," he crooned, gingerly coating your nape in wet kisses, as he cradled you with gentle hands--an emotional whiplash. But you couldn't help it, he knew you couldn't when you softened under his touch.

"Are you... am I..." You struggled to find the words, your breath picking up, "are you mad at me?"

He pressed another kiss to your temple before standing, "Just disappointed. You should've known better than to do this again, but I forgive you."

He doesn't tell you that he sent everyone home earlier, that he was never pulled away so selfishly, but ignorance is bliss.

Always.

Michael took you to bed that night.

He helped you up off the ground and dusted off your carpet-burned knees, then he walked you to your room, until your legs met the mattress and you were forced into its comfort.

Neither of you bothered with the lights on the way in, the moon illuminated enough bluey hues.

Words aren't exchanged when his fingers hooked onto the belt loop of your bottoms and he tugged them down your thighs, until they pooled around your ankles.

To get you ready for bed, he said at some point, you can't remember when.

When you blinked up, all you saw was Mike, peering into your teary eyes from where he stood. He bent towards you for a moment only, fingers brushing your hair back lovingly.

The heat soothed you and it was so tender you could sob into his hand.

It was demented that you knew how he felt.

That he tore down your privacy, never let you have it, saw you for who you were in every way. Yet deep down, you found yourself feeling self-conscious.

In a way you shouldn't.

In a way schoolgirls feel around their crushes, when she wonders if her hair looked nice, and the thought of looking a fool was agonizing and so she sheepishly pats down her flyaways, all to avoid being seen so imperfectly.

He made you want to pat down your flyaways.

You brought your legs up to rest on the mattress, an attempt to cover yourself but he stopped you, only kissed atop your knee. A wet kiss, the kinds you give to a girlfriend.

Has he? You ask yourself. Has he given these to his girlfriend?

You're not sure when this all began, you're not sure you want to know.

No, you know you don't want to.

You don't want to see what he saw. Or what he felt all those times you'd collapse in his arms after a bad day, a bad date, when he'd watch your eyes puff and swell with sadness. Or what he thought during those evenings your father would upset, when you'd stomp, stomp, stomp back to your room and slam the door.

You bottom lip quivered and he leaned in, snug between your legs, before you could cry. He caught your lips on his and brought you to a quiet.

He let out a sigh of relief that same second, and his hands briskly found themselves on your waist.

It all makes your stomach hurt. None of it takes away from who he is and what he's done.

"Stop," you sobbed into the kiss while melting into it--under him.

You don't know why you want him to stop either.

Is it because of his girlfriend? Or because he's your brother?

But his movements stilled, warm lips nestled above yours, "You want me to stop?" His whisper brushed against you, and you don't respond, only turned your face the other way, his lips on your cheek this time.

Your throat tightened as you swallowed.

"You can't do this to me. I'm..." you paused, wanting to collect your thoughts. "I am not your girlfriend." You whispered with an averted gaze, staring at your dimly lit window.

Not, 'I am family' or 'I am your childhood', but 'I am not your girlfriend.'

"Is that it?" He purred against you, kissed along your cheek to the side of your mouth, where he kept himself pressed, and his hand pushed underneath your chin. "You want to be my girlfriend?" He smiled, you knew because you could feel his lips stretch thin as he spoke.

But he didn't wait for an answer this time.

He used the hand under your chin to turn your face back to his. Then he dove back in without restraint, the kiss eliciting a moan you could tell he was holding back.

He kissed you fervently, like you were meant for him, and him you, and he let you sob under him. He let your hands weakly nudge at his biceps, let you make weak noises.

"Tell me to stop again," he breathed against your lips, "tell me."

He was testing you, what you really wanted, and like clockwork you never knew.

So he made the choice for you and left your swollen lips alone, pulling back and breaking strings of spit with him. Choosing, instead, to stamp your cheeks with wet kisses.

Then along your jaw and down your neck, like he was tasting you or savoring you, the way a devoted man would. And he kissed until he reached your bare navel.

Your mind drifted.

Each memory mingling with your emotions.

Did it start on the night of your sixteenth birthday?

The night he took you down to Benny's because all you talked about was a messy burger with a side of extra soggy fries, topped with the coldest pop, and he watched you eat with all your glory.

Or is that just when it started for you.

Your stomach fluttered in response. You watched through wet lashes as he reached your lower half, where he lightly rubbed his nose into your inner thigh and the ends of his hair tickled your skin.

He bit into the fat of your thighs like the sweetest nectar was promised, with gentle teeth and warmed lips, and he brushed down to your panty-clad mound.

His breath hot above your crotch, and your hand went flying, shoving itself between his mouth and you.

His eyes flicked to look up at you, an eyebrow raised, before he looked back down at your hand. He kissed your knuckles, each one, from thumb to pinky.

He kissed your nails, each one again, then he kissed the pudge of your wrists, nudged at it with his nose. A dog asking, no, fighting for it's treat. And you, the owner, caved by moving your hand.

Michael Wheeler, your childhood, your stepbrother, and what next? Your lover?

Unlike her previous husbands, Yuuta is cool in an effortless way. He doesn’t scold you or attempt to parent you like the rest. However, he does fret sometimes when you’re actively suppressing your sickness. His care is that of a medical professional, which you appreciate. He always seems to know when you’re not feeling well and the best way to help you regain your health. Thankfully, he doesn’t treat you like an invalid, like past exes of your mother have.

That alone cements him as above all the rest.

…. So maybe the bar is low, but it’s not as if you’ve had much luck in this department, and that’s including your mother’s rather poor attitude regarding your condition. You think you’d probably let him become your primary doctor if it wasn’t a conflict of interest, because he seems to predict the days you’ll be better and the days you’ll feel worse, like today, when he noticed you were working up a light fever.

Stubbornly, you ignored his advice and now, in the late hours of the night, you’re searching for a fever reducer because you’ve gotten worse, just as he suspected you would. You wouldn’t be so hesitant to accept his instructions, but lately, taking fever relievers has left you with… strange dreams. However, you’re not so obstinate that you’ll allow yourself to get even worse just because of an odd symptom.

It’s as you go to open the bathroom that you notice a light coming from the bottom of its closed door.

Immediately, you know that it’s Yuuta. Your mother never wakes up during the night, but your stepfather keeps late hours. He likely just arrived home from work.

You sigh and knock quietly.

As expected, he opens the door, toothbrush in hand, with a hairband pushing his wet hair back from his face, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. He must have just taken a shower because there are water droplets everywhere on him. Your eye is drawn to one in particular, trailing down his collarbone to the valley between his pecs. You avert your eyes quickly before he can catch you looking.

“Hey, what are you doing still up?” Your stepfather asks softly.

You scratch the back of your neck sheepishly. “I think my fever’s gotten worse.”

He clucks his tongue. “I told you it would.”

“I know,” you reply. “I just thought that maybe if I kept hydrated and rested, it would go away.”

His disappointed demeanor softens, not with pity, though. He reaches out to press the back of his hand to your chest, and you try not to shiver at the change of temperature. He’s always colder than you, but he is especially so, right now.

“C’mon, then, let me fix something for you,” Yuuta says as he grabs the pill bottle from the cabinet.

You follow him as he makes his way to the kitchen. “Are you hungry?”

Quite frankly, you don’t think you’ll be capable of keeping anything down, so you shake your head.

“Will you be able to drink something?”

“Yeah, I think so,” you answer.

You watch as he pulls out a Pocari Sweat from the fridge and takes out two Ibuprofen before handing them out to you.

Distantly, you note that the drink has already been opened, but he must have twisted it open for you when he leaned down to grab it.

You pop the pills into your mouth and wash them down with the entire drink; Yuuta smiles at you once you do.

“Do you want to watch a movie with me, or try to go back to sleep?”

As nice as dissecting a movie with your stepfather sounds, you think you’d rather just rest. You tell him so, and he nods, kissing your forehead as he tells you goodnight. Your face flushes as he brushes past you to head to the bedroom he shares with your mother, silently. It’s not the first time he’s done so, but that he did it so mindlessly makes you feel… well, you’re not quite sure, but you did like it.

Maybe, just this once, you’ve found yourself a worthy replacement for a father.

It’s not long before sleep claims you, and like always, you begin to dream such strange things.

Someone has sat beside you, stripping the covers from you, as well as your bottoms. You can’t help but notice how delicate their touch is, as if you’re something precious, and how cold it is, too. They stroke your most intimate area, and you can’t bring yourself to open your eyes or lift a limb, or even speak to tell them to stop. Though you have a feeling that even if you conveyed such a sentiment, they wouldn’t, so you merely lie there and take what it is they give you.

The stranger is focused solely on your pleasure, using their hands and mouth to bring you to completion. Their mouth is latched onto your clit, swirling their tongue around it, as they plunge their fingers inside of you rhythmically, curling them further with each thrust.

Quietly, your stranger moans your name, and it’s enough to push you over the edge. You tremble in their grip as you ride the waves of pleasure.

It goes on like this for what seems like an eternity, until you’re aching and whining weakly for them to stop, gaining just enough lucidity to do so. It’s only then that your stranger stops, but not before kissing you thoroughly.

They slip away, and your dream ends.

When you wake, your panties are drenched, and your fever has abated.

You go about your morning as usual, even if you can’t shake how disquieted your dream has left you.

Yuuta is making coffee when you enter the kitchen. He greets you with a small wave as he hands you a cup of tea. “Feeling better?”

You nod hesitantly, unable to meet his gaze for some reason.

He closes the distance between you and checks your temperature once again. “It seems like it’s gone, but be sure to keep an eye on it, okay?”

He smiles, and it crinkles his eyes in a way that, somehow, makes him appear even more handsome. You can understand why your mother originally sought him out.

“Okay,” you agree absentmindedly, mouth suddenly dry and throat tight.

You may not have a fever anymore, but you can’t help but feel sick.

The stranger in your dreams is not one at all.