Yet another empty beer bottle. Bart let out a chuckle - the party in his new apartment was a couple of nights ago, but there had been a few bottles still lying around, and he can't really say he had always been the cleanest person. It must be a relief for his mom and Homer, not to have to pick up things after him anymore.

Living on his own was the dream for Bart. Despite the newfound responsibilities, he quickly made himself at home, that included being lazy with chores and cooking the weirdest combinations of ingredients. Moving in was easy, but the most tedious part was unpacking all his stuff and be on his own the first few nights. So he had friends over as a sort of housewarming, old friends from school and new friends from later on in his life. It was the perfect occasion to get stupid drunk and not have to get a ride home for once, he even got to be hungover right where he lived. The only downside was that he had to clean everything up the next morning. It took a good part of the day, but even then he still found some mess here and there.

He found his routine – work, do chores, cook, eat, sometimes hang out with friends, sleep. What a hassle, but it was a fair price to pay for complete freedom. He had his family over a couple of times, much to their delight, so he had to clean up regularly to make sure he'd get no lecture from his mom. Now he only wished he had done more around the house when he still lived with them.

Occasionally, he gave Bob a call, or Bob called him. It usually turned into sex-talk, but it happened sometimes that the ex-sideshow just called to ask him how things were going, how well he had settled in, and to tell him he would visit soon. He would always be excited to see him at the café, or just talk with him over the phone, and it only made Bart wonder how his 'love' life was going, if he could even call it that.

Theirs was a relationship of friction, two sticks rubbing together till sparks came jolting out to create a great fire that burned for a while, until it all went back to normal, mostly. But Bart realized there was a lingering flame within him, hidden under the pile of ashes Bob left, and it was fanned by his own thoughts, daydreams and needs. Maybe it was Bob's fault. Why did he have to be so nice? Why did he have to be so involved positively in his life? They could just go for the rough sex and cruel teasing and call it a day.

But no, it wasn't Bob's fault. Whatever they shared, it came from both of them.

Bart was slouched in his run-down couch watching TV after his dinner when a knock came at the door. He checked the time - at this hour, it could only be him. He virtually jumped up and rushed to open the door, not caring that it might have been anyone else.

"Hey... Bob," he greeted him, a genuine smile on his face.

"Good evening, Bart. Lovely place you've got for yourself."

Bob politely walked into the apartment after being invited in by its tenant, and followed Bart as he took him for a short visit. The young Simpson was always proud to show anyone who cared around his place, but seeing Bob here was quite special. They hadn't shared that many intimate moments in weeks, as Bart had been busy and tired with moving and work. Having him here, he felt just like the weekend he had spent in Bob's house. They would have the whole place to themselves, as well as the whole night, hopefully.

"And, my room," he finished up the quick tour.

"Ah, yes," Bob said as they both waked into the small bedroom. "I recall we have some unfinished business, here..." Bart watched him closely as he slowly strolled around the room, casually closed the blinds, and continued on until he walked back to him. Bob took hold of the door behind him and slammed it shut, towering over him.

"Unfinished business?" Bart asked with fake ignorance, happy to play dumb.

"You should know what I am referring to," he stated lowly as he had him backed into the corner. Bart felt the excitement rise, having him so close to him in such a way. But fear suddenly crept in when he noticed that Bob was waving a large knife in front of his eyes, inches away from his face. He hadn't seen the maniac weild a weapon towards him for over a decade, and he couldn't really say he fully trusted Bob at that moment.

"I- I... Pfft, you're gonna... NOT kill me. You're just toying with me," he laughed lightly, not listening to his survival instinct. That part of Bob's life was over, yet Bart found inside himself some remnants of doubt about the criminal's unstable sanity.

"It depends... Have you been good, Bart?" Bob asked softly, a sickening sweet smile adorning his handsome features.

Bart felt the dull edge of the blade run over his cheek, not hurting him but reminding him of possible consequences depending on his answer. "Yes, I've been good, Bob," he answered confidently. He wouldn't let the other man know the prospect of danger was sending strange chills down his spine. It was working wonders on him - just thinking of what would have happened if he had answered 'no' made him hard, but Bart didn't want to give him that pleasure so easily.

"I don't believe you." Bob's eyes showed a glint of madness, the halos shining in an almost surreal fashion as Bart couldn't take his eyes off them. "You, Bart Simpson, recently gained complete independence, and you want me to believe you've become a good, well-behaved little adult?" He scoffed in disbelief.

"Well... I threw a party here, of course. Like you said, I'm an adult, now, I can do what I want."

"A party, you say?" Bob went on with disdain. "You must have had many people over... Should I be worried?"

Bart laughed in his face. "Are you jealous?"

"Yes," Bob uttered, with a subtle change in his expression. There, under his act, Bart recognized the man he knew, the one he trusted. Was Angela right, then? It wasn't the first time Bob seemed to need reassurance. And he knew exactly what to do.

"Well, I've been looking forward to your visit..." Bart strained his eyes sideways to look at the knife resting on his cheek and turned his head slightly, just enough to stick out his tongue to reach the blade. He began licking the metal carefully, running his tongue on the dull edge and the tip, coating it with saliva. He glanced up at Bob to make sure he was watching, and noticed his expression had changed yet again. The redhead was looking down at him through half-closed lids, almost in an intoxicated manner. Bart felt instant gratification, discovering he was able to get him to such a state, almost as far gone as Bob himself could get him. The older man carefully pressed the flat side of the blade to direct his face back toward him, and leaned in so close their noses were almost touching.

"You depraved hellish tempter, do you know what game you are playing?" He drawled without so much as the hint of a smile.

Bart breathed in heavily, properly aroused at the prospect of what was now imminent. "I'm playing your game, Bob," he grinned widely.

He was suddenly lifted, his feet hovering a few inches above his bedroom floor, carried over a short distance and thrown onto his bed. He yelped and landed on his back, bouncing on the mattress, and watched as Sideshow Bob walked over to him, weapon in hand.

"Suit the action to the words, the word to the action," he quoted while he climbed onto the bed and crawled over on top of him.

Bart lay underneath him as the knife slid under the hem of his shirt and lifted it up to his chin. Bob ran the tip of the blade up his belly, slowly, carefully, giving him plenty of time and room to stop him. But Bart simply watched the knife slide almost gracefully on his skin, playing with fear and suspense, until it stopped right over his fast-beating heart. The weapon bobbed up and down with the rhythm of his frantic breathing. Memories of past terrors mixed with present sensuality flooded Bart's head, burning his insides as he tried to grasp the reality of what was taking place.

"All the good reasons to do this are long gone," Bob muttered, lost in thoughts. He kept the knife over Bart's chest for a short moment, then brought it down right over his stomach. The young Simpson looked down nervously and watched as his skin sank under the pressure of the tip until it broke, releasing a shiny drop of blood.

Bob continued his precise movement until a short trail of scarlet glistened under the ceiling lamp. He leaned in and ran his tongue over the wound he'd just created, relishing the metallic taste of his nemesis' blood. Bart reached his hand out to him, burrowing his fingers into his wild curly hair. Bob's eyes looked up and locked with his, both men suspended in time as they reached an untold level of silent pleasure.

What was Bart, but a fool developing the strangest feelings for the most dangerous person, trying to improve his life yet voluntarily risking it just to be with him?

And what was Bob, but an ex-convict hiding his past from his new present, only to be locked up once more inside his fate and utterly mocked by it for his own enjoyment?

Together, they became one entity bent on pleasuring and improving itself. They were just right for eachother.

"Your very flesh will be a great poem," Bob murmured before delving into a deep kiss.

Bart's new apartment came alive with the sounds of bodies clashing against eachother, swearing and moaning. There were no barriers left, both men went all out in inflicting as much pleasure to the other as possible. No one was there to disturb them, no one to tell them to stop, no one to think it was all wrong and disturbing.

Bob was pounding Bart's insides hard to hear the echoes of his screams, biting and nibbling on his skin to see how far the pain took him in bliss.

Bart let himself be guided to his climax, his naked body in full control of the other man who took him to the deepest fires of heaven as they came in unison on his unmade bed.

Bart collapsed on the mattress, numb, satisfied, happy. Bob was doting on him in an embrace, stroking his hair and running a finger over the cut on his belly. Both were catching their breaths, naked and sweaty in the sheets.

"Do you need anything, dear?" Bob asked in a concerned voice.

"Nah, just you..." Bart replied with a tired smile, still feeling the rush inside of him slowly subside.

"For your wound, silly."

"Oh. Am I still bleeding?" He looked down at Bob's long fingers caressing the skin of his stomach and noticed a thin line under his hand, a mark done by the man who could take him to another world entirely.

"No. I was careful."

Bart gazed up at him. He opened his mouth to speak as Bob was looking at him longingly, or perhaps tenderly, but decided against saying anything. He had no idea what he was going to say. Or perhaps he knew. But he instead chose to bury his face in Bob's chest and turn in for the night.

"Good night, Bob."

"...Good night, Bart."