It unfair, the way Catra knows things about Adora's body that even she herself doesn't; the way it's just another weakness to be mapped out, instead of something intimate and personal they should have discovered together. Her eyes are hot and wet with tears despite her anger and--she does sob, an anguished howl torn from her throat when her body finally stops responding to her demands completely. She follows orders, she looks up, and her face is all twisted in rage and sadness and need but she can't look away from Catra, can't run from her responsibility, the way she ran from the Horde, from her entire life.
"Catra--" she breathes her name the way she used to, without the years of resentment and pain behind it. Giving Catra what she needs, but only because it's what Adora needs, too, the strength to fully sever this bond before anything can come of it again, to finally do what she has to. "I'm sorry."
And she is sorry; sorry that she failed her, that she's still failing her, even if she knows better than to expect anything else now. Sorry that this can only end with one of them dead at the other's hand, when neither will admit defeat. Sorry that the only thing she couldn't save Catra from was herself. That she's accepted losing her, or thinks she has, when she'd once promised the opposite, said nothing could ever come between them.
Sorry that loving her wasn't enough.
Adora's too sore and tense and miserable to come, still rubbing pathetically against Catra's thigh with tiny jerks of her hips, the opposite of Catra's frantic but deliberate motions. It doesn't matter. It's not herself she's thinking of, not her that matters when things blur in front of her watery eyes and Catra is Catra again, not the leader of the Horde or her enemy, but her best friend, the one Adora would have given herself to if only she'd followed her out of the darkness. The one she's giving herself to now anyway, rubbing the base of her tail and kissing over her heart before biting down above her breast again, her blunt nails running up Catra's back against the grain of her fur, holding her through whatever this is; making sure she can at least feel safe, the way Adora always did with Catra at her feet, at her side, at her back.
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"Catra--" she breathes her name the way she used to, without the years of resentment and pain behind it. Giving Catra what she needs, but only because it's what Adora needs, too, the strength to fully sever this bond before anything can come of it again, to finally do what she has to. "I'm sorry."
And she is sorry; sorry that she failed her, that she's still failing her, even if she knows better than to expect anything else now. Sorry that this can only end with one of them dead at the other's hand, when neither will admit defeat. Sorry that the only thing she couldn't save Catra from was herself. That she's accepted losing her, or thinks she has, when she'd once promised the opposite, said nothing could ever come between them.
Sorry that loving her wasn't enough.
Adora's too sore and tense and miserable to come, still rubbing pathetically against Catra's thigh with tiny jerks of her hips, the opposite of Catra's frantic but deliberate motions. It doesn't matter. It's not herself she's thinking of, not her that matters when things blur in front of her watery eyes and Catra is Catra again, not the leader of the Horde or her enemy, but her best friend, the one Adora would have given herself to if only she'd followed her out of the darkness. The one she's giving herself to now anyway, rubbing the base of her tail and kissing over her heart before biting down above her breast again, her blunt nails running up Catra's back against the grain of her fur, holding her through whatever this is; making sure she can at least feel safe, the way Adora always did with Catra at her feet, at her side, at her back.