Teenage Jail

Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh! belongs to Kazuki Takahashi. However, if you want to break all sorts of copyright laws and send me money anyway, make it in quarters. I need quarters.

I judge NCS and rape as two different, if only by a slight degree, things. The first chapter contained subtle NCS. This chapter is flat-out rape. So I remembered to do the warning this time.
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"Take the devil from your mind.
He's been holding onto you,
And you're so hard to find....
The devil preys on runaways;
He's never far behind."

-- The Eagles, "Take the Devil"

There was the sound of a motorcycle outside his apartment. Bakura tensed and jerked his head around, and stiffened more when the noise cut off outside the complex. However, a moment later he stood up and walked into the living room.

Someone banged sharply on the door, twice, before stopping. Bakura bit his lip and stared at it for a moment, before finally undoing the lock and opening the door.

Malik moved away from the wall he'd been leaning against and strode in, absently kicking off his boots in the direction of the closet door. "I hate this," he growled. "I can't stand to be in that apartment anymore."

Bakura shut the door quietly, but didn't step away from it. "Why don't you tell them?"

"What good would that do?" Malik muttered. Bakura couldn't think of an answer.

When Malik turned around and glanced over at the other teenager, he found Bakura still leaning against the doorframe, tugging idly at the sleeve of one arm. Malik studied him for a moment, then dropped onto the couch, the sound of the cushions covering his annoyed sigh. "Come here."

Bakura walked over, and Malik pulled him onto the seat next to him, draping his arm around the paler teen's shoulders and across his chest. "I'm sorry I left so early, but I didn't need Isis to wake up and find out I'd been gone all night."

Bakura nodded. "It's okay, Malik-kun," he murmured. Then he wrapped his hands around the blond's arm. "I don't mind that you left."

Malik had shut his eyes and leaned back against the couch, or else he might have noticed sooner.

"It's the fact you came back that pisses me off," Bakura finished, and Malik's eyes snapped open as he recognized the altered voice. Before he could react, Bakura had flipped the two of them off the sofa. Malik slammed onto his back, and the fist he threw at Bakura's face fell short, instead hitting the area between the jawbone and throat.

Bakura jerked slightly at the hit, but kept his hold on Malik's wrist and gripped the darker teen by his throat. Malik moved to punch him again, only to have Bakura slam a knee down on his free arm. Malik thrashed before deciding to use the thief's shift in position to his advantage. He jerked his leg up in an attempt to drive a knee into the back of Bakura's thigh, and then the hand around his throat tightened so much that he was sent into a harsh coughing fit.

"Perhaps you didn't understand me the first time, Malik. Do not. fuck. with my. host. In any way."

When the hand on his neck loosened enough to breathe again, Malik spat out: "Get the hell off me, bastard!"

Bakura gave the blond an ugly smile, and tightened his grip again.

Malik started coughing once more, and doubled his efforts to get free. He nearly landed a kick to Bakura's spine, forcing the thief to squeeze hard enough that his nails tore Malik's skin and began to draw blood.

Malik's movements were getting less effective as more of his attention was being diverted to the simple effort of breathing, and Bakura used the distraction to his advantage. He moved away just long enough to flip the darker teen over and wrench both wrists behind his back. Malik started fighting again as soon as he had air in his lungs, so Bakura slammed an elbow into the area between his shoulder blades. There was a threatening crack from one of the bones, and Malik sank against the carpet, temporarily beaten.

With a smirk, the thief slid his belt out of the jeans' loops and deftly wrapped it around Malik's wrists as he spoke. "Do you recall the second deal we made? I keep that split personality of yours from killing Rishid, and you hand over the information on your tattoos. Since he isn't dead...obviously," Bakura chuckled as Malik tensed, "I think it's time you pay up."

Malik was still trying to throw Bakura off, his answer short and bitter. "Get. off. Now."

There was the soft 'snick' of a knife, and Malik's eyes widened. He stilled.

"I don't think so," Bakura said, all traces of humor gone. He ran the tip of the knife in a line from one of Malik's shoulders to another, and made a note of the fact that the blond shuddered. "You nearly got my body killed with that trick on the blimp--all bets are off. So," he said leaning back on his heels before gripping Malik's hair and wrenching the blond into a kneeling position, "you've got two options. You can bleed..." he hooked an arm around Malik's chest, pressing the blade into his throat, and dropped his voice a decibel, "or you can talk."

Malik's mouth twisted into a snarl and, ignoring the knife at his throat, he tried to jab an elbow into Bakura's gut. Bakura reacted by digging the knife deep enough to cut the skin of his neck. The darker teen gasped painfully at that, and Bakura slammed his head back into the carpet. Malik had to twist his face to side to prevent his nose from being broken by the force.

Bakura wrenched his arm free from beneath Malik and sat up. After making sure that he was sufficiently pinned, he grabbed the collar of Malik's t-shirt and jerked it up, smirking when the blond made a choking noise. He sawed at the thicker fabric of the collar for a moment, then slashed open the shirt down the middle. Bakura spread the ends open and gave the hieroglyphs an irritated look--he hadn't suddenly learned how to read since the last time he'd seen them.

The thief pressed the knife between two vertebrae on Malik's neck. "Now, start explaining."

Malik glared at the sofa leg that was in his direct sight. "Rot in hell." When Bakura pressed the knife down between the bones, he tensed but clenched his jaw and remained silent.

Bakura glared down at the darker teen, more than half tempted to just drive the knife through his spine. A few moments later, his look became speculative, and then down-right evil. He turned the knife slightly and began running the flat side of the blade down Malik's back, over the atum symbol, the picture of the god card, and the ankh. He stopped before he reached the column of hieroglyphs at the small of Malik's back, not willing to gamble the more important marks.

Malik had tensed his muscles as much as he could in an attempt to keep from shaking, but his eyes and fists were clenched shut, the knuckles white. Bakura turned the knife again and set the tip of the blade in one of the ankh's grooves. "You know," he said idly, "after six years, I think that some of these lines are beginning to fade....Perhaps it's time for a re-engraving?" He let his voice trail off and smirked as he watched Malik's nails bite into his palms and draw blood. His eyes narrowed, however, when he realized that the other teenager was continuing to stay silent.

Bakura knew that if he kept with this particular threat, Malik could eventually call his bluff--he wouldn't attempt to alter the tattoos in any way because of the risk of permanently damaging them. After glowering for another moment,ura ura finally slammed the knife into the flooring next to Malik's face and shifted enough to flip the blond over.

Malik glared up at him with pure hatred, and Bakura put on a small, very disturbing grin. "But that can wait," he added in a gleeful tone. "After all, didn't you come here for a different reason?"

Malik's eyes widened again, and his earlier efforts to get free looked like half-hearted attempts compared to now. "Let go of me!!"

Bakura sat back enough to pin Malik's legs again and then punched him in the jaw, hard. Malik's head rocked to the side and he coughed again, not bringing up blood to Bakura's disappointment.

Bakura reached down and yanked open Malik's pants, the zipper squealing in protest at the rough treatment. The darker teen tried to twist away. "Don't you fucking dare," he threatened.

The thief stared down at him, expression cold again. "Why? You seemed to enjoy it this way last time." At Malik's expression, a small, empty smile lifted the corner of his mouth. "Oh, yes. He doesn't even try to keep things from me anymore, if I demand them. Not that he ever succeeded before." The smile disappeared. "He's completely mine. That's why the thought that you had the balls to try and claim him irritates me." A new smile appeared, this one amused and a good deal more sinister. "If you want him, you have to pay my price."

Before Malik had the time to process the words, Bakura had grabbed one of his arms tight enough to break the skin and leave bruises the next day, and jerked him onto his knees. He shoved the other teen around slightly, then slammed a hand into his shoulder, sending Malik crashing onto the sofa.

The already open pants were wrenched down, and before Malik could react a rough hand had pushed his legs as far apart as the fabric would allow. Malik tried to jerk away, but Bakura pressed an arm across his neck, forcing him against the couch. When he heard the sound of Bakura's jeans opening, Malik shoved backwards with his hands, but the angle and the belt around his wrists kept him from even reaching the thief. "Don't!"

The only answer was a snicker, and as soon as he felt Bakura push against him Malik bit down on the cushion and squeezed his eyes shut.

Bakura forced himself inside with a grimace. Without lubricant, the friction was uncomfortable for him--as well as hell for Malik, if the blond's smothered scream was any sign. But this wasn't about pleasure, it was about power, so he pulled back and shoved inside again, ignoring the ripple of pain.

After several more thrusts, Malik's shouts had quieted slightly to harsh cries, so Bakura looked up. When he saw Malik's shoulders shaking, an ugly grin twisted his features. He reached out and set his nails against the tattoos, pressing deep and raking his hand down the parts of the skin without hieroglyphs.

Malik sobbed audibly at that point, and that was enough for Bakura. After a few more thrusts, he came with a grunt, and Malik made a pained noise in his throat before falling silent.

Bakura pulled out a momeaterater, using an end of Malik's shirt to wipe himself clean. He stared down suspiciously at the darker teenager, but Malik didn't move. After waiting a moment, Bakura pushed the sides of the t-shirt out of the way and jerked Malik's hands down enough to see most of the tattoos. He studied the marks again, and considered getting a piece of paper to sketch the whole damn mess on, on the chance that the elder Bakura could translate them. If not, he'd have to find a better location to force the information from the darker teen--his host had warned him before that bloodstains were traceable long after they were cleaned these days.

He frowned again; because of the restraint, Malik's arms were always in the way of a few of the hieroglyphics. He eyed the seemingly unconscious teenager for another moment, then finally undid the belt and tossed it to the side.

It was the opening Malik had been waiting for. As soon as Bakura was slightly turned, he lashed out with a foot, catching the thief in the ribs and crying out at the spasm of agony the action sent up his spine. Bakura hit the carpet with an uncharacteristic yelp, and Malik jerked up the knife and slammed it at his shoulder. He was too frantic to land more than a flesh wound, but that bought him enough time to scramble up and tear for the door. He grabbed his boots more from ingrained habit than actual thought and ran for the stairs, nearly falling several times as he made his way down and fished for his keys. His jaw was clenched tight enough from the pain that a few more degrees could have cracked a tooth.

When he reached his motorcycle, Malik slammed his feet into the boots and jabbed the key at the ignition, missing a few times before he managed to steady his hand enough to get it in. He threw a leg over the seat and couldn't prevent the whimper of pain the action tore out of his throat, but he started the engine and pulled away, driving as fast as he could while remaining steady. The wind caught the edges of his torn shirt, whipping it around his chest.

He made it four blocks down and over before he had to stop again, unable to drive any longer. He had no change in his pockets, but the second shop he entered let him use their phone to call his sister.

Isis kept glancing into the rearview mirror at Malik, lying on the backseat. She was still unused to driving, having gotten her license and bought the car only a few months ago in order to better visit potential museums for her exhibit, and the rising panic over her brother's state was not helping at all.

Also, she had lost track of Rishid, who was driving Malik's motorcycle back to the apartment. But the man only knew how to handle it through what her brother had mentioned, so he was driving at a slower pace than her and had quickly fallen out of sight, leaving Isis with twice as much to be concerned for.

Isis originally thought that Malik was calling because he had simply run out of gas again. She had recognized the neighborhood he described as Bakura's and, having driven around there enough to feel relatively comfortable, had only asked Rishid to join her because she felt more comfortable in his presence. If she hadn't, the motorcycle would most likely have had to be abandoned; whatever Malik had done, he couldn't drive at the moment.

It had obviously not been a case of running out of gas when they arrived at the corner to find Malik hunched and kneeling oddly against his bike, cuts on his neck and arm and--most disturbing to Isis--his shirt ripped in two down his back.

Malik hadn't answered their questions; hadn't, in fact, spoken at all, and barely even noticed that they were there. Realizing that it was futile to try for answers when her brother was in this kind of mood, Rishid had simply helped Malik stand and guided him to the car. Malik had climbed into the backseat, laid down, and hadn't moved from then on.

He finally stirred when Isis pulled up to their apartment. Malik slid out of the seat and began walking slowly toward the stairs, and she followed a moment later. Noticing his limp, Isis wondered if the person who had attacked him had done something to his leg as well, and that was why he couldn't work the motorcycle.

She didn't allow herself to think of what Malik might have done to get away. She loved who her brother had been, and did her best to love who he was now, but there was only so much that she could allow herself to consciously accept about him.

As they walked to the apartment, she kept her hand hovering over the small of his back; not quite touching, but close enough to let him know she was there. Malik said nothing. Isis had not expected him to.

Once they were inside, Isis tried tode hde him to the bathroom so she could look at his injuries, but Malik pulled away violently and went to his room, slamming the door.

Staring at the closed door, Isis leaned against the wall and pressed a hand to the bridge of her nose, fighting the brief and startling urge to cry. She was so tired lately, struggling to hold together this makeshift family in the aftermath of everything that had happened, and now she had another problem handed to her.

A moment later, Isis took a deep breath, set her shoulders, and lifted her head. She reminded herself that she was an Ishtar, and her clan would not have survived the past three thousand years if they were so quickly broken. Isis had regained complete control of her feelings by the time Rishid arrived.

The man walked over, and Isis shook her head to indicate that she still knew nothing of what had happened. Rishid placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, and Isis laid her own over it. But in the end she simply nodded and went to bed, knowing that Rishid would stay awake for several more hours and would fetch her if Malik asked or needed anything.

When she woke the next morning, Rishid was asleep on the couch. Not certain how much rest he had gotten, she tucked a blanket over him and moved about as quietly as possible, until Malik wandered into the kitchen around noon and asked what was for breakfast.

Isis noticed that he stood against the wall instead of sitting at the counter as he ate, but took it only as a sign that his leg was undamaged.


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