Disclaimer: I don't own Charmed. This never happened, its fiction!
Short Author's Note here: WARNING! This has INCEST! If you don't like it, STOP READING RIGHT HERE. This is also LIME and mentions MASTURBATION. If you don't like it, STOP READING RIGHT HERE.
Chris was drinking.
Random bottles littered the floor of his apartment, the apartment he was too lazy to clean. Dirty clothes were also on the floor, seeped in beer and vodka.
Chris loved the taste of Guinness, slightly fruity and very filling. But quite honestly, all he wanted to do was get hammered. Get hammered, and possibly call for a whore or something. Who knows? Maybe if he felt like it.
Chris took a break from chugging half the bottle, instead just sitting on his bed. He looked around his ratty apartment with blurred eyes. "God, what a fucking mess. Someone should fucking clean this shit up." He clutched his bottle tight, as if it would run away from him, and stood up. He tried to take a step, but he instantly lost his balance. Chris pinwheeled his arms, a futile attempt to keep him standing upright, but it failed and he fell back onto his bed. His head thunked solidly against the wall.
"Owww. Fuck." Chris snickered a little. "Chris, you stupid dumbfuck." He brought the bottle to his face and tried to drink from it. He failed at this task, splashing a good amount of Guinness onto his face and neck. "Damnit." He paused for a moment, trying to decide what to do about his wasted beer.
"Shit this." He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt - it smelled like beer, too - and sat up.
Chris laughed a little to himself. "I hate myself," he whispered. He took another swig of the Guinness, except he realized there was none left. He had spilled it all on himself and on his bed. He laughed, a bitter laugh filled with self-loathing. "Fuck, I gotta piss so bad." He tried to stand up again, and managed to take two steps before falling over. He attempted to walk once more. He took four steps this time, except he took them to his right instead of right in front of him, and hit his dresser. He leaned heavily on it. "Screw this."
Chris orbed himself in front of his toilet, except he missed - the drinking affected his aim, and he ended up on his knees on the bathtub. "Whatever. Better than the floor," he said. He unzipped his pants and pulled down his jeans and blue striped boxers and took a piss in the bathtub. It was kind of relaxing, actually.
"Fuck it. I hate myself." Chris shook his head. He couldn't stop thinking about Her. He wanted Her so bad, and yet, he knew it was wrong. He looked around his bathroom, until he sighted his razor. It was an old razor, one of those that had disposable blades, and a metal frame. He reached out with his hand and called for it, and it came faithfully to his hand. A power that had thankfully been passed down from his aunt. With shaky - were they really shaky? - fingers, he popped open the metal top and pulled out the razor. Chris tossed out the frame and put the razor against his skin.
"I hate myself," he said once again. With that, he cut into the flesh of his arm. He felt pain, but not as much as he felt he should. He slashed at his arm viciously, tearing skin and muscle. It hurt, but it was a dull pain. His mind was telling him that it should be hurting more, but frankly, Chris didn't give a damn. "Fuck you," he said, tossing the bloodied razor onto the ground. He stared stupidly at his cuts for a moment. When he felt like he had felt the pain for long enough, he put a hand over the cuts and willed power forward.
Nothing.
No warm orange glow came from them. And Chris knew why.
"The power of healing is triggered by love," Chris said to himself. "And I hate myself."
The word love launched him to thinking about Her. Chris thought about Her, about her long, silky hair and her soft skin. He had brushed against her yesterday, even held her, but he knew he could not have her. She was taken, and he hated who had claimed him.
He looked down at his arm and found that his cuts had healed. He also noticed that he had a hard-on. "Ah, fuck." He said this because his thoughts were wrong. They were family, and family didn't think like this about each other. "Chris, you sick fuck. Stop thinking this way. It will never, EVER happen." Chris's eyes filled with tears, making his vision more blurry. "Its sick, and its fucking wrong."
But still, thoughts of Her filled his vision. Chris lowered his hand to his cock and he thought about her. "But... fuck, I need her..."
He thought about her, he dreamed about her, and for a moment, he thought that it was actually Her that was doing this to him. It felt so good! He let out a moan and finally, he cummed. He panted a little, wishing that it were Her instead of his hand.
But it wasn't.
And it would never be.
Chris lowered his hand from his cock and let loose another bitter laugh. "God, you're pathetic." And he was. He was sitting in a bathtub filled with his own sperm and piss, for Christ's sakes. And he was so fucking drunk that he was about to pass out, especially after whacking off.
"Shit..." He orbed back to his bed, missed, and landed on the floor. But he didn't care, because he passed out.
Chris woke up with a splitting headache. He felt dizzy, nauseous, and wanted nothing more than to throw up. He stumbled to the bathroom and kneeled in front of the toilet. He stuck two fingers into the back of his throat and pressed down on the back of his tongue. He pulled out his finger and threw up into the toilet.
"That didn't help," he muttered after he was finished. He went to the sink and gargled, cleaning his mouth of remaining vomit. Then, he brushed his teeth.
Chris didn't bother shaving, though he did relocate the razor to a safer place, where it wouldn't jab into his foot. He looked into the bathtub, winced, and turned the water on.
After it was clean, he showered. He showered for a long, long time, letting the burning hot water pound his body. "Sick bastard," he muttered to himself.
After changing, he took some strong cologne with him and left his ramshackle apartment. He applied cologne until he no longer smelled of alcohol, urine, and semen. "Another day," Chris said. He orbed to the Halliwell manor and downed a few Tylenols before he spoke with the Charmed ones.
"Have you guys caught that Ezekiel guy?" Chris asked, speaking though his churning stomach and his brain trying to escape his skull.
"Not yet," Paige said. "We'll get him tomorrow. Today, we should just relax."
"What? What if he comes and attacks Wyatt or something?"
"Then we'll deal with him," Piper said. "Otherwise, we're going to rest today. We've been running around all week, we deserve some time off."
Chris gave a long sigh. "Fine. But when that demon comes, you'll regret it."
He could never deny Piper.
His mother.
His love.
Phoebe waved him off, putting her feet up on the table.
"We'll deal if he comes," Piper said again.
Ending A/N: ...Please don't flame. Constructive criticism = good. Flames = bad. I warned you upfront.
Short Author's Note here: WARNING! This has INCEST! If you don't like it, STOP READING RIGHT HERE. This is also LIME and mentions MASTURBATION. If you don't like it, STOP READING RIGHT HERE.
Chris was drinking.
Random bottles littered the floor of his apartment, the apartment he was too lazy to clean. Dirty clothes were also on the floor, seeped in beer and vodka.
Chris loved the taste of Guinness, slightly fruity and very filling. But quite honestly, all he wanted to do was get hammered. Get hammered, and possibly call for a whore or something. Who knows? Maybe if he felt like it.
Chris took a break from chugging half the bottle, instead just sitting on his bed. He looked around his ratty apartment with blurred eyes. "God, what a fucking mess. Someone should fucking clean this shit up." He clutched his bottle tight, as if it would run away from him, and stood up. He tried to take a step, but he instantly lost his balance. Chris pinwheeled his arms, a futile attempt to keep him standing upright, but it failed and he fell back onto his bed. His head thunked solidly against the wall.
"Owww. Fuck." Chris snickered a little. "Chris, you stupid dumbfuck." He brought the bottle to his face and tried to drink from it. He failed at this task, splashing a good amount of Guinness onto his face and neck. "Damnit." He paused for a moment, trying to decide what to do about his wasted beer.
"Shit this." He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt - it smelled like beer, too - and sat up.
Chris laughed a little to himself. "I hate myself," he whispered. He took another swig of the Guinness, except he realized there was none left. He had spilled it all on himself and on his bed. He laughed, a bitter laugh filled with self-loathing. "Fuck, I gotta piss so bad." He tried to stand up again, and managed to take two steps before falling over. He attempted to walk once more. He took four steps this time, except he took them to his right instead of right in front of him, and hit his dresser. He leaned heavily on it. "Screw this."
Chris orbed himself in front of his toilet, except he missed - the drinking affected his aim, and he ended up on his knees on the bathtub. "Whatever. Better than the floor," he said. He unzipped his pants and pulled down his jeans and blue striped boxers and took a piss in the bathtub. It was kind of relaxing, actually.
"Fuck it. I hate myself." Chris shook his head. He couldn't stop thinking about Her. He wanted Her so bad, and yet, he knew it was wrong. He looked around his bathroom, until he sighted his razor. It was an old razor, one of those that had disposable blades, and a metal frame. He reached out with his hand and called for it, and it came faithfully to his hand. A power that had thankfully been passed down from his aunt. With shaky - were they really shaky? - fingers, he popped open the metal top and pulled out the razor. Chris tossed out the frame and put the razor against his skin.
"I hate myself," he said once again. With that, he cut into the flesh of his arm. He felt pain, but not as much as he felt he should. He slashed at his arm viciously, tearing skin and muscle. It hurt, but it was a dull pain. His mind was telling him that it should be hurting more, but frankly, Chris didn't give a damn. "Fuck you," he said, tossing the bloodied razor onto the ground. He stared stupidly at his cuts for a moment. When he felt like he had felt the pain for long enough, he put a hand over the cuts and willed power forward.
Nothing.
No warm orange glow came from them. And Chris knew why.
"The power of healing is triggered by love," Chris said to himself. "And I hate myself."
The word love launched him to thinking about Her. Chris thought about Her, about her long, silky hair and her soft skin. He had brushed against her yesterday, even held her, but he knew he could not have her. She was taken, and he hated who had claimed him.
He looked down at his arm and found that his cuts had healed. He also noticed that he had a hard-on. "Ah, fuck." He said this because his thoughts were wrong. They were family, and family didn't think like this about each other. "Chris, you sick fuck. Stop thinking this way. It will never, EVER happen." Chris's eyes filled with tears, making his vision more blurry. "Its sick, and its fucking wrong."
But still, thoughts of Her filled his vision. Chris lowered his hand to his cock and he thought about her. "But... fuck, I need her..."
He thought about her, he dreamed about her, and for a moment, he thought that it was actually Her that was doing this to him. It felt so good! He let out a moan and finally, he cummed. He panted a little, wishing that it were Her instead of his hand.
But it wasn't.
And it would never be.
Chris lowered his hand from his cock and let loose another bitter laugh. "God, you're pathetic." And he was. He was sitting in a bathtub filled with his own sperm and piss, for Christ's sakes. And he was so fucking drunk that he was about to pass out, especially after whacking off.
"Shit..." He orbed back to his bed, missed, and landed on the floor. But he didn't care, because he passed out.
Chris woke up with a splitting headache. He felt dizzy, nauseous, and wanted nothing more than to throw up. He stumbled to the bathroom and kneeled in front of the toilet. He stuck two fingers into the back of his throat and pressed down on the back of his tongue. He pulled out his finger and threw up into the toilet.
"That didn't help," he muttered after he was finished. He went to the sink and gargled, cleaning his mouth of remaining vomit. Then, he brushed his teeth.
Chris didn't bother shaving, though he did relocate the razor to a safer place, where it wouldn't jab into his foot. He looked into the bathtub, winced, and turned the water on.
After it was clean, he showered. He showered for a long, long time, letting the burning hot water pound his body. "Sick bastard," he muttered to himself.
After changing, he took some strong cologne with him and left his ramshackle apartment. He applied cologne until he no longer smelled of alcohol, urine, and semen. "Another day," Chris said. He orbed to the Halliwell manor and downed a few Tylenols before he spoke with the Charmed ones.
"Have you guys caught that Ezekiel guy?" Chris asked, speaking though his churning stomach and his brain trying to escape his skull.
"Not yet," Paige said. "We'll get him tomorrow. Today, we should just relax."
"What? What if he comes and attacks Wyatt or something?"
"Then we'll deal with him," Piper said. "Otherwise, we're going to rest today. We've been running around all week, we deserve some time off."
Chris gave a long sigh. "Fine. But when that demon comes, you'll regret it."
He could never deny Piper.
His mother.
His love.
Phoebe waved him off, putting her feet up on the table.
"We'll deal if he comes," Piper said again.
Ending A/N: ...Please don't flame. Constructive criticism = good. Flames = bad. I warned you upfront.