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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"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.