A.N. - I realize Bob/Bart isn't everyone's cup-o'-tea, but for those that are interested then I will try not to disappoint.

Warnings: Rated M for a reason. Contains gay smut, some violence, likely bondage situations... I mean this is Bob we're talking about. All the good stuff and probably some things that I haven't planned for yet, so if this hasn't discouraged you, then go ahead and read it. This first chapter has an attempted rape, just in case someone doesn't want to read that or at least likes to be warned first. Nothing terribly graphic in this chapter, I don't think.

Pairings: Primarily Bob/Bart. I can't be sure what others there will be yet, Likely only some small hints of Bart/Milhouse and Bob/Snake... maybe. I have an idea of where this is going, but only time will tell.

Chapter One: Prisoner

Prison really was hell. It had always been that way, but the awareness hit him even more now with the putrid stench that pervaded every inch of the place, ensnaring the senses until one became almost numb to it. During his four months of incarceration he had been shuffled in and out of general population, but now that he was housed in a cell with his old mate Snake, life at Springfield State Prison had become much more bearable.

They knew each other's routines and when to stay out of each other's way. Even though their relationship was often tentative and at times strained, it was easy to coexist alongside Snake since he knew what to expect from him.

The cell they currently called home was like all the other cells, just the bare necessities. When he'd first arrived, the cell was filthy. The solid brick walls were off-white and permanently stained with years of nicotine and god knows what other unspeakable substances. He'd tried to scrub clean the walls, the whole cell for that matter, until he was satisfied with the state of their living quarters, but the irregular stains on the walls were relentless.

It was as if he had to keep himself constantly busy, even if it meant scrubbing the floor to within an inch of it's life or doing countless hours of exercise until his muscles ached and were shaking from exhaustion, anything to defuse the rage that had been building at the thought of the spiky-haired kid responsible for his current incarceration.

The crime in question had received excessive attention from the local press and Bart had been an integral part in securing his fate as he sat up there on the stand as the star witness, recalling the evening in question in exaggerated and completely false, perhaps even imagined detailed.

In the time leading up to the crime, he and Bart had actually fallen into a sort of peaceful truce, breaking away from the hate-fueled, adrenaline rush that had always bound them together. When the incident had occurred, they'd both been in the wrong place at the wrong time and for Bart it must have felt like a betrayal of the highest caliber, but that was no excuse for blatantly lying about him just to get him locked away again. He could never forgive that, he told himself.

He could still see Bart's cold eyes from the stand, completely merciless as he testified against him. Then, to add insult to injury, about a week after Bob was convicted, Bart had given a statement to the press. A statement that had completely knocked the wind out of Bob when he had heard it on a nearby TV. Bart's venomous words still rang through his thoughts in rapid succession, burning like salt in the wound.

"He's nothing but chomo-scum and I hope they break him in really good."

"Nothing but a Pedo-freak!"

"...a sick, twisted sexual fascination for blood..."

"His favorite pastime? Tormenting kids of course. Better keep the younger prisoners far away from him."

The words had echoed from the TV, permeating throughout the entire general population dorm where he had been housed with roughly 150 other prisoners and when he'd first heard Bart's voice, slightly deeper with age yet still distinctly his, it felt as if the air was no longer sufficient in sustaining him. His lungs burned, his throat tightened at the implications he knew that would follow once word spread throughout the rest of the prison.

Several weeks of torment ensued afterward, always narrowly escaping the grasps of other inmates wanting to get a piece of the so called 'chomo-scum' that liked to torment little kids. Even though he had requested his own cell, the only time he'd actually been granted that request was after he'd been tackled by another inmate. It had taken one severe stab wound to the shoulder and one to the lower back before the guards grudgingly conceded that it was in his best interest to be taken out of general population.

Sure, he did enjoy tormenting people that got in his way, people that sometimes happened to be little kids at the time and the sight of blood did hold some strange, perverse fascination over him, but Bart had gone too far with his accusations, tarnishing his character until it was likely irreparable.

Bob sighed tiredly from his bed, laying on his back with one arm dangling limply over the edge. Snake was out at the time, he didn't really care enough to pay attention to where the officers had taken him. Every second that ticked away would hopefully bring him closer to freedom as he awaited news of his appeal.

Bob was reassured by his lawyer that they were gathering enough evidence to clear his name and have him out in no time; however, in prison, 'no time' had seemed to stretch out for ages. He turned his head to the side, eyes heavy with tired boredom as he viewed the makeshift calendar he had marked onto the wall. Already four months. Four months he'd been in there rotting away while the rest of the world continued on.

He slowly sat up and stretched his stiff arms out over his head for a moment before hopping down from his bunk. His eyes drifted to the right of the calendar, to the blood-drawn mural of Bart Simpson, disemboweled and riddled with all sorts of other injuries he'd taken artistic license with. He walked up to the bloody mural and grinned darkly at the morose image, tracing one long index finger hauntingly over Bart's face.

That face. His only weakness. Bob frowned at the thought. Distance had an emboldening affect on him and his resolve to carry through with his more dark, morbid fantasies. Oh how carefree they had been back then when the thrill of the chase was just enough. Bart brought out such a sadistic streak in him like no one else had and it was even stronger than the urge to kill when killing was just a means to end the torment which he so relished.

He'd spent hours on end imagining the reunion the two of them would have. It was all he could do to survive, imagining it vividly in many different ways and scenarios, all gruesomely pleasurable for himself and painful, of course, for Bart. Even though he knew he would likely never carry them out, the boy always foiling his plans anyway.

It was all he could focus on to block out the insanity that had ensnared him within those god-forsaken boundaries of brick and cold steel, double barbed wire and wasteland. As long as he didn't dwell too much on that face, the one that inexplicably brought his world to a grinding halt countless times, he might be able to thoroughly enjoy his own little vendetta that played out in his mind.

The very face that he'd sang of many years ago in such an impromptu performance after sneaking into Bart's room in the dark of night with all sorts of sinister plans pervading his thoughts. Creeping up to his bed, taping his mouth shut and then... singing. Singing, of all things! Practically serenading him! A gleeful ode to which he sang so freely of blood drinking, lacerating and merrily proclaiming that he'd 'grown accustomed to his face', the boy even joining in and singing along at one point. Looking back on it, it was quite sickening how well their personalities always meshed when Bob's senses weren't inebriated with rage and sadistic intent.

After the performance, he'd ceremoniously crept out through the window like some phantom, bidding farewell to the object of his obsession and disappearing into the night. It was all so morbidly romantic and that was part of the problem. Bart was always a concoction of intense emotions, all bombarding him at once, chaining him to this boy, this young man now. This dangerously tempting obsession was inescapable and absolutely suffocating sometimes.

The weeks following the broadcast of Bart's television commentary had been the hardest prison time he'd served in his entire life. Thwarting most of the attempts at his life, he thought that he just might make it to the end of his sentence without further incident; however, fortune rarely ever was so generous.

He traced a finger over the image of Bart on the wall again, almost gently this time, completely lost in thought and unaware of the clink of metal as someone entered the cell. It was only when he saw that the shadow looming over him looked nothing like Snake that instinct finally kicked in. He only got a quick look at the intruder before being slammed forcefully into the wall and he vaguely recognized the man known only as Anvil. A man whose past with Bob was full of strife and mutual hatred. Anvil was tall and muscular, his leathery tanned, battle-warn skin riddled with scars and tattoos, his head clean-shaven.

Heavy fingers pressed into his skin for which there would be bruises later, but that was the least of his concern. How his cell door came to be unlocked was a mystery, but it didn't surprise him given the almost laughable security of the prison.

"I... I swear I'll kill you!... unhand me..." Bob grunted, struggling against the vice-like grip. His face was slammed into the wall, red hair wound tightly within the man's grip as he felt hot breath on his neck. The fact that he was able to put up a struggle at all was surprising, the pressure on his lungs making it hard to even breathe. When Bob felt one hand working to pull down the bottom of his orange jumpsuit, his blood boiled with anger at the assault. There was no way this was actually happening; the man would have to kill him first!

"Stop fighting..." Anvil grunted, blurting out several obscenities as Bob struggled against him, gritting his teeth as he tried to free his wrist. "You're just as bad as all the rest. Worthless fucking chomos..."

"I'm innocent..." Bob hissed, his face burning hotly with anger and humiliation. Pressing him into the wall with all of his weight. Bob could feel the cold air on his backside as the man worked his trousers lower, the repulsive hardness of his attacker's arousal now pressed firmly against his lower back. His mind sped at light speed, searching for a way out, a point of weakness to which he could escape.

"That's what they all say," the man growled in his deep, raspy voice. Unshed tears burned hotly in Bob's eyes, blurring his vision. Every muscle in his body was tense as he remained defiant, refusing to give the intruder the satisfaction of watching him break. The prison guard in the distance had to have heard the struggle, but he knew no one would come to save him.

That's when he suddenly saw it, the point of weakness. A way out. He willed his body to relax for a moment, as hard as it was to do and he felt Anvil's grip on him weaken. Bob let out a well-timed, completely calculated moan, surprising himself at just how lustful and needy he could sound when he wanted to.

Hearing those moans coming from himself, even if they were all an act, were sickening to his ears, yet they proved to be just the distraction he needed to catch his attacker off guard. Bob pulled away and fell to his knees in one swift motion that had gotten him out of the stranger's grip. He quickly dove towards the lower bunk where he knew Snake always kept a shank of some sort right in the torn seam.

The lumbering man was too slow for Bob as he drove the makeshift blade deep into the man's abdomen. Bob's hands were shaking, his eyes wide with disbelief as the guy advanced towards him, surprisingly unfazed as the blood began to stain his orange suit, blade still protruding from his abdomen. Everything had happened so fast that his body was still buzzing as he fell back onto Snake's bunk in shock, his heart racing like a madman.

Suddenly, the cell doors exploded open as guards finally swarmed in on them, apprehending them both and escorting them from the cell. He could still hear the guy's cursing and yelling all the way down the cell block as they dragged him away. Bob pulled up his orange trousers before being lead away, without resistance, down the hallway. The echo of several angry voices yelled out, all blurring into one loud chorus at the excitement, some cheering him on, others yelling obscenities.

As his senses came back to him a bit, he was proud that he had stood his ground and survived, showing that he would indeed stand up for himself if anyone else tried that on him again and hopefully making an example of the incident. The other prisoners seeing his attacker being lead away drenched in blood was like a small victory for himself.

As he was hauled away, all he had on his mind was the thought that Bart had caused all of this, just like always. Yes, there reunion upon his release would be sweet.

A.N. - This fic will probably be mostly from Bart's point of view, but I thought Bob's insight might be needed to start off with. Sort of a prologue I guess. The rest of the fic will jump into Bart's world and show how Bob ended up in prison in the first place (what lead up to it) and what happens when he gets out to seek revenge. Hope it's not too confusing.

So, onward to the next chapter.