little about me :: hello lovelies! im a college student so there may be periods of inactivity (school is draining the life out of me). i am also pretty new to actually posting on tumblr so please bear with me! other than that, I love all things caleb, bloodborne, ethel cain, silent hill, bl, cineris somnia, vampire hunter d, vampires, vkei, music theory, shouto, hsr, anime (csm, bnha, jjk, blue lock, etc), diluc, and ANGST. Please don’t hesitate to message me or send asks (as long as they are nice and respectful) !
blog warnings :: while i will be mostly writing angst, I may also indulge in some darker themes, so please be aware of warnings and read at your own discretion !! also, my tag system is still all over the place, will try to fix it later.
Your description of Bakugo falling slow but hard is so accurate. Once he’s in, he’s locked in! I always enjoy reading your analysis so much. 💜
bakugo is so forever-partnered coded to me that i fully believe that even if for some reason the two of you break up, he will absolutely, 100% still show up for you when you need him. even if the break up was contentious, even if you don't talk to him anymore and the sight of you causes him visceral pain, if you call, he will be there for you without question and without hestitation.
car breaks down on the side of the road? call your ex bakugo. you're at a party that's turned suddenly a bit sketchy? call your ex bakugo. you just received devastating personal news and can't even manage to get out of bed? call your ex bakugo.
because he will be there. he will show up quickly and he will take care of things and take care of you. because you're his to take care of, even if you aren't together anymore.
something about being desired by someone who knows what they want, what they can provide and knows what you need is soooooooooo fucking scary realistically id avoid him like the plague . dont look at me knowingly and sympathetically with an underlying hunger in your gaze u will see me on the news
lmao so I'm up on the king's scaffold and the executioner leans in just before he raises the axe to take my head off and whispers that he's always had a crush on me and thinks it's a shame he'll only get to hack up such a pretty neck once. but the joke's on him cause I'm wearing a resurrection amulet and I can't seem to stop getting caught corrupting the nuns in the local convent, so I'll definitely be back
[hurt/comfort, touch starved caleb, overprotective caleb, loss of identity, gentle yandere, playing house to regain some sense of normalcy, incidental kidnapping (oops), anxiety attacks, allusions to canon-typical violence, canon-divergence]
Everything comes unraveled to a single, fragile thread. The loadstar of Caleb's life has always been you.
He doesn’t fight back, because how could he? Strapped to a stretcher, body ravaged by the blast. Darkness crept over him like twilight.
You’ve been taken in by a friend, they tell him — safe. The unspoken “for now” is enough to keep him docile as they wheel him into surgery, pliant to every needle they stick him with. It doesn’t matter what happens to him. Safe, he reminds himself, a mantra. You’re safe.
He does manage one question, before he goes under. “Will I be able to feel anything with it?”
“Only what you need to,” the surgeon informs him.
When he wakes, he realizes that amounts to shockingly little. Sensation is limited to what will keep him functional. Pressure, and pain, and the hideous emptiness when he pushes past the limit and the delicate circuits fry, when it goes dead in the socket.
He doesn’t get cool spring rain, or a warm cup of coffee. Not a cat’s purr, or a velvet soft blanket.
Not your hand in his.
…
There’s no pride in it.
They praise him for his strength, his ruthlessness, his unflinching demeanor. “You have a real talent for this,” the professor tells him. “You know exactly where to apply the pressure.”
He couldn’t care less.
It’s all transactional. He does what he has to, because he has to. To keep you alive, to keep Ever away from you. To hold everything at bay by a fraying thread.
He has a vague notion of the future. After he’s wiped out your enemies, brought equilibrium to the Farspace Fleet, he’ll come crawling back to you. Someday, he thinks, a gallows kind of longing. Fantasies of you in the early morning, sipping coffee from the same mug. A kiss goodbye at the door, love you see you soon. Both of your names on the lease. Delusions that become the tentpole keeping him from simply collapsing.
Someday, this will all be worth it. Someday, he’ll figure out how to come home.
But then he gets the alert. Watches with white knuckled fists as you navigate the snake pit of the Fleet ship. Put yourself directly in harm’s way.
He feels untethered from himself, like he’s watching from above as he cuffs you down. He’s been in this interrogation room a hundred times, gone through these motions without a single drop of remorse. Without any emotion at all.
He forces himself into that passionless space again, boxes himself up until he can be sure he won’t fall to his knees at the precious sight of you.
He can’t be gentle with you, not with so many eyes watching, but it’s a means to an end. It’s a side of him you’ve never met before, and he can see you assessing him, making your calculations as shock turns to rueful disillusion.
When the mag lock disengages and you’re free, you’re quick to your feet. Hands flexing at your side, itching for a weapon that’s long since been confiscated.
You’re ready for a fight — ready to fight against him.
He boxes himself up again before the desperation can set in, excising anything that might jeopardize this moment.
“Hey Pip-squeak. Miss me?”
He talks to you, at you. It’s an interrogation technique, an easy fallback. Targets body languages, non-verbal response.
He loses track of what he’s saying. Words feel odd in his mouth, the shape of them strange and crass. None of them are right. None of them will stop you from feeling like a cornered animal.
You hardly react at all, but he can see the tells. A twitch of your hand, a split-second hesitation to meet his stare. He knows you. Can see you, confused and hurt and guarded. He searches for any inkling of solace, relief that you could meet him again. You return his gaze with the impassive cynicism of a stranger.
You look at him with your sweet, clear eyes, and you see right through to what’s at the very heart of him.
Nothing.
…
He keeps you — he has to. What other choice does he have, besides losing you, which isn’t an option at all.
He can see the plans forming, how you mark the doors and windows, glance at the clock whenever he comes or goes. He never expected to be something you needed to escape from — the opposite, in fact. He wanted to make himself a safe haven, something to hide behind when the world gets too big and scary.
When you were little, you used to do that. You came to him with your problems, your fears. There’s never been a day when he wasn’t bigger, stronger than you. You could vanish into his shadow, and only he’d know you were there.
Part of him wishes that weren’t the case, now. That you didn’t view him as a threat every time he leans over you to reach the shelf you’re struggling for.
You shove him away, on the defensive again. “Don’t sneak up on me.”
He wasn’t trying to, but Fleet training is a hard habit to kick.
He clutches the box of crackers with both hands, has to stop himself from hugging it to his chest.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” He forces himself to laugh, wry, invulnerable.
“Sure, Colonel,” you respond. “Why can’t I leave, then?”
You hold your hand out. He places the box in your palm with the delicacy of a moth landing.
“We just reunited, and you’re already thinking about ditching me?”
You stare at him for a moment, measuring his response. Examining every angle of it like the key to some arcane puzzle. Silent, you take your thoughts with you, back to your room, determined to solve this alone.
This time, he is the problem. He is the fear.
…
Day seven, he sees you eyeing the window of his 64th level penthouse like you’re really considering it.
So he makes your favorite.
The memory comes easy, despite it all. He was always precise in the kitchen, never a dash or a pinch. The control had been both a blessing and a curse, perfect dishes with no creativity.
With love, he’d always respond when you asked how he made something. You never stopped asking.
He’d convinced Josephine that you didn’t need to learn, he could handle the cooking. He could do the laundry, the cleaning, the shopping. And if he was around always, you’d never need to figure it out.
When you were hungry, you came to him. He liked that.
You recognize it immediately when he sets your plate down before you. You pause, staring down at it, your expression halfway between a grimace and a smile.
Usually you wait to eat until he’s taken a bite from your plate, just to make sure he isn’t drugging you, but he gets the sense that that isn’t what's on your mind tonight.
He wants to ask you if he got it wrong, if your taste changed since he’s been gone. You take the smallest, carefulest bite before he can get the words out.
He tries to remember who he was, back when sharing a meal with you was as simple and normal as breathing.
He liked airplanes. He was good at flying. He had direction and passion — but it was secondary to what he really wanted. The thing about his ambitions was that everything paled in comparison to you. He’d stayed grounded forever if that’s what it took to be with you.
He tells you about his morning. The worst cup of coffee he’s ever had. The traffic, the lady with the dyed poodle (Norman; didn’t like him). How he thought about you all day. Did you feel it?
He doesn’t expect you to respond, though he wishes you would. The cadence is choppy, pauses for breath where at one point you would have chimed in with a quip or a question. Room for you in every mundane story, if you want it.
How did he treat you, before all this?
People had liked him, once. Before he was the Colonel, he was friendly and trustworthy and dependable.
He still has the muscle memory of that personality. He's quick with a joke, or to offer aid to rookies. His smile still looks the same, boyish and sweet.
But he wears it like he wears the false skin over his prosthetic. Like something cold and mechanical, trying to be human again. That could never lure you back to loving him.
“This is good,” you murmur.
Relief. It feels like a battle won. “Some things never change, huh?”
It’s the wrong thing to say, but he doesn’t know why. You excuse yourself with a quiet thank you, a look like you’ve seen a ghost.
Maybe you have. He came back to life for you, after all.
…
You brush your teeth side by side. You don’t talk about the explosion. You remind him that bras are done on delicate cycle. You don’t mention the arm. You wear his hoodie to sleep. You don’t ask why he never contacted you.
Sometimes you stand in the doorway of the bathroom after he’s come home, watching as he spends long minutes washing the blood off his hands.
You never ask. Not even when the blood is his. Just observe him in that cool, cerebral way of yours.
He wonders if he would feel better if you pitied him. If you hated him.
It’s easy to navigate the day to day with you like this, a bastion of equanimity. But part of him still balks at the fact you won’t even yell at him anymore.
He feels unhinged in the face of your composure. Restless and anxious for something tangible to latch onto, for a problem he can fix, a goal he can attain. Instead you’re in this dollhouse purgatory, days of domestic bliss passing while time seems to stand still.
He teaches you to make bread.
He catches you stealing glances at his hands while he takes care of the starter, so he steps to the side, giving you a better vantage. You approach in slow steps.
“The dough is alive,” he tells you. “You have to feed it everyday, and make sure the environment is right. It’s kind of like having a pet.”
He unlids the jar, hands it to you. You take it with both hands — sniff it.
“Yeah,” he says, laughing at your expression. “It’s not very appetizing yet.”
He measures out the ingredients to add, careful to never block your view. You stay with him the whole afternoon, watching as he shapes it, scores the top for the crust. He does little stars, just for you.
The interest in the bread wears off shortly, but you watch Caleb himself raptly. His movements, his little explanations.
When the bread is finally in the oven, he sits with you at the island. For the first time since he brought you home, you stay with him, voluntarily.
Angel, he wants to call you. Something holy, out of reach.
He's never been religious, but most pilots are.
Caleb's first wingman used to pass the time telling him stories. "I saw a plane become a fireball in less than a second," he said, once. "Like a trick of the light."
Religious plot was easier to accept than sheer luck. The wingman had visited every faith, could pray to any god that might mitigate the circumstances. Most scripture is just ghost stories, though. The dead rising. The slaughter of kin. A god at the gates of heaven, who weighed every human heart on their sacred scale — a measure of sin.
He wants to tell you this too, gets the urge to turn over every corner of himself, so you can know him again. But then he would have to tell you how his wingman went down somewhere over the ocean, not in flames, but in the crushing depths.
What part of his life isn’t founded in tragedy? Is there anything he could tell you that wouldn’t make you terribly sad?
He turns to you to ask — what would you want to know about him — but comes up short.
You’re already looking at him; you don’t want to know anything.
He looks into your eyes and suddenly he's in the Deepspace Tunnel again, adrift in an endless, starless sky.
Later, he would realize it had only taken him a week before he crashed back into mapped territory. Logically, he accepted this, but a part of him still knew he'd been lost for much, much longer. Starving, bored, alone, entire lifetimes had come and gone as hope and reality began to diverge, and he realized he would never make it out of that fathomless dark. He would die out there in uncharted Deepspace.
It had been a relief to finally turn off his homing beacon. Death was a finite thing; the unknown was not.
The truth is, he didn't want to follow the light that finally lead him home. Optimism felt insincere, dangerous even. It would hurt, to be let down again, and pain was the one thing he had left to fear.
He'd never told you about that incident. Or that sometimes he thinks he never really made it out. He can still feel that creeping darkness so viscerally, sometimes he loses track of himself, forgets where he is altogether. Echoing back and forth between the kitchen table and the abyss.
"Caleb?" you say, calling him back. "Hey."
You press a few fingers to his sleeve. Hardly any pressure, the touch as light as a butterfly. Is this the first time you've reached out to him, of your own volition?
He wants more. Wants you to take him in your hands and squeeze as hard as you can, harder than the crushing vacuum of space.
He wants to feel your skin on his skin.
He wants to hold your hand.
He manages a smile. "Hey, Kid."
You're closer now. Not in his space, yet, but close enough that it's become an option. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he says. His arm twitches, jostling your hold on him.
It's the metal one. He's tried his best to always keep it covered when you're around. "Just... spacing out."
He glances at you, afraid to see pity, disgust.
You look back at him with nothing but that startling clarity of yours. Something has shifted. A fraction of emotion, a sudden slant in your judgment. A realization tipping the scale.
...
You send him off at the door the next morning, greet him when he comes home. When he asks for dinner ideas, you offer one. When he puts on a cheesy romcom, you join him on the couch.
It feels surreal in a whole new way.
And then he realizes that this is a death-row kiss.
The next morning you’re at the door, in your hunter uniform. He hasn’t seen you in it since he brought you here two weeks ago. You’re just strapping into your shoes when he catches you, heart in his throat.
His body is tense, caught somewhere between fight or flight, though there’s nowhere to run, no one to fight. “You’re leaving?”
“For now.”
“Then why is my life flashing before my eyes?” The joke falls flat. He can’t even force a smile.
“You’ll live.” Finished with your shoes, you rise and face him. “Since when has the door been unlocked, Caleb?”
Since you asked. Since he can never deny you anything. “A while.”
For the first time in a long time, you smile.
“I’ll come back,” you tell him.
…
And you do.
Again, and again, and again.
Until, finally, he believes you.
…
You see him off at the door every morning, with a wave and a warning to be good, Colonel.
He pays you a salute, and a diligent yes ma’am.
It’s your routine, perfect and strange.
But today, you break the mold.
He turns to you, waits for your order. But you’re looking at him, contemplative. You take a step forward. Another. Adjust his lapels, tweak one of his buttons. With your hands already on him, it’s so easy to just slide them a little further, until your arms are wrapped around his shoulders, your face right next to his.
He’s too stunned to react, to move. It’s been so long since someone has touched him like this, with any tenderness at all. He hadn’t wanted it from anyone but you, anyway.
“God,” you say, relieved, grateful, ”you’re so warm.”
Your voice breaks the spell, letting him escape the freeze, wrap his arms around you in turn.
It feels like a discovery, something brand new when he realizes.
You’re warm too.
…
It was never something as simple as love.
From the moment he met you, he knew you were his. Not like owned, but like responsibility. Which is why yours are the only notifications set to go through no matter the time or place.
Should he be checking his phone at morning debrief? No, but the Farspace Fleet can go to hell, if you need him.
Can you grab some stuff for me on your way home? you text him.
You don't wait for an answer, sending your list immediately. You always include pictures, just to make sure he gets it right. Not that he would ever let you down.
So high maintenance :p he returns.
But he wouldn't have it any other way. You're high maintenance because he wants you to be. Desperate for you to need any favor of him, just so he can fulfill it.
Because he'd die for you, but you'd never ask him to.
Picking up your pads is the next best thing.
...
It's a delicate equilibrium.
You chafe in his care, and you straying too far agitates him.
You purposely wait until he's at work to tell him of your plans. Going out tonight. Be back late.
It’s the first time you’ve been out after dark since you realized the door was open.
The sun sets around him. He shrinks to the dark, numbs with it. Wonders how long it will be before he simply fades out of existence, until he's lost forever, until he's nothing but empty, empty, empty—
The door opens, sending a vault of light across entryway. You emerge from it like salvation.
"Aren't you going to welcome me back, Colonel?"
He takes a breath. And another. "Welcome home, Kid."
He bends for you, a solid place to put your hands as you slip out of your shoes, stretch the feeling back into your toes.
You drop your bag, start shucking your jewelry, dropping it to the floor in a glittering heap. You tilt your head, baring your throat to let Caleb fiddle with the tricky clasps.
When he's done, he pulls you close, so he can curl over you, press his lips to your pulse. You smell like faded perfume and sweat and someone else's cologne.
"Who did you dance with?"
You tense, not liking the question. Still, you answer, "Tara's friend."
He half expected you to deny it altogether, but the admission soothes something in him. A test, a compromise. You're both seeing how much ground you can cede before losing yourselves altogether.
"How much did you drink?"
"A lot."
"Was it just Tara and her friend?"
"Some other people from work."
"Did you have a good time?"
You nod. "Saved a dance for you."
He draws your arms around his neck, lifting until your toes dangle off the ground, walking you backwards into the bathroom.
The light here is brighter, the room less shadowed. He turns on the shower, letting it warm before going back to you.
He unzips your dress, savoring the way you shudder as his fingers slip down your bare spine. Kneeling, he wiggles it down your hips, your thighs. Your hands braced against his shoulders again as you step out of it, leaving it puddled on the floor.
Your underwear is totally incongruous.
He'd bought you these panties, back in his academy days. It was mostly a joke, the silly cartoon dog print too unsexy to be anything else. It was easier to convince himself it didn't mean anything, that way.
The cut is modest, the fabric soft and faded. Not a scrap of lace in sight. The sight makes him smitten — how very you, to wear this under your clubwear.
Only he'll ever see you like this. It's a relief. That he can peel you out of whatever you show to others, down to your secret, bare essentials.
He kisses the little bow on the front before slipping them off too. "You kept these?"
"They're comfortable."
He comes to his full height again, drawing you against him. He rocks you, slowly, takes you with him as he sways.
"What're you doing?" you ask, muffled against his chest.
"Dancing," he returns. "Didn't you save one for me?"
Steam fills the room, gentle, warm. You let yourself be cradled, swayed.
He knows you bought the dress to test him, to see if he'd balk at you showing so much skin, if he'd forbid it. Of course it rankled, but he'd never stop you. If you wanted to go out there and be a femme fatale wrapped in silk, you could -- just come home when you're done.
You can be anything.
But first, you have to be his.
...
As much as he dreamed of going down on you, nothing could compare to the real thing.
Sometimes he feels like a starved dog, nipping at your heels for any scraps you’ll give him. Sometimes he can’t help himself. He wants it all the time — perhaps more than is healthy, but when has convention ever played a role in your relationship?
It starts playful, teasing. His hands tugging at the hem of your shirt, hip checking you, dragging his fingers up and down your arms until you shudder. He loves the way you yield, patient but pliant. How you make him work for it, a little. How you tease him back.
When you're laid out on his bed like this, naked and beautiful, he thinks maybe he is a religious man. after all. He thinks he understands why men get on their knees to pray.
"You're good at this," you say. An accusation.
The other women had been mistakes.
He hated thinking of them like that, that he was using them. He was always respectful, charming. He paid for the dates, and the hotels, drove them home after. A perfect gentleman.
He'd avoided dating in high school, in deference to you. He couldn't even think about kissing someone else and then coming home to you. He felt guilty thinking about anyone else. And he felt guilty about feeling guilty.
And then he moved out and he didn't want to feel guilty anymore. So he slept around. A lot.
Half of them were hunting for anyone who could satisfy him like even the mere thought of you could. He kept searching and searching for someone who could get him off, keep him present. But every time he would find himself closing his eyes, picturing your face.
Half of them were a purge. If he could just fuck enough people, maybe it would be enough to cure him. He could dog-train himself out of whatever hold up he had about you. He could be better, he could be good. He didn't have to be a disgusting pervert, drooling over his adopted sister.
And then none of that even mattered.
And then the Deepspace Tunnel and the Farspace Fleet. The explosion. The experiments.
By the time he was promoted to Colonel, he couldn't stand to be touched by anyone. Even the tuneups on his metal arm, contact he couldn't even feel, was grotesque to him.
His own hands felt foreign and strange. He'd always used the right one on himself. He didn't care to adapt, now that it's gone. He hasn't touched himself in years.
"You'd rather I be bad?" he says, ducking down for more.
You grab his hair, tugging him back up so you can meet his eyes.
"Fine, fine," he murmurs. "I'll do it bad. The worst it's even been done. Just let me--"
He tries again, but you tighten your hold on him. "Caleb," you say, and the tone of your voice has him sitting back, alarmed.
Why do you sound miserable?
"Hey, hey." He takes your hands, squeezing your fingers. "What's wrong?"
His mind races, flitting through every possible point of failure. Did he hurt you? Scare you? Did the arm disgust you—
"Do you even like this?" you ask.
He can't help the incredulous look that crosses his face. "If you're asking me, I haven't done my job right."
"You like that I like it," you say. "That's different."
You tug your pants back on, slide off the bed.
Caleb barely catches you before you’re out the door, pinning you as gently as he can, shoulders against the wall.
"I do," he says. "Like it. Of course I do."
"I don't believe you."
"Why?" He’s nearly begging. "What can I do to make you believe me?
You peer at him. Then glance down at his waist.
"Was it like—" you make a vague, indecipherable gesture. He would laugh if you didn't look so earnestly concerned. "—in the explosion? Is that why you never take your pants off?"
"No. I can assure you, everything is in working order."
"Of course.” You roll your eyes. “It would have to be, for you to fuck all those other people."
He winces.
"Why won't you just talk to me about it?" you ask. And then, a little softer, "Why not me?"
"I told you we could take it slow."
"For my benefit, or yours?" When he struggles to form an answer; you say, "I knew it, you don't want to. This is humiliating."
He doesn't know what else to do. You're hurting. He hurt you.
Panicked, overwhelmed, he grabs your hand again and places it over the bulge in his baggy sweatpants. Hard.
You both gasp at the contact, strange and new. You feel him through the fabric, getting a sense of the size and shape of him. Pause your exploration to nudge your nose against his.
"Is this okay?" you whisper.
"Will this make it better?" he says, breathless, desperate. "Will it fix things?"
"Nothing is broken, Caleb," you return. "It's just me."
He closes his eyes. Nods, once.
It feels good. And bad.
You slip your hand beneath his waistband, touch like a live wire. He can't ever remember being this sensitive.
He makes a sound deep in his chest, hears the echoes of it in his own skull. Hungry whines. Starved dog, starved dog, starved dog. He keens to your hands, humping back against each careful stroke.
Euphoria. Pulsing white hot through his veins, spiderweb cracks in a china vase.
He doesn't recognize it. Not as he is now. His mind bucks, refusing to stay the course of pleasure.
He feels the brush of dead Deepspace, all along the edges of his vision. Overtaken by sparks of gut-wrenching sensitivity.
They spread and twine. Braid until he doesn't know what he's running from or to.
In rescue training they practiced water crashes. He learned that in desperation, some people swim deeper, not knowing how to find the surface.
That's where he is. In the delirium and crushing pressure, a coin toss between fresh air and doom.
Until he peaks, and it's neither. Not heaven or hell. Not pain or pleasure.
He comes apart in your hands, and it's you.
Just you.
...
He comes home in the late afternoon. Accepts your kisses with weary enthusiasm. Peels off his uniform. Stands under the spray of the shower until his hands stop shaking, until he could step out and his metal arm would be as warm as skin.
You're waiting for him on the floor in the living room, a plastic bag gaping in front of you. You insisted you'd do the shopping for this week, so he sent you off with his blessing and credit card, knowing you'd probably forget a few things. You'd go back together, on his day off.
You tug on his pant leg.
"Sit," you order, bringing him down to you.
He sits cross legged before you, watching as you pull a glossy sheet out of the bag. Stickers?
You stare at them for a long minute, pouring all your concentration into choosing one.
"I saw these in the checkout line and— You rise onto your knees to get a better vantage, carefully pressing the sticker to the middle of his bare, metal bicep. "There, perfect."
You smooth your thumb over it, making sure it's really stuck. Then you pull back, beaming at your work.
He glances down at it. A little blue airplane. It seems so incongruous on him, so cute and bright and innocent.
"It's just gonna come off," he murmurs.
You don't bat an eye. "I have more."
And you do. Sheets and sheets of them. You pull out another one, stars and moons and clouds, arranging them on his prosthetic with the utmost care.
You don't even ask. He doesn't want you to.
He turns and shifts whenever you want him to, ever at your mercy.
You tap one last star to his cheek, securing it with a tender peck.
"It suits you," you say.
It does. He wouldn't have believed it until you said it — your verdict simply makes it true. You could do anything to him, mold him from the dirt into any shape you please, rebuild him from the ground up.
This body may not be his anymore, but it will always be yours.
protective men do such things to me you do NOT understand. like, men who will immediately take you out of a situation in which you’re feeling uncomfortable. men who will defend your honor, always and forever, no matter what. MEN WHO WILL PROTECT YOU 💗💘💝💕💖💓💞🩷 men who promise to keep you safe
won’t you ache with me? @forwhenyoucomeback - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
