Summary: There is pain, and there is art. Dagur enjoys inflicting both on people.
"What are you doing?"
The boy was inches from Dagur's elbow as he worked, steadily tapping the needle of blue ink under the skin of his forearm. Dagur scoffed in annoyance, but answered him anyway.
"It's called a tattoo. You Berkians are so lame, you probably couldn't handle one."
"Does it hurt?" The excited fascination in Tuffnut's voice was noticeable. The Thorston kids were weird. Dagur smirked.
"Seriously painful. Most grown men pass right out and wake up crying for their mothers."
"Hah. I want to see that. You should sneak up on people and give them out."
Dagur paused. The old men were in the next room, talking about that idiotic treaty. And he'd stayed out of trouble long enough. His sudden grin was all teeth. "You're right. I should."
The Berserker boy moved fast, and suddenly Tuffnut's ribs were slammed across Dagur's thighs, his arm pinned behind his back. He yanked the boy's tunic up, exposing his lightly freckled flank. Tuffnut was catching his breath, but apparently too stunned to struggle yet.
"Now what should I do, hmm? Something appropriate to Berk. How about a sheep?"
It wasn't really a question meant to be answered; usually this was where the pleading would start. However, Tuffnut wasn't proving to be a usual victim. "Oooh, ooh, a dragon! Make it a dragon!"
Dagur's eyebrows rose in surprise. Huh. Well, it wasn't like the Thorston boy really even knew what was coming, so his fearlessness wasn't that impressive.
"Okay. A tiny dragon. If you start kicking and screaming, it'll turn into a chicken," he warned. Either way, it would probably look more like a smudge with wings; Dagur wasn't a great artist and he was confident Tuffnut would start crying once the needle met its mark. Not that he was going to let him up if he did.
Dagur roughly forced Tuff to lay more on his side, forcing him into an arc. The skin needed to be taut for this. He was not disappointed by the sound Tuffnut made as the makeshift needle plunged into the skin near his ribs. A whimper, followed by a short high pitched squeal, and a little kick. Dagur clamped down on Tuff's arm even tighter. "Aw, too much?" he sneered.
"I'm - I'm kind of ticklish there, can you move a little more left?" came the answered squeak.
". . . Can I what?"
"Yeah seriously, super ticklish right there where your knuckles are brushing. Left just an inch is golden," Tuff managed.
Dagur jabbed again, so confused he forgot to be extra vicious, and was at least rewarded with another deliciously pained whimper. Good, he hadn't lost his touch. He worked swiftly, not allowing any mercy, simply tattooing the outline of a passable dragon, giving the tail an extra curl, and then rapidly filling in the space. It was probably too big for someone Tuff's age to start with, but Dagur gave no quarter.
He instead thoroughly enjoyed the low open-throated keens coming from the youth, the way Tuff's boots dragged and slid across the wooden floorboards as an outlet for his pain, sweat and blood on his skin, the crescents Tuff's nails made in his own palm. These were all hallmarks of the agony Dagur must be causing him right now, and while they were quieter than the Berserker normally enjoyed, it at least meant the adults were none the wiser to what was going on out here.
Finally, too soon really, Dagur had filled in the shape with ink. He wiped the blood off with a clean rag, able to feel Tuff's body trembling against his thighs. The boy breathed unevenly, hot puffs of air hitting his leg and it took him a long time to bring himself to stand. There were tear tracks running down his face, but he hadn't screamed to be let up and he also hadn't passed out.
Dagur felt oddly proud of him. So proud in fact that he found himself telling the glassy eyed boy how to care for the tattoo so it didn't get infected. "And whatever you do, don't scratch it. Because it will itch," he cautioned, applying a thick bandage to the area.
Tuff's hand froze on the way to his side. "Got it," he rasped, and self consciously wiped at his eyes.
Dagur almost ruffled his hair. But he regained self control swiftly enough, and sent the boy off with a casual boot to the rear. "Good, now buzz off. And don't tell anyone you have a tattoo. Pretty sure your mom will have a yak."
Tuffnut grinned back at him and walked off with a slight bounce in his step. Freaking weirdo, Dagur thought, although he allowed himself a fond smirk as he turned back to his own inking.