Short Story: The Warrior’s Heart

WARNING: This is NSFW! This story contains explicit sexual content between two men. If you are under the age of 18, or not particularly into gay erotica, this is not the story for you.

Hawthorne lost everything that night: his ship, his crew, nearly his life. Stranded and grieving on a tropical island, he encounters a lone warrior.

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, violence

(This is an M/M erotic romance. Approximately 5k words.)

© Sam Clover 2019-2021

All rights reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced or modified in any form without the sole, explicit permission of the author, and credit properly given. This story was originally published in 2019 on the free fiction archive ‘Archive of our Own’ under Sam Clover’s pseudonym ‘PlagueClover’. And on Wattpad under the pseudonym ‘CloverErotica’.

This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.


The Warrior’s Heart

A crack resounded through the ship.

Wood splintered beneath Hawthorne’s wrapped feet. He darted backwards with a shout, drowned out by cannon fire, just in time for the deck to split into a gaping chasm. 

He didn’t see it break. He was too busy lunging for the rail as chain shot ripped through the sails and rained splintered wood and chips of metal down on the screaming sailors below. The mast crashed down on the deck, narrowly avoiding Hawthorne as it carved the ship in half and dragged the screaming captain with it. A blanket of blazing canvas billowed down after it to smother half the crew.  

This was it. It was over. The thought struck him through the urge to keep fighting. There was no sense in it — what was left to fight for? 

The battle, the only family he’d ever known: all was lost. And if he honoured his oath to fight to the bitter end, his life as well. 

Hawthorne glanced back at the few survivors. Men were flinging themselves overboard to flee the catching flames. Not a swimmer among the sorry sods. They should’ve let him teach them when they had the chance. If they were lucky, they’d drown. The unfortunate would find something to float on and get scooped up by the blasted Navy. 

A brave and foolish few weren’t done fighting. They wanted to die on their own terms, did they? Stubborn and stupid terms. They threw their lines across the gap and, like desperate rats, scurried their way onto the Naval man-o-war.

Fuck em. As Hawthorne leapt from the rail, the volley of musket fire and the chorus of screams filled the air in his wake. He hit the icy water hard, and the roiling black waves swallowed him up. 

*****

Every muscle in his slender, battered body was sore. Hawthorne barely summoned the strength to crawl through the gentle surf, and once he collapsed on that cool, moonlit sand, he was there to stay. 

An eternity passed, washing and waning with the sea foam. He was not quite unconscious. Just lying there, trying not to fade away. Trying to breathe as he stared up at the glimpses of stars through the wispy clouds.

He didn’t want to think about all his brothers — not of blood, but of spirit and fire — and the gruesome fates that sent their wicked, wonderful souls plunging to the icy depths of Davy Jones’ locker. 

By the time he sat up, the man-o-war was but a dot on the cloudy horizon and all that remained of his home were a few bits of debris on the water, ever creeping towards the shore, and the faint taste of gunpowder that flavoured the tropical breeze. 

Movement prickled at his senses. Probably a hungry jaguar with his sodden luck. His gaze swept across the stretch of sand and surf for his weapon, but there wasn’t a single shred of metal to be found. His beautiful cutlass was probably sitting proud on a nice colourful coral bed somewhere out there in the bay. Naught but a few bits of wood and singed tangles of rope drifted in the shallow waters. 

With a resigned sigh, he climbed to his aching feet and pulled his damp, blond curls out of his face. He locked with a pair of dark eyes glinting from the treeline. His breath caught in his throat at the flash of rippling, broad muscle and a towering frame as a figure stepped out under the moonlight. In one hand, the stranger held a long, heavy spear. 

A warrior? Out there, on an island in the middle of the ocean? 

Hawthorne took an awkward step away. “Oh bloody hell,” he rasped to himself. But even as the threat of that spear loomed, the silence between them grew and his weary gaze drifted back to those muscles. 

The warrior narrowed his eyes and took a step closer. 

“I’m unarmed!” Hawthorne spread his arms. He let out something between a laugh and a sob and dropped them helplessly to his sides again. “There’s no victory for you here. Those French bastards took it.” He tossed a look out at the debris riding the waves and gulped back a swell of emotion. “Blast… Now look what you’ve made me do: I’ve damn well teared up, haven’t I? What a fearsome pirate I turned out to be.” 

The warrior peered steadily at Hawthorne, unblinking and quiet. 

Hawthorne shifted uncomfortably beneath both the gaze and his own lament, which he wore like an ill-fitted doublet: far too heavy and constricting for his wayward soul. He didn’t like it. He wanted to pull off the emotion and abandon it there in the water with the remains of his sea-faring life.

“Sod it. What good will blubbering do?” He grunted and tore off up the beach to the trees. “They’re gone and I’m not. If you aren’t here to murder me, my dear sir, I find myself in need of shelter and food, but first…” He trailed off and slowed as he looked back to that big, hulking shape trailing along after him. “… a weapon. Why are you following me?”

Under the moonlight, the warrior’s muscles shimmered when he moved. Every rippling inch beaded with sweat and reflected brief glimpses of stars until the shade of the trees rendered him nothing but a hulking shadow. 

“A scavenger, are you?” Hawthorne breathed a long-suffering sigh as he reluctantly tore his eyes away. “Very well. At least have the decency to let me drop dead of natural causes before you pick my bones.”

He climbed through the undergrowth at a meticulous pace. He was nimble enough, but his wrapped feet were meant for climbing rigging. Out here in the jungle, that cloth wrapped around them would be pitiful protection against the fangs and thorns that lurked in the dark. 

Something screeched. He jerked to a stop and shot his wide eyes skyward.

A hand touched his shoulder. He jumped and whirled around, but that hulking shadow was right there. Close. The comforting, familiar scent of sweat flavoured the surrounding air, and then in a deep, satiny voice, the warrior said, “Manuki.”

It was one word, but somehow the sound of it — the deep, flowing timbre of that voice soothed the tension in Hawthorne’s shoulders. He let out a low breath and nodded. “Yes, right… Whatever that means.” 

For a moment he hovered there, hyperaware of the noises around them. Being so close to that warrior, so wrapped up in that emanating body heat, he almost felt safe. 

“Devil take me,” Hawthorne cursed as he abruptly pulled away. “I must have swallowed too much sea water. You’re probably not even real. What kinda warrior wanders around at night alone? Where’s your tribe, muscle man? Your people?” 

He didn’t wait for an answer. Things brushed across his battered arms and face as he picked his way through the trees. It briefly occurred to him that if he were smart, he would have waited on that beach until dawn, but the idea of sitting there, as the bodies of his brethren washed ashore… 

No.

He took a few more determined steps, only to stumble over something in the dark. He cursed under his breath. “I need fire,” he hissed, as if the jungle would obey. 

The sound of stones being struck stole his attention. Small bursts of sparks lit the shadows with each strike until eventually, a tiny flame bloomed to life in the warrior’s hands. The warrior’s dark eyes reflected the fire. He glanced at Hawthorne for just a moment and then turned and let the flames catch on a black cloth wrapped around the upturned base of his spear.

“You understand me,” Hawthorne said, but uncertainty edged his voice. 

He cast his gaze around at the growing shadows. At first every inch of that jungle was indistinguishable from the next: Shapes covered in moss, twisted branches, and weeping vines in all directions. But as the fire grew, something stood out. Rocks. A brick-like pattern of rocks. A wall.

He furrowed his brows and crept closer.

Sure enough, there, in the overgrown thicket, was a stone wall. Not a cliff. Not just some rocky outcrop, an actual wall that towered high, halfway up the surrounding trees. The stones were uniform and streaked with what might’ve been engraved symbols once upon a time, but were so weather-beaten, chipped, and covered in ivy, any meaning would be impossible to decipher.

Hawthorne reached out to touch it.

“No.” The warrior gripped his shoulder. 

He glanced back into those dark, fiery eyes. No warning shone in them. No threat. Just a gentle command softened by the knit of his brow. Apparently he had a lot to learn about pirates and how well they took commands.

“So you do speak English,” Hawthorne murmured. His gaze drifted down over that muscular frame to watch the reflection of the fire dancing in the sheen of sweat. “Is this a tomb or something?”

“Rest,” the warrior answered in a grunt. 

Another command. Hawthorne huffed a weary laugh. He offered a wide shrug and tossed a look around at the mossy stones. “Here? You’re lucky I’m tired, or I’d make you eat that word.” 

“Rest,” the warrior grunted again. This time he emphasized it by untying his loincloth. 

“Hold it!” Hawthorne darted in and grabbed the loincloth to stop him. “What the devil are you doing? Keep that on!” 

“Rest.”

“I know out here, your sense of propriety is limited, my primitive friend,” Hawthorne hissed, “but I can see more than enough of you already. I don’t need to see…” Oh, but he could feel it. The weight of it as he desperately held that loincloth up. The fire dancing in those eyes certainly wasn’t helping, as the warrior gazed curiously at him with the faintest hint of amusement. 

The warrior gently tried to tug the cloth from Hawthorne’s grip, but he damn well would not let go. As if it wasn’t bad enough, with that scent of sweat and reminders of his wounded mortality still so fresh in his mind’s eye, but now he felt a heat in the air between them growing more charged by the second. 

He hadn’t the strength nor the will to trust himself. 

The warrior muttered something and tried to tug a little harder, but Hawthorne would not give up that easily. 

They wrestled over it, tugging back and forth, glaring into each other’s eyes. Then the warrior abruptly let go when Hawthorne was mid-tug. It launched him backwards with a shriek. A hand shot out to catch him by the arm before he could fall, but there, in his clenched fist, hung a long strip of cloth. And there it dangled, that thick piece of flesh, between the dark, muscles legs. 

Hawthorne quickly averted his eyes as a flare of sinful heat welled up inside. 

All these years he had worked alongside dozens of sweaty, muscled sailors, from the merchant fleets to the pirate ships, and he resisted every charming fucker among them. Even as he heard his brethren stealing away moments in the dead of night, panting away in the shadows of bonfires.

But this felt different. So far from everything he knew: civilization, law, reputation, propriety, or what served in its place among rogues. 

He sucked in a shuddery breath. He dropped the cloth and shuffled a few steps away. Perhaps a bit of distance and time would remedy the needy warmth that blossomed in his belly. When he could feel the heat moving around behind him, he chanced a glance back to find the warrior unfolding and laying the loin cloth across a fallen, mossy log. 

The warrior gestured to it and gently urged, “rest.” 

Hawthorne didn’t argue. He had lost enough battles that night.

*****

A sharp sting ripped Hawthorne from a dreamless sleep. He jerked up and found a big ant sitting on his arm that he promptly flicked off and rubbed at the stinging red welt on his arm as he dragged his weary bones off the log.

Felt like he had bugs crawling all over him. Probably did. Who knew what sorts of creepy crawlies infested that stagnant, rotted paradise? 

The fire had died, but faint morning light filtered through the dense canopy, casting the mossy jungle around him in washed-out greys. At first he thought he was alone. Maybe that warrior was a hallucination after all, but there was still that loin cloth on that log, and a moment later, he heard a soft snoring sound. 

He spotted the darkened shape slumped against a tree. He took a moment to watch, long enough to see the steady rise and fall of the shoulders. 

Fast asleep. Good. 

It felt as golden an opportunity as he was going to get. An escape was in order, both to put distance between his wicked heart and the temptation of the muscled flesh, and to investigate the wall he was so kindly forbidden from investigating. 

It was due time for his luck to turn around. 

The possibilities boggled the mind. All the things a wall like that could be built to protect. It could be a temple, it could be a tomb, it could be the lost city of blasted Atlantis, but either way, it smelled like a prize ripe for the picking. Perhaps something he could use to buy himself a ship when he made it back to civilization. He’d gather his own crew of men who knew how to retreat when a battle was lost. 

And he’d teach the wretched lot of them to bloody well swim! 

He looked at the stone wall. He even tried on a greedy smile, but the echoes of his fallen comrades stole it from his lips. As the threat of his growing lament tightened at his chest, he forced his friends from his mind and thought about the bastards he’d gladly run through to avenge them. 

It was a short trek through the trees, but far enough that the sounds changed. The distant songs of birds and beasts from a few paces back now were drowned out by the noisy rush of water. So close, he slowed down for fear he may trip and stumble over a waterfall at any moment. 

Instead, he found the way in. 

A huge, crumbling archway. It glittered gold in the faint morning light, and beyond it lay a long corridor, lined with fountains of flowing springwater. The walls of which were broken in some places. A good couple inches of water covered the floor, feeding nutrients to the creeping vines and colourful mushrooms sprouting from the moss-covered tiles. 

Quite pretty, as far as shadowy ruins go. 

Hawthorne strode carefully through. Tadpoles and little fish darted away from every step. Spiders skated across the water’s surface, and glimpses of rodent tails disappeared into cracks in the walls. Everywhere he looked, there was life. 

It was good to see something flourish when he felt so defeated. 

If it wasn’t so humid in there, such that it took effort to breathe, he might’ve set up camp. Commune with the fishes, maybe lick a few of those mushrooms and see if he couldn’t conjure himself a spiritual experience as he whiled away the time waiting for a ship to pass.

He came to another archway. This one small and narrow, but on the other side, morning sunlight flooded a small room through holes in the ceiling. In the middle sat a pedestal with a display of colourful seashells, carvings, and most importantly: gold. 

A good dozen glinting, golden idols. 

Hawthorne’s stomach quivered. Could practically feel his heart skip a beat. He shuffled into the room, out of the water and onto clean, cracked tile. The air was clearer in there. Good thing, because boy he was breathing heavy just thinking of what those idols might’ve been worth. 

He gently plucked one up into his hands. It was heavy. Solid. He wondered if it was gold all the way through. Perhaps he could melt one of them down, just to be sure. 

His gaze flitted about the shells and carvings, hungry for more potential, for more promise of a luxurious future. Hell, he didn’t need to buy a ship or train a crew, he could buy himself a bleedin’ palace. 

Then he looked at the walls. They were lined with beds of grass covered in freshly tanned animal hides. There were old, faded symbols, crumbling and cracked, but freshly painted over with new, detailed scenes.

The first was a group of people, painted with black. The second was a ship. Much like his own, but bigger, with three masts and little white shapes on the deck. The third was a battle between the white and the black, and the last image was just a lone figure standing sullen in a sea of bodies splashed with red. 

It didn’t take him long for the meaning of it to sink it. For him to recognize that lone figure standing amongst the bodies with a spear in hand.

Hawthorne’s shoulders sagged. His eyes dropped to the idol in his hands and for the first time, he actually looked at it. Really looked at it.

It was a carving of a young girl in a grass skirt. She had a smile on her face and her hips curved out to one side like she was dancing. He could see the marks from the tools, still fresh. He looked to another one. A hunter proudly displaying a fish. Another was an old woman with her arms wrapped around a dog.

They were all memories. That blasted sweet bastard’s happy memories. 

Hawthorne let out a laugh. It cracked with emotion and swelled into a sob in his throat. He clapped a hand over his mouth as he stared down at the figures and fought back the tears that stung in the corners of his eyes. 

A quiet splash came behind him. 

He glanced back to see the warrior standing there in the archway, all big and frustratingly calm and silent. He didn’t look angry that Hawthorne was manhandling his memories. He just watched. 

“Damnation.” Hawthorne ducked his head away and wiped at his eyes. “They’re dead, aren’t they?” 

He tried to laugh again, but that made his weeping worse. It was so stupid. He’d seen so many people die, he should’ve been used to it, but he just couldn’t stop those blasted tears. 

His knees grew weak. He wanted to sink down to the floor — just standing upright suddenly felt like such a pointless chore — but that massive body appeared beside him. An arm wove around his back and with a wretched sob, he sunk in against that solid chest. 

He pressed his forehead to the warrior’s shoulder and allowed that body heat to envelope him.  

The air was hot enough, but he liked the feeling of it: of those muscles wrapped around his weakened shoulders, the steady drumming of that heartbeat against his forehead, the rise and fall of the warrior’s soothing breath. Hawthorne found himself breathing along with him. Long. Deep. 

And before he knew it, the urge to sob had passed. 

He looked up into those quiet, dark eyes. The warrior gently brushed the sweat-stiffened curls out of Hawthorne’s face.

Hawthorne cracked a sad grin. “Dear God.” He let out a tired laugh and pulled away with a chiding, pointed finger. “You, sir, are treating me like a lady.”

The warrior followed. 

“I assure you,” Hawthorne’s voice grew breathier as the intent in those gentle eyes burned stronger with every step they took, “My nature is not as fair and flower-scented as a touch like that deserves. I’d…” He swallowed as his gaze darted down to that loin cloth. “I’d offer to show you, but I fear you might take me up on—” 

His heel hit something. Hawthorne yelped and flailed his arms. He was just about to fall back when that thick arm caught him around his waist. He shot a quick glare up at that dark, watchful gaze. 

“Oh,” Hawthorne let out a frustrated growl, “to Hell with you and your beautiful fucking eyes.” Then he grabbed the warrior by his head and captured his lips in a breathless kiss. 

The warrior grunted in surprise, but didn’t pull away. Instead, he gripped Hawthorne’s sides and pressed in closer. The kiss lasted only a moment before they broke away to pant into the air between them and lock eyes. 

It didn’t feel real. Hawthorne tried to blame the sea water for this sin, but as a tingle rippled across his flesh and every inch those hands touched burned with need, he found himself well past caring. He could have died a thousand times in a thousand different ways, and could yet still. 

What was the blasted point of holding back? All he had left to cling to was this: this moment, this taste of a warrior on his tongue.

He coiled his arms over those massive shoulders. The warrior murmured to him, words he didn’t care to make sense of, he just leaned into that deep voice, feeling the purr against his lips, until those they pressed together. This time, slow. Indulgent. A fiery tongue delved deep into his mouth, tasting vaguely of plantains and lime. 

He stumbled to the ground and landed on his back in the hide-covered bed of grass. The warrior straddled his hips. Their eyes locked for just a moment before the warrior dipped down and Hawthorne craned up to mash their hungry lips together. As that sweet tongue swirled with his, diligent fingers made quick work of the buttons on Hawthorne’s threadbare shirt and tugged his slops down his pale, battered legs.

The warrior pressed his lips to Hawthorne’s thigh. It tickled. Made his breath hitch just a little. And as those lips traveled down, the tingle lingered in their wake. The warrior’s tongue tickled his knee as his breeches slipped the rest of the way off, and then those calloused fingers gingerly unwound the wraps from his feet. 

“Oh,” Hawthorne let out a shivery exhale. “Please… Say something. I feel dreadfully exposed.”

As that wandering tongue ran slowly up the arch of his foot, those dark eyes swept up his naked body, over his legs, his hips, his belly, lingering there for just a moment before they completed their indulgent journey to his eyes. 

Ete aulelei,” the warrior murmured. 

Hawthorne didn’t know what that meant, but damn, he liked the sound of it. Liked the feel of that breath on his foot. Liked those soft lips as they pressed fleeting butterfly kisses up to his ankle. It made him squirm. It made his breath shallow, and when the warrior moved up again, Hawthorne curled his legs over those glistening shoulders. 

“Keep talking,” He panted. 

Ete—”

“English,” Hawthorne breathlessly commanded.

The warrior ran his tongue up the inner thigh. A shiver rode Hawthorne’s breath. The small of his back twinged almost painfully with anticipation the further up it went. He gripped the thick black hair just as that wayward, wicked tongue reached the tip of his cock.

“Oh god,” Hawthorne gasped. “Your name! At least tell me that much!”

Instead, those dark eyes closed, and the warrior sucked his swelling lust into his mouth. 

Heat surged through him. His back arched with the unbearable twinge and he curled his fingers tight against the warrior’s scalp. He felt that first, coaxing suck all the way through his limbs to his fingertips, and every breath he took trembled with approval. 

That fiery tongue swelled over his balls. The warrior abandoned his bright red erection to suck in the tightening skin of his sack. It was slow and gentle, but the moan that escaped Hawthorne’s lips was not. He twisted in that bed. The harder the warrior sucked, the more Hawthorne squirmed against the hide. 

Then the tongue lapped at the flesh below. 

His body quaked. He’d felt nothing like it. Pulsing flashes of hot and cold chased after that tongue as it advanced lower and lower. It lashed at his sensitive muscle. His legs twitched with a sharp pang and he let out a squeak. And when it delved in, the ripple of hot bliss made his body melt. 

The warrior came back up to watch Hawthorne writhe. He ran his calloused fingers up Hawthorne’s shaft and rubbed his thumb over the head. That steady, heated gaze locked with his as those soft lips pressed tenderly to the side of his cock. He murmured something against it, too quiet to make out, but the vibrations made Hawthorne purr. 

He gave it one last slow, indulgent suck, then he started moving up. He licked and sucked at the flesh around Hawthorne’s belly. His fingers travelled in the wet, cooling wake like he was trying to map every inch in excruciating detail. His teeth gently grazed a hardened nub and the chill that it sent racing down Hawthorne’s spine was nothing short of intoxicating. 

He pulled away. 

Hawthorne panted in protest. “Wait…” Every word was a struggle not to moan. “What are you doing? I’m not done.”

“No,” the warrior gently said, like he meant it to be calming. He got up and paced out of the room. 

Hawthorne swallowed awkwardly. He stared at the ceiling for a moment. What in blazes was he supposed to do now, supine and exposed to the heavens. 

He was just about to sit up when the warrior reappeared with his cock out and the thick leaf of a plant in his hand, cracked open. He slathered the clear insides over his erection until it dripped, then he climbed back onto the bed of grass and hide. He slipped his fingers into Hawthorne’s curls and pressed a tender, sucking kiss to his neck with a whispered promise. 

“This is happening,” Hawthorne whispered back as their lips brushed together, “isn’t it?”

The warrior eased in between his legs. 

“You won’t tell anyone about this, I trust…” It was meant to be a joke, but it did nothing to stop Hawthorne from trembling. 

Something pressed in. He sucked in a sharp breath, expecting pain, but it was smaller than he thought it would be. It took him a long moment through the slow, lingering kisses to his jaw and throat, to realize it was just fingers sliding deep inside.

They curled and stretched at him. They tickled at parts of him he’d never felt before. Made his muscles clench in encouraging pulses. He licked his lips and let his head fall back as his body slowly relaxed. As soon as his hips rocked into it, the fingers slipped out and left him feeling woefully empty for just a second before he felt the real thing press in.

Slick and cool. His legs curled at the pressure of it. A deep moan rolled from his throat. As the warrior whispered sweet-sounding words in his ear, he wrapped his arms around those broad shoulders and claimed those sinful lips to suck at that tart flavour while it filled him more and more. 

“Yes,” Hawthorne breathed.

The warrior ran his heated tongue up Hawthorne’s chin to suck his bottom lip into his mouth. He rocked. Slow and deep. 

At first, every move was met with a vaguely painful, unpracticed pang, but every time he grunted his discomfort, those warrior hips slowed further. That tongue stroked his and long, calloused fingers wrapped around his cooling erection to stoke that swelling heat. And soon, that pain washed away in slow, lingering waves of bliss. 

His breath came shallower. His thoughts melted away, and the erotic sounds spilling from his lips ceased to form words. He curled his fingers into the warrior’s hair. He held him tight as those soft lips played over his cheekbone. As their hips rocked faster, the fingers dancing over his cock did the same. 

He wrapped his legs high around the warrior’s waist. It went deeper and deeper with every thrust, faster and faster until he could feel each impact all the way up his spine. 

Hawthorne let out a loud moan as his body shuddered. His fingers raked across the back of the warrior’s glistening shoulders and his toes curled. He could feel it, that hard ball of heat teetering on the edge, begging for release. He clenched his legs so hard they cramped. 

The warrior growled. He thrust in all the way to the hilt. His burning eyes washed down over Hawthorne’s face one last time before rolling back into his head. His growl cracked into a howl. That broad, muscled body throbbed hard against him and a rush of wet heat erupted deep inside. 

The warrior twitched and grunted, but Hawthorne wasn’t done. He needed to move. He needed that friction, that thrusting. When the warrior pulled out, he was about to protest, but instead of pulling away, those soft lips pressed briefly to his, then dipped down. 

All the way down. 

A hand gripped the back of his thigh. Those lips wrapped around his cock and with a powerful suck, Hawthorne’s entire body flared with approval. He gasped in the humid, grass-scented air. He grabbed fistfuls of that thick hair and thrust into that tight mouth until that hard ball of swelling heat buried deep between his legs overcame him. 

His back arched. He let out a cry. The heat burst from him as his muscles seized. He quaked with every hot spurt, and the warrior drank his sin down with abandon. 

Then he dropped. Slacken and panting in the hide on the grass. He stared up at the crumbling ceiling, at the clear blue sky through the holes. He was afraid to look down. To meet those dark eyes. But as that broad, muscled body gently laid alongside him, and he felt those soft lips brushing over his shoulder, he chanced a sheepish glance. 

But that face did not look like the devil leading him to temptation. It looked loving and calm. 

Guilt furrowed at Hawthorne’s brow. “I liked it… A lot, but… This was wrong,” he whispered. 

“No,” the warrior whispered back. His big, calloused hands ran gently up Hawthorne’s belly. Then he pulled their bodies close together, pressed his lips tenderly to the side of Hawthorne’s jaw, and let out a long, relaxing breath. 

As Hawthorne felt the steady heartbeat against his side, and let the rhythm of that breath guide his own, soon the guilty feeling passed. 

The End.


Author’s Note: The Warrior’s Heart was originally published on my Wattpad account a couple years ago. It can still be found there under the pen name “CloverErotica”. It was written as a gift for a friend who wanted something sweet with erotic body worship. If you enjoyed this story, consider buying my debut book: Cold Snap, and/or buying me a coffee to show your support. Happy Valentine’s Day!

More Short Stories:


Sam Clover is an author of M/M speculative fiction. Though she dabbles in a variety of genres, dark themes always find ways to permeate her work. She is a prairie girl from east of the Canadian Rockies, and a proud member of the LGBTQ+ community. Her debut book “Cold Snap” was released by Ninestar Press in December of 2020.


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