Adora's fingers scratching against her waist drags a whine from her, and Catra's hands flex as the urge to massage them against -- something, literally anything, seizes her nerves.

She cuts it out quickly, turning the press of her palms against Adora's head into another shove. But it weakens, again, as the combined sensations against her stomach and waist shiver through her; and eventually she whimpers, hips canting forward the slightest twitch before she melts into Adora's hold.

It's not fair. It's not fair, and it's stupid, and nobody else in the Horde has these weak points. Why does Catra have to be stuck with them?

"No," she protests weakly. "I don't care. Let me go."