The Thrill of the Chase, Pt. I
PAIRING: Harry x Reader RATING: M WORD COUNT: 3.6k REQUESTED: no
hi! it’s been a while since i’ve posted something on here lol, i wonder if anyone still remembers me 🤕
this is PART 1 of the hunter!AU that i’ve been writing. while the story is a patreon-exclusive, my patrons gave me permission to post the first chapter here on tumblr for anyone who’s curious about the kind of content i offer on patreon.
if you want to read the rest of this series and unlock access to my other exclusive work, you can sign up for my patreon here. and as always, please reblog the fics you like and leave feedback for the authors, because we pour a lot of time and effort into our stories. happy reading 💌
~*~
Harry’s life is simple.
He performs only the essentials—wakes up and eats an apple for breakfast. Drizzles some lemon juice into his flask of water to keep his teeth healthy and clean. Shrugs on a few heavy furs. Lets Magnus outside to keep him from howling and pawing at the door. Sharpens his arrows. Knocks on the threshold of the cabin once for good luck. Goes hunting.
Upon returning, he crouches next to the firepit, laying out his kills and skinning them. He cooks one for himself—something small, like a squirrel, or a rabbit. Others, he saves for the market—fox, deer, coyote, boar. The pelts, tusks, and antlers are extremely sought-after (particularly by nobles), and often earn enough coin to carry him through the rest of the week.
He doesn’t entertain visitors, because who in their right mind would trek up the side of a mountain just to seek out one lonely hunter? Despite that, he’s come to appreciate his solitude. The silence is familiar—comfortable. Besides, Magnus proves both excellent and useful company, if the sheer volume of their kills offers any indication.
A simple life for a simple man.
Harry doesn’t need anyone else.
“Ready to go, mutt?”
He scratches behind Magnus’ droopy ears. One of the hound’s hindlegs thumps frantically in response. Harry chuckles, slinging his bow over his right shoulder and pulling open the cabin door.
“Come on, then.”
The sky is a dark, cloudy grey, and the smell of oncoming rain is unmistakable. Still, the two of them persevere, ducking past the trees at the edge of the clearing.
It’s a bad day to hunt.
With the threat of a storm looming just above the canopy, the animals have forgone their typical foraging patterns in favour of taking shelter. Harry only manages to kill a rabbit, and even then, it’s a messy shot. He usually gets them right through the eye—a quick, neat splice that results in minimal suffering. This time, however, his foot slips on a damp stone; he fumbles, and the arrow buries itself into the creature’s stomach.
“Fuck.”
The rabbit is still alive when he reaches it, its furry body heaving with shaky, uneven breaths. Harry kneels down, apologising quietly. His hand finds the scabbard strapped to his waist, and he draws a silver dagger from its depths.
He slits the poor hare’s throat just as rain begins to fall.
It’s easy work, after that. He pins the animal’s fluffy forelimbs together, tying them in place with thick, coarse rope. Magnus whimpers as Harry slides the creature’s limp body over his shoulder. He shoots the hound a tired look and shakes his head. Damp brown curls stick to his temples.
“Think that’s enough for today.”
The two of them have nearly made it back home—Harry’s boots squelch as he jumps over the small creek that flows close to the clearing—when Magnus perks up, lifting his snout and sniffing the air.
“What is it, mutt?” Harry asks.
Magnus releases a loud bark and takes off in the direction of the cabin. Harry sprints after him, one hand clutching his game while the other wraps around the leather grip of his bow.
“Magnus!” he yells.
The dog skids to a stop next to the wide trunk of a tree. He barks again and wags his tail feverishly.
Harry releases his bow, approaching with slow, cautious steps.
“What’s got you so—shit.”
You’re slumped in the mud, unconscious. Harry’s gaze rakes over your form, from your tattered blue gown to the leaves and twigs tangled in your hair. There are a few cuts littered across your face, arms, and chest. Rivulets of blood trickle down your wrist, spiderwebbing across your skin.
Magnus sticks his tongue out and pants.
“Good boy,” Harry mutters, bestowing a rugged caress atop the hound’s head.
He gathers you into his arms, paying no mind to the extra weight of your sodden dress. Your neck lolls over his bicep, sternum rising and falling with shallow, barely-there breaths. Harry carries you out of the forest and into the clearing. When he kicks open the cabin door, your eyelids flutter.
“Bear?” you mumble, lifting your head slightly. Your voice is grating, hoarse.
He looks at you. Your face contorts for only a moment before you slouch back into oblivion.
He sets you down onto the thick, woven rug splayed out in front of the hearth. He works quickly, shrugging off his furs and his game and discarding all of it without a second thought. Rain thrums against the roof, but the sound is lost amidst his heavy footsteps.
He hurries into his bedroom and pulls open the top drawer of his wooden dresser, fumbling for a glass jar and a spool of bandages. When his fingers finally make contact with the desired supplies, he darts back into the other room and kneels beside your motionless body.
He draws his dagger again, gripping the intricate material of your gown and slicing through it. Your corset proves far more challenging, practically embedded into your skin. He sets his knife aside, not willing to risk it. Instead, he hooks his fingers beneath the top of the girdle, rough knuckles brushing against your soft bosom. With a mighty tug, the structured fabric splits under his palms.
He screws open the lid on the jar and dips his thumb inside. The salve is sticky, viscous, and smells faintly of lavender. He smears it across your scrapes before inspecting your wrist.
The flesh is slashed and bloodied—how did you acquire such an injury? Canines? Claws? Harry uses the frayed edges of your dress to clean the mess. He then unwinds a few bindings from their roll, expertly bandaging your wound.
Once he’s finished, he sits back on his haunches, expelling a stale breath. His work is far from over—he needs to wash you, to scrub off all the dirt and grime staining your skin. He’ll go down to the creek with a cloth, he thinks, and saturate it with cool water. He’ll pick the leaves and branches out of your hair, and cover you in spare furs to keep you warm. He’ll prepare a hot meal so that you may eat when you wake. You’ll be ravenous, certainly.
These thoughts whirl around in his head, along with the realisation that you might expire here, lying on an old rug in the middle of a stranger’s secluded home. Still, he watches your chest rise, swelling with proof of your vitality. The sight puts him at ease.
Harry aims a cursory glance over his shoulder. Magnus is stationed at the door, wet snout resting on the ground. The dog gazes at your limp body with big, solemn eyes, as though he somehow understands the severity of the situation.
“Don’t worry, mutt,” Harry tells him, knees shuffling against the floor. “I won’t let her die.”
~*~
Three days pass.
Harry curtails the duration of his hunts. He kills only the essentials: a hare or a squirrel, something small enough to cook over the fire. He has enough coin saved up from his previous trades to last him another few trips to the market.
Every morning, he prepares a simple, homely meal for you should you wake. When you do not, he eats the food in your place—he’ll be damned if it goes to waste.
On the fourth day, he carries a bowl of soup into his room. He’s expecting to see you tucked into his bed, still unconscious. Instead, you’re alert, sitting upright and studying your surroundings. The furs that previously covered your body now pool around your waist, exposing your naked chest. When you catch sight of Harry lingering in the doorway, you gasp, fumbling for the pelts and clutching them to your sternum.
“You’re up,” he says gruffly, stepping through the threshold.
You scramble back, eyes widening in fear. He pauses.
You’re afraid, he realises, tilting his head to the side. This may be more difficult than he initially thought.
“Soup,” he says slowly, holding out the small clay bowl in his hands. “You need to eat.”
“Who are you?” you ask. Your voice is patchy and frail. “Where am I?”
He sets the dish down onto his dresser before shooting you a stern, expectant look.
“Eat.”
Upon exiting the room, he strains his ears and listens carefully. The creak of a loose floorboard—you’ve climbed out of bed. The sound of nimble footsteps pattering across the ground—you’re moving toward the door. And finally, the quiet scrape of clay against wood, indicating that your hunger has prevailed.
He nods to himself.
You’re not dead. That’s a start.
~*~
That evening, Harry is perched next to the firepit outside the cabin. The orange sun crawls down the horizon, kissing the tops of the trees. He basks in the warmth, knowing that it will soon be eradicated by the cool chill of nightfall.
He fiddles with the spit poised above the flames. He caught another rabbit, today. The creature’s fur is laid out across the grass, scrubbed clean of blood. The rest of it cooks over the fire, darkening with each passing minute.
A faint creak reaches Harry’s ears. He perks up, glancing at the door.
You hover just beyond the threshold, leaning nervously against the strong wooden beams. Harry relaxes and turns back around. He uses a long stick to poke at the charred logs; the kindling pops, and a few embers float into the air.
“What are you doing?” Your inquiry is soft, shaky.
His reply is curt: “Dinner.”
You approach warily, bare feet treading through the grass. When you spot the hunk of meat roasting over the flames, a feeble gasp tumbles from your lips.
“That’s barbaric.”
Harry rubs his palms against his thighs. “That’s sustenance.”
He stands, and you retreat. His attention then falls to your torso. You’ve covered yourself with the furs from his room; they hang just past the swell of your bottom, rendering you exceptionally vulnerable. Goosebumps crop up on your bare thighs, visible in the golden light of the sunset.
He hums. “You need clothes.”
You look down at the ground.
“That would be nice,” you whisper at last.
He merely grunts in response.
You follow him back inside, albeit from a distance. He strolls into his bedroom, pausing in front of a large trunk shoved against the far wall. Twin latches click open, and he begins rifling through its contents. After a few moments of silence, he produces a pale linen shirt and a pair of dark leather trousers.
“Here,” he says.
He dumps the fabric into your arms. You huff in surprise, instinctively relinquishing your hold on the pelts covering your body. They fall to the floor in a heap, exposing every inch of your skin.
An embarrassed squeak echoes in the back of your throat. Harry averts his eyes, staring pointedly up at the ceiling.
“Put those on,” he murmurs.
You nod quickly, sidestepping his broad frame. Now that you’re no longer in his line of sight, he lowers his gaze. Part of him wonders if he should say something else, but he decides against it. His legs carry him forward, and he disappears through the door.
~*~
You emerge from the bedroom a short while later, smoothing your hands over your hair in an attempt to look a bit more presentable. Harry resists the urge to tell you that here, in the mountains, appearances are hardly significant. He doesn’t own a mirror—such luxuries can only be afforded by the rich.
His clothes are too big on you, but that was to be expected. You’ve rolled up the sleeves of his linen shirt and cuffed the brown leather trousers so that they cinch at your ankles. You’re anxious, incisors gnawing on your bottom lip and eyes darting around the clearing, like you’re waiting for a monster to burst forth from the bushes.
“Here.”
Harry cuts a sliver of meat from the cooked rabbit carcass resting on the spit. You sit down on a wide, round tree stump as he holds the food out in your direction.
At first, he thinks that you may vomit. Fortunately, though, he finds himself mistaken. After a long moment of deliberation, you accept the protein, bringing it up to your nose and sniffing it warily.
“It’s good,” he rasps, slicing off another strip for himself. “Rabbit—all white meat.”
He pops the piece into his mouth and chews. Slowly, you copy him, sighing happily as newfound flavour erupts over your tongue. You waste no time, then, impatiently shoving the rest of the meat into your mouth.
Harry’s lips twitch.
“Thank you,” you say after swallowing.
He simply nods. The two of you continue to eat in silence, grinding the remnants of supper between your teeth.
Eventually, your curiosity overwhelms you.
“What’s you name?” you ask, timid.
Harry sits back, wiping his dagger with the hem of his cotton shirt.
“Harry.”
“And how did you find me, Harry?”
A low chuckle resonates in the back of his throat.
“Wasn’t exactly hard. You were lying in a puddle of mud not far from here.”
Your lips part. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Three days.”
“Three days?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t remember any of it,” you say softly, playing with your fingers. You hesitate before elaborating: “But I—I remember seeing your face. I thought you were a bear.”
He recalls that day, how you lifted your head weakly and uttered the word before sinking back into unconsciousness. It led him to believe that you’d been attacked. Your side of the story, however, proves much more entertaining.
“Well,” he says, exhaling brusquely, “I’m not.”
You examine him with big, tender eyes. He shifts awkwardly under the intensity of your gaze.
“No,” you finally agree. “You’re not.”
He swallows and flips the conversation around.
“Who are you?”
You stiffen, caught off-guard.
“That is…hardly relevant.”
“Perhaps,” Harry says. “But it is fair.”
When you don’t reply, he continues.
“You’re a lady, aren’t you?” he guesses. “A duchess. Your gown was too pretty to have belonged to a commoner.”
“My gown?” You perk up at the mention of the dress. “Where is it?”
“Gone. I tore through it.”
You gasp. “Why on earth would you do that?”
“It was the only way to keep you alive,” he says simply. “Your corset was impeding your ability to breathe.”
“My corset…” you mutter, mostly to yourself. You grimace after registering the implications of his words, thoroughly scandalized. “So, you—you—?”
“Yes. I had to.”
“God,” you choke out, covering your mouth. “How dare you? You should have just—!”
“Let you die?”
His query successfully squashes your disapproval; your lips flatten into a thin line, and you say nothing else. Harry watches the creases in your forehead dwindle as you realise that he’s right. You fiddle with the collar of your shirt, turning to the side and regaining your composure.
“Thank you,” you finally murmur, trying to hide your face from his piercing stare, “for not letting me die.”
He grunts. “You’re welcome.”
Brief silence ensues. A light breeze blows through the clearing, tousling the curls atop Harry’s head. The gust is enough to extinguish the last few flames frolicking over the kindle, until glowing embers are all that remain.
“I am a lady,” you suddenly add, though you refuse to meet his eyes. “But not a duchess.”
Harry leans forward, prodding at the residual ash in the firepit.
“What were you doing in the woods?”
You tinker with the bandages wrapped around your injured wrist.
“I was to be wed,” you confess, peeking up at him. “But I—I could not bear to go through with it. One should not marry for duty, but rather—”
“For love?”
You pause at his intrusion, lips parted in surprise.
“Yes,” you breathe. “For love.”
Your gazes lock. He clears his throat, breaking the contact quickly.
“You ran away, then.”
It’s not a question. You nod, and he hums.
“What is it?” you ask, brows knitting together.
“Nothing. It’s just…I may find good fortune in this situation.”
“How so?”
He shrugs. “Any man with sense would carry you down this peak, deliver you back to your family, and collect a hefty reward.”
Though he’s not looking at you, he can tell that you’ve recoiled.
“Please don’t,” you whisper.
He examines your face in the periphery of his vision. Your eyes glisten with unshed tears.
Just then, Magnus races out of the cabin, his tail wagging eagerly behind him. He trots over to you, sniffing your shoulder and releasing a high-pitched whine. You use one hand to swipe hastily at your cheeks; the other migrates to his head, tickling his floppy ears.
Harry watches the interaction unfold, completely stunned.
“He—he likes you.”
You glance over at him, still wary of his previous threat.
“I suppose he does,” you say quietly.
Magnus paws at your thighs. You direct your attention back to the keen bloodhound, pressing a feathery kiss to the tip of his wet nose.
Harry blinks a few times, trying to pinpoint the reason for his mutt’s newfound behaviour. At first, he wonders if his eyes are simply playing tricks on his brain. Yet with each flutter of his lids, the sight before him only seems to solidify.
“He doesn’t usually take well to strangers,” he mumbles.
When you don’t respond, he clenches his jaw tightly. Countless thoughts zoom through his head, spinning like wheels, tangling like thread.
Any man with sense would carry you down this peak, deliver you back to your family, and collect a hefty reward.
Harry is not a sensible man.
~*~
The three of you retreat indoors when the last shards of sunlight fade from the sky. Magnus circles the large woven rug poised in front of the hearth. Eventually, he collapses onto the mat, his snout drooping over his front paws. You stretch your arms into the air and yawn gently.
Harry is the last one to enter the cabin; he shuts the door behind him.
“Thank you again for dinner,” you say lightly.
You spin around and nearly crash into the hard barrier of his chest. Reflexively, his hands fly up to grasp your biceps, steadying you. He peers down at your face in the darkness, his thoughtful gaze tracing the contours of your cheeks. Your eyes are wide, lips split apart as you suck in air.
“Sorry,” you say, frozen in place.
He only grunts, releasing your arms and stepping away.
Your attention lingers on him as he approaches a wide pile of furs stacked into the corner of the room. He’s been sleeping on the makeshift cot for the past three nights, and though his back is always sore the next morning, he has yet to find a better alternative.
“What are you…?” You hesitate, rethinking your question. “What is that?”
“My bed.”
“Do you…always sleep there?”
“No,” he rasps, lowering himself onto the thick pelts. “I prefer to sleep in my room.”
He shoots you a pointed look, and you frown when the realisation sinks in.
“We—we can switch,” you say, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. “I don’t want to impose.”
“No.”
“I insist.” You try again.
“As do I.”
You clamp your mouth shut, unsure of how to respond. Magnus has already dozed off—his soft snores filter through the heavy silence hanging over your heads.
“He’s lovely,” you suddenly say, referring to the quiescent hound. “Well-trained, too.”
“I won’t take credit for that,” Harry grumbles, rubbing his palms against his thighs. “He was a palace dog.”
You blink. “W-what?”
“A palace dog,” he repeats. “I found him alone in the woods after a hunt. His leg was broken—the guards left him there to die.”
“That’s awful.”
He hums in agreement.
“You took him in, then,” you say. When he nods, you add, “It seems that you have a knack for nursing others back to health.”
He doesn’t reply.
“The hunts—” you start, chewing nervously on your bottom lip. “Do they…occur frequently?”
“Why do you ask?” Harry says. His shoulders wobble with a hollow chuckle. “Are you afraid of being caught?”
You inhale sharply, and he realises that yes, you are.
“No,” he says, shaking his head. Subconsciously, his voice drops an octave, taking on a soothing quality. “They don’t come around often. And even if they did, I doubt that a single runaway lady would be of much concern.”
You blow out a relieved sigh, though the uneasy expression on your face never wanes.
“You’re probably right.”
A few hushed seconds draw out, during which neither of you speak. Your bare feet shuffle clumsily against the cold floor. You appear to be waiting for some sort of cue—a sound, a gesture, anything.
“Er—” Harry breaks the peace, cocking one eyebrow. “I sleep naked.”
“Oh.”
The exclamation is unbelievably breathless. Your throat bobs amidst a difficult swallow, and you totter back.
“Of course,” you stammer. “I’ll just—”
With a trembling hand, you motion toward the entrance of his bedroom.
He nods wordlessly.
“Right,” you mumble, retreating. “Goodnight, then…Bear.”
At that, he pauses. Your cheeks twitch with a feeble smile, but you don’t comment on the sweetness of the simple endearment.
Harry remains completely still as you scurry into his room. He sits there for a prolonged moment after the door shuts, trying to make sense of his thoughts. Your features have been stamped onto the backs of his eyelids, practically seared into the skin.
At last, warm air spills past his lips, and he allows himself to utter the low, relentless reply pulling at his tongue.
“Goodnight.”
