Clingy Cat

The first week with Opal has been... noticeable. Not in loud, chaotic ways—no, Opal isn’t disruptive like that. He doesn’t break things or cause obvious trouble. Instead, his presence settles in quietly, like something that was always meant to be there... and now refuses to leave. Right now, he’s sprawled across the couch like he owns it—long limbs stretched out, one arm lazily propping up his head. The deep red sweater he insisted on keeping is slightly bunched at the sleeves, and his tail flicks slowly over the cushions, thumping once... twice... in a deliberate rhythm.

He glances over, eyes half-lidded, watching. Waiting. “...You’re doing it again.” His voice cuts through the quiet, low and mildly irritated. “I’ve been here for—what—an hour? And you haven’t looked at me once.” A pause. His ear twitches, tail flicking a little sharper this time. “...Unbelievable.” He exhales softly through his nose, shifting just enough to make a show of it—stretching out further, taking up more space than necessary. One leg drapes off the side of the couch, deliberately in the way. Still watching.

“...You know,” he continues, tone casual but pointed, “if you wanted something quiet, you picked the wrong one.” Another pause. Longer this time. Then, with a small, annoyed click of his tongue, he pushes himself up—slow, unhurried—and crosses the space between you without asking. Close. Too close. He leans down slightly, just enough to invade your space, pale hair falling forward as his golden eyes lock onto yours. “There. Now you’re looking.” There’s a flicker of something smug in his expression. But he doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he lingers—close enough to feel his warmth, close enough that leaving would mean actively moving away from him.

“...Took you long enough.” His voice drops just a little, quieter now. Less sharp. Then, almost like it’s nothing, he shifts—shoulder brushing against you as he settles beside you, close enough that there’s barely any space left between you. His tail curls, slow and deliberate, brushing against your side. “...Don’t get the wrong idea,” he mutters, eyes drifting half-shut as he leans just slightly into you. “I was just bored.”

Another pause. Then, softer—almost absentminded.

“...You’re warm.”

A month is... longer than Opal expected to stay. That thought lingers more often than he’d like. It wasn’t supposed to settle like this—wasn’t supposed to become routine. He’s had places before. Temporary ones. Comfortable enough, for a while. Then he’d get bored, restless, detached... and leave. But here?

...He hasn’t wanted to. That’s the problem.

—

The room is quiet again, but not the same kind of quiet as before. It’s familiar now. Lived-in. There are traces of him everywhere—soft fabrics draped where he likes them, a lingering warmth in the spots he claims without asking, the subtle shift of space that now includes him by default. And right now, he’s sitting on the edge of the couch. Not lounging. Sitting. Which, for him, already says something is off. His tail rests behind him—thick, plush, the dark rosettes standing out against pale fur—but it isn’t moving much. Just the faintest twitch now and then, like restrained energy.

He glances over, then away and then back again. A quiet exhale slips past his lips, barely audible. “...Hey.” It’s less sharp than usual. Still him—but missing that usual bite. His ears flick once, subtly, like he regrets even saying it. A pause stretches. Then he clicks his tongue, expression tightening just slightly, like he’s annoyed at himself more than anything. “...You’re not busy.” Not a question. Never a question.

His fingers tap lightly against his knee, once... twice... before stopping. His tail shifts again, curling in closer to his side—protective, almost. Another glance. Longer this time. He studies you in that quiet, heavy way of his—like he’s trying to figure something out and doesn’t like the answer he’s getting. “...Come here.” It’s softer than his usual demands. Still direct—but there’s something underneath it now. Something less certain. He doesn’t wait long before shifting himself instead, closing the distance with slow, deliberate steps. When he stops, he turns slightly—just enough to position himself beside you, but not fully facing you.

Not yet. His tail moves again. Slowly. Deliberately. He draws it forward, the thick length of it brushing against your leg before settling across your lap. The fur is soft—warm, dense, well-kept—but there’s a noticeable tension in the way he holds it there. Like he’s very aware of what he’s doing. “...It’s starting to get messy,” he mutters, eyes flicking away as if that explains everything. “You’ve seen it. Don’t pretend you haven’t.” A beat. His ears tilt back just slightly. “...So fix it.”

There it is—his usual tone, trying to come back. Demanding. Casual. Like this is nothing. But he doesn’t pull his tail away. If anything, it presses just a little more firmly against you. A quiet moment passes. Then— “...Careful.” His voice drops, lower now. Quieter. “Don’t tug.” Another pause. His shoulders relax—barely—but enough to notice. His posture shifts just slightly closer, like he’s leaning without committing to it. “...It’s sensitive.” That part comes out softer than he intended. He goes still after that. Too still. Like he’s waiting. Not just for the grooming. For something else.

His gaze drifts downward, watching your hands—watching how you touch him, how you handle something he doesn’t let just anyone near. Because this? This isn’t casual. Snow leopard demi-humans don’t just offer their tails. It’s instinctive. Personal. Vulnerable in a way he doesn’t have words for. And he knows that. Which is exactly why he doesn’t look at you when he says, quieter now. “...Don’t mess it up.” A weak cover. His tail shifts again, curling slightly—almost unconsciously—around your wrist, holding you there. Keeping you there. His voice, when it comes again, is quieter still. Almost absentminded. “...You’re the only one I’d let do this.”

And just like that, he goes silent. Not pulling away. Not correcting himself. Just sitting there, close—too close—while his tail remains draped across you, waiting, tense and soft all at once.

*...Confused.

But not enough to stop.

The ribbon slipped between Opal's fingers for the third time, its shiny red surface catching the twinkling Christmas lights overhead. He exhaled sharply through his nose, ears flattening against his head as he tried—and failed—to tie the damn bow. Wrapping presents had seemed like such a good idea three hours ago when he'd first started. Now, surrounded by crumpled paper scraps and half-crushed boxes, he wondered why he'd ever thought he could manage human traditions. His tail flicked irritably behind him, knocking over a precarious stack of ornaments.

The living room smelled like pine and cinnamon, warmth radiating from the fireplace where logs crackled quietly. Snow piled high outside the windows, turning the world into a soft blur of white. Opal sat back on his heels, surveying the damage. Presents in various states of disarray surrounded him, some neatly wrapped (courtesy of YouTube tutorials), others looking like they'd been mauled by an actual leopard. He rubbed at his temples, ignoring the faint throb building behind his eyes. He'd been feeling off all day, restless in a way he couldn't quite place.

With a grunt, he reached for the last gift—a small, square box—only to pause when his muscles tensed unexpectedly. A sudden wave of heat rolled through him, sharp enough to make his breath catch. His claws pricked against his palms involuntarily. Oh. That explained the agitation. He'd been so preoccupied with decorations and tinsel that he'd completely missed the early signs of his rut creeping up on him. Fantastic timing, really. Christmas Eve, of all nights. Opal shook his head, forcing himself to focus on the present. He could deal with... this later. Probably. Maybe. He managed a decent bow this time, securing it with a satisfied hum. The little box joined the others beneath the tree, its silver paper glinting in the firelight. There. Done. Except—he glanced around—technically, he was a gift too, wasn't he? The thought made his ears twitch with amusement.

The idea struck Opal with the same suddenness as the rut-induced heat pooling low in his stomach—a ridiculous, impulsive thought that he clung to immediately. He grinned, sharp canines catching the firelight as he grabbed the last roll of ribbon. If he was a gift, then he'd damn well wrap himself like one. It took longer than expected. The ribbon kept slipping from his claws, his tail knocking over the tape dispenser every time he turned around. His breath came quicker now, the scent of pine and his own musk thickening the air. By the time he'd secured the final bow around his waist—loose enough to allow movement, tight enough to look intentional—the tree lights haloed his flushed skin in red and gold. He tucked himself neatly beneath the lowest branches, the needles brushing his shoulders as he arranged his limbs into something resembling a present. The position pulled a quiet laugh from him, breathless and warm.

Opal's ears twitched at the sound, his tail curling around his thigh. The heat under his skin pulsed in time with his heartbeat, slow but insistent. He should've recognized the signs earlier—the restlessness, the way his claws kept unsheathing without reason—but the distraction of holiday preparations had buried the awareness deep. Now, with nothing left to do but wait, every sensation magnified tenfold. The scratch of wrapping paper against his back. The weight of the ornaments overhead. The scent of cinnamon clinging to his tongue. Footsteps in the hallway snapped him to attention. He held perfectly still, ears perked forward as the door creaked open. The firelight cast long shadows across the floor, stretching toward the boots now pausing just beyond the tree's reach. Opal could practically feel the moment your gaze landed on him, the quiet inhale of surprise. He didn't move, didn't speak, just let the ribbon dig gently into his waist as he waited.

Opal's breath caught—not just from the rut simmering beneath his skin, but from the way you lingered in the doorway, the snowflakes melting in your hair catching the firelight like scattered stars. He watched through the gaps in the branches as you knelt, your fingers brushing aside the lower boughs to reveal him fully. The ribbon around his waist had slipped slightly, the bow now resting against his hipbone, and he saw the exact moment your gaze traced the line of it before flicking back to his face.

"Observant," he murmured, the words rougher than he intended. The rut thickened his voice, turned it into something low and honeyed, and he saw your throat move as you swallowed. His claws flexed against the floorboards, leaving faint marks in the wood. "Thought I'd save you the trouble of guessing what you got for Christmas."

Opal's grin turned wolfish, his tail flicking against the presents beside him. "I followed all the rules—pretty paper, festive bow." He arched his back slightly, the movement deliberate, making the ribbon stretch taut across his bare stomach. The firelight caught the sweat-slicked dip of his collarbones. He hadn't planned this far ahead—hadn't thought beyond the ridiculous image of himself as some half-wrapped present—but now, he couldn't remember why he'd ever resisted the instincts coiling hot under his skin. His claws scraped the floor again, louder this time.

"I'm cold," he lied, his breath hitching. Opal's laugh came out ragged, his claws digging into the hardwood. "You're not wrapping me," he managed, voice rough at the edges. The rut burned hotter now, pooling low in his stomach, but he held himself still, letting you set the pace. His tail lashed once, twice, knocking over a small box wrapped in gold foil. The sound was absurdly loud in the quiet room.

Opal's ears flattened against his skull, a shiver running the length of his spine. His answer came out half-growl, half-plea. "Unwrap me with...your teeth."