Hi again! All right, so this fic is a lot darker than usual. Please read the warnings!

WARNING: Contains dub-con and slight mentions of self-harm (though is that new in this show?). Also, this is based on the Carter Baizen we met at the beginning of the show (back when he was an ass), not on the Carter of recent episodes that is trying to better himself. He's pretty evil in this. Diehard fans of him probably shouldn't read.

Disclaimer: Nope. I own nothing.

To Protect Him

Chuck Bass cared about three things: money, the pleasures money brought him, and Nathaniel Archibald.

Nate's name echoed in his head as he stood in the doorway of his suite, skin crawling as Carter Baizen watched him.

He knew it, knew they wouldn't be enough. Money-wise, they were more than enough, but Carter wanted more. Chuck shifted slightly under the leer Carter sent him, trying not to look as unnerved as that stare made him feel.

"What do you want?" he asked, "A plane ticket?"

Carter smirked at him, gaze slipping lower down Chuck's body as he stepped around him and into the room. "Not a plane ticket."

"Then what?"

Please don't say it.

He didn't say it, but as Carter pressed in close to him, Chuck wished he had. It would have felt less real to hear the words than it was to feel this asshole's erection pressing into his leg.


The word was whispered in his ear, breath blowing at the peach fuzz that ran along his skin, and it took everything in Chuck to not vomit as images flashed through his mind.

"I could go to Nathaniel to collect."

His eyes shot to Carter's and he knew it was a threat that would be followed through on. Not Nathaniel. He wouldn't let it happen.

He swallowed back the bile in his throat as he nodded and, with Carter's wrist in his grasp, moved toward the bed.

"Once," he said, trying to sound as firm as he could even though his body was shaking, "Once and you leave. No one ever knows."

"Fine with me."

Then Carter was kissing him and Chuck was forcing himself to kiss back, grateful that he had long since sent Nathaniel home. He tried not to cringe at the taste of stale nicotine and cheap whiskey. Dirty fingernails pulled his shirt from his pants, clawing themselves into his hips the second they could.

He stood there, moving as Carter moved him, eyes either kept closed or turned towards the ceiling. He tried to not notice chapped lips on his suddenly bare chest, tried not to notice how his body was reacting to this. Blood shoots to his face in a humiliated blush that Carter doesn't care about and he lets himself be pushed onto the bed as his pants and boxers disappear.

He's nothing but a rag doll as Carter moves on top of him, not moaning or bucking as dry fingers are shoved into him. He doesn't let himself cry or whimper even though the actions are halfway up his throat.

There's a shot of fear amidst the pain as Carter pushes into him, sans condom. He's slept with men before, that's never mattered, but always, always with protection and never as the bottom. No matter who he was with, he'd always used protection, and now, Carter Baizen was fucking him without one and all he could think about were diseases. He'd get a panel done once Carter was gone.

"So tight," Carter moaned, biting his neck, hard.

Chuck hated how his body reacted, hated the stars that danced across his vision when Carter hit his prostate again and again. He hated Carter for fucking him face to face like they were lovers sharing this moment.

He hated that he came without Carter touching his dick once.

He bit his lip as he came, hard enough to taste blood as he pressed his eyes shut and tried not to sob. He felt disgusting.

Then Carter was coming, semen shooting up into him and his eyes shot open, wide and glassy as tears flooded his vision. They didn't fall, he didn't let them. He wouldn't give Carter the satisfaction of seeing him break.

Carter kissed him again as he pulled out too fast—God, the pain—and pet his cheek, smug. "The debt's repaid."

"You leave him alone," he said, hoping it didn't sound like a plea.

Carter just smirked, getting off the bed and getting dressed. He pulled that ugly sweatshirt back over his head and he was gone. There wasn't a worded promise that he'd leave Nathaniel alone, just an agreement that left an uncomfortable pain in his backside and bile in his throat.

He was running for the bathroom seconds after the door clicked shut, barely making it in time before the contents of his stomach were splashing against the porcelain walls of the toilet.

He didn't know how long he kneeled there, purging his stomach of everything inside. He didn't know how long he sat there afterward, bare ass on cold tile. He didn't know how long he was there until he stumbled to his feet and into the shower, water turned on at the absolute hottest it could go.

The water burned him, stung his skin, but it did nothing to alleviate the still-present nausea in his gut. It did nothing to wash away the feeling of disgust. Carter's scent washed off of him and out of him as he adjusted the spray of the nozzle, but he could still feel those hands on him.

For a moment, he thought he felt like a rape victim. Then he reminded himself that he was Chuck Bass and he had done this on his own. His eyes strayed out towards the medicine cabinet where he knew his razor was and his arms burned, echoing of an addiction he hadn't touched in years.

As much as he wanted to, felt that he needed to, he didn't follow the urge. When he finally got out of the shower, he'd set up a few lines of coke and more than a few shots. He'd give himself away to urges that didn't make Nathaniel look at him like he'd just broken his heart.

He did this for him, for Nathaniel, to protect him, so he would never have to feel like this. He could handle it; he was Chuck Bass, he could come back from anything. He'd recover with time and the right amount of oblivion. If Nathaniel had had to do this...it would have ruined him.

There was no one else he would ever have done this for. No one but Nathaniel Archibald.

He succumbed to nausea once more before he got out of the shower. By then, the water was running ice cold, but he couldn't feel it. He couldn't feel anything past the phantom fingers of Carter Baizen.

He did three shots before he did three lines.


He'd call room service when he was far gone enough, tell them to change his bedding and burn the old ones. He'd tell them to burn the clothes he'd worn that day, the towels he'd used to dry off. He'd tell them to wash the bathroom from top to bottom until it looked brand frigging new.

Once he sobered up, he'd go to a little no-name clinic to get tested, use a fake name and get every test under the sun.

He'd throw out his razors and use an electric one just to be safe.

No one ever had to know.

Nathaniel never had to know.

The End