Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Self-mastery was Oscar's most prized possession. More valuable than the ceremonial gladius awarded by the Emperor himself, more essential than the sprawling villa on Palatine Hill's prestigious western slope. This iron discipline had been forged in Carthaginian deserts where legionnaires dropped from heat before enemy arrows found them, tempered in Germania's brutal winters where his decisions meant life or frozen death for hundreds, and polished to gleaming perfection in Senate chambers where carefully chosen words proved deadlier than the sharpest blade.

But in the three weeks since the Iberian omega had entered his household, Oscar found himself questioning that once-unshakeable foundation.

Lando wasn't simply testing his patience. He was dismantling it with surgical precision — and evident enjoyment.

"I can hear you thinking from here, Zakary," Oscar said without glancing up from the military correspondence spread across his desk. The shadow in his doorway had been lingering for nearly a minute, growing more restless with each passing moment. "Whatever calamity has befallen us, delaying its delivery won't improve the news."

His steward shifted his weight, one sandaled foot tapping an anxious rhythm against the mosaic floor — a tell Oscar had learned to interpret as catastrophic news imminent.

"One might say, Domine, that our Iberian... guest... has elevated his art of provocation to new heights." Zakary cleared his throat meaningfully. "Or perhaps I should say... new depths."

Oscar's eyebrow arched. "You're being unusually poetic today, Zakary."

"The situation demands it." Zakary's gaze slid toward the window, where suspicious splashing sounds were becoming audible. "Your eastern garden, specifically... the water lily pool."

"Your circumlocution suggests I should be sitting down for this news." Oscar's stylus hovered over the parchment, leaving an ominous ink blot beside the Iberian campaign report. "Fortunately, I already am."

"He's bathing in it," Zakary winced, "or perhaps 'lounging' would be more precise. Among the lilies." He hesitated, searching for appropriate words. "With the... enthusiasm of a sea nymph discovering water for the first time."

Oscar's head lifted slowly, stylus suspended mid-sentence. "He's what?"

"Creating quite the pastoral spectacle, Domine. One that has captivated the entire garden staff, I'm afraid."

A familiar chill slithered down Oscar's spine — that particular unease that always slithered in moments before Lando redefined the word "scandal."

"Surely you don't mean he's—"

"Naked, Domine,” Zakary confirmed, shattering Oskar’s last, fragile hope. “Entirely. As natural as the day the gods created him. The garden slaves..." he paused, searching for diplomatic phrasing, "...are experiencing a sudden, collective interest in horticulture. Young Gabriel has volunteered to prune the same rosebush four times this hour."

"How dedicated of him,"  Oscar pinched the bridge of his nose — a momentary surrender to the headache building behind his temples. 

Of course. It was becoming Lando's signature — finding precisely what Oscar valued and systematically violating it in the most provocative way possible.

"I'll handle this personally." Oscar stood, straightening his toga with a precise flick of his wrist. 

"That might be wise, Domine. The lilies are suffering significant casualties."

Oscar's sigh seemed to emanate from the depths of his very soul. "As is my sanity, Zakary. As is my sanity."

His fingers flexed unconsciously at his sides, already anticipating the inevitable — that glint of triumph in Lando's eyes when caught in the act, the way he'd tilt his head just so, as if daring Oscar to scold him. 

Gods, grant me strength, Oscar thought, to resist that look. He could already hear the excuses forming on Lando's lips — something about "communing with nature" or "creating a more natural aesthetic" — delivered with that infuriatingly charming smile.

Oscar paused at the threshold, bracing himself. "Has he at least maintained some level of modesty?" he asked, dreading the answer. 

Zakary's silence was response enough.

***

The pattern had been established within days of the omega's arrival.

Oscar had made every conceivable effort to ensure Lando's comfort — a futile endeavor that, in retrospect, resembled trying to domesticate a wildfire. He'd provided spacious quarters in the east wing, furnished with elegant pieces that balanced comfort with restrained luxury. He'd even commissioned a small fountain in the Iberian style that he'd once admired during a campaign in Tarraco — a gesture that had earned him exactly one raised eyebrow and a cutting remark about Romans collecting foreign aesthetics like hunting trophies.

"He is not a slave," Oscar had emphasized to Zakary, as they prepared the rooms. "Nor is he a traditional guest. His position is... nuanced."

Zakary, who had served in Oscar’s house for many years and remained unshaken by any oddity until now, simply lifted a skeptical eyebrow. "And if this 'nuanced' position attempts to flee your hospitality?"

"He won't," Oscar had replied with more certainty than he felt. "Rome offers him nothing but hostility. He's too intelligent for suicide."

That much, at least, had proven true. Lando hadn't attempted escape. Instead, he had embarked on a far more subtle campaign of resistance — one that targeted not the physical boundaries of his captivity, but the psychological equilibrium of his captor.

It began with clothing. Oscar had commissioned garments of fine Roman styling — an olive branch meant to help the omega integrate into his household. Lando had responded by appearing at breakfast wrapped in nothing but bedsheets, diaphanous linen artfully arranged to suggest rather than conceal, sliding from one shoulder whenever he reached for his wine cup. Oscar had been forced to dismiss a visiting senator's aide after the young man walked directly into a marble column while tracking Lando's progress across the atrium.

"I find Roman clothing restrictive," he'd explained with feigned innocence, eyes wide as a child's. "In Iberia, we believe the body should breathe freely. Surely a man of the world such as yourself understands cultural differences?"

Oscar had relented, ordering Iberian-styled clothing instead — a compromise he thought reasonable. When Lando accepted them with an uncharacteristically serene nod and disappeared without another word, Oscar allowed himself a moment of cautious relief.

The next morning, during his walk, Oscar came across the new garments draped over the statue of Venus. 

He stopped. Blinked. Then muttered a prayer to whatever god might be listening for patience — a prayer that, judging by the way the morning breeze made the fabric flutter in what could only be described as a mocking wave, had gone entirely unanswered.

Next came the meals. Roman cuisine, apparently, offended his Iberian sensibilities on multiple levels.

"The Iberian has refused the midday meal again," the cook reported one afternoon, his perpetually stern expression somehow growing more severe. "Said he would not eat food that had been placed 'within smelling distance of fish.’”

"The fish was on the opposite side of the kitchen,” Oscar said evenly, fully aware that logic would never sway Lando.

"Try telling him that!" The cook's voice climbed an octave. "He suggested we build him a separate kitchen 'untainted by fish entrails' or let him starve like a 'proper martyr to Iberian culinary standards.' Then — get this, Domine — he requested honeyed dates.”

"The same dates," Oscar sighed, "he declared 'an insult to fruit' yesterday?"

The cook's eye developed a dangerous tic. "Said they tasted 'less Roman' today.”

The household staff had gradually divided into two camps: those who found Lando's antics secretly amusing — primarily the younger slaves, who admired his defiance from a safe distance — and those who regarded him with the wary respect normally reserved for unpredictable natural disasters.

Several had taken to making offerings at the household shrine before approaching Lando's quarters after he had solemnly promised to "teach them proper Iberian curses that would make their Roman gods blush" if they continued hovering outside his door like — Zakary's report contained a pained pause before retelling this part — "Imperial vultures circling a battlefield, waiting for permission to feast on the fallen." 

Despite himself, Oscar had felt his lips twitch at the creative invective. The omega had a way with words, even when those words were designed to wound.

The breaking point — quite literally — had been the vase. Not just any vase, but an alabaster masterpiece gifted by Senator Ricciardo after the Carthage campaign, representing the cultural synthesis that Oscar privately believed was Rome's true strength rather than its military might.

"Tragically shattered beyond repair," Zakary had reported, his eyes fixed on some distant point above Oscar's left shoulder. "According to the Iberian, the piece 'grew weary of imperial captivity and leapt to its death of its own accord.'"

"A suicidal vase," Oscar had replied, his voice dangerously even. "How unusual."

"He suggests it was an act of rebellion against cultural appropriation,"  Zakary had added, clearly baffled by the concept. "Something about art belonging in its place of origin, not displayed as trophies of conquest."

Oscar had felt a curious mixture of irritation and — though he would never admit it aloud — reluctant admiration. Lando's understanding of precisely what would disturb his Roman sensibilities was uncannily accurate. 

When confronted, Lando had studied Oscar's controlled expression with open fascination. "You Romans have a curious relationship with beauty," he'd observed. "You tear it from its native soil, place it in artificial settings, and then expect gratitude when you allow others to observe it. Perhaps the vase simply longed for freedom."

"And you appointed yourself its liberator?" Oscar had asked, one eyebrow raised.

"Someone must advocate for the voiceless," Lando had replied with mock solemnity, fluttering those impossibly long eyelashes. "Besides, I'm told breaking things is expected of barbarians. I would hate to disappoint."

Oscar had responded to these provocations and dozens more with Herculean patience. He told himself the omega was adjusting to captivity, to the loss of his homeland and position. Some resistance was natural, even healthy. It would pass with time as Lando grew accustomed to his new circumstances.

He had been spectacularly, catastrophically wrong.

Rather than diminishing, Lando's defiance had evolved — becoming more refined, more precisely targeted, more exquisitely calibrated to disrupt the rhythms of Oscar's carefully ordered life. And somewhere along the way, it had developed a distinctly personal quality — as though the omega had dedicated himself to discovering exactly which pressure points would make Oscar's famous self-control fragment like that ill-fated alabaster vase.

Last week, he had reorganized the carefully cataloged scrolls in Oscar's library according to what he called "an Iberian system of knowledge categorization," which appeared to involve color coding and possibly some relation to lunar cycles. The day before yesterday, he had convinced three young house slaves that an elaborate ritual involving olive oil, honey, and recited poetry was necessary to ward off "Roman ceiling spirits" that caused plaster to crack and fall on sleeping inhabitants.

And now, the water lily pool.

***

The eastern garden was Oscar's private sanctuary — an architectural triumph hidden within the villa's walls. Columned walkways surrounded a central pool where bronze dolphins spouted arcs of crystal water. Marble benches nestled between carefully pruned cypress trees that cast dappled shade over mosaics depicting the sea god Neptune taming wild horses. But at its heart lay the water lily pool — a perfect circle of still water where rare blossoms from the Nile Delta opened their petals each morning to greet the Italian sun.

Today, that tranquility had been thoroughly shattered.

The first sight that greeted him was a cluster of garden slaves huddled by the rosemary hedges, pruning shears and water jars clutched in idle hands as they stared, transfixed, at the spectacle before them. At Oscar's approach, they startled like a flock of sparrows, suddenly finding urgent business in opposite corners of the garden.

And then Oscar saw him.

No description from Zakary could have prepared him for the scene before him. Every worst expectation confirmed, and somehow, exceeded.

Lando floated on his back among the lily pads, his bronze-gold skin a startling contrast to the pale blossoms surrounding him. Flower petals clung to his wet flesh like devoted worshippers, somehow accentuating rather than concealing the lean strength of his body. His eyes were closed, impossibly long lashes resting against high cheekbones as his face tilted toward the sun with an expression of such sublime contentment that Oscar momentarily wondered if Venus herself had orchestrated this test of his resolve.

Oscar forced his gaze to remain fixed on the omega's face, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the rest of him — the elegant throat flowing into broad shoulders, the narrow waist, the long limbs that carved through water with effortless grace.

His attempt at disciplined observation failed spectacularly when Lando stretched languorously, causing water droplets to cascade down the contours of his chest.

Lando didn't open his eyes, but the slight curve of his lips indicated he was perfectly aware of Oscar's arrival. He continued floating, arms extended outward, fingers occasionally brushing against lily pads with deliberate gentleness that somehow made the entire display more provocative.

Oscar cleared his throat pointedly.

"Five hundred and seventy-four," Lando announced without opening his eyes.

Oscar paused. "I beg your pardon?"

"Five hundred and seventy-four individual tiles form the mosaic border of your precious pool," Lando explained, finally allowing his eyes to open. "I've been counting them while waiting for you to arrive. Your slaves have been circling like anxious geese for ages now, clearly desperate for someone to save them from the terrible Iberian savage defiling Roman waters." He stretched languorously, causing several lilies to drift disconsolately away from his golden limbs. "You took your time, Commander."

"I was unaware we had an appointment," Oscar replied, his voice deliberately even. "Had I known you planned to declare war on my horticulture, I would have adjusted my schedule accordingly."

Lando's laughter rang out unexpectedly — a sound of genuine amusement that momentarily caught Oscar off guard. There was something disarmingly youthful about it that didn't align with the calculated provocateur he'd come to expect. 

"War? This isn't war, Commander — merely a cultural exchange. I'm experiencing famous Roman bathing customs while contributing Iberian innovations."

"And what innovation would that be? Using priceless Egyptian lilies as bathing accessories?"

"Precisely!" Lando shifted, causing more ripples to disturb the remaining flowers. Water streamed off his shoulders as he half-sat, revealing the lean contours of his chest. "In Iberia, we believe bathing should engage all the senses. These flowers" — he lifted a broken lily stem with theatrical gentleness — "provide such exquisite fragrance. Their sacrifice elevates the bathing experience considerably."

Oscar noted with weary resignation that his favorite lily — a rare blue variety with gold-tipped petals that had taken three seasons to mature — now lay crushed beneath Lando's shoulders like a funerary wreath.

"Those particular sacrifices," he said with remarkable composure, "survived pirates, storms, and the Mediterranean's temperamental moods to reach Rome. They endured a journey most humans would find harrowing, only to be martyred beneath your shoulder blades."

"How very tragic," Lando replied, not sounding remotely sympathetic. "Torn from their native soil and forced to bloom in a foreign land for the pleasure of their Roman captors." His eyebrow arched meaningfully. "I can't imagine how that feels."

Oscar absorbed the barb with practiced ease. "The comparison lacks subtlety."

"I thought Romans appreciated directness," Lando countered, pushing himself upright. Water cascaded down his body as he found footing on the pool's mosaic floor. "Or is that only during military conquests?"

The pool was shallow enough that the water only reached mid-thigh, leaving the rest of him exposed to the air and Oscar's increasingly strained peripheral vision. Light traced the arch of his ribs, the dip of his hips, the provocative trail of droplets disappearing below the surface - as if even the sunlight conspired with him, gilding each sinful curve with deliberate precision. 

Oscar had seen countless nude bodies before — in military baths, in training grounds, in the casual nudity of Roman daily life. None had affected him like this. Perhaps it was the contrast: golden skin against pastel blossoms, virile youth amid cultivated beauty. Or perhaps it was how utterly, infuriatingly at home Lando looked in his defiance, as though the pool had been created specifically for this moment of rebellion.

"These lilies," Oscar said, steering toward safer waters, "are not merely decorative. Some have medicinal properties. Others are used in sacred rites for—"

"Sacred rites?" Lando interrupted, his face brightening with mock enthusiasm. "How fortunate that I've stumbled upon them! I've been performing my own Iberian water rituals." He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Would you like to know what we believe water spirits reveal about a person's future? It requires careful study of how petals float around the naked body. Tremendously sacred. Profoundly mystical."

A heartbeat of silence stretched between them as Oscar considered the decimated flowers drifting aimlessly around Lando's naked form. "You invented that entirely," he said flatly.

Lando's smile widened, unrepentant. "Perhaps. Or perhaps Iberian spiritual practices are more sophisticated than Romans give us credit for." He leaned back in the water, never breaking eye contact with Oscar. "Your imagination is disappointingly literal, Commander. Has no one ever taught you to play?"

The sight of water beading along Lando's collarbones sent an unwelcome heat coiling low in Oscar's gut. Like watching honey drip from a spoon, some traitorous part of his mind supplied — slow, golden, and unbearably sweet. 

He forced his attention back to Lando's face, only to find the omega watching him with knowing amusement.

"Contrary to what you may believe," Oscar said, "Roman commanders occasionally engage in pursuits beyond conquest and governance."

"Do tell," Lando purred, floating closer to the edge where Oscar stood. "What does the mighty Aquilinus do when he's not subduing barbarian tribes or terrorizing his household staff with his fearsome discipline? Do you collect seashells? Compose poetry to fallen enemies? Perhaps you secretly dance under moonlight wearing nothing but olive leaves?"

"Your assessment of Roman recreational activities is remarkably creative," Oscar observed. "Though I must disappoint you — my dancing is strictly reserved for imperial functions, and always fully clothed."

"I have an excellent imagination," Lando agreed cheerfully. "A necessary skill when one is held captive in a foreign villa with nothing but stuffy scrolls and disapproving slaves for company."

"You are not a captive," Oscar said automatically, the words practiced from many similar exchanges.

The playfulness vanished from Lando's face so abruptly it was as though a cloud had passed over the sun. "No?" His voice turned dangerously quiet. "What pretty Roman word makes this arrangement palatable to your sense of honor? Unwilling guest? Imperial gift? Living trophy?"

The air between them grew heavy, teetering on the edge of another familiar, fruitless argument. Oscar braced himself for the inevitable clash — that same bitter exchange they'd repeated a dozen times before — when suddenly Lando's gaze softened and drifted to the surrounding gardens.

"You know," he mused, plucking a fallen petal from the water's surface, "for all your tedious Roman regulations, you do cultivate remarkable gardens." He twirled the petal between his fingers before letting it float away. “Though we did have public bathing pools without all these complicated Roman rules about who may use them and when."

He arched his back slightly, water sluicing down the elegant curve of his spine, and Oscar knew with absolute certainty — Lando knew exactly what he was doing.

"Those rules generally involve not decimating rare botanical specimens," Oscar replied dryly, though without genuine heat.”

"Plants over people," Lando observed, wading closer to where Oscar stood. "Very Roman."

"The plants weren't attempting to antagonize me," Oscar countered. "They merely existed in their designated space, causing no harm."

"Designated spaces." Lando's smile turned sharp. "Another Roman obsession. Everything and everyone in their proper place, neatly ordered, controlled." He reached the pool's edge, looking up at Oscar from beneath wet lashes. "Tell me, Commander, what happens when something — or someone — refuses to stay in their assigned position?"

"Generally," Oscar said, "they find themselves reassigned to less pleasant accommodations." He extended a hand, intended as both peace offering and tacit command to exit the pool. "Come. There are proper bathing facilities if you wish to cool off.  This accomplishes nothing."

Lando studied the offered hand with exaggerated consideration, water dripping from his curls onto his shoulders, tracing paths down the contours of his chest. A single lily petal clung stubbornly to the curve where neck met shoulder, its pale pink a stark contrast against golden skin.

For a moment, Lando seemed surprised by the gesture. His eyes narrowed suspiciously, but then his expression shifted to something Oscar couldn't quite read — a mixture of calculation and mischief that set off warning bells too late. He reached for Oscar's extended hand, his own fingers closing around the commander's wrist with surprising strength.

"You're absolutely right," Lando said, tone suddenly reasonable — which should have been Oscar's first warning. "This accomplishes nothing at all."

Oscar realized his tactical error too late. 

One moment he was standing safely on solid marble, the next he was being yanked forward with astonishing strength. His balance — honed through years of swordplay and battlefield maneuvers — betrayed him utterly as his sandals slipped on the water-slick edge of the pool.

Time seemed to slow as he fell, giving him ample opportunity to observe the pure, undiluted triumph blooming across Lando's features. The omega's sea-glass eyes widened with delight, his lips parting in a grin of such boyish mischief that Oscar found himself simultaneously outraged and, bewilderingly, charmed.

He crashed into the pool with a spectacular splash that sent water cascading over the stone edges and surviving lilies fleeing in all directions. 

Oscar surfaced with a gasp that was equal parts indignation and shock at the sudden cold. His immaculate toga — once a symbol of his authority — now clung to him like a second skin, suddenly heavier than legionnaire's armor and significantly less dignified. Water streamed from his cropped hair into his eyes, momentarily blinding him.

He spat out a mouthful of lily-scented water, blinking droplets from his lashes as he regained his footing in the shallow pool.

"Was that entirely necessary?" Oscar asked, sounding uncharacteristically petulant even to his own ears.

Lando's laughter rang out — a sound of such pure, unfiltered joy that it momentarily silenced Oscar's building tirade. The omega was practically radiant with delight, his head thrown back and shoulders shaking as peals of laughter bounced off the garden walls.

"Your face!" Lando gasped between fits of laughter, "Oh, by all that's sacred— the expression!" He clutched at his sides as though physically pained by his own hilarity. "The great Aquilinus, terror of three provinces, conqueror of Iberia — defeated by a puddle!" Fresh laughter overtook him. “Perhaps your enemies should replace their fortifications with ornamental pools — Rome would never advance beyond its borders!"

Oscar made a valiant attempt to rise with dignity — a futile endeavor given that his water-logged toga now weighed approximately as much as a small ox. The fabric clung indecently to his form in ways that would have scandalized proper Roman society, revealing rather than concealing the athletic physique that years of military campaigns had sculpted. 

The flush rising up his neck had nothing to do with the water’s chill and everything to do with the way Lando’s gaze deliberately lingered.

"The lilies offered less resistance than the Iberian tribes," Oscar replied, attempting to maintain some semblance of authority despite his undignified state. "Though I'm beginning to think their tactics are remarkably similar — luring one into a false sense of security before striking."

Lando's laughter stuttered to a halt, surprise flickering across his features. "Commander Aquilinus, was that... humor? From you?" He pressed a dramatic hand to his chest. "I fear I may faint from shock. Perhaps you hit your head on the way down?"

"Believe it or not," Oscar muttered, "Roman military training doesn't actually involve the surgical removal of one's sense of humor." He attempted to push his sopping hair back from his forehead, succeeding only in redirecting a small waterfall down the back of his neck. "Though I'm beginning to think it might be advisable."

A startled chuckle escaped Lando before he could suppress it. He covered his mouth quickly, as though caught doing something forbidden, and the moment of unguarded amusement vanished as swiftly as it had appeared, replaced by a strange expression on Lando’s face.

"You're just a man after all," Lando said softly, studying Oscar with new interest. Water dripped from Lando's own lashes as he tilted his head slightly, as if committing this version of Oscar — the damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead, the faint flush along his neck from exertion, the way his chest rose and fell with each steady breath — to memory. "Not marble, not iron — just flesh and breath and beating heart. How... unexpected."

Oscar froze, the dripping water suddenly forgotten.

Just a man.

When had anyone last called him that? Not Domine, not Commander?

He could barely remember. 

Even his lovers spoke to his title, his power, never to him. Senators' sons murmuring "Glory of Rome" between his thighs. The young tribune who couldn't stop trembling beneath him, stammering "Legatus" like a prayer. Even his last long-term companion — that patrician's omega heir with his silver tongue — had sobbed "Commander" into the pillows when he came like it was his given name.

His bed had never lacked warm bodies, but it had been years since anyone had dared to touch him without reverence. 

But Lando?

Lando stood waist-deep in the ruins of Oscar's lily pool, water streaming down his bare chest, and looked at him with no reverence at all — just sharp, assessing curiosity, as if Oscar were nothing more than…

A man.

Oscar stood motionless, suddenly aware of how vulnerable he felt beneath that piercing gaze.

Then the spell shattered.

Slaves clustered at the garden’s edge, their whispers carrying across the water. They were staring. Of course they were staring. Their master stood drenched in his own lily pool, toga plastered indecently to his body, facing off against a naked Iberian who looked entirely too pleased with himself. grinned up at him like this was exactly where he’d meant to be all along.

"Your audience has returned," Lando observed, nodding toward the onlookers. "The mighty Roman and his barbarian captive, performing impromptu water theater. Should we charge admission? We could fund another provincial conquest." 

"They're wondering if they should rescue me,"  Oscar replied, watching how the water droplets clung to Lando's eyelashes like liquid jewels. The slaves' murmurs formed a buzzing counterpoint to the pounding in his temples. "Though whether from you or from my own poor judgment remains unclear."

"Rescue implies danger, Commander," Lando said, suddenly adopting an expression of childlike innocence, blinking up at Oscar with exaggerated wide eyes. He cupped his hands to splash water playfully at his own chest. "I merely thought you might appreciate cooling off in this dreadful heat. Such practical Roman engineering, these garden pools." His voice dripped with feigned earnestness as he gestured to the elaborate marble surroundings.

Oscar had never imagined he’d be more dangerous naked than armed — but gods, he was.

A shadow fell across the water. Zakary appeared at the pool's edge, his face a masterclass in professional neutrality. The steward's eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance, refusing to acknowledge either his master's sodden state or Lando's complete lack of attire.

"Domine," Zakary began, pointedly focusing on Oscar's face rather than his current state of soggy disarray, "forgive the interruption, but the Senate has called an emergency session. Your presence is requested immediately."

Oscar closed his eyes briefly. Of course. Because this day needed additional complications. "The reason?"

"Senator Leclerc has raised objections to the Emperor's grain taxation proposal. The Praetorian Prefect suggested your military perspective might prove... stabilizing."

Translation: Verstappen was close to losing his temper with the outspoken young senator, and Oscar's presence might prevent the Emperor from doing something politically disastrous. Again.

"I'll change and leave at once," Oscar said, wading toward the pool's steps with as much dignity as a thoroughly soaked man could muster.

Zakary produced a large drying cloth with such seamless efficiency that Oscar momentarily wondered if the man possessed oracular powers. "Already prepared, Domine. Along with a formal toga appropriate for Senate appearance."

"Your foresight is appreciated," Oscar replied dryly, accepting the cloth and beginning to blot water from his arms. "Though I note you didn't think to warn me about the hazards of pool edges."

"Give the Emperor my regards," Lando called after him as Oscar turned to leave, "Tell him his gift is thoroughly enjoying Roman hospitality."

Oscar glanced back, one eyebrow raised. "I'll tell him his thoughtful offering is adapting to Roman culture with characteristic Iberian subtlety."

"Is that what you call it? And here I thought I was being exceptionally obvious in my disdain."

Lando still stood waist-deep in the water, naked and utterly unbothered, the pale blooms drifting around him like misplaced offerings. The water shimmered where it clung to his skin, and he made no move to cover himself — instead, he arched a brow as if to say, Here is your Emperor’s gift. Here is the arch of his bare throat and his mocking mouth. Isn’t he magnificent? 

"The day you become obvious, Lando Norris, is the day Rome falls to barbarian hordes," Oscar replied with unexpected warmth. "I suspect we're safe for the time being."

Lando laughed, and oh gods – Oscar would never grow accustomed to what that sound did to his chest, how it curled warm and dangerous beneath his ribs. 

"Until this evening, then, Commander," Lando said, executing a theatrical bow that sent more water cascading from his curls. "I do so look forward to hearing about the Senate's deliberations on grain taxation. Perhaps you could describe the proceedings in excruciating detail over dinner? I've been suffering from insomnia lately."

Oscar accepted a fresh tunic from Zakary, still maintaining eye contact with Lando. "I expect to see you properly attired at dinner," he said, his tone making it clear this was not a suggestion. "In the triclinium."

"And if I refuse?" Lando challenged, though the question lacked the bitter edge of their earlier exchanges.

"Then I'll have the cook prepare nothing but fish for the remainder of the week," Oscar replied smoothly. "I'm told it's quite plentiful this season."

Lando's expression of genuine horror made Oscar's lips twitch with suppressed amusement as he turned to walk away, leaving a trail of water in his wake.

Behind him, he heard a splash and Lando's voice calling after him: 

"That's barbaric, even for a Roman!"

"I learned from the best," Oscar replied without looking back, allowing himself the small victory of having the last word.

***

Oscar slipped into the Senate chambers with as much dignity as one could muster after being treacherously pushed into the ornamental pool. The dry toga did little to help — the ghost of pool water still clung to his skin, mingling stubbornly with the perfume of crushed lilies. His hair, wet and plastered to his skull, made him resemble less a decorated Roman commander and more a disgruntled cat who'd been awarded military honors solely for surviving an unexpected bath.

If the gods possessed any mercy whatsoever, someone might mistake his lingering dampness for sweat. Roman summers were brutal, after all.

But then, the gods had never shown particular fondness for Oscar Piastri. Because if they had, he would never have met Lando Norris in the first place.

The Senate chamber assaulted his senses the moment he entered — a living, breathing organism of political intrigue. It reeked of ambition, rancid oil-based perfumes, and that peculiar stench of power that always smelled suspiciously like unwashed men convinced of their own importance. Years of military service and political maneuvering had taught Oscar that this room was less a place of governance and more a stage for elaborate social warfare. A uniquely Roman bouquet that Oscar had come to associate with hours of his life he'd never recover.

Another day, another pointless debate that could have been resolved in the time it took these peacocks to arrange their togas.

But even through this olfactory chaos, Oscar immediately detected the distinctive tension that meant only one thing: Verstappen and Leclerc were at it again.

Emperor sprawled across his imperial throne with the casual disregard of someone who knew precisely how much it irritated traditionalists. One muscular leg thrown over the armrest, his toga hitched up just enough to display a well-defined calf — a deliberate provocation that somehow managed to be both barbaric and regal simultaneously. The slow drag of his thumb along the armrest's carving — back and forth, back and forth — was the only outward sign of his dwindling patience.

Before him stood Senator Charles Leclerc, the very image of aristocratic perfection. His toga hung in flawless folds, the deep crimson border declaring his patrician status. Every line of his posture spoke of effortless superiority - back straight as a sword, shoulders squared just so, that faint tilt of his chin making even deference look like a favor granted. The tailored cut of his toga left exactly zero doubts about his athletic build, and half the Senate pretended not to stare at the way the fabric hinted at the lean strength beneath. 

The other half, more interestingly, pretended not to notice Verstappen noticing.

"The grain shipments from Alexandria have been delayed again," Leclerc was saying, his voice carrying that distinctive Gallic inflection that he had never entirely shed despite years in Rome — a deliberate choice, Oscar suspected, as the man could perfectly mimic any accent when it suited his purposes. "The third such delay this season. Yet curiously, shipments consigned to Senators Horner and Marko arrived without incident."

Oscar settled into his designated seat, recognizing the familiar opening moves in what had become Rome's most compelling political theater. Senator Ricciardo, already seated nearby, leaned over with the conspiratorial whisper of a man who lived for political drama. 

"They've been at it for nearly an hour," he murmured. “Started with tax assessments, somehow veered into Egyptian grain logistics, and now we're apparently investigating shipping corruption. All while looking at each other like that."

'Like that' was a particularly apt description. Despite the professional subject matter, Verstappen watched Leclerc with sharp, unwavering focus. Leclerc absorbed his attention effortlessly, moving with the ease of someone born to be seen — tilting his shoulders just enough, spine loose, presence tuned to every glance. He basked in the imperial gaze like a sunflower soaking up light, not merely aware of the attention but thriving in it, intent on catching every drop.

Oscar suppressed a groan. Every Senate session, these two engaged in the same elaborate ritual. It was like watching a particularly aggressive mating display between exotic birds, all puffed feathers and dramatic shrieking, except the birds were Rome's most powerful alpha and a frustratingly self-assured beta senator who refused to submit like a proper subordinate.

"How far along are they this time?" Oscar asked quietly, leaning toward Daniel.

Ricciardo's eyes glimmered with the joy of a gossip about to unload his most salacious information. "Leclerc suggested that the Emperor's new racing chariot acquisition might have been funded with money earmarked for grain subsidies."

Oscar's eyebrows shot up. "He didn't."

"Oh, he absolutely did," Daniel confirmed with a grin that stretched from ear to ear, revealing teeth that had charmed half the capital's omega population. "Verstappen countered by implying that Leclerc's family vineyards are mysteriously exempt from the new agricultural taxes. To which our favorite senator drawled—" Ricciardo pitched his voice into a perfect imitation of Leclerc's clipped tones, "—'Perhaps the Divine Caesar was too distracted by his latest concubine to recall signing that particular edict.'"

Daniel waggled his eyebrows. "Though we all know the only concubine Verstappen seems interested in acquiring wears a senator's toga and is currently lecturing him about fiscal responsibility."

Oscar exhaled sharply. The entire Senate knew Verstappen would have dragged Leclerc to his chambers and fucked this stubbornness out of him months ago if the senator had been an omega. But since fate — with its characteristic sense of humor — had cursed Rome with a beta possessing the defiance of an alpha and the composure of a Vestal Virgin, they were all doomed to witness this absurd dance of legislation and lingering glances that somehow managed to be more indecent than anything that happened Rome's most notorious pleasure houses.

And then, as if on cue, Leclerc struck.

"Perhaps," he said, turning just enough to catch the light along his jawline, "if the Emperor's attention were as focused on grain distribution as it is on funding his new Colosseum expansion, the plebeians might have bread to accompany the circuses."

Someone in the back benches choked on their wine. Oscar didn't bother looking to see who — the Senate was full of men who couldn't hold their liquor, their outrage, or their common sense.

He also didn't need to glance at Ricciardo to know they were sharing the same thought - they'd memorized this script by now. 

Act One: Leclerc provokes with exquisitely phrased criticism. 

Act Two: Verstappen retaliates with increasingly less-veiled hostility. 

Act Three: The entire Senate endures their verbal foreplay while actual governance stagnates.

"My precious Senator Leclerc," Verstappen drawled, examining his signet ring with exaggerated interest, "always so concerned with the welfare of people whose names you couldn't possibly know. Such nobility. Such... performative compassion." 

A hush fell over the Senate - the kind of silence that comes before lightning strikes. Verstappen stretched like a great cat, the motion making his toga gape open further along his thigh. He caught Leclerc's involuntary glance downward and smiled, slow and knowing, before continuing his verbal assault.

"How fortunate Rome is," Verstappen continued, his voice dropping to something dangerously intimate, "to have such a paragon of virtue gracing our halls." His gaze swept over Leclerc with deliberate insolence. "Tell me, Senator, do you rehearse these performances in front of your household mirror? I picture you practicing that particular tone — the one that manages to make 'Caesar' sound like an insult — until you've perfected it."

Leclerc didn't hesitate. "I find truth requires no rehearsal, Caesar. Though I'm touched by your interest in my daily habits." His expression remained perfectly composed, refusing to acknowledge Verstappen's hand sliding possessively along his bared thigh - though the sudden tension along his jawline spoke volumes. "As for mirrors, I find reflection of all kinds beneficial. Perhaps the imperial household might benefit from installing a few more?"

Oscar bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing aloud. No other senator would dare speak to the Emperor with such brazen disrespect, yet somehow Leclerc not only survived these encounters but seemed to thrive on them. What's more, Verstappen — who had once ordered a man flogged for coughing during an imperial address — appeared to be enjoying himself, if the predatory gleam in his eyes and the subtle shift in his scent were any indication.

"My household arrangements are more than adequate," Verstappen replied, voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "Perhaps you'd like a personal tour? I'd be delighted to show you exactly how... reflective I can be."

Oscar watched Daniel's eyebrows nearly disappear into his hairline. Three senators to their left made sudden, frantic notes on their tablets, pretending deafness with all the skill of men who had built political careers on strategic moments of selective hearing.

"Your generosity overwhelms, Caesar," Leclerc responded, his tone bone-dry. "But I fear such intimate knowledge of imperial quarters might compromise my objectivity when discussing fiscal allocations for palace maintenance."

Verstappen's lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile as he regarded Leclerc with something disturbingly close to tenderness. He actually leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees like an eager student, golden diadem tilting precariously as he stared at Leclerc with undisguised delight.

"Gods," he breathed, the words thick with something far more intoxicating than mere admiration, "you really never stop, do you?"

"Not when Rome's welfare is at stake," Leclerc replied smoothly, though Oscar noticed how his weight shifted forward slightly, like a tactician catching the scent of weakness in enemy ranks. "Speaking of which, perhaps we might return to the matter of grain distribution? Unless the Emperor finds Egyptian shipping lanes less engaging than personal jibes?"

"Oh, I find everything about your presentations engaging, Senator," Verstappen said, voice laden with meaning that had nothing to do with agricultural policy. He gestured lazily toward the speaking floor, making the gold lions on his armbands gleam. "By all means, continue enlightening us about these mysterious shipping delays."

Leclerc launched into a detailed explanation of Mediterranean shipping lanes and provincial storage facilities, his hands moving in elegant gestures that somehow managed to convey complex logistical concepts with remarkable clarity. Throughout his exposition, Verstappen watched him with unblinking intensity, occasionally interrupting with surprisingly insightful questions that suggested he was genuinely engaging with the proposal rather than merely performing his imperial role. His intense focus never wavered, though his fingers still tapped that uneven rhythm against the throne, betraying the restless energy that always simmered beneath the surface of his rigid control.

It was the most peculiar sight — the man who commanded legions with a single glance sat motionless but for that relentless tapping cadence, watching with the rapt wonder of a youth hearing his first love recite poetry — utterly captivated, hanging on every word, and loving every second of it.

Oscar found himself more fascinated by their interaction than by the content of the discussion. There was something almost intimate about the way they focused on each other, as though the crowded Senate chamber had narrowed to include only the two of them. Their verbal exchanges had the rhythm of a well-practiced duet — challenge and response, thrust and parry, each anticipating the other's moves with uncanny precision.

"If we redirected resources from the gladiatorial games," Leclerc was saying, his passion for the subject evident in the slight flush that had risen to his cheeks, "if we prioritized repairs to the Sicilian aqueducts, if we implemented the water conservation methods successfully employed in Hispania—"

"It's always if, if, if, right?" Emperor Verstappen interrupted, straightening on his throne with visible irritation. "If the Sicilians had better irrigation, if the summer rains had come, if the provincial governors were more competent." His voice carried the distinctive edge that experienced courtiers recognized as dangerous. "If my mum had balls, she would be my dad, my dearest Senator."

Ricciardo choked on his wine, shoulders shaking with barely suppressed laughter as he nudged Oscar's foot with his sandal — this was why he never missed Senate sessions.

Leclerc didn't so much as blink. "An interesting anatomical hypothesis, Caesar," he replied, his tone suggesting he was addressing a particularly disruptive symposium participant rather than the most powerful alpha in the known world. "Though perhaps we might leave theoretical testicles aside in favor of actual grain distribution?" His eyebrow arched with perfect condescension. "Unless, of course, you find ancestral anatomy more pressing than feeding Rome?"

Oscar watched as Verstappen's face flushed with what could only be described as delight - not the dangerous, glittering amusement of an emperor toying with his prey, but something far more disarming. His stern expression softened into something almost boyish, lips parting in unconscious wonder as he gazed at Leclerc with the rapt attention of a man utterly enchanted. For a fleeting moment, Divine August looked at the sharp-tongued senator not with predatory intent, but with something startlingly close to tenderness - as if Leclerc had hung the moon and stars simply by continuing to exist.

Oscar couldn't prevent the small snort of laughter that escaped him. He immediately tried to disguise it as a cough, but too late — Verstappen's predatory attention had already shifted his way.

"Commander Aquilinus seems amused by your observations, Senator," Verstappen remarked, his gaze fixing on Oscar with unsettling precision. "Perhaps he'd care to share his thoughts, given his... extensive experience managing resources in conquered territories." A slow, dangerous smile spread across the Emperor's face. "Speaking of which — how fares that Iberian acquisition of yours? Still keeping you up at night, or have you finally broken him to proper Roman obedience?"

The chamber's attention snapped to Oscar, who cursed internally. He had allowed precisely one flicker of amusement — a single, traitorous twitch of his lips — and Verstappen had seized upon it like a wolf upon the scent of blood. 

The Emperor's knack for finding and exploiting weaknesses was, Oscar reflected bitterly, as relentless as it was inconvenient.

Oscar rose with parade-ground precision, his bow calibrated to millimeter-perfect deference. "Caesar honors me with his interest," he began, his voice carrying the measured cadence that had served him well in both battlefields and political arenas, "though I fear my domestic affairs pale beside matters of state. Rest assured, my household maintains perfect discipline — without requiring imperial intervention."

Verstappen's smile only widened, revealing teeth that seemed unusually sharp in the afternoon light. "Come now, Commander. After personally selecting such a... spirited companion for you, surely I'm entitled to inquire after his adjustment to Roman life?" His fingers drummed an idle rhythm on the throne's armrest. "Does he still bite?"

The stifled laughter that rippled through the Senate carried an edge of nervous hysteria. Oscar felt the heat creeping up his neck but kept his expression neutral through decades of battlefield discipline. "Caesar has many concerns of state demanding attention," he replied, layering his words with just enough deference to mask the steel beneath. "I wouldn't dream of burdening you with the trivial domestic matters of a simple soldier. My affairs are well in hand — as are my methods for maintaining order."

Verstappen's grin turned positively indecent as he lounged back on his throne. "Oh, spare us the noble pretense, Aquilinus. We all know exactly how you 'break in' your Iberian stallion." His tongue darted over his lips. "Tell me — when you have him on his knees before you, does he still spit curses in that savage tongue? Or have you finally taught him to moan in Latin?"

The chamber erupted in crude jeers. Oscar felt white-hot rage flash through him at the image they conjured of Lando — proud, fierce, beautiful Lando — reduced to a common whore in their imaginations. His stomach twisted with something sick and heavy, a feeling that went beyond anger, beyond pride. It was something deeper, something that made his fingers tremble with the need to draw steel.

Lando, who even in captivity carried himself like royalty – his unbroken spirit evident in the defiant tilt of his chin, the unyielding pride in his gaze.

Lando, whose very posture spoke what his lips would not: You may own my body, but my soul remains unconquered.

Lando, whose rare, unguarded smiles — bright as dawn and just as fleeting — were given freely to stable boys and kitchen maids, to hounds and horses and even the occasional visiting dignitary.

Lando, whose smiles were never, ever meant for him.

And yet—

A dangerous stillness settled over Oscar, the kind that came before a killing strike. Their crude words painted Lando in vulgar strokes, reducing something wild and brilliant to mere flesh - as if his spirit could be contained by their filthy imaginings. As if the man who had challenged Rome itself was nothing more than a body to be used.

Oscar forced his breath to steady, his voice to remain calm, though every word burned like poison on his tongue.

"Rome teaches all men their place, Caesar," he said, his tone perfectly measured. "But some lessons require... patience."  He met Verstappen's gaze, letting the silence stretch just a heartbeat too long - some men are worth being patient with too.

Verstappen's smile remained perfectly in place, though his gaze took on the chilling stillness. "Careful, Aquilinus," he purred, that deceptively soft voice wrapping around Oscar like a vine. His eyes - those piercing, all-knowing eyes that seemed to strip men bare to their shameful cores - held Oscar pinned more effectively than any physical restraint. "Your pet’s bad habits appear to be contagious." He waved a dismissive hand, but the threat hung heavy in the air. "We’ll revisit this... attachment of yours another time."

His gaze shifted back to Leclerc, who had been watching this exchange with keen interest. "Senator, you will prepare a more detailed proposal on these irrigation matters, with specific costings and implementation timelines. Present it to my advisors tomorrow."

Leclerc bowed with perfect form, though Oscar detected the subtle tension in his shoulders that suggested surprise at this sudden capitulation. "As Caesar commands."

As the discussion moved on, Oscar exhaled slowly, his body still thrumming with barely leashed violence. The Senate's laughter echoed in his skull, and Verstappen's vulgar smirk burned behind his eyelids - but worse, far worse, was the memory that haunted him now:

Lando's face.

Oscar's fingers ached with the need to crush something. Because for all his authority, all his might, he couldn't stop this. Couldn't shield Lando from their filthy words, their degrading fantasies, their pathetic attempts to diminish something magnificent to their own sordid level.

"The Senate is dismissed," Verstappen announced, rising from his throne with unusual abruptness. "Senator Leclerc, you will attend me in my private study to begin preliminary discussions."

As the assembly dispersed in a flutter of togas and murmured speculation, Oscar found himself cornered by Ricciardo, whose expression blended amusement with admiration.

"That," Daniel said with a low whistle, "was either the most elaborate political negotiation I've ever witnessed or the most public courtship ritual in Roman history. Possibly both."

"Definitely both," Oscar replied, massaging his temples as if trying to erase the memory of the last hour. "And entirely exhausting to watch." 

"Yet oddly compelling," Ricciardo observed. "One wonders how their private meeting will unfold."

Oscar allowed himself a rare, wry smile. "I imagine with considerably less talk of grain shipments and considerably more direct communication."

"One can only hope," Ricciardo agreed. "For all our sakes. Ten denarii says they don't make it past the antechamber next time."

Oscar gave him a flat look. "I'm not taking that bet. Mainly because I value my dignity. And my life."

"Coward," Ricciardo sing-songed, just as the unmistakable sound of something expensive crashing to the floor echoed from the direction of the imperial study, followed by what might have been either a growl of anger or something else entirely.

Oscar decided right then that he was absolutely not getting paid enough for this.

"I'm leaving before someone expects me to testify about whatever that was," he announced, already halfway to the door.

Behind him, Ricciardo's delighted whisper carried: "Fifteen denarii if they break another priceless artifact!"

Oscar didn't dignify that with a response. He had a sudden, urgent need to be anywhere else. Britain sounded nice this time of year. Cold. Isolated. Gloriously far from whatever fresh disaster was unfolding in the Emperor's chambers.

***

The villa was suspiciously quiet when Oscar returned. None of the usual disruptions greeted him — no upset servants, no reports of broken items or refused meals. Even Zakary seemed relatively composed, though a certain tightness around his eyes suggested the day had not been entirely without incident.

"The Iberian?" Oscar asked, handing his formal Senate toga to a waiting slave.

"In his chambers since your departure, Domine," Zakary replied, a slight furrow between his brows betraying his unease. "Though he did spend a considerable amount of time interrogating the kitchen slaves about Roman customs regarding poisons and their antidotes. Purely academic interest, he claimed."

Oscar suppressed a sigh, his shoulders heavy with the weight of Senate politics and now this. "I'll be in my private bath," he informed Zakary, rolling tension from his neck. "No disturbances.” He paused, his gaze sharpening. "None."

***

His private bathhouse was a modest space compared to the grand public facilities that dotted Rome, but it offered what Oscar craved most after Senate sessions — solitude. A single rectangular pool of heated water formed the centerpiece, with alcoves carved into the walls holding oil lamps that cast a gentle, flickering light. The scent of cedar and cypress oils perfumed the humid air, mingling with the mineral tang of the heated water.

This was a place for shedding more than just dirt - here, Oscar could strip away the weight of senatorial pretense along with his sweat-dampened tunic.

Oscar dismissed the attending slave after ensuring the water temperature was suitable. As the door closed behind the servant, he released a deep sigh, allowing the tension of the day to begin unwinding from his shoulders. He removed his tunic with practiced movements, draping it carefully over a waiting stand before continuing with his undergarments until he stood unclothed in the warm, steam-filled room.

The first touch of hot water against his skin as he descended into the pool drew another sigh from him, this one of pure pleasure. He submerged himself fully before resurfacing to lean against the smooth marble edge, eyes closed as he focused on nothing but sensation — the heat penetrating tired muscles, the gentle lapping of water against stone, the distant sounds of the household filtered through thick walls.

Peace. Finally.

It lasted approximately seven minutes.

The soft sound of the door opening barely registered at first, dismissed as a slave returning to collect his discarded clothing. It was only when that unmistakable scent reached him — the one that lived in his dreams and haunted his waking hours — that Oscar's eyes snapped open.

Lando stood at the pool's edge, silhouetted against the lamplight, as casually as if he'd been invited.

"I heard the Senate was particularly tedious today," he observed, moving into the light with deliberate grace. "Something about grain taxes and imperial temper tantrums?"

Oscar straightened, water sluicing down his chest as he instinctively shifted to a more dignified posture. "The private bath is called such because it's private , Lando."

"Ah, yes. ‘Private’ — meaning yours alone," Lando mused, tilting his head with mocking precision. "How could I forget? Your ever-vigilant Zakary informed me of this particular Roman eccentricity. Along with approximately seventeen other rules I've apparently violated since sunrise." His fingers moved to the edge of his tunic, tracing the hem with casual deliberation, the motion drawing Oscar's eye despite his determination to maintain a composed facade. "Your steward maintains a remarkably comprehensive mental catalog of my transgressions."

Some boundaries, it seemed, existed solely for Lando to cross them.

"Perhaps if you stopped actively seeking new rules to break, Zakary would have less to catalog," Oscar replied, striving for a neutral tone despite the way his pulse had quickened. 

"But how else would I entertain myself in this prison of marble and privilege?" Lando countered, his expression caught between mockery and genuine frustration. "Should I spend my days learning proper omega comportment like your Roman pets? Practicing how to lower my eyes and simper prettily when alphas enter the room?"

In the bath's hazy light, Lando's eyes had darkened to the unfathomable shade of the Mediterranean during winter storms — depthless and dangerous. "Tell me, Commander," he continued, his voice dropping to a silken murmur that seemed to slide along Oscar's skin, "does Zakary earn his position through such obedience?

Oscar watched those wandering fingers with wary attention, heat coiling low in his belly that had nothing to do with the bath's temperature. "Zakary takes his responsibilities seriously."

"As do you," Lando replied, beginning to unfasten his tunic with unhurried precision. "The serious Commander. The disciplined alpha. The honorable Roman." Each phrase carried subtle mockery as more golden skin was revealed, inch by tantalizing inch. "Tell me, does it ever get tiring? Maintaining such rigid control every moment of every day?"

Oscar didn't flinch, though beneath the water's surface, his thighs tensed with the effort of remaining still. "Does it ever get tiring," he countered, "being so deliberately provocative?"

Lando's laugh was low and thick. "Oh, I don't know. You tell me." He took another step, close enough now that Oscar could see the water droplets beginning to form on his skin from the bath's humidity. One perfect drop traced a slow path down his throat to his collarbone, drawing Oscar's gaze like a magnet. "Is it working?"

The tunic slipped from his shoulders, pooling at his feet like shed skin. Beneath it, he wore only a light loincloth — the last barrier between modesty and complete exposure. The fabric clung to his hips, damp already from the humid air, outlining what it purported to conceal.

Oscar kept his expression carefully neutral through years of practiced discipline, though he couldn't prevent his pupils from dilating slightly at the sight before him. A familiar tension coiled through his muscles,  the same tension he felt before battle - that razor's edge moment when the first sword is drawn and all pretense of civility falls away.

"What exactly are you trying to accomplish?" Oscar asked, his voice rougher than intended.

"Bathing," Lando replied with exaggerated innocence that wouldn't have convinced a child. "Isn't that what these elaborate rooms are for? Or is there yet another Roman rule I've failed to comprehend?" He untied the loincloth with deliberate slowness, his fingers lingering on the knot as his eyes locked with Oscar's. "Your civilization is so full of arbitrary restrictions."

The final garment whispered against marble as it joined the discarded tunic. Completely nude now, Lando stepped into the pool without waiting for permission or invitation, descending the marble steps with a slow, sinuous elegance. Steam curled around his form as the water embraced him, lending him an almost otherworldly quality in the lamplight.

Oscar's mouth went dry.

The heat of the bath suddenly felt insignificant compared to the fire licking through his veins. Every movement Lando made was liquid grace — the way the water caressed the dip of his lower back as he turned, the play of lamplight along the curve of his shoulders, the unconscious roll of his hips that sent water sloshing against marble. There was nothing delicate about him - only raw, untamed energy barely contained within the boundaries of his form.

He was beautiful in a way that made Oscar's chest ache.

Not in the carefully cultivated way of Roman omegas - those gilded creatures who moved through society like living ornaments, their softness preserved by layers of scented oils and calculated indolence. No, Lando's beauty was that of a blade left too long in the sun - all sharp edges and dangerous heat. The kind that made fingers itch to touch even as instinct warned of burning.

His body defied every Roman ideal — shoulders broad enough to bear armor rather than jewels, a waist narrow enough to slip through enemy lines, thighs hardened by years astride warhorses instead of reclining on dining couches. Yet for all its warrior's strength, there was an unexpected elegance to him — the long, fluid lines of his legs, the delicate bones of his wrists that could wield a blade with lethal precision or trace the petals of a flower with equal grace. That tantalizing trail of dark hair leading downward drew Oscar's gaze despite his disciplined restraint, a path his fingers longed to follow to its inevitable conclusion.

Oscar exhaled sharply, his fingers digging into the marble bench hard enough to sting.

He had believed himself immune by now to the sight of Lando’s bare skin — after all, he’d seen it before: bloodied and half-conscious in his chambers after Tarraco, or just this morning when Lando without the slightest hesitation claimed the lily pool as his personal bath, slipping into its still waters as if they’d been built for him alone. As if modesty were a concept meant for other people.

Yet now, every detail felt perilously new. The way the humid air clung to the fine hairs on Lando’s arms. How his scent — that vivid, sun-warmed brightness — coiled in Oscar’s lungs with every breath. The flush blooming slowly from the hollow of his throat seemed to pulse in time with the erratic beat of Oscar’s own heart.

Lando settled onto the submerged bench opposite Oscar, tilting his head back until his throat formed a vulnerable arch above the water's surface. His eyes, when they opened again, held a challenge Oscar couldn't quite decipher.

"You're staring, Commander," Lando observed, his voice dipping lower as he reclined against the marble edge. The water lapped against his collarbones, creating tiny wavelets that glinted in the lamplight. "Does my form disappoint compared to your Roman omegas?"

Oscar kept his expression neutral, though it cost him dearly. "I wasn't aware I was conducting an assessment."

Lando laughed — quietly, with that infuriating ease that made it unclear whether he was entertained or simply bored. "Weren't you? Alphas are always assessing, categorizing, determining worth."

He slid marginally deeper into the water, letting it rise to his chin. Then, with a deliberate movement that sent small waves across the pool's surface, he pushed away from the edge and glided toward Oscar, the water parting around his body like liquid silk. He stopped just short of physical contact, so close now that Oscar could feel the displaced water from Lando's movements lapping against his chest, the currents creating a phantom caress between them.

"Mm. You know..."  he drawled, voice was pure indolence — the kind that seeped into muscles and made them ache."I'm getting tired of waiting, Commander." A droplet traced the curve of his collarbone as he sighed. "It's exhausting, really."

Oscar's eyebrow arched. "Waiting for what?"

"For you to stop pretending," Lando answered, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that somehow carried perfectly in the humid air. "For the disciplined commander to reveal his true nature."

Then, without warning, Lando moved.

Water surged as he closed the distance between them, settling onto Oscar’s lap with deliberate, unhurried grace. The sudden weight of him — the heat of his thighs bracketing Oscar’s, the press of his body — sent water sloshing over the edge of the bath, spilling onto the marble in glistening rivulets.

Oscar went utterly still, every muscle locked in rigid control. Lando’s skin was fever-warm against his, his body a living temptation — sleek with moisture, his pulse fluttering visibly at the base of his throat. Their faces were inches apart, close enough that Oscar could count the droplets clinging to Lando’s lashes.

"What do you think you're doing?" Oscar managed, though his hoarse voice betrayed him. His hands remained locked on the marble edge, knuckles white with the effort of restraint. Sweat beaded along his hairline, mingling with the steam as Lando shifted deliberately in his lap.

Lando tightened his knees around Oscar's thighs with predatory precision, the water between them offering no protection from the heat of skin-on-skin contact. His left knee dragged upward in a slow, devastating arc along the outer edge of Oscar's thigh, pulling their bodies closer still — as if the mere inch separating them was some unconquered territory demanding immediate subjugation.

"Testing a theory," Lando purred, warm breath caressing Oscar's cheek as he leaned in. "Seeing how long the noble Roman can maintain his famous self-control."

Oscar's body — his traitorous, wanting body — responded with brutal honesty. The hardening length of his dick pressed unmistakably against Lando's thigh, betraying his desire more eloquently than any confession could have. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out reason, his alpha instincts screaming to flip their positions, to pin Lando against the marble and take — to claim what was being so brazenly offered.

Yet he didn’t move.

Not because he lacked the desire — gods, it threatened to devour him whole — but because the desire wasn’t enough. 

"And what would proving this theory accomplish?" Oscar asked, managing to keep his voice steady despite the heat building in his core. "What victory would you claim if I behaved exactly as you expect?"

A shadow passed through Lando's eyes — there and gone in a heartbeat, like sunlight vanishing behind storm clouds. His lips curled in that familiar, razor-edged smile, but the usual venom in his voice rang hollow now. "It would prove Romans are as predictable as the tides," he said, fingers flexing against Oscar's shoulders. "That all your talk of civilization and discipline is just that — talk."

Oscar could feel every inch of Lando's skin where it met his own — the slick heat of his inner thighs bracketing Oscar's hips, the damp press of his chest as he leaned closer. Then the unbearable weight of him — those surprisingly soft curves of his hips working higher, the delicious friction of skin gliding over skin as he—

He knew exactly what he was doing.

"So tell me," Lando murmured, his lips brushing the sensitive skin below Oscar's ear, "Why resist?" His hips nudged, slow and insistent, drawing an involuntary shudder from Oscar’s core. "Why deny what we both know is inevitable?" He tipped his head back, exposing the column of his throat in blatant invitation, his pulse fluttering wildly beneath golden skin. "Don't you want to hear me beg for your knot?"

Oscar's fingers dug into the cool marble, his entire body taut with restraint. Lando's scent enveloped him - golden honey dripping from the comb, sun-warmed figs splitting open at their seams, the drowsy heat of summer afternoons when the air itself seems to hum. It clung to his senses, this intoxicating fragrance that had seeped into his dreams night after night, leaving him restless at dawn with sheets tangled around his waist and the ghost of that sweetness still teasing his nostrils.

It would be so easy.

To pull him closer. To finally learn if his skin tasted as sweet as it smelled. To wring those breathless, broken sounds from his lips, to feel the way his body would tremble when pleasure overtook infuriating pride.

Oscar prayed to every god he'd ever sworn by — Jupiter's thunder, Mars' wrath, even Venus' cursed mercy — to keep himself still. His fingers stayed anchored to the marble bench, his body rigid with restraint even as his blood burned like molten bronze in his veins. The only movement was the rapid rise and fall of his chest, each breath stirring the steam that curled between their nearly touching lips.

"You're wasting your time," Oscar managed, his voice thick with barely-leashed desire. "This performance won't give you what you truly want."

Lando's smirk was razor-sharp as he rolled his hips once more against Oscar’s lap. "Isn't it?" His fingers traced the rigid line of Oscar's jaw. "Your body tells a different story, Commander."

Oscar caught his wrist — not with force, but with devastating precision. Beneath his fingers, Lando's pulse fluttered like a dying bird's wings.The rhythm betrayed Lando completely — not the steady thrum of arousal, but the stuttering cadence of a soldier awaiting execution.

Every frantic beat screamed what his sharp tongue would never admit:

I expect pain.
I know how this ends.
Do it quickly.

The truth shone in the sweat-slick hollow of Lando's throat. In the minute tremor of his lower lip. In the way his body screamed silent pleas:

Take me.
Prove me right.
Be the monster I know you are.

Let me finally stop hoping for something better.

Oscar's thumb stroked the blue-veined vulnerability of Lando's inner wrist, "Bodies react," he murmured, watching how Lando's pupils dilated at the low timbre of his voice.  Each slow circle of his thumb drew another fractured breath from Lando's lips - tiny, vulnerable sounds that resonated through Oscar's fingertips like plucked harp strings.

Then he pressed Lando's palm flat against his chest, letting him feel the thunderous war drum beneath.  "But we choose what we do with those reactions." 

Lando stilled, his breath hitching slightly, though his lips remained parted in defiance. He leaned in, close enough that Oscar could feel the warmth of his exhale against his mouth.

"Such noble sentiments," Lando challenged, but the words lacked their usual bite, cracking at the edges like thin ice over turbulent waters. His body trembled faintly where they connected, betraying him far more effectively than any confession could. "I wonder how long they'd last if I did this..." 

His hips rolled in a sinuous motion that drew a strangled sound from deep in Oscar's throat — half-growl, half-groan, the sound of control fracturing along hairline fissures. The omega's eyes widened slightly at the response, a mixture of triumph and uncertainty flickering across his features.

Oscar exhaled through clenched teeth, the scent of Lando's skin filling his lungs. "Enough.”

"Don't pretend you don't want it," Lando challenged, but his voice wavered. "I can feel how badly you do."

"Want and take are different concepts," Oscar replied. The water lapped gently between them, creating tiny currents that whispered against sensitized skin. "One I've learned to master, the other I refuse to do."

Lando's bravado faltered, confusion washing across his features. "You're... refusing me?"

Oscar reached up, cupping Lando’s jaw with surprising tenderness. "I’m respecting you," he corrected softly. "Even if you refuse to respect yourself."

Lando flinched slightly at the words, as though they'd struck a nerve. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, a defensive note entering his voice even as he remained conscious of Oscar's gentle touch against his face.

"It means that you're worth more than being used as a tool for your own self-fulfilling prophecies," Oscar replied, his voice gentle but firm. "You expect me to be a monster, so you provoke me into becoming one. What satisfaction is there in that?"

Lando's lips parted, words failing him momentarily as confusion and something like wonder crossed his features. His lashes fluttered against his cheeks as he processed Oscar's unexpected gentleness and the truth in his words.

Then Oscar moved, closing the last whisper of distance between them. Water rippled as he shifted, ensuring Lando couldn't ignore the hard evidence of his arousal pressing insistently between them.

"Restraint," Oscar murmured, “is not the absence of desire, Lando." His hips rolled up once, deliberate, wringing a gasp from Lando's lips. "It's the mastery of it."

Lando's pupils dilated until only a sliver of ocean-blue remained, like the last visible ribbon of sea before a storm swallows the horizon. The ripples radiating outward mirrored the shockwaves traveling through his carefully constructed defenses.

"I want you."

Oscar’s voice was raw — stripped bare in a way that would have shocked him mere moments ago. His hands moved beneath the water with a will of their own, finding the sharp curve of Lando's hips. The contrast startled him - how smooth the skin felt under his battle-roughened palms, how perfectly his thumbs fit in the hollows above Lando's thighs.

He could feel Lando breathing - each quick, shallow inhale pressing against his thumbs.

"More than I should," he rasped. His mouth was dry. "More than is wise."

And there it was — that strange, twisting ache blooming behind his ribs.

Not lust — he’d known lust. Not guilt — though it curled at the edges.

But something older, deeper. Something quiet and starving.

It lived in the space between Lando's parted lips, in the way his lashes cast broken shadows across his cheeks in the lamplight. It pulsed in the quiet, terrible understanding that this — them — could never be simple.

The water rippled gently as Lando shivered. For once, no clever quip rose to his lips. His breath hitched — not in triumph, not in mockery, but in something that looked almost like recognition.

As if he felt it too.

That terrifying, nameless thing.

Oscar swallowed hard.

"But not like this." The words cost him more than Lando would ever know.

Lando felt weightless in his hands — fragile in a way that made Oscar's chest tighten. The water dripped from their bodies as he lifted him with reverence, as though Lando might splinter under careless touch. 

His fingers lingered at Lando's waist a heartbeat too long, his palms cradling the delicate curve of hipbones as if memorizing their shape. The warmth of Lando's skin seemed to brand itself into his hands even as he let go.

Oscar rose, water cascading down his skin, the cool air hitting his heated flesh as he stepped out of the bath. He didn't look back — not at the way Lando's hands hovered in the empty space between them, not at the unspoken tension in his parted lips.

"So that's it?" Lando's voice was almost unrecognizable — raw and small, missing its usual sharp edges. "You walk away and pretend this never happened? How convenient for your precious honor."

For one treacherous heartbeat, he almost turned. Almost gave in to the pull — to gather that trembling form against his chest, bury his face in the curve where neck meets shoulder and say something soft, something doomed.

Instead, Oscar reached for a linen cloth, drying himself with methodical precision before wrapping it around his waist. The thin, damp fabric did nothing to hide his obvious erection, but he didn't bother trying to adjust it. His body's reaction was what it was - no point pretending otherwise after everything that had just happened. 

Let him see, Oscar thought bitterly. Let him look his fill.

"Continue your campaign to prove me a monster if you must," Oscar said quietly but firmly as he prepared to leave. His voice carried neither anger nor resentment — just weary resignation. "Break more vases. Refuse more meals. Bathe in every fountain on the property. I will continue to replace the vases, provide alternative food, and perhaps invest in more private fountains." 

Behind him, the water stirred. A quiet splash, then the soft, liquid sound of a body shifting position. Oscar didn't need to turn to know how Lando would look - the way the steam would curl around his bare shoulders, how droplets would cling to his collarbones before tracing slow, glistening paths down his chest. The image burned behind Oscar's eyelids, vivid and unwelcome.

"When I next go into heat," Lando called after him, his voice trembling in that particular way that made Oscar's teeth grind together, "we'll discover the truth of your restraint, Commander." A droplet splashed - Oscar could picture it running down Lando's throat, that vulnerable hollow where an alpha's teeth might- He cut the thought viciously. "Of your pretty words about choice and agency." 

Oscar's jaw clenched hard enough to hurt. Heat bloomed low in his gut as unwanted images flooded his mind - Lando's body arched toward him, sweat-slick and pliant, that sharp tongue finally silenced by pleasure. His alpha instincts snarled to turn back and show him exactly how thin his precious restraint truly was.

It was the cruelest kind of thirst — to cup water in his palms and let it slip through his fingers.

"Until then," Lando continued, voice carrying across the water with unexpected vulnerability, "tell yourself whatever helps you sleep at night. That you're different from other alphas. That your restraint makes you noble." Lando's voice dropped to a whisper that nonetheless echoed through Oscar's bones, "And I'll keep telling myself that when the moment of truth arrives, you'll be just like all the rest — so I won't be disappointed when you are."

Oscar's breath came ragged through clenched teeth. He focused on the pain in his palms,  the way his damp skin prickled in the air, the cool marble beneath his feet — anything to keep from turning around.

A single step forward. The marble floor felt like ice beneath his bare feet, a stark contrast to the fever burning beneath his skin. Then another. Each movement required monumental effort, as if the humid air had turned to syrup, resisting his retreat. The door stood ahead, a promise of escape, of silence — of solitude where he could finally fucking breathe without Lando’s presence wrapping around him like a noose.

He didn't look back.

Alone in the empty corridor, Oscar finally allowed himself to collapse against the wall, his legs giving way beneath him. His forehead pressed against the cool stone as his body shook with silent, shuddering breaths that brought no relief.

Somewhere behind him, in that steam-choked bathhouse, Lando was rising from the water. Droplets would be tracing the paths Oscar's teeth should have marked. His mouth should have traveled. His hands should have claimed.

A ragged, broken sound tore from Oscar's throat — something raw and wounded that no commander should ever utter. 

How pathetic he was.

He'd marched through fields of corpses without flinching. Endured torture that made hardened soldiers beg for death. Yet here he stood - unmade by nothing more than a scent, a memory, the phantom sensation of heated skin beneath his palms.

Oscar's body betrayed him with every step. His muscles, trained for decades to obey, now trembled like a youth's first battle.The night air should have cooled him, but instead, he remained enveloped in Lando’s lingering scent  —  one that made his mouth water like a starving man’s.

His legs moved without command — carrying him into the garden like a deserter fleeing a losing battle.

Moonlight painted the colonnades silver, the night suddenly too bright, too sharp. His knees struck stone as he collapsed beside the fountain, his reflection staring back — a stranger with wild eyes and bared teeth.

Oscar stared into the fountain's dark waters, his reflection fragmenting with each ripple. It was the desire itself that would destroy him — this relentless, all-consuming hunger that clawed at his insides, that made his skin too tight for his body. The wanting. The needing. The impossibility of having.

This torment was worse than any battlefield wound, more cruel than the torturer's blade. At least against physical pain he could fight back, could grit his teeth and endure. But against the relentless ache Lando inspired?

His fist struck the water's surface, shattering his reflection. The ripples revealed his fate more clearly than any oracle's prophecy — he wouldn't meet his end on some glorious battlefield, wouldn't fall defending Rome with gladius raised high. No, his undoing would be the insatiable yearning that now consumed him from within, the desperate craving for what remained forever out of reach.

It would find him in the dead of night when his traitorous hands ached to touch what they shouldn't, when his body trembled with needs no honorable alpha should entertain, when the memory of golden skin and honeyed laughter tormented him more fiercely than any enemy's blade ever could. 

The irony might have been laughable — if it didn’t ache so bitterly. He who had conquered provinces, who had made kings kneel before the eagle standards of Rome, now found himself conquered by an omega who hadn't even tried. His downfall would come not from possessing Lando, but from the exquisite torment of never having him — from the endless nights spent imagining what could never be his, from the phantom touch of skin he would never feel, from the echoes of pleasure he would never know.

This was how empires fell. Not through siege or betrayal. But because one irreverent, impossible omega had slipped past every defense — not with violence but with existence itself. Simply by being who he was — stubborn and clever and utterly, devastatingly alive in ways Oscar had forgotten men could be.

The thirst itself would be his executioner.

Oscar exhaled, slow and shattered. Let the empire fall. Let the world burn. He was already on his knees. And Lando hadn't even asked.