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"No!" Adora winces like the suggestion had been a slap to the face. "Why do I have to talk you through this?"

Were she in a different state of mind right now, she'd surely appreciate Catra trying to work through this with her in a calm and quiet manner. A very different state of mind. Alas.

"Don't you remember-- all of yesterday?" Adora burrows deeper into the blankets, voice dropping to a barely audible whisper. "How you were touching me, and yourself, and-and saying I should help you? Did you just expect me to forget all that?" And her voice rises again before she can help it-- "Because I haven't!"

Catra slaps a hand over Adora's mouth, and snaps out "--I'm shutting her up!" into the dorm before anyone can tell them off again.

"Do you want to get us in trouble?" She really just. Cannot believe anything about Adora right now. Cannot believe that there's a heated flush growing on her own face. But defensive lies have always spilled easily from Catra's tongue, and now is no different. "--I was being a jerk, obviously. You were annoying me and I wanted you to go away!"

Adora's eyes go wide, and the mask of frustration on her face slips to reveal a look of every vulnerable emotional she doesn't want to let show: her shame, her want, now joined by a fresh tinge of hurt.

Of course Catra was just messing with her. Because that stuff's just normal to Catra, right? She doesn't have to spend all day obsessing over it, after. She doesn't have to care.

Adora pries Catra's hand from her mouth, and her chest swells with her inhale like she's building up to say-- something impactful, something big, anything that's not the sad little whimper-voice that ends up leaving her mouth.

"That's not fair."

She feels stupid, and she feels even stupider for having said it, and her face crawls with itchy embarrassment-heat and she hates this, hates this, hates this.

"... Whatever. I don't care."

Scrunching her eyes shut, she turns her back to Catra, knees drawn up to her chest.

For the second time in as many nights, Catra's done something to hurt Adora. Only this time, she's not exactly sure what.

(Because last night had been all about the scratches on her thigh, right?)

Her heart clenches painfully when Adora's face crumples, when her words come out as a tiny, quiet whimper. Catra scrabbles to think of something to do, something to fix it, but Adora's already turned over and Catra's left staring, wordlessly, at the back of her head.

Her throat works, her lips part; as if she's about to say something. But she loses the nerve for whatever it is, and closes them again. (She's not going to apologize.)

"...Why does it matter?" She finally gets out, and she hates the note of uncertainty in her own voice. She buries it, reaching for firm confidence instead as she asserts: "That stuff doesn't mean anything to you anyway. You never even thought about it until now."

"Well, I'm thinking about it now," Adora snaps back instinctively, the throb between her temples and churn in her stomach sharpening her tone.

She hates this. She hates that it's making them fight. Catra doesn't get it at all, what this is doing to her, but she has to-- she's the one who knows about this stuff, she has to make sense of this for Adora. How else is she going to get through this?

Her voice grows much softer, halfway to pleading:

"... I can't stop thinking about it."

At least Adora's still talking to her, and Catra feels herself sag with relief. Hesitantly, she reaches out; the tips of her fingers brushing Adora's arm, ready for her to jerk away in rejection.

"Tell me," she says; but her voice is so quiet it feels like more of a question, more of a request. It's not often that Catra is the one asking Adora to meet her halfway, and as ever she's nervous about doing it. Doesn't know if her request will be received, is scared of what Adora's answer might even be. "Adora, what do you keep thinking about?"

The graze of Catra's fingertips is enough to make her skin break into goosebumps, and Adora can't stand it. She feels transparent, yet Catra still can't see it-- why can't she see it? Why does she have to make her say it?

"You," the single syllable drops from her lips like a rock. Adora cringes with it, terrified of what Catra will say, of the thought she'd laugh at her-- and so she immediately follows it up with: "You jerk."

Catra thinks she stops breathing for a long moment, the world narrowing in on her as her heart beats a heavy staccato in her chest.

"Me?" And just like that, as the word exits faintly from her lips, she can think again. Of course it's her, she's the one who brought it up. She shakes her head at herself, at the butterflies squirming in her stomach and the heated surge of her blood and the curling of her toes. Adora's just spent a bunch of time complaining about how she put these thoughts in her head, about her method of eviction last night. Of course that means she's been thinking about Catra.

She hasn't been rejected, so she places her hand on Adora's arm, trying to comfort in the same way Adora's always done for her.

"I won't do it again, okay?" It's not an apology. But it's as near to one as Catra ever gets, as she slides her hand down Adora's arm, trying to find her fingers to link together with hers. "I didn't realize how badly it'd mess with your head." She doesn't do apologetic well, doesn't handle the vulnerability of it. So she tries to sound lighter when she adds; "Next time I'll just kick you until you leave."

"No," Adora yanks her hand away, Catra's gentle compassion somehow worse than anything she'd feared. It makes her feel like she's going insane.

Adora rolls back to face her, cheek resettling against the pillow with a thump, and she's wound up so tight that she wants to scream but just barely, thankfully, manages to keep her voice in the range of a whisper.

"You're so stupid! Don't you get it? I... I..." She scrubs a hand over her smoldering face, struggling to untie her tongue from the million knots it's suddenly curled itself into.

God, she doesn't know if she can say it. Can barely summon the voice from her throat. The most that comes out is a thin, raspy breath:

"... I want you to touch me."

She said it.

Her eyes are shut tight. She's not opening them to see Catra's reaction.

She reels back instantly when Adora jerks her hand away, separating herself from Adora's side. It's the sharp burn of rejection she'd thought she was safe from, stinging all the way deep in her core. She doesn't have any time to build a wall; doesn't have any time for a defensive retort to find its way to her mouth. Just stares, eyes widened with the shock, as Adora rolls back over and continues to talk. To her.

It's hard to listen over the pounding in her ears, but she tries anyway.

And Adora

is such

an idiot.

This is what this is all about? This is why she's been avoiding Catra's touch all day, this is why she wasn't reciprocating any of the cranky attempts at banter and teasing? This is why she's been freaking out all night, this is why she's shut down Catra's attempt to comfort her?

"You're an idiot," she croaks, blinking rapidly, pulling herself to recover from what is not the rejection she'd thought it was. Her voice, at least, is as firm as her grip when she reaches to grab Adora's wrist, to tug her hand away from her face. "Adora, you're such a total idiot. Why didn't you just tell me that to begin with?"

"Don't call me an idiot!" she hisses. "Do you know how hard that was for me to say!"

But she lets Catra pull her hand away, even cracks open one eye to peer down at her. It takes Adora a moment, amidst her embarrassment and exasperation, to realize that... really didn't sound like a rejection. At all.

But she can't let herself believe that so easily.

"Wh-what does that mean?"

Catra made her spell it out, she doesn't get a pass.

"It means you haven't got two braincells to rub together, idiot." When in doubt, when on the back foot: double down. Catra's life motto. But her heart's not in it this time; instead, it's lodged somewhere up in her throat. She has been waiting, so long, for Adora to catch up to this - and after last night, she'd written her off completely. Adora was disinterested, Adora hadn't even noticed her, Adora wouldn't have even considered her.

"--Where?" She breathes, suddenly demanding. She barely remembers to keep her voice down, and it grows huskier with the effort. Her blood's rushing again, in heated pulses through her body. She wants to move, but she's paralyzed by the fear of having misunderstood, still. "Where? Tell me, Adora. Where do you want me to touch you?"

Because she's willing. She is so willing and if Adora still can't see that - if she can't recognize the tremble in Catra's fingers as restraint, if she doesn't see the gleam of desire in her eyes, if she can't identify the way Catra's entire body leans into hers - then Catra may just give up and die here.

"I said, don't call me a--"

But then Catra leans in so close, her voice low and urgent, pupils blown wide in the dark. And the words die on Adora's tongue.

She feels like a cornered animal, a deer caught in headlights. Her heart is slamming itself so hard against her ribcage that she fears it'll crack.

She can't believe Catra's making her ask for it.

"Everywhere. Anywhere. Look, I don't know about this stuff, okay? Just... the same way you touch yourself."

It's like raking coals over her tongue, having to give voice to the notion that up until the night before had been unthinkable. The tension in her body is built up so high, a kettle seconds from boiling, and it's so much, so much that her whole body is shaking with it.

Her hand closes over Catra's wrist, planting her palm over the base of her stomach, where all that crackling, swarming tension takes root. She can't ask for anything more than this. She doesn't know how.

"Catra-- please?"

Edited 2020-06-16 09:05 (UTC)

Catra's fingers twitch against the hard lines of Adora's hard stomach, disbelieving still. She's frozen in the moment, every muscle tense and aching.

And then Adora asks her, and finally, Catra can move.

"Okay," she whispers; hoarse. Her hand moves blindly, across Adora's heated skin, until she finds the dip between her stomach and hipbone, the same place Adora's thumb had stroked her the night before, and her trembling fingers repeat the movement, cautiously keeping her claws from scratching. She is -- she is touching Adora, in the way that clearly bypasses friendly intent. Adora wants her to touch her like this. "Are--are you sure?"

If she says no now, Catra really doesn't know what she'll do.

Even the slightest movement of Catra's hand, that timid brush of thumb, is enough to send shivers up Adora's spine. Or maybe it's because it's so light that it affects her this way, such an odd contrast to Catra's rough, grabbing hands and carelessly jutting claws. If Adora didn't know better, she'd think she's doing this on purpose, to tease her, but one look at Catra's face disperses any and all such suspicions. The tremble to her voice, too.

It's so unlike Catra to hesitate like this-- but it figures that of all times, she'd pick now, when Adora needs her to take the reins more than ever.

She really doesn't trust herself to take the lead when she's running in blind.

"Catra," she answers sternly, locking her gaze onto hers. "This is the only thing I've been able to think about since last night. I've been going crazy over it. It's been hell."

Adora has to swallow, then, loosening her grip on Catra's wrist so she can cover the back of her hand with her own. Encouragement, she hopes.

"So-- yeah. Pretty sure."

Edited 2020-06-16 11:06 (UTC)

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."

The shift in Catra is a tangible thing: a sharpening in her eyes, a steadying to her hands. Then she's on top of her, putting Adora's hands on her in ways Adora wouldn't have dared to, and rubbing into Adora's thighs just as she did the night before.

Just like the night before, Adora can't conceal her reaction, and she's sure that just like the night before, Catra can tell-- that she can hear her breath catch, feel the muscles in her thighs strain beneath her fingers. But more than just those fingers, she's hyper-aware of every place of contact between their bodies: of Catra's fur beneath her weakly-grasping hands, Catra's thighs rubbing her hips, Catra's breath washing over her ear when she leans in with a whisper--

And that inspires another shiver down to her toes, because apparently human ears can get sensitive like that, too. Okay. A thin whine threatens to escape from Adora's throat, but she swallows against it, determined not to break Catra's condition -- and definitely not the very moment it was issued.

She sucks in a mouthful of air large enough to fill her cheeks, and keeps her lips sealed, nodding vigorously. Yes. She'll be so quiet. She'll be the quietest person Catra's ever heard. Swear.

Catra always knew that having Adora beneath her was going to be a thrill, and the experience doesn't disappoint. Catra's keenly aware of every shift of her body, every tremble of her thighs. She can feel Adora's fingers trembling, can hear every catch in her throat and struggled breath, and Catra wants with such an intensity it feels like she's burning from the inside out; a massive pull somewhere below her stomach that coils hot and demanding. She feels Adora's acquiescence more than sees it; the vigorous nod of her head right beside Catra's. And she, frankly, does not believe it for a second. In a different place, it would be hilarious. Catra's imagined it too many times; in their own private Force Captain accommodations, challenging Adora to keep her silence while Catra works across her with mouth and hands to draw out every noise. Once they've been promoted, once they have their own rooms -- she wants to know what Adora really sounds like.

But for now, this is what they've got, and Adora has to prove she can hold it in before they get too far; before Catra falls too deep into fantasies of their future to care what noises Adora makes in the shared room. This is something Catra's wanted to do for a long time anyway; wanted to drag her tongue along the expanse of Adora's neck, tasting her; wanted to find an indiscriminate place to scrape her sharp teeth against Adora's skin and hold in a bite that won't leave any mark.

All their training is good for one thing; it means Catra has the body strength to hold herself in this position for a little while longer, while one of her hands slides to press down against the crotch of Adora's shorts, curling to press but not yet slipping between her thighs. If she can't handle it, if she can't hold it in for even this much -- then Catra's just going to have to stuff something in her mouth. She is not stopping now.

Oh, Adora was-- not correctly estimating how sensitive she is. Nor was she expecting Catra's hand to venture down so boldly, without so much as a word of warning. And even though she keeps her mouth shut-- she does!-- her throat betrays her, and the little whimper that filters through is faint, but certainly audible.

Oh, oh man. She dropped the ball on that real quick.

"Sorry!" she squeaks out in her very smallest voice, and her hand leaves Catra's hair to clamp over her own mouth. "Sorry," she whispers again, now muffled further by her palm. Her face is bright red, eyes wide and anxious. Catra will give her another chance, surely? Won't she?

Yeah, that's about what she expected. Right down to the thread of desire that pulls taut within her, Adora's whimper crystal clear to Catra's ears and just not enough.

(She really can't wait to get those private accommodations.)

She sits back up, releasing Adora's neck unceremoniously and resting on her haunches over Adora's thighs, hand still in place on her crotch. Catra's sharp eyes dart around, looking for anything at all to use; but their bunks are austere as ever. The only things available are the blanket, and Adora's pillow.

"Pick something to shove in your mouth," she instructs in a hiss, pressing her fingers pointedly down, feeling them slip between the crevice of Adora's thighs. She's forgotten her nails already, but they're standard-issue shorts; they shouldn't get torn up too easily. (And she can already imagine how Adora must feel beneath them, slick and hot; can imagine the glide of her across Catra's fingers, wetter than Catra's ever gotten herself. She wants that, too - wants every bit of Adora - but that's too risky in a dormitory bunk. Catra doesn't know if it's just her sensitive nose, but the scent of pleasure isn't exactly a subtle one; and again, they really cannot get caught.) "Use the pillow."

Catra's brusque, commanding tone sends Adora's heart into a gallop, and her hips cant towards her hand as if pulled by invisible strings. Catra can get bossy, that much is nothing new-- but this is different. Her words are a warning, burrowing under Adora's skin, carrying heat and thrill. It feels undefiable.

... That doesn't mean she likes the order, though.

"What? I don't wanna put my pillow in my mouth!" she whispers harshly in response -- because she's being good, see, still regulating her volume. "I'll just use my hand, it's fine!"

Catra's ears flatten, and her hand stills on Adora for a moment before she removes both of them. Once again, she leans forward; grabbing Adora's hand with one of hers to place it pointedly against her mess of hair, and tugs at the pillow with the other.

"It's the blanket or the pillow. Pick one." Her eyes are narrowed into annoyed slits, her tail flicking with agitation, because as frustrated as Adora thinks she is -- Catra has been frustrated for longer. All of Adora's touches, her fingers stroking into her fur, her thumbs brushing the sensitive curves of Catra's body. All of the things she does, every day. Her cocky laugh when she's winning, her confident stride, her smarmy grin. Everything Adora is has frustrated her like this for an entire age by this point, and the bottom line? Adora is not getting off unless her hands, both of them, are on Catra. "Or I'll stop."

Edited 2020-06-16 14:43 (UTC)

Okay, Adora accepts with a swallow. So Catra wasn't kidding, neither about shoving something in Adora's mouth nor about the very specific placement of her hands on her.

It's kind of sweet, actually, how Catra insists on her hand in her hair. Adora's in no position to give it voice right now, but the thought does tug on the edge of her lips, and she curls her fingers in that thick dark hair, thumb grazing the base of one ear.

"Blanket," she answers, less to do with any real preference and more for the sake of being as contrary as her situation allows. And because moving her hands, as she's come to understand, is no longer an option-- she tilts up her chin and opens her mouth, waiting for Catra to place it there.

It is no secret whatsoever that despite her varied and copious complaints about it, Catra loves to be touched by Adora. It's obvious, right? She lets Adora pet her all the time, grumbles about it with token protests but always winds up dozing and purring against her. So Adora really, really shouldn't be surprised about how insistent on having her hand in her hair Catra is, or by how she tilts the tiniest bit into the graze against her ear.

Of course Adora has to choose the blanket, and really Catra shouldn't have even bothered giving her an option. She rolls her eyes, but shifts her weight from knee to knee as she extracts enough of it to drag up, to... Adora's... mouth...

...Her brain might have short-circuited at the sight of Adora's chin tilting up, her lips parted and waiting, and -- and, wow. That is not something Catra had imagined before, and she feels her legs try to press together instinctively against the sudden drop of arousal, except of course. Adora's there. Between her legs. Waiting for her. Listening to her. Doing what Catra's telling her to do.

She doesn't have to look at herself to know her pupils have blown to circles, and for some reason now she can feel every rough thread of the blanket as she tugs it up to Adora's mouth, and she can feel the puff of Adora's breath against her skin, and she can feel the dry drag of Adora's lips against her fingers, and it turns out that gagging her best friend might be something that Catra really, really enjoys doing. Or maybe it's just the feeling of control it gives her; the rush of power.

"Not a bad look on you," she jibes; because she has to say something, has to goad somehow, because Adora's face is just-- and her eyes are just-- and Catra's just--

Catra can't stop looking at her, as she places her hands on Adora's shoulders and glides them over the durable fabric of her sleeping shirt, claws scratching over the Horde symbol emblazoned above her heart. She doesn't stop until she's cupping Adora's breasts - the very same ones she's eyed enviously in the locker rooms - and stroking her thumbs across the tops, searching for and then honing in on the stiffening bumps of her nipples, rubbing against them. That makeshift gag had seriously better work.

While Adora's been dimly aware of the growing tenderness in her breasts, of her nipples straining against the fabric of her top, it's not until Catra touches them that she realizes just how sensitive they are. How much they're aching to be touched. The sensation, even muffled by the barrier of clothing, sends little sparks down to her stomach, and Adora's-- really trying, okay, swallowing down the thrumming in her throat, breathing harshly through her nose. She's being quiet, even if she has to bite into the sheet, its texture coarse against her tongue.

Adora's thighs are tight around Catra's hip, and her back arches, pushing her chest out into her hands in a silent demand for more. Her own hands-- she keeps forgetting them, leaves them twitching and trembling against Catra-- find some initiative of their own, one threading softly through her hair, the other sinking tentative fingers into the fur of her lower belly.