#ADMIRAL SUPREMACY | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ariichive · 3 months ago

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WITH OPEN ARMS

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truly, it was never tribbie's intention to get you two to admit your feelings like this!

mydei x fem. reader 2.7k words

cw: chrysos heir fem. reader, mydei being soft, confessions, tribbie playing matchmaker, fluff :) girl dad mydei supremacy, not proofread whoops

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋

mydei and tribbie stared at you expectantly. tribbie's eyes full of childhood expectancy and innocence. whereas mydei's naturally looked fierce and piercing.

"we must go lady [name], we can't live with the regret of not snatching this deal!"

you were previously doing research on the skies above, trying to find out more about the nameless from above per agalea's request when suddenly tribbie and mydeimos appeared, raving about a deal a favorited reasturant around okhema currently has.

'THREE GUESTS, FREE ALL YOU CAN EAT!' said the flyer tribbie held up to your face. and of course, in very fine print in the corner of the page read, 'with the purchase of our famed wine starting at-' yeah, it was better off not reading the price for your own sanity.

"ah but tribbie, i don't really have the time to-- s-stop with the puppy eyes!" you quickly diverted your gaze to mydei, who naturally looked unbothered by the ordeal. "gods, how did she manage to rope you into this too?"

mydei crossed his arms, "there was no need for persuasion when the opportunity to taste new foods is presented." he had a pleased expression, as if already imagining the endless amount of food he could eat.

"ah, makes sense, i'm sure it takes a lot of calories to maintain all your muscle?" you felt comforted at how relaxed he seemed, it was rare to see such a display. though, his calm demeanor shifted at your words, a faint pink hue taking over. "l-lady [name], it is mandatory to maintain such a build as a kremnoan."

you couldn't help but smile at his flustered reaction, the sharp contrast to his usual confident demeanor amusing. "i see, so it’s part of the job, huh?" you teased lightly,

mydei quickly composed himself, though the pink tint didn't quite fade. "indeed, it is a cultural necessity," he said with a slight tilt of his head, his usual confident posture returning, but there was a hint of something shy in his eyes now. "the kremnoans believe that strength is not just a physical attribute but a reflection of our spirit and endurance."

you couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of admiration for his pride in his culture, his heritage. "that’s... really admirable, mydei," you murmured, genuinely impressed. mydei let out a confident thank you as your attention went back to tribbie, who seemed to be giggling to herself.

"what about trianne and trinnon? that's three of you there, why bring us into it?"

tribbie's giggles stopped immediately, as if she wasn't prepared for this question. "w-well uh, we.. we needed an adult to enter! yeah, i'll bring back plenty of leftovers for trianne and trinnon." tribbie sent you an award winning smile.

you raised an eyebrow, not entirely convinced by tribbie's explanation. "an adult, huh?" you said, crossing your arms. "and you just happened to think of us as the 'adults' in this scenario?"

tribbie's smile wavered slightly, but she quickly regained her composure, nodding enthusiastically. "yep! absolutely! you're, uh, very mature and responsible, after all." she added with a wink, clearly trying to steer the conversation away from the awkwardness.

you couldn't help but chuckle at her attempt. "mm, sure, we’ll go with that. but don’t think we’ve forgotten about trianne and trinnon. you'd better keep your promise."

her grin returned with your subtle agreement to accompany them. "of course! i'll make sure they get the best of it. you'll see!"

the three of you began to embark on the short walk to the infamous restaurant when suddenly, tribbie stopped. "such a beautiful day on okhema," tribbie said honestly, which you agreed with. "yeah, the air feels extra refreshing today." mydei nodded in agreement.

tribbie smiled, "i could close my eyes and let the wind guide me!" she said as she closed her eyes. mydei tsked, "if you're gonna close your eyes and walk, at least hold onto one of us."

mydei parent mode: activated.

tribble giggled, "you're very right, de. me and trianne hold trinnon's hands whenever she's feeling shy, that way she knows we're here for her!"

you smiled at her cuteness, having witnessed the three of them skipping hand in hand through okhema once.

"in fact, you and [name] should hold hands!" mydei's eyes widened at her words.

mydei's cheeks flushed, a deep pink quickly spreading across his face. "w-what?" he stammered, clearly caught off guard by tribbie’s suggestion.

you couldn’t help but chuckle at his reaction, the sudden shift in his usual composed demeanor amusing. "hold hands, huh?" you said, teasing him lightly. "that’s an interesting idea."

tribbie, always one to push things further, grinned from ear to ear. "oh, come on, you two! it's just a little hand-holding!" she said, her excitement uncontainable.

mydei cleared his throat, his eyes darting between you and tribbie, looking more than a little uncomfortable. "i... i don’t think that’s necessary," he mumbled, though the slight awkwardness in his voice made it clear he wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea.

you noticed the little flush in his cheeks and decided to make it a little more fun. "well, mydei, it’s not a bad idea. it could be... comforting, right?"

tribbie bounced up and down, clearly enjoying the playful tension. "exactly! see, it's just like how trianne and trinnon always hold my hands! nothing to be shy about!"

mydei sighed, clearly resigned to the playful teasing, but his gaze softened when he glanced at you. "i suppose... i could... hold your hand for a moment, if you insist."

mydei offered a polite hand to you, one you gently took. tribbie happily made her way to your other side, taking ahold of your other hand.

with your hands now occupied, you couldn’t help but smile at the unexpected warmth of the situation. tribbie hummed happily, swinging your arm gently as the three of you continued down the path toward the restaurant. mydei, though still looking a bit stiff, seemed to relax slightly, his fingers lightly brushing against yours.

"see? nothing to it," tribbie chirped, clearly pleased with herself for orchestrating this moment. she glanced up at mydei, her grin widening. "feels good, doesn’t it? to be connected like this?"

mydei glanced at the ground for a moment, his face still flushed, but after a brief pause, he gave a small nod. "i suppose it does... in a way," he admitted, his voice softening. "it’s... not so bad."

you squeezed his hand gently, offering a reassuring smile. "i’m glad to hear that," you said warmly.

tribbie giggled, looking between you both with delight. "see, i told you it would be fun! you two are the best!"

the gentle breeze rustled through the trees above, the atmosphere feeling lighter with the shared connection between the three of you. mydei’s earlier unease slowly melted away as he began to fall into the rhythm of the moment, his grip on your hand becoming a little more comfortable. you could almost feel the unspoken bond strengthening, even in the simplest of gestures.

soon enough, the restaurant came into view.

and the first thing that greeted you was well...

trianne?

"um trianne? why-"

"WELCOME esteemed guests," trianne was quick to cut you off, fixing her bowtie and faux mustache. "trianne's name is uh," she paused for a second, silently looking at tribbie as they seemed to have a quick telepathic exchange, "trixie! and trixie will be your server."

you glaced around at the completely vacant restaurant and then to mydei, who looked completely unimpressed.

you blinked, unsure whether to laugh or be concerned. the sight of trianne, dressed in a bowtie and sporting a poorly attached faux mustache, was... certainly unexpected. it was hard to take her seriously, especially with the way she was trying so hard to sound official.

"trixie, huh?" you repeated, raising an eyebrow. "that’s quite a transformation. i don’t think i’ve seen a more... professional server before."

trianne—no, trixie—straightened her back, putting on her best exaggerated smile. "ah, yes, trixie at your service!" she said, adopting an overly dramatic tone that only made the situation even more ridiculous. "what can trixie get for you today, esteemed guests? something spectacular perhaps?" she added, gesturing to the empty restaurant with grand flair.

you glanced around at the vacant tables, your confusion growing. "uh, i don’t see anyone else here... are we the only customers today?"

mydei let out a long sigh, clearly unimpressed. "seems like it... but i'm not sure if this is quite what i expected from a well-known establishment," he muttered under his breath, folding his arms. "though, it is rather joyous to see them having fun like this."

you agreed with him, "might as well entertain them!"

"follow me right this way, tribbie, de, and [nickname]!" you let out a giggle and silently followed after the young girl. mydei just now letting go of your hand to pull out your chair for you, tribbie not far behind.

you cleared your throat ,"is there a menu-"

"NO! we uh, are very limited so chef trinnon's specialty will be served!"

as if on cue, the sound of loud crashing and a soft yelp was heard from the kitchen.

you blinked, your concern growing as the crash echoed through the restaurant. tribbie, looking almost too relaxed, simply leaned over and whispered, "it’s fine, they do this all the time."

mydei didn’t seem as convinced. he was already halfway to the kitchen, his face set with a mixture of concern and curiosity. you, not wanting to be left out, quickly followed behind him, tribbie trailing casually.

as you reached the kitchen entrance, you could see trinnon—covered in flour and surrounded by shattered plates. "o-oh sorry," trinnon said softly. she looked around sheepishly. distracted by the eyes on her, she forgot to turn off the stove and the boiling water began to overflow.

"oh no," trinnon said softly and was about to get up to turn off the stove but mydei was quicker. "you are all much too young to be alone in a kitchen," there was a rough edge to his voice, but it was all out of love. mydei was quick to pick up the glass shards left by the plates, he then grabbed a damp towel and began to wipe the flour off of trinnon's face.

"i… i didn't mean for this to happen," trinnon mumbled, her face flushed with embarrassment. "i just wanted to make something special for everyone…"

"you will, don’t worry," mydei said softly, his voice calming as he gently lifted trinnon's chin, wiping the last of the flour from her face. "but for now, let’s just make sure you’re okay."

you couldn’t help but watch with a warm feeling in your chest, seeing the way mydei balanced his strength with kindness. he had a way of caring that wasn’t always obvious at first, but moments like this made it clear just how much he looked out for the people around him.

tribbie, who had been standing at the doorway watching the whole scene unfold, gave a small chuckle. "oh, this is just like when mama took care of us," she said with a hint of sadness.

you and mydei shared a look of sadness for the poor trio.

trinnon, now feeling a bit more at ease, smiled shyly. "thank you, mydei… and sorry again."

"no need to apologize," mydei replied, his voice now calm and steady. "just be more careful next time, okay? you all go sit back down, i'll show you the cooking skills of a true kremnoan."

with the situation finally under control, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief. "well, looks like we’re in good hands after all," you said, nudging tribbie lightly. "this meal might take a little longer, but i’m sure it'll be worth it."

tribbie grinned, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "oh, it’ll be worth it. i mean, with de in charge, we’re basically guaranteed five-star kremnoan cuisine!" she said, giving mydei a playful salute as he turned back to the stove, his brow furrowed in concentration.

you chuckled, shaking your head. "you really do have a way of making everything more interesting, don’t you, tribbie?"

"what can i say?" she shrugged with a smile. "life’s more fun when you don’t take it too seriously!"

you and the three young girls made your way back to the table. smiling hand in hand.

sitting down, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of gratitude. there was something comforting about this strange, yet warm, situation. the way everyone was so quick to pitch in and take care of each other—it was a bond that went beyond the usual social niceties.

"so girls, care to tell me what today was for?" you question gently as the three of them chuckle nervously. "w-we see the way you and mydei look at each other," tribbie started. "trianne wanted to set you both up on a date, but we weren't sure how to go about it."

"trianne found a romance book in castorice's bag, it was so slay, slay! we had to follow it!" trianne said with a big smile on her face.

"it seemed like a good idea in the moment," trinnon said softly.

you smiled at the three of them, at such a heart warming moment. "thank you for the attempt, but... i-is my crush on mydei really that noticeable?" you hid your face in your hands, not noticing how the footsteps behind you seemed to halt or the sound of the three girls giving each other high-fives.

trianne let out a mischievous giggle, "we'll let the two of you talk it out!"

mydei looked at the door for a second, his expression unreadable, then finally turned his gaze back to you. "so... seems like things are... out in the open now," he said softly, his voice surprisingly calm.

you finally peeked out from behind your hands, only to find him looking at you with the faintest hint of a smile. "i guess so," you mumbled, still feeling the heat of embarrassment.

mydei’s smile softened, and for the first time, you noticed the way his eyes held a certain warmth—almost as if he were relieved, too. "well, i suppose it was only a matter of time before they figured it out," he said, his voice quiet but sincere, "i do not think i was the best at hiding my feelings either." he admitted while avoiding eye contact.

"w-wait does that mean you really-" the amount of surprise in your voice caught mydei by surprise as he let out a small laugh. "how could i not be enamored by your beauty and strength? after fighting alongside someone as worthy as you, it was only a matter of time before i fell hard."

your heart skipped a beat as his words settled in, the weight of his confession sinking in. you couldn’t believe what you were hearing, and your mind raced to process it all. mydei—mydei—had been feeling the same way? your face flushed, and you struggled to find your voice.

"i… i didn’t know," you stammered, still processing his words. "i thought—i mean, i didn’t want to assume anything. you’ve always been so... calm and composed around me."

mydei finally met your gaze, and there was something vulnerable in his eyes that you hadn’t seen before. he looked almost unsure for a moment, as if searching for the right words. "i was careful not to let my feelings cloud my judgment," he explained, his voice softening. "but after everything we've been through together... it became harder to deny what was growing inside me." he paused, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. "you... are extraordinary. your strength, your courage, your heart—i couldn't help but be drawn to you."

"now then, please enjoy the meal i made for the all of us."

your heart raced, but in that moment, everything felt right. "yes," you said softly, your words steady and sure. "i’d like that."

bonus:

earlier that day

"de, could you accompany [nickname] and us-"

"yes."

tribbie scratched the back of her head, "it was that easy to convince you?"

"why would i need any convincing when [name] is involved?" mydei said like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"wow, he's got it bad. we probably didn't need to break into that reasturant..."

#hsr x reader #mydei x reader #mydei fluff #honkai star rail x you #honkai star rail x reader #mydeimos #honkai star rail #tribbie #amphoreus #hsr #hsr fluff #hsr mydei #honkai star rail mydei #mydei

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moongirlcleo · 5 days ago

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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

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.

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