Title: Purr For Me
Summary: Harry's kitten has been naughty.
Warnings: kitty-play, D/s (reluctant Dom), spanking (discipline), unexpected plumbing of emotional depths
Word Count: 2000
Author's Notes: My love goes to Krystle Lynne and rainien for the betas, and keppiehed for reading. Aslin gets the internet cookie for naming Draco! (Ryu = Dragon)
The stoop needs to be shovelled, Harry thought to himself as his feet tracked through wet, sticky snow. He kicked the snow off his boots using the side of the house and opened the door, a little awkwardly with an armful of groceries.
He waited a moment inside the door, hoping his pet would come running to see him. Harry knew he'd only been at the store about an hour, but sometimes when he came home his kitten would be adorably excited even after only a short separation.
Such wasn't the case this time. Harry toed off his boots, cursing again the surprise snowstorm they'd gotten the day before. He was disappointed about the lack of reception, but he wouldn't let his pet know it.
Harry set about putting away the groceries and then decided to go find the kitten. He checked in the bedroom first, but with no luck. The same was true about the bathrooms, spare room, and kitchen. Then Harry remembered feeling a rush of heat as he'd entered the house—the fireplace. He quickly walked to the living room, and sure enough, the huge hearth was crackling away, fresh logs bathed in yellow. And there, in front of the fire, was his quarry.
Curled up like a… well, like a cat, was Draco. It was a sight to behold, which was exactly what Harry did. Kneeling before the nude body, Harry ran his chilled hand over the almost-hot flesh of his pet.
"Draco," he whispered, his hand moving down to Draco's arse. The long, fluffy, white tail, connected to the butt plug currently inside Draco, twitched a little. Harry smiled, but when Draco's eyes opened, he glared at Harry.
"What's wrong, Draco?" Harry asked. "Did something happen?" This was why he refused to bind Draco's hands for kitty play while Harry wasn't there—who knew what might happen.
Draco just narrowed his eyes, stiffening a little and drawing into himself like a cat about to swipe would do.
Harry chuckled when he realised the problem. "Sorry, Ryu." He gave Draco—or rather, Ryu—a quick pat on the head and got up to fix himself a quick sandwich.
Draco hissed, though, and Harry turned. "What's wrong, kitty?"
What could he do but watch? Draco was sensual when he played at being a cat. It was beautiful. His movements were leonine, stalking toward Harry with a defined roll to his hips that made his tail flash and Harry's heart pound. When he pressed his pale, naked body against Harry's pant leg and arched his back, all thought of food was forgotten.
"Did you miss your owner?" Harry cooed. He still felt silly sometimes, but Draco loved it—it gave him the type of release that no other game could. And anytime that Harry got to see Draco with white, spelled-on cat ears and a little green collar with a bell… well, Harry wasn't exactly going to turn that down.
The cat made a contented noise and hopped up on the couch. Draco was graceful, even on his hands and knees, and Harry felt ungainly as he sat down as well, running his hand along Draco's flank as freely as he wanted. Sometimes, other times, Draco wasn't as affectionate. He was aloof, detached, even. Harry would have to pry emotions from him—though opinions, of course, were always given freely. Even touching Draco at times was a fight. Draco didn't like a lot of affection, but Harry needed to give it. The cat play was freeing for them both.
"Were you cold without me?" Harry asked, leaning back so Draco could crawl into his lap.
Draco did, curling up and wrapping his arms around Harry's neck. Harry almost chastised him—a cat wouldn't do such a thing, after all—but Draco felt so warm and soft in his arms, and Harry couldn't bear it.
Although… "How did you light the fire, Ryu?"
Draco made an innocent preow noise, looking at Harry with wide grey eyes.
Harry ran his hand down the silk that was Draco's back. Even with all they spent on beauty products, it was made worth it just to touch him like this. It wasn't that Draco was frigid when they weren't playing. He was a very responsive, assertive partner. But it was the way Harry sometimes felt like Draco didn't want to make noise, didn't want to give himself away, that had made Harry so readily accept the current type of play.
He suspected that, to Draco, responses were weaknesses, and no matter how Harry tried to assure him that he didn't want to exploit those weaknesses, if that was even what they were—
Draco wasn't free in human form.
"Did you use your hands?" Harry asked, the sternness in his voice unfamiliar to both of them.
After a long moment, Draco nodded, looking abashed. He gave a hopeful mew, but Harry just shook his head.
"You know you're not allowed to use your hands unless it's an emergency," Harry scolded, pulling Draco's arms from his neck, loath as he was to do it.
The pleading look on Draco's face seemed to say, It was an emergency!
Harry rather enjoyed the lack of sass and sarcasm that came with Draco's kitty self, but Ryu was, if possible, even more spoilt than Draco.
"Were you really that cold?" Harry asked softly, petting Draco's tail at the base, twisting it.
Hands kneading Harry's chest, Draco nodded. He still looked repentant, but it was less insistent now that Harry understood.
"And what did I say before I left?" Knowing Draco couldn't answer and wanted to made Harry smile with just a touch of sadism. "Well?"
Draco shook his head morosely. His cat ears actually flopped a little just as a real cat's would.
"I asked you if you would be warm enough. I told you to put more clothing on. I even asked, if I recall correctly, if you would like a fire started."
Hanging his head, Draco sniffled.
"Why do you have to be so stubborn? I would do anything…" But Harry stopped and shook his head. They both knew that Harry's love for Draco was unconditional to the point of stupidity. Draco pushed Harry like this—not with the lighting of the fire, but with the denial of need in the first place—to get Harry to react. The only sort of attention he'd ever been comfortable with outside of his Ryu-mask was the aftercare from a punishment or a scene.
Draco pushed for punishment, for attention, for what he would never ask for in words.
"Lay over my lap," Harry said with an internal sigh. As always, he would give Draco what he wanted in hopes that one day they wouldn't need accoutrements or different names. That they could one day be just Harry and Draco…
With sinuous movements, Draco did as he was told, sliding down and positioning himself over Harry's thighs, his half-erect cock already making languorous slides in anticipation.
For a moment, Harry just appreciated the cruel beauty of his lover. Long, lean, tightly muscled, and pale to rival the moon, Draco was unlike any other person, any other thing. Harry's hands were appreciative as they explored Draco's back, pulled through his hair, tugged on his tail. Down to Draco's slender toes Harry petted, and it didn't take for Draco to begin writhing and shifting, little panting noises escaping him.
Pulling his hand back to strike, Harry considered how much it would take to make Draco speak, to make him beg. For all that Draco could handle the flogger, the switch, even the cane, something about Harry's bare hand made him come undone in the most erotic way. It was so personal; no equipment, no degrees of separation, just flesh on flesh until a fire was lit and consumed them.
"I'm not punishing you because you used your hands to light the fire, though that was very naughty. I'm punishing you because you won't let me take care of you properly, because you won't tell me what you need."
Harry didn't like building up to create a base of warmth and blood flow. The first slap wasn't pulled; he gave Draco the full brunt of his power, slightly limited in their position but nonetheless impressive.
Draco yelped and arched up. A handprint formed. A part of Harry on Draco's body.
Another. Another. Harry's hand throbbed in sympathy and his heart pounded in time.
Draco's hands scrabbled at the couch before digging in, fingertips white. Draco's toes curled, and twice he brought his legs up to protect himself. Harry patiently pushed them back down and gave him a moment to recover. Just a moment, never enough.
Though his hand ached and Draco's bottom was painted crimson, Harry kept on. If Draco could use the pain to escape, so would he. He'd come back when Draco asked for him. Just him, just Harry. Not an owner, not a Dom, just his lover.
It didn't take long. Draco's mews turned to whines, then yowls, then Draco spoke.
"Harry." It was broken, breathless, bested.
Triumph was the bruised outline of Harry's patience.
Harry twisted and tugged on the tail plug, drawing it out as Draco's hips ground down against his lap. Once empty, Draco moaned. Harry could see his need to be filled—it was a tangible thing, evident in the air between them, in the unashamed desperation Draco displayed.
Hauling Draco, boneless and pliable, into a sitting position on Harry's lap, his back to Harry's clothed chest, Harry guided his cock into the waiting hole. The lubrication from the insertion of the plug was scant, but there wouldn't be much movement in this position anyway.
Draco's arse, pressing against Harry's thighs and hips as he sank down, was almost uncomfortably hot. The racing of Draco's heart was echoed in the flushed area of his arse.
Without moving, Harry waited. He couldn't help but explore Draco's body, though he avoided the pink, precome-smeared cock. Soon enough, Draco became restless; his toes sought purchase on the floor as he tried to lift himself up. He had no leverage in that position, and that was how Harry liked him.
He began to help Draco, lifting him by the hips, only an inch or two, but enough. Draco's grateful cries made Harry work faster, harder, thrusting up with what little room he had to move. Draco's arms came back around Harry's neck, forcing his body taut and arched.
This was his Draco. This was abandon. This was unabashed, complete surrender. This was what kept it all together.
Draco came; it was inevitable. Draco always came first because Harry was supposed to be the disciplined one. And Harry did come, too. And like always with Draco—never so with anyone before—it seemed to strain his very heart and pound out to his fingertips until Harry had to doubt his body was capable of containing such pleasure without imploding, drawing them into an infinite darkness in which there existed nothing but them and now.
After manoeuvring Draco onto the couch, Harry retrieved the plug and reinserted it, trapping himself within Draco, knowing it might be the only way. The long tail twitched.
Draco whimpered and blushed as the plug found its way home. He pulled Harry down for a lazy, satisfied kiss. Harry tried to make it last longer.
"Harry, I—thank you."
There it was. Two years together had Draco saying only the first word of three, always cutting himself off, always second-guessing. Harry'd said it once—Draco knew how he felt.
Harry smiled and kissed him again. They'd get there. One day Draco would beg without the mask. One day he would let Harry hold him all night instead of slipping out of the embrace when Harry fell asleep. One day he'd finish that sentence.
Until then, Harry would be whatever Draco needed.