A/n: in which Gerard takes a little too long in the shower, so you go to investigate, only to find your kitty’s feeling desperate for some attention. Inspired by this lovely request!
They’ve been in there a long time.
Like, a really long time, especially for someone who usually avoids showers at all costs. But nonetheless, you can still hear the faint, static spray of the water through the wall separating the bedroom and the bathroom.
Gerard’s bedroom. You find yourself here maybe a little more often than you should, but you return again and again anyway. They’re a sweet thing, really. Kinda gross, sure. Or a lot gross. But a total sweetheart.
The two of you just click. You have shared interests, you both enjoy cheap gas station food, and you both hang around the outskirts in most social settings. And it just so happens that you get along very well sexually as well.
Their submissive nature and innate need to please is extremely appealing; the poor thing would do anything you told them to, as long as you used that tone. Caring and affectionate, but taunting and cruel at the same time.
There’s no kink or fetish you could bring up to them that they would judge. Chances are, they’re into it anyway. You’ve seen that freak’s search history by accident before (they had left their laptop out when they went to the bathroom, and you “accidentally” snooped), they’re very open-minded, to say the least.
So when you casually mentioned one afternoon that they’d look good in a collar, they’d blushed, yes—big eyes to go with their pink cheeks—but immediately started talking about their in-depth thoughts on the topic, and you could tell they’d thought about it extensively before.
Soon after, you found out about their kink for kittyplay, and you were all too happy to indulge them—turns out it’s really hot to listen to how their voice breaks when they’re half-moaning half-meowing through an orgasm you ruined by taking your hand away at the last second. Pretty apple cheeks, little teeth, fluttering lashes…
What’s taking them so long?
You finally decide to investigate. Not like there’s anything better to do down here. Stretching out earns you a couple satisfying pops in your back before you slide off the bed and slink to the bathroom door.
“Hey, Gee?” You call, tapping on the door. “You okay?”
Silence, save for the steady spray of water. But then you hear them.
“I… ‘m okay… just, uh…” Fragmented pieces of an excuse. Their voice sounds tight and breathless all at once, almost as if they’re in pain but not quite. You’re not an idiot. But they speak again before you can get a word in.
“M… mommy, can you, uh… come in here? Please?” And the poor thing sounds needy in a way that makes your stomach flip excitedly. You know they only call you that when they really need something.
You turn the knob and push open the door, closing it with a click behind you. The mirror is steamed up, and there’s a haze from the steam that makes everything in the room look softer around the edges.
“In the shower, hun?” You ask, already starting to pull off your clothes because you know the answer. You just like hearing their voice.
When you push back the curtain, you pause before stepping inside. Gerard’s standing there, under the spray, looking at you with those pretty eyes of theirs, all dark and glittering with want.
They redyed their hair recently—some cheap black box dye that bleeds in the shower, and when the water dilutes it, it looks like pale, muted purple-ish drips running down their skin. The hazel of their eyes is intensified because of the smudged dark eye makeup, which is running down their flushed cheeks in thin streams, mixing with the sweat and grime and whatever else builds up after not showering for days on end.
But what really catches your eye is the way their fist is wrapped around their swollen, stiff dick, nearly pressing up into their belly. And the pretty pink collar you bought for them fastened snug around their neck, the drips from their hair dye and makeup running down over the pink leather like little rivers.
“Look at you,” you say, stepping into the shower and sliding the curtain shut. Their eyes run down your body, brows furrowing and hand tightening noticeably around their cock. Their face is flushed a pretty pink from the heat of the shower, along with their shoulders and arms and tummy, making them look ripe and very biteable.
“I knew you weren’t washing,” you continue, smirking at the dark, streaked rivulets of the dye-makeup-sweat concoction dripping down their pretty curves. “C’mere, kitty.”
Instinctively and without thought they shuffle closer in the small space while you reach out to push their wet hair away from their face. You drizzle a generous amount of vanilla-scented body wash on their loofah and begin scrubbing the suds over their flushed pink skin.
“Sorry,” they mumble, glancing at you shyly as you lift their arms to wash from their fingers to their armpits. But you shake your head.
“Don’t be,” you hum as you squeeze the loofah over Gerard’s chest, the soapy water running down to their belly, over their hips. You purposefully avoid touching their cock, swiping the loofah across their naval and down their thighs. You see their muscles jump, and their dick twitches.
You have to bite back a smile. They’re already so hard. The thought of them huffing into their palm as they stroked themself in here before you came to investigate almost makes you want to touch them proper, but you practice restraint.
“Your cock looks so pretty like this, doesn’t it?” And they can already tell you’re going somewhere with this that will end in them crying or begging or both. They glance down at their dick, stiff and begging for attention, flushed a rosy pink at their swollen head, which has also begun leaking.
You ghost the sudsy loofah over their hard length once, a barely-there tease of a touch, and they whine. “Fuck, please, mommy—“
But you shake their head and they shut up so fast their teeth click. They’re trained very well.
“No talking. What sound do kitties make, huh?” The prompt makes Gerard’s cheeks flush in a delicious combination of shame and helpless arousal. When they try to duck their head, you slide a firm hand into their hair, fingers wrapping around the long, dark strands near their scalp, stopping them from hiding their face.
They squeak out a quiet mrow, and you reward them by relaxing your grip in their hair and massaging your fingertips against their scalp. Their lashes flutter closed, pressing their head up into the touch.
“That’s it,” you murmur. Your gaze travels greedily over their expanse of pale, tinged-pink skin, and you set the loofah aside in favor of running your hands up their generous hips. They’re covered in soft, sweet-smelling suds, making their skin shiny and slippery.
Your eyes return to Gerard’s face, where they’re biting their lip and looking at you pleadingly. They never seem to understand that when they look at you like that, it never makes you want to give them what they actually want. Mainly because they look so good when they’re begging and pleading.
“I want to watch you,” you start, and their eyes widen slightly at the idea of you not touching them. But you’re just getting started.
You’ve always had a thing for their tummy, so soft and pale. You love when it spills over the waistband of their tight jeans, or when that silly bat belt buckle of theirs presses into the gentle swell of their stomach. It’s one of your favorite places to stuff your face and bite (thank goodness they’re not ticklish).
You take their hands and lead them down their own body to rest on their belly. “You can touch here only,” you say firmly, and relish in the way their eyes spark with warring despair and eagerness to please you. “Maybe if I think you’re enjoying yourself enough, I’ll touch you properly. So put on a nice show, kitty,” you add in their ear, nipping at the lobe.
Then, you step back. And watch. Anytime you’re in a situation where you’re observing more than touching Gerard, they’re always shy at first. Soft and hesitant, they begin sliding their big hands up their slick skin and back down, blushing and looking away and mewing quietly. They don’t need to be reminded not to speak—they know better than that.
The way their soft flesh gives under their fingertips makes you throb. “Good,” you coo softly, gaze fixed on them like you physically can’t look away. “Doing so good for me. So pretty.”
The praise emboldens them, as it always does, and they seem to get a little more sure of themself. Their fingertips inch down to almost the base of their cock before dragging back up their tummy, and they let out the sweetest half-moan half-meow you’ve ever heard. They tip their head back, puffing little breaths through their parted, pouty lips. Their dark lashes brush their cheeks as their eyes closed, still smudged with the remains of their eyeliner.
The air between you is thick and heavy with steam and desperation. You want to touch yourself as you watch, but you refrain. Instead, you focus on the way Gerard’s getting more into it. Their voice is getting higher and whinier, as it always does when they’re turned on, and when they grope at a handful of their tummy you see their cock jump, twitching in protest at its neglect.
“M-mmmeow, me-owww-uh, uh—“ they whimper out, cracking their pretty hazel eyes open to beg you with their eyes, as if pleading for touch, for praise, for whatever you feel like giving them. Part of you wants to grab them by the collar and yank them into a deep, filthy kiss, but the louder part of you wants to watch them make a complete mess of themself.
And they’re well on their way to doing just that. Their wide hips have begun rolling up in short, needy thrusts, grinding their cock against nothing as they continue rubbing and fondling their soap-slick skin, hands sliding up and down their tummy. They sound like they’re getting jerked off, and their eyes are fluttering as if they are, but their cock remains untouched.
“You think you could cum just like this?” you ask, voice hardly audible over the sound of the shower, but dark and unmistakable in its hunger.
Gerard whimpers out a shuddering meow and, after a moment’s hesitation, nods, eyes squeezing shut in mortification or overwhelming pleasure or both. Their hips give a heavy thrust, making their cock bob. Whether it’s true or they’re just agreeing to please you, you’re not sure, but it’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen anyway.
Their blunt fingernails drag across the doughy flesh of their belly as they caress themself languidly. They pant through their meows, lips trembling around the sounds.
You’re not sure if they’ll break first or if you will.
