The amphitheater buzzed with anticipation before the first trumpet blast — whispers of poisoned daggers and Sarmatian customs curling through the stands like smoke. Manlius rolled his shoulders, the fresh bite marks on his collarbones stinging beneath his tunic. Hadrian's scent still clung to his skin despite the pre-fight oiling.
Across the sand, the Sarmatian warrior stretched naked save for the blue woad spirals painted across her thighs. Her eyes — pale as winter sky — locked onto Manlius the moment he stepped into the arena. She smirked, running a dagger-tongue along her lower lip in deliberate mimicry of Hadrian's gesture yesterday.
The emperor himself lounged atop the podium, one sandal dangling precariously off his foot. His fingers drummed against the armrest — impatient, possessive. The moment the horn sounded, the Sarmatian lunged with a speed that drew gasps from the crowd. Her curved blade flashed green in the sunlight — poisoned, just like the Numidian's.
Manlius barely dodged, feeling the whisper of steel graze his ribs. She laughed, low and throaty, as she spun away. "Your emperor tastes like honey and hubris," she taunted in guttural Latin. Her knee came up sharp — not aiming for his groin, but the fresh bruises Hadrian's teeth had left on his inner thigh.
The crowd roared as Manlius twisted, catching her braid to yank her head back. "He moans prettier than you," he growled before slamming his forehead into her nose. Cartilage crunched — blood sprayed across his chest like war paint.
She staggered, laughing through the crimson stream. "Good." Her dagger flicked out — not to stab, but to slice the ties of his subligaculum. The linen pooled at his feet. The mob screamed approval.
Hadrian's knuckles whitened on the podium edge.
The Sarmatian lunged again, her thighs clamping around Manlius's waist as they crashed into the sand. Her teeth found his shoulder — not to bite, but to suck a bruise over Hadrian's mark. "Let him watch," she panted against his skin, "while I take what's his."
Manlius flipped them with a snarl. Her dagger skittered away. He pinned her wrists, her breasts heaving against his chest. Her grin was all challenge. "Do it," she goaded, arching up. "Fuck me like you fucked him."
The crowd held its breath.
Hadrian stood.
Manlius headbutted her again, knocking her unconscious mid-laugh. As the guards dragged her away, he looked up at the podium and spat blood onto the sand.
Hadrian's smile could have carved marble.
The emperor descended the podium steps with unhurried grace, his purple-edged toga whispering against sand still damp with the Sarmatian's blood. Fifty thousand voices hushed as he paused beside Manlius, his gaze traveling down the gladiator's naked form with deliberate leisure.
"Disappointing," Hadrian murmured, plucking the poisoned dagger from the sand. He traced its curved edge along Manlius's abdomen, leaving a hairline scratch that burned instantly. "I expected more of a show."
Manlius caught his wrist, feeling the emperor's pulse jump beneath his fingers. "You want a show?" He jerked Hadrian forward until their chests touched, ignoring the gasps from the senators' boxes. "Give me a sword."
Hadrian's nostrils flared. For three heartbeats, the only sound was the Sarmatian's ragged breathing as she stirred nearby. Then the emperor snapped his fingers.
A Praetorian flung a gladius into the sand. Manlius didn't release Hadrian to retrieve it.
The emperor laughed — low, private, the sound they'd shared tangled in sweat-soaked sheets. He stepped back, gesturing to the stirring warrior. "Finish it properly."
Manlius snatched up the sword just as the Sarmatian lunged, her teeth bared in a bloody grin. Their blades met with a shriek of metal. This time, Manlius didn't hold back.
When it was over, he stood panting over her twitching corpse, his new wounds weeping venom-bright blood. Hadrian's shadow fell across them both.
"Good," the emperor purred, pressing sandaled foot to the dead woman's throat in symbolic finality. His hand slid possessively down Manlius's spine, lingering on the fresh bite marks. Then louder, for the crowd: "Rome rewards valor!"
The mob erupted as Hadrian seized Manlius's jaw, kissing him deeply enough to draw blood from his split lip. Cheers turned to shocked laughter when the emperor broke away, licking red from his lips.
"Tonight," Hadrian murmured against his mouth, "you'll earn that reward properly." His thumb smeared Manlius's blood across both their lips. "On the Senate floor."
The gasps this time came from the patrician seats. Manlius grinned, tasting iron and empire.
"As you command, Dominus."
Hadrian's sandal pressed down on the Sarmatian's still-warm throat — one last insult to her corpse — as Manlius wiped his blade clean on her braid. The crowd's cheers dissolved into murmurs when the emperor gestured for silence.
"You'll need this." Hadrian unfastened his own purple cloak — a scandalous violation of sumptuary laws — and draped it around Manlius's shoulders. The wool smelled of saffron and imperial sweat. Senators recoiled as the fabric brushed bloodstained sand.
The Egyptian slave reappeared, her kohl-lined eyes wide. She bowed low, presenting Manlius with a silver flask. "For the poison," she whispered.
Manlius drank without hesitation. The liquid burned like swallowed fire. His vision swam — not from venom, but the raw power of Hadrian's smirk. The emperor's fingers lingered on his wrist, counting pulsebeats.
"Still alive?" Hadrian's breath ghosted over the scratch his dagger had left.
Manlius caught his hip, pulling him flush against his own blood-smeared chest. "Disappointed?"
The Praetorians stiffened. The crowd held its breath.
Hadrian threw back his head and laughed — the same reckless sound that had echoed through the throne room hours before. "Bring him to the Curia at midnight," he ordered the guards. Then, softer: "Wear my marks where they can see."
Manlius's grip tightened. He knew the game now — every provocation, every calculated risk. The scratches burned. The bites throbbed. Hadrian's taste lingered copper-sharp on his tongue.
The emperor stepped back, his sandals leaving crimson prints on marble steps. "Oh," he added casually, "and Manlius? The cloak stays on during the ritual."
The gladiator grinned as the poison's heat spread through his veins. "What ritual?"
Hadrian's smile turned sacrilegious. He reached into the folds of Manlius's borrowed cloak, fingers brushing bare hip. "The one where I fuck you on the Consul's chair." His whisper carried to the front rows. "While they watch."
A senator fainted.
Manlius licked blood from his teeth. "I thought you'd never ask."
Hadrian's parting glance was equal parts promise and threat as Praetorians escorted Manlius away — their hands conspicuously avoiding the imperial wool draped over his shoulders. The cloak's weight was nothing compared to the emperor's gaze burning into his back.
Manlius flexed his aching hands. Midnight couldn't come soon enough.
The physician's chamber stank of vinegar and crushed herbs, the antidote still bitter on his tongue. Slaves scrubbed Sarmatian blood from between his fingers with stiff-bristled brushes, their eyes averted from the purple cloak pooling at his feet. One dared touch it — just a fingertip brushing the embroidered hem — before recoiling as if burned.
A shadow filled the doorway. Not Hadrian's lean silhouette, but the broad bulk of Cassius, his gladius still crusted with arena sand. The old gladiator's gaze dropped to the cloak. "Fool boy," he muttered, tossing Manlius a fresh subligaculum. "That's not a gift. It's a noose."
Manlius caught the linen with his teeth, grinning around the fabric. "Then tighten it."
Cassius spat into the brazier, making the coals hiss. "Hadrian's last favorite was found floating in the Tiber with his cock stuffed down his throat." He leaned closer, voice dropping. "And he wasn't half as bold as you."
Beyond the barred window, torches flickered along the palace ramparts. Manlius stretched, letting the firelight play across the fresh whip marks striping his back — Hadrian's parting gift yesterday. "It's a good thing I can swim."
A trumpet blast echoed from the Forum. The slaves froze. Cassius's hand flew to his sword. "Praetorians."
Manlius didn't bother with the subligaculum. He scooped up the cloak, still damp with Sarmatian blood, and draped it over his shoulders like a challenge. The wool clung to his sweat-slicked skin, heavy with the weight of empire.
Outside, six guards stood rigid. Their captain's gaze flickered from the cloak to Manlius's bare thighs. "The Curia awaits," he choked out, staring fixedly at the ceiling.
Manlius strode past them, the cloak whispering against his calves. The night air reeked of incense and impending rain. Torch flames bent toward him as he passed, drawn to the heat still radiating from his poisoned blood.
At the Senate steps, a familiar silhouette lounged against a broken column — Hadrian, picking idly at a grape bunch. His eyes gleamed when Manlius mounted the stairs, trailing purple wool and defiance. "Late again," he chided, popping a grape between sharp teeth.
Manlius caught his wrist, licking juice from the emperor's fingertips. "You like making me wait."
Hadrian's laugh curled like smoke in the humid air. He pressed a sandaled foot to Manlius's chest, feeling the heartbeat beneath. "I like watching you squirm." His toes trailed downward, hooking in the cloak's folds. "Shall we scandalize Rome?"
The Curia doors groaned open, revealing a semicircle of wide-eyed senators. Manlius bared his teeth. "After you, Dominus."
Hadrian's grin turned feral as he pulled Manlius forward by the cloak's edge — straight into the belly of the beast.
The Curia's marble floor chilled Manlius's bare feet after the arena's furnace heat. Senators recoiled from their path like frightened pigeons, togas whispering against each other in scandalized hush. One graybeard clutched his chest, wheezing as Hadrian kicked aside a scroll-strewn bench to clear space beneath Pompey's bronze statue.
"Here," the emperor declared, fingers trailing down Manlius's poisoned scratches. His voice dripped sacrilege. "Where Caesar bled."
A young quaestor vomited into his hands.
Manlius laughed, shaking blood from his braids onto the mosaic of Romulus. He felt fifty pairs of eyes tracing the fresh whip marks crisscrossing his back — Hadrian's handiwork from their last encounter. The cloak slipped off one shoulder deliberately, revealing the emperor's teeth marks purpling his collarbone.
Hadrian snapped his fingers without looking. Praetorians dragged forward the Consul's ivory chair, its legs screeching against stone. The emperor perched on its armrest, one sandal dangling, and crooked a finger.
Manlius dropped to his knees between Hadrian's spread thighs, ignoring the collective gasp. Up close, he could see the emperor's pulse fluttering beneath wine-stained lips, the pupils blown wide with illicit thrill.
"Show them," Hadrian murmured, hand fisting in Manlius's hair, "what happens to Rome's favorites."
Outside, lightning split the sky. Thunder drowned out the first wet sounds of Manlius's mouth on him. A tribune fainted directly onto the lap of a Vestal Virgin.
Hadrian threw his head back against Pompey's chiseled abs, fingers tightening to the point of pain. "Louder," he demanded, hips jerking. His free hand gestured mockingly at the horrified Senate. "They can't hear you over their own hypocrisy."
Manlius obeyed — with enthusiasm.
The storm broke as Hadrian did, his cry echoing off the Curia's vaulted ceiling like a god's decree. Manlius swallowed every drop, then licked his lips with deliberate obscenity. Senators scrambled over benches to escape.
Hadrian's laughter rang above the chaos as he dragged Manlius upright by the braids. Their kiss tasted of copper and conquest. "Now," he breathed against bitten lips, "let's give them something truly worth writing about."
The first slap of skin against skin coincided with a thunderclap that shook the building. Somewhere, a priest wailed about omens.
Manlius decided he quite liked politics.
Hadrian’s thighs trembled beneath him, the Consul’s chair groaning with every thrust as senators fled or froze in horrified fascination. Rain lashed the high windows, turning the marble floor slick beneath Manlius’s knees. He braced one hand against Pompey’s bronze foot for leverage, the other gripping Hadrian’s hip hard enough to bruise.
"Look at them," Hadrian gasped, nails scoring down Manlius’s back. Blood welled in the fresh scratches, mingling with sweat and rain dripping from their hair. "Watching their emperor get fucked by a slave."
Manlius twisted his hips sharply, drawing a choked moan from Hadrian that echoed off the vaulted ceiling. A scroll dropped from some senator’s nerveless fingers, unfurling across the floor like a surrender flag. The gladiator bared his teeth. "Say it again."
Hadrian’s heel dug into the small of his back. "Slave," he repeated, breathless. His toga pooled around his waist, the purple edge dragging through a puddle of wine and rainwater. "My slave."
Lightning flashed, illuminating the tableau — Manlius’s blood-streaked back, Hadrian’s arched throat, the dozen remaining senators pressed against the walls like frightened fresco figures. Thunder drowned out the wet slap of flesh as Manlius drove into him harder, the chair legs screeching across stone.
Hadrian came first, his spine bowing so violently the bronze statue shuddered. His sperm painted stripes across Manlius’s abdomen, hot as branding irons. Manlius followed, biting down on the emperor’s shoulder to muffle his roar — marking him as thoroughly as he’d been marked himself.
For three breaths, there was only the sound of rain and ragged breathing. Then Hadrian laughed, low and wrecked, his fingers still tangled in Manlius’s braids. "Well," he murmured, thumb wiping semen from the gladiator’s lip, "that should give them something to debate tomorrow."
Manlius licked the emperor’s fingertips, tasting salt and power. Outside, the storm raged on.
Hadrian’s smile was all teeth as he pulled Manlius down for a kiss that tasted of blood and victory. "Again," he demanded against his mouth.
And Manlius, ever the obedient gladiator, obliged.
The Curia’s incense-choked air clung thick as a burial shroud, mingling with the scent of sweat and spilled wine. Senators who hadn’t fled now watched, slack-jawed, as Hadrian twisted in Manlius’s grasp — not to escape, but to press himself flush against the gladiator’s chest. The emperor’s fingers, still sticky with their mingled release, traced the fresh welts on Manlius’s shoulders. "You fight like a beast," Hadrian murmured, breath hot against his throat. "But you fuck like a god."
Manlius snorted, rolling his hips in a slow, deliberate circle that drew a shudder from them both. "Same thing in Rome." The chair groaned beneath them, its ivory inlays cracking under their combined weight. Someone in the shadows retched.
Hadrian’s laugh was breathless, his thighs tightening around Manlius’s waist. "Then prove it," he challenged, arching back until his spine pressed against Pompey’s cold bronze shin. "Let them see their emperor undone."
The storm outside reached a crescendo as Manlius obeyed, his hands rough on Hadrian’s hips, his pace punishing. Rain lashed through the high windows, soaking their hair, their skin, the purple cloak pooled beneath them like a discarded banner. Hadrian’s moans rose above the thunder, raw and unfiltered — no carefully crafted Senate speeches now, just the ragged truth of pleasure.
When it was over, Hadrian slumped forward, his forehead resting against Manlius’s collarbone. His breath came in uneven bursts, his fingers trembling where they gripped the gladiator’s arms. "Again," he demanded, voice hoarse, but Manlius could feel the exhaustion in his limbs, the way his muscles quivered with each movement.
Manlius smirked, pressing a kiss to the emperor’s sweat-damp temple. "Tomorrow," he promised, echoing Hadrian’s own taunt from the arena. He stood, lifting Hadrian with him as though he weighed nothing, the emperor’s legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. The remaining senators recoiled as Manlius carried their ruler past, his bare feet leaving bloody prints on the rain-slicked marble.
Hadrian’s chuckle was dark with promise as he nuzzled into Manlius’s neck. "Until dawn, then." His teeth found the gladiator’s pulse point, biting down just hard enough to sting. "And Manlius? Wear the cloak home."
Outside, the first hints of morning painted the sky the color of a fresh bruise.
Manlius carried Hadrian through the palace’s back corridors, the emperor’s thighs still tight around him, his skin fever-hot against the cloak’s damp wool. The guards pretended not to see, their spears clattering against marble as they snapped to attention, then swiftly away.
Hadrian’s teeth grazed Manlius’s earlobe. “Think they’ll write songs about this?” His voice was a sleepy, sated purr.
Manlius kicked open the bedchamber door with his heel. “They’ll write lies.” He tossed Hadrian onto the rumpled sheets, watching the emperor’s limbs sprawl with feline laziness. “Truth’s too messy for poets.”
Hadrian laughed, rolling onto his stomach to watch Manlius strip the cloak away. “And what truth would that be?”
Manlius knelt on the bed, gripping Hadrian’s ankle to drag him closer. The emperor’s skin was still flushed from the Curia, from the storm, from him. “That you beg prettier than any whore in the Subura.”
Hadrian’s answering kick was half-hearted. His toes curled instead into the sheets as Manlius’s mouth found the sensitive hollow behind his knee. “Tomorrow,” he gasped, arching, “we negotiate peace with Parthia.”
Manlius bit down. “Do they know they’re getting fucked?”
Hadrian’s laughter dissolved into a moan. The first rays of dawn spilled across the bed, gilding sweat-slicked skin, tangled limbs, the cloak crumpled on the floor like a fallen standard. Somewhere beyond the palace walls, Rome stirred awake — unaware its emperor was still gasping, still yielding, still whispering filth against a gladiator’s bloodstained lips.
The poets would lie. And Manlius, ever obedient, ensured his emperor didn’t sleep until noon.
Hadrian’s wrists bore fresh rope burns from where Manlius had pinned them to the headboard with his own purple sash. His thighs still trembled from the gladiator’s thoroughness, his voice reduced to a rasping whisper. "Enough," he croaked, though his hips lifted instinctively when Manlius’s teeth grazed his inner thigh.
Manlius licked the salt from Hadrian’s knee. "Liar." He bit down where the emperor’s skin was softest, relishing the choked gasp it earned. Dawn light painted the bruises blooming across Hadrian’s hips — dark as the wine stains on the Senate floor.
A knock shattered the stillness. Hadrian groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. "If it’s another envoy, feed them to the lions."
Manlius rose, stretching lazily as the door creaked open. The Egyptian slave stood frozen, her gaze darting from the emperor’s ravaged form to the gladiator’s unabashed nudity. "The — the Sarmatian delegation," she stammered. "They demand —"
Hadrian flung a goblet at the wall. Wine dripped like blood down the frescoed nymphs. "Demand?" His laugh was raw. "Tell them Rome’s answer is carved into their champion’s ribs."
The slave fled. Manlius caught Hadrian’s ankle before he could retreat beneath the sheets. "Running, Dominus?" His thumb pressed into the delicate bones, feeling the flutter of pulse beneath skin.
Hadrian’s answering smile was all sharp edges. He yanked Manlius forward by the braids, their mouths meeting in a clash of teeth and dominance. "Never." His nails scored down Manlius’s back, reopening half-healed wounds. "I’ll have you again before the Senate convenes."
Somewhere beyond the palace, trumpets blared. Manlius chuckled against Hadrian’s throat. "You’ll limp through the Parthian negotiations."
Hadrian arched, his cock stirring against Manlius’s abdomen. "Good." He tangled his fingers in the gladiator’s sweat-stiffened hair. "Let them see what happens to those who oppose Rome."
Manlius sheathed himself in one smooth thrust. Hadrian’s scream drowned out the trumpets, the poets, the lies yet to be written.
And outside, the empire waited.
The sun climbed higher over the Senate’s rain-slicked steps, washing away the night’s indiscretions with relentless light. Inside Hadrian’s chamber, Manlius braced his forearm against the headboard, watching sweat bead along the emperor’s collarbone before dripping into the hollow of his throat. Hadrian’s fingers twisted in the sheets — not in protest, but in silent demand for more.
A second knock came, sharper this time. Cassius’s graveled voice cut through the door. “The Parthians are early.”
Hadrian laughed, breathless, hips rolling upward. “Let them smell the blood on the air.” His heel dug into Manlius’s flank, urging him deeper.
Manlius obliged, gripping Hadrian’s jaw to turn his face toward the window. “Look,” he growled. Beyond the stained glass, shadows of foreign delegates shifted impatiently in the courtyard. “They’ll hear you.”
Hadrian’s moan was deliberate, loud enough to carry. His spine arched off the mattress as Manlius’s teeth found his pulse. “Let them.”
The third knock went unanswered. Outside, a Parthian envoy’s disgusted mutter floated through the cracks — something about Roman savagery.
Hadrian came with a bitten-off curse, his thighs clamping around Manlius’s waist like a vise. The gladiator followed, muffling his roar against the emperor’s shoulder where the Sarmatian’s scent had lingered.
Silence.
Then — slowly — Hadrian’s fingers unclenched from the sheets. He traced the fresh teeth marks on Manlius’s forearm with something perilously close to tenderness. “Fetch my ceremonial armor,” he ordered the silent air.
Manlius rolled off him, stretching like a sated predator. “The one with the gold pauldrons?”
Hadrian smirked. “The one that shows your handiwork.” He gestured to the bruises peeking above his clavicle. “Let the Parthians count every fingerprint.”
Beyond the door, Cassius cleared his throat. “The delegation grows … restless.”
Hadrian rose, wincing only slightly as his feet hit the marble. He caught Manlius’s wrist before the gladiator could dress. “You’ll stand at my right hand today,” he murmured, thumb brushing the callouses from sword and whip alike. “Let them see what Rome rewards.”
Manlius grinned, licking the last trace of Hadrian from his lips. “And tonight?”
Hadrian’s sandal pressed down on the discarded purple cloak as he reached for his armor. “Tonight, gladiator, we break the Parthians.”
Hadrian adjusted his ceremonial breastplate with deliberate precision, the gold pauldrons catching the light as they framed the fresh bruises Manlius had left on his shoulders. Cassius's eyes flickered over the marks before snapping away, his throat working silently.
The Parthian delegation recoiled when Manlius emerged behind Hadrian, still shirtless, still bearing the emperor's bite marks like trophies. Their leader — a hawk-nosed man draped in silk — inhaled sharply at the sight of the gladiator's whip-scarred knuckles resting possessively on Hadrian's armored waist.
"Rome's answer," Hadrian announced, tilting his head to expose the darkening love bites along his throat, "is carved into my skin." He smiled as the Parthian's gaze darted between Manlius's lingering grip and the fresh blood crusted beneath his fingernails. "Shall we negotiate?"
Chamberlains scattered rose petals across the audience hall floor. Manlius crushed them beneath his bare feet as he followed Hadrian to the dais, their fragrance mingling with the iron-scent of yesterday's arena still clinging to his skin. The Parthian envoy hesitated when Hadrian seated himself — not on the throne, but across Manlius's lap.
The gladiator's hand settled heavy on Hadrian's thigh, his thumb tracing the emperor's inner seam through silk. "Well?" Manlius growled when the Parthians remained frozen. "Kneel."
Hadrian's chuckle was velvet-wrapped steel as he plucked a fig from the fruit bowl. He bit into it slowly, letting juice drip down his chin before offering the remainder to Manlius. The gladiator licked it clean from his fingers with deliberate obscenity.
The hawk-nosed Parthian swallowed hard.
Manlius flexed his fingers against Hadrian’s thigh, feeling the muscle twitch beneath silk. The emperor’s breath hitched imperceptibly when the gladiator’s thumbnail found a fresh bruise. Good. Let them see.
The Parthian envoy finally knelt, silk trousers hissing against marble. His gaze darted to Manlius’s bare chest — to the scratches still weeping faintly along his ribs. "We ... come in peace," he managed, voice cracking on the last word.
Hadrian leaned back against Manlius’s chest, his armored weight a delicious pressure. "Do you?" He popped another fig into his mouth, chewing slowly. "Then why bring poisoned daggers?"
A gasp rippled through the delegation. Manlius smiled, tightening his grip on Hadrian’s hip. The emperor had warned him about the blade hidden in the lead envoy’s sash — during the third round this morning, when Manlius had him bent over the war table.
The Parthian’s face drained of color. "A ceremonial —"
"Liar." Hadrian’s sandal connected with the man’s shoulder, toppling him backward. "Manlius?"
The gladiator moved before the envoy hit the floor. One hand fisted in silk robes, the other wrenching the emerald-studded dagger from its hiding place. He pressed the blade to the Parthian’s throat just hard enough to draw a bead of blood. "Taste it," he murmured. "Go on."
The envoy’s tongue darted out, touched steel — and immediately foamed at the corners. His eyes bulged as convulsions wracked his body.
Hadrian sighed, plucking the dagger from Manlius’s grip. "Such poor manners." He turned the blade in the sunlight, admiring its craftsmanship. "Shall we send the rest home in pieces? Or ..." His sandal nudged the twitching corpse. "Shall we give them a demonstration of Roman hospitality?"
Manlius licked Parthian blood from his knuckles. The poison burned pleasantly, like Hadrian’s fingers around his cock at dawn. "Your choice, Dominus."
The remaining envoys trembled.
Hadrian’s smile widened. He stretched languidly in Manlius’s lap, armor creaking. "Strip them," he ordered the guards. "We’ll compose our reply ... in their skin."
Manlius bit Hadrian’s earlobe as the screaming began. The emperor’s gasp tasted like victory.
The Parthians scrambled backward, their silk robes torn and their dignities stripped away — literally. One envoy’s severed finger rolled across the marble, its emerald ring flashing mockingly. Hadrian watched the chaos with a predator’s lazy satisfaction, his spine still pressed against Manlius’s chest. "Barbarians," he murmured, tossing the poisoned dagger onto the twitching corpse. "They never learn."
Manlius chuckled, his fingers trailing down Hadrian’s armored flank. "Neither do you."
The emperor twisted in his grip, eyes gleaming. "And yet here we are." His palm slid up Manlius’s throat, thumb pressing just hard enough to make the gladiator’s pulse jump. "You could have slit my throat a dozen times by now."
Manlius caught his wrist, nipping at the emperor’s fingertips. "Where’s the fun in that?"
Hadrian laughed — a sharp, delighted sound — before turning to survey the wreckage. The remaining envoys were being dragged away by Praetorians, their faces slack with terror. Cassius stood in the doorway, his expression torn between disgust and grudging admiration.
"You," Hadrian declared, stepping out of Manlius’s lap with deliberate grace, "are wasted in the arena." He turned, armor glinting, and extended a hand. "Stay. Be my sword. My shield." His gaze dropped to Manlius’s mouth. "My bed."
Manlius rose slowly, letting the silence stretch. The Parthian’s blood was drying on his chest. Hadrian’s scent still clung to his skin.
"Permanent partner or pet?" he challenged, stepping close enough to feel the heat radiating from Hadrian’s gold-plated armor.
Hadrian’s smile was a blade’s edge. "Partner," he breathed, fingers curling in Manlius’s hair. "When I want a pet, I’ll chain you properly."
Manlius caught his hip, pulling him flush. "And the Senate?"
Hadrian’s laugh was dark with promise. "Let them choke on it."
Their kiss tasted of blood and empire. And Rome — ever-watching, ever-judging — held its breath.
Hadrian broke away first, his fingers lingering on Manlius’s lower lip. "Come," he murmured, stepping back. His sandals left crimson prints on the marble as he turned toward the throne. The discarded poisoned dagger gleamed between them like a challenge.
Manlius followed without hesitation. The Praetorians stiffened but didn’t intervene as he mounted the dais. Below, slaves scrubbed frantically at the Parthian’s vomit.
Hadrian sat — not on the throne, but on its armrest — and crooked a finger. "Kneel."
Manlius dropped to one knee, his forehead brushing the emperor’s thigh. The scent of saffron and sweat clung to Hadrian’s skin beneath the armor. A murmur rippled through the remaining senators.
"Higher," Hadrian commanded, his voice carrying across the silent hall.
Manlius lifted his head until his breath ghosted over the emperor’s groin. The gold-plated armor hid nothing — not the heat, not the hardness. Hadrian’s fingers tangled in his hair, pulling just shy of pain.
"Now," the emperor said, louder, "tell them what you are."
Manlius grinned against gilded metal. "Yours."
Hadrian’s grip tightened. "And if I told you to gut every last senator in this room?"
The nearest patrician whimpered. Manlius inhaled deeply, tasting power and poisoned figs on his tongue. "Would you watch?"
Hadrian threw back his head and laughed — a sound that echoed off the frescoed gods staring down in silent judgment.
The emperor leaned down, his lips brushing Manlius’s ear. "Tonight," he promised, "we’ll christen the throne." His teeth grazed the gladiator’s pulse point. "Properly."
The senators bolted like spooked deer. Manlius licked the salt from Hadrian’s wrist, feeling the empire tremble beneath them. Outside, dawn bled into day.
And Rome, as ever, belonged to the victor.
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