Catra (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
morethanadistraction) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
boxitup2020-07-02 02:18 am
morethanadistraction) wrote in boxitup2020-07-02 02:18 am
that sweet sweet s4 dumpster fire
Operating out of the Whispering Woods like this was such a stroke of genius, Catra congratulates herself as she watches the supplies roll in. The ambush she'd planned was a success, Adora and her friends easily distracted by the empty transporter for long enough to move her new weapons, and all it had cost her was one vehicle and a single soldier: not a bad deal in the scheme of things. With satisfaction, she drags her finger along the glowing green screen of her device; marking the mission as completed. Things are finally starting to come together for her, now that Hordak is under her thumb. Things are finally starting to go right. She has a spy reporting from the very core of the Rebellion, she's claimed Hordak's armies, and she's about to lead dear, dumb Adora and her equally stupid friends into her second trap of the day. Things are good. Her sleep hasn't been great for a long time now, but tonight? Catra might actually be able to get some.
But one petty victory doesn't mean her work is over. There'll be time to eat the ration bar abandoned atop the crate next to her later, time to rest once all of this is done. The Rebels are predictable, almost comically so; but that doesn't mean she can relax. Too many things happen with them in places she can't see, they have conversations she can't hear. Sometimes, one of them manages to come up with something that's stupid enough to actually surprise her, and those have been the occasions when they've gotten the upper hand.
Lucky for her, she has someone on the inside now. Someone who can update her on every mood change, every crack in the relationships between Adora's band of merry idiots. It makes things so much easier to plan around, and she's expecting another report soon.
...Which may be arriving presently. Catra hasn't let down her guard once, hyper-tuned to the noises and activity despite the headache it causes, for pretty much this exact reason. She's sick of people trying to sneak up on her.
"Clear out," she orders sharply. The soldiers around her salute, presumably; Catra doesn't look up from her screen to see if they do, just listens as they hurry to set down boxes and then scurry away, leaving just one other person with her.
"I told you not to come in here like that," she bites out, eyes narrowing at her screen before she tears them away to glare across the mess of crates. Double Trouble's really perfected Adora's gait, from the sounds of it. And her smell. Obviously taking advantage of their time in Bright Moon with her to do some in-depth character study.
They're poorly hidden, as far as sneaking attempts go. They're only a few quick strides away, and Catra takes them swiftly; stretching a clawed hand around into a shadowed corner to grab a fistful of familiar fabric and yank her spy out, glaring at them all the while. Her tail twitches in restrained anger, ears flat lines of disapproval, and she can't look at their imitation of Adora's face for longer than it takes her eyes to glance over it before she scoffs in disgust, releasing her grip on their jacket and turning away.
"Your intel had better be good." She's back to her device immediately, jamming a finger against the icon that pulls up a collation of her soldiers' field reports, scanning over it quickly. "What's the situation with the rebels? Are they following the tracks we set?"
But one petty victory doesn't mean her work is over. There'll be time to eat the ration bar abandoned atop the crate next to her later, time to rest once all of this is done. The Rebels are predictable, almost comically so; but that doesn't mean she can relax. Too many things happen with them in places she can't see, they have conversations she can't hear. Sometimes, one of them manages to come up with something that's stupid enough to actually surprise her, and those have been the occasions when they've gotten the upper hand.
Lucky for her, she has someone on the inside now. Someone who can update her on every mood change, every crack in the relationships between Adora's band of merry idiots. It makes things so much easier to plan around, and she's expecting another report soon.
...Which may be arriving presently. Catra hasn't let down her guard once, hyper-tuned to the noises and activity despite the headache it causes, for pretty much this exact reason. She's sick of people trying to sneak up on her.
"Clear out," she orders sharply. The soldiers around her salute, presumably; Catra doesn't look up from her screen to see if they do, just listens as they hurry to set down boxes and then scurry away, leaving just one other person with her.
"I told you not to come in here like that," she bites out, eyes narrowing at her screen before she tears them away to glare across the mess of crates. Double Trouble's really perfected Adora's gait, from the sounds of it. And her smell. Obviously taking advantage of their time in Bright Moon with her to do some in-depth character study.
They're poorly hidden, as far as sneaking attempts go. They're only a few quick strides away, and Catra takes them swiftly; stretching a clawed hand around into a shadowed corner to grab a fistful of familiar fabric and yank her spy out, glaring at them all the while. Her tail twitches in restrained anger, ears flat lines of disapproval, and she can't look at their imitation of Adora's face for longer than it takes her eyes to glance over it before she scoffs in disgust, releasing her grip on their jacket and turning away.
"Your intel had better be good." She's back to her device immediately, jamming a finger against the icon that pulls up a collation of her soldiers' field reports, scanning over it quickly. "What's the situation with the rebels? Are they following the tracks we set?"
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She counts to five, and when no shout goes up, no alarm sounds, she finally exhales. So far, so good--she even lets herself smile when Catra orders the other soldiers away, leaving the two of them alone. Okay. Show me what you're planning, Catra, she thinks, peering over the top of the boxes... right before Catra's hand whips out and grabs her jacket, yanking her out from behind her hiding place.
Instinctively, Adora reaches for the bracer on her arm, ready to transform it back into her sword. To defend herself. To stop Catra, whatever the cost. Only... Catra doesn't attack. She acts like Adora is meant to be here, going about her business as usual, and Adora wonders if some weird magic is at work, or if Catra's finally lost it after the portal incident. If she has--some part of her feels bad about using that to her advantage, but she shrugs it off. No weakness is sacred. Not anymore.
"Uh-- yes! Those tracks. The tracks for the Rebellion."
Looking at Catra up close like this--has she been sleeping? at all?--Adora can't help the pang of guilt she feels at the state her former best friend is in, but she reminds herself that she isn't responsible for it. Catra made her choices. Even now, away from the front lines, she's continuing to hurt people. However much Adora cared, will always care, Etheria as a whole is her priority. If Catra can't accept that, it's on her, not Adora.
In her head, she tries to picture Bow and Glimmer's positions right now. Are they walking into a trap? It's too vague a statement. She needs more to go off--and that means playing along, extracting whatever information she can, and then getting out of here. Ideally without setting Catra off.
"Which... tracks are we talking about, exactly?" She tries to sound more confident than she feels, stealing a glimpse at Catra's device over her shoulder. "There's just so many, it's hard to keep everything straight. You know how it is."
Catra's always complained about her underlings being useless--maybe she'll buy it, or at least be too frustrated to interrogate her further.
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Adora's stink fills her nostrils, and Catra's face scrunches as she steps deliberately further away. It's the most accurate DT's ever gotten, and it's -- disturbing, how familiar it is. Catra's sure there's a flaw in it somewhere, but it's been so long she's having trouble discerning what it might be.
"Listen, I get that you're 'committed to your craft' or whatever," she rolls her eyes with the mocking quote, her tail swinging tightly in agitation; "but drop the act. I don't have time to be evaluating your performances today. We've got much bigger things to be taking care of."
A press of her finger, and the field reports disappear. A few scrolls, the tap of her passcode into the screen (-no longer what used to be her favourite number), and a 3D map of the Woods appears. They're going to need this information to lead Adora and her friends to where Catra wants them to be, which is the only reason why she enters another series of security codes; highlighting in red the path that the Rebels would have found if they'd been even remotely competent.
"Here." Rather than look at them again - because they still stink, which means today is a day where they're looking to push her, and her lips draw tight at their gall - Catra holds the device above her shoulder. Not for them to take, but so they can see the clearly marked trail leading to the mountains on the furthest side of Bright Moon. "I should've known better than to think those idiots would track the transporter. You'll have to lead them there."
They're quick at memorizing information, so Catra only bothers to hold the screen up for a couple of seconds before bringing it back down. It's not that she cares about DT, exactly, but they've been -- valuable. To her. They're a huge part of her upcoming plans, and she needs the information they bring her. But they're still passing themselves off as Adora, so her warning is annoyed when she gives it: "Try to keep yourself out of this one, would you?"
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In the end, figuring out an explanation doesn't really matter, when the reality is this clear. One way or another, someone in the Horde has a way to impersonate her, and it's already happening. How long has this been going on? Is it just Adora, or can they mimic others as well? None of them have ever had to defend against something like this before; once she gets back, they'll have to come up with something, some way to be able to trust each other. This could seriously hurt the Rebellion, and she knows it. Catra knows it.
Hurriedly, Adora files her doubts away for later, focusing on what's in front of her right now. On Catra. From this distance, she can't make out the passcode--though she can tell it's different, something that shouldn't irk her the way it does--but the map itself is clear as day when Catra holds it up. Adora might not be good at subterfuge, but she was Force Captain for a reason, and the few seconds given is all she needs to commit the image to memory.
"Don't worry. I'll make sure it all goes to plan."
Her tone carries her usual confidence, but there's the slightest hint of deference, that she thinks might appease Catra coming from--Adora? Her impostor? Whoever she thinks she's talking to right now. She needs Catra to be in a good mood, because Adora's not done pressing her.
"Is everything okay here? You seem kinda worked up." Avoiding the trap is one thing, but she knows Catra is the real threat. If she wants the Rebellion distracted, it's because she's plotting something even bigger--something Adora needs to stop. She can worry about the rest later. Catra clearly trusts this mystery person enough to rely on them, a confidence that isn't given lightly, or without cause, and so Adora risks taking a step closer again. "Sure you don't need my help?"
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"Wow. I didn't realize the Rebels were that boring." Catra drops the hand holding the device to her side, the other going to her hip as she turns to scowl at them. "What I need is for you to do your job. Out there, with them. You shouldn't even be in here."
But, well. The proof of their work is standing right in front of her. They -- really have done a perfect imitation of Adora, from the set of her feet to the gleam in her eyes, and Catra's heart beats ashamedly faster as they step closer. The slight sway of their hips is spot-on as well, she can't help but notice, her fingers curling against her own hip in frustration. Seems they took her lecture from last time seriously, and she regrets having given it, now. She should've had the foresight to realize they'd test their improved act against her first before using it against Adora's friends, and Double Trouble does so love getting a rise out of her.
Catra's head tilts back as she heaves a pointedly aggravated sigh, and when she's done the scowl on her lips has shifted to the side in annoyance. Her tail flicks again, and at this point anyone else under her command would have known better than to keep pushing.
"What's it gonna take to get you to drop this? You really want a review that badly?" Her narrowed eyes scan critically up and down the length of their version of Adora's body, and there's just. There's no visible flaw. But Adora's not just a person who's seen from a distance; she's physical, and interactive, and she has a certain feel to her that nobody else does. Her friends would notice if that was missing.
It's for the sake of the mission that Catra drags her hand from her hip, holding it out for Double Trouble to place one of theirs in. There's no-one better to point out the minutiae of the things that make Adora Adora than her.
"Hurry up," she snaps. She can't let them think there's anything else to this, they already think she's obsessed as it is. "Let's get this over with."
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"Wow, okay," she says out loud, and it probably comes off as mocking, rather than the genuine confusion she feels--confusion that quickly turns sour. "If you wanna hold my hand, you could at least say please."
She's angrier than she should be. Catra can do whatever she wants in her own time (Adora can't stop her, has no right to stop her), but she's--what, exactly? Holding hands with them, with this her-but-not-her, acting like it's a test? People are dying, and this is the sort of thing she gets up to? At least the Rebellion doesn't dress up their hugs and affection as some sort of sick game.
Adora scowls, and when she does take Catra's hand, she isn't gentle. It's with a soldier's grip, strong, offering no chance to escape. She yanks her closer, her unoccupied fingers locking around Catra's other wrist, not caring if she drops the tracker pad in the process. So much for that good mood.
"Satisfied?" Her words are sharp. Aggressive. Even sleep-deprived and... well, evil, Catra is distracting, and Adora has to put in serious effort to maintain eye contact instead of letting her gaze wander. To her credit, she holds firm; her eyes burning with an unfamiliar antagonism. "Because I'm not. So don't tell me to drop this, Catra."
She isn't sure if she's still trying to be the Adora that Catra expects, or just acting out how she really feels. It's hard to control herself, especially now, when she's all but given up on her friend seeing the light. (Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe she should be taking this chance to finally stop her for good, regardless of her plans.)
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...Well, not really. If this were actually Adora, Catra would simply ram a knee into her and take it from there. But the perception of it is thrilling, the harshness of their tone and fire in their eyes looking so much like Adora's do when Catra's tricked her into a fight. It creates such a familiar, electric feeling that she's risen onto the balls of her toes without thinking, her own eyes gleaming in hungry challenge as she meets the hatred in Adora's head-on.
"It doesn't matter if you're satisfied," she reminds them harshly. If it were Adora, she'd drop her voice into a throaty purr; she'd pull her arms back to force Adora closer, bringing her in until their bodies were pressed together, making her so uncomfortable she'd release Catra of her own volition. And even though she knows it's Double Trouble, the craving that's risen in her skin is so consuming that she almost does it anyway. She wants to feel Adora against her again, and this iteration of their impression feels more real than any of the times they've goaded her before.
...Whatever. They've already offered to help her unwind, calling her out on being worked up like that. And everything's already in place. All that they need is for Double Trouble to lead the rebels to where the bots have been stationed. Catra can afford the time this'll take, and she'll be back on her feet by the time they get the report of what happens out in the field test. Everything's going smoothly. She can take her attention away from her plans to let Double Trouble run through their test act.
So she does do it. Does tilt her lips into a fanged smirk as she yanks her arms behind her back, claws digging in to the back of their hand, forcefully pulling them off-balance. Does arch her back to drag her chest against theirs, which they've copied in such detail that sparks ignite in her where they touch. She'll hate herself for this all over again later, can already feel the flicker of it coiling in her gut, but Catra tilts her chin to reach their ear anyway. Double Trouble's really nailed it this time; and unlike the real Adora, she might actually find some sort of release of her pent-up frustration with them. But she still won't drop her voice for them, won't murmur into it teasingly like she'd do to Adora. Still remains authoritative and demanding, though she does at least drop the clipped edge to her words as she breathes in their well-copied scent. "But I'll let you keep it up. Turns out I've got a job here for you after all."
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For the second time today, the words bad idea flash though her mind in bright red letters. She doesn't know what Catra wants from her. From whoever she's supposed to be. But she can't let Catra know that, and so she phrases her question like a challenge, trying to bait out an answer.
"What, you want me to--to stay here and hold hands for a while? Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?" Her tone is fittingly incredulous, and she doesn't even have to act. There's no way things are that simple, but it's the only indication she's been given to build off. "Whatever weird little game you're playing, it's not going to work."
Only, it is. She had her chance to leave--still could, if she really wanted to--but her mouth is dry, and her chest is on fire, and Catra just keeps talking like she owns her. ... Which, right now, she does. Adora can push, but she can't outright resist, if she doesn't want Catra to figure things out. (But she's still Adora, and if whoever is copying her is so good at it, then some defiance should be expected.)
"If you want me," she breathes, her face scrunched up in determination, "then come and get me."
If it's a fight Catra wants--and that's the only thing Adora can think of, that Catra wants to see her kneeling in defeat, the way she never, ever will outside of this room--it's a fight she'll get. She-Ra is off the table, but Adora alone is enough to handle whatever Catra can dish out in her irritation. She squares up, ready to take the hit she's sure is coming; preemptively tamping down the urge to fight back.
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Oh, they've captured Adora's determination so perfectly it makes her heart ache. She wants to tear it off their face, grind it into the ground until it's broken and weeping under her foot. Her tail is lashing behind her, and she'd restrain it but what does it matter. DT knows what they've done to her. The only thing left to do now is dive fully into the wreckage and release they've offered.
"Well, you've got the annoying part down." The assurance comes more dry than snide, an insult aimed at Adora but not at Double Trouble, and Catra tries to wrest her hand free but their grip is unyielding. She hates that she doesn't hate it. She wishes her gloves weren't such a barrier between the heat of their hands and her fur, and she hates that, too. Since she doesn't have many other options, she pushes on her feet once more, readjusting her balance; arches her back, pressing her narrow hips into theirs, and bends her elbows to keep their arms taut around her as she tilts her chin again. She's close enough that she can feel their breath, close enough that when she drags her tongue against her lips to wet them, it wouldn't take any effort at all to taste what their perception of Adora is.
--Her eyes narrow, then, jealousy flaring abruptly. Their depiction really is perfect. Too perfect to have achieved through idle watching. They must have gotten their hands on Adora, must have felt her this closely and breathed her in the same way Catra's done, must have felt her touch on their skin and experienced the real Adora in order to copy her so masterfully.
The tracker pad drops to the ground with a sharp crack of its screen, and Catra's wrist turns in their hand to grasp at their forearm; sharp claws pressing as both of her grips tighten. They'll never forget this; they won't forget the anger flared in her eyes or the possessive clutch of her claws, and they certainly won't forget the rage laden in her voice as she hisses, low and dangerous and coldly controlled, one simple question. "And just how close," her fingers press harder on their arm and hand, the tips of her claws threatening to pierce their skin, "have the two of you gotten?"
Or, well. It's two questions, because her heart is burning in jealous flames and her hatred is hot and boiling in her stomach, and she still Wants, still demands: "How much of her can you show me?"
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Adora swallows hard when Catra's tongue darts out, thinking, just for a split second, that Catra might have had other plans for it. She still doesn't understand all of what Catra is implying, but it's a willful ignorance at this point--forcing down the realization slowly rising in the back of her thick skull, the foreign need pounding in her core like a second heartbeat.
It doesn't help when Catra grabs her, and Adora suddenly feels the whole world close in around the two of them; her entire existence being held hostage by the mismatched eyes staring furious daggers into her own. Objectively, she's not any more trapped than she was a moment ago, still wholly confident in her superior physical strength, but this is different. Whether it's logical or not, she's caught. Her skin prickles under the threatening press of Catra's claws, every hair on her body standing on end as she stares Catra down with a flat, emotionless expression.
"Do you really want to know?" It still feels wrong to lie about this, even if, again, it's not any of her business, just like what Catra does isn't any of Adora's business. (Though maybe it should be, if someone has been wearing her face the whole time.) But Catra is asking, and Adora has enough anger in her to make the answer sound like a come-on, almost without meaning to. "Try me."
Part of her thinks Catra will back down from--whatever this is. The rest of her knows better. Refusing to back down is what got both of them here in the first place, stuck on opposite sides of a war, miles away from what they once called home. From each other, most of the time. Maybe that second part is for a good reason, if this is what Catra thinks of her, these days.
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She hates the dispassionate look on their face as her own jaw clenches and her teeth grind, and she hates the sting in her eyes as the pain rises like bile in her throat, and Catra's answer to their challenge is a furious growl as she strikes forward that small space; screwing her eyes shut to kill the tears, closing her teeth sharply on their perfect copy of Adora's lip and digging her claws in definitively, taking her pain out on them. They wear Adora's skin too well, they make Catra want to tear them apart and destroy them the same way she wants to do to her, and Catra's not careful with the fanged jut of her teeth as she scrapes them harshly across their lip. This is their fault, Adora's fault -- Adora made her like this and Double Trouble's played on it, and they deserve it, now. They deserve to take the brunt of her hatred for Adora. They knew better than to come here as her, knew what would happen if they ignored the warnings and kept pressing. Whatever she does to them - they've brought it on themselves.
(Both of them.)
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"No," she says, but she doesn't mean stop. "You don't get to push me around, Catra. Not anymore."
Not like she did back in the Horde. Not like she did the other times they fought; when Adora let Catra get away with hurting her. Hurting her friends. When Catra opened that portal--she closed off something else in Adora's heart. She's done waiting around for her to change. This, all of this, only goes to show that Adora was right.
She wrestles control of her arms back, ignoring the nasty gashes left behind by Catra's claws. The crates are still nearby, and she shoves Catra towards the closest one; looming over her with an outraged expression that Adora hopes hides the fact that she just wants to cry. (Later, she will, but only after telling Bow and Glimmer everything she's learned.
Almost everything.)
"Is this what you've always wanted?" To hate her. To hurt her. I didn't want you to come back, Adora. "Well, congratulations. I hope it feels good."
As for Adora? She only wishes things could be different.
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Is this what she always wanted?
No.
But it's what Adora left her to work with.
The rage burns and flares hot as it consumes her jealousy, her hurt. The world goes dark at the edges, narrowing until it's just Adora, just Adora's face and the steel of her voice, and Catra hates. her. One hand clenches into the crate, the scrape of Catra's claws piercing the air loudly as they scratch deep grooves into the metal. The other flies for their cheek, her fingers curled to dig deep and tear through that perfectly replicated face in fury.
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Adora, who thought she was prepared for the look on Catra's face, but wasn't.
Stop, she wants to say. To beg. She wants the old Catra back--but she's starting to wonder if that person ever existed at all. Instead, she leans heavier against the crate, worried her legs might give way beneath her otherwise.
"... I knew it. You really do hate her."
It's the first time she's played into the act, truly pretended to be someone she isn't--because if she has to say you really do hate me, she might just lose it completely. Adora grits her teeth, drawing on her endless reserves of determination, and fixes Catra with another angry glare, ignoring the rivulets of blood running down her cheek.
"Had enough yet?" Somehow, she has her doubts. "Because I'm not letting you go."
Another lie. She's let go of Catra so, so many times--when she left the Horde; hanging off that cliff in the Crystal Castle; both inside and out of the portal dimension--but she knows the words will set Catra off, let her exhaust all her rage on Adora, distract her from whatever she's planning. (Help her, but Adora pushes the thought away, knowing they're long past that. This is about something bigger than either of them, now.)
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She doesn't care any more.
Her hand rises, the one stained with Adora's blood, and Catra presses it against her shoulder. Palm-first, as if they were still friends. As if Adora still cared.
Her claws dig in, and Catra's foot swipes between Adora's legs; hooking around her knee to pull her off-balance and shove her shoulder in one move, pushing off from the crate to give her smaller body the momentum she needs to knock Adora's to the ground. She hopes it hurts. She hopes she lands on the shattered glass of the tracker pad and feels every shard cutting into her.
"You want to know something about Adora?" She hisses, transferring her knees to Adora's hips, pinning her in the way she used to, shoving her down with her claws still buried in her shoulder and bringing her other hand to roughly grip her chin, forcing her to meet her furious eyes. "She uses people. She can't feel good about herself unless there's someone weaker around, so she makes them. She takes people who would have been stronger on their own and convinces them that they need her, that she'll look out for them. That as long as she's around, nothing really bad can happen."
She sneers the words, mocking them. Mocking herself. She's the idiot who'd believed her. Her fingers tighten on Adora's jaw, pressing the tips of claws until she feels the skin give; until red wells up around them. It both calms and infuriates her, settles the anger in her veins but stokes the hatred in her heart. She's able to return to a colder voice, and she's sure it'll be steady despite the tremble in her arms as she leans closer; close enough to taste the blood on Adora's lips if she wanted, close enough to bear witness to every flash of emotion that crosses those grey eyes. She wants to see them hurt, and she flexes her claws in her shoulder because Catra knows her words aren't going to make that pain happen. Adora doesn't hurt from what she did. Adora doesn't care. Catra has to make her.
"And then she leaves," she finishes coldly; tearing her hand down, gouging deep across her shoulder and onto her chest. To hear her scream like Catra had done when she'd realized she'd truly abandoned her, to see her cry in pain and shudder and curl, like Catra used to. "Leaves them alone, and weak, and pathetic, to go play hero to somebody new."
So, in summary? Yes. She pretty much hates her forever, and DT can have that tidbit for free.
"Anything else I have to clear up for you, or are you done."
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So Adora doesn't struggle when Catra pins her. She only winces at the claws digging into her skin, squeezes her eyes shut so she doesn't have to meet Catra's gaze anymore--which is a mistake, because she doesn't see the slight movements that would give her at least a millisecond's warning before her shoulder feels like it's being ripped off, and she does scream. Does howl like an animal as her legs kick out feebly under Catra, either unable or unwilling to hold it in. Why bother? Catra knows her. She knows how much it must hurt, even if the words are worse.
By the end of this, she might be putting "crazy" back on the list. (But then, nothing Catra's saying is wrong, is it? Adora didn't mean any of it, but that doesn't change what happened. How she made Catra feel. It's too late to fix things, but the guilt stays with her; a weight on her shoulders she'll never be free of, just like all the other burdens she carries.)
When it's finally over, Adora barely even registers the damage. The sleeve of her jacket has been torn off completely, along with a decent chunk of her shirt, exposing the bloodied skin underneath. She's not in danger of bleeding out, but she knows only adrenaline is keeping most of the pain at bay now--and it's going to be much, much worse when it hits.
Dully, she says: "... No, I think that about covers it."
And this is her acting, again, not because she wants to, or because she's any good at it, but because she has to. Defending herself won't help things--won't make Catra stop, or tell her anything she doesn't already know. She's pretty sure Catra isn't in the mood to listen, anyway.
"So, did it help?" She curses herself for asking, for caring, when she already said she wouldn't. Quickly, still with half her body on fire, she twists it into something more believable, almost supportive. "I mean, this is what you want to do to Adora, right? It's good practice."
She'd laugh, if it was funny in the slightest.
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"Don't try to get anything else on me," she rebukes them harshly. She flattens her palm on Adora's chest, fingers pressing into the gouges she's left as she kneads falsely into them. Their wounds stay through their shifts, so they're going to need to come up with something good to explain away this mess. But at least the clothes don't stay, which they should be relieved about. Because Catra is scratching her claws roughly down their side, tearing fully through the shirt and jacket and uncaring about the angry red lines she leaves behind on their skin. It's good to feel Adora jerk and writhe beneath her, even if this is the way she has to get it. Even if this is the only way she gets to lay her hand against the warmth of her skin, feeling the twitch of her muscles through her glove.
She does feel more settled now, her jealousy and pain died down to familiar embers that fuel rather than burn her. Worn down enough to retract her claws with a twitch of her fingers, the blood dripping freely from where they'd dug into Adora's face. But not so worn down that she removes her hand. Not so worn that she doesn't still feel a flush of heat when her fingers stroke and trace the copied muscles of Adora's abdomen, not so worn that she doesn't tilt her head that bit needed to press their lips together; the tip of her tongue stroking against she cuts she'd left there, too deliberate and firm to be an apology. She just wants to taste them. Wants to taste Adora.
"You know what I want you for." Catra hates it when they make her admit it, hates when they make her ask. So she's the one who draws back this time, voice husky, eyes narrowed. She's the one whose hand stills, and the one whose fingers flex on their jaw. She's the one who gives the ultimatum, her ear flicking down in irritation. "Are you going to give it to me, or are you going to leave so I can get back to work?"
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At least any lingering embarrassment about being exposed in front of Catra hardly matters now, compared to everything else. Her body still twitches under Catra's claws, more in response to the stimulation than the dulled agony of her wounds, with only the occasional quiet hiss making it out from between her teeth. But then Catra is touching her stomach--no, stroking it--and Adora actually misses the pain, biting down on her tongue to avoid gasping, or worse.
For all the good it does. A few seconds later, worse happens anyway, when Catra's lips press against hers. Adora's eyes go wide, and she moans in surprise; not expecting the (relative) gentleness. Or... any of it, really. What was that?
It doesn't matter. There's no time. No time to process anything except for what's happening Right Now, at this exact second--that's Catra, with a hand on her jaw, looking straight at her, speaking in that voice, all of which combines to make Adora feel like a very, very cornered mouse.
"You're--asking me?" She knows Catra isn't big on asking, especially when she thinks she has the upper hand. Obviously, this person--even if she's happy to almost tear them limb from limb--is important to her. Really important. An unfamiliar jealousy blooms in Adora's chest, knowing that someone else has gotten this close to Catra (while using her face, no less), and not her. Not that Adora ever could have, or would have. Would she?
... Wouldn't she?
"Yeah. I guess we're doing this." What's one more stupid decision at this point? The bitter feeling makes her sound huffy, almost demanding, as she stares back at her. "... Just tell me what you want, Catra. You know I'm no good at this stuff."
Self-deprecation. That should make her happy. The fact it's true, and Adora is desperately grasping at whatever straws she can pick up, is just a bonus.
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Then her eyebrow twitches up, dubiously and begrudgingly impressed. They've really managed to get all of the nuances down, from the huffiness in her voice to her hisses of pain. The moan, though. That's a bit overblown. They've done that just to mess with her, because they know she hates how quickly it causes an insistent heat to pulse between her legs.
"You really are dedicated." They haven't even called her 'kitten' once. It's kind of unsettling. But she's not upset to not hear it dripping sickly sweet from Adora's mouth, twining disgust in with Catra's loathing. "I had my doubts after the last time, but I guess you've finally gotten into her head." She tilts her head, checking them over. Watching their movements as she drags her palm up their stomach, the torn fabric of their ruined shirt pushing easily to the side as she goes. Even here, their copy is perfect. "If I didn't know any better, even I would think you were the real thing."
That's the highest praise they can get. Catra's been so critical about their act, insistent that they perfect it before they try it on the Rebels. Adora is the lynchpin of the entire Rebellion, constantly surrounded by the weaker allies she's convinced to stand with her. If they can fool Catra, then they can fool those idiots; they can take Adora's place before anyone even knows she's missing, and take their time enjoying the poisoning and destruction of the Rebellion while Catra makes Adora watch as everything she's spent these years working on is burned to the ground by the same people who had helped her build it. That would definitely break her.
It's that thought that brings the satisfied gleam into her eyes, as Catra's hand continues up over their replicated sternum, over the top that compresses their breasts, and hooks her claws over the hem of it below their collar. The tips scrape over their skin again as she pulls down, cutting through the fabric with laughable ease. It's a good look on Adora, Catra notes as she goes. Her white (--and red, stained with the pooling trickles of her blood) shirt torn all the way from her shoulder and pushed to the side; one half of her jacket in tattered shreds, all the ruined fabric shifting with every move of her chest. The marks of Catra's claws clear on her cheek and shoulder, gouged into her flesh in wounds that would have claimed her with scars if it weren't for She-Ra's stupid magic.
It makes Catra feel good to see her like this. Better than she's felt in ages.
"Do it like she would," she orders decisively. That's what she wants. Adora's hatred and pain manifested in brute, rough force; proving to Catra just how much she's hurt her, how much she's ruined her. That's what she needs, to know she's had an effect: to know that what she's done matters. She narrows her eyes again, ears flattening and tail lashing hard against their legs in warning. Catra doesn't need them to let her push them around as easily as they'd just let her. She's not weak enough that they have to restrain themselves against her, even if she is the one keeping their pockets lined. "Don't hold back."
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No. Whatever this is, she's not going to let it keep her from her friends. She'd rather trust and suffer the consequences, than live her life doubting the people she loves. That's the difference between her and Catra, between assuming the best about people, instead of the worst. Sometimes you get hurt, but you can't let it stop you from reaching out again. Not until the other person is completely beyond your grasp.
"Okay," she nods, swallowing down the choked sob rising in her throat. "If that's really what you want."
Adora knows what Catra is asking for--or at least, she's pretty sure she does. This self-destructive mess that she's become, the way she fought when Adora challenged her before, the hatred in her eyes; that's who Catra is now. Adora has to accept it. Has accepted it, outside these brief moments where they're face to face again, and she can't help searching for something, anything, more like the friend she once knew, even if she never finds it. Even if she never will.
She grabs hold of Catra above her exposed chest window, hands tensing in the fabric of her new outfit, ready to flip their positions. To take back control, physically, the only way she knows, has ever been good at. Instead, she pulls Catra close, kissing her with as much longing packed in as she thinks she can get away with. The way she's always wanted to, even if she didn't realize it until now. Almost an apology, whether or not Catra cares to hear it, or understands somewhere deep in her broken heart.
Then Adora does push her off, stumbling to her feet, and the sudden rush of adrenaline-given power makes her feel sick, even if Catra just shredded her clothes and skin and would do far, far worse if she knew the truth. Would kill her, but not before breaking her spirit, the kind of punishment the Horde reserves for its greatest enemies. (She has no problem bearing that particular title. It's being Catra's greatest enemy that hurts her.) All with the same look on her face; that awful, twisted expression back at the Battle of Bright Moon, that Adora had nightmares about for weeks afterward.
Imagining that bleak future, Catra sneering at her sobbing friends, awakens an anger in Adora that she wishes she could blame on the acting but is, in fact, all too real. With one hand, she reaches down to yank Catra onto her feet, barely noticing how much lighter she feels now, how fragile she is. She shoves her back onto the crate, pressing down with her whole body weight, not giving any chance for Catra to repeat her reversal from before, and rips her uniform open from collar to waist. The same way she'd done to Adora, only with brute strength instead of claws, and without tearing her apart afterward--just fisting her hands in Catra's fur to hold her still as she kisses her again, this time looking to dominate her opponent.
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But what she gets is not what she expected, and Catra freezes at the change. At the firm press of somewhat chapped lips against hers, at the awkward drag of them. It's too soft, it's too insistent, it's too -- filled with caring. It reminds Catra too much of what it had felt like to have a kind hand on her shoulder and warm arms around her; of a smug smirk and playful tussling.
It feels just like how Adora used to be.
Panic grips her and Catra shoves up and away from them with both hands, her ears flat and her eyes wide and the need to get away overriding. Her ears and her tear ducts are the two things she can't control and they take every opportunity to betray her, laying flat against her head in fear and watering respectively. Because she was expecting it to hurt but she wasn't expecting it to feel like swallowing needles. Wasn't expecting her chest to rise and fall so rapidly with quick breaths, wasn't expecting the unbearable searing pain in her heart to return so abruptly without any anger or hate to guide it.
--Just whose form had they been in when Adora had kissed them like that?
But it turns out they're shoving her at the same time as she's pushing, and their uneven momentum causes her footing to fail. (It's definitely that. Definitely not that Catra's legs are weak in shock.) She falls back ungracefully, and Catra's glad for the burst of agony as she lands right on her tail with a choked cry. It clears her mind in a flash of white, jars her out of her panic. She has enough time to feel the unpleasant vibration of her bones as her claws scrape against the hard clay earth, and she grabs a fistful of the grit just as Adora yanks her.
The slam of her back into the crate is a welcome difference, knocking the wind from her and creating bursting light before her eyes. The sudden hit of adrenaline screams in her veins, and though Catra's pinned, limp; she laughs. The sound gurgles up from her chest as her lungs struggle to recover, and then comes high-pitched with breathlessness as her shoulders shake, and she'd toss her head back but when she does she only hears the dull, reverberating thunk of the metal as she wheezes on the inhale. She sounds crazy. She feels crazy, like hysteria's just one sweet touch away.
It's lucky then, that they don't give her another. That the pop and rip of the seams of her uniform is such a raw show of strength that the instincts the Horde's trained in her won't let her ignore it. Adora's body is familiar and hot and feels like fire against Catra's, and she craves her; arching into the painful grab of her fur, relishing in the clarity and sharpness it brings to her mind even as she jerks her hips forward in the tight space, grinding into Adora as best she can. She needs that pain, needs it to center her as her mouth is devoured, and now it is teeth and tongue and the fight that she'd wanted. Catra makes sure it is, bites at their lips and tilts her head to seal her mouth firmly against theirs, licks into their mouth and presses back against their tongue with the roughness of hers, tasting them fully. Tasting Adora fully. And it, more than anything else, causes Catra's legs to shift; her stance widening so that when she next juts her hips forward, she's met with a surge of electric tingling that starts from her crotch and shoots all the way through the rest of her body. It gives her the strength to raise her empty hand and fist it roughly in Adora's hair, her fingers gripping around that stupid ponytail and hooking into its taut base without care for the scrape of her claws, so she can force Adora against her mouth more harshly; so that when the next roll of her hips tightens her throat with a short, sharp noise, it's lost in the battlefield they've created between them.
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... At least, mostly. Adora might be clueless here, but she's a fast learner, especially in the heat of the moment, with physical cues and bitter fury to guide her. Catra's laughs are manic and aimless, but to Adora, they're aimed squarely at her. As if all of this, any of this, is funny, part of her absurd game from before. This is Catra unhinged, like Adora never saw until she was threatening to tear the world apart, and maybe that makes it easier to draw a distinction between then and now, between the Catra she loves and the Catra who does nothing but hurt people.
Catra's kisses are as harsh as her claws, and Adora doesn't let her win. Every press of lips after the first is met with teeth, with her tongue pushing in to dominate, taking advantage of her size and position to counter Catra's fangs and sandpaper tongue; doubly so when Catra digs into her hair and pulls her closer, a surprised moan joining Catra's vocalizations in being swallowed up between them. It's the closest thing to good pain she's felt, even if she's sure that's just the adrenaline talking.
Whoever Adora is (or isn't) right now, she's supposed to be on Catra's payroll, but she wasn't the one who said don't hold back. She wonders if Catra will start regretting that at some point. Maybe then, she'll think twice before doing this again, hurting herself in ways Adora never thought possible, with acts she wishes were being done out of kindness and love instead of hatred and loathing, even with someone else. Catra deserves better than this, but she doesn't want better, and for once, Adora's sinking to her level instead of trying to drag Catra up to hers.
"Stay still," Adora growls against her mouth, knowing Catra won't, but needing to express her frustration more openly. She doesn't want this to be so fraught, so violent, but her shoulder is aching and Catra is still hurting her (just in other ways, now--worse ones, deep scratches on her heart), and her tolerance for it is at an end. A second later and her hands are on Catra's bare chest; the only thing keeping their bodies apart once Adora surges forward, thigh slotting instinctively into Catra's widened stance to keep her legs apart and off-balance. She has no idea what to do in either case, but her palms brush over Catra's nipples as Adora blindly explores her newfound territory, fingers flexing against the taut muscle and fur.
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It's fine. Catra's no stranger to the burn of her lungs or float of her mind, and at least this is her choice. It's her choice too, to yank roughly on their ponytail to pull them away from her mouth - biting hard at their lips as they go - so she can draw a ragged, painful breath.
Her eyes are wild, she knows. She'd press her chest into their hands but there's nowhere for her to go, so instead she squirms her hips and pulls on their hair again just to hear their noise, fangs flashing in her open-lipped smirk. They pretend they've got her, but their cheek is the one that's been ruined by her claws and it's the blood from their shoulder that's smeared on her hand and probably, by this point, her uniform and fur.
"Adora--" her hoarse voice wavers and catches partway through her name as Adora's calloused palms brush over her nipples, and Catra has to spare a moment to pant as the shudder of her body drives the short, wet drag of herself against Adora's thigh. Her hand tightens around the fistful of dirt and rock she'd picked up, and the press of a jagged edge into her palm steadies her. "--Doesn't get to tell me what to do anymore."
To prove her point, she pulls up on their hair and shoves down at their head, directing them forcefully towards her chest where their fingers are pressing into her fur, disrupting the smooth grain. Every flex of their hands causes her hips to judder against them, insistently taking what she needs. She doesn't have to wait for them to give it to her. And she makes no move to press her own thigh into them, makes no move to provide them with any sort of carnal relief. She meant it, when she said their satisfaction didn't matter.
"Use her mouth." Even now she's commanding, authoritative despite her dry rasp, in control despite what Adora would want her to believe. The tight press of Adora's body all against the front of hers isn't a threat she can't handle, the domineering way they'd kissed her isn't a force that doesn't thrill her to reckon with. No matter how it's sliced, Catra is still the one running this show.
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But Catra doesn't get to tell her what to do, either, even if the order sends an unwanted thrill down her spine. Nobody really gives her orders in the Rebellion (though Glimmer's been trying it on for size now that she's Queen, and Adora's fine with that, except for when she knows she's right and Glimmer should just listen to her), and she'd forgotten what a truly commanding tone sounded like being directed at her. Not from an ally, a friend, but from a superior making demands.
Which she is. So--fine. She'll play along, but she won't be making it easy, or what Catra expects. It's the kind of resistance Catra should know so well from experience; all the more frustrating for being technically within the rules, for skirting the lines instead of being flagrant and openly defiant.
With a grunt, Adora grabs Catra's sides, lifts her up until she's suspended atop Adora's raised thigh, the muscles in her grounded leg tensing but easily able to bear the extra weight. It puts her chest at face height, and even Adora isn't blind to the stiff nubs in front of her eyes; easy targets for her to pick one of and go to work on. So she does. She presses her tongue against the fur there, lavishing it with attention, like she's decided to behave. Following orders like a good soldier.
Then she bites--not on the nipple itself (she's not that cruel), but next to it, where she knows Catra should still be sensitive. Using her mouth, just like Catra told her to.
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And Adora's head below her chin, her hard exhales puffing furiously into Catra's rising fur, is perfect too. Just what she'd thought it'd feel like. Catra releases her hard grip on their ponytail to rake her claws through Adora's hair as her tongue licks sparks from her nipple, the tips scraping lightly against her scalp before Catra's fingers curl into the poof of her hair, tugging it loose. Every unrefined and sloppy move of Adora's tongue is joined with a just-barely-enough jerk of Catra's hips, and Catra raises her closed and trembling fist to press against Adora's paused hand on her side, urging it down. She needs more, the white-hot buzz ricocheting through her nerves from her nipple to her clit and burning all the way through her. She wants Adora's hands to chase it, for her fingers to scrape down over her tensed stomach and down the dip of her pelvis, for her to replace her thigh with her palm and stroke through the wetted-down fur between Catra's legs. Wants it so much that her tail flicks and curls around Adora's waist as Catra rolls up higher on her thigh, pressing in closer to her body, the slide of her stomach against Adora's as much desire to be close to her as it is to feel the mussing of her fur and to relieve some of her body's demands to be touched just---all over.
This is before Adora's mouth moves, and Catra gasps as her thighs clench around Adora's, the brush of her lips as she leaves an altogether different sensation to her tongue and feeling all the better for the contrast.
Then a sharp pain lances through her breast, and Catra jerks with a loud cry that is half a yowl and half a high-pitched moan, forcing her weight down onto Adora's thigh hard to blend the pain further in with the spiraling pleasure, shoving her palm against Adora's forehead to force her away and pulling hard on the strands of her fringe in punishment.
She's breathing hard, her pupils blown wide and furious again as she growls at them, teeth bared and every word low and rough with arousal: "What", she yanks their hair again as she snarls, the after-burn of their bite warranting it, "do you think you're doing?"
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Right now? She doesn't love this. Doesn't even like it, except in some primal, unrecognizable way. But it's still satisfying to see Catra react so strongly, letting Adora claw back some control over a situation that has, very quickly, gotten out of hand. Catra's backlash is what she expects, and Adora meets her gaze with a smug expression framed by the thin blonde strands falling loose around her face.
"Just using my mouth," she says with a smirk, entirely missing the my versus her slip. Her voice is almost as husky with arousal, the hand yanking her hair making her eyes water and her heart pound, but she doesn't flinch. "What's wrong, Catra? I thought you wanted this."
She's not expecting anything but a swift, angry denial, just looking to get her proverbial licks in where she can. Because Adora's not always nice when she's angry--the kind of anger that only Catra can draw out of her, after nearly destroying everything for petty revenge. Every part of her aches, down to her bones, and she is not going to cooperate with her enemy. Not without a fight. And if there's one thing Adora is good at? It's fighting. The fact this particular battle is being fought with words and mouths and hands doesn't make it any less of one, with how she's framed it in her head.
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It's another thing that used to be Theirs that Adora's gone and given away, and Catra's teeth grit through the jab of pain, her breathing loud in her ears. She doesn't think about it, when the fist of hers that's holding the dirt rises to pound on the open wound on Adora's shoulder, wedging between their bodies.
"I hate you," she hisses as her fingers loosen, grinding rock and clay and dirt into the gashes with her palm. She knows objectively that it's her spy, but the face that's roiling the acid in her stomach is Adora's, and Catra's ears are completely flattened against her head, her pupils shifting as they struggle to contract in fury despite being still dilated with arousal. Because to add insult to injury, she's still gripped tight around their leg. Her tail's still wanton around their waist. She's still craving Adora. "You can't even do," Catra's tight voice shakes with rage and fury, her fingers twisting in their hair and feeling strands give way under her pull, volume rising with every word: "one. thing. for me. What good are you?!"
She's trembling, frustration and fury and that stupid, horrible, unending heartache coiling every muscle of her body too tight, her hackles raised and lips drawn back. Why is it that just like the real Adora, they won't just give her what she needs from them? Why is it that even when she's paying them, when they're the one who offered, she has to claw and fight and struggle to earn any sort of relief? Nothing in Catra's life has ever come easily, but this? --Coming easily was the entire point of the arrangement. How dare they backtrack on her like this, how dare they take Adora's face and body and heart and replicate her so painfully, so perfectly, and then withhold from Catra the very thing they were supposed to be giving her?
"Do it right," her tone drops back down into ice, her claws dig back in to the gashes. Threatening her spy is a terrible, horrible idea; but Catra's far past the point of making good decisions, far past the point of being rational or reasonable. She's allowed them too much leeway; they've crossed the line over and over, pushing all of her buttons just the way Adora knows how to, and it's not like Catra can't make it without them. She doesn't need them to destroy Adora, or her pathetic Alliance. She was doing just fine before they came along. "Or you'll be lucky if I let you make it back to the Wastes."
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Instantly, Adora decides that she won't give Catra the satisfaction of hearing her scream again. She grits her teeth hard enough that they might crack, her whole body going rigid, but she holds it in, reducing the cries from last time to a furious, hissed-out breath. Not a victory, but not a loss, either.
"Oh, did I make you angry?" Because she's made Adora furious. She's skirting the line, and she knows it, but she has to get this out of her system somehow, to be honest with her mouth while her body does nothing but lie, just by being who she is. "You're not going to win, Catra. Not now, or ever."
Adora doesn't expect to get away with this permanently. She's sure Catra will figure out sooner or later that she's been tricked, but the longer she can go without Catra knowing what she's discovered here, the better. If Catra actually tries to kill her, or has her banished, her advantage won't last the day. She needs to get out of here with their relationship still intact, whatever it is, and hope that Catra's white-hot rage and bitterness keeps her from bringing this up with them anytime soon.
So she pours water on the fires of resistance burning inside her, leaving the embers alive for another time; ignores the sharp pain as she jerks her head out of Catra's grasp, the discomfort nothing compared to the growing anguish in her shoulder that Adora's not sure will ever fade completely. She'll fight through it if she has to, just like she fought through the devastation she felt seeing Catra facing her from across the battlefield for the first time, until it almost stopped registering.
Whoever she's supposed to be doesn't have the casual intimate knowledge that comes with years of knowing someone, of sharing the same bed, of being everything to each other. Back then, Adora never knew there could be more than what she and Catra already had, but now that she does, she can re-purpose some of that knowledge, some of that experience. She knows the weak point at the base of Catra's tail, for instance, so she digs her nails into it hard in the narrow space between fur and the metal of the crates. Her head lowers again, and she does what Catra seemingly wants from her--sucks the skin around her nipple into her mouth, ignoring the taste of wet fur--all while deliberately bouncing her thigh in an uneven rhythm, both as a way to burn off nervous energy and to catch her off guard. To distract her from the things only Adora could know.
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"I am winning." Although it doesn't feel like it, when Adora's head pulls away and Catra's left grasping just a few blonde threads. Doesn't feel like she's as much in control when Adora's fingers dig in to the sensitive base of her tail and she jerks against her with a yelp that turns into a keen as Adora's mouth sucks around her nipple, and she's bounced on Adora's thigh. It's such an abrupt assault on her senses that it overtakes Catra's mind, too much happening too quickly, and her hand scrabbles for Adora's hair again; lengthened claws scratching as she struggles to grip something, the rest of her body trying to move into each point of sensation but ultimately only succeeding in writhing between the cold metal of the crate and the hot press of Adora's body, each as unyielding as the other.
"Look around you," she gasps, her thighs quaking with tremors as she presses into the messy, unpracticed rhythm of Adora's leg. At the same time, her hips are trying to tilt down; her tail curled tightly around the arm that's grasping it as her backside rubs against the crate, trying to push into the pressurepain of Adora's nails. It's just as unthinking as the words spilling from her mouth, the need to prove herself burning desperately in her throat. "I've done all of this. The Horde belongs--" her hand twists in Adora's hair, the other clenches in the wounds of her shoulder, as Adora's tongue flicks at the same time as her leg judders and Catra loses herself in the sharp sparks as she cries out again, breathing rapidly as she struggles to continue: "--to me. I am winning this war, I am conquering Etheria."
Grasping Adora's hair isn't enough, Catra needs - needs to hear her wail, scream, anything.
"Everything on this planet--" Pain won't work. Hurting her won't get Catra what she wants. This isn't about their satisfaction, but it is about Catra's; and it's why she lifts her knees forwards, pressing her clawed feet against Adora's calf with a flex of her toes to tear through her pants, using her to push her thigh up firmly between Adora's legs, the action pooling more heat in her than she'd ever thought possible. She wants it, she wants her, she's never stopped wanting her. "--is going to be mine. There isn't anybody who is going to stop me."
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If she dies, she'll die knowing she did everything she could to save people, not to hurt them. That she at least tried. She's the Princess of Power, but her true strength doesn't come from her Runestone, it comes from her friends; just like it came from Catra back in the Horde, when Adora would have done anything to keep her safe. Still would, if Catra would just give her something, anything, to have hope in.
Adora's sure another attack is coming when she feels Catra move--knows she's just as deadly with her feet as her hands--and braces herself to accept the pain as her pants tear. She'll stagger out of here on bleeding legs if she has to, make bandages from what's left of her jacket and focus on surviving until she can find the others again. Stupid, to come here without some way to communicate with them, but she had nowhere to hide anything on her body, and she thought she could handle Catra. Lesson learned in that particular regard.
See, what Catra actually does is worse. Worse because it's unfamiliar, and what Adora's been aching for without realizing, without the words to call it or the experience to understand. If she didn't have her soldier's focus--wasn't treating this like a fight already--she'd crumble the way Catra wants her to, take the given inch and beg for a mile. She doesn't. Her eyes roll back in her head as they flutter closed with a moan, but her body takes over, navigating on autopilot, like she does in Light Hope's simulations whenever her mind wanders elsewhere; except her mind isn't wandering, it's right here, trapped under Catra's claws, the same way as the rest of her.
"No," she mumbles dazedly, rutting against Catra's thigh; breathing the words into Catra's bare chest, over her heart. There's no need to look around, when the only thing that matters right now, good or bad, is Catra. "Not everything."
Because no matter what happens, she'll never have She-Ra, or Adora. It's selfish, and stupid, to pretend Catra wants her the same way Adora is starting to realize she once wanted Catra, but she allows herself a moment to pretend that Catra's thigh between her legs is driven by want instead of just a need to destroy her, to possess her, along with everything else. Adora's only special because she's She-Ra, a thorn in Catra's side she's never been able to rid herself of. Otherwise, she'd be just another Rebellion soldier, not important at all to Catra, or to anyone.
What she's doing to Catra now, letting Catra do to her, isn't for either of their sakes, even if it should be entirely for the two of them, away from the world--but it's for Etheria that Adora ignores the blood pounding in her ears, the pleasure that makes the bouncing of her leg morph into uncontrollable spasms, her foot slamming back onto the ground before she loses the strength to keep Catra aloft. It's for the Rebellion that she fills her mouth with Catra's fur and skin again, scrapes at it with her teeth, presses her tongue against the closest peak, sucks hard enough to bruise. And it's for what they can never have that she clutches onto the base of Catra's tail like a lifeline, wanting to hold some part of her one last time.
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"Yes," Catra groans back, rough and deep and primal. She sets the rhythm now, feeling the give under her claws as she pushes on the balls of her feet to lift and grind herself against Adora, shuddering at the pull of her tail as she forces herself up; angling herself to rub against the hard jut of Adora's hipbone with a short and high cry that echoes almost plaintively in the cavern. It hits her more directly than the pressure of her thigh, almost painful in its intensity, and Catra's hips stutter before working more frantically. How had she ever gotten by on fantasies, how had just imagining this ever been enough? Adora rutting gracelessly into her, her mouth hot and furious on her chest, her hand possessive and dangerous around her tail. The tang of arousal wafting from her, teasing on Catra's tongue with every ragged pant. It's so much more than Catra ever thought it could be. She doesn't want to ever let go of her. "--Everything."
She wants all of Adora, she needs more of her. Catra's hand drops from the gashes on her shoulder, shoving aside the torn rags of her clothing to palm at her breast; feeling the rigid bump of her nipple as she rubs it through the fabric of her glove, her fingers pressing into the curve of her flesh. That almost does it for her; almost sends those layers crashing, almost drowns her in the waves of climax.
"Look at me," she orders, hard and strained and breathless, keeping Adora's head in place with the press of her hand; claws scratching as she struggles to hold on. She wants to see the fire in Adora's darkened eyes, wants to see lust and yearning and Want, wants to pretend it's hers - all hers, like Adora's come back for her, like Adora's laying down a claim. Wants to pretend that Adora needs this as much as she does, as if they're connected again for the first time in years, in tune and in sync and together, competing and urging each-other towards their shared desires. She wants just -- a moment, one moment, to feel like they're each-other's again. Just like they used to be.
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"Catra--" she breathes her name the way she used to, without the years of resentment and pain behind it. Giving Catra what she needs, but only because it's what Adora needs, too, the strength to fully sever this bond before anything can come of it again, to finally do what she has to. "I'm sorry."
And she is sorry; sorry that she failed her, that she's still failing her, even if she knows better than to expect anything else now. Sorry that this can only end with one of them dead at the other's hand, when neither will admit defeat. Sorry that the only thing she couldn't save Catra from was herself. That she's accepted losing her, or thinks she has, when she'd once promised the opposite, said nothing could ever come between them.
Sorry that loving her wasn't enough.
Adora's too sore and tense and miserable to come, still rubbing pathetically against Catra's thigh with tiny jerks of her hips, the opposite of Catra's frantic but deliberate motions. It doesn't matter. It's not herself she's thinking of, not her that matters when things blur in front of her watery eyes and Catra is Catra again, not the leader of the Horde or her enemy, but her best friend, the one Adora would have given herself to if only she'd followed her out of the darkness. The one she's giving herself to now anyway, rubbing the base of her tail and kissing over her heart before biting down above her breast again, her blunt nails running up Catra's back against the grain of her fur, holding her through whatever this is; making sure she can at least feel safe, the way Adora always did with Catra at her feet, at her side, at her back.
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It isn't what she wants.
But it's too late now. She can't go back.
Adora's voice says her name, and Catra's eyes slam shut as her throat closes and a silent sob heaves in her chest. She's too vulnerable now, she doesn't have the time to hide in hate and fury to defend herself. She should have known that this would happen, should have known they'd take advantage of her like this to really hone in and learn about the things that make her weak.
Her hands scrabble, scratching across Adora's body to find purchase on her arms, pressing the pads of her fingers in as if it might stop her. She doesn't want to hear the apology, tearing her apart with its remorse. Doesn't want to hear Adora speaking to her like she still cares, doesn't want Adora looking at her like she's something to be pitied. Doesn't want her running her hand up her back, mussing her fur in such an obvious way; assuring her of her presence and surrounding her fully, turning what was once an aggressive position into something more secure and protective. Giving Catra what she's craved since the day Adora took it away from her: a space for her to be safe in, a place for her fragile heart to be cradled and soothed and loved.
It's the kiss to her chest that does it. The tender action pulls the final thread from underneath her, and when those burning layers of passion collapse and fall they do so accompanied by a storm of tears. Her body jerks and shudders, and when she cries out it's wet and choked, the sharp pain of Adora's bite the only thing that breaks through and grounds her in the rush of what is both the most full-body and intense release she's ever had, and the worst.
She curls into and over Adora with it, her arms crossing around her back to cling to her as she gasps into her hair. Her chest shudders with tears as much as it does the raging rush of an orgasm that is not so much pleasurable as it is an unwitting firing of nerves, Catra's mind too drowned in grief to partake. Her hips run of their own accord, bumping off of Adora's one more time before jerking back to press with all of her weight into her thigh, the slickness caught inside her underwear easing the slide as she rocks pathetically against her in a few final movements before juddering and jerking to a stop. And then she's left trembling, pathetic, weak; holding on to her greatest enemy with all the strength that's left in her body, crying choked and ragged tears of pain and yearning into Adora's mussed and harried hair as the last vestiges of this terrible, incredible climax echo through every twitch and tremble of her helpless body.
She's such. A damn. Idiot.
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Adora's sure Catra will remember who she is (isn't) soon enough, and lash out and hurt her again. Hurt them both, because Catra's anger has always been a way of expressing her own pain, even if Adora never understood that side of her, barely understands it now, unable to see beneath the surface of things. She can at least hear the torment in her cries, but it's not enough for forgiveness, when Catra refuses to apologize or make amends or try. All of them have suffered and lost things; it's no excuse for perpetuating the cycle.
But she can't just let her go--she's not heartless, no matter what Catra thinks or expects from her. She hasn't seen Catra like this since they were kids, and Adora gives herself a few more seconds for her head to unfog, for her vision to clear. It would be so easy to destroy Catra now, but Adora cradles her in strong, bloody arms; waiting for the trembling to stop completely, for Catra to be her enemy again, instead of a scared girl huddling under a blanket in their bunk. Chances are, Catra wouldn't pay her the same courtesy, but she tries not to think of the what-ifs.
She's not stupid enough to ask what that (any of that) was, good or bad, all the curious questions she might have if it was really the two of them instead of an awful mockery. None of it matters now. Catra got what she wanted, and Adora's done here. She tries to take stock of herself as best she can with Catra wrapped around her--the wound on her shoulder still oozing, but everything else starting to clot. Good. As for Catra... she's fine physically, and that's all Adora can be the judge of.
Deliberately, Adora schools her expression back into the bitter one from before, driving out the softness from her eyes before Catra sees them again; puts on her best She-Ra voice, the one she practices in her head for her confrontations with Catra, to the point where it almost comes naturally.
"Just so you know? This isn't what winning looks like."
It's a pyrrhic victory at best, though she knows Catra is more than happy to take those most of the time; that it isn't about her winning, but Adora losing. That's what makes her so dangerous, when Adora isn't prepared to sacrifice anyone but herself; just like she's doing, letting Catra hate her because she knows, knows, that's how she really feels, and at least then she won't sound so tortured and broken about a decision she already made years ago. Adora's always wanted her stopped, but never once wanted her hurt. Not even now.
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It's been years since Catra's felt so kind a touch, and it's shameful, despicable how difficult it is to protect herself from it now. It's not the same as Scorpia's strong hugs, which are physically impossible to escape. This attacks her mentally, emotionally. Hits every weak point she's worked so hard to bury like they're bright and obvious targets on display. She thought she'd gotten rid of this part of herself, killed it off like a friend sent to die alone on a dangerous island; starved it out, like a prisoner awaiting interrogation.
But she hasn't. She misses Adora. And Catra feels it more keenly now than she has in a long time. Here, cradled in the arms of an imposter. Here, with her teeth gritted so hard they might shatter under the strength of her jaw; the pads of her fingers digging into their clothes; her eyes clenched shut, her every shallow breath filled with that perfect reproduction of Adora's scent.
She hates herself for how much she still yearns for her, and Catra seizes upon that tendril of loathing like a lifeline. Coils it quick around her heart, uses it to smother the aching embers of regret. She needs to be angry, and it's the first step. She only wants Adora because that's what Adora taught her she needed. Adora made her think she was weak enough to need to be given safety, instead of being strong enough to stand on her own. Adora made her believe she wanted to be cared for, looked after - tricked Catra into thinking she could do the same for her, watching out for each-other the way best friends are supposed to do.
It's what helps Catra get herself back under control, but the fatigue in her limbs lingers even as she rekindles the despicably low-burning fire of disgust and hatred in her heart.
Lucky for her, they're willing to provide the final bit of fuel she needs.
"What would you know," she hisses into their hair. It's easier, then, to unwind her arms from around them; to put her hands, upside-down and palms flat, against the crate instead; to lift her knee hard and fast into their crotch, shoving her weight against the crate to force them backwards and kicking off of them with her foot to turn herself, up and over in a nimble flip, to crouch atop the cold metal.
"I want them at the ambush point in an hour." Catra's eyes are cold and hard and reddened as she glares down at them. They're ruined, Adora's clothes hanging in tatters, their cheek scratched and their hair mussed and frazzled. The top of her own uniform hangs loose in front of her, and Catra snatches the torn seams together with a deep and warning growl. The fur of her back presses up uncomfortably against the rigid pull of her uniform, the dampness of her underwear is an unwelcome and stomach-turning distraction, and her fingers and glove are covered in their blood. Every inhale she takes stinks of Adora, pressed into her fur and her skin and her clothes, and Catra can feel bile burning at the bottom of her throat. She feels like an animal up here, and it's their - Adora's - fault. She's going to destroy her. "I don't care what it takes. Get them there."
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Catra pushes off her, and Adora straightens up, immediately a soldier again. She flinches at the final, insulting knee to her crotch, but her disdainful expression holds firm, as rigid as her pose. "Fine. Then I'm taking a skiff."
Swift Wind would be far, far too obvious a sight flying overhead. She needs distance, and she needs it fast, but subtle. Pressing a hand against her gashes to stem the bleeding, Adora steps backwards on legs unsteady with arousal more than pain, spouting some trite challenge that would be more at place on the battlefield than here, with Catra clutching her uniform together, Adora's shirt and jacket still hanging off her shoulders in ruins.
"This isn't over, Catra. You won't be so lucky next time."
Telling Catra outright not to bring this up again will only raise suspicion, so she has to rely on Catra's own obsessive paranoia and hatred to hold her tongue, and just hope that she can look her in the eye again after this mutual deception without giving herself away. Without thinking of Catra curled around her and crying, making Adora want to carry her home--a real home, the way the Fright Zone never was, the way Bright Moon became for her, only missing that one, all-important person; an open door waiting that slowly closed over the years. Etheria is more important than Catra, than Adora, than the two of them together. She made her choice, and she knows it was the right one.
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Regret coils sharp and tangy in her gut. How stupid is she, carving into her own spy like that? They knew what they were in for, they goaded her into it, but that...
...that's so obvious a reaction from her. Not only has she compromised them - there's no way Adora won't recognize the claw marks if she sees them - but she's given so much of herself away. They got in deep under her skin, now they know without any uncertainty what makes her tick.
She is dizzy, and exhausted, and her heart is pounding loudly in her ears and Catra's stomach churns. She tugs hard at her uniform, using the press of pain from their bites to jolt through the haze. She needs them to leave, or she's going to be sick.
"There won't be a next time." The hateful chill in her voice hardly wavers despite the world starting to close in, and she doubles down on it, clenching her claws into the lid of the crate. They know they've gotten to her, she cried on them. They could take her apart any minute now, and that anxiety sticks bitter like ash in her mouth. Which still tastes like Adora. She can hardly hear herself over her breathing, sounding inordinately loud despite how careful and measured it is. "Your act is fine. Don't waste my time testing it again."
Catra releases a shallow breath, trying to push the edges of panic down. They'll hold this over her. A few scratches and a probable infection in their shoulder is a small price to pay for what they've learned. The material they have on her now is just - invaluable. There's no point in pretending they don't have everything they need to get whatever they want out of her.
"I don't care how many skiffs you have to take," she hears herself saying. She'll be lucky if this is the only thing they demand of her right now, when she's struggling so much to hold herself together. "Put them down in my name, sell them for scrap, I don't care. Do you understand me?"
She tries to meet their eyes. Tries to pretend the glare and hatred in them aren't the same as she sees whenever she dreams, the backdrop of a vengeful portal behind them.
"Take whatever you want," she says, slowly. Clearly. So that she doesn't have to repeat it. They've won, they can have anything she can give. As long as they just take it and don't torment her with the reminder of why she's giving it, Catra might just be able to live with it long enough to figure something out. "And don't come back here again."
Of course, later - when they do come back, when they free her from the burning wreckage - she'll be more grateful than ever that they ignored her. That they came back to check on her after this. She'll be relieved, even, that they've accepted the hint to ignore it; that even though they both know they have the upper hand over her now, they're content to let it lie as long as she gives them whatever it is they ask for.
But right now, she really just needs them gone. Before she gives them anything else to work with.