Adora's screams are such catharsis, and Catra drinks them in readily. Maybe she should consider adding this to as a staple to her bill.
"Don't try to get anything else on me," she rebukes them harshly. She flattens her palm on Adora's chest, fingers pressing into the gouges she's left as she kneads falsely into them. Their wounds stay through their shifts, so they're going to need to come up with something good to explain away this mess. But at least the clothes don't stay, which they should be relieved about. Because Catra is scratching her claws roughly down their side, tearing fully through the shirt and jacket and uncaring about the angry red lines she leaves behind on their skin. It's good to feel Adora jerk and writhe beneath her, even if this is the way she has to get it. Even if this is the only way she gets to lay her hand against the warmth of her skin, feeling the twitch of her muscles through her glove.
She does feel more settled now, her jealousy and pain died down to familiar embers that fuel rather than burn her. Worn down enough to retract her claws with a twitch of her fingers, the blood dripping freely from where they'd dug into Adora's face. But not so worn down that she removes her hand. Not so worn that she doesn't still feel a flush of heat when her fingers stroke and trace the copied muscles of Adora's abdomen, not so worn that she doesn't tilt her head that bit needed to press their lips together; the tip of her tongue stroking against she cuts she'd left there, too deliberate and firm to be an apology. She just wants to taste them. Wants to taste Adora.
"You know what I want you for." Catra hates it when they make her admit it, hates when they make her ask. So she's the one who draws back this time, voice husky, eyes narrowed. She's the one whose hand stills, and the one whose fingers flex on their jaw. She's the one who gives the ultimatum, her ear flicking down in irritation. "Are you going to give it to me, or are you going to leave so I can get back to work?"
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"Don't try to get anything else on me," she rebukes them harshly. She flattens her palm on Adora's chest, fingers pressing into the gouges she's left as she kneads falsely into them. Their wounds stay through their shifts, so they're going to need to come up with something good to explain away this mess. But at least the clothes don't stay, which they should be relieved about. Because Catra is scratching her claws roughly down their side, tearing fully through the shirt and jacket and uncaring about the angry red lines she leaves behind on their skin. It's good to feel Adora jerk and writhe beneath her, even if this is the way she has to get it. Even if this is the only way she gets to lay her hand against the warmth of her skin, feeling the twitch of her muscles through her glove.
She does feel more settled now, her jealousy and pain died down to familiar embers that fuel rather than burn her. Worn down enough to retract her claws with a twitch of her fingers, the blood dripping freely from where they'd dug into Adora's face. But not so worn down that she removes her hand. Not so worn that she doesn't still feel a flush of heat when her fingers stroke and trace the copied muscles of Adora's abdomen, not so worn that she doesn't tilt her head that bit needed to press their lips together; the tip of her tongue stroking against she cuts she'd left there, too deliberate and firm to be an apology. She just wants to taste them. Wants to taste Adora.
"You know what I want you for." Catra hates it when they make her admit it, hates when they make her ask. So she's the one who draws back this time, voice husky, eyes narrowed. She's the one whose hand stills, and the one whose fingers flex on their jaw. She's the one who gives the ultimatum, her ear flicking down in irritation. "Are you going to give it to me, or are you going to leave so I can get back to work?"