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"Catra! Stop it, it's for your own good! Ow!"

At the end of a long day of training, Adora is tired, sore, and wants little more than to take a shower and throw herself onto her bed. Wrangling a furious Catra into the showers with her was not on the agenda tonight, until a bot that hadn't been fixed quite right (thanks, Kyle) sprung a leak and sprayed them both with motor oil.

Now, the issue with Catra is that she's willing to shower exactly twice weekly, and both opportunities have passed. But Adora is not going to let her walk around reeking of motor oil until Monday. She's got her arms full of Catra and she's not letting go, no matter how Catra squirms, scratches, bites. In the ten minutes since she's initiated this endeavor, Adora has barely made it two steps into the showers, but her dedication to the cause and can-do attitude have always been cited as two of her strongest points as a cadet.

As they struggle and yell, Lonnie steps around the two of them on her way to the sleeping quarters, and offers Adora a sympathetic nod: "Good luck."

Adora grits her teeth.

"Look! In the time you've spent throwing your tantrum, Lonnie's already finished showering! We could've been done here!"

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"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?"

She wasn't crying.

Or, she wasn't until Adora started rambling. That's when Catra's lip trembles, and when she clenches her jaw.

"I'm not crying," she grits out, blinking determinedly to will the moisture in her eyes away. They always do this, they always start tearing up. She hates them. Sometimes she feels like she could scratch them out in her frustration. But she holds Adora's gaze in a dedicated glare, determined to prove that they're drying.

Slowly, she unfurls from the tight ball she'd compressed herself into. Holding the position hurts anyway, and the bruises of the day ache anew as she tries to force her tense muscles to relax. But that's not what she cares about. One of her arms reaches down, blindly; pressing against Adora's leg and searching for where there must be a bandage, somewhere, holding tight against the skin Catra had torn through. Her hand roams indiscriminately until she finds it, and then halts, her fingers glancing at the edge.

"I'll cover you in the simulation tomorrow." Her words are abrupt, but have the ring of a promise. She doesn't usually show up for them on time, doesn't usually work as part of the team like she's supposed to. But she will. To make up for what she's done.

Edited 2020-06-13 23:40 (UTC)

It doesn't matter to Adora that it's just a stray few drops and a shimmer at the edge of Catra's eyes. The fact that she caused it overloads her chest with guilt, and so she continues to fuss and fret until she's sure, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that Catra's eyes are dry. Only then can she breathe fully from her lungs, and begin to relax.

-- Begin to, until Catra's roaming hand has her tensing up for a whole nother reason, and Adora has to swallow.

"You don't have to do that, silly," she says, wrapping careful fingers over Catra's wrist. Her smile slants lipsided, straining at the edges. "I told you, it's barely a sting."

Catra's ears immediately tilt back in offense, Adora's fingers around her wrist stinging like a rejection. Adora doesn't want her help in the simulation tomorrow, Adora doesn't need her. What good is it anyway, to have Catra on her side?

She's about to jerk her hand back and roll back over again to nurse the fresh pain in her heart when her eyes, so close to Adora's, catch sight of something new.

She's always had good vision in the dark. She's always been able to keep track of things that Adora insists she could never see, and she's always been able to follow movements well.

She gives her fingers an experimental twitch against Adora's thigh, stretches them out along the edge of the bandage and then curls them back into a fist, nails dragging along her skin. All the while watching Adora's eyes, silent and intently focused on her pupils. Did she really just...?

Adora's sure Catra's about to say something-- braces for some biting retort from the sharp downward flick of her ears-- but no words come. Instead, Catra only stares at her. Her eyes are bright and alert in the dimly-lit room, as her fingers graze those patterns into Adora's thigh that, although faint, feel unplaceably deliberate.

And Catra keeps searching her face like she's trying to find something, the same as Octavia's probing gaze back in the bathroom. All at once Adora's chest is buzzing with nerves again, and her leg keeps twitching, even though she's trying, okay, she's really trying to hold it still.

She cranes her neck back, like it'll help her escape Catra's inquisitive eyes, and sheepishly murmurs:

"... What?"

There's no way.

No. Way.

Catra's other hand slips up between their bodies to grasp Adora's chin, tugging her back down to continue staring as her fingers trace down the line of the bandage, following it around to the inside of her thigh.

And she sucks in a deep, sharp breath as Adora's pupils all but explode.

"No way." They're really the only words that can exist in her brain right now, so suddenly jarred from upset and hurt to --- this. A literal dream come true. Catra's body is too quick to jump on board with the updated situation, flushing warm despite the lag her thoughts are experiencing. "Adora, are you -- seriously?" Her fingers curl against her thigh, scraping with nails once again and then pressing in with a knead of her knuckles. Just to -- to check, or something, like Adora's face is going to tell her something more than she already knows. "Seriously?"

Catra doesn't even allow her pitiful attempt at seeking reprieve, pulling her chin back down to reenforce the eye contact, and Adora-- Adora is freaking out. Because now Catra's bombarding her with those questions like she just did something weird, but she didn't do anything, and Catra's hand on her thigh keeps touching her in a way that's sending sparks up to her belly, and she won't stop looking at her face.

"What are you doing? Stop!" she squeaks out, planting a hand against Catra's face to shove her away. "What are you talking about?!"

Catra balks at the hand in her face, and her hand does shoot up from Adora's thigh to grab it, the blanket settling haphazardly across them with the movement. With her other hand she releases Adora's chin, quickly grabbing at her other wrist.

Her now ragged breathing has nothing to do with exertion, and neither does the breathless laugh that huffs from her lips.

"You -- you're seriously getting off on this." It's amazement in her tone, because all this time. All this time when she's been trying to get this sort of reaction from Adora, and all she had to do was... cry a little? Make herself seem weak? Let Adora take care of her?

This somehow seems like the incorrect conclusion to be drawing, but Catra's brain isn't home right now.

Edited 2020-06-14 01:01 (UTC)

Now Catra's laughing. Why is Catra laughing? The only reason Adora doesn't retaliate by shoving harder is that it'd knock Catra off the bed, and that'd hurt.

"Getting off from where?" she shoots back, her rising panic making her forget volume control and driving her very close to yelling. "I don't know what you're saying!"

"Shh!" Catra is quick to slap Adora's hand over Adora's own mouth, covering it quickly with her own to keep it in place as she hisses out warnings. "Shut up, you idiot! You're going to wake everyone up!"

Her ears strain to pick out the sounds of breathing from the rest of their squad. Thankfully, the only one who seems to have stirred is Rogelio; who also sounds like they roll back over with a disgruntled rumble, and fall back asleep.

Only then does Catra move Adora's hand away from her mouth, and in that long tense moment she'd really hoped she might take up thinking again. You know, as maybe something of a hobby? But instead she's very distracted by the rapid fluttering of Adora's pulse under the fingers she has pressed against her wrist, and the tension obvious in the line of her shoulder, and how Catra can feel the warmth emanating from her body like a furnace. (Or maybe that's just Catra's own body heat. Too hard to tell, not worth figuring out.)

"What's your problem?" She demands, keeping her voice to annoyed whispers. "Why are you being so weird about this?"

Because Catra thought she'd made it pretty clear like, ages ago, that she'd be more than willing to help Adora with these things.

Edited 2020-06-14 01:22 (UTC)

"Mrrph, mmph!" That's the extent of the reply Adora can give with Catra clamping her own hand over her mouth, the jerk. Although upon being reminded of her surroundings, she can't help but acknowledge Catra was right -- so Adora stops trying to speak over the barrier of her palm, and resorts to quietly fuming.

At least until her mouth is free.

"I'm being weird? I'm being weird?!" She's regained enough awareness to keep her voice down, but Catra's infuriating effect on her is already wearing away at her restraint. Adora can't help it-- she feels like she's losing her mind.

"You're the one who started looking at me all funny, and-and touching my leg, and laughing at me! How am I being weird?!"

"You're the one who's freaking out!" It's not the first time they've had heated arguments in the dark of the dormitory, and it surely won't be the last. If only Adora could be actually relied on to keep her voice down during them.

And Catra really just -- can't believe what she's hearing. She started this? She was only trying to be considerate!

"It's not even that big a deal!" So she tells herself. "But if you wanna do it by yourself, fine. Just do it in your own bunk, and get out of mine."

She punctuates the statement by releasing Adora's hands with a push, and she's serious about Adora getting out of her bunk. It's bad enough to imagine Adora grinding into her own hand on the bunk beneath Catra's - she might actually die if she did it right next to her.

"Ah-- buh-- hey!" Catra doesn't get to push her away mid-argument like that, that's not fair. Adora shuffles back closer, a determined scowl on her face. She's not leaving Catra's bed before she makes some degree of sense of this whole situation.

"Do what by myself?"

Catra actually fully expects Adora to leave; to get back down into her own bedding so that Catra can take advantage of the illusion of privacy on her own.

But instead she just shuffles closer again, in the world's most frustrating example of giving mixed signals.

"Get off," she enunciates with exasperation, rolling her eyes. It's like Adora needs it spelled out for her or something, seriously.

Adora's frown pinches deeper, her gasp offended. "--No! Don't be mean, I'm trying to talk to you!"

The look on Catra's face is the very picture of incredulous.

Adora... Catra knows she's an idiot, but surely she's not this much of one? There is a moment of silence, wherein Catra is seriously reconsidering her choice of best friend (--like she ever had any other options).

"No, Adora. I mean get off?" She raises an eyebrow, and when it clearly doesn't click, elaborates: "As in, get yourself off?"

She knows a lot of terms for it, actually, and she didn't even have to try to pick any of them up. A lot of the actual Horde soldiers don't bother to keep their voices quiet when they talk about it, and the other senior cadets weren't very subtle when they started picking it up. Adora must just call it something different.

Catra's wealth of dubious knowledge is put to the test now, as she sits up and racks her brain for the terms Adora might be using. "You know, 'ringing the doorbell'? 'Rubbing one out'? The 'three-knuckle shuffle'? --Are you seriously not getting this?"

Edited 2020-06-14 06:46 (UTC)

Adora sits up, too, refusing to fall behind. Her arms cross over her chest as she tries to study Catra's face in the dark, to garner some idea of whether or not she's just messing with her.

"--Okay, you're just messing with me. None of those even sound like things!"

'Ringing the doorbell'? What does that even mean.

Okay, this is getting ridiculous. Catra cannot believe it's come to this.

Time for the last-ditch charades. Adora had better understand after this, because there is a hot and embarrassed flush on Catra's cheeks already. (She seriously. Seriously cannot believe it's come to this.) She holds up her hands, showing them both to Adora; and then deliberately lowers them, sliding one on top of the other between her own slightly parting thighs, to rest them over her crotch. And then raises both eyebrows in pointed question. Does Adora get it, yet?

Adora watches Catra's hands in deep concentration, dead set on discovering whatever answer they may hold. But she-- she expects Catra to wave them around, or something, not trail down her underwear-clad body and come to rest-- there.

Adora's face feels like it's burst into flames, and the ball of tension in her lower belly tightens. She tears her gaze up to look at Catra's face, wide-eyed.

"Wh-what?"

Catra

is going

to die.

And it's all the fault of the single braincell Adora must have rattling around inside of her otherwise empty head. Because nobody, nobody could be this clueless.

And Catra is done with being patient.

"If you're not going to help, then get out of my bunk." It's not even about Adora any more, Catra's tone turning sharp and bitter from her embarrassment. The only thing she knows how to do is dig herself deeper; to pull at her own wounds. "I am going to be getting myself off up here. I don't care what you do."

To prove her point, she throws herself back down and wriggles onto her back, glaring defiantly at Adora the whole while with her hands still in place.

(Why can't she stop herself from always trying to push Adora away?)

"Wait-- you're going to--?"

Adora's eyes are wide as dinner plates, voice high with panic. Beyond her sense of dread at the rejection, there's a sharp spike of anxiety at the realization her best friend is doing something wrong.

She grabs Catra's elbow, tugging it away.

"You can't! Shadow Weaver said--" Her voice thins as a new wave of heat flushes over her, called forth by an old, shameful memory she had buried deep down. She breaks her gaze away from Catra, whispering: "We're not supposed to touch there."

Of course it's about Shadow Weaver. Honestly, what did she expect.

"Are you always going to listen to everything she says?" They're only a few years away from being full-fledged soldiers, and Force Captains. And Adora's still hanging on Shadow Weaver's every word? Catra just -- has to scoff. It's just so... typical.

Adora has to cycle through a series of stumped, frustrated noises before she can form a response. "I mean, she raised us! And she said it was wrong, and dirty, and-- she'd know, right?"

Granted, Shadow Weaver never elaborated. But the unveiled disgust in her voice when she caught her-- the one time Adora's hands dared to venture, years and years ago-- cut too sharply to allow for any questioning. What else could she do but accept it as fact?

Edited 2020-06-14 09:55 (UTC)