#with religious guilt

[idle-skull]

“For judgment is without mercy to one who has shown no mercy. Mercy triumphs over judgment.” (James 2:13)

.

Nevada is a former member of the Louisiana BoS (Locally known as The Brotherhood of Blades) who abandoned the organization during his late teens. Since then it’s been over a decade, he’s been everywhere between the Pelican State & California, but eventually he settled in Utah. He’s a single father trying to do what’s best for his young son; trying to give him the loving childhood that he himself never got. Nevada is his own brand of Christian, but also experiences a lot of religious guilt from his upbringing.

Louisiana BoS lore:

The Louisiana BoS is a far removed splinter group of the well established organization. Due to the various government research sites in the state, it’s overrun with all matter of mutants & monsters. The only thing holding them back is the Brotherhood & the massive walls erected by remnants of the US military right after the war to keep these mutants trapped between the Louisiana coast & the Sabine & Mississippi rivers.

Naturally, the Louisiana BoS ended up focusing more on killing mutants than on collecting prewar tech & artifacts. Overtime this focus developed into an almost religious fanaticism. This, considering Louisiana’s religious climate, quickly helped the Brotherhood morph into an inquisitorial order of evangelicals. At this point, they cut contact with Any other chapters they had been communicating with, & re-founded themselves into the Brotherhood of Blades.

They have a much more martial focus than other chapters, preferring technologically modified melee weapons over traditional energy weapons & power armor. The BoB also takes on much more clerical titles for their ranks over the traditional BoS terms. They also value fluidity, lethality, & speed in their combat style over overt brute force.

[canisalbus]

[theoakings]

Don’t let shame distract you from the immense love Jesus has for you! He loves you so much! More than you could ever imagine. Nothing you could do or have done could ever separate you from His love!💗💫

[0bsessiv3s0ul]

Alicent Hightower

[intheholler]

[catihere]

Considering his upbringing as a Greek demigod with a relatively present godly parent and an apparently open-minded mortal mother, with only a brief part of his childhood spent in fascist Italy, Nico is not very likely to have what we call “religious trauma” or “catholic guilt”.

Will, born and raised in the south of the USA in the early 2000s, on the other hand…

[ekkkkey]

vestal (chapter III)

in which we learn that Caracalla really, really loves to pray. And Geta? Geta is furious…

summary: Livia, a young Vestal Virgin, is bound to Vesta's eternal flame and the vow of sacred duty. In Rome, it's common knowledge; touch a Vestal, and the wrath of the gods will descend upon you. But what if someone dares to defy that rule?

chapter I chapter II

warnings: 18+ minors dni, dub-con, non-con

tags: darkfic, sibling rivalry, no softboys here, religious guilt, mommy issues, caracalla when i catch you!

word count: ~4k

•••

The Great Maiden, like the other Vestals, lived in the House of the Vestals, so it was easy enough to find her.

After listening carefully to Livia’s hurried account and reading Claudia’s letter, the High Priestess was silent for a moment. Then, her pale lips parted, and she gestured to a marble bench, inviting Livia to sit.

"Sit, child."

She herself remained standing, her gaze fixed somewhere ahead. Despite her efforts to appear welcoming, there was a barely concealed tension in her posture and unease in her eyes. Still, Livia obeyed, sitting down with her hands folded in her lap, studying the older woman, trying to understand what troubled her.

"I’m sorry to come asking for this, but my heart won’t rest when my sister sends me such alarming messages. I have to see her…"

The priestess’s sharp eyes fixed on her. "Does she have no one else?"

Livia sighed. "Alas, no. Our mother has been gone for years, our father only just passed, and…" She swallowed hard, forcing back the lump rising in her throat. "…and our older sister, too. Claudia has a husband, but she’s carrying a child, alone in a foreign house… If I don’t go to her, I’ll never forgive myself. I can’t lose another sister."

Whether it was Livia’s words or the sorrow on her face, something in the senior priestess softened. Her voice was quieter when she spoke.

"Very well. Go see your sister. But don’t linger too long, and…” She hesitated, frowning, before continuing, “remember—your place is here, in the temple of our goddess and protector."

"Thank you," Livia said, relief and gratitude flooding her. In a sudden rush of emotion, she bent down and pressed a kiss to the back of the Great Maiden’s hand before hurrying out. But just as she passed through the doorway, she caught the woman’s gaze following her—heavy, somber, devoid of any joy.

And just like that, her own joy vanished.

Dark thoughts crept back in, pressing in around her like shadows. The secret she hadn’t told, the truth she hadn’t shared with her sisters. Once, they had shared everything—joy and sorrow alike—but now… Now, guilt took root in her chest, and the weight of unspoken words threatened to suffocate her.

Her sisters didn’t know.

And it was his fault.

Emperor Caracalla had shattered her quiet, ordered world with nothing but his presence. He had brought with him chaos, lies, and… thoughts that had no place in the mind of a Vestal.

But the goddess knew.

Nothing could be hidden from her. And that made it all the more unbearable.

She had tried to tell Caesonia—truly, she had—but the words got stuck in her throat the moment the other priestess started talking, her eyes sparkling with excitement about Emperor Geta. Oh, how her sister admired him! She’d praised him, laughed, made silly jokes, and seemed so thrilled that they’d be attending the games again soon.

And how could Livia ruin that? How could she say that the father of Rome had stormed into the sacred temple, had whispered things to her that no young girl should ever hear? That he had touched her, behaved with brazen arrogance, nothing like the divine being so many believed him to be?

How could she describe the filth of it? The wrongness? The things that no Vestal should ever even think about?

Sin.

She longed to bathe, to cleanse herself, as if Caracalla had truly touched her, squeezed her throat, and kept purring in her ear.

A shudder ran through her, and she bit down hard on her lip, desperate to chase away the smiling image of the emperor from her mind.

She had no time for this.

She needed to think of Claudia. She needed to focus on her sister. Not waste another moment on impure thoughts.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

As soon as the chariot began rolling through the streets of Rome, a fresh wave of panic washed over her. Livia tugged the curtains tighter, not wanting anyone to see her. This visit had to be swift and discreet—there was no reason for the people of Rome to know that a Vestal Virgin was paying a visit to the emperors’ palace.

She had no interest in the outside world—she didn’t care to see how the capital lived, neither the lavish homes of the patricians nor the cramped, crumbling dwellings of the plebeians. And yet, when the chariot slowed, she couldn’t help but peek through the slightly parted curtain. What she saw made her gasp.

The emperors’ palace, a gleaming fortress of white marble, was overwhelming in its grandeur. Even approaching from the less prominent side, away from the central square, there was still plenty to marvel at.

She was expected. As soon as she stepped inside, she was escorted directly to her sister. To Livia’s surprise, they led her to a garden, where amidst fragrant flowers, elegant marble statues, and the quiet singing of birds, Claudia waited for her in a shaded gazebo.

The young woman lounged in a garden chair, looking bored. Her legs were stretched out on a low stool, one hand absently stroking her rounded belly. But the moment she saw Livia, her expression lit up with genuine joy.

Livia lifted the sheer, pale-blue veil from her face. Beside Claudia, a dark-skinned slave girl sat at her feet. At the sight of Livia, the girl’s eyes widened—not just in surprise, but in something else. Fear? Doubt? Did she find it strange that a Vestal Virgin had come to see her mistress? Or… had she seen Livia before? Livia didn’t know, and she had no desire to dwell on it. With a simple nod, Claudia dismissed the servants, leaving them alone.

"Livia, sister, I’m so happy you’re here," Claudia said, reaching out with both hands.

Livia covered them with her own, squeezing gently. “How are you feeling?” she asked, searching her sister’s face for answers.

"Oh, this…" Claudia’s expression faltered, her eyes darting nervously. She didn’t look sick. "Forgive me for the little deception, Livia. I—" She hesitated. "You must forgive me. I just wanted to see you so badly, and I couldn’t think of any other way to distract you from your prayers!"

Livia stiffened. Anger flared through her body, and she pulled away, her movement sharper than intended.

"Do you realize," she said, her voice rougher than before, "that because of your 'little' deception, I’m in a difficult position? I have duties. What am I supposed to tell the High Priestess? That my sister is a liar?"

"You don’t need to explain anything," Claudia said smoothly. "Just tell them I’m feeling better, and that’s all. Is it really such a crime to visit your pregnant sister? Do you truly believe Vesta would be angered by that?"

But Livia remained resolute, crossing her arms and taking a step back.

"Lies—those are the real sin,” she said, eager to return to the temple immediately. “Answer me, Claudia—why did you really come up with this story?"

Her sister straightened, lowering her feet to the ground, placing a protective hand over her belly. Her gaze turned distant, uneasy. Her lips parted, but she hesitated, avoiding Livia’s eyes. She was hiding something. And Livia didn’t like it.

"I was asked to…" Claudia finally murmured.

"By who?" Livia’s voice came out hoarse. She already knew the answer.

"The emperor…" Claudia admitted softly.

Livia didn’t wait to hear more. She pulled the veil back over her face, turned on her heel, and strode toward the exit. Away from the garden. Away from the palace. Back to the temple, where her sisters—though not by blood—would never lie to her.

"Wait!"

A sister’s hand, hot and desperate, grabbed her wrist.

"I had no choice, Livia, please!" Claudia’s voice broke into a sob. "Appius is always at the Senate, and when he’s not there, he’s off carousing with the emperors. I’m alone all the time! I really did want to see you, and when Emperor Geta told me—"

"He ordered you to do this?" Livia yanked her hand free. Through the thin veil, she regarded her sister’s small, trembling figure, unwilling to show her own face. Or her emotions. The resentment in her chest tightened like a knot.

"No, but… You know the gods’ power lies in the hands of the emperors. Who am I to refuse a request?"

"You’re my sister," Livia said sharply, turning to leave again.

"Livia…" Claudia’s voice cracked.

She clutched her belly, breathing heavily, and sank back into her chair.

Livia’s heart softened, and she hurried to sit in front of her sister, inspecting her, stroking her dark hair gently.

"Don’t upset yourself, please. I forgive you," Livia said softly, fixing her sister with a steady gaze, brushing the damp curls from her forehead… and then she froze.

Claudia had always been frail. Both Cassandra and Livia had been strong, healthy—tall, just like their father, and eerily similar since childhood. But Claudia had always been different, with her dark hair and blue eyes, she took after their mother with her frailty and shorter stature.

And now, looking at her, Livia realized: Claudia truly was ill.

Her gaze drifted lower. Without touching her, she traced a faint red mark on her sister’s skin. Then another. One near her collarbone, half-hidden beneath the fabric of her deep burgundy tunic.

"What is this?" Livia breathed.

Claudia hurriedly shifted her long hair over her chest, hiding the marks.

"Nothing…"

A lie. Livia saw it in her eyes. She wanted to press her, to demand the truth—but they were interrupted.

A palace guard had arrived. The emperor was summoning her. And she couldn’t refuse.

Casting one last, sorrowful glance at her sister—now curled up in her chair, her face unreadable—Livia rose and followed the guard into the palace.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

This time, she doesn’t stop to admire the gold or marble. The sculptures and frescoes fade into the background. All she can think about is her sister—those marks. She’s seen them before… she’s almost certain.

"Wait here, priestess. Emperor Geta will join you shortly," the guard tells her before leaving her alone in the vast, empty throne room.

Livia clasps her hands together, her gaze drifting over the towering arches and columns. She doesn’t like it here—it’s too ostentatious, too… too dangerous. The sheer size of the space makes her uneasy; she longs to return to her small, familiar room in the House of the Vestals. She avoids looking at the intricately carved thrones at the center of the hall, but a bas-relief above a small, almost hidden door tucked behind the columns catches her eye.

She’s heard the story countless times—first as a child in her parents’ home, then later from the High Priestess, who taught her about the sisterhood. Carved into the white stone is a she-wolf nursing two infants. Twin brothers. Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome, who…

"Their mother was a Vestal, wasn’t she?" a quiet, sudden voice makes her flinch.

Caracalla is standing close—too close—as if he’d been there all along. Livia wills her racing heart to calm, determined not to let him revel in her fear. Thankfully, her face remains hidden behind the veil.

"Yes, my Caesar," she replies politely, bowing her head. "She bore them from a god."

"What could be more honorable, hmm? Mars, the god of war, blessed her womb with great sons," he stood in profile, his eyes locked on the relief, but she could see his lips stretch into a smile.

"And couldn’t protect her when she needed it," she retorts, bristling.

"So now we’re judging the gods, are we?" He turned to her, and she swallowed, her gaze dropping, cursing her own foolishness.

"No, we are merely humble servants, Emperor," she replied softly, and Caracalla smiled again.

The faint clink of golden bracelets fills the air as he gestures toward another wall. Livia’s gaze locks onto his pale, well-kept hand. This time, there are no rings—instead, his thin fingers are coated in gold up to the middle knuckle. She’s seen priests do this, though they used sacrificial blood… She could easily imagine blood in place of gold.

"Another one of your sisters," he giggled, eyeing Livia with interest, still smiling with slightly parted lips, like a mischievous child.

Livia presses her lips tighter. The young emperor is testing her, teasing her. She glances at the other bas-relief. Tarpeia, the traitor who betrayed her city, is depicted with a look of terror, buried under heavy shields, one hand reaching desperately toward the sky.

"The claim that she was a Vestal is a myth," Livia replied curtly.

"But the rumors exist, don’t they?" he said lightly. "Of course, not something a Vestal would take pride in. But you’re different, aren’t you? Faithful to your calling."

This time, his eyes met hers directly—so piercing, so heavy, it felt as though the veil between them didn’t exist at all. As if she stood before him bare.

"I am faithful to my vows, Emperor."

«How many times do I have to say it before you stop looking at me like that?» she thinks, clenching her fists. He immediately notices her tension, his eyes flicking downward. He seems relaxed, unserious, smug even—but Caracalla is watching her closely. He is attentive.

Dressed in sapphire blue, his eyes are even more striking—dark, tempestuous, mirroring the hue of his tunic. His hair is a wild tangle of curls, untamed by a golden laurel, and his cheeks burn with a feverish glow, just beneath a delicate layer of powder. Livia’s gaze snags on the tiny, nearly healed marks on his cheekbones, and her mind flashes back to Claudia. Could it…?

"I’m here to visit my father," Caracalla says with a nod, as if the strange tension between them never existed.

Only now did she realize that the small door led to the altar.

"You praying?" she asked, genuinely surprised. In her mind, Caracalla was a god unto himself.

"Praying?" he echoed, a sly twist in his voice. It was hard to tell whether he was answering or posing the question back at her, daring her to guess. Livia stayed silent.

"You can join me. My father may not have been a devout man or given your temple the attention it deserves," he says, his eyes swept down her body and back up again, "but a Vestal priestess might brighten his afterlife."

She hesitates for only a heartbeat before following him. She has no choice.

Alone with the emperor in the small, dimly lit room, Livia freezes against the wall, waiting for him to speak. But he doesn’t.

He stares at the gilded altar, a smile playing on his lips—not a sad one, but rather sardonic, cruel even. As if he’s pleased his father is dead, his bones buried beneath, while Caracalla stands here, alive, the emperor…

"Five years to the day since he died," his hoarse, quiet voice cuts through the silence.

"I’m sorry," Livia replies. "My father’s gone too. I understand…"

"Do you?" His high, hysterical laugh jolted her, and she stepped back toward the exit, warily watching the flushed cheekbones, the dilated pupils, the heavy rise and fall of his chest beneath the blue toga. "Were you glad when your father died too?"

And then it hits her. He hated the old emperor.

Oh, how foolish she had been, believing he could ever love anyone.

She recalls the day the emperor passed. Whispers had spread, suggesting he’d been murdered… Could one of his sons have been responsible? Unease settles in her chest as she wraps her arms around herself.

Caracalla, as if reading her thoughts, turned toward her, narrowed his eyes, and then approached so closely that she could smell the scent of aromatic oils. His hand rose, and she recoiled, fearing he might touch her. But no, his fingers merely grazed the veil, pushing it back to reveal her pale face.

For a moment, they were silent. She seemed to stop breathing altogether while the emperor studied her face with surprising seriousness and focus. They were the same height, and Caracalla was only slightly older than her, but for some reason, Livia felt like a child, a little girl. It was frightening.

"Your sister was here," he says, running his tongue over his lips, his breathing quickening again.

"Claudia?" she whispers, almost without thinking.

"Who?" He laughs. "No, your other sister."

"Cassandra?"

The name of her sister causes the emperor’s pupils to dilate even further, the blackness swallowing the blue of his irises. The shifting torchlight casts shadows across his face, transforming it into something tragic, unsettling. He stepped back from her, turning once again to the altar, standing next to his father’s bust.

Now Livia saw two profiles—one marble, one alive, human.

Yet the living emperor, standing still, was no different from the statue. Pale, youthful, beautiful, he surpassed even the finest work of the sculptor who had carved his father.

"Yes," he replied. "Little bird often brightened my days when she lived here. Sweet, gentle, obedient…"

His voice dips into a purr, and Livia’s brow furrows. Little bird. He’d called her that too.

"You’re nothing like her, though your face is hers exactly."

She felt a wave of disgust ripple through her at the tone he used when speaking of her dead sister—as if a single tender purr could tarnish Cassandra’s memory.

Livia silently turned away, unwilling to speak to him any longer. She needed to meet with the other emperor and leave the palace.

But as she took a step toward the exit, his hand roughly grabbed her wrist, and he slammed her against the wall, chest-first.

Stunned, it took her a moment to register what had just happened.

He had grabbed her!

Touched her not playfully, but brazenly, shamelessly! As if she were… Her!? Livia gasped, her cheek flat against the cold wall, his hot body pressing into her from behind, grip squeezing her wrist to pain.

"Let go! This is sacrilege!" she whispered, trying not to sound too frantic.

"I touched you—grabbed you like some common kitchen wench," he whispers in her ear, inhaling the scent of her hair, his nose burying into her neck.

"And look—my hands are still here. Your goddess hasn’t cursed me. Who’s going to punish me, huh? You? Come on then. Fight back. Hit me. Here I am, touching you again and again, right on my father’s grave! So what are you going to do to me, priestess?"

His other hand settles on her neck, brushing her hair aside. She couldn’t move.

Not wanting to anger him further, Livia freezes.

So does he.

"Emperor Antoninus, please," a desperate whisper escapes her dry lips.

His breath on her neck quickens, grows hotter.

His name stirs something in him—his grip on her wrist even loosens slightly.

"Say it again," he commands.

"Please…"

"Not that! My name!"

"Antoninus…" Her voice trembles, and he presses into her hips harder, letting out a quiet moan.

"My mother used to call me that," he whispers, finally releasing her wrist.

Livia can’t bear it any longer.

While he’s distracted, relaxed, she spins around, shoving him hard in the chest—consequences be damned. Her nails rake across the back of his hand as she rushes away, her heart pounding, dreading he’ll follow.

But he doesn’t.

Only his laughter echoes behind her.

"Fly, little bird—we’ll meet again!"

ৡ ৡ ৡ

She rushed to leave the throne room, desperate to escape the palace, but as she reached the exit, she collided with Emperor Geta. His face froze at the sight of her, his eyes scanning her disheveled appearance with a stunned disbelief.

Only then did Livia realize how she must look. Her gaze was wild, her hair a tangled mess, her veil crumpled, and her wrists were marked with blossoming bruises, streaked with traces of gold paint left by Emperor Caracalla. Geta noticed all of it. He pressed his lips into a thin line but didn’t comment on it, speaking as though everything were perfectly ordinary.

"Apologies for the wait, priestess" he says politely, inclining his head. Unlike his brother, his hair is neat, crowned with a golden laurel, as it should be. He’s dressed in night-black robes—impeccable, composed, focused. Yet, Livia can’t help but notice the red blotches seeping through the layer of powder. He’s furious. His dark eyes bore into her as if she’s betrayed him.

"Why am I here?" she said hastily, still fearing that Caracalla might appear behind her.

"I told you—I enjoy your company, I want to see you more often," Geta replied softly, licking his lips.

Her mind immediately flashed back to his brother’s words: "Geta wants you." A wave of nausea hit her.

"We agreed to meet at the games."

"Yes, I remember," his black eyes remained fixed on her wrists, and she suddenly wanted to strike him. How dare he!? He knew exactly what his brother had done! He knew it was Caracalla—he knew, and yet he remained silent, endured it! If he likes her so much, why is he tolerating this? Coward.

"I wish to see you. Without the High Priestess and your sisters. Just you. There will be a feast tonight. I want you to be there."

Livia blinked, stunned. What did he think she was?

"That’s insulting," she spat.

"It’s an honor," he replied sharply, his voice growing colder. "Didn’t your sisters in the past attend feasts, gatherings? Watching gladiators spill blood on the arena floor is acceptable, but spending an evening with Rome’s noble citizens is condemned? There will be poetry readings, singers, harpists. You’ll spend your time as you see fit. If you think of anything improper, that’s not my fault…" He smirked, brazenly tilting his chin, reminding her once again of Caracalla.

Anger overwhelmed her completely. Oh, so he wanted to show her off to his friends like some precious trinket? To brag?

Livia bit the inside of her cheek as hard as she could, forced a fake smile, and nodded.

"One evening, Emperor. And then you’ll leave me be."

Geta mirrored her smile, his curious gaze lingering on her face, before replying, obviously lying:

"Of course, Amata."

[jaded-but-softening]

[lemoonmers]

It's hurt to yearn for you

thinking about Catholic Soap and his guilt...

[winged-thinged]

A thing that I feel like not a lot of people fully realize or understand about Catholicism—including even Christians from other Christian denominations, sometimes—is exactly how terrible confession can be and how much the Catholic Church dangles the fear of going to hell over your head. Like, they make it sound like it's just a matter of going, oops, you did a sin? That's okay ^_^ just go to your priest, who is basically like a therapist, and talk to him about it a little bit, and then you get let off scott-free! Wow! Isn't God so great?

When in my experience, it's more like, oh, you sinned? You defiled your soul and severed the relationship between you and the person in charge of sustaining life on the whole entire world? You basically just set a ticking time bomb on yourself, because if you die before you next get to confession (and you aren't given last rights), you have just damned yourself to suffering in purgation. And you'd better hope that you only committed a venial sin! Was your sin a "grave matter"? Was it committed knowingly? Did you give your full consent? Then uh oh! That's mortal sin territory! Now you're going to hell forever, unless you get to a Catholic priest and confess your sins, now

(btw "mortal sins" include masturbation, lying in the confessional, and not going to church on Sunday)

(source: the Baltimore Catechism, 1969)

Did you make your confession? Was it a full confession? Are you sure?

You'd better be, because if not, you're going to hell!

Like, I think Martin Luther was wrong about a lot of things, but he was right about this one. This is just moral OCD in a bottle. Or, I guess, in a book.

[dream-in-seoul]

As long as I can remember I was obsessed with the idea of religious sex. Being fucked on an altar as an offering to a God. Being a high priestess, getting her pussy eaten to symbolise devotion to ancient gods. Praying naked, but with a veil over my hair. Getting wet in church.

[eepwtf]

PUNISHABLE—soldier boy x catholic boy part 2

find part one here ⤷ part numero uno

warnings; religious guilt and themes, power dynamics, somnophilia, degradation and humiliation kink, jerking off to underwear (i think my boy has a fetish for that, ben lock your underwear drawer), handjobs, jerking each other off, blowjobs, (not lasting even a minute because first time blowjob, ben being a little shit about it) wc: 5.5k

“you’re such a fucking perv,” benjamin continued, his tone light, almost conversational, as though discussing the weather. “jerking off into my underwear like some desperate little bitch. did you think i wouldn’t notice?” he pressed harder, his hand gripping you through the fabric, and you couldn’t hold back the quiet whimper that escaped your lips.

“liar,” he sing-songs, his tone dripping with regalement. “you act like such a good little saint, all those prayers, all that piety—s’just a cover for the filthy little pervert hiding underneath.”

after that night, you couldn’t look at benjamin the same way. the memory of his hands on you, his voice low and coaxing, lingered like a brand burned into your skin. it churned in your gut, twisting and gnawing until it felt like your insides were corroding, eaten away by the acid of shame. each time you saw him—his easy smirk, the casual way he draped himself over the furniture, the faint smell of him that hung in the air—you felt your stomach turn, the shame rising thick and bitter in your throat.

you couldn’t stay in the room. the air felt too close, too full of him, his presence pressing against you like a weight you couldn’t bear. so you fled. the small catholic temple on campus became your refuge, though it offered no comfort. it was little more than a cramped chapel tucked into an old building, the stained glass faded and chipped, the pews scarred with years of scratches and carvings. the faint smell of candle wax and incense clung to the air, mingling with the scent of mildew from the damp stone walls. the temple became a tomb, and you were the corpse, rotting from the inside out.

you spent hours there, more time than you did in class or the dorm. you’d sit in the shadow of the crucifix, its weathered wood warped and splintering, staring up at the lifeless eyes of Christ as if begging him to look back. the silence was oppressive, heavy and suffocating, but it felt right—like the weight of your sin, tangible and inescapable. you sat for hours in the shadow of his body, staring at the weathered wood, splintering and warped, as if waiting for him to come alive and condemn you. his hands were outstretched, pierced and bleeding, his face frozen in agony. you imagined he looked at you with that same pain, that same accusation, and it broke something inside you.

you tried to pray, the rosary beads dug into your palms, leaving angry red marks that faded too quickly to feel like real penance. you clutched them tighter, grinding the crucifix into your skin until it almost bled, muttering the Act of Contrition until the words blurred together, but the guilt remained, festering like an open wound.

o my God, i am heartily sorry for having offended Thee... the words came out cracked and hollow, meaningless, swallowed up by the suffocating silence of the chapel. …because i dread the loss of heaven, and the pains of hell... but it was too late for heaven. ...but most of all because they offend Thee, my God...

the guilt felt like chains around your chest, tightening with every syllable, dragging you down into an abyss you could never climb out of. …who art all good and deserving of all my love. You didn’t deserve his love. you didn’t deserve anything.

you took to kneeling on the cold stone floor, refusing the comfort of the pews. the sharp bite of the stone against your knees felt like punishment, the only tangible way to feel the weight of your sins. sometimes you stayed there until your legs went numb, until the pain turned into a dull ache and then into nothingness. other times, you pressed your forehead to the ground, curling into yourself like a body at a wake, wishing the earth would swallow you whole.

your whispered prayers became desperate, broken things, half-choked with sobs you tried to silence. “i’m sorry,” you’d mutter, over and over, your voice cracking. “God, i’m so sorry. please, forgive me.” but no forgiveness came. only silence.

at night, you dreamt of fire. the memory of benjamin played on an endless loop in your mind: his hands gripping you, his voice low and coaxing, the heat of his breath against your skin. it burned you from the inside out, an inferno you couldn’t escape. when you closed your eyes, you could still see the smirk on his face, the way his gaze had locked onto yours in the mirror. “such a pretty mess.” the words echoed in your skull, a taunt, a curse, a brand seared into your very soul. you felt it sinking into your flesh, carving itself into your bones. you’d wake up gasping, clawing at your skin, trying to scrape it away. but it was always there, a stain you couldn’t wash off.

you thought about confession, about spilling your sins to the priest behind the screen. but the idea of speaking the truth aloud, of hearing it in your own voice, made your stomach churn. The words “i touched myself, i wanted him, i wanted it” felt too filthy to utter, even in the privacy of the confessional. so you stayed silent.

the darkness festered inside you, growing like a sickness. you began to wonder if this was your punishment—not the fires of hell, but this slow, quiet decay. a part of you hoped it was, because it meant God was still watching, still listening, even if only to damn you.

and yet, no matter how much you prayed, no matter how deeply you knelt, the memory of benjamin lingered. his touch, his voice, his scent—they wrapped around you like chains, dragging you down. you were no longer yourself. you were a sinner, a vessel for guilt and shame, rotting in the shadow of the cross.

each day bled into the next, the hours merging into a haze of suffocating monotony. time slipped through your fingers like sand, gritty and coarse, leaving only the weight of your sins behind. the chapel became your entire world, a dim, crumbling sanctuary where you sought absolution and found only torment. you avoided your dorm, your classes, even the dining hall—anywhere benjamin might be. the thought of facing him, of seeing his smirk twist into something cruel or indifferent, made your chest seize.

still, he haunted you.

he was in every shadow, every flicker of light that danced on the stone walls. his voice lingered in the back of your mind, a low, mocking drawl that you couldn’t silence no matter how many Hail Marys you whispered. and the worst part? it wasn’t just shame you felt.

in the deepest recesses of your mind, where the guilt couldn’t reach, a darker truth festered. you wanted him. you still wanted him. the memory of his hands on you, the sound of his breath in your ear, the warmth of his body pressed close—it didn’t just torment you; it consumed you. late at night, you found yourself replaying it all in your mind, over and over. your body betrayed you in the quiet, a burning need rising up that you couldn’t suppress no matter how tightly you clutched the rosary, no matter how fervently you prayed for absolution.

the shame was unbearable, searing hot and cloyingly thick, but it wasn’t enough to stop the betrayal of your own body. your cock ached, straining against the fabric of your sweatpants, a constant reminder of your weakness. you rolled onto your side in your bed, clenching your fists, digging your nails into your palms until they left crescent-shaped marks. you whispered prayers under your breath, begging for the ache to subside, for your body to stop betraying you. but it didn’t.

it never did.

and then there was benjamin, sleeping across the room. the rise and fall of his chest, slow and steady, filled the small space with a rhythmic calm that only made your torment worse. the soft sighs he gave in his sleep, the way his hair fell across his forehead, the way his lips parted slightly as he breathed—it was maddening. you hated him for being so effortlessly beautiful, for existing in a way that made it impossible for you to look away.

your hand found its way to your cock before you could stop it, the need too overwhelming to resist. you pressed your face into the pillow, biting down hard to stifle the shameful sounds threatening to spill from your throat. your other hand clutched the rosary still tangled around your wrist, the beads biting into your skin as you stroked yourself, slow and deliberate, trying to stay quiet.

your eyes stayed fixed on him, on the faint glow of moonlight that traced the curve of his jaw, the soft shadows that played across his face. each breath he took seemed louder than the last, each shift of his body under the covers like a whisper meant only for you.

it was wrong. it was so fucking wrong. but you didn’t stop. you couldn’t stop. the crucifix above your bed seemed to watch, its lifeless eyes boring into you as if condemning every shudder, every gasp, every sinful thought. you imagined Christ’s agony, his blood dripping from the crown of thorns, his body nailed to the cross for your sins—and here you were, defiling his sacrifice with every stroke, every filthy thought. it should have stopped you. it should have made you fall to your knees in repentance. but instead, it only made the guilt more unbearable, the shame more suffocating, until the pressure inside you broke. your lips moved in silent prayer even as your strokes quickened, the contradiction tearing you apart. "forgive me, Father," you whispered, your voice choked and broken. but even as you begged for absolution, your body craved release.

your gaze flicked to benjamin. he had shifted in his sleep, one arm flung above his head, his shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of skin. the sight made your mouth go dry, your hips bucking into your fist as a low, shuddering moan escaped you. you imagined his hand replacing yours, his voice a low, mocking drawl coaxing you to give in. the thought alone sent a jolt of pleasure through you, your breaths coming faster, more desperate. “ben,” you whispered, the name slipping past your lips before you could stop it. the sound felt sacrilegious, an invocation of something dark and forbidden.

the beads of the rosary dug deeper into your wrist, the pain grounding you even as your strokes grew frantic. pre-cum slicked your fingers, the wet sound obscene in the silence. the shame was suffocating, a thick, rancid weight that settled in your chest, but you couldn’t stop. your gaze stayed fixed on him, on the soft curve of his jaw, the soft fluttering of his lashes. the ache inside you swelled, sharp and consuming, until it was too much to bear. your body convulsed, thick spurts of cum spilling over your hand, your hips jerking against the mattress as you bit down hard on your pillow to muffle your cries.

the shame was instant and suffocating, crashing down on you like a wave. you froze, your body trembling as the reality of what you’d done settled over you like a shroud. benjamin stirred, a soft murmur escaping his lips as he shifted again, his face relaxing back into the peaceful stillness of sleep. you watched him, your heart pounding in your chest, and the weight of your sin crushed you.

you wiped your hand on the sheets, bile rising in your throat as the reality of what you’d done sank in. you whispered a broken prayer, the words cracking in your throat, and vowed never to give in again. but deep down, you knew the truth. you would.

the shame should have stopped you. it should have dragged you to your knees, should have compelled you to throw open the chapel doors and confess everything—every sinful thought, every wretched desire, every stroke of your hand that mocked the sanctity of your faith. and yet it didn’t.

the guilt had only festered, growing into something dark and rotten that you couldn’t contain. and now, hidden beneath your blankets in the suffocating quiet of your dorm, it had led you to this. benjamin’s underwear was clutched in your trembling hand. you’d stolen it—there was no other word for it—plucked it from his laundry basket earlier that day when the dorm was empty, your chest pounding with adrenaline and revulsion. you had told yourself you wouldn’t do anything, that you just wanted to hold it, to feel the weight of him, the scent of him.

but now, here you were, your cock throbbing in your palm, slick with pre-cum as you wrapped the soft fabric around yourself. it was warm from your grip, but not nearly as warm as you imagined it would be if benjamin were still wearing it. the thought sent a shiver through you, your hand tightening as you began to stroke yourself again, this time slower, more deliberate. the waistband of the underwear brushed against the sensitive head of your cock, and you bit down on your lip to stifle a groan.

in your mind, benjamin wasn’t asleep in his bed across the room. he was here, standing over you, wearing nothing but the underwear now wrapped around your cock. you imagined the way it would cling to him, the fabric stretched taut over his hips, his cock outlined against it. you imagined the heat of him, the weight of him pressing against your palm as you slid your hand beneath the waistband, your fingers brushing against his skin.

you imagined him smirking down at you, his voice low and mocking. "you couldn’t help yourself, could you?" he’d say, his tone dripping with condescension. "you’re so fucking desperate for me." your hips bucked at the thought, the motion jerking the fabric tighter around your cock. the shame clawed at you, hot and suffocating, but it only made the pleasure more acute, more overwhelming.

you closed your eyes, the image of benjamin vivid behind your eyelids. you imagined his cock hard against the fabric, slick with his own pre-cum, mixing with yours. you imagined the way he’d groan, low and guttural, as your cum spilled over the fabric, soaking it, staining it. your hand moved faster, the friction of the fabric almost too much, almost unbearable. the scent of him clung to your skin, faint but intoxicating, filling your lungs with every breath. it was wrong—God, it was so wrong—but you couldn’t stop.

"ah—fuck, ben," you whispered again, the word slipping out unbidden, dripping with need and desperation. the sound of his name on your lips sent you over the edge, your body convulsing as your cum spilled over the stolen underwear, thick and hot and endless. for a moment, you couldn’t move. the shame was immediate, cold and biting, sinking into your chest like a blade. the crucifix on the wall seemed to loom closer, its lifeless eyes staring down at you in silent condemnation.

you looked at the mess in your hand, at the fabric now stained with your sin, and bile rose in your throat. you felt filthy, wretched, unworthy of the air you breathed. but even as the shame suffocated you, even as the bile threatened to spill, a darker thought twisted its way into your mind. you imagined slipping the underwear back into benjamin’s laundry basket, unwashed, unclean. you imagined him putting it on, feeling the dampness against his skin, not knowing—never knowing—that it wasn’t his sweat, but yours.

the morning light filtered through the blinds, casting golden streaks across the room. you pretended to sleep, curled beneath your blanket as benjamin stirred in the bed across from you. your body felt heavy with the lingering weight of guilt, your stomach churning as the events of the night before replayed in vivid, shameful detail.

you could hear him moving around—footsteps padding softly across the room, the faint rustle of his laundry basket as he dug through it. your pulse quickened, a sick sort of dread rising in your chest as you realized what he was doing. you squeezed your eyes shut, your breathing shallow and uneven, your entire body tensed as you waited for the inevitable moment when he would find it. the underwear, his underwear. covered in your mess.

the sound of fabric being shifted stopped abruptly, and for a moment, there was silence. your heart pounded in your ears, so loud you were sure he could hear it, but you didn’t dare move. “fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath, and your stomach twisted into knots.

you risked the smallest glance, peeking through your lashes just in time to see him holding the underwear up, his brow furrowed as he inspected the faint, crusted stains on the fabric. your breath hitched, panic clawing at your throat. he knows, you thought, the words ringing like a death knell in your mind. but then he shrugged, tossing the underwear onto his bed. “guess it’s just detergent or something,” he said to himself, his voice casual, unconcerned.

relief flooded through you, hot and dizzying, but it was short-lived. because then, to your absolute horror, he began to undress. you turned your face back into the pillow, your entire body trembling as you tried to feign sleep. but no amount of self-control could stop the way your breath quickened, the way your cock stirred traitorously beneath the blanket as you listened to the soft rustle of his shirt being pulled over his head, the faint thud of his sweats hitting the floor.

and then, the sound of him slipping on the underwear.

you couldn’t see him, but you didn’t need to. the image was burned into your mind: benjamin, his toned body half-dressed, the stolen underwear hugging his hips, clinging to him. you imagined the fabric pressing against his cock, damp and sticky with your dried release. “shit,” he muttered suddenly, a note of irritation in his voice.

and then, benjamin turned. you quickly shut your eyes, feigning sleep as your heart hammered in your chest. the sound of his footsteps grew louder, closer, until they stopped right beside your bed. “you awake, perv?” his voice was low, teasing, but there was an edge to it that sent a shiver down your spine.

you didn’t move, didn’t so much as twitch, praying he’d lose interest and go away. but instead, benjamin chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through the quiet room like a taunt. “yeah, that’s what i thought.” you felt the blanket shift, a slight tug as he pulled it down just enough to reveal your growing bulge. the cool air hit you, making your cock twitch beneath the thin fabric of your sweats, and you cursed yourself silently. “look at this,” benjamin murmured, his tone dripping with amusement. his palm pressed harder, rubbing against you through the fabric. you bit down on the inside of your cheek, struggling to suppress the gasp threatening to escape.

“can’t even keep it down in your sleep,” he said, palming you through the fabric. “what were you dreaming about, huh? was it me?” you wanted to die. you wanted to disappear, to sink into the mattress and never resurface. your hips shifted involuntarily, just slightly, into his touch. it was instinct, pure and pathetic, and you hated yourself for it. and oh, benjamin didn’t miss it. “oh, you like that, don’t you?” his fingers curled around the outline of your cock, stroking slowly, teasingly, as if to prove his point. the friction of your sweats and the heat of his hand made your entire body tense, a shudder running down your spine.

“bet you’d like it even more if i used my mouth,” he mused, his voice laced with cruel amusement. “or maybe my hand. would that make you feel better, freak?” your breaths came faster, shallow and uneven, as his hand moved with deliberate, maddening slowness. you could feel the heat of his palm, the friction of your sweats against your sensitive skin, and it was driving you insane. “you’re such a fucking perv,” benjamin continued, his tone light, almost conversational, as though discussing the weather. “jerking off into my underwear like some desperate little bitch. did you think i wouldn’t notice?” he pressed harder, his hand gripping you through the fabric, and you couldn’t hold back the quiet whimper that escaped your lips.

benjamin froze, his smirk audible even before you opened your eyes. “oh,” he said, dragging the word out, his voice dripping with mockery. “so you are awake.” you couldn’t help it; your eyes cracked open, just barely, and you met his gaze. his green eyes were bright with amusement, his smirk sharp and predatory. “figures,” he said, his voice soft and cutting. “couldn’t even keep up the act, could you?” before you could think of a response—or even move—benjamin’s hand moved again, his strokes deliberate, slow enough to make you squirm. you hated him, hated yourself, hated the unbearable heat pooling low in your stomach, but most of all, you hated that you didn’t want him to stop.

and then, to your shock and mounting arousal, he slipped his fingers beneath the waistband of your sweats, his touch hot and unforgiving against your skin. benjamin’s smirk only widened as his fingers curled around your bare cock, stroking with a firm, teasing grip that made your breath hitch. he watched your face, his green eyes sharp with predatory amusement as he took in every twitch of your features, every shudder of your chest. “look at you,” he murmured, his voice low and taunting. “so fucking hard for me. bet you’ve been dreaming about this for weeks, haven’t you? jerking off into my underwear, imagining my mouth on your cock.”

the words sent a fresh wave of shame crashing over you, burning hot and stifling in your chest. the guilt churned, twisting your stomach into knots even as your hips bucked into his hand, completely betraying you. you felt trapped between the two warring parts of yourself—the part that wanted to resist, to run, and the part that wanted nothing more than to give in, to let him ruin you completely. “you know what your problem is?” ben said, his grip tightening just enough to make your vision blur. “you’ve been holding back, keeping all that tension bottled up. you’re so fucking repressed it’s almost sad.”

your throat tightened at the accusation, the words hitting a nerve you didn’t even realize was raw. he wasn’t wrong. every day spent in the chapel, every whispered prayer for forgiveness, every shame-fueled confession—it had all built into this. the weight of your own guilt loomed heavy over you, wrapping around your chest like a vice even as benjamin’s touch ignited a fire deep in your core. “you probably think this is a sin, don’t you?” he whispered, leaning in close enough that his breath was hot against your ear. “some terrible, shameful thing. but you don’t look very sorry to me.”

his voice was like a devil on your shoulder, coaxing you further into the abyss. your lips parted, a faint, broken sound escaping as his hand moved faster, slick with precum now, the obscene sounds of his strokes filling the air. “you’re not gonna pray your way out of this one, baby,” benjamin murmured, his tone mockingly sweet. “but don’t worry—i’ll take care of you. all you have to do is let me.” before you could process what was happening, he dropped to his knees, his smirk softening into something almost reverent as he looked up at you. the sight was enough to steal your breath—benjamin, kneeling between your legs, his hands on your thighs as he tugged your sweats down just enough to free your cock completely.

“fuck,” he muttered, his eyes darkening as he took you in. “look at you. so hard, so desperate. you’re fucking dripping, sweetheart.” you wanted to deny it, to shrink away from his words, but the evidence was undeniable. precum beaded at the tip, glistening in the soft morning light. benjamin’s thumb swiped over it, smearing it down the length of your cock, and you couldn’t hold back the broken sound that escaped your throat. he gripped your cock at the base, his hand firm and unyielding as he guided it toward his lips.

the first touch of his mouth was almost too much. his tongue flicked out, teasing the tip, before he took you in slowly, inch by maddening inch. the heat of his mouth was overwhelming, soft and wet and perfect, and your hands clenched the sheets in a futile attempt to ground yourself. “ben—” you choked out, your voice cracking as your head fell back against the pillow.

he hummed around you, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body. his eyes flicked up to meet yours, sharp and teasing, as he took you deeper, his throat constricting around you in a way that made your vision blur. “relax,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to speak. his lips were slick and red, glistening with saliva and precum. “let me take care of you, sweetheart. just let go.”

you wanted to. God, you wanted to. guilt clawed at your chest, sharp and suffocating, as your mind flickered with memories of whispered sermons and fire-and-brimstone warnings. this was wrong. every touch, every flick of his tongue, every obscene sound he made was a nail in the coffin of your soul. but benjamin’s mouth was so hot, so wet, and his hands gripped your hips with a strength that kept you grounded, kept you present. “you’re thinking too much,” benjamin said, his voice low and commanding. “stop fighting it. just let me make you feel good.”

he didn’t give you a chance to argue, his mouth enveloping you again with a renewed determination. his hands gripped your thighs, holding you in place as he worked you over, his pace slow and deliberate, savoring every moment. you barely lasted a minute. the pressure built too quickly, the heat coiling tight in your stomach and shooting down your spine. your breaths came faster, shallow and desperate, and you tried to warn him, tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let you.

“don’t you dare,” he murmured, his voice muffled around you. “i want it. cum for me.” the command was your undoing. with a choked cry, you shattered, your hips jerking as you spilled into his mouth. stars burst behind your eyes, your entire body trembling as the release hit you like a tidal wave. benjamin didn’t pull back, didn’t flinch. he took everything you gave him, his throat working to swallow it down, his hands steady on your thighs as he held you through the aftershocks.

when he finally pulled away, his lips were swollen, his smirk impossibly smug as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “damn,” he said, his tone full of mockery and amusement. “came so fast i barely got started. guess all that religious repression really does a number on you, huh?” you buried your face in your hands, your cheeks burning as fresh waves of shame crashed over you. But benjamin wasn’t done.

benjamin didn’t hesitate, tugging his sweats down in one smooth motion. the sight hit you like a punch to the gut. he was hard—thick, flushed, and straining against the fabric of the underwear you’d stolen just last night. your stomach churned when you noticed the faint, crusted stain near the waistband, the humiliating evidence of your lack of control.

“unbelievable,” benjamin said, his lips curling in disgusted amusement as he ran a hand over the bulge. “you actually came in my underwear.” he let out a short, derisive laugh, holding the elastic band out so you could see the stain more clearly. “for this?” He shook his head, the smirk tugging at his lips making your stomach flip. heat rose to your face, shame and arousal twisting together into a nauseating cocktail. you tried to look away, but your body betrayed you again, your cock twitching faintly despite the raw, overstimulated ache still pulsing through you.

“oh, no,” ben said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low timbre. “don’t you dare act embarrassed now. not after everything.” His green eyes locked onto yours, sharp and unyielding. “you’re into this, aren’t you?” you shook your head weakly, your voice caught in your throat, but benjamin wasn’t buying it. “liar,” he sing-songs, his tone dripping with regalement. “you act like such a good little saint, all those prayers, all that piety—s’just a cover for the filthy little pervert hiding underneath.” before you could muster a response, Benjamin grabbed your sweats and yanked them the rest of the way down, leaving you completely bare beneath him. his gaze swept over you, predatory and hungry, and your stomach flipped at the way his lips curled into a smirk. “you’re hard again,” he pointed out, his voice thick with amusement. “didn’t even give yourself a minute to recover, huh? you really are desperate.”

benjamin stepped back just enough to hook his thumbs into the waistband of the said stolen (and stained) underwear, dragging them down his legs with an exaggerated slowness that had your pulse hammering in your ears. when his cock sprang free, flushed and leaking, your breath caught. “Jesus Christ,” you muttered without thinking, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

“close,” benjamin quipped, his grin widening into something wicked. “but i don’t think He’s gonna save you now.” he wrapped a hand around himself, his thumb swiping over the head to gather the bead of precum there. his gaze flicked to you, his smirk deepening when he saw the way your eyes lingered.

“guess i can’t blame you for wanting me so bad,” he said, his tone almost mocking. “look at what you’ve done to me.” he gestured vaguely to his cock, his hand stroking slowly, deliberately, as if to taunt you further. the heat of his body was overwhelming as he climbed onto the bed, his knees pressing into the mattress on either side of your thighs. the heat of his body was overwhelming, his cock hovering just above yours, so close you could feel the faint pulse of it. the sight of him straddling you, his lips twisted into that infuriating smirk, was enough to make your breath hitch.

“i should make you clean up your mess,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, sending a shiver down your spine. “wouldn’t that be fair?” you swallowed hard, unable to respond. your mouth was dry, your mind spinning, every nerve in your body alight with tension. “but,” he continued, leaning down until his face was only inches from yours, “i think i’ve got a better idea.”

before you could process what was happening, benjamin reached down, his hand wrapping around your cock again. his grip was firm and confident, his thumb brushing over the sensitive head in a way that made your hips jerk involuntarily. then, to your absolute shock, he shifted, pressing his cock against yours. the heat of him, the weight of him—thick and pulsing beside you—sent a bolt of arousal shooting through you so intense it made your vision blur. benjamin hummed, clearly enjoying your reaction, as he wrapped his hand around both of you, his fingers curling tightly to hold you together.

“fuck,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his voice low and strained as he began to move. his hand stroked the length of both of you in a slow, maddening rhythm, the friction electric. the slick mix of precum made the slide effortless, each stroke sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body.

your head fell back against the pillow, a choked sound escaping your throat as the pleasure built quickly, overwhelming you. benjamin’s gaze stayed locked on your face, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk as he took in every twitch of your features, every broken gasp that slipped past your lips. “look at you,” he murmured, his tone thick with mockery. “so fucking desperate. you’re not even trying to hold back, are you? just letting me ruin you completely.

you tried to shake your head, to deny it, but the words caught in your throat, tangled up in a mess of shame and arousal. your hips bucked helplessly into his hand, chasing the friction despite the raw ache of overstimulation. “s’not true,” you choked out, your voice weak and trembling.

ben laughed, low and derisive. “no? then why are you fucking into my hand like a goddamn slut?” his words cut deep, but the pleasure was overwhelming, drowning out everything else. the tension coiled tight in your stomach, building faster than you could control. benjamin’s grip tightened, his strokes growing firmer, rougher, as if he could sense how close you were. “pathetic,” benjamin said, his voice a low, teasing growl. “you’re gonna cum already, aren’t you? can feel it—feel how close you are.” he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. “do it. make a fucking mess. show me how much you need this.”

his words pushed you over the edge. with a low groan, your body tensed, your release hitting you like a tidal wave. hot, sticky ropes spilled across your stomach and benjamin’s hand, the sensation so intense it left you trembling beneath him.

but he didn’t stop, his hand stroking both of you through the aftershocks, drawing out every last ounce of your pleasure. his own breathing grew heavier, his pace quickening as he chased his own release. “fuck,” he muttered, his voice tight as his hips jerked forward. a moment later, he came, his cum mixing with yours in a sticky mess across your stomach and his hand.

for a long moment, the only sound in the room was the sound of your ragged breathing. benjamin sat back slightly, his chest heaving as he looked down at the mess between you. “well,” he said, his voice laced with amusement. “guess you weren’t the only one who couldn’t hold back.” you groaned, your cheeks burning as you turned your face away, but benjamin only laughed, leaning down to press a kiss to your jaw. “don’t worry,” he murmured. “i think it’s cute.”

[metatheatre]

"But, well...I would always know the stain was there. Underneath, I mean."

[elysiansam]

heaven has forsaken the masturbator

[seraphimfall]

i’ve read so much tradcath bullshit the last two years. i can confidently say tradcath men fit into one of two categories:

“protestant-raised and converted to catholicism because of his crippling porn addiction and racist tendencies. reposts crusader and conquistador memes. is hated in his local parish.” tradcath

“catholic-raised band kid who ate his lunches with the religion teacher. smells like mildew. cut off all his friends that came out as gay after high school. now larps as an aquinian scholar and cries after jerking off.” tradcath

[ekkkkey]

vestal (chapter IV)

summary: Livia, a young Vestal Virgin, is bound to Vesta's eternal flame and the vow of sacred duty. In Rome, it's common knowledge; touch a Vestal, and the wrath of the gods will descend upon you. But what if someone dares to defy that rule?

chapter I chapter II chapter III

warnings: 18+ minors dni, dub-con, non-con, blood

tags: darkfic, sibling rivalry, no softboys here, religious guilt, mommy issues, Caracalla’s a whole damn goblin and Geta’s just as cursed

word count: ~7k

ৡ ৡ ৡ

The feast hosted by the emperors seemed to draw every noble citizen of Rome. Servants and slaves rushed through the palace halls, nearly running, desperate to prepare everything to perfection—failure meant punishment, and punishment here was rarely merciful.

None of the guests had been warned that Livia would be present, so several men had already tried to court her, only to be met with her cold, sharp rejection. She couldn’t really blame them—not many knew her by face, and white robes weren’t worn by Vestals alone. Still, the looks they gave her made her stomach turn. They were full of… full of what, exactly? Livia paused.

She knew nothing of lust, desire, or the cravings of the flesh, yet she could sense what these wealthy, pompous men were thinking. The emperors wanted the same from her—of that she was certain—but why, then, were their looks and smirks so different from the ones she caught tonight?

Her eyes swept over the riot of color—so many faces. Old, young, dull, clever, noble, brutish. And though she hated to admit it, she was searching for two faces in particular. The young emperors.

Their game insulted her, sowed doubt and unease, yet it also sparked a fire of defiance. A challenge. She would show them she was no mere kitchen wench to be toyed with. She was a priestess of the great goddess, chosen by the divine. They were not worthy to test her.

Memories of her last encounter with Emperor Caracalla flushed her cheeks with shameful heat. How dare he! Her angry thoughts were interrupted by a soft, unfamiliar voice, and Livia quickly wiped the scowl from her face.

"Mistress, please, the emperors await you."

A young slave girl bowed, offering a cup of wine. Livia waved it away. She hated drinking.

Stepping deeper into the hall, she saw them. Oh, what a glorious sight! Her lips twisted, and her brows furrowed. Glorious for the corrupt, pompous nobles who hung on every word of the emperors. For her, the scene stirred barely concealed irritation, though she forced a polite smile to avoid seeming rude.

Geta at least kept some semblance of decorum, lounging back on the bench with his legs spread wide. Caracalla, on the other hand, had sprawled out completely, his legs stretched so far that his toga had ridden up almost above his knees. Livia quickly turned her gaze away.

Geta always prattled on about decorum—so why did everything around her feel like a mockery, an insult aimed directly at her? And he smiled at her now—sweet, soft, like she was a childhood friend and not a captive in his game. His white robes were so blindingly white they seemed to glow in the dimly lit hall, illuminated only by flickering flames. White and gold—holy colours. He was taunting her. She clenched her own white robes, refusing to show how much he angered her.

His golden belt, embroidered mantle over his tunic—it was the embodiment of divinity and high rank. A laurel crown adorned his fiery hair, and intricate gold bracelets gleamed on his wrists. Caesar had outdone himself.

Caracalla, in contrast, seems deliberately dressed in an entirely different manner. He wore black, and only the brightness of his hair and the glint of his golden laurel stood out against his pale face.

And, like his brother, he was dripping in gold.

A long, heavy golden earring swayed with every lazy tilt of his head, its delicate touch grazing his pale neck. Even in dark clothing, he drew her gaze—forcing her to look at the gold dusted around his eyes and the red of his lips, stretched in a smile not meant for her.

Captivated, she found herself following the path of his delicate fingers as they stroked the pale hair of the slave girl at his feet. The whiteness of his hand was marred by red marks—marks she had left on him not long ago.

Livia caught his mocking glance and quickly looked down at her own wrist. No gold bangles there—only dark, blooming bruises. She wrapped her fingers around them, desperately hiding the proof of her shame.

"Priestess of Vesta," Geta greeted her. The room fell silent, all eyes on her with curiosity.

Between the two emperors sat Lucilla, draped in gold silk, looking—if it were possible—even less pleased to be there than Livia. She offered a polite nod and a faint smile, which Livia returned.

Caracalla caught their exchange and leaned toward Lucilla, whispering something. Lucilla paled. Then, under Livia’s disbelieving gaze, she picked a grape from a golden dish and offered it to Caracalla’s red lips. He ate it with a sly smile, never taking his eyes off Livia.

A wave of nausea rose in her throat. Such public disrespect toward his adoptive mother only deepened her righteous anger.

"You’re even lovelier than Appius described!" a coarse, mocking male voice broke her thoughts.

To Geta’s right, slouched among half-naked slave girls, sat three senators—or rather, what passed for senators these days. She recognized Claudia’s husband, laughing loudly at his companion’s vulgar remark. She felt naked under their stares.

These weren’t the wise old men of Rome, the voices of reason and law—they were long dead, executed for treason, for conspiracies against the emperors. In their place lounged the young, the arrogant, the shameless sycophants.

Before she could answer, Geta gave a gracious nod toward a gold-trimmed bench.

An invitation.

Head high, Livia took her seat. Her back was straight, her hands rested gently on her lap. Everything about her posture declared who she was: a Vestal Virgin. No one in this room, no matter how powerful, had the right to disrespect a priestess of Vesta.

But no sooner had the thought crossed her mind than she met Caracalla’s gaze. Smirking, he nibbled at his thumb, his eyes locked on hers, while his other hand idly stroked the slave girl’s hair. Livia’s jaw tightened, and she quickly turned away, offended.

"I hope you enjoy tonight’s spectacle," Geta murmured, leaning in close. "I promised you, didn’t I?"

His words sounded more like a warning, but before she could reply, Caracalla clapped his hands, commanding the show to begin.

The crowd parted, pressing to the walls, as decorations were set in the hall’s center.

She couldn’t say why, but a bad feeling settled in her gut as she watched the performers take their places. And then she understood.

The Rape of the Sabine Women.

Her hands balled into fists as the show intensified, men "abducting" resisting girls under a cacophony of music, shouts, and screams, "accidentally" tearing clothes off some. Livia blinked but refused to look away, unwilling to give the emperors the satisfaction. Women’s bodies didn’t frighten her. She glanced, just once, at the brothers.

They watched, utterly engrossed—laughing, shouting, draining one glass of wine after another.

Livia endured, as expected, watching the performance until the end and even clapping politely. But as soon as it was over, a handsome, finely dressed young man stepped forward. A poet.

Irritated, she let out an impatient breath. Geta had indeed arranged an evening of "culture," but the moment the poet opened his mouth, her ears burned, and her face flushed with red blotches. Never in her life had she heard such filth paraded as verse. Livia could not help herself—her eyes darted away, and it took everything in her not to rise from her seat and flee the hall filled with laughing nobles.

The worst part—the worst—was that the women were laughing too. And that shocked her the most. How could they find this funny? Who thought this was amusing? Her gaze darted across the hall, until it met the sorrowful eyes of Lucilla. The older woman gave a slight shake of her head, silently urging Livia to stay seated.

A senator nearby roared with laughter, spilling wine and clapping. Nausea rose in her throat. Closing her eyes, she silently prayed to the Great Goddess, picturing the quiet, safe sanctuary of the temple. But the sounds didn’t fade, and she was forced to open her eyes—and found Geta watching her.

The paint around his eyes had smeared, the powder blurred and fading. He looked wickedly amused, drunk—and in those black eyes, Livia saw not a trace of reason. Beside him, Caracalla let out a full-throated laugh, throwing his head back in raw delight.

Animals.

The poet finished to thunderous applause and disappeared into the crowd. Livia rose at once. Her palms were slick with sweat, and her heart pounded so hard she thought it might tear through her chest. She was terrified—feeling utterly unsafe.

But why? she asked herself.

"I am a priestess of Vesta, keeper of the Eternal Flame, my title…" she tried to steady herself, but a man’s jeering whistle behind her immediately scattered her thoughts.

Not long ago, the very thought that anyone would dare touch her seemed impossible. Yet now, she stared at her wrists, the dark marks glaring back at her—marks left not by just anyone, but by the emperor himself! Those who dared dishonor a Vestal were punished severely, executed even—but who would dare punish an emperor!? No one even knew!

"Gods, punish him, I beg you, protect me, let justice strike him!" she repeated, pushing through the crowd.

No one seemed to notice her departure, and with relief, she slipped behind a red fabric partition, leaned against a column, and finally exhaled. What she’d witnessed tonight had shaken her. It was worse than those awful encounters when the emperors had tried to provoke her. This time, they had succeeded. Her anger was gone—replaced by fear that made her hands tremble.

The entire hall, every guest, was drowning in wine and debauchery. She had even seen some of the men inhaling white powder from silver trays. Whatever it was, she didn’t want to know.

Catching her breath, Livia slapped her own cheek lightly to steady herself. She had to leave. Return to the House of the Vestals. Tell the High Priestess everything. She couldn’t bear this burden alone anymore.

Cautiously, she peeked past the partition into the room. The feast was still in full swing. Seeing no sign of the emperors, she breathed a small sigh of relief—only to flinch at a soft, unfamiliar touch.

Startled, she turned—and immediately exhaled. It was the same slave girl, dark-skinned, her wide eyes full of fear.

"Leave, Mistress, please!" the girl whispered.

"You scared me!" Livia replied softly, immediately taking the girl’s trembling hands in hers. "What is it?"

"I’m sorry… so sorry… please leave… not again…" The girl was trembling, repeating the same words over and over, her eyes darting in panic.

No matter how much Livia tried to comfort her, the girl only grew more agitated, babbling incoherently. Then—silence.

With a frightened squeak, the slave girl darted behind the curtain, leaving Livia alone. But not for long.

"You abandoned us so quickly," said a voice.

Geta.

His steps were uneven, his gaze hollow, and his tongue kept flicking over his lips, betraying his nervousness. He looked almost like himself… except he was terribly drunk.

Livia pressed her lips together. Pathetic. Did he really need to drown himself in wine just to find the courage to speak to her as he truly wished?

They stared at each other in silence. Only the muffled sounds behind the curtain reminded them they weren’t truly alone. The torchlight made his appearance ominous, aging him, twisting his features into something darker.

"I asked you a question," he said, no longer courteous but angry.

"I wasn’t impressed by the performance, I’ll be honest, Caesar." The words slipped out before she could stop herself. She cursed her own tongue the moment they left her lips. Angering him now was foolish.

As if reading her thoughts, he frowned, clicking his tongue in disapproval and stepping closer. She didn’t move. Geta was not Caracalla.

He seemed to read that in her eyes, too—and something in him twitched. His upper lip trembled.

Warily, Livia met his gaze, searching for some flicker of the old interest, that strained civility he used to wear like a mask. But there was nothing. Not even the torchlight touched those bottomless black eyes. She swallowed.

"I appreciate your invitation nonetheless, Caesar," she tried to soften her words.

It didn’t work.

He said nothing, squinting at her, lazily scratching his neck, smudging the white powder further. His gaze dropped to her hands, her wrist, and his mouth twisted into a thin, bloodless line.

"He does it to spite me," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "But you’re here, with me, whether he touched you or not," he continued, lost in thought.

"May I leave?" Livia whispered, though she knew the answer.

Geta smirked and shook his head, rubbing his hands as if steeling himself.

"You… you’re devout, aren’t you? Please! The goddess…" she appealed to his reason, but it was futile.

He wouldn’t dare, would he? He wasn’t his brother! But no, he was exactly the same.

His hands were ice-cold, yet they burned her wrists. His palm pressed down exactly where Caracalla had left bruises, squeezing until it hurt. Desperate, Livia tried to scream, but he clamped his hand roughly over her mouth, stifling the sound.

"Quiet, priestess, quiet," his drunken whisper scorched her neck. "I don’t like doing things the hard way, understand?"

She shook her head frantically, a tear slipping down her cheek. She didn’t understand anything. Nothing but her own stupidity—thinking she could play games with emperors. Thinking she could win.

Geta lowered his hand, and she gasped for air. He leaned his forehead against her shoulder, still gripping her wrist. She was trembling.

"Now, you’ll please me, won’t you?" he lifted his head and stared at her lips.

Disbelieving, Livia stayed silent, shaking her head, but her wishes mattered little. Who could resist an emperor’s kiss?

If his hands were cold, his mouth was hot, searing. For a moment, she lost all sense of reality, too terrified to react, but then the truth crashed over her. Someone else’s mouth on hers, someone else’s hands on her waist. A man was touching her—touching her in a way he never should have!

Whether Mars or Vesta herself had given her strength and fury, Livia bit down hard, her mouth filling with the metallic taste of blood.

Geta immediately pulled back, his eyes wide with disbelief. Oh, he was stunned! She’d bitten through his lower lip. Blood trickled down his chin, and only when a crimson drop hit the marble floor at his feet did the truth finally reach him.

Rage twisted his handsome face.

She breathed heavily, still reeling from what she’d done. But there was no time to think—before she could even process it, he struck her cheek with the back of his hand. And just as quickly, before the pain could even bloom, he dragged her into another kiss. This one was angry, punishing. Anything but gentle.

He released her. Her mouth tasted of blood, and she spat, unladylike, wiping her lips. Let him kill her! But first, she’d claw his eyes out!

But no, he only smirked, licking his own blood from his lips.

"Leave, priestess, or it’ll be worse," his voice was hoarse. "And remember, you’re still expected at the games."

Only once he slipped back into the hall did Livia realize how badly she was shaking. Only then did the sting of his slap truly bloom across her face. She wanted to sob like a little girl—but not here. Not in this place.

"Imperial blood spills far too often these days, Amata," said a voice behind her—calm, amused, almost gentle.

Caracalla.

Livia turned to him like a hunted creature, silently cursing him with every word she knew. He was drunk and cheerful, utterly at ease—if anything, exhilarated, almost thrilled.

His brother’s little performance had clearly entertained him.

"Perhaps you’ve been praying poorly to your goddess?" His pale brows furrowed in feigned concern. "Could something like this happen to a pure, devoted novice? Or perhaps your goddess is punishing you for something?" He leaned in like a conspirator, his hand covering his mouth as if to protect a forbidden secret. "Or maybe," he whispered, "this is exactly what she wants."

"Please, let me leave," she whispered, her lips stinging from the dried blood, her wrists aching with every movement.

"But what of your punishment?" he asked, with theatrical surprise, raising his hands. The bracelets on his wrists jingled. "Twice now, you’ve spilled the sacred blood of the fathers of the empire! Perhaps I should spill a little of yours?" And with a syrupy smile, his pale eyes, clouded with wine, slowly slid over her face.

The hint was so blatant that even her naive mind understood. The first touch. The first kiss. The first… She shook her head. None of this was ever meant to be part of her life.

"I’m begging you," she breathed, barely audible, not knowing what else to say.

It pleases him. She can see it—the twitch at the corners of his mouth, the lazy narrowing of his eyes as he savors her humiliation. Her pride, once unshakable, is crumbling, and he’s enjoying every second of it.

"Very well," he nodded playfully. She exhales, a breath of relief escaping her—

"But first…"

Caracalla extends his delicate hand, the same one where she’d left her scratches. Mesmerized, she watches the firelight dance on the golden rings. He tilts his head, eyes fixed on her. Waiting.

Her heart stutters. She knows exactly what he wants.

Swallowing her pride, Livia bent, brushing her lips against his wounded hand, hearing his satisfied exhale. It felt obscene to her.

He’d forced her. Forced her to touch him, to bow, to press her lips to his warm, soft skin. Humiliating. But if this was the price of her peace, so be it.

Livia hurried to leave, but as she passed Caracalla, she found herself caught in his iron grip.

He held her for just a moment, just long enough for him to lean close and whisper hotly in her ear: "Tonight, my brother won’t be the only one imagining your face."

The slave girl leads her out of the palace, accompanied by a young man with dark skin. Livia stumbles, nearly collapsing, but the man catches her, steadying her with a firm arm around hers as they descend the steps. She doesn’t care that he’s a man—right now, he’s her only salvation.

"This is my brother, Mistress," the girl whispers. "He’ll help you."

They seat Livia in a carriage. As the door is closed, she casts one last glance toward the palace and catches sight of a dark figure standing on the balcony, watching. She yanked the curtain shut with a shaking hand.

She didn’t have to see his face to know it was one of them.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

The High Priestess stares at her with disbelief, wariness, and fear. No wonder—Livia had burst into her chambers in the dead of night, disheveled, bloodied, bruised. She had shed all her tears on the way from the palace; now there was only one thing she longed for: to tell the truth.

"You weren’t at your sister’s," the older woman says, narrowing her eyes and drawing her cloak tighter around herself.

In the darkness, in her thin nightgown, her hair loose and her face suddenly aged, the High Priestess seems almost fragile to Livia—nothing like the stern, commanding figure she had always known. For a moment, fear claws at her: what if she won’t help? What could this aging priestess possibly do against the emperors? But Livia shoves the thought aside, falls to her knees, clutches at the woman’s legs, presses her cheek against them, and whispers fiercely:

"It was them!"

Her voice quivers with rage. The sister-priestesses loved her for her lightness, her cheerful spirit, but now there’s no trace of that left.

"The emperors!" she spits the words out with such hatred that the High Priestess flinches, stepping back, but Livia won’t let her go. She looks up, straight into her eyes.

"Look at me!" She thrusts out her arms—pale, bruised, trembling.

"My child…" the priestess whispers, stunned. "Why did you go to the palace?"

"Why?" Livia’s breath grows heavy, anger rising in her chest. "Because of my sister, of course! Did you think I stayed there willingly—for what? For a man?"

The High Priestess presses her lips into a thin line. Pity flickers in her eyes, but so does doubt.

"You’re young, beautiful… perhaps you did something wrong, somehow…"

Enraged, Livia springs to her feet, towering over her.

"Me? You think I’m to blame for this?" She scrubs at her lips and wrists as if trying to erase the shame. "You think I would lie? I, who took the sacred vows? I, who gave up my family, my life, everything—just to trade it all for disgrace and dishonor?"

Something shifts in the priestess’s face. She reaches for Livia’s hands, squeezing them, then pulls her into an embrace, gently stroking her back.

"What did they do? Did they…" The look in her eyes says the rest.

"No," Livia snaps, breaking free from her arms, "but they did enough to be judged."

"And who will judge the emperors?" the priestess says, throwing up her hands.

"The Senate! The people! The gods!" Livia’s voice rises, and the priestess hastily motions for her to lower it. "Someone will, Great Virgin!"

"You forget whom you’re speaking of, child."

"What, are they above the law? The people hate them—that’s no secret. Everyone in Rome knows what they are—everyone but children! And they themselves are like children—cruel, vicious—"

She’s cut off.

"And yet these children rule us. They rule Rome. You’ve seen what happens to those who oppose them. The Praetorians, the army, even the Senate—they all stand with them. What is your word against theirs?"

"I am a Vestal Virgin! My word is not nothing!"

"Then stay away from them. Don’t provoke them. Devote yourself to your duties."

The conversation is over.

Livia storms out of the priestess’s chambers without a word of farewell, furious at finding no support. And yet, having finally spoken, a weight lifts from her chest.

She doesn’t want to tell anyone else—but Caesonia is different. Her friend, her sister, her mentor—she cannot keep this from her.

A storm rages over Rome. Lightning flashes illuminate the city with ominous bursts, and Livia is certain it’s the ancient Goddess herself, furious that her priestess has been defiled, dishonored. The thought warms her heart. Let Emperor Caracalla say what he will—she is under her Virgin’s protection.

Here, within the House of the Vestals, she finds refuge—and in Caesonia, the understanding she needs.

The elder priestess asks no questions. She only gently helps Livia undress, combs out her tangled hair, kneads the tension from her shoulders.

Livia sinks into the warm water, closing her eyes in exhausted bliss. Caesonia, wearing only a thin tunic, sits by the pool’s edge, watching her in silence.

Her wrists are almost white again, as they once were, with only faint yellowish marks hinting at the painful memories. She notices Caesonia’s gaze lingering on them.

"What did you talk about with the High Priestess after your visit to your sister?" Caesonia asks, circling the truth.

Livia leans her head back against the marble edge, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. Should she tell her everything?

"That’s not what you really want to ask, is it?"

Caesonia licks her lips, tilts her head, and smiles slyly. She slides into the pool beside Livia, her soaked tunic clinging to her skin before she pulls it off and lets it drift away. She presses close, resting her head lightly on Livia’s shoulder. Cool, delicate fingers trail along Livia’s wrist, barely brushing the bruises with feather-light touches.

"Was it one of the emperors?"

"Who told you?" Livia’s heart lurches.

Caesonia laughs softly, stroking her wrist.

"I’m not a fool. I saw the way they looked at you. I might never have known a man, but I can imagine what’s in their heads when they see a beautiful girl." She tucks a strand of hair behind Livia’s ear and meets her gaze, waiting.

Heat rises under Livia’s skin—not from the water. She looks away, murmuring the whole story. Caesonia listens, wide-eyed, drinking in every word. It’s not the reaction Livia expected; she grows even more embarrassed.

"And what was it like?" Caesonia lowers her voice, though the slaves outside the door can’t hear.

"What…" Livia whispers, confused.

"You know," Caesonia’s hand gently caresses her cheek, "what’s it like to feel a man’s touch? Is it like mine?"

The priestess’s hand strokes her, leaving Livia stunned and flustered, but then Caesonia laughs and pulls away.

"Forgive me! Forgive me, sweet Livia," she says with a wink, sinking into the water up to her chin. "I’m too weak for beauty, and to hear about a handsome man…"

"Caesonia!" Livia tries to sound stern, but can’t help laughing.

"You should be ashamed of your words and thoughts!"

"I’m just teasing, you know that," Caesonia says, then theatrically leans back against the pool’s edge, pressing a hand to her forehead. "Oh, Emperor, I think I’ve twisted my ankle!"

Anywhere else, the joke would have horrified Livia. But here, safe and warm in the water, she bursts out laughing, grabbing her friend’s shoulders and shaking her.

"Stop it, you fool, it’s not funny at all!" When he grabbed her roughly, it wasn’t funny. When he kissed her, it wasn’t funny. But Caesonia fluttering her lashes like some lovesick emperor—yes, that was funny.

They never speak of it again. The bruises fade. Life settles back into its old rhythm. And Livia throws herself into her sacred duties, heart and soul.

But the faster the carefree days flew by, the closer the games drew near. Livia tried not to think about them, but in the restless moments before sleep, the emperors’ faces haunted her—their voices, their touches, their smiles…

One radiant, sunlit day, slaves arrived at the House of the Vestals carrying a covered palanquin. From it, they hauled a massive chest onto the terrace.

The priestesses gathered around, eyeing the ornate, gold-trimmed chest with curiosity. The slaves withdrew quickly, but none dared open it without the High Priestess’s permission.

A wave of dread washed over Livia. Sensing her unease, Caesonia reached out and quietly took her hand.

When the High Priestess finally appeared and lifted the heavy lid, the Vestals gasped in unison, recoiling in horror.

Livia clapped a hand over her mouth, stunned by the sight.

On a bed of crimson velvet lay two severed male arms, hacked cleanly at the elbows. A tightly wound scroll rested beside them. Nausea rose in her throat.

The High Priestess, regaining her composure quicker than the rest, seized the scroll, scanned it, then nodded sharply for Livia to step closer.

"Emperor Caracalla expresses his deepest regrets and begs forgiveness for the inappropriate behavior of a slave who dared leave those marks on you. He sends his warmest regards," she said, her voice like a verdict. Both of them knew he was lying brazenly — and so did he.

Livia’s lips trembled with outrage and fury as she realized whose arms these were. The slave who had helped her escape the palace, who had held her by the shoulders to keep her from collapsing on the steps. So it was Caracalla on the balcony! He had seen them!

"Dispose of them," the High Priestess commanded coldly. "And I shall convey your gratitude to the emperor for his… justice."

Livia only nodded, her heart hammering in her chest. She had glimpsed the depths of his madness—and it terrified her.

Now the days leading to the games became a slow, grinding torture. She buried herself in ceaseless prayer, trying to smother the rising panic that no words could soothe.

"Don’t worry, we’ll be with you, won’t we?" Caesonia said. Livia, dressed in a long white tunic, her hair braided with red ribbons and veiled, stood ready. Caesonia hung an amulet around her neck and stepped back, admiring her.

The arena greeted them with a deafening roar as they took their seats to the left of the imperial box. Young girls approached, holding out wreaths of flowers, and the priestesses accepted with gracious smiles, settling them gently on their heads.

As usual, Livia sat beside the High Priestess, her back as straight as a string. Her gaze was fixed on the arena, and she didn’t allow herself even a glance toward the emperors.

"Emperor Geta is watching you," Caesonia whispered in a low tone. Livia curled her lip in disdain, waving off the comment with a flick of her hand. Let him watch.

Heralds in masks of the seven gods announced the start of the games, held in honor of General Fulvius Plautianus’s victory, who had seized part of Persia in the emperors’ name.

"As if they conquered it themselves," Livia scoffed under her breath, careful no one overheard.

As the gladiators entered the arena, she stole a quick glance at the imperial box. For a moment, their red-haired heads caught her attention, but she quickly turned away, unwilling to meet their eyes.

The games began, the crowd roared, and Livia, finally forgetting the emperors, leaned forward, gripping the railing, her gaze fixed on the combatants below.

The sun climbed higher, and the arena grew bloodier. She noticed the crowd favoring a young gladiator—dark-haired, tanned, powerful. The barbarian fought fiercely, clearly not for the emperors’ amusement. For a moment, his eyes swept toward the Vestals’ box, and Livia, her heart pounding with some hidden sympathy, nodded slightly, silently wishing him victory. He gave no sign, but his next fight was another win.

The emperors leapt from their seats, clapping, clearly pleased with the spectacle. A small monkey on Caracalla’s shoulder screeched, mimicking its master’s applause.

The crowd chanted "Hanno," and Geta, visibly stung, sank back into his chair, followed by his brother. Livia smirked.

To her dismay, the final bout turned against Hanno. Exhausted, he collapsed onto the sand. Her sisters, the crowd, the entire stadium froze in tense anticipation. The verdict rested with the Caesars.

Livia no longer even tried to hide it—she stared straight at the emperors. Caracalla leaned over and whispered something to his brother, then lounged back lazily in his chair. Geta rose to his feet. Behind them, Lucilla sat, visibly uneasy.

Emperor Geta braced his hands on the edge of the imperial box, sweeping his gaze slowly across the crowd, across the men in the arena… Then he lifted his hand—and locked eyes with her. His smile was cold and crooked, his chin lifted in arrogance. The wretch. She didn’t bother to hide her grimace in response…

… And his thumb turned downward, sealing the death sentence.

The crowd erupted in outrage, but Geta sat back smugly, sipping from his goblet and raising it toward her with a mocking nod.

"Livia…" the High Priestess warned, but inside, Livia’s heart burned with indignation and hatred. Did he enjoy making her vulnerable? Humiliating her in front of the gods? Well, then…

She leaned forward, extending her arm, and raised her thumb, staring straight at the emperors.

Oh, their furious, twisted faces were a balm to her soul. They could do nothing to her, say nothing—everyone knew a Vestal’s word in such matters was final.

With a sense of quiet triumph, she settled back onto the bench, her smile unwavering, as the heralds proclaimed the verdict in a booming voice. This time, the crowd’s cheers weren’t for the emperors or the fighters—they were for her.

"You shouldn’t have done that. I told you to stay away," the High Priestess said sadly, but Livia barely heard her. Her heart raced with the thrill of the small victory.

They were escorted into the Colosseum’s inner halls, but Livia felt no fear, walking steadily, carefully holding her long tunic.

And of course, they were waiting for them. The emperors—both dressed in white and crimson, the colors of victory. Geta’s head was crowned with golden laurel, while Caracalla’s unruly curls wore a different wreath. Fresh green laurel leaves made his blue eyes seem even brighter, his skin paler, and he… She turned away. He once again reminded her of Sol.

Many of the senators were there too, and they quickly drew the High Priestess into conversation, leaving the younger Vestals to themselves.

Livia, keeping well away from the emperors, slipped toward a quieter corner of the hall.

"Pious Virgin, may I speak with you?"

Startled, she turned to see Lucilla standing before her, head bowed.

"Of course. Your company is always a pleasure," Livia said.

Lucilla glanced around nervously, then leaned closer, whispering,

"Thank you for sparing the gladiator today… Please, ask me nothing—I beg you—but know that I’m grateful. And in return, I’ll offer you a service. I will tell you how your sister died."

Livia freezes, blinking rapidly and opening her mouth in silence. Lucilla’s story is brief, dry, and lacking in details, but it is enough. Livia knew. She knew who was responsible.

After parting with the daughter of the former emperor, she felt an eerie, almost unnatural calm. Emperor Geta had killed her sister—and now he tried to violate her, as if mocking her grief.

She stood alone by the hall’s far columns, lost in thought, when the very one she had been thinking of found her, his brother beside him. Her gaze was empty, cold.

"Emperor Geta," she nodded. "Emperor Caracalla," another nod.

"I wish to apologize, priestess," Geta began. She could see how the words strained him, how he forced himself to be courteous…

But what was his courtesy to her?

"Tell me, Caesar, what exactly are you apologizing for? For the disgusting advances you made toward me, or for murdering my sister? Do you even remember her? Dark-haired, gentle-hearted. Do you even remember her name? Her name was Cassandra," she said through clenched teeth.

Geta took a step back, and for the first time, Livia saw him completely exposed, vulnerable. To her surprise, his black eyes weren’t looking at her. Instead, he was staring at Caracalla. And Caracalla, in turn, was looking right back at him. On his pale face, there was no smile, no familiar sneer—only an unnerving, stone-cold mask.

"It’s a lie, brother," Geta said, not addressing her once again, and Livia understood less and less. Caracalla didn’t believe him, that much was clear.

"Please, not here," he pleaded. Caracalla said nothing, but his blue gaze shifted back to Livia.

Geta cast her a final look—one full of hatred, bitter disappointment—and hurried toward the Praetorians, disappearing into the crowd.

"Did you know?" she asked Caracalla.

He lifted his head, blinking rapidly, as if shaking off a daze. A crooked smirk slowly returned to his face.

"No, I swear," he says hoarsely, almost whispering. He’s angry—this much was clear—but for the first time, she wasn’t the target of his rage, and it felt… strange. "We…," he trails off, licking his lips, "Cassandra and I—we were good friends. Didn’t I tell you? I wouldn’t have let anyone hurt her, believe me, Livia."

She watches him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. He meets her gaze with that same smirk, peering up at her from under his brows, his pale eyebrows drawn together—pure innocence. Livia shrugs, taking up her proud stance once more.

"And yet, you acted inappropriately towards me," she said, now feeling more confident as his attention was fully on his brother.

"Oh, I regret it," he replied, his lips slightly parted, the tip of his tongue brushing over his upper lip. Did he truly regret it? Livia looked at him again. Not a hint of it. But even empty words carried weight now.

"How do you like my gift?"

A shiver ran through her, the memory of the chest with the severed hands sending a chill down her spine. She said nothing.

The emperor leaned in, his hand brushing the bust behind her, tracing the curve of the nameless marble girl’s neck. The scratches on his hand had healed. Her bruises had faded as well. He glanced at her hands before locking eyes with her.

"If you want," he whispered, his grin widening, "I’ll give you one just like it—with Geta."

For a brief moment, she forgot how to breathe. He was offering her the revenge she’d craved—for her sister, for her own honor! But he was his brother… And yet, with a breath heavy with fury, she answered,

"Yes."

The delight on the emperor’s face terrifies her. Caracalla breathed heavier, his tongue sliding over his lips again and again, and for a moment, she could have sworn she heard a low, strangled moan escape from his red mouth.

His delicate hand released the marble throat of the bust and rose toward her face. Livia nervously glanced behind him—was anyone watching? Fortunately, the column was wide enough to shield them from prying eyes…

What was she thinking? She quickly scolded herself.

But the emperor didn’t touch her. Instead, he plucked a rose from her flower crown and tucked it behind his ear, as if he were a mischievous street boy, not the Father of Rome. It seemed the talk of his brother’s murder didn’t trouble him in the slightest. Had such a thought crossed his mind before? Had it ever occurred to him? Like Romulus and Remus—twins, both of them…

She loses her train of thought as her gaze lands on the large medallion on his chest. Golden, elaborate, screaming wealth—she had no interest in it, until Livia noticed the embossed female profile.

At first, she couldn’t believe her eyes, wondering if it was her own face staring back at her.

"Oh, this is my mother," he lifted the medallion, showing it to her. Livia understands it’s another woman, but she can’t deny the striking resemblance. It terrifies her.

Nervously, she glances up at the emperor. The last time he spoke of Julia Domna, he pressed against her hips, shamelessly moaning. It’s hard to forget such a thing.

He smiles slyly, knowing exactly what she’s thinking, tilting his head, savoring the blush on her cheeks.

"I was just a boy when she died. Father always hated me, but she…" He steps closer, and Livia finds herself backed against the wall, nowhere to retreat. "She loved me. That much I remember."

Livia has no words to reply, but he doesn’t expect an answer. Their faces are almost level now, his eyes burning with feverish intensity. Caesar leans in, but then immediately tilts his head, turning to bury his face in her neck, not touching, leaving a small gap between his lips and her skin. Unconsciously, she tilts her neck, almost as if offering it. She feels his smile against her skin.

"You look just like her, don’t you?" he murmurs, inhaling deeply before once more searing her neck with his breath. "Your goddess didn’t hear your prayers, did she? Didn’t grant your wishes…" He leans back slightly, still staring into her eyes, chin raised arrogantly. She exhales sharply.

"Then I’ll be your god, Amata, and for my help, I don’t need thirty years of devotion. I think it’ll all end much sooner," he purrs.

It’s only now that Livia realizes what she’s agreed to.