They always said Snotlout was the cocky one—the loudmouth, the showoff, the one who tried too hard to impress and never quite knew when to shut up. That’s what you expected when Stoick sent you to Berk for the dragon-rider alliance trials. What you didn’t expect was to hate him instantly.

You had arrived from a neighboring island, your dragon—Ashra, a sleek Stormcutter—soaring beside Toothless and the other Night Furies as the new peace treaty between the tribes was put into action. Stoick had passed by then, and Hiccup, now chief, welcomed you with open arms. But not everyone on Berk was thrilled.

Least of all Snotlout.

From the moment you stepped off your saddle, his smirk said everything: Outsider. The kind of smile that asked for a fight. That called you soft. Weak. Unworthy.

“You park that thing next to my dragon again and we’re gonna have problems,” he grunted on your first day, Snotlout chest puffed up, arms crossed like he owned the sky. His Monstrous Nightmare, Hookfang, huffed behind him, eyes glowing like embers.

You rolled your eyes. “Relax. Ashra’s not interested in your overcooked lizard.”

You walked away before he could throw another jab, but it didn’t stop the rivalry from growing.

At first, it was petty. Snotlout always tried to out-fly you, out-fight you, out-anything you. During training sessions, he’d mock your stances, throw sarcastic claps every time you dodged a hit. But you gave it back—blunt, fiery, and sharp-tongued. Every time his ego inflated, you popped it with a word. The others started placing bets on who’d crack first.

But tension like that doesn’t stay just tension forever.

One night, a storm rolled in—violent, howling, impossible to see through. Dragons were grounded. The cliffs were slick. And you were stuck near the outskirts of Berk, alone with Ashra when the wind blew a support beam loose from the cliff’s edge and nearly took you with it.

He was the one who found you.

“Don’t move,” came his voice through the dark. Your leg was caught under a boulder, blood pooling in the mud. He was soaked, breathing heavy, but his grip was firm, his arms steady as he lifted the rock. “Just—hold on, alright? You’re fine. You’re good. I got you.”

No cocky grin. No sarcasm.

Just panic. Just Snotlout.

You blacked out before you could answer.

You woke up in the healer’s hut, the fire low and your head pounding. Hookfang was curled outside the door, tail twitching. And Snotlout—sitting by your bed, armor still damp, arms crossed but eyes soft—was asleep in the chair beside you.