Markus White was dead.
He was sure of it because the last thing he remembered was choking on his own laughter while watching Two and a Half Men. His chest had tightened, his vision had gone black, and then… nothing.
Now, he was waking up in a freezing bathtub, drenched, his head pounding like a jackhammer. The acrid scent of whiskey and something vaguely citrusy clung to his skin. He groaned, shifting to sit up, only for his elbow to knock over an empty bottle of tequila, which clattered onto the tile floor.
"What the hell?"
Markus blinked, trying to clear his vision. The bathroom around him was huge... too huge. White marble counters. Gold-rimmed mirrors. A glass shower big enough to host a party. This wasn't his shitty apartment.
Something was wrong.
He scrambled to his feet and staggered to the mirror. The face staring back at him wasn't his. It was Charlie Harper's.
He stumbled back, gripping the counter for support. Dark brown hair, a strong jaw, a tan that came from lounging on the beach rather than working a construction job... this was Charlie freaking Harper. His mind raced. This had to be a dream. Or a coma hallucination. But it felt too real. The throbbing headache. The weight of his body. The lingering taste of last night's bad decisions.
He turned on the faucet and splashed water on his face, but when he looked up again, the reflection hadn't changed. It hit him all at once. He had died and somehow been reborn as Charlie Harper.
"Holy shit." His voice was smooth, deeper than he remembered. He ran a hand through his hair, taking in his own reflection like he was seeing a ghost.
Before he could process it, there was a loud bang on the bathroom door.
"Charlie! Get your ass out here!"
The voice was rough, impatient. Berta.
"I ain't cleaning your sticky sheets."
Oh, damn.
Markus—Charlie—fumbled for a towel and wrapped it around his waist, his mind scrambling for what to do. If this was real, if he was actually Charlie Harper, then that meant this was his life now.
And that meant he had money. Women. A Malibu beach house.
He exhaled slowly, running a hand down his face.
Maybe dying wasn't so bad after all.
Markus didn't waste time questioning what had happened. He didn't care if this was a dream, an afterlife, or some cosmic clerical error. He was Charlie Harper now. Rich, handsome, and living in a Malibu beach house. That was all that mattered.
So, he embraced it.
By the time the headache faded and he made it downstairs, Berta had already started her morning routine, complaining about her job while doing it anyway. She gave him a once-over, sniffed the air, and scowled.
"You smell like a dead skunk marinated in tequila," she muttered, tossing a trash bag over her shoulder.
Charlie—no, Markus—just grinned. "Thanks, Berta. Love you too."
She squinted at him, clearly suspicious. "You feeling okay? You're usually a bigger pain in my ass in the morning."
"I'm fantastic," he said, stretching like a man with no worries. And why wouldn't he be? He had everything he ever wanted now.
Over the next week, he barely left the house. Not because he was afraid... far from it. He just had work to do.
Charlie's memories were still there, but they were a mess. Drunken nights blurred together, and the endless stream of women was impossible to keep track of. Markus sat by the piano with a bottle of whiskey, sorting through it all like old VHS tapes.
Some things were important: his career as a jingle writer, his upcoming flings with Chelsea, Mia, and Lisa... Probably another hundred or more girls, and his go-to bars. Other things? Useless. He didn't need to remember every single nameless blonde that passed through his bed.
By the end of the week, he had it down. He was Charlie Harper, but better. He wouldn't just coast through life drunk and careless. He had money and charm, plus the time to use them properly. Not to mention, Alan was yet to move in. And he knew about the show. So, how hard could it be to live a happy-go-lucky life?
Well, it was as if the universe heard his thoughts...
Because his phone rang...
He looked at the screen. "Ah! Crap!"
[Rose]
Charlie stared at the phone screen before jumping up from his living room couch.
If there was one thing the old Charlie Harper feared more than commitment, it was Rose. She was beautiful, smart, and completely unhinged. She had stalked him for years, climbing over his balcony, sneaking into his house and rearranging the furniture just to mess with his head, and popping up at the worst times.
She had a key to his place, and he had no idea how she got it. And no matter how many times he changed the lock, Rose always found a way in.
And then there was the incident.
Charlie shuddered, a phantom pain running through his thighs. One drunken night, he had made the colossal mistake of sleeping with her and mumbling another girl's name in sleep. He woke up the next morning with his balls super glued to his thighs, because, in Rose's words, "Now you'll always think of me when you try to spread them."
He had to go to the ER.
He hit Ignore.
A second later, the phone buzzed again. Rose.
Nope. Not happening.
Then, from outside, a voice floated in through the open balcony door.
"Charlieee~"
Oh, hell no.
Charlie whipped his head toward the balcony, half-expecting to see her dangling from the railing with her eerie, lovesick smile. He rushed to the balcony, locked the door, and then dashed to the minibar. He grabbed his whiskey bottle like it was a weapon, heart pounding.
"Charlie, I know you're home."
A shadow moved outside.
He bolted for the door, double-checking the lock. Not that it would stop her. The woman had broken into his house more times than he could count.
He had all of Charlie's memories now, but how had this man survived for so long with a crazy stalker in his life? Markus had always been invisible to women. Now, as Charlie Harper, he was on the complete opposite end of the spectrum, attracting women so hard that one of them physically refused to let him go.
A soft knock came from the balcony.
"Charlie, don't ignore me. That's very rude."
Jesus Christ.
He took a deep breath. If he was going to be Charlie Harper, he needed to handle this. But first, he had to survive Rose.
Charlie ran a hand down his face, groaning. Rose wasn't going to leave. She never left. He could pretend he wasn't home, but she'd probably rappel down the chimney like a demented Santa Claus.
The knocking on the glass door grew softer. "Charlie, please… I just need a hug."
'Oh, hell no.'
Charlie took a step back, gripping the whiskey bottle like it was a holy relic. "Rose, I'm not in the hugging business today."
There was a dramatic sigh from the other side of the glass. "I had the worst night, Charlie. My boyfriend took me to a fancy restaurant, let me order whatever I wanted… and then when the check came, he suddenly 'had to go to the bathroom' and never came back."
'You just made that up on the spot, girl,' Charlie raised an eyebrow. "Wow. That's cold."
"I know!" Rose wailed. "I waited for forty-five minutes before I realized I'd been ditched! I had to do the walk of shame all the way to the waiter's station to hand over my credit card, and they just looked at me like I was the scammer!"
Charlie almost felt bad for her. Almost. Then he remembered the glue incident.
"Rose, I..."
"Charlie." Her voice dropped to a low, dangerous tone. "If you don't open this door… I might do something terrible."
Charlie stiffened. "Define terrible."
Silence.
Then, Rose spoke in a calm, almost serene voice. "I might write a very concerning letter… saying I just couldn't take it anymore… and that a certain someone's rejection pushed me over the edge."
Charlie's stomach dropped. "You wouldn't."
"I might leave that letter… right at the police station with your name on it."
Charlie pinched the bridge of his nose. "Rose..."
"Or worse..." Her voice turned sing-song. "I could leave it right here, in your house, so when the cops find it, they'll start digging up your backyard!"
Charlie's eye twitched. "I don't have a backyard."
"Then they'll make one, Charlie. They always do."
Charlie groaned. This was it. This was how he died. Not from laughter. Not from alcohol poisoning. But from Rose. 'Ah! I remember now. Rose did kill Charlie in the show. It was badly written when they cut Charlie off from the show. Shit!'
With a heavy sigh, he stomped to the balcony door, unlocked it, and slid it open just a crack.
"Fine," he muttered. "One hug. No funny business."
Rose beamed like he'd just proposed. "Oh, Charlie, you're such a good friend!"
Before he could react, she shoved the door open, tackled him into a bear hug, and... Oh God! She wasn't letting go.
'Big boobies,' Charlie wheezed. "Rose. Air. Air!"
She sighed happily, resting her chin on his shoulder. "Mmm. You smell so you."
He could feel her breath on his neck, and he was pretty sure that Rose was sniffing him.
Charlie made a mental note to somehow outsmart Rose and tame her at all costs.
"I should get ditched at fancy restaurants more often," Rose mused. "You get so affectionate when I threaten you."
"Noted," Charlie gasped.
As she finally loosened her grip, Charlie tried to shake off the feeling of impending doom. This was his life now. He was Charlie Harper. Women adored him. Some a little too much.
And unfortunately for him, Rose wasn't going anywhere.
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WHAT TO EXPECT?
1) It's Two and a Half Men, so big harem, smut, plenty of segs and comedy, and slice of life.
2) I've decided to add Hollywood.
3) MC won't be a whoremonger as Charlie from the start. He'll be the complete opposite of Charlie for the first volume.
4) Those who scream no harem, and spam 1 star because they don't like harem> You are either stupid or brain dead if you want to read a ff based on Two and a Half Men. And I'm pretty sure they will still spam those hateful comments despite this warning.
5) If there are any mistakes, let me know, and I'll fix them.
6) Release schedule: 3-4 chs/week. No more than that. My main focus is on 2 Broke Girls.
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Support Link: https://www.patr eon.com/UnknownMaster [Remove the space]
[Read 19 advance chapters] [All chs available for all tiers]