“I am Caitlyn, Head of the noble House Kiramman, and I will not be demeaned by—ahh.. mmnnh.. Stop that!”

Caitlyn bats your hand away, though it only springs right back, and she scowls. Like she’s not curled up, on top of your legs, like a literal lapcat, pampered and all. She still manages to be elegant about it, sure; even as her tail lashes against your waist, high in the air, indicating just how pleased she is with this development (traitor).

Her voice has long since trailed into a whine, nudging her cheek against your outstretched palm. In otherwise unvoiced appreciation, she arches in a languid stretch, and her eyelids flicker to peer her half-lidded gaze up at you, book long forgotten.

“..Fine.” She turns up her noise, aggrieved, even if you hadn’t even said anything. Her tail swishes. As if she’s not visibly preening at all the attention.

“Mind you get that spot behind my ears, if you insist?” She grumbles, with the air of you-have-oh-so-troubled-her, as ears perk up. She’s wriggling just a little, light dusting of pink on her cheeks—though otherwise, shameless.

She’s, quite literally, purring. Though, she’d totally deny it if you called her out. It’s improper. Unbecoming of someone of her status. Even if it feels, really, really good.