My Stepbrother, My Enemy {BL}-Chapter 150: Dad

TW: the following Chapters contain molestation of a child, strong homophobic words, violence as well as attempted sexual assault. If any of these trigger you, please skip to Chapter 154.

Take care and stay safe.

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*Five years ago*

I stood there in the cramped living room of our little house, my heart racing as I faced my father, David. He loomed over me, broad shoulders hunched and that familiar scowl etched across his face. At fourteen, I felt minuscule during these moments, especially with his disheveled brown hair framing dark eyes that seemed to see right through anyone who dared to meet them.

Those eyes were now fixed on me, burning with an anger that thickened the air, making me tremble as tears welled up and streamed down my cheeks, blurring my vision as I turned my head to escape his glare.

"Why can’t you just act like a normal boy, Noah?" he shouted, his voice rumbling like thunder and bouncing off the aging wallpaper. His fists were clenched, knuckles white, and I could smell the mix of diesel and sweat that clung to him after long hauls as a truck driver.

Thank goodness he wasn’t around much; the rare times he was away were the only moments I felt I could breathe freely. But when he was home, everything shifted. The atmosphere turned icy, like a storm cloud hovering above us, and I felt trapped, every breath shallow as if a misstep would ignite an explosion.

My mother, Helen, was probably still at the hair salon, her job as a hairdresser keeping her out during the day but not shielding either of us from these eruptions.

If I played my part just right, things were bearable. I carefully selected clothes that covered me completely, long sleeves and baggy jeans even in summer, to avoid any comments about looking "soft" or "like a damn girl."

I only spoke when he addressed me first, my words always cautious and polite, burying myself in my books for hours on end. God forbid I allowed myself a moment of fun—games, laughter, or even a simple walk with friends could unleash his wrath, turning the house into a battlefield where I was perpetually retreating.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" he pressed, stepping closer, boots thudding heavily on the worn carpet. I flinched, wiping my tears with the back of my hand, trying to steady my voice enough to respond without making things worse.

"I’m sorry, D–Dad," I whispered, my words barely escaping, laced with a fear that felt as familiar as my own reflection, hoping this apology would ease the tension just a bit before he stormed off to his chair in the corner, leaving me to retreat to my room and wonder how long I could keep walking this tightrope without falling.

But lately, the fragile peace I had worked so hard to maintain was starting to crack in ways I never anticipated. Dad had found a new companion on those long, lonely highways: cheap whiskey and even cheaper beer.

The bottles began to multiply—first in the cab of his truck, then in the garage, and finally on the coffee table next to his recliner. The road didn’t call him as often anymore; the company was giving longer runs to younger drivers, so he was home more than he’d ever been in my life.

The house, once just cold when he was present, now felt like it was filling with smoke, inching closer to suffocation. He’d yell at Mom over trivial things (like how she loaded the dishwasher or the cost of ground beef), and those same dark, bloodshot eyes turned on me for offenses so petty they would’ve been funny under different circumstances. A plate rinsed not quite right. A sigh that escaped a fraction too loud. Walking too quiet, talking too soft, not being "man enough."

The only refuge where I felt the weight lift was my bedroom. I’d close the door and lean against it until I heard his footsteps move away, and then I could finally breathe. My blue room was tiny, barely enough space for my bed, the scuffed dresser, and the little desk where I did my homework, but it smelled faintly of the lavender sachets Mom tucked into my drawers each Christmas. With my night-light on, it felt almost comforting. That room had been my fortress.

Until it wasn’t anymore.

I found myself standing in the living room again, the same worn carpet beneath my feet, the flickering bulb casting sickly light when Dad’s face shifted from its usual red to a disturbing purple. In his hand, he gripped a handful of glossy magazines and two paperbacks, covers that still made heat rush to my cheeks.

Gigi had slipped them into my hands behind the gym a couple weeks back, winking and whispering, "Trust me, you need these more than I do." The magazines were filled with shirtless men in low-slung jeans or nothing at all, their skin glistening and eyes smoldering as they gazed into the camera.

The novels had titles that screamed promises I didn’t fully understand yet. I’d turned crimson, feeling like my face might catch fire, but I hadn’t been able to say no. Every night after that, once the house was silent, I’d pull out my flashlight from under my pillow and get lost in those pages, heart racing in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying.

During the day, I hid them at the bottom of my underwear drawer, beneath plain cotton briefs and neatly folded like armor. I did my own laundry every Sunday evening; no one ever touched that drawer. It felt safe. It had to be.

Except today it wasn’t.

Dad’s knuckles were white around the magazines, veins popping on his forearms like cables. The smell of whiskey hit me from six feet away, sharp and sour, mixing with the stale smoke that clung to his flannel shirts. His eyes (the very ones I’d feared since childhood) weren’t just angry anymore; they sparkled with something uglier, something that made my stomach twist.

"So," he finally spoke, voice low and dangerous, that kind of quiet that comes right before a storm breaks. He shook the magazines, the pages flapping open to reveal a model smirking at me. "You one of them now, Noah? You a little queer? Sneaking this fag shit into my house?"

I couldn’t answer, my throat was completely closed off. Tears streamed down my cheeks, hot and fast, but I didn’t dare wipe them away; even a small movement felt like it might snap whatever thin thread was holding him from blowing up.

He took a step closer, the floor creaking under his weight. "Answer me, boy."

"I-I’m sorry," I managed, the words scraping out weakly. "They’re not... I didn’t mean... Gigi gave them to me, I just—"

"Gigi." He spat the name like it was poison. "That dyke friend of yours? Should’ve known she’d turn you into this." Another step. Now I could see the burst blood vessels in his cheeks, the stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave in days.

He tossed the magazines onto the coffee table where they landed with a slap, pages splaying open to a photo I couldn’t bear to look at. "You disgust me. You hear me? Acting like some pansy crying like a girl, but you brought this pervert crap into my house."

I wanted to disappear, to fold into nothingness and slip between the floorboards. My knees shook so violently I thought they might give way, but he kept advancing until he stood so close that I had to tilt my head back to see his face.

"Take off that hoodie," he ordered suddenly, voice devoid of emotion.

My heart stuttered. "W-what?"

"You heard me. You wanna look at men like some fairy, let’s see if you got the body of one too. Take it off."

I clutched the hem of my oversized hoodie like it was my lifeline. "Dad, please—"

"Now, Noah."

I stood frozen, tears dripping off my chin, the word ’please’ echoing endlessly in my mind as the man who was supposed to protect me waited for me to comply.