Chapter Text
The first time they’d fucked, she was just twelve years old.
Ernesto remembered the order of events like it was just yesterday, though it had happened only four years prior, the air already thick with the stink of sunscreen, salt, gossip, and people. Even in a city built for spectacle, the boardwalk had a way of outshining everything. The ice cream stands, the shrieking gulls, the endless parade of sunburnt tourists and locals in showy swimwear, prowling for trouble or a paycheck or both. Every color was dialed to maximum, every voice a contest for territory.
Ernesto had never seen so much skin in one place; even the sand seemed charged with a kind of obscene energy, all heat and chaos and the promise of too much.
Rafaela, at twelve, looked like she could snap in half if the wind changed, but she walked beside him with her chin up, eyes sharp and strange and a little haunted. Her hair was wild, a dark halo in the relentless sun. She trailed Ernesto by half a step, refusing to let him get too far ahead, her hand snagging his sleeve whenever the crowd threatened to swallow them whole.
He, at sixteen, didn’t know what she wanted, not really. He never did. But she kept looking at the couples—their sticky-sweet horniness, the way girls in neon bikinis latched onto their boyfriends’ arms, giggling and pouting until they got what they wanted—and every time, her lip curled just a little more. Like she was watching a game where everyone else knew the rules except her.
They wandered. Past the volleyball courts, the vendors hawking fake pearls and sunglasses, the waterfront arcade. Rafaela grew quieter, more brittle, until she stopped dead in front of a magazine rack. The display was all glossy, airbrushed fantasy: girls with long legs and perfect teeth, men built like action figures, everyone locked together in fluorescent, choreographed coupledom. She stared, lips pressed flat.
Ernesto tried to steer her along, but she dug her heels in. “Why don’t we ever do that?” she asked, voice small and tight. “You never take me anywhere. Not like that. Not like a real couple.”
He could feel people watching, or maybe just imagined it, but the heat behind her words was real enough. She wanted something and she wanted it now, and if he didn’t fix this right here, she’d throw a fit—a real one, loud enough for every gossip columnist on the beach to take notes.
So he did what any sensible man would do. He dragged her, quick and unceremonious, into the nearest public restroom. The family stall was a battered cube of tile and stainless steel, the air perfumed with disinfectant and someone’s abandoned sandwich. He could also smell chlorine and piss, but he didn’t care. He had a little brat on his hands, and he wanted to shut her up for once.
He locked the door, heart rattling, and for a second they just stood there, both of them breathing hard, all the anger and desire and confusion of the boardwalk pressed in between their bodies.
He lifted her onto the baby-changing tray with no warning, hands firm around her waist, her bare thighs cold against the plastic. The magazine fell from her hand and hit the floor with a wet slap. Her cheeks flared hot, not with embarrassment, but with something sharper, meaner, more urgent.
“You want to be like them?” He said it low, biting off the end of each word. “You want everyone to see you as my girl?”
Rafaela didn’t answer, at least not right away. She kept her eyes locked on his, lids narrowed, something unsteady and bright at the corners—not fear, not exactly, but something that made her jaw clench and unclench like she was already bracing for pain.
He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her swimsuit, the elastic already biting into the hollows of her hips, and yanked it down. There was nothing graceful here. He bared her with two rough tugs, panties bunched at her knees, and she shivered—the air inside the stall had gone icy, reeking of chlorine and the ghost of a hundred other secrets. She was all bone and tendon, knees sharp, thighs quivering, still clutching the edge of the tray like she thought it might snap free and send her tumbling.
Even now, she didn’t waver. She just watched him, jaw locked, daring him to do it. Daring him not to.
She was wearing one of his shirts. He’d forgotten that detail until just now. It dwarfed her, sleeves knotted up past her elbows, faded logo stretched strange across a chest so flat she didn’t bother with a bra. She looked like a brat playing dress-up, some kid caught in the act, but she never broke his stare.
He didn’t bother with a condom, not here, not with time and patience burning out of him second by second. He spat into his hand, slicked himself, and pressed the head of his cock to the trembling seam between her thighs. There was no poetry in this, no grand gesture; just the stubborn, sick heat of wanting something and not knowing why.
She squeaked when he pushed in, high and wild, a sound like a gull getting its wings snapped. He slapped his palm over her mouth and shoved himself deeper, fighting the resistance. She was so tight it stopped his breath; he had to force it, hips working hard, and the sound she made behind his hand was all pain, nothing sweet. She bled for him, a thread of red on the inside of her thigh, staining the plastic, and still she clung to him, legs splayed wide, accepting all of his pains and frustrations because, even at twelve years of age, she thought that this was what love was all about.
He couldn’t say he liked it. He didn’t even feel hard, not really. It was just something he had to do, to shut her up, to prove a point neither of them would ever admit out loud. That they could love one another just like real adults did, because real adults did this sort of thing all the time, right?
His breath was ragged, teeth bared, sweat slicking his upper lip. Every time he thrust she whimpered, neck arched, tears in her eyes, and he just pressed firmer over her mouth, muffling it all.
The baby-changing tray creaked under her weight. The floor was a ruin of mud, piss, and smeared footprints. The air stung with bleach and shame and the raw, animal stink of him rutting into her, again and again, until the pain must have outpaced everything else. He half-hoped she’d claw at him, fight him, get some of her own back, but instead she just bucked beneath him and he realized, with a flash of something like dread, that she wasn’t going to fight him off. She wanted this. Or maybe she just wanted him to know she could take it, that she could keep up with the world’s dirt and noise and violence, even if it hurt.
He went faster, sloppy, his sandals slipping on the filth-slick tile, his hand bracing her jaw so tightly he could feel her teeth grind against his palm. Every thrust was a messy, graceless thud, the kind of rhythm you might hear through a thin hotel wall, ugly and relentless and unmistakable. He braced himself inside her, rutting away all his own doubts, hoping maybe it’d be enough to shut up the question behind her eyes—the same one that always trailed him, whether they were side-by-side in a fight or battling over the last packet of noodles in a midnight kitchen.
Eventually his body jerked, a final ugly spasm, and he spilled into her, nothing neat about it.
The air burned with bleach and the taste of defeat. Rafaela’s face was blotched red, her hair sticking to her cheek in wet, tangled clumps, but her gaze was clear as a knife. She didn’t look away. She wanted him to see that she could take it, the same way she took every other fucked-up thing the world had to offer.
After, she just held onto his wrist, eyes gone soft and faraway, and said, “I love you.”
Like it was obvious. Like she’d said it a thousand times before.
He laughed, breathless and stupid, and ruffled her hair. “Yeah, I know. I love you too, hermana.” He kissed her forehead, quick and rough, the way you might try to smooth out damage that’s already been done. Then he helped her pull up her swimsuit, wiped the blood from her thigh with the edge of his own shirt, and unlocked the stall.
She sniffled, dizzy, clinging to him. “Are we a real couple now…?”
“Huh?” Ernesto almost sighed, but then stopped himself. She wouldn’t like the attitude. “Yeah, yeah, of course. We’re a real couple. Just don’t tell anyone, okay? It has to stay our little secret for now.”
She frowned. “You don’t want anyone to know?”
“I—they won’t understand, Rafa. Trust your big brother, okay? You can’t tell anyone about what we just did, or what we are. It would be… bad. They might take you away,” he added, a flicker of malice behind his eyes. He knew she’d comply with a threat like that looming overhead. “And I don’t want them to take you away from me.”
They left behind the magazine and the scent of their secret, footsteps echoing out into the clamor of the boardwalk. She was lighter, after. Not physically, but in the way she clung to his hand and pressed against his side, electric with victory. It was as if he’d just handed her some coveted trophy, and now she was going to show it off to the world, even if no one but him ever saw it.
Rafaela never did things halfway. From that day forward, she decided she was his girl, and she’d corner him with it at every opportunity.
Four years on, and Rafaela wore the scars of her victories with pride.
She was sixteen now. Slender as a knife, eyes always a little too big for her face, and hair gone wilder, darker, as if it had absorbed every shadow that Dossoles ever cast her way. She still trailed Ernesto wherever he let her, but the half-step lag was gone. Now she walked beside him, shoulder to shoulder, like a partner in crime. Sometimes she’d reach for his hand just to squeeze it, nails digging in, a silent dare to let go.
They’d never told anyone. Not a soul. Not in Dossoles, not in the world. To the city, Ernesto Salas was her step-brother, her protector, the man who was supposed to keep her safe. However, even this fact was one he barely spoke of. It would have been better, in his eyes, if their familial relationship was kept a closely guarded secret.
Above board, he did odd jobs, ran a workshop, drank with criminals and bureaucrats alike.
Below board, he belonged to her, and she to him, the secret twisted between them like a double helix of shame and pride and want.
Tonight was special. Rafaela had begged for it for weeks, her voice turned syrupy and solemn in turns, until finally Ernesto caved.
“You want to see real Dossoles nightlife?” He’d grinned, blue eyes bright as the bay at noon. “You want the bars, the clubs, the boardwalk after midnight? You know what that means, right?”
She’d nodded resolutely. “I want to go out with you. Like real adults do. I don’t wanna be stuck at home this time… can you take me, please?”
Well, Ernesto always considered himself a people pleaser.
He’d picked her outfit himself. Of course he had. A black shirt, barely more than a slip of fabric, spaghetti straps slicing over her pale shoulders, the neckline a dare. Matching dark shorts, cut tight enough that the fabric seemed vacuum-sealed to her hips and her pert little ass. If the city was going to stare, let it stare. Let them see what he saw every day, and let them die of envy.
Now, in the cramped room above his workshop, Ernesto poured the drinks. Cheap vodka cut with fruit juice, just as a primer for what was to come. The bottle sweated in his palm. He poured two glasses, handed one to Rafaela. Her fingers looked fragile around the rim, but her grip was steady, wrist flexing as she knocked it back in one swallow.
She coughed, eyes watering, but didn’t complain. He refilled her glass, just as quick.
“You sure you’re ready for this?” Ernesto asked, flopping into the battered desk chair. The upholstery was cracked, stained with years of secrets. He looked her over, slow, and smiled in a way that made her squirm.
“I’ve been ready for years,” Rafaela said, voice gone low and soft. She perched on the edge of the worktable, one bare leg dangling, the other tucked up so her knee nearly touched her chin. She watched him, luminous and hungry, a girl playing at being a grown-up and pulling it off almost too well. “I just wanna be a grown-up… just like you. It looks like fun… but if anything happens… I know you’ll look out for me. Like always.”
He reached out, thumb tracing the inside of her thigh, a lazy circle. “Then drink up. You want to dance, right? Got to loosen up.”
Rafaela downed the second glass like it was juice, ignoring the burn until her eyes started to water. The flush hit her cheeks almost instantly, blooming outwards like a spill of paint under her skin. The way she gripped the table made her look like she was bracing for a punch, but then she giggled—a breathless, shaky thing that sounded a little bit like relief, and a little bit like victory.
Ernesto watched her, loose-limbed in his desk chair, grinning the way he always did when he knew he was being reckless. He poured himself another, and this time he raised the glass toward her like a toast, even though neither of them bothered with words. In Dossoles, words were cheap; the real currency was eye contact, the way you held someone’s gaze even when you were both in over your heads, drowning by inches.
After the third glass, she started talking. Not about anything important, just noise: a memory of a street vendor with a parrot, the time they’d seen a guy get tased by the police for stealing a hot dog, whether or not the artificial sea was actually made of water. Her leg swung back and forth under the table, bare foot grazing the scuffed floor, and every time Ernesto refilled her glass, she drained it with a little less hesitation.
“Alright, enough of this,” Ernesto said, pushing back from the table. The chair legs scraped against the floor. “Time to show you what Dossoles nightlife is all about.”
He grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the door. Rafaela stumbled after him, her steps a little unsteady, her laugh bright and airy. The alcohol had hit her hard—not enough to make her sloppy, but enough to soften her edges, make her eyes shine with that dangerous light he knew so well.
They hit the street and the night swallowed them whole. The air was thick with salt and sweat, with the sizzle of food carts and the distant thump of music bleeding from half a dozen clubs. The boardwalk glittered like a promise, strings of lights stretching from palm to palm, casting everything in a warm, honeyed glow.
Rafaela gripped his arm, her nails digging into his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. “Where are we going first?” she asked, voice pitched high with excitement.
“Wherever the night takes us,” Ernesto replied, steering her through the crowd. Bodies pressed on all sides—tourists in ridiculous hats, locals in their best clothes, street vendors hawking everything from grilled meat to smuggled cigarettes. The noise was a living thing, a wall of sound that hit you from every direction.
He led her toward the main strip, where the party was already in full swing. A makeshift stage had been set up at the far end, a local band playing something with too many drums and not enough melody. People danced in the street, drinks in hand, laughing and shouting over the music.
They were halfway down the boardwalk when Ernesto spotted them—three women he knew from his workshop, regulars who always had money to spend and stories to tell. They were dressed to kill, all sequins and high heels, hair done up in elaborate styles that defied the humidity.
“Ernesto~!” The tallest one, Maria, waved him over. Her smile was sharp, predatory. “Fancy seeing you out tonight. Who’s your little friend?”
Before he could answer, the women had surrounded Rafaela, cooing and exclaiming like she was some exotic pet.
“Oh my god, she’s adorable,” said Sofia, the one with the purple hair. She reached out to touch Rafaela’s cheek, and Ernesto felt his jaw tighten.
“Isn’t she a little young?” asked Elena, the third one, her voice lilting with amusement. She looked at Ernesto, eyebrows raised. “You got yourself another girlfriend, Ernesto? Hasn’t been long since the last one! Ah, she’s so cute! Like a little baby bird!”
Rafaela smiled, her face flushed with alcohol and pride. She nodded enthusiastically, swaying slightly on her feet. “Yup! I’m his girlfriend,” she declared, the words tumbling out before he could stop her. “We’ve been together for years!”
Ernesto laughed, the sound coming out louder than he intended. He wrapped an arm around Rafaela’s shoulders, pulling her against his side. “She’s just kidding,” he said, flashing his most charming smile. “We haven’t been together for years. She’s just a little drunk and—!“
“Girlfriend,” Rafaela interrupted, her voice dropping to a whisper. She looked up at him, her eyes suddenly serious despite the alcohol. “I’m his girlfriend… the only girl he ever needs.”
The women exchanged glances, something unspoken passing between them. Maria’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Right,” she said, drawing the word out. “Well, girlfriend or not, she’s a cutie pie. You should bring her to the club later. We’re going to that new place on the east end—Neon Tomb. You should join us!”
Ernesto nodded, already calculating how to extract them from this situation. “Maybe. We’ve got plans first.”
“Of course you do,” Sofia said, winking at Rafaela. “Have fun, little one. And be careful with this one.” She gestured at Ernesto. “He’s got a reputation. Those eyes are dangerous. One sly look, and you’ll be dropping your panties, and—hee-hee-hee!”
They moved on, laughing among themselves, and Ernesto felt the tension drain from his shoulders. He looked down at Rafaela, who was still leaning against him, her body warm through the thin fabric of her shirt. As expected, she was unsmiling.
“You can’t just say things like that,” he murmured, guiding her further down the boardwalk. “Not here. Not where people can hear.”
She frowned. “Why not?” she asked, her voice small. A tiny hiccup escaped her, but it was enough to rattle her entire frame, as if her body was some thin steel birdcage and not the little bird herself.
He squeezed her shoulder, not sure if it was meant to be reassuring or a warning. “Come on. There’s more to see.”
They passed a row of food stalls, the smell of grilled meat and spices making his stomach growl. Rafaela pointed at a cart selling something that looked like fried dough covered in powdered sugar.
“Can we get some?” she asked, already pulling him toward it.
“Whatever you want,” he said, reaching for his wallet. “Tonight’s your night.”
As they waited in line, he watched her from the corner of his eye. The alcohol had made her bolder, her movements more fluid, less guarded. She was smiling at everything—the vendor’s colorful apron, the couple arguing behind them, the way the lights reflected off the artificial sea…
This was what he wanted for her, he realized. Not just the alcohol or the music or the crowds, but this—this feeling of being part of something larger, of being alive in a city that never slept. Even if it was dangerous. Even if it meant keeping their secret locked tight behind his teeth.
Ernesto tugged her away from the food stalls, his grip firm on her wrist. “Come on. I’ve got a surprise for you.”
He led her toward a massive structure rising from the eastern edge of the boardwalk—an enormous tent, its canvas walls dyed deep purple and strung with fairy lights that pulsed in time with the bass thumping from within. The entrance was a gaping mouth of darkness, flanked by bouncers who nodded at Ernesto as they approached.
“VIP?” one of them asked, eyeing Rafaela with barely concealed curiosity.
“You know it,” Ernesto replied, flashing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Inside, the noise hit like a physical force. The tent was cavernous, the ceiling lost in shadow, the floor a sea of bodies moving as one organism. Strobe lights sliced through the darkness, catching faces in flashes—mouths open, eyes closed, sweat-slicked skin glistening under the artificial stars.
Rafaela gasped, her fingers tightening around his. “It’s so big,” she whispered, and Ernesto couldn’t tell if she meant the tent or the crowd.
He guided her through the press of bodies, one hand at the small of her back, the other clearing a path. The music was something primal, all beat and no melody, the kind of thing that got under your skin and made your heart race whether you wanted it to or not.
In the back corner, half-hidden by a curtain of beads, was a booth. It was raised slightly above the dance floor, giving a clear view of the chaos below. Ernesto steered her toward it, his body moving with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where he was going.
He helped her onto the cushioned bench, then slid in beside her, close enough that their thighs touched. The leather was cool against her skin, a sharp contrast to the heat building inside her from the alcohol and the crowd.
Ernesto raised a hand, catching the attention of a man in a black vest who was weaving through the tables. The man’s face lit up when he saw Ernesto.
“Salas! Haven’t seen you in here for a while.” The waiter leaned against their table, his eyes flicking to Rafaela and back. “New friend?”
“Something like that,” Ernesto said, his voice carrying over the music. “How’s business treating you, Miguel?”
“Can’t complain. The smaller clubs are getting eaten up, so we’ve been getting all the overflow.” The man named Miguel grinned, showing teeth that had been filed to points. “You looking for the usual?”
Ernesto nodded, then gestured Miguel closer. He whispered something in the man’s ear, his hand cupped to prevent the words from carrying. Rafaela strained to hear, but the music swallowed everything.
Miguel nodded, his expression shifting to something more serious. “Got it. Be right back with the drinks and…” he paused, shooting Rafaela a quick look, “…the fun snacks.”
As Miguel disappeared into the crowd, Rafaela turned to Ernesto, her eyebrows drawing together. “What did you tell him?” she asked, her voice pitched higher to be heard over the bass.
Ernesto winked, his smile lazy and knowing. “That’s my secret, hermana.”
The words landed wrong. Rafaela’s face fell, the flush in her cheeks darkening. “I don’t like secrets,” she said, her words slightly slurred. “Why can’t you just tell me? Why can’t you tell everyone? I want people to know we’re together…”
Ernesto’s smile vanished. He leaned in close, his breath hot against her ear. “Because if Papa finds out his kids are fucking, he’ll kill us both. Is that what you want? You want him to put a bullet in my head? In yours?” He added those last two words with a sense of urgency unlike anything else Rafaela had noticed before. It sounded forced. Wholly unreal.
Rafaela flinched, but the alcohol had made her bold. Or stupid. Maybe both. “He doesn’t have to know,” she insisted, her voice rising. “We could just tell people I’m not really your sister. That it’s just a story we made up. That we’re just… um… just…”
“Just what?” Ernesto’s voice was tight, controlled. “It’s none of their business, Rafa. It’s not their business to know. I don’t know why you have to bring this up every single time. It doesn’t make it any less real just because it’s our little secret. You’re not my girlfriend, you’re my hermana.”
“But I want to be your girlfriend,” she said, the words coming out in a rush. “For real. I want to hold your hand and kiss you and not have to hide it. I’m tired of hiding, hermano… it makes me feel… like… hic… like I don’t matter…!”
Something in Ernesto’s chest tightened. He glanced around, making sure no one was close enough to hear. “Rafa, you’re drunk,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “This isn’t the time or the place for this conversation. We’ll talk about it when we get back, okay? Just be a good little girl and enjoy yourself.”
She pulled away from him, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “There’s never a time or place! You always say that. But when? When are we going to stop hiding? When I’m eighteen? Twenty? Never?”
A group of dancers stumbled past their booth, laughing and shouting, momentarily drowning out their argument. Ernesto waited until they passed, then grabbed Rafaela’s wrist, his grip firm but not painful.
“Keep your voice down,” he hissed. “People are watching.”
“Let them watch!” Rafaela’s voice cracked. “I don’t c-care anymore! I’m tired of being your dirty secret, Ernesto! I want to be your girlfriend. Your real girlfriend!” She hiccuped again, her face flush from the booze and the sudden spilling of emotion.
Miguel chose that moment to return, balancing a tray with two tall glasses filled with something electric blue and a small plate of what looked like colorful candies. He set them down with practiced ease, his eyes darting between Ernesto and Rafaela.
“Everything okay here?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral. “Does the señorita not like the music?”
“Everything’s fine,” Ernesto said, his smile returning like it had never left. “Just a little misunderstanding. Thanks, Miguel.”
Miguel nodded, clearly not believing a word, and retreated back into the crowd.
Ernesto pushed one of the drinks toward Rafaela. “Drink. You need it.”
She glared at him but took the glass anyway, knocking back half of it in one go. The liquid burned going down, and she grimaced, but she kept up her pouting and glaring as if she thought she could win this little sparring session.
Ernesto sighed, running a hand through his hair. The girl was stubborn as hell when she got like this. He slid closer, his hand finding the small of her back.
“Come here,” he said, his voice dropping to that low, coaxing tone that always made her shiver. He pulled her onto his lap, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other hand splayed across her thigh. “You’re making a scene, Rafa.”
She squirmed against him, but didn’t pull away. “Answer me. Why can’t I tell people I’m your girlfriend? Why do you always avoid the question?”
“Because it’s complicated,” he murmured, his lips brushing her ear. “You know that.”
“That’s not an answer…!” She turned in his lap, her eyes bright with defiance despite the alcohol clouding them. “It’s always complicated. Always. But I’m not a kid anymore, Ernesto. I’m sixteen. I can handle it. I can handle anything…”
He tried to kiss her, his mouth finding hers with practiced ease, but she pulled back, her hand pressing against his chest.
“No. Not this time. I want words, not—not that…”
Ernesto’s jaw tightened. The music pulsed around them, bodies moving in hypnotic rhythm, but in their corner booth, time seemed to stretch and warp. He glanced at the plate of colorful candies Miguel had left, an idea forming.
“Okay,” he said, his voice softening. “You want to be a grown-up? I’ve got something for you. A real grown-up thing.”
Rafaela’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
He reached for the plate, picking up one of the colorful tablets. It was small, round, stamped with a tiny symbol that looked like a crescent moon. He held it between his thumb and forefinger, letting the club lights catch its glossy surface.
“These aren’t candy,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “They’re designed to make you feel good. To loosen you up. To help you… be a real adult.”
Her eyes widened, the defiance in them giving way to curiosity. “What is it?”
“Something special,” he said, his smile turning sly. “Trust me, you’ll like it. Open your mouth.”
Rafaela hesitated, then parted her lips. Ernesto placed the tablet on her tongue, his finger lingering for a moment against her lower lip.
“Now be a real good girl and swallow what I just put in your mouth,” he teased, his voice low and intimate.
The words hit her like a familiar touch. Rafaela blushed, a smile tugging at her lips despite herself. She’d certainly heard that one before—in the darkness of his bedroom, on the bathroom floor of some cheap motel, whispered against her skin when no one else could hear.
She swallowed, the tablet sliding down her throat with a bitter aftertaste. “Now what?”
“Now we wait,” Ernesto said, pulling her closer. His hand slid higher on her thigh, fingers tracing idle patterns on her skin. “And we dance. And we forget about everything else.”
The music seemed to swell around them, the bass vibrating through the leather bench into their bones. Ernesto guided Rafaela off the bench, his hand firm on her waist as they joined the throng of bodies on the dance floor. The strobe lights cut through the darkness in rhythmic pulses, illuminating faces in flashes—some ecstatic, some vacant, all lost in the beat.
Rafaela moved awkwardly at first, her limbs still stiff with lingering anger. But as the minutes ticked by, something changed. The tablet began to work its magic, spreading warmth through her veins, loosening her muscles, turning the music from noise into something that flowed through her like liquid honey.
She laughed, the sound bright and unexpected, her head tipping back. The ceiling seemed to ripple above her, the lights bleeding into each other like watercolors.
“Ernesto,” she breathed, her voice dreamy and faraway. “It’s so… everything’s so…”
He pulled her close, his body moving against hers in time with the music. “I know, hermana. Just go with it.”
But she wasn’t listening anymore. The drug had her now, wrapping her in a cocoon of pure sensation. She pressed herself against him, her hands sliding up his chest, her lips finding his jaw, his neck, anywhere she could reach.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled into his skin, the words slurring together. “I didn’t mean to be trouble. I just… I love you so much, and I don’t want to hide it anymore, but I’ll try, I’ll try to be good, I promise…”
Ernesto smirked, his hands sliding down to grip her ass, pulling her tight against him. The music was loud enough that no one could hear them, the darkness deep enough that no one could see exactly what was happening.
“I love you too, Rafa,” he said, his voice a low rumble against her ear. “But you know what? I really love you when you listen to me. When you don’t make things hard for me. You understand me?”
She nodded, her eyes wide and glassy, pupils dilated to black pools. “I understand,” she whispered. “I’ll be good. I’ll be so good for you…”
Then her hand dropped between them, fingers finding the bulge in his pants. She squeezed, a smile spreading across her face.
“I can make this hard for you instead,” she giggled, her voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “That’s better, right? Making this hard instead of making things hard?”
Ernesto groaned, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. The girl was high as a kite, but she still knew exactly how to push his buttons. He grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand away.
“Not here,” he growled, but the heat in his eyes betrayed him.
He dragged her back toward their booth, his steps quick and purposeful. The crowd parted before them, no one paying much attention to the couple stumbling through the darkness. The music pounded on, relentless, driving.
When they reached the booth, Ernesto practically threw her onto the cushioned bench. He slid in beside her, his body blocking her from view of most of the club. But not all. Anyone who looked closely would see exactly what was happening.
Rafaela was giggling, her head lolling back, her legs already spreading. The drug had stripped away all her inhibitions, leaving only raw want.
“You’re so beautiful,” she slurred, reaching for him. “So beautiful, and you’re mine, and I’m yours, and everyone should know…”
Ernesto didn’t answer. His fingers were already at his belt, unbuckling, unzipping. The alcohol and the music and the sight of Rafaela, high and wanting, had him hard and aching. He pulled his cock free, stroking himself once, twice, his breath catching.
“Turn around,” he commanded, his voice rough. “On your knees. Face the club.”
Rafaela obeyed without hesitation, her movements a delightful mix of clumsiness and eagerness. She nestled onto the bench, her knees sinking into the plush leather, her back arching invitingly toward him. Her shorts had already ridden up, accentuating the curve of her ass, the delicate fabric of her underwear peeking out tantalizingly.
Amidst the pounding music, she heard the unmistakable rustle of a condom being fished out from a pocket. A wicked smile spread across her lips as she turned her head slightly, catching sight of Ernesto wrestling with a crumpled foil packet. The anticipation thrummed in the air as he tore it open with a swift motion, the sound sharp and electric. Her breath quickened as she watched him roll the latex over his length, the action both intimate and primal, sending a thrill coursing through her.
Ernesto grabbed her hips, yanking her back against him, until she was sitting on his lap again, facing the gyrating crowd and the music and the thump-thump-thump of the hard-hitting bass. Ernesto’s hands were on her ass, and he dipped his fingers down until he was playing with her pussy, right here, where anyone could see them. She was already damp between the thighs—another side-effect of the love drug—and she whimpered with a heady mixture of pleasure and disbelief at what she was experiencing.
But Ernesto was never the patient sort of dog. Once he’d decided his little sister was wet enough to take him, he just lined himself up and thrust, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke.
Rafaela cried out, the sound lost in the music. Her body arched, her hands gripping the edge of the booth for support. The drug had heightened everything—the stretch, the burn, the fullness—turning pain into pleasure, pleasure into something almost unbearable.
“That’s it,” Ernesto growled, his hands tightening on her hips. “Take it all. Show everyone what you are. You wanna be a big girl? You, nngh, wanna be an adult? No secrets? Then let’s have a little fun…!”
He began to move, his hips snapping forward in a steady rhythm. The booth creaked beneath them, the leather slick with sweat. Rafaela bounced on his cock, her body jolting with each thrust, her breasts swaying beneath her thin shirt. Her eyes were already blown out and wide, but she really couldn’t believe this was happening, nor could she believe how turned on it made her to know she was being fucked by her doting hermano in full view of everyone!
A group of men passed by, their eyes widening as they caught sight of them. One of them whistled, long and low, nudging his friends. They stopped, forming a loose semicircle, watching with undisguised interest.
“Damn, man,” one of them called out, his voice barely audible over the music. “Lucky guy!”
Ernesto just grinned, his pace never faltering. He reached around, his hand sliding under Rafaela’s shirt, finding her breast. He pinched her nipple, hard, and she moaned, her head falling back against his shoulder.
“Look at them,” he whispered in her ear. “Look at all these people watching you get fucked. Is this what you wanted? For everyone to see? No more secrets—is that right?”
Rafaela’s eyes fluttered open, focusing with difficulty on the men gathered nearby. A small, rational part of her brain screamed that she should be embarrassed, that this was wrong, that they shouldn’t be doing this here, like this, with people watching…
But the drug had drowned that voice in a sea of endorphins. Instead of shame, she felt only a wild, reckless thrill. Her lips curved into a smile, her hips rolling back to meet Ernesto’s thrusts.
“They can look,” she slurred, her voice dreamy and distant. “They can see me… I want them to see…”
Rafaela’s cheeks were burning, her body loose and pliant, but it just made Ernesto want her even more. She arched her back, hands gripping the edge of the bench, her nethers mostly invisible beneath the hem of her shirt. Every time Ernesto thrust up into her, she gasped and let out a little moan, the sound half-lost in the music and the throb-throb-throb of the bassline.
Ernesto’s hands were all over her. One gripped her hip, steadying her, while the other slid up to squeeze her little tits beneath the thin black shirt. He didn’t care if people saw. In fact, it made everything better—the rush of being watched, of showing her off, of proving to the whole world that this brat was his and only his.
PLAP! PLAP! PLAP!
Every time Rafaela bounced on his cock, the noise was unmistakable—even over the club music, even over the laughter and the chatter and the sound of glasses clinking. The leather bench squeaked beneath them, her thighs trembling from the force of each thrust. Ernesto grinned like a man possessed, blue eyes wild as he rutted into her, making sure she never forgot who owned her.
“Fuck, hermana, you’re taking me so well,” he growled, voice hot against her ear, barely even trying to hide the hunger in his tone. “I hope they’re all watching. I hope they know you’re mine. That only I can do this for you… nnghh… good girl… my good little girl…!”
Rafaela whimpered, hips rolling to meet every stroke. She should have been mortified, but her mind had gone soft and fuzzy from the drug, and all she wanted was more. More friction, more fullness, more of her brother using her like a toy in front of everyone. She couldn’t even make her hands let go of the booth—the sensations were too much, too overwhelming, and every time Ernesto’s fat cock punched up into her, she nearly sobbed from the pleasure.
“Y-you’re so big, hermano… ngh, I can barely… ahh… barely take you…!” She gasped, the words tumbling out in little desperate bursts. Her voice was crystal clear, too, and Ernesto could tell the guys watching them hadn’t missed a single syllable.
One of the men in the audience let out a low, drawn-out whistle. “Holy shit. Look at her go…”
“Yo, did she just say hermano? What kinda fucked-up roleplay shit…?”
“Damn, she’s hot… wish I had a little piece of ass like that!”
Rafaela’s body trembled, but she didn’t stop. She kept bouncing, kept pushing back on Ernesto’s cock, kept letting herself get used in the middle of the club. She felt like everyone must be staring, but she didn’t care. She just wanted to make Ernesto happy, wanted to be his good girl, even if that meant getting railed in public by her own brother.
Ernesto couldn’t get enough of it. The way her body shuddered and clenched around him, the way the guys leered and made crude comments, the way Rafaela just took it and kept going. He fucked her harder, his hands digging into her hips, using her body like it was his birthright.
He leaned in, his teeth scraping along the curve of her shoulder before biting down, hard, like he had to leave something permanent on her. A real mark, just for him. The sharp pressure lit Rafaela’s nerves on fire and a little scream escaped her lips, barely even human, but the crowd around them absolutely ate it up.
“Damn, she likes that!” one of the guys cheered, voice hoarse with excitement.
Another one banged on the edge of the booth, whooping. “Bite her again, man! Show her who owns that pussy!”
Girls in glittery dresses had gathered, too, three or four of them fanning themselves and giggling, eyes huge and hungry with envy. They stared at Rafaela like she was a starlet on the main stage, the centerpiece of the whole fucking club.
Ernesto just grinned, sweat beading on his brow, and bit Rafaela again, this time right at the base of her neck. He didn’t let up with his hips for even a second, pounding her from behind, his thrusts so rough and deep it made her whole body jolt and tremble. Her little legs kicked out, helpless, as the rhythm of his cock got faster, sloppier, greedy for the finish.
“Nnngh, Ernesto!” she squeaked, her voice high and thin and desperate. And it was so obvious she was about to cum. She tried to hide her face, both hands covering her eyes like it would keep her secret, but it was waaay too late for that.
“Aww, she’s blushing!” one of the girls called out, voice lilting and mean in that way only drunk girls could manage. “What’s wrong, cutie? Can’t handle it?”
“She’s about to cum, you can tell!” another girl crowed, clapping. “Look at her, just getting ruined in public like a good little slut!”
Rafaela’s body went rigid, every muscle tensed, her back arching like a bowstring as Ernesto’s cock hit just right, again and again, driving her crazy. The embarrassment, the pleasure, the burn of his teeth, the heat of all those eyes on her—it all mixed together behind her eyes like fireworks, and she just lost it, the orgasm rolling over her in one hard, blinding wave.
“F-fuck!” Rafaela gasped, voice muffled behind her trembling hands. “I’m gonna… I’m cumming! Ngh! Ernesto, I’m cumming, I’m cumming, I c-can’t stop…!”
“Do it, hermana,” he growled in her ear, so that only she could hear him. “Let them all see what a perfect girl you are for me… let them hear you cum for your brother…!”
That was it. She went off like a bomb, thighs shaking, hips jerking back onto his cock over and over, pussy clenching so tight around him he almost lost it right then and there.
“Fuck yeah! Look at her go!”
“She’s really doing it, she’s really cumming…”
The girls cheered for her, drowning out the catcalls and whistles, and Rafaela moaned louder, raw and unfiltered, her body tensing up and quivering right on Ernesto’s cock, as if she was just a toy made for this exact purpose.
Ernesto loved it. He fucking loved it. The way Rafaela clamped down and squeezed him with those trembling, desperate muscles, her whole body shaking like she might just break apart from the force of her own pleasure. And somehow, the more she moaned and whimpered and bucked against him, the closer he got to his own edge…
He didn’t slow down, not even for a second. Ernesto bared his teeth and pounded her even harder, his hips snapping forward so fast and rough the noise of their bodies smacking together nearly drowned out the club’s own relentless bassline.
“Gonna c-cum,” Ernesto groaned. “Rafaela… Rafaela… I’m g-gonna…!”
A bolt of lightning flashed somewhere deep in Rafaela’s mind. It suddenly occurred to her, in her drugged-out state, that something was very, very wrong here. It had nothing to do with the crowd that had gathered. It had everything to do with the fact that Ernesto was feeling much better all of a sudden—deep inside her. She could feel the pulse and throb of his cock; the sex felt hotter, wetter, and different in a way that Rafaela hadn’t experienced before.
She couldn’t even verbalize her epiphany; her tongue had become a lead ball in her mouth, and she just gagged and mewled and moaned like she could make nothing more but the basest, most animal noises.
Ernesto lost it. He fucking lost it. The wave of pleasure hit him so hard, it nearly blacked him out. Ernesto’s hips jerked, his cock pulsed deep inside Rafaela, and then he was cumming, too—all at once, in hot, messy spurts that filled up his bratty little sister and left him gasping for air.
He sank his teeth into Rafaela’s shoulder, a primal instinct to quiet himself while leaving a mark that spoke of possession and care. As he held her close, she whimpered softly, shuddering under the weight of his body and the intense sensation of being filled.
The heat of his release flooded her, hot and sticky, igniting a wild mix of pleasure and confusion. A fleeting panic flickered across her features as the realization hit her—what if the condom had broken? But the thought slipped away like sand through her fingers; she was too high, too lost in the moment to articulate her fears. Instead, she babbled incoherently, clinging tightly to him, her body trembling as she felt the peculiar wetness trickling between her thighs, a tangible reminder of their reckless abandon.
The crowd whistled. Someone clapped. There was a chorus of “Damn, man,” and “Look at her!” and “She’s really taking it all, isn’t she?”
But Ernesto barely heard them. He was too busy rutting up into Rafaela’s soaked, twitching pussy, his arms locked around her as he fucked his cum deeper and deeper inside. For a moment, neither of them could even move. Rafaela just slumped against the table, legs spread, trembling, her body so fucked-out she couldn’t even make a sound anymore.
Ernesto didn’t pull out. Not right away. He liked the way she felt wrapped around him, still fluttering and squeezing like she didn’t want to let him go.
Instead, he reached up and turned Rafaela’s face toward his, fingers gentle now. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, her lips parted, her black hair stuck to her damp forehead. She looked dazed, dreamy, a little wild.
He kissed her, deep and messy. His tongue slid into her mouth, and she kissed him back, hungry and sloppy and perfect, even as her whole body trembled from the aftershocks.
“I love you, hermana,” he breathed into her mouth. “You’re so perfect for me. Fuck… no one else, just you, Rafa…”
She nodded, wordless, and kissed him even harder, her hands tangled in his hair as if she never wanted to let go.
The world faded away. The crowd, the music, the shame—it was all gone. Just Ernesto and Rafaela, locked together, her insides sticky and warm with his seed.
And that was all they needed. Just each other. Always…
Sunlight.
Hot, sharp, and merciless, slicing through the battered window above Ernesto’s bed.
He rolled over, groaning. Ugh. He felt like he was dying. His head was pounding, his lips tasted like sugar and sweat and regret, and his eyes didn’t want to open.
But something was… off. Something was very, very off.
He was covered in little heart stickers.
The tiny pink hearts were everywhere. On his chest, his stomach, his arms—even stuck to his forehead. Some were smudged with fingerprints, others torn at the edges, like Rafaela had been drunk and determined when she’d applied them.
Ernesto groaned, trying to peel one from his cheek. It hurt. Everything hurt. His brain felt like it was being squeezed in a vise, his mouth tasted like he’d been chewing on pennies, and his body was one big, throbbing ache.
“Rafaela?” he called out, his voice cracking. “Rafaela, where are you?”
The bathroom door was half-open, and from inside came the unmistakable sound of someone being violently, painfully sick. The wet, desperate heaving made his own stomach lurch in sympathy.
He stumbled out of bed, nearly tripping over the pile of clothes on the floor. The room spun around him, colors blurring at the edges. He gripped the doorframe for support, heart pounding against his ribs.
Rafaela was hunched over the toilet, her thin frame wracked with tremors. Her black hair hung in sweaty tangles around her face, and she wore nothing but one of his oversized t-shirts, now stained with… something. Vomit, probably.
“Jesus, Rafa.” Ernesto knelt beside her, his knees cracking against the tile floor. He gathered her hair back, holding it away from her face as she retched again. “That bad, huh?”
She nodded weakly, her whole body trembling. When she finally caught her breath, she leaned back against the bathtub, eyes squeezed shut.
“I feel like I’m dying,” she whispered. Her skin was pale, almost gray, and her lips had a bluish tint. “Everything keeps spinning, and I can’t stop throwing up.”
Ernesto wet a washcloth under the tap and pressed it to her forehead. “It’s just the hangover. That pill, plus all that booze… it’s a hell of a combination.”
But it wasn’t just the hangover.
The next day, Rafaela was still throwing up. The day after that, too. By the end of the week, Ernesto was starting to worry.
“You need to eat something,” he said, pushing a bowl of plain rice toward her. They were sitting at the small table in his apartment above the shop, the morning sun casting long shadows across the floor. “You’ve lost weight, Rafa. You look like a ghost.”
She shook her head, her hand pressed to her stomach. “I can’t. Every time I try, it just comes right back up.”
Ernesto watched her, a cold feeling settling in his gut. This wasn’t normal. Hangovers didn’t last this long. And Rafaela had been sick every morning for a week now, throwing up before she’d even had a chance to eat.
“Rafa,” he said slowly. “When was your last period?”
She looked up at him, her dark eyes wide and suddenly frightened. “I—I don’t know. A while ago, I guess. Why?”
The cold feeling spread through Ernesto’s chest. He knew the answer before she even said it.
“Stay here,” he said, already on his feet. His voice sounded strange to his own ears—distant, mechanical. “I’ll be right back.”
The pharmacy was three blocks away. Ernesto walked there in a daze, the morning sun beating down on his neck, his mind racing in circles. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t. They’d been careful. They’d used protection. That night at the club, he’d definitely used a condom. He’d checked it afterward, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he?
He bought three different tests, each one more expensive than the last, plus a bottle of water and a bag of saltines. The cashier—a middle-aged woman with tired eyes—gave him a knowing look as she rang him up.
“First time?” she asked, her voice gentle.
Ernesto just nodded, unable to form words. His throat felt tight, his hands clammy with sweat.
Back at the apartment, Rafaela was still sitting at the table, her hands wrapped around her empty mug. She looked up when he came in, her face pale and drawn.
“I got these,” Ernesto said, placing the bag on the table. “Just… just to be sure.”
Rafaela’s eyes widened as she pulled out the pregnancy tests. She stared at them for a long moment, her fingers trembling slightly.
“Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll… I’ll do it.”
She disappeared into the bathroom, and Ernesto paced the small apartment, his heart hammering against his ribs. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not when things were finally starting to look up. He’d just gotten the shop, just started making a name for himself in Dossoles. A baby would ruin everything.
The bathroom door opened. Rafaela emerged, clutching one of the tests in her hand. Her face was unreadable.
“It’s positive,” she said, her voice barely audible. “But… but it might be wrong. They can be wrong, right…?”
Ernesto took the test from her. Two pink lines stared back at him, clear as day. His stomach dropped.
“Let’s try another one,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Just to be sure.”
The second test came back positive. So did the third.
Rafaela sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the three tests lined up on the nightstand. Her hands were clasped in her lap, her shoulders hunched.
“I’m pregnant,” she said, the words hanging in the air between them. “We’re going to have a baby.”
Ernesto felt the world tilt beneath his feet. A baby. A fucking baby. Their baby. His and Rafaela’s. The thought made him want to laugh and scream and throw up all at once.
“Rafa,” he started, but she cut him off.
“It’s going to be okay,” she said, and to his astonishment, she was smiling. A small, fragile smile, but a smile nonetheless. “We can do this. Together. We can be a family.”
She reached for his hand, her fingers light and cold despite the too-warm smile on her face. She wasn’t scared. She actually wasn’t scared.
Why the fuck wasn’t she scared? Ernesto couldn’t even breathe properly.
“Rafaela,” Ernesto said, his voice cracking. “We can’t—“
But she was already talking, her words tumbling out in a rush of excitement. “I’ve always wanted a little girl. We could name her after Mama, or maybe something pretty like Sofia or Isabella.” She squeezed his hand tighter, her eyes bright despite the dark circles beneath them. “Or a boy! Ernesto Junior. We could call him Tito for short.”
Ernesto stared at her, his mouth dry. The room seemed to be shrinking around them, the walls closing in.
A baby. A fucking baby.
“I’ve been thinking,” Rafaela continued, oblivious to his silence. “We could move the bed against that wall, and then there would be room for a crib right here.” She gestured to the corner of the tiny apartment, already rearranging furniture in her mind. “And maybe we could paint it. Yellow would be nice, or a soft blue. Something happy.”
“Rafa,” Ernesto tried again, but she was already on her feet, pacing the small space, her hands fluttering like birds.
“We’ll need clothes, and diapers, and bottles.” She paused, biting her lip. “Do you think the shop makes enough money for all that? Maybe I could help more. I’m good with customers, you always say so.”
The mention of the shop sent a fresh wave of panic through Ernesto’s chest. His shop. The first real thing he’d built for himself in this godforsaken city. The place where he’d finally started to make a name, to be someone other than just another thug with a gun.
“We’ll figure it out,” he said, forcing a smile. It felt like his face might crack. “Don’t worry about that right now.”
Rafaela’s smile was like the sun breaking through clouds. She threw her arms around his neck, pressing her small body against his. “I knew you’d be happy,” she whispered. “I knew it.”
Ernesto held her, his mind racing. Their father would kill him. Literally kill him. He could see his father’s face now, red with rage, his knuckles tensing as he choked the life out of his only son. If he found out Ernesto had knocked up his sixteen-year-old step-daughter…
And the baby itself. How was he supposed to take care of a child? He could barely take care of himself most days. The shop was just starting to turn a profit, but it wasn’t enough for diapers and doctor’s visits and all the other shit babies needed—right?
“Hey,” Rafaela pulled back, her brow furrowed. “Are you okay? You look… strange.”
“I’m fine,” Ernesto lied. He kissed her forehead, his lips dry. “Just surprised, that’s all. It’s a lot to take in.”
Rafaela nodded, her expression softening. “I know. But we’ll be okay…! We always are.”
She spent the rest of the day planning. She dragged Ernesto to the market, pointing at tiny clothes and rattles and stuffed animals. She talked about schools and godparents and whether the baby would have his blue eyes or her dark ones.
Ernesto smiled and nodded and said all the right things, but inside, a cold knot was forming.
A baby would ruin everything.
The shop.
Their lives.
The delicate balance they’d managed to strike in Dossoles.
They were barely surviving as it was—how the hell were they supposed to raise a child?
That night, while Rafaela slept curled against his chest, Ernesto stared at the ceiling, his mind racing. There had to be a way out of this. There was always a way out.
By morning, he’d made up his mind.
“It’s just vitamins,” he told her, holding out the small bottle. The pills inside were blue, innocuous. “For the baby. The pharmacist said they’re essential.”
Rafaela took the bottle without question, her eyes bright with trust. “For the baby,” she repeated, her voice soft with wonder. She shook out a pill and swallowed it dry.
For three days, she took them religiously. Morning and night, never missing a dose. Ernesto watched her, his stomach in knots, telling himself it was for the best. They weren’t ready. They’d never be ready. This was the only way.
On the fourth day, she started to bleed.
It began as spotting, just a few dark spots on her underwear. Rafaela showed him, her face pale. “Is this normal?” she asked, her voice small. “The book I read said it could be normal, b-but…”
Ernesto nodded, his throat tight. “It’s normal,” he lied. “It happens sometimes.”
By evening, the bleeding had gotten worse.
Rafaela was curled on the bathroom floor, her knees drawn to her chest, her face ashen. The blood was coming in waves now, soaking through the towels she’d stuffed between her legs.
“Something’s wrong,” she gasped, her eyes wide with fear. “Ernesto, s-something’s r-really wrong. I don’t like this…”
He knelt beside her, his hands hovering uselessly. “It’ll be okay,” he said, the words hollow even to his own ears. “It’s just… it’s just your body adjusting.”
But it wasn’t.
By midnight, the cramps had become unbearable. Rafaela was sobbing, her body wracked with pain, her hands clutching at her stomach as if she could hold the baby inside through sheer force of will.
“It hurts,” she whimpered. “It hurts so much…!”
Ernesto held her, his arms wrapped around her trembling body, and said nothing. What could he say? That he’d done this to her? That he’d chosen this?
In the early hours of the morning, it was over.
The bleeding slowed, then stopped.
Rafaela lay in their bed, hollow-eyed and still, the sheets beneath her stained with blood.
“It’s gone,” she whispered, her voice raw from crying. That was all she could say. “It’s gone.” Over and over again—like some twisted mantra, it was the only thing that would come out of her mouth for the rest of the week. That and the vomit; the bile burning in her slender little throat.
It’s gone. It’s gone. It’s gone.