#emo!cate

The bass hits like a heartbeat you can climb inside. Lights strobe white and red over a sea of bodies, heat rising in waves, beer sticky on the floor. Cate is a carefully curated mess: a tee she stole from you slashed into a crop at her ribs, ripped fishnets, chunky platforms built to kick in teeth. Her midriff is left dangerously bare, belly-button ring glinting, the ink at her hip peeking from the low cut of her borderline indecent pleated skirt. A leash hangs from her belt—a matte black coil that leads back through the crowd to your collar—turning every step into a dare.

Cate glances over her shoulder. Eyeliner smudged on purpose, snakebites catching neon, that wicked little smile like a match’s first hiss.

“Keep up, daddy,” she mouths, and tugs.

You follow like the tide follows the moon—leather jacket open over a band tee, sweat shining the clean line of your throat, chain glinting. The collar sits low and ordinary-looking in the dark, but it’s not ordinary at all. The D-ring catches the light whenever Cate pulls, and Cate pulls a lot. She’s bratty about it—tiny tugs that say closer, closer until your chest is flush to Cate’s back and the pit swallows you whole.

The song detonates. Cate throws her hands up, hips already moving on the downbeat. The crowd surges and she presses back, slow and obscene, grinding along the hard line in your jeans. She does it like she’s unwrapping a gift she bought herself—luxuriously slow, wickedly patient. Your breath fans hot against Cate’s ear and Cate laughs, soft and delighted, rolling her hips again.

“Be good,” you say into her hair, which is hilarious because Cate’s never been.

Cate twists in your arms, tugging at the hem of your tee, slipping her hands beneath leather and cotton until her palms meet skin. Her fingers seek out the twin studs and pinch lightly, just enough to make you jerk and hiss.

“Sensitive,” Cate purrs, head tipping back to grin up at you.

“Because you asked me to pierce them,” you say, voice rough, like the bass has scraped it raw. “And because you never let them rest.”

Cate snickers, smug. “You love me when I’m mean.”

“Unfortunately.”

She turns back around, giving your pierced nipples a reprieve, though her grin says the mercy won’t last long. And it doesn’t—barely a minute passes before the bass drops again and Cate is pressing back harder, grinding in time with the beat. Her hand snakes behind her this time, palming you through denim, thumb stroking slow torture along the aching line she knows by heart. Your hips push forward helplessly. Cate shudders, then moans, unbothered by the press of strangers. Sweat slicks her collarbone, lipstick soon to be just as smeared as her eyeliner. She tilts her face to the side and you bite at her jaw, a warning, a plea.

“Not here,” you say, failing to sound stern and managing only desperation. “You’re—fuck—Cate.”

Cate laughs, sugar-sweet poison, and keeps moving just to hear that fuck again.

The singer screams. A thousand bodies jump. Cate uses the chaos to turn in your arms again, clutching your shoulders, riding your thigh. Your mouths crash together—lip rings cool for a blink before heat roars in. You kiss like you’re making a point, like every pass of your tongue is an argument Cate’s already conceded to. Cate’s knees go a little weak. She pulls the leash hand over hand until there’s no space left between you, until your collar is snug at your throat and Cate is breathless with wanting.

“Bathroom,” you mumble against her mouth.

Cate grins, evil. “No.”

“Where?”

Cate looks at the exit, at the electric sign buzzing faintly in the dark. She licks your bottom lip, flashing a grin so sinful it threatens to unravel you where you stand. “Car?” Cate says, as if it’s even a question. As if you would ever say no.

Your hand slides to the back of Cate’s neck, possessive. “Come on, then.”

Cate swivels, dragging you through the crowd by the leash, hips still swaying because she loves to suffer and loves to make you suffer more. The two of you stumble into the night like you’ve been spit out of a mouth—humid air, parking lot floodlights, the distant sound of the encore. Cate is laughing, high on power and need.

At the car, she doesn’t even bother with the back seat. She palms your keys out of your pocket and tosses them somewhere into the passenger footwell, then drops into your lap in the driver’s seat, skirt riding up to her waist as she straddles wide. The door slams and the world shrinks to fogging windows and frantic hands.

“Seat back,” Cate orders, and you fumble for the lever, the chair groaning as it slides. Cate catches the movement of your jacket, the flex in your forearms, the clink of chain at your throat. She grabs your tee, hauls it up, and mouths at one pierced nipple through the fabric of your bra, teeth catching the ring, tugging until your breath hits like a struck match.

“Fuck, baby.”

“Mhm.” Cate straightens and reaches between your bodies. The zipper sound is obscene in the quiet car, the way your cock springs free is worse. Cate strokes you once—slow, reverent—thumb smearing slick over the head. “You’re already so hard for me. Did I do that?”

You laugh helplessly. “Whaddya think?”

Cate kisses you again, filthy and sweet, and then lifts, lining you up. She’s soaked, underwear an afterthought that she shoves aside with an impatient tug. When she sinks down, it’s both homecoming and ruin. Her breath breaks. You swear so softly it almost sounds like prayer.

“Look at me,” Cate says, and you do—eyes gold in the parking lot light, mouth parted, knuckles already white on Cate’s hips. Cate takes you, slow at first just to feel the stretch, then deeper, rolling her hips like the music’s still under her skin. “God, baby. You feel—”

“Don’t tease.”

Cate’s smile is all teeth. “That’s literally my hobby.”

She’s not merciless, though. Not tonight. The pit has wound them both too tight. Cate sets a rhythm that says I want to more than I can, a hungry, relentless pace that drags noise out of both of you. The steering wheel knocks against Cate’s spine. Your hands guide her, then grip her ass and hold her down hard enough that Cate cries out and shivers.

“Say it,” you demand, voice ragged. “Say who you belong to.”

Cate leans in, panting into your mouth. “Your. Daddy’s girl. You put a collar on me and I’m done for.”

Your laugh breaks. You jerk up, thrusting, and Cate’s vision whites at the edges. She grabs at the leash where it hooks to her belt, wraps it around her fist and anchors herself, the symbol of her power turned to the anchor of her surrender. It’s dizzying. Perfect.

“Please,” she says, and it’s unclear whether she’s begging for more or mercy. Maybe both.

You give her more.

It’s messy and desperate, exactly the way Cate wanted it. She gets loud. You tell her to be quiet. Cate says make me and you put two fingers into her mouth. Cate sucks greedily, moaning around the taste of metal from your rings. The car rocks. A horn somewhere across the lot chirps. They don’t stop.

Cate cums first, as she usually does when she’s riding you like she wants to see God. It hits sharp, a bright white burst that steals her breath and gives it back in pieces. She bites down on your fingers and gasps, shuddering, thighs shaking against denim and leather. You chase, thrusting up through her aftershocks until Cate meets you halfway and clenches, purposeful, and you’re gone—crying out, hand fisted in the back of Cate’s hair, spilling deep. Cate doesn’t move, doesn’t let you go, just breathes into the crook of your neck and counts the wild leaps of your pulse against her lips.

For a while, there’s only the tick of the cooling engine and the hiss of your lungs. Cate eventually lifts her head, lashes spiky with sweat, lipstick a disaster. She’s glowing. Still trouble.

“Hi,” she whispers, affectionate and smug, and kisses the corner of your mouth.

“Hi.” Your laugh is hoarse. You swipe a thumb across Cate’s cheekbone, smearing eyeliner she has no hope of salvaging. “You’re a menace.”

“Mm.” Cate rocks lazily, just to feel the aftershocks make you twitch. Then she leans back enough to look at you properly and, as if it’s the most casual thought in the world, says: “You know what would make me feral?”

Your eyes narrow with wary amusement. “I’m afraid to ask.”

Cate smiles, slow and wicked. “If you got your tip pierced.”

You blink. Heat returns to your face so fast it’s almost comical. “Cate.”

“What?” Cate feigns innocence and fails spectacularly. She pins your wrists to the seat by your head—playful, declarative—then lowers her voice to something dark and sweet. “Just imagine it. I drop to my knees, and the first thing I feel against my tongue is a cool ring. I’m gentle because you just got it done. I breathe on it, watch you shiver. I lick around the bead, slide the metal along my lower lip, look up at you while you try not to cum from that alone.” She pauses to drag the tip of her tongue along her own teeth like she’s tasting the idea. “I bet I could make you shake with barely anything—slow strokes, the weight of it tapping against my tongue. And later, when you’re healed? I ride you and feel the ring drag every time you fill me, metal catching inside just right. I’d grind down and make the little piece of jewelry sing just for me.”

Your hands flex under Cate’s grip, breath hitching. “Jesus Christ.”

Cate’s grin turns delightfully cruel. She lets one hand go to slide underneath your tee again, finds a nipple ring and tugs—light, testing. Your hips jump up inside her helplessly. “You remember how crazy these made you for the first few days?” Cate croons. “How every brush of your shirt had you whimpering? Multiply it. I’d take such good care of you, daddy. Ice my mouth first, cool kisses, then warm you up with my throat. I’d be so careful. Until you asked nicely for mean.”

“You’re dreaming me up a torture maze,” you mutter, eyes blown. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Say you’ll think about it.” Cate’s voice goes soft at the edges, coaxing. She kisses you again, lazy and filthy, tongue brushing the groove of your lower lip. “Say you’ll let me worship you with silver.”

You stare at her for a long moment, looking equal parts ruined and helplessly in love. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“That’s not a no.”

You exhale, defeated. “I’ll think about it.”

Cate beams, triumphant and tender all at once. She releases your wrists and taps your nose. “Good girl.”

Your answering growl is proof you’re not that good. You sit up as much as Cate’s body allows and mouth along Cate’s neck, right where the collar would sit if it were hers. “You keep tugging on those nipple rings and we’re going back in there to finish what we started in the pit.”

“Promises, promises,” Cate says, preening, and slides her hands into your hair. She tugs, just enough to make your eyes flutter closed. “Drive me home, daddy. Or don’t. We could fog up these windows a second time, and then I can start a Pinterest board for your future dick jewelry.”

Your laugh is helpless and wrecked. “You’re not allowed on Pinterest unsupervised.”

“Collar me then.” Cate nips at your mouth.

Outside, the encore dissolves into applause. Inside, Cate rocks one last time—slow and claiming—before finally lifting off with a small, satisfied sound. She tugs her skirt down, steals your hoodie from the backseat to throw over herself and leans over to give the nipple rings a very gentle pinch through the fabric.

“See?” Cate hums, smug and doting. “You do like it.”

You fumble for the keys, still glassy-eyed. “Unfortunately.”

Cate tugs on the leash lightly, smiling. “Come on. I’m not finished ruining you yet.”

Cate swore she could taste the metal in the air the second they walked into the studio—cool, antiseptic, a promise. The walls were glossy black, framed flash sheets glittered with silver, every curve of jewelry a yes in her mind. She’d dressed for church: tiny plaid skirt, fishnets, a ribbed tank that said SAINT in cracked letters and showed off the dip of her sternum. You slowed at the counter to fill out forms.

“Name?” the piercer asked. He had gentle eyes and a voice that made everything sound reasonable.

You gave your name, then glanced at Cate because Cate needed it, the small indulgence of being looked at like an accomplice.

Cate floated up on giddy nerves and put her chin on your shoulder while you signed the waiver. “You can write Daddy if you want,” she murmured, low enough that only the metal might hear. “It’s the truth.”

Your smile hooked to one side, a flash of dimple. “If I write Daddy, he’s going to think I’m bringing a man back there.”

“Let him.” Cate nipped the shell of your ear. “Then he can be jealous like everyone else.”

The piercer took you into a sterilized back room and went through the usual talk—placement, size, jewelry options, healing time. Cate managed to be good for six whole minutes, nodding solemnly and humming agreement, until the words “four to eight weeks, no sex” landed like a slap.

Her hand shot up like she was in class. “Define sex.”

“Anything that causes friction or pressure.” The piercer didn’t blink. “You’ll thank me later.”

Cate, who was very pro-friction, made a tiny, strangled sound.

You reached behind and wrapped your fingers around Cate’s wrist. The touch was casual and devastating.

“Behave,” you said, soft. To the piercer: “We’ll do the curved barbell you recommended.”

Cate watched the prep like it was a sacrament. Gloves snapped. A glimmering needle. The antiseptic wipe painting your skin into a saint. Cate felt feral and tender all at once. She took your hand and kissed the back of it, then put that hand on her cheek like she could pin herself there forever.

“You sure?” she breathed.

Your eyes were already blown with adrenaline. “You asked me to.”

“I know.” Cate’s voice went sugary sweet, just a little wicked. “I’m depraved.”

“You’re honest.”

When it happened, it happened fast—measured breath, line of steel, a bright flash of pain that you rode like a wave, face gone still with focus. The piercer’s voice sounded far away: “Beautiful. Jewelry’s in.”

Cate felt the room tilt. Not from squeamishness, but from the sight of the small, gleaming curve seated where she’d imagined it for weeks, a glint of promise peeking out from soft, flushed skin. Her knees actually wobbled. She had to laugh at herself, open-mouthed and wild.

“Cate,” you warned, reading her expression.

“I’m fine,” Cate said, which was a lie and also histrionics. She pressed both hands over her own mouth and made a muffled, ecstatic noise. “I’m going to be—so respectful. So careful. I’m going to be saintly about this.”

The piercer ran you through aftercare—saline soaks, breathable underwear, no rough fabric, no bodies crashing together in the backseat of a car because someone couldn’t keep her hands to herself. Cate, who had in fact crashed bodies together in the seat of a car not forty-eight hours ago, nodded like a model student and somehow didn’t burst into flames.

Outside, the world was warm and loud. You moved gingerly, careful not to jostle things. Cate took the keys and drove, hands steady, heart not. She kept sneaking looks over, catching your profile: jaw set, lip caught between teeth, the faint proud wince of someone who did a brave thing because the person she loved asked and because she wanted it too.

At a red light, Cate reached over and threaded your fingers. “Baby,” she said, soft enough to slip beneath traffic. “You did so good.”

You squeezed back. “You asked me to,” you repeated, and the way you said it—like a vow, like a private joke—made Cate’s throat ache.

The first week was agony. Cate was a menace about being gentle. She hovered like a storm cloud with a halo. She read the aftercare sheet three times a day and kissed your hipbone as if it were sacred ground she was allowed to worship while the altar healed. She iced her mouth before she kissed anywhere that made you hiss. She soaked cotton rounds in saline and pressed them to sensitive skin with the focus of a surgeon. She bullied you into wearing soft joggers instead of denim: “No, babe, I’m sorry, I love your Levi’s with a religious fervor but they are not invited to this healing.”

You took it with long-suffering grace and bursts of laughter, texting her from the bathroom mirror: Your Pinterest board-ing needs to calm down.

Cate, sprawled on the bed with her legs up the headboard, replied: it needs to be fed. send a pic of my little ring<3

You: you’re on thin ice, saint.

Cate: oh? i can make it melt with my mouth when you’re healed.

By the end of week two, Cate had developed a new hobby: tugging your nipple rings every time she needed to release pressure. A tug in the kitchen while coffee dripped. A tug in a dressing room while you tried on a white tee that made you look like sex and sunshine. A tug while you were trying to produce a demo, Cate sliding onto your lap sideways and biting the silver through cotton until you hissed and buried your face in Cate’s neck.

“You’re going to end me before your new favorite toy can even play,” you mumbled, voice wrecked.

Cate stroked your hair. “Not end. Edify.”

You laughed into her throat. “You’re impossible.”

“Mm. That’s why you love me.”

By week five, Cate actually started behaving. It was terrifying for everyone. She didn’t grind against you while you watched late-night movies. Instead, she turned around and draped herself carefully, fingers stroking your arm instead of your waistband. She went into the pit alone with Emma and Marie and left early, twitchy and bored.

“You’re twitchy,” you told her when she crawled back into bed at midnight.

“I’m bored,” Cate said into your clavicle, sulky. “I miss you in my mouth.”

“I miss being in your mouth.”

You lay there breathing for a long time, the kind of quiet where love uses your ribs like wind chimes.

“Soon,” you said at last.

“Soon,” Cate echoed, and made a vow not to so much as think about bouncing until the piercer gave the green light.

He did, week seven and change, after a check that had Cate sitting on her hands so she wouldn’t clap out of sheer excitement. “Looks great,” he said. “No pain? No tenderness?”

You shook your head, calm but with that spark in your eyes like you were standing under a storm you wanted to let soak you. He gave the go-ahead. Cate somehow didn’t kiss him on the mouth. She dragged you home by the collar instead.

It was one of those honeyed evenings where light fell slow across the floorboards and the city noise softened to a purr. Cate closed the bedroom door with her foot and turned the lock, not because she thought anyone would interrupt but because ritual matters. She nudged you back to sit at the edge of the bed. She knelt like prayer, like sacrilege, like someone who’d been politely starving and was finally allowed to eat.

“Hands,” she said, and you gave them automatically, palms up in surrender. Cate put them on the headboard. “Stay.”

Your laugh was dry. “Yes, ma’am.”

Cate kissed both knees, then the inside of one, then the soft place where thigh met pelvis. “Tell me if it’s too much,” she said, voice soft. “If it feels weird. If you want me to slow down.”

You carded a hand through Cate’s hair, gentle, reassuring. “I’ll tell you.”

Cate exhaled, long and shivery, then drew you out of your joggers with the care of unveiling.  She eased your boxers down just as carefully, fingers lingering at the waistband as if savoring the reveal. Cate gasped softly at the sight. The barbell was so small, so perfect—a curve of silver catching the last of the daylight. Cate went hot all over.

“My pretty thing,” she whispered, leaned forward, and breathed across it first the way she’d promised. Your exhale went ragged. Cate threaded her fingers beneath your thighs and dragged you closer, all the brattiness in her body sublimated into reverence, and kissed the head—feather light, a hello. Then the shaft. Then the ring itself, a cool kiss that warmed against her lips.

She started gentle. She had meant it. Lips, tongue, a slow slide that let the new weight register—how it tapped against the roof of her mouth, how it clicked softly against her teeth when she hollowed her cheeks just a little, how it tugged at skin in a way that sent your breath stuttering. Cate learned it the way she learned songs, by ear and feel, by repetition, by the moment when her body said there and the world narrowed to a beat.

“Cate,” you said, soft and astonished. “Baby.”

Cate hummed around you, the sound traveling through metal and skin. She pulled off with a wet little gasp and looked up, chin slick, lipstick smudged into something sinful. “You like the way it sounds?”

You blinked, dazed. “It—sounds?”

“Listen.” Cate slid back down, slow. She took the bar in with the head, let the ball catch on the edge of her tongue, and flicked just enough that the metal kissed metal—jewelry against her tooth with a delicate, wicked click. You groaned like you’d been punched.

“Fuck.”

Cate smiled around you and went back to work in earnest. She paced herself with exquisite cruelty, staying just this side of too much, using the change in weight like a handle for sensation. When she slid down, the ring stroked her tongue and lifted as she rose. When she twisted, it tugged just slightly on the sensitive underside and you trembled like a livewire.

“Please,” you said, your voice pushed to the edge of sanity. Your hands were still dutiful on the headboard, knuckles white. “Cate, please.”

Cate took pity in the way she knew would ruin you both. She swallowed deeper and reached up with one hand to tug lightly at a nipple ring, twin violence sweet enough to make your hips jump off the bed. She moaned around you, greedy, and felt the way want shattered down to bone.

When you said “I’m—” it had that raw edge Cate liked best, all pretense stripped. Cate pulled off with a gasp and slid her hand around the base, squeezing, mean and kind.

“Not yet,” she said, voice gone hoarse. “I’m not finished worshipping.”

You made a noise like a prayer and a threat. “You’re tormenting me.”

Cate laughed, black-hearted and besotted. “You got jewelry for me,” she said, eyes bright. “Let me make it sing.”

She went back down, and this time she didn’t stop. She ruined you with a virtuoso’s patience, letting the new physics of metal do half the work, the rest done by her hunger and the weird, boundless love that made her want to tear the sky open just to see if it would bleed. She felt you tighten, felt the quiver go through your thighs, heard the first helpless cadence of pleasepleaseplease, and only then did she take her hand from the base, slide it lower to cradle, to open her throat and take everything you gave with a guttural, joyous sound.

You came like a storm breaking, voice wrecked, hands flying off the headboard to cup the back of Cate’s skull but not push, never push. Cate swallowed until she couldn’t, pulled back with a cough and a laugh, and licked the ring clean like it was a cherry pit, like she’d earned it.

For a long moment, Cate rested her cheek against your thigh and breathed. Your hand stroked her hair in dazed, reverent passes.

Finally, Cate tipped her head up, eyes glittering. “So?”

Your smile was slow and ruined. “I’m sending the piercer a fruit basket.”

Cate’s laugh cracked into something close to a sob. She crawled up and straddled your lap, bracing on your shoulders. “My brave daddy,” she murmured, kissing the line of your jaw, the dimple, the corner of your mouth. “My pretty, pierced girl.”

You caught her face, thumb pressing into the hollow beneath her cheekbone. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m in love with you.” Cate’s voice tripped. She didn’t care. “I’m also going to spend the next week tugging your nipple rings every time I walk by just to hear you gasp.”

You rolled your eyes like there wasn’t water in them. “You already do.”

“Mm.” Cate rocked forward, felt the soft kiss of metal against her and shivered. “And now I have a new toy to be painfully respectful of for exactly—” she glanced at the clock on the nightstand, wicked “—ten more minutes.”

Your bark of laughter was half warning, half surrender. You reached for Cate’s belt loops, hooking your fingers into them, and drew Cate down, your pierced cock warming against Cate’s belly. “You waited seven weeks,” you said, voice turned velvet, a thin-veiled threat. “I think you can survive ten more minutes.”

Cate nosed at your mouth. “You’ll have to keep me busy.”

“I can do that.” Your hands slid down, cupped her ass, promised. “I’m very motivated.”

Cate smiled like a sinner rewarded and kissed you—slow, in love, a little feral, exactly herself. Outside, the city gnawed at its lip ring and looked away. Inside, Cate tugged very gently at silver, and you made a sound that said everything worth hearing.

Cate is still soft-limbed and gleaming when you nudge her back on the pillows. The city has gone rosy at the edges. The last bands of light stripe the duvet, silvered enough to make Cate’s piercings wink like a secret. Your hands find her waistband, thumbs stroking the sharp points of her hipbones before tugging her jeans and panties down in one smooth pull. Cate arches her hips to make it easier, breath catching at the thought of being laid out for her girl in the dying light.

“Open,” you murmur, and Cate does, thighs falling apart easily, greedy. You kiss the inside of one knee, then the other, then drag your mouth up Cate’s inner thigh, slow enough to make Cate’s fingers scrabble at the sheets.

“You’re showing off,” Cate breathes, smiling and wrecked. “Daddy.”

“Practicing restraint,” you say, which is both a lie and a threat.

You mouth at Cate’s hip first, a claiming kiss to the hollow there, then press your palm to Cate’s belly and whisper, “Tell me if you want more or less.”

Cate laughs, breathy. “More, obviously.”

You hum, then bury your face like you’ve been waiting your whole life to live right here. The first drag of your tongue is reverent, a slow hello from bottom to top that makes Cate arch like a bow. The second is meaner—flattened, slower, a press that has Cate’s lashes fluttering and her mouth falling open around a broken oh. You part her with careful fingers and lick again, letting Cate grind up into her own pace if she wants it. Cate does. She always does.

“Fuck—babe—” Cate’s hand finds the back of your head, not pushing, just anchoring. “You always—God, right there—”

You smile into her, then get serious about it. Small circles. Then a flick. Then a long, patient drag of pressure that makes Cate breathless. You know Cate’s body like music—with muscle memory, with ears, with heart. When Cate starts to climb, you slide two fingers inside, palm turned up, slow and steady, stretching her open. The sound Cate makes is shameless and holy. You suck at Cate’s clit gently, then a little harder, then let go entirely.

Cate laughs, delirious. You go a shade filthier. Your fingers curl, finding the forward press of Cate’s front wall in a learned, tender hook. Cate’s thighs tremble. You suck again, wetter, and Cate seizes on a whimper, hips rolling up to meet your mouth. Your free hand braces over Cate’s hipbone, a soft pressure that turns Cate’s gasp into a needy, helpless sound.

“Fuck. Daddy. Don’t stop, don’t—”

You don't. You work her like a song you refuse to let end, letting Cate thrum and crest and break apart on your tongue, holding her through it with the press of your palm. Cate cums hard, a high, thin cry busted out of her chest, hips jerking, cunt clenching around your fingers like it’s trying to keep them—keep you—forever.

“Good girl,” you murmur into the sensitive slick, kissing the pulse of Cate’s climax as it shudders out. “That’s it. Give it to me.”

Cate’s laugh flutters and fails. She tugs at your hair until you look up, pupils bottomless from pleasure. There’s color in her cheeks and tears standing shiny at the corners of her eyes, the kind of wrecked that makes your ribs ache.

“Come here,” Cate whispers, voice ruined.

You kiss her slowly, letting Cate taste herself. Cate arches, greedy, catching your bottom lip between her teeth. When you settle over her, Cate peels her own hoodie off and tosses it blind, then scowls at the return of those pesky boxers. She shoves them down with graceless impatience, leaving you in nothing but your white tee.

“Wait,” you say, breathless and grinning, a little shaky because God, Cate. “I want to—”

You reach down and wrap your fingers around the base of yourself, a brief, grounding touch. The curved barbell glints—a small, wicked crescent at the underside of the head. Healed now, smooth, hot against your palm. Cate makes a sound that is not language.

“Thought you wanted careful,” you tease, because teasing is all that’s keeping your planet on its axis.

Cate smiles like sin. “I want careful,” she says, and then, huskier, “and I want it inside me.”

You kiss the corner of her mouth in a silent yes. You slide one hand under Cate’s knee and fold it higher, opening her up. Your other hand guides your cock to the slick, eager heat waiting. You rub there first, slow—just the head, just enough pressure to drag the metal across Cate’s inner rim. Cate shudders so hard her calf flexes against your shoulder.

“Is that…” you start, and can’t finish.

Cate’s laugh is a gasp. “You feel like a weapon.”

You swallow and nudge forward, just the tip, letting the ring kiss the entrance each time you rock back. Cate keens. The barbell strokes the tender threshold and then, with a small tilt of your hips, rides inside to greet the front wall with a delicate tap. Cate’s voice goes high and startled.

“Oh—oh, fuck, there, that—baby—”

“Yeah?” your voice is gone. You do it again, more sure, a shallow roll that sets the metal brushing the spot like a bell. Cate’s head tips back hard. She fists both hands in your shirt and drags you down until your chests press together, her mouth breaking open on a wordless sound. “Yeah,” you say again, in awe. “Okay.”

You slide in slowly, inch by inch, eyes locked on Cate’s, watching every twitch and flutter, stopping to breathe when Cate’s breath stutters. Cate nods, shivers, slides a hand down to tug at one of your nipple rings because she’s a menace even now. You groan and sink the rest of the way with that tug, the ring inside pressing forward and catching—perfect, obscene—on the place that makes Cate claw at your shoulders.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, dizzy.

Cate is panting, eyes glassy. “Move,” she begs, all polish stripped to hunger. “Please, daddy, fuck me—give it to me, I can take it.”

You don't deny her anything.

You start with shallow, precise thrusts, angling up and forward so the curve of the bar finds the front wall again and again. The sensation is…different. Better. The ring drags and taps inside, a tiny, devastating new feeling, and Cate responds like she’s been tuned to it, body clenching down on you every time it lands. You hold Cate’s knee higher, palm firm on the back of her thigh, and watch Cate come apart—snakebites gleaming with spit, eyes gone near-blind.

“God—God—baby, that’s—” Her voice breaks. “You’re—oh my God—”

“Look at me,” you say, breath ragged, and Cate's eyes instantly find hers. “There you go, pretty girl. Take me. Take all of it.”

Cate whimpers at the praise and drags her fingers up under your shirt to find metal again. She pinches a nipple ring lightly, exactly enough, and your hips stutter forward on reflex. The ring inside hits harder, Cate yelps, and now you’re laughing the kind of laugh that sounds like you’re drowning in it. “Right?” you pant. “You were right. This thing—fuck—this thing is so hot.”

Cate’s answering smile is shattered and smug, gone at the edges. “Knew you’d like the way I sound on it.”

“Obsessed,” you admit, hoarse. You pin Cate open and thrust a little deeper, the wet smack of skin and the delicate inner kiss of metal making Cate sob. You can’t stop saying it: “Obsessed.”

“Please—please—don’t stop,” Cate begs, voice gone whiny with how close she is. “Baby, I—oh—right there—there—”

You adjust a breath and keep her there, steady and merciless, hips rolling into the same place until Cate is shaking like a livewire. You lean down and mouth at Cate’s throat where a collar would sit, teeth scraping over skin, and feel Cate seize with it.

“Whose are you?” you ask, low and rough into that skin.

“Yours,” Cate gasps without hesitation. “Daddy’s girl, all yours—ohmygod—please—”

You growl and give her what she’s asking for. The tempo jumps, the rhythm turns greedy. The bedframe knocks against the wall. Cate makes the prettiest noise you’ve ever heard, a punched-out ah that goes softer until it turns into a broken little cry as her orgasm hits. She clamps around you and pulls, fluttering hard, and the bar hooks just right inside her, lighting her up until she’s arching so sharply her spine lifts off the bed.

“Eyes on me,” you say, and Cate tries, eyes wide, mouth open—wrecked. Holy. She cums and keeps coming, and you chase, fucking her through it, letting Cate’s cunt wring the last of your restraint out of you.

“Cum in me,” Cate pleads, drunk with it. “Please, I want you—want all of it—”

You break. You push deeper, the ring pressing mercilessly into that hot front wall, and spill with a groan that sounds like it’s been dragged from the core of you. Cate takes it, moaning, nails biting your back, hips rolling to keep the metal nudging that sweet spot until even the aftershocks make her whine.

For a long time it’s only breathing and the frantic, happy thud of your hearts. Your arms shake as you lower Cate’s knee and fold into her, careful not to crush. Cate cradles your head, kisses your hairline, trembles and laughs like she’s dizzy.

“Well?” Cate whispers after a minute, voice ruined, smugness soft as a kiss. “Am I a prophet, or what?”

You snort into her collarbone. “You’re a menace.” You lift your head to look at Cate, eyes blown wide and tender. “And you were right. That was—fuck. Cate. I saw God. She had perfectly winged eyeliner.”

Cate’s laugh breaks and brightens. Her fingers tug at a nipple ring, gentle. You flinch and grin at the same time. “My little goth miracle,” Cate says, adoring, and then tips her hips up to make the barbell press one more time, a cruel, soft aftershock that has you both hissing.

“Careful,” you warn, but you’re smiling like a fool.

“I am careful,” Cate says, feigning offense and failing. “I waited nearly eight weeks and the longest ten minutes of my life. I’m basically a nun.”

“Saint,” you correct, nudging your nose against Cate’s. “Said so on your shirt.”

Cate beams, wicked and unguarded, and tugs at the chain around your throat so you dip close enough to kiss. “Take me to mass again later,” she whispers against your mouth. “I want another sermon. The one where the little silver thing makes me cry.”

Your laugh is low and promising. “Oh, I’ll preach,” you say, rolling your hips lazily, the ring tapping inside like a benediction. “Until you see God.”

“Good,” Cate breathes, already gone soft and dangerous under you hands. “I like church.”

You pull out, and before Cate can mourn the loss, you’ve tumbled over—you flat on your back, Cate grinning as she takes her rightful throne on top. Cate drapes herself over you like a warm, smug blanket, all glittering sweat and smeared lipstick, and then—because worship demands ritual—she starts kissing her way south.

“Stay right there,” she murmurs against the notch of your collarbone, the words smile enough. “I need to love on my butch.”

You huff a laugh, wrecked and soft. “You already loved on your butch.”

“Mhm. But I’m going sightseeing.”

She mouths along the ridge of your clavicle, then the slope of your sternum, pausing only to give each nipple ring the gentlest hello—two feather-light kisses that make your exhale stutter. Cate is careful now, reverent in that way she gets after she’s been exquisitely filthy. Her hands are tender, thumbs smoothing sweat from the valley of ribs as if she’s polishing silver. She noses lower, planting a kiss over the small freckle to the left of your heart, another at the dip between ab lines, and then she arrives.

Your little happy trail—dark, soft, a road her mouth knows by heart—starts just beneath your navel and leads down in a neat, shameless arrow. Cate sighs like she’s found a field of wildflowers. “There you are,” she whispers, and presses her lips to the first little curl.

She follows the path slowly. Kiss, exhale, kiss. The salt of skin. The heat that still radiates off your belly. The way the downy hair tickles the bow of Cate’s upper lip when she drags it, lazy, back up toward your navel. Cate’s lipstick leaves ghost-pink moons—a dotted line for future tours. She pauses to set her mouth right over your belly button, sucking softly, grinning when you jolt and laugh breathlessly.

“Ticklish?” Cate teases, eyes bright, wickedness sanded gentle.

“A little,” you admit, voice soft. “Keep going.”

“Oh, I’m not stopping until I’ve kissed every mile of this highway.” Cate turns her face and rubs her cheek—catlike—along the trail, lips open to taste the heat, to breathe you in. “You smell like sweat and steel and me,” she murmurs, drunk with it. “My favorite cologne.”

Your hand drops to Cate’s hair, sliding through the pink strands with a slow, grateful stroke. Cate kisses the spot just above your waistline again, mouth soft, and glances down. The curved barbell at the tip glints, almost smug, a little crescent of moonlight caught in the last of the day. Cate’s breath hitches—not greedy now, just reverent.

“Hi, pretty thing,” she whispers to the silver, as if it can hear. “You did so good.”

You flush, bashful and proud all at once. “You’re talking to my jewelry.”

“I’m talking to my new favorite sound,” Cate says, eyes flicking up, sweet and feral. “And to the girl wearing it.”

She doesn’t crowd. She keeps her kisses high enough, right where the trail begins to darken near the base of your cock, and lets her fingers map the rest—one palm open over your hip, thumb drawing lazy circles into the bone. The other hand smoothing along the line where thigh meets pelvis, fond and possessive. She is careful with the bar, she is not careful with the worship. Every press of her mouth says mine. Every sigh says thank you.

“You’re so handsome like this,” Cate confesses, voice gone soft. “All sweat-slick and stupidly pretty, hair curling, nipples sensitive, happy trail looking like an arrow that points me home.” She kisses the little V of muscle where it cuts into your pelvis and then presses her chin on the flat of your stomach to look up. “Do you know how much I love you?”

Your smile widens slowly, utterly helpless. “I think I have a clue.”

“Wrong. Not even close.” Cate lifts to press a kiss over your navel again, then north, then just under the edge of your ribs. She dots them like stars. “It’s a disgusting amount. It’s a—cheesy tumblr poem amount.”

“God, not a tumblr poem,” you groan, grinning.

“A black-and-white grainy photo of your abs with the caption I learned faith from her mouth vibes.” Cate kisses the happy trail again, lingering, and her voice goes quiet at the seam of laughter and ache. “Hashtag, I love my butch so much it makes me stupid.”

Your hand stills in her hair. “Hey,” you say, soft. “Me too.”

For a while Cate does nothing but breathe and kiss, working the edge off your sensitivity with affection instead of friction. She continues to palm your hip, pressing her mouth to that small, tender spot at the top of your thigh, listening to the way your breath changes when she does. Every now and then she tilts her head and drags her nose down the happy trail like she’s scenting a path she never wants to forget.

“Stay with me,” you murmur, voice gone thick. “Right there.”

“I live here,” Cate answers, kissing the word into skin.

When she finally climbs back up, she takes the trail with her—kisses up the line, up the ridge of muscle, over your sternum to the chain at your throat. She kisses that too, then the pulse beneath it, then your mouth, slow and full, tasting salt and the smile she left there. Your arms open and Cate sinks into them with a content, spoiled sound, thigh thrown over hip, her hand sneaking under your tee to pinch a nipple ring with surgical delicacy once more.

You gasp, half-laughing, half-wrecked. “You’re incorrigible.”

“I’m in love,” Cate corrects, smirking into the kiss. “Which is the same thing but hotter.”

You nose her temple. “You kissed my happy trail like devotion.”

“It is devotion,” Cate says, matter-of-fact and a little teary, wiping at a mascara smear on your cheek with her thumb. “You’re my altar. I’m your menace. We’re ridiculous. It’s perfect.”

“Perfect,” you echo, pulling her even closer.

Cate hums, nestling, cheek to your chest, ear to the metronome of your heart. “I’m going to do it again in the morning,” she warns, already drowsy, already plotting. “The trail kissing. The ring compliments. The whole church service.”

You smile against her hair. “I’ll save you a pew at Sunday morning worship.”

“And a sermon?” Cate yawns, nuzzling lower to press one last kiss to the just-visible start of hair below your navel. “I like when you preach.”

Your hand curves at the back of Cate’s neck, sure and gentle. “I’ll preach,” you promise. “Start to finish.”

Cate sighs, happy and ruined and safe. “Amen.”