HennessyTheAuthor

In a dangerous world where warlords rule, monsters roam, and treachery lurks behind every corner, there exists a mercenary known only as Dude.

No title, no fancy lineage—just Dude.

Women whisper his name in hushed tones. Men either want to hire him or kill him. He’s a walking contradiction—deadly, yet lazy; cocky, yet irresistibly charming; a warrior with the strength of ten men but a habit of forgetting his own plans mid-fight. He never says no to coin, danger, or a damsel in distress. And somehow, no matter how insane the odds, he always pulls through with a smirk on his lips and a blade in his hand.

But it’s not just his swordplay that’s legendary.

After the dust settles, the women he saves find themselves drawn to him—whether it’s the thrill of survival, the heat of the moment, or just the way his rough hands feel against their skin. And when they give in to the tension, the passion that follows is nothing short of earth-shattering.

Tales Of A Swordsman

I knew I was in trouble the moment the tavern went silent.

Not the usual kind of silent, like when I break a table or flirt with someone's wife. This was sharper. Tighter. The kind of silence that walks in before a man does.

Yes, that's his name. Him. I don't know if it's an alias, a joke, or some cruel cosmic prank—but he carries it like a sword, sharp and smug. Perfect posture. Black gloves. A scent that probably cost more than my sword.

He wore black from boots to collarbone. Hair tied back, every move precise. He didn't speak. He didn't have to.

"Dude," he said finally, nodding at me like I was a mild inconvenience.

"Him," I replied, sipping my ale. "Still allergic to personality, I see."

The princesses entered not long after. Yes, princesses, plural—twins, radiant, and currently betrothed to rival kingdoms in a ploy for peace.

They were identical in looks, different in attitude. One was velvet and steel. The other was fire and wine.

The princesses, amused and clearly chaotic at heart, proposed a challenge.

"Escort us through the Ironwood," one said, her voice low and wicked.

"Without falling in love," added the other, eyes sparkling with trouble.

"Winner gets our favor," they finished in unison, like a curse wrapped in flirtation.

He packed maps, clean water, and contingency plans.

I packed charm, dice, and an extra flask.

He told riddles around the campfire, elegant and layered.

I juggled apples and lit one on fire. (Accidentally. Mostly.)

We crossed rivers, fended off wolves, camped under stars.

I moved like a man who made up the plan as he went.

One night, it rained. Hard. We took shelter in an abandoned watchtower.

Four bedrolls. Two blankets. One fire.

They huddled close. He offered silence and warmth.

I offered stories. And wine. And hands that knew when to linger.

We all pretended nothing was happening.

It happened in a ruined temple, full moon above, tension thick.

I kissed one princess. She gasped like she'd been waiting.

He kissed the other. She moaned like she regretted nothing.

And then—like a spell broken—we all crashed into each other.

A tangle of limbs and whispers and too many moans to count.

Him was gone before sunrise. Of course he was.

He left no note. Just a folded blanket and a single flower pressed into a page of his journal.

I stayed. Cooked breakfast badly. Burned the eggs.

We bathed in the river. Laughed about the night before.

They kissed me goodbye. Said they'd remember me.

They didn't say the same about Him.

And next time, I'll win more than just the bet.

Him Vs Dude