She-Ra and the Princesses of Power, Masquerade Ball, abuse
It was sumptuous. The satin, bottle green gown clung to the girl's chest with its bodice embellished with fastidious beading and lace; its bell sleeves embosomed her arms and broadened from the elbow down. The full-length bottom part of the bouffant skirt swept along the dance floor as she walked, her face hidden behind a white full-face mask, gilded, with the unmoving lips painted black and the top enriched with dark ruffles. The costume was so impeccable that if it were anyone else she was looking for, Catra might have missed her. But the blond, slick hair peeking from the back of her head as well as the evident lack of familiarity with high society made her an obvious target—so obvious, Catra almost felt bad for her as she smirked, making her way towards Adora.
"Would you care to dance?" She reached out her hand.
“Wh-,” Adora stumbled over her words as she moved her gaze over to Catra. She recognised her right away. Of course, she did. Catra’s costume was not half as sophisticated, and her mask was only half face, but even if it wasn’t, between the two of them, it was not only Catra who could recognise the other one solely by the sound of their footsteps or the rhythm of the air leaving their lungs, led by the melody of their shared memories.
Adora didn’t say anything else; she simply placed her palm in Catra’s hand and put the other one on her shoulder. Catra’s heart skipped a beat when she felt her own arm rest on the crevice of Adora’s back and found herself so close there was barely a breath between them. She gulped, her muscles suddenly stiff and frozen.
Pull yourself together, Catra thought, and as she did, the images of Shadow Weaver began flashing in front of her eyes. The series of insults and belittling remarks, the never-ending displays of neglect. Bursts of anger and threats. The favouritism. Never being enough. She abandoned you.
The smirk came back on, along with a new wave of hurt and contempt. “So, where are your little friends, Adora?”