No matter how she moves, Adora's mouth follows her. Catra's back drags along the rock-steady line of Adora's arm, cold air glancing against her for a split second before the heat of Adora's tongue licks over her, fervently following Catra's instruction, and she buckles at the waist again. It's hard, to keep herself aloft; but Catra tries, okay, barely recovering from each jagged shudder before Adora's tongue drags another from her, and her hands have long since begun kneading mindless encouragement against Adora's breasts. Her hips press hard and insistent into whatever they can reach; sometimes bumping uselessly in a frustrating self-tease, sometimes sparking white-hot to match the fire burning through her from Adora's tongue, and it's more than Catra thought she'd ever deal with. More than she thought could even exist.
Not that she's doing much thinking at all in the moment. There's just Adora, everywhere, and the pressure low in her gut and deep between her thighs, building to intolerable heights without relief in sight. It's frustrating, it's mind-fogging, and Catra doesn't ever want it to stop.
When it does, the whine-tinged groan that leaves her mouth has been dredged up from the very depths of her soul. Adora keeps doing this, keeps stopping as soon as Catra starts falling into that pleasurable haze, and Catra is thisclose to shoving her own hand down the front of her leotard and finishing it off herself.
Adora's complaining about her fur and Catra doesn't care, her lips curling back in aggravation; but before she can gather enough thoughts to snap something out, she's on her back and Adora's pinning her with her hips. The wet patch on Catra's chest is tickling in the cool air, her tail is lashing uselessly by her own legs, and Catra loses Adora's words in the rough timbre of her voice; deeper than she's ever heard it before, dangerously laced with the self-satisfied smugness she is used to.
It shouldn't make the heat pulse between her legs, or her eyes flash with surprise right before they narrow with stubborn challenge. Adora hasn't beaten her at anything, Adora doesn't get to act like she's winning.
But maybe Catra should be listening to what she's saying? Instead of feeling her throat dry at the sharpness of Adora's grin, or her skin ache with yearning at the flex of Adora's body when she reaches for her shirt.
"Shut up," she groans, pointedly winding her arms around Adora's back to keep her hands away and to urge her down, to her lips or her chest Catra doesn't care. Adora knows better than to think Catra's going to just do whatever she says. This isn't even a secure pin, Catra could break out of it easily if it weren't for the addictive feeling of her pelvis rocking into Adora's body when she shifts, testing Adora's stability. "Can you just get on with it before one of us gets so old they die up here?"
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Not that she's doing much thinking at all in the moment. There's just Adora, everywhere, and the pressure low in her gut and deep between her thighs, building to intolerable heights without relief in sight. It's frustrating, it's mind-fogging, and Catra doesn't ever want it to stop.
When it does, the whine-tinged groan that leaves her mouth has been dredged up from the very depths of her soul. Adora keeps doing this, keeps stopping as soon as Catra starts falling into that pleasurable haze, and Catra is thisclose to shoving her own hand down the front of her leotard and finishing it off herself.
Adora's complaining about her fur and Catra doesn't care, her lips curling back in aggravation; but before she can gather enough thoughts to snap something out, she's on her back and Adora's pinning her with her hips. The wet patch on Catra's chest is tickling in the cool air, her tail is lashing uselessly by her own legs, and Catra loses Adora's words in the rough timbre of her voice; deeper than she's ever heard it before, dangerously laced with the self-satisfied smugness she is used to.
It shouldn't make the heat pulse between her legs, or her eyes flash with surprise right before they narrow with stubborn challenge. Adora hasn't beaten her at anything, Adora doesn't get to act like she's winning.
But maybe Catra should be listening to what she's saying? Instead of feeling her throat dry at the sharpness of Adora's grin, or her skin ache with yearning at the flex of Adora's body when she reaches for her shirt.
"Shut up," she groans, pointedly winding her arms around Adora's back to keep her hands away and to urge her down, to her lips or her chest Catra doesn't care. Adora knows better than to think Catra's going to just do whatever she says. This isn't even a secure pin, Catra could break out of it easily if it weren't for the addictive feeling of her pelvis rocking into Adora's body when she shifts, testing Adora's stability. "Can you just get on with it before one of us gets so old they die up here?"