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“You always get the bigger mug,” Karn said, snow sticking to his thick beard.

“I do not,” Brel replied, arms folded. “Santa just… notices you more.”

Karn’s eyes narrowed. “Notices me more? Really?”

“Really. He pats your shoulder, laughs at your jokes… sometimes he even looks at you before me.”

“That’s absurd,” Karn growled, stepping closer.

“Not at all,” Brel shot back. “And you take more chocolate than I do. Admit it.” 

Karn grunted. “I sip mine. You gulp yours.”

The argument ended the way it always did: silently, with a nod. Outside. Into the packed snow behind the workshop, where the cold and the empty space amplified every breath and every step.

❄️ The First Lock

“No strikes,” Karn said.

“Only grappling,” Brel agreed.

Immediately they closed, chests pressing, forearms sliding over wool. Their bodies were mirrors—strong, stocky, broad—each one trying to assert subtle dominance without harming the other.

“You lean too much,” Brel muttered.

“You drift,” Karn replied.

They collided with a soft whump, rolling once and ending up in a tangle of arms and legs. Snow flew in every direction. Their noses touched. They froze for half a second, glaring like children caught in mischief.

“You’re heavier than last week,” Brel said.

“Blame the cookies Santa gave me,” Karn retorted.

“You’re exaggerating.”

❄️ Push and Counter

Karn tried to pin Brel’s shoulders with his chest. Brel twisted, slipping an arm under Karn’s, attempting a gentle reversal. The two rolled across the snow again, legs entwined, boots skidding, breaths fogging the air.

“Your scarf is in my way,” Brel complained.

“That’s your fault for having a long beard,” Karn shot back.

They grappled fiercely but carefully, pushing and twisting, almost like a dance. Every moment had the tension of “I must win,” yet neither truly did. Snow stuck to gloves, coats, and tangled hair.

“You smell like peppermint,” Brel muttered, half-laughing.

“You’re worse,” Karn grunted, lunging to regain a better hold.

❄️ Caught Between Rivalry and Exhaustion

Minutes passed. Limbs grew heavy. They fell on the snow, backs to the ground, staring at the pale sky. Chests heaving. Faces red from effort and cold.

“This… proves nothing,” Brel said, his voice wheezy but amused.

“Exactly,” Karn replied, equally breathless.

A quiet truce settled. Not from defeat, but from exhaustion. They rolled apart, wiped snow from coats, and sat facing each other.

“You still get more pats,” Brel said, nudging Karn lightly with a boot.

“Shut up,” Karn replied with a laugh, shaking his head.

❄️ Resolution Without Winners

Eventually, they stood. Snow clung to hair and wool, hands cold, noses pink. Neither had won. Neither had lost. The rivalry remained—grumpy, stubborn, and childish—but somehow balanced.

Somewhere behind them, Santa’s muffled chuckle echoed through the workshop. Two mugs of hot chocolate awaited inside.

And for now, that was enough.

Image AI generated

Merry Christmas to everyone.

To those who fought with me in 2025.

To those who chose not to fight.

To those we haven’t been able to meet yet.

To those who never quite dared to suggest it.

To those who chatted.

To those who didn’t want

You all matter more than you think.

Thank you.

Wishing you a Merry Christmas and a solid 2026, full of fights and friendship.

The hallway of Block D was so quiet that every step Rivas took sounded like a solid blow. In Cell 42, Montoya was waiting, seated on the cot, bare-chested, as if he knew exactly what time the officer would arrive.

Both were young, around thirty. Rivas, tall, solid, with broad shoulders and a contained strength that seemed to rest just beneath his skin. Montoya, slightly wider, with the kind of hard, rough musculature forged only on the streets and behind bars. The contrast was perfect: one classic, disciplined; the other wild, unpredictable. Two strong, dangerous men, each confident in what his body could do.

Montoya lifted his gaze and smiled with disdain.

“Officer… are you here for your stroll, or to prove something?” he spat on the floor. “’Cause I’m ready.”

Rivas clenched his jaw. Weeks of enduring provocations, insults, challenges. He knew Montoya wanted a fight. He knew he was being dragged into Montoya’s terrain: inside the cell, off-camera, no rules.

“Do your job, uniformed puppy,” Montoya continued. “Or just come in. But if you do… leave your gun on the table and take off your shirt. Like a man. No authority games.”

Rivas didn’t bite. Not yet.

“I’m not falling for your provocations,” he said, coldly.

“Oh really?” Montoya rose slowly. “Let me warn you: if you win… I stay quiet. I remain here, humiliated.

But if I win… you get me out of this cell. You open the door and give me the freedom I earn with my fists. Agreed or not?”

Rivas knew it was impossible. Kafkaesque. Absurd. But the sentence was a declaration of war. And above all… a direct insult to his authority.

Montoya stepped closer to the bars.

“Come on, brave one. Or are you scared?”. No bollocks?

That was the trigger.

Rivas took two steps back, dropped the radio, unbuckled his belt, and placed his gun on a metal table—slowly, with the calm of a man who had already decided to lose his head.

Montoya spread his arms, almost savoring it.

“That’s it… come here. Strip off that cop costume and fight like what you are: another animal.”

Rivas inhaled sharply. He took off his uniform shirt. His torso, sculpted from years of training, came into full view. Montoya appraised him and smiled, like someone sizing up a worthy opponent.

“Now that’s better.”

Rivas opened the cell. The metallic creak echoed like a warning of tragedy.

And he stepped in.

As soon as the bolt clicked behind him, Montoya lunged.

⸻

THE CLASH

Bodies collided like two blocks of granite. Rivas staggered half a meter from the impact. Montoya grabbed the back of his neck, trying to slam him into the wall, but Rivas blocked, twisted his hips, and slammed him against the cot.

Montoya laughed, even as he fell.

“Well, cop… that’s how I like it.”

The prisoner jumped up, sending a straight punch that split Rivas’ eyebrow. Blood flowed instantly, streaking down his cheek.

The officer responded with a hook to the abdomen, leaving Montoya winded. The prisoner bent, but grabbed Rivas’ wrist and threw him to the ground with an improvised lock.

They rolled, hitting each other like caged animals. Fists, elbows, knees. The wet sound of flesh hitting flesh filled the cell.

Rivas charged, slamming him against the wall. Montoya opened his lip with a brutal headbutt. Rivas saw stars but held on. He lifted him—literally—and slammed him into the bunk, which shook under the impact.

Montoya spat blood. He smiled, even bleeding from his nose.

“You’re tough…”

“You too,” Rivas growled, breathing heavily.

⸻

THE BRUTAL PHASE

The fight became even wilder. Rivas drove a knee into Montoya’s side. Montoya returned one to Rivas’ ribs. Both were gasping, sweating, battered.

Rivas’ chest burned. Montoya’s too. The cell reeked of iron, sweat, and contained violence.

Montoya landed three successive blows. Rivas staggered but stayed standing. Blood dripped from his split eyebrow and broken lip.

“Surrender, cop,” Montoya spat, his voice hoarse. “And I promise I won’t kill you.”

“You can’t beat me,” Rivas ground out. “Not today.”

Montoya tried a hold to bring him down, but Rivas broke it with sheer brute force. He grabbed him by the waist, lifted him, and slammed him to the floor, leaving Montoya breathless for seconds.

That was the beginning of the end.

Rivas mounted him, holding his arm, landing two sharp, precise punches. Montoya still defended, but with less strength each time. Another punch split his eyebrow. Another swelled his cheek. Another left him half-blind with blood.

Finally, Montoya lay trapped under the officer’s weight, gasping, unable to rise. Still, his eyes, full of hatred, kept challenging.

“Finish… if you can,” he spat.

Rivas didn’t need to kill him. He just needed to win.

He grabbed him by the nonexistent shirt collar, lifted him slightly, and growled in his ear:

“You stay in here. I walk out that door. That’s how the world stays. Understood?”

Montoya, defeated, took a deep breath.

And nodded.

For the first time, without bravado.

Rivas straightened, sore, bleeding, but resolute.

He opened the cell. Walked out. Closed it with a slam.

Montoya remained seated on the floor, back against the wall, head tilted back—defeated but alive. Humiliated.

Exactly as Rivas had promised.

There is something strange about MeetFighters.

At first glance, it feels like an obscure corner of the internet — a hidden world, dangerous, forbidden, and yet irresistibly attractive. Most people there stay behind their screens, half-hidden, half-tempted, scrolling through profiles late at night, curious but afraid. Only a few dare to cross that invisible line and take the first step.

I don’t know how your first fight was.

But mine — mine changed everything.

The moment before

I remember that day with absolute clarity.

I arrived in a taxi, my hands sweating, my heart pounding so hard I could almost hear it echo inside the car. The driver kept glancing at me in the mirror, maybe sensing my nervousness, maybe wondering what kind of meeting could make someone’s breathing so uneven.

When I stepped out, the air felt heavier than usual. My legs were trembling slightly — not from fear, exactly, but from anticipation. Every thought in my head was trying to convince me to turn around, to go home, to pretend this had never happened. But my body knew better. My body was ready.

I entered a small café near the hotel. It smelled of coffee and rain-soaked streets. I looked around, pretending to be calm, pretending I belonged there. And then, across the room, I saw him — the man I had been messaging with for days on MeetFighters.

Our eyes met, and in that instant, everything fell silent. 

There was a strange recognition, as if we had both been waiting for that exact moment. Two people, both nervous, both hiding the same excitement, both wondering what would happen next. Smile

A single glance — that’s all it took. A pulse, a heartbeat, a quiet agreement. That was where everything began.

Crossing the line

The fight itself was unlike anything I had imagined.

There was no aggression, no real competition — just movement, breathing, contact. It was strange, awkward at first, but also peaceful in a way I hadn’t expected. It felt like every fear I’d carried for years dissolved with each hold, each touch, each shared moment of trust.

And that night, I understood something profound: this wasn’t just about fighting. It was about connection — about finding someone who felt the same way I did. Someone who understood the pull of this world, the quiet need to test yourself, to surrender control and rediscover strength in another’s hands.

That first match opened a door I didn’t know existed. 

From that day on, one opponent after another appeared — each unique, each wonderful, each leaving a mark on me. And to every single one of them, I owe gratitude.

There have been more than fighters. There have been companions in courage, mirrors of my own fears and desires.

I’ve learned from them, respected them, and, in a way, loved them all.

What you will find

Are you scared of the other guy?. Well, that’s normal. If it’s your first time, and it’s not for him, feel honoured. Hardly anyone trust newcomers.

If you ever find yourself there — behind the anonymity, the usernames, the quiet anticipation — know this: you will discover people who pulse the same way you do. People who feel the same tension, the same fear, the same hunger for something real.

Some tips

1) Treat them well. Even if you go “full speed, be kind, respectful, tolerant. They are not a piece of flesh.

2) You don’t need to force empathy — just step into their world for a moment, try to see through their eyes. When two people meet and truly connect, the energy becomes different — deeper, more human, more positive.

3) For newcomers end even experts, of course, you have to be careful. Behind the anonymity, not everyone is who they claim to be. Most people here — and I’ve met many — are kind, respectful, and surprisingly normal. But there’s a small, unhealthy minority too, and you learn to recognize them early on. Trust your instincts. Always.

4) Start with the recommended profiles. Look for mutual friends.

5) Ask every question you need to ask. Establish bridges

6) And before you meet, talk. Meet for coffee. Look each other in the eyes. Build some kind of human connection — so that when you fight, you’re not wrestling with a stranger, but sharing a moment with another person, another story, another heartbeat.

And yes, the fight becomes something else entirely

Aftermath

When it’s over, the silence that follows can be bittersweet.

You leave with your heart still beating fast, knowing you’ve shared something that words can’t explain. You might never see that person again, but they’ll remain with you — not as a rival, but as part of your story.

I won’t lie-the goodbyes hurt

But they’re also what make this world so real, so vivid, so unforgettable. So if you’re out there, still hiding behind the glow of your screen, reading profiles and stories on MeetFighters, wondering what it would feel like — stop wondering.

Do it.

Do it for yourself.

Because some fears are meant to be broken, and some moments — just a few — are powerful enough to change the way your heart beats forever

CHAPTER 4 Revenge

The count had proven he could take hits, that he knew how to move, and that he had instinct. But Daniel knew he wasn’t yet ready to fight in a harder battle.

One more test was missing. EDGAR.

He was a brute. Stronger, rougher. A man who fought with the ferocity of an animal, and until now, had only been defeated by Daniel in a savage fight in the stables. If the count wanted to prove he was a true fighter, he had to face Edgar.

Daniel whispered the idea to him. The count hesitated.

BUT then, something sparkled in his eyes.

Challenge in the Kitchens

They went down to the kitchens, where Edgar rested with a mug of beer in his hand. When he saw the count and Daniel arrive, he raised an eyebrow.

—“To what do I owe the honor?”

The count went straight to the point.

—“I want to settle accounts.”

Edgar laughed.

—“My lord, are you joking? Didn’t you have enough last time?”

—“No.”

Edgar looked at Daniel, expecting him to clarify, but Daniel just smiled, arms crossed.

—“Sir, I can’t hit him again.”

The count got angry.

—“If you let me win, I’ll fire you.”

Edgar blinked, surprised. Then he smiled.

—“Sir, I’m going to enjoy this. I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.”

—“Very well,” said the count, removing his jacket. “Let’s see what you can do with me.”

A Fight of Savages

Servant and master face to face. Revenge. Man to man. Down in the kitchen. The first blow came from Edgar. A right to the stomach that bent the count in half.

But the count didn’t fall. Instead, he threw a punch to Edgar’s face, who barely managed to move.

—“Well, sir.” He smiled, wiping the blood from his mouth. The beast was ignited.

—“Sir, I’m going to beat you up,” he said with a wolfish grin.

Edgar growled and grabbed him by the collar, pushing him against a table. Spoons, plates, and mugs flew into the air.

Daniel watched the brawl, delighted. The fight broke loose.

They rolled on the floor. Edgar struck fiercely, but the count was no longer the refined noble of before. He had learned to move, to dodge, to withstand pain.

They exchanged punches, slaps, knees. The kitchen became a battlefield.

Daniel watched, arms crossed, smiling.

The count threw dirty hits. Kicks to the shins, elbows, even bites if necessary. Edgar was surprised. 

He was no longer fighting his master.

He was fighting another animal like himself. And he wouldn’t lose.

With a roar, Edgar lifted him off the ground and threw him against a table, which split in two.

The count spat blood.

But he got up.

Daniel whistled.

—“Come on, my lord, you can handle him.”

The count took a deep breath, launched himself at Edgar, and delivered a devastating right to the chin.

Edgar staggered.

Another hit.

And another.

Edgar fell to the ground with a crash, unconscious.

SILENCE.

The count, panting, brought a hand to his bloody face. He had done it.

Daniel approached and handed him a towel.

—“Incredible, my lord. Now you’re ready to beat anyone.”

Edgar was stunned. He had lost the fight against his master. He was no longer a dandy. He would have to clean up the mess. The kitchen was wrecked. Not today. Edgar was beaten and bruised.

He smiled. “Damn my lord.”

For a long time, the count had an idea and decided to abandon Daniel’s training. Not because he thought he was ready, but because something was on his mind and he needed to prepare himself without Daniel knowing. He would surprise him.

Daniel, on the other hand, had left the palace due to his mother’s illness in northern Scotland and needed to take care of her but knew he was leaving the count in good hands.

Not that Edgar would take care of him—though he could—but the count could break anyone’s jaw.

But the count did not stop training and did not stop going down to the river to satisfy his instincts.

THE FINAL COMBAT

Six months passed, and the Count of Hereford had become popular. And feared. Daniel, from Scotland, was informed of something that left him frozen. The jailer had been challenged again by someone who had also crushed all his rivals. There was another famous fighter.

He looked with curiosity. He couldn’t believe it. The Count of Hereford was the other rival. He was going to kill him. He decided to go down to London to stop this madness.

The underground fight club in South London was packed. Men of all kinds crowded the fighting circle, shouting, betting, drinking. The stench of sweat, tobacco, and beer hung in the thick night air.

The count moved through the crowd and saw Daniel at his side. He was glad.

—“My lord, you can still back out,” Daniel whispered.

The count smiled, a mixture of excitement and fierceness.

—“Daniel. Now you’re the one who doesn’t trust me. In your six months of absence, I’ve learned something.” Across the circle, the Blythish Gate jailer stood like a beast among men. A giant hardened by years of beating and subduing the worst criminals. He had made dozens of fighters hit the ground. Except Daniel. And now, before him stood an aristocrat who, in his eyes, was just a gentleman playing at being a tough man. After a while The crowd roared. The fight exploded.

Daniel felt he had to stop the fight. But then he saw something. The count was laughing. And attacked.

The Count began to dominate. He was a warrior. And with a savage roar, delivered a direct hit to the chin that sent him sprawling to the ground.

The giant did not get up. 

Silence. Then the crowd erupted in cheers. The Count, bloodied and panting, stood over his fallen opponent.

He had won. The Great Fight

“You did it, my lord,” he said, with a mix of pride and alarm. “You are a warrior. The count, still breathing heavily, turned toward him and smiled.

“Then only one fight remains.”

Daniel shivered. “Which one?”

The count’s eyes shone with challenge.

“YOU and ME. Alone.”

Daniel swallowed.

He wasn’t sure he could win. But Daniel was an alpha male — and they never back down. 

“As you wish, my lord. But you will regret it.”

——-

The night air was heavy with humidity, and the Thames stretched dark and desolate, lit only by the reflection of the moon. In the distance, the palace lights twinkled, but here, far from aristocracy and titles, only two men remained — and a fight that would define them.

Daniel removed his shirt and let it fall on the wet sand. His chest, marked by years of work and clandestine fights, glistened with sweat. Across from him, the count did the same, revealing a leaner but equally sculpted physique from Daniel’s training and his own discipline.

Two young men from two worlds. Aristocracy and servers. Pure class struggle — but with punches. Nobles and servants. Two worlds colliding.

No words remained between them. The count smiled defiantly, raising his fists.

“Let’s do it. Now you will learn the lesson.”

Daniel snorted and adopted a lower stance, ready to attack.

“Hope you’re ready to bleed. This will be the final lesson, sir.”

And without further ado, the fight began. They clashed again with brutality. The blows spoke without mercy.

This time, the fight turned wilder.

The count used his speed to dodge Daniel’s punches, throwing precise attacks at his ribs and stomach, wearing him down little by little. But Daniel endured. He took every punch, every knee strike, waiting for his chance.

And when he saw it, he took it.

He dodged a blow and caught the count in a hold, twisting him around and throwing him hard against the ground. The sand flew when the noble fell on his back with a muffled gasp.

Daniel lunged at him, but the Count, showing he wasn’t just an aristocrat playing at fighting, drove an elbow into his nose, making him stagger back with a growl. Blood began to drip from Daniel’s face.

The noble stood up, swaying, with one eye swollen.

“Do you want to surrender yet?”

Daniel laughed, spitting out a tooth.

“Not in a million years.”

He charged again, and the clash was even fiercer.

They rolled to the riverbank, pushing, hitting without restraint. Daniel grabbed the count by the neck and dunked him for an instant in the icy water, but the noble, with unexpected strength, broke free with a headbutt and dragged him into the mud. They hit each other again, without brake, without control.

Broken knuckles, bloody faces. But neither gave up. 

The End of the Battle 

 And after what felt like hours of combat, both fell back onto the sand, too exhausted to go on. Their bodies ached, every muscle burned, every wound throbbed with the rhythm of their pounding hearts.

The Count spat blood and let out a rough laugh. 

“Damn, Daniel… you’re a beast.”

Daniel, with one eye nearly closed and his jaw numb, laughed too.

“Damn it… I thought I could beat you. But no…”

The Count took a deep breath, looking up at the night sky. 

“You tried. But neither could I. A draw? Fine.”

They lay there, panting, feeling the sand stuck to their bruised bodies, the sound of the river their only companion. Finally , the count extended a hand. Daniel looked at it for a moment before taking it firmly. They helped each other stand, staggering like two drunkards after a long night.

They were no longer master and servant, nor noble and stable boy.

They were friends. The count patted Daniel on the shoulder and smiled with his bloodied mouth.

“I suppose the best lesson was learning to see people for what they’re worth.”Daniel nodded, wiping blood from his face.

“In the end, only the ones who stand by you when you fall really matter.”

And without more words, they embraced with respect, bound by a friendship forged through blows and pain.

Together, they began to walk back, not caring about their wounds, not caring about the pain.

They knew that, whatever happened, they would always have each other.

By the Thames, the night felt alive.

The river ran dark and heavy, reflecting the moonlight on its restless waters. Beside it, on the cold, wet grass, the Count and Daniel lay exhausted, their bodies bruised, their clothes soaked with sweat, mud, and blood. The fight was over, a draw, but something still burned in the air between them.

Daniel spat on the ground and wiped his split lip with the back of his hand.

“Damn it…” he gasped with a broken laugh. “I thought you were going to kill me.”

The count, still lying on his back, let out a sigh and turned his face toward him, with a half-smile.

“And you, me. Though maybe I wanted you to stop me.”

Daniel frowned, turning his head to look at him.

“What the hell does that mean?”

The count looked away toward the river, swallowing hard. He seemed to hesitate, as if what he was about to say weighed too much. As if he had been holding it back for too long. 

Finally, without turning back to Daniel, he whispered:

“It means this wasn’t just a fight.”

Daniel felt a chill run down his spine.

The silence that followed was tense, thick as the fog over the water.

The count closed his eyes and let out a short, almost bitter laugh.

“I’ve always known who I am. What I must be. What’s expected of me. But you…” He turned slowly toward Daniel, his gaze shining in the dim light. “You’ve made me question everything.”

Daniel didn’t look away. He couldn’t. Because suddenly, he understood. He understood all the provocations, the fights, the glances that lasted a second too long.

He understood that this wasn’t just rivalry.

“Don’t mess with me, Count…” he muttered hoarsely.

The Count smiled, but there was more vulnerability than mockery in his expression.

“Tell me you didn’t feel it.”

Daniel swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling faster.

“I’m no damn noble,” he growled, as if that could be enough to break what was happening.

The count slowly propped himself up on one elbow, shortening the distance between them.

“I know.” His gaze dropped briefly to Daniel’s lips, then back up. “That’s why you’re the only one I can’t ignore.”

Daniel felt a heat spread through his skin. He didn’t know if it was anger, desire, or fear. Maybe all at once. And then, the Count leaned in just a little, not touching him, waiting.

Challenging him.

Daniel cursed softly, closed his eyes for a second, and then, without warning, grabbed him by the nape and hair, roughly, and kissed him.

It was a clash of fire and storm. 

The count’s lips were warm and urgent against his, hungry, as if he’d been waiting for this all his life. Daniel held him tightly, forcing him back onto the grass, and the Count didn’t resist. On the contrary, his hands clung to Daniel’s arms, as if he feared he might pull away too soon.

Their breaths mingled in short gasps as the kiss broke for a moment, only for Daniel to bite lightly on the Count’s lower lip before kissing him again, deeper, fiercer. The Count’s hands ran along his bare back, gliding over tense muscles and the scars of hard work. Daniel shivered when his lord’s fingers gripped his skin more firmly, as if trying to mark him.

“Damn…” Daniel muttered against his mouth.

The Count of Hereford smiled against his lips.

“Too much for you?”

Daniel growled and shoved him down roughly against the grass, holding his wrists.

“Shut up.”

But he couldn’t silence him. Not when the Count tilted his head and softly bit the line of his jaw. Not when their hips brushed, their hardened dicks made contact, the heat between them becoming unbearable. Now they fought again, naked but with something longer, more intense, and hotter. They grabbed each other's aroused members. It was the best masturbation in history. Pure bliss. They both reached a long, wonderful ejaculation. 

The moon was their only witness when the weight of all that had gone unsaid finally fell between them. When the blows turned into rough caresses, when anger gave way to something deeper, more dangerous.

Something real.

When they finally parted, still breathless, the Count ran his fingers along Daniel’s skin, looking at him with a mix of admiration and desire.

“I’m not a man who falls in love easily,” he whispered.

Daniel, his heart pounding, smiled faintly.

“I’m not a man who belongs to anyone.

The count held his gaze, certainty shining in his dark eyes.

“Then stay by my side. Not as my stable boy. Not as my rival. Just as yourself.”

Daniel didn’t answer right away.

But when dawn came, and they stood up, walking side by side, the silence between them was the only answer they needed.

The riverbank glowed faintly in the early morning light. The Thames ran calm now, reflecting the rising sun. The count and Daniel, still sore and bruised, walked slowly, side by side, sharing the quiet that only comes after battles — both in the ring and in the heart.

They knew that, whatever came next, they would always have each other.

THE END