craeatio

[craeatio]

congratulations, ivy! i feel like prompt no. 8 is Sylus, hmo! this is a headcanon of mine for a while now, especially he has a card that he and mc are literally hiding in the closet (immobilized) and that being in the prompt? blessed! i would love to read your take on this, and thank you for your amazing works!

Thank you, my sweet nonnie!! This was the perfect prompt for sylus. In this scenario, I imagined another circumstance where they're stuck together (no evol linkage this time…for logistical reasons). I hope it's to your liking! 😘

Side note: this was def longer than a drabble (1.4k, oops). I’ll try to write future smut reqs at my usual shorter length just to keep it fair to everyone. But for now, enjoy this longer piece!

Requests are open for my follower celebration

Close proximity

Sylus x female reader

Prompt: oops, we were just hiding in this closet, but then the close proximity got us too turned on not to fuck

Content: some tasteful manhandling, his evol is used to hold you up and kinda keep you in place, semi-public fucking, implied unprotected sex, implied creampie

This can’t be happening again. Why is it that every time Sylus is around, the two of you end up in a damn closet?

The space is barely big enough for two full-grown adults, let alone one man so large he has to fold himself around you just to keep his head from knocking the low ceiling. You’re both pressed together, your back against his chest, bodies molded tightly so you don’t bump into the walls.

His breath stirs the hair by your ear, warm and far too steady for someone in hiding. Meanwhile, you’re doing everything you can to keep yours silent and shallow, hoping to avoid detection from your colleagues just beyond the closet door.

You tense when you hear footsteps. They’re closer this time.

A sudden peal of laughter from outside makes you jump a bit, and Sylus tightens his hold around you in a gesture that’s probably meant to be reassuring. Too bad you’re only getting more worked up from how easily his hands envelop your body.

Your coworkers from the Hunters Association have no idea you're in here, just one accidental bump from being caught. One whisper too loud from being completely exposed.

And then Sylus decides to glide his hand along your hip, taking his time to map out your trembling body with his long fingers.

You stiffen. He’s definitely doing this on purpose.

Your glare is useless with your back to him, but it’s like he can sense it, causing the soft rumble of a chuckle against your back. His hand lingers too long, moving to lightly stroke his thumb over the seam of your shorts.

His lips brush against your neck and form a sly smirk. It’s like he’s daring you to react—or resist his pull.

The group outside finally moves on. Their fading footsteps and laughter disappear down the hall, leaving you in much-needed silence.

You don’t even sigh with relief. You just turn your head and hiss, “Are you insane?”

“Hm,” he hums. You can hear the smug look on his face. “That righteous act would be more convincing if you weren’t pressing your thighs together, kitten.” His fingers apply more delicious pressure against your clothed cunt as if to further prove his point.

You make a low noise of frustration—or is it a groan of pleasure—that does nothing to wipe the smugness off his face. Just to avoid giving him the satisfaction of a response, you shove at the closet door in desperation to bring distance back between the two of you.

But the door doesn’t budge. Not even a little. You try again, slower this time. Still nothing.

“Locked?” Sylus asks, his low voice a satisfied purr in your ear. It’s weird he doesn’t sound as panicked as he should be.

You glance back at him, brow furrowed. “Either that or it’s jammed. But I don’t understand how. Did someone lock it from the outside?”

“Can’t say I was paying attention.” His response is all silk and sin, brushing up the back of your neck like a tease.

You curse under your breath and try not to press against him more than absolutely necessary—though it’s useless. The closet is too cramped. And he’s too damn big. Every time you move, your ass rubs against a suspicious bulge behind you.

You huff in annoyance. “You’re enjoying this,” you accuse, trying to sound stern but only sounding out-of-breath from the desire creeping up your body.

He hums again, his arm tightening around your waist. “Let’s just say I’m not in a hurry.”

He cups you between your thighs again, fingers splayed perfectly over your whole mound. You jolt as he yanks you even closer, the heel of his palm pressing down on your lower abdomen while your ass grinds into the tent of his pants.

Your breath catches. “Don’t,” you warn, but your voice lacks any real bite.

He ignores you, instinctively knowing what you really crave. You’re secretly grateful for the loose gym shorts you’re wearing, because Sylus slips his fingers beneath the waistband with ease and simultaneously slides them under your panties.

Now there’s nothing separating smooth digits from hot, slick flesh.

He groans in appreciation of what he finds waiting for him. “You’re soaked,” he whispers, “and I’ve barely touched you yet.”

You don’t miss the delicious threat lurking in the word ‘yet’. But is this really the time and place?

“Sylus–”

“Since we’re stuck here,” he interrupts, “I might as well help you with this.”

It’s torture when he drags the pads of two fingers down your slit, collecting every drop of your arousal before gliding back up. Any resistance you had before is gone as soon as he begins to rub teasing circles around your clit.

He alternates it with the lightest dip of his finger into your entrance, barely enough to satisfy. You try to grind against him, needing more, but his grip on you is unyielding. Even with only one arm bracketed around your waist, you’re powerless against him.

You reach down to rake your nails along his forearm. “Stop teasing me,” you mutter through gritted teeth.

That only makes him chuckle. God, sometimes that laugh pisses you off just as much as it turns you on.

He pulls his fingers away, and you whimper softly at the loss. But before you can complain, he’s spinning you around, pressing your back to the door. His lips descend upon yours in a frenzy—deep and hungry, like he’s waited all night for this.

Between kisses, he makes quick work of your clothes, hooking his fingers beneath the waistbands of both your shorts and panties before impatiently yanking them down. You barely have time to step out of them before he’s working open his pants, tugging the zipper low enough just to free his cock.

Then he lifts you like you weigh nothing, pinning you to the closet door with a soft thud. With his large physique and wisps of such a powerful Evol, it’s effortless to hold you up at the perfect height so your cunt lines up with the head of his flushed, leaking cock.

There’s no preamble. You’re wet enough. Needy enough.

He pushes into you in one deep, claiming stroke.

You bite your lip to muffle your cry. But Sylus groans in earnest, not giving a damn about getting caught like this. The first few strokes are slow, splitting you open with care to make sure you can take every inch without discomfort (he knows his girth can be overwhelming no matter how many times you’ve gotten used to it).

When you’re relaxed enough, he moves faster and harder, until the wooden door behind you creaks loudly with each powerful thrust. The growing staccato of the closet door accompanying each snap of his hips is obscene and slightly humiliating.

It all makes your heart race even faster—knowing the risk and the complete insanity of what you’re doing.

Anyone could pass by. Anyone could hear. There’s nothing stopping someone from stumbling upon the unmistakable sounds of wet squelches and muffled moans. And something tells you Sylus still wouldn’t stop if that happened.

You can only cling to him as he fucks you relentlessly. His hand dips between your bodies to flick a thumb against your clit. And then you’re shuddering against the strong hold of his Evol.

Your orgasm crashes through you, overwhelming in the best of ways. You have to bury your face in his neck to keep from crying out. It becomes almost impossible to stay quiet as his thrusts turn harsher and your walls flutter around him. His own release soon follows with a sharp grunt, filling you with a final thrust and a tremble in his grip.

For a long moment, there’s only the sound of panting. Then the faint rustle of clothing after he gently brings you back to firm ground and presses a sloppy kiss to your lips.

Sylus still holds you close, letting you catch your breath before murmuring, “Try the door again, sweetie.”

You blink at him, a little slow on the uptake after being fucked so thoroughly. “What?”

His smirk is both sexy and infuriating. You recognize that look on his face all too well. Even though your glare is deadly, he doesn’t look sheepish at all when he replies, “I have a feeling it’ll open now.”

💕 tag list: @heartyluv @doeeyes515 @lethalasylum @starryeyed-apple @starlitfics @craeatio @rafayelslittlestar @ruralamours

Want to be added to my tag list?

Creds: mdni banner by @/cafekitsune heart divider by @/enchanthings-a

[craeatio]

I have a checklist now...

I'm in need of Zayne fics, idrc if it is fluff, angst, or smut i need my man!!

[craeatio]

I'm in need of Zayne fics, idrc if it is fluff, angst, or smut i need my man!!

oh btw, I'm open for dark content fics too! everything i read is fiction, and there's nothing wrong to read dark content as long as you are aware of what you're reading!

[craeatio]

the ending was so cute lmao, him asking her to be his girlfriend AFTER having sex and basically overstimulated her. ugh ily for this, and zayne with prone bone? delicacy, a must.

“YOU’RE ALWAYS GOING TO BE THE ONE THAT I WANT.”

FEATURING: 黎深 ZAYNE

content warnings: nsfw, 18+ only (mdni), zayne x reader, developing relationship, lots of making out LMAO ITS LIKE 50% OF THE STORY, fingering, prone bone position, missionary, overstimulation, sensitive reader :(( (i dont feel bad at all lol)

word count: 3.1k

author’s note: hi guys don’t hate me for my slow uploads.. i love you guys 😣 this is the req here sorry i didnt follow it exactly word for word but i hope you like it!! thank you SOO much for being patient 🤞🏻

it started off with a few messages.

nothing major, just flirting here and there. each time you did it, zayne would subtly flirt back but his reaction still wasnt enough to satiate your hunger. you wanted him crazy over you and you wanted to push him past his limits.

now, you were trying to be more obvious by sending ‘suggestive’ tiktoks to his dms, spamming him while hes at work. but, he wasn’t giving you the reaction you wanted.

it had you giggling, you sent him multiple videos: the first being about wanting to be ‘manhandled’, the second being ‘when you tell him to stop but he goes faster because it isn’t your safeword’, the third ‘using his precum as lipgloss’

you knew zayne was in his office at the hospital, most likely typing away busily at his computer yet at the bottom at every video there is the little text ‘seen’ indicating that he has still been reading you messages the whole time despite being busy. suddenly feeling self-conscious especially with the dozens of videos you’re sending him, you decide to settle on being a little braver by typing a message to him.

🤍: um.. hi zayne :D don’t you have work, didn’t expect you to see this so soon 🙂‍↕️

immediately a response when you see those three little dots typing. you close an eye, anticipating his message.

zayne: hi sweetheart. yes actually i do, but someone seems quite needy today. care to tell me what you want, hm?

🤍: nothing!! don’t worry about it, they’re just silly videos >.<

zayne: they don’t seem to just be ‘silly videos’ angel. come over tonight, tell me what you truly want.

his message left you stunned. so direct yet so vague. you knew that you were having dinner tonight but he has never addressed your ‘behaviour’ in person and never thought that he ever would. now it creates a flutter in your chest and your stomach as you think about all the possibilities that could get out from this.

you brush off your feelings. zayne knows you’re too shy to actually say or do anything so he certainly won’t question you this time, right?

you’re at his front door in a pretty, flowing sundress. you stand awkwardly outside, fiddling the hem of your dress, fingers smoothing out your hair as you tuck a few strands behind your ear. you wait until zayne opens the door.

(a/n: for the sundress i literally mean the cute ones okay. not the tight, ugly ones that guys think are ‘sundresses’ 🙂‍↕️)

you finally hear the ‘click!’ of the door opening relieving you of the anticipation. zayne stands tall before you, spine straight and arms crossed. his eyes wander up and down your body, raking over your outfit. his gaze over your body is quick, nearly unnoticeable. if you knew any better you would think it was your mind playing tricks on you but you see the slightest smirk on his face - nearly invisible, the faint mischievous upturn of his lips. you feel so nervous, almost giving into the terrible urge to run away, like right now.

you gulp feeling your heart thrum in your chest but his gravely husky voice pulls you back to the present - you are still awkwardly shifting under his gaze AND still outside his apartment. great. “hi angel. come on in. you look good,” he chuckles softly, urging you inside.

if your eyes could morph into hearts, they would have by now. (and terribly give away how much you were into him)

you make your way in, greeting him with a soft ‘hello’ of your own as you make your way to the dining table, sitting infront of him.

you both settle down. he sits across you, eyes still focused on you as you squirm under his sharp gaze. you begin stuffing your mouth as your eyes constantly sift between looking at him and the home-cooked food he had prepared so kindly.

you give him an awkward smile as you try not to shake, feeling your hands beginning to tremble from the nerves of the predatorily glint in his eyes. “hahah.. food is great!” your laugh is weak. what a painful attempt to start a conversation.

he raises an eyebrow at your nervous statement but heeds no mind to it, choosing to reply to your statement. “thank you. how was your day?” he asks politely. waves of relief wash over you as finally you begin to settle down, you were actually so afraid that he was going to say something to put you in a hard position. you can’t even imagine. what if he told you he felt uncomfortable? he isn’t right? he would’ve already told you if he was?

you choose to leave those questions for later as you begin to ease up into the conversation turning chirpier and back to your usual self. yet the whole time as you talk, you can’t help but notice the the same smirk you saw earlier and the new found amusement gleaming in his eyes.

after dinner, you realise there’s no other reason to stay so you look for an escape from zayne’s apartment before certain ‘topics’ come up.

“zayne, thank you so, so much for the dinner but i think i’m going to head home early tonight. i have a mission tomorrow so it would be wise to go to bed early,” you say with confidence that this was the perfect excuse. zayne to your surprise huffs out a laugh before clearing his throat, “angel, today is a friday,” he replies nonchalantly as he pushes his glasses back to the top part of his nose bridge.

no. fucking. way. how did you mess up THAT badly? you nearly dig a hole into the ground to bury yourself right then and there.

your eyes visibly widens and your mouth opens and closes as you try to come up with an excuse, zayne somehow helps you recover from your embarrassment instead. “come help me with the dishes, please?”

immediately you scramble over with a little ‘o-okay’ standing next to him as he hands you plates to dry as he hand washes them.

this goes on for a while, the silent atmosphere of tension in the room but neither of you speak. only the sound of water running down the sink and the scrubbing of the dishes.

slowly, you begin to put the plates back into the cupboard above, your back now facing zayne. you feel his presence creeping up behind you, the radiating warmth off his body. he too reaches to place the plates back. his body occasionally deliberately presses against yours, the gentle grazes of his clothing against yours.

zayne reaches up to put the last plate back, remaining unmoving to keep you trapped between the corner of his kitchen counter and his warm hear the soft thud of the cupboard closing and the feeling of two large, calloused hands holding your waist gently, spinning you around to face the culprit.

with how close he is, you now realise how talk he truly was compared to you, craning your neck up to meet his gaze. he looks down at you intimately. he clicks his tongue before finally starting, “don’t you know what you do to me with those flirty texts of yours, those videos you keep sending me?” he pauses as he feels you shiver under his grip. “angel, i think you have something to say to me, and i suggest you tell me now. there’s no way out of this. either you want me, or you don’t. be straightforward,” he tells you sternly

“if it is something you want, you tell me. you know i’d do anything for you. i’ll worship your body and show you truly how much i have wanted you all these years. i’ll show you with my touch and with my words - i’m not going to be a maybe when i can be the one for you. i’ll provide you with the physical and emotional support you need.” he tells you honestly, his words as if coming straight from his heart. a hand reaches up to cup your face now, you don’t pull away. “nonetheless,” he pauses, eyes searching through yours as if they would give him an answer, clarity, anything.

“if you wish for me to stop, i will. i will never touch you like this again and i will stay away from you. i’ll never bring it up again and we can forget this ever happened, but please. i beg you, just give me an direct answer.” he finishes off with his voice full of desperation.

the look in your eyes match the desperation in his and finally you admit the truth you’ve held so close to your heart for too long. “yes zayne, i want you. only you” you confess, and immediately his lips are on yours.

his lips devours yours hungrily, hands cupped around your face as he deepens the kiss. he nudged his tongue against your bottom lip, encouraging you to grow closer to him, to let him kiss you silly.

you begin to whine into his mouth when you feel him nudge a thigh between your legs, inching closer towards your soaked panties. it makes your knees grow weak. you push at him lightly, gasping in air as you pull away from the kiss. “ngh—zayne..hngh! w-we shouldn’t. not here,” you pant.

he simply smirks at you before leaning down to whisper in your ear, “tell me to stop me then. if you even want me to,” he taunts you further before pressing wet kisses along your jaw down to your neck and collarbone.

you feel the heat in your stomach growing and you can only whimper at his words. he pulls away and watch the expression on your face, “aww, it’s okay angel. stop anticipating. kiss what. kiss i. kiss do. kiss next.” he emphasises the last kiss by sucking harder on your neck leaving a soft pretty bruise glowing on your tender skin. he laughs as he feels your legs tremble around his much larger thigh, holding you up in his arms as he begins to feel the slight buck of your hips his leg.

abruptly, he carries you up and brings you to his bedroom, setting you down his bed. he kisses you again, backing you up against the headboard. his fingers gently trace the collar part of your dress reaching up from behind to unzip it. he kisses you through and through, distracting you completely. your hands tangle in his hair, squeezing and occasionally wander down to feel him up through his shirt. his hands lightly pulls your dress off until you’re only left in your laced bra and underwear.

he looks into your eyes. “beautiful.” he murmurs, kissing further down, his hands now settling on your waist as he kisses over your stomach, slowly moving down to your trembling thighs. he huffs out a soft laugh as he takes in the growing wet spot on your panties, showing just how much you enjoyed this even if you didn’t admit it.

your hands are fully perched in his hair now as he looks up at you, eyes glimmering with lust - his hazel eyes are dilated, filled with lust. he moves your panties to the side and groans at the sight, his head tipping back.

“so wet for me aren’t you baby? want it so bad huh? tell me what you want,” he hums with faux kindness, pulling your panties fully down but neglecting the needy area. he moves to kiss your thighs instead as he anticipates your answer.

you squeak as you feel him press kisses along your sensitive inner thighs. your cheeks burn with heat, you feel hot all over. your mind is so dizzy that it makes it so hard to answer him like this.

he pulls away to tap your cheek. “hey, answer me sweet girl. if you don’t, i’d think that you don’t want it bad enough. besides, why are you all shy now? you were so brave earlier. sending me all those messages and videos about how badly you want me to wreck that needy pussy of yours,” he pouts.

you squeeze your eyes shut at his humiliating words. it felt so, so embarrassing having to tell him what you want :(

his fingers run through your soaked folds, dipping two fingers in making you yelp from the sudden sensation but they immediately melt you into a dumb, pliant mess with how good it felt when his fingers begins curling inside of you, scissoring in your gummy walls as you flutter over his fingers.

he twists them inside you and watches your face contort into pleasure. “you still haven’t answered me, honey,” he reminds you, thrusting faster.

it already felt like he was melting your insides with just his fingers, you can’t imagine it if it was with his cock. your orgasm was building up faster than you have ever gotten yourself in a few mere thrust of his lithe, precise fingers.

you squirm under him, before sobbing out a little ‘please zayne!’

he looks at you mockingly, “please what? use your big girl words,” he encourages you.

you whine at his words, “ne-need —hiccup!— you inside me. need your cock,” you cry out, your fingers basically reaching out to grab anything.

“cum on my fingers first then, ill fuck you my sweet girl. all mine,” he soothes you as he moves his fingers faster - just his middle finger and ring finger already had you drooling all over his bed, body twitching. it certainly made him incredily hard thinking about what he was going to do with you.

“cmon, baby.. stop running, you can take it. didn’t you say you wanted to be manhandled? naughty little slut, aren’t ya?” he coos in your ear.

you didn’t expect him to be this big, thrusting his thick cock in and out your squelching wet pussy that was practically clinging onto him for dear life. you’d already cum three times! once on his fingers, another time when he fully sheathed himself inside you and again when he began thrusting deeper :( your pussy was just too sensitive for all the stimulation!

apart from your pussy, you weren’t holding up any better either. you had your face shoved into zayne’s pillow that was filled with his scent. your sobs are muffled and your tears drench his pillows. he was ploughing into you from behind and you could do nothing but take it all. feel every pulsating vein of his cock, the curve of his mushroom tip that massages so deep in you that it occasionally kisses your cervix.

zayne has you positioned in prone bone. a position he found nearly immediately after thrusting his cock into you when he heard your pretty pathetic noises become louder, full of squeals and whimpers. it was where he could hit and abuse your sweet spots the most! one large muscular arm is wrapped around your head nicely, your cheek pressed flushed against it. drool practically dribbles out of your mouth onto his juicy bicep that’s curled around you. it does well to keep you still and from squirming too much while the other is sandwiched beneath your tummy so he can press it against you to feel his cock moving in and out of you!

you feel lost in the delicious yet delirious sensations of being devoured by zayne and it felt as if he was barely tired despite his continuous thrusts for so long that it turned your brain into a muddle.

“nuhuh honey, don’t squirm away from me—hah!— take it like the good girl you are,” he reminds you while holding you down with more of his body weight.

you can’t help it! you felt too good, your tummy was bulging and so so full of him :(

you continue whimpering and sniffing as you tried to reach up and away from him that eventually he grew tired of your shuffling that he flipped you over into missionary. you let out a soft squeak as you feel yourself being turned so easily as if you were lightweight.

suddenly, he thrusts himself back in that it was your eyes rolling to the back of your head. you almost miss the way his hands reach to hold your thighs up high so reach deeper into you before he lies on top of you again, effectively pinning you down this time. his laughter muffles against your neck as now you can only squeak and whimper as his cock once again rearranges your guts, your legs kicking against his waist, toes curling.

“wanna run? not anymore sweets. awww you can’t move now love. you can do it. cum one more time for me okay? finally got what you wanted, huh? won’t let you get away this time.”

your mind is in blanks but you immediately blabber out a ‘yes zayneee—hngh!-feels swo so gwood-ngh!’

he reaches down to rub tight circles around your clit knowing that you are once again close to falling apart with the way you clench around him. it makes him falter for a moment, letting out a moan of his own. he clenches his teeth before picking up his pace. he was close to cumming too and he was going to make sure he came with you.

“noooo—hgh!—zayne not my clit! is’ too sensitive!” you wail as tears stream down your face, legs kicking against his back and toes curling. your hands reach to pull at his arm but it does nothing to relieve the intensity of the moment. he only shushes your cries and continues to rubs your clit side to side, capturing the swollen and sensitive bud between his relentless fingers.

eventually, you cum again. it felt like the hardest you’ve ever came in your life but you don’t truly know because that’s exactly how you felt with the consecutive orgasms before this. as your blinding orgasm hits you, you almost didn’t notice the load zayne shoots inside you. he groans loudly as he cums, the slight neediness and high-pitched sound in his voice becoming obvious as he rides out his orgasm along with you

you calm down, breathing heavy against you and zayne rolls over. he’s nearly as disheveled as you are. he snuggles close to your soft trembling body, holding you. his warmth grounds you as your close your eyes, finally relaxing.

the only sound in the room was the air-conditioning. finally, you could feel its cool air blowing gently against your hot skin.

as you finally stop sniffing and come down fully from your high you feel an exhausted zayne press a sincere, gentle kiss against your forehead.

“be my girlfriend?” he asks you, almost scared. full of raw vulnerability as he looks at you with eyes full of love and affection, relieved from his tension.

“yes, my love. yes i’ll be your girlfriend,” your voice stammering from the intimacy and the love washing over you. truly, he was the one for you. how could you have been so blind all along?

he whispers a soft ‘i love you’ before pressing his lips to yours again for the umpteenth time that night, yet this one felt like it was the most reassuring one, the expression of his genuine love for you - the beginning of the built up love developing into something more after years of pining each other with subtlety.

[craeatio]

oh he'll definitely devour roleplay

⋆˙⟡ in which you try on calebs colonel uniform … and get caught.

you wanted to try his uniform on as a joke. it was supposed to be fun. and you were definitely not supposed to get caught by caleb, who walks into the room, just as you inspect yourself in front of the mirror, enjoying the view of the sharp lines of fabric on you. 

„I knew you had a thing for the uniform“, he teases with a sly smile. heat creeps into your cheeks, while caleb strolls leisurely into the room. 

„I just wanted to see why your attitude changes so much when you wear this. thought maybe there’s a curse or something on it.“ you start to unbutton the first buttons, when his hand reaches your wrist. 

„don’t“, caleb says. 

you furrow your brows in confusion. „why?“

there’s a dark glimmer in his eyes, while they go up and down your body. „I enjoy the view, colonel.“ 

you need a second to realize what he just said. then it clicks. 

he wants this. 

he likes it as much as you do.

there’s a shift in your mind. you raise your chin, looking up at him. 

„who gave you permission to talk to your superior officer like that?“, you say in a stern voice. 

caleb instantly lets go of your wrist, his eyes darkening even further. „forgive me for disobeying the orders. am I in trouble now?“ 

„you definitely are“, you say, as you give him a shove. he falls down on the brink of the bed, looking up at you with flushed cheeks. slowly, you let your finger wander over his neck, down his chest, which starts to rise faster by the second. he looks up to you, his purple gaze lingering on your face before switching to your body in his uniform once again. his tongue darts out, licking his lower lip.

you put two fingers under his chin and make him look into your eyes again. 

„I want to punish you“, you whisper. „for leaving me for so long.“

„then do it“, he retorts instantly. 

and so you do, as you sink on him, crushing your lips to his. 

[craeatio]

did someone at least kissed the brick before throwing at me

D-15 Pathless Realm

[craeatio]

this matched my freak so bad, and the aftercare?? it feels so instinctive already the moment he gave his jacket, that's so comforting oh my god

Colonel's Gambit

❤︎ tags and content: remote controlled vibrator, public play kink, bratty reader, dom caleb supremacy, caleb is so tired of your shit (but also hard), you wanted attention now you got it, uniform kink, fleet event shenanigans, reader is in trouble, smut with feelings, office sex supremacy, he said behave and you didn’t, horny on main and he knows it, aftercare kings only ❤︎ author note: check out all my fics by searching #moongirlcleo or on AO3

🔞NSFW content - Minors DNI 🔞 Dividers: @/omi.resources ©2025 moongirlcleo do not repost, copy, translate, or modify

You were told to behave before Caleb's Fleet Gala. You didn’t.

Now you’re wearing a remote-controlled vibrator, trying to survive champagne, admirals, and one very jealous Colonel who doesn’t like to share. And the lesson? Obedience isn’t optional. It’s just really, really fun to fail.

You step out of the transport with your head held high and your stomach in a knot, the crisp Skyhaven air brushing against your legs as the hem of your dress sways just above your knees, the silk clinging like it knows exactly what you’re hiding beneath it. Caleb is right behind you, a calm and commanding presence, one hand settling on the small of your back as you start walking toward the glass-paneled entrance of the event hall.

His touch is warm, grounding, a gentle pressure that feels more like a leash than a comfort, and it only tightens when you shift your weight just enough to tease him. The sidewalk is lined with uniformed officers and clean-cut tech executives, everyone dressed like they have something to prove, and yet you can feel every one of Caleb’s intentions coiled behind his even expression.

You make it to the top of the stairs before he leans in, his breath brushing against your ear with the kind of casual dominance that sends a ripple down your spine.

“You’re going to behave tonight,” he says, his voice so low it barely carries beyond the shell of your ear, but the meaning sinks deep and fast, “or I’ll make sure you regret every little stunt you pulled before we got here.”

Your lips twitch with the beginnings of a smirk, but you swallow it down because you know that tone. You’ve heard it when he’s dragging you apart in bed, when he’s got your wrists pinned and your voice gone hoarse from begging, and right now it’s wrapped around you like blossoms with a blade underneath.

Inside, the lobby gleams under soft blue lighting, Skyhaven’s signature aesthetic of sharp edges and minimalist opulence making everything feel too clean, too cold, too exposed. You’re already halfway to the registration desk when Caleb slips his fingers into yours, intertwining them neatly, like you’re just another polished couple on a diplomatic outing.

No one can see the remote in his other pocket. No one knows that you’re wet already, because you’d mouthed off two hours ago in the apartment and now you're paying for it. You’re paying for it with every deliberate press of his thumb against your palm, every soft murmur into your hair that sounds innocent enough until you remember exactly what kind of mood he's in tonight.

“Smile,” he whispers, just before you’re greeted by the liaison officer at the sign-in table. “You’re still my date.

The registration table is manned by a woman in a pristine navy dress uniform, her posture so rigid it could cut glass, and the moment you approach with Caleb at your side, her expression softens into something polite but vaguely wary, the kind of look reserved for civilians who probably don't belong here but were invited anyway. You offer your name with a pleasant tilt of your head, and beside you, Caleb hands over his identification with that same effortless confidence he wears in the field, his smile barely there but undeniably disarming.

There is a brief pause as she scans his information, then the expected flicker of recognition sparks across her face, and suddenly her tone shifts, warmer now, almost deferential, as she confirms your clearance and passes you both the sleek silver badges that mark you as guests of the event rather than Fleet officials. Caleb pins yours to the thin strap of your dress, fingers brushing a little lower than they need to, subtle enough not to raise suspicion, deliberate enough to make your breath catch.

Inside the main hall, the air is cooler and threaded with music, some low orchestral piece playing over the comm system, meant to fill the space without disrupting conversation. It's the kind of function where people talk too close and laugh too loud, where the clinking of glass and the drone of polished boots on marble create a rhythm of superficial civility. Officers in tailored dress blues move through the crowd with the kind of authority that never has to be spoken aloud, and civilians—politicians, donors, tech sponsors—try to match their pace with awkward attempts at elegance.

Caleb leads you past a cluster of officers near the center of the room, his hand still at your back, guiding without force, steady and silent. Every so often someone nods to him, recognizing the rank, the face, the name that tends to follow quiet, deadly reputation. He returns the greetings with a slight incline of his head, offering no more than what is required, and you can feel how easily he moves in these circles, how naturally he commands attention without ever reaching for it.

He brings you to a small lounge space off to the side, near a curved wall of glass that overlooks the city’s skyline, and gestures for you to sit while he goes to retrieve drinks. You settle onto the low-backed chair, legs crossed carefully, trying not to fidget with the hem of your dress even though your body feels too hot already, your thoughts moving faster than they should. You can still feel the phantom press of his hand between your thighs from earlier, the way he slid the toy into place with one pointed look and no words at all, like it was inevitable and you had no say.

When he returns, he's holding two flutes of champagne, the pale golden liquid catching the light like it has something to hide, and he hands you yours with a deliberate curl of his fingers around the stem, brushing against yours just long enough to remind you what he's capable of. He doesn't say anything as he takes his seat beside you, just watches with that maddening patience, his legs spread casually, his posture relaxed, but his eyes locked on you like he's already waiting for you to slip.

You lift the glass to your lips and take a slow sip, the bubbles sharp and dry on your tongue, and as you lower it, someone calls his name from across the room. Two men in Fleet uniforms, older and broad-shouldered, with the kind of presence that only comes from years in command, are already moving toward you. Caleb stands without hesitation, setting his drink aside, and offers you his hand to rise, the gentlemanly gesture just barely masking the command beneath it.

“These are Vice Admiral Hurst and Rear Admiral Nakai,” he murmurs, once you're standing beside him, his palm settling at the base of your spine again like a reminder. “Play nice.”

And then the officers are upon you, smiling, shaking hands, commenting on Caleb’s rare appearance at a social event. One of them asks your name, and you offer it with what you hope is a composed, neutral tone, but your skin is buzzing and your breath feels just a little too shallow, because Caleb’s hand is still on you and you know he could press the button at any moment.

He's not touching the remote yet. He hasn't even reached for it. But that is what makes it worse. You don't know when it will happen. You don't know how far he plans to take this.

And you can't stop thinking about how he told you to behave.

Rear Admiral Nakai is the more affable of the two, his tone smoother, his laugh easier, and though you recognize the practiced charm in the way he addresses you, there is no mistaking the genuine glint of appreciation in his eyes when he says your name. His gaze lingers a fraction too long on your neckline, then drops to your waist, and when he speaks again, there is a touch of warmth that hasn'thing to do with diplomacy.

“You look stunning tonight,” he says, with a little tilt of his head, and though the compliment is delivered with the polish of a man used to cocktail hours and political fundraising, you feel the sharp edge of it slide into the air between you and Caleb like a stone tossed into still water.

You open your mouth to offer a polite thank you, your lips parting just slightly, but that is when it happens.

The vibration hums to life with no warning, low and deep, perfectly placed and merciless in its precision. It rolls through you in a steady pulse, the kind that you can't brace against because it doesn't stop, and your breath catches in your throat so fast you have to swallow it down before it becomes obvious.

Caleb’s hand is no longer at your back. It's resting casually in his pocket now, and his expression hasn't changed, not even a little, his eyes still on Rear Admiral Nakai as if nothing has shifted at all, as if he hasn't just stolen the ground out from under you in the middle of a formal conversation.

“I appreciate that,” you manage to say, voice just a touch too high, your words catching around the edges of your restraint as the sensation flares again, hotter now, a little stronger. “It’s kind of you to say.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the champagne flute and you force yourself not to grip it too hard, your legs pressed together, knees angled just enough to keep your balance. You can't look at Caleb, not directly, but you feel him beside you, all calm authority and restrained amusement, his silence a weapon in itself.

Vice Admiral Hurst is saying something now, asking a question about Caleb’s last off-world assignment, and Caleb responds smoothly, his voice low and controlled, every syllable delivered with the same precision he uses in the field. He doesn't look at you once, but you know he's watching. He's always watching.

The vibration shifts.

Not stronger, not yet, but faster now, a new rhythm that coils in your gut and spreads through your limbs, making it harder to stand still, harder to breathe evenly. You shift your weight slightly, trying to disguise the movement as a casual adjustment of your stance, and you nod along as the conversation continues, even though your focus is starting to unravel with every beat of the toy between your legs.

Rear Admiral Nakai asks where you and Caleb met, his tone still light, still friendly, and you force your mouth into a smile that feels tight at the corners.

“We met through his department,” you say, the words straining through clenched control, “just before his transfer to Skyhaven.”

The lie is smooth. You've practiced it before. But it sounds different tonight, like it's being spoken through gritted teeth, and the second the words leave your mouth, Caleb finally glances toward you, just for a second, and the corners of his mouth lift in the faintest, cruelest smile you've ever seen.

He has barely started.

***

The evening stretches on in a slow, measured blur of half-remembered conversations and passing drinks, the drone of music and polite laughter forming a soft backdrop to Caleb’s temporary withdrawal from your side. At some point after the initial introductions, he's summoned by a fellow officer with the kind of clipped tone that signals actual business rather than social niceties, and you watch him go without complaint, though the sudden emptiness at your side leaves your skin buzzing with the ghost of his earlier attention.

He hasn't touched the remote since that first strike. The toy rests quiet and forgotten beneath your dress, and while your body still hums faintly with the echo of that earlier stimulation, the edge has dulled now, replaced by the kind of alert tension that only comes when you're trying to read him from across the room.

For nearly two hours, he behaves.

He moves like a man in control of everything around him, engaged in conversation with high-ranking officials and policy advisors, his voice steady, his gestures economical, never once looking in your direction for more than a passing glance. It's easy, after a while, to start believing that he has moved on from the game, that he had his moment of satisfaction and then let it go in favor of military decorum and strategic talk.

You take the opportunity to drift toward one of the open bars, your glass refreshed with something a little sweeter this time, and settle near a quiet stretch of wall beneath a sculpted mural of Skyhaven’s original founding crew. The champagne warms your belly, softens the sharpness of your nerves, and you let yourself breathe, just for a moment, just long enough to imagine the night might be over in that sense.

When a young officer approaches you with a smile and an outstretched hand, you almost laugh.

He introduces himself politely, his name something forgettable beneath the neatness of his uniform and the bright eagerness in his eyes. He is not much older than you, probably fresh out of Fleet Academy, and the way he stumbles just slightly over his offer to dance suggests he was nudged into this moment by a braver friend or an empty glass of confidence.

You glance across the room, just to be sure. Caleb is still speaking with the Rear Admiral from earlier, hands folded behind his back, expression unreadable. He hasn't looked at you once in the last ten minutes.

So you accept the offer, hand slipping into the younger officer’s with a gracious nod, and let him guide you toward the dance floor where a softer piece has begun to play, something orchestral and low, the kind of music made for gliding steps and close proximity.

You keep your touch light, your smile pleasant, your eyes sweeping the room more often than the young man realizes. His hand is at your waist, respectful but slightly nervous, and you wonder if he can feel how tightly wound you still are, if he notices the slight delay in your breath or the faint tension in your frame. you're halfway through the first turn when it happens.

It doesn't begin gently.

There is no warning, no soft buildup, no testing your threshold. The vibration slams back to life in one sharp, insistent pulse that sends a jolt straight through your core and nearly buckles your knees. You choke on your next breath, teeth clenched hard behind a forced smile, and suddenly you're clutching the young officer’s shoulder with more pressure than is appropriate for a first dance.

His brow furrows slightly, concern flickering across his face, and you force a laugh, light and breathless, as though you simply lost your balance for a moment.

“Sorry,” you say, voice tight but still passable, “heels.”

He nods, clearly not convinced, but polite enough not to press, and tries to continue the rhythm of the dance while your body is screaming against the steady, merciless rhythm pounding between your thighs.

Caleb is not watching you. He's still speaking with the Admiral. But his left hand is in his pocket again, fingers curled around something small and powerful, and you know exactly what he's doing even as he maintains that perfect, distant professionalism.

This is not an accident. This is not some absent-minded flick of his thumb. This is the second stage of the game, and it's much, much worse.

Because now he knows you thought he had forgotten, and accepting a dance with someone else was grounds for punishment.

You survive the rest of the dance on instinct alone, limbs moving through the motions with mechanical grace, each step a fragile attempt at normalcy as the vibration pulses without mercy beneath your skin. The young officer doesn't press you again, though he grows quieter with each turn, clearly sensing the shift in your demeanor even if he can't name it. By the time the music begins to fade, your body is trembling with the effort to remain composed, your fingers cold despite the heat that continues to pool between your legs.

When he thanks you for the dance, you smile with a tightness that almost cracks your face, nod politely, and make a quick excuse about needing to freshen up. You don't wait for a reply before you step away from the floor, heels clicking far too quickly against the polished tile as you move toward the corridor that leads to the restrooms and private suites. Your breath is shallow, jaw clenched, and your thighs press together with every step, but still, you don't stop moving until you're far enough from the noise and the crowd to finally exhale.

You don't make it to the door.

Caleb is already there.

He's leaning against the wall with the relaxed posture of a man who has never once been denied what he wanted, arms folded across his chest, eyes fixed on you with that steady, unreadable stare that makes your heart stutter harder than the damn device still humming beneath your dress. He doesn't speak right away. He just watches you close the distance, his expression so perfectly neutral it makes the heat rising in your face feel even more humiliating.

You stop a few paces in front of him, mouth parted, breath unsteady, your body thrumming with tension and desire and embarrassment that you can't quite disguise anymore.

“You handled yourself better than I thought you would, pipsqueak,” he says finally, his tone quiet but firm, like every word has already been weighed before he lets it pass his lips. “Almost had me convinced you could be obedient after all.”

The vibration cuts out.

It stops so suddenly that your knees nearly buckle from the absence, the silence between your thighs more shocking than the stimulation, and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from reacting too visibly. He uncrosses his arms then, stepping forward slowly, deliberately, and when he reaches you, his hand comes to rest beneath your chin, lifting it just enough to force your eyes to meet his.

“But then you went and danced with someone else.”

His thumb brushes your lower lip, slow and calculated, and the air between you thickens until it feels like a noose.

“I was gone for ten minutes. And you thought that meant the rules changed?”

You open your mouth to respond, but there is no defense that would sound like anything but defiance, and he knows it. He waits anyway, eyes searching yours like he wants to see the exact second you realize that whatever you say next will only determine how he punishes you later.

His grip is firm around your wrist, not rough but absolute, the kind of hold that makes it clear there is no point in trying to pull away, and when he turns to walk, you follow without question because you know better than to resist him when his voice goes that quiet. The hallway is empty, polished floors catching the overhead light in soft reflections, and the only sound that follows you both is the rhythmic echo of your footsteps and the faint hum of distant conversation from the reception hall behind you.

He doesn't speak as he leads you down the narrow corridor past a series of secured doors, each marked with Fleet insignia and departmental classifications you don't bother to read. His badge does the work for you, sliding through access panels with practiced ease until one of the doors hisses open with a muted click and he guides you inside without pause.

The office is stark and orderly, built for function more than comfort, with a sleek desk positioned near a reinforced window that overlooks the city and a single wall-length console flickering with low-brightness status lights. The air inside is cooler, quieter, thick with that stillness that only exists in rooms meant for serious conversations, and when he releases your wrist, you already know better than to move.

He doesn't tell you to sit.

He doesn't need to.

He rounds the desk and presses something on the console that causes the door to seal behind you, the lock sliding into place with a soft mechanical sound that leaves no doubt in your mind that the privacy is intentional and absolute. When he turns back toward you, his expression is unreadable, all of that previous civility stripped away, replaced by something far more dangerous in its stillness.

You take a step forward, unsure whether to explain or defend, and the second your lips part, his voice cuts through the space between you.

“No.”

Just one word. Flat. Cold. Unyielding.

You hesitate, trying to find a gentler place to start, but he's already shaking his head, and when he speaks again, there is no room left for misunderstanding.

“You had one instruction tonight,” he says, his voice steady but laced with something sharp beneath the surface, “and you broke it because I turned my back for five minutes.”

Your pulse jumps, and you take another breath, slower this time, trying to match his calm even though your heart is racing far too fast to make it believable.

“I thought—” you begin, but he raises a hand and you fall silent.

“No,” he says again, more quiet this time, but no less final. “You did not think. You saw a window and you acted like I would not notice.”

He walks toward you slowly, hands loose at his sides, and when he stops in front of you, he tilts his head slightly, studying your face like he's trying to decide how deep the lesson needs to go.

“I was handling Fleet business. That is not permission to ignore the rules. That is not a moment where you pretend to forget who you belong to.”

You open your mouth again, slower now, and try to explain, to soften the edge of what he's clearly convinced is defiance.

“He asked,” you say, trying to hold his gaze, “and I did not want to make a scene. I thought—”

“You thought wrong.”

This time his voice drops low, quieter than before, but heavier, the weight of his authority pressing into your chest with each syllable. His hand comes up slowly and his fingers slide beneath your chin again, lifting until your eyes are forced to meet his own, and you can feel the space between you tighten like it might collapse under its own pressure.

“You wanted attention,” he says, soft and sharp all at once, “and you got it. Now you’re going to deal with what that costs.”

He lets go of your chin, and you feel the loss of his touch like a shift in air pressure.

Caleb turns and walks behind his desk, pulling the chair away from it.

Then he sits down.

And when he looks at you again, his voice is calm, composed, and devastating.

“Close the door controls,” he says. “Then come here.”

Your fingers tremble slightly as you move to the console beside the door, pressing the override to mute all outgoing sound and engage full privacy settings. The moment it clicks into place, you feel something shift in the room, not loud or obvious, but real, like the temperature dropped even as the tension climbs, slow and thick and impossible to ignore. You take a steadying breath, trying to calm your nerves, but it doesn'thing to help the heat crawling beneath your skin or the knowledge that this has been coming since the moment you let another man’s hand touch your waist.

You turn around slowly, but Caleb is already watching you, one hand resting on the arm of the chair, the other idly toying with the remote that had ruined your composure hours earlier. His legs are spread slightly, posture deceptively casual, but you can feel the command radiating off of him like pressure, invisible but undeniable, pinning you in place until he decides what to do with you.

“Come here,” he says again, this time quieter, almost like a test, and you obey because that voice leaves no room for second guesses.

You cross the room with careful steps, keeping your head high even as your body pulses with anticipation, your breath tight and shallow in your chest. When you reach him, you stop just short of his knees, but he doesn't speak, doesn't move, just looks up at you with those calm, assessing eyes that make you feel like he's already undressing every inch of your willpower.

“Lift your dress,” he says, still seated, still perfectly composed, like this is just another order in a long line of commands he expects to be followed without hesitation.

Your hands move without thinking, gathering the fabric inch by inch until the hem is bunched around your hips and the cool air of the office brushes against your thighs. The remote-controlled toy is still nestled exactly where he left it, snug against your soaked underwear, the only remaining evidence of the hours you spent trying not to come undone in public.

He hums quietly, not quite approval, not quite amusement, and then leans forward just enough to press the button again.

The vibration returns with a sudden, sharp pulse, stronger than it had been before, and your legs nearly give out from the force of it, a gasp catching in your throat before you can stop it. He presses it again. Then again. Then lets it run, steady and brutal, while you stand frozen in front of him with your dress hiked up and your body already shaking from the pressure.

“You were dripping on the dance floor,” he says, voice low and even, like he's just stating facts and not pulling you apart one nerve at a time. “I wonder if that boy noticed. I wonder if he thought it was for him.”

You shake your head quickly, but that earns you nothing.

“No?” he says, his tone flat, one brow lifting just slightly. “Then what was it? Because I watched you let him put his hands on you. I watched you let him lead you around like you were free to make decisions tonight.”

You open your mouth to protest, but the vibration ramps up again and you lose the words to a soft moan you can't quite contain, your thighs pressing together instinctively as your whole body clenches against the stimulation. Caleb watches you for a moment, then finally sets the remote aside, reaching instead for your wrist.

“Get on my lap.”

It's not a request.

You move forward on unsteady legs, stepping between his knees as he guides you down, settling you across one thigh in a position that feels precarious and humiliating all at once, your bare skin against the fabric of his uniform, your breath ragged against his neck as he holds you there. One arm wraps around your waist, firm and unmoving, while the other slides down to lift your dress higher, baring you completely.

“You want to behave like a brat, pipsqueak?” he murmurs, mouth close to your ear now, “then you can take the consequences like one.”

And then he brings his hand down hard against the curve of your ass, the sound sharp in the quiet room, the sting immediate and biting. You jerk in his lap, a cry caught in your throat, but his grip tightens and he delivers another, then another, slow and deliberate, each one perfectly placed, each one forcing you deeper into the realization that this is not just punishment, it's a reminder:

That you're his.

That you don't belong to anyone else.

That obedience is not optional, and defiance is not free.

He doesn’t speak again until your skin is red and hot beneath his palm, until you're trembling in his hold, barely holding yourself upright.

“Now,” he says softly, “we are going to do this my way.”

He doesn't push you off his lap when the spanking stops, doesn't demand more obedience or lecture you with that cold tone he wore earlier. Instead, he keeps you there, bent slightly over his thigh, your body flushed and trembling, the backs of your thighs still stinging with the heat of his palm. His hand rests low on your back now, firm and steady, a quiet claim rather than a punishment, and the silence between you starts to shift again, heavy in a different way, thicker now with the weight of everything he's holding back.

You feel it before he moves, the tension in his muscles where your body presses against him, the slight, involuntary twitch of his thigh beneath yours, and when he finally speaks again, his voice is quieter than it was before, but no less serious.

“You think it wasn't hard watching you struggle in front of everyone?” he says, his mouth brushing against the shell of your ear, his breath warm and deliberate. “Watching you pretend you could handle it, like your thighs were not shaking the whole time you answered that man’s questions.”

You shudder as he speaks, not from fear but from the slow unraveling of control, the way his words coil around your nerves and pull them taut without needing to raise his voice or lift a finger. His hand slips down between your legs, cupping you through your soaked panties, and when he presses against the toy, now vibrating faintly again, you let out a choked breath that makes him smile against your cheek.

“I should have made you beg for this,” he murmurs, his tone darker now, tinged with something possessive and rough, something that burns low and steady. “Should have dragged you into this office the moment you opened your legs on that dance floor.”

His fingers hook under the fabric, pulling it aside without ceremony, and the air against your slick skin makes you whimper before he even touches you. When he does, it's not gentle. Two fingers slide between your folds, slow and firm, dragging through the mess you've made of yourself under his control, and the growl that rises low in his throat tells you exactly how much he wants this too.

“you're soaked,” he mutters, almost to himself now, his mouth pressing to your shoulder, teeth grazing skin as his fingers push in deeper. “All because I looked away for five minutes.”

You try to speak, try to explain that you were trying to behave, that you only danced with the officer because you did not want to draw attention, but the words die as his fingers curl and the heel of his hand presses against the toy still buzzing against your clit. Your body arches in response, hips rolling helplessly into the pressure, and you bury your face in the crook of his neck because there is no use pretending anymore. You want it. You wanted it the moment he told you to behave.

“Say it,” he says, not unkindly but with the full weight of authority, the full force of the Colonel you belong to. “Tell me why you're soaked. Tell me who did this to you.”

You choke on the answer at first, not from shame but from how badly you want to say it, how desperate you're to give him everything he already knows.

“You,” you whisper, barely audible. “You did.”

And just like that, the grip on your waist tightens, the rhythm of his fingers grows merciless, and everything else—the office, the party, the rules, the punishment—fades into the background.

His grip doesn't loosen, not even when you start to squirm, not even when your voice begins to catch with every ragged breath you take. He holds you in place like you're something fragile and flammable all at once, something he could break or worship or both in the same breath, and when his fingers press deeper, curling just right, the sound you make is more instinct than language, the kind of noise he drags out of you when all your composure is gone.

You clench around him without meaning to, thighs shaking as he moves his hand with slow, devastating precision, each motion building on the last with no pause, no mercy, just the heavy rhythm of someone who knows your body better than you do. The toy buzzes again, not in teasing pulses this time but in a full, steady vibration that makes it impossible to focus on anything except the way your body is beginning to fold in on itself.

you're already too close. You know it. He knows it. He has known it since the second he told you to lift your dress.

But he doesn't stop.

His mouth finds your throat, not biting, not soft, just present, just there, hot breath and open lips dragging along your skin while his other hand grips your waist like he's trying to hold you together with just his fingers. You try to speak again, something like his name, something like a plea, but it melts into another breathless moan when he curls his fingers and pushes in deeper, the sound of it obscene in the quiet of the office.

“you're going to come for me,” he says, not a suggestion, not a question, but a fact, low and unshakable in your ear, “and you're not going to hold it back this time.”

Your whole body tightens, legs trembling so hard you're barely able to stay on his lap, and the pleasure crests in a way that feels terrifying in its intensity, like your body can't contain it, like you will fall apart if you let go but you will die if you don't.

And then you do.

It crashes over you like a wave you never saw coming, loud and hot and blinding, your mouth falling open around a cry that feels too loud even in the sealed room, your body pulsing hard around his fingers as you come undone entirely in his hands. The toy is still buzzing. His fingers are still moving. His mouth is still pressed to your neck, murmuring something you can't even understand through the haze of your orgasm, and for a moment, there is nothing but the feeling of being consumed from the inside out.

He doesn't stop until you collapse forward against his chest, boneless and panting, your body twitching with the aftershocks, your thighs sticky and trembling. One of his arms wraps around you again, holding you steady while the other finally slips away, the toy pulled free with careful fingers before he sets it aside, no longer necessary now that you're ruined in his lap.

He strokes your back slowly, steady and grounding, the kind of motion that brings you back to your body even as it aches with overstimulation and release. He says your name softly, not as a command this time but as something closer to reassurance, and when you finally lift your head to look at him, his expression has shifted again.

He slides his fingers out slowly, dragging every slick inch against your walls as you twitch in his lap, still clenching around nothing, still gasping through the wreckage of your first orgasm. The toy is discarded now, pushed to the floor like it no longer matters, and he leans back in his chair, looking at you with the kind of dark satisfaction that lets you know this night is far from over.

“you're still shaking,” he says, voice low, smooth, but edged with something rougher now, something hungry. “And I have not even fucked you yet.”

You barely have time to answer before his hands are on your hips, lifting you just enough to tug your panties the rest of the way down your thighs and off your legs. He doesn't even bother unbuttoning his uniform shirt, just opens his belt, unzips his slacks, and frees his cock from beneath the fabric in one fluid motion that leaves you breathless with how hard he is already, flushed and leaking at the tip, thick and heavy against his thigh.

You reach for him, trying to help, trying to feel him in your hand first, but he grabs your wrist and pulls it away.

“No,” he says, firmer now. “You don't get to take the lead tonight.”

His grip returns to your hips, and this time he positions you over him without hesitation, the head of his cock sliding through your folds and catching right where you're still soaking from everything he has done to you. You moan, soft and high in your throat, and your fingers clutch at the sleeves of his jacket as you try to hold still.

“Sit,” he says.

You do.

He sinks into you inch by inch, slow at first, forcing you to feel every stretch, every slide, every part of him as he fills you so deep it knocks the air from your lungs. Your thighs tremble on either side of him, your nails digging into his shoulders as you take him all the way in, and when your hips finally settle against his, your head drops forward against his chest with a shuddering breath.

“Look at me,” he says.

You lift your face, barely able to meet his eyes, and the second you do, he starts to move.

It's not gentle. It's not slow. His hands grip your waist and he lifts you, pulls you down again, finds a rhythm that is fast and punishing, his hips snapping up to meet yours with sharp, wet sounds that echo in the sealed silence of the office. You cry out, unable to hold it in, your body rocking in his lap as he fucks you harder than he has in weeks, like every second of restraint tonight built into this single point of release.

“You think anyone else could do this to you,” he growls, voice hot against your neck. “Think anyone else could have you this deep, this wet, this loud?”

You shake your head, voice breaking as you try to answer, but he's driving into you too hard now, and all you can do is hold onto him, legs shaking around his waist, your body nothing but sensation.

“You're mine, pipsqueak” he says again, thrusting deeper. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp, barely able to form the words, “only yours.”

His hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles that send another wave of heat crashing through your spine. You jerk in his lap, whining, desperate, every part of you clenched and stretched and so fucking close again you can barely hold it back.

“Come for me,” he says, breath hot in your ear, thrusts speeding up until you're bouncing in his lap, skin slapping against skin. “Now.”

And you do.

It hits even harder than the first time, your whole body locking around him, clenching down so tight it drags a groan from his throat and makes your vision blur. You cry out, mouth open, head thrown back as your orgasm tears through you, every nerve burning, every inch of you his.

He keeps moving through it, deeper, faster, chasing his own release now, and when he finally gets there, he pulls you down hard and still, buried to the hilt as he groans your name against your skin, his cock pulsing deep inside you as he spills every drop.

You stay there like that, panting and trembling in his lap, your bodies pressed so close it's hard to tell where you end and he begins.

His breathing is still heavy against your skin, warm and rhythmic where his face rests near your collarbone, but his grip has softened now, no longer holding you in place but anchoring you instead, fingers stroking gently up and down your sides as if he needs to reassure himself that you're still in his arms, still safe, still his. You don't move, not yet, your body too tender, too wrecked, too boneless to try, and besides, there is nowhere else you would rather be than here, folded into him while the heat between your legs slowly ebbs into a low throb of spent satisfaction.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, slow and soft, and then another to the hollow of your neck, his lips dragging just slightly like he can't quite pull away, and when he speaks again, his voice is quiet in a way that doesn't carry the weight of command anymore, only care.

“You did good,” he murmurs, kissing your jaw next, then your temple, then finally your lips. “Took everything I gave you and stayed with me.”

You nod, not trusting your voice yet, and he takes it for what it is, rubbing your back with slow, grounding motions that let you melt even deeper into him. After a few moments, he shifts, one arm sliding beneath your knees as the other supports your back, and without a word, he lifts you from his lap and carries you a few steps toward the small bench beside the wall, setting you down gently before grabbing a towel from a narrow supply drawer near the desk.

His cleanup is quiet and methodical, and when he presses the warm cloth between your thighs, he does it with a careful hand, every movement gentle, every touch precise. He keeps one hand on your knee as he works, steady and reassuring, and when he’s finished, he helps you back into your panties with the same reverence he had when he removed them. He smooths your dress down next, tugging it carefully over your legs, adjusting the hem until it looks like it had never been touched, and only then does he finally start fixing himself—fastening his pants, tucking himself in, straightening the lines of his uniform with practiced ease.

You try to stand and falter just slightly, but he's there immediately, one arm circling your waist, the other sliding out of his jacket and draping it over your shoulders before you can protest. The inside is warm and lined with the faintest hint of his cologne, the same scent that is still clinging to your skin, and when you glance up at him, he's already looking at you with that soft, unreadable expression he wears only when no one else is watching.

“you're going to walk out of this room with your head high,” he says, voice low but firm again, the Colonel returning just slightly to his tone. “And no one is going to know a damn thing.”

You swallow hard and nod, still dazed but already starting to piece yourself back together beneath the weight of his calm. He gives you a moment, then opens the office door with a quiet hiss of air pressure, and gestures for you to walk beside him rather than behind.

And you do.

You walk beside him through the corridor, the polished floor catching your reflection in long, steady strokes, the low hum of voices ahead growing louder with every step. Caleb’s hand rests lightly at the small of your back again, just like it did earlier in the night, but now the weight of it means something different. Now, it's not just a signal. It is meant for comfort.

You step back into the event hall with your shoulders relaxed, your body warm beneath his jacket, your lips still swollen from his kisses, and your thighs just barely trembling from the memory of what he did to you behind that locked door. No one looks twice. No one asks where you went. No one suspects a thing.

And Caleb?

Caleb picks up two fresh flutes of champagne from a passing server and hands one to you without breaking stride, his smile polite, his posture perfect, his voice smooth as he greets the next officer who approaches with a crisp nod and a well-practiced compliment.

As if nothing happened.

As if he did not just ruin you completely and put you back together piece by piece in the space of one private, locked room.

And when he glances down at you, just once, while everyone else is distracted, you catch it.

Caleb mouths one word at you, and you know exactly what it means.

Later.

[craeatio]

oh my goodness this is good! as someone who's chubby her whole entire life and usually look at ppl who has a flat stomach always creeps in me. the way Caleb noticed something is wrong and he didn't even let her slide with her talking about her feelings was so comforting. the dialogue “What’s wrong with how you look?” and him repeating it when she tried dodging the question is so wholesome, like he doesn't care if you're skinny or chubby because he love you just the way you are and that's why they are married. and he shows her his love through fucking her good lovemaking and words of affirmation, thank you for another good fic, jay!

Note: This wonderful idea was based on an ask sent by @klossnite! (Click here to read it!) I’m doing my asks like this from now on because it started getting glitchy and weird when I would save them in my drafts. Anyways, she and I were chatting in the comments about Camboy!Caleb, the dynamic he has with his wife, and just how in loveee they are and she would like to see how they were on their wedding night. So know that this is prior to all the camboy fics!

And yes, I am making it canon and known right here, right now! Camboy!Caleb’s wife IS chubby!!!

Creds to @/anitalenia for the dividers!

Warning: Smut, Caleb is fingering you, self-depreciation (you weren’t as confident in yourself before you started making content with him)

Word Count: 2.5K

Summary: You were once a fan who paid Caleb to watch him come and whisper filthy things as he did it, and now you’re married to him. When your first night as newlyweds comes to close, something heavy arises inside your mind that only your husband can ease.

Camboy!Caleb/Reader ~ Newlyweds

From the moment you and Caleb woke up to drive to the courthouse early this morning right up to you making it off the plane as you landed in Greece for your honeymoon—it’s been an experience nothing short of surreal.

It never even became a thought to entertain that you’d marry him when you both were strangers as you were paying to show your support for his content creation a few years ago, but only the universe knew how deep your gratefulness went. Officially, you belonged to a beautiful man who had gotten teary eyed as he slid your white and gold diamond ring onto your finger.

The day he proposed to you was a simple one. It was a random morning when you woke up and he was staring at you as you laid beside him in bed. You’d been living together for two years—an official couple for three—and Caleb knew that just calling you his girlfriend wasn’t enough.

He said it softly as he gazed into your sleepy eyes.

“Will you marry me?”

And you knew you were just as whipped when you didn’t hesitate for a moment to murmur yes. He kissed you so tenderly, morning breath and all. It was a fairytale you would brag about until the day you died.

Neither of you wanted a grand wedding with people who outwardly or silently judged him for the work he did or you for being okay with it. So instead of spending thousands on an event that was mainly for other people, Caleb planned a trip for your honeymoon while you booked the appointment to obtain your marriage license with the intention for it all to happen on the same day. It wasn’t the wedding you thought you’d have when you were in high school—with a big gown, a detailed arrangement of flowers, and dozens of guests—instead, it was infinitely better.

You wore one of Caleb’s favorites—a backless light yellow sundress that made you feel like a princess, while he wore a simple white dress shirt with the top few buttons undone and black slacks. Your photographer was an older woman and her husband who took both you and Caleb’s phones to record and snap all kinds of photos for your memories.

The way he kissed you after your vows that came straight from the heart and the second you said I Do had told you everything—that you had absolutely made the right choice.

It was night time as you and Caleb were being driven to where your villa was. He had been guiding you through absolutely everything. The trip and all it would consist of was a secret until he showed you.

After you landed, he had taken you to a gorgeous restaurant that had food so divine that you wished you could’ve consumed more than you had. He then took you to markets that sold all kinds of clothes you adored and small stores that sold the most precious trinkets he knew you’d love.

You couldn’t wrap your mind around how he was able to find so many places that he knew would fascinate you, but you’d been floating through it all with immense happiness. The way he knows you, the way he loves you, is a gift you feel you’ll never be able to repay him enough for.

In awe you gazed at all the people who made these beautiful hills of land a home as you rested your head on your husband’s shoulder. You two were far from tired despite your excursions.

When you got to where you’d be staying for the week and watched Caleb bring your bags up the stairs and inside because he refused for you to lift a finger, you explored the space in comfortable silence. The large bed that faced double doors with a mesmerizing view of the ocean and overlook of the other buildings, the breeze that flowed inside with the comforting smell of sea salt, along with the detailed walls and wooden floors made you wish that you could stay here forever.

“What do you think about going for a swim?” Caleb suggests as he walks towards you with a grin. “Wanted us to have a good first day before I got you to myself for the rest of the night.”

You bit your lip as he kissed your neck, bracing your hands on his arms as he grabbed you everywhere he could. “I’d like that.”

“Go change.” He nipped your ear. “I’m gonna take a quick shower. I feel sweaty.”

You snorted, kissing his lips after you nodded. “Be quick.”

“Of course.”

While the shower ran, you went into your suitcase to pick your swimsuit. But when you actually realized what you had packed, the hesitation that flowed through you was strong.

Every single one was a two piece and that was thanks to a striking moment of confidence when you decided to step out of your comfort zone and ditch the one pieces you strictly wore.

Caleb has seen you naked and you two have had sex, but for some reason, as you slipped on the dark blue bikini set, you wanted to do nothing but cover up and hide yourself from him. You looked at yourself in the mirror that rested against the wall, turning to the side as you looked at how your plush stomach settled on the bottoms. You frowned when you tried to suck it in, wishing that you were smart enough to have packed at least one thing that was full coverage.

Your mind went to all the women you saw today, their flat stomachs a sight to behold in their beach attire as you and Caleb traversed through the tourist locations. It was then that you decided—I can’t go outside like this.

“Baby?” Caleb called out, startling you because you were so lost in thought that you never heard the shower stop or him open the door. “You okay?”

Your lack of response immediately raises the alarms in his mind. All of his attention and concern is on you now when he walks closer to look at you through the mirror.

You look at him with overwhelming love, thinking of how you met and what has come of it. That’s all that should be on your mind along with how you’ll be celebrating—not how you look in a bikini, but you can’t help it. Especially not when you can feel his hard and muscular body press against your bigger one.

You pull your cover up tighter around you and that makes Caleb’s eyebrows knit in confusion. “Woah, woah,” he places his hand over yours from behind. “What’s going on?”

Silence.

“Pretty, I can’t help if you don’t talk to me. That’s what we do, yeah?” He studies you as best he can. “We talk.”

“It’s nothing, babe,” you deflect, getting ready to move away, but Caleb doesn’t let you.

“Not only are you keeping something from me, but you’re lying about it. I don’t like that.”

You know you need to come clean. It’s not fair to ruin everything because of your insecurities.

“I just,” you huff, blowing breath through your lips. “I don’t like how I look right now, is all.”

“What’s wrong with how you look?”

“Caleb, we don’t have to talk about this—”

“What’s wrong with how you look?” he cuts you off, repeating himself with narrowed eyes.

“I should’ve brought something that covered up more, that’s it.” Your response is short—curt. And for that, Caleb has to fix it.

He leans down, kissing your shoulder then making you tilt your head to the side as he lips graze against the skin on your neck. “It sounds like you’re talking bad about my wife,” he whispers, sending shivers through you.

“You know I don’t like a lot of things, but one thing I’ll never accept?” He begins to peel your cover up down your shoulders, looking at you in the mirror as if he dares you to stop him with no words necessary to convey the message. “Someone badmouthing the woman I love—Especially, if that kind of talk is coming from her.”

His strong hands come around to grab your stomach, forcing you closer to him as you gasp.

“What are the two things I’ve always told you?” He kisses your earlobe.

“To be proud of my body,” you shudder at the way he holds eye contact.

“Good girl,” he coos. You feel his fingers against your skin as he reaches for where you tied your bikini at the back of your neck. “The second thing?”

“To never be ashamed of what I want.” Your heart hammers rapidly in your chest.

“Perfect,” he says at the same time your top slips off to reveal your heavy breasts once he unwraps you.

“But being able to recite it to me doesn’t mean it’s instilled, right?” He slides his hands up your body to hold your tits in his hands, his thumbs grazing your nipples to make the peaks taut and just as needy as the rest of you.

His hand trails down the side of your body, tapping the outside of your left thigh with one command.

“Lift.”

You raise your leg, your hand bracing against the wall beside the mirror to keep yourself steady. Caleb caresses your inner thigh, smirking as you press your ass again his hardening cock.

“Tell me what you want.”

“You,” you plead desperately, whimpering as his arm comes over and his finger drags up your slit. He clicks his tongue, shaking his head.

“I’m already here, baby. Use your words correctly.”

“Your fingers.” You can’t help but to arch your back in anticipation as he skillfully pulls your panties to the side. “I want your fingers inside of me.”

Your mouth parts as you watch the simple silver band of his wedding ring catch the light of the standing lamp beside you two.

“My wife needs me to take care of her needy pussy, doesn’t she?” Your head falls back onto his shoulder when his thick finger gathers your slick from your quivering hole to bring it to your clit. He circles your bundle of nerves slow, occasionally stopping just to make you bend to his will. “Needs me to show her why she should love the body I plan to fuck my baby into one day.”

“Yes,” you pant without shame, needing any and every part of him inside you.

“Look at yourself when you fall apart for me. I want you to be just as proud as I am.”

You raise your head, watching and feeling how he stuffs you with his fingers. It’s a struggle to keep your leg up as he strokes the inside of your walls, but you refuse to take your eyes off of how wet you’re making him, how your juices make his digits shine while they move in and out of you.

“Caleb…” you cry, feeling the burn in your muscles ache so deliciously. “Fuck, that feels good…”

“I can tell by how you drench my ring, baby. Is this another way you’re choosing to claim me?” he smiles into your neck. “I like it.”

The sight in the mirror of your stickiness clinging to his wedding ring fuels your body with a primal urge you didn’t know you were capable of summoning. This man was absolutely yours, just as much as you were his. The way thin strings of your slick push and pull between your flesh and the band as his fingers coil inside of you is enough to show that.

“I don’t wanna come like this,” you whine, hearing how your cunt squelches like she’s letting him know how much she needs him before you do. “I want your cock…”

“Good,” he purrs, sliding his fingers out slowly to make your thighs tremble. Your leg finally rests and Caleb throws his towel away from his waist, the sound of the heavy material becoming a heap on the floor. He bends you just enough to bring out that arch in your spine that he’s taught you to do so well before spreading your legs wider. A man of his caliber needs space, after all.

You brace your hands on both sides of the mirror as you open up for him like a blooming flower.

“Taste yourself while I fuck you,” he commands and you feel his cock head brush against your entrance as he uses his tip to smear his hot precum between your lips. “You’re going to be proud of every part.”

His fingers push past your plush lips at the same time he guides his thick length into your weeping pussy. Your moans are muffled, his other hand gripping your hip to be able to pound into you like his cock wasn’t already imprinted.

You bring your eyes back to the mirror to see him already looking at you with pride, lust, but most importantly—love. Your tongue peeks out to take his digits deeper and taste the metallic of his ring, making him fuck into you even harder with promise that it was something no one would ever take from him.

Your tits bounce in response to how his tip kisses a part so deep that it makes your eyes sting with tears because it’s so fucking good.

“Don’t ever think about hiding any part of this from me, you understand? There’s a reason why we chose each other. It’s why we’re here.”

“Hmph—yes,” you mumble around his fingers as you continue to suck and indulge on your own sweetness.

“Use your pussy to make my cock feel how well you understand me, then.”

His balls slap your cunt and the sting against your clit is enough to make you cream around him like you were always meant to do. Any thought you had about your body being too much has faded as Caleb’s love and the way he makes you feel becomes of greater importance.

The mirror wobbles in your hold when you feel him stuff you full of his seed. You love how loud he moans at the way you milk his cock for every drop that he has.

“Look at how beautiful you are,” he breathes heavily, still pumping into you slowly after he’s filled you up like he doesn’t want it to stop. He pulls his fingers out of your mouth to bring it to his own, tasting everything that is you.

You listen to him, letting your gaze go along your puffy lips, your tits, stomach, and thighs, before you come back up to look at him.

It’s because of him that you see it. It’s because of him that you believe.

“I’ve never lied to you, have I?

You shake your head. “Never.”

He smiles, his intentions clear as he leans back to spit where you two are connected. “It’s always good to be thorough, don’t you think?”

He slaps your ass hard, causing you to moan at the sudden strike. “Get in the bed so I fuck my wife properly. Doesn’t hurt to consummate our marriage twice.”

Tags 🏷️: @mcdepressed290 @asiatic-apple @callads7 @caien @stargirlygirl @multisstuff @calebapplepie @littledarlingsthings @purpleamethyst25 @klossnite @lazygelpen @floatinginaer @meadowinthesky @floatinginaer @grackerzzz @nod4mnm3rcyy @loveinorion @ur-l0cal-crypt1d @brad-is-rad-blog

[craeatio]

craeatio

hello, the name is Cyne! Pronounced as sin.

I main Zayne and Caleb!

I read, read, and yap (sometimes)

I use she/her prns, mostly for love and deepspace because I'm such a whore for them to be honest. I am an adult, I am 19, minors do not interact!