charlie canon, tbo canon, charlie backstory, sexual assault, drunk charlie
His vision blurs and swims, and a face gets close to him. Someone… here to help?
Someone… someone… anyone will do.
“Hello… you. You are…” He can barely make them out, and they laugh.
“I can’t believe you would do this to your own son, baron.”
“He does it to himself. Go on, introduce him to your son. He’s got to be useful for something.” Charlie can recognize that voice, and anger floods through his mind.
“You—you can’t do this to me! Not again!” He thrusts a finger out to the figure that must be his father. Before more can be said, he’s tugged and guided away, pushed into the arms of someone who manages to dwarf him. There’s the smell of tobacco and citrus, and Charlie’s thoughts float away.
A dashing, beautiful man is holding him steady. Charlie’s considerably smaller, teenage frame is completely enveloped and for a moment, Charlie’s heart skips a beat. “You…”
“I’m Laurence Panee.”
“…you’re beautiful, Laurence…”
Somewhere, someone barks a laugh. Charlie is lost in the eyes of this man. They’re so blue. He’s so strong. So warm. So… so… so.
They begin to talk. Laurence compliments and flatters him and touches him, and somehow it seems so good. It seems meant to be when Charlie brings him to his rooms, when they kiss on the bed, when he feels those strong hands start to massage his body, down… down… down…
He can’t help a gasp as the hand slips into his trousers, grasping him, massaging him to stiffness. Wait. Wait.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.
This isn’t what he wants!
Laurence frees him from his pants and Charlie feels breath on him, fear growing quickly. No!
“Wait… wait… no…”
“It’s okay, Charles…” A hand strokes him and Charlie breaks.
“I said no!” He scrambles backwards and slams his bootheel into Laurence’s face, yanking his pants back to proper order. “Get out!”
Hot tears flow freely and he knows that his father has spiked his drink again, manipulated him, put him into the arms of this… whoever he is!
There’s shouting. Laurence leaves. Byron has Charlie removed from his rooms. Nineteen. Stumbling drunk. Someone—he fights them, but something about his voice soothes—guides Charlie into the servant’s quarters. A blanket is thrown round his shoulders and Charlie cries into a burlap sack of potatoes. That soothing voice hums him a song, the one his mother always sang.
Morning is greeted by an empty room and the smell of dirt, oddly calming.
That bastard did it again. No more.