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"Too real to feel"

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It’s too big. It will never fit.


Zelda swears it will.


Zelda is certainly never putting this thing inside her.


When her sister gives one last tug on the strap over her hip and steps away to admire her work, she looks down and just can’t help it.


It looks so silly.


A giggle catches in her throat.


Zelda raises a warning eyebrow.


She drops her gown to cover it up, but the thing is even more ridiculous now, tenting out the fabric.


She laughs.


And Zelda shoves her.


Fortunately her bed is right behind her to break her fall.




She’s still far too tingly from before to want Zelda’s fingers on her again.


Much less inside her.


But inside her one of them sweeps.


But it is that pleasant sort of too-much that her sister is so good at finding.


The kind that makes her eyes flutter shut.


“Don’t close your eyes.”


Her huff earns her a pinch to her thigh.



She watches Zelda’s fingers move up and down it.


Spreading her around it.


“Don’t make that face.”


Zelda repeats the process.




Zelda has her hand, curling their fingers around it, before she can protest.


Up and down and around.


There’s heat instead of a giggle low in her belly.


It is smoother now.


But still not any smaller.



Zelda’s arrogance often gets her into trouble. Then she bears the brunt of her sister’s embarrassment and anger.


She’s gotten better at anticipating these situations, at diffusing them before they, well, Zelda, explodes.


“I still don’t think—”




“What if it gets stuck?”


Zelda is laughing at her as she throws herself down beside her, but not in an entirely mean-spirited way. More the way she laughs when Vinegar Tom chases his tail.


“That doesn’t happen, Hildie. And I assure you, this is perfectly average size for a cock.”


They both stare down at it.


She remains unconvinced.


“It isn’t going to hurt me. You aren’t going to hurt me.”


Zelda leans in close, close enough that she feels the words against her lips: “Quite the opposite.”


Zelda has her hand again. Once she’s guided it under her gown, Hilda knows exactly what to do.


“Because this is what you do to me.”


It’s like dipping her finger into fresh honey, touching Zelda there.



Zelda sits back up. She pulls her gown up over her head and tosses it away.


Hilda knows her shock shows on her face but she keeps quiet.


Zelda is breaking one of their cardinal rules. Even though the family is out for the day, they always keep their gowns on. Just in case. Ready to whip back into place.


Though how she would ever explain this thing strapped to her, she doesn’t know, so she supposes Zelda’s nakedness is the least of her concern.




No, concern is not the word she would use at all, as she takes her sister in.


Lithe. It’s a lovely word. A Zelda word. Thin with buds of curves that she suspects will remain so. Like a rose clipped at just the right moment.


Zelda smirks at being so admired. Hilda blushes instead.


Zelda’s fingers tug at her gown, their intention clear.


She might as well.



She has bloomed. So Mother said and so all the eyes on her at school would suggest.


Zelda’s random “fat” taunts in front of her friends at the Academy don’t sting as much as they should.


She knows how Zelda looks at her in moments alone.


How she’s looking at her now.



Zelda has it in hand, is straddling her hips, straddling it.


She feels the straps pinch when Zelda bends it a bit.



She was right.


It is not going to fit, judging by Zelda’s face and how slowly she is lowering herself down it.


But then Zelda moans and her body seems to swallow it whole.


She’s reminded of this year’s play.


She might be one of two people (she hopes Faustus Blackwood chokes on an onion) who knew immediately that Zelda’s performance as Lilith was very real.


Particularly in one scene. Her sister, the method actor.


Except Zelda isn’t play acting now.


“Satan, Zelds.”


“Told you.”



She’s never had Zelda in this way before, not with both her hands free to explore.


Generally, one of them is very busy.



Zelda bears down and circles her hips when she runs her thumb nail over a nipple. Does it again with a gasp when she pinches until it’s gone quite red.



Zelda likes it when she leaves marks, almost as much as Zelda likes to leave marks herself.


She scratches hard enough down Zelda’s back to make her sister hiss and rock forward hard enough to make her bite her own tongue.



Zelda’s head falls forward and she’s momentarily lost behind a curtain of hair when her fingers dig into her hips.


She’s amazed to feel Zelda move in time with the slightest guidance from her grasp.


Zelda sweeps her hair back.


The look on her face has one hand abandon her sister’s hip.




She knows exactly how hard to press to roll that bundle of nerves beneath her thumb.


How hard to move her hips off the mattress and towards Zelda requires a bit of a learning curve.



“I don’t care.”


“But you’ve seen—”


“You aren’t putting that in me.”


They’ve been having this argument all evening.


Zelda even whispered at her over dinner until Mother asked what was going on.


Zelda had said she thought it was high time that Hilda take Advanced Conjuring. Like every other witch her age had.


Hilda had nearly choked on her vegetable pie.


Here in the dark of their room she could have at least a little revenge.


“But when you do decide to finally,” Zelda whines, “it will be with me, won’t it, sister?”


She doesn’t answer, just grins into Zelda’s pillow.




“Who else would it be, silly?”