It was your first Christmas away from home. You were working abroad for a partnership that was scheduled to finish two weeks ago, but because dozens of other coworkers took sudden early breaks off from work, you and a handful of others were left to pick up the pieces. You were promised an increased pay that had already been transferred into your bank account with more to come during the next few weeks you’d be abroad.

But no amount of money soothed the way you felt about being away for Christmas. Your dad and stepmom shipped a few of the gifts they bought for you while also keeping most of them for when you’d be back home.

Hopefully, your internet connection would be strong enough to have a lengthy video call with them from where you were on the day of Christmas.

You were sitting in the living room of your rented place sorting through papers with a pencil in hand. A benefit about your current position was that most things were paid for including your rent, one-hundred dollars biweekly for your groceries, and twenty cents per litre of gas for your car. At least you didn’t have to worry about finances while you were away, which made it a happy time shopping for Christmas gifts for you friends and family until you got a call from your boss that you had to stay until the twenty-eighth of December.

There was a small tree at the corner of your living room with the gifts you were planning on bringing back home sitting around it. It was therapeutic to decorate the tree on your own, and even more comforting when you ate dinner on your couch watching a movie with every light in your place turned off save the Christmas tree emitting light through the living room.

A knock came at your front door and you placed your pencil down before padding through your cold front foyer. You had to remember to shop for a portable heater.

When you opened your front door, your stepsister was standing on your porch, arms overflowing with wrapped gifts. Your face must’ve lit up the moment you saw her, because Wanda smiled back. She attempted to wave but a gift nearly toppled down to the snowy porch.

“Oh, right, right, come in, Wands,” you told her and took a few gifts from her arms. You put them with the other gifts at the bottom of your Christmas tree and went back to get the rest from your stepsister to allow her to take her boots and jacket off.

When you straightened after placing the last gift down by the tree, Wanda was just stepping into your living room, looking around in awe at her stepsister’s new place and its holiday decor.

You walked over to her and wrapped your arms around her tightly. Her attention left your living room and she hugged you back with a laugh. “I didn’t know you were coming!” you exclaim and pull away to look at her.

Her cheeks and the tip of her nose were flushed a light pink from the biting winter cold outside. It made your heart skip a few beats. It’d been so long since you'd last seen her. You pulled away and Wanda wiped her hands on her jeans.

“Y-Yeah, I decided to surprise you,” Wanda said, looking up to you with an excited smile. “Mom and dad thought it would be a good idea because I’ve finished my final exams. And I was really excited to see you. I brought your gifts with me too so they wouldn’t have to ship it.”

“I’m really happy to see you too, Wands,” you told her. “Thank you for being here.”

Wanda shifted uncomfortably for a moment, a tell of hers that indicated some anxiety. “And… I was wondering if I could stay with you.” She looked up from the floor to you. “I just thought it would be nice to give you some company and so we’d get to spend a good portion of the holidays together. I know it’s so last minute, so I would understand if you don’t have any time or space for me.”

“I always have time for you, Wanda,” you said. Her expression lightened, a bright smile tugging at her pink lips. “You can stay here, of course. Anything you need we can go shopping for. Do you want to go out now?”

“Now?”

“Yeah, I need a break from work and I wanna show you around. There’s a really nice Mediterranean place around here.” You placed a hand on Wanda’s lower back and walked with her to the front door, some of your palm meeting with her warm skin that peeked out from the bottom hem of her black long sleeve.

“Oh, yeah. The one you texted me about,” Wanda recalled. She leans down to put her boots on and then slips her black trench coat back on.

The two of you drive down a few streets to go grocery shopping for some of the things Wanda forgot to bring, cereal she wanted and dinners for the upcoming week she’d be with you. You couldn’t help the way you stared at her as the day went on. You watched her green eyes as they darted around the roads her car drove down, the parting of her soft lips as she spoke to you about everything you’d missed since you started working abroad.

Having dinner with her that night was particularly special. Whenever you had time back home, you’d go out with your stepsister, whether that be out to the mall or for meals together. You talked for hours, even ordering a few extra desserts so as to not bother the waiters with the way the two of you just sat and talked. You left a generous tip as a thank you for their patience and headed back home with your stepsister.

You unpacked the groceries after showing Wanda to the guest room and leaving her to unpack her own things.

She came back down in pyjamas, fleece pants with red and white patterns on them and a loose short-sleeved white shirt with a large red deer on it. The domesticity of having your stepsister stay with you as she walked around your living room looking at your tree’s ornaments brought you more joy than you could ever even begin to explain.

You made hot chocolate for the both of you, Wanda’s with lots of whipped cream and cinnamon. She was sitting at your couch looking over your work notebooks when you set down the mugs on the coffee table to cool down first before drinking.

“Yum! Thank you,” she said excitedly and leaned down to lick a bit of whipped cream off the side.

You moved your mess of work off the couch to the armchair on the other side of the living room. Wanda’s eyes followed you as you walked back to the couch and sat beside her. She crawled over to you and plopped down beside you.

“Are we gonna watch a movie?” she asked, smiling up at you as her cheek was pressed against your upper arm.

“Yeah, do you want to?”

“Yes, please,” she answered. Wanda clapped and you laughed when you picked the remote up from the coffee table and turned on the television.

Like you had hundreds of times before, the two of you sipped at your hot chocolate, Wanda cuddled up to your side while a movie played. You recalled memories of past Christmases together as your stepsister giggled against your chest and you hugged her tight.

When your hot chocolates were long finished and the movie came to a finish, you looked down to see Wanda dozing off against your side. You had raised your arm to find the remote and turn the television off, but you found yourself reaching down to cup her cheek instead. Wanda stirred, eyebrows stitching together momentarily before her face relaxed again.

“Wanda…” you whispered. She hummed weakly in response. You whispered again, “Wanda, come upstairs with me, I’ll take you to your room.”

She mumbled out a slurred, “Okay.” Wanda held herself up until she reached your shoulder and laid her head against it, dozing off again. You could feel her warm breath against your neck. You could see the soft fluttering of her eyes as the dim light from the television glowed against her. You could see the soft, almost undetectable twitching of her soft lips.

Before you knew what you were doing, you leaned down to her face and kissed her. She tasted like whipped cream. Wanda hummed, exhaling against your upper lip as her eyes fluttered open. She pulled away from you weakly, though she did not know whether it was from fatigue or a fragility of her own principles. But your hand on her cheek lifted her head and brought her lips to yours again.

“Y/N,” Wanda whispered, her hand finding your thigh and pushing herself up so her face could level with yours. Your thumb ran across her bottom lip then past her lips to her mouth where Wanda sucked on it softly. You delved into the crook of her neck and kissed your way up to her earlobe before nipping at it teasingly. “We can’t.”

“We did before,” you argued and put both of your hands on your stepsister’s hips, pulling her up onto your lap. Despite her previous protests, Wanda didn’t resist at all.

Wanda pushed herself up and looked down at your face with her hands on your chest. “That was before. This is now,” she told you.

“And what?”

“And-”

Her words were cut short when your hands rounded Wanda’s hips and you squeezed her ass, causing her to roll her hips down against your lap. Her head fell forward when a flush of pink came across her cheeks. “I want to finger your pussy,” you confessed bluntly.

Wanda’s breath hitched. “Don’t,” she said, her resolve weak.

“Tell me when you want me to stop. You remember the word, don’t you?”

She nodded. “I remember,” she answered. Recollections from the last time you fucked came to both of you. You had drank together, minimally, really, and the two of you ended up fucking in Wanda’s bedroom on the day she came back for her spring break. That was years ago.

Your hand slipped beneath the waistband of Wanda’s pyjama pants. You ran your fingers across her clothed cunt teasingly, fingers featherweight and devoid of any pressure. Wanda bucked her hips down but you were quick to pull away and click your tongue warningly.

“Y/N, please,” Wanda pleaded.

“Beg.”

“Please, daddy, I want your fingers in my pussy.” You could hear a hint of grit in her voice as she forced the confession out of her. You weren’t entirely pleased, but you’d train her during her time staying with you. Besides, she certainly deserved to be treated after her use of the honorific she knew you liked.

Your fingers slipped past her panties and found her slit already slick with her desire for you.

Carefully, the pads of your fingers ran through her folds, teasingly and torturously. But Wanda knew not to complain any further. She was intrinsically obedient in that way.

When your fingers pushed past the opening of her hole, Wanda’s back arched and she immediately began riding your fingers. You kissed her neck, her cheeks, her nose and her lips. The feeling of her walls squeezing around your fingers was not unfamiliar to you. You could remember where her g-spot was and how she liked for you to tease it, how to move your fingers in and out of her, how she liked her clit to be stimulated.

Curiously, you leaned forward and wrapped your lips around what you remembered to be a sensitive pulse on her neck. When she whimpered out, you felt pride grow within you. You knew stepsister more than anyone ever could, and she knew it too.

Her arms wrapped around your neck and she pulled herself close to you. “More, please, more. Please, I want to come,” she cried.

The speed of your fingers quickened and your thumb darted out to flick at the hood of her clit repeatedly. You curled your fingers inside of her while your other hand tucked itself under her shirt and groped her breast. Wanda leaned back and held her shirt up shakily while your lips wrapped around her other nipple. You whispered praises into her ear while Wanda could only whimper and squeeze you tight. You played her beautifully, like an instrument of which you knew every curve and trick, and when she reached the climax of her orchestra, you leaned back and watched her cry out in pleasure.

Your hands went to her waist and you pushed her off of your lap so her back laid on the couch. You pulled her pants down to her knees with her underwear and pressed kisses up smooth milky thighs.

Wanda’s fingers entangled themselves in your hair as you lowered your head down between her thighs. You pushed Wanda’s knees back into her chest with one hand, a forearm hooked behind her knees. You made her finish twice with your tongue then pulled her onto your lap again where Wanda humped her wet pussy against your bare thigh. You pulled a leg atop of hers as two of you moved your cunts against each other. You fucked your stepsister until your living room was filled with the scent of sex and Wanda had reached her limit three times over and she was a sweaty trembling mess below you.

“I’ve missed you so much, Y/N. I don’t ever want you to leave me again,” she panted against your cheek.

“Never again.”

“Never?”

“Stay with me until I go home on the twenty-eighth.”

ᱬ

Wanda was only five when her father remarried.

Even then, she felt the weight of change pressing from the moment her mother was rushed to the hospital—never realizing it would be the last time she'd see her alive.

One quiet evening, Wanda peeked around the corner of the living room. Her wide, innocent eyes froze at the sight of her father kissing another woman. A stranger who's got a little huge tummy. Not her mother—her mother who still lay sleeping in the white "pencil case" as Wanda, in her child's mind, had come to call it.

Wanda's confusion deepened even more when one day, the stranger woman leaned down and kissed her forehead gently, just like her real mom used to do. She felt even more bewildered when the woman helped her into a pretty dress and handed her a basket of flower petals. The woman's soft voice broke through Wanda's maze of thoughts as she began talking about her father. "I love your daddy," she said with a sweet smile, "and I'm gonna give you a good life. I'm gonna take care of you." She paused, looking down at her stomach. "Both of you," the woman clarified with a gentle caress on Wanda's cheek, "You won't understand yet, and your real mama may be gone now, but I promise you something—I will love you like she would have."

The only thing Wanda could clearly remember from that day was walking down the aisle, her tiny hands clutching a tiny basket as she threw petal flowers like she was instructed to.

At first, the change was terrifying. But as days turned into weeks, then months, Wanda began to find comfort. Her new mama's tummy grew bigger, and with it, so did Wanda's attachment. There were tea parties in the garden, endless plates of cookies, crocheted dolls and scarves, and warm arms that smelled faintly of lavender.

For Wanda, it was as if nothing really had changed. When her real mother passed away, the love of a mother quickly surrounded her again because that's how quick a new mama came to the rescue.

One day, while playing in the living room, Wanda noticed that her mama's stomach had grown significantly. "Are you sick, mama?" Wanda asked, her small hands gently touching her mama's belly. Her brows furrowed in confusion and worry. "Why is your tummy so big? Does it hurt?" She looked up at your mother with glossy teary eyes that made it sting.

Your mother smiled gently at her daughter's concern and handed her a small box. "Open it, sweetheart," she said softly. Wanda took the box, her tiny hands carefully opening it to reveal a crocheted top inside. "Big Sister" was written in sparkly letters on the front.

Days turned into weeks, and Wanda still didn't fully understand what the shirt said and what her mama said.

"We're gonna have a baby. You're going to have a baby sister. That means you're going to be a big sister."

But even then, Wanda kept caring for her mama and the growing tummy she carried. She trailed after her through the house, making sure mama sat down whenever she looked tired, bringing her water or little snacks without being asked with little flowers she personally handpicked in the garden. If her mama so much as winced, Wanda would hurry over, her face etched with worry, asking softly what was wrong. Her mama would reassure her—it was just the tummy—and Wanda would lean in to place a gentle kiss on it. She even tried to imitate her father, wrapping her small arms around her mama's belly from behind, as if she too could help ease the weight.

But then, all of a sudden, her mama was being rushed to the hospital. This time, Wanda's little heart filled with terror as she watched her mama disappear in the huge white door of the emergency room.

In her mind, everything replayed like a horror movie. She remembered her first mama—her real mom—never coming out the same door. The memories of that day were etched deeply into her little mind, and now she was terrified that it was happening again.

She didn't understand why her first mama never came back, but now she understood that her second mama—the one who loved her and took care of her—was in the hospital and might not come out either.

But much to her surprise, her mama did, she came out from the same door where she was rushed in, with a tiny human wrapped in a thick cloth.

That was the only thing Wanda remembered happening that day.

The day when you came into her life.

Wanda had been the only little one before you came along, and adjusting to another small human was confusing for her—everything was confusing through the eyes of a five year old. The attention that once belonged solely to her was now shared with the tiny being who demanded constant care. But Wanda soon realized something important: with the arrival of this new little one, she was no longer just a "tiny being" herself—she is now a part of the "big ones" like mama and dad. And because she understood that tiny beings needed more attention than huge ones, she did her part. She cared for you, she tried to help—doing whatever her small hands and big heart could manage.

Your first word wasn't "Mama." It was "Wanda."

She had you in her arms, bouncing you like a doll when it slipped out of your mouth. The syllables were clumsy, broken by baby teeth and spit, but unmistakable. "Wan-da."

She refused to let anyone else touch you for the rest of the day. You were hers. Her shadow. Her responsibility. Her baby—even though she was barely past babyhood herself.

From then on, she was always there.

She bathed with you. Fed you off her own plate. Propped you on her hip while watching cartoons. She even learned how to balance a bottle with her chin when her hands got tired.

If you cried, Wanda cried too. If you laughed, she laughed harder.

And when you made mistakes, Wanda carried the blame.

"Who spilled the juice?" Mama asked.

"It was me," Wanda would say, even when the evidence was still dripping down your chin.

And when Wanda made mistakes, you covered for her too…though always with a price.

One afternoon, you found her rifling through mama's purse. She froze, caught red-handed, her reflection wide-eyed in the vanity mirror. Slowly, she turned to you, lips parting in a guilty panic.

"Don't tell Mama," she whispered. Then her voice softened, coaxing, "I'll buy you ice cream."

You didn't really know what it is to tell mama. But ice cream? That was enough to seal the deal. You nodded enthusiastically.

When you turned five, Wanda was ten.

By then, Wanda had learned to notice things. She would watch from the window of your shared room as a mysterious man carried you away every weekend. He was tall and a bit young, Wanda remembered seeing that same man on the day you were born. Sometimes she would eavesdrop, listening in on the brief and straightforward exchanges between her mama and the man as they arranged the details of your pickup.

"When I married your dad, I already had your sister. And…that's her father, Wanda."

Wanda didn't say anything right away, but she studied your face the night you came back, when you were asleep. The resemblance was undeniable. You had his eyes, his mouth, his stubborn chin. Different from hers. Different from Wanda's.

It didn't change how she felt, though. If anything, it made her hold onto you tighter. Maybe you had another father somewhere else, but to Wanda, you were still hers.

When you were thirteen, Wanda was eighteen.

That was the year she began sneaking girls into your shared bedroom at night. You would wake to the sound of the window sliding open, the faint creak of the frame straining against its hinges, followed by the hushed shuffle of footsteps. There was always a quick exchange of giggles, nervous and sharp, swallowed by the dark before mama or dad could catch wind of them.

The ritual became so familiar you could almost time it—the scrape of shoes against the floor, the whisper of fabric being tugged loose, the sudden, electric silence when Wanda realized you were awake.

She'd sit down on the bed beside you, her weight dipping the mattress, her presence warm and heavy in the dark. Then she would pat her thighs—the unspoken signal. By then, you knew what to do. You climbed on, caging her legs with yours, but you never looked her in the eyes. Something about it felt dangerous, like the truth of everything would spill out if your gazes locked too long.

"Don't tell mama and dad," she would whisper, her voice threaded with a soft, deliberate threat but softened by those pleading eyes. It wasn't just a warning—it was a request, almost a confession.

You hesitated, biting your lip. You didn't know whether to nod or protest.

Then she leaned closer, her breath brushing your ear, her tone coaxing now, playful, sweet. "I'll buy you ice cream."

You picked at your nails, staring down at your own legs straddling hers. A lump stuck in your throat. "For a week," you finally bargained, voice cracking in the quiet.

Her smirk bloomed in the dim light, sharp and triumphant. "Deal." She tilted your chin up with practiced ease, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before carefully shifting you aside, removing you from her lap. She tucked you back under the blanket, smoothing the covers as if nothing had happened. Then she kissed your forehead before slipping out the window with the girl she had smuggled in.

And just like that, your silence was bought. Not by fear but by the promise of sweetness—a cone of ice cream, cold and temporary, melting fast on your tongue, making the secret easier to swallow.

But time does what it always does.

Your weekends with your father began to stretch into entire weeks, then whole summers. You were gone more often than you were home. And when you returned, the house felt smaller, your shared room more suffocating than comforting.

As people do, you begin to change. Wanda noticed it first in little ways. You asked mama for your own room—not because you disliked sharing with your sister, but because privacy had started to matter, especially when her nighttime visits grew more frequent, when girls seemed to come and go through your window more than the breeze itself.

You stopped sneaking bites of her food, stopped sipping from her tumbler like you used to. You turned down her casual invitations to shower together, when once you would throw tantrums if she said no. You stopped sprawling on her side of the bed, stopped demanding her attention in the loud, childish ways you once did.

And when Wanda leaned close, trying to kiss you the way she always had—on the lips, the innocent ritual of childhood—you avoided her. At first, you offered your cheek instead, a compromise, an attempt to soften the rejection. But even the cheek-kisses became rare. Eventually, they disappeared altogether.

The bond that once felt unshakable began to loosen thread by thread.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, you drifted away.

And Wanda, though she never admitted it, felt the loss like a phantom limb—something that should still be there, something she reached for in the dark, only to find empty space.

When you turned sixteen, Wanda was twenty-one.

Everything about you had shifted. The baby-soft frame she used to carry everywhere had vanished, replaced by a body that demanded to be noticed—curves that pulled eyes whether you wanted them to or not. Your clothes, skimpy tops and low-cut bras, seemed chosen to test limits, and you carried yourself with a confidence that both unsettled and angered her.

You were no longer the little sister who clung to her every chance you get or cried when she left the room. Instead, you spent your days barricaded in your bedroom, only emerging when hunger forced you to the kitchen or mama called you to join the family. And even then, you came out sharp-edged. Your words cut. You bit back with sarcasm whenever mama gave you gentle reminders, rolled your eyes at your stepdad.

One evening, when your temper spilled over and you snapped at your mom again, Wanda finally stepped in. She could see you were upset about something and she didn't want to judge, she tried to reason with you even though she knows you went overboard with how you acted, "Are you okay, baby?"

But you only glared, the venom in your tone surprising her. "Why do you care?"

Wanda froze, her heart lurching at the bite in your words. Still, she tried. "Because you're my sister. Of course I care."

Your laugh was sharp, hollow. "Why?! You're not really my sister, Wanda—so stop pretending like you are!"

The silence that followed was brutal. For a moment, it felt like the entire house was holding its breath. Wanda stood there, stunned, the sting of your words ringing louder than anything else. In her hand, the ice cream cone she had bought for you earlier sagged, melting into a sticky mess.

The sweet girl who once begged to sleep in her arms, who used to sneak bites from her plate, who kissed her lips without hesitation—was gone. In her place stood someone colder, sharper, a stranger in your skin. And Wanda hated it. Not because she despised who you were becoming but because she missed who you used to be.

Now you slipped further from her with every passing day, and Wanda didn't know how to stop it. All she knew was that losing you—even in this quiet, gradual way—felt unbearable.

When you were nineteen, Wanda was twenty-four.

The holiday season had rolled around again, but this year felt different. You hadn't planned on coming home—your father had been insistent that you spend Christmas with him instead, and you had promised him you would. It stung a little, knowing Mama would spend the holidays without you, but you had told yourself there would always be next year. There would always be more time.

But time is cruel.

A sudden, brutal twist of fate shattered everything you thought was certain.

Your family home became a crime scene. The lights that once glowed warm in the windows were replaced by the cold flicker of police sirens, washing the walls in red and blue. Neighbors huddled on the sidewalks, their whispers thick with shock and pity. Yellow tape stretched across the porch where you had once sat eating ice cream with Wanda on hot summer nights.

Inside, nothing was the same.

Your mama and stepfather—gone in an instant. A robbery, the officers said. A senseless act of violence. Two lives stolen before the season of giving could even begin.

And Wanda, scarred, traumatized.

You? Lost.

After the funeral, the silence was unbearable. The air still reeked of melted candles and smoke, the wilted flowers drooped in their vases, and the mourners had long since disappeared. All that remained was the suffocating weight of absence.

You stood in the corner, arms wrapped around yourself, trying to disappear into the shadows. That was when Wanda moved.

She had been quiet for days—didn't speak to anyone, even to you. But now, she came toward you with no hesitation in her steps, no room for you to retreat.

Before you could form a thought, she was on you. Her hands gripped your arms, making you whine because it hurts. You could feel her breath against your neck, uneven and hot, her chest trembling as if holding back a storm.

"You're coming home with me." She whispered, but it wasn't soft. It wasn't a request. It was a vow, a command, a claim.

Now you're back home for the first time since you had left for the holidays before the incident. There's this heavy weight settled over you, the house was empty but you feel like it was crowded the way your chest constricts. You're not being welcomed by mama's hug anymore or the aroma of her dish. No more dad to ask you if you wanted to go shopping.

You tried not to imagine how it happened—how it ended—but the thought lingered anyway. Stepping inside, Wanda was already walking past the kitchen, unable to face the place where your mother and stepdad had been shot. The sight hollowed you, and your heart ached with a grief too vast to name.

When you went upstairs, you peek into your sister's room, which was your shared room, you find her standing, her back away from you, she was breathing heavily. She was tense, on edge even though you cannot see her face. And when she felt your presence, she turned towards you and spoke firmly, "You'll sleep here tonight, with me." Before you could protest—not like you will, you were inside and she was already closing the door behind her, sealing the two of you in the room together.

Your sister needs you.

And you do too.

Not in the way you used to—not with childhood giggles or demands for attention. No, this was different. This was raw, desperate, clinging to the only person left who understood—who remembered—who saw it all. The house felt cavernous with loss, and without her close? You'd drown in it alone and so will she.

So when she locked that door behind her and told you where you'd sleep tonight? It wasn't a request, it was survival. Two broken souls trying to stitch themselves back together through proximity because what else did either of you have now except each other? And maybe, just maybe, if she could keep one small piece of routine intact—like sharing this bed like always before everything shattered apart, at least something might still make sense again.

Neither of you bothered to change out of your funeral clothes, the weight of the day too heavy, exhaustion sinking deep into your bones. The black fabric wrinkled as you both collapsed onto the bed, Wanda immediately curling her body around yours.

Her arm wrapped tight around your waist, pulling you flush against her chest—like if she held on hard enough, she could keep any more pieces from breaking loose. Then her voice came low over your shoulder in the dark.

"I promised mama…to take care of you."

Simple words loaded with everything unspoken between grief and guilt and duty all tangled together inside her ribs until breathing hurt just as much as gunshot wounds ever could've. And then silence fell except for shared breaths slowing down toward sleep neither wanted but desperately needed after days spent drowning awake.

The pale morning light filtered through the curtains as you woke up still tangled in Wanda's arms. Your faces were inches apart, her breath warm against your skin. Without thinking, your fingertips traced the scar on her cheek—a jagged reminder of what happened that night.

Wanda didn't flinch at your touch. Instead, she gave you a soft smile, she still looks tired, she's pale and had dark circles under her eyes even though she just woke up from a long sleep.

Her hand came up to cover yours where it rested against her scarred face for just a moment. Then suddenly, soft fingertips tilted your chin up before her lips pressed against yours so lightly, just like when you were kids, whenever you asked her for a kiss. It lasts barely seconds but lingers heavy in quiet air between shared breaths.

And you let her. Because why wouldn't you?

You didn't even think you were crossing lines; it's like clawing back at scraps of normalcy buried under the wreckage of what used to be simple. A ritual unearthed from before—before the blood on kitchen tiles, before your parents left a hollowed-out space in this house and in your life.

So when Wanda kisses you again—a peck—before burrowing her face on your chest. You don't question it.

Not when she needs this.

Not when part of you does too.

Wanda broke away slowly, her forehead resting against yours for a moment before she spoke softly, "Shower with me?" She asked casually, just like the old times. "We can go get ice cream after."

You can only remember the feeling of your wet naked bodies pressed together that morning, under the falling water as your sister held you tighter, her fingers digging gently into your sides like she's going to lose you too—and of course, the drive to the ice cream store.

When you were twenty-one, Wanda was twenty-six.

It had been two years since that night changed everything.

"Good morning…" Wanda's voice broke the silence of the kitchen.

Before you could even murmur a reply, her hand was already at your chin, tilting it up. Her lips brushed against yours—brief, almost habitual, as if the motion had been etched into her like muscle memory. It had become a rhythm between you two, quiet and unquestioned. No fumbling, no words. Just a kiss in greeting, as simple as breathing.

"I made breakfast," she whispered, softer this time, her eyes studying your face as though checking for approval. "Pancakes. Your favorite."

You smiled, nodding gently, moving toward the table. But as you reached for a glass of water, your fingers slipped.

The crash of shattering glass against tile ripped through the air.

In an instant, Wanda jumped, her body jerking like she'd been struck. Her breath hitched, panic flashing across her face so raw it froze you in place. The sound of broken glass wasn't just a sound to her anymore—it was danger, loss, violence. It was a memory.

"Can you be careful?!" she snapped, her voice sharp, trembling more from fear than anger. Her hands clenched at her sides as though resisting the urge to snatch you away from the shards.

Your heart thudded as guilt curled inside your chest. "I'm sorry," you whispered, dropping to your knees, gathering the jagged pieces one by one with cautious fingers.

She let out a long, shaky sigh—one that carried more weight than words ever could. Without looking at you, she turned and walked toward the stairs. Her bare feet made the faintest sounds against the wood, but to you, every step felt like a door closing.

You stayed frozen in place, kneeling on the cold tile with your hands still damp from wiping the floor. Your eyes followed her retreating figure, the curve of her back stiff, her head slightly bowed as if she were carrying something too heavy for her age. Your throat tightened. You wanted to call after her, to run up and make sure she was okay, but your body wouldn't move. All you could do was sit there in the silence, worry gnawing at your chest, watching the space she left behind like she might reappear if you just stared long enough.

It is not the first time something like this happened to Wanda. It had started with something small—too small to make sense to anyone else. The sharp slam of a cabinet door, the clatter of a spoon hitting the floor. But for Wanda, it was enough. The sound ripped her wide open, dragging her back to that night, and suddenly she wasn't here anymore.

The first time it happened, you didn't know what to do. Her hands shook violently, frozen in place, her wide eyes glassy and unfocused. She wasn't looking at you, wasn't looking at anything. Just staring—past the walls, past the room—into some place only she could see.

Her chest hitched, her breath stuttered in shallow gasps before the tears came. First silently, then in broken waves that wracked her whole body. She didn't speak, didn't yell, didn't make a single sound beyond the sobs that poured out of her.

"Wanda…hey, it's me. You're safe," you whispered, as softly as you could, approaching her with slow steps. You reached for her hand, but she pulled away without even looking at you, like she wasn't really there.

You tried again, desperate. "I'm here. I've got you."

But nothing, she just turned and fled into her room, shutting her door.

You pressed your forehead to the wood, heart pounding, whispering through the barrier, "Please…don't do this alone." But there was no answer.

Your fear grew heavier the longer the silence stretched, your mind racing with worst-case scenarios. What if she hurt herself? What if she didn't come back out?

So you reached up and turned the knob gently, half afraid it's locked.

It opened.

Inside, Wanda sat on the corner of her room, shoulders shaking, her face buried in her trembling hands. She looked so small, so breakable.

"Wands?" you whispered, careful not to startle her. She didn't respond, but her sobs deepened, her whole body folding in on itself.

You crossed the room slowly, each step deliberate, until you were right in front of her. Your heart raced, but your hands moved gently, instinctively. You reached out, brushing her damp hair away from her face, and cupped her cheek. Her skin was hot with tears, her breath uneven, but she leaned into your touch—fragile, desperate, like she had no strength left to resist. Her glassy eyes flicked up, scanning you with such raw intensity it made your throat tighten. She studied you as though grounding herself, your eyes, your nose, your lips.

Then, she surged forward and kissed you.

It wasn't graceful, it wasn't thought out—it was trembling and messy, a collision of salt and tears, her breath hitching against your mouth. It was as though kissing you was the only thing tethering her to reality.

You froze for a heartbeat, overwhelmed, then softened into it, holding her face carefully, terrified she might shatter if you pressed too hard. Wanda clung to you like she was drowning, her tears streaking down between you both, but still she didn't let go.

Now, you hesitated at her doorway, unlike before, she now always leaves her door open. You watched as Wanda stood with her back to you. Her arms were crossed, her shoulders rising and falling with deep, deliberate breaths—like she was trying to steady herself, to force calm into her trembling body. The silence hung heavy, fragile, as if one wrong word might shatter her all over again.

"Hey…" you said softly, your voice careful, almost a whisper.

Her head tilted, not sharply, but slow. When her eyes found you, you made the kind of face you always did when you were scared—a little pout, your brows furrowed, lips pulled down.

For a second, she just stared at you, unreadable. Then the faintest smile touched her lips. She lifted one hand and beckoned you closer, her fingers curling slowly in invitation.

You didn't hesitate.

Your head was bowed as you walked over, unable to meet her eyes. The guilt sat heavy on your chest, pressing down until your breath trembled. As soon as you reached her, your body moved on its own, you stepped into her space and hugged her tightly, burying your face in the warm crook of her shoulder.

"I'm sorry," you mumbled into her skin, your voice muffled and breaking.

Her arms tightened around you, her chin pressing lightly against your hair. She let out a long, shaky sigh, and then you felt it—a soft kiss placed on the crown of your head.

"It's alright," she murmured, her voice low but steady this time. "It's alright, baby."

You sniffled against her shoulder, your arms holding her just as tightly, like letting go might undo the fragile peace you'd just rebuilt. She stroked your back slowly, grounding you in that small rhythm.

After a long pause, she pulled back just enough to look at you. Her hands framed your face, thumbs brushing your skin.

"Do I still need to drive you to uni?" she asked softly, her tone lighter, testing the weight of the moment.

You still feel that something is off though, but you nodded slowly, lips pouting, eyes still downcast.

Her faint smile returned, and she leaned forward to press another kiss to your temple. "Okay. Then I'll drive you."

University kept you occupied—recitations here and there, case digests piling up on your desk, group reports that stretched late into the night. You got used to the shuffle of student life, to burying yourself in books, to blending into the chatter of classrooms where no one knew the weight you carried at home.

You should've trusted your gut. That gnawing feeling at the back of your mind that whispered something's still not right with Wanda.

That evening, you came home drained from university, your bag heavy with thick reprinted cases. But the moment you stepped inside, your breath hitched. The house was a mess—shattered glass glinting on the floor, books scattered across the living room as if thrown in a fit of rage, the coffee table knocked askew. Your heart plummeted.

"Wanda?" you called out, panic threading through your voice as you dropped your bag and rushed deeper into the living room.

You found her in the dining, standing rigid, her hands splayed apart, gripping the edges of the table, her chest rising and falling too fast. She wasn't crying—not this time. Instead, she looked like she was holding herself together with fraying threads, her lips parted, breath trembling as though she was trying to calm a storm inside.

Your steps softened as you approached her, afraid to startle her further. "Wanda…"

She didn't look at you right away, her eyes fixed on some invisible point, her jaw clenched tight. Only when you were close enough to touch did she finally glance at you, and in that flicker of eye contact you saw it—that same heaviness, that same fragile balance between breaking apart and forcing control.

"Let's go for a drive…we can get ice cream."

The words caught you off guard, almost surreal against the mess of the room—the shattered glass, the overturned books. But it was Wanda, reaching for normalcy the only way she knew how.

You nodded quickly, almost desperately. "Okay," you murmured, as if agreeing too fast would keep her from slipping away again.

She brushed past you, her fingers grazing your arm in passing, and grabbed her keys. You trailed behind her, watching the way her shoulders stayed tense, but her pace was steady.

You slid into the passenger seat then Wanda drove in silence, her knuckles white against the steering wheel. The hum of the car and the occasional flicker of passing streetlights were the only things filling the space between you.

When she finally pulled into the empty parking lot of a half-lit shopping center, confusion curled in your stomach. The grocery store sign flickered, but you knew it was well past closing time. The ice cream shop was blocks away, yet Wanda parked here, in the shadows, where no one lingered.

"Wanda? Why are we here?" you asked softly, but your voice cracked, betraying your unease.

She didn't answer. Instead, she turned to you, eyes gleaming with something you couldn't name—fear? longing? desperation? Before you could press her, she leaned over the console and kissed you hard. The force of it stole your breath, her desperation pouring into you like she needed to consume you, like she was trying to swallow you whole, to absorb your calm into her storm.

The kiss was different, it wasn't the usual peck you do every morning or as kids. She shoves her tongue inside your mouth, and guides your inexperienced lips to move along hers.

Your heart pounded, torn between the instinct to push her back and the ache of pity at the way she trembled.

Shaky but slowly. Her hands tore at your clothes, buttons popping off and fabric ripping. Her hands were everywhere—rough and demanding with need. One moment they were forcing you down, undressing you, the next they were pulling your underwear aside. A choked sound escaped you as she pushed two fingers inside you without warning, pumping harshly.

You clung to her in terror as she took her time with you, feeling things the first time—the pain and pleasure. Tears streamed down your face but she kissed them away. She whispered how perfect you were, how her love for you was beyond comprehension, that she will always protect and love you forever. And the way her eyes looked at you convinced you it was true.

Wanda consumed you, slowly and tenderly.

The drive home was thick with silence. Wanda leans closer, her voice a soft hush against your ear whenever she hears you sob, then, she presses a gentle kiss to your temple. It was intended to soothe you, but that wasn't what you felt—your skin prickled with fear, every touch just reminded you how blurred the lines had become.

You struggled against your hiccupping sobs. But the tears are something you cannot hold back—they kept spilling—just like the ice cream dripping helplessly in your hand.

It lingered, it went through. Whenever Wanda wanted it, you'd give up.

Every hesitant touch, every whispered hush, unsettled you at first—but the need buried beneath your fear grew. Wanda would claim you with quiet certainty, and in that claiming, you found yourself craving it—needing it in ways you couldn't name. The fear that once pricked at your skin blurred into desire, and the routine of her possession became something your body recognized, something your mind silently demanded.

"Wanda...Wanda please..." you whimpered brokenly.

Your fingers dug into her back desperately as her hips jerked forward mercilessly. The strap-on hit a particularly sensitive spot and you cried out, clinging to her like she was your only lifeline, breath coming in shattered gasps against her mouth.

"I love you more than anything."

Each time she spoke it, her voice vibrated through you, lodged itself in the space behind your ribs, and left a heat lingering on your skin long after she had made you come apart. The way she held you—sometimes protective, sometimes demanding—made the words feel like both a comfort and a warning, a tether you couldn't ignore.

You loved her too, undeniably, but the love you felt had begun to twist, to curl into shapes you fear to recognize. It wasn't the simple, pure adoration of a sister anymore. There was an ache that pulsed through your chest, a pull toward her that made your skin tingle and your mind reel. It makes your stomach churn with shame, your thoughts race with guilt. To admit it—to respond with the same words—is wrong, disgusting. Even if you truly and cruelly felt it and wanted to tell her, to reach across the tangled space between need and fear and simply let it out—you couldn't. Not now. Not ever. So you stayed silent, swallowed the words like bitter medicine, and let her love press against you anyway, each claim of hers carving deeper into your heart and to your cunt. Leaving you trembling, wanting, and afraid all at once.

She was your anchor, your mirror—your sister. And yet, in the same breath, she became the forbidden, the dangerous, the need you couldn't understand but couldn't escape.

Sooner or later, this had to stop.

The way your sister claims you, the way her hands lingered where they shouldn't, the way she beckoned you over her bed and did whatever she needed in you—it consumed you, pulled you under, blurred every line you'd ever known. But it has to end. No matter how much you responded, how much you let yourself be drawn in, it had to end. The hold she had over you, the intoxicating feelings of fear, need, and something forbidden, could not last forever.

It has to stop before it destroys you both.

You were now twenty-nine, and Wanda was thirty-four.

It had been eight long years since you'd run away and never looked back. From everything that had once been your world, twisted into a memory both tender and forbidden.

From her.

Now, you live in Japan. Your father had a business here, but he sadly passed two years after you migrated in.

The streets were unfamiliar, the language foreign, but every new corner, every new sound, reminded you that you were building a life that belonged only to you. You had made friends, carved out routines, and for the first time in years, you felt the quiet security of independence.

And more than that, you were engaged. David—your handsome pilot fiancé. He is patient, endlessly considerate and silly in all the right ways.

The wedding is coming up soon. You and David are down to the final details—the guest list, the venue, the catering. Everything!

He kissed your temple gently as you scrolled through the guest list. "Why don't you invite your sister?"

The words made you freeze. Your sister. Just hearing the term made your chest tighten.

You had thought about it, more than once actually—inviting her, seeing her again, maybe even reconciling after all these years. Because it had been eight years. For you, everything was over, neatly buried in the past. You have moved on. Life had moved on. And now, with David, with your engagement, the thought of opening that chapter again stirred something that was better left untouched.

Everything around you became a blur—the terminal lights, the rolling luggage, the strangers moving past—none of it mattered. Eight years without her, and now, suddenly, she was back. Right there, in your line of sight.

You hardly recognized the exact moment she appeared at the gate; it was like your world had slowed down, and yet everything else sped past. Her green eyes—sharp, familiar, impossible to forget—met yours for a fleeting second, and your chest tightened. Her hair is now black but still the same length you remembered, maybe trimmed here and there, framed her face just like it always had. She looked a little older now, more refined, but unmistakably her.

You swallowed hard, the words caught somewhere between your chest and your throat. "Hey…" you finally managed, your voice small, uneven, carrying the weight of guilt, unease, and all the years of distance.

She looked at you for a heartbeat, eyes searching yours, and something unspoken passed between you. Without thinking, almost instinctively, you stepped forward and pulled her into a hug.

Your arms wrapped around her, tentative at first. She stiffened slightly, but then relaxed against you, her body yielding just enough to let you hold her.

Slowly, you pulled back, keeping your hands on her shoulders just a moment longer, letting your eyes meet hers.

"I…this is David," you said softly, but shaky. "My fiancé."

David stepped forward with a warm smile, extending his hand. "It's really great to finally meet you," he said, light and easy, the kind of presence that made the air feel a little lighter.

She hesitated for a second, then smiled back, "It's great to meet you too." As she shook David's hand, you noticed something—just a flicker—in Wanda's eyes. You blinked, and it was gone, replaced by her easy smile.

So much time had really passed you couldn't read her anymore.

The drive home was quiet and Wanda had insisted on staying at a hotel—"I have a budget for it," she said softly, "I don't want to be a trouble."

David glanced at you from the driver's seat with a mischievous grin. "But Y/N already fixed your room."

You blushed shyly and swatted at him, pinching his arm lightly then tickling the back of neck. It made him laugh, it was his weakness.

Wanda watched quietly, a sad smile tugging at her lips, something she couldn't understand. Yet, beneath the twinge of something unplaceable, one thing was certain—you looked really happy. It was the kind of happiness that made her chest tighten, a relief and something else she couldn't put into words, as if seeing you content was both a comfort and a quiet ache all at once.

At home, after settling in, you turned to David, "I'll just show her to the room."

"Alright," he said warmly, stepping close to pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. "Tell me if you need help, okay? I'll start dinner."

You nodded, a little shy, the gesture grounding you before you picked up one of Wanda's bags and led her down the hall.

Upstairs, you led Wanda toward the spare room, the hallway felt unusually long, every creak of the floorboards louder than it should've been. When you finally pushed open the door, the air between you seemed to grow heavier—awkward, uncertain. You set her bag down gently by the bed, glancing at her only to find her eyes already on you, unreadable.

"He seems really sweet," Wanda tried to divert the tension. Her voice is gentle, almost careful.

"He is," you replied quietly. "He really is." You gave her a small smile, the kind that didn't quite reach your eyes. Wanda noticed, though—she always noticed. Her gaze dropped to your hands, catching the way you'd started picking at your fingers, an old nervous habit you never outgrew after all these years.

That was enough for her. She forced her voice gently. "David might be looking for you now and thank you…for the welcome." She said, as if shifting the weight of the air between you to something lighter, something safer for you.

You nodded quickly, grateful for the out. She gave you a small smile, but her eyes betrayed her—she wanted to keep talking, to hold you there in that room for just a little longer. But she let you go. She still has another time for that.

It was four days before the wedding, and the house was buzzing with preparations. Flowers, last-minute fittings, caterer calls—everything seemed to blur together in the countdown.

Wanda has been staying with you for two nights now. Her suitcase sat neatly tucked in the spare room, though she hardly unpacked, she wasn't sure how long she truly belonged there. The second night felt less awkward than the first, the sharp edges of reunion softening into something that almost felt normal—almost.

The next morning, over breakfast, David had been scrolling through his phone, half-listening to your nervous chatter about schedules and checklists. Then, without looking up, he asked casually,

"Why isn't Wanda your maid of honor?"

The question hit you harder than he knew. Your fingers stilled on the pen you were using to tick boxes off the list. You blinked at him, your mouth opening, then closing again, searching for words that wouldn't sound as jumbled as your thoughts.

Across the room, Wanda was quietly flipping through a book she brought with her, but you could feel the weight of her presence even without looking.

You forced a small smile. "It's… complicated, babe. I just contacted her recently. The roles were already set long before that. And you know Monica would tantrum because before you even asked me out for our first date I already promised her that position."

He was supposed to ask why, why you only contacted your sister just recently and did not keep in touch, but your boyfriend with a puppy mind leaned back in his chair, his mind already chasing another funny memory about how your love story started.

While to you, the thought crept in before you could stop it, sharp and bitter, like a whisper you weren't supposed to hear.

Maybe because you don't want your maid of honor to be your sister—your sister whose name was your first word. The one who bathed you, the one who brushed your hair and tied your laces, who sat cross-legged beside you with dripping ice cream cones on humid summer nights. The one who saw you stumble through childhood, who wiped your tears, who laughed until her sides ached when you made silly faces just to cheer her up.

And she was also the one who fucked you first. To make you fall apart with her mouth and fingers…

The first one to touch you in ways that left your body confused, your heart racing, your mind torn between comfort and alarm. She was the first to stir feelings you didn't yet have words for, emotions that blurred the line between love and something far more dangerous. She made you feel wanted, chosen…and at the same time, she made you feel wrong, guilty—dirty.

You gave your head the slightest shake, as if you could rattle those thoughts out of place and bury them where they belonged. Eight years had passed—eight long, deliberate years. That life was gone. You had moved on and David was proof of that, the life you built was proof of that. Everything was finally right, finally in place. You couldn't let old shadows stain what you had built.

David had the whole evening mapped out—pizza on the coffee table, some little alcohol, and a card game he bought called Who Knows Me Better? He grinned as he shuffled through the stack, insisting it would be "fun practice" for married life.

When it was your turn, you pulled a card and read the question aloud.

"How many moles do I have?"

David pretended to think hard that made you laugh that you forgot Wanda was in the same room with you. She froze. Her eyes darted to your arm, then to your neck, then away entirely.

"Easy," your fiance said, grinning with the confidence of a man who believed he knew you best. He pointed at you with a flourish, like he was announcing an answer on a game show. "Four. One on your shoulder, one on your arm, and one…" he leaned in, lowering his voice just slightly, "…right in the middle of your neck."

His words earned more laughter from you, but before you could even tease him for the theatrics, he added, softer this time, "I love kissing your neck." And he proved it right there, brushing his lips over the spot where the tiny mole rested.

The gesture was sweet, familiar—something he's done countless times—but tonight, with the alcohol stirring in your veins and the feel of Wanda's sharp green eyes fixed on the two of you, the kiss felt heavier.

"You have six."

The words made you freeze. Both you and David turned to her. He was tipsy, flushed with drink, while you were a little drunk yourself—the edges of everything fuzzy, but this moment sharp as glass.

"What he first said were all correct but you also got one on your side," Wanda continued, her gaze lingering just a little too long, "just under your left boob."

"Ooh." David looked amused, he was nodding as if he was learning. But Wanda's voice faltered then, her tongue hesitating against the next truth.

"And the last one is…" she trailed off, her lips pressing together as if the words were too dangerous to speak. A beat of silence hung between you. Then she forced a faint shrug. "…But yeah. You've got six."

Your stomach twisted, heat crawling up your neck as you stared at her. It was such a simple thing, it's just a game but the way she said it left you undone. Because she wasn't guessing. She knew.

You've got one, on your pubic mound.

David smiled, completely unfazed, and raised his glass in Wanda's direction. "Sister's thing," he chuckled, like it explained everything away. "And those are the things I was about to find out after our wedding." He grins, before kissing your shoulder.

And you forced a laugh, hollow in your throat, like it is enough to cover the sharp crackle of tension running through you. Wanda didn't laugh, though—she only gave a small smile, jaw tight, eyes dropping to her drink as if that was safer than seeing how your fiance was so close to you.

"Yeah, Wanda's right," you said, forcing your voice into something playful. "Six. Next question?"

The game went on, laughter weaving through the dimly lit room, cards piling up between you. Every so often, the momentum would pause, and David would reach for the remote. An episode of Alice in Borderland would flicker onto the screen. Then, almost as naturally, you'd circle back to the game. Another question. Another round of teasing guesses.

By then, you were completely drunk—your cheeks warm, your head light, your words slipping slower than you intended. You picked up the next card, squinting to make the words stop swimming.

"Do…I want kids?"

The room stilled for a moment. David's smile curved, soft but shadowed, almost like he was bracing himself for something he didn't want to admit out loud. He answered before you could even think.

"You don't," he said gently, almost matter-of-fact.

It wasn't sharp, but it lingered heavily in the air. You remembered the night you told him why—that him being a pilot meant too many absences, too many takeoffs and landings that would leave you alone with a child and you fear that. He also didn't want that, to put that weight on you. He said he didn't want to start a family that he couldn't always be there for.

And even now, tipsy as he was, his words carried the same sadness, the same quiet conviction.

Before the silence could settle too long, Wanda's voice cut through, soft but steady.

"You do."

Your head turned slowly toward her, lids heavy, eyes squinting as if she were a blur you needed to sharpen. You searched her face, then searched your own memory, chasing back to the moment you must've told her that.

"I think I said that when I was a kid, right?" you asked, pointing the question toward her.

But Wanda didn't answer. Her gaze lingered on her glass instead.

You sighed lightly, filling the silence yourself. "Because, admit it or not—there's always one point we planned on having our own kids."

She examined you, a look in her eyes, like she remembered exactly when and how you said it but you were so drunk to even notice it.

"I feel dizzy," you admitted, words slightly slurred.

David was on you in an instant, his arm looping around your shoulders as he steadied you against him. "We should call it a night," he said gently, his voice warm and laced with amusement. He laughed softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.

Before he could move further, Wanda's voice cut in, calm but certain. "I got her."

Her words lingered in the air, carrying a quiet insistence.

"Thank you," he said sincerely, shifting his hold so Wanda could take you. "I'll just clean this up and fix things here. You two go on ahead." He pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head before letting go, "And Wanda, maybe you can go with her tomorrow in her final fitting?"

"Yeah, sure." She nods at him before her hand settles at your waist, steadying you. Her touch was firm, supportive, but it lingered in a way that made your skin prickle with heat. "Come on," she murmured, her voice low, almost gentle. She guided you toward the stairs, her grip tightening just enough whenever you wobbled. It looked like care—like a sister making sure you didn't stumble, like how she guided you in your first steps.

Wanda eased you onto the bed you shared with David, careful not to jostle you too much. The sheets were cool against your skin, the faint scent of your sister's same cologne after eight years lingering in your senses. Your eyes were closed now, but you weren't asleep—your chest rose and fell too sharply.

"When did I say I wanted kids?" you slurred, eyes half-opened, lips forming a pout like you were genuinely curious.

Wanda froze by the bedside. She hesitated before lowering herself down to the bed. "It was…eight years ago. You went to a club and you were wasted like this with your friends." Wanda murmured, her face so close you could feel the warmth of her breath. "I was so angry and you feel so sorry you said you'd do anything." Her thumb brushed against your cheek, tender in a way that made your chest ache. "And when I was deep inside you…"

Your breath hitches. Something inside you throbbed—an ache you couldn't name, threading through your chest and sinking lower to your clit. Her voice was soft, deliberate, something that you hated and you missed.

"You said you want to know how it feels like if I cum inside you," she whispered, voice low and heavy, the memory hanging between you like smoke. "Even if it was impossible for me to get you pregnant, you wanted it because it was me. You said we can be a happy family."

A sound escaped you—soft, broken somewhere between a sob and a moan. Wanda looked tempted, her gaze heavy, her thumb brushing along your parted lips like you were beckoning her in and fuck, she wanted to slip it inside. Her control was fraying, and she felt the faintest shift of your hips against the sheets, a silent pull that nearly made her growl.

But instead, she drew in a sharp breath, forced herself back and left a kiss to your forehead.

"Good night, Y/N," she whispered, the words trembling with everything she couldn't do.

The morning after was a blur. Your head was heavy, your thoughts tangled, but none of it seemed to matter. Whatever haze lingered from the night before, you were certain—confident—that nothing had happened.

Today was your final fitting. The gown, the veil, the heels—everything had to be perfect, because tomorrow you were getting married.

Tomorrow.

Everything needed to be perfect, every detail tucked into place. No room for doubts, no space for strange blurs in memory. Only the certainty of the life you were about to walk into.

But fuck, did something happen last night?

So you pushed it down, smoothed it over with smiles and lists and plans. This was your day. Your future. And nothing—certainly nothing you couldn't remember—was going to get in the way.

You padded down the stairs, hair damp from the shower. Wanda was already dressed, sitting quietly at the couch, her green eyes following every step you took.

David was by the door, adjusting his watch, that familiar smile tugging at his lips when he saw you. He walked towards you and reached your hand, pulling you into his arms, warm and easy. For a second, the world felt right in his embrace.

From the corner of your eye, you caught Wanda watching, her expression unreadable.

"Wanda will help you for the final fitting," David said, brushing his thumb over your cheek before stepping back. "And Monica and the girls will pick you up tonight, aight?"

The front door shut behind him, and the quiet that followed felt heavier than it should have. His cologne still lingered in the air, warm and familiar, but his absence left a strange hollow in the room. You stood there for a moment, staring at the space he had just occupied, before forcing a small laugh to break the silence.

"I, uh… let's go?" you said, grabbing your bag a little too quickly. You turned to Wanda with a smile, the kind meant to lighten the air between you. "I'll drive."

For a second, her eyes lingered on you—sharp, searching—but then she smiled. "Alright. If you're ready."

The drive passed in a haze of half-played songs on the radio. By the time you pulled into the boutique's parking lot, the sun was hanging lower, streaking the glass windows in soft amber light.

You exhaled slowly, hands tightening on the steering wheel before letting go. The weight of the moment settled in—it wasn't just another fitting. It was the final one. Tomorrow, you'd be walking down the aisle wearing it.

Wanda noticed your pause. She wanted to reach over, her fingers twitching but chose not to. "Ready?"

You forced a smile, nodding.

The assistant greeted you with a, ushering you toward the private fitting room before she left again. When she returned she brought along a long, elegant box—sleek white with gilded edges and the designer's name embossed across the lid. It looked more like a treasure chest than packaging.

With careful hands, she set it down on the velvet stool and unfastened the gold clasp. The lid lifted, and inside lay your gown, folded delicately in layers of tissue paper, every pleat and curve protected as though it were too fragile for the world outside.

"Well, you can try it on now, ma'am. If you need any help, there's a small bell here, just ring it, and I'll come right away."

You nodded, thanking her, before she left you alone with your sister.

The room suddenly felt quieter, the air heavier. The gown sat in the box like it was waiting for you to make the first move.

You glanced at Wanda, who hadn't spoken since the assistant left. Her eyes were fixed on the box, but when she noticed you looking, she lifted her gaze, giving you a small, almost reassuring smile.

"Go on," she said softly, her voice carrying both encouragement and something harder to read.

You nodded meekly, fingers brushing the edge of the box as if it might crumble under your touch. Wanda caught the hesitation in your movements, her voice breaking the quiet.

"If you need anything… just call me," she said, gentle but steady, her green eyes holding yours for a beat longer than necessary.

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry, and gave a faint smile in response. "Okay."

You went to another room, carefully lifting the gown from its box. Taking a steadying breath, you stripped your clothes and slipped it from your feet, fingers trembling as you tugged the gown upward.

It wasn't extravagant—nothing with glittering beads or heavy lace. Instead, it was a simple satin dress, smooth and plain, its elegance lying in the way it flowed with every movement.

Your heart raced, not because of the fabric brushing your skin, but because of the sudden worry. What if it doesn't fit? What if you gained weight? What if it clings wrong, or worse, won't close at all? Because it had been a month since your last fitting—just enough time for doubt to creep in. You glanced at the mirror with wide eyes, shoulders stiff as if bracing for disappointment.

For a long moment, you couldn't tell if it was right. You smoothed the gown nervously, your palms damp against the delicate fabric, lips caught between your teeth as you waited for the reflection to tell you something reassuring. Finally, with one last deep breath, you pushed the dressing room door open and stepped out. The soft sound of the gown brushing the floor followed you, the faint sparkle of its details catching in the boutique's warm light.

Wanda's eyes lifted immediately. For a moment, she said nothing—her lips parted slightly, her breath caught. She looked at you like she was seeing something fragile and untouchable, something she couldn't quite believe stood in front of her.

Her gaze traveled slowly, reverently, from the neckline down to the hem, then back up again, locking on your face.

You shifted slightly in front of the mirror, smoothing the satin down your sides again, and caught it—the small gap at the back where the zipper still hung open. You sighed under your breath. Of course you couldn't reach it yourself.

In the reflection, you saw her rise from her seat. Wanda didn't speak; she only moved closer behind you.

Her breath ghosted hot across your bare shoulder as the zipper crept upward, each slow inch making your skin prickle. She didn't have to steady you, but her hands did anyway—sliding down, fingers tightening around your hips in a way that made the satin strain faintly under her grip.

"You've grown." She whispered, "You looked much like mama." The phrase sent chills down your spine. "You're so beautiful."

The words, the tone, and the tingles that you felt were downright wrong. Your eyes snapped to her reflection in the mirror. "Wanda…"

She opens her mouth but closes it, her grip loosening instantly. A shameful look on her face as she stepped back, putting space between you again.

"I'm…I'm sorry."

You blinked, her words echoing longer than they should. The air felt heavier, thicker enough to choke, and you couldn't bring yourself to look at her again. Without another word, you turned back toward the fitting room. Inside, you braced against the door, chest rising and falling. Your breath came sharp, uneven, like you'd been holding back more than just tears. For a moment, you wanted to cry, to let it spill out—but you didn't. You couldn't.

By the time you'd changed and stepped back out—the silence between you, your gown—both had folded neatly into place, as if nothing had happened.

Soon enough, you were back in the car. Hands firm on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead, the world outside the windows blurred by. Wanda sat quietly beside you, and though nothing was said, the air still carried the weight of everything left unsaid.

You ignored Wanda the rest of the day intentionally. But every glance you caught of her made your chest tighten. You busied yourself—fixing things that didn't need fixing, the flowers that had been confirmed, the seating chart finalized, the catering checked and double-checked. Still, you hovered over the lists, crossing and re-crossing things, moving items around on the table like the weight of the paper could keep your hands from trembling.

The air was uneasy, stretched thin. Every time Wanda tried to catch your eyes, you turned away. Every time she shifted, as if about to speak, you found a reason to move, to leave the room, to shut her out.

It was awkward. Stifling. Wrong.

And she knew. She knew she had crossed a line.

The words she had let slip earlier—the ones that had felt natural as they left her mouth—echoed in her mind now, raw and shameful. She had tried so hard to hold them back, to keep herself in check, to be just the sister that she was. But something had slipped. Something irreversible.

When the night came, you didn't ask Wanda if she wanted to come along when your friend, Monica picked you up. You purposely didn't. You couldn't—not right now. The thought of her presence, the way she made everything feel heavier, made you pause. Maybe part of it was anger, maybe part of it was confusion, but mostly you needed space—a little breathing room without her ghosting every corner of your night.

Then, the day came. Your wedding day.

Sunlight spilled through the windows, soft and golden, catching on the lace of your veil and the satin of your gown. Everything felt surreal, as if you were walking through someone else's dream.

The wedding was small and private, just the closest people—David's parents, a few friends, and people who truly mattered. Counting everyone, including you and David, there were only twenty-five.

And your only family that has left, your sister —Wanda.

Your friends hovered around, giving your final touches—adjusting the veil, smoothing the gown, fixing stray strands of hair. Each of them planted a quick, warm kiss on your cheek, whispering little words of encouragement.

"Looking perfect," Monica said.

"You're glowing," Carol added.

Maria gave your hand a gentle squeeze, smiling.

One by one, they left the room, leaving you alone for a moment of quiet.

You turned slowly toward the mirror, your eyes tracing every curve and line reflected back at you. You closed your eyes, letting the quiet fill the room. You thought of your mother, your father, and your stepfather. You took a deep breath, closing your eyes for a moment, and let your thoughts drift to them. You spoke silently, especially to your mother and stepfather, telling them how much you wished you could've visited their graves before this day. You apologized for not doing so.

Then suddenly, during your peace alone with your parents. Someone knocks in your room, "Y/N? Your sister!" A voice called behind the door.

You squint your eyes before standing to walk towards the door. You found Maria behind who was was practically fumbling over herself, panic written all over her face. "Your sister… I-I don't even know what happened! Carol accidentally knocked over the vase, the one David gifted you! Gosh, I'm so sorry!" She flailed, words tumbling out in a frantic mess. "And then she started freaking out—I don't even know, girl! I just…" her voice cracked, hands flying as she tried to explain, making the chaos in the room almost tangible.

Without thinking, you grabbed the hem of your gown, dragging it along the floor as you rushed toward the source of the panic.

There, you found Wanda, kneeling on the floor, hands pressed tightly over her ears, her body trembling. Your two friends hovered around her, hesitant, unsure of how to help.

You calmly walked towards her, calling her name. Dropping to your knees in front of her, you reached out gently. "Wanda."

Her head lifted slowly, eyes locking with yours, swollen and filled with tears. You gave her a nod and whispered, "I've got you," before guiding her back toward the room. Once inside, you looked at your friends with a knowing look that says you got it. You also gave them the green light to formally start the event.

Wanda sank into the chair, still trembling, her hands shaking as tears streamed down her face. You knelt in front of her, taking her hands gently in yours, trying to anchor her.

Part of you wanted to be angry—fuck, you did. It was your day, your wedding, and here she was, falling apart. But beneath that frustration, something dangerously deep surfaced.

It was wrong bringing Wanda here. It was wrong and you knew that before you brought her here.

Wanda's sobs slowed into shaky gasps, her gaze locking with yours. Before you could think, her lips pressed against yours, urgent, desperate, searching. You felt the heat of her need, the tremble in her hands as they clutched at your veil.

For a moment, the world narrowed to that kiss—the chaos, the guilt, the wedding day all fading into a blur. And, almost against reason, you let her.

She pulled back just slightly, breath ragged, tears streaking her face. "You left me…you left me…" she sobbed, pressing her forehead against yours. Her lips found yours again, desperate, trembling, smearing your lipstick across hers, mingling her salty tears with the taste of you. Every kiss was an ache, a claim, a memory she refused to let go. "And you're gonna leave me again…"

You could only shake your head, lips quivering as you whispered, "I'm-I'm sorry…I'm so sorry…" over and over. Tears streamed freely down both your faces, mixing and blurring, as you clung to each other.

"Why? Why'd you leave me?" her voice was eerily calm now, but the words cut sharper than any scream. "Why did you?"

"Why did you?" she pressed even further, firmly dangerous. Like a warning. She needed answers, after all these years, she needed that. She needed to know why she didn't find you beside her the morning after when the night before you promised you'd never leave each other. She needed to know why you never called, never reached out. Because it made her crazy. It ruined her.

"You knew why…you know, Wanda." You stood from the ground and took a few steps back. You stammered, voice barely above a whisper, trying to tame the storm in front of you. "We…" you shake your head, your breath hitching, heart pounding. "We can't," you sobbed, the weight of it pressing down on both of you, heavy and unavoidable.

What would your parents say if their souls are here, watching you right now?

It's only you that she has, and you disappeared. And now, she is losing you forever.

You can only shake your head, your face now a mess from all the tears that never stopped carving its path down until they fall on your gown.

"Why?"

"I was falling in love with you! And fuck, we can't, Wanda. You're my..." you whimpered, disgusted by the next words, but you said it anyway. "You're my sister, we-we can't..."

You said it yourself. We can't.

The words that only lived in your head in the past, now echoed out loud.

You said it a hundred times in your head. The first time the night she first took you, when your body trembled with nothing but fear. The morning after, when the sheets still smelled of her and your thighs still ached from the way she held you down. The days that followed, when it happened again and again—her fingers inside you, her strap pushing deeper until you forgot your own name and who she was with her mouth hot and relentless on your skin like she meant to claim every inch.

You said it when you started seeking it out too. Loving it. Needing it.

And now, out loud. You kept saying it.

We can't.

"Don't marry him," Wanda begs, her voice raw, forehead pressed hard to yours like she could fuse you together by sheer will. "Please, don't walk out there. Don't let him take you away from me."

We can't.

You crush your mouth to hers, greedy, gasping, breathing her in like oxygen—like if you let go, you'll die. Maybe you already did.

"I can't. I have to," you whisper, but the lie breaks in your throat.

We can't.

But you were already being pressed by her on the wall. And you are already shoving your panties aside, already arching into her hand. And she's already pushing her fingers inside you, desperate and trembling. Her thumb circles your clit, rough, insistent, desperate to pull you over the edge. She muffles your sobs with her mouth, swallowing every sound, refusing to let anyone hear but her.

Both of you cannot stop crying.

Not when her fingers work you open and you choke on her name.

Not when release shatters you, body convulsing around her fingers.

Not even when your chosen wedding song started playing and your name is called, the world waiting for you to walk down the aisle.

Because the world is waiting for a bride. But all you are, at this moment, is hers.

Your brow furrows. “I’m not a brat.”

Agatha waves you off. “Yes, yes, you’re the best girl in the whole world for your mommy.”

“Can you stop saying that?” you demand. “I’m too old to call her that.”

Agatha snorts but thankfully doesn’t comment further as she plops the plate in front of you. She walks behind you and you startle when she trails a hand along your shoulders. You turn to look at her with a scowl.

“You’re not allowed to touch me there.”

“It’s where your mom touched you,” Agatha says. You press your lips together and turn back to your food. Agatha sits in the chair beside you, nothing in front of her.

“Aren’t you going to have some?”

“I don’t eat the sort of things you have here.”

You don’t know if she’s being picky, superior, or if she only eats some sort of weird magical stuff but you’re too annoyed to ask.

Agatha watches you the whole time you eat. It’s unnerving and comforting at the same time since Sue does the same thing. When you’re done Agatha takes your plate before you can get up and puts it in the dishwasher.

“Alright, time for your nighttime bath.”

You frown but get up. You do normally have one now but Sue is usually here to bathe you. Agatha follows you to the bathroom but you don’t really think about it until she shuts the door behind you. Sue has already put a pair of clean pyjamas and pulled out everything you need. It warms you but makes you feel her absence even more. She had clearly instructed Agatha to take care of most things but it wasn’t the same as your mom. The gentle caresses and soft attention. Quiet words and gentle kisses pressed into your skin.

You’re so busy missing her you don’t fully process that Agatha hasn’t left until she starts trying to tug your pants off.

“Hey!” you jerk back, spinning around to face her.

She crosses her arms, entirely unimpressed. “You’re going to have a bath with your clothes on, are you kid?”

“Of course not. I’m just not having a bath in front of you.” You wrap your arms around yourself in a pale form of a hug.

“I’m only doing what your mom told me to do.”

“I can take a bath by myself. I’m not a baby.”

“Sure you aren’t,” she snorts.

“I’m not.”

"i really don't understand why you like this show so much," "you're the one who put it on." you laugh at your dad's clear disdain for your comfort show as you turn to look at him from your spot on her chest you've claimed as your own.

"your breathing okay?," you ask. she's been wearing her binder for no more than a couple hours once a wave of dysphoria hit and you've been laying on his chest for no more than 15 minutes at this point but you just want to be sure.

"i'm okay babygirl," he nods, "just need you to lay back down." and without further threat you lay back down and go back to watching the show.

it’s near 20 minutes later when aunt wanda comes in with dinner and in that same second of them walking in the door with bags of fast food your nose scrunches up in disgust as you sit up from your spot once again. “god what the hell is that smell?”

wanda’s eyes squint in confusion before glancing at nat quickly and bringing her eyes back to your face scrunched up in disgust. they didn’t smell anything and by the looks on nat’s face, he didn’t either. “i brought your favorite since you haven’t been feeling well. does it smell that bad?”

“it smells like i’m gonna puke,” you gag, “get that as far away from me as possible.” you try to snuggle back into your dad but she stops you “hey be nice. aunt wanda bought it for you and that’s not using our manners even if it doesn’t smell good is it?” the stern tone of his voice doesn’t leave room for anything else besides an “i’m sorry” directed at your aunt wanda.

it’s a struggle to figure out something else for dinner. it’s even more of a struggle for you to keep your attitude in check with your grumpy outlook on the world for the past week. that’s how you’ve found yourself a couple days later across your dad’s lap crying as you’re counting the strikes against your bare ass.

“if you keep moving that pussy is gonna some attention you’re not gonna like so much,” your dad says clearly unaffected by your near constant squirming and tears.

“hurts,”you cry out squirming again trying to move out of his hold. the next thing you feel is your aunt wanda grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking your head back and your dad’s calloused hand coming down hard in between your legs and on your exposed cunt, “it’s supposed to malen’kiy (little one),” she says but you barely hear her over your choked sobs as a result of aunt wanda’s ringed fingers being stuffed in your mouth.

the punishment helped your attitude but not as much as you would’ve liked. you’ve never had many friends and you’ve never had many people other than your dad and aunt wanda to talk to so you confide in them about everything, more your dad than aunt wanda but recently wanda’s been there too. so when you ask what’s wrong with you after a breakdown over not getting the food you want yet again the idea of being pregnant gets thrown out there. you’re here standing at the his and hers sinks in the master bedroom that used to belong to just your dad and now has two primary occupants given your neediness to just be close to your dad constantly with the occasional addition of your aunt with 3 positive pregnancy tests staring back at you. you look up in the mirror at yourself. at your body. if you were more focused you would have felt the feeling of your dad’s arm wrapping around your waist fitting himself between you and the doorjamb, hand gripping your waist in an attempt to ground you. or maybe possession you don’t know. but you know it brings you back from the momentary lapse in your focus. “what are you thinking dorogoy (sweetheart)”

“what the actual fuck. that’s what i’m thinking. i mean who’s to say which of yours it is? how is this even possible? you aren’t fucking fertile and i have no clue about you,” you gesture at wanda sitting on your bed leaning back on her hands and a sly smile on their face, “ we haven’t had that conversation yet but hey he’s let you cum in me an ungodly amount of times and fuck i’m horny just thinking about that dadddddd.” you lean forward to rest your forehead onto his shoulder as you whine. she laughs and glances at wanda as he puts his hand on your neck to fidget with the hairs at the nape of your neck. you feel your head get fuzzy and just feel warmth surround your mind and you feel your worries subside and just feel fuzzy. your head feels heavy as you lift it knowing the source of your sudden calm feeling.

“i told you not to do that aunt wanda,” “does it look like i care?” she’s picking at her nails like she really couldn’t be bothered to care about your emotions right now as you watch the red tendrils around her fingers swirl and so what she commands them to. they look up at you and you see her eyes glowing red causing you to whine and shove your face into your dad’s neck. you don’t have the chance to get comfortable there before you feel your dad’s fingers in your hair and pulling harshly to have you look at your aunt again with a quick reminder that no matter how deep you’re pushed that you’re always required to still follow the rules.

“i think the little slut was too fucked out to remember our conversation or the fact that she practically begged me to make it possible. don’t you nat?” wanda grabs your chin between their pointer finger and thumb forcing you to look up at her missing your dad’s agreement with them.

“hm. shame. i quite enjoy remembering that night and i do distinctly remember making it so only your dad could get this pretty belly all full with his cum and i think,” she pushes you further into the bathroom with her grip on your face turning you so you’re forced to look at yourself in the mirror with her behind you and you let out a grunt with her trapping you between her hips and the counter, “i should fill up this sweet little pussy with your cousins too.” you shake your head no before vocalizing it softly. your dad lets out a tsk “i thought i taught you better puppy. i really wanna see your belly all full with your siblings and cousins and you want what i want right?,” she’s nodding as you’re saying no.

you feel your aunt wanda pulling your pajama shorts down your legs with your panties and you’re refusing to lift your legs to help them take them off but she’s much stronger than you are so it’s fight you easily lose.

“dad please no don’t make me i don’t wa-“ you’re cut off with wanda shoving your panties in your mouth muffling everything coming out. “it’s okay little one you’ll learn to like it”

you’re fight against wanda behind you but your dad takes one of your hands and puts it in his pants as your aunt wanda holds one behind your back as leverage as she shoves herself inside of you before you cry out in pain. next thing you know your panties are removed from your mouth and your dad’s cock is stuffed in it instead causing you to gag.

“c’mon sweetheart make me and your daddy feel good i can feel how much your pussy is enjoying this. you like it huh? you like being raped like this like a little slut don’t you?” tears are leaking from your face and mixing with the spit bubbling out of your mouth from how stuffed it is as you try to fight it more.

“you mouth feels so so good puppy fuck,” your dad says as she pushes your mouth further onto her as she fucks your face, “feels so much better when you fight me god i’m gonna cum in your mouth shit” he moans. “the little slut is close too. i can feel her squeezing me as much as she’s fighting i can tell she wants this. she loves being used by her dad and aunt don’t you baby?,” the brunette behind you scratches down your back with her nails while her other hand is holding your hands behind your back hard enough to draw the slightest bit of blood not that you can feel it with how rough they’re both fucking you. you can feel your aunt hitting your cervix with each thrust she makes and she’s thrusting so hard it hurts but you can only cry unable to verbalize anything anymore. you feel your head get warm again and hear a harsh whisper command of “cum” and with no other choice you do. you feel cum leaking from your mouth and your pussy as wanda keeps fucking you through your orgasm and hers “i’m not done until i know for sure you’re pregnant with my babies too,” she growls in your ear and you nearly cum again just from that.

you’re passed between your dad and aunt for what feels like hours and you’re certain you’ve passed out twice at this point each time being woken back up by cumming again. the floor is a sticky wet mess of drool and cum and you positively can’t remember your name or who you are or what you’re doing besides letting yourself be used.

you aren’t aware of the aftermath and you don’t know exactly how you got into the bed you woke up in but it doesn’t bother you much and as another month goes by not much can ruin the high of pregnancy. the boughts of nausea get better but are replaced by the changes of your body, 2am cravings, and a neediness between your legs only your dad and aunt can fix. they have no problem fixing it for you either. but all good things must come to an end. and as much as you wanted to have these babies it just didn’t work that way which is why you’re surrounded by the warmth of two bodies you hold so dear to you. the bodies that had hands in raising you and guiding you into this moment of begging them to help you forget the perfect dream you woke up from that part of you wishes you didn’t. you wanted it to be true and it wasn’t so you’re begging for release as tears prick up in your eyes causing them to burn instead and it helps the sadness. you feel a familiar fuzziness and warmth overtake you and you’re content again. you’re unaware of it but the dream was just a seed planted by your aunt wanda and your reaction told her everything she needed to know. her and your dad would bring it up to you at a later time but for now they’ll settle for eating you out until she’s satisfied.