My Stepbrother, My Enemy {BL}-Chapter 152: History Repeats Itself (BC)
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*Present day*
It seemed like every spring dug into my spine as Patrick settled heavier across my hips. He had quickly stripped away my hoodie and jeans, leaving me in just the plain gray boxer-briefs I’d thrown on that morning.
I wasn’t even trying to fight back anymore; my arms just lay limp at my sides, fingers curled against the faded comforter, because deep down I knew struggling would only make them laugh louder.
Patrick’s grin was wide and slick as he hovered above me, his teeth unnaturally white in the dim orange light seeping through the half-closed blinds. He lifted a hand and wiped the tears from my cheek with his thumb, and though the move seemed almost gentle, it was underlined by the sight of his bitten nails and the cheap vodka stench on his breath.
"Don’t cry, Noah," he said, voice dripping with mockery. "You’re so fucking pretty when you cry. Makes me even harder." His thumb slid lower, smearing my tears across my bottom lip. "Relax, baby. I’m actually really good at this. Both guys and girls usually beg me to keep going once I get started."
Disgusting.
From somewhere behind him, maybe near the door or leaning against the dresser, Liam let out a low, ugly chuckle.
Jace snorted, "Yeah, right," and the two of them burst into laughter that scraped across my skin like broken glass.
Patrick kept his gaze locked on mine. "You know this is your fault, right?" he murmured, shifting so that the rough denim of his jeans brushed against my bare thighs. "Walking around school in those tight shirts, biting your lip when you think nobody’s watching. You’ve been teasing us all year, little fag. If you weren’t so damn hot as fuck all of a sudden since the start of the semester, we wouldn’t even be here."
I stared up at him, but it wasn’t really Patrick I was seeing anymore. His face started to blur and shift, the jaw widening, cheeks flushing with whiskey, eyes darkening into those same endless black pits that hovered over me when I was fourteen.
My father’s voice layered over Patrick’s words, rough, slurred, certain, just like it sounded right before he’d slammed the bedroom door shut. My body remembered every second even though my mind had tried to bury it for years: the weight pressing me down on my parents’ bed, the sour smell of his skin, the way he growled that I had asked for it by hiding those magazines, that real boys didn’t look at pictures of men unless they wanted to be treated like bitches.
That night he hadn’t gone "all the way"; something about "saving the final lesson for when you’re ready," while his hands forced mine where I didn’t want them. He’d promised to kill Mom and then me if I ever told, and I believed him because kids believe their fathers when they speak with that kind of certainty.
Mom found the bruises two days later, pieced it together herself, and then came the chaos: police, court dates, a new apartment with another blue bedroom that still felt too small. I thought the nightmare was finally over once he was locked away.
But there I was again, eighteen years old and right back under another man’s weight, boxer-briefs damp with someone else’s sweat, another voice telling me it was my fault for simply existing while his friends watched and laughed like this was the best entertainment they’d ever had.
Patrick leaned in closer, lips brushing my ear. "Stop shaking, Noah. You’re gonna love it, I promise."
I shut my eyes, feeling the mattress dip as he yanked his shirt over his head, hearing the metallic rasp of his zipper. The hopelessness was deeper than anything I’d ever felt, because some wounds never really close; they just wait for the world to rip them open again.
Patrick’s mouth crashed against mine, hot and bitter with cheap vodka and spearmint gum, tongue forcing its way in while his teeth scraped my lip. When he moved to my neck, biting hard enough to bruise, my stomach lurched so violently I thought I’d throw up right there.
His hand slid lower, palming me roughly through the thin cotton, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles like he owned me. "Come on, baby, give me something... I know you want it," but the words blurred into static. My body went limp, heavy like wet concrete, while my mind floated somewhere above the room, watching it happen to somebody else.
I focused on the cracked ceiling, on the water stain shaped like a crooked heart, letting the edges of my vision soften. I couldn’t survive this again. I couldn’t endure another round of hands where they weren’t wanted, another voice telling me I deserved it for being who I am.
The thought came softly, almost kindly: I just want it to stop.
Patrick shifted, hooking his fingers into the waistband of my boxer-briefs, tugging them down. The elastic caught on my hips; he growled in frustration and leaned back for leverage.
That was when the banging started.
Hard, frantic knocks that turned into full-body slams against the locked bedroom door. The cheap wood rattled like it might shatter. Liam swore. Jace stumbled off the chair he’d been lounging in, almost tripping over his own feet. Patrick froze above me, hands still fisted in the fabric at my hips, head whipping toward the noise.
Another crash, louder, and then the door exploded inward with a sharp crack as the lock gave way. Hallway light sliced across the room like a blade.
Everything stopped.
Patrick’s weight lifted just enough for cold air to rush over my exposed skin. Liam took a stumbling step back, hands half-raised. Jace’s mouth fell open, laughter dying in his throat.
I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, but a broken sob tore out of me anyway, raw, grateful, disbelieving. My heart hammered so hard it hurt, a frantic, newborn kind of hope I hadn’t felt in years.
Whoever was on the other side of that shattered door, I thanked them with every shattered piece of me, tears sliding sideways into my hair as new, furious voices flooded the room.
Finally, I was safe.
