damon/elenaau: zombie apocalypse

She doesn’t hide it, the affection and desire in her gaze, in her smiles, sometimes. (He’s all that’s left. He’s too much and not enough.) It doesn’t feel all that damning to have nothing else, sometimes.

He smiles back, something lewd and challenging on his tongue. (-something sharp and biting and cruel.) He simply drinks his fill of her, eyes roaming over her tan legs, the sheen of sweat on her shoulders, the curves in between. (-invades her space, reminds her there’s nothing else, no one else, they are alone and so she should hate him, please, please, please.) One day it’s just too hot and she sheds her threadbare tank top, spends hours in nothing but jean shorts and a lacy bra with weak straps. (She slams the car door shut and every step shackles her tighter to him, frees her in all the ways she never wants to be free; she hates him, she hates him, she hates him and it’s more than she’s ever loved anyone.) She reclines her chair back all the way and takes in the passing sky and watches him watching her. His eyes are hooded. Her fingers trace circles on her stomach as she dozes.

It makes me human, she thinks, and aches deep in her chest. (Just drive, she says, because she never makes it far.)