Please excuse any mistakes, I didn't edit this. I am very tired and wanted to post before I went to bed! Please enjoy!

American Thighs

Chapter 6: Recurring Nightmare

Trigger Warning: Suicide Attempt

Clary slipped into Isabelle's apartment, thankful her best friend had given her a key. It was just past two in the morning, and she found the beauty asleep in the middle of her Temperapedic mattress, her glossy black hair contained in two long braids.

Clary felt bad waking her up, but slipped beneath the covers anyway, snuggling into her friend's side as she stirred. "Unnnghhh?" she grumbled as she stretched, slipping the purple eye mask onto her forehead. "Clary?" she asked a bit more coherently as she dragged her arm across her mouth. "Thank, God. I thought you were some one night stand who'd returned to cuddle."

Clary made a face. "Did you have sex in this bed tonight?" Isabelle smirked.

"I'm too kinky to have sex in a bed."

"Hot damn, Isabelle. Dial it back a bit." Izzy merely shrugged, settling back against the pillows and rolling her eyes to the ceiling.

"What brings you to my humble abode at this—"
"Jace saw me stripping to his song," she interrupted, focusing her eyes on the center of the ceiling fan as it twirled around.

"Shut up." Clary shook her head, wishing it was merely a bad dream. The bed jostled as Isabelle shot up, slipping directly into Clary's line of vision. "What did he say?"

Clary bit her lip, fighting back the tears. Isabelle knew that Clary loved Jace, not that she'd been—and still was—in love with Jace. "That he'd just fucked a stripper."

"What a jackass." Clary just shrugged but was thankful her friend was able to wade through the bullshit and wrapped an arm around her.

"It was just awkward." She felt Izzy's fingers toying with the ends of her curls, murmuring something she couldn't hear. "What?"

She cleared her throat a bit. "I was just saying that it couldn't have been too awkward since he's seen it all before." Clary jerked back from her friend's touch, blushing fiercly.

"You knew?!" Isabelle laughed light.

"Of course I knew! You're my best friend, and he's my brother! It was wayyyy too obvious when the sexual tension suddenly disappeared from the room."

Clary bit her lip, lost in the memories playing like a movie in the back of her mind.

She sat up, her hair like wild flames whipping around her face as she quickly took in her surroundings. She heaved a sigh, her head falling against the headboard with a soft thud.

She'd been having a reoccurring nightmare for the past week, all revolving around her parent's divorce, around her father's drug-induced exit, his fingers biting into her skin as he attempted to drag her out with him, Jonathon following numbly as Clary struggled to get free.

"What are you doing here?" she asked reflexively, stiffening as the sound of the secret door connecting her and Jace's bedrooms opened. His figure was shadowed as he stood to his full six-foot-one height. Normally, a sixteen-year-old girl would be terrified of a tall, dark man looming in the corner of her room, but Clary only felt comfort, security.

"You left your window open. I heard you scream." It was a simple explanation as the bed jostled with his weight, his warm arms enveloping her still shaking frame. "Same dream?" he inquired softly, resting his chin in her curls. She nodded mutely, her fingers clutching the soft fabric of his t-shirt, her eyes screwed shut to hold back the tears.

"I'm sorry, Jace. You must think I'm ridiculous." Jace shushed her softly as she moved to pull away, instead holding her closer and settling them on the bed.

"Losing a parent is hell, whether to death or divorce. It's normal to feel this way." His breath displaced her curls, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. His past no longer pained him.

He didn't talk about his parents' death, didn't revisit their London home, didn't keep any pictures of them. And she didn't pressure him to talk about it. He'd broken his walls a few times to talk about the abuse he'd suffered in foster homes, to tell her he'd watched his mother die, to let her kiss his scars that he thought were ugly, weak. But she never pushed the subject.

"I just feel so ridiculous," she whispered through her silent tears, her body curling closer to his as he tightened their embrace. He offered no words as he ran his fingers up her back, feather-light touches against her skin.

She felt her sadness ebbing away, replaced with something more, something equivalent to a fire racing through her veins. She found her breathing becoming labored, her skin heated. "Jace?" she inquired, craning her neck to meet his eyes.

"Mmm?" was his reply as his molten irises found hers, his thumb maneuvering between them to wipe a tearstain from her cheek.

"Is anyone awake in your house?" His eyes darkened immediately as he shook his head, taking on that hooded expression that always accompanied their secret meetings. Her face inched closer to his, his arms loosening only to pull their faces together, their lips molding into one another.

One of his hands tangled into her hair while the other rubbed circles against her back, his tongue darting out to trace her lips. She pushed herself against him, her hardened nipples pressing through the fabric of his shirt and into his chest.

Suddenly they were wearing too many layers.

Her hands were shaking as she reached for the hem of his t-shirt, thankful when he aided in pulling it over his head, casting it aside without a second thought.

Initially, he'd been self-conscious around her, tentative to let her feel his skin, terrified of what she might think of the scars. She'd often had to coax him out of his shirt, run her fingers across the hard planes of his chest without lingering too much on one spot.

Now, she could skim her fingers up his abs, loving how they clenched beneath her touch. She could rest her palm over her name across his heart, kiss the thrumming skin lightly as his lips fell to her neck.

She moaned, dropping her head back to give him access to the creamy skin of her throat. She let him push the camisole to just underneath her breasts, his warm hands hovering in a silent question. Her heart was hammering as she pulled it over her head, her pebbled nipples enveloped by his big hands as he kissed her heavily on the mouth.

Her gasp was caught on his tongue as he tweaked her breasts just right, and she felt him smirking. She pushed herself up at him, her thin underwear against his boxers, his excitement evident. "Clary," he growled, his voice strained as his hooded eyes looked down at her. "I feel like I'm taking advantage of you."

She brought her fingers up to his face, smoothing out the worried lines on his forehead. They'd talked about it plenty of times before, progressed to when they were both naked, panting and ready before she freaked out and said she couldn't go through with it. He'd respected her each time, quickly pulling his clothes back on and kissing her forehead as she drifted to sleep.

Now, though, something was different. She didn't feel scared or anxious. She felt empowered, decided. "I want this, Jace. I'm ready." His eyes flickered across her face for a moment, searching for any sign of doubt before his mouth latched on to one of her breasts, his fingers dragging her panties down at an agonizingly slow pace. "I love you," she whispered into the darkness, her lips seeking his.

"I love you, too, Clarissa Morgenstern," he answered breathily, his nose sliding between her breasts, his lips dragging lightly between her hip bones. "I love you so damn much." Their eyes connected before his tongue darted out to taste her, simultaneous moans filling the room as Clary's head fell back against the pillows.

Jace flattened his tongue along her slit, moving at a slow, rhythmic pace. She whimpered beneath him, bucking her hips into his face to get more friction, trying to pull her thighs together to relieve the aching in her core.

Jace laughed, his cool breath fanning over her hot center in a way that made her fist the sheets. He held her thighs apart as his tongue dipped inside her. "Jace," she breathed, weaving her fingers into his golden curls in an attempt to pull him up to her. Her insides turned to mush when he rose from between her legs, a small smirk tugging at one side of his mouth. "Jace, I need you."

He crawled up her body, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand before she pulled their lips together. She could taste herself on him, and she heard a low rumble in the back of his throat. She could tell he was conflicted, both lust and worry flashing in his beautiful golden orbs. "You know I'm not a virgin, right?" Clary nodded, unconcerned. They'd had these conversations plenty of times, mostly her telling him that she didn't care and him apologizing for not waiting.

"Please, Jace," was all she said now as she grinded their hips together, her eyes fluttering shut at the sensations washing over her. He captured her lips, removing his boxers with one hand as he reached into the drawer of her bedside table, where he'd stashed condoms for when the time was right.

"You're sure, baby?" His face hovered over her, open and unclouded with desire as he ensured she was completely comfortable.

"I love you, Jace," she breathed, opening the condom and rolling it onto him herself, knowing nothing would progress so long as Jace kept asking her how she felt.

She felt something in him snap then, his arm slipping beneath her back to position her right where he wanted, his member teasing her entrance as she hooked her heels around his back. "I'll be gentle." He kissed every inch of her skin he could reach as he began to move forward, searing pain ripping through her body.

He stopped as she gasped, a single tear slipping from her cheek. "We can stop any time. Do you want to stop?" She shook her head, lifting her hips so he was buried deeper inside of her, ignoring the pain she felt as she pushed him through her barrier, aroused by his groan at being completely enveloped in her walls. "Tell me when to move." She waited until the pain dulled, bringing their lips together and opening her mouth to his probing tongue to tell him he could move.

He did. Slowly, at first, but soon, her pain shifted to pleasure, and she found herself prompting him to go faster, to go deeper. She could barely hear the mattress squeaking over the roaring in her ears as Jace's lips found purchase on her neck, one hand dipping between their connected bodies to circle the sensitive nub at the apex of her legs.

"Jace!" she cried softly, panic flooding her voice. "No, don't stop!" she nearly yelled when his motions slowed. He smirked knowingly then, increasing the speed of his ministrations until her walls were clamping around him, his own orgasm following hers as he collapsed on top of her, their sweaty chests heaving into one another.

They were both spent, but Jace found it in him to rise and slip into the adjoining bathroom, returning seconds later without the condom and with a warm rag. "Here," he breathed tenderly, settling the warm cloth between her legs. "You're going to be sore." He looked almost ashamed at himself as he kneeled at the edge of her bed. She kissed him, hoping it dispersed his worries.

"Can you stay with me? The dreams never come when you're around." He nodded quickly, climbing into the bed beside her and settling the covers around them both. "I love you, Jace."

"I love you, too."

X.O.X.O.X

The light made his head pound as he rose from where he'd passed out on the couch, the television still playing quietly in the background as he sought a bottle of Gatorade. The news didn't seem particularly interest in him that morning, so he concluded he hadn't made a complete ass of himself after ditching Jordan at the strip club and bouncing from bar to scummy bar.

He smelled like liquor, the sickening taste of stale booze on his tongue as he gulped the red drink greedily, gulping a few aspirin with it. His joints ached, his neck having a kink in it from sleeping on his mom's fancy leather sofa.

He couldn't get the image of her out of his head, the way her hips gyrated to the pace his own voice had set, the way her hooded eyes dripped sex appeal as they slid slowly across the crowd, the way her curls seemed to be set aflame by the burning stage lights.

And he hated it.

He'd wanted to yank her from the view of every horny man in sight, to cover her with his own t-shirt and chauffer her to his house. He didn't want her to think that was the only way she could make money, that her life had come to that all because of him. He wanted to go back and kill the idea of returning to London before it even took root in his brain. He wanted to prepare her for his departure. He wanted to bring her with.

Anything to change what he just saw—what everyone just saw.

He skimmed his fingers through his sweaty hair, sighing heavily as he dragged his sore body into the steamy shower, sickened by his own arousal.

He shouldn't objectify Clary like that. It was Clary. She deserved respect. She deserved someone who wanted her for more than her body, someone to put her needs before his own and love her unconditionally.

He knew he should let the hot water roll down his aching muscles, to relieve some tension in his back and calves as he washed away the shame of yesterday, but he cranked the dial to cold. A punishment for being so stupid, so weak. He shivered with gritted teeth as his manhood deflated unsatisfied. It was the least he could do for the girl he still loved.

"Shit," he cursed, realizing he'd finally allowed himself to admit it, even if it was in the privacy of his own thoughts. He was still undeniably and irrevocably in love with Clarissa Morgenstern. It was too bad he wasn't what she deserved.

He scrubbed the towel through his hair, wrapping it loosely on his hips before pushing through the door. "Fuck, Maia!" he shouted in shock as he ran into her on the other side. He was thankful he'd thought to brush his teeth before his shower, knowing Maia would be pissed if she could smell what he'd done last night.

"Well, at least buy me dinner first," she greeted, blushing slightly as she averted her gaze to the planner in her hand. He couldn't find an ounce of arrogance in his body, not even enough to smirk as he excused himself momentarily to slip on a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt.

She ticked off his schedule for the day. A public appearance at the mall and lunch with Kaelie. Filming was to happen in between, though they only needed shots of him being stupid and doing funny things. Thankfully, both came naturally to him, hungover or not. He slipped on his jacket as Maia called for a car to be brought around.

X.O.X.O.X

"The barista keeps shooting you weird looks," Simon muttered as he stirred his coffee with the tip of his finger, a habit of his that made Clary a bit queasy. Didn't he know how many germs were on the human skin? I'm checking the temperature, he'd always respond at her disgust, and she'd just shake her head.

"Is there something on my face?" she responded flatly, dropping a few curls in front of her face to hide the blush on her cheeks. Ever since her audition for Jace Race she's been getting noticed all around New York. She'd been the subject of many unflattering pictures, mostly selfies with teenage girls who were simply excited because she'd talked to Jace Herondale. Little did they know she'd done much more with said Herondale.

"Clary? Where'd you go?" Simon asked as she blinked and turned her attention away from the barista, who was currently fumbling as she made drinks. She scrubbed her hand down her face, hoping she'd put on enough concealer to hide the bags beneath her eyes.

"Just overwhelmed is all." Simon reached over and placed his hand on top of hers, a gesture that would make Sebastian's blood boil. "I should have never let Isabelle talk me into this." At that, Simon smiled.

"I must meet this illusive Isabelle who forced the most stubborn woman I know to do something she didn't want to." Clary narrowed her eyes at him.

"She's a famous model, Si. She's hardly 'illusive.'" Simon merely shrugged.

"Do I look like I keep up with fashion?" Clary had to crack a grin as she took in his ragged t-shirt that read Please cancel my subscription to your issues. He smiled and shook his head at her as he used his coffee stained finger to push his glasses up his nose.

She dropped her cheek to her hand, sipping lightly at her coffee. "I just have to tell Raphael I need to take some time off to pursue my singing career," she whispered, already dreading the conversation she'd planned for the night.

Simon's brow furrowed. "He's your friend. He should support your dreams and help you toward your goals." Clary snorted.

"Yeah, but in pushing me out of the nest to fly, he loses his most popular entertainment."

"Okay, first of all, ew, Clary. We promised to never speak of your job because it crosses so many lines of our friendship. Second of all, Sebastian shouldn't see you that way. He should see you as a person, not as a business venture."

She nodded, thumbing open her phone to check the time. "I've got to get back," she grumbled, remembering Jordan's email about daily trainings and filming. She quickly squeezed Simon, turning around and bumping into a firm chest. Surprisingly familiar tattooed hands reached out to right her before she could stumble backward.

"Jace," she greeted without enthusiasm as she glanced up to meet his gaze. She could see the turmoil in those golden eyes, a clear division between pain and arrogance that sometimes she only thought she could see. The media portrayed Jace as the most desired man in the world—handsome, funny, and joyful—yet in every picture she could see the sadness, the empty ache that had threatened to consume him his entire life. She'd once thought that she had filled that void, but now it was obvious she was wrong.

"I'm sorry, Rissa," he breathed, running an anxious hand through his hair as he returned his cellphone to his pocket. "I wasn't paying attention."

"Obviously," she hissed, but her chest panged with guilt instantly. Jace showed no emotional reaction to her harshness as he sidestepped her, nervously eyeing the poised cameras and accumulating crowd.

"There she is!" Jordan cried as she pushed through the door to the large conference room they were meeting in. All the tables and chairs had been removed, leaving an empty space with vaulted ceilings and thirty or so people milling about. She cringed inwardly as his arm slipped across her shoulders, directing her to the corner where people were beginning to gather. "We were worried you weren't going to show," he said as he released her, clapping his hand against his clipboard excitedly.

She chanced a glance toward the cameras, noting they were trained on her face. "Of course I was going to show. This is simply too great of an opportunity to pass up." She added a smile as Jordan nodded in approval, turning his attention toward another contestant breezing through the door. The tension in her shoulders released as she disappeared among the crowd.

"Hi, I'm Aline," a girl next to her greeted, sticking out her palm for a handshake. Her grip was delicate, like a butterfly, while Clary's was one that would crush its wings.

"Clary," she responded immediately, releasing Aline's hand. She was a pretty girl, with almond-shaped eyes the color of chocolate and shoulder, length sleek hair. She couldn't have been older than twenty, with perfectly contoured cheekbones and an aggressive cat-eye.

"Oh! You're the only one to move on from the New York auditions." Clary blinked, prompting an explanation from the younger woman. "Apparently after you walked off stage, the crew was in such awe of your talent that nobody else made the cut." Clary snorted.

"I'm not that good." Aline gave her a tight-lipped smile, her expression suddenly hostile as she backed away. Clary's brows knit together in confusion as she watched her sashay away in her snakeskin mini, before shrugging and deciding she wasn't here to make friends.

"Alright ladies and gents," Jordan called to attention, a tanned Maia positioned at his side barking something into a Bluetooth earpiece. "Today we are going to introduce you to your vocal coaches." A large round of applause was quieted immediately by Jordan's raised hands. "When I call your name please gather in a group to the right of me."

Clary's mind drifted as he rambled off a list of ten or so meaningless names, watching each giddy contestant sidle up after the next, eyes trained on the doorway to see which celebrity artist they would be working with.

It barely peaked her attention when Katy Perry waltzed through the door in a short purple dress, electric blue hair contrasting with her bright pink lips. From the few famous people she'd met in her life, including her father, she was not impressed.

Her heart only fluttered a little when her name was called for the next group, landing her a position next to a burly man with tattooed arms and a half-shaved head. "Please turn your attention to the right to meet your mentor." Clary's heart dropped when she saw a familiar face poke through the door, white-blond hair that was entirely too long hanging in front of his black eyes. He waved to the cameras, his beloved guitar slung across his shoulder blades as he reached out and shook the men's hands, enveloping the fainting girls in hugs before his eyes landed on her.

His face drained of all color, his body stiffening as he leaned down to wrap her in a hug. It was unlike the warm hugs they used to share when she was younger. It was devoid of emotion, like hugging a robot. It only lasted for a millisecond before he moved on.

Her heart hammered in her chest, regretting every decision that led her to this point. She needed to get out of the room, to shield herself from the scrutinizing gaze of every person in this room, feeling their eyes on her back as they traced her every motion, sizing up the only competition from New York.

Jordan had barely started listing the next group of people before she slipped from the room, dashing down the hallway to find an open door, memories blinding her vision.

She remembered that night like the back of her hand, the dagger sliced open the last stitch that held her family together and uprooted everything she'd ever known.

The doorknob jiggled uselessly beneath her fingertips as she used the heel of her hand to beat on the door again. Jetlag she'd reasoned at the lack of response from her brother, cursing his overwhelming need for privacy and locking his doors, though she'd always sworn up and down she'd never enter his room without knocking and permission.

Hell, this wasn't even his room. It was her room in the apartment she was renting while she attended the university, costing her a pretty penny which she paid for in blood and hours at her mother's gallery. Still, she found herself begging for access as the sun continued to creep into the winter sky.

He'd crept in early this morning, around three a.m., returning from a gig in Las Vegas where he opened for a rock band she couldn't name, and she'd already been passed out on the couch, forcing him to take her bed. Had she been awake, he'd have been pissed. Ever the gentleman.

"Jonathon, please open the door," she pleaded dramatically. "I have class in an hour, and I'd really like to see my brother. We can get coffee. I'll pay."

A feeling of unease settled in her stomach as she was met with an eerie silence. Jonathon had always been a light sleeper, waking up at the beat of a fly's wings. Her knocking and grumbling should have been more than enough to roust him from the deepest slumber.

She found herself digging the nail of her thumb into the cheap lock and turning it, her heart pounding in her ears. Either he'd be pissed she'd broken her one promise, or he'd still be asleep and she could back away freely.

She was not prepared for what was on the other side of that door.

Her brother was sprawled on the bed, taking up the entire mattress the way he always had. She smirked to herself, remembering how she'd always forced Max to share a bed with him in hotels because Jonathon would always push him to the floor.

One arm dangled off the edge, his head turned toward the window with opened curtains. It was peculiar that the light hadn't woken him as she slipped forward, her feet like a ghost's on the carpet as she leaned over his slumbering frame.

Only he wasn't slumbering.

His eyes were open. Unblinking.

And a bottle of pills rested in his limp hand.

And he wasn't breathing.

"Jonathon!" Her heart lurched as she sprung into action, somehow mustering the energy to drag her brother's lifeless form into the shower of her bathroom, cranking it to cold and letting it run over his face as she leaned his head forward.

She didn't even think as she gripped his head, jamming her fingers down his throat until he finally coughed and vomited, still unmoving in her arms.

She continued even as she dialed 911, struggling to remain calm as she recited her address and the emergency.

The operator asked when he'd taken the pills.

She replied that she didn't know.

The medics had applauded her quick thinking as they sped Jonathon to the hospital, her following closely behind in a hand-me-down Cavalier, a crinkled note she'd taken from the bedstand in her pocket. The sirens haunted her every waking moment as she paced the waiting room.

She called her mom. She called Seb. Isabelle. Simon. She even called Jace.

It was no surprise that it went to voicemail.

"I just, thought you should know that…Jonathon overdosed this morning, and they…don't know if he's going to make it," she repeated with an alarming sense of calm after his message had played. She knew he wouldn't call back. She wasn't even sure if that was his number anymore.

She didn't dwell on it as her friends and family encircled her. He was alive and stable, his stomach pumped of the drugs, but they didn't know how his brain activity would be. So they huddled in a circle in the waiting room, crying over a scrap of paper that might be all that was left of him.

I'll always love you, it read. But everyone was left to wonder who the message was for.

She pushed through a heavy door, finding a couch on the other side to throw herself onto, burying her face into her hands to hide the tears. Why did it have to be Jonathon? There were thousands of other singers to choose from, and it just had to be her brother.

Her chest began heaving with silent sobs as she refused to let the tears fall, to smudge the makeup she'd so painstakingly applied today while Isabelle Skyped her to make sure it looked exactly right. Isabelle had finally just said it would have to do.

That was the story of her life.

It would have to do.

She'd been settling on so much of her life because that's all she was worthy of. She could only ever be average in attractiveness, average at singing, average at life.

Even all the men in her life had left her for something better, something more.

It's hard not to fall into the depth of her memories when they're screaming to be heard, to be brought back to the day she lost her naivety.

"Jace pick up the damn phone," she'd growled, pressing her palm to her forehead as she paced the four-foot length of her bathroom. It was all she could do to hold back tears as she adverted her eyes from the stick resting on the edge of the sink. She flipped it shut as she twisted her fingers into her hair, curling into the ball on the floor until her mother found her that way, crippled by her own fear as the test showed two pink lines.

Her mother held her like Jace should have, shushed her cries instead of bubbling with anger. Jonathon was born when her mother was seventeen. She knew what it was like.

She sniffled, her heart leaping into her throat as someone cleared their throat, drawing her attention up.

She was met with golden eyes, curious and nonjudgmental as she swiped her nose on her sleeve. "I'm sorry, I didn't know anyone was here," she mumbled, lifting her body from the couch to leave.

Her eyes didn't move fast enough to miss his bare torso, chiseled abs morphing into a defined v and disappearing into a low-slung pair of jeans. She could see hundreds of black, inky lines, twisting up his arms and over his shoulders, across his chest to form loops and twists, and in the middle of it all was her name, written in plain Arial font, with a thin heart permanently beside it. She felt the memory of her own sting on her ribs before averting her gaze.

"Rissa," Jace started, moving toward her with an outstretched arm. She bit her lip, hating and loving that old nickname only he'd ever used for her. "What's wrong?"

She looked at her shoes, the beat-up red Chucks she'd had since college, torn between pouring her soul out and not wanting to look like a fool. "It's nothing," she finally settled on, lifting her gaze to meet his. It was so familiar and so different all at once. She'd memorized the flecks, the outer rim that was just a shade darker. She'd remembered how she'd see them blazing through the night as he hovered above her, just a thin halo of gold around his dilated pupils. Now, they had purple bags beneath them, wrinkles at the edges. Laugh lines—a sign of a happy life.

"This doesn't look like nothing. I know you and—"
"You know me?!" she shouted, her hair almost turning to flames in her anger. "As I recall, I'm no longer considered one of your friends." She flushed, embarrassed she'd referenced his interview, but he didn't seem to notice.

"You've always been my friend—"
"Bullshit," she seethed, sticking her finger into his chest. "You left me. You left me alone to deal with my fractured family, to get evicted from the brownstone, to nearly lose my brother to a drug induced coma he'd put himself in after a concert my father set up for him." She scoffed. "And now he's a guest star on this fucking joke of a show, probably just to spite me and send me home because you don't know how to deal with your problems like a man."

She'd always thought this of him, that he'd rather run away from the truth than face it head on. It was one of his few faults, namely the one he refused to acknowledge.

"Clary, I just—"
"Did you fuck someone on this couch, too?" she asked in disgust as she turned her attention back to the couch. "I hope you've been using protection because at this rate you'll be in debt with all your child support payments."

She turned on her heel, then, her chest a nuclear explosion as the door fell closed between them.

And it felt good.

It felt good to not be so average.

It felt good to be bad.

All My Love

~BallinBlonde21