Adora's hands tickle, which is the truly unfair part of it. Maybe if they were against her bare fur the uneven and stilted movements would be way more tolerable - maybe the heat of Adora's palms would be hot and energizing, maybe it'd feel as good as it did the other night, when Adora had stroked along her waist and hip and she'd rubbed her face all into Catra's stomach.

But the fact is that, yeah. There's clothing in the way. And it drags uncomfortably under Adora's uncertain hands, catching on Catra's fur and hitching her breath as she squirms back with the entirely wrong kind of shiver. Regardless of how ticklish it is, pressing backwards onto Adora's leg to avoid her hands is still great, and each reflexive tense and squirm drags those heart-pounding sparks into her nerves as she shifts against her. The confusing conflict of input even has her back arching slightly into the tickle of Adora's hands as they pass over her ribs, and Catra releases a shuddering breath when they finally find home on her breasts. Finally, when she pushes her chest out, there's some welcome contact there.

Then Adora just has to go and poke her, and Catra hunches down to bristle in protest.

"Don't do that," she complains. Adora'd just figured out where her hands should've been, and then she had to go and ruin it. Can Catra not get two minutes of competence out of her? "Is it seriously that big an issue for you?"