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“So he’s finally back.” Shaw’s words rang out, quick and acerbic, as Erik stepped through the front door.
Erik did not grace his adoptive father with any attention. He did not acknowledge the dreaded, stressed pronoun, nor the vitriol, nor the way that Shaw’s eyes remained watching him, even as Erik failed to give him attention. Instead, he simply breezed past him into the living room, plopping down on the couch and pulling out his book. He had been with his boyfriend, Charles, but Shaw didn’t need to know that.
Shaw followed behind him, circling above him like a buzzard. “So he’s ignoring me now.”
Erik’s lips curled into a frown. He had come out to Shaw a matter of weeks ago. Although “come out” was already too strong of a phrase- he had not intended to inform his adoptive father, perhaps ever, of his true identity, but Shaw had a way of knowing things. Like how he knew about the two classes Erik had failed, or how Erik had taken Shaw’s car without permission for a ten minute trip. When he lay awake at night, he even imagined Shaw might know about him and Charles. The Xavier boy, as Shaw so derisively referred to him.
Erik had to admit that the blame partially fell on himself, when it came to Shaw knowing his identity: Erik had not been subtle, not about the haircut, and not about the wardrobe shift. Even the hormones, a low dose and bought without insurance, were a bomb waiting to go off.
One morning, like always, Erik had woken as Maxine. He had gotten ready for his classes as her, ate breakfast as her, sat back in the passenger’s seat and made the same tired smalltalk that he always did in her voice. All throughout his classes, he was certain the image of her had lingered, as it always did, in Shaw’s head.
But when Erik had arrived back that night, to his bottle of testosterone gel glaring at him from the dining room table, he had been Erik.
“So we’re doing this now?” Shaw had spat. And Erik had broken under the ensuing interrogation.
The tension from that day onward had remained tight between them.
Erik loudly turned the page of his book, staring pointedly at the pages.
“Dinner was ready an hour ago.” Shaw muttered.
It was a flimsy excuse for anger, Erik was certain; Shaw did not cook, nor really prepare, dinner. If anything, it would have been takeout that Shaw could have ordered any time. Erik continued to ignore him.
“I know you can hear me, Erik.”
Erik was aware, for a split second, that Shaw had stepped closer.
Before Shaw’s hand came down on the small of his back.
Shaw held him for a moment like Erik was some small creature about to have its neck wringed. Like Shaw might rip his life away in one quick, brutal moment.
So Shaw’s open palm colliding with his ass was both a surprise and not a surprise at all.
Erik tried to jerk back, but the hand pressed him deep into the leather of the couch. “What the-”
“Acknowledge. Me. You. Fucking. Brat.” Shaw punctuated each word with a slap. Each blow burned more than Erik cared to admit.
A curse slipped from Erik as he attempted to wriggle free. “Fuck you.” Erik snapped, kicking out at Shaw’s chest. “THis isn’t funny!” It had to be some sick, cruel joke.
Shaw’s hand connected with Erik’s ankle, twisting it up. Liquid fear pierced Erik’s chest as he felt the strength behind the gesture. “Dad-”
“So now he calls me Dad,” Shaw pressed Erik’s leg back into place, then angled his hand, striking the rise of Erik’s ass and making the flesh jiggle. Humiliation bloomed in Erik’s stomach.
Shaw’s hand gripped the waist of Erik’s jeans, tugging them down. And then stopped.
A thumb slowly smoothed over Erik’s hip, hooking into the waist of his underwear. And Erik’s blood ran cold.
“What the fuck is this?” Shaw breathed.
Erik remembered, in a flash of horrible recognition, what Shaw would have found: the panties, delicate, lacy, and a deep maroon, that he had slipped on that morning. A present for Charles. Erik’s face burned as red as the fabric under Shaw’s scrutiny. All at once, Erik was recalled animals that would chew off their own legs when trapped.
“Who was this for, boy?” Shaw’s hand fisted around the lace, tugging it back.
The fabric hooked roughly around Erik’s swollen clit, digging into its head. A choked moan left him like a gasp.
Shaw stopped, hand still grasping the fabric, Erik’s face still pressed into the unforgiving leather of the couch, the pressure almost painful. “Dad?” Erik whined.
Shaw’s hand weighed heavy on his back. “Who was this for, baby?” Shaw breathed. He pulled the fabric back now, tugging right at his clit, and Erik bit back a whine. Warm heat pooled in his stomach. “Who did you put this on for? Was it that Xavier boy?” Shaw snapped, electric. His fist shot up, strangling Erik’s clit. Erik moaned. “That little faggot you always hang around?” Shaw slackened his hold, rocking back and forth now. Drool dribbled from the corner of Erik’s mouth. Erik’s breath pumped in and out of him as fast and frantic as a bullet.
“You think you can fuck around behind my back, don’t you, little boy? You’re all grown up now, don’t have to listen to your father?” Shaw’s words had turned soft now, mocking. “Think just because you’re a man now, you don’t still live under my roof?”
Red hot tears beaded again at Erik’s eyes.
Shaw pulled his pants and the underwear down, fluidly wresting it from Erik's legs. Erik should have squirmed free. But the fear building inside of him kept him soldered in place, stiff as iron.
Shaw shifted Erik, seating himself on the couch before pulling Erik over his lap. Hot, quick breath left Erik’s chest as Shaw’s hand now stroked his bottom, gently parting him. “What a treasure you are,” Shaw said, rough and under his breath. A low whine left Erik.
One rough finger rubbed at Erik’s asshole, pressing in slowly. “You want to be a boy so bad, might as well fuck you like one. Isn’t that right, baby?”
“D-Dad, dad no-” Erik choked out, desperate and pleading and wishing to be swallowed by the ground.
Shaw’s fingers dipped lower, tracing the opening of his cunt, spreading his lips. His fingers swiped in one smooth motion. Even Erik could hear the shwick of his wetness over the beating of his own heart. “You want it so bad- you wouldn't be so wet if you didn’t.”
Erik held still as Shaw gathered more slick. Held still as Shaw slowly circled his asshole. Held painfully still as a calloused finger pressed inside. “Relax,” Shaw said in a low, soothing rumble, rubbing Erik’s back. And it hurt and it burned so Erik relaxed, feeling himself go limp like all of the life was draining out of him.
“This is where you belong, you know that, baby?” Shaw hummed. “Right here. Right in my arms. In dad’s arms.” He sounded like it was something he had to tell himself. He began pumping his finger, in and out, low and slow. Erik tensed and wheezed at the intrusion, at the stretching burn. He felt too full, all at once, and he cried out into the cushions.
“Ah ah ah, dad’s got you. He’s going to take care of you.” Another finger entered him, scissoring him open. Erik’s chest tightened. And slowly, he began to rock his hips backward. Underneath him, he could feel something poking into his stomach.
Shaw’s fingers curled, striking some spot deep inside of him. Erik jolted back. His swollen clit dragged against the seam of Shaw’s pants, and Erik saw stars. “Did you like that, baby?” Shaw breathed.
Erik whimpered. He bucked his hips again, chasing the friction. Shaw resumed pumping in and out of him. A third finger joined him, plunging into Erik’s cunt, and Erik squealed as his vision tunneled. White hot tears painted his face as he sobbed into the couch, milking his dad’s fingers, desperately rutting his clit against his dad’s leg.
He was crying for real now, the kind of sobs that made it feel like his chest was caving in.
Wordlessly, Shaw scooped Erik up, crushing him to his chest. He rubbed at Erik’s eyes, his tear-stained cheeks, attempting to dry them. He kissed Erik’s temple, smoothing down hair that had fallen into his eyes. His hold was strong and warm and sure, the hand that cupped his face tender. “I had to do it baby. I had to show you, boy or not, who you belong to.” And then Shaw was kissing him, roughly, on the mouth. And Erik was limp as any corpse.
Shaw made love to him on the couch. He carried him to the dinner table, fed him dinner as he talked to him in a low, soothing voice like Erik was an injured animal, and when Shaw carried him to Shaw’s own bed, he made love to him there, too. When he finished, he rolled over, forcing Erik to flop helplessly against his chest.
It was in the early hours of the morning that Erik packed what few belongings could fit into his backpack, limbs still shaking so much he could barely pack, and left for Charles' house without looking back.