Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She had never met the man; all she’d heard were the stories. Stories of when he’d tried to kill them, obsessed with wearing Toothless’s skull as a hat, his skin as a cloak. When he had been obsessed with capturing the Skrill, a dangerous lightning dragon that she’d encountered once and never wanted to meet again. When, after an unexpected change of mind, he became obsessed with befriending the Dragon Riders. And from what she could tell, the pattern was clear; this man was obsessive, unpredictable, and exactly the kind of crazy she had hoped to avoid. Fate, of course, had other plans.

A little over a week ago, Hiccup had dropped the news like it was no big deal—This man was joining the Dragon Riders. And she? She was the one who’d be training him. She’d groaned on the spot, and honestly, she still wasn’t over it. Sure, it made sense. She was the newest member of the team, still proving herself. Maybe this was her trial by fire—to see if she was strong enough, patient enough, insane enough to handle it, but still… did it have to be Dagur the Deranged?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It started the way all the worst things do—on a deceptively peaceful day. The sky over Dragon’s Edge is painfully blue, no clouds or wind, no warning. It’s the kind of blue that demands calm, demands that everything be fine, which, of course, means something is about to go very, very wrong. She got halfway down the lookout stairs, sack of dragon nip slung over my shoulder, when she saw him. He looked exactly like she imagined… and somehow nothing like it at all. Sure,  the details were there: the same unruly, red hair that Hiccup had accurately described as a wild flame, the same piercing green eyes that Fishlegs had described as being able to see inside your brain and the stupidly muscular, himbo energy that Astrid had correctly painted in her head.

What they’d all failed to mention was just how unfairly hot he was. That his muscles looked like they could snap tree trunks, that he towered over her like a walking mountain, that the beard only made him look more rugged and annoyingly attractive—and that his smile, bright and just a little unhinged, lit a fire in her stomach that she absolutely did not have time to deal with.

She stared, he waved, and she thought, Oh no. Oh no no no.

She looked pleadingly towards Astrid for some sort of direction when suddenly a rough, unexpectedly deep voice cut through the peace and quiet of the day, “YOU MUST BE THE LUCKY LADY I GET TO SPEND EVERY WAKING MOMENT WITH!”

She flinched, not from fear—no, she’d faced down dragons twice her size without blinking. It was the sheer volume of it. Her eyes darted back to him, where Dagur was bounding down the hill with reckless energy, his arms wide like he was ready to scoop her up or throw her off a cliff—honestly, it was hard to tell which. His grin stretched from ear to ear, practically glowing with unfiltered joy or madness. Probably both.  She glanced at Astrid again, who was very pointedly not looking in her direction, casually strolling away like this wasn’t her problem anymore. Traitor. By the time she’d turned back a second time, Dagur was standing directly in front of her. Towering over her, grinning, radiating enthusiasm like heat off dragon fire. “Dagur,” he said, unnecessarily loud, as if there were any doubt. “Dagur the Deranged, but I assume you already know that.”

“I do,” she replied, a little too quickly, “Unfortunately.”

He laughed, short and sharp and definitely deranged like the name alluded to, “Yes! That’s the spirit! I like you already.”

She raised a brow, “You just met me.”

“And yet…” he leaned in to her personal space slightly, eyes gleaming, “I feel a powerful connection, like fate or lightning, or maybe even mutual trauma.”

She blinked, trying hard to focus with his face inches from hers. “Hiccup said you once tried to skin Toothless?”

“That was a misunderstanding.” Dagur waved a hand dismissively. “We’ve moved on, he and I are best buds now.” He looked over his shoulder with a shout, “Aren’t we Toothless?!”

She leaned around him and watched as Toothless’ eyes narrowed, grumbling as he turned and walked away, following Hiccup as they both left her completely alone with the less-than-stable man in front of her.

“Anyways, now I’m here to learn, grow, and maybe violently bond with a few dragons. You’re my handler, right?”

“Unfortunately,” she muttered again.

“Excellent,” he beamed. “Let’s start immediately.”

“Right now?”

“No time like the present! Let’s go!” He spun on his heel with far too much dramatic flair. “To destiny, and possibly dismemberment!”

She stared after him as he marched toward the training grounds like he hadn’t just announced himself with the grace of a thunderclap. This was going to be a lot harder than she thought, and, judging by the way her stomach flipped when he looked over his shoulder and winked, a lot more dangerous.

By the time she walked into the training ring, Dagur was already enthusiastically sparring with a Snotlout, whom he was winning against quite easily. Correction—he was obliterating Snotlout. The aforementioned Viking was on the defensive, gritting his teeth and barely blocking the wild but strangely precise swings Dagur threw at him. Dagur laughed, ducked a swing, and spun Snotlout in a full circle before slamming the butt of his axe into his ribs (gentle by Viking standards, but still enough to make Snotlout wheeze). He bounced back, twirling the axe like a toy, sweat-slick and beaming.

“Come on, Snothat! Is that all you’ve got? I thought you people trained here!”

Snotlout cursed under his breath and muttered something about “lunatics with axes,” but Dagur had already turned toward her, waving again—this time with his axe.

“Hey! You made it!” he called, grinning wildly like he lived off this shit. “Are you ready to teach me stuff? I’m very trainable.”

She looked at him, then at Snotlout, who was still bent over, sucking air like a fish out of water, then back at Dagur, who had the energy of a golden retriever in a berserker’s body and absolutely no sense of personal space, before landing on the decision to take him for a tour of the Edge before he harmed anymore of the riders.

“How about a tour?” she suggested, already walking. “You know, before you knock out half the team.”

“Oh! A tour! Yes, yes, very important. Lead the way, oh mighty guide!” Dagur beamed, practically bouncing beside her like a dangerously armed child on a field trip.

She sighed and resisted the urge to walk faster. This was fine. Everything was fine. All she had to do was show him the Edge, keep him from breaking anything expensive, and survive the next few hours without noticing how his arm muscles rippled deliciously underneath his armour.

“Y’know, I actually haven’t gotten your name yet, what is it?” She blinked. Right, names. Basic social protocol. Something he clearly hadn’t thought to ask until now, after nearly cracking Snotlout’s ribs and declaring war on her personal boundaries.

She told him her name cautiously, watching him out of the corner of her eye. Dagur lit up like someone had handed him a battle axe and told him to go nuts.

“Oh, such a pretty name,” he said, practically sighing the words. “It matches the pretty face!”

She choked on air. He just kept walking, completely unaffected by the verbal grenade he’d casually lobbed into her brain, grinning like a man who either didn’t know how flustering that was—or absolutely did.

She coughed, face burning. “Okay. That’s—no. We’re not doing that.”

“Doing what?” he asked innocently. (He was not innocent.)

“The flirting.”

“I wasn’t flirting,” he said with mock offence. “I was complimenting. Totally different.”

She blushed, and instead of replying, picked up her pace. He was attractive—annoyingly so—and very much her type, which made her usual caution waver dangerously. She was still lost in her warring thoughts of his attractiveness and his insanity when she realised just how close he was walking to her. She pointedly ignored it and put a little bit of distance between them, which he promptly closed. She was saved from an awkward conversation when she rounded a corner and the Twins’ boar pit came into view.

“What the actual FuCK iS THAT!!!” Dagur’s voice exploded into the open air, somehow twenty decibels louder than any human had the right to be. His eyes were wide, sparkling with what could only be described as dangerous glee.

“That,” she sighed, already exhausted, “is Ruff and Tuff’s boar wrestling pit.”

She barely finished the sentence before Dagur grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her like a tambourine.

“WHERE DO THEY KEEP THE BOARS?!”

Dizzied and rapidly developing adult-onset shaken baby syndrome, she pointed vaguely at the makeshift pen the Twins had rigged to avoid hunting new boars every time. He didn’t wait for clarification, with a manic, childlike cackle, he sprinted toward the enclosure like someone had just shouted free violence!. She stood there and watched, equal parts horrified and fascinated. Dagur, objectively, was terrifying—broad, scarred, all sharp teeth and wild hair. But his personality? His personality was... weirdly endearing. There was something almost baby-dragon-ish about him: reckless, curious, full of untamed energy with a complete disregard for personal safety, or anyone’s safety, really.

Yet, as that thought settled, so did a colder one. She remembered the stories. The ones where he’d tried to wear Toothless’s skull as a hat. Where he’d come way too close to killing Hiccup and the others. Where he’d laughed through blood and betrayal like it was all a joke.  That was the thing about Dagur: you didn’t know if he was going to hug you or hurl you into the ocean until after he’d done it, and she was already trusting him too much.

She was suddenly and rudely ripped out of her thoughts when Dagur yelled her name from inside the boar pit. She blinked, frowned, and walked to the edge. He was already covered in mud, grinning like a lunatic, with a shallow scratch bleeding down one cheek like war paint. A boar trotted behind him, looking vaguely offended.

“Come join me!” he shouted up, beaming.

“Oh… uh, sorry, I—uh—I don’t really wrestle the boars—”

She didn’t even get the sentence out completely when Dagur strode to the edge, reached up, and before she could so much as process the madness in his eyes, grabbed her by the ankle and yanked. She yelped, flailed—too late—and tumbled into the pit with a very undignified splat. She surfaced with a splurk, mud dripping from her hair, her tunic soaked and clinging in all the worst places. Dagur stood over her, hands on his hips like he’d just won a battle instead of committed a war crime.

“Oh, look at you!” he grinned, positively glowing with glee. “Now you match the aesthetic! All feral and filthy—ravishing, really.”

She stared at him before suddenly she lunged. Dagur yelped—happily, the absolute lunatic—as she tackled him into the nearest puddle of slop, both of them going down in a flurry of limbs, mud, and squelching boar snorts. He laughed the whole way, cackling like this was the best moment of his entire life.

“What are you—HAH—doing?!” he wheezed between breaths, shielding his face as she straddled his chest and shoved a fistful of sludge into his hair.

“Teaching you manners, you deranged swamp troll!”

“Ohhh,” he grinned, even as he slipped in the mud again, “so this is foreplay!”

She punched him. It wasn’t hard—she wasn’t trying to hurt him—but it was satisfying, knuckles smacking against his shoulder with a wet thwack. He flopped backwards, stunned into silence for all of three seconds. Then he sat up, blinking, rubbing his arm.

“…I think I’m in love.”

She groaned, flopped back in the mud beside him, and stared up at the sky.

“I hate my life.”

Dagur turned his head to grin at her, mud in his teeth and twigs stuck in his hair.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dinner was already halfway through by the time she made it to the hall, still wringing the last of the mud from her braid and silently praying for a quiet, Dagur-free corner. She has sent him off to clean himself earlier, and she’d manifested that he got eaten by a dragon on his way to the common room. No such luck. He was already there, of course, perched like an over-caffeinated gargoyle, elbows on the table, halfway through an animated retelling of something that had Snotlout looking vaguely traumatised and Fishlegs halfway under the table. The only spare seat was right next to him. She froze, and he, unfortunately, spotted her instantly.

“Hey!” he shouted, waving like they were long-lost lovers reunited by fate instead of muddy mortal enemies. “I saved you a seat!”

She very nearly walked right back out the door but Astrid was already waving her over, and Hiccup was giving her a painfully sincere smile, and the gods clearly hated her, so she forced a smile, sucked in a breath, and sat. Dagur immediately leaned in, close enough that she could smell roasted boar and the faint trace of victory on him. “Did you miss me?” he asked, nudging her like they were in on some grand joke.

“I missed silence,” she muttered.

Hiccup, oblivious, glanced between them. “So! How’d today go?”

Dagur straightened so fast he nearly knocked over his mead. “Phenomenal! Ten outta ten! Best day of my entire life!” He threw an arm around her shoulders like this was a buddy comedy and not her personal descent into madness. “We toured! We bonded! We wrestled boars!”

Her face was the exact expression of someone seriously considering launching themselves off the nearest cliff.

“Wrestled?” Hiccup blinked. “Like… actually wrestled?”

Dagur nodded eagerly. “And she hit me!” He beamed like that was the most romantic thing in the world. “Right here!” He pointed to his shoulder proudly, moving his tunic slightly to show them. “Look at the bruise forming, it’s beautiful craftsmanship.”

Across the table, Astrid slowly lowered her mug and whispered to the Twins, “I give it three days before she snaps and kills him.”

Tuffnut whispered back, “I give it two.”

She just sat there, fork frozen halfway to her mouth, soul quietly ascending. Dagur didn’t notice; he was too busy giving her that slightly-too-wide smile again.

“So,” he asked, like it was a normal question, “what are we doing tomorrow?”

Her eye twitched, not noticeably—at least not to the average person—but it twitched. A subtle little tic that screamed volumes in the silence. Across the table, Astrid slowly reached for the salt like she was afraid any sudden movement might set off a chain reaction.

“Tomorrow?” she echoed, voice somehow both flat and shrill.

Dagur nodded, far too excited, still beaming like she wasn’t one minor inconvenience away from her kicking him into the ocean. “Yeah! You and me! Big bonding day. I figured we could start with a sunrise jog, maybe do some knife throwing, more boar wrangling—”

“Boar wrangling?” she repeated, dead-eyed.

“—and then maybe see who can hang upside-down from the watchtower the longest without passing out,” he continued, blissfully unaware. “It’s great for core strength and establishing dominance.”

Tuffnut leaned across to whisper again, eyes gleaming. “One and a half days.”

“I’m still betting two,” Ruffnut said, shoving more food in her mouth. “But only ‘cause I think she’s gonna try to make it look like an accident.”

Hiccup cleared his throat like a man trying to halt a murder in slow motion. “Maybe just… take it easy tomorrow, y’know ease into the whole ‘training’ thing.”

Dagur had already turned back to her, completely ignoring Hiccup, his eyes glittering with far too much chaotic glee. “So? Whaddaya say, sunshine? Up for a little mayhem?”

She inhaled slowly, exhaled even slower, then forced a smile that looked like it had been constructed under duress by someone who had never smiled before.

“I say,” she said through gritted teeth, “if you wake me up before dawn, I will throw you off the cliff.”

Dagur paused before bursting into delighted laughter.

“Oh, I really like you. This is gonna be so much fun!”

She didn’t answer; she was too busy mentally drafting his obituary. It started with: He had it coming.

~~~~~~

She’d finally managed to relax slightly and had just managed to choke down a few bites of food, brain halfway convinced that if she ignored Dagur long enough, he’d eventually get bored and go set something else on fire, when Hiccup decided to ruin it all.

“So,” Hiccup said, ever the picture of well-meaning idiocy, “about housing...”

She froze, every muscle in her body locked up like a trap ready to snap.

Dagur perked up. “Ooh! That’s right! Where am I staying? Somewhere with a view, I hope. And maybe a forge nearby, with some swords, axes and maces for training.”

Hiccup rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, funny thing about that… We’re, uh, out of space.”

She blinked. “Out of what?”

“Space,” Hiccup repeated, all faux-casual. “We’ve got more riders than huts now. Astrid and I, we bunked up so you could have your own. Fishlegs has the east wing, Snotlout refuses to share, and the Twins… well, I don’t trust them and Dagur in the same vicinity, let alone sleeping in the same hut.”

“So?” she asked slowly, like dragging the word out would delay the inevitable.

“So, you’ve got a hut with an extra cot, and you’re the one who’s helping him get sorted,” he said brightly. “Problem solved!”

She stared, looking at Hiccup like he had just personally handed her a dragon egg and told her to sit on it until it hatched. “You’re putting him in my hut?”

Dagur gasped, hand to his chest like she’d just proposed marriage. “We’re roommates?!”

She spun on him. “No. No, we are not—”

“Oh, I get it,” he cut in, leaning in with a grin, part wolf, part mischievous idiot. “You’re shy, that’s fine. I can sleep on the floor or the roof, or—if you really want—we could share the bed… for warmth, obviously, to…conserve body heat.”

Across the table, Astrid blinked. Tuffnut was attempting to fit an entire fish in his mouth, but no one noticed the way her brain momentarily short-circuited.

Hiccup raised his hands, bracing himself against the glare she turned his way. “Just until we either build him a hut or find somewhere else,” he said fast, “The dragon stables are full, so we can’t put a bed in there, the forge roof’s leaking, and yours has the only spare bed. Technically.”

“Technically,” she echoed, voice flat.

“It’ll be fine,” Hiccup insisted, nodding like sheer willpower could bend reality. “Dagur’s been… calm lately.”

Dagur’s breath hit her ear, warm and low, the sound like a secret only meant for her. “Relatively.”

Her muscles tensed, a strange flutter rippling through her stomach. She bit her cheek, trying to focus on anything but the way his voice felt like a spark, like tiny firecrackers popping in a quiet room. She shifted slightly, hoping the subtle movement would put distance between them, but he was already leaning in closer. A blush crept up her neck, burning hotter the longer he lingered. Her breath caught; she felt suddenly aware of every inch of skin near his—the heat of his breath, the soft tickle of his hair against her cheek. She wanted to pull away, to remind herself this was a man who nearly killed half the riders, but instead, her heart betrayed her, thudding painfully against her ribs.

Hiccup tried again, desperation creeping in. “Besides, it’s a chance to build camaraderie! Friendship! Trust!”

Behind him, Snotlout counted quietly on his fingers, just loud enough for her to catch: “and to experience a lack of boundaries, sleep-talking, weapons under the pillow, and so much more.”

She stared at Hiccup, decidedly ignoring Snotlout. “You’re serious?”

He winced. “He’ll behave.”

Dagur grinned sideways, whispering again just close enough for her to feel it, “Debatable.”

Her skin prickled, a mix of irritation and something more confusing—something like a tiny spark of anticipation she hated to admit. She clenched her jaw, fighting the warmth spreading across her cheeks and the wild beat of her heart. She slowly turned to glare at the man practically vibrating with amusement beside her.

“You’re enjoying this, aren't you?.”

Shrugging, he said, “Shared spaces get… interesting.”

Her cheeks flamed as Hiccup awkwardly cleared his throat, trying to save what was left of the conversation. She forced a smile and thought: This is definitely not going to be fine.

Chapter Text

The night had gone off mostly without a hitch—mostly being the key word. She’d dragged the spare cot to the farthest possible corner of the hut, wedging it against the wall like that extra half-metre of distance might protect her sanity. It hadn’t. By sunrise, the cot was suspiciously closer to her bed. She wasn’t sure if Dagur had moved it in his sleep or if he’d done it on purpose to mess with her. Whatever the reason, it was too early to unravel that particular horror. More pressing was the fact that he was already gone.

His bed was perfectly made, not neat, but unsettlingly efficient, like a man used to breaking camp and running before the sun had a chance to rise. That, somehow, made her more uneasy than if he were still snoring like a chainsaw in the corner. He woke up first. He was awake. In here. While I was still asleep. She sat up slowly, scanning the space for any signs of life—or chaos—and came up empty. The quiet pressed against her like a warning. She sighed, rubbing a hand over her face, tension bleeding out just a little. Okay, this was fine; there were no manic grins or whispered innuendos. She could work with this, maybe he’d gone off to terrorise Snotlout or chase a wild chicken, or he’d gotten bored and wandered into the ocean. Honestly, any of those options sounded better than starting the day being serenaded by whatever weird thoughts lived in Dagur’s head.

She threw her furs back, sliding into her tunic and armour, tugging her boots on. The silence was actually unsettling after the events of the past day and night. She hadn’t even had breakfast yet, and already she was mentally bracing for the inevitable disaster that would come with Dagur. She slung her belt over her hips, muttering to herself, “Just get through the day, don’t get your dragon to eat him and don’t let him make you blush.”

The door creaked as she opened it, only to nearly trip over a pile of fish. A whole, very freshly caught pile of fish. On her doorstep. Arranged in what looked suspiciously like a heart. She stared. And stared some more. And then a little more. Her brain was reeling, running circles in her head at 300km/h trying to figure out exactly what the fuck she was looking at. A note, skewered into the top fish with a dagger, read in aggressively messy handwriting:

“Breakfast in bed is for cowards. Enjoy the catch, oh fierce and radiant morning flower.”
– Your Roommate 😘

She took a slow breath through her nose and started collecting the fish to bring to her dragon, but before she fed him, before she so much as thought about starting her day, she had to make a quick trip to Hiccup’s hut. If she had to suffer this psychotic mating ritual, the man responsible for putting Dagur anywhere near her was going to hear about it.

She marched through the Edge with arms full of blood-slicked romantic symbolism, fish guts dripping between her fingers like some kind of deranged war paint. The few riders she passed stared, wisely saying nothing. One of the twins raised an eyebrow, and Snotlout very audibly said, “I give it one more day before she murders him,” and immediately ducked behind a barrel.

When she reached Hiccup’s hut, she kicked his door open like a woman possessed. He looked up from his desk, startled, one hand full of blueprints and the other holding a spoonful of porridge. His mouth opened to greet her—

“I swear on every dragon on this island, if you don’t do something about your emotionally unstable golden retriever, I will,” she snapped, dropping the fish onto his table with a wet splat. “He left me this. With a note. Calling me a—what was it?—‘fierce and radiant morning flower.’”

Hiccup blinked at the pile of romantic seafood. “…He’s adapting better than I thought.”

“Hiccup.”

“He’s trying! This is progress.”

“He stabs things with love notes.”

“…Again, progress. He’s just—”

“Oh, I see you got my present!”

She whipped around, almost breaking her neck from the speed of the motion, to face the Dagur. She raised her finger at him, “YOU!”

He threw his hands up, taking a step around her, trying to get closer to Hiccup, “Me?”

“I AM GOING TO RIP YOU LIMB FROM LIMB, YOU FUCKING LUNATIC” She took a step closer to him “And Hiccup is not going to be able to save you”

“I—”

“I smell like I took a swim in fish guts!”

Dagur blinked, looking her up and down with the utterly deranged admiration of a man who found threats erotic and fish guts endearing.

“Well,” he said brightly, “you do smell like victory. It’s very... primal. I like it.”

She made a sound—somewhere between a growl and a feral screech—and lunged forward. Hiccup, to his eternal credit (and personal survival), leapt between them with a speed that suggested this wasn’t the first time he’d had to prevent a murder before breakfast.

“Okay! Okay! Let’s all just—breathe,” he said, hands outstretched, one toward her, one toward Dagur like he was calming two very large, very unstable dragons. “Dagur, what possessed you to leave fish in her bed?”

Dagur frowned. “Technically, they were beside the bed. I’m not a monster, Hiccup.”

“That’s debatable,” she muttered, arms crossed and teeth gritted.

Dagur beamed at her, “I thought it was romantic! Y’know, thoughtful. Food and a dagger? That’s how we build trust and relationships back at home, it’s called Providing.”

“You are not building trust with me with dead fish.”

“…Yet.”

She made another sound—louder, more murderous. Hiccup physically held her back by the shoulders.

“Dagur,” he sighed, already exhausted, “maybe flowers next time?”

“I did consider flowers! But then I thought: flowers die, fish can be eaten.”

She looked up at the sky, praying Odin would just smite her then and there.

“Right,” Hiccup said, rubbing his temples. “I’m going to pretend this never happened. Dagur—go… build something, somewhere far away. You—” he turned to her with pleading eyes “—maybe take a walk, and a bath. Or a week-long sabbatical.”

Dagur wiggled his eyebrows. “I could help scrub the fish smell off—”

“Finish that sentence,” she snapped, “and I swear to Freya I’ll gut you with your own romantic gesture.”

Dagur just grinned wider.

She turned to Hiccup, dead-eyed. “This is your fault.”

Hiccup, who already looked one apology away from faking his own death, whispered, “Yeah, I know.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She was quite literally the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his entire life, and that included the Skrill. Dagur knew he had a reputation. People (rude people) called him impulsive, dramatic, dangerously unstable, and, sure, maybe he had a history of becoming slightly obsessed with things. The Skrill. World domination. Toothless’s skull. Hiccup. But this? This was not an obsession; this was love. He could safely, confidently, and completely rationally say that he was in love. Not like, oh-she’s-pretty love, but the kind of love where he was already planning their joint funeral because true love is eternal and nothing says commitment like matching graves. He’d known her for what? A day? That meant nothing; this was love at first sight.

The way she glared at him like he’d personally offended Odin himself? Stunning.

The way she rolled her eyes when he spoke? Erotic.

The way she blushed when he leaned in to whisper something in her ear? Instantly hard.

He was pretty sure that’s what love was. Not the soft kind—no, the violent, operatic, sprint-into-battle-screaming-her-name kind. The kind that made him want to carve her name into his chest or win her affection by taking down an entire armada single-handedly. Whichever came first. Dagur sighed, dramatically flopping onto a rock and gazing at the sky like a tragic protagonist. He pressed the back of his hand to his forehead. “Stars above,” he murmured, “I’ve never been in love like this.”

He blinked up at the clouds, which did not respond, rude, but he understood. They, too, must’ve once fallen for someone who threatened to stab them if they looked too long.

“I mean,” he said to no one, because no one was brave enough to hang out with him right now (or ever, to be honest), “she called me a lunatic and said she'd rip me limb from limb. That’s basically a proposal.”

He sighed again, deeper this time, chest heaving like he was dying of heartbreak and not just hopelessly, obsessively infatuated with a woman who had no idea what to do with him.

“I would die for her,” he whispered dramatically. “Or, better yet, kill for her. It’s more practical.”

There was a beat of silence. A nearby dragon made a confused huffing noise, and Dagur pointed at it.

“You get it.”

He sat up abruptly, wild hair sticking up in every direction, green eyes gleaming with manic clarity.

“I need to impress her with something big, something memorable. Like a grand romantic gesture! Aha, maybe a trebuchet, that’s perfect.”

He paused. Considered. Then grinned.

“Yes. Trebuchets are very romantic.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She heard the explosion before she saw it. Not a big one—nothing that screamed death trap, but definitely loud enough to suggest someone was up to something they shouldn’t be, probably the Twins. She broke into a jog, rounding the corner near the cliffside, only to halt dead in her tracks. There, standing shirtless and covered in soot, was Dagur—not the Twins. That, however, was not what caught her attention; it was the hastily built siege weapon, towering behind him.

“Is that… a trebuchet?”

He turned with the biggest, most feral grin she’d ever seen, like a dog that had just dug up a bone. “Ah-ha! You found me!” he declared, gesturing grandly at the monstrosity like he was unveiling a wedding gift. “Behold—my heart, launched at terminal velocity!”

“…What?”

“It’s for you!” he said, as if that explained anything. “Romantic, right? Big. Dramatic. There’s fire involved, and I’m ninety percent sure it’s structurally sound.”

She just stared at him.

“And,” he added, pointing at the small, slightly smoking pile of splinters nearby, “the first test run only mostly missed the cliff.”

Her eye twitched. “You built a medieval war machine? For me?”

He looked far too pleased with himself. “Love is a battlefield!”

“You’re going to die on one if you keep this up.”

He gasped, one hand over his chest. “Gods above… she cares.”

She turned and started walking away, muttering, “I’m going to need alcohol for this.”

Behind her, a creak and ominous snap echoed from the trebuchet.

“…Dagur, is it meant to be smoking more?!”

“Ummm… I don’t think so, do you think—FUCK, do you think you can help before it explodes?”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small grin tugging at her lips. “Fine, but if I’m helping, I get to hold the emergency extinguisher.”

Dagur gasped, hand pressed to his chest again like she’d just said the most romantic thing imaginable. “Deal! You’re officially my co-pilot in this mission of love and destruction.”

“Why do I feel like those are the only two settings you operate on?”

“Because they are,” he replied, absolutely delighted.

Together, they adjusted ropes, tightened bolts, and argued over the best angle to launch the ‘heart’. She found herself laughing when Dagur nearly lost his balance trying to haul the heavy arm back, arms flailing like a very excitable windmill. He was shouting something about “trajectory” and “emotional velocity,” which, she was sure, were not engineering terms.

Still, she had to admit—begrudgingly—that he wasn’t just some chaotic meathead swinging a hammer at problems (even if he acted like it). Despite his unhinged enthusiasm, he moved with practised confidence, hands calloused and sure as he tied off the rigging with expert precision. The knots were flawless—fast, clean, and clearly second nature to him. Of course they were; he was a seafaring Viking, not a total idiot, and there was a sharpness under all that chaos that she hadn’t quite expected. It threw her off a little, the way his grin could be pure mayhem, but his fingers worked with such methodical ease. There was a weird sort of grace to it—hidden under the muscle and madness—and it annoyed her how much she noticed. She watched as he adjusted the counterweight with a critical eye, mumbling something about tension and trajectory. Okay, so maybe he did actually know what he was doing, which, frankly, made it harder to dismiss him as just a walking explosion in battle armour.

“Huh,” she muttered. “You can be taught.”

Dagur beamed like she'd handed him the godsdamned moon. “Compliments! This is progress! Write that down, Hiccup!”

“Hiccup’s not here.”

“Exactly, so you have to remember it for me.”

“Freya, help me,” she muttered, but the corner of her mouth twitched upwards.

Finally, after what felt like an hour of unregulated chaos and mild structural risk, Dagur stepped back, admiring the trebuchet like it was his own monstrous child.

“Ready?” he asked, hand on the release lever, grin threatening to split his face.

She took a deep breath, half dreading and half craving the disaster that was definitely about to happen. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

With a dramatic shout of “FOR THE FLAMES OF LOVE!” he pulled the lever.

The trebuchet creaked, groaned, then whipped the payload into the sky with a force that probably wasn’t safety-approved. The heart-shaped bundle of wood, rope, and something that suspiciously smelled like dragon spice soared over the cliff, then exploded midair into a burst of sparkling embers and flaming flower petals.

They both stared, mouths agape.

“Oh my gods,” she breathed.

“I AM A GENIUS,” Dagur roared, throwing his arms in the air like he’d just conquered Valhalla.

He then promptly tackled her into a bear hug, arms thrown around her shoulders like a particularly affectionate avalanche. “See? Romance!”

She let out a breathless laugh, caught between fighting him off and… maybe not hating the way his arms felt around her.

“You’re insane,” she said, pushing at his chest with very little actual effort.

“But you’re having fun.”

She glanced at him. His hair was a mess, his grin still slightly unhinged, and his eyes were somehow brighter than the fireworks they'd just launched. Her heart thudded once—annoyingly hard.

“Maybe a little,” she admitted.

He blinked, stunned, like she’d just handed him a second moon. “You like me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You want to like me.”

“I really didn’t say that.”

Dagur leaned in, voice dropping to that too-smooth, too-close tone that made her want to punch him or kiss him or both. “You’re halfway to smitten, admit it.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I’m halfway to stabbing you.”

“Ohhh,” he grinned, nodding. “Foreplay.”

She shoved him. He laughed the whole way down as he tumbled off a small ledge and landed flat on his back in the grass.

Chapter Text

Duskveil Sirenshade (Mystery Class)

❖ Appearance:

• Pastel blue, soft rose-pink, and muted lilac scales that shimmer.

• Wings are semi-transparent like a silken veil, but stretch wide with power.

• Horns and talons are an opal black.

• Liquid silver eyes.

❖ Temperament:

• Silent flyer: The name Dusksinger is ironic; she never makes a sound unless she's threatening someone.

• Can mimic sound or voices to confuse enemies (like a siren call—creepy as hell in battle).

• Loyal to death, but only if you earn her. She does not bond easily.

• Extremely protective and territorial, especially around her rider.

✦ Powers & Traits:

• Iridescent Camouflage: She can vanish into a sunset sky, shimmering like heat waves.

• Sound-Bending Voice: Can produce disorienting hums or vibrations that mess with enemy echolocation or nerves.

• Flash-Flare Breath: Not fire, but a blinding radiant burst of colored heatlight.

• Wing Shields: Her wings can wrap her rider like a shimmering cocoon. 

Chapter Text

Dusksinger, her dragon, sat perched lazily on one of the Edge’s roof supports in the stables, preening her wings in slow, satisfied movements. The pastel blues and pinks of her scales shimmered in the sun, almost iridescent as they caught the light. She let out a long sigh, watching her dragon stretch with complete ease, utterly unbothered by the chaos of human life.

“Must be nice,” she muttered. “Just sitting there all perfect while I’m down here mentally combusting.”

Astrid sat to her right, legs crossed, methodically sharpening a small army of axes and daggers spread out beside her. The rhythmic sound of metal on stone filled the space between them, broken only when Astrid gave her a sidelong glance, a sly smile tugging at her lips.

“Sooo,” she drawled, not looking up from her blade, “how’s it going with you and Dagur? Have you figured out how you’re going to kill him yet?”

She snorted. “Ha ha. Very funny. No, I haven’t, I feel like anything I do just makes him more obsessed. I swear, I threatened to rip his limbs off and scatter them across the archipelago, and he looked delighted, said something about a ‘bonding ritual.’”

Astrid chuckled, shaking her head. “Honestly, I’m impressed. You lasted longer without throwing him off the Edge than I would’ve. I was ready to toss him into the sea before he even opened his mouth.”

She laughed, then slumped back against the wooden post with a groan. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with him. He’s everywhere. I know Hiccup told me I was his ‘chaperone’ or whatever, but gods, I didn’t think that meant shadow. He’s like an overly muscular barnacle, or a very persistent fungus.”

Astrid raised a brow. “A hot fungus?”

She flushed instantly. “Don’t.” She threw a quick glance around the open stables, then leaned in and dropped her voice to a harsh whisper. “And thanks for not mentioning that he’s actually hot. I mean—what the hell, Astrid? I was unprepared.”

Astrid grinned wickedly, finally setting her blade down. “Oh, come on, where’s the fun in warning you? Besides, you kinda figure out the crazy cancels out the hot once you hear him rant about blood and axes for the third time in a row.”

“I did not ‘figure it out.’ I was ambushed,” she hissed. “Ambushed by muscles and that stupid scar and the way he does that ridiculous lopsided grin when he’s about to say something unhinged. Don’t even get me started on the voice.”

“Oh no,” Astrid laughed. “You’ve got it bad.”

She dropped her head into her hands with a loud groan. “He’s fucking insane. Did you know he built me a trebuchet the other week? A trebuchet, Astrid!! I had to help him so he didn’t ruin the Edge with it, and y’know what? I actually enjoyed spending time with him.”

She groaned and threw herself backward onto the floorboards, one arm flung dramatically over her face. “I think I need to be sedated.”

Naturally—because the universe clearly had a twisted sense of humour—the person responsible for every single one of her current troubles, woes, and morally confusing thoughts chose that exact moment to walk into the dragon stables. Of course.

He strode in like he owned the place, wild hair even wilder today, his usual manic energy barely contained as he threw a freshly-caught fish from hand to hand.  She didn’t move from the floor, just muttered, “Kill me. Astrid, you’re armed—do the world a favour.”

Dagur’s head tilted, spotting her sprawled dramatically on the ground. His grin grew instantly. “Ah, good! You’re already lying down, I—”

“Do not finish that sentence,” she snapped, lifting a hand just enough to wave him off. “I do not want to know what you’ve done, broken, or blown up this early in the morning.”

“But it’s almost lunch—” he offered, genuinely confused.

“I don’t give a fuck, Dagur.”

He shrugged, utterly unbothered. “Fair enough.” Then he turned to the roof beams. “Dusky! Come get your breakfast!”

With a delighted trill, Dusksinger launched herself off the beam with surprising elegance for a creature her size, landing beside him with a thud that rattled the wall supports. She nuzzled his shoulder like an affectionate overgrown cat—traitor—before snatching the fish from his hand with a chirp of satisfaction and crunching into it.

She watched the whole thing unfold with narrowed eyes and a suspicious squint. Dusksinger… liked him. That in itself wasn’t too surprising—Dagur was loud, chaotic, and had the energy of a man who would stare down a dragon without weapons just for fun. Dragons respected that kind of madness, but Dusksinger was picky. Particular. She still wouldn’t let Snotlout within ten feet of her without flaring her wings and snarling like he’d personally insulted her ancestry. Dagur, however? He got nuzzles, tail swishes, and pleased trills. She blinked slowly. No. Nope. Not thinking about it. Obviously, Dusksinger had just lowered her standards. That was the only explanation, the absolute only one. She wasn’t going to start spiralling about the fact that her impossibly high-maintenance dragon had willingly imprinted on the most unstable Viking on the Edge. She refused.

Instead, she sat up just enough to glare at Dagur’s back as he scratched Dusksinger under the chin like they were best friends.

“I hope she sneezes in your face,” she muttered under her breath.

Dagur turned slightly, clearly having heard her, and flashed her a crooked grin. “Aw, don’t be jealous, you’ll get your turn.”

She stared at him, blinking, before she promptly dropped back onto the floor like gravity was working against her. Astrid snickered, slapped the flat of her axe against her thigh, and stood up with far too much smug energy. She sat up on one elbow, confused. “Wait—Astrid, where are you going?”

“Oh, me?” Astrid called over her shoulder, already halfway to the exit. “I’m just going to, uh… water the dragons.”

There was a pause.

“…Water the dragons?”

“Yep!” Astrid didn’t even slow down. “They get dry! Thirsty scales! Very high-maintenance, you know how it is. I’ll just—see you two around!”

She threw them both a cheerful and suspiciously innocent wave and practically bolted out of the stables, her laughter echoing faintly down the hall. They were in the stables, for god’s sake, if she was going to be doing any watering of the dragons, she should be doing it here, not leaving her alone with this deranged lunatic.

She blinked at the empty space where her so-called friend had been and then slowly turned her head toward Dagur, still standing there next to Dusksinger, who looked like she was smiling if dragons could smile. Dagur was watching her with that cocky little grin that somehow made her want to fight and kiss him at the same time. “Sooo,” he said, rocking back on his heels, “do you need watering too, or…?”

She threw a rag at his face.

“Oh my gods,” she muttered, dragging a hand down her face. “This is my life now.”

Dusksinger let out a smug little trill and flopped down beside her, tail curling protectively around her human like it was all part of the plan. Dagur plucked the rag off his face with an exaggerated flourish, like she’d tossed him a royal sash instead of something that smelled vaguely like dragon sweat and oil. He held it to his chest dramatically. “I’ll treasure this forever.”

She gave him a flat look. “Please don’t.”

He grinned wider, dangerously wide. “Too late, it’s already emotionally significant.”

She groaned, leaning back against Dusksinger’s side, the dragon’s scales warm against her spine. “Why are you like this?”

Dagur sat down cross-legged in front of her without being asked, which was exactly on brand for someone with no concept of personal space or emotional pacing. “Because the gods made me perfect and then added just the right amount of unstable,” he said proudly, tossing his invisible hair over his shoulder.

“More like the gods sneezed while designing you and accidentally fucked up your recipe.”

He seemed to glow at that, like it was the highest praise imaginable. “Aw, you do get me.”

She dropped her head back against Dusksinger with a dramatic thud. The dragon rumbled affectionately beneath her, her tail giving Dagur a casual bump like a nudge of approval.

“Traitor,” she muttered again to Dusksinger.

Dagur leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, his voice softening just a bit—still playful, but quieter around the edges. “You know, I could leave you alone if you really wanted me to.”

She looked at him, surprised by the shift.

“But,” he continued with a lopsided grin, “you’d miss me. Admit it.”

She stared at him. Then: “I still can’t believe you built me a trebuchet.”

“And I’d do it again,” he said, absolutely sincere.

“…This is my life now,” she repeated, less resigned this time, and more terrified amusement, and maybe, just maybe, a hint of something else.

Chapter Text

When she had woken up that morning, it had been to the rare, eerie silence of an empty hut. No off-key singing, or dramatic monologue about a dream he had where he tamed a Skrill with his bare hands. No scuffling of boots or clang of weapons being "accidentally" knocked over. Just… quiet. Sure, she was technically getting used to the fact that Dagur tended to wake up before her, but it still set off a little alarm in her chest every time she opened her eyes and found him gone. Over time, that alarm had quieted from a full-blown panic to a mild jolt. Usually, he’d hang around just long enough to barrage her with his unfiltered thoughts, ask if she thought he could make a saddle out of a war banner, then disappear to gods-know-where with a gleam in his eye and absolutely no supervision.

But this morning? Nothing. No Dagur. No note. No scorched breakfast attempt. Not even a dent left in his mattress over the other side of the room. She sat up, frowning. “Okay… no singing, no yelling, no Dagur. Either he’s dead… or he’s planning something.”

Dusksinger, lounging in her usual spot outside the hut, gave a low grumble like she agreed—and maybe also disapproved of being left out of whatever chaos was brewing. She pulled on her boots with more force than necessary and grabbed her gear. If something was going on, she was going to find out, because Dagur being quiet for more than an hour? That was catastrophic.

~~~~~

Unbeknownst to her, across the island, chaos was in fact brewing. The Twins were cackling,  Dagur was cackling, and a suspiciously net-shaped pile of ropes and pulleys was being set up in the middle of one of the dense forests that covered the island.

~~~~~

Back on the Edge, she narrowed her eyes as she walked around the stables for the third time, storm clouds gathering in her gut. Dagur might be a lot of things—unhinged, unpredictable, a walking threat to structural integrity—but he was never this quiet. Something was definitely wrong. What was also suspicious was the distinct lack of the Twins. She had searched the entirety of the Edge, every building, hut, and common area there was. That meant that wherever Dagur and/or the twins were, it was not on this side of the island.

Just then, Snotlout rounded a corner whistling an off-tune melody as he lugged Hookfang’s saddle into the stables. Her gaze snapped to him like a vulture spotting a limping yak.

“Hey, Snotlout,” she said, tone deceptively casual. “Do you know where Dagur is?”

Snotlout froze mid-step, eyes darting to the side like he was calculating his chances of escape. Spoiler: it was pretty low.

“D-Dagur?” he said, voice cracking like he’d just hit puberty again. “I don’t, uh, I have no clue where he would be. Nada. Zero Dagur sightings. Totally Dagurless today.”

She raised an eyebrow.

He coughed. “He’s probably off doing… Dagur stuff. Y’know, swinging swords, yelling, licking rocks or whatever it is he does when no one’s watching.”

She crossed her arms slowly. “Uh huh… and the Twins?”

Snotlout took a nervous step back. “What twins?”

“The only two people on this island who look like the exact same person.”

“Oh those twins,” he said weakly. “Yeah, uh. Nope, haven’t seen them either. Weird, right?”

She narrowed her eyes. That was the worst lie she’d heard since Tuffnut claimed he ‘accidentally’ set fire to his own pants trying to impress a Razorwhip. Snotlout avoided her gaze entirely, suddenly very interested in the ground, or his shoelaces, or the saddle in his hands, which he promptly dropped with a loud thunk and then stared at like it had personally betrayed him.

She took one slow step forward. “Snotlout.”

He winced. “Y-Yeah?”

“You do remember I can tell when you’re lying, right?”

“…Define lying.”

Her stare went flat, even Hookfang, lurking in the back of the stables, let out a snort like he was embarrassed to be associated with him.

Snotlout shifted his weight awkwardly. “Okay, look, I might have heard something, but if I did, I definitely wasn’t supposed to. And if I told you, and you went out there and stabbed someone—specifically Dagur—I’m pretty sure I’d get blamed for it. Again.”

She folded her arms, unimpressed. “Snotlout, if you don’t tell me what’s going on, I’ll stab you instead."

He blanched. “Okay! Okay! Don’t get stabby, jeez.” He looked around dramatically—like a spy about to pass state secrets—then leaned in and whispered, “They’re setting something up in the forest near the south cliffs. Dagur, the Twins… I don’t know what exactly, but there were ropes. Lots of ropes. A-And netting. And Tuffnut said the phrase ‘romantic entrapment’, which, frankly, is not a sentence I ever wanted to hear in my life.”

Her eyes widened, as she gripped his shoulders, “What the hel do you mean by ‘romantic entrapment’?”

Snotlout held up his hands. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. I don’t think they’ve tested it yet—so if you go now, you might be able to catch them mid-chaos.”

She was already walking past him, heading towards Dusksinger, the dragon letting out a low, eager trill like finally, some action. Dagur was so dead.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It took her twenty minutes to fly to the forest—twenty long, wind-battered, rage-fuelled minutes where she rehearsed at least six different speeches in her head, each with varying levels of yelling, threats, and creative uses for a broken net.

Dusksinger glided down in a graceful arc, landing with a crunch of gravel near the edge. She dismounted swiftly, eyes scanning the area. There was no sign of Dagur or the Twins. No ropes or nets, or suspiciously placed fires. There was no screaming or explosions, which were all things she associated with Dagur and the Twins. There was only ocean wind, the screech of gulls, and the wide, empty stretch of cliffside mocking her like it knew what she was expecting. She paced a few steps, hands on her hips, when Dusksinger let out a low grunt, head tilting toward the ridge like she sensed something, like even she knew this was too quiet.

She crouched beside a patch of flattened grass and rope impressions in the dirt. “Huh. So they were here…” she muttered.

She continued walking further into the forest, the overhead foliage darkening her path and the cries of gulls being replaced by the caws of ravens. Just when she was about to give up her hunt and fly back to the Edge, she heard a quiet chuckle off to her right. She pushed through a couple of bushes to find Dagur sitting by himself on a log. He looked far too pleased with himself for someone hiding in the woods like a feral raccoon. Elbows on his knees, hands steepled under his chin, and a grin stretching wide across his face—a grin that was way too wide.

“Oh, Valkyrie, I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come,” he said, voice syrupy with smugness.

She stood dead still for a second, blinking at him like he’d lost his last brain cell.

“I shouldn’t have come,” she snapped, brushing twigs from her sleeves as she stepped into the clearing. “You vanished without a word. I thought you were dead, or worse, that you’d maimed someone else.”

Dagur leaned back like he was settling in for a performance. “Awww, you were worried about me!”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she muttered, though the heat prickling at the tips of her ears betrayed her. “Where are the Twins?”

“The Twins? Not a clue.”

“Snotlout said that the Twins were with you?”

“Snothat said that?” and then almost to himself, “I told him to keep it a secret.”

Suddenly, Dagur jumped up from his spot on the log, arms wide as he gestured for her to come over. She sighed, tired of shit already, before she stomped over to him.

“I swear to god that when we get back, I’m going to ki—”

She didn’t have a chance to finish that sentence as she was suddenly encompassed from all directions by a net and flung into the air. Unfortunately, because of their close proximity, so was Dagur. A startled yelp left her as they were hoisted several feet into the air, limbs tangled, faces squished much closer than appropriate.

She stared at him, wide-eyed, chest heaving. “Dagur—”

He was absolutely glowing. “IT WORKED!”

“You absolute menace,” she hissed, squirming against the ropes. “You booby-trapped me!”

“Yes, yes I did.”

“I swear to the gods, Dagur, if I end up with rope burn in any unspeakable place—”

“You’ll let me kiss it better?” he offered with a hopeful grin.

She headbutted his chest with enough force to send the net swinging, bringing them impossibly closer together. “I’m going to kill you with your own net.”

Dagur winced, but his smile didn’t falter. “Totally worth it.”

High above, the net rocked gently in the breeze. Further into the forests, the Twins cackled, making their retreat back to the Edge. Below, Dusksinger landed with a thud, letting out a rumbling trill as she blinked up at them, unimpressed.

“Great,” she muttered, trying to untangle herself from the ropes. “Even my dragon thinks this is stupid.”

Dagur gave an exaggerated sigh, eyes never leaving her. “Well, if we’re stuck, might as well make the most of it…”

She froze. “Don’t.”

He wiggled his eyebrows. “So…. do you come here often?”

She gave him a look. The kind of look that could curdle milk, melt steel, or make even the bravest Viking rethink their life choices, but Dagur had no such self-preservation instincts. His hand, tangled in the ropes near her waist, slid, just a little. Enough to rest against her hip—firm, casual, like he wasn’t acutely aware of every breath between them. Like he hadn’t just trapped her in a net like some deranged lovebird poacher. Her breath caught, just for a second.

“Dagur,” she warned, voice tight.

“What?” he said innocently, though the glint in his eyes said otherwise. “I’m just making sure you don’t fall, safety first always.”

“We’re in a net,” she snapped.

“Exactly, it’s a very dangerous net. It could unravel at any second.” He leaned in slightly, lips brushing the shell of her ear as he added in a whisper, “Better stay close.”

Her pulse spiked. Gods, she hated that her body betrayed her like this. The warmth of his breath sent shivers racing down her spine. Get it together, she scolded herself. This is Dagur. You’re annoyed. You’re furious. You’re not—

His fingers flexed slightly against her hip, and her whole body locked up. Just for a second. Her breath stuttered—too fast, too shallow—and for a moment, she wasn’t in the net. She was somewhere else. Somewhere with hands that didn’t stop. The ropes that pressed into her back felt too much like restraints. His hand didn’t move, though. She blinked, pulse hammering in her throat as the panic twisted into confusion. His grin was still there, stupid and smug and far too close, but his touch hadn’t moved; the soft heat of it grounded her to the present as opposed to flinging her back to the past. The moment passed like a storm held at bay—and she forced her breath out through her nose, clenched her jaw, and dragged her thoughts back from the ledge.

“Move your hand,” she growled.

He didn’t. “Make me.”

Her eye twitched.

He tilted his head. “Unless you like it there…”

That was it. She took a deep breath, leaned forward so their foreheads touched—close enough to burn—and whispered, “Dagur?”

“Yeah?” he breathed, voice suddenly huskier.

“If you don’t let me go in the next ten seconds…” She paused, gave him a deadly sweet smile, “I’ll use the broken parts of this net to strangle you and feed you to Dusksinger.”

Dagur didn’t flinch. If anything, his grin deepened, darkened—like her threat had only stoked the fire in him further. His hand stayed exactly where it was on her hip, fingers pressing just enough to make her feel it. The ropes creaked slightly as the net swayed, their bodies shifting even closer in the confined space. She wasn’t sure if it was the lack of personal space or the sheer insanity of the moment, but her thoughts tangled almost as badly as the ropes around them. It wasn’t fair. He smelled like smoke and sea salt and adrenaline. His grin was cocky, dangerous, and way too close. His stupid, handsome, unhinged face— No. Nope. Definitely not. She clenched her jaw, dragging her mind back from the ledge.

“Y’know,” he murmured, voice lower now, rougher, “you saying stuff like that while your mouth’s this close to mine is really giving me the wrong idea.”

She scowled. “Dagur.”

But he wasn’t done. His free hand—how the hell was he this good at moving in a net?—slid up, dragging a line of heat along her side until it rested gently, purposefully, just beneath her ribs.

“I like it when you threaten me,” he said with maddening ease, his voice practically a purr now, lips brushing dangerously close to her jaw. “It’s flattering.”

She could feel his breath on her skin, warm and teasing. Her mind completely betrayed her because suddenly, all she could think about was how his hands felt through her shirt, how he smelled, how every inch of space between them had evaporated. Stop thinking. Stop thinking. Stop thinking. But it was like trying to stop a dragon mid-dive. Her thoughts kept going: what would happen if she kissed him? What would happen if she didn’t?

Her heart thundered in her chest as she snapped, “Do you ever shut up?”

Dagur just laughed, quiet and intimate, the sound vibrating against her throat. “Only when properly motivated.”

She would give her left ass cheek to make him shut up right now. She wanted to kill him. She also maybe wanted to kiss him so hard he’d never smile that smugly again. She pulled back an inch—barely—but it was enough to glare up at him, teeth gritted.

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re blushing.”

“I am not—”

He leaned in, letting his forehead rest against hers again. “You’re also not telling me to stop.”

Oh, she wanted to. She really wanted to, but the words caught somewhere behind her clenched teeth, tangled up with heat and adrenaline and the horrifying realisation that if he kissed her right now, she wouldn’t stop him.

Her fists curled around the rope. She took a sharp breath, forcing herself to meet his eyes, defiant.

“I hate you,” she said, her voice quieter than she meant.

Dagur’s gaze dropped to her lips. “You won’t for long.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had taken them—her, really (Dagur had spent most of the time offering ‘moral support’ and pretending to be too tangled to help)—two hours and a frankly unholy amount of swearing, kicking, and increasingly creative threats to get down from the net. By the time she hit the ground, her hair was a disaster, her arms ached, and her pride had suffered irreparable damage.

Dagur landed beside her with a thud and an absolutely infuriating smile, stretching his arms above his head like he hadn’t just spent the better part of the afternoon being a useless, smug menace tangled in rope.

“That was fun,” he said, brushing dirt from his tunic. “We should do that again sometime.”

“You are deranged!” she snapped, eyes blazing.

Dagur clutched his chest with mock offence, the grin never leaving his face. “Oh no, how ever did you uncover my deepest secret?”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping like a conspiratorial whisper. “What gave it away—the eyes? The kidnapping? My birth name?”

Then, louder, with a wicked smirk and a wink. “Daddy Dagur the Deranged, with a capital D, baby. Make sure you remember that.”

“You did not just say that out loud,” she muttered, half to herself, half to whatever gods might be listening and willing to smite him on her behalf. She growled something else wordlessly and stormed off toward Dusksinger, who had been sunbathing nearby with all the nonchalance of a creature pretending she hadn’t watched the entire thing. As her rider approached, Dusksinger let out a soft, amused rumble—traitorous beast—and crouched to let her climb on. “Don’t you dare laugh,” she hissed, cheeks still burning. “We do not encourage that kind of behaviour.”

As she swung up into the saddle, Dagur called out behind her, “You sure you don’t want to kiss me before you go? Could knock some of that tension right out of you!”

She flipped him off without turning around. And yet… her hand lingered on Dusksinger’s reins, and her face was hot for reasons that had nothing to do with the sun. Freya help her. She was starting to think she might actually like him. She also couldn’t leave him here without a dragon for fear he would blow something up on the way back to the Edge. It was twenty minutes by dragon, but by foot it would take the better half of four hours. She sighed the kind of sigh that carried the weight of every single bad decision she was about to make, then tugged gently on Dusksinger’s reins to steer her around in a slow arc.

Dagur perked up instantly, like a puppy sensing a treat. “Wait—am I getting a ride?”

She glared at him as Dusksinger padded closer. “Only so you don’t set the forest on fire walking back.”

He clasped his hands to his chest in mock offence. “You wound me.”

“Not yet,” she muttered. “But there’s still time.”

He approached with an annoying spring in his step, eyes dancing with something far too close to glee. “Where should I sit? In front? Behind? Or maybe just—” he grinned, “—real close.”

“Behind,” she snapped, “and if you so much as breathe weird, I’m shoving you off mid-air.”

Dagur climbed up eagerly, swinging on behind her with surprising grace, settling in like he’d done this a hundred times—and then wrapping his arms around her waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She stiffened. “What are you doing?”

“Holding on,” he said innocently. “You wouldn’t want your very important passenger to fall off, would you?”

Her eye twitched. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Dusksinger shifted beneath them, wings flexing once before launching into the sky with a smooth, powerful beat. The wind whipped past her face, cool and crisp—and utterly unhelpful at cooling the heat in her cheeks. Not from the flight. From him. Because Dagur was still there, still holding on, and now he was humming. To himself, in a very off-key manner, his voice offensively close to her ear.

He leaned forward even more, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “Told you we make a good team,” and she briefly considered diving Dusksinger straight into the ocean just to escape the situation.

But as Dusksinger flew past the cliffs, the forest falling away below, she felt Dagur rest his chin lightly on her shoulder, and she hated—hated—that it wasn’t awful. It was actually… kind of nice. Which was very inconvenient, and absolutely unacceptable.

…

She was going to throw him off her dragon.

Chapter Text

The darkness pressed in around her like a physical weight. The air was thick with the stench of piss, blood, and mildew, clogging her throat and burning her lungs with each desperate breath. She lay curled on the filthy floor of the ship's hold, shivering despite the oppressive heat. The chains binding her wrists and ankles chafed raw skin, the iron cold and heavy against her flesh. In the depths of her despair, she wondered if she would ever escape this hell—or if she would die down here, chained and broken, forgotten by the world.

The door to her hold was pushed open, and she hoped that it was one of the slave girls here to take her back to her duties. That hope was quickly quashed when her eyes adjusted to the new light and saw the outline of three men, indiscriminate objects hanging from their fists.

The man at the front, the tallest one, his voice was cold and mocking, words lashing at her like a whip. "Look at you, all dirty and covered in piss. It's disgusting."

He grabbed a fistful of her hair, wrenching her head back to force her to meet his cruel gaze. His eyes glittered with malice in the dim light filtering through the open door.

"Filthy little whore," he sneered, his breath hot and fetid against her face.

She flinched as the other men crowded in behind him, their looming presence making the small space feel even more oppressive. They carried ropes, whips, knives—all designed to break her down. One of them, a burly man with a thick beard, grabbed her roughly by the chin. "The captain says you need to be taught a lesson, slut. You've been a bad girl, haven't you?"

His fingers bit into her flesh as he forced her mouth open, shoving a filthy rag between her teeth. The taste of old sweat and spit made bile rise in her throat. They cut away her tattered clothes, leaving her naked and exposed to their leering gazes. Calloused hands roamed over her body, groping and pawing at her most intimate places.

"Spread her legs, let's see if that cunt's still tight," the tallest one said, his voice dripping with crude lust.

They forced her thighs apart, laughing as she struggled weakly against the ropes that bound her. She felt the rough scrape of calloused fingers against her most sensitive flesh, probing and violating.

"You're right, she's fucking tight. We'll have to break her in properly."

She thrashed against her bonds, tears streaming down her face, but it was of no use. They had her completely at their mercy. The clink of belts and zip of their pants caused a sob to tear from her, muffled by the rag in her mouth. The man with the beard gripped her chin again, forcing her to look up at him as he grabbed himself in his hand.

He slapped her hard. She had no chance to brace for the impact and fell to the floor, only just managing to catch herself with her cuffed hands. They turned her over, pushing her face into the floor, forcing an unnatural curve in her back. She couldn’t see behind her, but she felt as one of the men lined up behind her. She screamed behind the gag, thrashing around, hoping that someone would be merciful to her, but all it earned was a sharp smack to the fresh wounds lining her back.

“Stay still, bitch. Unless you want to be whipped again?”

Her sobs quieted, and she forced herself to stop fighting. She tried to retreat into herself as he started to push in. He was not gentle, pushing all the way in in a single thrust, pain ripping through her body. She tried disassociating from the pain and humiliation. She focused on a single point in the distance, praying for the mercy of unconsciousness, but it never came. Instead, she was forced to endure every second of their sickening violation, her screams muffled by the gag.

Her breaths were coming shorter now, and her vision becoming blurry. She bolted upright with a scream, her heart pounding in her chest as the nightmare faded away. She was drenched in cold sweat, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Wake up! Please, it's just a dream." A male voice cut through the fog of terror, but she couldn't process their words. All she could see was the darkness, feel the chains biting into her skin, hear the cruel laughter of her tormentors, the wet gasps of breath that wasn’t hers. She lashed out, punching the man in the shoulder with a strength born of panic. Then she was off the bed, stumbling away from him; she had to get away, had to escape before they could touch her again.

"Please, stop!" The man’s voice was urgent now, laced with concern, but she needed to get out. Maybe if she screamed loud enough, the slave girls would take pity on her?

"Don't touch me!" she screamed, her voice raw and hoarse. "No, no, no, don't touch me!"

She collided with a wall, the impact jarring her bones and sending a shock of pain through her body, but it was preferable to the warmth of the men, the weight of their hands on her flesh. The man was speaking again, but she couldn't hear him over the pounding of her own heart. She tried desperately to reach for the door at the far end of the hold, but a strong grip pulled her back.

They were here again. They’d found her.

Arms wrapped around her waist, pinning her arms to the side. She screamed again, her voice cracking and straining from the pressure, bare feet scrambling uselessly on the floor; the arms around her just tightened.

“LET ME GO!” she wailed. “Please! I’ll be good! I promise I’ll be good this time—”

She knew then that the body behind her was too strong, too big, she’d never be able to get out. She sagged in the arms like a ragdoll, broken sobs wracking her chest, ready to weather whatever punishment or fun they wanted to have with her. She waited.

And waited.

And…waited?

There was no grip on her throat, no ripping of fabric, no shove to the ground, no jeering laughter; the arms held her steady, still. Her body, finally, hesitantly, noticed something else. The man behind her wasn’t touching her skin. His hands had locked across her midsection, but they did not grope or wander; in fact, they were shaking. The chest at her back rose and fell in short, frantic bursts.

She blinked, breath hitching. She could still feel her heartbeat hammering, but her mind had started to clear, just enough to see the cracks in the nightmare. The smell—salt, smoke, leather—not rot, not sweat. Not them. The voice from before came back, rough and frantic.

“Hey—hey, godsdammit, come back to me. You’re safe, you’re with me. No one’s gonna hurt you.”

Not one of them. Dagur.

Her whole body sagged as reality crashed over her like cold water. She wasn’t in the hold, she wasn’t trapped, and the man holding her wasn’t her captor. He was Dagur.

Her knees gave out, but he followed her down, his arms letting go immediately the second she stopped struggling. She hugged her knees to her chest as sobs wracked her body. Dagur slowly sat beside her, movements slow and controlled, like a hunter trying not to spook a wild animal in front of him. Her throat felt like it had been rubbed raw from the inside, and her voice barely came out. “Don’t look at me,” she rasped, pressing her face into her knees. “Please… just don’t.” Her fingers clawed at her sleeves as if she could hide behind them. “Don’t look at me like this.”

She didn’t have to lift her head to know he turned away. She felt the shift in his posture, the way he dropped his gaze without arguing, but it didn’t matter. It was already too late, he’d seen her like that—completely undone—and no matter what he said or didn’t say, she couldn’t take it back.

She dragged a shaking hand down her face, smearing away sweat and tears, and tried to pull herself back into something functional. “It was just a nightmare,” she said too quickly, too sharply. “Stupid—just a stupid dream. that’s all.”

The words tasted like ash. She knew he didn’t believe her. She could feel it in the air, thick and silent and questioning. He didn’t push her, didn’t argue, but that was worse, in a way, because she knew what silence meant; she knew what people thought when they didn’t speak. Before she could say anything else, there were footsteps thundering down the walkway outside. The door slammed open a second later, banging against the wall with a loud crack, enough to make her flinch. She didn’t look up, didn’t need to.

Astrid was already halfway into the room, her voice breathless and sharp as steel, calling her name—but she stopped cold. Her friend had seen her like this before—twice, three times, maybe more. Astrid and Ruffnut were the only ones who could usually drag her back from the edge when it got bad. She always came running, she always knew. But this time was different; this time, Dagur was sitting beside her, and she was crying like she was going to break in half. There was a pause, then a shift in the air—Astrid’s presence going rigid.

“What the hell did you do to her?” she demanded, voice slicing through the haze like a blade.

Her breath hitched. Not because of the anger, but because of the implication. The danger. The way Astrid suddenly sounded like she was ready to kill someone.

Dagur didn’t move, but she could feel him tense beside her, unsure whether to speak or defend or run. “I didn’t—” he started, but Astrid wasn’t listening.

“She was screaming, Dagur. You don’t touch her.”

And just like that, the panic that had started to settle rose back up in her throat. She hated this—hated being the reason for this kind of fight. Hated that Dagur had to sit there and explain something that didn’t even make sense out loud. Hated that Astrid had walked in and assumed the worst—and that part of her had too, at first.

But Dagur’s voice was low. Not defensive. Just tired. “She ran into the wall,” he said quietly. “I stopped her from hurting herself. That’s all.”

Astrid didn’t respond right away. But she knelt in front of her, her voice softening in an instant as her hand gently touched her arm, grounding her again. The familiarity of it made her chest tighten. Astrid had done this before. Had sat with her like this before. But this time felt different.

This time, she didn’t pull away.

She let Astrid touch her. Let her brush the hair back from her face and whisper that she was safe, that she was okay, that she wasn’t alone. But even as the warmth of her friend’s presence started to fill in the cracks, she was still aware of Dagur—silent, still, not quite knowing if he was allowed to stay.

~~~~~~

It took seventeen assurances and twenty ‘are you sure you’re okay?’s for Astrid to finally leave. Dagur was pretty sure that if she hadn’t, Hiccup would’ve had Toothless drag her out of the room by the boot.

She’d meant well. She always meant well. But the air had been getting too thick, the words too sharp, the tension twisting tighter around the girl on the floor who clearly couldn’t breathe with all eyes on her. And Dagur knew the look in her eyes when Astrid had finally backed out of the room—it was the same one he used to wear in that first flicker of silence after the screaming stopped.

He sat back against the wall slowly, watching her from the corner of his eye. She hadn’t spoken since. Her breathing was steadier now, but the tremble in her fingers hadn’t gone. She was curling inward again—like she could hide the cracks, rebuild the mask, pull herself together before anyone could say she was broken. 'Just a nightmare,' she’d said, right. And he was a dragon who could breath fire out his butthole.

Dagur let his head tilt back against the stone, the chill sinking into his skin. He knew a lie when he heard one, especially that kind. He’d used it enough himself—back when the dreams left him choking on invisible blood, convinced he was still back in that gods-forsaken Outcast pit, the stench of mould and fire and pain still clinging to his skin like a second layer. Back then, the only way he could sleep was with a dagger under his pillow and his back to a wall. Some nights, he still did. He understood. She hadn’t had a nightmare. She’d had a memory—one that had turned the air to iron and made her fight like survival was the only thing that mattered. Her body remembered something it couldn’t unfeel. He’d been there. Not with her, but in that place; that kind of place. So yeah—he knew.

After a long silence, her voice came—small and hoarse. “You’re not gonna ask?”

Dagur glanced at her. “Nope.”

She sniffed, wiping under her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. “Why not?”

He shrugged, resting his elbows on his knees. “Because I’ve been there. You don’t owe me the details, not if you’re not ready to say ‘em.”

She was quiet again, but her eyes met his for the first time in what felt like hours. Something about the way she looked at him now—it wasn’t fear anymore. It wasn’t shameful, either. It was… recognition. A flicker of understanding. One survivor to another. She shifted toward him slowly, and he didn’t move, didn’t say a word.  When she finally leaned into his side—tentative, cautious—he let out a quiet breath and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her gently in. Her head dropped against his collarbone, and she let herself exhale for real, maybe for the first time since she’d woken up screaming.

He held her there, not saying a word, gaze fixed on the far wall. Not because he didn’t know what to say, but because sometimes not saying anything was what someone needed most.  The silence settled, heavy but bearable now. Until she groaned softly, her voice muffled against his shirt.

“Next time, just hit me over the head with a rock. It might be less traumatic.”

Dagur blinked, then barked a laugh. “That’s your solution?! Gods, no wonder we get along.”

A surprised snort escaped her—half laugh, half exhausted breath. “I’m unwell.”

He grinned without looking at her. “Same hat, different head.”

And just like that, she lost it—full-on, breathless laughter tumbling out of her, bright and cracked at the edges. Dagur joined her a heartbeat later, the sound bouncing off the stone walls like it didn’t belong in a room that had been filled with screams not ten minutes ago. Their laughs mingled and complemented each other—light and deep, crazy and deranged. They laughed so hard he bent over, clutching his ribs while her sitting form wheezed, both of them gasping for air.

Ahh, good ol’ trauma responses.

Chapter Text

The day had finally come when she had to help Dagur find a dragon. To officially call himself a dragon-rider, he had to, well… ride one. They’d gathered a handful for him to choose from—two Deadly Nadders, one pale purple, the other deep blue; a particularly aggressive, dark-red Monstrous Nightmare; a neon-green Gronckle with a tail like a battering ram; and, finally, a Changewing. She didn’t actually think he’d be able to bond with the last one, but Hiccup had bought her ‘just for options’.

She was woken at an ungodly hour by two very enthusiastic hands shaking her shoulders. When she cracked one eye open, she came face-to-face with the actual embodiment of chaos: Dagur the Deranged, grinning like a child who’d just found a sword.

“Wake up, sunshine, we’ve got a big day ahead of us!”

“Us? You’ve got a big day ahead. I’m going back to sleep.”

She gripped her furs, pulling them over her head and rolling over to face the wall of her hut and not the deranged golden retriever standing beside her bed, praying he’d take the hint and leave. Of course, he didn’t. Her furs were rudely ripped from her body, leaving her in nothing but a thin sleep tunic and undergarments.

“Dagur!” she snapped, diving for the covers, but he was already out of reach, holding them hostage with both hands and a dumb grin. “Give those back!”

Dagur stood there, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, original mission seemingly forgotten as his eyes raked along her body. A blush coloured her cheeks as she watched him swallow around the lump in his throat.

“…I, uh—I didn’t realise you’d be… not wearing much,” he said, coughing into his fist. “Might’ve been a bit overzealous.” He gave a sheepish shrug, eyes flitting down one more time before finally forcing themselves up to hers. “Oops?”

“Did you think I slept in full armour?” she shrieked, cheeks flaming.

“N-no, I just—look, I didn’t expect this!” He gestured vaguely at her body, still red-faced, scratching the back of his neck like an awkward teenager.

She groaned. This was what it was like living with someone who acted before they thought—she got caught in the aftermath constantly. Storming across the room, she yanked on a pair of pants, stripping off her sleep tunic without thinking. She could feel his gaze stabbing into her back like daggers. When she turned, tunic in hand, sure enough, he was staring.

“My eyes are up here, buddy.”

His eyes snapped up, a blush working its way up his neck.

She pulled the tunic over her head, rolling her eyes so hard it hurt. “For Thor’s sake,” she muttered, pushing past him to the door.

Dagur followed a second later, still pink in the ears and looking like a puppy who just got swatted with a broom. They walked side by side through the early morning mist, the ground still damp with dew and the sky barely tinted with sunrise.

“You know,” Dagur said, glancing at her sidelong, “you could’ve thanked me for waking you. Most people would appreciate such committed service.”

She snorted. “Most people don’t lose their basic manners before sunrise.”

“Manners?” He gasped. “I politely removed your covers.”

She didn’t answer, shaking her head in mock annoyance, and he grinned, wide and unbothered.

She shoved him, laughing despite herself. “You’re lucky I didn’t throw my axe at you.”

“I’d have died smiling.”

She rolled her eyes. “You're impossible.”

“And yet, tragically irresistible.”

“Tragic’s the right word.”

Dagur bumped his shoulder against hers, mischief practically radiating off him. “C’mon, admit it, I make your mornings more exciting.”

“You make my mornings exhausting.”

“Exhausting... exciting... It's a fine line.”

She gave him a flat look, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her. They finished the rest of the walk in comfortable silence, occasionally bumping shoulders. The pens came into view slowly, dark shapes shifting in the fog like sleeping giants. Even at a distance, she could hear the occasional snort of fire or the rustle of wings, but for now, it was quiet—just the two of them, boots crunching softly on the dirt path. She risked a glance sideways.

Dagur wasn’t talking for once, just walking. His hands were shoved in his belt, expression oddly calm for someone usually vibrating with energy. The sunrise painted the side of his face in warm gold, catching in his hair, softening the lines of his usual madness. She looked away quickly, annoyed by the sudden warmth in her chest.

He glanced over, like he felt her eyes. “What?” he asked, voice softer than usual.

She shrugged. “Nothing. I’m just… not used to you being this quiet. It’s almost suspicious.”

He smirked but didn’t take the bait. “Maybe I’m savouring the moment. Big day, after all.”

They kept walking, shoulders brushing now and then, and no more words were needed for a while. In the distance, a Gronckle let out a yawning growl, steam puffing from its nose like a sleepy kettle.

“Hey,” Dagur said suddenly, voice quieter, almost hesitant. “Do you think… any of ‘em will pick me?”

She looked at him again, the grin was still there—but it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time.

She softened. “Honestly?” she said. “You’ve got a good shot.”

“Yeah?” He perked up slightly, trying to hide how much he cared.

She nodded. “I mean, you’re persistent, and loud, and kind of a menace. They’ll probably mistake you for one of them.”

He laughed, full and bright, tension easing from his shoulders.

“…You really know how to make a guy feel special,” he said.

“Don’t mention it,” she replied, smirking.

They stopped at the edge of the pens. Dragons stirred beyond the gate, glowing eyes blinking in the shadows.

“Ready?” she asked.

Dagur grinned, wild and eager. “Born ready.”

Hiccup poked his head out of the stables, motioning them forward with a wave. “You’re late,” he called, though there was no real bite in his tone.

“She overslept,” Dagur replied instantly.

She elbowed him in the ribs. Behind Hiccup stood the others, spaced out along the pen’s edge like a jury waiting for a performance. Fishlegs was already scribbling notes, Tuffnut had somehow fashioned a horn out of driftwood, and Astrid leaned against Stormfly with her arms crossed, watching with faint amusement. And behind them, five dragons waited: the two Nadders—alert and curious, wings twitching; the red Monstrous Nightmare, tail lashing irritably; the bright green Gronckle, already half-asleep; and the Changewing, barely visible, shifting like smoke at the edge of the pen.

“Alright,” Hiccup said as they approached. “No sudden movements, no aggressive gestures, and try not to make direct eye contact with the Changewing. She doesn’t like to be seen unless she chooses to be.”

“Noted,” Dagur said, dramatically cracking his knuckles. “Soooo, do I just… vibe with them?”

Hiccup blinked. “I—sure. Let’s call it that.”

Dagur strode into the enclosure like he was marching into battle, the Monstrous Nightmare immediately growled, flames licking along its spine, the purple Nadder raised its head, curious, while the Gronckle yawned and rolled over. The Changewing vanished. Dagur came to a stop dead-centre, spun sharply on his heel, and marched to the end of the line like he was inspecting troops. He pointed to the first Nadder—the pale purple one—with sharp flair.

“You,” he announced, posture rigid. “Too skittish. I need boldness, not ballet.”

The Nadder blinked at him, then narrowed its eyes and huffed smoke in his face before turning its back with a flick of its tail. He moved to the next: the blue Nadder. This one looked more annoyed than curious.

Dagur circled it, arms behind his back like a general in thought. “Too uptight,” he declared after a pause.

The Nadder snapped its beak loudly and strutted away in indignation. He turned to the Gronckle, who hadn’t moved since he entered. It lay on its side, one eye cracked open in vague interest.

Dagur squinted at it. “Too lazy.”

The Gronckle snorted once, then rolled over and went back to sleep, unimpressed. He continued walking and pointed at the empty space where the Changewing had been.

Dagur turned this way and that, searching for the dragon before declaring. “Too invisible.”

The Changewing reappeared at his side and shot acid at his feet, a warning. Dagur yelped, jumping backwards before he recovered and continued on his tirade.

She crossed her arms outside the pen. “So far, you’ve rejected every one that hasn’t actively tried to murder you.”

He grinned. “Exactly, which means I’ve reached the main event.”

Dagur turned dramatically to the Monstrous Nightmare, who was now prowling in a slow circle, eyes locked on him like he was prey. The flames along its spine glowed brighter.

“Ah yes,” he whispered, reverent. “A fellow warrior, a kindred spirit. Fire and fury, rage and ruin. I knew it the moment I saw you.”

The Monstrous Nightmare flamed brighter, letting out a scorching jet of fire aimed directly at Dagur. He leapt over it, tucking into a dramatic forward roll, popping up to his feet with arms spread wide like a circus act.

“Haha! You are perfect!” he declared, hair slightly singed but eyes burning with admiration. “A creature of chaos, born in flame! You and I—we could set the world ablaze!”

The Nightmare stared at him for a long beat. Then turned around and walked away.

Dagur blinked, confusion marring his face. “...Wait, where are you going?”

No response. The Nightmare slunk to the far end of the pen, gave a disdainful snort, and began grooming its wing, pointedly ignoring the smoking madman on the other side of the enclosure. He turned to the others, arms still raised like he was waiting for applause.

“Okay, that was just the first round. she’s clearly playing hard to get.”

“No,” Hiccup said, rubbing his temples, “No, she’s not. That dragon is rejecting you.”

Dagur’s grin wavered. His arms slowly lowered to his sides as he looked back at the Nightmare. “But…” he said, voice cracking just slightly, “I—I gave her a speech. I rolled.”

“No buts, Dagur,” Hiccup said gently but firmly. “Both parties have to want the bond. If the dragon doesn’t choose you, it won’t work out, no matter how… dramatic you are.”

Dagur’s pout turned dangerously close to a full-blown sulk. He sniffed, rubbing soot off his cheek. “Fine. Guess I’ll just… go be rejected in private.”

Before anyone could say anything else, she stepped forward, hooking her fingers into the collar of his shirt and gently tugging.

“Come on,” she said. “Walk it off with me.”

Dagur followed without a word, boots dragging just a little in the dirt. They walked beyond the pens, toward the edge of the cliffs where the sea met the rock. The wind was cooler here, salt sharp in the air. Seagulls cawed overhead, and for a moment, it was just them and the distant crash of waves.

He kicked a rock half-heartedly. “Was it the speech? I thought the speech was good.”

She looked at him sideways. “The speech was… passionate.”

“Oh gods. That’s a polite word for ‘psychotic,’ isn’t it?”

She smirked. “Maybe.”

He sighed and dropped onto a rock, elbows on knees. “I really thought it’d be the Nightmare. Y’know? Intimidating and angry, like me.”

“You’re not intimidating.”

Dagur scoffed. “Oh, come on—‘Dagur the Deranged’? I’m known for it.”

“Yeah,” she said, sitting beside him. “But it’s all fire and noise. You’re not cruel or vicious, you just want people to take you seriously.”

That quieted him.

He glanced over at her, something small and raw in his expression. He truly was not as scary as everyone believed. “What if no dragon picks me?”

“They will,” she said. “You’re reckless and loud, sure—but you care. That’s what matters.”

She smiled softly at him and reached for his hand, which was currently picking at his nails and caught it with both her own. His hand was warm, calloused from all of the fighting he did. She traced one of the many scars on the back of his hand, finding the rhythm soothing herself. He watched their connected hands for a second before meeting her eyes.

“We’ll find you a dragon, Dagur, I promise. If none of the ones Hiccup has found work out, then we’ll go searching for our own, yeah?”

He didn’t reply, instead tugging his hand from hers and pulling her into him. One arm slid over her shoulders, the other snaked around her waist, and he pulled her into a full-body, no-warning, spine-straightening hug. She sat frozen for half a second, heart in her throat, before reciprocating it, her arms coming up to wrap around his shoulders, a hand tangling in his hair. He leaned into it, letting out a shaky breath against her collarbone, and she felt it like an ember under her skin. This wasn’t the Dagur everyone else saw, not the brash, booming warlord. This was something quieter, and it made something flutter in her chest that she didn’t have a name for yet.

She scolded herself the moment she noticed.

Get it together, it’s just a hug.

From Dagur.

Who smells like smoke and sea salt and something weirdly comforting.

Still, she didn’t let go, and neither did he. For a moment, the world was still. They must have sat like that for ten minutes before the earth beneath them shook, the shrill scream of the raid alarm blaring across the Edge. They broke apart instantly.

Dagur’s eyes flared wide. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, but I think we should find out,” she said, already grabbing for the axe strapped to her back.

They took off running, boots pounding the dirt path as they made their way toward the main outpost. From the hill above, they could see smoke rising beyond the dragon pens—thick, black, and sudden. Shouts echoed up from the base of the cliff, mostly aimed at the Twins for some reason. For Thor’s sake, they were supposed to be on watch today, and if the alarm hadn’t gone off until the attack had started, obviously they hadn’t been watching.

She sighed at their stupidity, glancing over at Dagur running beside her, strides long and fast. He looked different now—sharp-edged, shoulders squared, practically buzzing with energy. Probably reinvigorated by the idea of a fight. Typical. They skidded into the central courtyard, nearly crashing into Hiccup as he ran in the opposite direction.

“There you two are!” he said, looking flushed and breathless. “We’ve got slavers on the east ridge—Astrid said she saw Ryker, but no sign of Viggo yet.”

She breathed a sigh of relief, glad that the creepy man wouldn’t be joining the fight.

Hiccup continued, “I need you to let the dragons out of the pens; they’re not trained in combat, and I don’t want to risk them being injured.”

We’re on it,” she said without hesitation, eyes sharp with resolve. She glanced at Dagur, who gave a single nod—no words needed. Together, they sprinted toward the training arena and the pens, their footsteps pounding against the earth in sync.

They arrived just in time to see a volley of flame-tipped arrows streaking over the fence. A Nadder shrieked in response, launching a volley of razor-sharp spines back at the slavers. Without missing a beat, she and Dagur split, throwing open the gates to the pens. The Changewing took off without a single look back, and the Nadders launched some of their spines before fleeing as well. She watched as Dagur stopped in front of the Nightmare, probably hoping it would join him. Instead, it lit itself on fire and launched itself into the air, much to his dismay.

Soon, all that was left was the Gronckle, slowly wandering its way out of its pen. Dagur was still trying to make it move quicker when the slavers closed in, two cresting the ridge and three appearing silently behind her, and she could hear more coming behind them.

She turned to Dagur, "What do you say about a little fight?"

Dagur’s sword was already in his hand. He grinned like he’d been waiting for this exact scenario all day. “I'd say: finally.”

The slavers moved in fast. One lunged at her with a hooked blade; she parried with her axe, the metal ringing on impact. Dagur slammed his shoulder into another, sending the man sprawling. They fell into rhythm without thinking—dodging, swinging, covering each other’s backs, but there were too many. A bolas whipped through the air and wrapped tight around Dagur’s legs, yanking him off his feet. He hit the ground hard, a sharp cry escaping him.

“Dagur!” she shouted, pivoting—only to catch a knee to the gut from a slaver closing in. She stumbled back, breath knocked from her lungs, vision blurring for a heartbeat.

Another slaver raised a short spear and turned toward Dagur, who was struggling to cut himself free.

“Get away from him!” she growled, hurling her axe—but missed by inches.

The man drew his arm back to throw, and that’s when the ground trembled.

BOOM.

A wall of green and fury barrelled through the line of slavers like a living battering ram. The Gronckle, wings flared wide, mouth open in a thunderous, gravelly roar. It planted itself between Dagur and the spear, tail swinging wide and knocking the attacker clean off his feet. Dagur looked up, stunned, as the Gronckle lowered its head and started chewing through the bolas like they were string.

“Are you—Are you helping me right now?” he asked, dazed.

The Gronckle rumbled low in its chest and spat out the shredded cord with a snort. Two more slavers charged, but the Gronckle reared up and blasted a spray of lava between them, sending both men scrambling.

She took the opening to kick her own attacker square in the chest and scramble to Dagur’s side. “Well,” she said, panting. “Looks like you’ve been picked.”

Dagur stared up at the dragon now standing over him like an angry boulder with wings. “I… I was so mean to you.”

The Gronckle gave a dismissive snort and headbutted him gently in the chest. The rest of he slavers, now faced with a very angry Viking and an even angrier Gronckle, dropped their weapons and fled.

Dagur sat there, chest heaving, eyes wide. He glanced at her, almost dazed. “That dragon just saved me.”

She stepped beside him, breathing hard, and offered her hand. He stared at her for a bit before taking it, she could feel a liquid of indiscernible origin, probably a slaver's blood, dripping down her face. “Yeah, looks like someone’s liked you after all.”

Dagur blinked again, still staring at her, then broke into a crooked, stunned grin. “...I think I’m in love.”

“With the dragon or me?”

Dagur blinked, paused, and said, “I plead the Fifth.”

~~~~~~

The Gronckle had burst through the slavers like a living battering ram, roaring with primal fury. Dagur stared, stunned and breathless, as the beast tore through the ropes binding his legs, jaws snapping and molten lava spurting to scatter their foes. The sheer raw power of it was mesmerising, but even more captivating was the way she moved beside the chaos.

He watched as she kicked her attacker square in the chest, sending him sprawling, and scrambled to his side with the fierce grace of a Valkyrie descended from the heavens. Her every motion was honed precision, wild and untamed but controlled, like a storm harnessed by iron will. Her eyes burned with fire and determination, reflecting the same relentless spirit that blazed in his own chest.

In that moment, Dagur felt his heart shift and crack open in ways he hadn’t expected. The woman beside him wasn’t just a warrior—she was a force of nature, fierce and fearless, with a warrior’s pride etched into every line of her body. The blood and sweat that streaked her face only made her more radiant, as if she carried the weight of legends in her veins.

He realised then that he was completely, utterly, hopelessly in love—not just with the chaos and the fight, but with her. Watching her command the battlefield with such power and beauty, he knew there was no going back.

She was his storm, his fire, his Valkyrie—and he would follow her anywhere.

Chapter Text

Over the next four and a half weeks, she found herself enjoying Dagur’s company more than she’d ever admit out loud. What had started as reluctant tolerance—survival, really—was beginning to morph into something dangerously close to friendship. At first, she didn’t have a choice in the matter; babysitting the ex-warlord had been assigned, not requested, but now? She wasn’t just putting up with him, she was choosing to be around him.

She’d found that beneath the chaotic energy and bloodthirsty grins, Dagur was… insightful. In moments of stillness—rare, but real—he’d say things that stuck with her. Things that made her think. And when he wasn’t launching love notes via explosive trebuchet or chasing boars for fun, he was actually kind. Loud and intense, sure—but kind. Earnest, even (although she could definitely handle it if he stopped with the incessant flirting).

That’s why, when Hiccup mentioned they’d be going boar hunting together—on foot, no dragons—she didn’t roll her eyes. She didn’t groan or fake an injury or claim she had urgent yak-stable duties. She just sighed, pulled on her boots, and said, “Fine, but if he starts naming the boars again, I’m leaving him in the woods.”

Hiccup looked mildly concerned. “He… only did that once.”

She gave him a look. “He cried when Pork Chop died.”

“Fair.”

Now, ankle-deep in mud and adrenaline, she wasn’t so sure that she had made the right decision. Dagur moved through the underbrush like a wolf loosed from its leash—silent when he wanted to be, but mostly loud, sharp-eyed, and grinning like the trees were whispering in his ear. He tracked the boar with alarming focus, his entire body taut with something wild and twitching at the edges. When they found it—massive, tusked, and pissed—it charged without hesitation and instead of moving away like a normal person he charged at it as well. It was chaos. Dagur rolled under the beast, came up behind it, and somehow ended up on its back with a dagger in his teeth like this was some kind of bloody opera. The boar thrashed, nearly throwing him, and she instinctively stepped forward to help, but froze when she saw his face.

He was grinning. Absolutely feral, completely alive, and grinning. She should’ve been horrified; part of her was, but another part—the traitorous, quietly deranged part—was impressed. He handled the boar with the kind of reckless efficiency that came from years of dancing with death and daring it to take the lead. When the fight was finally over, the boar collapsed with a heavy thud, and Dagur stood over it, panting, blood smeared down one arm, he looked back at her like a storm just waiting for permission to ruin everything.

“Well,” he said, chest heaving, eyes still lit with something dangerous, “that was fun.”

She stared at him, heart pounding for entirely too many reasons, “You’re fucking insane.”

He winked, “Haha, I know.”

And gods help her, she didn’t hate it. Didn’t hate the rush. The wildness. The way he made the forest feel smaller just by standing in it. But it did scare her—he scared her—not in the way she expected, though. Not in the way that made her want to run, no, it made her want to watch.

Her cheeks flushed, though she couldn’t decide if it was from embarrassment or heat or the way he looked at her in this moment, like she was something worth dying for. Still, she pressed, grounding herself in logic, in caution. “Do you ever think before you charge in like that?”

Dagur tilted his head, thoughtfully—mockingly—like she’d asked him if fire ever got tired of burning. “Nope.”

“That doesn’t scare you?”

He shrugged, casually, “The day I stop feeling the rush is probably the day I’m dead.”

She chewed on that. He was reckless, bloodthirsty, exactly the type of guy she’d been warned about her whole life—someone who charged headfirst into chaos, solved problems with a blade, and laughed through the blood. Yet here she was, not running or rolling her eyes or even calling him a lunatic, though she probably should.  So instead of trying to pick that apart, she asked, quieter now, the question catching in her throat, “What makes you switch on like that? What sets it off?”

He stilled. Completely and with a quiet so uncharacteristic it left her breathless, he said, “When someone threatens what’s mine.” His voice was hoarse, scraped raw all of a sudden. “Or when I need to prove something. When I’m not enough. When the whole damn world looks at me and only sees a rabid dog that’s slipped its leash.”

He inhaled shakily, then added—even quieter—“I know what they say. That I’m unhinged, dangerous, a walking disaster, and they’re not wrong, I can be all those things.”  

He met her eyes, green and burning. “But I’m not just that. I spent most of my life being called a mistake, feral, a disgrace, even by my own blood. So yeah, sometimes I lose control but only because that’s the only time anyone’s ever paid attention.”

Her chest tightened. He wasn’t looking at her anymore, just the blade in his hands, motionless now, like the silence had smothered everything out of him. His eyes were distant, somewhere else—somewhere bloodier, lonelier. Then he blinked and the mask slammed back into place with a snap, and the grin returned, too wide and fast.

“And sometimes,” he added with forced brightness, “I do it just ‘cause it’s fun.”

She stared.

“Dagur…”

She should’ve hated that, should’ve filed it away under red flags and restraining orders and ‘what not to bring home to your parents.’ However, when he finally met her eyes again, for just a second, less than a heartbeat, and she saw the grief behind the madness, not a Berserker Chief, but a boy that no one ever chose.

“What are you trying to prove now?” she asked, her voice breaking without permission.

He smiled, but this one was lopsided, “That I’m not just the lunatic people write off. That maybe… I’m worth someone’s time.”

A beat passed, then in a flirty tone, ”Or at least worth a second hunting date.”

She let the silence wrap around them, the weight of his words settling like dust on old furniture. Part of her wanted to laugh it off—just Dagur being Dagur, charming and chaotic and impossible to pin down, but that broken edge in his voice, the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes—it clung to her. It made her ache in a way she wasn’t ready for. And damn it, she saw him, not the lunatic, not the legend, not the walking red flag with a battle axe and a grin—but the man underneath. Raw, wanting, lonely, even. She looked at him then, truly looked—and instead of fear, she felt something sharper, something warm and terrifying and real.

“Don’t make a habit of being vulnerable,” she said softly, trying for teasing but failing miserably.

He grinned again, brighter this time, but still off-kilter. “No promises.”

~~~~~

They sat cross-legged on a threadbare rug, backs to the wall, passing a bottle of strong-smelling something between them that Dagur had 'liberated' from Trader Johann’s latest visit. She wasn't sure if it was actually meant for drinking or for starting ship fires, but it burned the same going down, and at this point, she welcomed it.

“So,” she said, tipping the bottle back and wincing. “Twenty questions.”

Dagur perked up instantly, his grin stretching like it had been waiting for this all day.

“Dangerous. I like it.”

“You would.”

He held out a hand for the bottle, took a swig like it was water. “You start.”

She considered him—legs sprawled out like he owned the entire floor, hair somehow messier than usual, boar blood still stuck to one of his arms, a faint scar she hadn’t noticed before catching the firelight on his temple.

“Alright,” she said, “What’s the worst injury you’ve ever had?”

He let out a bark of laughter. “Easy. Sword through the thigh, missed the bone by this much.” He held his fingers a whisper apart. “Didn’t notice until I sat down and passed out from blood loss.”

Her nose wrinkled. “You’re disgusting.”

“Thank you.”

He grinned and leaned toward her, eyes gleaming. “My turn, what’s your biggest secret?”

She hesitated, swirling the bottle in her hand as if the firelit liquid inside might offer her a better answer.

“Alright,” she sighed, pretending to brace herself. “I fake stomach aches to get out of talking to people when I’m overwhelmed.”

Dagur blinked, then started cackling.

“You did that last week.”

Her head snapped toward him. “No, I didn’t.”

“Oh, yes, you did,” he grinned. “Right after Snotlout started bragging about his new ‘signature move.’ You muttered something about cramps and disappeared for an hour.”

She narrowed her eyes. “No further questions.”

He tossed his head back, laughing loud and unrestrained, the sound made her lips twitch despite herself.

“You’re such a menace,” she muttered, nudging him with her foot.

“Yeah,” he said, still grinning. “But I’m your menace tonight, Valkyrie.”

Her stomach did that annoying little flip again, so she took another swig from the bottle just to shut it up.

Dagur sensed the awkwardness and started the game once more, “Alright, your turn again.”

She studied him a moment longer, more serious this time. “Why do you want to be a Dragon Rider?”

His smile faltered, just for a heartbeat, before he looked away, grabbing the bottle from her and taking a swig before answering. “I want to be something more than what people expect. Something better and... dragons don’t lie about who their riders are.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, but it was heavy, and it sat between them like a shared secret. She reached for the bottle again, took a long drink to drown the sudden flutter in her chest. “Okay,” she said, voice steadier than she felt. “Next question. Do you believe in love at first sight?”

Dagur went quiet, not looking away from her, but the grin that usually pulled at his mouth faded into something unreadable.

“Absolutely,” he said finally.

That was it. He didn’t explain or add one of his usual dramatic declarations or raunchy metaphors. Just that one word, certain and strange.

Her brow furrowed. “That’s it? That’s all you’re giving me?”

Dagur leaned back against the wall, stretching his long legs out like he had nowhere else to be, nowhere else he wanted to be. “Yup,” he said, popping the ‘p’.

She squinted at him, suspicious. “Not even a why?”

“Nope.” His mouth curled again, just a little. “You’ll hear about it sometime. Just… not right now.”

The fire crackled between them, casting shifting shadows across his face. He looked too calm, and that only made her more curious—but she knew better than to push. For all his impulsive chaos, Dagur could be damn stubborn when he wanted.

“Fine,” she muttered.

He perked up instantly, like he’d just won a round. “My turn,” he said, voice slipping back into that familiar sing-song tease. “What’s your biggest weakness?”

She raised a brow, already sensing the trap. “That’s a loaded question.”

“And yet—” he leaned in slightly, his grin sharpening, “I’m loading it more. What’s your biggest weakness… besides me?”

She scoffed. “You are not my weakness.”

Dagur clutched his chest like she’d wounded him. “Cruel, Valkyrie. Cruel.”

She laughed despite herself, shaking her head as she passed the bottle back to him. “Okay, okay…” She considered it for a moment, her smile fading just a little. “I think… my biggest weakness is thinking I always have to be the strongest one in the room.”

Dagur paused mid-sip.

Her voice was quiet now, more thoughtful. “Like, if I show anything less than perfect control, people will stop taking me seriously. Or worse, they’ll pity me.”

He didn’t say anything right away, just handed the bottle back with a strange look that she couldn’t name.

“You know,” he said slowly, “letting someone see you mess up isn’t always weakness.”

She met his eyes.

“And letting someone help? That’s strength too.”

Her chest tightened because godsdammit, that was not what she expected from him of all people.

“I thought it was my question,” she said, trying to shake it off.

Dagur shrugged, unapologetic. “You inspired a bonus round.”

She rolled her eyes, but her fingers brushed his as she took the bottle, and she didn’t pull away right away this time.

“Let’s do something a bit lighter this time,” she said, the edge of her last confession still lingering in the air. She cleared her throat and tried for something safer. “What’s your favourite colour?”

Dagur tilted his head, considering. “Hmm... I think it would have to be red. Like crimson red—”

She groaned, taking a sip from the bottle. “How predictable, Dagur. Red like blood?”

He smirked but shook his head. “No. Red like passion and heartache, like love and hate. The red of the sunset and the sunrise... the kind that makes you feel like something’s either beginning or ending, but you don’t know which yet.”

She blinked. That... was not the answer she expected. His eyes were locked on her now, serious in a way that tugged at something deep in her chest.

“Red,” he continued, voice lower now, “like the flush in someone’s cheeks when they’re flustered. The kind of red that creeps up your neck when someone stares a little too long.” His gaze dropped to her lips, then slowly back to her eyes. “The colour people wear when they want to be seen.”

The fire crackled between them, but she barely noticed it. Her skin prickled with heat under his stare, and she hated—hated—that he could fluster her this easily.

“That’s…” she started, but the words caught. She cleared her throat. “That’s weirdly poetic for someone who once told me their favourite sound was ‘the crunch of bones under your boots.’”

Dagur grinned again, more wolf than man. “What can I say? I contain multitudes.”

She rolled her eyes and passed him the bottle. “You contain something, alright.”

“Want to find out what?” he teased, wagging his brows.

She smacked his arm—lightly—but didn’t move away. Dagur took the bottle back, swirling the amber liquid thoughtfully before he spoke. His grin softened, and there was a rare flicker of something almost... nostalgic in his eyes.

“All right, Valkyrie,” he said, voice low and a little teasing, “what’s your favourite childhood memory?”

She blinked, caught off guard. The question was softer than anything he’d asked so far. Her mind flicked back to simpler days, before battles, before scars and whispered fears. A small smile tugged at her lips.

“I think it’s… running through the forest behind my home. Racing the wind, chasing sunlight through the trees. My little brother trying to catch me, but never quite manages it. He’d get all frustrated and giggly at the same time.”

Dagur’s eyes glittered with amusement. “Sounds like you were hard to catch even then.”

She shrugged, cheeks warming. “I guess so.”

“Good.” He nodded approvingly. “I like that.”

She glanced at him, then took the bottle and passed it back. “Your turn. If you could be a dragon, what type would you be?”

He smirked, leaning back slightly, eyes flickering with mischief. “A Skrill. Electric, fierce, dangerous, and unpredictable. Quick to strike, faster to disappear, and I shock people when they least expect it.”

She raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Sounds about right.”

Dagur chuckled, voice low and rough. “And you? What kind would you be?”

She paused, tracing a line in the floor dust with her finger. “A Night Fury. Silent, and deadly when needed, but I’d mostly stay hidden and watch, I wouldn’t need to be loud to be dangerous.”

His grin softened, eyes locking with hers. “Perfect match, then.”

They kept going like that, exchanging questions and smiles, the bottle slowly emptying.

“When was the last time you cried?”

She blinked, caught off guard, then shrugged.
“Not too long ago, sometimes it just hits without warning.”
She passed the bottle back.

“What makes you feel the most alive?”

His eyes darkened.
“When I’m close to danger and my heart’s pounding so loud I can’t hear a thing.”
He gave her a sharp look.

“What’s something you’re proud of but don’t say out loud?”

She bit her lip, smiling crookedly.
“That I’m tougher than I look.”
She took the bottle and passed it back.

“What’s your most embarrassing moment?”

He laughed, deep and loud.
“Getting my helmet stuck in a dragon’s mouth. Not my finest hour, I must admit.”
She snorted.

“Have you ever had a crush on someone you shouldn’t have?”

She laughed,
“Oh, 100 per cent”
“Who?”
“It’s a secret”

At this point, she was well and truly tipsy, the liquid courage seeping into her bones and making her feel a bit flirty.

“Alright, what’s your biggest turn-on?”

Dagur’s grin morphed into something dangerously confident as he leaned in closer, invading her personal space with that reckless charm she simultaneously wanted and feared. The faint scent of his musk and the heat radiating from him blurred the edges of her world. His eyes locked onto hers, sharp and unblinking, like he could see straight through the walls she’d built.

“You really wanna know?”

She raised a brow, trying to play it cool. “I asked, didn’t I?”

“In that case, I’m all about when they’re on top, taking charge,” he murmured, voice thick with promise, “making the moves, setting the pace…”

He let the words hang between them, slow and deliberate, watching as her composure and confidence faltered.  She tried to hold her ground, blinking rapidly to steady herself, but with every inch he closed, her breath hitched involuntarily. There was a reckless boldness in the way he spoke—an unapologetic, almost feral confidence—that made her skin prickle and her cheeks betray her with heat.

His voice dipped lower, teasing and intimate. “But most of the time…” He paused, eyes glinting with mischief, “What really drives me wild… is when they try to be bold and fail, when they end up under me.”

He tilted his head slightly, watching her with a kind of fascinated hunger, his smile curving wickedly at her reaction.

“No way out,” he murmured. “Trapped. Teary. Overstimulated…”

He leaned even closer, and she felt it—the warmth of his breath on her cheek, the sharpness of his presence pressing into the moment like a blade against skin.

“Like they’re trying to fight it,” he continued, voice dropping to a near-whisper, “but they just can’t. They’re breathless, begging for more…”

“Alright, alright, I—I get it!” she burst out, hands coming up to create some kind of space between them.

It didn’t help. Her heart was hammering, her ears ringing with every pulse, and her skin was on fire, and no amount of space could make her forget the way he was looking at her.

She swallowed hard, eyes darting anywhere but his. “Y’know what? I’m actually really tired.” A yawn, obviously fake, escaped her, and she stretched half-heartedly. “I think it’s time for bed.”

Dagur didn’t move, watching her with that same lazy confidence, like he could see right through every excuse. Still, he didn’t push, just tipped his head slightly, lips quirking.

“Whatever you want, my Valkyrie.”

The way he said it made something twist in her stomach. She stood, awkward and quick, brushing off imaginary dust from her pants just to give her hands something to do. “Goodnight, Dagur.”

He reclined further against the wall, watching her go. “Sweet dreams.”

Her back was turned, but she felt the weight of his gaze follow her all the way across the room. When she finally lay down on her bed and pulled the furs over top of her, heart still thudding in her throat, she honestly wasn’t sure if she’d be able to sleep at all.

~~~~~

She didn’t look back once, just marched off like she hadn’t gone red to the roots of her pretty hair, like she hadn’t nearly choked on her own breath when he whispered in her ear, but he saw it. He always saw it. The way her hands trembled just slightly when she passed him the bottle. The way her lashes fluttered when he leaned in. The flush across her throat. The way she’d bolted the moment things got too real, when she couldn’t control the way that she felt.

Dagur exhaled slowly, dragging a scarred hand through his hair and letting his head rest back against the wooden wall. The room was dim now, the fire burning low, casting flickering gold across the planks and her sleeping form across the room. Or—trying to sleep, anyway. He could tell she was awake by the way she shifted under the furs. He couldn’t blame her; he had laid it on a bit thick with the sexual references, but better she know what she’s getting into.

Five weeks ago, she barely tolerated him. Would flinch at his jokes, snap at his flirtation, glare when he got too close. He’d been chaos incarnate in her neatly structured world—a storm she didn’t want to weather. Now though? Now she laughed and stayed when he talked. She didn’t flinch when he touched her arm, didn’t pull away when they brushed shoulders, didn’t argue when he called her his Valkyrie. Dagur smiled to himself, slow and crooked, teeth catching the faint light. She was warming to him. Not quickly, but embers didn’t become wildfires in a single spark, either, and he could wait.

He was learning her, piece by piece. Her favourite dragon calls. The way her jaw clenched when she lied. The way she made little circles on her thumb when she got nervous, or how she bit her lip when she was about to ask something too honest. She didn’t even realise how much she gave away.

Tonight, she’d chosen to spend time with him, by herself. Get to know him better, and if that didn’t excite him to no end, he didn’t know what else would. Even now, he replayed in his mind the blush that had layered her cheeks and neck as he leant into her space.

He wondered what sounds she would make—if she’d gasp when he brushed his fingers along her body, or if she’d choke on his name when his lips found her core. He bet she’d be breathy, soft at first, like she didn’t quite trust the way he made her feel, but she’d end up loud, calling his name. Gods, he could only imagine how his name would sound out of her mouth in that way. He wouldn’t stop until she forgot how to be quiet, until she forgot how to be anything but his. He’d trail his mouth down the side of her throat, pausing when he felt her pulse stutter. Maybe he’d nip, just once, just to see how she reacted. Would she gasp? Moan? Dig her nails into his arms and tell him to do it again?

Odin, the idea of her trembling beneath him, of her melting into him like she couldn’t bear to be anywhere else, made his mouth go dry. The way she looked at him earlier, like she didn’t know whether to kiss him or kill him? That sealed it. He’d take her to the edge, then pull back. Not to be cruel, but to teach her just how much he wanted her. Mind. Body. Soul.

He groaned; he couldn’t handle thinking this way for much longer without doing something about it. He looked over at her sleeping, for she was sleeping now, and pushed himself off the ground, wandering slowly over. He looked down at her, exhaling softly, eyes sweeping over the flutter of her lashes, the slight part of her lips, the bare skin of her collarbone peeking above her shirt.

He hovered there, caught in the quiet hum of the fire and the pull of her presence, memorising the planes of her face. The shape of her mouth, the tiny crease between her brows that lingered even in sleep. Freya, she was beautiful. He wondered if she would wake up if he slid in behind her. If he wrapped his arms over her waist, pressed his chest to her back, and pulled her flush against him. Would she stir? Would she lean into it instinctively, all soft and trusting, no defences? Or would she tense, startled by his proximity, unsure of his intentions?

He clenched his jaw. No, not like this, she trusted him. Chose to continue to allow him to sleep within her hut, chose him, and even though every part of him burned to touch her, to have her, he wouldn’t let desire eclipse respect. So instead, he sat beside her, close, but not close enough to wake her. Let the firelight dance across her skin as he kept watch. Let longing curl sharp and slow in his chest, patient.

Chapter Text

The common room at breakfast was loud, as usual—someone had knocked over a mug, the Twins were daring each other to eat something that was definitely not food, and Meatlug kept burping smoke under the table like it was a party trick. She slid into an open seat near the end, desperate for a moment of peace after the day's events and at least three bites before someone asked her to referee something again. Naturally, that was exactly when Snotlout dropped into the seat across from her with all the grace of a man who thought he was being smooth.

“So,” he said, resting his chin in his hand like he was posing for a statue, “you and Dagur, huh?”

She blinked, fork halfway to her mouth. “Sorry—what?”

“You know,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “All that alone time, the hunting, the whole ‘living together’ thing. It's kinda intense.”

Her face was unreadable, but inside, something squirmed. Not guilt or shame, but something quieter. Irritated at how right he might be.

“It’s not like that, I’m his chaperone, remember?” she muttered.

Snotlout gave her a grin that looked rehearsed. “Sure, sure… but if it was—and I’m not saying it is—you should know you’ve got other options. Options that are less likely to stab you in your sleep.”

His voice had dropped a little lower, smoother, practised, as though this was some sort of negotiation, one he thought he had a real shot at winning. “Dagur’s got… a vibe, I get it. Chaos can be fun, but I’m more of a long-term investment.”

She squinted at him. “Did you just compare yourself to a bank?”

Before he could dig the metaphor deeper, the doors slammed open. The temperature in the room shifted like someone had thrown open a window. A few heads turned, but most didn’t have to, there was only one person who walked like that.

Dagur.

Boots mud-caked and uneven that he had obviously decided against cleaning, hair wild like he’d run through a storm, scarred hands flexing at his sides like he was itching for something to destroy or build. He locked eyes with her instantly, whatever smirk he’d been wearing melted into something focused, sharp. Dagur’s eyes dropped to where Snotlout was still leaning across the table, too close for comfort, something flickering behind his expression—half amusement, half... claim. He crossed the room without breaking eye contact, slid into the seat beside her, and draped an arm over the back of her chair like it was normal.

She kept her gaze forward, not daring to meet his, even though she could feel it—hot and unwavering on the side of her face. Snotlout was still mid-sentence, but she wasn’t listening anymore, too acutely aware of how close Dagur was. The warmth radiating from him and the weight of his attention—gods help her—made her feel safe. Wanted. It made her stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with the reckless spark just under her skin.

Snotlout straightened up, less smug now, but still unwilling to back off. “Hey, Dagur,” he said casually. “We were just talking about your... uh, relationship.”

Dagur tilted his head slowly, smiling like a shark who’d found a smaller fish pretending to be bigger.

“Oh yeah?” His voice was light, but that arm didn’t move, and his gaze stayed stuck to the side of her face.

She didn’t look at him, couldn’t, not when her skin was so aware of every point of contact. The silence between them wasn’t exactly tense, but it wasn’t comfortable either. It felt like the air had thickened, pressing in close, listening.

Snotlout shifted, his bravado slipping just slightly. “Yeah, just wondering how serious this whole… thing is.” He gestured vaguely between them, like they were a passing storm cloud he could wave away.

Dagur didn’t even blink; his fingers, still draped along the back of her chair, dipped just slightly, brushing against the curve of her neck in a way that felt very intentional.

“Define serious,” he said, voice syrupy and slow. “Like... grave serious? Or more like I’ll-break-your-ribs-if-you-don’t-watch-your-mouth serious?”

Snotlout laughed, too loud, and too forced. “C’mon, man, I’m just asking. No need to get—”

“Protective?” Dagur cut in, finally turning his gaze toward Snotlout, and that smile sharpened. “I’m always protective of what’s mine.”

Her breath snagged, the brush of his fingers became a light press—barely there, but enough to send a shiver down her spine. She forced herself to speak.

“I’m not yours, Dagur,” she finally bit out, voice too shaky to sound as exasperated as she wanted.

“No, not yet, but you’re definitely not his”

Snotlout blinked, mouth parting, then closing again.

“Okay then,” Snotlout said, getting up from the seat and taking half a step back. “Good talk.”

Dagur didn’t move, just watched him go, his grin never quite reaching his eyes. She exhaled, low and shaky, not realising how tightly she’d been holding her shoulders until the tension started to seep out. Dagur’s arm still hadn’t moved.

“I meant what I said,” she muttered, not looking at him. “I’m not anyone’s.”

His fingers traced a lazy arc against the back of her neck, and she shivered involuntarily. “I know,” he said, voice low, rough. “That’s why I haven’t taken anything.”

She turned then, sharply, finally meeting his gaze. The firelight caught the green in his eyes, made them glow just a little too bright. His grin had faded to something quieter and dangerous.

“What would you have done if he’d sat beside me?” she asked, pulse thudding in her ears.

Dagur’s mouth twitched into a tight smile. “I would’ve sat in your lap instead.”

Her breath caught. He wasn’t joking, there was no mischief in his voice this time—just certainty, like he’d already imagined it, like part of him expected it.

She couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. So she stood.

“I’m going to check the perimeter,” she mumbled, stepping away from the table.

~~~~~

Lunch had long since come and gone, swallowed by the relentless march of the sun, and with it came the afternoon sparring session. It had taken her an hour of 'checking the perimeter' after lunch for her to calm down after that encounter with Dagur and Snotlout.

Now, the sun sat high and punishing, baking the training field in its merciless glare. Sweat stung her eyes, ran in rivers down her spine, and dripped from her chin like blood from a blade. They’d been out here for over an hour, muscles aching with that dull, burning fatigue that never quite reached pain but whispered it was coming. Dusksinger’s wings beat heavy and slow, each flap like a bell tolling her own exhaustion. The break they’d taken had barely registered—just long enough to breathe, not long enough to recover. They switched from aerial training to sparring, allowing Dusksinger and Dagur's new gronckle, Shattermaster, a well-deserved break.

She wiped her brow with the back of her hand and squared off against Dagur, who was watching her with an unsettling intensity. So far, they’d been pretty evenly matched, winning an equal number of matches. Dagur was grinning now, wide and knowing, like he had a card up his sleeve she hadn’t seen yet.

Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you grinning like that?”

“Oh, no reason,” he said, casually reaching down behind a nearby barrel. “I just think I’ve got something that’ll give me a bit of an edge in the next match.”

He stood up, leather in hand.

A whip.

She didn’t hear the rest of what he said, didn’t see anything past that coiled, worn weapon in his grip. The world fell silent, like someone had sucked all the air from it. The sun above her blurred, the heat of the sparring grounds vanishing as cold panic gripped her chest. Her breath stuttered, caught halfway up her throat. The whip dangled casually from his fingers—but to her, it was every nightmare come crawling back. Like she was watching from outside her body, she saw Fishlegs move—fast and uncharacteristically sharp—snatching the whip from Dagur’s hand like it had burned him. Dagur’s grin faltered, confusion wrinkling his brow as Fishlegs’s arms started flailing, gesturing wildly and yelling in a voice she couldn’t hear.

Everything was muffled, distant, like she was underwater.

Astrid was in front of her now.

Hands on her shoulders.

Mouth moving.

She couldn’t make out the words.

Her chest heaved, air refusing to cooperate, and her knees buckled slightly. She was shaking, full-body, uncontrollable tremors like her bones had turned to ice. Her lungs begged for air, but all she could hear was the crack of the whip.

Again.                                                       And again.

And again.                                And again

AND AGAIN.

“Hey—hey, look at me,” Astrid was saying, voice finally starting to pierce through the fog. “You’re safe, you’re here, breathe with me, okay?”

She shook her head violently. She wasn’t here; she was back there.

The deck was slick under her knees, and salt coated her wounds. Laughter echoed behind her, sick and lecherous. The sound of leather splitting the air—

“Look at me!” Astrid’s voice snapped like a lifeline.

Her eyes locked with Astrid’s, blue, not brown. Soft, not hard. Astrid moved her hands to her cheeks, grounding her. “Breathe in with me. In. One... two... three.”

She gasped—ragged, too quick, but it was something.

“There you go,” Astrid whispered. “You’re safe, he didn’t know, it’s not his fault. It’s not them, you’re not there.”

Her chest heaved again. Tears burned down her cheeks before she realised she was crying. From the corner of her eye, she saw Dagur pale and frozen. He was looking at her now, looking like someone had just knocked the wind out of him. He took a step forward, Fishlegs held out an arm like a damn sword. “Don’t.”

Astrid helped her walk slowly, carefully, like she was something breakable. She didn’t protest. Couldn’t. Her voice was gone, her fight was gone. She motioned to Ruffnut to come and help her, shaking her head at Tuffnut as he stepped forward, “We’ve got her,” Astrid said quietly, nodding to Hiccup, before she and Ruff led her away.

Dagur just stood there.

Motionless.

Speechless.

For once in his damn life—silent.

Chapter Text

The sky had shifted to dusk when she finally stepped outside. Her hands still trembled, her head ached, but her chest had stopped feeling like it was caving in. Astrid and Ruff had soothed her for hours. Astrid had braided her hair back with gentle fingers while Ruffnut offered stories with just enough ridiculousness to keep her grounded. They hadn't tried to fix her; instead were just present. Eventually, they'd left her to rest.

Now, the camp was quieter. Dusksinger was curled up nearby, her tail flicking in restless sleep, smoke curling from her nostrils with every breath. She needed air, space, something. She stepped into the cool twilight, arms wrapped around her middle like she could hold herself together. The ground beneath her boots crunched faintly, each step slow, deliberate. Maybe if she just walked far enough, the heaviness would bleed out of her bones. The cliffs were calling, with wind strong enough to peel the weight off her skin. She followed the trail out of habit, feet remembering the way when her mind couldn’t. The wind tugged gently at her clothes, the air cooler here, saltier, sharp enough to sting—real enough to keep her present. She didn’t expect to find Dagur already there.

He was hunched forward, elbows on his knees, shoulders drawn tight. His axe sat beside him, untouched. He didn’t hear her at first—or maybe he did, and just didn’t know what to do. She almost turned back, but something in her refused to keep running. She was so tired of running, so she stepped nearer. His head turned slightly, just enough to register her presence, but he didn’t speak or move. He just looked out at the horizon like it might hold an answer he hadn’t earned.

“I thought maybe a walk would help,” she said, voice scratchy from tears and disuse.

Dagur exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since the moment she left. “Did it?”

She shrugged. “Don’t know yet.”

He nodded slowly. “I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” She paused. “What happened, I mean.”

He glanced at her then, really looked, and she saw the grief and apology swirling in his eyes, the self-hate and even… fear?

“I didn’t know,” he said again. “And I hate that I didn’t, because I never would’ve—”

“I know,” she said softly.

“But that doesn’t change that I did.” He dragged a hand down his face. “And I can’t stop seeing your face when it happened, like you weren’t even here. It looked like I’d ripped you out of yourself.”

She swallowed hard. “You did.”

Silence.

Then: “Do you want to know what you pulled me back into?”

He looked at her, eyes dark and open.

She sat down beside him, close, but not touching. “Because if you’re gonna be around, you should know what came before.”

Dagur didn’t speak. He didn’t move either, just nodded once, slow, almost like he was bracing for impact. She stared out over the cliffs, let the wind bite at her skin, and allowed it to cradle her in its steady embrace.

“It was just past my seventeenth winter,” she began, voice barely audible over the crashing waves below. “I had a loving family, a beautiful home, everything I needed. When one day, I was on the wrong road at the wrong time.”

Dagur didn’t interrupt; it didn’t even sound like he was breathing.

“They trafficked in dragons—and girls like me. I was young and stupidly brave; I thought I could win. I bit and kicked and scratched, I broke one’s nose and was the reason for another losing his eye. Turns out I just gave them more reason to make an example out of me.”

Her hands curled into fists.

“They gave me tasks—filthy, bloody work no one else wanted. Cleaning the dragon shit and blood from the chains, washing the decks and bathrooms. They never looked at me or spoke to me. I was invisible, and I clung to that, because I’d heard the stories, the ones about what happened when a girl got noticed.”

Her voice dropped.

“Being ignored was the best I could hope for, and even that didn’t last.”

She stared at the horizon like it might swallow the memories if she looked hard enough, but her eyes weren’t seeing the waves anymore. They were seeing wood, chains, a red sky reflected in sea-slick blood.

“It started with the captain,” she murmured. “The way he lingered when I passed. The way he smiled.”

Her voice went flat.

“He’d call me to clean near his quarters, alone. At first, it was just the orders, then it was… watching and touching. My arm, my hair, my waist.”

She flinched, her fingers twitching like they wanted to scrub something off her skin, her shoulders pulling in.

“I didn’t want to believe what was coming. I told myself if I kept my head down, did what they asked, it’d stop.”

A bitter laugh escaped her, small and sharp. “It didn’t.”

She blinked—and that was all it took. The past hit like a wave breaking over her head. Her breath came fast and shallow, heart hammering against her ribs like a caged bird. She could feel the panic rising, threatening to choke her. The walls of the hold seemed to close in, the darkness taking on a malevolent life of its own. The scent of rotting fish and rust, the damp, creaking boards beneath her knees. His boots in front of her, his voice behind her, the leather belt sliding through the loops. The sound of it. The sound.

Her chest tightened, and her breath quickened—sharp, shallow gasps.

One.

Two.

Three.

Her jaw clenched. Fingernails digging into her thigh. Memories assailed her like physical blows. The feel of rough hands groping her body, the taste of sweat and alcohol on unshaven faces pressed close to hers. The brutal thrusts that left her raw and aching, the laughter and jeers as she was passed around like a bottle of rum.

Trapped.

Chained.

Helpless.

Used.

That was all she had been for so long. A plaything for these monsters to torment and degrade. And now, even here in the comparative safety of the Edge, the ghosts of her past refused to release her.

“Hey—hey.” Dagur’s voice, soft now. “It’s okay.”

She didn’t respond. She was in the hold, hands bound, skin already marked. The dark pressed in so thick it felt alive. Crack. The phantom whip sliced the air in her mind. She jerked away from it. Dagur reached out—then stopped himself, deciding that touching her wouldn’t help. He spoke low and steady. “Look at me.”

It took everything she had, but she dragged her gaze to him. Her pupils were blown wide, her skin pale and slick with sweat.

“You’re safe,” he said. “You’re not there. It’s just you and me, right here on this cliff.”

She sat curled inward, arms wrapped around herself now, the wind catching strands of her hair as the moon rose higher, painting her face in white and shadow.

“Eventually, I stopped screaming. It didn’t help.”

Dagur still hadn’t moved or touched her, but he was there, solid and steady. Present in a way most people couldn’t manage without making it about themselves.

Then, after a long pause, he spoke quietly, barely above the wind.

“Do you… do you want to tell me how you got out?”

She was silent for a long time. Long enough that he almost regretted asking. Then she nodded slowly.

“I didn’t plan it, I didn’t even hope for it. Hope was dangerous—it got people killed.”

She shifted, gaze distant and unfocused, like she was back there, but not drowning this time. Walking the edge of it, dipping her toe in instead of submerging herself.

“The Riders didn’t even know I was on that ship; they came out of nowhere. I was below deck when they first hit.”

She exhaled, shaky, but steadying.

“There was fire. Screaming. Dragons breaking free. I thought I was going to die down there—buried in wood and smoke and saltwater.”

Her hand twitched, thumb rubbing the scar on her wrist, she hadn’t realised she’d been tracing.

“But I crawled out through a split in the deck, burned my hands in the process. I could barely breathe, everything hurt, but I got clear of the wreck right before it went under. The sea took the rest.”

A silence settled between them, broken only by the wind and the distant crashing of waves, then, softer: “I don’t know how I made it to shore. Half-conscious, barely swimming. Some current must’ve dragged me in, or maybe a dragon, one of theirs, pushed me. I’ll never know.”

Her fingers flexed, remembering, always remembering.

“I woke up two days later, washed up, starved, and fevered, and I was barely there. I spent two weeks looking for my family. It took months before I could even talk about it with them, and even longer before I wanted to.”

Silent tears streamed down her cheeks, and she quickly wiped them away.

“I spent so long, almost two years, with the help of my family, searching for Hiccup and the crew. When I finally found them, I had managed to bond with my own dragon, Dusksinger, and they allowed me to join them as thanks.”

She chuckled slightly, in her own head.

“Y’know, Dusksinger was the only reason I decided to trust you. She was calm around you, and how a dragon acts around a person says a lot about their character.”

Dagur looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time—not just the fighter, not just the survivor, but everything in between.

“I don’t blame Dusksinger,” he teased after a beat, voice low. “She’s got good instincts.”

He shifted, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “But now, I guess... I gotta earn yours.”

She laughed, shrill and a little insane. The kind of laugh that bubbles up when you’re trying not to break down and cry. It shook her chest, made her clutch at her ribs, struggling to breathe through the tremors. Dagur watched, eyes wide but gentle, not moving to stop her. When the laughter finally died away, she wiped at her cheeks and levelled her eyes with his..

“There’s no need,” she said, voice soft but steady. “I already trust you.”

Then, without hesitation, she threw herself into his lap, wrapping her arms tight around him. Her body pressed close, trembling slightly—not from weakness, but from the storm of relief and fear crashing through her all at once. Dagur’s hands hovered for a moment, uncertain, before settling gently on her back, fingertips tracing slow, soothing circles as if trying to stitch her pieces back together.

She buried her face into the crook of his neck, breath hitching as the steady beat of his heart grounded her. The world narrowed down to that moment—the rough scrape of his clothes against her skin, the faint scent of leather and smoke, the quiet rhythm of his breath mingling with hers. Her arms tightened instinctively, as if she let go, she might unravel.

Dagur’s voice was a low rumble against her hair. “I’m always here if you need.”

And she believed him.

~~~~~

He felt every tremble, every ragged breath, as if it was cutting through him. There was no pretending here, no walls to hide behind. Just her, raw and exposed, trusting him in a way that made his chest ache. He thought of the scars she hid, the nightmares she’d fought alone, the darkness she’d dragged from that shipwreck. It twisted his gut—the knowledge that someone like her, so fierce, so fiery, could be caught in that kind of hell. How many times had she faced those memories alone? How many nights had she screamed silently behind locked doors or in nightmares where no one came?

He hated that he’d been blind to it until now. That his careless use of a whip—something so ordinary to him—had pulled her right back into that hell. A slow, burning anger flared inside him, not at her, not at fate, but at himself. How could he have been so careless? So blind? Yet, beneath that guilt was something more fragile, more dangerous. The way her skin felt against him, how her fingers curled like she was afraid to let go, how the steady beat of her heart under his palm was both a comfort and a challenge. He wasn’t used to feeling this kind of softness—this fierce, desperate vulnerability—and it terrified him as much as it pulled at him. He wanted to protect her, yes, but he also wanted to be the one she leaned on, not just now, but every moment after. He wanted to be her refuge, her strength, her safe place and the worst part was, he wanted her like that for himself.

They sat like that for what felt like hours, but must have only been half an hour. The quiet between them was heavy with unspoken things—pain, trust, and something else. Something that twisted in his gut, unwelcome and out of place. Her hair brushed lightly against his face and nose, soft strands that felt electric against his skin. Each little breath she exhaled near his neck sent a shiver crawling down his spine. He could feel the subtle, restless shifts of her body as she adjusted her position, each movement stirring a heat he wasn’t ready for.

He clenched his jaw, willing the sensation away, but it only grew stronger, a wild beast coiling in his chest, impossible to tame. This wasn’t just physical anymore; it was deeper, rawer, a pull that clawed at his restraint and settled in his bones. The more he pushed it down, the fiercer it fought back, writhing and snapping beneath the surface like a caged animal desperate for release.

Against every shred of his control, he felt it, the undeniable stir of his body reacting, betraying him in the smallest, most humiliating way. His breath hitched, his muscles tightened, a fire sparked low and insistent, refusing to be ignored. He hated it. Hated that in this moment, when all he wanted was to be her protector, his own desires tangled the lines between them, threatening to unravel everything.

“Are you okay?”

Her soft voice threw him out of his mind. He blinked, the heat crawling back down his spine, retreating but not gone—like a shadow lurking just beneath the surface. He pulled back, eyes locking on hers, wide and steady, innocent and concerned. It should’ve calmed him, but instead, it twisted the knife harder. 

“Yeah, I’m all good, just… thinking.”

She hummed her approval, eyes not leaving his and then, gods above, they trailed over his face, snagging on his lips. Her mouth parted, and suddenly, he was struck with the jarring thought to shove his fingers inside until she gagged. The sheer intensity of that thought shocked him. She had just opened herself up, relived her past, her torture, so he could tread carefully, and here he was, brain spiralling into this. He shouldn’t be thinking like this, not when she was so raw, so vulnerable.

He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t realise she was getting closer to his face, shifting forward in his lap until her hand cupped his jaw. His breath hitched as her thumb brushed the rough edge of his beard. The contact was electric, a jolt that sparked every nerve, lighting a wildfire he couldn’t quite control.

He wanted to pull away, to slam the brakes on the spiralling chaos inside his head, but his body betrayed him again. He leaned in, craving the softness of her touch despite the screaming voice that told him to stop. Her eyes searched his as he shook his head, wide and unflinching, and something inside him cracked open, raw and vulnerable beneath the layers of control and restraint.

“I thought this was what you wanted?” she whispered, her voice a thread pulling her closer.

He sighed, “Not like this.”

She continued to study his face, “Why are you the one who gets to decide that? What if I want this?”

“I—I just… I don’t think it’s—”

He was cut off as her lips tentatively touched his own. He froze; her lips were so soft. The kiss wasn’t demanding or desperate; it was permission. An invitation that hit harder than any heated, reckless kiss ever could. And gods help him, he kissed her back. Not with the hunger clawing at his insides, not yet—but with something deeper, something shaking. His hand rose, threading through her hair as if grounding himself in her was the only way to keep from unravelling. The kiss deepened slowly, naturally, like they were slipping into something inevitable.

Behind it all, though—under every brush of lips, every stuttered breath—was tension. His restraint was crumbling, the beast inside pacing, growling, wanting. He broke the kiss with a sharp inhale, pressing his forehead to hers. His heart pounded against his ribs like it wanted out.

“I don’t want to take advantage of you,” he murmured. “Not when you’re still bleeding.”

She didn’t flinch, but she did look confused.

~~~~~

“I want this,” she said, her voice steady but soft, like a whispered confession. She paused, searching his eyes for any sign of hesitation or hope. “When you first came, you were everything everyone had warned me to stay away from. Dangerous, reckless, deranged... and yet, from the very moment I saw you, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to stay away.”

Her breath hitched slightly, but she pressed on, courage threading through her words. “The longer you stayed, the more we talked, the more I realised you weren’t just those things. You’re passionate, thoughtful, kind… even if I still believe you’re a little deranged.” She gave a small, almost mischievous smile.

“So, if you don’t kiss me now, I’m walking away.” Her eyes locked on his, fierce and unyielding. “And you’ll have to wait until I’m ready again to do this.”

He still hadn’t moved, hadn’t said a word, and the silence between them thickened—heavy and unbearable. So she started babbling, rushing to fill the gap, to save herself from the awkwardness and the vulnerability spilling from her like raw nerves.

“And—and it might be days, weeks, even months before I—"

He didn’t give her a chance to finish; his lips crashed against hers, fierce and urgent. One hand gripped her hip, pulling her impossibly closer, while the other tangled in her hair—harder this time—anchoring her to him with raw need. Her breath hitched, caught between surprise and desire, heart hammering like a drum in her chest. The words she’d been scrambling to say slipped away, drowned in the heat of the moment. With a sudden, fierce tug, he pulled her hair, eliciting a sharp gasp from her lips. He angled her head to the side, exposing the vulnerable curve of her throat—bare, inviting, and trembling under his gaze.

His lips trailed down, biting and nipping as they went along, leaving red marks that burned against her skin. Every touch sent shivers racing through her, igniting a fire she couldn’t quench. Just as the heat between them threatened to consume everything, the sharp wail of the raid alarm sliced through the night, jerking them apart like a cruel reminder of the world beyond. They sprang to their feet, breathless and tense, sprinting the short distance back to the Edge. Dagur’s eyes darkened as he scanned the horizon. she looked as well, and there was nothing.

“False alarm,” Hiccup grumbled as he passed. “The twins thought Trader Johan’s boat was a ‘lone dragon slaver ship’.”

She exhaled, a mix of relief and frustration flooding her in equal measure, but Dagur’s gaze dropped back to her, fierce and unyielding.

“This isn’t over,” he said low, voice rough.

She shivered, not from the cold.

Chapter Text

The tension was unbearable. Completely and utterly unbearable. She couldn’t think straight; she was making easy mistakes in training, being beaten in sparring by the Twins, and it was all because she had decided to kiss Dagur the Deranged.

She’d tried to blame it on the breakdown, to convince herself that the kiss was a product of frayed nerves and poor judgment, but that wasn’t true. The truth was, she’d wanted to kiss him long before that. The breakdown just made her stop caring about the consequences, and in hindsight? Maybe she should’ve—because whatever this was, it was spiralling fast.

The worst part about this whole thing, however, was that he seemed to be completely unaffected. He was still grinning, still reckless, still him. Tossing daggers, sparring like nothing had happened, laughing like he hadn’t set her whole world on fire and walked away without a scratch. It made her want to scream.

His flirting and touching, however, had not stopped. At dinner, his hand found her thigh beneath the long wooden table, resting there with that maddening ease, just enough pressure to remind her he was there, playing a silent game that set her nerves aflame. She clenched her jaw, trying to ignore it, but the heat that bloomed beneath his fingers was impossible to deny.

On another day, walking back to the stables, he slung his arm over her shoulder, his touch possessive and casual. She'd shifted awkwardly, caught between wanting to pull away and the strange, dangerous pull that made her want to lean in.

When she stopped to talk to Snotlout two days ago, distracted, he'd appeared behind her, his hands gripping her waist firmly. His head pressed against her shoulder, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, while starting to chat to Snotlout over her shoulder. She'd shot him a glare, but he'd just smirked, eyes gleaming with unspoken challenge.

Her thoughts twisted and tangled, fighting to shove away the flood of unwanted desire (she lied, it was wanted, she just didn’t know how to handle it) and confusion.  She had never wanted something so badly in her life. When she’d tried to talk to Astrid about it, Astrid had been no help at all. “Just tell him how you feel,” Astrid had said with a grin, tossing a sharpened dagger from hand to hand like it was nothing. “It’s not like you’re gonna get rejected. The man’s obsessed with you.”

Obsessed. The word echoed in her mind, twisting the ache even tighter. It was easier to pretend it wasn’t true—that Dagur’s reckless touch and wild grins didn’t set her nerves on fire or make her pulse race like a thunderstorm, but Astrid was right. Dagur was obsessed, and maybe, just maybe, so was she. Still, the thought of laying it all bare terrified her. What if she said the wrong thing? What if she pushed him away? Or worse—what if she lost control entirely? Her thoughts weren’t logical; she had told him about her past, something that would send any lesser man running, and he had looked at her with… reverence. Not pity or judgment but love. She had kissed him, and he had kissed her back with a hunger that she must admit kind of scared her. She knew that he wanted her, but maybe she hadn’t quite realised the extent of it.

It had been two weeks since she'd kissed him, and she wasn’t sure whether she could handle any more tension. She had left for a walk straight after dinner, making sure to avoid Dagur and all the messy thoughts he left inside her head. It had been a couple of hours since the sun had set, and she felt as if her head were slightly clearer. The sea was a restless, dark stretch below, waves crashing against the rocks with a fury that almost echoed the storm in her chest. She liked that—liked that the world outside was just as unsettled as she was inside.

She stood outside her hut, hesitating to go in, knowing that Dagur would be in there. She took one last steadying breath and stepped inside. She hadn’t even made it two steps inside when his voice called out across the room.

“Have you been avoiding me, or am I just bad at hide and seek?” his voice was low, teasing, but quieter than usual. Rough around the edges, like he was actually unsure.

She swallowed. “I just needed some air.”

He nodded slowly. “Right. Just… makin’ sure I didn’t scare you off.”

That stopped her cold. “What?”

“Well, I mean…” he rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly more awkward than she’d ever seen him, “You were pretty fragile that night, and I kissed you against all better logic, and since then, you’ve been... distant. I just wanted to make sure I didn’t fuck everything up.”

She blinked, caught off guard by the vulnerability in his voice. The reckless bravado was still there, but it was layered with something raw and real.

“If anything…” she started, voice quieter, “it’s me who’s screwing this up. I’m the one who can’t make peace with how I feel.”

Dagur looked at her then—really looked at her—and something shifted in his expression. The smirk was gone, replaced by something gentler, far more dangerous.

“You don’t have to be at peace with it,” he said. “You just have to be honest.”

She laughed bitterly, folding her arms tighter across her chest. “Honest? Honest about the fact that I think about you too much? That when you touch me, I forget how to breathe? That I wake up some mornings wondering if you’re going to kiss me again or just pretend like it never happened?”

His silence was thunderous. She shook her head, suddenly angry with herself. “Forget it, this is why I don’t talk about feelings. It’s messy and stupid and—”

She didn’t get the chance to finish. Dagur was already in front of her, closing the space in two steps, grabbing her face like she was something he’d been dying to hold. His voice was low, sharp with emotion. “I only didn’t do anything about it because I didn’t want to rush you. I’ve wanted to kiss you since the moment I met you. It was love at first sight”

Her breath caught.

“I didn’t say anything,” he continued, “because I thought if I pushed, you’d bolt. But if you think I’ve forgotten that kiss, or what you said that night, you’re outta your mind.”

A long pause stretched between them. The only sound was the wind and her heartbeat thudding in her ears.

“…So what now?” she whispered.

Dagur’s thumbs brushed her cheekbones. “Now? I kiss you again, unless you tell me not to.”

She didn’t. So he did.

He kissed her like a man starved, slow at first, almost reverent, like he was checking she was real. Then deeper, surer, like he didn’t care if the world cracked open beneath them. Her fingers gripped the front of his shirt, anchoring herself to the moment she’d been running from for far too long. Everything inside her screamed with feeling—months of tension unravelling at once. It wasn’t neat or careful; it was messy and raw and perfect in the way falling always is.

His hands couldn’t seem to sit still, running up her waist and back before fisting in her hair, then they were back down to her ass, her breasts, her face. She wasn’t sure when they started moving, but suddenly her back hit the wall of the hut, and he was crowding in, breath hot against her neck, kissing her like he was trying to memorise every inch. Her fingers fisted in his tunic, dragging him closer, needing more—of what, she didn’t even know. She arched her neck before she could think better of it, and he took full advantage, placing reverent, open-mouthed kisses down the side.

“Fuck…” he was breathing heavily now.

“…My Valkyrie…” his hands tightened where they had stilled on her waist.

 “You… taste…” he nipped her neck, sucking a mark over the top.

“…So good.”

He groaned the last two words, low and wrecked, his tongue tracing a slow line up her neck to the soft spot beneath her ear. She shivered, knees weak, fists still tangled in his tunic like he was the only thing tethering her to the ground.

Suddenly, he was speaking, his tone serious and heavy, “Tell me if you want to stop.” He pulled back, staring into her eyes, trying to guess at her reaction. “Think of a word, if you call it out, I’ll stop straight away, okay?”

It was a rare kind of seriousness from him, like the weight of what they were doing had finally caught up to the fire between them. His hand was still on her cheek, steady and waiting. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. Gods, she loved that he asked, that he gave her the space to choose—even now, when every part of her screamed not to stop. Even after the abuse she had experienced on that ship, she hadn’t had any problems with any of her sexual partners, but none of them had ever thought to ask. Not like this, with such clarity in their eyes. They’d wanted her, sure. Desired her. Taken her to bed and whispered sweet things in the dark, but never had they paused with shaking hands and steady eyes to say: 'You get to decide'.

Dagur had. The same man who built weapons for fun, who laughed like he was insane, who kissed like he was going to break the world open—he had stopped and handed her the reins. That shouldn’t have made her heart ache like it this, but it did. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic again, grounding herself.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Gobber.”

He looked stunned for a moment, and she could see the wheels turning in his brain as he tried to figure out how she got to that word.

“Gobber? Are you sure?”

“Yep, it’s literally impossible to say without ruining the moment.”

Dagur blinked once, then twice, and then he snorted—actually snorted—and dropped his forehead against hers with a wheezy laugh.

“You are so weird,” he muttered, eyes crinkling at the edges with something warm and disarming. “Gods, I like you.”

“Don’t get used to it,” she shot back, but her voice was soft, her thumb brushing absent-minded circles into his side.

His grin didn’t fade; if anything, it deepened, turned crooked. “Too late for that.”

He kissed her again—slower now, like a promise, and this time, she let herself melt into it. Not because she was fragile, but because she didn’t care, because, for once, she felt safe enough to want him with her whole chest. It wasn’t long before her hands found the edge of his tunic, urging him to pull it over his head. They parted only long enough for it to be pulled over his head before they were kissing again, pouring all of their fears and hopes and dreams into the press of their lips. She could feel Dagur's hands on her skin, mapping out her body with an admiration that stole her breath. She explored him in turn, learning the planes and angles of his muscles, the smoothness of his scars.

She was the first to pull herself away, only because of her need to breathe. While her breathing evened out, she studied the masculine body in front of her. He was gorgeous, she must admit. She’d seen him shirtless countless times—it seemed to be his default setting—but she’d never allowed herself to look at him. His chest was all lean strength, crisscrossed with scars that told stories she hadn’t heard yet; some jagged and old, some faint and new. One in particular curved just beneath his ribs, and she reached out, fingertips brushing over it like a question she didn’t know how to ask. Dagur didn’t flinch. He just watched her with something caught between heat and tenderness, like her touch was something sacred. The air between them shifted, still burning, but quieter now. More real.

His mouth twitched, caught between a smirk and something softer. “Like what you see?”

She gave him a look. “Don’t ruin it.”

He held up his hands, surrendering. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” But his eyes never left her face, not her body, her face, and it hit her, sharp and sweet, that this was what it meant to be wanted as a whole person. Not just for her body or looks, but for everything. For being her.

She swallowed hard, voice suddenly small. “I’ve never done this like… this.”

His brow furrowed just slightly, and he stepped closer, one hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Like what?”

She hesitated. “Where it feels like I could fall and continue falling. Where I’m trusting someone other than myself with my body and my soul.”

His expression softened instantly, the ever-present chaos in his eyes dimming into something steadier, something warmer.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and serious, “you’re not alone anymore. You don’t have to hold the line by yourself.”

She opened her mouth, then shut it again, unsure of what to say. Her chest was tight with emotion, a pressure she couldn’t name. The silence between them was filled with more than heat now—it was thick with trust, vulnerability, and something frighteningly close to love. Dagur’s thumb brushed over her cheek, gentle in a way that made her ache. “I know I’m not exactly safe,” he added with a wry, self-deprecating grin. “To quote you, I’m a ‘deranged, swamp troll’. but with you? I’ll be safe. I’ll make it safe. Whatever you give me, I’ll protect it.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, steadying herself against the hurricane he always seemed to bring with him—and the strange, comforting calm he was giving her now.

“I don’t want to need anyone,” she whispered.

“You don’t,” he replied simply. “You choose me. That’s the difference.”

She blinked. Gods. That was it, wasn’t it? Her breath hitched, something cracking wide open inside her. It was the difference. It was everything. She didn’t need him like she’d needed people before, out of desperation or survival or fear of being alone. She chose him, madness and all. Chose the way he looked at her like she was the moon and the storm and the sword in his hand. Chose the way he listened without trying to fix her. Chose the way he never flinched from her shadows.

Her hand came up, curling around the back of his neck, pulling him close until their foreheads touched. She could feel his breath fan across her lips, shaky now, uneven. He was waiting—gods, always waiting—for her.

“I do,” she whispered. “I choose you.”

Dagur let out a breath like he’d been punched in the gut, then surged forward and kissed her again—fierce and reverent, like he was holding a miracle in his hands, and maybe he was. Maybe they both were. Because for the first time in what felt like forever, she wasn’t bracing for the fall, she was leaping, and this time, someone leapt with her.

Chapter Text

She was laid out on the cot in front of him, her chest rising in quick, uneven breaths. Dagur had stripped her of her tunic before he pushed her onto the bed, her bindings and leggings the only things left hiding her body from his eyes, and they weren’t going to be in the way for very long. He pulled her up, so she was sitting, reaching behind her to the clip that held her bindings together, fumbling with that as he pressed soft, grazing kisses down her sternum and between her breasts. He could feel her heart pounding in her chest, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. The bindings fell away, baring her breasts to his hungry gaze. He took a moment to admire her, his eyes dark with desire.

"You're beautiful," he murmured, his hands coming up to cup her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples.

She gasped, arching into his touch, and he groaned, his pants becoming impossibly tighter. Her nipples pebbled under his ministrations, sending jolts of pleasure straight to her core. She was responding so eagerly to his touch.

He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her leggings, tugging them down slowly, torturously. She lifted her hips to help him, and he was desperate to feel her skin against his own. Finally, he pulled the leggings off completely, tossing them aside. His Valkyrie was completely bare before him now, completely exposed. She tried to bring her hands to cover herself, legs closing under his intense gaze. He grabbed her hands in one of his own, pinning them above her on the bed, his other spreading her legs.

“Don’t close your legs, Valkyrie, I want to be able to see.”

She gasped at his words, and he felt a surge of masculine pride. He continued his exploration, his hands skimming over her stomach, her hips, her thighs, restless and reverent, mapping her like a cartographer obsessed with the topography of her skin. When he finally reached the apex of her thighs, he took a moment to just look at her, drinking in the sight of her.

She was perfection.

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh. She shivered, her breath catching in her throat. Encouraged, he moved higher, trailing kisses up her core until he reached her clit. She cried out as he laved his tongue over the sensitive bundle of nerves, her fingers tangling in his hair. He could feel her hips rocking against his face, seeking more friction, more pressure. He gave it to her, licking and sucking and teasing until she was writhing beneath him, her thighs trembling around his head.

He could feel her getting closer, the tension in her body coiling tighter and tighter. Just as she was about to come, he pulled back, replacing his tongue with two fingers. she whimpered, a sound of frustration and need, but he didn't give her time to protest. He plunged his fingers deep inside her, feeling her walls clench around him. It only took a few more strokes before she was coming undone, her body shaking and trembling as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her. He worked her through it, continuing to pump his fingers in and out of her until she collapsed back against the cot, boneless and spent.

Dagur watched her—really watched her—as she lay back on the cot, flushed and breathless and absolutely wrecked in the most beautiful way. And gods, he’d seen her fight slavers, he’d seen her spit blood and snarl like a berserker—but this? This undone, vulnerable version of her? He would burn down every island in the Archipelago to protect it.

He didn’t move for a second, didn’t speak, just tried to soak it all in like his life depended on it. Then he leaned forward, pressing his forehead to hers. His fingers trembled slightly as they traced the line of her jaw, brushing hair away with a kind of gentleness no one would’ve believed he had.

“You okay?” he asked, voice rasped with everything he was feeling and trying not to say.

She nodded, just barely. He wanted to laugh—not in his usual, deranged way, but in the I’m-so-fucked kind of way, because this wasn’t just lust. It wasn’t just the thrill of her mouth on his or the taste of her skin under his tongue. It was her. Her fire. Her stubbornness. Her grief and rage and everything she tried to bury.

She opened her eyes halfway, staring up at him, and he could see a glint of mischief appear in his eyes. He didn’t even have time to register exactly what that meant for him when he was suddenly under her as opposed to above her.

Her eyes glistened. “You told me when we played that game a couple months ago that you liked it when the person you were fucking was on top, when they were bold.” She ran her tongue over her teeth, “And you treated me so well, so I think that… maybe… I should return the favour.”

Holy shit, he was going to fucking implode. “Oh sunshine, you’re gonna give as good as you got? You think you can do that?”

She stuttered, seemingly caught off guard by his sudden intensity, the cocky gleam in his eyes and the absolutely filthy grin spreading across his face. “I—yes,” she said, firmer now, lifting her chin even as her cheeks burned. “I can.”

“Oh, this I gotta see.” He leaned back just slightly, hands splaying out behind him like he was offering himself up to the gods—or to her. “Come on then, Valkyrie, wreck me. Level the battlefield.”

Dagur watched as the blush he loved so much crept higher up her neck as she pulled his pants down his legs. She threw his pants off the bed, her gaze levelling with Little Dagur, who was straining for attention. It twitched under her gaze, and he grinned at the way her blush deepened even further. She lowered herself over him slowly, like she was still waiting for him to snatch control back. Her hands were trembling slightly as they grazed his stomach, and he noticed—of course he did. He noticed every twitch, every flicker in her expression.

Dagur could’ve flipped her in a heartbeat. Could’ve had her under him, breathless, tear-streaked, twitching, exactly the way he liked it when he let himself get lost in it. When they fought and failed. When they sobbed and begged. He craved that helplessness, that surrender, that raw, ruinous desperation, but not with her, not like that. Not unless she wanted it, needed it, begged for it. Because she wasn’t a game to win, she was the prize. So instead, he stayed where he was, let her set the pace, even as her hands faltered.  Dagur reached up at that hesitation, cupping her jaw gently—his thumb grazing the soft curve of her cheek, tilting her face down toward him.

“You alright, baby?” he asked, voice low, not teasing now. “Are you sure about this?”

“Y—Yes, I am.”

Her hands steadied as she braced them on his chest. She exhaled shakily, the way someone might before a leap they couldn’t take back. She used one of her hands to grip his cock and—fuck—he had never felt anything as good as her hand around him. She jerked him off slowly a couple times, just testing the waters, and then, slow and careful, she sank onto him. If he had thought her fingers felt good… it was nothing compared to her body.

Dagur bit back a curse, teeth drawing blood from his lip. His fingers clenched into the sheets beside him, muscles straining with restraint as heat pulsed through him like a damn wildfire. Her breath caught, lips parting in a quiet gasp.

“Fuck…” she whispered. “Dagur—”

“I know, my Valkyrie,” he groaned, eyes fluttering shut for half a second. “Gods, you feel—fuckin’ divine.”

She started to move, tentative at first, experimenting. Her thighs trembled with effort, but she didn’t stop. Dagur kept his hands where she could see them, where she knew he wasn’t going to take control unless she let him, but holy hell, she was testing him. The more she moved, the more confidence bloomed in her. Her hips began to roll smoother, deeper, chasing that rhythm that made both of them groan. Her head tipped back, hair spilling over her shoulders like war banners in the wind, and the sight of her above him, taking what she wanted, eyes hazy and mouth open. It was enough to break a man, and break him it did.

“Shit—sunshine, I—I can’t… ”

“Can’t what?” she panted out.

Her eyes widened as his hands shot up, one gripping her hip, the other threading into her hair and tugging just enough to tilt her face back down to him.

“You’re killin’ me, Valkyrie,” he breathed, cupping her cheek again like she was something fragile. “Let me take over, let me take care of you.”

A small nod and he had flipped them in one smooth motion, caging her beneath him, his forearms braced on either side of her head. He moved slowly at first, deep, dragging moans from her throat as he pressed kisses to her jaw, her neck, her shoulders. She clung to him, breathy and teary-eyed and beautiful in her unravelling. He pressed his forehead to hers, hips rolling slow and deep, letting her feel every inch of him. Every second. Every heartbeat.

“Look at me,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “I wanna see you fall apart.”

She did, eyes wide, lips trembling, letting him in so completely it made his chest ache.

“You’re doin’ so good for me,” he whispered, his tone shifting again—low and reverent. “So fuckin’ brave, so perfect. You don’t even know what you do to me.”

She whimpered, soft and raw, and he kissed her for it.

“I’d tear the world apart for you,” he breathed against her lips. “You know that? Anyone touches you again, even looks at you wrong, I’ll make ‘em regret it.”

Her fingers fisted in his hair, and then, in that breathless moment, she let out a shaky chuckle, eyes glittering with mischief even through the haze of pleasure.

“Gods, Dagur,” she panted, her voice still teasing despite her ragged breath. “Are you always this dramatic, or is it just with me?”

His chest rumbled with laughter, but he didn’t stop, couldn’t stop. “I am always this dramatic,” he growled, barely able to keep the edge from his voice. “But I’m serious. I’ll tear down villages if it means keeping you safe.”

She arched her back, pulling a desperate moan from him, and met his gaze with a sly grin. “And you think that’s impressive? I’m still waiting for the real show to star—”

She wasn’t able to finish that sentence as a particularly rough thrust had her keening. He smirked against her skin, the sound of her crying out twisting something fierce and possessive inside him. His hands slid from her hips up to cradle her face, leaning down to lick the tears she didn’t bother to hide.

“Patience, Valkyrie,” he murmured, voice thick with promise and fire. “The real show’s just getting started.”

He picked up his pace then, thrusting with a growing urgency that matched the wild beat of their racing hearts. Between each powerful motion, his lips found hers—a possessive dance that spoke volumes. Every time she whimpered, he kissed her harder. Every time she gasped his name, he told her she was perfect. He moved inside her like he was made to, anchored by the sound of her voice, the trust in her eyes, the way she shattered just for him. If his Valkyrie thought he was obsessed before, it held no weight—no godsdamned comparison to what he felt now. Dagur would raze villages, burn fleets, and rip the stars from the sky if she so much as looked at them with longing because she wasn’t just his desire. She was his reckoning, his salvation and damnation, the fire he’d burn everything down for.

~~~~

She couldn’t think, could barely breathe. She felt like fire—burning from the inside out, nerves sparking at every place his skin met hers. His name fell from her lips over and over, broken and breathless, and each time it made him groan like he needed it, like her voice was the only thing keeping him grounded. When he looked at her like that—like she held the sun in her hands—she felt powerful. She felt safe.

His forehead pressed to hers, his breath ragged against her mouth. “You’re doin’ so good for me,” he murmured again, and this time, she believed him.

With Dagur, she could fall apart, and he’d catch every single piece. She felt overwhelmed with the power she knew she held over this man. She knew without a shred of doubt: the second she hesitated, the moment she whispered Slow down, he would stop. He would do anything for her.

If she asked him to kill for her, he would.

If she asked him to die for her, he would.

If she asked him to change or stay exactly the same, he would

It made her chest ache, knowing that this man above her had seen the bits of her that not many others had—the nightmares, the anger, the scars (on her skin and not)—but also the happiness, the joy, the excitement. He’d seen every part of her and hadn’t picked and chosen the easy parts; he’d decided to love all of her. Maybe it was nice, having someone a little unhinged love you. Someone cracked and loud and so sure of her, even when she wasn’t, because the broken ones didn’t want to fix you—they wanted you, exactly as you were.

“Dagur,” she whispered, her voice cracking as her hands cupped his face. “I—”

She barely had the words when he cut her off—not because he didn’t want to hear them, but because he already knew. His lips found hers, desperate and raw, and his rhythm faltered, hips stuttering as if her voice alone had undone him more than any touch ever could.

“Sunshine,” he gasped against her mouth, “I’m—fuck—I’m not gonna last.”

Her whole world narrowed to the sound of his voice—wrecked and worshipful—and the way his hands trembled against her skin. She nodded, eyes wide, swimming with tears and fire and something dangerously close to love. Her legs tightened around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper, like she didn’t want even a sliver of distance left between them.

“Then don’t,” she whispered. “Come with me.”

He only thrust a couple more times before her body seized, arching into him like she’d been set alight from the inside. Her release ripped through her so hard it hurt, a sob escaping her throat before she even realised she’d made it. She felt him shatter, too—his body locking above hers, his voice breaking on her name. He buried his face in her neck, and she felt him come undone inside her, the heat of it, the intimacy of it, making her heart feel like it was too big for her chest.

He rolled off her, pulling her into his chest “We’ll clean up in a bit… are you okay?”

“…Yeah, yeah, I am.”

Every nerve ending was singing—sharp and soft all at once—and her hands, still trembling, found the skin of his chest, tracing his scars with a tenderness that surprised her. The man she’d hated when he'd first rocked up at the Edge, the one she’d fought tooth and nail just to keep at arm’s length, was here. Not just here, but inside her world now, stitched into the very fibre of her skin and soul.

”I love you, my Valkyrie.”

She smiled against his chest, warmth blooming inside her despite the ache.

“I love you, too, my deranged swamp goblin.”

He pulled her closer, breath warm against her hair, fingers tracing lazy patterns on her back.

“You still think I’m deranged?” he murmured with a crooked grin.

She laughed softly, the sound fragile but in the quiet air of the night. “Absolutely, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

She melted into him, the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek grounding her trembling soul. The world outside ceased to exist, reduced to nothing but the warmth pressed against her skin and the softness of his breath in her hair, as she snuggled deeper into his arms, seeking refuge in the quiet strength he offered. He tightened his hold, drawing her closer, as if sealing them together against every ghost and fear that threatened to pull her apart. His lips brushed the crown of her head, gentle and reverent, an unspoken vow in the stillness.

In that moment, wrapped in the soft cocoon of his embrace, the weight of her scars—seen and unseen—felt lighter. No words were needed, no promises made, just the simple truth of being held, and finally, being home.