Hi Everyone!

Welcome to my second Yu-Gi-Oh fic. I focused on a much more popular pairing this time, so I hope you all enjoy it!

Bondage

The street was silent aside from the whisper of clanging woks. A dark figure with a puff of hair akin to whipped cream slunk through a shabby back alley, his mitts dripping with warm, crimson taramasalata, his opticals echoing the colour of the sinful condiment.

The Satan-worshipping individual opened the door of a dark, abandoned looking shack at the far end of the street and hurried within. Once they reached the cuisine, he plunged his hands into the toilet, flushing it to wash away all trace of his kinky, evil evening of pleasure. Even though his phalanges were clean, his mind still rang with the chiming cries of tonight's sweet ram.

The spindly nobleman growled under his breath, adjusting his breeks harshly. The sound of chafing quads echoed in his brain and the images of sensual roe would not dissapate.

Suddenly there was a great squawk, like that of a mounting golden eagle.

"Bakura! You're home!" someone rodomontade in a voice as high pitched as a dog whistle and annoying as a harpy. Bakura turned to face his unseemly lodger, his features contorted with rage. He roared at the diddy spectator, who shrieked and leaped behind the settee.

"HOW DARE YOU ADDRESS ME!" the tall witch screamed, his coat-tails flapping obtusely.

"B-b-ut we're r-room-mates?" The unpleasant manikin wittered nervously.

"Oh." Bakura hummed. "Well, please refrain from speaking. Your failed voice is irritating."

Mokuba exploded into bouts of sobbing, his pithy chin wobbling as waterfalls of saline whooshed from his opticals.

"CALM DOWN!" hollered Bakura, throwing a skillet at the foolish toddler. He missed, and the chunky pan sailed straight into Bakura's favourite Ming vase.

It was Bakura's turn to cry.

"NNNNGGGGGNNRRRRRGGGNN!" the albino phantom roared with despair and frustration, furiously wiping tears from his flaming opticals. "WHAT KIND OF A ROOMATE ARE YOU? THROWING MY PANS! YOU WILL STICK IT BACK TOGETHER! EVERY PIECE!"

Mokuba shook his fist, his pantaloons dropping to his ankles. "I came here to escape such torment! My brother used to beat me up! And now you are behaving the same way! Well, I won't stand for it! I'm leaving you!"

Bakura yawned and cracked open a can of beer, belching with apathy.

Mokuba thrust his rucksack over his shoulder and shuffled towards the door, his odd slacks still drooping around his rhinestone studded gladiator sandals.

Suddenly, the door flung open, squashing Mokuba to death as a topless north-African with a hay-coloured perm burst into the room.

"Surprise!" cried the native man, pouring himself a martini from Bakura's mini-bar and setting his mock-croc handbag in Bakura's arms. Bakura snarled pugnaciously at the offending sack and threw it across the room. Some of its contents fell out onto the spotted carpet.

"Be careful, you mutton! There are priceless jewels in that!" the slim primadonna wailed, swooping down to collect up the packets of lard, frozen peas, nipple-tassels, stuffed parrots, perfumed jelly snakes and other paraphernalia that had been upturned along with a generous scattering of hay.

"Shut up." Bakura huffed, folding his stick-like arms and sitting down on a rickety second-hand three-legged pine footstool, the only piece of furniture he could afford.

"Listen, Bakura. I know you have problems, but we need to sort out your issues with furniture! Look at what you did to that precious urn!" Malik Ishtar broached, holding his manicured paws out in despair.

Bakura put his head in his hands. Deep within his cruel, black aorta, he knew that what this foolish macaw was saying was the truth.

"It's true!" He yelled, his pallid clock awash with shame. "I hate furniture! I always have! Even talking about it makes me want to burn down every Ikea outlet on this planet! That's why I smashed the vase! I wasn't aiming for that wannabe ninja, Mokuba. I just wanted an excuse to destroy it!" Bakura clenched his bristly fists at the thought of the popular household item.

"Someone's angry this evening!" Malik vocalised. "Mind telling your old crony what's wrong?" As he said this, he threw a cheese-knife at Mokuba's body, in an effort to cheer up his master.

Bakura kicked Malik in the groin and punched his chin. He went over to his home-gym and sat down heavily on his exercise bike, turning on his "workout" mix-tape to drown out the chanting of his hefty house-crasher.

Malik was regaining consciousness on the floor, his opticals whirling with confusion, his hair skew-whiff. Suddenly, his nasal went into overdrive, twitching and flaring at super-sonic speed. "It stinks of taramasalata in here!" he screamed, throwing the olive from his finished martini across the room. The Mediterranean fruit sailed through the apartment, knocking over and several vases of flowers and smashing the window. It bounced off the road, back into the exterior wall of the house, causing the entire house to shake and showering the angsty pre-teens with plaster dust and chunks of roof. Bakura started crying. He put his fingers in his ears and allowed himself to remember the night's events, the one time he had felt genuine passion and joy.

The scruffy police car screeched down the road, following the latest dastardly criminal. They determined his path by the noticeable trail of lamb shanks that he was tossing onto the road, hoping to attract wild beasts to block their path.

The lanky lawbreaker crowed with glee and leaped into a pruned hedge, clutching the sacks of money he had stolen from the saloon.

"Hehehehehe!" he cackled, holding his doubloons up to the sky. "To quote Elvis Presley – Money, money, money!"

Suddenly there was a cacophony of bellowing, and a flying squirrel leaped down from a fat tree and snatched the loot from Bakura's putrid phalanges.

"You cretin! I'll have your head!" the hunkering brigand bayed. He leapt up and gave chase, obscenities spewing from his tyrannical maw.

Suddenly, a police wagon swerved around the corner, and the sound of machine gun fire from AK-47's rang out in the suburban lanes.

"We've got him now, boys!" cried the chief of police, brandishing a missile-launcher and aiming it at a house on the opposite side of the street. "Come out with your hands up!"

Bakura chuckled with glee and snuck into the open window of the house he was squatting in front of.

The sly super-sizer plummeted from the window sill, straight into a bowl of Duel Monster's spaghetti hoops that had been placed on a small pedestal some hours ago, judging by the fact that they were congealed and as cold as liquid nitrogen.

Bakura hauled himself up, narrowly avoiding a second dunking in a wormery, swearing and pulling the pasta version of the Blue Eyes White dragon out of his beard. He'd been on the run for several weeks, and hadn't had time for a shave.

"Santa?" came a penetrating screech from behind an orange tartan sofa. A puny sprat with a greasy periwinkle bowl-cut and enormous spectacles, engraved with cockroaches and other filthy pests, was staring at him.

The wimpy loser was wearing a tight white t-shirt, adorned with gargantuan sweat-patches, matching those seeping around his loins on his skin-tight grey daisy-dukes. Weevil had been playing Wii-sports for the last four hours, and was working himself into quite a sweat.

Bakura turned, intending to give the impertinent wiener a piece of his mind, and possibly a good kick, when Weevil gave beatific gurn, his petite cake-hole forming a mien of pure innocence and celibacy. Bakura felt as though he had been thrown backwards by a territorial juggernaut. His trousers began to strain and his cardio began to toot, as the bile of passion erupted from his spleen and into his mouth.

"Oi! Santa! I a-a-asked for a BLACK Wii, not one of these sub-standard white ones! You bastard! I've been good all fucking year!" he raged, spittle spraying from his gross gills.

The foul lingo coming from the maw of one so youthful made the prehistoric lumberjack Bakura so aroused his pantyhose ripped violently across his ample buttocks, pieces of paisley corduroy flying across the dwelling. Beneath the hose, he bore nothing but a pair of pink PVC bondage-knickers. Seeing this shocked Weevil to the core. The child's jaw dropped open, his removable braces tumbling to the ground. He clutched his crotch, squinty eyes popping at his first glimpse of the adult world.

"God damn it!" the pale antiquarian squealed, trying to preserve his modesty with an ornate cushion from the settee. He was moulting with embarrassment, white keratin tumbling to the ground in great waves.

"You're not Santa…" the brine-headed hatchling breathed, drool running down his jowls as fast as a Japanese bullet train.

"No I'm bloody well not! That fat Finn with the red velvet breeks! Ugh." the snub-nosed mob boss growled, trying not to let his unnerving attraction show. Weevil had no such qualms, and stared at the mysterious drop-in with absurd fascination and unwarranted lust. He had never seen anything so beautiful. With the goose-pimpled bow-legs, scraggy neck and stained, tick infested beard, it was as if one of God's holy angels had dropped from heaven for the young mite enthusiast.

"Well…." Weevil said coyly, his obese specs making his opticals look the size of hubcaps, "I have some spare breeks in my… erm… private domain."

"Good! Fetch them for me."

"You must try them on." The attractive koi-karp lookalike said with a swish of his thick terracotta eyebrows.

"Oh, fine!" the senile old codger said irritably, shuffling along to the sophomores boudoir.

Weevil led the primeval old duffer up a flight of stairs and into a small bedroom with walls the colour of mung-dahl and decorated with bold stencils of beetles and mosquitoes. The chamber was crammed with tanks and bell-jars containing various arthropods, and Bakura found the clicking and whirring noises emitted by Weevil's cooties hard to bear.

Weevil went over to an ice-chest in the far corner of the room, and pulled out a whopping great ham. "It's honey roast!" he sneered proudly. Bakura was thrilled. He began to salivate, foul spittle sliding down his whiskery cheeks at the thought of eating the succulent luncheon joint.

Weevil, however, had other ideas. He marched over to a vast tank that dominated the rear wall of his crib, and opened the lid. "Feeding time, my sweets!" the eccentric freak cackled, dropping the ham into the abyss of dung, wheat and tree-branches that filled the tank.

The moment the prized flank entered the habitat, a plague of weevils streamed forth from out of nowhere, devouring the ham in seconds and disappearing into the cover of foliage once more.

Bakura, although he was furious at having such a fine cured meat devoured by mere beasts, had never been more turned on in in his life.

"Weevil… I don't think I can stand it anymore… I want your body… now". He rodomontade.

Weevil turned to the source of the bawdy remark, his jowls aflame. He had never been complimented by a curvaceous babe before.

"Uh...uh...uh..." Weevil mumbled, hives breaking out all over his corpus at the thought of a hot salutation with this particular seafarer.

Bakura grimaced suavely, approaching the young academic like a bombastic siren approaching a squat and reeky Odysseus. Weevil began to pant with anticipation.

"Well, erm. I am...very e-e-experienced in...erm... dormitorio fun. Hehe, I mean, with a face like thish, kheh, who needs... erm... dough?" Weevil hoiked nervously, phlegm splatting against a wide African landsnail which was sliming its merry way across his bedspread.

Bakura glanced nervously across at the bio-hazard that was the neonate's cot. Filled to the brim with festering haggis, insect corpses and fluctuating with maggots, it was foul, and more to the point, completely unsuitable for the deflowering of a quaint shrimp such as Weevil.

"Say, are there any other beds round this here joint?" Bakura hissed seductively, his creepy eyes as welcoming as Purgatory.

"Well... there is the...erm... the sleeping chamber of my aged parents... but..."

"Let's go then!" Bakura seized the unsuspecting nerd by his ankles and hauled him along the corridor, ignoring the trail of astonished mucus that he was trailing along the fine llama wool carpet.

Weevil's parents' room was much more appropriate. It had alluring cinnabar palisades and was dominated by a colossal bed, covered in a rowdy satin quilt and a scattering of erotically-shaped cushions. Bakura took in, with keen mania, an outsize corset and a pair of feathery handcuffs.

"Heheh. Looks like we're going to have more fun than I thought!" said Banquo's ex.

Weevil was lying on the divine davenport, his bare leg in the air, terracotta fuzz catching the light. Bakura peeled off his tight polo-shirt from his desirable pecs and drummed upon his unorthdoxly large tummy with zest.

"Come here!" roared Weevil, pointing to his genitals with Miss Chalk's laser pointer as a visual prompt. Bakura could not resist this foreplay, and launched himself on top of the young water boatman with a scream of pure delight.

"Where's the lubricant?" He enquired, caressing weevil's "centipede of fun."

"What?" blinked the stupid child, removing his spectacles for safety.

"We need to..smooth things over.." Bakura verbalised "You could get hurt!"

"Oh!" smiled the grain parasite. "We can use my mucus!" He snorted and hoiked violently, his phizog turning mauve with exertion.

"Not that!" Bakura screamed. "What have you got in the fridge?"

"Pork loins, fish fingers and taramasalata."

Bakura's eyes narrowed until they were mere slits in the sallow cosmos that was his visage.

"Taramasalata..." he said hoarsely, his mouth curving into a grin of ecstasy. He vanished in a puff of eggy smog. Weevil honked with utter shock, his jaw dropping until it clanged against his moist kneecaps.

When Bakura returned, Weevil got the shock of his short life. His cardio stopped beating instantly when the fetching thespian reappeared, wearing an outfit akin to a Roman ladies and clutching two enormous vases filled to the brim with sweet, voluptuous taramasalata.

"I thought you ordered some taramasalata?" the ancient belly-dancer cawed, grinding against a homosexual lamp draped in lewd fairy lights.

"Yesh! YESH! I DID! I DID! Now, give it to me!" Weevil would have launched himself straight into the toga of the perverted sir, but his oversized ass made it impossible for him to jump off the bed. Instead, the Persian saucepot glided over to the bed, his PVC underwear clinging to his perfect loins.

He leapt onto the bed, pillows and fish eggs exploding in a cacophony of gametes. Weevil howled alluringly as Bakura smeared his body in the burgundy sauce, ripping off his toga to reveal a splendid, nurturing body.

"Oh, Bakura!" Weevil cried, "I can't wait to have that taramasalata inside me! We can become one!"

Bakura, who was scoffing the taramasalata from between his own moobs, looked up and beamed.

"We shall!"

Before he could react, Weevil was thrown into a world of pleasure, salty fish eggs filling his body as Bakura banged him.

Three hours later they were still going strong, when suddenly, there was a horrified cry.

"WEEVIL?"

There, standing in the doorway, were Weevils parents. They had arrived home, hoping for a pleasant evening of sitcoms and Babe-station, only to find their underage son, lying in their bed, covered in feathers and excrement, sharing a taramasalata party with an old circus freak.

"Mum, Dad, it's not what you think!" Weevil squeaked in distress, an eclectic mix of bodily fluids running down his cream face.

"It is!" snapped Bakura. The bedraggled maid was outraged that his hours of fun should come to such a sudden end. He turned, intending to spit some taramasalata in the general direction of the interfering fat-arses, when he saw them for the first time.

He stared at Weevil's father with a look of utter horror on his face.

Time seemed to stop for a few minutes, while the roaring of a hydroelectric power station echoed strongly in Bakura's ears.

"B-b-but...what?" he screamed, his eyes bulging like over-ripe lemons. "How can this BE?"

"I'm sorry you had to find out this way," said Ryou, reaching out to take Tristan's hand.

"I am Weevil's father."

Wow!

I like the idea of Ryou going behind Bakura's back to find pleasure of his own ;)

Reviews?

Love, Septimus xxx