arcane woman + kinks
vi, caitlyn kiramman, ambessa medarda, mel medarda, jinx, sevika, grayon
content warnings: degradation, spitting, hair pulling, rough fingering, name-calling, power play, face sitting, biting, bruising, strap-on sex, forced orgasm, obedience training, remote-controlled toy, public setting, orgasm denial, protocol kink, guided oral, praise kink, edging, power exchange, overstimulation, bondage, vibrator play, breath play, spanking, control kink, forced restraint
it starts with your back against the wall, vi’s jacket falling somewhere near the door, her hands already under your shirt, and her mouth dragging heat and spit along the side of your neck. you tilt your head back to give her more, and she takes all of it. her lips part, and her teeth sink in—hard. enough to make your hips jerk. “that’s it,” she mutters, voice hoarse against your skin. “you’re fuckin’ perfect.” her hands grip your thighs, lift you up like you weigh nothing, and press you higher into the wall as she grinds her hips between your legs. her strap’s already on like she planned this, and the heat of it rubs against your soaked underwear with every slow roll of her hips. but her mouth never stops moving.
she bites your collarbone next, then your shoulder, then the top of your chest, leaving red, blooming bruises in a trail she traces with her tongue. “you take everything i give you like a fuckin’ dream,” she pants, fingers pulling your panties aside. “all mine, huh?” you nod, breathless. she grins, leans in, and bites again “my good girl.” and when she finally thrusts inside, your back slams the wall, your voice breaks open, and her hand comes up to grab your jaw. “look at you,” she growls, eyes locked on yours. “marked up. moanin’. so fuckin’ good for me.”
every time she fucks into you, she leans in to leave another bruise, another hot, wet bite. and by the time she’s finished, your entire body’s a map of where she’s been. of who you belong to. and vi? she just smiles down at you, all flushed cheeks and swollen lips. “you look so pretty when you’re covered in me.”
caitlyn kiramman | power play + degradation
you’re already on her bed when she enters the room, exactly where she told you to be. back straight, legs folded beneath you, hands resting in your lap. you practiced the position until it became second nature. she shuts the door without looking at you, hangs her coat, unclips the holster at her thigh. her silence makes your skin buzz. you know better than to speak.
“you’re early,” she says, voice perfectly calm. “that’s a start.”
you nod once, trying not to fidget. she walks toward you slow, deliberate. her gloves are still on. she leans in, tilts your chin up with two fingers, and studies your face like she’s checking for smudges on glass.
“but your posture’s slipping.”
you stiffen. her thumb brushes the corner of your mouth.
“messy,” she murmurs. “what a shame. you try so hard and still can’t get it right.”
you clench your thighs. she notices.
“don’t squirm.”
caitlyn moves behind you, unbuttons the top of your shirt with clinical care. her hand settles at the base of your throat, and her mouth brushes your ear.
“how many times did i tell you to wait until i said?”
you breathe in sharp.
“and yet you touched yourself this morning.”
your stomach flips.
“yes, i know,” she says, almost bored. “you’re not as discreet as you think.”
her gloved hand slides down, between your legs, and cups your cunt through thin cotton. you’re already damp. her sigh is so soft it could be disappointment, or approval.
“pathetic.” she says it quietly. calmly. like a fact. “can’t even make it one day.”
you’re trembling now. her fingers move with excruciating control. not enough to make you come. just enough to make you ache.
“if i let you finish,” she says, dragging your panties down slowly, “it’s because i allowed it. not because you’re desperate. not because you earned it. because i’m feeling generous.”
and when she finally slips her fingers inside, when your mouth opens in a gasp and your head falls back against her shoulder, her voice is still steady, still cruel in that quiet, educated way.
“go on, then. let go.”
and you do. shattering beautifully under her calm gaze, just the way she likes you.
ambessa medarda | public control + obedience training
the dining room is warm with candlelight and power. plates clink, crystal sings, and every guest seated at the long table knows your name. they nod to you with respect, even deference. you’re important here. but not to her. to her, you’re a thing to be handled. controlled. ambessa sits at the head of the table, elegant in gold trim and military black. you’re on her left, perfect posture, napkin across your lap, eyes forward. but your body betrays you with every pulse of the plug buried deep inside you. she hasn’t touched the remote in ten minutes. you’ve been clenching around nothing, the toy holding you open while you smile through conversation, while you drink wine you can barely taste.
and then—click. your back straightens. your hand grips the tablecloth. the soft buzz between your legs starts slow, steady. not enough to embarrass you. just enough to keep you wet. no one notices. she leans in slightly, as if to pass you something. her voice is low, delicate. “relax your shoulders, dear.” the diplomat across from you asks a question. you answer it. clearly. gracefully. and all the while, the toy buzzes harder. deeper. crueler. you feel your cunt pulse around it. a fresh wave of slick coats the plug, and your breath catches but you don’t move. you can’t.
ambessa refills her glass. her fingers graze your thigh beneath the table, just for a second. “you’re holding very well,” she murmurs, her lips barely parting. “but if you come…” she sets the bottle down with precision. “…you’ll wear it back to the car. dripping. untouched. and i won’t speak to you for the rest of the night.” your stomach drops. your jaw clenches. your cunt clenches harder. because you want to come. it would take nothing. a shift of your hips. a breath the wrong way. one more pulse of vibration. but you don’t. you endure. because this isn’t pleasure, it’s performance. it’s obedience. her obedience.
the conversation around you flows like wine, unaware that beneath your designer dress, your body is begging, twitching, soaked. unaware that your restraint is a gift ambessa trained into you over weeks of discipline. you glance at her. only once. her mouth curves. not quite a smile. and when she leans over to brush your hair back from your cheek, the toy pulses twice so hard and deep your vision goes white for half a second. your nails dig into your own thigh. you breathe through your nose. you hold.
“very good,” she says aloud, to no one in particular. but you know it’s for you. and it makes you ache worse than anything else she’s done tonight.
mel medarda | sensory play + slow mutual control
it starts with her hand in your hair entle, guiding, not yet controlling. she kisses you like she’s thinking about something else, but her fingers tighten when your tongue brushes hers. when you press her back against the sheets, she exhales like a secret slipping from her throat. “slower,” she murmurs, eyes half-lidded. “make it count.” so you do. you peel her silk robe from her shoulders like you’re unwrapping something dangerous. every inch of her is bare, golden, tense. your fingers ghost along her ribs and her breath stutters soft, involuntary. but when your nails scrape just beneath her breast, she tilts her head and pulls your bottom lip between her teeth. gentle. biting. both.
she lets you undress her completely. lets you drag your mouth over her hip, your hand down the inside of her thigh. she doesn’t stop you when you spread her legs, doesn’t guide your head when you sink lower, but she watches you like you’re on trial. her hand settles on your neck. no pressure. just a reminder. you moan into her when you taste how wet she is already. when you press your tongue flat and slow against her clit, she arches but just a little. just enough to keep your mouth exactly where it is. “right there,” she whispers. your hands grip her thighs tighter. she threads her fingers through your hair. the slow rhythm builds your mouth working, her body softening beneath you, and still she’s holding something back.
so you stop. pull away. breathe against her cunt, warm and wet and deliberate. she gasps, not from pleasure, but from the denial. her fingers dig into your scalp. “don’t you dare.” you smile. kiss the inside of her thigh. “then take it back.” and she does. her hand pushes you down again, thighs tightening around your face, rocking slow and controlled against your mouth like it’s hers now. you moan, and she shudders. you flatten your tongue, and she gasps. and when she comes , slow, breathless, elegant and falling apart. she pulls you up by the collar and kisses you like she owns you.
“lie back,” she says, voice soft but sharp. and when she climbs on top of you, dragging her slick cunt along your stomach with intentional slowness, your hands tremble but you still reach up and take her hips. you guide. and she lets you. for now.
jinx | overstimulation + bondage
you’re strapped down to the bed, legs spread wide, wrists bound tight to the headboard with something that might’ve been a ribbon once but now feels like wire. soft at first. not anymore. jinx is already between your legs, humming something off-key with the vibrator pressed flush to your clit, watching the way your thighs jerk with every jolt of overstimulated nerves.
“look at you squirm,” she grins, head tilting as she pushes it harder. “we’re just getting started.”
you sob, breath catching, voice cracking as your fourth orgasm slams through you—no pause, no mercy, just slick and heat and aching pressure that won’t let up. she doesn’t move it away. doesn’t give you time to breathe.
“aww,” she coos, “you’re twitchin’ again. that means it’s working!”
your hips try to pull back. the bonds don’t let you. your throat’s raw from moaning. your skin’s damp from sweat.
and then she stops. you gasp. your chest heaves.
she climbs onto your stomach, straddling you, messy and wild and glowing with sweat and chaos. she pulls something out of her pocket. a little brush. some neon paint.
“don’t worry,” she grins, dipping the brush in and dragging it across your collarbone, “i’m an artist.”
you can’t even laugh. your whole body pulses from the aftershocks. she draws a little star above your nipple. a jagged smiley face on your thigh.
and then back between your legs.
“alright, art break’s over.”
the vibrator’s on before it even touches you again, buzzing high, mean, and constant. you scream. she giggles.
“one more. maybe.”
her free hand presses flat over your stomach, pinning you down as you buck and writhe beneath her.
“c’mon, bunny,” she whispers, eyes wide and sparkling. “paint the sheets for me.”
and you do. again. again. again. until your legs shake violently, until the toy finally slips from her hand and she lets it fall, lets you collapse into the soaked, ruined bed.
sevika | brat taming + spit
you were mouthing off again. legs spread, lip curled, voice full of heat but no respect. she let you. for a minute. let you talk, let you sneer, let you challenge her like you hadn’t been on your knees for her yesterday, begging to be ruined.
now you’re facedown on the mattress, one arm twisted behind your back, cheek pressed into the sheets as sevika straddles your thighs from behind. you’re naked. breathless. slick between your legs from nothing but the sound of her voice when she snapped.
“you done now?” she mutters, voice low and gravel-dark. her breath hits your ear. her metal hand spreads across your ass like a warning.
you mutter something sarcastic.
she grabs your hair, yanks your head back, and before you can even gasp she spits straight into your open mouth. it lands hot on your tongue, and your thighs twitch like they know what’s coming.
“swallow it.”
you do. she smiles. then she shifts lower, grinding her soaked cunt against your bare ass, letting you feel how ready she is to put you in your place.
“thought you were a tough girl,” she says, grabbing your wrists and shoving them forward. “but you cry like a slut when i get going.”
her fingers are rough when they slam inside you—two at first, then three, scissoring deep while her palm slaps your ass with every thrust. you bite the sheets but it’s no use. you’re soaked. loud. trembling.
“you gonna talk back now?” she grunts, pounding into you harder.
you moan instead.
“didn’t think so.”
and when you finally break—hips jerking, body slick with sweat, mouth open and begging for something you can’t even name—she spits again, this time right into your messy, fucked-out smile.
“brat,” she huffs, rubbing her thumb over your spit-slick lips. “you’re lucky i like taming you.”
grayson | discipline + spanking
you’re already bent over her desk when she walks in, cheeks flushed, hands braced, skirt lifted to your hips just like she told you. she shuts the door quietly. locks it and says nothing.
the silence stretches long enough to make your heart start pounding. you shift slightly, breath catching, but her voice slices through the tension before you can speak.
“don’t fidget.”
you freeze. her footsteps are deliberate as she circles behind you. she takes her time. she always does. the anticipation is part of the punishment.
you feel the touch of her fingers on the small of your back, steadying you. then, the first smack lands—sharp, clean, echoing.
you inhale hard. your hips twitch.
another. then another. slow and even, each one burning into your skin, building like thunder.
“you broke two rules today,” she says, voice calm. “do you remember which?”
you nod quickly. “yes, ma’am.”
“say them.”
“i was late. and i spoke out of turn.”
another smack. sharper this time.
“you were disrespectful,” she corrects softly, “and reckless. you don’t speak before thinking. not in this uniform. not under my watch.”
her palm soothes the sting, rubbing in slow, firm circles.
“you know better.”
“i do,” you whisper.
“good.”
she leans forward slightly, one hand still at your lower back to keep you in place, and her fingers dip between your thighs, finding you soaked.
“of course you’re wet,” she sighs, almost fond. “this always gets through to you.”
you whimper when she circles your clit once—slow, teasing.
“how many spankings was that?”
“f-five.”
“then we’re not finished.”
you bite down a moan, bracing again, as her hand lifts—
and comes down harder.
the burn makes your knees buckle. the praise that follows makes your chest ache.
“you’re taking it so well,” she murmurs. “you always do when you're corrected.”
she doesn’t stop until your thighs are trembling and your cunt is dripping onto the floor. and even then, her fingers don’t let you come. not until she says you’ve earned it. not until you’ve thanked her for every single strike.
and when you do—breathless and obedient?
she kisses the top of your spine and says you’ve done well.
and it means more than any orgasm ever could.
a/n: i'm working on the rrequest/asks, they'll be up shortly!
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