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The cold of the cell was nothing compared to the fire burning in Dagur’s gut.
Days, weeks, months… time was torturous, slipping through his fingers like sand.
Dagur panted, his back burning from the fresh lashes. They had beaten him again, torn insults from him, spat on him, reminded him he was nothing.
But in his mind, there was only one person.
Hiccup.
The name scorched his brain, a sweet poison that made him weak. He had carved it into the wall with his fingers and the blood from his knuckles, leaving behind dirty red marks.
He hated him. He had to hate him. Every scar on his body, every blow, every tear was his fault. If Hiccup hadn’t defeated him, if he hadn’t humiliated him…
Dagur clenched his fists against the stone wall, knuckles bleeding, teeth grinding.
He hated him. He longed for him. He needed him.
He no longer understood what was happening in his own mind. Nothing hurt more than his own thoughts.
He hated him, but lately, the hatred tasted different, something he refused to admit.
The accident had happened seven nights ago.
The dream had started as always: With violence. Bloodied fists, teeth knocked loose, screams and sobs, daggers piercing flesh.
Hiccup was beneath him, bleeding, panting, his green eyes wide with fear.
But this time, instead of striking him, Dagur touched him. He ran his fingers through Hiccup’s tangled hair, feeling the heat of his body.
“Dagur?” Hiccup whispered, but there was no anger in his voice, only confusion.
Instead of killing him like in all his other dreams, Dagur kissed him, their lips crushed together in a kiss that tasted like blood, tongues and teeth stained red from the fight.
Dagur woke up drenched in sweat, his heart pounding like a war drum.
What the hell was that?
And then he noticed it, the dampness between his legs, the shame burning in his gut.
“No…” he muttered, rubbing his filthy hands over his face. No, no, no.
But the image wouldn’t fade. Hiccup panting. Hiccup writhing. Hiccup staring at him with those damn eyes…
He tried to fall asleep without touching himself. Though it was hard, he managed. The dream was a lie, a betrayal by his own body. The lack of women was messing with his head, that was all.
He used exercise as a distraction. Every push-up for every cut he’d give Hiccup, every punch to the wall for every scar he carried.
But a few nights later, it happened again. And again, and again.
He couldn’t resist anymore.
One night, between muffled gasps, Dagur pleasured himself in the dark, imagining Hiccup’s hands instead of his own. Memories of their fights twisted into perverse fantasies. Hiccup struggling beneath his weight, his frustrated cries turning lustful.
He hated himself for touching his own body, for getting off to the thought of Hiccup under him.
Dagur bit his lip until it bled.
No, it wasn’t desire. It was the need for domination.
Then why did his mind keep betraying him?
In another dream, Hiccup rode him, his hands gripping Dagur’s hips. Soft, shameless moans spilled from his lips, as if he liked it, as if he wanted it.
And Dagur let him move, let him believe he had control, before flipping him over, watching his face twist between surprise and pleasure.
“I’ll break you when I get out of here” Dagur snarled in the dream. “I’ll use you until you forget your own name. You think you’re a leader? You’re just my whore”
He touched himself furiously, imagining Hiccup’s throat around him, how he’d choke when Dagur forced him to swallow, how he’d paint his face with his release.
And after the storm of emotions, he felt empty. Pathetic.
The dreams grew more frequent.
Sometimes they were violent. Dagur binding Hiccup, forcing him to his knees, making him cry around his cock.
Other times, he made Hiccup ride him, reveling in the way his body moved, how his eyes filled with tears when Dagur thrust deeper, harder.
He imagined Hiccup on his knees, tears glistening in those damned green eyes as his mouth stretched around him.
“Swallow it all, Hiccup” he growled in his fantasy, fingers tangled in that messy hair. “This is all you’re good for”
Every dawn, he woke up furious, disgusted with himself, but unable to stop his hands from moving between his legs, imagining they were Hiccup’s.
The nights became unbearable.
He could no longer sleep without touching himself, without imagining those lips around him, that tight heat.
As the nights passed, his dreams changed.
They turned sweet.
Too sweet for his mortal enemy.
He dreamed of holding Hiccup, feeling his breath against his neck, intertwining their fingers, stealing kisses mid-sentence, smelling his hair while he sketched, bathing together, cuddling and whispering confessions he’d never admit awake, Hiccup looking at him like he was the only thing that mattered.
In these dreams, Hiccup hugged him, whispered sweet words, told him he needed him, that he loved him.
And Dagur melted.
It sickened him, made him feel small and vulnerable.
But also… alive.
Something inside him shattered.
It couldn’t be. He couldn’t want him. He couldn’t need him like this.
But when the dreams shifted from raping him to cherishing him, from making him cry to making him laugh, from biting him to kissing him, when he stopped using his hands to strike him and instead used them to comb his hair. Maybe his mind already knew something he’d never admit.
Hiccup was still the reason for all his wounds. Every torture, every burn, every humiliation he endured, the loss of his braid, the things he’d had to do to survive.
The hatred was still there. So was the resentment. But now, other feelings twisted into his unstable mind. Love. Tenderness. Happiness.
That happiness faded when he remembered where he was, but it lasted long enough between sleep and waking for him to feel it.
Maybe love and hate were the same to him.
Maybe that was why his arm bore a list of people he loved and people he hated.
One night, after the guards left him half-dead on the floor, Dagur laughed. A broken, deranged sound.
“When I get out of here…” he whispered, blood staining his teeth “I’ll find you, Hiccup”
It didn’t matter if he had to crawl, if he had to kill, if he had to burn Berk to the ground. When he escaped this prison, he would hunt Hiccup down. He’d take him if he had to.
And if, in the end, between bruises and moans, Hiccup looked at him with those eyes and whispered his name, if he agreed to stay and never leave…
Maybe, just maybe, Dagur would forgive him.
But to reach Hiccup, he had to wait.
It had already been two years since they’d thrown him in this hell. The patchy beard he used to pluck out with his fingers was now untamed. His body bore more bruises, more scars, his broken bones had healed, and his muscles had grown.
He wondered if Hiccup had changed too.
Was his hair longer? Was he taller? Was he still so damn lean?
Gods, he ached to see him.
Preferably naked.
Preferably in his bed on Berserker Island.
Months passed, and he’d befriended a stupid guard. He couldn’t believe it, nobody in their right mind would befriend a man who’d nearly killed Alvin and had his face slashed for it.
But this idiot brought him closer to Hiccup, and Dagur would be lying if he said he wasn’t excited. He could almost feel Hiccup’s hair between his fingers.
Three years had passed since his imprisonment. No one had dared touch him since he’d killed one of his rapists. He’d lost the privilege of work duty due to his disobedience, and they’d stripped him of warm clothes as punishment, but the stupid guard smuggled him better food than the moldy bread the others ate.
Things weren’t so bad.
The night before his escape, Dagur dreamed again.
Hiccup leaned into him, moaning his name as Dagur took him with animalistic urgency. Hiccup rode him, moving slowly, his hands braced against Dagur’s chest, his eyes shut as soft sighs escaped his lips.
“Dagur… more…”
Dagur gripped his hips, forcing him down, feeling him tremble, feeling him melt in his arms.
The day of his escape arrived in blood. After knocking out the guards on his floor, he fled to the docks where the merchant ships were moored. Dagur slit the throats of two more guards before stealing Johann’s vessel.
The sea smelled like freedom, but his mind could only echo with Hiccup’s moans.
Dagur no longer knew where reality ended and his fantasies began.
He only knew one thing:
No one would have Hiccup, except him.