A Walt'z Game

.Vanillarouge's Productions.

There's something in the way Vladimir moves.

(Long, confident steps, elegant swings and dramatic gestures.)

Stefan knocks him violently over the old mattress, inside of the remainings of what used to be their bedroom, inside of the remainings of what used to be their castle. Decorated with precious fabrics that have decayed with the pass of time.

In the way he looks at him.

(Stubborn necessity for domination, kissing, moaning, whimpering, but never truly submissive.)

He growls close-mouthed, and fixes his black eyes on Vladimir's, but his expression is still calm. He crashes his lips with the other's and is answered with an open mouth.

Stefan sits in what used to be histhrone, now ruined, and his long, skinny fingers slip through his black hair, to end holding his face in a bored gesture while he watches Vladimir slowly move under the moon rays that pierce through the ceiling of their destroyed palace.

Vladimir whimpers childishly about the deteriorated decorations. He splashes in the colorful rays that the broken glass reflects, making his skin glow spectrally. He lazily spins under the moonlight, which shines upon his blonde hair, that almost looks silver.

It's intermingling icy breath and battling tongues. It's getting even and revenge and letting rage out. He takes a fistful of the dark locks, pulling them, and Stefan bites his neck.

"St-e-fan," Deliberate lips trace the bone of his clavicle, and he pronounces the last syllable in an inhaled sight.

All Stefan has to do is read it.

(All he has to do is connect it, the gestures, the looks, the whispers.)

It's burgundy glances that slip through kisses that taste of resentment. It's constantly fighting for the control, oppose, struggle unwillingly, whimper, moan and surrender again, over and over again.

He hums a melody under his breath, swinging elegantly his arms around himself, the way a ballet dancer would, or maybe like a man would hold his ladylove dancing waltz.

Right, left.

One, two.

Vladimir feels a purr in his ear, Stefan whispers nonsense, sights, murmurs his name, sometimes quietly, sometimes louder, he swears him revenge and he promises him the moon, but they're never silent.

They're expectant and engrossed at the same time.

Stefan does not notice when Vladimir has stopped wandering around, and has started waltzing with an imaginary partner. Slow, very slow. Subtle.

Back, forth.

One, two.

His hair delicately caresses his face, but his hand never leaves the back of his invisible couple. His lips are a carefree line, a sound near to music coming out of them.

Stefan is almost jealous of the fictitious maiden.

Right, left.

One, two.

Rough breaths, languid bites, crooked smiles and orbs that shine of scarlet.

Vladimir puts his arms around Stefan's neck, in a joke, in sarcasm, maybe even in mockery. He kisses him softly, delicately, almost submissively and to Stefan it tastes of crude irony. Vladimir laughs before pushing Stefan away and standing.

Back, forth.

(But the bitter taste in his lips remains.)

But he refuses to read it.

(His head, his mind, does not want to accept it, does not want to make the connection, does not want to see the reality.)

He puts on the unbuttoned shirt, and rests his palm against the broken glass of the ruined window. The sun hides and the light flames desperately, - crash against his skin and refract.

One, two...

Vladimir is in front of him in a blink, offering him his hand. He inclines slightly over the trone Stefan occupies, bending an arm over his back with mockish elegance, lifts his palm with lightness, even knowing it's not going to be taken.


"You mad, handsome?"

Arms that encircle his waist, fingers that slip under the clothes. Vladimir kisses his neck and he can feel the smile there. He's making a big effort not to use the cynical tone he's so fond of.

Stefan takes him abruptly by the neck, and forces the carefree pose to break when Vladimir has to rush his hands to both sides of Stefan to support his weight. And he kisses Vladimir. Stefan kisses him strong, intimidating, constant. Kisses him, and Vladimir can't draw back even if he wanted to. Kisses him and forces him to open his mouth, and buries his fingers in the golden locks.


He kisses him and Vladimir follows the game.


Anyway, he had always liked to play rough.

"You know it wasn't..." Vladimir doesn't end his sentence.

"... your intention. I know."

He lets Vladimir's hands caress him again, let him hypnotize him. In the end, he knows it is just a waltz's game.

There's something in the way Vladimir moves.

(Long, confident steps, elegant swings and dramatic gestures.)

Something that drives him crazy.

All belongs to that woman named Smeyer. Or that's what the papers say.

I really hope it did not got confusing. My first language is spanish, not english, so... Thanks to Razuberry, for betareading this. You did such a great job~ This sucked before you happened.

That green buton will grant you 3 wishes. Thanks Fanfiction, for making it bigger! Now we know it exists!

.Van!llarouge's Productions.

.Cullen Production's Fanfic!Ring.

May - 07 - 2009