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In Dreams

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When Catra returns to the Fright Zone, it should be in triumph. But when her eyes fall shut at night, she dreams only of the Crimson Waste. Hot dry wind blowing through her fur, sand under her feet, and the only party she's ever been to. Cheering voices, smiling faces. People who could have been important. Could have been her subjects. Could have been her friends.

Again and again she dreams of walking away from that party, the door closing behind her and muffling the voices. She looks up into Scorpia's soft, open face, lit with the strange blueness of the inside of the ship.

So, why would we go back? Let's stay here. Forget Hordak, forget Adora. Forget all of them. We could rule the Crimson Waste together. Just the two of us. We could, you know... be happy.

"I― I don't..." Catra knows she's supposed to say something now, but in the dream she can't remember what it is. It stops at the tip of her tongue, like a security password she's forgotten. This is not how it goes. She's supposed to do something. She's supposed to leave.

But when she turns to do so, Scorpia's claw snags her by the belt, pulls her back. She can't go that way anymore, can't learn of the betrayals that in the dream she is blissfully unaware of. She can only turn back and find herself in Scorpia's arms, lifted up and kissed and kissed and kissed. Not just on her mouth but on her cheeks and forehead and nose.

If she were awake she would struggle away from Scorpia's kisses, but in the dream she lets them happen. She lets in the good feeling that rises up from below her and tingles up through her feet and her legs and her belly and her breasts and comes out as laughter. It's a weird kind of laugh—not because something is ridiculous or deserves her scorn, but because she feels good. Catra has never laughed like that before.

“You can't pick me up like this,” Catra says, though she doesn't want Scorpia to put her down. In Scorpia's strong arms she feels light as a feather, like she's never felt weighed down in her entire life. “I'm the boss out here, remember?”

“You got it, boss,” Scorpia's lips murmur ticklishly into her ear.

Then somehow they fall to the floor, not hard and heavy like bodies really do, but drifting down like leaves from the trees in the Whispering Woods. In reality the floor of the ship was solid, but in the dream it's soft and yielding under them, cradling Catra's hip comfortably as she leans over to rub her palm over Scorpia's parting thighs.

They don't have a bed, but they could get one. They could make one. They could order one of their subjects to make one. There are so many possibilities; they don't have to just not have things and sit with the emptiness of not having them.

The giddiness of that thought pulses through Catra's body in waves of pleasure, and she reaches down in between Scorpia's legs to show her how good it feels. When she feels Scorpia's wetness under her fingers, everything gets quiet—a private kind of quiet. Catra has to imagine what that would sound like because she's never heard it in real life. In the Horde there's no privacy, just frantic stolen moments where you're always seconds away from someone walking in on you. Good luck even getting yourself off without everybody in the barracks knowing.

But Catra can dream things she's never known, as though she was born knowing them somehow. In her dream, privacy feels like the whole room being wrapped in warm blankets, and a deeply tranquil certainty that nobody else can get in.

So she can relax into touching Scorpia. She can enjoy the little cries and sobs of hitching breath she makes without having to keep one ear open for lurking footsteps or threatening voices. She can feel the power arcing through her like lightning, knowing how long Scorpia's wanted her, knowing that she is in control. That's all that matters; the rage and guilt that torment her when she's awake are outside this blanketed room, and she can't remember why they're supposed to be so important. Here, it's clear and easy: Scorpia wants Catra, and Catra wants her back.

Scorpia lifts up her arms over her head so her claws are out of the way. She can't do this without Catra, she can't finger her own slick folds and press a thumb firmly down over her needy clit. She needs Catra, and that means she'll never send Catra away.

Catra nuzzles into Scorpia's soft, comforting breasts, finding her hard nipples under her tongue. She shuts her eyes and keeps them shut because it's easier to stay in the dream (and part of her knows it's a dream) when she can't see it. She can only feel and hear. She has her leg over Scorpia's now and rubs herself against it in desperate need, sliding in her own wetness along Scorpia's bare thigh as she slips her fingers into Scorpia's warm cunt.

"I've got you," says Scorpia's voice above her head, firm and trustworthy. "You're safe."

Catra doesn't know what safe feels like, no more than she knows what private is. But here in the recesses of her mind, it feels like now she's wrapped in a blanket, tight, secure. She cries out in pleasure that's almost pain as she clings to Scorpia, feeling small and taken care of. Scorpia is so big, so strong and solid, and Catra needs her. Yes, Catra is the one who needs her now, and needing her feels so good she almost can't stand it.

Catra has never been able to get off in a dream, and if she tries too hard it wakes her up. As badly as she wants to come on Scorpia's thigh, she wants even more to stay here and not have to leave the safety of her blanket. So she doesn't try to come, instead she just keeps rubbing herself against Scorpia, riding the feeling, riding the need.

But Catra has dreamed this so many times that after a while the edges of it always begin to fray, stuttering like an ancient, malfunctioning hologram. She will struggle to stay in it, to keep her arms around Scorpia's body and not let her melt away into nothingness. But inevitably the hull of the ship will crack open, exposing them to the hot winds of the Waste that threaten to rebury the ship, their sanctuary, in sand.

Don't leave me, she will try to say, but the words will be too heavy, like she has to push a boulder uphill just to get her mouth open. Everything will grow distant and faint until at last Catra wakes up in the darkness of the barracks, her thighs wet with desire and her face wet with tears. She will realize where she is, and it will all land on her chest at once, crushing and overwhelming.

But before that happens, in Catra's dream, they're together and they're happy. At least for a little while.