Adora growls words into her mouth, and Catra feels that squeaked pitch of laughter bubbling breathlessly from her throat again. The smart thing to do when the wind's been knocked out of you is force yourself to breathe slow and deep and relax until you recover. The bad thing to do is squander what oxygen you have taken in by laughing at and making out with your enemy.
It's fine. Catra's no stranger to the burn of her lungs or float of her mind, and at least this is her choice. It's her choice too, to yank roughly on their ponytail to pull them away from her mouth - biting hard at their lips as they go - so she can draw a ragged, painful breath.
Her eyes are wild, she knows. She'd press her chest into their hands but there's nowhere for her to go, so instead she squirms her hips and pulls on their hair again just to hear their noise, fangs flashing in her open-lipped smirk. They pretend they've got her, but their cheek is the one that's been ruined by her claws and it's the blood from their shoulder that's smeared on her hand and probably, by this point, her uniform and fur.
"Adora--" her hoarse voice wavers and catches partway through her name as Adora's calloused palms brush over her nipples, and Catra has to spare a moment to pant as the shudder of her body drives the short, wet drag of herself against Adora's thigh. Her hand tightens around the fistful of dirt and rock she'd picked up, and the press of a jagged edge into her palm steadies her. "--Doesn't get to tell me what to do anymore."
To prove her point, she pulls up on their hair and shoves down at their head, directing them forcefully towards her chest where their fingers are pressing into her fur, disrupting the smooth grain. Every flex of their hands causes her hips to judder against them, insistently taking what she needs. She doesn't have to wait for them to give it to her. And she makes no move to press her own thigh into them, makes no move to provide them with any sort of carnal relief. She meant it, when she said their satisfaction didn't matter.
"Use her mouth." Even now she's commanding, authoritative despite her dry rasp, in control despite what Adora would want her to believe. The tight press of Adora's body all against the front of hers isn't a threat she can't handle, the domineering way they'd kissed her isn't a force that doesn't thrill her to reckon with. No matter how it's sliced, Catra is still the one running this show.
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It's fine. Catra's no stranger to the burn of her lungs or float of her mind, and at least this is her choice. It's her choice too, to yank roughly on their ponytail to pull them away from her mouth - biting hard at their lips as they go - so she can draw a ragged, painful breath.
Her eyes are wild, she knows. She'd press her chest into their hands but there's nowhere for her to go, so instead she squirms her hips and pulls on their hair again just to hear their noise, fangs flashing in her open-lipped smirk. They pretend they've got her, but their cheek is the one that's been ruined by her claws and it's the blood from their shoulder that's smeared on her hand and probably, by this point, her uniform and fur.
"Adora--" her hoarse voice wavers and catches partway through her name as Adora's calloused palms brush over her nipples, and Catra has to spare a moment to pant as the shudder of her body drives the short, wet drag of herself against Adora's thigh. Her hand tightens around the fistful of dirt and rock she'd picked up, and the press of a jagged edge into her palm steadies her. "--Doesn't get to tell me what to do anymore."
To prove her point, she pulls up on their hair and shoves down at their head, directing them forcefully towards her chest where their fingers are pressing into her fur, disrupting the smooth grain. Every flex of their hands causes her hips to judder against them, insistently taking what she needs. She doesn't have to wait for them to give it to her. And she makes no move to press her own thigh into them, makes no move to provide them with any sort of carnal relief. She meant it, when she said their satisfaction didn't matter.
"Use her mouth." Even now she's commanding, authoritative despite her dry rasp, in control despite what Adora would want her to believe. The tight press of Adora's body all against the front of hers isn't a threat she can't handle, the domineering way they'd kissed her isn't a force that doesn't thrill her to reckon with. No matter how it's sliced, Catra is still the one running this show.