[tvd] fic | This Ghost Train (Stefan)
Title: This Ghost Train
Fandom: The Vampire Diaries
Characters: Stefan (/Elena. Also, Katherine, Damon, Klaus)
Word Count: 400
Rating: PG-13
♥: For scorpiod1 at a softer meme. I never meant to hurt you, you have to believe me. I wasn’t thinking about you at all…
Author’s Note: Beta thanks to catteo
The night he saves her life by dragging her, unconscious and bloodied, from the mangled remains of her parents' car, Stefan is not thinking about Elena.
He ghosts his fingertips across the expanse of her forehead, along the bruised curve of her slack jaw. Sees only the mirror image of a girl he once knew. Once loved.
Once lost.
(Never really had.)
The night he drains from a school girl every last drop of her life-blood, velvet to match her pageant dress, just because he can, Stefan is not thinking about Elena.
The muscle memory of how this all goes. The taste. The feeling. The complete lack of control. He swallows and swallows and swallows and swallows. And when she is empty, finally, he is left with little more than the curdling knowledge that so is he.
Emptied and emptying.
(He has never been anything but.)
The night he angrily denies a seductive Katherine her way with him in the shadowy confines of the stone-walled tomb, Stefan is not thinking about Elena.
One hundred and forty five years have passed but the tang of betrayal, absolute and complete, tastes a lot like just yesterday does. Bitter on his tongue.
Like fire in his veins.
(Oh. So heavy in his heart.)
The night he gets down on his knees, literally, metaphorically, and begs Klaus to save his brother, please, please, oh please...oh…, Stefan is not thinking about Elena.
The bone-numbing terror that Damon might already be dead is countered only by the desperate notion that if he were, then he would know.
An instinctive kind of grief.
(It would devour him whole.)
The night he tears his own wrist to shreds and presses the blood-slick skin fiercely against her clamped teeth, Stefan is not thinking about Elena.
The heady illusion of control dances at his fingertips. The finest of balancing acts between unlikely success and unimaginable defeat.
A battle of wills…
(A dance with the Devil himself.)
The night he looks her in the eye before turning, a physical sort of separation, and rejecting her, Stefan is not thinking about Elena.
Letting himself be loved. Loving her in return, the idea of her, he never really could tell the difference, it is no longer a risk he has the strength to take.
And perhaps he never had it to begin with…
(He thinks only of self-preservation.)
Fandom: The Vampire Diaries
Characters: Stefan (/Elena. Also, Katherine, Damon, Klaus)
Word Count: 400
Rating: PG-13
♥: For scorpiod1 at a softer meme. I never meant to hurt you, you have to believe me. I wasn’t thinking about you at all…
Author’s Note: Beta thanks to catteo
The night he saves her life by dragging her, unconscious and bloodied, from the mangled remains of her parents' car, Stefan is not thinking about Elena.
He ghosts his fingertips across the expanse of her forehead, along the bruised curve of her slack jaw. Sees only the mirror image of a girl he once knew. Once loved.
Once lost.
(Never really had.)
The night he drains from a school girl every last drop of her life-blood, velvet to match her pageant dress, just because he can, Stefan is not thinking about Elena.
The muscle memory of how this all goes. The taste. The feeling. The complete lack of control. He swallows and swallows and swallows and swallows. And when she is empty, finally, he is left with little more than the curdling knowledge that so is he.
Emptied and emptying.
(He has never been anything but.)
The night he angrily denies a seductive Katherine her way with him in the shadowy confines of the stone-walled tomb, Stefan is not thinking about Elena.
One hundred and forty five years have passed but the tang of betrayal, absolute and complete, tastes a lot like just yesterday does. Bitter on his tongue.
Like fire in his veins.
(Oh. So heavy in his heart.)
The night he gets down on his knees, literally, metaphorically, and begs Klaus to save his brother, please, please, oh please...oh…, Stefan is not thinking about Elena.
The bone-numbing terror that Damon might already be dead is countered only by the desperate notion that if he were, then he would know.
An instinctive kind of grief.
(It would devour him whole.)
The night he tears his own wrist to shreds and presses the blood-slick skin fiercely against her clamped teeth, Stefan is not thinking about Elena.
The heady illusion of control dances at his fingertips. The finest of balancing acts between unlikely success and unimaginable defeat.
A battle of wills…
(A dance with the Devil himself.)
The night he looks her in the eye before turning, a physical sort of separation, and rejecting her, Stefan is not thinking about Elena.
Letting himself be loved. Loving her in return, the idea of her, he never really could tell the difference, it is no longer a risk he has the strength to take.
And perhaps he never had it to begin with…
(He thinks only of self-preservation.)