Catra doesn't want to be held. It makes it harder to scrabble to pull herself back together, the safety of Adora's arms around her too familiar and too comforting. How many times has she curled into Adora and cried? How many times has Adora run her hands over her fur, across her shoulders, through her hair; soothing her with warmth and sweet care?
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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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."