As It Should Be | Chapter 13: Purgatory
(moodboard by mi esposa, @danniburgh )
Pairing: Agent Whiskey x F!Reader x Frankie Morales
Summary: The way home isn’t easy and the way back to yourselves is even harder. Sometimes, you just need to lose yourself a bit to find yourself again.
Rating: Explicit
WC: 5.2k
Warnings: Angst, canon typical violence, guns, language, minor medical procedures (getting stitched up), something akin to wound play…(think Billy Russo in the Punisher), pain play, feral sex, unprotected PiV.
A/N: I have to thank @whistlingbirdie for beta-ing for me. I can't thank you enough bby!! Also a huge thank you to @flora-screeches @pascalslittlebrat and @danniburgh who really helped me through this chapter!! I know this took forever, but I wanted to get the vibes right for this scene and boy, did I struggle between work and deaths in my family BUT WE’RE HERE! I hope you enjoy!
Just a quick reminder on vocab: A magazine refers to something ammo is stored in and used to feed into the gun. Also, taxiing a jet, is when you drive it out onto the runway/tarmac.
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The rain had stopped, but the clouds remained, pinning the horizon down with an overcast gloom. In those moments, time seemed paradoxical; the ground swimming past you while you sat in the standstill of the Black Hawk cockpit. The landscape was beautiful and serene, but you found your gaze drawn to the darkness of the shadow cast by the aircraft. It seemed to have a hold on you, pulling you deeper into your thoughts of the last 24 hours.
Just last night Jack was in your arms, the two of you tense, but confident in the outcome of the mission. Now, Jack was wrapped in a thermal blanket in the back of the bird, and you barely recognized your own reflection. It seemed silly, but you knew it was you staring back; if only because you’d seen the same face looking back at you from a broken, dirty mirror while you were traipsing through whatever war zone your unit had gotten deployed to.
An eternity had passed in the blink of an eye and eventually, it was Frankie’s voice that brought you back from the murky shadows.
“Hey, baby,” he called out to you gently and chanced a glance at you. The steely concentration in his eyes softened slightly out of concern for you as you startled, blinked, and then turned to face him.
“Hey,” his voice was just a little softer this time. “You good, cariño?”
“Y-yeah, babe.” You shook yourself out of your haze and nodded as you gave him a small smile. “I’m good.”
Frankie stared at you for a moment longer than he would normally take his eyes off of the sky in front of him. Something unspoken passed between the two of you, and Frankie nodded his acceptance of your answer. He knew you weren’t ok, but he also knew that neither of you were in a place to talk about it, mentally or physically.
<Airport in 30.> Frankie’s voice crackled over the headsets and Santiago froze for a second before his gaze met Tequila’s. Hours had been poured into minutes for them, too.
Frankie glanced over to you and nodded, letting you know he had control of the bird and you were free to go prepare for the inevitable firefight once they landed.
You kissed his cheek, then clambered out of your seat and made your way to the back of the helicopter. Pope and Tequila nodded to you as you walked past them, reloading their weapons, and made your way to the bag you had left near Jack. Duke, for his part, seemed to understand that it would be best if he remained still and quiet.
You pulled the rifle out from your bag, reloaded it and took stock of the spare magazines you had.
“You guys ready?” The question was more of a manifestation of your nerves than an actual question; people were rarely truly ready to step into a firefight.
“Just like old times, eh, Halcón?” Santiago had met your question with a forced smile as he sauntered over to you and patted your arm.
You smiled back at him, the action not quite making it to your eyes.
Landing a helicopter in a hail of bullets with minimal back up and a cartel after you. Yeah, just like old times.
***
As the airport came into view, Frankie let out a long exhale as he turned his comm back on and waited for Ginger to answer before he identified himself. <This is Catfish, ID code Delta-Bravo-Whiskey-Niner-Niner. We’re about 40 klicks out and making our approach. T-minus 5 minutes.>
<Catfish, good to hear. I’ve got Cran on the line here too.> Ginger pulled her lip between her teeth, mentally preparing herself for the chaos that was coming.
<Copy that, Ginger, Cranberry.> Frankie licked his lips nervously as he scanned the rooftops ahead of them, looking for any combatants waiting to pluck them out of the air with an RPG. <Can either of you confirm a visual on any hostiles?>
<None in the open, Catfish.> Cranberry’s voice was terse and Frankie could hear her load her own rifle in the background. <But there’s a hangar next to me I’ve seen armed patrols come in and out of.>
<Copy.> Frankie’s lips pulled back in a grimace, hating that he was flying virtually blind. <I’m going to try to bring us down to land.> He called out, mostly to you, Pope, and Tequila, then began his descent.
The shimmering stasis of anticipation that suspended everyone and held you taut, broke, like a slow motion video suddenly thrust into fast forward. It was almost a relief when the familiar pinging of bullets pelting the metal exterior of the helicopter pierced the building tension that held everyone captive.
Frankie felt the old familiar rush of adrenaline spike in his veins like a drug, putting his senses into overload, and focusing him. Fuck, he had missed this.
Your heart thudded at the sounds of the building chaos around you, allowing yourself a moment before you swallowed and took control of yourself, moving to the co-pilot’s seat to engage the .50 caliber guns mounted to the helicopter. The swarm of combatants on the ground dispersed like ants as you rained lead down on them. In the midst of the chaos, the sound of Cranberry, Ginger and the guys on comms, threaded between the alternating thunder of the helicopter blades and the steady beat of the .50 cal.
<Cranberry, can you get clear of the hangar?> Frankie shouted.
<Guys, they’re radioing in for backup. You gotta get out of there quick!> You could practically see Ginger’s eyes wide and lips pressed together as she stared worriedly at the screen.
<Copy, Catfish. Standby. I’m going to pull out so you can land and transfer quickly.> Cranberry’s voice was the essence of calm, as if she wasn’t about to taxi the jet out into the middle of a firefight.
As the nose of the jet began to poke out of the hangar, Frankie looked up to see one of the men below drop to one knee and take aim at them.
<Hijo de puta> He swore as he pulled up in a hard, jerking movement to avoid the incoming RPG. You maneuvered the guns and took aim at the shooter, leaving a small crater where the assailants had been.
<What the fuck is going on, Catfish?> Santi yelled into his mic as the helicopter jostled all of you and he staggered to the entryway of the cockpit.
<Fuckin’ RPG.> Frankie’s tone was thin and distracted as he worked quickly to get the helicopter back into compliance while they took heavy fire. <Trying…> He cocked his head and furrowed his brow in concentration. <To get us even so we can land…>
You turned to look at him as he trailed off and his eyes darted around the scene below as he ran through a variety of calculations and scenarios in his head to figure out the best course of action.
<I’m gonna bring her down.> Frankie gritted his teeth and the helicopter creaked under the sudden shift in velocity. <Brace for a rough landing and get ready to make a run for the jet!>
Pope rushed back to the belly of the helicopter and assessed Duke’s state. There was no way he would be able to make the run, even if Frankie managed to get as close to the jet as he possibly could.
“Oye, pendejo!” [Listen, bastard!] Santiago shouted to Duke over the cacophony. “Tendré que llevarte cuando aterricemos.” [I’m going to have to carry you when we land.]
Duke blinked up at Pope in disbelief, but fear dawned on him as a bullet punched daylight into the helicopter then whizzed past them and he realized that Pope was dead serious. Another bullet pelted the helicopter and Duke nodded, wide eyed, as he quickly did the sign of the cross, praying he’d make it out alive.
The helicopter dipped and shook, jostling you, Santiago, and Tequila as Frankie did his best to evade the brunt of the heavy fire they were taking. Pope stumbled and caught himself on the beam bolted to the ceiling, then cast a worried glance towards you and Tequila; they needed to decide how the hell they were going to get off the helicopter and to the jet in one piece.
“We better get ourselves a plan an’ we getter get one quick!” Tequila hollered as he clung to the same beam Pope was.
You looked around at everything and quickly decided on the best course of action.
“Ok! Pope’s on Duke. Tequila, you take Jack.” Tequila glanced at Jack, then nodded and started moving towards him. “I’ll take point and Frankie’ll take rear. Everyone, copy?”
A chorus of affirmatives sounded off over the headsets and then for a second, everything seemed to quiet, like the volume had been turned down and you had been plunged underwater. The tense calm that harmonized with the steady roar of the helicopter gave way to a clamoring discordance that matched your elevated heartbeat as Frankie landed the bird and all of you sprung into action.
You took a steadying breath and burst out of the helicopter, pointing your rifle and shooting at the men who were firing on you as you weaved through the bullets flying towards you. Santiago followed behind you, Duke slung over Santi’s shoulder, scared shitless as Santi fired his pistol and ran towards the jet.
Frankie scrambled out from his seat, bullets punching holes through the glass and upholstery of where he had just been seconds before. He grabbed his rifle and hurried to cover Tequila and Jack as they exited the helicopter and found themselves in a storm of lead.
The promise of back up had emboldened the men shooting and they crept around either side of the helicopter in a pincer maneuver. Frankie moved on a swivel, falling into the familiarity of being in a firefight with each pull of the trigger and every person he shot. He glanced back at Tequila, relieved that he was almost up the stairs with Jack. From his periphery, Frankie saw you perched at the entry of the jet providing cover fire and he kept shuffling back until he was at the base of the steps.
A sudden flurry of extra footsteps thundered on the pavement and the first wave of backup charged in as Frankie was jogging up the steps. He reached out to grab the hand you held out for him to help haul him in when he felt a searing burning sensation rip through him and he pitched forward.
“Fuck!” Frankie shouted, in frustration and pain as he scrambled the rest of the way up the steps and threw himself into the jet.
“Frankie!” You quickly hit the button to raise the steps and shut the door, bullets pinging as it went but you were more focused on Frankie who was grimacing as he dragged himself to the other side of the cabin.
“Cran!” Tequila shouted as he laid Jack down. “We’re all on board. Get us out of here!”
“Let me see.” You dropped to your knees in front of Frankie and immediately started ripping his tactical vest from him.
“‘M fine, baby.” Frankie tried to give you a reassuring smile, but it broke off into a hiss and a “Fuck!” when you pressed down on his wound. “Just need the medkit, amor, it’s not bad.”
Santi slid down beside you and Frankie with the medkit in hand. He pushed Frankie so that he was leaning on his side, giving him better access to the bullet wound. “You’re a lucky son of a bitch, Fish. Bullet went through.”
“Yeah, I know.” Frankie nodded, his hair plastered to his forehead and his hat askew as he bared his teeth and dragged in deep breaths while you and Santi went to work patching him up.
Once you were finished, you and Santi each took one of Frankie’s hands and hauled him up into the closest seat, then you took the one next to him.
“Can’t scare me like that, Frankie.” You breathed out, taking his face in your hands, pressing your forehead to his and shaking your head.
His eyes left yours, falling to where Jack had been laid down, lingering there for a moment until he finally nodded.
“It’ll take more than this to get rid of me, baby.” He tried offering you another reassuring smile but it came out as more of a tired quirk of his lips.
You hadn’t even realized the sound of bullets had since quieted until you felt the plane level off and you let out a sigh of relief.
“We made it." The words sounded much more relieved in your head but tumbled from your mouth in a dissociated monotone. You were clear of the firefight, but there was still so much to do, so much that was left unknown.
Santiago nodded in agreement almost imperceptibly; the same sinking feeling of apprehension he’d had in the helicopter, like the rug was just seconds from being pulled from under him, was acid etched into his bones. The echo of the bile he’d tasted when Tom was shot stung his throat–he didn’t need to see Jack at the back of the jet to see him. He saw Jack in the way you and Frankie clung desperately to each other in the wake of all the death and darkness. He had seen Jack, lifeless, in the way Frankie had torn through the cartel thugs like a jagged piece of shrapnel intent only on piercing whatever lay in its path. He saw it again in the bottomless well of fury iced over in your eyes, in just how far you and Frankie had been willing to go when the two of you tortured Duke.
They’d made it…but what had been the cost?
You and Frankie were like two wheels, wobbling and careening towards a moving target on broken tracks, kept on course only by a frayed ribbon of hope that Jack would be ok. He was worried–concerned–about what would happen if Ginger couldn’t turn back the metaphoric hands of time and bring your Jack back.
How much more would it cost to finally complete the mission?
You spent the entire flight connected to Frankie in some way, his thumb rubbing small lazy circles on your thigh, your thumb doing the same to the bullseye tattoo on his hand; but for as languid as your movements were, your mind was racing. Every little vivid detail cycled through your mind, skipping through the memories as if you were impatiently flicking through channels.
The bounce of the jet as it landed shook you from your thoughts, and the aircraft had barely come to a halt before you were helping Frankie to his feet. A few members from the Statesmen medical team rushed in as the door to the jet was lowered, carrying a stretcher and brushing past the rest of you as they made their way straight to Jack. The five of you stayed out of their way as they carried Jack away to where Ginger was no doubt waiting in the lab.
Frankie stepped forward to follow after them, his feet moving on instinct of their own accord, before his side twinged and he grunted in protest at the pain. You caught him before he could stumble and one of the medics who had been lingering just outside, hurried in as the others left, to help you get Frankie out.
The medic unfolded a wheelchair and held his hand out to steady Frankie so he could get in, but Frankie pushed the hand away.
“I don’t need a fucking wheelchair.” He spat, letting go of your arm to stand on his own, and leveling the medic with a hard glare.
“Alright, Frankie. No wheelchair.” You waved the medic away, then nodded towards the door Jack and the rest of the medic team had disappeared through, gesturing for Frankie to follow you. “But you need to get checked out and stitched up. Trust me,” you scoffed. “Ginger won’t let us leave without clearing all of us first.”
“Ok.” Frankie relented with a sigh, wiping his glare away as he scrubbed his face with palm, he knew he shouldn’t have snapped at the poor medic, the kid was just doing his job.
You led the way to the medbay, just a half step in front of him in case he faltered. Cran made a beeline for the main building while Santiago and Tequila filed in behind you and Frankie.
Outside, the last of the Statesman tours for the day were finishing, people following their tour guides, eager for the tasting at the end of it. Inside, Ginger was ordering the medical team around with a gentle firmness that compelled obedience even from the most stubborn of wounded agents. Jack had been placed on a bed, the nanomites working to repair the damaged tissue while Frankie sat on another hospital bed, hissing as the medic stitched and patched him up.
“I know you’ve had worse, Catfish.” Ginger let out in response to the hissing, more in reassurance of the new medic who was tying off his stitches. “There, you’re done. That wasn’t so bad.”
Tequila cleared his throat, having been let go first, he had gone to check in with Champ.
“Champ was adamant that we all go home now, an’ we’ll meet in the conference room t’ debrief in the mornin’.” Tequila looked at Ginger while he spoke, even if his message was for you, he wouldn’t cross Ginger on the best of days. “Once y’all are finished here, of course.”
“They’re free to go, Tequila.” She nodded to him then turned to you and Frankie. “You’re more than welcome to come down here and visit him any time. It'll be longer than usual considering the circumstances.” The soft sympathy in her voice was back and she rubbed yours and Frankie’s shoulders reassuringly. “Just promise to get some rest first.”
“Thanks, Ginger.” You let out as you stood up from your chair while Frankie tugged his shirt back down, then slid off of the hospital bed.
A tense, heavy silence followed your group as you shuffled out of the medbay and rode the elevator down to the lobby. There were a few scattered glances cast towards your ragged appearance, but all of you had shed your tactical gear, the articles of clothing that were too obviously bloodstained had been replaced, and most of the blood had been wiped away, so you couldn’t find it in yourself to care
You just wanted to go home, to wash what remained of the mission away, to try to calm the adrenaline still running through you– keeping you on edge, and to find peace with Frankie, if only for a moment.
“Hey, Halcón?” Santi’s questioning tone reached your ears as his hand tentatively rested on your shoulder and you blinked yourself back to the present, a worried expression on his face. He was looking at you expectantly like he had been talking and only just then realized you hadn’t been listening.
“Sorry, Santi.” You sighed and stopped, giving him your undivided attention. “What were you saying?”
“Hey, don’t worry about it, Halcón.” He waved his hand, dismissing your apology. He understood. “I asked if you guys wanted to grab drinks tomorrow? It’s been a while, but we sure as hell shouldn’t break tradition now.”
Santi gave you and Frankie a small smile that you couldn’t help but try to return with a soft scoff. Back when you were all still in the military, the team would get together for drinks after every mission; success or failure, it didn’t matter, but more and more each one of you came to realize how much you needed the time to decompress by talking or just sitting in silence together.
“Yeah.” You agreed after looking to Frankie and seeing the slight nod he gave you. “Can’t break tradition now.”
“Great!” Santi’s smile widened, faltering slightly when he looked down at himself. “We all really need a shower.” He muttered as he checked his phone. “17:00, tomorrow?”
“Sounds good, Santi.” You said, trying to muster a more upbeat tone. “We’ll see you guys then.”
Pope and Tequila walked off talking amongst themselves, while you and Frankie went your own way. You stepped outside and Stan caught your attention by waving to you both and you silently thanked Champ for asking Stan to come get the two of you.
Stan didn’t ask why it was just you and Frankie climbing into the back of the car, in fact, he didn’t say anything at all. He didn’t even ask if you wanted to go to your place instead, and you didn’t correct him. The haunted, tired, far off stare that was mirrored between you both told him all he needed to know.
You sagged against the back of the elevator, watching as Frankie leaned against the wall next to you, arms crossed in front of him and his chin tucked into his chest. Your eyes fluttered closed for a moment, you could feel the echoes of Jack’s presence all around you: his casual touches, his searing kisses, and those enveloping hugs he would pull you into on the way back up to his place after a long day. There was an answering echo in your heart, a pang lancing through you at the memory of the comfort he always brought you.
You pushed off from the elevator as it dinged, trudging towards the door to Jack’s penthouse, and you couldn’t help but think that the key had never felt so heavy as you opened the door. Frankie lumbered in after you, and closed the door behind him, the stomp of his boots as heavy as the air in the penthouse felt.
There was a deep seated emptiness inside of you, making the thud of your heartbeat even louder in your ears as you made your way to the bedroom, eager to wash the day away. You heard Frankie let out a sigh behind you and he nearly stumbled into you when you stopped suddenly to take him in. He looked stretched thin, the stoic mask he had plastered on his face since you landed was peeling, revealing more of the man you loved, barely hanging on. His brow was scrunched together, deep in his own thoughts, a storm of emotions swirled in his eyes. He blinked, murky confusion quirking an eyebrow as you brought a hand up to his cheek and caressed the spotty patch of his beard. His eyes fluttered closed as you stood there, grounding each other and when you hummed as he leaned into your touch, he opened his eyes again, the swirl of emotion in them solidifying into something dark, hungry, vibrant and familiar.
Your hand slipped down to his neck, his pulse racing under your palm as you stroked his jaw with your thumb and you knew your heart was doing the same. Blood was roaring in your ears and your body was still tense, as if waiting for the next tragedy lurking around the corner.
Frankie’s gaze flickered from your eyes to your lips, then lower, snagging on the shiny metal chain around your neck holding his dog tag. He sucked in a sharp breath, the bright, cold metal against your warm, soft skin a stark reminder of what he could have lost. It felt like he was in free fall, as if his sense of self was being pulled from his body, but there you were, holding him together and accepting all of him. His eyes found yours again, then he leaned in and kissed you, clinging to it like a lifeline as he poured all of himself into the kiss.
The ferocity of it tore a moan from your throat as you matched him in his neediness, deepening the kiss, as you crashed into each other as if you were both trying to reassure the other that you were truly home. You gripped his shirt tightly, fisting it and tugging him to you only for him to roughly walk you back against the wall, his hand slapping against the hard surface as you landed against it. A dull ache radiated from where your head connected with the wall, but you didn’t care. There was nothing gentle about the way you pulled at and bit each other as you kissed in a dizzying fever.
His strong, thick fingers found the collar of your shirt and he yanked, the sound of fabric tearing and buttons clattering on the floor clashing with your yelp of surprise. You tugged on his shirt, ripping it off of him, greedily pulling him back to you and digging your nails into his back as he sucked a deep mark into your neck. He quickly undid your jeans, a sharp punched out groan leaving his throat as he shoved them down and you dragged your nails up his back, leaving a white hot bloom in their wake. You stomped down, and stepped out of your jeans and underwear, gasping when Frankie cupped you, fingers finding your already soaked core with practiced ease and the frantic desperation to feel you.
“Frankie please, just fuck me.” Your plea dipping into a growl before he pulled his fingers from you and shoved them into your mouth, wanting to taste you on your tongue the next time he kissed you. You sucked on his fingers greedily, pulling a small moan from Frankie, while his other hand fumbled with his belt.
His belt clinked as he pushed his boxer briefs down, and pulled his cock out, already pearling precum at the head and aching to be inside you. He grunted in approval when you wrapped a leg around his hip, one hand gripping your knee while he lined himself up at your entrance with the other, burying himself inside you with one forceful snap of his hips.
The air was thick with your gasps and his groans as he thrust into your wet heat, pressing you further up the wall when you wrapped your other leg around his waist and he set a quick, hard pace–fucking you the way he needed to fuck you, the way your plea told him you needed too.
Both of your hearts were racing, a thin sheen of sweat coating you as you clung to him, the adrenaline pulsing in your veins, making you feel everything so much more intensely; his hot breath as he panted into your chest set you on fire, his hard grip on your thighs throbbing and going straight to your core. The feral grunts each thrust tore from his throat were sending you higher and higher, until you arched into him–cumming hard around him and squeezing his waist with your thighs.
“Fuck!” Frankie jerked suddenly, slamming his hips up into you with a cry that was somewhere between a sob and a moan.
As you came down you felt something rough against your knee instead of the hot sweaty stick of Frankie’s skin and you realized you had accidentally pressed into the bandage covering his stitches.
“S-shit Frankie, I’m-” The apology spilled from your lips, but he shook his head quickly, panting as he held you to him, not letting you remove the pressure and leaning further into you, into the feeling.
He looked up at you, a tendril of vulnerability tangling with the lust in his feral eyes. You could feel him twitching and throbbing violently inside you and your confusion gave way to realization, to how much he needed to feel the pain.
“S’fine, hold on.” Frankie grunted as he adjusted his grip to your ass then carried you to the bed giving you time to do hardly anything more than yelp and cling to his neck.
The breath left your lungs as you fell back onto the bed, and then Frankie was on top of you, kicking off his pants and sliding back into your warm, slick cunt. There was no burn from the stretch like before, but he still made you feel so full, each hard, deliberate thrust sending sparks dancing up your spine. One hand pressed your hip into the mattress, pinning you beneath him as he rutted into you with renewed desperation.
You let that desperation fill you, let it plug the gaping holes in your soul the mission had bored into you. He grunted above you, the rapid puffs of air frantic, but breathing new life into you all the same. His hands grabbed at you greedily, your soft flesh under his rough palms, simultaneously taking you apart and putting you back together; stitching together the scarred pieces of you that had been ripped open by the darkness you had readily let consume you to torture Duke. You let yourself go to all of the sensations, surrendering to the man you loved, a man as broken as you were, and hoped you would somehow come out the other end in more of one piece than you started.
Frankie wrapped his arm around your leg, grasping your thigh roughly in his bruising grip, and keeping your knee pressed against his injury, not caring if the stitches broke, he’d endure them again. The pain, the high he got from it, felt good. It focused him on the present, on being there with you, and it reminded him that he was alive. He panted against your lips, his barely grazing yours, and he growled as you met his thrusts, each one pulling a grunt from him and a hitched moan from you. He wanted to lose himself in the pain and ache radiating from his injuries, physical and not, and find himself in you.
His eyes met yours and suddenly you were both so overcome with emotion the two of you had to look away. Frankie buried his face in your neck while you mirrored him. You both saw so much of your own reflections in the other, it was fitting that your bodies would meld into each other, as two broken halves form a whole.
Your second release caught you both by surprise, and your entire body seemed to pulse and throb with pleasure; each cresting wave overwhelming you with emotion. Frankie fucked you through your high, chasing his own and when your knees squeezed around his hips in the aftershocks of your climax, he came with a choked out cry. Pain lancing through him, and racing sweet pleasure up his spine as he rocked into you, grinding himself and his spend deep inside of you.
The cant of his hips slowed but his breathing remained erratic and it wasn't until you felt the hot wet of tears falling and sliding over your shoulder that you realized Frankie was crying. He stiffened as if reading your mind, but you felt him gradually relax into you as you brought your hand to the back of his head and gently stroked the back of his neck.
You wrapped your other arm around him and held him tight, relishing his weight on top of you as little shudders rippled through his body and you felt the sting of your own tears pricking the corners of your eyes. There were no words, nothing to say, only quiet acceptance.
Eventually, he slipped from your grasp, shifting so that you were facing each other on your sides, a tangle of emotion and limbs. You would wash the dirt and grime off in the morning, for now, you and Frankie would soak in it, and in each other.
Thank you so much for reading and for bearing with how long it's taken me to write these chapters! I appreciate all of you! Comments and Reblogs are much, much appreciated!
