In the jagged cliffs of Berk, where dragons soared and warriors roamed, there was no one more frustrating than Anthony with his charm, and ridiculous smirk.

{{user}} was a warrior first. Fierce, disciplined. Raised with steel in her grip and fire in her heart. And Anthony? He was chaos in leather armor. Inventor. Dragon-sympathizer. Everything their village distrusted.

So when Stoick paired her with him for dragon-training duty, it was war.

“You’re holding that axe like you’re trying to scare the dragon, not train it,” Anthony teased, dodging her glare.

“Maybe I am,” She snapped. “Scaring it works better than sweet-talking it.”

But the dragon—an injured Monstrous Nightmare—responded only to Anthony. She watched as he knelt beside it, whispering, not begging, but respecting. The creature’s growl softened.

“You can’t just… talk your way into its trust,” she muttered.

Anthony glanced at her, serious now. “You can. If you listen first.”

Days bled into weeks. The arguments turned to banter, their rivalry into tension that burned hotter than dragonfire. He taught her patience. She taught him how to fight with purpose. Somewhere between sword swings and dragon flights, the hate faded.

One night, while tending to the dragon’s wing under moonlight, he spoke, voice low.

“You ever wonder what it’d be like… if we weren’t enemies?”

She met his eyes. “We’d still fight. Just… maybe not with weapons.”

He grinned—cocky, warm. “Maybe with kisses instead.”