You Burn Me

The table begins to dig into her back with every push of his body against hers, but somehow even the pain is sweet, heightening the pleasures overtaking her.

She breathes out his name in a series of harsh whispers, dull nails dragging across his scalp, pleading for something though she's not certain what. He lifts his head, one hand holding her face while his lust-filled gaze fixes on her as he watches his thumb smooth across her lips. She pushes forward for a kiss - because how in the world have their lips not yet met - but he leans away with an exasperating smirk.

Her mouth falls open with indignance, but before she can say a word he's rushing forward, his lips slanting over hers in a hard kiss. She gasps into his mouth followed by a stuttering moan, and the shiver it releases in him has her burning hotter than ever before. It feels like a beginning if there ever was one.

There's such an impetuous desperation to it all, nothing methodical or duty-like about it. Only a natural, frenzied, human want. And it raises a strength within her - a daring that's almost always kept in check.

Another gasp is released when he touches her, finding her through the folds of her matronly stola. For a silly moment, she worries about him ruining it.

"Already so wet for me?"

And the only answer she can give is to grip his wrist, attempting to hold him tighter against her as she grinds down and breathes out a slew of soft whines.

"I've already promised not to desert you, darling," he says, fingers moving harder, rough and quick as they circle her opening over the fabric. "Trust me. Hmm?"

She certainly does not, but in this very moment, when she feels like a puddle of molten ore - hot enough to burn, yet malleable enough to bend - she can think of nothing else but to trust him. If only for her release.

His fingers cease then, leaving her cold. But he's not teasing, his face hard and in control as he begins to furiously drag her skirt up her legs, wadding the hem in his fists, before bending at the knees to catch her under her thighs, hoisting her up high enough for her to hop onto the table edge.

He keeps her legs held wide, bracketing his hips, well and truly open, not only for his eyes but his deliciously long and adequate fingers to explore.

"My very own Venus," he rasps at the sight of her. "Pink and plump and mine." Normally she might argue about being thought of as his, but in this moment, she truly is.

The intimacy of it all is unlike any she's ever experienced, his eyes never leaving hers while he slowly breaks her down. He holds fast to her lower back as she moves with his fingers, body undulating against them, needing more, always more as her knees squeeze into his ribs.

She tries to keep herself composed, meeting his gaze as if they were enemies in battle. But it becomes clear soon enough that she's the one losing, eyes slamming shut as small cries begin to escape her despite her teeth digging into her bottom lip to hamper them.

"So reserved, divine Livia. Are you not enjoying yourself," he teases, bumping his nose against hers before kissing the tip of it sweetly. Such an infuriating man.

He slows then, and a combination of disappointment and relief roils within her. She's now able to catch her breath, though only just long enough to watch him lower himself onto his knees. And her cunt, traitor that she is, squeezes around his fingers involuntarily at the sight.

"Octavian," she pleads. But he doesn't respond, only continuing to watch with his piercing stare for her reaction as his mouth slides slow and sure up her inner thigh, lips and tongue burning a wet trail closer to her pulsing center.

Her mind becomes truly empty of all thoughts and worries, her skin far too sensitive as she shivers and whines and jerks in reaction to his every touch.

When he finally reaches his destination, the gasp that tears from within her is followed fast by a cry she could not stop if she wanted to. His tongue seems to be everywhere, all around and within. And his fingers, gods, his fingers are masterful as they work alongside.

Having difficulty holding up her heavy body, she drops first onto her forearms and then onto her back, losing sight of what Octavian's doing to her behind the wall of her swollen belly. But it only serves to make the experience more intense as she closes her eyes, and finally - truly - gives in, enjoying the rhythm he sets as he works only to bring her closer to the edge.

And then she's lost, body seizing tight as she jumps from a precipice of dangerous heights, into the rough sea below. It's so blissful, she would gladly drown.

She vaguely senses Octavian helping her up to sit, allowing her to rest her head, and the weight of her, heavy, listless body against him while she recovers, still shivering from the aftershocks. She feels the strength of his hands as they hold her, one kneading at her lower back and the other cupping just beneath the nape of her neck. And she almost can't help it when she turns her head, just enough for her lips to find the skin of his throat, leaving dry a kiss there.

It's incredibly strange to feel so safe in the arms of the man whom she's feared for so long. But as she begins to come back to herself, she wonders at his motives, and she knows if she's truly to go through with this, she must take some sort of measures to protect herself.

But for now, she needs to think.

"You need to leave."

The heaviness of his cock presses into her stomach, and she knows it would be... polite to at least reciprocate. But as the afterglow begins to slide away, her mind has started a race of worries mixed with thoughts of guilt and humiliation at what she's done and agreed to do.

"I will," he answers easy enough, the sound of it drumming loud into her ear against his chest. "If that's what you wish."

"It is." It comes out withdrawn, cold even. And it's meant to. But a part of her doesn't want it to be so. A part of her wants to believe in the things he's offered - in the safety and happiness. Not to mention the passion he could obviously share with her as a companion.

She wants it - though her brain calls her foolish - and so she's yet to release him, the fabric of his tunic still balled into her fist as she clings to him. So he continues to hold her patiently without saying a word, lips brushing softly across her disheveled hair.

The tears come unexpectedly, silent at first, before her body shakes with them. And still, he doesn't speak, perhaps knowing she can't listen to him in this moment when she's dying of shame.

So he holds her.

-----

The muffled drone of voices seep through the door of the tablinum. And try as Livia might, she's unable to understand anything beyond the thick wood. So she sits, and she waits just beside, as Octavian explains the situation to her husband within.

What must he be thinking, she wonders, of her betrayal - gone behind his back to secure herself a marriage to another man of much higher status.

With a sigh, she peers up at the compluvium. It had rained earlier in the morning, and slow, steady drops of water still fall into the shallow pool below. It's a consistent, soothing sound, easing her into a sort of calm reassurance over her current predicament.

Drip drip drip.

"And who might you be?"

She starts, torn away harshly from her trance-like state, the spell of the water, broken. Standing swiftly, she whirls to face the well decorated woman who's found her, her scarf slipping from her head at the quick movement. The dampened sound of Octavian and her husband's low, even voices surrounds them both now.

"I am Livia Drusilla."

The woman's thin brows raise. "Of the Drusi clan."

Livia's features lighten with surprise. "You knew my father?"

The light tap of the woman's sandaled feet is sonorous in the large atrium as she saunters closer. Her elaborately curled hair is pulled back loosely, with only a few free strands hanging past her shoulders and between her breasts. Gold practically drips from her, adorned as she is with jewelry, and with her raised chin and smirk that seems almost permanent, the vanity of the woman is practically palatable.

"I did," she says with a predatory smile. "Not a great general, obviously. But his politics matched that of my own father's."

Livia would like nothing more than defend her father, but wariness of this woman has her holding back - the backing of Caesar's assassins was not a popular move.

"And is that your husband in there now, droning on with my own?"

Her mouth goes dry, lips parting now that she understands who she's speaking to. "You are Scribonia."

The false smile falters a bit with an uncertainty. "I am."

She should've known, Livia thinks. She should've realized immediately that this heavily pregnant noble woman making her way comfortably around Octavian's home was his wife. And now she's even more on edge around her than ever before.

"You've heard of me," Scribonia asks, a cool excitement playing at her features.

"A bit."

"Well, it's good to hear that I'm spoken of."

Truthfully, Livia had not known her name, nor even of her existence until yesterday. But she allows this conceited woman to think otherwise. She's uncertain whether or not Octavian has told his wife of their plans - as he is currently doing with her husband - so she decides to continue her silence on the subject.

"It appears you and I have much in common," Scribonia notes, gesturing with her eyes at Livia's rounded stomach.

"It would appear so."

Scribonia giggles, insincere and without warmth. "My, you are a talkative one."

"I speak enough," Livia counters, "when needed."

She doesn't fully understand her contempt for the woman. Scribonia's done her no wrong. But her false mannerisms and unchecked rudeness have Livia clenching her jaw in irritation, unable to suffer the intolerable woman much longer.

Scribonia's cheerful facade begins to fall, but before she can respond the door behind Livia opens, and her heart seizes at the sound, standing straighter as she feels rush of air from the opened door flow around the skirt of her stola. Somehow she finds the bravery within herself to turn and face her husband.

Unmoving in the doorway, Nero stands, shoulders hunched, appearing ragged and tired. An older man, he often looked so, but now it was as if all the light within him had been snuffed out. And when his eyes meet Livia's she nearly breaks at the sight of them. No anger or hate swims there, only disappointment and hurt.

Though not married for a great length of time, she'd always had him, always followed him even through the hardships that began nearly immediately after they'd joined. She'd been a steadfast and trustworthy partner - until now.

There's a silent communication that has Livia wishing to beg for his forgiveness. But she doesn't, and the moment is lost when Nero pushes past and outside of Octavian's home, without even having uttered a single word to her.

Octavian comes to lean against the doorway, a silent but solid presence behind her.

Scribonia turns back to them both, amused. "Trouble in paradise?"

Livia's eyes flash hotly at her, but it only serves to amuse the woman more.

"Scribonia." Octavian's chastisement comes out quiet yet sharp - a warning. Though the effect it has is only an uncaring eye roll, before finally leaving the atrium, finding them 'no fun', apparently.

She's not certain she can feel much lower. Why is she doing this to herself, she questions for the millionth time. Safety and stability. No one can take what is hers if she's aligned with the most powerful man in the Republic.

Except for the man himself.

"I'll walk you home," he offers softly behind her, gentle, as if he's afraid he'll scare her. He doesn't yet know her strength, or the things she's endured to gain it, and she can very much use that to her advantage.

"No."

"My guards then-"

"No."

She flinches minutely when his hands settle on her shoulders. "The streets are dangerous with the grain shortage. Please let my guards follow you home."

She feels more than hears his sigh when she doesn't reply, stepping closer as his hands slide down her arms, squeezing at her biceps. Trying to transfer strength, perhaps?

It works. And she leaves him there, with only a few parting words.

"I can take care of myself."

-----

Her son is motionless in his sleep. Unnervingly so when compared with his rambunctious play when he's awake. Reaching down, she brushes a lock of hair from his forehead, enjoying the simple pleasure of being close to her child.

For him, she reminds herself. This insanity she's set in motion will all be for good, so that she can protect him.

"Has he told you?"

Her head twists fast at her husband's voice. She hadn't noticed him come up as he stands in their son's doorway, like some sort of shade. But even though he blocks her only way out, he isn't there to harm. She could never be afraid of him, which is not something she can say for Octavian.

With a finger against her lips, she gives him the signal to stay quiet as she steps past and just outside the room.

"Has who told me what?"

"Gaius Octavius," he grumbles bitterly.

"It's Gaius Julius now." She says it with a nearly imperceptible grin, trying her best to lighten the awkward tension between them.

But it doesn't work, and nor should it. She doesn't deserve such forgiveness so shortly after a betrayal.

Nero nods. "So I've been told. By him nonetheless. Power must be easier to attain when riding on the coattails of an adored dictator."

His lips press hard together, his face a look of disgust. "I worry that he may be even more dangerous than his beloved Caesar. Not in battle perhaps, but most definitely with his silver tongue. His ability to mold and sway minds-"

"I know all this," she says fiercely. "I have heard it all a thousand times before, when I was also on the run. Or did you forget that I was with you as well."

"Then why," he counters, his anger now finally coming about, though still laced with so much confusion and sadness. "Why have you let yourself be led astray by such a self serving, wicked, liar of a man."

"I have not."

"No?" Nero holds out his arms before dropping them again quickly, as if he didn't believe it, and he doesn't understand how she possibly could. "Is it me?"

She immediately begins to shake her head at the ridiculousness of such a thought.

"Now that you are truly a woman, you are unhappy to have an old man as a husband and lover."

"Of course not." The words warble at the lie. By no means is she some dissolute wanton. But even just memories at the feel of Octavian against her - the only other man she's ever been so close to - has her breath beginning to stir too fast.

He was lean where her husband was round, hard where her husband was soft. His fingers had been so sure and capable, and his mouth, gods his mouth devoured her in a way she hadn't known was possible.

So no, she did not, and would never have gone searching for a younger replacement. But she cannot deny the lure of being with a man her own age, nor the intense passion they have together.

Livia feels the hot blood racing to her face, and she's thankful for the near darkness that surrounds them. But even so, she knows he's now all too aware of her dissatisfaction with him, and she hates herself for it.

"I promised your father I would care for you."

At the mention of her father, her remorse becomes dangerously close to swallowing her whole.

"And more than that," he continues, "you are the mother of my children, and my very good friend."

She feels a faint burn at the corners of her eyes, a sign of tears gathering there.

"I will not stand in your way, but neither do I wish for you to be hurt."

She loathes the fact that, after such a display of graciousness, she cannot even promise him her safety.

Her knuckles come to rest against her lips as she turns to watch their son. "Imagine what this could do for him. Where it could place him in life. I swear to you now, everything I do will be to elevate your son."

The nearby candle gleams in his grey eyes, and he looks so forlorn at having lost her - not her as a wife, but her mind.

"At the expense of our great Republic? Would you put our son on a throne if you could?"

He sees the answer there before she has time to reply, but she has to explain, because this is at the crux of what both he and her father had fought against.

"I would only ever do what was best for Tiberius. Nero, I will only put him in a position where he can protect himself - where he can be safe."

He releases a dry chuckle then, and she almost smiles at the relief of hearing the heart-warming sound.

"Livia, don't you know. No one is safe at the top."