Archive of Our Own ^beta

Present, 12pm

Catra is a fuzzy bundle of hate. Why is she doing this? Her fur is ruffled and chafes against her shirt, her tail is coiled tightly around herself and her claws are itching. Catra hates the masses of people looming around her, hemming her in, blocking her view and her progress. She hates all the layers of noise overwhelming her sensitive ears: the inane chatter, laughs, screams and the indistinct thrum of people and that doesn’t even account for the music. Which she also hates. She had already hated the bubblegum flavored pop song before it had been butchered by an accordion, a flute and a strange yodeling instrument she doesn’t recognize and hopes never to hear again when she finally escapes this loud, crowded, gaudily dressed hellscape. She prefers good music to overwhelm her senses, thank you very much. 

She keeps her eyes fixed on Scorpia’s broad back and stinger. At least her bulk is forcing a path through the crowd. 

Earlier, 10am

Catra could see the disappointment in her friend's face, but she didn’t care. Scorpia had spent the last three days messaging, calling and personally haranguing Catra to accompany her to the Ren Faire, so the tall Scorpioni should be glad she eventually caved in. Catra had drawn the line at dressing up, though. With her red flannel button-up over a black tank top and torn leggings  she looked out of place. Scorpia had actually painted her carapace to look like metal armor. Good job too, Catra had to admit in the privacy of her head, but really not her thing. 

“Hey, wildcat, thanks for coming!” the tall woman beamed, smashing Catra to her chest in one of her infamous hugs. Catra had braced for it, but the air was still knocked out of her lungs. Since her friend had taken that job at the organic coffee place and started hauling the huge sacks of 

coffee beans around she had become even more buff. 

“You wouldn’t leave me alone otherwise,” Catra grumbled in return, but she did squeeze her back for a moment.

“Ah, don’t worry, it will be fun!”

“Yeah right,” Catra said, eying the approaching shuttle bus that would take them and half a dozen others to the fair. 

10:25am

“This way, noble guests and commoners, this way! Hand over your gold and enter!” 

Two men in armor that smelled like it hadn’t been aired in a decade barred each person’s way into the fair grounds with crossed halberds until they had handed over money or shown a ticket. At least there the use of modern technology was still permitted and the plain but smartly dressed woman scanned Scorpia’s phone with no issue. Catra thought it was called an apron dress. Obviously why, really, she thought. 

“Now we need to get some coins.” Scorpia said and looked around, or rather, above the crowd just milling around behind the entrance.

Catra sighed. She couldn’t help herself.

“Why, Scorpia dearest?” she drew out every syllable, just to annoy.

“Because, wildcat,” Scorpia turned to her and beamed, “no one wants to pay for old timey stuff with a credit card. So we get these gold tokens and pay with them!”

Catra’s ear twitched.

“That sounds like how they do it at like whiskey and beer festivals  to keep the drinking in check?” she wondered. What exactly did they need to limit their spending on here?

“I wouldn’t know about that, but it’s fun!”

Scorpia thinks everything is fun. Well, most things. Catra shook her head and looked around as well.

“Over there.” She pointed and set off, determined to be at least efficient in her misery. 

10:55am

Catra could appreciate that the weapons were cool. She was particularly taken with a sort of hammer and pick combination.

“What’s this?” she asked the burly bear-hybrid in charge of the weapons area.

“That’s a kind of war hammer, lady. See here,” and before Catra couldsay anything else he lifted it in one hand as if it was a screwdriver., “in general it’s enough to give a bang on the head with this. That’s solid iron and you ain’t gonna get up after being hit with that, I assure you. Even with a helmet you’ll probably be concussed and a concussed knight is a dead knight. And the spike,” he flipped the weapon around, showing it off, “can be used to pull at things, helmets, armor, reins of horses, especially when it’s on a long pole like these halberds over there. And it’s also a good can opener for armor. The knight is down and you just go straight through the metal!”

“Cool.” mumbled Catra, a lady of eloquence, after this wall of information. There was so much more.

Herwyn, or at least that’s what he called himself at the fair, clearly knew everything and recognized a captive audience when he had one, because Scorpia was on the opposite side of the weapons area, being fitted for a suit of armor. Perhaps she felt that in addition to her carapace it would make her invulnerable. It would certainly make her scary to behold. 

There were blades of all lengths to look at, plain and decorated, practically and ceremonial. Humans really were inventive to compensate for their lack of claws. She wondered how a hybrid came to be so involved in all of this, he definitely didn’t need a weapon himself. 

“So, what’s your favorite?” Herwyn asked after showing off a selection of overly gold plated scimitars from the distant east and gave her a smile full of deadly looking teeth. She fought the urge to snarl at him, because he didn’t smell in the least aggressive. Probably just eager. 

“Uh, the long sax. Pretty but practical?” He chuckled and Catra wasn’t sure how to take this.

“I’m a fencer!” she said defensively, as if she needed to establish some cred with this man. Well, she was! And a good one!

Herwyn ran his gaze over her body as if really looking at her for the first time. Catra was about to snarl for real, when his face split into a huge grin.

“I can see that. But the newest thing I have on display is from the 16th century and predates the golden age of fencing.”

“Aw, shame.”

It would have been interesting to hold a proper dress sword.

Herwyn plucked a card from his shirt. 

“There’s a different fair in a few months where we are going all out on the swashbuckling. Bring your big friend! You’d do well with big boots, a cape, hat and a sword!” 

Catra mutters something and turns to look over to Scorpia. She looks like a mobile tank with pincers. Perhaps this won’t be this bad, she thought.

11:20am

She had been wrong. It was so much worse. After she had freed herself from her artificial carapace Scorpia had continued to drag her along. First there was the food court, where the smells made her mouth water and her head ache with their overlapping intensity. There was no hope of getting something to eat however, because the lines were long and Scorpia was on a mission now.

Spices. Herbs. Essential oils. Tinctures. Incense. Salves. Potions.  

It was all just a big mess for her senses and the hawkers yelling in the attempt to get customers were just the icing on the overwhelming cake. 

Catra leaned against a barrel, watching Scorpia haggle with a scented candle merchant. The barrel smelled of something alcoholic, which was at least overpowering some of the nastier ones. Catra was vaguely aware she was supposed to help her friend, but she just couldn’t. This had been a bad idea from the start and if she didn’t keep herself away she’d do something rash and she’d feel guilty about it for weeks.

A songbird watched her wearily from the top of a tent.

“You’re lucky. You can just fuck off when you’re done.”

Present, 12:05pm

“Gangway please, ‘scuse me, coming though, thaaank you!” Scorpia mumbles constantly as she pushes a way for them through the stands. When Scorpia’s entire posture changes, Catra guesses she has spotted her girlfriend in the crowd.

“Almost there, wildcat” she says, knowing Catra can pick her voice out from the cacophony around them. She doesn’t react, she just trudges on, lost in her own little world of stimuli. Then suddenly there’s a free space on the wooden stand where Perfuma has spread out a colorful blanket to save them seats.

“Great you could make it!” Perfuma singsongs and spreads her arms magnanimously. Catra sighs, but inwardly, because she wants to like Scorpia’s girlfriend. She just makes it very hard sometimes. She is wearing an outrageously bright red dress complete with dainty hat and a veil. Catra has only vague notions about the history of medieval dress but the various elements seem to belong to different centuries and were assembled only under the rule of cool. All the lace is flower patterned, because of course it is. 

Scorpia gives her a very chaste kiss, careful to keep her pincers away from the delicate fabric. 

“Hello, sweet blossom, great to see you!” 

Perfuma looks around Scorpia’s bulk to Catra.

“Good to see you, Catra. Wonderful to see you out in the sun!” 

Catra waves at her lazily and flops onto the slatted seats. For the first time she takes in what they have come to see. It’s a long dirt area, roughly oval shaped with a wooden partition lengthwise, cutting it almost into two halves like a split avocado. 

“What is this?” Catra asks cautiously. It smells strongly of horses and alcohol laced honey. 

“The jousting!” Scorpia says with enthusiasm, as if that explains anything.

“The what?” she asks, not trying to hide the bite in her voice. She started off with no patience and after several dozen old timey words that everyone here just assumes you already know she’s just done.

“The jousting,” Perfuma repeats, “the high point of any knightly tournament. There was supposed to be a melee beforehand but not everyone has shown up so they are doing the jousting first. It’s two knights on horseback trying to knock each other off the horse with a lance.”

 Catra is tempted to hiss what a melee is, but the last bit seems more urgent to ask after.

“That sounds really fucking dangerous!” she wondered, “who’d do something that dumb?” 

She can just picture the sort of men who’d line up for that, especially if football ever went out of fashion.

“You’ll see,” Scorpia says and Catra hears a smirk in her voice. “You’ll see.”

“What is that supposed to mean? And what’s a melee?”

Scorpia is not looking at her, probably too infatuated to pay her more attention.

“It’s all contestants in that arena and whoever still stands at the end wins. There’s also single combat sometimes but not much anymore.”

“How is that even legal?” It sounds like an unhinged hobby. Worse than free climbing or deep diving. 

Perfuma laughs, a touch awkwardly. “There’s waivers to sign and also all the weapons are blunt and they are wearing armor. When you fall or go down to your knees, you’re out.”

Okay, that sounds a bit less batty then. Not that she’d say no to seeing some jocks nose bloodied, truth be told. 

That exhausts her scope for conversation and anyway the lovebirds are busy. The crowd is still loud but at least she isn’t wading through a sea of people anymore. She looks around some more. There’s a boxed seating area on the opposite side of the arena where splendidly dressed people sit on wooden thrones. Lucky bastards, Catra thinks, scoring the job of king and queen must be pretty sweet. The girl playing the queen is wearing a purple gown, with bubble-gum pink hair poking under a crown and veil. Catra wonders if she knows her face from somewhere. 

There’s activity at the edge of the arena but nothing is happening. Catra sinks into herself, wrapping her tail around herself again. She’s stuck here until this charade is over, because she sure as hell isn’t braving the crowds alone. Her fingers find her noise canceling headphones without prompting by her brain. The noises decrease and something she actually enjoys hearing starts playing. Catra crosses her arms and looks down. She’ll get through this. 

12:09pm

The first knights on horseback show up. Apparently all competitors take a lap in front of the audience first. They all have some sort of device on their shield, or cloak, or wear an extravagant helmet, or have even draped their poor horse in some device. At least they are quite close, so all the details are visible, as if she cares, she tells herself. 

Catra imagines, purely on the looks because she can’t hear the poor person yelling into a speaking trumpet over the noise of the masses, that they are all calling themselves something like knight of thorns and the swan knight or even the black warrior. And all of them will ride breastplates first into a lance? Idiots. 

12:15

Catra labels the next rider the biggest fool because he has painted a target on his breastplate. It’s honestly kind of impressive. How many of those idiots were there? It would take ages to sort out who was the luckiest of them - Catra’s breath hitches. Her pupils dilate.

The last rider is a woman. Not just any woman, but  one straight out of a fantasy painting. A bona fide goddess. Her crowned helmet is hanging from her horse’s neck, so her braided golden hair glows in the sun. She’s clearly athletic and strong, moving gracefully in the saddle while carrying the long lance and wearing armor. Armor that is silver and gold, shining even brighter than her hair.

Catra can feel her palms starting to sweat. Why has no one informed her of this girls’ existence? What’s her name, age, backstory, preferred D&D class, favorite color and does she play softball? In other words -

She turns her horse and her shield, slung over her back, comes briefly into view. She sees red, orange, white, purple… Catra swallows. That’s a… and then their eyes meet. She looks right at Catra! Her eyes are a pale blue. Catra feels herself blush, blush hard and her ears point upwards and she feels her tail uncoil and smack straight into Scorpia. The warrior goddess is looking right at her and all she can do is blush and shrink like a teenager caught looking at the striker on the soccer team. 

The knight holds her gaze for a few more seconds as she balances on her horse. Then a smirk flickers over her face and she winks at Catra before turning.

Catra rips out her headphones and groans.

“Who the fuck was that?” she demands.

Her friends turn to her.

“That was She-Ra, lady of light!” Scorpia says in a hushed voice. “Didn’t you hear?” 

Catra dangles her headphones for a moment, from which Excuse 17 is still blaring. 

“No I fucking didn’t, now explain more and why didn’t you tell me?”

Scorpia’s honest brow furrows. “Not tell you what?”

“That there’s a literal warrior goddess in this tournament! Or any women! Like, what the fuck!” she says, smacking her tail against her friend again. Oh gods it’s so bad, she thinks. Flushed, sweaty and nervous like a schoolkitten. 

“That’s Adora,” Scorpia replies pointedly, “she’s the one from my gym I’ve been telling you about. You know, the one I asked you to, uh, oh, forget it!”

Catra can see Perfuma’s hand tapping on a pincer. She blinks at the taller woman.

“You did?”

“For weeks !” 

Catra feels flushed for an entirely different reason. She wracks her brains for her conversation with her friend over the last few weeks and comes up blank. Has she been that caught up in things? Her tail touches Scorpia tenderly and she slumps against her side.

“I’m sorry, Scorp,” she mumbles, even more embarrassed than she had been about her gay panic, “I’ve.. uh… I'm dealing with stuff, okay? But that was no reason to…” saying words is hard, “sorry, that was no reason to be a bad friend!”

Scorpia just jostles her a bit.

“Hey, you did go with me, wildcat!” 

Catra doesn’t reply but stares after Adora, who is still gleaming in the sunlight. Lady of light indeed. Perfuma says something sappy and Catra wonders how much embarrassment one girl can take in one day.

12:25

It’s brutal and hard to watch. 

“If this is the safe version, I don’t want to know what they did back in the day.” she shakes her head but can’t look away. The crash of wood on metal and the cracking noise when a lance breaks make her tail puff out like a brush. 

Sometimes they miss and have to go again, sometimes one knight is knocked down.One time

both fall from the saddle. Often the lances just splinter and crack. Catra knows the armor is real, but it’s still wild to her that they get up at all, let alone walk under their own power after taking such a fall.

It’s Adora’s first turn. She-Ra the lady of light seems well liked by the crowd. She’s bound to be anyway, as the sole woman in this competition. She is now wearing a helmet with wings. Her horse, Catra notes with a smile, has a unicorn’s horn on its head protection. She may not look remotely authentic, but she does look amazing.

Her opponent is the swan knight, a dashing man with a thin mustache that’s just briefly visible before he closes his helmet. They approach and miss, riding to the edge of the arena before turning their horses to try again. Catra feels her claws gripping into the slatted seat. The horses speed up, the lances get raised - Catra gasps as the swan knight is knocked down and Adora raises her intact lance in triumph. Her heart is beating fast. And she is really sweating now. 

Adora turns. Her visor goes up and she looks straight at Catra, bowing her head slightly while maintaining eye contact.

Catra growls. This is too much. She’ll have a gay related heart attack if this goes on!

12:45

The duke of knives with his shield made up like the tarot card is a tougher nut to crack. They graze each other twice but the lances glide off and both stay in the saddle. Catra feels bad for the horses, since they didn’t willingly choose this idiotic contest. They speed towards each other for the third and final time when Adora suddenly twitches her entire body to correct her lance placement and knocks the knight straight from his horse. His friends, dressed up like his squires, help him up and he salutes Adora. Clearly a good sport if nothing else. Catra’s heartbeat is so loud in her ears. She has never been more grateful for her foresight to carry a fidget toy in her fanny pack. She may just break the poor toy in half before this is over.

Oh fuck. She thinks, or perhaps she even says it. Stupid, gorgeous, daring Adora is leading her horse towards her. Leading the horse just with her legs she takes off her helmet, balancing it and her lance. Her blue eyes look straight at Catra as she bows as much as she can in her saddle, not breaking eye contact. The crowd roars with approval, even though most of them can’t make it whom the lady knight has clearly chosen to fight for. 

Catra holds her gaze and waves in what she hopes is a graceful manner. When Adora trots away, she slumps into her seat.

“I’ll kill her!” she vows. “I’ll kiss her first and then I’ll kill her.”

Her friends just laugh. Assholes.

13:15

It’s the final round. No woman has ever made it this far, that much is clear. The crowd roars and Catra is fretting and screaming with them. Everyone is on their feet. For the third and final time the finalists approach. The lances strike… and with a sickening crack both break. They slow down and turn their horses, pages running to take the broken lances off them. They both take their helmets off to wipe their sweat-streaked faces. 

Catra notices the man looks oddly familiar. He could almost be.. But before she can finish the thought he puts his helmet back on and the announcer yells: “Contestants, do you accept the draw?” 

Both extend one armored hand, thumb pointing down.

“Dismount then!”

“What happens now”? Catra wonders, anxiety spiking at the thought that this isn’t over. 

“They fight with swords,” Perfuma announces with something close to awe in her voice.

“They’re not really going to?”

But indeed two squires run towards them, each carrying a sword and a shield. Catra’s breath hitches again when she looks at the overt message on Adora’s shield. On top of the pride colors there’s a white unicorn.

A gay horse girl who fights.

Her opponent’s shield shows a gray skull. It looks morbid and more like a pirate’s jolly roger. 

“That’s moronic!” Catra grouses. She doesn’t know why she’s gotten so intense about it, but she has an idea. “Idiots, all of them.” she breathes.

They draw it out. The fighters get a drink of water, take up positions ten paces away from one another and then watch as, fucking yes, the queen or princess in her purple gown drops a godsdamn handkerchief from the podium.

Catra gasps at how quick they can move. The armor must be heavy, but they are quite fleet of foot. Not nearly as fast as Catra would be with her epee, but then again she’d never wear a metal dress.

Every hit of sword against shield is punctuated by a hiss from the crowd. It quickly becomes apparent that the sword is just to distract the opponent so you can use your shield and body mass to knock them down. It’s a vicious dance of smacks and shoves all around the arena.

Both of them go down on one knee once but don’t fall over, keeping the fight going.  

Catra is gripping the barrier, her claws tearing grooves into the wood. Their violent dance has led them directly in front of Catra and her friends. She can see the scuffs on the armor and can smell the sweat from both of them and the fighting spirit coming off every inch of them. 

Adora is looking right at her again. She swears she is, despite the helmet, she’s looking right at Catra’s mismatched eyes, flushed face and pinned back ears.

She looks for too long. The grey knight surges forward, hitting her shoulder with the flat of his blade. When she shifts her weight from surprise or pain he barrels into her, knocking her down.

There’s breathless silence in the crowd.

“The grey knight is the winner! All cheer for the power of grayskull!” the announcer screams, after gathering his thoughts and the crowd cheers. He drops his sword and shield and seems to speak a few words to his opponent. Then walks his victory lap under the cheering of the crowd.

Catra is furious. Before she has really formed the thought she is perched on the barrier.

“Catra, what are you doing?” Perfuma yells but she doesn’t pay attention, she  jumps down and is right in front of Adora in two strides on all fours, right as the helmet comes off.

Adora’s face is grimy and sweat streaked and there’s a slight bruise visible on the left side of her neck.

“Hi!” the blonde idiot says, grinning at her like she hasn’t just taken a direct hit with a sword for ogling her. 

“You fucking idiot!” Catra spits, hackles raised. “Why did you do that? You almost had him!”

The fool just smiles at her, the blue eyes looking right at her and the dirty face softening. 

“You were so beautiful just then.” she says, attempting to shrug and wincing as she moves her shoulder.

“You could have gotten hurt, Adora!” she scolds, but the blush is creeping back to her face.

The smile broadens, radiating warmth.

“Hey, you know my name! What’s yours?” 

“Catra,” she whispers back, “but you, you really could have gotten hurt!” 

“Not with that thick skull of hers!” laughs a loud voice behind her. Catra’s head whips around. It’s the gray knight, helmetless and disarmed. 

“I’ll know how to defeat my sister every time!” he boasts, grinning. Sister? He does look oddly similar…

“Hey Catra, “ Adora nods her head “meet my twin brother Adam!” She sticks out her tongue at him. “I’ll get you next time!”

He bends down and pulls Adora to her feet with a grunt. Is everyone in this family some kind of superhuman, Catra wonders. 

“You probably will,” Adam agrees, “but hey, the title stays in the family, right?”

They punch one anothers breastplate with their armored gloves like some kind of frat boy greeting and Catra rolls her eyes.

Superhumans and idiots , she amends. 

Adam turns to Catra.

“You should invite this pretty maiden to a drink, Adora.” he suggests.

Adora looks at Catra and there’s a smile and wink again. Before Catra knows what’s happening, Adora is down on one knee.

“Lady Catra, will you join me after the ceremony?” she asks, looking up at her with these amazing eyes of hers.

On instinct Catra extends one hand and Adora takes it, placing a kiss just on the short fur of her palm.

The crowd roars and jeers, shredding what is left of Catra’s sense of dignity, but it seems strangely irrelevant. What, have they never seen a blonde warrior goddess in full plate armor kneeling in front of a cat hybrid in red flannel and ripped leggings and kissing her hand? 

Okay, fair enough. 

15:30

Catra is too gay for this, she really is. But Adora is right in front of her, hair still slightly wet from literally just dunking her head into a barrel full of water and just linen pants and a shirt that’s laced together in front and with definitely nothing underneath. At least it’s a man’s shirt and not figure hugging, because Catra really doesn’t want more of her brain functions distracted.

Adam had won yet another trophy with Adora clearly the moral victor. The ceremony had been brief and a touch silly. Now they were sitting with a huge group around a big table. They had to Catra’s surprise, been joined by the bubblegum haired queen and her king playing boyfriend. She had introduced herself as Glimmer and was apparently a friend of Adora, as well as the daughter of the Fair’s organizer.

“Ah, nepotism!” Catra had quipped.

“Yup, just like real royalty,” Glimmer had replied and ordered drinks for everyone present. Her boyfriend’s name was Bow. He looked every inch a king next to his queen. Catra could easily have seen him down in the arena, but his gentle face stood in stark contrast to his warrior’s physique. 

“So, how did you get involved?” Catra asks, as they wait for the drinks. She doesn’t want to look away from Adora, but she wants to make a small effort at least. “Just a favor to your girl?” 

Bow’s smile is so earnest it feels almost unsettling to Catra. Has Scorpia found a rival in the friendliness competition - that would never actually be a competition because they’d just declare the other the winner?

“I teach archery,” he confides, “so that’s what I also do here. I only play the king today,” he winks at her, “and I’ve heard all the jokes.”

“Sweet!” Catra grins back, “saves me the effort. So what kind of archery do you teach?”

He blushes a bit, or perhaps is just really enthusiastic about his work. 

“I teachy classic longbow archery, like, you know, the big british bow. But I’m still trying out for the olympic team with the recurve bow.”

“Wow,” Catra says, because what else is there to say?

“What about you, Catra?” Adora asks, interjecting herself into the conversation and into Catra’s field of view. She can feel her eyes darting all over what she can see, before answering, mouth starting to dry out.

“I’m a fencer,” she says, like it’s an admission to something.

Adora smiles a huge dopey smile.

“I can see you in a cape and hat and big boots!” she posits, emphasizing the bigness of the boots with her hands like she was talking about something else entirely.  

“No, uhm, not like historical fencing,” she really admits now, “boring modern fencing with the masks and the wires and things.”

“That’s not boring!” Adora insists, “I saw how you jumped into the arena. You must be really fast!”

She is. But she feels a touch outclassed here.

“Yeah I’m fast, but.. Like, that stuff weighs almost nothing. I’ve seen you fight with all this armor on! I can’t even lift that!”

Adora is leaning on the table as she listens, the sleeves of her shirt rolled up. Catra can see her toned arms.

“Different skill sets,” Adora dismisses and continues to look at her. Catra feels unbalanced. The urge to preen under all this attention fights with an innate desire to hide. “Do you compete?”

Catra blinks and it takes a few seconds for the question to register. The sweat under her palms is back, because there’s a red hot need springing up inside her to impress Adora, to make the blue eyes shine even more when they look at her and this is something she’s got.

“I do! I’ve competed in the Bright Moon Indor Martial Arts games for years and was the Fright Zone champion at 15!” 

Bow claps his hands, startling both of them.

“That’s where I know you from! By sight, I mean. You just look very different there!”

Catra considers herself now and back then in her white cloth armor, properly tamed hair and ever present mesh mask.

“True. Cool, so you’re trying out for the olympics there?”

“Sure am, third time’s the charm!” His optimism is infectious. “Will you?” he asks.

Catra swallows. She wants to look back at Adora to see how she’s reacting, but it’s hard to abandon this friendly face.  

“I… I’m not sure. I’ve only really come back to it in the last two years.”

“Why?” Adora’s question is a welcome opportunity to look at her again. This has been the most eye contact she has held in weeks. Why do Adora and her friends have these lovely eyes, especially Adora? Is this some trick to get her to look up?

“Huh?” Catra asks, becoming aware that her thoughts drifted away again.

“I asked why. Did you have an injury, or just lose interest?”

Smalltalk, or does she really care? She twists the fidget toy in her left hand. It’s a question with a hook attached. Catra considers her reply. On the one hand, bearing so much of yourself in the first talk with someone you already have a crush on after seeing her for the first time is a risk… on the other hand her therapist had noted that closing herself off hasn’t proven a winning strategy. 

“My, uh, stepmother wanted me to do something else.” is what she settles on.

“Like what?” they both ask.

“Ballet,” she rolls her eyes at their bewildered faces, “I know right? I was quite good at it, but it just wasn’t for me.”

“So what did you do?”

Catra looks down, then to Scorpia, who is engrossed in listening to Perfuma talk about herb lore.

“Ran away.” 

Adora gasps and makes a move towards her. Catra flinches at the sudden movement and Adora stops. She sinks back into her seat, mouthing an apology. 

“I ran away,” she repeats, stronger now, charging ahead like she’s one of the riders from the joust, “and slept on Scorpia’s couch for a year before finding my own feet again.”

“Wow,” Adora breathes, “that’s dedication to your dream.”

“Yes,” Catra agrees, carefully. There’s more. There is always more, but that’s for a whispered conversation under warm sheets or under the shimmering moon, or something, not on a sticky wooden table. Where are those drinks Glimmer promised to get?

She notices Bow looking at her with an unreadable look. Catra wonders what else he does for a living, or if he’s just perceptive. He seems kind enough to keep quiet for now.

Adora offers her another smile.

“I’ll come cheer for you then!”

Catra’s ears turn down and then up again. Her tail has a life of its own now. 

“That would be... Very nice.” She manages. 

“Okay, bitches, I got the goods!”

Suddenly Glimmer is there, slamming down a tray the size of a wagon wheel covered in earthenware mugs and jugs. 

“I got two sorts of mead and some bread and couldn’t carry more.”

Everyone except Catra cheers.

“What’s this?” she asks, leaning closer. It smells of honey, alcohol and berries.

“The high point of the fair, if you exclude the meat skewers!” Adora says and pushes a mug towards Catra before grabbing her own.

“I’d think the high point for you is knocking other fools off horses!” Catra teases. Adora takes a draught and fixes her with her eyes again.

“No, Catra, my high point was when I saw you and you jumped down into the arena to berate me.”

Their friends cheer. Assholes.

Catra slams the mug to her lips and drinks, so she doesn’t have to answer. The liquid is a bit thicker than water and very sweet, tasting just like it smells, like honey and alcohol. It sends warmth down her throat and into her insides, giving strength to her limbs and courage to her heart.

She puts down the mug.

“For me, it was having a warrior princess fight for me.” Catra says, looking right at Adora. They hold gazes for a few seconds.When Catra puts the mug down, Adora takes her hand. There’s no jeering. The conversation continues. Catra takes another sip with her left and and doesn’t let go.

17:00

Catra is swaying slightly on her spot on the bench. She has had three mugs of mead and feels immensely happy. She hasn’t really let go of Adora’s hand at all. She’s vaguely aware that she probably should stop drinking, or at least eat something. But there are more urgent matters.

“I think”, she states, as if imparting a great truth, “I need a bathroom. Modern or medieval, I care not, but something! ” she taps a claw to the table and stands up, letting go of Adora’s hand. She sways visibly. Adora is at her side immediately, almost knocking over the table.

“Oh.” Catra whispers, being so close to Adora suddenly makes her giggle, “that’s nice of you.”

Scorpia looks at her with a look of realization on her face.

“Hey, wildcat,” she asks, “when did you last eat?”

Catra fumbles her phone from her fanny pack and glares at it.

“Eight hours ago!” she announces proudly after working out the math for nine entire seconds. 

She feels Adora’s hand tighten on her arm.

“Scorpia” the blonde says with a voice that is very different than before, “could you escort Catra to the restrooms? I’m gonna go and find her something to eat.”

“Of course!” Scorpia stands up unfazed. She might as well be sober. Catra doesn’t want Adora to let go, but they really don’t know each other long enough. Not even a day.

“Come on Catra, let’s get you sorted,” Scorpia says and gives her a pincer to hold on to. Catra would rather be carried but that might send the wrong signals to Adora. She settles on needling Scorpia about keeping Adora such a secret, slurring ever so slightly, totally not remembering that Scorpia had tried to set them up for weeks. Scorpia takes it in stride.

When they return, refreshed if not more sober, the table is decked out in what can only be described as a meat bonanza. There are a dozen skewers, steaks on buns and two entire sides of fire salmon. Perfuma has hidden herself behind a huge lump of bread.

“What did you do?” Catra wonders, mouth watering instantly.

“Made someone lock up for the day.” Adora says, shrugging, “I know some people.”

Catra steps closer to her.

“Do you now?”

Aora meets her eyes and leans closer.

“I do. But I’d like to know more about you too, and so I’d like to see you well fed and happy, alright?”

Catra takes Adora’s hand this time and sits down.

“Does this fall under your strict athletic diet?” Not that she knows how Adora eats, but she seems the type.

“This is in character !” she states and grabs a steak sandwich. “The lady of light can eat whatever she wants.”

Catra chokes on her first bite of chicken skewer and needs to be rescued. Pleasure and pain are very closely aligned today, it seems.

20:00

Catra is tired. They have spent hours at this table eating, drinking, talking and eventually singing. Glimmer knows a lot of dirty songs, it turns out, though Catra regrets asking about the one with the hedgehog. 

Catra is also about three quarters drunk, according to herself. She has been holding Adora’s hands for hours now and they haven’t gotten anywhere, because they are still stuck here. Adam had come by earlier and wished them all a good evening before going off with a redhead who’s name Catra didn’t catch. They seemed happy. 

When she was younger, her stepmother had taken pains, had given her pain, about behaving as human-like as possible. But like she had confessed to Adora, she had run away, and she was drunk, and she felt bold enough to embrace being herself tonight. 

“Budge over a bit, will you?” she says to Adora. The blonde knits her brow in confusion, but scoots towards Scorpia and Perfuma. Catra pulls her legs up on the bench and flops sideways, curling herself into an impossibly small ball.

“Thanks,” she mumbles. She can’t see how Adora, Bow and Glimmer stare down at her, expressions of delight on their faces. Carefully Adora lowers a hand into Catra’s fluffy mane. The feline stirs and pushes herself into the touch. Smiling in a way that can only be described as “smitten”, Adora gently combs through Catra’s hair. She can’t hear anything, but she feels a slight vibration and hopes it is what she thinks it is: a marvelous sign of trust. 

Catra doesn’t know why she’s purring. She doesn’t know Adora, although they have shared a lot about their life’s in the last hours. She feels a lot, not just that the blonde is silly attractive and kind and funny and other positive words, but she feels some sort of connection. Perhaps it’s the drinks and the hormones sloshing around inside her. Perhaps it’s what Perfuma once called a cosmic connection . Whatever that means or is, or isn’t, Catra will take it. Right now, on this hard bench in this noisy place, she feels safe and content. 

21:00

They stand half a meter apart. Scorpia and Perfuma stand some way away, giving them space, while Glimmer and Bow are waiting at Bow’s car. 

They look at one another, Catra’s eyes darting around Adora’s face, neither apparently knowing what to say. 

“Thanks,” Catra says finally, voice thick and tired, “this, uh, day here started off awful and ended, well… uh…”

“Thank you ,” Adora returns, beaming, “it’s.. I almost forgot I won second place today… it’s…” she’s blushing in the dark, “... all I can remember is you.”

Catra’s breath hitches. Wow.

“No one… no one’s ever said that to me,” she confesses.

“Their loss,” her knight, her lady of light announces and steps closer, “will,-” 

She doesn’t get further, because Catra’s arms wrap around her and pull her tight. She feels Adora nuzzling into her hair. She feels the warmth of her skin under the thin linen shirt. The tautness of her muscles. The soft yield of her breasts. 

“I’ve never seen…someone- anything like you, when you rode into the arena.”

Catra feels Adora smiling against her head. She can imagine the look of smug happiness. 

“If you want, I mean, if you like…” Adora tries.

Fireworks in the sky. Fire ants under her skin. Electric eels in her stomach instead of the salmon. 

“Yes.” she breathes.

Catra hears Scorpia’s pincers clap, the sign that in the distance the shuttle bus has appeared. 

“You didn’t let me finish.” Adora whines.

“The answer’s still yes.”

Catra draws back to look up at her. Their fingers lace together. 

“I should give you my number,” her knight mumbles, caught in Catra’s eyes.

“We have mutual friends. I’ll get your number. I’m not letting you go until that fucking bus stops here.”

Adora bites her lower lip.

“See you soon, Catra.” she whispers. Then she leans forward, agonizingly slow. Catra’s heart beats faster. How can she be so perfect in this moment? She stands on her tippy toes.

The kiss is a promise of more. A token of faith and a gift to take home.

“See you soon, Adora.” 

And with a squeeze of their hands Catra turns towards her friends and the bus that will take them home, a fire in her stomach and a whirlwind in her mind. 

She isn’t even home when she feels her phone buzzing against her tummy. 

Precious, wonderful, lovable idiot, Catra thinks. She’s a fuzzy ball of love.