"You missed the artery again," the physician grunted, pressing a wine-soaked rag against Manlius's forearm. The cut wasn't deep, but it bled like a bitch — just like the last time he'd faced that slippery Numidian with the curved dagger.
Manlius flexed his hand, watching the muscle shift under sweat-slick skin. The torchlight flickered against the damp stone walls of the infirmary, casting long shadows from the iron bars on the windows. Outside, the distant roar of the crowd still rumbled through the Colosseum's bones. Another fight, another body for the sands.
The physician tied off the bandage with a practiced yank. "No fever this time. Luckier than you deserve." He didn't mention the scar tissue, the old wounds overlapping like a roadmap of Manlius's career. Fifteen wins now. Not bad for a Thracian who'd started as arena bait.
A heavy clank echoed down the corridor — armored footsteps. Manlius didn't turn until the shadow fell across him. The guard's breastplate gleamed, his face unreadable. "You're wanted," he said, jerking his chin toward the door. No explanation. Just that tone. The one that meant refusal wasn't an option.
They walked in silence through torch-lit tunnels, the air thick with the scent of oil and piss. Manlius's bare feet scraped against uneven stone. He knew this route — past the storage rooms, up the narrow servant's stair. The guard halted abruptly before an oak door inlaid with bronze. "Strip," he ordered. "All of it."
The chamber beyond smelled of citrus and myrrh, the marble floor cool against his soles. A brazier burned low in the corner, casting shifting patterns across the silk-draped bed. Manlius stood motionless, pulse steady despite the strangeness. He'd been paraded naked before mobs, oiled and displayed like prize livestock. This quiet tension was worse.
The hinges groaned. Hadrian entered without fanfare, his purple-edged tunic loose around his thighs. Up close, the emperor was younger than Manlius expected — sharp-eyed, with the careful posture of a man who'd spent years being measured. "You fight like a poet," Hadrian said, circling him slowly. His fingers trailed the ridge of Manlius's collarbone, lingering on a scar. "But poets rarely last long in Rome." The words were casual. The grip on his shoulder wasn't. "Tell me, gladiator ... do you enjoy being owned?"
Manlius kept his breathing even. He'd heard the rumors — Hadrian's tastes ran toward young, slender youths — not soldiers, not senators. The emperor's thumb pressed into the knot of an old spear wound. Pain flared, sudden and bright. Manlius exhaled through his nose. "Ownership depends on the hand holding the leash," he said.
Hadrian's laugh was soft, almost private. "Good answer." He stepped back abruptly, pouring two cups of wine from a silver pitcher. The liquid was dark as a throat-cut. "Drink." It wasn't a request. Manlius took the cup, watching Hadrian over the rim. The emperor's gaze dropped to his throat as he swallowed.
"You're taller than Bato was," Hadrian mused, setting his cup aside untouched. "Less chatty." His palm slid down Manlius's flank, pausing at the divot of his hip. The calluses caught against sweat-damp skin. "But then, he screamed when they fed him to the lions. You ... I think you'd just stand there." Hadrian's fingers dug in suddenly, testing muscle. "Wouldn't you?"
Manlius set his jaw. The wine burned in his gut. "That depends on the lion."
Hadrian laughed — a genuine, unguarded sound — and his fingers relaxed. "You see? That's why I've wanted you." The emperor stepped back, letting his gaze travel Manlius's body in the flickering lamplight. "Since the first time you took to the sand with that ridiculous spear. You looked like Mars himself." His voice dropped, almost conversational. "Do I tempt you?"
The gladiator exhaled through his nose. He could smell the oil they'd rubbed into Hadrian's chest — citrus and something darker. "I've never seen you naked."
Hadrian's belt hit the floor before Manlius finished speaking. The emperor's tunic slithered down his shoulders, pooling at his feet like a discarded skin. His body was leaner than Manlius expected — all lean, wiry muscle and sun-browned skin. A silver scar jagged across his ribs — old, poorly healed. Manlius's pulse jumped when Hadrian turned, revealing the taut curve of his ass.
"Better?" Hadrian arched an eyebrow.
Manlius swallowed. The man was built like a dagger — all lethal angles. His cock was half-hard already, thick and uncut. "Yes." The word came out rough. "Dominus."
Hadrian grinned. "Good." He closed the distance between them, pressing a palm flat against Manlius's sternum. "Because I don't share what I like. And I like you very much."
“Why?”
“I’ve grown tired of young, slender, smooth-skinned lads as playmates,” Hadrian responded. “I crave someone more muscular, older — more experienced. Someone who can carry an intelligent conversation and still have fun in bed. I think you’re that man.” His thumb brushed a nipple, slow and deliberate.
The gladiator barely suppressed a shudder. The emperor's touch was electric, tracing the ridges of his abdomen as if memorizing them. He could feel Hadrian's breath against his collarbone — warm, uneven. A conqueror undone by desire. The thought sent heat pooling low in his belly.
Then Hadrian bit him. Sharp teeth sank into the meat of Manlius's shoulder, hard enough to bruise. The pain was sudden, bright, and utterly intoxicating. Manlius gasped, hands flying to Hadrian's waist — not to push him away, but to pull him closer. Hadrian chuckled against his skin. "Oh, you are perfect."
The emperor backed him toward the bed, never breaking contact. The silk sheets were cool against Manlius's thighs as Hadrian pushed him down. For a moment, the ruler of Rome just stared, drinking in the sight of him — sprawled, aroused, utterly at his mercy. Then Hadrian climbed atop him, straddling his hips with feline grace.
"Tell me," he murmured, rolling his hips in a slow, filthy grind, "do gladiators pray?" His fingers tangled in Manlius's hair, tugging just shy of cruel. "Because you will."
Manlius arched beneath him, the friction maddening. Every inch of Hadrian's skin burned hotter than the desert wind — slick with sweat and something musky that clung to the back of his throat. The emperor's thighs bracketed his own, trembling with the effort of restraint. A conqueror playing at patience.
Hadrian leaned down, lips brushing the shell of his ear. "I could have you executed for touching me without permission." His tongue flicked out, tracing the edge of cartilage. "But I'd rather you disobey." His hand slid between them, wrapping around Manlius's cock in one fluid motion. The gladiator hissed, hips jerking — only for Hadrian to tighten his grip, stilling him. "Ah-ah. Not yet."
The oil lamp guttered, casting shadows that writhed across the walls like captive spirits. Manlius could taste salt on his tongue — his own, or Hadrian's, he wasn't sure. The emperor's free hand skated up his ribs, pausing to thumb at a scar above his heart. "Who gave you this?"
"A Thracian." Manlius gritted his teeth as Hadrian's thumb circled the tip of his cock, smearing precum. "Two summers ago."
Hadrian hummed, dragging his nails down Manlius's flank. "Did he live?"
"No."
The emperor laughed, low and delighted. "Good." Then he released him abruptly, rising to his knees. Manlius barely had time to mourn the loss of heat before Hadrian spat into his palm, slicking his own ass crease with brutal efficiency. "Look at me."
Their eyes locked as Hadrian slowly impaled himself, inch by excruciating inch. His expression flickered — pleasure, pain, something raw and unguarded — before settling into smug satisfaction. "Fuck," he breathed, thighs shaking. "You're even better inside."
Manlius gripped his hips, torn between throttling him and fucking him senseless. Hadrian moved first, rolling his pelvis in a slow, obscene circle that punched a groan from both their throats. The emperor's cock jutted between them, flushed and leaking. Manlius reached for it — only to have his wrist caught mid-air.
"Earn it," Hadrian panted, beginning to ride him in earnest. His knuckles whitened where they braced against Manlius's chest. "Prove you're more than just a pretty weapon."
The challenge ignited something primal in Manlius's gut. He surged upward, flipping them with a snarl. Hadrian's gasp melted into laughter as his back hit the sheets. "There he is." His legs hooked around Manlius's waist, heels digging into the small of his back. "Now show me what Rome bought."
Manlius drove into him with a force that made the bed frame creak. Hadrian arched, his fingernails scoring pale red trails down his shoulders. The emperor's cock slapped against his own abdomen, smearing wetness across taut muscle. Every thrust punched a ragged noise from Hadrian's throat — half growl, half moan.
Oil lamps painted sweat-slicked skin gold. Manlius could taste copper — Hadrian's lip had split when he bit it. The emperor's thighs trembled around him, tightening each time Manlius angled deeper. "Look at you," Manlius rasped, thumbing a bead of precum from Hadrian's slit. "Begging like a common whore."
Hadrian's pupils swallowed the grey of his eyes. "Faster." His order cracked mid-word as Manlius obliged, snapping his hips with gladiatorial precision. The emperor's fingers twisted in the sheets, then flew to Manlius's hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat. Teeth grazed his pulse point.
Something shattered — a vase, a cup, neither cared — as Manlius pinned Hadrian's wrists above his head. Their chests heaved in sync, sticky with mingled sweat. Hadrian's cock pulsed between them, untouched and dripping. "I decide when you cum," Manlius growled.
Hadrian's laugh was breathless, wrecked. "Insolent." He rocked upward, chasing friction. "I should have you crucified."
Manlius slowed deliberately, watching frustration twist Hadrian's face. "You won't." He licked a stripe up the emperor's throat, savoring the salt. "Because you've never had anyone fuck you like this."
A tremor ran through Hadrian's body. His lips parted — not in denial, but surrender. Manlius seized the moment, slamming home with a brutality that sent them both spiraling. Hadrian came with a shout, ropes of white sperm striping his abdomen. Manlius followed, burying himself to the hilt as pleasure scorched through him like brandished steel.
Collapsed atop the emperor, Manlius felt fingers trace his spine. Hadrian's voice was hoarse. "You're right." He pressed a kiss — shockingly tender—to Manlius's temple. "I haven't."
The admission hung between them, raw as the bite marks on Manlius's shoulders. Outside, distant cheers from the Subura bled through shuttered windows. Hadrian's thigh twitched beneath him, muscles still jumping with aftershocks. Their sweat had pooled in the hollow of his collarbones, catching lamplight like molten gold.
Manlius lifted his head. Hadrian's gaze held something unfamiliar — not calculation, not hunger. Something fragile. The gladiator hesitated, then wiped a streak of come from the emperor's ribs with his thumb. Hadrian caught his wrist, brought the digit to his own lips, and sucked it clean without breaking eye contact.
The door crashed open.
Three Praetorians froze in the threshold, swords half-drawn. Manlius rolled off Hadrian in a single motion, putting himself between the emperor and potential threat. Blood dripped from his split knuckles where he'd instinctively clenched his fists.
"Out." Hadrian didn't raise his voice. The guards' eyes flickered to the mess of sheets, the gladiator's heaving chest, the emperor's flushed skin. They retreated faster than they'd arrived.
Silence.
Manlius became acutely aware of his own heartbeat. Hadrian's fingers drummed once against the mattress before stilling. "You'd defend me?" His tone was light, but his nails bit into the silk. "Even now?"
The gladiator looked at the door, then back at the man who'd just come undone beneath him. He remembered the scar across Hadrian's ribs — who had given that? — and the way his breath hitched when Manlius pinned his wrists. "Yes."
Hadrian exhaled through his nose. When he stood, his knees nearly buckled. Manlius didn't offer help. The emperor limped to a bronze ewer, poured water over his hands, and tossed the damp cloth at Manlius's chest. "Clean yourself." He turned, presenting his back — and the fresh marks flowering along his hips. "Tomorrow, you fight against Carthalo's new champion."
Manlius caught the cloth. "The Numidian?"
Hadrian glanced over his shoulder, smiling like a man who'd just devised exquisite torture. "Mmhmm. He uses poisoned blades." A pause. "I'll be watching."
The gladiator grinned. "Good."
Hadrian's eyebrow twitched. He turned fully, still naked, still gleaming with sweat and other fluids. "You're not afraid?"
Manlius shrugged, tossing the cloth aside. "I've fought worse." He let his gaze travel down Hadrian's body, lingering on the fresh bruises darkening his inner thighs. "Though I doubt Carthalo will moan half as pretty."
Hadrian threw his head back and laughed — a rich, unrestrained sound that startled even the guards outside into shifting their armor. When he sobered, his eyes were bright with something dangerous. "Careful, gladiator. I could still have your tongue cut out for that." He stepped closer, bare feet whispering against marble. "But I think I'll keep it." His fingers traced Manlius's bottom lip. "For now."
The distant clatter of armor grew louder outside. Manlius stiffened, but Hadrian waved a dismissive hand. "My prefect. He's early." His thumb pressed against Manlius's teeth. "You should go."
Manlius caught his wrist. "And if I don't want to?"
Hadrian's smile turned razor-edged. He leaned in until their foreheads nearly touched. "Then I'll have you dragged back to the ludus in chains." His free hand slid down to squeeze Manlius's half-hard cock. "And tomorrow, when you're bleeding in the sand, you'll look up at my podium ..." He tightened his grip painfully. "... and remember exactly whose you are."
The door creaked open. Manlius released Hadrian just as the prefect's shadow fell across the threshold. Neither man moved to cover themselves. The prefect's gaze flickered between them — the emperor's bite marks on Manlius's neck, the gladiator's handprints bruising Hadrian's hips — before settling on the floor. "Dominus. The Syrian envoy awaits."
Hadrian sighed dramatically. "Politics." He plucked his discarded tunic from the floor and tossed it at Manlius. "Wear this. The guards will return you." As Manlius pulled the fine linen over his head — the emperor's scent clinging to the fabric — Hadrian added casually, "Oh, and Manlius? If you survive tomorrow ..." He paused to drag a fingertip through the cooling semen on his own abdomen. "... I'll let you fuck me on the throne."
The prefect choked.
Manlius bared his teeth in something too sharp to be a smile. "I'll hold you to that, Dominus."
Hadrian's answering smirk lingered in his mind long after the Praetorians escorted him back through torchlit corridors, the emperor's laughter echoing behind him like a promise.
The ludus stank of blood and oiled leather when Manlius returned. His fellow gladiators pretended not to notice the imperial tunic clinging to his sweat-damp shoulders. Only old Cassius dared meet his eye, whetstone pausing mid-stroke along his gladius. "Poisoned blades?" The veteran snorted. "That Numidian fights like a eunuch with sandals on fire."
Manlius flexed his fingers, still feeling the ghost of Hadrian's nails raking down his back. The bite on his shoulder throbbed in time with his pulse.
Sleep never came.
*****
At dawn, slaves scrubbed him raw with strigils until his skin shone. They braided his hair tight against his skull — Carthalo's men favored scalp-grips. When they offered the usual pre-fight wine, Manlius knocked the cup aside. "Not today."
The amphitheater roared as he stepped into the light. Fifty thousand voices chanting his name shook the sand beneath his feet. Manlius scanned the podium. Hadrian lounged between senators, one hand propping up his chin. Their eyes met. The emperor's tongue flicked out, slow, tracing his own bottom lip in exact mimicry of last night's threat.
Carthalo's champion emerged — all wiry limbs and tribal scars. His twin daggers gleamed green at the edges. The Numidian grinned, flashing teeth filed to points. "Little bird told me you fucked the eagle." He spun his blades. "Hope it was worth —"
Manlius killed him in three moves.
The first strike shattered the Numidian's wrist with an audible crack. The second drove his own poisoned dagger through the man's sandal, pinning his foot to the sand. The third was a knee to the face so brutal the arena fell silent at the wet crunch of cartilage.
Manlius wrenched the dagger free and pressed it to the wheezing man's throat. He looked up. Hadrian had leaned forward, wine forgotten, knuckles white on the podium edge.
The gladiator mouthed two words: Your turn.
Then slit the Numidian's throat.
The crowd erupted. Hadrian's laughter cut through the din as he stood, applauding with deliberate slowness. His lips formed a single, unmistakable word amidst the chaos: Tonight.
Manlius barely registered the slaves dragging the Numidian's corpse away. Blood dripped from his fingers — some his own, where the poisoned blade had nicked him. His vision swam at the edges, but he forced himself upright, turning a slow circle to meet the roaring approval of the mob.
Back in the ludus, physicians swarmed him with antidotes. One pressed a clay cup to his lips — bitter, thick with crushed herbs. Manlius drank greedily, his mind still replaying the way Hadrian's knuckles had whitened on the marble railing. The emperor's hunger had been palpable, a live thing crackling across the sand between them.
Dusk fell. Torches flickered to life along the palace corridors as Manlius was led — not by guards this time, but by a slender Egyptian slave with kohl-rimmed eyes. She paused before a door inlaid with ivory panthers. "He waits." Her voice was smoke and honey. "Without clothes."
The chamber beyond smelled of myrrh and sex. Hadrian sprawled naked across the throne, one leg hooked over its gilded arm. Wine dripped from his goblet onto the mosaic floor — a careless, arrogant waste. "You're late." His gaze trailed down Manlius's body. "And overdressed."
Manlius reached for his belt. Hadrian's foot snapped out, pressing bare toes against his sternum. "Ah-ah. On your knees."
The marble bit into Manlius's flesh as he obeyed. Hadrian's smirk deepened. He lifted the goblet, tipped it slowly — not to drink, but to pour its contents over Manlius's upturned face. Wine stung his eyes, dripped from his chin onto his chest.
"Now," Hadrian purred, spreading his thighs, "about that promise ..."
Wine-drenched fingers curled around the emperor's ankles as Manlius dragged him forward off the throne's edge. Hadrian's breath hitched — not protest, but anticipation — as the gladiator's tongue followed the spilled wine's path up his inner thigh. The throne room's acoustics amplified every wet, open-mouthed kiss Manlius pressed into the crease of his hip.
Hadrian's cock twitched against Manlius's temple. "Insolent," he gasped, fingers tangling in sweat-stiffened braids. His heel dug into the small of Manlius's back. "You should be —" The rest dissolved into a groan as teeth scraped his femoral pulse.
Manlius inhaled musk and salt, the tang of imperial exertion still clinging to Hadrian's skin. When he finally took the emperor into his mouth, Hadrian's thighs trembled like a bowstring at full draw. The taste was darker than wine, bitter with the morning's unspent arousal. Manlius swallowed him deeper, relishing the way Hadrian's hips jerked — a conqueror losing his famed composure.
Above him, Hadrian's breathing fractured. His free hand clutched at the throne's armrest, bronze nails screeching against gold leaf. "Look at me," he ordered, voice stripped raw.
Manlius obeyed, meeting grey eyes gone black with lust. Hadrian's lips parted on a silent curse as Manlius hollowed his cheeks, deliberately slow. The emperor's knuckles whitened. "Enough." It was half-snarl, half-plea.
The gladiator released him with a wet pop. Hadrian yanked him upward by the hair, their mouths crashing together in a clash of teeth and dominance. Manlius tasted his own blood — and beneath it, the iron-sharp thrill of Hadrian's surrender.
The throne groaned beneath their combined weight as Manlius pinned him against its jeweled backrest. Hadrian's laugh was breathless, his legs hooking around Manlius's waist with bruising force. "Prove ...," he challenged, arching so his cock smeared sticky between their abdomens. "... that yesterday wasn't — ah! — luck."
Manlius needed no further invitation. When he sheathed himself in one brutal thrust, Hadrian's scream echoed off the vaulted ceiling — a sound no Senate scroll would ever record. The throne's armrest cracked under their combined momentum. Outside the door, a guard's armor clattered as he shifted position. Neither noticed.
Hadrian came first, his spine bowing so violently Manlius feared it might snap. The emperor's sperm painted stripes across their chests, hot as branding irons. Manlius followed, biting down on Hadrian's shoulder to muffle his own roar — marking the emperor as thoroughly as he'd been marked himself.
Collapsed against sweat-slicked gold, they listened to the distant cheers of Rome's night markets. Hadrian's fingertips traced the fresh teeth marks on Manlius's bicep. "Tomorrow," he murmured, "you fight the Sarmatian."
Manlius nipped his earlobe. "Poisoned blades?"
Hadrian's smile was all teeth. "Worse. She fights naked."
Manlius snorted, licking wine from the emperor's collarbone. "So do I."
The emperor's hand slid down to grip him, still slick with their mingled release. "Not like her." His thumb circled the gladiator's softening cock with deliberate cruelty. "They call her the 'Widow-Maker' in Sarmatia. Rides her enemies down like a stallion." His grip tightened. "They say she orgasms when she kills."
Manlius caught his wrist, pinning it against the throne's armrest. The cracked wood groaned. "Then she'll die frustrated." He pressed a kiss to Hadrian's pulse point, feeling it jump beneath his lips. "Unless you plan to watch?"
Hadrian's laugh dissolved into a gasp as Manlius bit down—hard enough to leave a crescent of broken skin. "Insufferable," he breathed, hips rocking up instinctively. His cock twitched against Manlius's thigh, still slick. "The Senate would crucify us both if they knew."
The gladiator smirked, dragging his tongue along the emperor's sternum. "Tell them to bring nails."
A crash echoed from the antechamber — glass shattering, followed by muffled curses. Hadrian's body tensed, his hand flying to Manlius's nape in a silent warning. The gladiator rolled them sideways, shielding the emperor with his own frame as the door burst open.
A Praetorian captain stood frozen, his breastplate streaked with spilled wine. His gaze flickered from the cracked throne to the semen gleaming on Hadrian's abdomen. "Dominus," he choked. "The Sarmatian envoy — she demands immediate audience."
Hadrian's fingers tightened in Manlius's hair. "Does she now." His thumb traced the gladiator's jawline, deliberately slow. "Tell her Rome's emperor is ... occupied."
The captain's throat worked. "She's — ah — already in the atrium. With six armed —"
Hadrian sighed, pressing his forehead to Manlius's shoulder. His exhale was warm and annoyed against sweat-slicked skin. "Of course she is." He pushed upright, hissing as his thighs protested. "Fetch my cloak. The purple one."
Manlius watched the emperor limp toward a gilded washbasin, his gait uneven. Fresh blood welled along the bite mark on his hip. The gladiator stood, retrieving the discarded wine goblet. He drained its dregs — bitter, with a metallic tang — before tossing it at the captain's feet. "Clean that up."
The man flinched as bronze clattered across marble. Hadrian shot Manlius a look — half exasperation, half approval — as he fastened his cloak. "You," he pointed at the gladiator, "stay." His fingertip trailed downward, smearing dried semen down Manlius's chest. "And try not to break anything else."
The door slammed shut. Manlius stretched across the ruined throne, licking wine from his knuckles. Distant voices rose in argument — Hadrian's dry baritone, a woman's guttural snarl. He grinned, palming his half-hard cock. Tomorrow's fight just got interesting.
Footsteps approached. Not Hadrian's measured stride, but something heavier. Manlius rolled upright as three Sarmatian warriors shouldered into the chamber. Their leader — a towering woman with white-blonde braids — halted mid-step. Her nostrils flared.
"So." She eyed the throne's cracked armrest, the gladiator's nudity. "The rumors are true." Her Latin carried a steppe's windbite edge. She unsheathed a curved dagger, testing its edge against her thumb. "Tell me, Roman pig. Does he scream when he comes?"
Manlius stood, letting her see every scar, every fresh bite mark. "Ask him yourself." He kicked the wine goblet toward her. "Unless you'd rather watch."
Her warriors tensed. The woman laughed, sharp as her blade. She spat on the mosaic between them — a glob of phlegm and blood. "Tomorrow," she promised, "I'll mount you both." She turned, braids whipping like horse tails. "Then skin you alive."
Silence pooled in their wake. Manlius flexed his fists. The door creaked again. Hadrian leaned against the frame, holding a bloodied linen to his split lip. "Charming, isn't she?" He tossed the rag aside. "Her husband was the one who gave me this." He traced the scar across his ribs.
Manlius caught his wrist, sniffed. Iron. Pepper. Female musk. "She touched you."
Hadrian's smile turned feral. He pressed their foreheads together. "Jealous, gladiator?"
Manlius answered by shoving him against the wall, biting the emperor's throat where the Sarmatian's scent clung thickest. Hadrian moaned, his nails scoring Manlius's back
Dawn couldn't come soon enough.
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