Characters/Pairings: Atia, Octavia/Servilia
Summary: On a rainy afternoon, Atia muses on Octavia and Servilia's relationship, and wonders what disturbs her most.
Disclaimer: I don't own Rome.
Concrit always appreciated :)
Atia wasn't exactly sure how she felt about Octavia fucking Servilia.
She sat in the atrium, fingers pressed against her lip, watching her daughter pet that stupid bird she was so fond of. Her fingers, long and delicate, cupped seeds, and she held them to the bird's mouth to eat. A rare smile graced her face, she tossed a loose strand of hair from her eyes, glancing up whilst she did it, and caught Atia's eye.
The smile slid off her face immediately and she looked away, up towards the darkening sky. Shivering, she pulled her shawl closer about her shoulder and, with a decisive swish of her robes, stalked further off into the garden, away from her mother's gaze.
Atia let out an explosive breath. She wasn't a woman easily disturbed, but the events of the past few weeks had rattled her.
Poor Octavia, with those grotesque scars lining her arms, testament to Servilia's interference in her family. She could feel the anger rising, considered calling a slave so she could have the satisfaction of beating her frustration out on him, and then dismissed the idea, tapping her fingers along the arm of the chair.
She thought of all those days Octavia had lied to her, slipping off to see her older lover, dismissing Servilia's slaves and then allowing Servilia's milky hands to cup her face and then pull her in for a long languorous kiss.
She wondered how it had begun, had there been a sliver of attraction there from the beginning that she, in her preoccupation with Servilia and Uncle Gaius's relationship, overlooked? Had Octavia been shooting longing glances towards the older woman all this time, and then creeping off to her bedchamber, to lie alone in bed, her fingers swirling inside her, wishing it was Servilia's tongue?
She remembered Octavia sobbing after seducing Octavian. Atia had looked on helplessly. She had stopped whipping the girl, had calmly told her they would speak no more of what had occurred, what more did Octavia want?
"Come now, you're being silly," Atia said irritably. She couldn't stand this wretched weeping. "We shan't speak again of it,"
Octavia continued to weep, face pressed hard against the cushions.
"You've been forgiven – that wretched trout Servilia –" At the mention of Servilia's name, Octavia's sobs reached a new crescendo.
Atia raised an eyebrow. She had never really understood the need for female friendship, but then her daughter was of a different cut than she.
"You'll find a new friend – one more appropriate,"
Octavia slowly turned on her side, to stare dismally at the wall, and then finally met her mother's eyes.
She looked dreadful, Atia noted.
A shuddering sob shook her body, and then Octavian spoke, from where he stood by the door, cocking his head to one side. "I don't think you understand, mother,"
Atia scowled at him, having not quite forgiven him yet for allowing his sister to debase herself.
"It is not the loss of female friendship Octavia mourns, but the loss and betrayal of a lover," He said it succinctly, with barely a flicker of emotion on his face.
Atia gazed at him. "A lover? Ha, Octavia, do you hear what your brother thinks –" She stopped, because finally an inkling stirred in her brain and she revolved slowly on the spot to stare at her eldest child.
Octavia sniffed, having calmed herself to silent tears running down porcelain cheeks. She plucked at a loose thread on her bed sheet, refusing to look up.
"Lovers," Atia tested the word. "Octavia, were you Servilia's lover?"
Octavia said nothing for a long moment, then slowly, irrevocably, nodded yes.
It was the second shock Atia had received in the past day. First, her children fucking (She was not a fan of bothering the Gods, but she'd have to make some kind of offering to atone for that…) and now…this. Atia wasn't sure which she found more disturbing.
Startled back to the present by a slave offering her lemon water, she dismissed him irritably, sipping with pursed lips.
When she imagined them fucking, it was always the same. Low murmurs, lengthy touches, delicate and dignified, just as Servilia was in all other aspects of her life.
Servilia would smile at her daughter over a cup of spiced wine; her daughter would blush and allow her shawl to fall back from her shoulders, revealing sculptured shoulders. Servilia would eye along the shoulder and up her neck with hunger, eventually suggesting, for the sake of propriety if for nothing else, that she show Octavia the delicate embroidery she had completed on a dress, or a shawl, or a handkerchief…
They would walk deeper into Servilia's house, away from the burning midsummer sun, dispensing with slaves.
Servilia would click the door shut on her chamber, leaning momentarily against it, drinking Octavia in, who would have settled herself silently on Servilia's bed, waiting.
Servilia would settle beside her, taking Octavia's hand in her own. Octavia, always tentative, would smile, and allow her face to be cupped and pulled forward, and then kissed. Softly at first, and then harshly, biting down on the younger girls lip.
Octavia would hiss and tense, but lean in for more, urging the older woman to explore.
With one hand Servilia would force Octavia down, and use the other to caress down her body, feeling her curves through the silken dress.
Octavia's dress would be a bother, all fiddly straps at the shoulder. Servilia, however, would undo them delicately, with skilled and elegant fingers. She would take her time, because Servilia could be a tease sometimes.
When Octavia was naked and tense below her, Servilia would smile, scratch Octavia's nipples with her fingertips, and then take them in her mouth, swirling her tongue around the hardened buds. Octavia's hands would clench the bedclothes, and she would arch her back, perhaps makes a soft whinnying noise.
Servilia, with her deft fingers – always those deft fingers, Atia thought petulantly – would run the tip of her forefinger down Octavia's body, pausing just before her clit.
Octavia might beg at this point. Atia wasn't sure.
Finally, though, Servilia would take pity and take Octavia's clit between her fore and middle fingers and squeeze. Octavia would moan, and slowly Servilia would release the pressure, gently rubbing, increasing the speed until Octavia was panting for breath, kissing the poor girl.
When she had built Octavia into a frenzy, Servilia would lean back and loose her own gown – simple and with no clasps, Atia thought, because she would have dressed appropriately for fucking – let it pool around her feet, and kick it away.
Octavia would reach out, more clumsily than Servilia she was sure, and pluck her nipples. A wave of pleasure would rush through Servilia, though she wouldn't allow Octavia to have her. Not yet.
Octavia would be startled with the force Servilia would fling her back, and yank Octavia's quivering cunt to her.
She'd raise an eyebrow at Octavia, smile, and then plunge her tongue in, before touching it to Octavia's clit. One of Octavia's legs might buck of its own accord, as Servilia twirled her tongue, at first lightly, and then with more pressure, as Octavia writhed under her administrations.
She's come, of course. The damn girl would always come. Violently, she thought, gasping and clutching the bed clothes, and then hang limply, gasping for breath. Servilia might kiss her way up her body, eventually meeting Octavia's mouth, who, free from all inhibitions, would allow Servilia's tongue to crash into her mouth, then roll on top of Servilia, kissing her ferociously, achingly, enjoying how Servilia's mouth tasted like her cunt.
Atia blinked. The disturbing question, really, was whether Octavia had ever loved Servilia. She shivered, pulling herself up from the chair, and ambling off towards the house, as a dismal rain splattered the ground. If she had, she certainly hadn't divulged it. Atia frowned, remembering the lovelorn look that graced Octavia's face, as she lay, unmoving on her bed for days, until she had eventually disappeared, off to that wretched temple to self-mutilate away her pain.
Perhaps Octavia had loved Servilia. Perhaps it was that thought, not the fucking (because you could fuck without feeling, certainly), that most disturbed Atia.