Title: Danger
Rating: M
Disclaimer: I own nothing
A/N: I previously had this story on ffnet, but it was deleted for using the word "bitch" in the summary. Oops! Anyways, putting this back up one chapter at a time while doing some light editing.
She consumed him. In his every waking and even subconcious moment, she plagued his mind like a madness. He could smell the gentle scent of her Chanel that perfumed the air around him. He'd find her hair ribbons sitting beside his marble sink, strands of her dark hair still tangled through its metal clip. Chuck Bass was completely and utterly, albiet unwillingly, enamored. He likened love to a mental disease, some sort of medical defect cured only by copious amounts of brandy and women-at least that's what he told himself. There were two kinds of men, as far as Chuck was concerned: There were men, and there were bitches. And Chuck was a man, through and through. And he wasnt going to let a pathetic little thing like Blair Waldorf ruin not only his reputation but the inpenetrable wall carefully built around his heart.
She denied him and cursed him to high heaven. And yet, despite the great facade of utter devotion and faith to her boyfriend, Nate Archibald, she came to him-a delicate moth to the flame. She would stand in the front of his doorway, tears staining her cheeks from her latest break up with Nate and looked up through her lashes with doe eyes...
He knew her knock. It was a soft rap she made with her middle finger. And everytime he heard it, Chuck swore he wouldnt get up, he wouldnt open the door and let her in. But as he heard the second knock, his resolve evaporated, his heart tightening as he swung open the door.
"No," he would often say softly, his head resting against the doorframe.
"I need you," she'd whisper.
And he was lost. To be needed by her was an intensity he'd never known. A fierce emotion of possession took hold and would keep hold long after she left with her newest scheme to keep her talons hooked deep within Nate's heart. And every time she began to pack the accumulation of her belongings, Chuck would sit, morose, in the living room, drink in hand. He would call her a fool and declare he was cutting all ties with Blair because she was a slithering viper, looking for her newest victim. And she would throw things, often a vase or trinket of some kind, towards his head. She then would leave, gone from his life from days, weeks, or months at a time. But she would come back, she always did. The conviction was deep in his bones. She would come back to him and this time, he would make her all his. And maybe this time he would surrender to that little thing called love.