FIC: Rockin' Me Bab-ey
Title: Rockin' Me Bab-ey
Author: drummerdancer
Characters/Pairings: Prideshipping (Seto Kaiba x Yami Yugi)
Word Count: 600
Warnings: None
Summary: Kaiba meanders with the wealthy while Yami waits on the rooftop.
Seto Kaiba lives in the world of the real-of the imagined being put to cold science and slick production values, of the monies changing hands to see business mergers and capital gains, as stocks rise and shareholders clasp his hands at dinner parties, their single-eye spectacles reflecting his own face, stoic and polite. The glass chutes, the high ceilings, the marble floors, his own satin suit-all hug his neck and name, all cling to his chest long after the last guest leaves, when the dining hall has been left littered with confetti and spilled wine on floors, when the banisters no longer shine with cleaner and reflect the places people leave their fingerprints, on his things, his home.
The empty dining hall hugs him further still when the waiters leave, when he orders the maids to drop their rags and mops and go, returning not before eight the following day, paid leave of course. None of them give thanks and flee.
Kaiba waits-he waits and waits and waits. He waits for the noise in his head to clear, for the room to reach a silence loud enough to oppress, to overwhelm him in ways a large crowd cannot. He waits long enough to hear his heart beating in his neck, and then Kaiba removes his dress shoes and tie and goes upstairs.
His bedroom is the last in the hallway. All the doors remain locked save for his, because he pulls the key out and unlocks it and enters.
Inside, a half-eaten cheese pizza box is sitting pretty on what used to be clean sheets. There’s tomato sauce wiped on the comforter, as though the eater was in a quick fix for a napkin, and little mozzarella topping has escaped onto the actual bedding. The lights are off but both nightstand lamps are on, and from the open window, Kaiba hears low music playing.
“Yami?”
The music cuts off, and Yami, holding an open bottle of beer in one hand, turns and cocks his head in. “Hm?”
“What are you doing on the roof?”
Yami takes a swig of beer and throws his head back, nodding as he turns his music back up. “Your friends have nice cars. Fast, too.”
Kaiba approaches and undoes his collar, and it’s a bad sign when Yami’s pupils fixate on his collarbone, like they can’t quite break contact even as he sways front to back and blinks quickly. “Have you been up here on the window, all evening?”
“Mostly.”
“And did you raid my mini-bar in the process?”
“…mostly.”
Kaiba presses his chest to Yami’s back, his fingers coming to grip Yami’s elbows, and he feels Yami’s heartbeat, fluttering and stuttering and nervous, like a butterfly with a caught wing in a wind tunnel. Without much effort, Kaiba pulls Yami off the windowsill and inside where it’s ten degrees warmer, where the wealthy stockbrokers and investors might not accidentally see the teenager sitting on his roof in cut-offs drinking beer and listening to Steve Miller all by himself. Not that any were left on the premise to begin with.
He sits them down on the bed, beside the pizza box and pizza stains. Yami’s hair tickles his chin, but he holds on until they match breathing and he’s sure Yami hasn’t drunk himself sick. Yami stays still, his sweat sticking to Kaiba’s sleeves, kissing Kaiba’s neck quietly. Kaiba closes his eyes and imagines-a circular room, with invisible beams and impossible dimensions-rolling them together in a mess of noses and chins and feet-all night long.
Double posted @ ygodrabble
Author: drummerdancer
Characters/Pairings: Prideshipping (Seto Kaiba x Yami Yugi)
Word Count: 600
Warnings: None
Summary: Kaiba meanders with the wealthy while Yami waits on the rooftop.
Seto Kaiba lives in the world of the real-of the imagined being put to cold science and slick production values, of the monies changing hands to see business mergers and capital gains, as stocks rise and shareholders clasp his hands at dinner parties, their single-eye spectacles reflecting his own face, stoic and polite. The glass chutes, the high ceilings, the marble floors, his own satin suit-all hug his neck and name, all cling to his chest long after the last guest leaves, when the dining hall has been left littered with confetti and spilled wine on floors, when the banisters no longer shine with cleaner and reflect the places people leave their fingerprints, on his things, his home.
The empty dining hall hugs him further still when the waiters leave, when he orders the maids to drop their rags and mops and go, returning not before eight the following day, paid leave of course. None of them give thanks and flee.
Kaiba waits-he waits and waits and waits. He waits for the noise in his head to clear, for the room to reach a silence loud enough to oppress, to overwhelm him in ways a large crowd cannot. He waits long enough to hear his heart beating in his neck, and then Kaiba removes his dress shoes and tie and goes upstairs.
His bedroom is the last in the hallway. All the doors remain locked save for his, because he pulls the key out and unlocks it and enters.
Inside, a half-eaten cheese pizza box is sitting pretty on what used to be clean sheets. There’s tomato sauce wiped on the comforter, as though the eater was in a quick fix for a napkin, and little mozzarella topping has escaped onto the actual bedding. The lights are off but both nightstand lamps are on, and from the open window, Kaiba hears low music playing.
“Yami?”
The music cuts off, and Yami, holding an open bottle of beer in one hand, turns and cocks his head in. “Hm?”
“What are you doing on the roof?”
Yami takes a swig of beer and throws his head back, nodding as he turns his music back up. “Your friends have nice cars. Fast, too.”
Kaiba approaches and undoes his collar, and it’s a bad sign when Yami’s pupils fixate on his collarbone, like they can’t quite break contact even as he sways front to back and blinks quickly. “Have you been up here on the window, all evening?”
“Mostly.”
“And did you raid my mini-bar in the process?”
“…mostly.”
Kaiba presses his chest to Yami’s back, his fingers coming to grip Yami’s elbows, and he feels Yami’s heartbeat, fluttering and stuttering and nervous, like a butterfly with a caught wing in a wind tunnel. Without much effort, Kaiba pulls Yami off the windowsill and inside where it’s ten degrees warmer, where the wealthy stockbrokers and investors might not accidentally see the teenager sitting on his roof in cut-offs drinking beer and listening to Steve Miller all by himself. Not that any were left on the premise to begin with.
He sits them down on the bed, beside the pizza box and pizza stains. Yami’s hair tickles his chin, but he holds on until they match breathing and he’s sure Yami hasn’t drunk himself sick. Yami stays still, his sweat sticking to Kaiba’s sleeves, kissing Kaiba’s neck quietly. Kaiba closes his eyes and imagines-a circular room, with invisible beams and impossible dimensions-rolling them together in a mess of noses and chins and feet-all night long.
Double posted @ ygodrabble