They sound almost surprised that she asked, and Catra's brow furrows into a frown before she remembers - of course, they're 'in character'. They're responding the way they think Adora would.
Then her eyebrow twitches up, dubiously and begrudgingly impressed. They've really managed to get all of the nuances down, from the huffiness in her voice to her hisses of pain. The moan, though. That's a bit overblown. They've done that just to mess with her, because they know she hates how quickly it causes an insistent heat to pulse between her legs.
"You really are dedicated." They haven't even called her 'kitten' once. It's kind of unsettling. But she's not upset to not hear it dripping sickly sweet from Adora's mouth, twining disgust in with Catra's loathing. "I had my doubts after the last time, but I guess you've finally gotten into her head." She tilts her head, checking them over. Watching their movements as she drags her palm up their stomach, the torn fabric of their ruined shirt pushing easily to the side as she goes. Even here, their copy is perfect. "If I didn't know any better, even I would think you were the real thing."
That's the highest praise they can get. Catra's been so critical about their act, insistent that they perfect it before they try it on the Rebels. Adora is the lynchpin of the entire Rebellion, constantly surrounded by the weaker allies she's convinced to stand with her. If they can fool Catra, then they can fool those idiots; they can take Adora's place before anyone even knows she's missing, and take their time enjoying the poisoning and destruction of the Rebellion while Catra makes Adora watch as everything she's spent these years working on is burned to the ground by the same people who had helped her build it. That would definitely break her.
It's that thought that brings the satisfied gleam into her eyes, as Catra's hand continues up over their replicated sternum, over the top that compresses their breasts, and hooks her claws over the hem of it below their collar. The tips scrape over their skin again as she pulls down, cutting through the fabric with laughable ease. It's a good look on Adora, Catra notes as she goes. Her white (--and red, stained with the pooling trickles of her blood) shirt torn all the way from her shoulder and pushed to the side; one half of her jacket in tattered shreds, all the ruined fabric shifting with every move of her chest. The marks of Catra's claws clear on her cheek and shoulder, gouged into her flesh in wounds that would have claimed her with scars if it weren't for She-Ra's stupid magic.
It makes Catra feel good to see her like this. Better than she's felt in ages.
"Do it like she would," she orders decisively. That's what she wants. Adora's hatred and pain manifested in brute, rough force; proving to Catra just how much she's hurt her, how much she's ruined her. That's what she needs, to know she's had an effect: to know that what she's done matters. She narrows her eyes again, ears flattening and tail lashing hard against their legs in warning. Catra doesn't need them to let her push them around as easily as they'd just let her. She's not weak enough that they have to restrain themselves against her, even if she is the one keeping their pockets lined. "Don't hold back."
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Then her eyebrow twitches up, dubiously and begrudgingly impressed. They've really managed to get all of the nuances down, from the huffiness in her voice to her hisses of pain. The moan, though. That's a bit overblown. They've done that just to mess with her, because they know she hates how quickly it causes an insistent heat to pulse between her legs.
"You really are dedicated." They haven't even called her 'kitten' once. It's kind of unsettling. But she's not upset to not hear it dripping sickly sweet from Adora's mouth, twining disgust in with Catra's loathing. "I had my doubts after the last time, but I guess you've finally gotten into her head." She tilts her head, checking them over. Watching their movements as she drags her palm up their stomach, the torn fabric of their ruined shirt pushing easily to the side as she goes. Even here, their copy is perfect. "If I didn't know any better, even I would think you were the real thing."
That's the highest praise they can get. Catra's been so critical about their act, insistent that they perfect it before they try it on the Rebels. Adora is the lynchpin of the entire Rebellion, constantly surrounded by the weaker allies she's convinced to stand with her. If they can fool Catra, then they can fool those idiots; they can take Adora's place before anyone even knows she's missing, and take their time enjoying the poisoning and destruction of the Rebellion while Catra makes Adora watch as everything she's spent these years working on is burned to the ground by the same people who had helped her build it. That would definitely break her.
It's that thought that brings the satisfied gleam into her eyes, as Catra's hand continues up over their replicated sternum, over the top that compresses their breasts, and hooks her claws over the hem of it below their collar. The tips scrape over their skin again as she pulls down, cutting through the fabric with laughable ease. It's a good look on Adora, Catra notes as she goes. Her white (--and red, stained with the pooling trickles of her blood) shirt torn all the way from her shoulder and pushed to the side; one half of her jacket in tattered shreds, all the ruined fabric shifting with every move of her chest. The marks of Catra's claws clear on her cheek and shoulder, gouged into her flesh in wounds that would have claimed her with scars if it weren't for She-Ra's stupid magic.
It makes Catra feel good to see her like this. Better than she's felt in ages.
"Do it like she would," she orders decisively. That's what she wants. Adora's hatred and pain manifested in brute, rough force; proving to Catra just how much she's hurt her, how much she's ruined her. That's what she needs, to know she's had an effect: to know that what she's done matters. She narrows her eyes again, ears flattening and tail lashing hard against their legs in warning. Catra doesn't need them to let her push them around as easily as they'd just let her. She's not weak enough that they have to restrain themselves against her, even if she is the one keeping their pockets lined. "Don't hold back."