Adora expects retaliation, but as always, Catra is fast. Unpredictable. She goes tense when Catra sets her adrift on her feet, only to shudder at the electrifying sensation of their chests pressing together. Catra's confidence, her smirk, her voice against Adora's ear--familiar gestures, done in the most unfamiliar way possible. Turns out Catra still has a few surprises tucked up her sleeves, even after all this time.
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.
no subject
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.