Steamy Movie Crossover Contest

Name of story: "We Bury Love"

Penname: Kitschisme

Movie or TV Show: Six Feet Under

Main Character Pairing: Edward and Bella


To read the rest of the entries for this contest, go to the Steamy Movie Crossover Contest C2.

If you want to see the rules, go to TheThreeSmutketeers profile page.

If you have any other questions, contact ObessingoverEdward, Jayeliwood, or TheSpoiltOne-amanda2505.

Contest ends February 5, 2009


We bury love,
Forgetfulness grows over it like grass;
That is a thing to weep for, not the dead.

- A Boy's Poem, Alexander Smith

Have you ever heard the expression "You are what you do"? I've always hated that phrase. I even hated it as a child when it hung on the little plaque above my parents' hideous green kitchen walls. Even then, I recognized it as being so presumptuous, so . . . limiting. Just because a person has a dream, doesn't mean they have the means to achieve it. Sometimes we just have to settle; sometimes, we just have to get by.

Some people build things, and other people break them down. Some people cause problems, and other people solve them. Everyone has their purpose; that convenient little niche they fit into where they feel like they can actually do some good in this world.

I happen to work with dead people.

It wasn't always like this; I wasn't always like this. Young, intelligent, and Ivy League educated, I'd had the world at my fingertips. There was a time when I would have made a great lawyer, or a doctor, or even a college professor. But the further I moved toward that imaginary goal in the dark recesses of my future, the more unhappy I became, and the more I started to question if that was really what I wanted. As a child, I was always very happy, very outgoing; but it seemed like the older I got, the more introverted I became. I continued to recede into my shell to the point where the people I knew hardly even recognized me anymore, and I hardly even recognized myself. I had absolutely no idea who I was or what I wanted.

So I dropped out of college. Some might argue that wasn't the greatest idea, but, I personally think it was exactly what I needed at the time. I needed to find myself; I needed to figure out what made me happy. I couldn't go home to my parents, obviously; to them, dropping out of Harvard was the equivalent of getting knocked up with a crack baby and offering it up for ritual satanic sacrifice. So I hit the road, without any family or friends to speak of and no school or a job to tie me down. I was finally free to do what I wanted, to live my life . . . and I was totally alone. But I soldiered on, never one to feel sorry for myself. I took a Greyhound bus to different cities throughout the U.S., sometimes stopping and staying for a while, sometimes not. I found work easily; at shops, at restaurants, and finally . . . at a funeral home.

Believe me, if you had asked me when I was five years old what I wanted to be when I grew up, my answer would certainly not have been "cosmetological embalming technician." Yet here I am. I have to be honest, though; it's really not so bad. Once you get used to the smell, that is. But I actually enjoy working with corpses, as crazy as that sounds. They're great listeners, although I know they can't actually hear me. They don't blabber on the way most of my previous acquaintances had, and for that reason I find their presence peaceful instead of creepy. I always try to remember their faces, always trying to imagine in my mind who they were and what their lives must have been like.

I tend to get more attached to some than others, though, and I found this one I was currently working on to be particularly intriguing. I glanced at the identification tag attached to her big toe, which read "Elizabeth Masen". "Elizabeth" was a fairly traditional name, undoubtedly passed down in her family through generations. Whereas "Masen" was not a common surname, but it still had this sort of mundane air about it. Like Jones. Or Williams. This woman was nothing special. She was absolutely ordinary, and it was obvious just from looking at her that she had spent her entire life trying to rise above her own limited expectations. I knew exactly how she felt, and for that reason I decided I would call her Betty. "Elizabeth" was a boring name, anyway.

She was younger than I would have expected, probably no older than sixty. Her skin was not wrinkled, but I could tell by the unnatural way it stretched across her face that she had been the recipient of multiple Botox injections. Her nails were long, but yellow; the sickly kind of yellow that results from multiple decades of smoking. The coroner's report had mentioned severe liver damage, so I knew she was a drinker. Her hair was thin and brittle, and dyed an unnatural shade of red that did not match the faded bronze of her eyelashes. There was a collection of deep-set lines surrounding her thin mouth that could only have come about from prolonged periods of fierce scowling, and I wondered when the last time was that Betty had smiled.

I put her in the plain navy blue dress her family had left for her, and sighed. "Still not looking so good, Betty," I muttered sadly. So I took a few liberties with her makeup, dusting a light layer of powder across her skin and swiping a bright red across her thin lips. I painted her nails in the same vibrant color. I fastened a string of pearls around her neck and stepped back to admire my creation. Once she seemed fit to send off I returned her to her respective refrigerated compartment. Several hours later, after working on a Matthews and a Hendrickson and a Johnson, I switched off the lights in the basement and gathered my things to go home.

A loud murmur of voices echoed down the narrow stairwell as I climbed, and it occurred to me that it must have been time for Betty's service. I tiptoed slowly and quietly along the entryway, and concealed myself behind the nearest half wall so I could peek around and get a closer look.

The gathering was small, with not more than ten or fifteen people in attendance. Most of them were late middle-aged, like Betty was, and I could tell just from a cursory glance they were all bluebloods. Men in suits, ladies with vibrant feathered hats and diamonds the size of gumballs weighing down their boney fingers. The air in the room was clouded with the choking scent of thick perfume and cologne, but even more palpable was their insincerity. Most of them just seemed bored; they were obviously there out of obligation rather than affection. But thankfully, my eyes swept over the small and disgenuine scattering of people over toward Betty's casket, and that was when I saw him.

The tall figure was leaning over Betty's casket. His shoulders were hunched, and his head hung in a way so that several pieces of his messy hair fell forward across his forehead. I took in its unique bronze coloring, and without a doubt recognized him to be Betty's son. He was very handsome, but that was not necessarily what held my gaze; I was more interested in his facial expression. He looked not so much sad, but contemplative; which was strange, considering his mother had just died. Equally as odd, He was standing alone by the casket with no one else in the group speaking directly to him. He looked just about as isolated as I felt most of the time. There was a look in his eye that I couldn't quite distinguish, and I would have given anything in that moment to know what he was thinking.

It was the strangest thing, feeling such burning curiosity toward a person I had never even met before. I considered briefly the possibility of going over to speak to him, but what could I have said? "Hi there. I'm the creepy girl from the basement who did your mother's dead person makeup." Yes, I'm sure that would have gone over quite smoothly. How very charming.

I was still contemplating my dilemma when, without warning, his eyes suddenly shot directly over to the spot where I was standing. It seemed almost as if he were looking straight through me, his eyes burning a hole into the back of my skull. His brow furrowed for the briefest moment and then immediately smoothed again as he turned back to face the casket. With one last lingering look at his mother's face, the young man turned and headed for the exit.

I let out a shaky sigh of relief, releasing the air I hadn't even been aware that I was holding. My hands were shaking, and my palms sweating from our brief moment of eye contact. My moment of relief was interrupted, however, as I realized that I would have to walk out the front in order to leave; I would have to walk right past him. I briefly considered the possibility of trying to sneak out the bathroom window, and then scolded myself for being such a chicken.

Don't be a coward. I repeated this mantra to myself over and over and over again as I headed toward the exit. I pushed the door open with shaking fingers and suppressed a tiny squeak of terror when I realized that my worst fears had been confirmed. He was leaning with his back against the building's brick wall, dragging slowly from a cigarette. His seemed lost in his own thoughts, entirely unaware of my presence. It would have been all too easy for me to sneak by without having to talk to him, but I snuck one closer look at his face, and leaving was suddenly no longer an option. It took mere seconds for me to realize that he was the single most attractive person I had ever seen. That bronze hair, those intense eyes, that flawless bone structure . . .

"Hey," I blurted without thinking.

He looked up toward the sound of my voice, and my breath caught in my throat as his lips curved up into a breathtaking crooked smile. "Hey."

"Can I bum a smoke?" Can I bum a smoke? Seriously, Bella? I hadn't had a cigarette since my freshman year of college; I only took one drag from it, and I didn't even inhale.

"Sure," he replied graciously, digging in his jacket pocket for a pack of Parliaments. He moved one cigarette from the pack and held it out to me pinched between his thumb and his forefinger.

I took it from him tentatively, and held it up to my mouth before I realized something was missing . . . My brow furrowed, and then I looked up to find him with another crooked smile on his face.

"I think you might be needing this," he said, moving toward me with a lighter already extended. Then he took the cigarette from my mouth and turned it around so the tinted edge was facing me.

"Thanks," I muttered, blushing about a million shades of red. Could I possibly be more of a socially maladjusted freak?

He didn't seem bothered by it, however, and extended the lighter toward me once again. I watched as he held its flame over the tip, causing it to glow in vibrant oranges and reds. I inhaled just the tiniest bit, and immediately erupted into a violent fit of coughing.

His expression twisted in the oddest way, and it occurred to me suddenly that he was trying not to laugh at me.

"You don't smoke." It wasn't a question.

I cleared my throat before swallowing convulsively. "Only on special occasions."

I immediately realized the insensitivity of my own words, but he merely cocked his head to the side contemplatively. "And you consider tonight a special occasion?"

"Well, I like to think of burial services as a celebration of a person's life, rather than mourning for their death." God, I was terrible at this.

His expression abruptly turned sad again before he returned his gaze to the ground and toed his shoe against the asphalt. "Did you know her?"

"Betty and I worked together." Well, it wasn't exactly a lie.

He raised an eyebrow. "Betty?"

I wanted to smack myself. "Sorry, I meant Elizabeth."

"Betty," he repeated, a small smile tugging up at the corners of his lips. "I like that. It suits her."

I wondered briefly if I should say something to him about his mother, offer my condolences, but my better judgment suggested against it. Instead I just decided to remain silent. He smiled fondly at me, and I smiled warmly back, and we stood there staring at each other for one very long moment. The silence was peaceful, but it eventually began to eat away at me as lulls in conversations always did, and I spoke my next words without thinking.

"Would you like to go somewhere with me?" And then it was too late; the words were out before I could stop them. Mortified, and I briefly considered diving under the nearest car and hiding there until he went away. But again I found myself incapable of moving, and I stayed glued to the spot as I waited for his answer.

He took one last long drag from his cigarette before flicking it onto the asphalt. I saw his lips curve up into an even bigger smile as he exhaled a heavy stream of smoke, and to my utter astonishment, he said: "Sure."

He crooked his arm at the elbow and extended it toward me. It stared at it, uncomprehending, until I heard his low chuckle and finally understood the gesture's meaning. I slipped my hand through the open space and gently curled my fingers around his bicep. He smiled down at me, giving my hand a gentle squeeze before we set off together arm-in-arm across the parking lot. I caught a brief glimpse of Mike Newton, the funeral home director, walking out to his car. I gave him a tentative smile and wave, but he merely gazed back at us with a strange expression. It was odd, but I shrugged it off. Maybe he didn't recognize me; I hadn't been working for him that long.

Frankly, my mind was far more preoccupied at the moment trying to figure out why this gorgeous specimen of a man currently on my arm would want to go anywhere with me. I would have liked to say that I was absolutely plain and ordinary, but that wouldn't have been exactly true. I was different from most people . . . in all the wrong ways. And he was, well . . . perfect; in every possible way imaginable. But extraordinary good looks aside, he was also quickly turning out to be one of the most intriguing and fascinating people I had ever met. Sure, he was a little shy and quiet; but I kind of liked that about him. We were similar in that regard.

I had no idea why he was talking to me, but I would have been lying if I said I wasn't happy that he was. As if in an answer to that thought, he gave my arm another gentle squeeze. I looked up to find him staring at me with another one of those crooked grins I had immediately become so fond of. "I'm Edward, by the way," he said, extending his free arm out to me for a shake.

Shit! Had I seriously just spent the last fifteen minutes talking to this guy without introducing myself?

"Bella," I replied.

"What a lovely name." I blushed, and he smiled.

"But your blush is even lovelier," he murmured.

I looked down at my feet again, embarrassed, until Edward broke the silence.

"So, Bella. Where would you like to go?"

Great job, genius. Now you've got his attention but no idea what to say or do with him!

"Um . . . well, there's a bar not fare from here. I go there . . . sometimes."

That was a lie. I mean, yes, there was a bar, but I had never been to it. I hadn't had a drink since the obligatory twenty first birthday party my college friends had thrown for me.

"Sounds perfect," he replied. He was the one leading our way down the street then. He took the immediate right on Fairfax Street, as if he already knew the way there.

The bar was small and cozy; well, at least, I thought it was. It's not exactly like I had any sort of external reference points. We sat at the counter and ordered our drinks; I ordered a gin and tonic, while Edward ordered a double shot of whiskey. Twenty minutes later, I was still taking tiny sips from my first drink while he was starting on his third. The drinking surprised me a bit, but I wasn't complaining. The more he drank, the more relaxed he seemed to become, and the more willing he seemed to answer my questions. The only point where the conversation got awkward was when I tried to ask him questions about his family, specifically his mother. I knew I was being intrusive, but I was just so curious about her. But he became immediately defensive and shortly answered, "She was practically a stranger to me."

His reaction was surprising to me, but I didn't think too much of it, nor was I bothered by it, really. Lord knows my relationship with my parents was far from perfect. And besides, avoiding the specifics suited me just fine, seeing as I really didn't want to get caught up in my own little lie. So I let it drop, noting at the back of my head not to bring up that particular subject again. I studiously avoided any subjects that were too personal, desperately hoping he would just keep talking to me. And soon we began to talk about less consequential things.

Less consequential to other people, anyway. I told him about how I changed my major in college from pre-law to philosophy, and how my mother threw a toaster at me when I told her I had dropped out. He told me about his cat named Harry, and how he chased his tail and drank from the toilet like a dog. I told him about my obsession with world records, and how someday I wanted to see the world's largest frying pan. He told me about his neighbor downstairs, Mrs. Levitz, who always banged her broom on his ceiling when he played his music too loud on Sunday mornings. And all the while we both talked loudly and animatedly with our facial expressions and hand gestures until we were both laughing so hard that tears were streaming down our faces and we were holding our sides in delicious agony. And there was the amazing afterglow that always follows after a proper fit of laughter, in which we just stared at each other wordlessly, breathing deeply.

I was rendered speechless by the deep green color of his eyes, how they felt like they were piercing through my soul every time he looked at me. I flushed under his intense gaze, biting my lip, and I noticed his eyes darken ever so slightly.

"You're very strange," he murmured finally.

I looked down, embarrassed, and fidgeted with the rim of my empty drink. "Yeah, I know."

I looked up at him again, but he was smiling. "I like it. I like you."

I blushed again, but not in am embarrassed way this time. I bit my lip to keep myself from smiling too hugely back at him. "Thanks."

"Are you ready to go home?"

"I'm ready to leave," I clarified, not ready to say goodbye to him yet.

Edward smirked. "Well, did you have anything particular in mind?"

"Would you like to come back to my place?" Please tell me I did not just say that out loud!

I expected him to look at me like I was crazy. I expected him to run. But instead, his lips just curved up into a smile so devious that it should have been illegal. "Yes, I would like that very much."

The walk back to my apartment was relatively short, but it felt to me like it was miles. My heart was pounding, my palms were sweating, and I was terrified. Terrified, because I'd never had a guy back to my apartment before. Terrified, because I knew what bringing a guy back to your apartment entailed. Terrified, because I had no idea how to do any of this.

Well, that's not entirely true. I wasn't a virgin. I'd had sex once or twice. And I say "once OR twice" because I'm not sure if the second time can even count. It was with my last college boyfriend, who was not exactly the most considerate of creatures. Our first time basically consisted of him sticking it in, poking it around, and then bouncing around on top of me for a bit before pulling out, leaving me completely frustrated and unsatisfied. I almost felt like laughing at the time, it was so ridiculous. Way to blow my expectations way out of proportion, Carrie Bradshaw.

But somehow, I knew that sleeping with Edward would be nothing like that. He seemed . . . passionate. And it was the thought of Edward being passionate that caused me to walk right past my apartment; several city blocks past it, in fact. Edward laughed as I blushed again, grumbling about being distracted as I led the way back to my place of residence.

As soon as I closed the door and turned to face him, those green eyes were on me again. I was so preoccupied with his stare that I didn't even bother to turn any of the lights on. He took a step toward me in the darkness, until he was so close that I could feel his warm breath on my face. He smelled appallingly delicious; like whiskey, mint and cigarettes. He leaned toward me ever so slightly, and I was just closing my eyes in anticipation when . . .

It occurred to me that I probably still smelled like embalming fluids.

"I'll be . . . right back," I stuttered, leaving Edward in my living room looking understandably confused.

I stumbled into the bathroom and locked the door. I turned the shower on as hot as it would go, and hastily undressed, throwing my work clothes into a ball in the laundry hamper. I proceeded to take the fastest shower of my life, while also trying to give myself a good, thorough cleaning. I washed my hair with my favorite strawberry scented shampoo, allowing its fruity scent to waft its way into the wet strands. Also, shaving my legs seemed like a pretty good idea.

I stepped out of the shower, toweled off and ran a comb through my hair to get rid of the knots and snarls. I brushed my teeth thoroughly . . . twice. I gave up completely on the idea of trying to do my hair or makeup; I couldn't very well leave him sitting out there for hours. But then I realized that I couldn't exactly go out there in a towel, either. I dug through the hamper to try and find something to wear. I felt soft silk when I reached the bottom, and I pulled out the lace trimmed chemise my Aunt Lill had given me for my last birthday. I had never worn it before, the tags still attached, but I supposed this would have to do. I slipped it on, and because I still felt practically naked, I slipped my bathrobe on over it.

I nearly stopped dead when I re-entered my living room. Part of it was due to the fact that Edward was there; I was not used to seeing anyone, let alone a gorgeous man, standing in my living room. The other part of it was that he was shirtless. Shirtless in my apartment. In my apartment, shirtless. Edward turned when he heard my foot creak against the wooden floor, and he smiled fiendishly again, beckoning me toward him by crooking his finger.


I walked toward him so that we were facing each other, and immediately noticed the framed picture he was holding in his right hand.

Note to self: Next time, before inviting sexy man over to one's apartment, HIDE embarrassing childhood photos of oneself.

"Yeah," I mumbled, gently taking the picture away from him. "That was me when I was twelve. I was . . ."

All talking ceased and I practically squeaked out loud when I felt him come up behind me, his hands on my hips and his nose skimming the groove between my neck and shoulder.

"You smell amazing," he murmured, nuzzling the sensitive skin.

I shivered involuntarily, leaning my head back against his shoulder. This cannot be happening, my logical voice reasoned. There is no way this guy wants you.

But then his large, warm hands traced a path of fire up my sides and over my breasts, and all self-deprecating thoughts flew out the window. "So beautiful," he whispered. "I wanted you the first moment I saw you."

My eyes rolled back into their sockets. I fought desperately to retain some semblance of normalcy or control, and failed miserably.

That was when the heated internal monologue began:

This is wrong. This is wrong. This is wrong.

What the hell are you talking about!? This is AWESOME.

This guy just lost his mother. He's grieving. And he's DRUNK!

Who cares?

I do! I won't take advantage of him like that . . .


Okay, okay. Sorry. Jeez.

Don't you dare ruin this for us!

Then I felt his lips nibbling sucking at the base of my neck, and shy, logical Bella officially left the building.

I spun around to face him then and without hesitation crashed our lips together. Edward groaned, deepening the kiss immediately while tightened his grip on me as I twisted my fingers into his hair. There was nothing gentle about this kiss; it was all licking and pulling, biting and sucking. I felt myself growing a little lightheaded as Edward hands came around to grip both sides of my ass. He hoisted me up, my legs wrapping around him automatically. He stumbled backwards until the backs of his knees hit the couch and he fell back onto it, me straddling his lap.

I barely had time to take a breath before Edward grabbed my hand and placed it directly onto his straining erection. I groaned into his mouth, not able to believe how hard he already was, even though his pants. I kissed him again . . . and then more kisses . . . and then he tore at the knotted sash on my bathrobe before ripping it off and tossing it to the side. Then the silk chemise was yanked over my head and I was . . . naked.

He wasn't, however, so I immediately went to work on his pants, yanking harshly on the button and pilling the zipper down until he was free at last, erect and standing tall before me. I gulped, taking in the size of him. He was bigger than anything I had seen in the movies, and definitely bigger than anything I had dealt with in real life. I was quickly entering some uncharted territory here. What if I couldn't please him?

But Edward sensed my hesitation and used a single finger to angle up my chin until I was looking at him. The he kissed me softly, building in intensity until I forgot all about my worries or fears or insecurities. Hell, I even forgot my own name. And before I knew it, he was lowering me down on top of him.

There was no pain this time, only an intense pressure as he lowered me all the way down until he was completely sheathed inside of me, all the way to the base. I stayed still for a moment, enjoying the sensation of being filled by him, before I started to rock my hips back and forth at a slow and steady pace.

Edward groaned and lurched forward, latching onto one of my beasts and sucking it into his mouth. I screeched in absolute ecstasy, holding him by the hair so tightly I was afraid I might be pulling it from the root a bit. But Edward didn't complain. He growled, grabbing forcefully onto my hips and beginning to move me faster up and down on him.

Within minutes he was bucking up to meet me at every thrust, slamming me down on him with force. His growls, groans and moans were turning me on so much that I knew I wouldn't be able to last for much longer. So I squeezed my eyes shut and tightened my grip around his neck, letting the sensations take over as my legs began to shake and my inner walls began to contract. An intense feeling of euphoria started spreading all the way from my toes up to my hairline.

Oh, God

Oh, God.

Oh, God.

"OH, GOD!" I screamed, clenching violently around him as my first orgasm in six years wracked through my heaving, oversensitive body. Edward followed shortly after me, and then we just stayed there in the same position on my couch for a while, both of us shaking and sweating and breathing heavily. Several more minutes passed before Edward shifted his weight so he could lie flat, bringing me down with him. I lay there with my cheek lying against his bare chest, listening to his slowing heart beat, totally and euphorically content.

His fingers were tracing soft lines down my back when he whispered, "I am so glad that I met you, Bella. You're so special. You're unlike anyone I've ever met before."

My heart thrilled at his words, but deep down I felt the dull ache of fresh guilt gnawing at my heart.

"Edward," I whispered, "I have to tell you something."

I twisted my face up so I could look at him, and took a deep breath. "I didn't actually work with your mother."

Edward raised an eyebrow at me. "Huh?"

"Betty," I explained. "I didn't actually know her. I . . . work at the funeral home where they had her service. I . . . did her embalming makeup." Edward's eyes grew wide for a second, and I swallowed hard. "I'm so sorry I lied to you. I was just so afraid you would think I was a freak and not want to talk to me anymore."

I screwed my eyes shut, waiting for his anger, for his wrath, but it never came. When I opened my eye to take a peek at him, he was smiling. "Silly Bella," he murmured, running a hand through my hair. "I could never think you were a freak."

The giant weight was immediately lifted from my shoulders. I exhaled in relief, instantly allowing the tense muscles in my body to relax.

"Although, I should probably tell you something," he admitted, suddenly looking worried now.

"What is it, Edward?"

"I . . ." he hesitated. "I didn't know her either, Bella. Betty wasn't my mother."

I stared at him. Surely he had to be kidding.

No reaction.


He shifted beneath me, uncomfortable now. "I just . . . went to her service, because . . . well, I didn't have anything better to do."

I knew I was gaping open-mouthed at him, but I couldn't help it. It took several seconds before I was able to find my voice again."Do you do that a lot?"

He shrugged, avoiding eye contact. "Just the past couple of months."


"I don't know," he whispered, looking genuinely uncomfortable now. "I can't explain it."

"Try," I commanded.

He exhaled loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "Because if it were me, I would want someone there to actually give a damn."

I stared at him, letting that sink on, and not exactly knowing what to say. Shit, and here I had been going around thinking I was the fucked up one. But I wasn't the one going around to the funerals of people I didn't even know . . . And yet, despite the weirdness of it all, I had to admit that it still didn't change my feelings for him. Yes, he had hidden his true identity from me, but I had done the exact same thing. And he never lied to me; I merely assumed that Betty was his mother and he had played along with it for the sake of convenience.

Edward mistook my silence for horror, and his face fell into humiliated sadness. "Oh, God. You hate me," he groaned, running a hand over his face. Then he got up from the couch an started to pull his pants back up. "I'll just leave . . ."

"Edward," I said softly, reaching out to touch his hand. "Sit back down, please."

He made a move to sit back on the couch but I held up a finger, causing him to pause. "Uh uh. No pants."

Edward smirked, slipping his pants off and climbing back onto the couch with me.

I leaned back so he could lie on top of me, his head resting on my chest just below my chin. I didn't say anything, just running my fingers through his soft hair and holding him close to me.

"It just makes me feel better," he whispered finally. "To feel like I had someone, even though we never actually met."

I sighed, placing a soft kiss on the top of his head. I pulled the blanket off the back of the couch so it was covering us. Then I got comfortable and snuggled myself closer into his chest.

"I know what you mean."

A/N: Endless love and thanks to Rachel (americnxidiot) for being my creative muse . . . and for staying on my ass until I got this thing DONE. Haha.

No, but seriously. Love you, girl.