“We were like gods at the dawning of the world, & our joy was so bright we could see nothing else but the other.” - Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles
HI! If you have a tag list, can you add me so that i can get notified when the next part of viking harry is out? IM SO INTRIGUED!!! like what’s Lady Saga’s job and what it Harry’s motive IM SO EXCITED!
Hiiii!
Thank you so much, that's so lovely to hear! I don't have a taglist, but I have just posted the second part. Please let me know what you think!
Prompt: Harry is a Viking, and invades Y/N's land.
There is a man sleeping on a hill.
A soldier, his mouth open, his hands joined over his chest. He is laid down on the grass, blue and white wildflowers surrounding him, under the shadow of an oak tree.
The man is familiar, yet Y/N does not know his name. She tries to approach, and sees then that she has no body. No feet to carry her forward, no mouth to call out. She has only her eyes to watch.
She sees three shadows darken the sky from the north. As they get closer, she recognizes them as crows, with eyes as red as rubies. The crows land on the sleeping man, one by his feet, one on his stomach, the other above his head.
A woman screams. It is not Y/N, though she wants to as the crows start picking at the sleeping soldier. They tear into his body, feasting on his flesh, and with each mouthful they grow larger.
The man does not wake.
The man does not wake, because as his eyelids are torn off, maggots start crawling out of the rotten sockets.
The man does not wake, because he was dead all along.
-----
Y/N swallowed a scream as she jolted awake, eyes wide open in the fading darkness of her bedroom. She ran a hand over her face, expecting to feel maggots crawling over her skin.
She had arrived in Kaldagr over a month ago, and every night, she had the same dream. The three crows, the sleeping man who was not truly sleeping, the screaming woman. Always the same.
She sat up, shivering as the furs slid from her shoulders. From the gaps in the shutters of her window, she could see the sun was only just rising, the sky a pallid pink with golden hues. People were already up and about, faint echoes of conversations between friends and neighbours reaching her ears.
Y/N did not bother trying to fall back asleep, and got herself dressed. First, she put on a simple but thick linen underdress covering her from her wrist to her ankles. Over it, she slid on a red wool dress held up by straps over her shoulders. The straps were closed by two gold brooches of fine make, rubies embedded at the centre. She tied leather boots over her feet and carefully brushed her hair, tying it at the back of her head with a bone pin.
She’d gotten used to the clothing and jewellery quickly, marvelling each day at how more freeing they were than the stifling fashion of Lothian. Even sitting had been difficult in her old corsets.
Y/N left her bedroom and walked to the main hall. The fire was low, the doors to the city beyond still shut. They would open soon, welcoming the people of Kaldagr to the halls of their lord, and the warm stew that simmered above the firepit.
Y/N helped herself to a bowl and sat down on one of the many benches, watching the servants come and go as they prepared for the day ahead.
She was halfway through the stew when a heavy weight dropped onto the bench next to her. She tensed, biting back a curse as she glanced to her right.
Harry was sitting next to her, hair still mussed from sleep, eyes bleary and unfocused. He wore simple linen pants, a tunic that was still untied at his neck and a pillow line on his right cheek. He looked like a peasant.
“Hello,” he said, elongating each syllable like they were individual words. His gaze darted from her face to the table, a gentle smile on his lips.
A few seconds of silence passed, before Y/N bit out her own greeting. “You’re awake early,” she continued, her tone sullen. “Snemma. Early.”
“Já,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “No sleep.”
She raised an eyebrow at the lie. She might have believed him, had he not joined her for breakfast every single day since she’d first arrived at Kaldagr. Uninvited.
She’d tried waking up late, tried waking up early. She’d tried to eat elsewhere even, but no matter the time and place, he always found her. Often, he looked dishevelled and she knew that he had just woken up. He must have ordered the servants to warn him as soon as she left her room.
“Good?” he said, pointing to her half-finished bowl.
“Yes,” she answered, gritting her teeth. “It’s excellent.”
He repeated her words under his breath, a frown between his brows as he struggled with the pronunciation.
“Not like that,” she said, cutting him off. “EX-cellent. X.”
“Excellent,” he tried and she nodded. He smiled, his green eyes shining with pride. He looked years younger then, like a boy who’d never known any struggles.
Those language lessons, if one could call them that, happened every breakfast as well. He was always the one who engaged with her first, asking about the weather, commenting on her clothing or telling her about his plans for the day. The conversations were stilted, partly due to Y/N’s own reluctance, partly due to the language barrier.
He seemed intent on tearing that last obstacle down. From the very first day, he’d asked for translations, butchering countless words until she lost patience and corrected him. And he was always so happy when he got it right.
“Do you,” Harry began, then hesitated. “Dream? Good?”
“That’s the word,” she replied. He asked often, whether she’d slept well, when she’d woken up. If she’d had good dreams.
She hadn’t told him about her nightmare. It was a weakness, one she wasn’t ready to show him. Not when she still did not know what her purpose was in Kaldagr.
She was not a good enough liar to pretend her dreams had been pleasant, so she swallowed the last mouthfuls of her stew and stood, stepping over the bench.
“Thank you for the meal,” she said and turned before he could reply. She felt the weight of his eyes on her back all the way to the doors, and breathed only when she had stepped through and she was out of his sight.
As she walked onto the street, the wind bit at her skin and she cursed her lack of foresight. Her cloak, or rather Harry’s, was neatly hung in her bedroom.
She would rather crawl on broken glass than go back to get it when he would inevitably see her, so she soldiered on and kept walking. She passed Erp Ketilbiornsson, the woodworker and his son Ulfar the Bold. She walked by Runa Ospakdottir, the seamstress, selling coats in front of her shop. Little Arnora Torfidottir ran by her, chased by her mother Hildirid.
She’d been introduced to them all in the past four weeks. Often by Harry, who seemed to take heart in making sure every single one of his subjects knew who she was. Sometimes, it was Robben who liked to take walks while he taught her the northerners’ language. Or Saga, who had turned out to be a better friend than she’d expected.
Y/N nodded at Erp and his son, smiled at Runa and Arnora and Hildirid. They nodded and smiled back. Then promptly turned their eyes away. She could hardly blame them for their lack of trust. She certainly didn’t trust any of them.
Y/N kept walking, until she reached the market at last. Every morning, fishermen holed out the night’s haul onto stalls until the smell of fish reached the farthest corner of the city. They were joined by farmers who’d travelled for days to sell their harvest, by foreign merchants with bags full of colourful spices and strange trinkets, by women who sold nothing but their bodies, by missionaries, musicians, artists!
Robben was teaching her the vikings’ language from books and lessons, but the market was where she learned the most.
It was perhaps the only place where she did not draw glances. The only place where she was just another body in the crowd, utterly unremarkable.
Except for those who knew to look for her.
“I should have guessed I’d find you here.”
Saga seemed to appear out of nowhere, which was a wonder considering she towered over everyone else. She wore her fighting leathers, as always, the handle of her axe peaking over her left shoulder.
Y/N smiled, pushing through the crowd until she stood in front of the warrior.
Befriending Saga had been a surprise. But from the very first day of Y/N’s new life at Kaldagr, Saga had made it a point to seek her out. Y/N had welcomed it: just to know someone who spoke her language was a gift of immeasurable measure. Robben was kind, helpful, but always maintained a distance. Saga did not. Saga sat with her at meals, took her out to the city, helped Y/N do her hair when the complicated viking braids proved too much for her. Despite what her appearance might suggest, Saga was kind. Gentle, even. And Y/N loved her for it.
“Good morning,” Y/N said. “I thought you would be at the training grounds today.”
“The men deserve a break after the beating I gave them yesterday.”
Y/N laughed, linking her arm through Saga’s. “If only we’d had warriors like you in Lothian! Harry would have run back to his ships with his tail between his legs.”
“Don’t go saying that to him,” warned Saga, her tone stern. “Men have fragile egos, and to insult a jarl’s skills in battle is a good way to get executed.”
“He wouldn’t,” Y/N shrugged. “He needs me alive, though I still don’t know what for.”
“He hasn’t told you?”
Y/N shook her head.
“I’ve tried to ask, but we can barely understand each other.”
Saga scoffed. “That’s an excuse if I’ve ever heard one. Your Norse is better than you believe.”
“It’s not! I’ve been here for four weeks. That’s hardly long enough to master any language, let alone the monstrous complexity that is yours.”
“Robben says you’re a natural. You’re picking it up faster than any scholar. It’s not skill you’re lacking, it’s confidence.”
Y/N’s cheeks burned as she avoided Saga’s cold blue eyes. “Perhaps,” she admitted.
Saga was kind enough to drop the subject. She guided them through the market, stopping at a stall here and there until they reached the blacksmith’s stand. Weapons were laid on the wooden table, swords, axes, spears and daggers. Torsten Øpirsson stood behind the stand, his arms crossed over his chest.
Saga switched to Norse as she began talking to him, something about her axe needing sharpening, and Y/N took a closer look at the blades until one caught her eye. It was small and thin, looking more like a letter opener than a dagger. The handle was wrapped in black leather, the brass pommel engraved with delicate runes. The blade itself had been carefully polished, and it shone in the light of the morning sun.
Y/N reached a hand out, her fingers brushing the metal.
“Nei!” shouted Torsten, his eyes darkening with rage.
Y/N startled, drawing her arm back as Saga instantly stepped in front of her and snapped at the blacksmith. They spoke too fast for Y/N to understand much beyond the words ‘foreigner’ and ‘shame’.
“What is it?” asked Y/N. “What did I do?”
“Nothing,” scowled Saga. “You’ve done no wrong. Torsten is just being a fool.”
Saga took her arm and pushed her away from the stall, through the crowd. Y/N glanced back, only to see the blacksmith look at her with pure hatred.
“I don’t understand.”
Saga sighed. “His brother died in Lothian.”
A weight sunk in Y/N’s stomach. She stopped, ignoring the complaints of the people who had to divert their paths.
“Northerners died in Lothian?”
“Three,” Saga answered. “Svala and Bera died in battle honourably. They are now in Valhalla, feasting with the gods. But Torsten’s brother Gunnar…”
“What?”
“Harry wouldn’t want you to know this, Y/N.”
“I don’t care what Harry wants. What happened to Gunnar?”
“He tried to rape a Saxxon woman. Harry killed him.”
The world shifted on its axis. The idea of Harry killing one of his own to save a woman he didn’t know, one from an enemy land, was hard to fathom.
“Gunnar should have known better,” Saga continued. “Harry has always made the rules clear. We do not kill unless threatened. We do not steal from the needy. We do not rape, we do not burn homes, we do no violence that is not necessary.”
“Why? Northerners have invaded other kingdoms before Lothian, and they had no such rules.”
“Kaldagr has always been different. Those rules were set in place long before Harry took the throne, but he enforces them because he believes in them.”
“And what about Skolstrond?” Y/N asked.
Saga’s features hardened. “My father has no such morals.”
Y/N did not pry for details. She looked back through the crowd, and shivered when she saw that Torsten’s wrathful gaze was still on her.
“I didn’t kill Gunnar,” she said. “Why is he so angry at me, and not Harry?”
Saga hesitated. “When Harry told the men they would go to Lothian, they all thought it was to raid. They were promised gold, lots of it.”
“They got it,” said Y/N. “I saw it on the ships.”
“No. What you saw is a fraction of what we usually take on raids. Do you know how many of your temples were plundered? Two. That’s nothing.”
“Say that to the monks.”
“You’re not listening to me,” Saga hissed, her grip tightening on Y/N’s arm. “Men fought, some lost their lives, because they believed it would make them rich. But when they got to Lothian, Harry held them back. He prevented them from fighting as much as he could, without telling them why and he has never done that before. The people of Kaldagr are so loyal to Harry because he has always been honest and fair to them, but in Lothian, he lied.”
Saga leaned towards Y/N, her ice blue eyes boring into her own.
“The only reason he came to Lothian was you. He did not raid your town and villages, for you. He took next to nothing of your gold, for you. His men died, for you.”
“Why?” Y/N cried. “He doesn’t know me!” She tried to draw her arm back, but Saga’s grip was unshakeable. For the very first time, she was afraid of the warrior.
“I don’t know. None of us know. But the people are angry, Y/N. They hide it because Harry has made it clear you are to be respected and protected, but they don’t understand why you are here and it’s only a matter of time before they start looking for answers. Harry is their lord. But you are nothing to them.”
Saga exhaled, her shoulders dropping. Her grip loosened and Y/N pulled her arm to her side. Her wrist ached.
“Be wary of Torsten,” Saga said. “He is a prideful man, who has now lost both his brother and his promised gold, because Harry wanted you in Kaldagr. There is no telling what he’ll do if his emotions get the best of him.”
-----
Y/N spent the next five days in a daze.
She erred in the halls of the longhouse, watching every one that passed her as if they would run her through with a sword. Saga’s words were a song in her head that never ended.
You are nothing to them.
And wasn’t that the truth? She was something to Harry, his actions had made that clear. But to his people? What was she but a reminder of what they had lost?
Gunnar may have been a monster, but Svala and Bera had been loved. Saga had said so, had shown Y/N the house they shared. Used to share. She’d pointed out Svala’s mother in the crowd, and Bera’s brother, who’d been so young it had broken her heart.
Y/N knew she was not to blame. The northerners had been the invaders, they had chosen to come to Lothian and they had expected resistance. But her heart ached. Harry had come for her. He had brought his warriors with him, for her. If she had not existed, Svala and Bera would still be alive.
She snapped on the fifth day, out of nowhere. She had gone to bed, feeling hollow and ashamed. She’d woken up angry.
She didn’t bother getting dressed. She threw on a shawl and marched out of her bedroom, the door slamming against the wall. A redheaded maid was in the hallway, and startled badly enough to drop the pile of sheets she’d been holding. Y/N did not stop to help her pick everything up.
She marched straight to Harry’s bedroom. In her head, a tiny part of her was begging her to reconsider, but the rage made her blind.
A man was standing guard by Harry’s door, but he made no move to stop her as she got near. She thought about knocking for half a second. Then threw open the door.
Harry was in bed still, his chest bare. Curls fell in front of his closed eyes, his mouth open slightly as he slept. He looked innocent. Vulnerable.
What a lie.
“Get up,” Y/N growled.
His eyes snapped open, settling on her figure at once. With a snarl, he jumped up and reached an arm under his pillow. He pulled out a dagger and held it in front of him, his teeth bared as if he would tear out her throat if she came any closer.
Then, he seemed to recognize her. The ruthlessness in his green eyes faded, replaced with worry. His curled up lips softened. The dagger fell from his slackened grip, and disappeared in the covers.
“Y/N?” he asked. God, she hated how gently he said her name.
“Tell me why I’m here,” she ordered.
He froze.
“Why? Hví?” she repeated, her pronunciation hardly perfect but understandable, if the sudden panic in Harry’s eyes was any indication. “You brought me here, to Kaldagr. What for?”
Harry slowly slid his feet to the floor and stood, keeping his gaze on her always, like he expected her to attack. Like she was an animal, crazed and dangerous.
How right he was. She wanted to tear his lungs out.
“It’s been a month,” she hissed. “Einn mánaðr. One month, and no one has touched me, no one has locked me up, hurt me or demanded anything of me.”
“No hurt,” he said, cutting her off.
“I know!” she raged. “You’ve proved it! I don’t need reassurances from you, I need answers!”
He looked at her, his brows furrowed. Confused. He didn’t understand her. She could scream all she wanted, there was no point if he couldn’t grasp her words.
To her horror, she felt the telltale pinpricks of incoming tears behind her eyes and her throat tightened. She ached for home, in a way she hadn’t before. She ached for her father, cold and cruel as he was. She missed the stone walls of her room, the too-tight corsets in her wardrobe. She missed the stags she would see on the edge of the forest from her window, the foxes in their burrows. She missed the sound of her language from strangers’ lips.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered, her tone defeated. A sob ripped out of her throat before she could stop it and her vision blurred from unshed tears.
She dropped her head, pressing her hands to her face. For a moment that felt like a century, she stood there as the rage seeped out of her and left behind a raw, empty void.
Then, a hand touched her shoulder tentatively. Another reached for her arm. She got pulled in, gently, into the agonising warmth of Harry’s embrace.
She wanted to push him away. She wanted to pull him closer. She hated him. She trusted him. He had not hurt her. He had hurt her more than everyone else in her life.
“Sorry,” he said roughly into her hair. “Sorry. I am sorry.”
She sobbed, dropping her head to his shoulder. His arms closed over her back, pulling her close enough that her sobs made his whole body shake. He spoke softly in her ear, words she did not understand but felt comforting all the same. His hand stroked slow circles over the thin material of her shawl.
“I want to go home,” she said.
She felt him shake his head, a hand going to the back of her head to push her closer.
“You are home,” he said.
He sounded almost saddened by it.
-----
A truce of sorts settled between Y/N and Harry after that day.
She had not gotten any answers as to why he had brought her to Kaldagr, and it was unlikely he ever would. But Y/N reasoned that agonising over it would not help the situation.
The fact was, she was to remain in Kaldagr. It was her home. It didn’t feel like one, but she was the only one able to change that.
She threw herself into her language lessons with Robben, insisted on speaking to Saga in Norse as much as she could. She drove the breakfast conversations with Harry, to his delight.
When she walked the city, she now recognized the hidden hostility of the people around her. She kept her head high, smiled and forced herself to exchange pleasantries with those too polite to turn her away. When she passed by Torsten’s stall, she made it a point to greet him.
It took her six weeks to master the northerners’ language, enough to understand and hold her own in most conversations. But the northerners’ culture? That was a different beast entirely.
“How can a man have a horse for a son?” she asked Harry as they sat in the great hall, a book spread out before them. The Nordic language flowed from her mouth, her pronunciation still awkward, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care.
Harry leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest as he pointed his chin to the book with an amused smile.
“Read it,” he said.
“I have read it, thank you,” Y/N huffed. “But it doesn't make sense. Loki is a man-”
“A god.”
“A man-like god. Sleipnir is a horse. How does that happen?”
“How did your Mary have a child, if she is a virgin?”
“That’s different!”
He laughed, and she could not hold back a smile at the sound. They’d been sitting in the great hall since lunch, going through all the books Harry had found that spoke of their religion.
“It’s so complicated,” she said, gesturing at the dozens of volumes stacked on the table. “You have so many gods, so many stories. It’ll take me years to learn them all.”
“You don’t need to learn them all. Just this one,” he replied, riffling through the book until he found the chapter he wanted. “This is the story of Freyr. We will celebrate him tonight at the feast.”
“Why?”
“He is our god of harvest, among other things. We have had good weather this year, and the crops were plentiful. It is right to thank him.”
He leaned closer, his shoulder brushing against hers. She sucked in a breath, face heating up at the shivers that ran down from her neck to her toes. Thankfully, he seemed to take no notice of her reaction.
“Look here,” he said. He gently took her hand in his, guiding her fingers to a specific paragraph. Her skin burned. “This part tells the story of how Freyr fell in love with Gerðr. He saw her across a field and was starstruck at once by her beauty. So he sent his servant Skírnir to her home, to ask for her hand in marriage.”
“His servant? He didn’t go himself?”
“Perhaps Freyr was shy. Either way, Gerðr refused the proposal.”
Y/N scoffed. “Of course she did! I would have said no as well.”
Harry smiled, his green eyes bright with amusement as he looked at her. His hand was still on hers, warm and rough from calluses.
“You would have refused a god?”
“I would refuse any man who does not have the decency to propose himself.”
He hummed. “That’s good to know.”
Y/N’s heart skipped a beat as her harried mind considered the possible meaning of his words. Was that intent in his eyes? Or was it just her imagination?
Lately, she’d been reading too much into each one of Harry’s words and gestures. His hand on her back, when he guided her through a door. The smile on his face when he saw her in the morning. How his voice softened when he spoke to her in the evening.
“What would you have done?” she asked. “If you were Freyr?”
He thought about it for a moment, his eyes never leaving her own. “I do not know. The only time I was ever in this situation, I handled it poorly. I’m afraid she’ll never see me the way I want her to.”
A weight dropped in Y/N’s stomach, and she cursed herself for being disappointed. Perhaps his attentions towards her had never meant anything, or he was flighty with his affections. Either way, she was happy to know before she made too much of a fool out of herself.
“So you see her still?” she asked. “This woman?”
“Every day,” he said with a sad smile.
Y/N frowned, quickly sifting through the options.
“Is it Saga?” she gasped.
Harry’s eyes widened, his mouth dropping open. Then, he reared his head back and laughed, holding a hand to his chest.
“No! What gave you that idea?”
“I don’t know! You’re never with any women except for her and your mother and sister!”
He laughed even harder, if that was even possible. Miffed, Y/N rose to her feet and stepped over the bench. “Mock me all you want,” she said. “I’m leaving.”
His laughter followed her all the way to the door.
-----
When Harry had told Y/N they would be honouring the god Freyr at the evening’s feast, she had imagined there would be good food, some prayers and maybe a bard, if she was lucky. A couple of animal sacrifices, maybe, a tradition she still found hard to get used to.
Her imagination, she now realised, was somewhat lacking.
The longhouse was filled to the brim, and it seemed as if every citizen of Kaldagr was under its roof. There was scarcely enough room to stand, let alone sit.
They had sacrificed three pigs and a lamb, and the priests drew runes on their faces from the animals’ blood. All very barbaric and fascinating. Harry had then given a long speech, thanking Freyr for his generosity and thanking his people for their hard work. Hedda and Astrid had sang a haunting hymn, their hands on Harry’s shoulder as he’d closed his eyes in prayer. So far, the events of the night had followed what Y/N had expected. A solemn, reverent night.
And then, the chaos had started.
Drums had been carried into the longhouse, the tables had been pushed back against the walls and the casks of ale had been split open. Y/N had quickly hidden in a corner as the celebrations started.
She was still in that corner, watching the pandemonium in the great hall like one would a play. There was Astrid, whirling in the middle of the room with her mother, their skirts pulled up to their knees so they wouldn’t trip. Near the doors, Robben was engaged in a poetry contest with Runa Ospakdottir, and seemed to be losing if the way his face reddened was to be believed. Saga was juggling her axe by the firepit, watched with rapture by a group of young children.
“Not in the mood to dance?” asked Harry.
Y/N was so used to his presence that she did not even startle at his sudden appearance. She grinned, stepping closer so she could be heard over the ruckus.
“I wouldn’t want to be trampled.”
“Come,” he said. “I’ll keep you safe.”
She shook her head.
“Wouldn’t you rather be with your mystery woman? Dancing is a wonderful way to make amends.”
“I know!” he laughed, and pulled her through the crowd. She stumbled after him, clutching his hand like a lifeline as he took hold of her waist with the other.
There was no steps, no choreography. She followed the beat of the drums as best she could, apologising between peals of laughter as she bumped into the crowd. She stepped on Harry’s feet so many times she was sure he would have a hard time walking the next day, but he didn’t seem to mind.
Harry gave her a curved horn filled with ale, which she swallowed down with a grimace. She asked for a second three songs later, then a third when Harry begged for a break at last. She danced with Saga as he watched from a bench, the warrior twirling her around the room with so much vigour Y/N felt like she was flying. She was passed from arms to arms, Robben’s, Astrid’s, men she did not know, then Harry’s again.
It was pure joy. The kind she’d never felt before, not even as a child. She forgot about Lothian, forgot about Torsten, forgot about everything except how good she felt, how happy she was.
Hours later, the alcohol caught up to her and a wave of fatigue crashed onto her. She sat by Harry’s side, listening to him as he spoke and laughed with his men. They were close enough that their shoulders touched, and she was too drunk to care about propriety as she leaned against him.
“Go to bed,” he told her when most of the crowd had left the hall.
“I don’t want to,” she hummed, blinking slowly at him. His eyes seemed even more green than usual, like the most precious of emeralds.
He gently bumped her side with his arm, gesturing to the hallway with his chin. “Go, Y/N. You’ve had a lot to drink, and you’ll be suffering for it in the morning. Sleep will help.”
She groaned, her head dropping. He helped her stand, then passed her to a servant girl who accompanied her to her bedroom. By the time they reached her door, Y/N was barely awake enough to thank the girl.
She tiredly slipped on her nightgown and dragged her feet to the bed, falling face first onto the covers. Her entire body ached and she could not find the strength to slide underneath the furs. Her eyes closed, her breathing slowed. Sleep, blessed sleep, was only a few heartbeats away.
And then, she felt it.
Something cold and leathery touched her foot. It rose to her ankle, curled around her calf. From the haze of her mind, alarm rose. She forced her eyes open, blinked away the fatigue.
Her heart stopped.
There, around the vulnerable skin of her leg, was a viper.
Prompt: Harry is a Viking, and invades Y/N's land.
The Demon was taller than Y/N had expected him to be. Dressed in fighting leathers and a heavy fur coat, he stood alone before her father’s throne with both hands on the pommel of his greatsword. He had no beard, no visible ink staining his fair skin and his thick dark curls were free from any braid or decorative bead.
Had she not known any better, Y/N might have thought him an English mercenary, come to offer his services to the kingdom. But she did know better. The stories of the northern invaders had reached her ears long before they came knocking on Castle Branagh’s doors.
A furious storm was raging that night, said the stories, when three ships emerged from the mist. Twenty men on each ship, rowing to the shore to the relentless sound of drums. One man did not row, people said. He stood still as stone, at the bow of the foremost ship, staring ahead. Jarl Harald, his countrymen were said to call him. Demon, did the people of Lothian.
The invaders did not know hunger, thirst or weariness. They marched on, day and night, taking all the riches and valuables they could get their hands on. An unstoppable wave, heading straight for the castle, the heart of the kingdom.
Neighbouring lands had faced the northern invaders before, and fallen before them. But this group seemed different. They took no lives, so long as people did not resist. Women were left unabused, homes unburnt. From the monasteries, they seized the gold, but left the monks alone. From the fields, they took what food they needed, and cared not to ruin the rest.
Men had been sent to stop them, of course. The strongest warriors in Lothian had been torn from their homes, lifted onto brave steeds and sent off to lay down their lives for the kingdom. And lay down their lives, they had, cut down like children by the northern beasts.
Y/N had seen them appear over the horizon one morning, a shifting mass darkening the path to Castle Branagh. Standing on the battlements, she had watched them approach as the castle erupted in pointless chaos. There was, after all, nowhere to run.
Nowhere to run, she thought again as she stood behind her father’s throne, the Demon before them.
“Ask him what he wants,” said the king to the translator. Her father wore his best finery, the Antler Crown placed proudly on his balding head. Slightly crooked, as always. Y/N could see beads of sweat running down his neck, and hoped that the invaders could not. For dignity’s sake.
The translator, a short and plump spice merchant who had apparently done frequent business in the invaders’ northern lands, spoke then in a strange, rhythmic, melodic prose. The Demon tilted his head to the side, bright green eyes on the Antler Crown, as he replied in that same strange language.
“He asks if you are the one called the Stag King,” the translator said.
“I am King Roderic of Lothian. Like my father before me, and his father before him, I am called the Stag King by the people of my lands.”
An old title, its meaning forgotten. Undeserved.
The translator translated. The Demon’s eyes narrowed, his gaze leaving the crown to travel the crowd of stoic soldiers and cowering nobles. He spoke then, his tone sharper.
“He asks if you have a child,” the merchant said. “No - a daughter.”
Y/N froze as, one by one, each member of the royal court looked at her. Following along, the Demon’s green eyes settled on her figure. She was covered from head to toe, gloves on her hands, cloak around her body, veil over her face. Yet she felt naked as he watched her, watched every tremor, every shiver that racked her.
The Demon spoke again, his chapped lips curving into a predatory smile. Spoke to her.
“He says hello,” the translator said. “He says not to be scared.”
“Scared!” her father scoffed. “The nerve! Has he come to mock us? Is this why he asked for an audience? To make fools out of this court before they slaughter us? We know his men stand ready! We know who waits in the darkness!”
The Demon’s eyes went cold, flickering to her father as he bit out two short sentences.
The translator hesitated. “He says - he says he was not speaking to you, Your Highness. He was speaking to Lady Y/N.”
Her father opened his mouth, fury reddening his skin. Before he could speak and possibly damn them all, Y/N took a step forward.
“Why?” she asked. She sounded frightened, and cursed her lack of control. It was impossible to ignore the smile that blossomed on the Demon’s face. “What does he want with me?”
Her heart pounded against her ribs as she listened to the translator’s wheezy voice, and the Demon’s deep one in return. Air turned scarce as she watched the merchant’s eyes widen, his shoulders tense as he turned to her.
“He’s offering a deal, my Lady. He says he and his men will depart Lothian at once, and not harm a single soul. He swears not to return in ill spirit, lest the deal is broken. He says he is ready to make a solemn oath to you, and to the gods of his faith.”
“What- what does he want in return?” Y/N asked.
Time seemed to stop, seconds stretching into centuries as she waited with bated breaths for the translator to speak. The Demon stood still, his green gaze boring into hers through her veil.
“He wants the Stag’s Daughter to come with him back to his land. To Kaldagr. My Lady, he wants you.”
-----
The northerners’ longships were called drakkars, Y/N learned. Their word for sword was sverð, the one for shield, skjold. Come was koma, and skynda was hurry. To her, they said nei most often. She needed no translation for that one.
She was told the crossing would be dangerous. Depending on the winds, it would take them three to six days to reach their homeland. Three to six days of cold winds, harsh waves and unpredictable weather.
They asked her if she could swim, and laughed when she said no. They opened her sole bag of belongings and threw away all three of her dresses, and ordered her maid to pack men’s pants instead. They never left her alone. Never.
As if she could have run from them. As if she wanted to.
The Demon’s audience with the Stag King had ended ten days prior, with the signing of a treaty between the kingdom of Lothian and Kaldagr. The treaty was simple: there would be peace and friendship between both lands, so long as the Princess of Lothian remained in the great city of Kaldagr. It was not stated what she was expected to do, once in the north, and she did not dare to think about it for too long.
In the end, what did it matter? If it saved her people, she would endure.
“My Lady, you must drink.”
Robben, the merchant turned translator, was handing her his waterskin. They were sat pressed together from hip to shoulder, at the back of the longship. They had departed from the Lothian shores almost four days ago, and the open sea surrounded them on all horizons.
There had been rain, there had been wind, and waves so tall they seemed like mountains. Every now and then, weather permitting, the northerners would pack the oars and let down the sails.
“Thank you,” Y/N said as she took the waterskin from Robben. She lifted the bottom of her veil and drank a few mouthfuls.
As ordered, she had put on men’s clothing, the pants an unfamiliar feeling on her legs. She had too large hunting boots on her feet, kept in place by leather laces around her calves, thick socks underneath. Two cloaks had been placed around her shoulders, and still the cold wind passed through.
If the courtiers of Castle Branagh saw her, they surely wouldn’t recognize their princess. She looked like a vagrant, and smelled like one too after days at sea.
But still, she kept her veil over her hair and face. Not out of modesty, or out of respect for her father’s orders. She’d never cared much about those, even if she’d obeyed them for her entire life. But keeping her features hidden felt safer, the veil almost a shield against the northerners’ eyes. It was the last thing she owned, the last thing that was truly hers. She already dreaded the time when she would have to remove it.
She was still surprised she hadn’t been asked to take it off yet. Thought she would have to, that day on the beach.
On the morning of their departure, her father’s men accompanied her to the shore where the drakkars waited, already prepped for the journey home. A single row boat waited on the sand, two men sat inside with oars ready.
The Demon stood before it, his boots lapped by the waves, the rising sun over his left shoulder. The soldiers who brought her to him stayed back at the end of the dirt road, standing in a line as she walked alone towards the monster who now owned her.
As she approached, she noticed first that his arms were bare. Dark ink covered his fair skin, swirls and strange symbols running from his shoulders to his wrists. His dark curls were braided back, silver beads holding the ends together. The greatsword he’d carried at the audience was now accompanied with twin axes at his hips, a dagger at his belt and a bow across his back.
Now, he truly looked like a demon. Y/N’s heart faltered, an age-old instinct to run rising in her bones. She was smart enough to recognize that if he was the predator, she was the prey.
But she was the Princess of Lothian. She may have been going to her death, but she would go with pride and dignity. So she kept walking, stopping three steps before him. Even though he could not see her eyes, hidden behind the veil, she refused to look down.
A small, secretive smile on his lips, he bowed his head in a show of respect that made her want to spit in his face.
“Y/N,” he said. Her name did not sound the same coming from his mouth, his accent distorting every syllable. Then, he gestured at his own chest and said in broken, exaggerated English, “I am Harald. Harry.”
“You know my language?” she asked. He frowned, confusion in his eyes, and she took it as a no.
He spoke then rapidly in his own dialect, his hand pointing to the longship behind, then to her. He repeated the same words a second time, while she looked at him blankly.
“Kaldr,” he said. “Cold.”
Y/N looked down at herself, and the coat that had been given to her. It must have belonged to a hunter, stained with old blood and dirt, but she had no clothes of her own for extreme temperatures.
“This is all I have,” she told the Demon - Harry.
He clicked his tongue, muttering under his breath. Then, to her horror, he pushed back his cloak. Truthfully, calling it a cloak was doing it a disservice. Made of white, immaculate fur, it must have belonged to a wolf, but one larger than Y/N thought existed. It looked wonderfully warm and soft.
“No,” she protested as he took a step closer to her, the cloak in his hands. “I don’t want it.”
“Cold,” he said again. “Death.”
“I’ll be fine!”
He snarled, teeth bared at her. Such an animalistic behaviour, a savage show of dominance. But her protests died in her throat, her muscles locking up in fright.
His gaze turned softer at her reaction, and he looked almost regretful. But he said nothing, and stepped into her space. As he draped the heavy garment around her shoulders, his arms on both sides of her head, she kept her gaze on his chest.
“No cold,” he said, stepping back. “Varmr.”
“Warm,” she guessed. “I suppose I’m no good to you if I die from the cold before we even get there.”
“Warm,” he repeated, struggling on the w. “Já.”
Then, his hand lifted towards her face. As the tip of his fingers brushed her veil, Y/N startled backwards.
“Don’t,” she hissed. “Nei.”
He inclined his head in surrender, and sighed. Then, without stepping closer, he gestured towards the row boat.
For a moment, Y/N debated staying put. Digging her feet in the sand, the soil of her homeland. Would Lothian hold her, she wondered? Would her kingdom grip her ankles, her thighs, her waist, keep her with it no matter how hard the northerners pulled at her?
She entertained the fantasy for a few seconds. Breathed in. And walked to the row boat.
“We will reach Kaldagr before nightfall, I believe,” said Robben, his wheezy voice startling Y/N out of her memories. “Only a few more hours to go.”
“And then what? Will I be locked up? Beaten and raped? Made a slave to my enemies?”
Robben sighed.
“I don’t know what will happen to you, my Lady. But I do not believe you will be harmed.”
“Why not? Isn’t that the Viking way?”
“If they wanted to hurt you, they would have done so in Lothian.”
Y/N scoffed.
“That’s assuming there’s any kind of logic to their actions. Do you know them so well, sir, that you can assure me of my safety?”
To his credit, Robben seemed to take no offence to her sharp tone and biting words.
“I am not so arrogant. But I have spent time with the northerners, and with Jarl Harald himself.”
“Harald,” she repeated. “Or Harry?”
“Harry is a nickname of sorts, one he uses with foreigners. Perhaps because it is more familiar to them, less…”
“Northern?”
“Less threatening. Many in the world believe the Vikings to be savages, conquerors, people with little thought who steal, and rape, and kill. We imagine they live depraved lives, uneducated and beastly.”
“Do they not? They certainly behave like animals.”
“No. They are warriors, certainly. But you will see in Kaldagr that there is tradition, art, laws, commerce, and all the same complexities that you have in Lothian. The culture is different, yes. Very much so. But I would say the same of Francia, of the Byzantine Empire or Flanders.”
“You are a well-travelled man.”
Robben nodded, looking at the horizon with a distant smile on his face.
“I thank you, my Lady, for what I believe is a compliment. But do not mistake me for a learned man. I am no wiser than a child.”
“Do you truly not know, then?” Y/N asked, fear slipping into her tone. “What he wants with me?”
“The Jarl? No. But he is a private man. I do not believe even those closest to him know why he took you from Lothian.”
“Well,” Y/N said, hugging the white fur coat closer to her body. “I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.”
-----
As Robben had said, land appeared on the horizon hours later. Cliffs that seemed to reach the clouds rose before Y/N’s eyes, grey rocks topped by emerald green grass. Forests of spruce stretched on and on, dark and imposing.
The longships sailed to a narrow opening in the cliffs, which Robben said was called a fjord. They followed the river for some time. The further they travelled, the more the northerners smiled. The men had been quiet, focused and sullen during the crossing, but now, they laughed and joked, sang songs. Ale was distributed, caskets passed from one ship to another.
Even Harry, who had not said a single word the entire journey, now sang with his men from his place at the bow of the ship. He looked younger somehow, his green eyes lit up with barely restrained glee. Happy to be home, Y/N supposed, while she felt she was getting closer to her grave with each passing minute.
As dark as her mood was, she could not hold back her gasp when Kaldagr came to view at last.
It was the largest city she had ever seen. It stretched from the end of the fjord to the top of the hills beyond, an army of timber houses with thatched roofs pressed close together. No walls surrounded the city, but the forest around was so dense that Y/N realised they did not need one.
All of the homesteads were low to the ground, made of one story. They looked barely discernible from one another, an extra window here, slightly wider walls there.
There was one building, however, that contrasted with the rest. It was built from the same timber and thatch, but its length and width far surpassed that of any other building. It was also much higher, towering above the city.
“That’s the longhouse,” said Robben. “It’s where the Jarl lives, and where the northerners hold their meetings and gatherings.”
“Like a castle?”
“Not exactly. Castles, like the one you grew up in, are meant for the nobility. Longhouses welcome everyone.”
“Are there no upper classes here?”
“No, there are. But the gentry is not so separated from the rest of the people, like you might see in Lothian.”
“How strange,” Y/N said, looking at the longhouse. Her father would have never allowed the lower class to step foot in Castle Branagh. When he spoke of the common people, it was always with disdain and mockery. As if the very bread he ate hadn’t been made from their hands.
But then, her father had always been a selfish, greedy man. The veil Y/N had borne her entire life was yet another example: how much he’d loved that only he knew what she looked like, how he’d basked in the curiosity of the other nobles, of the neighbouring royalty. She’d been yet another jewel in his coffers, to be kept hidden, under lock and key.
“Ah,” said Robben. “The welcoming party has arrived.”
Y/N looked to the docks. A crowd had gathered, men and women of all ages cheering and waving at the approaching ships. At the end of the longest dock, three women stood.
Two of them had dark hair, and wore long, thick dresses of the same burgundy colour. Golden jewellery adorned their necks and wrists, their hair pinned up. They could have been twins, had one not been considerably older than the other.
“The Jarl’s mother and sister,” Robben explained. “Hedda and Astrid.”
The resemblance to Harry was more evident the closer they got, from the shape of the mouth to the colour of the hair. But Y/N’s eyes were drawn to the woman in between them. She was as tall as a man, her figure toned. Blonde hair fell from her scalp in wild curls, the wind blowing them in front of her icy blue eyes. Freckles decorated her skin, like stars in the night sky.
She was not wearing a dress, but fighting leathers. A large axe hung from her waist, the woman’s hand resting on the handle as if she might draw it at any moment.
She was beautiful, stunning even, in the way that a snake is before it strikes.
“What about her?” Y/N asked.
“Ah,” answered Robben. “That would be the Lady Saga. Eldest daughter of Jarl Thorvald of Skolstrond, to the north of here.”
“The Lady Saga has quite the weapon.”
“Yes, she does, and she knows how to use it. Does that surprise you? A woman fighting?”
“No,” she said, and shrugged at Robben’s doubting look. “Why would a woman be incapable of fighting? We have arms, don’t we?”
“Do you not believe females are weaker?” asked Robben, throwing up his hands with a smile at the sudden tension in her body. “For the sake of argument only, my Lady.”
“No,” she replied. “Not when I look at the Lady Saga.”
At last, the longships reached the docks. Ropes were thrown to secure them and a human chain was formed to unload the many bags and crates, filled with the northerner’s plunder.
Y/N’s name was called, and she looked up to see Harry before her, his hand stretched out. There was a wild smile on his face, victorious. A man who’d gotten what he wanted, although she still wasn’t sure what exactly that was.
She looked at his outstretched hand, those long, calloused fingers. The hand of the enemy. The joy in Harry’s eyes faded, replaced by apprehension. He spoke softly.
“He says not to worry,” said Robben. “He only means to help you off the ship.”
Y/N took a shallow breath in and placed her hand in Harry’s. He gently closed it around hers, pulling her up to her feet and guiding her to the edge of the longship. Stepping off first, he grasped her elbow and supported her as she stepped onto the dock.
“Thank you,” she said, her words barely audible.
“Þökk,” Harry smiled. A translation, offered like a gift.
He did not let go of her hand as he accompanied her down the dock, as if she was an honoured guest and not a prisoner of war. As they reached the trio of women, his mother and sister kissed his cheeks and forehead, tears pearling at the corner of their eyes.
The sister, Astrid, couldn’t have been older than fifteen. She was bouncing on the heel of her feet, wide brown eyes flitting between Harry and Y/N. The mother, Hedda, had a bit more composure and only snuck glances here and there.
“Saga,” said Harry, drawing Y/N’s attention. The warrior had approached, bowing her head respectfully. Harry clasped her forearm, as one would a fellow warrior.
They exchanged a few words, before Saga’s cold blue eyes settled on Y/N.
“Y/N,” she said. “Welcome to Kaldagr.”
Her voice was melodic, surprisingly high. Most surprisingly was how seamless her English was, her accent nearly indiscernible.
“Thank you,” Y/N said tentatively. Robben hadn’t said who Saga was to the northerners, and she was unsure of the level of deference that was expected. “I didn’t think many would know my language.”
“Most do not,” the warrior replied. “But I had a good teacher.”
Saga said nothing more, and Harry took this opportunity to softly pull at Y/N’s hand. He led her down the docks to the city itself, his mother and sister falling in step behind them. Robben had joined them, and as Harry gestured at some buildings here and there, he translated.
They passed the armoury, the butcher’s shop, the sick house, the forge. There was a school, training grounds and a tailor. They walked through two different markets, both overwhelming from sights, scents and sounds.
Men and women hurried down the busy, narrow streets, many clasping Harry’s free hand with sincere joy in their eyes. He knew most of their names, and always introduced them to Y/N, though she understood very little of what was said.
At last, they reached the longhouse. While not as tall as the smallest tower of Castle Branagh, the longhouse was daunting in its sheer length and width. The large doors were thrown open, and through them, Y/N could see a large room filled with tables and benches. At the centre was a firepit, and against the room’s back wall were two thrones perched on a dais. The floor was covered with thick furs and carpets, the walls decorated with tapestries.
Harry walked straight through, pulling Y/N along. They passed the tables, the firepit, the dais, and walked through an opening to the side. She saw the kitchen to her right, many closed doors to the left. At last, they reached another door, more ornate than the rest. Harry opened it and guided Y/N through.
At once, she saw the bed. She whirled around as the door closed behind her, realising with dread that she was alone with Harry. His mother and sister, the Lady Saga, Robben, were all gone.
Instinct took over. Harry blocked the path to the door, so she bolted to the other side of the room. Her eyes passed quickly over the desk, the chests and wardrobes, the bed, and widened as she saw the weapon rack. She grabbed the handle of a sword and pulled. But she hadn’t realised how heavy it was, and her grip loosened as the sword fell with a great clatter to the floor.
She cursed under her breath, and strained, lifting the sword off the wooden planks. Her arms ached, muscles screaming in pain.
“Stay back!” she ordered, air coming out of her lungs in panicked wheezes.
Harry hadn’t moved from the door. He stared at her, eyebrows raised high, his mouth slightly open.
“I will kill you if you touch me,” Y/N hissed. “I will cut your head off, I’ll split you open, I will - I will rip out your lungs!”
Gone were her promises to her people, the treaty, her father’s orders. If this demon put a hand on her, she would bite it off. Or, at the very least, she would try.
Harry laughed.
“What?” she asked, baring her teeth. “I will!”
With an amused smile, he shook his head. He spoke, but she understood none of the words he said.
“What is that supposed to mean?” she said, her tone rising.
His brows furrowed in concentration.
“No hurt,” he said. He was looking at his hands, like a boy trying to remember his lessons. She realised then that this was exactly what was happening, as he continued in English. “You - are safe. No danger.”
“But - why,” she stammered. “Why did you bring me here?”
She gestured to the bed, and his eyes widened.
“Nei!” he said. He spoke in his language, and his face twisted in frustration as he struggled to find words. He pointed at her, twice, then at the floor.
“Are you…,” she began, looking around the room. “Are you saying this is my room? Just mine?”
He nodded, pointed to the closed door and the hallway beyond. “Mine,” he repeated.
His, over there. Hers, here. Separate bedrooms, because he was not going to touch her. Y/N deflated, the sword sliding a second time from her grip and falling to the floor. She ignored the wince on Harry’s face and leaned against the wall, her legs shaking.
“Safe,” he said again. “Safe.”
There was honesty in his eyes, his features devoid of any sign that he might be lying, trying to trick her. How stupid could she be, to want to trust him? He had taken her from her land, her people, her family. He had forcefully brought her to this city full of strangers, to his home, and she was supposed to believe he meant her no harm? What else could he want?
But there was something, in the bottomless green of his eyes. In the tilt of his full lips, in the shyness in his gestures.
“Okay,” she said. “Safe.”
With shaking limbs, she lifted her hands towards her veil. Part of her was screaming not to do this, not to let go of her last defence. But it felt like a show of trust, a step in his direction. She would see what he’d do with it.
She pulled at the clasp that held the veil in place, and felt it fall from her hair and face with a whisper. It pooled at her feet, the heavy lace stained from the days of travel.
Harry did not blink. His eyes pored over her face, the shape of her jaw, the tilt of her eyes, the colour of her hair. It seemed as if he looked at her for centuries. She dared not move, dared not breathe. She was afraid, but did not know of what. His judgement?
“Þökk,” he said, his words soft as a morning breeze. Thank you.
Then, he bowed his head and stepped back to the door, leaving the room. As soon as the door was closed, Y/N’s legs faltered and she slid down the wall until she was sat on the floor, the fallen sword next to her feet.
She looked at the room properly, at the rich furniture, the open wardrobe in which many dresses were hung, the finely woven tapestries and the bed fit for an empress. She may have been a prisoner, but it seemed she would be a comfortable one. The luxuries she’d been awarded at Castle Branagh paled in comparison.
So many questions filled her head. But the fatigue of the past days caught up to her at last and she dragged herself to the bed, falling down on the furs without bothering to undress herself.
The moment her head hit the feather pillow, the world turned dark.
-----
Thanks for reading the first part, let me know what you think!
Y/N woke to the feeling of a calloused hand running down her bare back, sliding from her neck to the dip of her hip. Lips pressed to her temple, the shape of a smile against her skin.
She shivered and stretched like a cat, the heavy fur covers shifting with her movements and uncovering more of her body. The hand on her hip took advantage, sliding lower and gliding to the globe of her ass.
“Good morning, my love,” Harry said, voice low. “The sun has just risen.”
Y/N hummed, eyes still closed. “So it has. Is that a reason to disturb my sleep?”
“The children are not up yet. Forgive me for wanting the full attention of my wife, if only for a few moments before the mayhem starts.”
Harry pressed his chest to her back, pushing her gently onto her stomach. Clever fingers delved deeper beneath the sheets, and it was an instinctive reflex to open her legs as they reached her core and pushed in.
“How wet you are,” he whispered in her ear. “What would your people say, Y/N? What would the royal court of Lothian think, should they know their princess lets a northern invader defile her all day long?”
“Damn them and their opinion,” Y/N breathed out shakily, a low moan climbing out of her throat as Harry curled his fingers inside of her.
He pressed open-mouthed kisses down her throat, sucking at the junction between her neck and shoulder. His other arm slid under her waist, hand settling on the pouch of her belly.
“Will you let me have you, little doe?” he asked, pushing his hips into her ass, the hard line of his cock nestling between her cheeks. “Give me another child to dote on?”
She breathed out a laugh, pushing back against him. “You must be out of your mind, husband. The four we have are already running us ragged.”
She turned in his arm, his fingers slipping out of her core wetly. In the pale morning light, the angular lines of his face seemed soft and tender. She pressed a kiss to his lips, one hand burying itself in his thick curls, the other sliding down his chest to his cock.
“Don’t look so disappointed,” Y/N said, her fist pumping slowly. Harry groaned, his hands gripping her ass to a nearly painful point. “You have more heirs than you know what to do with.”
“I will always want more, so long as I have them with you.”
He pulled her left thigh over his hip, sliding lower. As she guided him to her entrance, he pressed a hard kiss to her mouth and pushed in, swallowing her cry. He shushed her, smoothing down her hair with the tenderness only she knew he had in him.
“Look at you,” he whispered. “How perfect you are. You take me so well.”
“More,” she asked.
She did not need to beg. Harry started thrusting, slowly, steadily. On every thrust, he went deeper, until it felt like they were no longer two separate individuals but one entity.
With a groan, he slid out of her and pushed her onto her stomach before she had time to complain. A fraction of a second later, he was back inside of her, one arm under her hips as he lifted her ass up. The pleasure came in relentless waves and Harry kept going faster, kept going stronger.
“Everything,” he said in her ear, each word strained. “I will give you everything.”
Y/N cried out at a particularly harsh thrust, the pleasure ramping up. She was no longer in control of anything, her body nor her mind. Harry’s name came out of her lips like a prayer, a plea to the only god she knew in this bed. The tsunami inside her veins was growing and growing, its collapse only seconds away.
As her walls clenched around his cock, Harry’s hand came to the front of her neck. It did not squeeze, never would. But he held her, bringing her head up.
“No,” he said. “Not yet. Hold on for me.”
“I- I can’t, Harry, please.”
“You can, and you will,” he replied, his tone like steel.
She could have cried from the frustration, the denied pleasure. He held himself still, long enough for the growing wave inside of her to settle down. As always, he was more aware of her limits than she was, and only when he knew she was no longer about to come did he start thrusting again.
He went at her with all the strength he had, the muscles he had spent decades carefully honing for war now used in her service. As fast as it had gone down, the wave of pleasure rose back up, aided by the fingers he pressed between her legs.
The rhythm he had set started to unravel. He bit down on the tender skin of her shoulder, burying his groans in her skin. The twinge of pain only added to the intensity of the pleasure in Y/N’s body, and the wave crested, then broke.
Every part of her body seized, as if she had been hit by lightning, and she went blind from it. Harry thrust once, twice, then buried himself inside her with a deep cry. They might have stayed that way for hours, for all she knew. Joined together, muscles weary, lungs settling.
“I love you,” Y/N said.
Harry cradled her in his arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Love of my life.”
With an exaggerated sigh, he then stretched an arm over her head to the bedside table and the contraceptive serum the midwife made her take daily.
As she swallowed the bitter liquid, Harry stood and slipped on his pants. He turned to her as he laced them up, treating her to the beautiful sight of his bare chest.
“One day,” he said. “One day, when our children are too old, you’ll plead for another.”
“Should that day come,” she smiled. “I will not need to beg.”
“True,” he leaned over, kissing her lips. “Odin be my witnes, you have made a slave of me.”
A sharp cry echoed then from the next room, impatient and angry.
“Well then, slave,” Y/N laughed. “Seems like your other master is calling.”
With a disappointed sigh that was betrayed by sudden joy in his eyes, Harry left the room. A moment later, he entered again, their daughter in his arms. Sigrid had been born only three moons ago, and she looked tiny and vulnerable still. Yet out of all their children, she was the one who resembled her father the most, from the green eyes to the thick brown curls on the top of her head.
“So fussy,” Harry said as he gazed at her frowning face. “As if she has been starved for weeks.”
“Hm, I wonder who she gets that from. Give her here.”
She settled the squirming baby against her chest, and Sigrid latched at once to Y/N’s breast. She did not look pleased, frowning at her mother as she fed. Harry settled at their side, sliding an arm behind Y/N’s back to support her.
“She will be a shieldmaiden, this one,” he said. “Her grip is stronger than the boys’ already.”
“Not strong enough yet for a sword, husband.”
“A dagger, then.”
Y/N did not argue. There were many cultural differences she had had to get used to, when she first came to Kaldagr. Their cult-like love for weaponry had been one of them.
She remembered the early days, how fearful she’d been, how angry. How much she had hated the man that had now given her the baby in her arms.
“Funny how things change,” she said under her breath.
“What was that, my love?”
“Nothing,” she replied. “I’m just happy.”
She leaned her head against his shoulder, watched her daughter feed and hoped her sons would wake up soon. Happy, indeed.
Thanks for reading! Don't hesitate to let me know what you think!
Summary: Harry runs a dog rescue center. You’d really like to be rescued as well.
Warning(s): Some swearing, mentions of sex, angst and comfort, way too many metaphors
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******
Loneliness was a cold-faced bitch.
It settled down in the marrow of your bones, like tar on a sea bird’s wings, weighing you down until the smallest step forward felt like swimming through cement. The feeling was more familiar to you than your own name, at this point.
Perhaps it was because there was no one around to say it, to call it. Maybe you’d forget it, soon enough. And wasn’t that an emo thought?
You should have stopped thinking about it, you knew. So what if your family no longer picked up the phone when you called? What if your friends were more acquaintances of circumstances? What if the most social interaction you got per day was from the angry notes your neighbour left under your door, when you dared play some music to fill your silent apartment?
God, you sounded so pathetic. But you couldn’t really help it. You were so touch-starved you sometimes imagined that your pillow was someone’s chest. It wasn’t even about sex. You’d set up a Tinder account some months ago, but the meaningless hook-ups did nothing to alleviate the heavy feeling in your chest.
You wanted someone to hold your hand. Someone who would call you in the middle of the night because they missed the sound of your voice. Someone who bought you stupid keychains because they’d thought of you.
Someone who wanted you, who needed you.
You should really get a dog.
“Oh my God, I should get a dog,” you said, unfurling from your favoured position on your bed, aptly named “little-ball-of-misery-feeling-sorry-for-herself”.
You looked like a hot mess. Your hair was tangled beyond repair, you were wearing a shirt that was more coffee stains than fabric and your entire body felt sticky with dried sweat. In your defence, though, this was August in Los Angeles and you were self-employed. There wasn’t really any reason to look presentable.
Except a dog. You would try to look human enough for your dog.
You could see it now. Your apartment was big enough, and being a photographer, you were outside most of the day. You could take a dog with you. A big dog, so that sketchy people would stop asking you if you had weed and get mad when you said that no, you didn’t. (why did people keep thinking you were a stoner, did you have a junkie face or something?)
“Okay,” you whispered to yourself. “Let’s go get a dog.”
******
The New Hope Rescue Center that Google Maps had directed you to was a rather dreary place. It looked like whoever had designed the building had tried to make it pretty by painting the walls a bright yellow, but the color had faded and was now more of a depressing beige.
The big parking lot out front was empty, save for one white classic Mercedes Benz that you ogled shamelessly as you set your old, creaky bike against the wall. This kind of car made you wish you knew how to drive. The cost of gas, however, quickly put an end to that particular dream.
The bell jingled as you entered the rescue center, the sound echoing in the empty reception area. It looked just as depressing as the outside, and the decoration had obviously not been updated since the 90s. The carpet was an ancient, dark green that was more moldy than a party platter of Bleu cheese and the walls were littered with what actually seemed like bullet holes.
You approached the desk hesitantly, your sneakers scuffing the floor as you went. There was no bell or button to press, and your social anxiety skyrocketed at the idea that you would have to announce your presence another way.
Before you had the opportunity to call out, you heard a door open to your left and you whirled around, a tentative smile plastered on your lips.
The man that entered the room froze as he saw you, like a deer caught in headlights. A fashionable deer, in fact. You couldn’t help your eyes from studying him, because honestly? Who wore a Tom & Jerry pullover with a string of pearls, polka-dotted pants, and heart-shaped sunglasses? He looked as if he’d gotten dressed from a kindergarten lost & found box.
“Uh, hi?” he said, and oh. British.
“Hi. I’m here for the dogs. I mean, a dog. Singular. To adopt.”
Dear God, could you sound any more awkward? This was why you stayed inside most of the time.
“Really?” the man said, his eyebrows shooting up, far above his admittedly pretty green eyes. “You wanna adopt a rescue?”
“Isn’t that what people do, when they come here?”
He shrugged, leaning against the desk.
“Nobody comes here, excep’ debt collectors.”
“Oh.”
There was a tense silence as the man sighed, lost in thoughts while you stood there, half-wondering if you should just go to a pet shop and get a goldfish or something. Certainly, that would include less talking.
“Anyway!” he said suddenly, lighting up like a Christmas tree after a power outage. “Dogs!”
“Dogs,” you repeated.
“Dogs. Let’s get you a dog. I’m Harry, by the way.”
You introduced yourself as he got up from the desk, an excited skip in his step. He held the door open for you, leading you through empty corridors that smelled a bit like dog urine, if you were being perfectly honest.
The man – Harry – was walking so fast you were struggling to follow, nearly tripping on your own feet as you hurried on.
“What were you thinkin’ about? Big dog, small dog, old dog, young dog?”
“Um, I guess I’d rather have a big dog?” you said hesitantly. “I don’t really care about how old it is.”
“Cool, cool. Big dogs need a lotta exercise, you good with that?”
You went through another door, and you started to hear some yipping and barks.
“Yeah, I – I’m a photographer, so I’m outside a lot. It’s not an issue.”
“Ever had a pet before?”
“Does a stick insect count?”
He barked out a laugh, turning his head to look at you, his eyes twinkling.
“Big step up there, but I’m sure you can handle it.”
You weren’t as sure as he was, but before you could voice your concerns (What do you do if the dog doesn’t like you? What if it eats your wallpaper? Do dogs get sad when you’re sad?), you went through yet another door and found yourself in the kennel.
While the other parts of the building had been rather unkempt, the actual kennel was obviously well maintained. It still didn’t smell great, but it was clean, bright, and inviting. The cages were big, and each one of them contained a comfy-looking bed and toys.
The dogs went nuts when they saw Harry, jumping at the gates and barking joyfully. There were about two dozen of them, varying from breed to height to age.
“Hello, my loves!” grinned Harry. “Look who I’ve brought.”
You stayed a bit further back, nervousness rising in your veins. What did you think you were doing? You could barely take care of yourself; how could you take care of another living being?
Harry looked back at you, his grin turning into a soft smile as he noticed your hesitation.
“Come on,” he said. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
With a jerk of his head, he led you to the back of the kennel, to the last cage. And inside was possibly the saddest looking thing you’d ever seen.
“This is Poppy,” said Harry. “She was found tied up on the side of the highway a year ago, an’ she’s never really recovered from that. She needs someone who’s got the time and will to love her the way she deserves.”
Harry’s words sunk into you like rocks, but your eyes were fixed on the dog. She was curled up at the back of the cage, gazing up at you with big brown eyes that looked like they held all the misery in the world. You didn’t know dog breeds well, but if you had to guess, you would say she was some sort of a mix between a Golden Retriever and a German Shepherd.
But mostly, she looked…she looked lost. As if she knew she didn’t belong in this kennel but had stopped hoping for anything else long ago. You knew the feeling.
You slowly sank to the floor, sitting cross-legged in front of the cage. Not reaching out. Just…being there.
“Can I –?” you began but found you didn’t have the right words to finish your thought.
“Take as long as you need,” said Harry.
You heard his heavy footsteps fade as he left you alone with Poppy, back to the other dogs. You couldn’t look away from the dog – your dog, you knew.
“Hi,” you said, so quietly you barely heard your own voice. “I’m Y/N. You and I look like we could be friends, one day. If you’d like.”
You kept up a steady stream of words, barely aware of what you were saying. But Poppy listened, and you could have sworn she relaxed more and more as you talked. How was it possible that you loved her so much already?
“We’re the same, you and I, huh?” you continued. Poppy sniffed into her paws, as if doubting your words. “I mean, despite the obvious anatomical differences. We both got left behind by the people we trusted. And I bet you don’t understand why. Me either.”
Poppy shuffled a bit, crawling an inch closer, her head bopping up as she looked up at you with those sad, sad eyes. You got down on your stomach, lying on the cold cement floor.
“You’ve got no reason to trust me, I know. But I know what it’s like to want to be loved, and I promise you I’ll do my very best so that you never have to be alone ever again.”
You put your hand flat on the side of the cage and held your breath, staying so still you felt as if you were becoming one with the cement underneath you. Poppy whined, her tail wagging somewhat as she bopped her nose against the center of your palm.
“Shall I get the papers then?” you heard Harry say from somewhere behind you, not having gone as far as you thought.
“Yeah. I think so.”
******
It was funny how quickly your mood shifted once you brought Poppy home. Your entire universe shifted to this four-legged fluff ball you now called your best-friend. Was she warm enough? Did she like her food? Should her bed be even more comfy? Was she happy?
On the other hand, Poppy did seem like she was going through the same process with you. She never left you alone. She sat at your feet in the kitchen, slept at the end of your bed, laid her little head on your lap as you worked. The first time you’d tried to take a shower, she’d cried and cried until you’d opened the door.
You went from being completely alone to having a companion 24/7. And you loved it.
Ironically, your art had never been better. The gallery you sold your photography to was loving it even more than before. The owner had told you there was a new, optimistic energy to your work, and had asked you if you’d found yourself a boyfriend.
You supposed you’d found something even better.
“How could anyone give up someone like you, uh, baby?” you cooed as you scratched Poppy’s back, your dog looking very blissed out on the carpet of your living room. “You’re such a good dog.”
She whined, as if agreeing with you. Like, yeah, I’m an absolute treasure and I know it.
It had been a month since you’d gotten Poppy, and more and more, you wondered why she hadn’t been adopted. A year, she’d spent at the rescue center. How the hell had no one come and snatched her up before you did?
And you felt a bit guilty, you supposed. There had been so many dogs at the rescue center. You’d barely even seen them, but you imagined some of them must have been there for even longer than Poppy. It seemed sad that they would live out the rest of their lives in cages.
“You know what?” you told Poppy, who straightened her floppy ears up. “Let’s do something for your pals. Uh? How do you feel about that?”
******
“You want to do what?”
Harry was wearing a dress today, with plaid patterned pants underneath. He still had his pearl necklace around his neck, but the heart shaped sunglasses were nowhere to be seen. How he pulled off the look, you had no idea, but somehow, he did.
“I want to set up a social media account for the dogs. Every single shelter in LA is on Facebook, or Instagram and Twitter, except this one. I’m fairly sure that’s why you don’t get any visitors.”
Harry leaned back against the desk in the reception area, running a hand through his brown curls. He looked uncomfortable, his sea foam green eyes shifting all over the room, never settling on anything.
“If you don’t want to do it, it’s fine,” you said hurriedly. “I just thought it would help.”
“It’s not that,” he sighed. “It’s jus’…do you know who I am?”
You frowned, looking at Poppy as if she had the answer.
“Um, no?”
“You don’t listen to music a lot, do you?”
You shook your head. You listened to music sometimes sure, but mostly the old rock albums your uncle had left you before he’d passed away. Anything more recent than that, you didn’t bother.
“I thought so,” continued Harry. “Look, a few years ago, I was kinda…well-known. Was in a band, but we broke apart and I decided I wanted a normal life. I found this shelter, and it’s been great. I love the anonymity.”
There was something that made you think he wasn’t telling the whole truth. Some sort of longing, in the way his eyes darkened.
“I’m afraid of attracting the wrong sorta attention,” he said. “That the people who come here, it won’t be for the dogs.”
He looked so small. Vulnerable, in a way that no one should ever be. And it broke your heart, in the same way that seeing Poppy for the first time had made you feel. As if, he too, was looking for somewhere to belong.
“Alright,” you said. “How about this? We set up the account but make no mention of you. No one will ever have to know you work here.”
“An’ what about when people come to see the dogs?”
“I’ll show them around. And you can hide in the bathroom or something.”
Harry barked out a laugh, the pearls clinking around his neck.
“You realize that means you’ll have to be here every day, right? I can’t pay you. Most of my money went to charity, and what little I’ve got left is for the dogs.”
“That’s fine, Mr. Rockstar. I make more than enough to survive, and I have so much free time, I don’t know what to do with it.”
You thrust out your hand, looking at Harry with resolve. He laughed and shook your hand as Poppy yipped happily between the two of you.
“Alright, then. Let’s get those dogs adopted.”
******
It was easier said than done, of course, but weren’t most things this way?
The rescue center was an absolute mess. Harry had obviously spent his entire time and efforts into the cages area, and then just…stopped. And while you appreciated the fact that the dogs were comfortable, you would argue that his human guests also needed somewhere to sit that wasn’t covered in mold.
“But I like this chair,” Harry whined as you dragged it outside.
“This chair looks like it belongs in a Nirvana music video. They’ll make better use of it at the recycling center.”
“Weren’t you supposed to set up a social media account, instead of getting rid of all my furniture?”
You straightened up, pushing a sweaty strand of hair away from your eyes.
“I need material to work with, pictures that catch people’s attention, and a building that doesn’t look like a meth lab.”
“You really like your metaphors, don’t you?”
“Part of my charm,” you quipped as Harry heaved the chair into the truck you’d rented for the occasion.
You were spending money left and right on this mission of yours, but you were lucky enough to be quite successful in your career and you could find no better cause to spend your overly gross commissions on.
You watched as the truck drove away in a cloud of dust, standing by Harry’s side, with Poppy at your feet.
“Now what?” asked Harry.
“Now, we wait for your brand new, colourful, mold-free furniture to be delivered.”
Harry looked at you, an emotion you couldn’t place filling those eyes of his as he kicked at the ground with a worn-out shoe.
“Why are you doin’ this, Y/N? What’s it to you?”
You shrugged, the suspenders of your overalls slipping from your shoulders.
“It’s the right thing to do.”
“That’s not good enough. You’re spendin’ so much money, and you’re not gettin’ anything in return. Why?”
You looked at Poppy, who was having a grand old time rolling around in the dirt, just so you wouldn’t have to meet Harry’s eyes.
“I find it hard to get out of bed in the morning sometimes. I have no purpose, nothing to really live for. I got Poppy so I would have this – this responsibility, this reason to think about anything else but myself and how alone I was.”
Your throat closed up, your eyes burning as you kept talking, your voice quiet in the wind.
“She’s the best thing that happened to me in a long, long time. And it’s thanks to you, and this place. I’m just trying to return the favour.”
There was a moment of heavy silence as Harry digested your words, the weight of his gaze boring into you.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” he said then, quietly. “To not be so alone anymore?”
“Yeah,” you smiled. “It really is.”
You had a feeling neither one of you were talking about the dogs.
******
“What about this one?” you asked, lifting your laptop so that Harry could see the screen from his perch on the brand-new armchair.
The furniture had arrived four days after you’d gotten rid of the old one, and you could tell Harry loved it. It was very him. Colourful, eclectic, looking like a mess that was somehow very appealing. The entire shelter looked incredible, if you said so yourself, and the immense feeling of pride and satisfaction still hadn’t faded.
“I like it,” said Harry. “But where’s the one of Pongo licking Tampa’s nose?”
You tapped on the keyboard a few times until the screen showed another one of the pictures you’d taken of the dogs.
The photoshoot had taken so long. You hadn’t realized how difficult it would be to keep a bunch of dogs still, long enough for you to get a good shot of them. Especially when all they wanted was to play.
You were nothing if not persistent, however, and Harry had a real talent when it came to capturing the dogs’ attention. Or yours, as a matter of fact, but you weren’t brave enough to explore that thought yet.
“Awesome,” you said, moving the picture Harry had chosen to another folder. “Looks like we’ve got them all. I’ll do the Instagram account first; it should be up and running by tomorrow.”
You curled up on the yellow polka-dotted couch, your laptop on your stomach, and opened a new webpage. Before you could get started, however, the laptop was snatched up from your grasp and you looked up to see Harry grinning at you.
“Dude.”
“No more working,” he said, setting your laptop down on the coffee table. “I’m going bonkers, I need a break. And your stomach has been growlin’ for a good forty minutes, you need food.”
“Is that so?” you asked. “You gonna feed me, Styles?”
“I’m British, love. I can’t cook. Am very proficient with ordering out, though.”
Harry left to order some food, while you went through a tiny existential crisis on the couch.
There was a difference between knowing British people called everybody and their mothers “love”, and actually being called that by a hot guy who dressed like a Parisian hippie and had 27 dogs under his care.
You had been with Harry all the time for nearly four days straight, while you cleaned up the rescue center. You’d seen him lift furniture, muscly and sweaty, before cuddling with dogs with that beautiful smile of his over his face.
And you were weak. If you were being honest, you had started getting those pesky butterflies in your stomach on day two, when you’d seen him run after Tampa, screeching because she’d stolen his sunglasses. What an idiot, but, as it turned out, you were moronsexual.
And part of you felt like you were getting attached way too quickly, to the first person that gave you a bit of attention. But the other part, the one that already had dog memes saved on your phone to show Harry, that part was just going for it.
You sighed, letting your head fall from the back of the couch so that it was hanging above the ground. Poppy whined from her spot on the floor, looking at you upside down with judgemental eyes.
“I know, babe,” you told her. “I’m a mess.”
“Old news,” said Harry, coming back into the room. “Chinese is on the way. That alright with you?”
“Sure, love me some dumplings.”
Harry laughed and, before you could react, lifted your legs off the couch and set next to you before pulling your knees back down on his lap. He leaned back against the pillow, as if you weren’t absolutely dying right next to him.
Your calves felt like they were on fire, and you were sure that if dogs could laugh, Poppy would be howling at the look on your face. You felt like a middle schooler having a crush for the first time.
“I’m knackered,” sighed Harry. “Feel like I could sleep for a century.”
“Your dogs might have something to say about that,” you replied, relieved that your voice didn’t sound as weak as you thought it would.
“Fuck ‘em. They get to sleep all day long, it’s my turn.”
You giggled (actually giggled, who the hell were you becoming?) and raised your head so you could look at him better.
“I googled you last night,” you told him, and he lifted a single eyebrow. “Found out some interesting stuff.”
“God Almighty.”
“Four nipples, uh?”
He laughed, throwing his head back against the couch. His cheeks were turning red, and it was adorable.
“No need to be embarrassed,” you said. “I’ve got some anatomical anomalies too.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. I’ve got ACHOO syndrome.”
Harry barked out a laugh, his right hand falling from your knee onto your thigh.
“What the fuck is that?”
“Autosomal Compelling Helio-Ophthalmic Outburst. ACHOO. It’s a reflex that makes you sneeze when you’re looking at bright lights, like the sun. Aristotle thought that it was because the sun caused sweating inside your nose, and so you had to sneeze to get it out.”
“That might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, Jesus.”
You kicked your heel into his ribs, laughing as he groaned.
“I didn’t make fun of your extra nipples, you jerk, don’t make fun of my sun sneezing.”
He raised his hands in a placating gesture, looking at you with a soft, soft smile on his lips.
“You’re something else, Y/N.”
You shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant, but there was too much weight in his words, and you were sure it showed in your eyes. But screw him, and his pretty words. What else were you supposed to do, but melt completely?
“Harry?” you asked, your tone unsure. “Will you – No, I’m sorry, never mind.”
“What is it?”
“It’s just…do you still sing?”
He nodded, his thumb rubbing circles on your knees.
“Want me to sing for you?”
“I do,” you breathed out, then added casually: “Poppy would like to hear it too.”
Your dog raised her head, one ear up, the other down, confused.
“Yeah, she looks excited,” laughed Harry. “Fine, just gotta get my guitar.”
You raised your legs so he could get up, and definitely did not stare at his ass as he walked away from you. Your heart was beating fast enough to power a light bulb, and the butterflies in your stomach were turning into fire-breathing dragons.
When Harry came back with his guitar, you were sitting cross-legged on the couch, Poppy’s huge body on top of your lap. She was panting happily, her tail wagging as Harry settled back next to you. He looked nervous, and you could have sworn you saw his fingers shake as he flexed them.
“Any request?” he asked.
“I guess, either something that makes me cry like a baby or laugh like a lunatic.”
“Baby Shark it is, then.”
You punched his shoulder and he nudged you aside, an amused smile on his lips. You settled your chin on top of Poppy’s head, your fingers buried in her fur as Harry took in a deep breath.
And then, he was off.
His hands slid over the strings, the melody filling the empty silence of the room with an ease that could only come from frequent practice.
“I’m in my bed and you’re not here,” his voice rang out, and your entire body went loose. “And there’s no one to blame but the drink and my wandering hands.”
God, you had asked him to sing you something that would make you cry, but it had been a joke. Just a joke, but here you were, your eyes burning and mouth open as you listened to the angel of a man on the couch next to you.
“What am I now? What am I know? What if I’m someone I don’t want around?”
He was beautiful. Entirely focused on the music, not even looking at the strings as he sang, the line of his throat sinful as he threw back his head on the chorus.
“I’m falling again, I’m falling again, I’m falling. What if I’m down? What if I’m out? What if I’m someone you won’t talk about?”
Inside your chest, this desire to embrace him and tell him everything was going to be okay rose, and rose, and rose again. And those were definitely tears in your eyes because you had known him for such little time, but you already felt like he was part of you. Like Poppy, in a way, but it was different.
“And I get the feeling that you’ll never need me again…”
But you wanted him to need you, and you wanted to need him. You felt like you were going insane with the desire of it. You wanted to hold his hands, and take care of his dogs, take care of him. You wanted to buy him stupid keychains and call him in the middle of the night to ask him for a song. You wanted him to feel whole, and happy, and free.
You were crying then, and so you rested your head on his shoulder so he wouldn’t see as he finished the song, the guitar steady in his hands. And when the last note rang, he didn’t say anything as he sang again, and again, and again. Songs that you had a feeling nobody had ever heard before, songs that he’d written in the dead of nights, and had deemed you worthy enough to listen to.
And perhaps it was because of that gift that you asked the question that had been rising in your chest with each note and did not fear.
“Will you hate me if I kiss you?”
His fingers stopped moving, and you lifted your head to look at him, your gaze meeting the sea in his own.
“I’ll hate you if you don’t.”
It was so easy to curl your fingers at the nape of his neck, and gently pull his face towards yours. So easy, the way you nudged your nose against his and his hand slid in your hair. So easy, to press your lips against his.
And it felt as if you could taste his songs when his tongue danced with yours. Each movement was a note, each breath a symphony. It was like kissing a concert, touching a festival. Drums and violins and trumpets, this man was.
When you parted, it did not seem like an end but, cliché as it was, like a beginning. He tucked a rebel strand of hair behind your ear and kissed your cheek, the skin burning beneath his lips.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “You’re somethin’ else.”
******
You grinned as Mrs. Tabitha Walker walked out of the rescue center, Pongo by her side. It was dusk, and you closed the door to the rescue center as she waved at you from her car.
Pongo was the fourth dog to have been adopted this day alone. To Harry’s surprise, the social media accounts were working even better than expected. And while it was always hard for him to part from his dogs, he could rest easy knowing they were going to happy homes.
You all had happy homes, now. And while technically, you still lived in your little apartment in Sun Valley, you weren’t blind to the fact that most of your clothes were folded alongside Harry’s, in the little studio built above the rescue center.
Poppy barked happily as you climbed up the stairs, to where you could hear Harry strumming his guitar. You entered the studio, immediately spotting your man perched on the edge of the couch, frowning as he focused on a brand-new melody.
“Is it coming along?” you asked, kicking off your shoes.
“Not as well as I’d hoped,” he groaned. “This chorus is kickin’ my arse.”
He pushed the guitar away and made grabby hands your way, looking like a surly toddler crying for a cookie. You didn’t resist and let him pinch your shirt so he could pull you onto his lap. His head fell against your shoulder, those wild curls of his tickling the sensitive skin of your neck.
“You know what would make writing songs easier?” you asked, brushing a hand down his back.
“Not this again,” he groaned.
“I’m just saying! You could reach out to other professionals; I know you still have a ton of phone numbers in that notebook you keep hiding from me.”
He pinched your side.
“I’m hidin’ it from you because I’m writin’ some very special songs and I don’t want you to see.”
“Fine,” you sighed. “I won’t look. As long as you promise me something.”
“Anythin’.”
“Make sure to write a song about your four nipples and my ACHOO syndrome. Then we’re good.”
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