boxitup | (no subject)

Catra crumples around her, burying Adora in her smell and warmth, and it's stifling enough that her lungs have to strain for breath, now-- but at the same time Adora can't bring herself to protest. For a moment, she can't bring herself to do much of anything. Catra's just, all over her, and all around her, and even thoughts of the shower slip from Adora's mind.

"What in the world are you cadets doing?"

"Ah! Gah!" Adora lurches upright, forcing Catra down onto her lap with the harshness of the movement. "Nothing, Force Captain Octavia!"

From outside the door, Octavia looks down at them with her hands on her hips and a disapproving scowl. Adora can't even begin to imagine how they must look like now, and the thought makes her swallow, face rapidly gaining heat.

"I was just--" She attempts some frantic measure of damage control, petting her tousled hair hastily into place. "Getting Catra to her shower. You know how that goes." She scoops Catra up with both arms, lifting herself onto her feet and taking her with her. "We were just going in! Yup. Nothing to see here." And she plants Catra by the nearest stall, twisting the tap to get the water running.

For a moment, panic freezes her. This is why she hates Adora touching her, this is why she hates her in-built vulnerabilities, this is why she hates being petted--

She should have heard Octavia coming from a mile away. She would have, if Adora had kept her stupid hands to herself.

She falls into Adora's lap with a yelp, jostled into a sharp gasp that brings reality back to her bones. She hates being caught off-guard, she hates having her weaknesses exposed. Still, she only hisses when Adora picks her up. Fighting with her in front of other cadets is one thing; doing it in front of a Force Captain will get her sent directly to Shadow Weaver for reprimand.

"Doesn't she have anything better to do than spy on cadets?" She keeps her voice low, because there aren't many escape points in the bathrooms and she's already bruised from training and then scuffling with Adora. Octavia is big and lumbering and stupid, but Catra's only any good against her if she's got enough room to dodge. "Force Captains really have it easy."

She only doesn't move from the stall because Octavia is still glaring with her one good eye, and Catra hisses at her again; baring fangs as her fingers spasm with the release of her claws. She'll scratch that eye out too if Octavia keeps using it like this. The sound of the running water doesn't help her frayed nerves, and it's only the protection that being near Adora offers that keeps her from running for it. Octavia wouldn't dare bust up Shadow Weaver's favourite - and Catra finds herself inching closer to her for just that reason.

Edited 2020-06-13 01:35 (UTC)

Adora shifts to move in front of Catra as Catra shrinks behind her, forming an instinctive barrier between her and Octavia. Her body is rigid, shoulders pushed back, eyes alert. She keeps her lips sealed while Catra grumbles, unwilling to risk it, and after a long moment of scrutinizing them with her one good eye, Octavia seems finally content to leave them be.

Adora's jaw is tight and her heart is pounding. From the shock of the interruption, but more than that, from the memory of Catra's body against hers: warm and malleable and trembling, and how close that felt to-- something. She doesn't know what. But it definitely felt like they were on the brink of something.

It doesn't matter now. Adora heaves out a sigh, pulls the hairband from her ponytail, and sets about peeling away her mess of a uniform -- stained with oil and sweat, and soaked through with water from the shower floor. It's the filthiest she's felt in a long time. Even the sensation of the fabric dragging across her skin on the way down is enough to make her grimace.

"Come on," she mutters to Catra. "Let's just get this over this."

"Do I have to?" She whines, but quietly; as she's shucking off her uniform. It's fine, she could still wear it. Even though the feeling of the oil on her palms as she throws off her shirt makes her gag (and then turn momentarily green, as she huffs in a great big mouthful of oiled air), and even if it's sunk through to her fur underneath. "It's so cold, Adora."

And that's fine for cadets like Adora, who have smooth skin across their bodies and dry off quickly. Less fine for cadets like Catra (--of whom Catra is the only one), who are covered in fur that retains the frigid water for long enough to chill her to the bone. The nervous anticipation of it is enough to kill any lingering sensations Adora's face and fingers might have instilled; right now, all Catra feels is a terrible sense of dread.

She still holds off on removing her leggings and underwear, crossing her arms against her bare chest with a shiver. There's still a chance Adora might change her mind, if Catra looks at her sadly enough with big, round eyes. It's worked once or twice before.

Adora shucks off her uniform one piece at a time, dropping each one onto a growing pile on the damp bathroom floor. It's fine. It's all going in the wash bin as soon as she's finished, anyway.

She keeps her back turned to Catra all the while -- not that there should be any embarrassment between the two of them after a lifetime of communal showers, but somehow Adora feels awkward. Stiff. Can't quite bring herself to meet her gaze.

She only glances back at her once, briefly, before going in, and the pleading look on her face yields a sigh from Adora's lips. She's exhausted and stressed and-- guilty, though she can't quite rationalize why. And she's done fighting with Catra.

"You can do what you want," she says, and steps under the water.

Edited 2020-06-13 12:59 (UTC)

Her victory doesn't feel like a victory, and Catra's ears dip down with it. That variety of resignation means there's a hidden repercussion somewhere; like not being allowed to slip onto Adora's bunk after lights out. It means that Adora really wants her to do something, and Catra's letting her down.

She shivers reflexively as Adora steps under the spray, flinching back as a few droplets fling themselves her way.

"I'm not doing it again on Monday," she bargains. She'll skip some training to stay clean instead.

"Uh-huh," Adora answers listlessly, already busying herself with the act of rubbing shampoo into her hair. At this point, Catra can make all the disclaimers she'd like. She's happy to leave those problems for future Adora.

...

Catra whines again, but uncrosses her arms to remove her last items of clothing. She has to change anyway, after Adora's little stunt towards the end of their wrestling, but that doesn't make her kick at the pile of her dirty clothing any less miserable.

She doesn't bother turning on another tap, instead stepping up close to grab Adora's arm and tug her slightly out of the water. She'll wash, but it's going to be one sad limb at a time and she's going to use Adora as a warm barrier up until it becomes logistically impossible to do so.

So that means yes, she is intending on hiding her face in the back of Adora's cold water-covered neck and pressing against her to stretch her arms in front of them, blindly searching for the shampoo dispenser to start scrubbing the grease off as the water pours onto her fur.

"I'm going to kill Kyle," she groans unhappily. And she really is, what did she ever do wrong in her life to get stuck with him on her squad. "This is all his fault."

This is far from the first time Catra's used her as a human barricade between herself and the cold shower water, but it may well be the first time it makes Adora jump, coupled with an audible gasp.

God, what's wrong with her?

Scrunching her eyes shut against the wave of heat scaling her neck, Adora makes a grab for the shampoo dispenser, and sharply thrusts it into Catra's grappling hand.

"Can you not stand so close? You're greasy."

And the brush of her chest against Adora's bare back has somehow, despite the familiarity, become impossible to bear.

Now that's just insulting. (And -- sends a really sharp pang of hurt through Catra's chest. Adora doesn't usually flinch away from her.)

"What's with you?" As ever, when she's hurt she turns to snapping, drawing back to scowl even as her ears flick rapidly to rid themselves of the water that's been splashed onto them. It's the only reason she sees the red flush growing over Adora's skin, and Catra's defensive aggression stalls for a moment as she takes that in, along with the streak of motor oil that her chest had left on Adora's back.

With a sigh of annoyance, she reaches back out - carefully - to pump an excess of soap into her hand. And with that same frustrated attitude, begins to smear it over Adora's back; scrubbing against her skin with the palms of her hands. That's the problem, right? So she'll fix it.

"There's nothing with me, you're just filthy, and I'm trying to get clean."

She breathes a subtle sigh of relief when Catra steps back, though it's quickly ecliped by a pinch of guilt at her stomach. Now she's upsetting Catra. This isn't what she wanted, why is she being like this, why is her heart beating so loud--

Catra's hands press to her back with little warning, and Adora's shoulders hitch up to her ears. But she really has no room for complaint this time. Because this was the issue, right, and now Catra's working to amend it.

She should just-- relax. Exhale slow and heavy through her nose, will her shoulders into sloping back down. She'll mutter a "thanks", too, before going back to tending to her hair-- give herself something to focus on, and put her hands to work.

It's good to keep occupied. Get her mind off Catra's hands.

The word filthy dropping from Adora's mouth just rubs her the wrong way, and Catra's claws drag on Adora's skin for just a brief moment before she catches herself.

Oh well. It's not like Adora's not used to Catra's moments of inattention. And not like she's not covered with marks from their scuffling. What's a few more scratches?

Her hands move quickly across Adora's back, trying to get everything to do with this shower done with. She's unceremonious with her scrubbing, using just her palms to swiftly rub away the grime. It's the same the entire way down to Adora's waist, Catra's palms pressing in circles as she lathers the soap. She does the small of her back, the curve of her hipbone - and the rest is for Adora to do.

Not that Catra hasn't thought, a lot, about her hands rubbing down further on Adora's body. The shower is just the absolute last place she can think about it in. All she wants is to get everything over with quickly so she can leave, which is why without a word her hand darts out to once again pump an overzealous amount of soap onto her palm. Most of the oil is along her chest and neck, so maybe she'll be able to scrub most of it out before having to douse herself in the water. She's going to try it, in any case.

Edited 2020-06-13 17:59 (UTC)

"Ow, watch it," she snaps as Catra's claws dig in, and they thankfully retract the next moment. Beyond that, the movements of her hands are rough and to the point, and if nothing else, Adora's glad Catra gets through them quickly.

She hastily scrubs down the rest of her body, wanting little more than to burrow herself in her bunk with the blanket pulled up to her chin. But of course, that's not going to happen until they're out of this shower, and they're not getting out of this shower until Catra's exposed more than just her arm to the stream.

Arms folded across her chest, Adora steps aside, directing a glare back at her friend.

"You need to get under the water, Catra."

Catra's fingers are already deep in the fur of her chest, lathering the soap in as quickly as she can manage, when Adora decides to turn around and glare at her.

Catra just hisses back, flicking one of her sudsy hands at Adora to fling some now-dark soap her way.

"I'm working on it," she growls, returning her hand to scrub with an exaggeratedly pointed motion under the curve of her breast. Adora always thinks she knows best, she grouses bitterly. If Catra hadn't been intending on getting under the water, she wouldn't have taken off her stupid clothes and gotten near the stupid shower. "Why don't you do something to help instead of standing there and lecturing me?"

The blackened foam lands right across her face, and Adora's eyes narrow with an affronted gasp before she shrinks back under the stream to rub it out. Stupid Catra.

"Help? Oh, you mean like--" She reaches up for the showerhead, angling the cold spray directly at Catra. "This?"

Anyone who hears the scream that tears up through Catra's throat as she all but jumps out of her skin could be forgiven for thinking that Adora had just run her through with a blade.

But it's worse than just one blade. It's hundreds of sharp pricks of cold assaulting her, and she hunches in on herself against it; curling instinctively to protect her stomach and chest and face from the blast. The fur of her back gets soaked through quickly, which is terrible because it didn't need washing at all, and with claws fully extended her hand swipes out in the direction of Adora's leg. They're going to fight again; Catra won't just take this.

Catra strikes out sooner than Adora's ready for-- she flinches half a step back at the first glimpse of silver, but the blow still connects. The pain makes her stumble, heel slipping against the wet floor, and before she knows it her whole body jolts with the impact of her tailbone hitting tile, and she cries out from the base of her throat.

It hurts. The fresh row of cuts across the flesh of her thigh hurts, too, thin red trails seeping through and mixing with the shower stream on its way to the drain. She's aching from head to toe and too, too tired to fight, and there's a throb between her temples and her body is tense and hot all over, and her heart still hasn't quieted down this whole time. Catra doesn't get it or care, all she's been doing is make one big stink over this stupid shower, and when Adora looks up at her she's so helplessly, overwhelmingly frustrated that her shoulders shake and she feels a pressure behind her eyes and--

"You're the worst," she grits out, screwing her eyes tightly shut as she pushes onto her feet. She shoves past Catra on her way out the shower, grabbing a towel and wrapping it over her quaking shoulders. She's going to need to dress this wound now, too. Great.

"Whatever. Good night."

Edited 2020-06-13 19:19 (UTC)

There is nobody in the world that Catra ever feels bad for lashing out at.

...except Adora.

Her eyes widen as Adora crumples. The blood running off her leg is expected but her fall is not, and the look in her eyes is-- is--

--It makes Catra recoil. She really is the wild, worthless creature Shadow Weaver always warns them about.

She wants to say -- something. Anything. When Adora picks herself up and shoves past, Catra's throat works; but her tongue is heavy in her mouth and she can't think of anything to give voice to.

She just crouches there, for a long time, the water soaking through her hair and fur and freezing her the whole way through.

It's late when she finally finishes up. By herself, in silence. Adora's blood is long since washed away, but the guilt weighs heavy in Catra's stomach, clawing up at her chest. The press of her hand against the ache does nothing to dissuade it.

It's so late that she's risking a reprimand for being out of bed past curfew, but unlike what seems like literally everyone else in the Fright Zone, Catra can't just dry off. She has to shake herself out, mop up moisture with thin towels, squeeze water out of her hair. She has to do it all in a cycle, until it reaches the point where one of the hair dryers the Horde supplies can finish the rest. It's a process made more difficult by the bone-deep shivers of cold, and takes more than twice as long as usual because she - great person that she is - has chased away the person who would normally help her.

It gives her too much time to think, to dread what's going to happen when she goes back to their dorm. Adora's not going to want to have anything to do with her, wretched thing that she is. She's going to have to feel her glare as she walks right past her; going to have to hear her sniff of disdain as Catra climbs into the seldom-used bunk above hers.

She lingers after drying to collect their clothes for laundry, and to mop up the tiles the way she normally complains at length about. Somebody else is just going to come along and shower at some point anyway, so why do they have to mop after every one? It's just another stupid Horde rule that Catra hates. But it's a reason to delay, to procrastinate. She can't stand knowing that she's really done it now. She's really, finally made Adora hate her.

She does slink in eventually, silent as she slips past the other bunks. Her heart is a sick, terrible weight in her chest that grows heavier with every step, and her shoulders hunch as she braces herself. She can do this. Everyone always warned her she'd eventually cross the line that would turn Adora against her. She's had a lifetime to prepare herself for it. She just has to get through it, and get onto her bunk, and then she can -- deal with the rest of it from there.

The first thing Adora does once she's made it to their sleeping quarters, is bury her face in her pillow and scream.

Well. Not scream-scream. She can't scream-scream, because everyone around her is asleep and she'd be disturbing all the other cadets, but she at the very least lets out a long, miserable groan that manages to carry some of her frustration and drown it in the pillow. But it's far from enough. In fact, once the floodgates have opened, Adora only finds her feelings all the harder to rein in, and she ends up rolling on her mattress, senselessly punching her pillow and kicking her legs at the air for a good couple of minutes before she can settle.

And then she's left lying on her back in the dark, breathing harshly through her teeth, stare fixed on the bottom of Catra's bunk overhead. With the tidal wave of her anger flushed away, all that remains is the uneasy twisting in her gut. The shame and guilt that's been festering there since being caught by Octavia, now amplified tenfold by the knowledge she's hurt her best friend.

You're the worst. Why did she say that? Adora shouldn't have said that. It's just some minor cuts on her leg, they're not even that deep. Why isn't Catra back yet? She's taking forever. She's doing okay in there, isn't she...?

Adora rolls onto her side to face the doorway, pillow squeezed to her chest. She definitely can't fall asleep like this, not until she's talked to Catra. She'll be back any moment now, won't she? It shouldn't take that long to towel up.

She watches the entrance intently, through heavy, tired eyes, for what feels likes eternity. At long last, Catra's silhouette appears in the doorway, and Adora instantly perks up, leaning onto one elbow.

"Catra," she calls to her in an urgent whisper as she draws closer, her bare feet padding softly against the concrete floor.

Edited 2020-06-13 21:19 (UTC)

Catra's ears twitch immediately towards Adora's voice, picking her up instantly. And Catra's feet freeze on the cold, hard floor.

Run, her muscles scream. She is -- terrified, panic rising sharp and vicious in her throat. Her hands tremble as she curls them into stubborn fists. She won't run away, this is where she sleeps too, and she won't surrender her bunk just because Adora hates her.

But her next few steps are quick, building up a pace before she drops to all fours; and then with a push of hands and feet, she leaps, easily clearing the height and distance to her bunk. A puff of dust shoots up as she lands with a barely a thump, and the small sneeze the irritation elicits is the most noise she's made during this process.

That's not to say she doesn't deliberately rock the bunk as she starts to go about settling down, or that she doesn't intentionally thwap her blanket around low enough to be a nuisance to Adora when she leans over to shake the dust from it. This is what she wants to do, she tells herself angrily. She wants to make life difficult for Adora, because it'll make her feel better. She wants to sleep in her own bunk, because she doesn't need or want Adora's company.

(She wants nothing more than to clamber down there and curl up against Adora's knees; to feel her hand carding through her thick mess of hair, and massaging gently at her scalp. But she's saving herself the rejection by pretending otherwise. She's only protecting herself.)

Edited 2020-06-13 21:31 (UTC)

"Catra!" Adora hisses sharper, still making an effort to keep her voice down. She knows Catra heard her, she's doing this on purpose--

But she stops herself before she can work herself up into a seethe, pinching the bridge of her nose and shutting her eyes with a steadying breath. She doesn't want to get angry at Catra again. She wants to fix this.

And so Adora climbs up to Catra's bunk, two steps of the ladder at a time, and plants both elbows on the edge of Catra's mattress. At the top, of course, she's only greeted with the sight of Catra's turned back.

"Catra, I need to talk to you." She exhales, slouching her shoulders. "Please?"

By the time Adora - stupid, slow Adora - has managed to climb up the ladder, Catra's got herself curled up on her side, tail safely in her own lap, and her blanket firmly drawn over herself.

Still, her shoulders hunch further when Adora says words at her; and silently, Catra grabs her pillow from under her head and stuffs it over the top instead, pointedly blocking her ears and providing a cover over her wet and scrunched eyes.

It's late, and it's time to be asleep. Adora can just wait until morning, and yell at her then with everybody else.

"No! Don't--"

That is the exact opposite of the reaction Adora was going for, and she gestures desperately at Catra's back for a moment before accepting defeat. Fine. No talking, then.

This doesn't mean she's ready to leave Catra alone.

Picking up the closest end of the blanket, Adora lifts it up, tucks herself in behind Catra's curled back, and drapes the blanket back over the two of them. She doesn't quite dare rest her arms over her, the way she normally might -- but she hopes this closeness will be enough to communicate something, if Catra doesn't pull away from it.

Why won't Adora just leave her alone?

Catra's body can't tense any more, and she's curled so tightly there's nothing else she can do. She just holds her breath, pretending that shreds of her heart aren't tearing themselves off while she waits for Adora to give up on her.

Except she doesn't, because she never does. Catra's fingers grip tighter on her pillow, digging in and tearing through the already-repaired materials. (This isn't the first time she's stowed away up here, and isn't the first time she's accidentally destroyed her bedding. The survival skills they learn include sewing and uniform repairs, and Catra's pillow got its first clumsy stitches a long time ago. She can feel them still, ugly bumps underneath her fingers.)

And then Adora's warmth is against her back, following the brush of cool air that the lift of her blanket exposes her to. Catra continues to hold her breath until her chest shudders with the effort; and she turns herself over, pressing her face into the crook of Adora's neck.

She won't apologize. She never apologizes, and she's never going to. But she feels -- so bad, and she wants Adora to hate her so that she has validation for her own self-loathing, but Adora doesn't. Adora never hates her. Adora never learns.

"...Does it hurt?" She croaks, voice quieter than a whisper. Her face is the only part of her that she allows to touch Adora, and when she sucks in a rattling breath it comes with Adora's comforting smell, and the scrunch of Catra's eyes doesn't stop tears from spilling over. One day, one day Adora is going to stop doing this. One day Adora will learn, and she won't come after Catra; she'll leave her alone to be miserable, and weak, and worthless, and she'll finally achieve all of the great things that Shadow Weaver always says she will. One day, Catra's going to curl in her bed, and know that Adora won't ever be warm against her again.

She should break it off now, for her own sake. Should put an end to it. Should stop hungrily drinking up Adora's attention. Should stop breathing in her scent. Should stop dedicating every beat of her heart to her.

...But she really, really doesn't want to.

Edited 2020-06-13 22:46 (UTC)

"No, it's totally okay," Adora's quick to reassure, "it's just a little sting--"

But then she hears Catra sniff, and feels a faint wetness drip onto her shoulder, and Adora's heart thuds to a halt for the first time tonight-- before resuming its pace at double time, hastened with panic.

"No, no, Catra," she pulls back just enough to look at her face, cup her cheeks with her hands. She can't believe she's made her cry. She's the one who comforts her, how could she have made Catra cry?

Adora's thumbs rub frantically at the tear-trails, words gushing from her throat in a hushed, panicky babble. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have gotten so angry, I shouldn't have talked to you like that. I just, I've been feeling weird all night and I took it out on you, and that wasn't fair." She lets out a shaky exhale, uncertain hands patting at Catra's jaw, her hair, anything that might bring comfort. "I know you hate water, I know it's hard for you, I should've been more considerate-- don't cry, please?"