Notes: Originally a Tumblr RP with an Anon through the ask box on my Chris rp blog. Original meme prompt: Send "You belong to me." to see how my muse reacts.

Changed Future; Chris is 23.

Warning: very dark fic featuring extremely dubious consent (of a double standard: female-on-male nature) and derogatory language.

Don't say I didn't warn you when 1) I did; 2) you knew full well what you were getting into deliberately choosing to read a M-rated fic labeled as Horror and Angst. Don't like, don't read: it's that simple.

In other words, I tagged my shit and if you get pissed because you kept on reading and didn't like what you read even though you knew this is an extremely dark, fucked up fic, then that's on you and not me.

Surrender

Is this real enough for you?
You were so confused.
Now that you've decided to stay,
We'll remain together.

You can't abandon me.
You belong to me.
—Evanescence, "Surrender"

"You belong to me."

Chris's eyes flash with fire as he stares the female demon down. "I don't belong to anyone."

"Yes, you do, little witchlighter. Or else I'll make sure your precious family burns. Wyatt, Melinda, Parker, your parents, everyone. Because you're MINE."

He steps back reflexively at that, eyes widening,

"No…"

His voice is faint—denial, disbelief. Then anger mixed with desperation starts to set in—because no one threatens his family, but Chris has no doubt that this demon who's laying a claim on him will carry it out and leave him helpless to do anything.

He swallows hard, closes his eyes so he doesn't have to look at her and glances away. Goddess, he wants to fight back, to resist but doesn't want to put his family at risk.

"…Fine. You win. I'm yours."

Green eyes snap open; he lifts his head to glare at her with narrowed eyes. "Do what you want to me, but if you hurt my family I'll kill you."

"You should try to avoid wearing your heart on your sleeve so much, little witchlighter. It's easy to see that your precious family is your biggest weakness, how easily you fold when it comes to threatening them. Worse people than me could so easily control you with just a threat of slitting your cousin's throat or letting your brother die from Darklighter poison. Now, little witchlighter, tell me who you belong to."

His jaw clenches; Chris grits his teeth, curls his fingers into his palms and feels his nails bite into the skin. He hates this, hates having to submit but she's not giving him much of a choice.

"You."

He lowers his gaze, knowing he needs to get the words out, wishing he could say anything else. His voice drops to a whisper:

"I… I belong to you."

She doesn't bother hiding the cruelness in her smile as she grips his chin with one hand, her nails pressing into his skin. "You sound unhappy, pet. Would you like me to choose another? I would love to see the powerful Twice-Blessed Wyatt Halliwell on his knees for me. Or the Cupid, Parker? She's on her knees for others, isn't she? Would Peyton do? The youngest little witch of the family? Your sister? Another cousin? Or perhaps an innocent, one you've never met? It wouldn't affect you, after all."

"No!"

His eyes flick to hers before he realizes his mistake, the opening he's given her. Chris jerks his head from her grasp, curls his lip in a silent snarl.

"You don't touch them. Do anything you want to me, but don't touch them."

She smirks at him, tangling her fingers into his hair. Leaning close to him, she yanks his head back, placing herself above him as she hisses, "Careful, pet, I'd be more than happy to take another witch to teach you a lesson. You will obey everything I tell you to do or else I will make someone you love pay for it. Understand? I'm even nice enough to let you choose which."

Pain bites at his scalp as she jerks his head back; he hisses in a breath then forces himself to nod slightly at her words.

"I understand."

There's a pause then, dread swirling somewhere near his stomach. Chris doesn't really want to know, but he asks the question anyway after wetting suddenly-dry lips with the tip of his tongue:

"What do you want from me?"

Letting out a low laugh, she ducks her head down to nip at his throat. "Tell me, little witchlighter, what do you think I want from you?" Tugging him closer by the loops of his jeans, she amends, "Well, besides your body, pretty witchling."

Chris flinches when she nips at his throat; reflexively brings his hands up at waist level when she hooks her fingers into the loops of his jeans and tugs him closer. Not for the first time he wishes he had Piper's molecular immobilization or combustion power, but his own power of telekinesis will have to do.

His skin crawls with revulsion a second later, and he can't hide the shudder that runs through him.

"My magic. My…"

Nope, he can't go there; won't let himself finish that sentence. She's already admitted she wants his body, and that's sending mental images he doesn't want flashing through his head—never mind the fact he's told her that she can do anything she wants to him and if he disobeys her she'll leave his family to burn.

"Aw, shaking already?" she croons into his ear. Using the hand threaded in his hair as leverage, she presses herself closer to the witch, brushing her other hand along the waist of his jeans. "Finish that sentence, pet. You think I want your magic, and your what? Tell me exactly what you think I want."

"I…"

He flinches back as she presses closer, runs her hand along the waistband of his jeans and— Oh, Goddess, this isn't happening.

Chris wants to orb away but knows he can't—if he tried now he'd probably end up taking her with him, given his current emotional state.

"You've made it pretty clear that I'm your 'pet' and you want me."

Green eyes nervously eye the path of her hand as best he can, then slowly meet her gaze. A part of him knows she's going to make him pay for what he says next; another part simply doesn't care.

"Figure it out on your own."

She snarls wordlessly, twisting her fingers even further into his hair. Clambering into his lap, she hisses, "Do not defy me, witchling. I OWN you. This," she punctuates, yanking his head back, "will be your ONLY warning. Next time, I will take one of the people you love, oh so dearly, and make them suffer until they're begging for death and then kill them right in front of you, close enough you can feel as their heart stops beating. Tell me, who would you like it to be? Your choice, pet."

Chris gasps with pain as she yanks his head back again, eyes briefly closing shut before opening again.

"No one!"

He has no choice but to go submissive on her—and he absolutely hates it.

"I won't do it again."

Her laugh has no humor in it as she shakes her head. "Too late for that, darling. Make a choice, or I will. Just so you know exactly who will die if you think that you can disobey me, witchling. Who will it be? Your brother? Sister? Cousins? Ah, such a big family, so many choices. If you don't choose, I may choose two. Kill two birds with one stone?" she muses as she slowly moves one hand up, nails tracing patterns on his stomach underneath his shirt.

Chris's heart leaps into his throat at her threat. As her nails trace patterns on his stomach, the muscles there tighten involuntarily and he shivers with revulsion.

Still, he needs to give her something.

"Then you'll have to kill me if I disobey you, because you're not going after my family."

He rests his hands on her thighs, slowly moves them higher. Maybe if he can get her to focus on him, keep her mind off of going after his siblings and cousins…

Chris lets his eyes drop from hers to her mouth, linger there before roaming over her body. (Cernunnos help him, he doesn't want this, any of it, but if he can use the fact that she wants him…)

"And it's not too late for that—I'll obey you."

Goddess, it doesn't even sound like his voice. Careful, Chris, don't overdo it.

"I'll give you anything you want. I'm all yours."

"That you are, pet. Nice try, truly, but you will answer me. Who will it be? Your beloved big brother? That'd be interesting, being able to trace down his throat with a knife, hearing the Twice-Blessed witch scream as I slit his throat. Or a cousin? Which one though? P.J., Parker, Peyton, Tamora, Kat, Henry, oh, there is so many of them. Would you even miss one if I took one of them?" she muses. Her eyes glitter with cold glee before she moves forward, kissing him gently, like a lover would.

Chris's first instinct is to recoil back—but if he does that, she'll know he's planning something. So he lets her kiss him, touch him. He lets his hands rest on her waist beneath her shirt; forces himself to return her kiss so he doesn't have to answer.

His mind is racing, searching for something to say that will distract her, take her thoughts away from his family. When he has it, he pulls back, averts his gaze and tries to look as submissive as possible.

"I would."

It's a quiet admission, and it's easy for it to sound like one he's not proud of. Slowly he again lifts green eyes to hers, lets his fingers start to trace little patterns on her skin in an effort to distract her—arouse her. (Goddess, he can't believe he's doing this, selling himself to keep his family safe—but he doesn't have a choice.)

"But forget about them." His voice is low, coaxing—seductive (and he fucking hates himself for it). "You have me—I'm the Halliwell you want. There's no need to kill any one of them to punish me or make me stay."

Cautiously, he moves one hand a few inches higher on her body, continues tracing patterns over her skin with a light touch. He's very much aware that one of her hands is still gripping the back of his head, but he does what he can to arch into her touch—acting like he wants more when he can hear his heart pounding in his ears and fear sends cold shivers down his spine.

"So desperate to make yourself my little whore, witchling?" she taunts, rolling her hips against his. There's something so intoxicating at having a Halliwell at her mercy. "I wonder what they'd think about that, don't you? That you're so willing to submit to a demon like me? Tell me, pet, what do you want? Besides freedom, of course, I don't share my pets, but I'm not entirely cruel."

What he wants is for her to be vanquished—but there's no way he's admitting that out loud. He doesn't answer her taunt about being her whore, and refuses to say anything on what his family would think if they found him like this.

To his horror his body reacts when she rolls her hips against his (it's a stimulus; he can't control an involuntary reaction, and part of him curls up and dies a little inside while another realizes that he can use this to his advantage. He had wanted her attention on him and away from his family, after all).

"Ich will meinen Körper mit deinem vereinen."

It's a whisper, and for a second he doesn't even realize he wasn't speaking English. But she's made it clear that she's going to have him anyway—and he doesn't have the option of refusing her, disobeying her.

Hating himself, this entire situation, that there's nothing else he can do, Chris shifts beneath her and lets his body language go submissive—inviting. She's already said he's hers—her pet, her whore—and if he has to sell her his body until he can find some way to escape… he'll loathe himself forever but he'll do it if it means keeping her away from his siblings and cousins.

"Truly, I would have thought a Halliwell witch would be more defiant. Oh, your family must be so disappointed in you. So willing, so submissive. So weak." She grins at his words, settling herself in her pet's lap. Her previous movements had his body reacting, even if he hadn't wanted it to. Rocking her hips against his, she kisses up his neck until she reaches his ear. Her words carry an unspoken demand as she purrs, "I believe we're wearing too many clothes then, darling, don't you?"

Chris doesn't rise to the bait, just briefly digs his nails into her skin instead. At her demand, his shoes and clothes disappear in a swirl of white orbs and reappear nearby. (He's not as generous with hers, making them materialize several feet away. It's a small act of defiance, but he'll take any opportunity he can get right now—and in any case, he doesn't think she's going to notice right away.)

"That better?"

There's only the faintest hint of sarcasm in his voice. This close to her without any layers between them has nerves and something close to nausea fluttering in his stomach, has his abdominal muscles tensing up—and gods, no he doesn't want this affecting him but the way his body is reacting to her movements is sure to give her other ideas.

So he does what he can to disassociate, slip into a mental state where it's as if this is happening to someone else.

"Interesting little trick, pet. Maybe I'll teach you a few more." She uses the hand in his hair as leverage to push his head forward, capturing his lips roughly. She tugs on his bottom lip with her teeth, murmuring, "You're mine, little witchling. My whore, my slut, my pet." Trailing one hand down his hip, she begins tracing patterns on his skin as she continues, "You belong to me, I own you. And do you know why, witchling? Because you've let me make you my little whore, my newest pet."

There's so many things he wants to say to that but doesn't. (And so much for disassociating.) So he murmurs, "Yes, mistress," instead and glides one hand from her waist to her thigh, slips the other hand to her lower back.

Chris pulls his head back from hers just enough to give him room to move, lowers his mouth to her throat and forces himself to nuzzle where her neck meets shoulder. "I'm yours."

He hates how easy it is for him to act like this, to submit to her—but he has to keep her from going after his family and he can't let her know that, can't let her know that he doesn't truly want any of this and he loathes himself for lowering himself to this.

His fingers trace symbols on her thigh; he closes his eyes and buries his face in the crook of her neck so he doesn't have to look at her.

"Good boy," she praises. "See, you can learn, my pet. Teach a witch new tricks?" She laughs at that, even though it isn't funny. Running her fingers through her pet's dark hair, she hums lightly when he nuzzles her throat. Shifting in his lap, she asks again, "What do you want, little witchling?" She's not stupid enough to believe that he's broken, not that easily, not with her centuries in the Underworld. But shame and self-loathing work just as well for her than anything else.

Chris gasps a little as his body reacts further when she shifts in his lap, briefly digs his nails into her thigh. Knowing he has to give her something, he lightly kisses his way up her neck to her ear.

"To please you."

A shiver runs through him that can easily be mistaken for one of desire; his hips rock slightly into hers. He tugs lightly at her earlobe with his teeth, then releases it.

"For you to show your witchling whore how you want me to fuck you."

A part of him can't believe he just said that while another part wishes that if she's going to use him for her physical pleasure then she should just get it over with already. And yet another voice in the back of his mind whispers that this is all psychological, another way for her to break him and bend him to her will—and warns that it's a dangerous game he's playing.

She lets out a delighted laugh at his words, teasing, "My my, pet, someone isn't shy at all." Dragging her nails up and down his spine, she is careful to avoid actually hurting the witch. Where was the fun in that? "As you wish, witchling." Leaning back, moving her hands to his shoulders, she orders, "Touch me then, if that's what you'd like, darling."

Oh gods no, no, her touch—her nails running up and down his spine—shouldn't arouse him but it does. A faint groan leaves his throat that he doesn't even have to fake—and he doesn't even want to think about that so he doesn't: he just lets his body and the stimuli she's giving him take over.

The hand on her back glides higher up over her skin as he again presses kisses to her throat. His other hand on her thigh traces circles, slowly moves up and inward over her inner thigh. If he can, he wants to drive her so insane with need that she'll forget about going after his family, forget about anything that isn't him or her own pleasure (when he doesn't want to vanquish her, anyway).

"Where should I touch you, mistress?"

She moans as her pet's hands move, rocking her hips against his. Eyes darkened with lust, she is caught a little off guard at how easily the witch touches her. Recovering easily, she smirks as she says, "Your choice, pet." She really does have a thing for his hair, she realizes, as she tangles her fingers in it again to kiss him. She dominates his mouth, teeth tugging at his lower lip as she repeats, "Your choice, pet."

He can't help it: he gasps a little into her mouth as she kisses him, tangles her fingers in his hair and rocks against him. (And she has to know what that does to his body; there's no way she can't, not when she's this close to him.)

His hand on her inner thigh inches higher; then he's cupping her, teasing her with his fingers (Goddess, he wants to die; he wants her to just get this over with; wants to scream at the sensation of her hands on him, of what he's doing to her but it withers and dies before it can even leave his throat).

Biting down hard on his bottom lip, she tugs before letting go of it, moaning into his mouth. She presses herself against him, murmuring, "Just like that, pet. Such a good pet." There's a hint of mockery in the last sentence she can't help, her own amusement at how she has a Halliwell witch naked and gasping against her, how she's turning the son of a Charmed One into her own little pet, slipping through. Gripping him with one hand, she orders, "Tell me who you belong to, witchling."

"You," he whispers—and he hates it, but the more she makes him say it the more he's starting to believe it. "I belong to you."

He removes his hand from her to hold onto her hip, kisses her shoulder as he twitches in her hand. (This isn't him, but he doesn't have a choice.)

She smirks as he kisses her shoulder, his body reacting under her. She teases him with her hand as she says, "Do you know how attractive it is, pet, when you tell me who you belong to? I do prefer pets that know their place. Tell me, little witchlighter, what's your place?" She resists the urge to roll her hips against her pet's again, despite how badly she wants to. She'll have plenty of time for that later, now is the time to own her newest pet.

He lifts his head from her shoulder, kisses up her neck, nuzzles at her jawline just beneath her ear.

"Serving you."

It's not as if he can say much else and it's what she wants to hear—but it shouldn't be this easy for the words to leave his mouth. Chris closes his eyes, shudders with a mixture of physical arousal at what she's doing to him and disgust at himself. His hand on her back moves up again, slides underneath her hair and rests on her opposite shoulder. He shifts beneath her, and at this point he can't even tell what's involuntary or not anymore.

"Whoring myself for you."

He breathes in and exhales shakily; tightens his hold on her hip and shoulder.

"I'm yours," he whispers, "all yours, your pet witchlighter slut."

"That's right, pet. You're mine. You gave yourself to me, I own you now. You belong to me. And if anyone tries to take you away— Well. I'm possessive of what's mine," she warns subtly with an icy smile. She sighs when he tightens his grip on her, pleasure spreading from where his hands are. She always did have a thing for roughness. "Tell me, pet, do you want me? Fuck me, make me scream, my witchlighter?" She punctuates each word with a roll of her hips as she continues teasing him.

He groans low in his throat as his body betrays him, digs his nails into her skin.

"Yes."

And on some twisted, messed-up level he does—he wants her to make him want her, to keep her focused solely on him so she won't murder anyone he cares about. He's not attracted to her (or to anyone, mostly) but she has him aroused enough that he wants to make her scream as she shatters around him.

"Please…"

She can't control the whine that slips out of her throat at her his nails biting into her hip and shoulder. Tightening her grip around him, she begins stroking him before she pulls her hands away from him. Sliding her hands around his shoulders and up the back of his neck, she yanks his head back by his hair, lifting herself up so she's hovering over his lap instead of sitting in it. Making her way up his neck, she leaves marks on his skin before she demands roughly against his lips: "Fuck me."

His eyes snap open as she yanks his head back. He groans, shudders as she marks him as hers.

At her demand, he nips at her lower lip, kisses her. His hands position her, lower her onto him, and he gasps against her mouth when he thrusts inside her, filling her completely.

Chris rakes his nails across her hip, her thigh; bites her lip again—he's not sure how much of it is mild revenge and how much of it is him and oh gods he doesn't even want to know.

His hips move—and he doesn't think, just gives in and lets his body find a rhythm she likes.

Her pet slams into her and it's all she can do keep any semblance of control. She can't stop the moans and whimpers that slip out of her lips as he roughly fucks her, pain mixing with pleasure. Panting into his mouth, she encourages him as she tugs on his hair and claws at his back. "Such a good witchling, such a pretty whore, just like that, pet." The sex is good, but it's even better that it's with this witch, because he's the son of a Charmed One. Some part of her is irrationally proud of it.

A distant, detached part of him realizes that she wants him (not that she's really made a secret of it)—that already he's close to making her lose control—and that detached portion of his mind files that information away for further use.

The rest of him is gone, lost in heat and moans and markings on his skin. He groans softly against her mouth as her nails rake at his back, as she tugs at his hair. His own fingernails claw at her thigh, across her shoulder and upper back; and he arches his spine catlike into her touch.

He's not himself but he can't bring himself to care—not when in some twisted way he wants her praise, her marks, her screams…

Throwing her head back in ecstasy, she drags her nails down the witch's back, hard enough to break skin for a mortal. She doesn't care if he bled, at this point, he is hers and he can deal with it. Tension begins building as she babbles, "Mine, you're mine, witchling, my filthy fucking whore, fucking me like the slut you are, like you were born to do it, weren't you? Because you're mine! Make me scream, witchling, prove that you're a good pet, my witchling whore."

Chris nuzzles her throat before nipping at the junction where her neck meets shoulder. His tongue rasps over the bite mark a second later (gods, his family's right—he is a cat, he realizes in an absentminded, detached way).

Arousal coils, tightens; he needs to hear her scream, needs to make her lose control before he—

That vague train of thought shuts down when he feels tiny rivulets of blood trickle down his back. His body shudders; he groans low in his throat, shifts for a slightly better angle—there—

He slams into her, digs his hands into her skin hard enough to bruise and leave little crescent-shaped marks, and sinks his teeth into her shoulder.

She screams his name, ecstasy shooting through her, digging her nails into his shoulder enough to leave to same type of marks he's so generously left on her skin. Clawing at his back, she tightens around him, head thrown back in bliss. She would no doubt have bruises, bite marks, and claw marks on her body for days after this, but, oh, was it worth it. The witch was already one of her favorites, so clever and so quick to obey. She may need to take another as a pet, see if it was a genetic trait.

The sound of her screaming his name, her nails digging into his skin as she climaxes is all the permission his body needs.

He shudders, hands holding her in place so she can't move, pants and groans against her skin as he empties himself inside her.

Slumping against the witch, she pants for a minute, lazily pressing an open-mouthed kiss against his shoulder. Lifting her head up to look at him, she recovers quickly as she asks, "So, pet, is that a genetic trait? Because I might just take another one to see if your siblings or cousins are just as good of a pet as you." She wonders exactly how he'll react to being reminded of his family after this. She hasn't gotten the chance to describe killing a witch for far too long; it could be a fun game.

His eyes flash green fire at her words. "No." It's almost a growl; then he realizes, softens his tone and slowly runs the pads of his fingers over her body. "They won't be able to please you like I can." His hand on her hip moves up, over her stomach, rests on the side of her ribs just beneath the swell of her breast. "They'd put up more of a fight, would force you to kill them before they submitted to you."

Chris dips his head, nuzzles almost lazily at her throat before trailing kisses up her jawline to her ear. His tongue darts out, tastes her. "If you take another one that would bring the others—they would vanquish you and take your witchlighter whore with them."

He tugs her earlobe lightly with his teeth, brushes his thumb over her breast. He's still hard inside her; can still feel tiny aftershocks from her body even though she's recovered; can feel their combined fluids start to trickle down the inside of her thigh. (A tiny part of him recoils, and later he can give into that feeling but not now, not when she's here.)

"You know they would."

She lets him touch her, lets him voice his arguments. Raising one eyebrow haughtily, she tangles her fingers in his hair to control his head as she warns, "You do not decide that, witchling. They cannot vanquish me, darling, I've been against far worse. Tell me, what's the real reason you don't want me to take one? I'm far from stupid, pet, you're not jealous." She already knows why, but she wants to hear him say it. Still, she leans into his touch as he kisses her skin, runs his hands over her.

"Not jealous, no," he admits reluctantly, "but I don't want to share you. I… I don't want them to see me like this." It's true enough, even if it's not his only reason. "As your slave, a demon's whore. They wouldn't want anything to do with me." Not that his family ever does anyway: Wyatt's always been the center of their attention, and Chris had been sidelined further when Melinda and then the cousins came along.

There's self-loathing in his voice, along with something else he can't (won't) identify, but there's more than enough truth there that makes it clear he believes it. (He also doesn't want them anywhere near her—and right now he's no longer entirely sure of his reasons why: if he wants to keep them safe, doesn't want them to know what he's done, or if some twisted part of him actually likes that she's claimed him.)

"Not after finding out that I willingly gave myself to you." He bends his head, rasps his tongue over the bite mark on her shoulder. "Whoever you take would fight, escape… tell the others that I'm your good little half-Whitelighter slut."

She hums lightly to acknowledge his words, running her fingers through his hair. Her voice is gentle, but amused as she asks, "You think that one of them could escape me? Darling, I don't know whether you believe your siblings or cousins to be stronger than they are or if you think I'm weak. Should be I be insulted, pet?" Thinking about the rest of his words, she holds back a grin. "I must say, pet, I'm quite fascinated by the idea of showing exactly how you use your hands. It's quite sexy, pet."

"No, it's not an insult. They're just stubborn and determined like that whenever they're involved in demonic kidnappings, much less having to spend extended time in the Underworld." He closes his eyes, leans into her touch as she runs her fingers through his hair—it's oddly comforting, and… oh, Goddess, no he is not purring in contentment like the cat everyone in his family says he is.

Chris stops as soon as he notices, eyes blinking open; tries to focus on her last statement and realizes he's still caressing her with the pads of his fingers. "Showing who?" he asks warily, not sure if he wants to hear her answer.

Lifting one eyebrow, she's surprised and amused that her pet is purring under her hand. She doesn't answer his question, frowning thoughtfully. "Your family sounds like more of a nuisance, pet. I am starting to think that it'd be best for them to die, far too much of a risk to me, if they're as intent as you say. You don't want them to take you away from me, do you?" Kissing him, she sucked on his lower lip before she asked, "Unless you'd like me to show them how I own you, my pet?"