"Shut u--" Catra can't stop the shivers and jerks of her body, her hands trying to twist in their bonds so she can grab anything to hold onto; anything at all to grip tight and dig her claws deep into, to give her something to feel grounded with as she gasps from the abrupt return of the suction. "--Shut up."
Instead she can only writhe under the wet movements of Adora's mouth, her hips gyrating in an eager bid for Adora to just. move. down. She can't hold anything, and there's nothing even for her to bite. Her hands are trapped against her chest, held there by the sole fact that moving them means displacing Adora, and there is literally nothing Catra can do to redirect any of the heated tension sparking like a thousand live wires in her skin.
Adora's hand cups the small mound of her other breast, and the eager, barely-there whimper that Catra can't even hear over her ragged breathing opens way to something of a keen; Catra's head bumping back against the roof as Adora's fingers work on her, the specifics of her actions completely lost in the constant thrumming of electric desire taking over her body.
Giving in isn't a conscious choice that Catra makes. Pushing up from her shoulders, jutting her chest out into Adora's mouth and hand and no longer shuddering away isn't her decision. Neither is her eyes scrunching closed, her mouth opening to suck in shallow pants of smoggy air as her head tilts further back, lifting her chin to arch her back up as far as it can go. Her neck and shoulders ache in protest, tense and straining in the unnatural position, and Catra doesn't care about them at all; doesn't care about her hair tugging underneath herself either, as the minute space opened up beneath her drags her lower back and very base of her tail against the metal sheeting.
Forget arguing, she needs Adora now more than she ever has before. Adora's always been there for her, Adora's always looked after her. It's been years since Catra was so pathetic that she whined any sort of genuine plea for her, but Adora still comes running when Catra fakes it; still gets fooled in training simulations by a pseudo-cry, still rushes in to help. Surely she'll go for it now, surely she'll do what they'd promised they'd do and take care of her.
It's shamefully easy to lapse into that tone, Catra's closed-off whimpers having already made way for the needy, desperate edge.
"Adora." Her name is a plea in and of itself, the same way she's always been able to make it, rising high-pitched and whining as she rolls her hips to feel the friction of the roof on her back. Catra hates that she's resorting to this, hates how genuine the need in her voice is, the way it hasn't been in a long time; and hates the whiny moan that stutters out after it as Adora's tongue and fingers flick over her in unison. But Adora's clearly enjoying a power trip, and it's obvious that playing into it is the only way to get her to do more. So that'll be enough, right?
no subject
Instead she can only writhe under the wet movements of Adora's mouth, her hips gyrating in an eager bid for Adora to just. move. down. She can't hold anything, and there's nothing even for her to bite. Her hands are trapped against her chest, held there by the sole fact that moving them means displacing Adora, and there is literally nothing Catra can do to redirect any of the heated tension sparking like a thousand live wires in her skin.
Adora's hand cups the small mound of her other breast, and the eager, barely-there whimper that Catra can't even hear over her ragged breathing opens way to something of a keen; Catra's head bumping back against the roof as Adora's fingers work on her, the specifics of her actions completely lost in the constant thrumming of electric desire taking over her body.
Giving in isn't a conscious choice that Catra makes. Pushing up from her shoulders, jutting her chest out into Adora's mouth and hand and no longer shuddering away isn't her decision. Neither is her eyes scrunching closed, her mouth opening to suck in shallow pants of smoggy air as her head tilts further back, lifting her chin to arch her back up as far as it can go. Her neck and shoulders ache in protest, tense and straining in the unnatural position, and Catra doesn't care about them at all; doesn't care about her hair tugging underneath herself either, as the minute space opened up beneath her drags her lower back and very base of her tail against the metal sheeting.
Forget arguing, she needs Adora now more than she ever has before. Adora's always been there for her, Adora's always looked after her. It's been years since Catra was so pathetic that she whined any sort of genuine plea for her, but Adora still comes running when Catra fakes it; still gets fooled in training simulations by a pseudo-cry, still rushes in to help. Surely she'll go for it now, surely she'll do what they'd promised they'd do and take care of her.
It's shamefully easy to lapse into that tone, Catra's closed-off whimpers having already made way for the needy, desperate edge.
"Adora." Her name is a plea in and of itself, the same way she's always been able to make it, rising high-pitched and whining as she rolls her hips to feel the friction of the roof on her back. Catra hates that she's resorting to this, hates how genuine the need in her voice is, the way it hasn't been in a long time; and hates the whiny moan that stutters out after it as Adora's tongue and fingers flick over her in unison. But Adora's clearly enjoying a power trip, and it's obvious that playing into it is the only way to get her to do more. So that'll be enough, right?