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Catra lounges upside-down on the couch that was definitely not stolen from Glimmer’s private quarters. One leg hooks over the back, the other twitching in the air like she’s fending off invisible attackers. Her tail swishes with manic energy. Harrowhark slouches in an armchair nearby, fingers steepled even as she chews on the end of a pencil.
“So,” Catra says, cracking her knuckles. “We’re doing this.”
“Oh, we’re doing this,” Harrow murmurs, eyes narrowing over the rim of her notebook. “They’ll never see it coming. They’ll be blindsided by the sheer romance of it.” Catra snorts, flips upright, and lands in a deliberate sprawl.
“Gideon literally wouldn’t recognise a romantic gesture if it punched her in the face. She’d just ask if she can hit it back harder.”
“She would propose marriage to a fruit bowl if it complimented her arms,” Harrow says darkly.
“She did propose to a dumbbell once.”
“That wasn’t a joke, was it.”
“Nope.” Catra grins, all teeth. From the hallway, a series of loud thumps builds to a crescendo, then silence, then a snort. A crash follows. Harrow’s head turns like an owl’s.
“You heard that, right?”
“Oh yeah,” Catra says, tail curling. “They’re doing that thing again.” Harrow raises an eyebrow.
“What thing?”
“The arm-wrestling. Except every time Adora wins, she blushes and apologises, and every time Gideon wins, she acts like she’s just been knighted.” Harrow makes a pained noise.
“My bones can’t handle this level of idiot.”
“They’ve both got like, two neurons each,” Catra says. “And one of them’s just labelled ‘I love my girlfriend’.” She pulls herself onto the armrest beside Harrow and swipes the notebook, scribbling across the page in an even, terrifying script then underlining it twice:
Operation: Heartstopper
Underneath that, a bullet list, with Harrow’s annotations:
- Matching weapons (hideous, adorable)
- Customised snacks (gluten free. no poison. this time.)
- Public compliments (over the top. disgusting. necessary.)
- Eye contact.
“They’re so soft,” Catra says, half-laughing, chin resting on Harrow’s shoulder. “It’s gross.”
“It’s repulsive,” Harrow agrees, shoving Catra off of her. A pause.
“She brought me soup when I was sick.”
“She tucked me in when I passed out on the couch.” Another beat.
“She said my eyes were ‘hauntingly vast like the ocean at night’,” Harrow mutters, appalled.
“She called me her ‘spicy little murder kitten’ and kissed my forehead.” They stare at each other. Catra springs to her feet. “Right. That’s it. We’re making them suffer.”
“By showering them with love.”
“Obscene amounts.”
“I’m talking candlelit dinner. Personalised blades engraved with ‘you’re the cutest’. I’m talking—” Harrow spins the armchair despite it not having a swivel mechanism “—Adora walking into your room and finding a plush replica of herself wearing a tank top that says ‘Himbo Supreme’.”
“Gideon opens her locker and you’ve spelt out ‘I’d die for you’ with bones.” They nod at each other.
“Evil. Diabolical.”
“Utterly unforgivable.” They bump fists.
Down the hall, past the black-curtained doors and dramatic mood lighting, in a kitchen that’s seen better centuries, Adora squints at a mango like it holds ancient First Ones secrets.
“I think this is a potato,” she says, holding it up to the light. Gideon looks over, elbow-deep in flour for reasons that might involve bread or might involve cavalier duties.
“No, that’s a… Wait. Is it furry?” Adora sniffs it. Then licks it.
“Kind of.”
“Definitely a potato.” They nod in solemn agreement.
Then Adora knocks over a bag of rice. Gideon dives for it. The bag bursts open like confetti from a canon. Rice everywhere. They both freeze.
“Oops,” Adora says simply.
“I got it!” Gideon declares heroically, already on the floor and trying to scoop the mess into a suspiciously skull-shaped bowl.
They high-five in celebration of a job badly done.
Back in the war room of affection-based sabotage, Catra balances three tubes of glitter-free ribbon in one hand and a bottle of perfume swiped from Perfuma in the other. Harrow, hunched over a pile of bone-cursed hot chocolate ingredients, mutters herself in some Lyctoral dialect not heard in tens of months. Or years. A cauldron bubbles ominously.
“She’s gonna cry,” Catra says around a mouthful of marshmallows, eyes glinting. “Then she’s gonna lift me over her head and spin me.”
“Disgusting,” Harrow breathes.
“Glorious.” The notebook lies open on the table. A new section reads:
TIER TWO DEEDS (ILLEGAL IN SOME SYSTEMS)
- Customised battle armour (with matching patches)
- Midnight picnic in the bone garden
- Adora-themed plushie (limit: one. threat level: extreme)
- Haiku carved into swords
“Gideon once gave me a dead rat with a bow on it and said ‘romance’,” Harrow says fondly.
“Adora gave me a rock shaped like a heart. She said she’d been sitting on it and thought I’d like it more.” They look at each other again. Soft horror. Then they grin.
“Let’s do this,” Catra says, cracking her knuckles.
“Let’s go ruin their lives with love,” Harrow agrees. They fist bump again, solemn and sincere.
A plaque on the wall glows faintly in cursed script:
WARNING: EXPLOSIVE LOVE ZONE. DO NOT ENTER UNLESS CLUELESSY HOT
They didn’t put it there. Adora probably did, thinking it was motivational.
They keep it, though. Feels accurate.
A low poof escapes the cauldron. The ribbon pile shudders. A faint shimmer wafts across the table like the air itself just sighed.
“Perfect,” Harrow says, dusting bone ash off her sleeves. “The enchantments are stable. The tea will induce mild euphoria and the overwhelming desire to compliment one’s soulmate.” Catra squints.
“...Mild?”
“Relatively.” Catra’s about to ask what unmild looks like when the door bangs open. Perfuma bursts in, carrying a potted plant the size of a miniboss.
“Hello, hi, sorry to barge in! I felt a tremendous emotional disturbance in the love field, are you guys doing—oh, cute ribbons!”
Scorpia clomps in behind her, waving enthusiastically and already knocking over a stack of love daggers.
“Hey! Oh my gosh, did you bake something? Is this, like, a surprise party? Wait—Am I the surprise?!” Catra grabs Harrow’s sleeve with a look of panic.
“Abort.”
“No. Too late. They’re love-scrying magnets.”
“Catra!” Scorpia beams. “Wow, this room has so much… passion energy? Romance fog? Whatever it is, I love it. Are these for Adora and Gideon? Ohmygosh are you guys doing schemes? Can I help?!” Perfuma gently sets the gigantic fern on the cursed table. It begins whispering sonnets.
“We brought a fern! She’s emotionally supportive and has a PhD in bonding rituals.”
“We named her Donna,” Scorpia adds. Catra groans.
“We’re being out-sweetheartened.”
“Impossible,” Harrow says. “Our methods are surgical. Controlled.” Scorpia opens a bottle of the perfume.
“Oh hey, Perfuma, this is your snuggling-under-warm-blankets-while-somebody-tells-you-they’re-proud-of-you!” Catra pinches the bridge of her nose.
“We’re doomed.” Perfuma hugs her.
“You’re doing amazing, sweetie.” Catra wilts. Harrow’s eye twitches. Donna the fern flutters. The romance fog thickens. Out in the hallway, Gideon sneezes. Adora says “Bless you!” and trips over a sword.
Everything proceeds exactly as planned.