WELCOME!

So, as a lot of you may know, I have a crap-ton of Ultimate Spider-Man stories. Well, here's another to add to the pile! :D Only difference is most of these chapters are all pre-written, so updates and quality are likely to be up. Possible...hopefully.

First off, welcome to "Fatality Rising" this is a fic I've been sitting on for a while and it's finally hatched! I'm a very proud mother hen, indeed!

But before we dive into this - possibly angst driven - story, there are a few things I would like to establish!

[# 1 - Warnings. ]

Take note that this fic is rated Mature.

WARNING: This fic WILL contain mature themes, such as mentions of Rape/Non-Con, Stockholm syndrome, abuse, and forced dependency. I will give forewarnings when any of the above mentioned will be making an appearance in the story.

Note, nothing will be written graphically. It will be implied, assumed, or lightly, lightly written in the forms of a filtered flashback. I, in no way shape or form, would like to trigger anyone, and I know these topics are sensitive so I want you all to know what's going to happen. I don't want to catch anyone by surprise.

Disclaimer: I do not own Ultimate Spider-Man nor any of its characters. The plot is all mine though.

That is all.

You may continue now! :D

- OfficialUSMWriter

Peter Parker POV

The talking of the crowds came in like waves. Words that rolled and tumbled over each other, falling under the next syllable, tumbling and tumbling before hitting the floor in a great upheaval that was only drawn back to the receding sea of people where the process could start over again.

Only difference was that Peter liked the beach.

He didn't like crowds.

The smell of sweat and personal musk clung to every person in the intermingling crowd, producing a smell as powerful as it was unpleasant. Elbows bumped, skin rubbed skin, and it was so LOUD. It was water rushing in through his ears, riding clear up his spine where it weathered away his skull and left his brain soggy. For, what was probably the dozenth time, he wished he'd been given a different assignment. Somewhere more recluse and away from people, like in the middle of a jungle, or on top of a roof in the city where he could watch the crowds without having to suffer through it himself.

Unfortunately, he didn't get to decide his jobs. He did what he was told, and that was that.

So, gagging back the smell and keeping his expression as one of "boyish excitement," Peter allowed the waves to pull him back in. It was hot in Tuscan, Arizona. A lot hotter than the cooler temperatures back in New York. His own sweat was soaking his clothes and making everything itchy. Due to spending so much of his time outside getting rid of the stench of body odor, he had perspired almost completely through his suit. But at least he fits in with everyone else.

Politician, James R. Bushwick, was the one hosting the shindig Peter was suffering through now. Of all the days to hold the first public meeting of his program, he had to pick a day with the sweltering heat of 103 degrees. It was terrible. But, as he walked back inside after freshening his lungs, a cool brush of cold air swept over him to ease the flush on his skin. Most of the windows were open to compensate for the heat, and the air conditioners were going wild. The Westin La Paloma Resort, with its thousands of packed guests, were doing their best.

Huffing irritably and tugging at his collar, Peter glanced idly at his watch as he walked up the marble stairs leading to the main lobby. 10:52. The meeting would begin in 8 minutes.

He smoothed the navy jacket of his suit and surveyed the room, nonchalantly glossing over the hoards of people standing around. A few octogenarian friends were chatting at one of the tables, while the other was occupied by a nervous group of high schoolers, each sporting the same FSAP badges as Peter. In the little waiting lounges below them, more students lingered, each buzzing with excited chattering and nervous twitching, alternating between fanning their faces and sneaking glances at their watches and the clocks on the wall.

Peter wiped a dot of sweat from his forehead and mimicked their nervous fidgeting by tugging at his jacket and glanced at his watch again. 10:55.

5 more minutes.

He watched as the anxious students reached the same conclusion as he and began packing up their things. Peter followed their example, taking deep calming breaths as he grabbed the small string-back pack provided by the cooperation, sporting the rocket-ship logo of FSAP, and merged in with the growing crowd of teenagers heading toward the conference room. The buzz in the room escalated. Peter tried not to let it bug him.

The closer to the doors he got, the more the crowd swelled, the more feet he accidentally stepped on. He stumbled, tripping slightly over another's foot, but caught himself on the arm of the girl next to him. She whirled around, pulling her arm back, and Peter grinned sheepishly.

"Oh, sor - sorry. I - I tripped."

She caught her gait again smoothly, nerves breaking way to reveal a kind smile. "Oh, that's okay. You're fine." She told him. He thanked her and they walked on. After a moment of glancing at him through the corner of her eye, she gave a small smile and asked, "Nervous?"

Peter rubbed his forehead with his jacket sleeve and gave her a wobbly smile. "That obvious?" he asked, adjusting his collar again.

The girl shrugged politely. "I think we're all nervous," she told him. "It's just," a jump bounced in her step suddenly, eyes brightening as she bit her lip excitedly, "I - I can't wait to begin. I've been studying all year to get into this program."

Peter couldn't help but smile at her enthusiasm, adding a small chuckle, "Yeah, me too. Lot's of late nights and coffee,"

The girl shared his laugh, "Oh yeah, lots and lots of coffee. I think I've come down with an addiction if we're being honest." They laughed again. It was a few seconds later though when she sobered suddenly. "I just hope it's all worth it."

"I'm sure it will be," Peter assured her, eyes dropping to the girls' nametag. "Alya...Wait...Alya Bushwick? Aren't you..."

Alya ducked her head, face flushing. "Yeah," she sighed. "James Bushwick is my dad."

Peter let his jaw fall open. "Wait...if he's your dad...then - then can't he just let you into the program?"

Alya frowned at that, turning away hotly in a way that had Peter believing he overstayed his welcome. "Well, I didn't want to just be let in the program, you know? I wanted to earn it, like everybody else."

Peter dropped his eyes on the floor. "Yeah...I guess..."

It was quiet between them. Then Alya took a deep breath, "Well, it was nice meeting you," she squinted at his nametag, "Ted. I hope you get in the program."

Peter smiled and stuck out his hand, "Yeah, you too Alya. I'm sure your dad is proud." That seemed to brighten her spirits. She smiled again, took his hand, and they shook. Instantly, her face pinched and she withdrew it. Peter ducked his head sheepishly and wiped his hands on his pants.

"S-sorry," he stammered. "Sweaty hands."

Alya's smile was tighter but no less genuine. "Happens to the best of us," she said graciously, and politely wiped her hands off on her pants.

As they entered the conference room, Peter stopped near a trashcan and slyly pulled off the thin, near translucent gloves on his hands. The small, almost indistinguishable bubbles on its surface were all popped and - now - empty. Okay, maybe he hadn't just been outside for some fresh air. He smoothly rejoined the crowd.

The room was large and wide, teeming with rows and rows of chairs that were steadily being filled. Peter joined the row set aside for the students admissioning for the program. Minutes ticked on as the room filled to its max, almost overflowing with camera crews and spectators, administrators, and sponsors. The smell was almost as bad as outside.

Three giant screens hung from the walls, displaying the sciencey logo of FSAP. Another minute passed and a voice spoke through the speakers in the walls.

"Would all joining member of the public meeting please take their seats. Will all joining members of the public meeting please take their seats. The meeting will begin in 10 minutes."

Peter snuck a glance down the row where Alya had struck up a conversation with another of the competitors for the program. She wiped a layer of sweat off her face, grin painfully tight, and Peter looked away.

Before he knew it, the meeting was starting. Mr. Bushwick came on stage, igniting booming applause from the crowd. He drawled into his opening speech about the founding of his program, the Future Scientists of America Program, and its goals for the future. Somewhere in the middle of it, he gestured to his daughter in the crowd with a proud smile, "And all of my inspiration comes from my girl, Alya. If it wasn't for her and the bright intellect she demonstrates for the bright students of this generations, then FSAP would never have begun."

Alya blushed under the praise, but that might've just been her flushed skin.

They moved on to the awards. Peter straightened eagerly, leaning on the edge of his seat with the rest of the students, as James announced the 20 young members joining FSAP. His fingers tingled, but that could've just been a bit of residue from the gloves.

His alias, Ted Cartaway, was never called, but he still clapped when Alya Bushwicks' name lit the screen and she joined her father on stage. Peter's sharp eyes could see the sweat still budding on Alya's brow and the pale hue of her countenance beneath the lights. Under any other eyes it would've gone unnoticeable, but with Peters exquisite sight, he could see the faintest hue of purple bulging from her veins.

Alya stopped by her dad, breathless.

"Congratulations, Alya," he said, positively beaming. "You earned it."

Alya smiled and reached to shake her father's hand when she swooned. Peter gasped with the crowd when Alya stumbled and collapsed in a heap. Her dad was bent over her body in an instant, hands running to find the cause of the fall, before crying out for an ambulance. Phones were already out, but they would do no good.

No ambulance would get here in time.

Peter stared at the sprawled body of the girl he'd met in the hall, already knowing how the poison was burning through her veins. Within a few more seconds, it will have reached her heart. A minute went by, and Peter knew Alya Bushwick was dead.

Mr. Bushwick was in hysterics, still shouting for an ambulance. But Peter didn't feel any sorrow. His eyes glistened wetly as he dug his fingers into his arm, rousing a few good horrified tears, but he felt as empty as the body on the stage.

He had no grief to spare for Alya Bushwick.

It took forever to get back to the hotel.

Peter had to be as careful with the police swarming the Westin La Paloma Resort. As soon as he could though, he slipped past the police and made his way down the stone steps to the parking lot below. He dumped his badge and coat in the trash, just enough that it was peeking through. Anyone with a trained pair of eyes should be able to see it.

He found his car waiting for him in the corner. A simple, black Nisson with the keys already in the ignition. Peter jumped in and started the engine, and within minutes he was cruising out onto the roads of Tuscan, leaving the chaos of the night well behind him. Once Mr. Bushwick got the message and understood, he'd probably call the investigation off to get answers where they'd really matter.

By the time Peter got back to the hotel he was actually staying at, the Westward Look Resort and Spa, he was extremely eager for a shower. He parked the car a distance from his building and walked the rest of the way. He found his room, 182 in building 12, climbed the small stone steps up to the first floor and slipped his key card in the slot. The cool conditioning of the fan greeted him like a wonderfully cold hug. With a deep sigh, he pulled the tie from his collar and tossed it on the bed, doing the same to his sweat-drenched shirt.

Bare-chested, he glanced yearningly toward the shower. He still felt sticky and gross, and it'd do wonders for his mood to wash it all off. Instead, though, he begrudgingly put his own jacket on and sat at the desk, buttoning it up as he rebooted his laptop. The circuits hummed and given a moment the screen lit up. It had its own unique systems and completely disregarded the wifi of the hotel as it synced to the only other computer it was linked to.

The screen flashed on and a skeletal mask started at Peter. The two-hollow rings staring through the black sockets regarded him cooly, stoic under the pale structure of the mask.

"How'd it go?" it asked.

"All went according to plan," Peter told him. "Alya Bushwick is dead, as ordered."

"And you left evidence toward homicide?"

Peter thought to the poisoned glove in the hotel and clothes in the trash. It irked him just thinking about it. He'd rather burn it. Leave nothing behind to suggest foul play. "Yes, just as you told me to."

Taskmaster nodded, the nod he made when he was somewhat satisfied. "Good. Now he knows we mean business. I'm sure the council will be hearing about it tonight. He'll pay what is owed to me if he wants his new program to flourish."

Peter stayed silent, hiding his clutched hands under the desk. He really didn't like leaving a trail. It made him feel sloppy and unprofessional. He knew why he had to, of course. Mr. Bushwick wasn't the pure man the media made him out to be. He hired mercenaries to kill and collect what he needed to gain the money and sponsors to support his program. It just so happened he "forgot" to pay said mercs. Killing off his daughter, inciting homicide, would cause some serious investigation. It might make the girl a martyr in a much uglier game, but it shone a light on Mr. Bushwick, and as soon as the rest of the stashed evidence was found by the authorities, everything Mr. Bushwick worked for would crumble.

That's why no one crossed Taskmaster. If he didn't get what he was owed, he paid it back in full.

"Everything went according to plan," Peter repeated. "I'll be on the first flight back to New York."

"Don't wait for the morning flight," Taskmaster ordered. "I want you headed back now. There is a flight for Missouri tonight. Get on it, then head on another for New York."

Peter nodded. "Yes, sir. As you wish."

The screen went black.

He wasted no time and got up to pack his bags. While he did have to leave traces of himself him and at the resort, he didn't have to do the same here. By the time he's checking out, he'll be untraceable. He didn't mind taking the night flight. The sooner he was out of here, the better. Arizona was unbelievably hot, and crowded, and not exactly in his top 10 ideal locations. Besides, with the upturned hornets' nest he left at the resort, it'd be faster and safer to go tonight.

He quickly wiped the bathroom clean of his existence. Once it was satisfactory, he stopped near the door to turn off the lights but hesitated when he looked into the mirror. An unfamiliar face stared back. Blonde hair, green eyes, freckles on the bridge of his nose. Along with the white shirt and slacks, he looked as though he belonged in some Honors program...or on a golf field.

Golfing with grenades! Four!

He snorted humorlessly and stalked out of the bathroom, flicking the switch off. He kept the latex gloves on though, taking extreme measures to wipe everything he touched, even as he walked out of the door. As soon as he was off the premise of the hotel, the camera feed would continue normally and he'd be gone without a trace.

It didn't take long to officially check himself from the hotel, and before long he was cruising in the black car once more, heading toward the airport. He'd ditch the vehicle before he got there though. There's no doubt the authorities will have caught and looked up the license plate number as he drove from the resort. Besides, everyone who associated with Alya before her death would be interrogated. Once they realized that A-student Ted Carthaway was not present and accounted for, they'd be gunning for a ghost.

As he drove, Peter pried the blonde wig off, and at a stop-light, he dug the contact lenses from his eyes. He put a coat over the white shirt, but there wasn't much he could do for the khakis. It's not like they were uncommon to wear anyway.

Getting through the airport and acquiring his plane ticket went off without a hitch, and after a measly boring hour, he went up to the terminals and boarded the plane.

Buckling himself into his seat, he leaned far back into the chair, resting his head on the back. Outside the lights of the desert city twinkled brightly, doing their best to replace the stars the smog covered. He crinkled his nose and turned away. He definitely would not miss the heat. Why people would live in a place so unnaturally hot was beyond him.

The plane ride to Missouri takes a tedious 2 hours and 30 minutes. He doesn't stay the night, and boarded the next plane to New York. ETA – another boring 2 hours.

When they finally touch down again, Peter was ready for a long nap and everything on the menu of the nearest fast-food joint. He could only eat so many packaged peanuts before he banned nuts from his diet altogether.

Stepping onto the street and hailing a New York cabbie felt so second-nature, that if Peter didn't know any better, he'd say it almost felt like home. Admittedly, he didn't get to spend as much time in his Native state as he liked, so it was still an ...appealing, so to say, experience. Between the bustling streets, flashing advertisements, and gaping tourists, it was familiar. Good. He could understand it.

Which made it all the more a shame when he didn't get to stay for long. In any other circumstances, he would have booked a room at a hotel of his choice and spent the evening reconnecting with the city. That would have been the plan if Taskmaster hadn't paged him on his second flight, ordering him back to the base immediately.

Which meant his next stop was the harbor.

The taxi that takes mercy on him is unkempt, gross, and rotting with stink. The cabbie herself grumbles about his destination and wreaks havoc on his ears by complaining to him about her lifestyle, funds, her ex-girlfriend, and a whiny uncle who was staying with her for a few weeks, until they were pulling up near the docks.

He's thankful because he was this close to taking his gun out to stop the talking. Why did people talk so much anyway? It's was irritating.

Peter doesn't thank her when he gets out. He doesn't listen to her when she yells at him for slamming her door, tosses a few bills through the window to cover the trip, picks up his few bags and walks wordlessly toward the warehouses built up along the docks.

Why it was always a warehouse, Peter can't figure out. There were several occasions where he wanted to speak up and tell Taskmaster that the location was cliché and predictable and that any self-righteous, educated teenager could find the base entrance without a hitch. But his last punishment for questioning his boss, while it had been years ago, was still a fresh, painful memory. One that he'd rather not indulge again. So, it was left unsaid. The warehouse hideaways stayed.

He spots a specific edifice, older than most, and completely abandoned by the shipyard. It's not too big, but not too small. Weathered grey walls, dusty windows, and an open skylight at the top. The door handle, on the other hand, while old and grey, is completely clean and smooth with oiled joints.

Peter closes the door behind him and strides toward the center, not at all concerned about the discrete alarm system within its structure, nor did he worry about the sketchy homeless bum lying just outside with a gun hidden in his coat. If anyone who wasn't supposed to be in here stumbled upon the warehouse, they'd be taken care of by the agent's Taskmaster hired to guard it – whether through a threat from a homeless skeever claiming territory, or a bullet in the head.

There are several shipping containers stored inside. Most of them are simply decorative. He singles out one of them in the corner, identical to the others except for the white letter on the bottom - 111 - 12018. Habitually, he finds the hidden keypad on the container's side, pushes in the code, and the door clicks. He opens it, steps inside, and the door locks behind him. Descending down a well-kept staircase, he steps down into a large metal hangar where underwater jets are in wait for him.

They're sleek, state-of-the-art machines, with a hazy grey color to blend in with the water and clean-cut sides and propellers designed to slice through underwater currents. Learning how to work them during his initial training was one of the most grueling of his tasks, having to train in frigid water, swim distances he wouldn't have been able to do before, and ways to fend off any dangerous sea -creatures (as few and far between as they were). But it had also been the most exciting. He always looked forward to it when the jets were upgraded or redesigned, that way he could learn to use them all over again. The basic controls were usually the same, but Taskmaster liked his agents to be thoroughly prepared and efficient with every tool they had at their disposal. Working the jets was - probably - one of the brightest parts of his training.

They jet purrs to life as soon as Peter slides into the cockpit. He feels the machine hum energetically under his fingertips, and brighten as every display and console lights up. Peter ran his hand over the smooth joystick, thinking about the hours out in the sea where he tore through the water and started up the systems. When the guidance systems started up, he punched a code and flashed the red warning sign for takeoff.

On cue, the hangar outside sealed off, and the other two jets within the room were sealed into place. A section of the wall fell in front of him, and water rushed in. Peter waited till the room was completely submerged before he ushered the jet forward and they shot out into the open sea.

The waters of the bay were far from impressive. Grossly so. Junk floated through the water like a bunch of dead corpses, and any sea life that dared attempt to live there looked like something that belonged in a radioactive lagoon. Peter maneuvered the craft farther out till they were in the open sea, and allowed himself to relax.

The base was set at a secret location far off from the shores of New York, on a remote island unregistered in any system - even SHIELD's. Taskmaster liked the isolation for his mercenary school. Said it kept all those righteous do-gooders off his back, which Peter understood. He couldn't count how many missions turned sour because some pompous hero decided to get involved. If only they weren't so blasted hard to kill, and so numerous. Like a bunch of cockroaches.

It'd be another 30 minutes before he made it back to base. Might as well use that time for a little sleep. Peter set the jet to autopilot and got comfortable in his seat. It wasn't memory-foam, but it was more comfortable than most of the things he's slept on.

He closed his eyes and let the humming of the jet sing him to sleep.

And was opening his eyes again when a sudden beeping went off.

He scowled, crinkling his nose, but shut off the timer. 20 minutes had flown by rather quickly, he didn't feel as though he had slept at all. The base would be coming up in 10 minutes.

Peter scrounged himself up and straightened in his seat. He retook the wheel and linked into the bases frequencies as soon as he was within range, requesting permission to land inside the base. He was granted instantly. Up ahead, a high wall of metal appeared within the water, the beginnings of an immense structure that stretched above the surface. Around it, the cropping's of the island rose from the ground and spanned across the sea floor, rising higher and higher where it joined the sun above. The metal wall opened and Peter flew inside, touching down on the awaiting landing pad.

He turned the jet off and waited till all the water had emptied from the hangar before he walked out. He didn't grab his bags.

Outside a small coterie of agents were already waiting for him. One went inside to look over the jet, another to gather his bags, and another which stayed put holding a duffel bag, of which she handed to Peter.

"Taskmaster wishes to see you in his office, Cheliceri" the agent instructed, voice deep and slightly muffled behind regulated skull-mask that marked her as one of Taskmaster's students.

Peter nodded curtly and the strode out of the room, the duffel hanging from his shoulder. He stopped for a few minutes to get into his uniform. Its base color was a dark grey, almost black, with a strip of red on the arms and his legs. A white skull-spider sat on his chest, arms hugging around his body, slightly similar to his skull mask. His dark, red-tinted lenses put a hue on everyone who walked past. Peter breathed deeply, feeling as though he was putting on a second skin. Ah, how he missed his suit.

Undercover jobs weren't bad, but he hated how he had to forgo his uniform for the sake of the mission. He liked having it on when he took out his targets. It was his solace, his work clothes. Khakis and business shirts didn't cover it. Besides, appearance was important. There was nothing like seeing the fear in your target's eyes when they noticed your symbol, recognizing you for who you are. Peter, as Cheliceri, had built himself up a pretty good reputation - one that he was quite proud of.

Sliding his knives into their hidden sheaths and the retractable bow-staff into the electromagnetic hold on his back, he returned to the hall outside, journeying to the center where Taskmaster's office waited. He stopped by the door, took a deep breath, and knocked. The light outside went from yellow to green and the door clicked. Peter stepped inside.

Taskmaster was waiting, garbed in his iconic skull mask and white hooded cape. His fingers were clasped in front of him as he looked over a mission report on his desk. He didn't even look up when Peter entered the room.

"Front and center," He ordered, and Peter followed his instructions and centered himself in front of the desk.

A minute passed, he finished reading the paper, and set it aside to finally regard Peter.

"Mission report."

"Target was taken out as requested. Traces of homicide were left at the location of the crime, and all evidence of leading it back to HQ was destroyed and wiped." Peter listed, back straight.

Taskmaster nodded, stoic in his stance and demeanor. "Good," he finally said. "Anything else to report."

Peter shook his head, "No Sir, everything went according to plan."

Taskmaster nodded again, "Now he knows that I mean business when we strike a deal." He leaned back in his chair, pulling up a news channel where stories were already going wild about the death of Bushwicks daughter. Peter stared at the image of a happy smiling girl next to her father, both wearing the same excited grins. The spokeswoman covering the story was talking with a cool countenance, due the volume turned off, Peter read her lips instead.

"-the tragic death of Alya Bushwick, the daughter of the leading science entrepreneur, Mr. Bushwick, during Mr. Bushwicks honorary ceremony for his recently founded FSAP. The Future Scientists of America Program. However, while the police are withholding news about the event, there have been hints that this incident might not have been an accident. Footage from the resorts shows a mysterious figure leaving the West La Resort mere minutes after Alya Bushwicks deaths. Officials have yet to confirm or deny this claims, but numerous witness reports claim that the multi-million dollar heir was –" The news turned off again with a click of a button.

"Mission complete. You may return to your room." Taskmaster said.

Peter stood up, lifted a clenched fist to his chest, the gesture of respect taught to the mercenary students to their superiors, and turned to leave. But he was only a foot away from the door when Taskmaster added at his back.

"One more thing," Peter turned around. "It's time you began the next level of your training. Tomorrow you will participate in a new training diagnostic I've prepared. Failure to complete this diagnostic will result in dire consequences."

Peter nodded once more. "Yes Sir," With that Taskmaster gestured for him to leave, and he did. He strode past the guards positioned outside the office and through the halls. He passed the numerous training rooms where classes were in grueling session. His gait slowed as he neared the locker rooms set outside one of the many gym-type rooms.

His heart hammered and his fist tightened by his side. Just looking at that room sent an unpleasant clench in his stomach. It irked him, and he had the sudden urge to look over his shoulder to make sure Taskmaster wasn't looming behind him, urging him on with those hollow yellow eyes. Hands still clenched, Peter straightened his shoulders and strode past the locker room doors. He swallowed thickly when he was past, and hurried the rest of the way to his room, barely stopping himself from full-on running. Inside, he slammed the door shut and collapsed at the end of his bed, letting his head fall in his hands.

His hands felt sweaty and clammy and his heart hammered angrily away in his ribs. He sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to calm himself.

Taskmaster would be upset if he saw him like this. If he thought Peter wasn't past that incident then it'd make his training all the more grueling. Besides, Peter was past it. He WAS! It was just – sometimes it just crept up on him. Especially after being gone for so long. He just needed some sleep, that's all.

He set his weapons on the bedside table and replaced his uniform with a pair of dull cotton pajamas. He laid his head down, body tucked lightly in the blanket, hand underneath the pillow, and closed his eyes.

Anybody watching wouldn't have noticed the gun tucked under the pillow, or the way his hand tightened around the metal shaft as he turned his back to the door.

First chapter, done! BOOM!

Aight, there it is! Chapter 2 will be out next week! See you there ;)

I drew art of Peter's suit which should be on my tumblr:

ultimatespidermanfeels . tumblr

Guys, I'm so excited to get this story out! I've got so much planned. See ya at next weeks update! ;)

- OfficialUSMWriter out!