Watch some tv

You go downstairs and sprawl yourself on the couch. During the commercials you find yourself scrolling through your phone when your sister storms in, slamming the door behind her. She’s dressed in what can only be described as "I-want-attention" - a cropped tank top that barely contains her tits, her pierced nipples visible through the thin fabric, paired with denim shorts so short they’re basically underwear with thread, and thigh-high boots that make even you stare. Her brown hair is teased into a messy ponytail, her smoky eye makeup sharp enough to cut, and her lips glossed in a shade of red that says fuck you louder than words. You didn’t even realize you were staring until she catches you.

"What the fuck are you looking at?" she snaps, hands on her hips.

You’ve never thought about her like this before. She’s always just your sister. A walking, talking personality flaw with legs. It's wrong. It’s wrong and you hate her. And yet- Your pulse ticks up. The thought worms its way in like a parasite: What if? Not in a "Holy shit, I’m attracted to my sister and need to fuck her" way. More like… "What if I could change her?"

"Damn, sis," you say, letting your gaze linger just a little too long. "You look really worked up. Like someone pissed in your Cheerios."

"Oh, fuck off, you piece of shit." She glares at you, arms crossed, chest thrust forward because of course she knows she looks good in that outfit. She scoffs, "Ugh, whatever. You smell like bleach and bad decisions." She flips you off on her way to the kitchen.

You feel that itch again. That urge. The one that whispers: What if I could make her less of a bitch? Your fingers tremble as you take out a CMD-1 pill. Then, without thinking any further, you swallow a pill. It burns going down. You suppress a cough and exhale through your nose as the bitter taste fades fast. By the time she slinks back into the living room, you’re perched on the armchair, eyes locked on her like a predator tracking prey. The pheromones are already stirring in your veins, a slow, creeping heat.

She scowls. "What the hell are you smiling at?"

You don’t answer. Instead, you cross the space between you in three strides, grab her by the throat - not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to pin her against the wall. Her eyes widen, pupils flaring in shock, her hands flying up to shove you off. But it’s too late. The pheromones unleash. The room shudders. Her expression twists - confusion, then something heavy, pressing down behind her eyes like a thumb on a trigger. Her arms freeze mid-push. Her body tenses. And then- The rage drains out of her. Like water down a drain. Her face smooths. Her eyes glaze over. Her lips part just slightly, her breath slowing into something long and even. Her body goes still like a statue. You let go of her throat and trace your fingers down her arm. She doesn’t resist. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shout. Doesn’t flip you off. You step back, admiring your work. Her body is still pressed against the wall, her expression is calm, almost serene. A stark contrast to the firestorm that usually rages behind her eyes.