Catra has had dreams about this, ones that have woken her up to heat between her legs and a yearning to be touched in her skin. She's had fantasies about it, imagining similar situations to this, ones that make her press frantically into her hand and leave her shuddering with the vowels of Adora's name silently poised on her lips.
And now that she's actually here, it feels too surreal to be true.
But she's good at faking confidence. She's good at slipping it on, like the red mask that fits around her face. She's good at letting her shoulders shimmy down from their tense lift, good at letting her muscles go limp. She doesn't have many opportunities to be in charge - that's always a job for Adora, and Catra stands at her right hand proudly - but she's sure, when given the chance, that she'll be good at that too.
And right now, though she's nervous, is that chance. Adora, ever the leader, has passed her the baton.
She allows herself one last breath, before she rises onto her elbow to loom over Adora. Her fingers become more confident on her skin, though she tilts the tips of them up as much as she can. It gets hard to remember her claws, and she doesn't want to scare Adora away from letting her touch her like this.
She doesn't release Adora's wrist as she shifts her weight, sliding one leg over hers and pushing up to straddle her. She doesn't take a moment to be nervous, doesn't take a pause. Instead she raises Adora's hand to her head, places it against the back of her hair; takes her other hand, moves it to the waistband of Catra's sleep shorts; and then moves both of her hands to massage the knuckles of her forefingers into the dips of Adora's hips.
'The same way you touch yourself,' Adora had said. Catra's not going to do that. Not when the things she's imagined doing to Adora are so much better. And Adora thinks she's had it bad after just one night--
Catra could almost laugh. But they're in their shared dorm, surrounded by their squadmates - so she doesn't. Instead her thighs and core muscles tighten as she leans down, kneading her knuckles into Adora, to breathe her words against Adora's ear. They especially cannot afford to wake anyone up right now.
"Do not make a single. Sound. Got it?" When she breathes, she can about taste Adora; clean and soapy and refreshing, and Catra kind of wants to ruin that. Wants to make her smell like sweat and effort and satisfaction instead. "Promise me, Adora. You've got to keep your mouth shut."
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And now that she's actually here, it feels too surreal to be true.
But she's good at faking confidence. She's good at slipping it on, like the red mask that fits around her face. She's good at letting her shoulders shimmy down from their tense lift, good at letting her muscles go limp. She doesn't have many opportunities to be in charge - that's always a job for Adora, and Catra stands at her right hand proudly - but she's sure, when given the chance, that she'll be good at that too.
And right now, though she's nervous, is that chance. Adora, ever the leader, has passed her the baton.
She allows herself one last breath, before she rises onto her elbow to loom over Adora. Her fingers become more confident on her skin, though she tilts the tips of them up as much as she can. It gets hard to remember her claws, and she doesn't want to scare Adora away from letting her touch her like this.
She doesn't release Adora's wrist as she shifts her weight, sliding one leg over hers and pushing up to straddle her. She doesn't take a moment to be nervous, doesn't take a pause. Instead she raises Adora's hand to her head, places it against the back of her hair; takes her other hand, moves it to the waistband of Catra's sleep shorts; and then moves both of her hands to massage the knuckles of her forefingers into the dips of Adora's hips.
'The same way you touch yourself,' Adora had said. Catra's not going to do that. Not when the things she's imagined doing to Adora are so much better. And Adora thinks she's had it bad after just one night--
Catra could almost laugh. But they're in their shared dorm, surrounded by their squadmates - so she doesn't. Instead her thighs and core muscles tighten as she leans down, kneading her knuckles into Adora, to breathe her words against Adora's ear. They especially cannot afford to wake anyone up right now.
"Do not make a single. Sound. Got it?" When she breathes, she can about taste Adora; clean and soapy and refreshing, and Catra kind of wants to ruin that. Wants to make her smell like sweat and effort and satisfaction instead. "Promise me, Adora. You've got to keep your mouth shut."