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It would be easy, Shamir thinks, to lie down and mold herself against the curve of Catherine’s back, drape an arm over her waist and hold her as if they belonged to each other.
Perhaps easier still to press another kiss against the nape of Catherine’s neck so that she wakes up and rolls over to take Shamir’s lower lip between her teeth again, her calloused hands finding Shamir’s hips and breasts in the dark. Then, hopefully, for Catherine to settle herself between Shamir’s thighs and make quick work of her for the second time that night.
Anything so that Shamir won’t have to lie awake in a tavern bed alone with her thoughts until dawn.
She replays in her mind (endlessly, it seems) how Catherine had looked at her over the rim of her second pint and said, We don’t have to keep fighting this, you know. And then, knowing full well what it would lead to: Fighting what? she’d deadpanned, instead of saying Yes, we do, like she should’ve.
It shouldn’t have been that easy for them to end up in bed together, not after so many years of digging their heels in the ground, but apparently all it took was for them to finally acknowledge it out loud. Not that Catherine hadn’t tried before, of course. Since their partnership in the Knights of Seiros began, she noticed the way Catherine would always stare. At first she chalked it up to mere curiosity at meeting a Dagdan, but then Catherine’s touches began to linger, and her flirtatious jokes started to sound more like suggestions.
Shamir often wonders, but doesn’t ask, whether Catherine talks to others about her the same way Catherine talks to her about Rhea. This question is what’s always stopped Shamir from inviting Catherine back to her quarters. The moment she’s got Catherine in her arms, she knows she won’t want to let go. And Shamir’s never been in the business of fucking anybody who’s in love with someone else.
At least, she thought she wasn’t, until Catherine had winked at her and smiled after one too many drinks.
“Still up?”
Catherine’s voice is soft and raspy with sleep. Shamir feels her knuckles graze lightly against her thigh. The tenderness of it is at once both strikingly familiar and new, startling enough that for a moment, she forgets to speak. I’ve fallen in love once already, Shamir doesn’t tell her. Don’t make me do it again.
She turns to face her at last. Catherine looks gloriously disheveled, sun-bronzed, lightly freckled, with her hair loose from its usual ponytail. “Couldn’t sleep."
Catherine props her head up on her hand and makes no effort to hide the way her eyes rake up and down Shamir’s body. “What, you mean I didn’t wear you out earlier?”
She did, but Shamir won’t say so. A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth. “Look who’s talking. You were out cold.”
“Was not. I was just—” She’s betrayed by her own yawn mid-sentence, and Shamir almost laughs— “uh, resting my eyes.”
“Right.” Shamir rests her cheek against her knees, hugging them tight against her chest, and the smile fades as quickly as it appears. When she notices, Catherine’s does, too.
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” she insists. She notices a few stray strands of hair falling in Catherine’s face, catching at the corner of her mouth. Without thinking, she reaches out to sweep them aside, then freezes mid-motion. Catherine’s eyes follow Shamir’s hand in the dark, even as it drops back to her side. “Go back to sleep.”
She doesn’t really want her to, but fortunately, Catherine rarely follows her instructions. She takes Shamir’s hand by the wrist and pulls it to her lips, pressing a kiss to the heel of her palm. It’s a chaste gesture, but Shamir shivers anyway, emboldening Catherine to tug her closer.
“Can’t,” Catherine says, her eyes heavy-lidded. “I’m awake now.”
Shamir tilts her head, surveying her coyly through her own curtain of dark bangs. “Are you?”
“Very,” Catherine responds, and if her tone of voice wasn’t enough to convey her intent, the slow roll of her tongue over her bottom lip definitely is.
A fresh pang of longing shoots straight through her, and with it comes an immediate desire to feel Catherine’s mouth on hers again, to kiss her until they both forget how to speak— and so she leans in, knowing Catherine will be glad to oblige. Their lips are clumsy at first in the dark, but they soon find their rhythm, and then there’s a gentle press of tongue.
It’s slow and lazy, exploratory, until suddenly it isn’t. Shamir doesn’t warn her before pushing her down flat and climbing over to straddle her hips. When she breaks the kiss, she meets Catherine’s wide-eyed surprise, then her knowing smile, with an unwavering stare.
“So that’s how it’s going to be, huh,” Catherine teases, grinning like she’s been handed the key to the holy crypts.
She hitches the leg trapped between Shamir’s, grinding it up between her thighs to pitch her forward. Shamir steadies herself against Catherine’s chest, burying her face in the crook of her neck. She breathes in the familiar scent of her, warm and just a little bitter. It may be the alcohol, or perhaps just the lingering hint of sex and sweat.
There’s no hiding how aroused she already is, not with Catherine’s legs slotted between hers like this. She inhales sharply at the feeling of her wetness against Catherine’s thigh, at the heat sparking deep in her abdomen, then again as it doesn’t stop. Catherine is being cruel, rocking her hips and trailing her fingers down the slope of Shamir’s spine, where she already learned (earlier that night) that Shamir is ticklish. Then her hands roam over Shamir’s breasts, gently rolling her nipples between her fingers, and Shamir can’t suppress another sigh.
“Been waiting to go again, have you?” Catherine’s voice is rough, her breath hot against the shell of Shamir’s ear.
“I was patient,” Shamir gasps, her hips stuttering. “I let you sleep.”
“You shouldn’t have.” It’s punctuated with a kiss to the throat. Shamir inclines her head, searching for Catherine’s mouth again, and Catherine gladly lets her have it. Shamir likes that Catherine’s kisses are hard, but not messy; easy to get lost in. Every movement is carefully controlled, like her swordplay.
Shamir shudders again, openly, and groans when Catherine brings her palm down flat against the swell of her ass. Then Catherine’s hands grip her there and push her up toward her face. Shamir gladly obeys, settling back down with her knees on either side of Catherine’s head.
She likes this view: Thunder Catherine nestled between her thighs, blue eyes glinting with hunger.
Catherine pulls her down until she’s hovering over her face, and for the next moment, all of Shamir’s senses concentrate between her legs on the softness of Catherine’s flushed cheeks against her skin. Then Shamir’s mouth falls slack: a velvet heat envelops her as Catherine laves her tongue over Shamir’s folds in one eager sweep, then closes her lips over her swollen clit.
"Oh.” Shamir cuts herself off, pressing the back of one hand to her mouth, gripping the headboard with the other. Beneath her, she hears Catherine chuckle, but she can’t even be annoyed. Not yet, at least.
Catherine begins to lap at her clit, at first with only the tip of her tongue. And of course it’s stupidly, unfairly good. She’s not sure how Catherine got to be so talented at oral, and she’s not sure she even wants to know, but she’s happy to reap the benefits.
Shamir bounces her hips, almost imperceptibly (she hopes), in a desperate bid for more satisfaction. Catherine responds by grabbing her waist and pulling her down harder onto her face, pressing her tongue flat against her pussy and licking harder. This time, Shamir lets herself moan openly, her head lolling back— this is it. This is what she needed.
Catherine’s fingers curl white-knuckled into the dip where Shamir’s hips meet her thighs, holding her tight, her tongue unrelenting. Shamir continues to buck her hips shallowly against Catherine’s mouth, the pressure almost too heavy on her clit. It’s different from how it felt earlier, when Shamir’s climax had built slowly with each deliberate stroke. This time, every flick of Catherine’s tongue brings a sharper pleasure, nearly an ache.
Catherine insists on taking good care of her. Steadfast, knightlike, as she always is. Shamir is overly sensitive, teetering dangerously close to the edge already, lust searing hot in her abdomen— but it’s still too early for this to end. Her fingers twist and curl into Catherine’s locks, and she yanks once, sharply, at the roots.
“Catherine.”
The name draws a long moan from the back of Catherine’s throat.
Shamir takes a moment to steady her breath; then, her voice low and sure: “Fuck me.”
Catherine goes still beneath her. After a moment’s hesitation, cool air drifts between Shamir’s thighs again as Catherine begins to pull away. Shamir leans back and swings one leg over so that she’s no longer straddling her, then reclines on her side, stretching out along the length of the other’s body. Catherine rubs at her face, wiping her mouth, bleary-eyed.
“Done already?” Shamir asks wryly, craning her neck to nose at Catherine’s jaw.
“Like hell,” she snorts, then turns to catch her in a kiss. This one is rough, open-mouthed. Shamir likes the hint of her own taste on Catherine’s tongue. She could find herself getting used to it, she thinks, if they both aren’t careful enough.
Then suddenly Shamir’s back hits the mattress and Catherine is towering over her, a reversal of their positions from a few minutes ago. “You know,” Catherine tells her, nonchalant, “you sure are bossy.”
Shamir waits for her vision to stop spinning before she responds. “Maybe I feel like you need some direction.”
Catherine laughs. “Maybe you’re just impatient.”
Shamir is no longer interested in talking, which probably proves Catherine’s point. Instead, she runs a hand languidly up her torso and chest, fingertips circling over one nipple. The other hand slides southward as she spreads her legs wide. Whatever comment Catherine was going to make next dies instantly on her lips.
“Alright.” Catherine swallows thickly, drinking in the sight of her. “Fine, yeah, I get it.”
Shamir smiles.
Catherine shuffles closer and pushes Shamir’s knees further apart, which Shamir gladly allows, and then she pushes two fingers past her lips to wet them generously with her tongue. Shamir watches, and Catherine seems to appreciate the attention for an extra moment before finally returning to the task at hand.
There’s pressure, then give. Shamir sighs quietly as the first finger breaches her entrance, then pushes in further, bottoming out as far as Catherine can reach. Catherine repeats the motion a second and third time, then doesn’t stop. It feels good, of course. But not good enough.
“Give me another,” Shamir says.
Catherine glances up at her face and raises an eyebrow, but she doesn’t object. She pulls her hand away to wet another finger, a sight Shamir continues to appreciate, then her touch returns.
Shamir’s breath hitches as she arches her back and sinks back down onto Catherine’s fingers, gingerly, knuckle by knuckle. She feels herself stretching around her with considerably less effort than last time— she counts to three, exhales, and takes Catherine just a little bit deeper as each second passes. She savors the initial burn of it, takes a moment to enjoy the roughness of Catherine’s hands, before relaxing into her touch.
Catherine’s free hand finds its place against Shamir’s stomach for now, thumbing absently at the pale imprint of a scar she’ll probably ask Shamir about later. It almost irritates her. Does Catherine think she needs a comforting touch? Does she realize that the sweeter she is to Shamir, the harder this will be for them both? Shamir exhales a shaky breath and attempts to distract herself. Catherine continues to work her fingers in and out, slow and measured; Shamir closes her eyes and focuses on that feeling instead.
Catherine has learned that Shamir likes a steady rhythm and firm touch, so it’s not long before she’s fingering her in earnest, keeping her other hand splayed across Shamir’s torso. Without thinking, Shamir grips Catherine’s wrist, her nails digging into the skin. “Harder.”
“Say ‘please.’”
She can hear the grin in Catherine’s voice. “No,” she replies through gritted teeth.
Catherine laughs again but obliges anyway, and Shamir has to bite her lip to keep herself from crying out. Catherine knows exactly what spot to aim for, curving her fingers just enough that Shamir starts to see sparks behind her eyelids. The palm of her heel grinds fleetingly, torturously, against Shamir’s clit with each thrust. Shamir finds herself unintentionally canting her hips into that touch, desperate for it— but it’s still not enough, she needs more friction—
Without prompting, Catherine’s other hand drifts downward to rub her clit in circles, a complimentary pace to her quickening thrusts. It’s a sweet, intoxicating feeling, at just the right pressure and angle, and the pleasure soon begins to rack her entire body.
Within moments Shamir’s mind goes blank, except for the longing. The hunger for more of this, for a deeper closeness. Dark, dangerous, except for the image of Catherine’s straw-gold hair falling loose over her shoulders and the movement of her arm and shoulders as she drives into her.
When Shamir comes, she comes hard, gasping Catherine’s name. Her back arches like a bow, her toes curling, grasping wildly at the bedsheets. And as she comes down from the seemingly endless high, Catherine doesn’t let her go.
When she finally opens her eyes again, she sees that Catherine is struggling to catch her breath, too. She’s staring at Shamir, lips parted as if she wants to speak but can’t find the words. Sweat glistens on her collar and temples, a beautiful mess.
All for me, Shamir thinks. Another wave of tenderness washes over her, and this time she doesn’t push it away.
She still feels a little like she might faint, but she musters as much strength as possible to sit up and pull Catherine into another kiss. “Come here,” she whispers against Catherine’s lips, tugging her closer by the waist.
Catherine, stupid, sweet Catherine, has the audacity to ask, “You’re sure? You’re not too tired?”
As if Shamir wouldn’t return the favor. She scoffs, hoping Catherine can’t hear the affection in her voice. “You already know I can keep up with you.”
Warm and pliant, Catherine inches forward on her knees. Shamir wastes no time in sliding a hand down between Catherine’s thighs, nudging her legs further apart. She spreads Catherine’s wetness over her soft folds, lingering over her clit, smiling at the quiet moan it draws out of her.
Catherine can’t seem to keep still, bucking her hips against Shamir’s fingers as she massages her pussy. Shamir ducks her head to kiss down Catherine’s jaw and throat, down the slope of her tits, to eventually close her lips over her nipple and tease it with her tongue.
Catherine moans again, a frustrated, needy sound. She grabs fistfuls of Shamir’s hair, clinging tight enough that Shamir’s eyes begin to prick with tears, and it only makes her suck harder. She increases the pace of her fingers on Catherine’s clit, too, and just as she suspected, Catherine begins to tremble in her arms. “Shamir.”
She smiles privately against Catherine’s skin. She’s beginning to feel like this may be her greatest triumph yet: reducing the wielder of the legendary Thunderbrand to a whimpering mess in her arms for the second time in a night. In the back of her mind, the inkling of an idea begins to form that perhaps it means something for Catherine to let her see her in such a state. For Catherine to whisper her name like this, reverential.
But then, a much louder thought, to quell the one before it: don’t get your hopes up.
Shamir pulls off of Catherine’s nipple, then gives her a gentle shove. “Alright. On your stomach.”
It takes Catherine a moment to register her words, but when she does, she laughs again, even as she splays out on the bed. “See what I mean? Bossy.”
Shamir plants herself behind her and hoists Catherine up by the hips so that she’s forced onto all fours. At the same time, she holds a silent moment of gratitude that Catherine can’t see her face. She can’t help but stare down the length of her lithe body, appreciating her well-sculpted back and shoulders, the dimples just above her tailbone.
Catherine isn’t interested in a delicate touch, Shamir knows. She could tell before they ever shared a bed. She has half a mind to torment her a little longer, but Catherine has been good to her tonight, so she’ll give her what she wants. “You got this wet just from fucking me?” she teases, sliding her fingers again over Catherine’s slick folds.
Another shaky laugh as Catherine spreads her legs further apart to accommodate. “No. Before that.”
Something twists inside of Shamir again. “From…”
“My mouth, on your— yes,” she admits, audibly struggling to keep her voice even. Shamir suddenly wants more than anything to hear it break. She rubs her off faster, giving her more pressure, watching Catherine’s fingers curl into the bedsheets. “Shamir— goddess, do you know what you do to me?”
She maintains a steady pace on Catherine’s clit with one hand, teasing at the edge of her entrance with the other. “Do I?”
Catherine’s head falls forward against the pillow, and she groans as her finger slips inside. “You’re just,” she sputters, “you’ve been driving me wild for ages, Shamir, I...”
What she wouldn’t give to hear her finish that sentence. Shamir will fuck her as long and as hard as she needs, she decides, just to hear her talk about her like this. (It’s the only time she’s ever wanted Catherine to talk more.) “You what?”
Catherine’s voice is strained, muffled against the pillow. “I need to come,” she pleads, “need you to make me come.” She arches her back and rocks back onto Shamir’s fingers, taking them deep; Shamir’s hand is soaked down to the wrist.
Shamir removes the hand that’s rubbing her clit and Catherine immediately replaces it with her own, slipping it between her body and the mattress. She’s still fucking herself vigorously on Shamir’s fingers, snapping her hips. At this point, Catherine herself is doing almost all of the work, but Shamir doesn’t mind. Might prefer it, even, just for the show. She doesn’t stop moving, though, even as her arm begins to ache.
She quickly begins to feel Catherine tighten around her, hears Catherine’s breathing grow more erratic along with the movement of her hips. She leans down to murmur over Catherine’s shoulder. “You’re close,” she says, and Catherine moans. “Let me see you come. Let me feel you.”
“Yes, yes, fuck,” Catherine cries, and then it’s all over as she falls apart in Shamir’s hands, her wetness spilling down her thighs.
Shamir lets her ride through the orgasm before slowing and eventually pulling her hand free. Catherine collapses at last on the bed, lungs still heaving. Shamir traces idle circles on her back with her clean hand.
Once they’ve both steadied their breathing, Shamir curls up next to her, resting her cheek in her palm. Catherine rolls over to face her, and they gaze at each other wordlessly in the dark.
For a moment, the bed feels like theirs. Not a cheap rental they’ll never see again in a few hours. Shamir wonders if she’ll ever truly be able to share anything with Catherine without the fear that one day they’ll have to give it up— their partnership, the Knights, whatever this is—
Before she can finish her thought, though, Catherine reaches out to brush a strand of hair from Shamir’s cheek. She smiles, the exhaustion clearly evident on her face, but easy and warm all the same. “You alright?”
Shamir considers it for a moment. “Yeah,” she says. The answer comes with less effort than she expected. “Are you?”
“I’m great.” Catherine yawns, and despite herself, Shamir does, too. She then sidles up closer to Shamir and pulls the covers up to their hips. When she speaks again, her voice is uncharacteristically soft. “Hey.”
“Hm?”
“You’re not… going anywhere, are you?”
Shamir blinks in surprise, her heart beating in her throat. Of all the things she expected Catherine to mumble sleepily into her ear after sex, it certainly wasn’t the same question she’d been avoiding all night. Unless she meant in the immediate future, in which case…
Actually, her answer is the same either way.
“Of course not,” Shamir says.
She can feel the tension leave Catherine’s body. They adjust so that Shamir is tucked beneath Catherine’s chin and Catherine’s arm slots in the dip of Shamir’s waist.
It’s comfortable, almost like they fit together. As if they’d done this a thousand times, and they'll do it a thousand more.
“Good,” Catherine finally replies, pulling her just a little closer. Shamir smiles.