#the good stuff

[riptidesiren]

Too good, too fucking good! Might actually convert me to a Angel!Caleb believer!

Fallen

❤︎  tags and content: fallen angel, rough sex, slight?virginity(bc he's an angel ya know) ❤︎  author note: check out all my fics by searching #moongirlcleo or on AO3

🔞NSFW content - Minors DNI 🔞 Dividers: @cafekitsune Fic: @moongirlcleo  

You weren’t supposed to see him. He wasn’t supposed to want you.

Yet, night after night, Caleb watched from the shadows—an angel bound by duty, tethered to a divinity that no longer felt like salvation. You were a temptation he swore he would resist, a fleeting mortal he was never meant to touch. But some choices are made long before they ever reach the tongue, and the moment you met his gaze, he knew. His fall was inevitable.

Now, stripped of his grace, wings sullied by the weight of his own desire, he is no longer bound to the heavens—only to you. And when he touches you for the first time, he is not gentle. He is starving.

The dream unfolds in silence, vast and unbroken, cradling you in a space that feels neither real nor false, but something suspended between the two. The world around you is vast yet formless, a place without sky, without ground, without anything but the sensation of being. There is no cold, no warmth, only a quiet, weightless stillness that presses against your skin like the memory of an embrace.

Golden light spills across the horizon—or what you assume to be a horizon—rolling over the distance like a tide, shifting and restless, unbound by direction or form. The glow isn’t harsh, nor is it the blinding brilliance of midday sun, but something softer, richer, as though the entire world has been wrapped in the last aching moments of twilight. It paints everything it touches in gold and fire, in something otherworldly, something beyond human understanding.

That’s when you see him.

Not as an approaching figure, not as a sudden presence disrupting the quiet, but as though he has always been there, waiting beyond the edges of your perception, unnoticed until your eyes settle on him. He stands amidst the golden glow, his body half-draped in it, his presence so seamless that for a moment, he seems carved from the light itself.

The first thing you notice is his face—sharp, striking, cut from a kind of beauty that feels almost painful to look at, as though the world itself had shaped him with too much precision, too much care. His skin is pale, a shade caught between marble and moonlight, untouched by imperfection, yet far from delicate. His expression, unreadable yet impossibly calm, carries a weight that you cannot name, something ancient and solemn resting beneath the surface.

His eyes, framed by long, dark lashes, are a deep shade of amethyst—rich and endless, shifting between dusk and violet flame. They are steady, unblinking, watching you with a focus so absolute that it feels like a tangible thing, wrapping around you, holding you in place even when nothing else does. They glow faintly in the golden haze, an unnatural, breathtaking contrast against the warm light surrounding him.

His hair, dark as tempered mahogany, falls around him in soft waves, longer than you expect, tousled as though touched by hands that never should have touched him. Strands catch the glow, kissed at the edges by something almost auburn, though the depth of its darkness remains untouched by the radiance around him.

And his wings—

They are massive, stretching far beyond what should be possible, a brilliant cascade of white and gold feathers that shimmer where the light touches them. Each one is flawless, arranged with a precision that makes them seem sculpted rather than real, yet there is no doubt that they are his, that they belong to him as much as breath belongs to lungs. They move in slow, deliberate shifts, subtle twitches that send ripples through the sea of feathers, as though even in stillness, they carry the weight of something immense.

Despite the sheer enormity of him, the way his presence seems to fill the entire space, you do not feel fear. There is no instinct screaming at you to run, no shadow of doubt curling at the edges of your thoughts, only the overwhelming certainty that you are safe here.

And yet, even as safety settles over your skin, something else lingers beneath it—something deeper, something just beyond your reach, curling at the edges of your awareness like the first stirrings of a storm. It is not danger, not exactly, but an intensity you cannot define, a pull that tugs at the center of your chest, quiet yet insistent, as if your very soul is responding to something unseen.

He does not move, not at first, only watches, gaze steady, expression unreadable. The silence between you stretches, thick and unbroken, but it is not uncomfortable. If anything, it feels purposeful, as though something unspoken is being exchanged, something vast and quiet passing between you without the need for words.

Finally, as if the weight of the moment has shifted just enough, his lips part, and his voice reaches you—not loud, not sharp, but something low and steady, woven with a softness that contradicts the sheer power of the being before you.

“You should not be here.”

The words are not spoken as a warning, nor do they carry the sharp edge of command, yet something in them settles deep in your chest, a statement of truth rather than a demand.

You should not be here.

And yet, you are.

Your lips part, a question forming on the tip of your tongue, but before you can speak, something shifts. The golden light flickers, just slightly, the glow trembling as though something unseen has disturbed it. It is the smallest change, barely perceptible, but you feel it.

His amethyst gaze flickers—just a breath, just the briefest moment of something almost uncertain—before his wings shift, folding in ever so slightly, as if shielding something unseen.

The pull at your chest deepens, sharpens, turning from a whisper into something demanding.

You take a step forward.

His eyes widen—only slightly, only just enough for you to catch it—but before you can take another breath, the dream begins to dissolve. The golden light trembles, curling at the edges of your vision, and the weightlessness around you turns unsteady, slipping away like sand between your fingers.

You try to hold onto it, to hold onto him, but the dream is already pulling apart, unraveling into nothingness—

And then you wake.

The world of the waking rushes in too fast, too sudden, the cool air of your room a stark contrast to the warmth you had just been wrapped in. Your pulse is uneven, your breath unsteady, and even as your eyes adjust to the dim glow of reality, one thing remains crystal clear—

You remember everything.

Not a hazy dream, not a fleeting image, but him. His face, his voice, the impossible weight of his presence—

And the way it felt like he had been waiting for you.

<hr>

Sleep had been deep, heavy, wrapping around you like a second skin, but something stirred at the edges of it—an awareness, quiet at first, like a whisper against the grain of your mind. A presence. It wasn’t a noise that woke you, nor a sudden jolt, but the distinct and unshakable feeling that you were being watched.

Your breath came slow as your senses adjusted, the darkness of your room still thick with the remnants of sleep. The weight of your blankets was familiar, the air still touched with the lingering warmth of your own body, and yet—

Something was wrong.

The air was heavier, thicker, as if space itself had been altered, the atmosphere laced with something unseen, something felt rather than noticed. A slow, creeping awareness prickled along your skin, a pull at the center of your chest like a silent demand to look.

So you did.

Your eyes opened, adjusting to the dim glow of the night, and for a moment, nothing seemed out of place. The room was the same—your bed, the faint sliver of moonlight cutting through the curtains, the outline of your dresser against the far wall. But there, at the edge of shadow and light, standing near the foot of your bed—

He was there.

A figure, tall and unmoving, half-shrouded in darkness but unmistakably real. He was watching you, his presence filling the space in a way that made the walls feel smaller, the air thicker, a presence too vast to be contained within something as simple as a room.

Even before your eyes adjusted fully, you knew it was him.

Not a figment of a dream. Not a lingering memory slipping between the cracks of consciousness. He was here, standing in the waking world, no longer confined to the golden haze of sleep.

Your pulse jumped, breath catching in your throat, but not in fear—not entirely. The reaction wasn’t one of panic, not the kind that sent limbs thrashing and instincts screaming. It was something else, something deeper, an understanding that hadn’t fully formed but already took root inside you.

He had been waiting.

The moonlight caught on his features as your vision sharpened, illuminating the sharp lines of his face, the way his dark waves framed his striking features. His expression was unreadable, those deep amethyst eyes steady, locked onto yours with an intensity that didn’t waver.

He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken.

But he was watching.

A slow exhale left your lips, barely audible against the stillness, as you forced your voice to steady.

“…Caleb.”

His name came like a breath, slipping between parted lips before you could think to question how you knew it so certainly, how it felt like it had always belonged to you, like it was something your soul had known long before your mind could catch up.

His eyes flickered—just barely, just enough for something unreadable to shift behind them. But he did not speak, did not react beyond the slight tension in his shoulders, the barely-there flex of his fingers at his sides.

Your heart pounded harder. The weight of his presence pressed against you like a force just outside of understanding, but you weren’t drowning in it—you were drawn to it, inexplicably, dangerously.

Your voice was quieter this time, softer, threaded with something you weren’t sure you wanted to name.

“…Why are you here?”

A pause, thick and weighted, stretching long between you, as though the very air had to decide whether or not it would allow him to answer.

When he did, his voice was low, steady, impossibly soft but filled with something vast beneath the surface.

“…You saw me.”

His words sent something curling in your stomach, an unspoken truth lingering between them.

You had seen him.

Not just now, not just standing at the foot of your bed like an impossibility made real, but before. In the dreams, in the golden light, in the places where reality blurred and something deeper called out from beyond the veil of knowing.

Your breath shuddered.

“Was that real?”

The question left you before you could stop it, before you could weigh the logic of it, but Caleb didn’t look surprised. If anything, there was something else in his expression now, something carefully contained, unreadable but heavy.

His gaze held yours for a moment longer, long enough for the silence to stretch until it became something alive, something breathing between you.

Then—

A single step. Not rushed, not hesitant, just deliberate. The space between you lessened, and in the dim light, you caught the way his wings moved—just slightly, just enough for the faintest shimmer of white and gold to shift behind him, confirming what you already knew. Not a dream. Not a phantom of your subconscious.

Caleb was here. Real.

And as he stood before you, as his presence filled the air in a way that made it impossible to breathe without feeling him—

The silence between you pressed down, thick and aching, the kind that didn’t just settle over the room but wound itself around your ribs, squeezing with the weight of something unspoken. Caleb stood before you, his body still, his expression unreadable, but his presence—his presence—was a storm barely held at bay.

You could feel it.

Something vast, something breaking apart beneath the surface, something he wasn’t saying but couldn’t quite contain. His amethyst eyes, impossibly deep, remained locked onto yours, but there was something different now, something frayed at the edges, as if he were only just realizing that this moment—this collision between you—had already shifted the world beneath his feet.

You swallowed, breath unsteady but refusing to look away.

“Caleb,” you murmured again, his name slipping from your lips like a tether, like if you said it enough, he would stay.

His expression flickered—just for a second, just enough for something almost pained to slip through the cracks before his gaze dropped, his shoulders shifting under an invisible weight. His wings moved behind him, feathers rustling ever so slightly, restless, unsure.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before, low and strained, as if saying the words alone was an act of defiance against something greater than either of you.

“…I should not be here.”

The statement was soft, but it landed with the force of something final, something meant to sever the moment before it could take root. But there was no conviction in his voice, no certainty—only a quiet, bitter resignation, as though the words themselves were nothing more than a lie he had told himself one too many times.

You sat up further, pulse thrumming against your skin, searching his face for something—anything—that might explain what this was, what he was.

But Caleb was already taking a step back.

The movement was slow, measured, like it took effort, like something unseen was trying to hold him in place even as he forced himself to retreat. His eyes lifted to yours once more, and this time, they were unmistakably sad—a sorrow so deep, so worn, that it didn’t feel like it belonged to this moment alone, but to something far older, something that had been unraveling long before this night.

The distance between you stretched.

He turned. Your breath caught. He was leaving.

And yet—

At the threshold of your room, just as the shadows curled at the edges of his presence, he stopped. His head tilted slightly, as if listening to something only he could hear, and his fingers flexed at his sides, tension running through him like a barely restrained tremor. Then, in a voice softer than the sigh of wind through dying leaves, he spoke.

“…I’ll be back.”

The words came quiet but heavy, filled with something that didn’t belong to choice, something that had already been decided long before he had ever stepped into your world. His gaze flickered to yours, and for the first time, he let the truth bleed into his expression—let you see it, let it settle between you like a weight that could never be lifted.

“I have no choice anymore.”

His wings shifted, golden light flickering at the edges where they met shadow, and his voice dropped lower, something final curling at the edges of it.

“…I’ve fallen.”

The next breath he took—slow, unsteady—felt like a confession, like an acceptance of something he had been fighting against for far too long. His gaze softened, and for a single, fragile moment, it looked as though he might say something else, something that could have changed everything. Caleb stepped back, and the space where he had been was empty.

No sound, no flicker of movement. Just the quiet aftermath of something vast and terrible that had just slipped away.

You were alone.

And yet, the last thing he had said clung to the air like a ghost, curling around you, pressing into your chest like something that refused to be forgotten.

He had fallen. What did that mean? Was that why he kept appearing in your dreams night after night?

<hr>

For seven days, the room had felt empty.

No shadows stretching where they shouldn’t, no flickers of light bending against something unseen, no silent weight pressing against your skin like a presence just outside of reach. You told yourself it had only been a dream, that you had woken to nothing but the remnants of sleep clinging to your thoughts, that the warmth lingering in the air that night had been imagined—

But the truth curled at the edges of your consciousness like an echo that refused to fade. You had not imagined him. You had not imagined the way his amethyst eyes had locked onto yours, the way sorrow had laced through his voice, nor the quiet, devastating certainty in his parting words.

I’ll be back.

And so, you waited. You told yourself you weren’t, that life moved forward as it always had, that you weren’t lingering by your window late into the night, weren’t straining your senses for something just beyond the veil of knowing, weren’t reaching for a presence that should not exist.

You felt it before you saw him.

The shift in the air, the way the space around you seemed to tighten, how the night pressed in closer, thick and electric with something unseen. The hairs on the back of your neck rose, anticipation curling into something deep, something primal, something that sent heat trickling down your spine in a slow, curling ache.

Then—he was there.

Not a flicker, not a gradual materialization, but a sudden, jarring presence—a figure standing at the threshold of your room, shadowed against the dim glow of the city lights bleeding through the window, tall and unmoving, shoulders stiff, wings half-spread as though caught in the throes of hesitation.

But his eyes.

Dark lashes framed them, but they burned in the low light, deep violet streaked with something feverish, something that sent a slow pulse of heat curling low in your stomach. The moment you met his gaze, the breath in your chest stilled, the world narrowing down to nothing but the space between you, and the way the air itself shuddered under the weight of his presence.

You swallowed, fingers curling into the sheets as you pushed yourself up, words forming on your tongue but catching before they could take shape—because he looked different.

Pale skin stretched taut over sharp features, shadows lingering beneath his eyes, his lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling in slow, heavy breaths, as though every movement was something deliberate, something painful. His hair, dark waves curling messily around his face, looked unkempt, as though fingers had raked through it over and over, restless, desperate.

And then there was the way he stared at you. Like he was starving. Like he had been dying without you. Like he had spent every waking moment since he left aching for something he could not name, could not reach, could not have—until now.

"Caleb," you murmured, barely a whisper, barely a breath, but the sound of his name seemed to wreck him.

A sharp inhale, his fingers twitching at his sides, his wings giving a single, shuddering tremor before, suddenly—

He moved.

Fast. Fluid. A blur of motion that sent the air curling around you, and then his hands were on you—gripping, trembling—as he crashed into you, his mouth devouring yours in something frantic, something shattered.

Heat exploded through your body the moment his lips met yours, desperate and hungry, nothing careful about the way he kissed you, as though restraint had long since crumbled, as though seven days had left him nothing but hunger and he was breaking apart beneath it.

His hands cupped your face, fingers pressing into your skin like he needed to memorize the shape of you, like he was afraid you would slip through his grasp if he did not hold tight enough. His breath came ragged between kisses, deep, uneven, like he had spent an eternity without air and you were the only thing that could bring him back.

Your fingers twisted into the fabric of his toga, pulling him closer, because it wasn’t enough—it would never be enough. The press of his body, the sharp line of his jaw grazing against your skin, the way he groaned into your mouth when your hands moved over his chest, gripping at him, clawing at him, wanting him just as much as he wanted you.

He pulled back just enough to breathe, but his forehead remained pressed to yours, his breath hot and shaking against your lips.

"I choose this," he whispered, voice thick, raw, as though the words were tearing through him, desperate to be spoken. "I choose Earth. I choose—"

His lips brushed against yours again, barely a kiss, barely a breath, before he exhaled, voice breaking around the words that left him ruined.

"I choose you."

A sound left you—something quiet, something wrecked—because there was nothing left between you now, no veil, no barrier, no whispered uncertainty.

Caleb’s breath was ragged, uneven, the weight of his body pressing into you like he could sink into you, like he could lose himself in the warmth of your skin and finally, finally forget the eternity of restraint that had left him hollow.

His lips ghosted over yours, a whisper of heat, not quite a kiss but something worse, something unbearable, something pleading.

“Say it,” he rasped, his voice nothing but velvet and ruin, his fingers tightening at your waist, sinking into the fabric of your clothes as though he was already memorizing how you felt beneath him. “Say that you want this.”

As if you hadn’t already answered him in the way you clung to him, the way your fingers had tangled in the mess of his dark waves, the way your body arched into his as though it had been waiting for him longer than time itself.

“I want this,” you whispered, breathless, no hesitation, no doubt, no second thoughts—only the truth that had burned between you since the moment he first touched you.

Caleb exhaled sharply, a sound that was almost a groan, half pained, half something darker, something that sent fire curling low in your stomach before his mouth finally crashed against yours.

The kiss was deep, consuming, desperate, as though he had been starving for you, as though this was something he had been denying himself for far too long, and now there was no restraint left—no divinity, no rules, no god above to command him to stop.

His hands roamed your body, reverent yet claiming, his touch burning into you as though he was trying to carve himself into your very bones. His fingers curled into your hips, dragging you against him, letting you feel exactly what you had done to him, how wrecked he was from just a week away from you.

His teeth caught at your bottom lip, a low, guttural sound slipping from his throat when you gasped against his mouth, and something in him snapped.

The world tilted.

You barely had time to gasp before you were beneath him, his wings unfurled in a sudden movement, blocking out the dim light, making the entire world feel smaller, like there was nothing beyond this—beyond him.

“Mine,” he whispered against your lips, the word barely a breath, barely spoken, but thick with something dangerous, something that had no return. His mouth trailed lower, the sharp edge of his jaw grazing against your throat, the heat of his breath sending shivers racing down your spine before—

A kiss.

There. Right at the pulse point, right where your heartbeat was the strongest, where he could feel the life pulsing beneath your skin.And then another. Softer. Lingering. His teeth, scraping, testing, marking, as though the last fragments of his restraint were slipping away with every inch of you he devoured.

“Caleb,” you gasped, nails digging into his back, catching on the smooth, impossibly soft feathers of his wings, and that single, accidental touch was his undoing.

He shuddered, his entire body tensing, his breath shaking against your skin before he groaned, low and wrecked, pressing himself harder against you like he could merge you together, like the separation between your bodies was something intolerable.

“I should have stayed away,” he muttered, a confession that meant nothing when his hands were already tugging at your clothes, already sliding against bare skin with a reverence that felt nothing like regret. “I should have—”

You cut him off with a kiss, dragging him back to you, deepening it until he whimpered against your mouth. And that was it. That was the moment restraint became nothing. Caleb took. His lips, his hands, his body, all of it pressing, claiming, his mouth worshipping your skin like he had prayed to touch you and had finally been granted permission. His hands were rough, shaking slightly, fingertips pressing bruises into your hips, dragging you against him, chasing the friction, needing you the way he needed air. He kissed you like you were the first thing he had ever wanted—like this was the reason he had fallen, like this was what he had chosen.

And when his lips met your throat again, when he moaned against your skin, when his teeth grazed in warning before he sucked.

Caleb’s breath burned against your skin, each exhale ragged, uneven, pressing heat into your throat as if he could brand himself into you without even touching. His body was tense, muscles coiled with restraint that frayed at the edges, his hands gripping you with a desperation that barely masked the way he trembled, the way his control unraveled the longer he stayed pressed against you. His mouth traced along your jaw, slow but aching, as though he wanted to memorize every inch, as though this was the last prayer left to him.

Fingers twisted in his hair, dark waves curling between your knuckles, and when you tugged, he shuddered against you, a quiet groan slipping past his lips, something low and wrecked, something that made heat coil deep in your stomach. His wings trembled behind him, those impossibly soft feathers brushing against your arms, grazing your skin like a whisper of divinity still clinging to him despite his fall.

But there was nothing divine in the way his thigh pressed between yours, nothing celestial about the slow, deliberate way he rocked against you, his breath stuttering as he felt what he had done to you, what he had become for you. Every shift of his body was careful, every movement reverent but possessive, as if he had spent an eternity starving for this moment and was only just realizing he could have it.

The bed loomed behind you, close enough to reach, a silent promise wrapped in darkness, but Caleb made no move toward it. He was still here, still tracing his lips over your skin, still devouring you in slow, unhurried strokes of his hands, like he wanted to savor the suffering of restraint a little longer.

He wasn’t rushing.

He was surrendering.

His lips hovered over yours, breath warm, unsteady, the smallest space separating you as he murmured your name, voice fractured at the edges, thick with something you weren’t sure he had the strength to hold back any longer.

“The bed,” you whispered, the words barely spoken, barely a breath, but they shattered something between you, breaking the last fragile thread of distance still holding him together.

Caleb went still, his chest pressing against yours, fingers curling tighter at your waist, nails digging into fabric, knuckles taut with the unbearable need to move, to take, to claim. A slow inhale dragged through his lungs, his forehead resting against yours, his body caging you in as if trying to resist, but you knew—

He had no restraint left.

His arms tightened around you in a single, fluid motion, one curling beneath your legs, the other pressing against the small of your back, the movement effortless, strength barely contained as he lifted you from the ground. It should have felt sudden, should have caught you off guard, but the moment you felt yourself being carried, the moment your body was pressed against his, the moment his grip tightened—

It felt inevitable.

The world tilted, warmth surrounding you, the soft sheets of your bed pressing against your back as Caleb followed, never letting you go, never releasing his hold. His wings unfurled in a sweeping arc, stretching wide before folding inward, curling around the two of you as if to shield this moment, as if to keep it untouched, sacred, belonging to only you and him.

He hovered above you, breath labored, eyes dark with something unrelenting, something that made your stomach tighten as his gaze raked over you, as if he were seeing you for the first time, as if this was the moment he truly understood what he had given up, what he had chosen. His hands framed your face, reverent, shaking slightly as his thumb traced over your cheek, his weight pressing into you, every part of him demanding something he hadn’t yet put to words.

“I choose this,” he whispered, voice quiet but sure, breaking around the words like they carried too much weight for his mortal tongue to bear. His fingers slid down the length of your arm, warm, grounding, lacing between your own as he pinned your hands to the bed, his grip firm, possessive, desperate. “I choose you.”

His lips met yours again, but this time, there was no hesitation.

There was no lingering restraint, no careful exploration, only hunger—only a week of distance crashing into him all at once, the pent-up ache of denial finally breaking free. He kissed you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world, like this was what he had fallen for, like he had no regrets, no doubts, only the certainty that he had given up everything for this moment, and he would do it again.

His body pressed against yours, the heat of him sinking into your skin, the weight of his presence consuming every sense, and when his mouth moved lower, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, lingering where your pulse pounded, his breath trembled with something wrecked.

This wasn’t just desire. This was devotion.

This was the moment he stopped being something fallen and started being something yours.

The moment restraint snapped, Caleb’s hands were on you, tearing at the fabric between you with an urgency that felt centuries old, as though he had spent lifetimes denying himself and could not bear another second of distance. The heat of his body pressed into yours, a brand, a claim, his fingers rough in their haste but reverent in the way they traced over bare skin, like each inch of you was something sacred.

His mouth was everywhere. Lips bruising against yours, breath ragged as he swallowed every sound you made, as though devouring your surrender. The drag of his teeth against your throat sent a shudder racing through you, a low sound escaping him when your fingers tangled into his hair, gripping, pulling, making him groan into your skin. His wings flexed, stretching wide, then folding around you, blocking out the world, caging you beneath him in a way that felt like both protection and possession.

The clothes between you were gone too fast, discarded with a desperation that spoke of need, of something too long denied, his hands skating over every newly exposed inch of skin as if memorizing, mapping, worshiping with each touch. When his palms slid down the curves of your waist, down your hips, fingers digging in as he pulled you flush against him, you felt him—felt the tension coiled in every muscle, the barely restrained shaking of his body as he tried to pace himself, to savor, to breathe.

But patience was a fragile thing, and Caleb had none left.

His lips crashed against yours once more, tongue teasing, demanding, his body pressing you deeper into the sheets as his hips aligned with yours, a sharp gasp slipping free when he rolled against you, slow but intentional, letting you feel every inch of what he had been holding back. His forehead pressed to yours, breath hot, uneven, his voice nothing more than a whisper laced with devotion and something darker, something possessive.

“You have no idea,” he rasped, words broken between heavy exhales, his fingers tightening on your hips, holding you steady as he ground against you again, eliciting a quiet, breathless sound from your lips that made his restraint fray even further. “How long I have wanted this. Wanted you.”

The desperation in his voice sent fire curling in your stomach, every nerve alight, the heat between you unbearable as he finally, finally moved in the way you both needed.

The first thrust stole your breath, sent a shudder through every inch of your body, his head dipping to the crook of your neck as he groaned, low and wrecked, his grip bruising as he held himself there, deep, still, feeling you, as if even a second without movement was agony. His wings trembled, his body tense, but the moment you tightened around him, gasping his name, something in him snapped.

He pulled back, then drove into you again, rougher this time, deeper, a shuddering exhale leaving him at the way you responded, the way your body welcomed him. His pace became relentless, his hands gripping at you like he was afraid to let go, his mouth pressing open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder, up your throat, lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he groaned your name like a prayer.

“This is why I fell,” he whispered between ragged breaths, his body moving against yours in a rhythm too perfect to be unholy, his voice shaking from the sheer need of it, from the realization that there was no going back. “For this. For you.”

The world unraveled between thrusts, between the sounds escaping both of you, between the unbearable friction and the way your nails raked down his back, his own fingers leaving marks on your hips as he buried himself in you again and again, no hesitation, no restraint, only the raw, earth-shattering truth of what he had become for you.

He wasn’t falling anymore.

He had already fallen, already lost himself to this, to you, to the way you whispered his name like you needed him just as much as he needed you. His movements grew erratic, breath hitching as he neared the edge, his grip unrelenting, his lips searching for yours, desperate, starved. And when you finally broke beneath him, when pleasure crashed through you with his name on your lips, his own release followed in a shuddering, wrecked exhale, a groan pressed against your mouth, his body trembling as he buried himself in you one last time.

Silence stretched between you in the aftermath, nothing but the sound of breathless gasps and the slow, steady flutter of his wings as they loosened, no longer caging, no longer trapping, but cradling.

He didn’t pull away.

Didn’t move.

Instead, he stayed there, his forehead resting against yours, fingers tracing slow, reverent patterns into your skin, his lips brushing against yours in something too soft to be hunger, too gentle to be anything but worship.

The room was silent but for the slowing cadence of breath, the steady rise and fall of Caleb’s chest against yours, the faint rustle of sheets as his wings, once so vast and powerful, stilled. The warmth of him was all-encompassing, his body tangled with yours, limbs heavy with exhaustion, muscles no longer held taut with restraint. His weight pressed against you, grounding, human in a way that felt so different from the impossible being who had once stood at the foot of your bed, too perfect, too untouchable, too divine.

But he was not divine anymore.

Your fingers trembled slightly as they traced the length of his back, over the ridges of his spine, down the curve of muscle still damp with heat, memorizing the feel of him—not light, not celestial radiance, but flesh and warmth, breath and heartbeat. Human. His skin bore no impossible glow now, only the soft golden hue left by candlelight, his wings no longer stretching with an overwhelming presence, only half-spread in something fragile, something uncertain, as though even he had yet to understand what he had become.

You swallowed, the realization curling deep in your chest, heavy, bittersweet.

This was it.

There was no grace left to return to, no god waiting to call him home. He had severed himself from the heavens, fallen, and for what? For you. For something fragile, something fleeting, something that could end. He had given up eternity for a life that would age, decay, slip through time’s grasp like grains of sand—and he had known. He had understood that before he ever touched you, before he ever kissed you, before he ever whispered your name like it was something sacred.

And yet, he had still chosen you.

A sharp inhale left you, unsteady, your fingers threading through his dark waves, still slightly damp with sweat, still tangled from where your hands had raked through them in desperation. The realization ached, curled in your ribs like something unbearably tender.

He had done this for you.

He had been waiting for you.

Long before you ever knew him.

Caleb shifted slightly at the sound of your breath catching, lifting his head just enough to look at you, his amethyst eyes softer now, the feverish hunger replaced with something deeper, something certain. His lips parted as though he meant to speak, to say something to pull you from the depth of your thoughts, but the words never came. Instead, his fingers brushed along your cheek, light, careful, reverent.

You turned into his touch, exhaling shakily, pressing a kiss to his palm, and he melted, his breath leaving him in something close to a sigh, relief and sorrow intertwined in the space between heartbeats.

“You’re human now,” you whispered, barely audible, as if saying it too loudly would shatter something between you.

A pause.

Caleb’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his fingers still cradling your face as he nodded, slow, final. “…I know.”

It was quiet, simple, but the weight behind it was enormous.

You searched his face, studying the details that had once seemed untouchable—his sharp features, once ethereal, now softened by exhaustion; the lips that had spoken words of divinity now parted with nothing but the weight of feeling. He had been more than this once. He had been infinite. Now, he was yours. Just a man, bound to the earth, bound to time, bound to the same fragility as you.

And yet, despite everything he had lost, despite the eternity he had left behind, he smiled. Just barely. Just enough for something warm to settle in the cracks of your sorrow.

“I knew what I was doing,” he murmured, his voice like silk, like something certain, as though there had never been a moment of doubt, as though even now, with mortality pressing against his ribs, he had no regrets. “I chose this. I chose you.”

A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it, but Caleb caught it with his thumb, brushing it away with infinite care, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, as if the mere thought of you grieving for him was unbearable. His lips stayed there for a long moment, warm against your skin, silent reassurance passing between you in the soft hum of candlelight and cooling sheets.

“I would fall again,” he whispered against your temple, a quiet, steady vow, his arms pulling you closer, holding you as though he could bind himself to you with touch alone. “A thousand times over. If it led me to you, I would fall every time.”

The words shattered something inside you.

Your fingers dug into his back, clutching him, holding on, because for all that he had lost, for all that he had given up—he was still here. He was still yours.

And as Caleb buried his face into the crook of your neck, as his breath warmed your skin, as his heart beat in sync with yours, you knew—

No god, no heaven, no eternity could ever take him from you again.

[mauricerudy]

[alicornze7]

Ribbun week - Day6: Fluff

I’m not dead (yet)

ribbun week? More like ribbun month haha get it- ok I’ll stop

You know how goose said it has been a while since the last time he got a hug? Things to think about…

To clarify, they are moonwatching on a balcony of sorts in the timeskip, I just never bothered shading it since it’ll ruin the lineart

Last thing the plushie is an object she holds dear since it resembles her childhood family cat *headcanon*

You’ll get to see more of that sometime in the future:)

[bluebruises]

drew the guys, will happen again

just informing everybody that is reblogging this that i think they are gay

edit: turns out im stupid and his names MATT?!?!?!?!? NOT TOM?2?2?2?2?2?

[jasonpenni]

been experimenting with new styles and shit. i like this one alot

[fauxpapillons]

Frail life, bonds severed so easily.

[the-solitary-child]

i think lucy called kipperlily lily as a nickname, and she would press soft kisses to her cheek and lips in private away from everyone else, they would have sleep overs filled with ghibili movies and lucy braiding kipperlilys hair and kipperlily loved lucy, and lucy loved kipperlily, but not enough to accept an unnamed corrupted god as her divinity

[justbr0s]

Logan putting Wade on his hands and knees, nudging his legs apart, making room for himself between Wade's thighs.

Logan pressing Wade's head down, making him arch his back, muffling that babbling mouth.

Logan driving into Wade from behind, leaning on top of him, heavy, leaving no room for Wade to even squirm.

Logan biting into Wade's shoulder hard, keeping him in place, rutting into him like the animal that he is.

Wade moaning loud, unable to help himself, so loud their neighbours can hear everything.

Wade chanting 'Logan' - not Peanut, not Wolvie - as he gets close.

"Logan.."

[ribbondee]

Dib looks weird in 3D.

Tbh, Globs of Doom was my childhood, and thankfully what introduced me to Invader Zim as a kid. Yay?

[gay-stuff-is-happening-here]

this is what buck and eddie were drinking at that bachelor party that got them fucked up

[itsanidiom]

AND THEY WERE ROOMMATES

Pairings: Chalothon/Tharn/Phaya

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Chalothon and Tharn aren’t dating.

Chalothon doesn’t even want to date Tharn.

They’re just family friends who live together. That’s all.

So what if he helps Tharn through his seasonal heats? That’s something any Alpha would do for a close Omega friend.

Tharn’s new boyfriend, Phaya, is the one making things awkward.

[eclipse-song]

salmon tourtiere 😩💕

[absolutebl]

I found Seven Days on YT and because you recc'd it, I of course had to watch it. Goddamnit it was cute. (You weren't wrong about the hair, hoo boy) I do think that a lot of its charm comes from the cinematography. That bedroom scene was one take of nearly 5 minutes (4 minutes 44 seconds from the last flashback but who's counting) and that scene was intense, omg. They were not fucking around with that. I love how they weren't scared of long silences, that final scene at the water killed me dead.

Yesssssssssssss!!!!

[jasonpenni]

them being happy is all we need rn

[thefisherqueen]

The whole thing occurred in a moment—so quickly that I had no time to realize it. I have a vivid recollection of that instant, of Holmes' triumphant expression and the ring of his voice, of the cabman's dazed, savage face, as he glared at the glittering handcuffs, which had appeared as if by magic upon his wrists. For a second or two we might have been a group of statues. Then, with an inarticulate roar of fury, the prisoner wrenched himself free from Holmes's grasp, and hurled himself through the window. Woodwork and glass gave way before him; but before he got quite through, Gregson, Lestrade, and Holmes sprang upon him like so many staghounds.

This murderer... He actually tired to hurl himself out of a first floor window, while he was already handcuffed, once he found himself tricked and arrested? Even Sherlock Holmes can still learn a thing or two from this man in term of dramatics