In the dead of winter in the year 842, the kingdom of Eldoria lay divided, its northern mountains and southern plains divided by rival lords. A brutal snowstorm had forced two enemy armies into an uneasy truce inside a crumbling border fortress perched high on a cliff. The keep's stone walls groaned under the wind, and inside its windy great hall, the fire crackled low while snow battered the narrow windows.
General Rorik of the north, a towering, scarred warrior of thirty-two with short black hair, cold gray eyes, and a body built like forged iron, leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. His broadsword rested within reach. Across the room sat General Soren of the south who was twenty-five, lean and wiry, with sandy-blond hair tied back, sharp blue eyes, and features almost too dainty for a battlefield.
The two men had spent years trying to kill each other. Now they shared the same roof and the air between them felt ready to ignite. Soren polished his blade in slow circles, not looking up.
"You gonna keep glaring, Rorik, or you got words to go with it?"
Rorik pushed off the wall, boots heavy on the stone. "Just wondering how long till I shut that mouth of yours for good."
Soren set the sword aside and stood. "You've been trying for years. Still breathing, aren't I?
"Rorik swung first. His fist cracked against Soren's jaw, snapping the younger man's head sideways. Soren staggered, touched the blood at his lip, then lunged. They crashed together with fists, elbows, snarls. Rorik slammed Soren against the wall, forearm pinning his chest. Soren twisted, reversed them, and drove Rorik back into the stone.
They were breathing hot and fast. Bodies pressed close. Neither threw the next punch. Something electric hung between them, thick as the smoke from the dying fire.
Rorik shoved him away first. "This ain't finished," he growled, wiping blood from his split lip. He grabbed a flask of ale and drank deep, turning his back to Soren. Days dragged on in the storm-bound keep. The men drilled in the courtyard when the wind allowed it, shared tense meals, and watched each other like wolves.
Rorik and Soren crossed paths too often in narrow corridors, the armory and even the battlements. Each time their eyes met, heat flared. Rorik told himself it was hate. Nothing more.
One late night, the hall was empty again. The fire burned low. Rorik sharpened his sword while Soren nursed a cup of watered wine on a fur-draped bench.
"You ever think why we keep doing this?" Soren asked quietly. "You and me, like it's personal." Rorik's whetstone paused.
"Our lords say fight. We fight."
Soren gave a soft, bitter laugh. "That's not what I mean." He stood, crossed the room, and stopped close enough that Rorik could smell pine smoke on his clothes. "I can't stop thinking about you. Even when I'm supposed to be putting steel through your gut."
Rorik's heart thudded hard. He wanted to snarl, to shove the man away. Instead his voice came out rough. "You're talking nonsense."
Soren stepped closer. "Am I?" His hand rose, hesitated, then brushed Rorik's jaw. "Tell me to stop and I will."
Rorik didn't speak. He grabbed the front of Soren's tunic, yanked him in, and crushed their mouths together. The kiss was all teeth and fury at first, a clash like their fights. Then it softened and deepened. Soren gasped into it, hands clutching Rorik's shoulders.
Rorik's fingers tangled in blond hair, pulling just hard enough to tilt Soren's head back. He bit the younger man's lower lip, sucked it, tasted copper and wine.
They stumbled until Soren's back hit the wall again. Rorik pinned his wrists above his head with one hand while the other shoved under Soren's tunic, palm sliding over warm skin and hard muscle. Soren shuddered, hips rolling forward instinctively. A low whine escaped him when Rorik's mouth moved to his neck, sucking hard enough to bruise.
"Fuck," Soren breathed, voice trembling. "Rorik..."Rorik pulled back just enough to yank his own tunic over his head, then stripped Soren's off with impatient tugs. Scars crossed both chests from old battles and shared history. Rorik's big hands splayed over Soren's ribs, thumbs brushing nipples that peaked instantly.
Soren jerked, a sharp gasp tearing free. Rorik dropped to his knees, teeth scraping along Soren's collarbone, then lower, biting a rib, licking into the hollow of his navel. Soren's hands fisted in Rorik's short hair, tugging helplessly. When Rorik's fingers worked the laces of Soren's trousers open, the younger man's breath hitched.
"Never done this," Soren admitted in a rush, cheeks burning red. "Not with anyone."
Rorik looked up, gray eyes dark. "Me neither."
The confession hung raw between them, also the thrill that they could be stumbled upon any moment. Then Rorik dragged the trousers down, freeing Soren's rigid cock which was long, flushed and already leaking at the tip. He wrapped a calloused hand around it, stroked once, slow and firm. Soren's knees buckled and he moaned loud, head thumping back against the wall.
Rorik leaned in, tongue flicking over the swollen head, tasting salt and heat. Soren cried out, hips jerking. Rorik took him deeper, cheeks hollowing, hand working the base while his tongue swirled.
Wet, sloppy sounds filled the hall. Soren's thighs shook, his fingers tightened in Rorik's hair.
"Rorik... oh fuck... gonna..."Rorik pulled off with a wet pop, denying him release. Soren whimpered, cock twitching angrily in the cool air. Rorik stood, spun him around, and bent him over the heavy oak table. Furs cushioned Soren's chest. Rorik kicked his legs wider, dropped to his knees again, and spread firm cheeks. The tight pink hole clenched under his gaze. He spat, watched it trickle down, then dragged his tongue over it in one long, filthy lick.
Soren jolted, a strangled "Unngh!" ripping from his throat. Rorik did it again, slower, pressing the tip of his tongue inside. Soren quaked, pushing back shamelessly. Rorik added a finger alongside his tongue, working it in carefully, crooking to find that spot that made Soren sob and claw at the table.
"Need you," Soren panted. "Please, inside me..."Rorik rose, shoved his own trousers down. His thick cock sprang free, heavy and veined, precum beading at the slit. He slicked himself with spit, lined up, and pushed in really slow. The head breached his opening, Soren's back arched, a high, broken moan spilling out.
"So fucking tight," Rorik groaned, pausing to let him adjust. Inch by inch he sank deeper until his hips met Soren's ass. They both trembled. Rorik pulled back, thrust in again with slow, deep rolls that dragged over every sensitive place inside.
Soren's moans grew louder, filthier. "Harder... fuck me harder..."
Rorik gripped narrow hips and snapped forward, pounding now, skin slapping skin. The table rocked. Soren reached beneath himself, stroking his leaking cock in frantic pulls. Rorik felt the clench, the flutter, and slowed deliberately, dragging it out.
"Not yet," he growled.
He pulled out, flipped Soren onto his back on the furs, hooked legs over his shoulders, and slid back in. The new angle punched a raw cry from Soren's throat. Rorik fucked him deep, watching his face with eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in constant moans and blond hair plastered with sweat.
When Soren started babbling, "Close... please... gonna come," Rorik slowed again, grinding in torturous circles until Soren was shaking, begging, tears at the corners of his eyes.
Rorik finally let go. He slammed in hard, fast, relentless. Soren came first, his body seizing, cock untouched now, ropes of cum streaking his own stomach and chest as he wailed Rorik's name. The clench dragged Rorik over. He buried himself to the hilt and spilled, pulse after pulse of hot seed flooding deep inside.
They collapsed together, panting, sweat-slick. Rorik stayed inside a long moment, forehead pressed to Soren's, both trembling with aftershocks. Outside, the storm still raged, but inside the hall, something had shifted forever between two enemies.