Disclaimer: Bleach and all of its characters belong to Kubo Tite, the dickhead. Why is he killing my favorite characters. Why.

Also, a warning: This is a sequel. The first one is called "Possession" and is also by yours truly. While it's not necessary to read that one first, it's probably still a good idea. Or you can read this one first, and then you won't be nearly as disappointed with it! OH HO HO HO~ *ahem.* Well, anyways, on with the fic.

Chapter 1

When a hollow becomes an arrancar, there is a brief moment of blackness where he is neither one nor the other. It's a black spot in the memories; a break, a cavity in the stream of consciousness. It's only for a moment, less than a millisecond, but to the hollow it feels endless. A fleeting state, when he is not what he was, but is not what he will be, either.

The first thing I saw when I looked up, after that time of nothing, was Aizen's face, the sleazy bastard. I knew already what he was – a controlling, manipulative jackass, bent on his own plans. He wasn't the kind of guy I especially wanted to answer to at the end of the day, but he promised power, something I couldn't pass up. He could make me stronger, and in my mind that made the servitude worth it.

Next to him stood that slime ball, Ichimaru, and an arrancar. An arrancar with black hair and green eyes, and tear tracks. Two parallel lines that ran down his cheeks. But he wasn't special to me. At least, not yet.

I learned later that he was called Ulquiorra. The cuatro espada, Ulquiorra Schiffer. He was above me in rank, and therefore supposedly stronger. But that was where my interest in him fell short. Other than that, he was regular. Just like everyone else: kind of annoying, but easy to deal with, and easy to annoy in return.

It wasn't until he confronted me – until he not only declined my challenge, but made it clear that he was doing me a favor by refusing to fight with me – that I began to see him for what he really was. He was interesting; cold and a bit of a tight-ass, but it seemed to me that he was hiding another side. A side with more emotions. A side with feelings. I started thinking about him, without even realizing it.

By the time I finally got to fuck him, I was crazy over him.

Not that Ulquiorra necessarily needed to know that. I was infatuated with him, sure, and I may have let slip once or twice about my obsession for him, but he didn't know quite the extent of it. My better judgment kept me from spilling everything to him; after all, what if he one day turned on me, and everything I'd told him could be used as ammunition against me? And I certainly didn't know all there was to him. If he had his secrets, I could have some of my own.

It was usually me going to his room at night, but once in a while Ulquiorra would come to find me. I needed him, but it seemed he wanted me as well. It looked to be one of those nights, that night.

The bastard didn't even bother to knock anymore; he just let himself into my apartment without any kind of warning. His movements were quiet and nonintrusive – he'd scared me plenty of times by popping up behind me unannounced. I was on my way out of my bedroom, heading to my front door to go find him, when I nearly bowled into him.

"Fuck, Ulquiorra!" I cried, rocking to a halt. The corner of his mouth twitched – it was as close to a smile as I ever saw on his otherwise deadpan features.

"Good evening to you, too," he said mildly, then reached up to pull me down to his lips.

Ulquiorra was a good kisser; there was no way to deny it. He was much better than he gave himself credit for, if his half-admitted lament at his inexperience was anything to go by. I enjoyed being the one who kissed him, of course; it was good to be in control of it sometimes, to take charge of him, force him to submit to me. But when he initiated it, when he kissed me, it was like nothing I'd ever dreamed of before I'd met him. There was something so strange – the way he was in control and yet just on the edge of losing it – so alien about the way his mouth opened and closed with mine, the way his tongue expertly explored my teeth, working in and around them.

We stepped carefully back through my doorway, him pressing me back towards the wall, me pulling him onwards. It wasn't until he pushed me down onto my own bed that I realized the compromising position he had forced me into.

"Bastard," I spat at him as his kisses moved away from my mouth and down my neck.

"Hmm," Ulquiorra murmured in reply, his mouth too occupied to bother with things like proper speech. The soft touches of his lips, the wetness of his tongue trailed down my chest, tracing the scar there. He seemed fixated on that scar, for some reason. Always, he came back to it. But as he got too close to my hollow hole, I laced my fingers through his hair, pulling him away.

"Not there," I reminded him. He moved away willingly, familiar, by now, with the aversion I had to any kind of contact with that hole. He raised his head, and I sat up to meet him halfway. Our lips met again, and I took advantage of this small distraction to turn him around, forcing him down on his back. Quickly I slung my leg over him, straddling his waist and effectively pinning him to the bed.

"Thought you had me that time, didn't you?" I sneered at him.

"Not at all," he replied coolly.

I grunted contemptuously at him and reached down to unzip his jacket. His bare skin was cool to my touch, and perfectly smooth. I moved my hands slowly back up his chest, tracing the lines of his body as I went, outlining the jet black four that contrasted so sharply with his pale skin, then made my way slowly to that hole at the base of his neck. His aversion to contact with his hollow hole wasn't nearly as strong as mine was. He didn't seem to enjoy it, exactly, but he had yet to deny me entry there, and I couldn't stop myself from returning to it. I slid my fingers carefully over the rim, fingering the raw flesh gently. His whole body stiffened beneath me, his back arching slightly, his breath coming in sharp gasps. His fingers clutched desperately at the cotton sheets beneath him, his eyes squeezed shut. I slid my hand in a slow circle around the edges, taking delight in his reaction.

He groaned as I made my way around, and one of his grey hands reached up to clamp onto my own wrist. "Enough," he hissed. "Grimmjow, enough."

That was more than I needed to retreat; he could get me to do anything he wanted, just by saying my name. I loved to hear him say my name. I could listen to him say it over and over, forever, and never get tired of it. The way he said my name wasn't exactly different from the way anyone else said it, but he was the only one who had ever sent shivers down my spine just by speaking it. He made me feel attached to it, as though I wasn't really Grimmjow until he reminded me I was. As if I wasn't anyone until he told me I was.

I leaned down to kiss him again, wrapping my hand around the back of his head protectively. My knuckles knocked against the bone that covered the other half. It was a pain, that stupid broken mask of his. It was always in my way, making things difficult, or painful. But I couldn't change it, and even if I could have, I wouldn't. I wouldn't change anything about him that he didn't think was broken.

I bore down on him hungrily, both of us rushing to remove the other's clothing. Sex with him was always amazing – never had I been left unsatisfied by him. Even that first time, when he'd known nothing about it other than what instinct drove him to, was better than any I'd ever had before.

He was still a child in many ways; sex was one of them. He'd been a virgin before I met him, never even thought about sex. Now that he'd discovered it, he wanted to know everything there was to know, and experience it all. He was ravenous. Not that I was complaining. I was happy to teach him anything he wanted to know. And we'd done just about everything two people could do; with one exception – he had never fucked me. Usually he knew what he wanted from me and wasn't afraid to ask for it (and I usually gave it to him), but that was the one thing he had never requested of me. I had even once offered it, and he had refused me point blank. I sure as hell didn't understand why, but if he was good with being bottom all the time, that was fine with me. And if he just wasn't ready to top – well, I didn't want to push him into something he wasn't ready for. I had a hunch that there was another reason, though, one that he was hiding from me.

But that wasn't his only childlike quality; he was greedy and jealous, like a little kid who'd never been taught how to share. He monopolized me, even as he tried not to show it. He never let anyone else touch me if he could help it. And when he couldn't – when I got into a fight or someone happened to lay their hand on my shoulder – it irritated him. I could tell. He thought I didn't notice – I could see that, too. And he was proud. Too proud to admit to any of it. But that was about all I could see. I wanted to see more; sometimes I imagined there was something else there, a murderous black rage hidden just beneath the surface. There were some things he couldn't hide from me; I watched him too closely, and I knew him too well. Or at least, I liked to think I did. But most of the time it was like he was completely empty.

For us, sex almost always ended in sleep. Sometimes we talked before one of us drifted off, sometimes not. I liked talking to him. He wasn't nice or funny or sympathetic or anything. In fact, he was generally as cold and calculating as he had ever been. He often made me angry or mocked me mercilessly but still I enjoyed our conversations. He was smart; his comments were insightful, even if they were insulting. Sometimes, I just liked to listen to his voice.

When I woke in the morning, Ulquiorra was still there, as he always was. It was an unspoken rule between us – you didn't just disappear without warning unless you had a damn good reason. I'd woken before him. That was good. It meant I got to watch him sleep, something I didn't get the opportunity to do nearly often enough.

He was an interesting sleeper; usually he lay completely still, hardly even breathing, but every once in a while, he would suddenly reach out to touch me – a part of his dream, maybe – or I'd wake to find he'd wrapped his arm around my chest while I slept. Today his hand lay just next to my face, obscuring my view until I moved. I slid my hand carefully into his half-curled palm, clutching his hand gently. His fingers twitched slightly around mine, and I smiled in amusement.

It was nice to watch him sleep; he was much more peaceful than when he was awake. His eyes closed lightly, his eyebrows relaxed, his frown absent for once. He looked so much softer, more delicate. I knew, though, that he was far from breakable. He could easily kill me, almost without a thought.

Suddenly he turned in his sleep, moaning slightly. I withdrew my hand, not wanting him to know I'd been holding it. I wasn't sure why I hid that from him – we'd done much more in-depth things than holding hands – but probably it was because it was such an intimate thing, a symbol of the kind of companionship we didn't quite have.

Ulquiorra was instantly aware when he woke, a trait that probably came from being always on guard, ready to defend as we all were. He looked at me in silence for a moment, and I wondered for the millionth time what he was thinking.

"You were watching me," he said matter-of-factly.

"I was," I admitted. "Got a problem?"

He blinked heavily once, which was about as much of a response as I could ever hope to get from him. He seemed to notice then that his hand had snuck across to me while he slept, and he curled his fingers into a loose fist, pulling it back to his side.

"You watch me quite a bit, Grimmjow," he observed.

"Yeah, well…" I muttered, momentarily thrown off when he said my name. My stomach flipped upside down, and my insides all crawled with that brief flash of joy. I recovered quickly, and grinned widely at him. "You're cute when you sleep."

Ulquiorra had once told me that he used to hate me, but that he couldn't anymore. It was when I made comments like that one that I wondered if maybe he did still secretly hate me, if the icy looks he stabbed me with were anything to go by.

"You watch me, too," I reminded him teasingly, pushing myself up on my elbows so that I was above him.

"That is because you talk in your sleep," he explained, without missing a beat. "It amuses me."

"The hell I do!" I spat at him.

"You say some rather interesting things," he continued, as though I'd said nothing.

"Like what?" I demanded skeptically.

"You call my name, sometimes," he answered. "And you moan a lot."

"Is that all? Hell, I do that shit when I'm awake," I said to cover my embarrassment.

"You ask questions, also."

My stomach turned queasy as I imagined the kinds of questions my subconscious mind would ask him. "Such as?" I asked hesitantly.

"Mostly trivial things. Laughable, really. The time; you ask about that quite often. Once in a while you ask me what my favorite color is. Ah, and you asked me if Kurosaki was dead yet, the other day."

"Is that it?" I questioned him cautiously. I had a feeling that there was more.

"Well, you, ah…" he stammered.

Ulquiorra never stammered. It was something bad.

"What did I say?" I demanded darkly.

"You…" He swallowed quietly once before he continued. "You asked me if I would marry you, once."

I stared at him wide-eyed, both panicked and terrified. "I didn't," I denied.

"You did."

"You're lying."

"I'm telling the truth," he insisted.

I groaned loudly and flopped back onto my pillow, mortified. I tried to cover my burning face with my hands, but his grey ones pulled mine firmly away.

"You're blushing," he said, and I saw the corner of his mouth twitch in his tiny smile as he pushed himself up to lean over me.

"I am not," I growled, sounding like a whiny little kid.

"You most certainly are," he disagreed, the tips of his slender fingers brushing lightly against my exposed cheek. His touch was like ice on my skin.

"Do you want me to marry you, Grimmjow?" he asked acerbically as his palm now caressed the side of my crimson face.

"No," I answered quickly – too quickly.

"Hm," he said. "I wonder about that."

Before I could contradict him, however, he was kissing me again, and I was powerless to stop him. If he thought that he could make me forget things just by kissing me, though, he was very wrong. I'd let it go for now, sure, but I would think on it later, without a doubt. And he would too, I guessed.

His hand roamed my chest again as he kissed me. The first time his hands had made contact with my body like this, I'd been surprised at how gentle his touch was. Even now, it caught me off guard when his fingers brushed over my skin the way they did; light and feathery, and so very cold, his fingertips calloused and rough. He moved slowly, tracing every line made by the convergence of my muscles, drawing an icy outline around the edges of my scar. He sent shivers up and down my spine, all throughout my limbs.

He sat back slowly, then watched as I rose to a sitting position as well.

"I should be going," he said plainly. "Everyone will be rising soon, otherwise."

"Yeah," I agreed grudgingly.

He reached out to hold my face again, and I touched his cheek in return. "It isn't so long, Grimmjow," he pointed out, his voice audibly softened.

"I know," I muttered, and let my hand fall away.

"It's hard for you, isn't it?" he whispered. I closed my eyes to the sight of him, leaning forward until I was resting my head on his shoulder. He showed the most emotion when he whispered, even if it still wasn't much. But it was enough. It was enough to make me sick to my stomach from wanting him, enough to make my hands tremble and my skin buzz with electricity.

"It's hard for me, too," he continued. His voice was so soft, so quiet. I wanted to hear more of that voice. I wanted to hear that voice tell me all his secrets, to hear it spill his soul to me. "Why am I so desperate for you?" he whispered. He reached around me, encircling me in his cold, cold arms, his hands clasped behind my back. "How can I see you every day, and still need more of you?"

"I want you, Ulquiorra," I whispered to him.

"Grimmjow," he murmured.

Want. That was the closest we could come to naming what it was we felt for each other. It more than just simple 'want,' though. For me, it was something far beyond want – beyond desire, and lust, and craving. I needed him. I needed to feel him, to see him and hear him and touch him. I would die without him.

"Grimmjow," he mumbled again. "I need to leave." His hands unlatched behind my back, retreating from around me. Gently, he pushed me away, forcing me to sit upright again.

"Alright," I sighed resignedly.

He rose slowly from the bed, gathering his clothes from their various places around the room and dressing leisurely. I sat watching him in silence for a moment before reluctantly following his example. Parting wasn't always this difficult. More often than not it was even worse.

I followed him down the hallway to my front door, hanging back as he made to leave, resigning myself to long hours with only my thoughts of him for company. As his hand reached for the handle, though, I stopped him. "Ulquiorra," I said hastily.

He paused, waiting for me to continue.

"When I said that I didn't want you to marry me," I said hurriedly, the words escaping my mouth before I could hold them back. What was I saying? "I meant it. I would never ask you to marry me."

He froze. Almost imperceptibly, but I – so accustomed to the movements of his body – could see the way his joints stiffened, the way his muscles tightened across his back. A millennium passed, a nauseating feeling of guilt rising in my stomach, choking my words, my breath. I had said something very wrong. It had felt wrong as it left my mouth; it had burnt my tongue to say it. Why hadn't I stopped myself?

Finally, he moved again. Only his head, rotating a fraction of a degree on his frozen neck, his eyes looking at me sidelong.

"I didn't ever think you would," he said coldly, his voice as dead as I had ever heard it. I wanted to grab him right then, to hold him close to me, hold onto him forever. I wanted to tell him that I was wrong – I didn't know what I was saying, I'd lied, it wasn't the truth. But it was the truth, and I knew it. I knew it deep in my gut, and from that knowledge stretched a shame that I knew was more than deserved.

Instead, I watched as he left without another word, leaving an icy trail of guilt in his wake.

Why had I said that? It was unnecessary. He'd been joking when he'd said it earlier – hadn't he? Then why had I said that? I'd offended him in some way, I was sure of it. I hadn't meant to. I hadn't meant to say anything at all. I would have never hurt him on purpose. I hated to see him in pain – his distress cut me far deeper than my own. I wanted to know his pain and suffer it with him; I wanted to lift that weight from his shoulders as much as I could.

But no – I hadn't healed any of his hurt. I'd caused him more. I'd injured him with my own words. I infuriated myself. How could I be so stupid? How could I say something like that, something that would make him freeze the way he did? How could I have watched him, listened to him speak in that lifeless tone, and not reached out to him? I was worthless. I didn't deserve to want him. I was a fucking moron.

But the question that bothered me most was why didn't I want to marry him? Obviously, marriage wasn't something we should be concerned with. We were still hiding our relationship from everyone outside; I was still half in denial myself. And besides, we were both men, and I sure as hell wasn't about to don a wedding dress. When I thought about it, though, it was hard to pinpoint what exactly made me reject the thought of being married to him. We got on well enough, didn't we? And he was a great fucker – what was not to like?

Still, it felt like there was a voice telling me no. You won't do that, it said. You know you can't. And then it was his voice speaking to me. I didn't ever think you would. I shrank away from the coldness of his words, the emotionless way he said them. I didn't want to hear him like that; I wanted to hear him when he whispered, when his voice was so soft that I had to strain my ears to hear, when he was telling me how much he wanted me. I wanted to hear him say my name, to hear him tell me who I was.

The day passed at an excruciatingly slow pace. I couldn't see him during the day. There was no meeting I might 'accidentally' run into him at – my duties didn't take me anywhere close to him. Still, I was almost thankful for that. I couldn't have said a word to him even if I had seen him, unless it was to insult him in some way. It killed me that I still had to pretend to hate him. I didn't hate him. I had never hated him, exactly. Not the way he had hated me.

There had once been a time when he had wanted to kill me, he hated me so much. I'd seen some of it, the way his fists clenched when he passed me, the way his frown deepened when I spoke. For him, even those small expressions of anger were extreme; before he'd hated me, I'd never seen him react to anything at all.

Now, I saw him react in different ways: the way he hissed when I touched his hollow hole; the way he moaned during sex; the way he murmured my name when he was exhausted and content.

The way he froze when I wounded him.

Things would be so much easier for him, I knew, if he still hated me. I wouldn't be able to hurt him the way I had. But I wouldn't be able to live with myself if he hated me; I'd have nothing. I couldn't let him hate me, even if he would be happier for it. I was selfish that way, and I didn't care. I needed him, and I didn't care whether he knew it or not, so long as he was with me.

Night was slow to arrive. It was always night in Hueco Mundo, I argued to myself. I made any excuse I could to see him. Why couldn't we see each other all the time? The hours inched past. I wanted to see him. I wanted to touch him, to feel his cold, cold skin. I wanted to apologize. I had to apologize – it was all I knew how to do, at this point. There was nothing else I could do.

When I'd first begun to notice him, I'd been ashamed by the way I obsessed over him. I shouldn't have had to depend on someone else for my own contentment, I told myself. I didn't need anybody. Now, there was no room for me to deny it. I did need him. I needed him desperately. If I lost him, if he disappeared because of some stupid, senseless thing I'd said, I wouldn't know what to do with myself. I'd have to die, somehow. Would he be kind enough to kill me? That would be the best way. To die by his hand would be the only way to go.

I was out the door the second the lights flickered off. The only light in the hallway was the soft white of the guide lights by my feet. Nobody would be out tonight – they never were. I knew the steps to his door by heart; I was there in a matter of moments. My heart pounded inside my chest. I needed to tell him. I needed to tell him everything, to tell him how sorry I was, how I couldn't live without him. Never mind self-preservation; what use was I without him, anyways?

I rapped softly on his door; it opened almost before I'd dropped my hand. Quickly, I stepped inside and closed it behind me. My hands trembled nervously.

"Grimmjow," he said in a brief greeting, and then before I knew it, he was kissing me. His kiss, which I'd been so afraid I'd never feel again. There was something new about it this time, though, like he was anxious for something.

"Ulquiorra," I murmured, pulling away slightly. I tried to say more, but his mouth caught mine again and silenced me once more. He was moving quickly, his hands already wrapped around my waist.

"Ulquiorra," I hissed insistently when I got the chance. I grabbed his shoulders, shaking him slightly so that he would look at me. "Listen," I persisted, "I have to talk –"

"Later," he interrupted. His hands travelled downward, tucking themselves into the waist of my hakama. "I know what you want to say," he continued when I began to protest. "And I'm telling you, I will listen to everything you want to tell me. Later."

Then before I could say a word, my mouthed was trapped again by his. But later was okay. He'd promised to listen to me, so it could wait. It could all wait. His hands were cold and rough, like sandpaper, against my skin. His touch was like a dream, one I thought I'd never have again. But I hadn't lost him. Not yet.

We ended up in his bed again, the way we always did. It wasn't that either of us was addicted to sex, or anything. There were some nights when we didn't do it; they were few and far between. It was just that it felt so good. It was somehow right. The way he moaned and sighed, the way his hips bucked beneath me, the friction and the heat of it all. It was the best way we had to express ourselves, since our words so often failed us.

But the aftermath, that, too, was something special. It was when we really got to talk to each other, the only time we had to really get to know one another. And tonight it was especially important that I talk to him.

"Is it later now?" I asked breathily as we both collapsed, exhausted, onto his bed.

"It will be," he sighed, "in just a moment." His hand reached out slowly to brush gently against the side of my face, running over my mask, as well. His eyes moved over every inch of my features before finally settling on my eyes.

"Now it is," he said.

I shifted nervously, steeling myself in preparation for what I knew I had to say. "About… what I said this morning," I began hesitantly. His face remained impassive as ever, but I could fool myself into thinking I saw some sort of tension building behind his eyes. "I… I'm sorry," I said slowly.

"Why?" Ulquiorra asked quietly. "What do you have to apologize for – it's the truth, isn't it?"

"But-" I started, then hesitated.

"What is it, Grimmjow?" he demanded. His use of my name threw me, the same way it always did.

"It still hurt you," I whispered. The guilt that still boiled in my gut choked my words.

"It did," he admitted. "But I think I know now why you said it."

"Why, then?" I asked him. "Tell me, 'cause I have no fucking clue."

"Consider," he said plainly. "Marriage is human. Humans feel a need to be bound by it. You and I – we aren't human. We don't need any official ceremonies or documents or laws to bind us together."

"That's why?"

"I can't begin to say that's it, for certain. That is merely what I'd like to think."

"Still," I murmured. "I wish I hadn't said it."

"But you did say it."

A moment passed in silence, an icy tension straining at both of us. His quiet perfection was strangling me; why was he so faultless, and I, so flawed? He had hurt me, yes, but that had all been because of my own inadequacy. The blame always belonged to me.

And then there was that ever-present electricity, flowing between us. It was tiring to constantly want him, to be always consumed by thoughts of him. It was hard, when I passed him in the halls or saw him at meetings, not to take him the moment I saw him, to ignore him and walk right on past. Soon, I wouldn't be able to help myself.

"This is getting dangerous, Ulquiorra," I said softly.

"What is?" he asked, the dull glaze of sleepiness creeping into his voice. He always went from wide awake to asleep in practically the blink of an eye.

"You and me. This. Us. We can't keep this up forever."

"I know, Grimmjow," he replied soberly.

Another moment of quiet passed over, and his eyes closed softly, his breathing falling into the regular rise and fall of sleep.

"Ulquiorra," I whispered. He opened his eyes to slits. "Even if I don't want to marry you, I still want to be with you," I promised him boldly.

"I know," he murmured, and then his eyes floated closed again, and I knew that sleep had overcome him.

I rose the next morning and left him as I usually did; neither of us mentioned the conversation we'd had the night before, though both of us were thinking of it. Eventually, though – after I'd been with and parted with him countless times again – we both seemed to forget about the incident altogether. Our days passed in a sort of routine, one of fear and secrecy. But there was something about keeping everything so hidden that was also thrilling, although we both knew what the consequences would be if we were discovered.

It was infuriating, as well. I couldn't be with him the way I wanted to be because we feared discovery. I couldn't react in anger, the way I wanted to, when someone else laid a hand upon his body. I couldn't tell the world that he belonged to me, or to stay the fuck away from him if they knew what was good for them. But I wasn't alone in that sense, at least. He, also, had to keep our secret.

And then there were those things I couldn't forget if I tried: the words I'd said to him without thinking, words that had hurt him, and my feeble attempt at an excuse. I wasn't even entirely sure he'd heard me, since he'd been half asleep as the time, or if he remembered at all. I remembered. I'd told him I wanted to be with him, and it was true. It was the truth as I'd never told it before. I wanted to be with him. I wanted to live every waking moment with him by my side, sleep only with his body next to mine. How was that so different from marriage, I wondered? But what he'd said had been true, too – marriage was so completely human that when I thought about it now it seemed incredibly ridiculous. If I'd been in the same situation again, I'd have said the exact same thing.

Author's comments: This first chapter… sucks. There's no other way to put it. It's stupid. It's pitiful. It's moronic. It's why-the-hell-did-I-write-it-ful. And I've got to warn you – the rest of the fic really isn't that much better. But it is a little bit, so there's hope?

Or not.

There's only going to be four chapters this time, rather than five (I think? If I counted correctly.) but don't let that deceive you – this one is actually longer than Possession. By more than two thousand words, in fact. I am just that pro.

So, if you're not rolling your eyes or frantically clicking your back button, please continue to keep reading! I'll post a new chapter every Wednesday. Thanks for reading!