Catra can't not laugh at their incredulity, the joyless sound dragging from her throat, deep and husky but raising in pitch at the inhale as she draws back to look at them.
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?"
no subject
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?"