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In the wake of this a war, Elena recognizes the pointlessness of pride and regret. She has lost both, after all, and she finds that she cannot force herself to care. She does not recall when her thirst for survival overcame her thirst for justice, but there is little reason in punishing herself for it anymore; in attempting to search for some forgotten remnant of integrity. By tonight's end, of course, she will find none.

Elena is not deluded enough to pretend that her current predicament is not by her own hand. But neither is she foolish enough to believe that she, alone, is at fault. They are all to blame, in some small manner; each having played a role leading up to the final scene. She wonders now how many of the players will take their bow at the curtains close? And who she'll be standing by when it drops.

She has gone over the argument in her head a dozen times already; hashing up the pros and cons of this final act of abandonment. There is Stefan, not surprisingly, who is number one on her list of reasons why she should turn around. Bonnie, Caroline and Jeremy too, who would each despise her for simply entertaining the idea. But the truth of the matter is, Elena is beyond finding excuses to say no, because she has found that all she really wants to do anymore is say yes.

So she stands resolutely in the darkness outside the Salvatore house, one hand shaking imperceptibly as it balances parallel to the door, the other fisted around her vervain necklace:

If tonight doesn't go as planned, she needs a back door, an escape route from her own memories.

There is a moment when she wants to turn back, when she sees Stefan in her mind's eye; twisted and tortured by her betrayal, but it passes as quickly as it arrives, and she takes a deep, shuddering breath to steel herself for the events she knows must come.

She flicks her wrist back and taps three times against the wood, knowing that he will hear them despite their softness.

He does.

Rich light bleeds across the doorway as Damon pulls it wide. He looks as he always has to her; ill-fittingly beautiful with ethereal eyes that reflect the madness within.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asks, and his voice is rich and soft, as though he has always known the answer.

"Stefan is in Richmond for night," she says, and it is not so much a statement as it is an unspoken question to see how willing Damon will be to participate.

He nods once, just a slight tilt of the chin, and opens the door a little wider. A rush of heat meets Elena as she passes the threshold, and she is hit with the determined knowledge that there is now no turning back. She has passed through the doorway, the periphery of a life once lived, and she has placed herself on the route of another. They do not know who will die tomorrow, of course, only that their chances of survival are slim. And there is such hopelessness and sorrow in that thought, that Elena only wants to cling desperately to the things that surround her and never let go.

She places her necklace on the entrance table as she brushes by him, and for once, he's not foolish enough to ask why.

"A little late for a drop in," he states, and this time it's him testing her; gauging her reactions to see how far she will take it.

She shakes her head and peels her jacket from her shoulders to throw upon the couch.

"Damon," she sighs, and she doesn't miss the way his chest lurches that tiny amount every time she speaks his name. "This could be one of the last times we ever see each other," she continues, and there's no sorrow or disbelief in her voice, only the cold tone of acceptance. "I think… Well, I need to stay the night."

She watches the hundred-and-one emotions that flicker across his face in the space of a few seconds; shock, hope, suspicion, confusion, until he smoothes his expression back to its default and offers her the trademark smirk. She doesn't need to explain the situation to him, she knows that he understands it better than even she does. That this is something that has to be done, needs to be done between them.

"And what makes you think that I would be an obliging participant in all this?"

She expects him to play this hand—act smooth and cool and all too detached. Damon systematically refuses to fit any of the roles she may cast him, choosing instead to play the understudy to the numerous actors who abandon her at curtain call.

She moves towards him without another word until her body is a hair breadth away from his, her heart drumming violently against his empty chest. She watches as his tongue darts out to lick his lips; an involuntary action she's sure, but it makes her belly throb with want and her thighs tremble just a little with desire.

"I'm not in love with you," she clarifies, and his face shadows slightly, though his eyes never leave her own. "What I mean is, this isn't about love, it's about need." And it is. She's not in love with Damon, she's in love with Stefan, and she knows this beyond the shadow of a doubt. But there's no point in denying that she's connected to Damon; that her body and soul ache for him in a way they never have for his brother. And that's why she's here, pleading with him, needing him in ways she's never needed anyone before. Not because she can't live without him, but because she thinks tomorrow might really be the end for one of them, and she doesn't want to say goodbye without having given them what they both so quietly crave.

For a moment he looks like he wants to speak, and his eyes burn hot and cold all at once with such desperate longing that Elena needs to remind herself to breathe. Something deep within her coils in tension, and she silently begs him not to wax poetic platitudes of love for her. Not now. Not here, in this cold room on this too still night. Something behind his eyes shift in understanding, as though he recognizes that now is not the time for some romantic confession. Instead, he tilts his head to close the space between them, and Elena manages with some semblance of stealth to evade his lips.

Kissing mouth to mouth is too personal for her to take right now, and she's not sure how much more she can handle before she reaches her breaking point.

If Damon is disappointed at her evasion, he doesn't show it. He simply moves his lips to her neck, his tongue running the path from her jaw line to her collarbone as though he has done it a thousand times before. She has to resist the impulse to moan as he does so, because that would seem a little too encouraging, so she settles for the breathy sighs which claw their way up her throat in a raw and ragged symphony of desire.

But she doesn't really want him to act like this— like they are familiar lovers and this is some well rehearsed dance. She is not his to make love to, nor will she ever be. So she takes the lead this time and runs her hands down his chest, pausing every few inches to flick the buttons of his shirt apart.

"Your hands are shaking," he states, but she's grateful that he doesn't ask her to stop. He wants this too badly to question her sureness, and he's not going to encourage a change of heart by playing it patient. "Do you want to go upstairs?"

Elena's not entirely sure she does. If they move this to the bedroom than it becomes something real, something meaningful, and she'd much rather just be fucked on the floor where it's cold and harsh and broken just like he is. But he's moving her then without another word and she thinks she should just shut up and let him enjoy this night the way he wants to.

His room is dark but for the light of the full moon, and it occurs to Elena that for all the time she has spent in this house over the past year, she has never been in his bedroom before. And she might find the fact more interesting, if Damon's hands weren't back on her body, more insistent now, and his tongue weren't tracing its familiar trail across her chest. He takes a moment to suck in an unnecessary breath, like he can't believe she's really here, letting him touch her like this, hold her and strip her down till she's bare.

But it feels a little too intimate for Elena, and seeming somewhat out of place in this dark, wide room, her hands return to his shirt; pushing the fabric over his shoulders and allowing her finger nails to graze down the white planes of his chest, dragging across his nipples and earning a deep, throaty groan which makes her shudder with pleasure. His lips move back to her jaw, moving across her chin and she turns her face away once again to avoid his mouth on hers. He growls this time, something primal and frustrated, and his left hand grips her hair tightly as his right rips at her shirt.

"Would you be here if the outcome of tomorrow were more certain?" he hisses, throwing her back against the bed and stalking towards her as if she is nothing more than a meal.

She understands his anger, his need to question her motives and the outcomes of tonight. But she has given up caring about placating him, coddling him with words which will never be true, so when he next grips her face within his hands, she doesn't push him away. She allows him to crush his mouth against hers and it's all so desperate and brutal and passionate that all she can focus on is the rhythm of his tongue against hers and the way his canines extend into her mouth.

His eyes are black when he pulls away, but he continues his trail down her body, shredding the rest of her shirt to pieces as his mouth kisses, sucks and tears at her breasts; his mouth bloody and his eyes wide with painful delight. It's pain and pleasure and Elena knows that she should care that he's marking her like this, ripping her open and taking pieces of her away, but she can't help but think that she wants this, needs this, to feel alive.

He kisses her again, tongue thrusting into her mouth, begging her to taste herself upon his lips. To taste his hollow desperation for her.

She is all but naked now as he drags her jeans over her hips, pausing for the briefest of moments to gaze at her body as though she is God. Then the denim and underwear are half way across the room and she's lying there; stripped to the flesh, the bone, the marrow, and all at once she is nothing, but he's looking at her as if she is everything

And it's as if he's seeing her, really seeing her for the first time in his life, and she feels more vulnerable that she has ever felt before. Because his eyes are not just seeing her flesh, they're seeing her, all of her; the fears and hopes and dreams that she would never share aloud.

"I can't stop now," he says, and it's not so much a warning as it is an inevitability.

Elena nods quietly and reaches for him, feeling suddenly foolish stretched out on his bed like this, when he's still half dressed.

Her hands, clumsy with something akin to nerves, tear at his belt buckle, wrenching it from around his hips and throwing it towards their mounting pile of clothes. She fiddles with his fly, her fingernails pulling at it awkwardly, until he stills her hands within his large ones and places them on his chest.

"Allow me," he says, and rips the fly open with a casual flick of his wrist. He waits for the jeans to pool by his feet before he steps out of them, kicking them towards the back of the room, while he stands there, quiet in all his naked glory.

It occurs to Elena then, that she's not the only vulnerable one in the room. Because he's standing there without breathing, and she can sense his embarrassment, his insecurities, though she can't see any reason for his shame. So she pulls him towards her until his body is pressed fully against hers, the weight of his arousal hot and heavy against her thigh. Every plane of their bodies are touching, melding together; her blood in his mouth, now on his body too, and she reaches up to flick a stray hair from his face, not caring if it's too intimate anymore.

"You're beautiful," she says firmly, because she can read his desire in those ice-blue eyes, but she's not sure he can see it in hers. And she's glad she says it, because there is an innocent, hopeful happiness which colors his face for a moment, before he bends to kiss her again, slowly this time, as though he is committing the shape of her mouth to his memory.

Then, without any word or warning, he's inside her, pushed to the hilt and she's bursting at the seams. There is pain because (though she hates to compare them) he's bigger than Stefan is, but there's also god-awful pleasure. She knows there's blood though, because even she can smell it; salt and copper and rust, and his eyes are suddenly black with a different kind of desire.

And since she's already given herself over to him completely, she cranes her neck a little, eyes squeezed shut as his hips piston into hers; the mad slapping of his pelvis on hers like an unrehearsed beat. Then his lips are at her neck, and a second later, in her flesh, and he's on top of her, inside of her, surrounding her and she's choking on him.

He's hitting something deep inside of her, and she knows how this goes, how and when she'll see the stars, but she doesn't want to let go.

"Please, Elena," he begs, his eyes shut and his mouth open in prayer, begging her to let go as if he can sense her resistance.

But she doesn't want to lose control of this moment; the pain, the pleasure, his breath and hers, and she didn't come here seeking some sexual gratification—only the resolute knowledge that she would finally became a part of him. So she grips him, curling her thighs behind his hips and clenching down upon him, feeling him fill her up and empty her, tearing her apart as his hips moving more erratically now.

"Elena," he says again, drawing out the 'na' and hissing as she moves her teeth to his neck, needing all of him now. She bites down, rough and inexperienced, and it's not at all deep, but it's enough to draw the blood which she swallows greedily.

Then he's gripping her as though she is his only anchor to this earth and there's a moment of absolute still, like the calm before a storm. He looks at her, quiet and unmoving as a statue, then he's emptying himself inside of her, bursting with wave after wave of his love for her, and she feels as though she's drowning.

And when it's all over, there's a sense of loss that wasn't there before. Like she's given too much of herself over to him, and there's no way she can get it back. He looks at her then, eyes bright and smile wide, and Elena realizes that she has made a grave mistake in coming here tonight. Because even if she lives tomorrow, she'll always remember this devastating feeling of this loss; this empty cavern that he has carved into her which is left bare without his presence.

"Make me forget," she says suddenly, and his face contorts with such honest, brutal agony that she almost regrets it.

But in the next second he's moving back to her, pinning her to the bed and holding her down with nothing but the weight of his eyes. And she watches, unable to look away, as his pupils dilate; first so large that his eyes are almost completely black, then small enough to make her feel lost in the bright blue of his iris'.

"You will not forget this," he says, and he grips her tight enough to bruise. "You will remember this night exactly as it happened until the day you die, and you won't regret it." Something wet falls against her cheek, and she cannot look away as his eyes begin to weep. "And if I die tomorrow, you will always know how much I loved you, and you will think back to this night and know it meant more to me than my entire life."

When he breaks whatever spell he had upon her, she takes a deep, shuddering breath, the air around her suddenly not enough and all too much at once.

"I love you," he says again, cheeks flushed with her own blood; binding her to him, even now, marking them as one.

Then he leans forward, placing an unbearably soft kiss against her mouth, before he walks away without another word; footsteps slapping heavily against the floor like some sad, awful round of applause.