~Kaizo🤘🏻~

Of course, baby.

✨ Snotlout x Reader Requests — OPEN! ✨

Hey dragon riders! 🐉

I’m opening Snotlout Jorgenson x Reader requests for a limited time — because let’s be honest, the guy is 99% ego and 1% feelings, and we love him for it. 😏💥😩💕💕

⸻

✅ What You Can Request

Feel free to send in:

• 💌 Fluff

• 🤕 Hurt/Comfort

• 🥹 Angsty one shot

• 😳 “He’s being weirdly sweet, what’s happening?”

• 🛡️ Protective!Snotlout

⸻

❌ What I Won’t Write

Just to keep things safe and comfy:

• NSFW (this is a fluff/safe space)

• Extreme gore

• Major character death

⸻

📬 How to Request

Send it through my Ask Box (anons welcome!) and try to include:

• A little scenario or prompt

• Reader’s gender or use GN!Reader if you prefer

• Anything specific you want (timeline, mood, etc.)

⸻

💥 I’ll start with the first 5-10 requests I get, depending on how inspired I feel — so send ’em in while the Gronckles are still flying!

What would yall think of this plotline of snotlout x reader?

Another angst piece! 😭 I’m starting to enjoy writing angst now 😭💕

The plotline:

Title: Ghostlight

Set in Race to the Edge, Snotlout begins seeing a ghost — a girl no one else can. She’s playful, persistent, and strangely drawn to him, but has no memory of who she was or how she died.

As they grow closer, fragments of her past return. She eventually remembers the truth: she lived in Berk, loved Snotlout silently, and died taking an arrow meant for him — without him ever knowing.

Believing her unfinished business is tied to remembering or letting go, she says goodbye.

But she doesn’t fade.

The real reason she’s still here is deeper — her soul can’t move on until the love she died with is returned, spoken, seen.

When she finally confesses her feelings, Snotlout, now fully aware and changed by her presence, confesses his in return.

That moment is what sets her free.

Glowing, fading, and finally able to touch him, she kisses him goodbye and leaves him with one promise:

That she’ll always be with him, even if he can’t see her.

And then, she disappears into the night.

All that’s left is a single flower petal.

And a boy who will never forget the girl who died loving him —

—

Part l Part ll Part lll

Title: The Bloom Beneath The Silence

You don’t sleep much the night before.

The stars stay still outside your window. The wind doesn’t stir. Your dragon rests peacefully beside the forge, completely unaware that when the sun rises, you’ll be gone.

Not forever.

Hopefully.

Just long enough to come back empty.

⸻

You leave the letter on your desk.

Folded. Untitled.

Just a few short lines, written in the middle of the night with aching hands and a bleeding heart.

This isn’t a goodbye.

It’s a choice.

One I didn’t want to make, but couldn’t avoid.

I hope I made something good of it while I still felt it.

Please don’t blame him. He never asked to be loved.

You don’t sign your name.

You know Tuffnut will find it.

You know he’ll understand.

⸻

You meet him by the edge of the cove just before sunrise.

He’s waiting. Already dressed. No jokes. No wild theories.

Just quiet eyes and steady hands.

“You sure?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t ask again.

He just stands beside you in silence, watching the tide roll in.

“I set everything up,” he says. “We can leave at first light. No one’ll notice.”

“Thank you.”

A pause.

“You scared?”

You look down at your hands.

They’re trembling.

But your voice doesn’t waver.

“No. Just… tired of hoping.”

He doesn’t try to comfort you. Doesn’t tell you you’re wrong.

He just reaches into his coat pocket and pulls something out.

Your flower crown.

The one you started months ago. Wilted. Half-finished.

He holds it out to you.

“You don’t have to leave everything behind.”

You take it with both hands.

And for the first time in weeks, your chest doesn’t hurt when you breathe in.

—-

You leave the letter on his nightstand before the sun rises.

You don’t sign it in ink — not until the end.

You fold it gently. Place it beside the helmet he always forgets to polish.

You stare at it for a second longer than you should.

And then you walk away.

⸻

Snotlout,

If I don’t come back from this,

Make sure that you will.

Every mission. Every flight. Come back in one piece.

Even if you’re halfway across the sky, I want you to know — you’ll always have a piece of me with you.

The braid tied beside yours? That’s mine.

The last act of love I could give.

It’s the only way I knew how to stay — when my heart no longer could.

I’m sorry I couldn’t say it to your face. But I’ll say it now:

I love you. Forever and always.

Love,

Y/N

⸻

The flight to the healer’s cove is quiet.

Tuffnut doesn’t talk.

He doesn’t ask what you’re thinking.

He just flies beside you, close enough to catch you if your grip weakens.

You hold the flower crown in your lap, fingers running over the frayed stems. You’ve barely spoken since you left the Edge.

Because everything that mattered was already said.

In ink.

In a braid.

In the piece of your heart you slipped into someone else’s hands — without asking for it back.

—

Snotlout’s POV

He doesn’t notice the letter until well past midday.

You’re gone.

He doesn’t know that yet.

He just thinks you’re busy again. At the forge. With Tuffnut. Wherever you always vanish to when you need space.

He gets back from patrol, pulls off his helmet, tosses it onto the table—

And that’s when he sees it.

Folded. Unlabeled. Sitting too perfectly to be accidental.

He frowns.

Picks it up.

Unfolds.

Reads.

And the world shifts.

⸻

If I don’t come back from this,

Make sure that you will.

He reads the first line twice.

Then again.

And then the next one.

And the next.

And then—

You’ll always have a piece of me with you.

The braid tied beside yours? That’s mine.

The last act of love I could give.

He reaches up to his hair.

Fingers search blindly.

He finds it.

The braid you tied.

The one he laughed off. Teased you about.

And something in him shatters.

⸻

I love you. Forever and always.

He doesn’t remember how he ends up sitting on the edge of his bed. Doesn’t remember when his knees gave out or when the letter slipped from his fingers.

He just sits there, staring at the floor, your words echoing in his head over and over.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispers.

His voice breaks halfway through

But the room doesn’t answer.

Because you’re gone.

⸻

He stands. Too fast. The room tilts, but he doesn’t care.

He bursts into the training field like a storm.

Astrid’s just finished sparring with Hiccup. She’s stretching, towel over her shoulder, face flushed from heat and wind.

She doesn’t see the panic in his eyes at first.

“Snotlout? What’s the rush?”

He doesn’t answer.

He walks straight up to her, holding the letter in a crumpled, shaking hand.

“Did you know?”

Her brow furrows. “Know what?”

“That she’s gone.”

The words come out hoarse. Like they scraped their way out of his throat.

Astrid blinks. “Gone where?”

“I don’t know! That’s why I’m asking you!”

He shoves the letter toward her.

She takes it slowly, eyes scanning the handwriting. And with every line she reads, her expression changes.

Curiosity.

Confusion.

Then — horror.

“She left.”

It’s not a question.

“She left, Astrid. She didn’t tell anyone. Not even—”

Me.

His voice falters at the end.

Astrid looks up at him, suddenly pale.

“Did Tuffnut go with her?”

Snotlout freezes.

“…Yeah. I think so.”

Astrid’s face darkens with realization.

“That idiot knew. He knew and didn’t say anything.”

“What the hell is this?” Snotlout demands, snatching the letter back. “She—she said she loves me. She—she tied a braid into my hair and just left?”

His voice breaks on the last word. He doesn’t try to hide it anymore.

“She thought she was going to die, Astrid!”

Astrid swears under her breath. Loud. Sharp. She turns on her heel.

“We need to tell Hiccup.”

“No. We need to find her.”

She stops.

He looks more shaken than she’s ever seen him.

And maybe… maybe even more in love than he ever realized before.

—-

YOUR POV

You land hard.

Not at the healer’s platform — just short of it. The cliffs came too fast, the winds too strong, and your grip… too weak.

Your dragon lets out a sharp, distressed call as you hit the ground, half-rolling, breath knocked clean from your lungs.

You try to stand.

But the pain.

Oh gods, the pain.

It tears through your chest like fire and ice all at once. Your knees buckle.

You collapse forward, hand digging into the dirt—

And then you cough.

Once.

Twice.

Then it starts.

⸻

The petals spill from your lips like a storm.

Red and white.

Crimson-streaked.

Torn.

You choke on them. Spit them out, your hands trembling as more blood follows.

Your ears are ringing.

Your vision tunnels.

Everything hurts.

He doesn’t love you.

It’s the only thing your body knows.

And now? It’s tearing you apart for it.

You collapse onto your side, arm curled over your middle. Blood soaks into the grass. Your breathing turns ragged — shallow gasps between waves of pain.

And above you, your dragon cries again — desperate, helpless.

But you can’t answer.

You can’t even move.

⸻

You don’t know how long you lie there.

Seconds? Minutes?

Eventually, voices.

Running footsteps.

Hands.

Tuffnut.

“No no no—Y/N, stay with me, okay? Come on, come on—LOOK AT ME—“

But you can’t.

You’re fading.

All you can think about is the braid in his hair.

And how you never got to see if he would’ve worn it again.

—-

Snotlout’s POV

He’s pacing.

Back and forth.

Over and over.

The floor of the war room creaks under his boots, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t.

Astrid is explaining things to Hiccup — what she saw, what the letter said, how long you’ve been hiding it.

And Tuffnut?

Gone. With you.

No one knows where.

⸻

“We should’ve seen it,” Astrid mutters, gripping the edge of the table. “The way she kept dodging out of training. The nosebleeds. The forge breaks. The way she—”

“The braid,” Snotlout says quietly.

They both look at him.

He’s holding it now. Fingering the end where your braid was tied into his.

“She put it there and said it was a gift. I didn’t even look at it.”

His voice is hoarse. He’s not trying to hide the grief anymore.

Hiccup steps forward, softer now. “Snotlout… what else did the letter say?”

Snotlout swallows.

Then holds it up with shaking hands.

“She said she might not come back. That if she didn’t, I should. That I’d still have a piece of her… even if she had to let go.”

He doesn’t say the last line out loud.

He can’t.

I love you. Forever and always.

⸻

Astrid picks up something from the table — a note you’d left with her for emergencies. In it, one name is written in your handwriting:

The Cove Healer.

A place halfway across the sea. Far. Hidden.

That’s where you went.

That’s where you are.

That’s where you might be dying.

⸻

Snotlout doesn’t wait.

He grabs his helmet. His flight jacket. Your letter, tucked close to his heart.

“I’m going.”

Hiccup steps in. “We don’t know how bad it is.”

“I do.”

His voice cracks. “And I’m not losing her. Not without—”

He cuts himself off.

Not without what?

Without loving her back?

Without telling her?

Without knowing if she’ll ever hear it?

“I just need to get to her.”

Astrid nods once. “Then we go now.”

—

Snotlout’s POV

The wind cuts across his face.

Stormfly and Hookfang fly neck and neck.

The others trail close behind.

But all Snotlout can hear is his own heartbeat — loud, frantic, thunderous.

He’s gripping the braid in his hand like a lifeline. The one you tied into his hair. The one you left behind.

Your letter keeps replaying in his head.

I love you. Forever and always.

⸻

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t even know.

Until now.

And now he’s chasing the horizon like it can give you back to him.

“Please be okay,” he mutters under his breath. “Please—please be okay—you have to be—”

⸻

Meanwhile…

At the healer’s cove.

You’re unconscious.

Pale. Cold. Barely breathing.

The healer leans over your chest, fingers pressed to the veins in your wrist. Faint. Irregular.

Tuffnut is beside you, pacing like a caged animal.

“Do something!” he snaps. “She can’t—she can’t just—do something!”

The healer’s voice is calm. Too calm.

“She waited too long.”

“No. No, she didn’t. I got her here. I got her here in time.”

“This is the final stage.”

The healer lifts your sleeve. Your veins are darkened. Streaked with the telltale signs of the thorns taking root. Slowly, lethally, curling through your chest.

And then—

You cough.

Violent. Deep.

And something hits the floor.

A thick, thorned stem soaked in blood.

The healer freezes.

Tuffnut goes pale.

“She can’t survive the procedure now,” the healer whispers. “The thorns are wrapped around her lungs. If we cut them out…”

She doesn’t finish.

She doesn’t need to.

It’ll kill you.

⸻

“Unless…?”

Tuffnut’s voice is trembling.

“Unless her feelings are returned,” the healer finishes quietly. “Immediately. And completely.”

“And if they’re not?”

A beat of silence.

“She has minutes.”

⸻

Back in the sky — Snotlout’s POV again.

The cove is in sight.

Smoke from the forge. A dragon perched outside.

Tuffnut’s dragon.

“Come on, come on—” he urges Hookfang, heart beating so loud it drowns out the wind.

He doesn’t know what’s waiting.

He doesn’t know what you’re going through.

But he’s almost there.

And he’s running out of time.

—-

The door slams open so hard it nearly comes off the hinges.

“Y/N?!”

His voice breaks on your name.

Hookfang’s wings are still flapping outside, screeching in panic. Tuffnut’s dragon is pacing in circles. There’s blood in the grass.

He doesn’t register any of it.

All he sees is you.

On the cot.

Barely conscious.

Pale as ash.

Lips stained red.

A thorned vine curling out of your mouth, dripping crimson onto the floorboards.

He stops cold.

Breathless.

Shaking.

“No…”

Tuffnut’s in the corner, eyes wide, fury and panic blending. He doesn’t move, just shouts:

“She’s dying!”

The healer turns. “You need to leave—”

“No I don’t!”

He crosses the room in two strides and drops to his knees beside you, grabbing your hand — it’s cold.

Too cold.

“No no no, hey—hey! Look at me!”

Your eyes flutter open.

Just barely.

And for a second — just one — there’s recognition.

“S-Snotlout…”

Your voice is a ghost. Broken. Barely audible through the blood and petals.

He leans closer, heart hammering.

“I got your letter,” he breathes. “The braid. The note. Everything.”

You cough again — more petals, more blood. The healer steps forward—

“Don’t touch her!” Snotlout snaps. “Not yet.”

He presses his forehead to yours, hand tightening around yours like it’ll hold you here longer.

“You don’t get to go now. Not without hearing it.”

Your breath stutters.

He doesn’t wait.

“I didn’t know. I was stupid. I flirted with everyone because I didn’t think anyone would actually choose me.”

“But you—you did. And I didn’t see it.”

Tears fall — his this time.

“But I love you, okay?! I love you. I always have. I just didn’t get it until you were gone.”

You don’t move.

Even after the petals stop.

Even after the thorns retract — slow, trembling, like they’re unsure whether they’ve been forgiven.

You don’t stir.

Your body’s still limp.

Your breathing shallow.

Eyes closed.

Color barely returning.

“Why aren’t you waking up?” he whispers.

No one answers.

The healer crouches beside him, carefully checking your pulse.

It’s there.

Faint.

But there.

“She heard you,” she says softly. “That much is clear.”

Snotlout doesn’t respond.

He’s still holding your hand like it’s the only thing keeping you here.

His forehead stays pressed to yours.

“Come on,” he breathes. “I’m here now. I’m here. I said it. I meant it. So why—why aren’t you—”

His voice cracks, then breaks entirely.

And for the first time in a long time…

He cries.

No dramatics.

No shouting.

Just… breaks.

His body shaking with the weight of everything he should’ve said sooner.

“You can’t do this to me,” he whispers. “You can’t leave me after I just—after I finally…”

Tuffnut moves to the other side of the bed, sitting heavily, staring down at you.

“She’s still fighting,” he says.

And Snotlout hates how unsure he sounds.

“But for how long?”

⸻

Outside, the wind picks up.

Stormclouds on the edge of the sky.

Inside, no one speaks.

The petals may have stopped…

But the storm hasn’t passed.

Not yet.

—

Reader’s POV

You can’t see clearly anymore.

The room is blurry —

voices echo,

and everything feels far away.

But his voice…

Snotlout.

His voice cuts through the haze.

Broken. Pleading.

Holding you like you’re slipping between his fingers.

“I love you… please, come back…”

Your heart breaks.

Because it would’ve been so easy if he had said that sooner.

But still…

You heard him.

And that has to mean something.

You shift. Barely. Your hand twitches in his.

His breath hitches.

“Y/N—?”

It takes everything to lift your eyes to him.

You feel the blood still pooling at your lips. You taste iron and flowers. You feel weak, like your ribs are full of splinters and vines.

But you speak.

Quiet. Croaking. Raw.

“Took you long… enough…”

His eyes widen.

“You’re awake—”

You cut him off. You don’t have much time.

“You—talk too much.”

It’s a joke. It hurts to say. You smile anyway.

He lets out a sound that’s half a sob, half a laugh.

You squeeze his hand weakly.

“Don’t… blame yourself.”

“But I—”

“No.” Your voice sharpens. Just barely. “You didn’t ask… to be loved.”

Tears fall down his cheeks.

“I didn’t know,” he chokes.

“I know,” you whisper. “That’s why I never told you.”

Another petal escapes your lips. You wince. You know you’re slipping again. But you hold on for a little longer.

“The braid… was my last act of love.”

He stares at you like he’ll never forgive himself.

“I meant it,” you murmur. “All of it.”

You shift your hand. Bring it up — trembling — to press against his chest.

Right where his heart is.

“If I don’t wake up…”

His head shakes immediately. “Don’t. Don’t say that—”

“Then live,” you breathe. “Come back. From every mission. Every fall. In one piece. You hear me?”

He nods, barely holding it together.

“And if I do wake up…”

You try to smile.

“We’ll see if your flirting’s improved.”

A tear hits your cheek — his.

You feel darkness pressing in.

But now?

You’ve said what mattered.

You let it go.

You let him go… with the truth in his hands.

And now?

It’s up to fate.

—-

You’re still fading.

The edges of the world blur, warmth blooming in your chest like the last light before the stars claim the sky.

But you haven’t let go—not yet.

Not until you say it.

You shift your hand in his. It takes effort. It burns. But you want him to hear this while your heart is still yours to give.

Your voice cracks, soft as breath.

“You’re too late.”

You’re smiling.

Not bitter. Not cruel.

Just tired. Just honest.

Snotlout freezes. Panic flickers across his face.

But before he can speak,

you squeeze his fingers—

“But… if there’s another life,”

“if chance allows it—if we meet again…”

Your eyes flutter, but stay open.

You’re looking at him like it’s the last time,

and maybe it is.

“Don’t waste it then.”

“All the things you’re saying now—

make sure to do it right then.”

He tries to answer.

But you keep going. You need to.

“I love you, Snotlout.”

A pause.

Then—

“Thank you… for giving me the chance to love you—

even if it was silently.”

“I don’t regret any of it.”

Your thumb brushes against his.

And for a moment,

it feels like the whole world pauses

to listen to your goodbye.

The world around you is blurring again.

The warmth is creeping up your spine, behind your eyes,

pulling at you with a quiet, gentle touch.

But there’s something you still need.

Your fingers tremble.

Then move—slow, aching—

up toward his face.

You reach for the braid.

His braid.

The one you tied. The one you left behind for him.

And you tug it.

Not hard. Not playful.

Not like before.

This time, it’s pleading.

Snotlout’s breath stutters in his chest.

He leans closer, his voice cracking.

“What is it—what do you need—?”

You blink slowly. Your lips part.

But no words come

You don’t have to speak.

The braid in your hand says everything.

Say it. Promise me.

Don’t let this be the last time we get it wrong.

He understands.

His eyes burn. His throat tightens.

And then—

his hand covers yours, cradling it gently to his chest.

“I promise,” he breathes, voice raw.

“I promise, Y/N.”

“If there’s another life…

I won’t waste it.

I’ll say it first. I’ll love you right.

I’ll make it count.”

Tears trail down his face, falling onto the hand you’re too weak to move now.

“So come find me, okay?” he chokes out.

“Wherever you are—whatever sky you’re under—

come find me.”

You smiled and whisper barely audible, “I..will”

Your vision’s fading now.

The thorns are quiet.

The ache in your chest, no longer clawing — just… heavy.

Sinking.

You feel his hands shaking.

His thumb brushing your cheek like it’s the only thing tethering you to this world.

He’s crying.

And you want to reach for him, but your strength is leaving.

So you speak.

One last time.

“If this… is it…”

Your voice is a ghost. Soft. Cracked. And yet steady.

“Then I want you to know…”

You blink, slow and heavy, as your gaze finds his through the blur.

“I’d rather die loving you…”

Your breath hitches.

“…than live… never feeling it at all.”

And with that—

You let go.

Of the fear.

Of the fight.

Of everything but him.

Darkness closes in, warm and quiet.

You sheds your final tears as you slowly sink into the darkness.

—-

Snotlout POV

You go still.

He doesn’t realize it at first.

Your fingers loosen in his hand,

your lips part—frozen in that final smile.

Like you’re about to say one more thing.

But nothing comes.

And then the silence sharpens.

He leans in.

“Y/N…?”

Your chest doesn’t rise.

“Y/N.”

He shakes you gently.

Once.

Twice.

“C’mon—hey, hey—don’t do this. You just said—”

“You just said you’d find me.”

But your body is cold now.

Still.

Eyes half-lidded, lashes wet with tears already shed.

And then he knows.

The sob breaks through him like a quake.

He falls over you—arms pulling you close, hands fisting the fabric of your tunic, his braid brushing against your cheek.

“No no no no—*please—*Y/N—”

“You can’t—you can’t—not now.”

He says your name like it’s a spell,

like maybe if he says it enough, you’ll come back just to shut him up.

But you don’t.

And all that’s left is the bloom.

He doesn’t notice it at first.

Too lost in grief, in the cold weight of your body against his.

But then…

He feels the air shift.

He lifts his head.

And there—right where your body lies—

something is growing.

Petals.

Pale and soft.

The same color as your braid.

They curl from beneath your chest.

Delicate. Slow. Unnatural.

Vines thread from your ribs.

Thorns like veins across your collarbone.

And at the center of it all—

a flower, blooming where your heart once beat.

Alive.

Radiant.

And utterly still.

A final confession from the body that loved too hard.

It’s beautiful.

And it destroys him.

He reaches out, hands trembling,

but stops just short of touching it.

Because he knows—

this is all that’s left.

“You gave everything,” he whispers, voice breaking.

“And I—”

He chokes.

“I didn’t give you anything in time.”

He kneels there, beside your bloom,

not as a warrior, not as a rider—

but as a boy who realized too late what love truly meant.

The others will find him there.

But they won’t move him.

Not for a long, long time.

—

Third-Person POV

It’s Astrid who sees them first.

Snotlout—on his knees, motionless.

Your body cradled in his arms.

And the bloom, pale and trembling, rising from your chest like a ghost with roots.

She doesn’t speak.

Her breath catches—

and something breaks behind her eyes.

She doesn’t need to ask.

She knows.

Behind her, the others gather.

One by one.

Hiccup’s steps slow.

His words die in his throat.

Fishlegs stumbles forward, only to fall to his knees, shoulders shaking.

Ruffnut stares at the bloom like it’s cursed.

Like if she blinks, you’ll disappear completely.

And Tuffnut…

Tuffnut doesn’t speak.

He just sits.

Right beside your still form.

Like a sentinel.

Like a brother.

He doesn’t cry.

Not yet.

Not until he reaches out—

and brushes the braid still tied in Snotlout’s hair.

“She did that,” he murmurs, barely audible.

“Told him to come back… even if she didn’t.”

The silence swallows them all.

No one knows what to say.

What can you say

when someone gave everything and bloomed into loss?

Astrid kneels beside you.

Her hands tremble as they touch your sleeve.

“She saved us,” she whispers.

“Even while she was dying.”

And in that moment,

the wind picks up.

Just enough to make the flower in your chest sway.

As if saying—

I’m still here.

I always was.

—

Third-Person POV

The funeral is held three days later.

Not because they weren’t ready—

but because no one could bring themselves

to say goodbye.

Not yet.

Not to you.

⸻

They don’t burn you.

Not this time.

Not when your body bloomed something no one could explain.

Not when your ribs gave way to petals

and your still heart cradled a flower

that refuses to die.

They build a cairn instead—

stone stacked upon stone—

at the edge of the cliff where you once flew.

The wind there carries every voice that breaks

into the sky.

And at the very top of the cairn,

nestled gently among smoothed rocks and ash—

the bloom.

Still alive.

Still warm.

Hiccup carves your name into the stone beneath it.

A name,

and a second inscription—

etched by Snotlout himself.

“Come back in one piece.

Even if you’re halfway across the sky—

know that there will always be a piece of me with you.”

And beneath it:

Y/N. The Silent Flame.

Loved fiercely. Lost quietly.

Never forgotten.

⸻

They don’t speak long.

Not when every heart is already too full of the words

they never got to say.

Tuffnut steps forward last.

He places his braid at the base of the flower.

Not out of grief—

but devotion.

And then he says:

“She wasn’t ours to lose.

But we were lucky to be hers.”

⸻

That night, no one sleeps.

Dragons keep watch.

So do your friends.

And the flower,

touched by starlight,

blooms a little wider.

As if listening.

As if waiting.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Timeskip

Years Later

The cliff is quiet now.

Not empty—never that.

But quiet.

The wind carries less sorrow, more memory.

And at the top of the cairn, still cradled in stone and devotion—

your flower still blooms.

It hasn’t withered.

Not once.

No one knows why.

Some say it’s magic.

Some say it’s love.

Tuffnut visits often.

Sometimes Ruffnut joins him. Sometimes not.

But he always braids his hair before coming.

Always brings something—trinkets, shells, stories you would’ve loved.

Astrid never touches the bloom.

But she looks at it like a promise.

Like a vow to live louder, love faster, because you couldn’t.

Fishlegs reads next to it sometimes.

Aloud.

As if your spirit still lingers to listen.

⸻

And Snotlout?

He never misses the date.

Every year, same day, same hour,

he returns.

His braid is longer now.

Messier.

Still knotted with the one you tied.

He sits beside the cairn,

hands on his knees,

and says the same thing first, every time:

“It’s me. Still me.”

Sometimes he talks.

Sometimes he’s silent.

But every year, before he leaves,

he kneels—just once—

and places his hand near the flower.

And if no one’s watching,

he’ll whisper:

“Wait for me.

Just a little longer.”

“Next time… I’ll do it right.”

⸻

And far above,

the sky stretches wide and blue.

The wind shifts.

Soft.

Warm.

And the flower?

It leans.

As if listening.

As if saying—

I will.

.

.

A year later—Anniversary of your death

The wind at the cliff’s edge is still.

Unusually so.

Snotlout kneels, like he always does—

same spot, same stone, same bloom that never dies.

He brings nothing but himself this year.

No braid. No gift. Just… him.

He sighs.

“Hey, trouble.”

His voice is low. Tired.

“Been a long one.

Still figuring things out.

Still talking to a flower like a lunatic.”

He chuckles, but it’s dry. Hollow.

Then he sees it.

A letter.

Tucked carefully behind the cairn stones, its edges kissed by time and sun.

He frowns, heart skipping.

It’s not old. It hasn’t been here long.

He reaches for it, hands suddenly unsteady.

No seal. No name.

Just one line.

“Miss me?”

His throat tightens.

His grip on the paper loosens.

And that’s when he hears it.

A voice.

Not in his memory.

Not from a dream.

Real. Behind him.

“I’m back,”

He freezes.

“And you better keep your promise, Loudmouth.”

His breath catches like it’s been punched from his lungs.

Slowly—so slowly—he turns.

And there you are.

Not a ghost.

Not a memory.

Not a figment of his guilt.

Different face.

But still you.

Alive.

Older.

Worn.

But smiling.

Soft.

Real.

Your eyes meet his—brimming with everything left unsaid.

And in that second, his knees give.

Not out of weakness—

but because the weight he’s carried for so long

has finally let go.

“Y/N…?”

He doesn’t move.

Not yet.

He’s still trying to believe it.

And you?

You step forward,

reach out—

and tug his braid.

Same way you did before.

Your voice is barely more than a whisper:

“Next time… starts now.”

.

.

THE END

——

Author’s Note – After the Last Page

This wasn’t just a story about love.

It was your story.

You were the one who loved quietly.

Who stayed when it hurt.

Who smiled while you bled.

You carried that love like a secret folded into your chest,

and still—you gave,

even when nothing came back.

This story asked a lot from you.

It asked you to fall.

To ache.

To grieve something you never really had.

And then, somehow…

to believe again.

Because deep down, you always hoped

that if the love was real—

even death couldn’t silence it forever.

You waited.

You held on.

You died with his name on your lips—

and you still found your way back to him.

So this time?

You’ll get it right.

You both will.

Thank you for holding on.

Thank you for choosing to love,

even when it bloomed into pain.

This was your story.

And now, it’s your beginning.

Until the next story,

And as always, thank you for flying with me!

——

Part l Part ll Part lll

Title: The Bloom Beneath The Silence

—

It starts after a long training run.

You’re helping Tuffnut wrangle Barf and Belch back into their stall. The sun’s setting, your braid’s a mess, and your arms ache in a good way.

You’re laughing — really laughing — as Tuffnut nearly faceplants in a pile of wet straw. Again.

“That’s the third time this week,” you snort, tossing a brush his way.

“Gravity has a crush on me,” he says, puffing out his chest. “Can’t keep her hands off.”

You roll your eyes and keep brushing. Just another moment of chaos, laughter, ease.

You think you’ve hidden it well.

Until he speaks.

Quiet. Calm.

Too calm for Tuffnut.

“Y’know, your laugh sounds different when we’re alone.”

You freeze. Just for a second.

Then smirk over your shoulder. “What, you writing poetry now?”

“Pshh. Please. Poetry’s for people with fewer issues.”

He tosses straw at your face. You dodge it.

But he doesn’t drop it.

“I’m not asking what’s wrong,” he adds after a pause. “But I’ve seen you go quiet when no one’s looking. And you hold your chest when you think no one notices.”

You say nothing.

“And don’t give me that ‘forge dust’ crap again. It’s not forge dust if it happens in the middle of the woods.”

You slowly look up from your brush.

And he’s just standing there — no jokes, no dramatic poses. Just Tuffnut. Tall, crooked, a little too observant for someone who once tried to marry a rock.

“I’m not asking,” he says again, gentler this time.

“But if something is wrong… I got you, okay?”

You stare at him.

You could lie. Laugh. Say something sarcastic.

Instead, you just say:

“…Okay.”

And he nods. Like that’s enough.

For now.

⸻

Later that night, you press a cloth to your nose again.

You don’t cry.

But it’s the first time someone’s seen you in weeks.

Even if they don’t know what they’re seeing.

—-

You’re sitting on the edge of the docks, boots dangling just above the water, sharpening a blade you haven’t had reason to use in days.

It’s peaceful here.

Until Astrid drops down beside you, relaxed in a way few people ever get to see her.

You don’t mind the company. She’s quiet at first, like you are.

The waves lap. The whetstone scrapes.

And then, casually, like it’s nothing, she says:

“So… Snotlout and Minden, huh?”

Your hand stills. Just briefly.

You glance at her out of the corner of your eye. “What about them?”

She shrugs. “I dunno. Just seems like it’s becoming a thing.”

You force your hand to keep moving, the soft scrape of metal against stone covering the silence between her words and your thoughts.

“I mean, he’s different around her,” she adds. “Less performative. It’s kind of… nice.”

You nod. Just once. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

Because it does.

Minden is calm. Kind. She listens. She fits.

Astrid doesn’t see the way your grip tightens. The way your jaw clenches before you breathe out through your nose and keep sharpening.

“You okay?” she asks suddenly, glancing at you.

You smile, easy. Perfect.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

She doesn’t push.

No one ever does.

⸻

Later, you pass by the stables.

You don’t mean to stop.

But there they are.

Snotlout and Minden,

She’s laughing. He’s close. Too close. Not quite touching, but it’s the kind of space two people leave when they want to be touching.

She leans in. He doesn’t pull away.

You don’t hear what they’re saying.

You don’t need to.

⸻

You keep walking.

You go straight to the forge. You don’t work. You don’t build. You just sit on the bench in the far corner, back to the wall, arms around your knees.

Your chest feels like something heavy’s sitting on it.

Not enough to break you.

Just enough to keep you from breathing deeply.

—

You’re sitting outside the forge, staring at the ocean.

Not doing anything. Not fixing. Not working. Just… being.

It’s late. Everyone else is either asleep or pretending to be. The night air is cool, salt-wet, and soft against your skin.

You don’t hear Tuffnut approach.

But then he’s there. Dropping down beside you without a word, plopping a small, half-burnt muffin in your lap.

“Peace offering,” he says. “For no reason.”

You raise a brow. “I’m not mad at you.”

“Yeah,” he says. “But you look like the kind of person who needs a muffin anyway.”

You don’t argue.

You don’t eat it either.

You just let it sit there between you, warm against your leg.

⸻

He doesn’t speak again for a while. He just hums something tuneless, rocking back and forth with his knees pulled to his chest.

Eventually, he says, quiet:

“Still not asking.”

You nod.

“Still not ready to tell you.”

He shrugs like it doesn’t hurt. “Cool.”

A beat passes.

Then—

“…But I’ve been getting nosebleeds.”

Your voice barely breaks the silence.

It’s so quiet afterward you almost pretend you didn’t say it.

But he turns to you, eyes a little wider, softer than you’ve ever seen them.

“That why you’ve been skipping lunch?”

You shrug.

He doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t tell anyone.

He just… stays.

⸻

You lean your head against the wooden post behind you, eyes closed, voice small:

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Then I won’t.”

A pause.

“But if you do?”

You glance sideways.

He’s looking out at the water.

Not at you.

Not making it harder.

Just there.

“I’ll still be here.”

⸻

You don’t say thank you.

You don’t cry.

You just let the silence stretch.

For once, it feels safe.

—

It’s sparring day.

The sun’s out, the sand’s dry, and the Edge is alive with motion — swords clashing, dragons roaring overhead, voices barking orders and laughter from every direction.

You’re paired with Astrid. Fast. Ruthless. She doesn’t hold back.

That’s why you picked her.

You need the distraction.

And you keep up. Mostly.

Until halfway through the match, you misstep. A spin too fast, a parry too high. You recover — barely.

But then it hits you.

A hot pulse in your face.

A familiar sting in your sinuses.

You pause, eyes narrowing, head swimming. You blink, steady yourself—

—and that’s when Astrid knocks your blade from your hands.

“(Y/N), you okay?”

You step back. Nodding quickly. Too quickly.

“Fine. Just—distracted.”

She frowns, studying you. But lets it go.

You bend to pick up your sword.

And a droplet of blood hits the sand.

Bright. Red. Stark against the pale grit.

⸻

You wipe your nose with your sleeve like it’s nothing.

Like you’re fine.

But someone sees.

“Hey—whoa, you’re bleeding.”

Tuffnut. His voice is closer than you expected. He’s halfway across the ring before you can even respond.

You press your sleeve tighter to your nose. Shake your head.

“It’s nothing. Just dry air. I’m fine.”

But your hand trembles.

And that’s when you realize: Snotlout’s watching.

He’s standing off to the side with Minden, half a laugh caught on his face like it got stuck in his throat.

You meet his eyes for a second.

And you see it.

The hesitation.

The concern.

The confusion.

He takes a step forward.

But Tuffnut is already there — hand at your back, steady, quiet.

“C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You don’t protest.

You don’t even look back.

And Snotlout?

He doesn’t follow.

—

Snotlout POV

He stop thinking about the blood.

It wasn’t a lot. Barely a smear across your sleeve. But it wasn’t normal. And the way you brushed it off, like it was nothing — that’s what unsettles him most.

Because you don’t just brush things off. Not when it’s real. Not when it matters.

And yet, you didn’t even flinch.

You didn’t look scared.

You looked… resigned.

⸻

He meant to check on you.

After training.

After the others had left.

But by the time he got to the forge, you were already gone.

Tuffnut said you needed rest.

Snotlout just nodded and didn’t ask questions.

Not out loud, anyway.

⸻

The next day, you’re back at it.

Flirting with Tuffnut. Sparring. Laughing.

Business as usual.

But now? He’s watching you differently.

He notices the pause you take before swinging. The second longer it takes to catch your breath. The way your hand lingers at your ribs when you think no one’s looking.

He doesn’t say anything.

Because what would he even say?

“Hey, I noticed you bled on the sand yesterday and looked like you might pass out. Wanna talk?”

You’d laugh in his face.

So instead, he watches.

Quiet. Careful.

And for the first time, he finds himself wondering—

When did you stop looking at me?

Because you used to.

He remembers that now. How your gaze used to linger when he talked, even when you rolled your eyes. How your laugh sounded different when it was meant for him.

Now?

You look at Tuffnut.

And whatever you’re holding inside… it’s not meant for Snotlout anymore.

⸻

That night, he stares at the ceiling of his hut, arms folded behind his head, jaw tight.

He doesn’t understand why it bothers him.

Why he keeps replaying your expression after the nosebleed. Why it stings that Tuffnut got to you first. That you let him.

He tells himself it’s nothing.

That you’re fine.

But the feeling in his chest says otherwise.

And it won’t go away.

—-

You find him waiting outside the forge.

It’s rare, seeing him without the usual bravado. No puffed chest, no cocky smirk, no bad jokes about how the flames match his “smoking hot personality.”

Just Snotlout.

Quiet. Fidgeting with the strap of his bracer.

You stop a few feet away, holding a pouch of freshly sharpened arrowheads.

“Hey.”

He looks up, like he wasn’t expecting you.

Even though he clearly was.

“Hey,” he echoes. Then pauses. “You… feeling okay?”

You smile.

Soft. Reassuring.

Because you know what he’s thinking about.

Because you know what he saw.

“I’m fine, Snotlout. Really.”

His eyes search your face. Not like he doubts you. More like he wants to believe it — needs to.

“It just looked bad. The nosebleed, I mean.”

You nod, stepping past him into the forge. You set the pouch down gently.

He follows, hesitantly.

“If there’s something going on, you can tell me, y’know,” he says, voice lower now. “You don’t have to act like it’s all—”

“I’m not acting.”

You turn to face him, calm and steady, voice warm but measured.

“It’s nothing serious. Just the forge, maybe some stress. I’ve been pushing too hard.”

That last part? Not a lie.

Just not the whole truth.

He exhales, relief softening the worry in his face.

And it kills you, a little.

Because he looks so glad to believe you’re okay.

And you hate how much it hurts to lie to someone you still love this quietly.

“You sure?” he asks again.

You nod.

“You don’t have to worry about me, Snotlout. I’m tougher than I look.”

He chuckles — just a little. And for a moment, he looks like the boy you used to dream about when you thought maybe he’d see you.

He gives you a smile. Not the flirty kind. Not the loud, showy one he gives everyone else.

A real one.

“Yeah. I guess you always have been.”

You smile back.

But when he leaves…

You press your hand to your ribs again, just below your heart.

And you breathe slow.

Because if he’s relieved, then you’ve done your job.

—

He should feel better.

You told him you’re okay.

You smiled — not forced, not fake — and said he didn’t have to worry.

You even made a joke about being tougher than you look.

And Snotlout believed you.

He did.

He’s always been good at accepting what people say, not questioning what they don’t.

So why is he still lying awake?

⸻

He keeps replaying the moment in the forge.

The calm way you answered. The way you looked him in the eye. How your voice didn’t shake.

It all felt real.

But the more he thinks about it…

You never used to look at him like that.

Like you were keeping him at arm’s length.

Like you were comforting him instead of letting him comfort you.

He hates how long it took him to notice that difference.

⸻

Minden finds him the next morning near the cliffs, watching the sunrise and picking at a cracked piece of dragon armor.

“Didn’t think you were a sunrise type,” she says, sitting beside him.

He shrugs. “I’m not. Just… couldn’t sleep.”

She bumps her shoulder against his. “Thinking too hard? That’s dangerous territory for you.”

He laughs, but it dies quickly.

She watches him a moment.

“You okay?”

He looks at her.

She’s kind. Easy to be around. Likes him in a way that doesn’t make him feel like he’s got something to prove.

But she’s not the one stuck in his head.

“Do you think…” he starts, then stops.

Minden tilts her head.

“What?”

“…You think someone could be hurting and still act totally fine? Like, not just hiding it, but like… convincing you they’re fine even when they’re not?”

She blinks.

“Yeah. All the time.”

“You’re talking about (Y/N), aren’t you?”

He looks away. “She said she’s fine.”

Minden’s quiet.

“She also looked like she was about to collapse in the sparring ring. People don’t usually bleed out of nowhere for fun.”

Snotlout’s jaw tightens.

He hates this feeling. Of not knowing. Of realizing he might’ve missed something important.

Of wondering when you stopped needing him — or if you ever did at all.

“I just… I don’t get it,” he mutters.

“She used to tell me stuff.”

Minden’s voice is gentle.

“Maybe you stopped being the one she trusted to tell.”

He doesn’t answer.

Because he doesn’t know if that’s true.

Or if it just hurts to consider that it is.

—

You wake up with your throat already raw.

Not from sleep. Not from yelling.

Just… tight. Like your lungs forgot how to breathe overnight.

You sit up slowly, hands trembling slightly as you press them to your ribs.

Still no petals.

But the cough that comes next drags something up anyway — not quite blood, not quite clean.

You spit quietly into a rag.

Wipe it away before your dragon stirs beside you.

⸻

Later, by the cliffs, the sky is pale and overcast. A perfect day for hiding.

You sit with your journal open but untouched, pen hovering over the page.

You think about writing to yourself.

You think about the moment in the forge, when Snotlout looked at you like maybe — maybe — he still saw something in you.

Then you remember how fast he left after you told him what he wanted to hear.

He believed you.

Because it was easier.

Because you made it easier.

And that’s what you do, isn’t it?

Make things easier for everyone.

Even when your lungs are a battlefield and your hands keep shaking during patrol.

⸻

You glance toward the main camp and see him — talking with Minden again, their shoulders close, her hand brushing his arm in passing.

You look away.

You don’t flinch.

You don’t react.

You just write:

Day 5: symptoms lingered past noon.

No nosebleed. Coughing worse.

Hid it.

Tuffnut knows something.

Snotlout suspects nothing.

That’s how I want it.

If he ever looks again, I want it to be because he chose to.

Not because I was breaking.

⸻

You tuck the journal away. Not because it’s done.

Just because you can’t stand to read your own handwriting anymore.

—

It happens fast, the next symptoms that is. Just a scouting mission, nothing risky. Until it happened.

You’re in formation, high over the canyon ridge. A simple recon mission — until it’s not.

The ambush comes from above. Arrows cutting through the air, dragon shrieks echoing against the stone walls.

Chaos explodes in seconds.

You veer hard to the left, narrowly dodging a bolt meant for your shoulder. Your dragon jerks midair, roaring in pain as a grazing hit slices across their wing.

You’re fine. You’re okay.

You move to recover — but then another arrow cuts too close. You twist—

—and lose your footing.

Your fingers miss the saddle straps. Your foot slips. The world tilts.

And you’re falling.

⸻

Everything slows.

You hear the wind rush.

Your dragon’s roar as they twist, trying to follow.

And out of the corner of your eye — just as the weightlessness hits — you see her.

Minden.

Falling, too. Hit square in the ribs. Razorwhip spiraling.

And Snotlout?

He dives.

No hesitation. No looking around. No second thoughts.

Straight for her.

Like instinct. Like gravity.

Like choice.

⸻

And that?

That’s the moment.

Not the impact.

Not the sky.

Not the arrow.

That.

That’s what rips you open.

Because you don’t expect him to choose you.

Not anymore.

But now… now you know he wouldn’t.

⸻

You close your eyes.

You don’t scream.

You don’t panic.

You just… let go.

The air feels cold against your skin. Your heartbeat slows.

And for a second, a small part of you thinks:

Maybe it’s easier this way.

—

Then someone grabs you.

Hard.

Arms around your waist, sharp jerk upward, wind blasting in your face.

You gasp — the first breath you’ve taken in what feels like forever.

And then you hear him.

“You’re not dying on me, you hear me?!”

Tuffnut.

Of course it’s him.

Of all people. Of all moments.

It’s Tuffnut who dives.

Not as a statement. Not as a symbol.

But because he saw you.

Because he looked.

⸻

He lands rough. Messy. Both dragons scrambling. Your knees hit the dirt hard, vision flickering white at the edges.

Your chest heaves. Your throat burns.

You cough — once, twice.

You taste blood.

And Tuffnut doesn’t say a word.

He just holds you up, arms steady as the world spins.

“I got you,” he mutters.

“Even if no one else did.”

—

You’re sitting against a boulder, knees pulled to your chest, Tuffnut crouched in front of you, arms braced on either side like a human barricade.

You can’t breathe right.

Your ribs ache like they’ve been splintered from the inside, and every inhale feels like swallowing shards.

Your vision pulses.

Your ears ring.

And then it happens — a thick, wet cough tearing up your throat. You barely manage to turn your head before the blood hits your glove.

“Okay. Okay, it’s okay—”

Tuffnut’s voice is shaking now, but his hands are steady.

He doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t yell.

He just moves.

Puts himself in front of you, back to the canyon, blocking the view of the others regrouping in the distance.

“Don’t let them see,” you rasp, voice barely audible over the static in your ears.

And he nods.

Because he understands.

He ducks lower, making his body wider, hunching protectively to hide you.

“Hey,” he says softly, reaching up with one sleeve to wipe blood from your chin, “You’re good. You’re okay. No one’s looking.”

But that’s a lie.

Because he is.

And what he sees now terrifies him.

⸻

You feel something warm drip past your jaw.

You touch your ear.

More blood.

And something inside you folds.

But not aloud. Not externally.

Because if you start to cry now — if you fall apart now — you won’t come back from it.

So you bury it. Again.

And Tuffnut doesn’t stop you.

He just sits with you like a wall, like a shield, like a friend who knows better than to ask questions you’re not ready to answer.

⸻

In the distance, someone calls your name.

It’s Snotlout’s voice.

You stiffen.

Tuffnut looks at you.

“You want me to tell him you’re fine?”

You nod. Quickly. Almost too quickly.

And Tuffnut stands up, cracks his back like nothing happened, throws a thumbs-up over the ridge and yells,

“All good over here! Just a little tumble!”

No one questions it.

No one comes closer.

Because they believe him.

⸻

He crouches beside you again once they’re gone, face serious in a way that feels wrong on him.

“This is bad, huh?”

You nod once.

Just once.

“You gonna let me help?”

Another nod.

But only him.

Only him.

—

Tuffnut hut is empty, but you don’t sleep on it.

You’re sitting on the floor instead, back pressed against the wall, blanket around your shoulders, knees tucked up to your chest.

It’s well past midnight.

The fire’s burned low. The air smells faintly of herbs and metal. The room is still.

Tuffnut sits across from you, legs crossed, braid undone, gaze tired but steady.

He hasn’t asked questions. Not since the fall.

He doesn’t need to.

⸻

You’re the one who breaks the silence.

“I think I know what this is.”

He doesn’t move.

But his whole body goes still, like he’s holding his breath.

You swallow around the ache in your throat.

“It lines up. The chest pain. The coughing. The bleeding. The way it only started when…”

You trail off. You don’t need to finish.

He already knows what you mean.

“It’s… stupid,” you murmur. “My body’s trying to kill me because I love someone who doesn’t love me back.”

Tuffnut says nothing. Just watches you.

Gives you space.

You let the words sit between you for a moment before continuing.

“If I’m right… and it is hanahaki… I’ll need to do something about it soon.”

You don’t look at him when you say the next part.

“There’s a procedure. Removal.”

“You’ll live,” he says softly.

You nod.

“But I won’t be able to love again. Not the same way.”

It doesn’t sound dramatic. It doesn’t sound like a tragedy.

You say it like a fact. Like a plan. Like choosing a path in the woods because it’s the only one not on fire.

“I don’t want to die over something that was never mine to begin with.”

Tuffnut exhales slowly, leaning his head back against the wall.

“That’s heavy.”

You let out a breath that’s almost a laugh. Almost.

“Yeah.”

Another silence. Long. Gentle.

Then—

“If you do it,” he says, “I’m not gonna tell you it’s wrong. I’m not gonna try to stop you.”

You look at him.

“But just so you know—if you ever want someone to remember what you felt, or who it was for…”

He lifts a hand, taps his temple.

“I’ll hold it. In here. As long as you need.”

You feel something tighten in your chest — not pain, not love — but something close to comfort.

Something that makes the room feel just a little warmer.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He nods.

And neither of you says anything else for a long time.

—

He didn’t think much of it at first.

Just another sparring injury. Another fall. You’d brushed it off. Tuffnut had waved and shouted something dumb about “catching like a hero.” Everyone moved on.

But it’s been different since then.

You’re different.

Still the same laugh. Still that dry, sharp wit that cuts through training tension like a blade.

But you don’t laugh with him anymore.

Not like you used to.

Now it’s Tuffnut.

You walk beside him after missions. You sit with him during meals. You nudge him when he says something dumb instead of rolling your eyes like before.

And maybe no one else thinks twice about it.

But Snotlout?

He notices.

Because he remembers that mission.

He remembers diving — not for you.

For Minden.

⸻

He’d seen you falling.

Just for a second.

A shape tumbling through the sky.

But then he saw Minden, bleeding, screaming—

And he chose.

He told himself it wasn’t a choice.

It was instinct.

But now?

Now when he sees you look at Tuffnut the way you used to glance at him?

He wonders if maybe that was instinct too.

⸻

He remembers the way Tuffnut held you afterward.

How protective he was.

How he didn’t joke.

And you? You let him.

Didn’t push him away.

Didn’t say “I’m fine” with that smile you always wore for Snotlout.

You just let Tuffnut see you.

⸻

Today, he watches from a distance as you sit near the forge, leaning against a crate, laughing at something Tuffnut’s saying.

You look tired, but not unhappy.

And he tells himself that’s what matters.

But a voice in the back of his head whispers something he doesn’t want to hear:

You didn’t catch her.

He did.

—

—Snotlout’s POV

He notices it again during training.

You’re moving slower.

Not limping, not obviously hurt — just a half-step off. Just enough to make someone like Astrid frown. Just enough to make Snotlout watch you closer.

But before he can say anything, Tuffnut steps in.

Literally.

Slides between you and the others, claps a hand on your shoulder, cracks a joke about “muscle fatigue” and “too many hero landings,” and shifts the group’s focus instantly.

And you?

You smile. Play along.

Like always.

But Snotlout sees the way you lean into Tuffnut’s side just a little.

Like you’re steadying yourself.

⸻

He pulls Tuffnut aside later.

He doesn’t plan to. It just happens.

The words come out before he can stop them.

“She okay?”

Tuffnut’s whole posture changes.

He doesn’t joke.

Doesn’t smirk.

Just studies Snotlout for a long, quiet second.

“She’s handling it.”

It’s not an answer.

Snotlout crosses his arms. “What does that mean?”

“It means you don’t need to worry.”

Snotlout frowns. “Since when do you get to decide that?”

And then Tuffnut does something rare.

He drops the act.

No grin. No sarcasm.

Just quiet intensity.

“Since I caught her when you didn’t.”

Snotlout’s breath hitches — just slightly.

And Tuffnut doesn’t press. Doesn’t shout. Doesn’t accuse.

He just says:

“You didn’t do anything wrong.

But you don’t get to ask questions now just because you’re finally looking.”

Then he turns and walks off, back toward the forge.

Back to you.

⸻

Snotlout stays where he is for a long time.

Listening to the waves crash, watching the sky darken.

And for the first time in a long time… he doesn’t know what to do.

Because someone else saw you falling.

And they were fast enough.

-

You’re fine.

You keep telling yourself that.

The coughs aren’t as bad this week.

The blood’s less frequent.

The pressure in your chest? Manageable.

You’ve gotten better at hiding it. At knowing when to disappear and how long you can fake it before the shaking in your limbs betrays you.

But today?

Today is harder.

—-

The training ground is loud. Dragons circling. Blades clashing. Snotlout laughing at something Ruffnut said.

You’re helping Fishlegs with gear repairs, sitting on the edge of a crate, hands moving slower than usual, fingers not quite gripping the buckles right.

You feel it before it happens — that familiar flutter deep in your chest, like wings beating too fast inside your ribs.

You close your eyes. Breathe shallow. Wait for it to pass.

It doesn’t.

⸻

Your lungs seize.

A cough claws its way out of you, sharper than expected. You turn away quickly, into your sleeve, forcing it down. But the second one comes harder.

You bite the inside of your cheek. Focus. Control it.

But your vision’s blurring.

The sun feels too bright.

And something warm drips past your lip.

Blood.

⸻

Not now.

Not here.

You stand quickly — too quickly — and stumble.

Someone’s voice calls your name.

Not Tuffnut. Not yet.

Someone else.

You wipe your mouth and keep walking.

One step. Two. Around the edge of the shed, out of sight. You press your palm against the wall to steady yourself, willing your heart to slow down.

Your ears are ringing.

But you’re not going to fall.

Not again.

⸻

A shadow stretches across the ground beside you.

You look up, breath catching.

Tuffnut.

Of course.

He doesn’t speak. He just steps in front of you like a wall again, glancing once toward the sound of Snotlout’s voice somewhere nearby.

“He saw you coughing,” Tuffnut murmurs. “You want me to cover it?”

You nod.

Wipe your mouth again.

“Please.”

And just like that — he turns, walks back around the corner, throws a ridiculous fake coughing fit of his own loud enough to draw attention.

“Fishlegs! You ever inhaled yak fur by accident?! Asking for a friend!”

Laughter follows.

Distraction achieved.

⸻

You lean your head back against the wall. Chest burning. Hands shaking.

Almost.

You almost didn’t make it.

And the worst part?

No one would’ve known why.

—

It’s late when you finally sit down.

Not in your hut. Not in the forge.

But at the edge of the cliffs, where the air is cooler and no one thinks to look.

Except Tuffnut.

He finds you easily.

Of course he does.

He doesn’t speak right away. He just drops down beside you, cross-legged, his braid half-undone and an entire bread roll sticking out of his mouth.

You snort softly.

He tears it in half and holds the rest out to you without a word.

You take it.

⸻

You eat in silence.

The breeze pulls gently at your sleeves. Your head still aches. Your ribs are sore.

But it’s bearable.

Because for once, you don’t have to pretend.

Not here.

Not with him.

⸻

“You looked worse than usual today,” he says eventually.

You hum. “Thanks for the compliment.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

You sigh. Lean your head against his shoulder — not because you’re fragile, not because you want comfort, but because you’re tired.

“It’s getting harder to hide,” you admit.

He’s quiet for a beat too long.

“You should tell them.”

You shake your head.

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

You shrug.

You don’t say:

Because I’m not ready for them to look at me with pity.

Because I don’t want Snotlout to look at me and feel guilty instead of—

You just shrug again.

Tuffnut doesn’t push.

He never does.

⸻

You watch the ocean turn to silver under the moonlight.

“Do you ever wonder what it’d feel like,” you say, “to be the one someone runs toward?”

Tuffnut doesn’t answer right away.

Then, soft:

“You’re the one I ran toward.”

You close your eyes.

Not because it hurts.

But because that’s the kindest thing anyone’s said to you in weeks.

⸻

You don’t cry.

But you let the silence wrap around you like a blanket, and for the first time in a long time, you feel warm.

Not whole.

Not better.

But warm.

—-

The cliffs are quiet again. Same spot. Same view.

Only this time, you’re the one who speaks first.

“I’ve been thinking more about the procedure.”

Tuffnut stops fiddling with the flower he’s been weaving into a crooked crown and looks up.

“Yeah?”

You nod, slowly. Carefully.

“If I want to live… it’s probably the only way.”

He doesn’t say anything, so you continue.

“But it’s risky. Not just the surgery itself. The way it affects you.”

You draw in a shallow breath, your fingers curling slightly around the edge of your sleeve.

“If it works… I’ll survive. No more coughing. No more blood. It’ll all be gone.”

You glance down at your lap.

“But so will the love.”

He stares. Quiet. Processing.

“Like… all of it?”

You nod.

“The one I have now, yes. The rest…” You pause. “It’s different for everyone. But most never feel it the same way again. It’s like… a part of your heart just goes numb.”

Tuffnut frowns.

And then, he laughs — not like he’s mocking you. But because he doesn’t know what else to do.

“You’re telling me you either die loving… or live without it?”

You smile faintly.

“Pretty poetic for something that’s going to require a surgical cut to my lungs.”

He shakes his head, fingers tightening in the half-woven flower crown. His voice drops.

“You shouldn’t have to make that choice.”

You don’t respond. Because there’s nothing to say.

Not when he’s right.

⸻

You close your eyes, letting the breeze move through your hair.

“If I do it… I need you to understand something.”

He looks over.

“What?”

“I won’t be able to love anyone again.”

The words come soft. Flat. Final.

“Not like that. Not deeply. Not fully. Not the way you deserve to be loved back.”

Tuffnut swallows. Hard.

You don’t mean it romantically — but the weight of it still lands.

“It won’t be your fault,” you add.

“But it will be gone.”

⸻

He’s silent for a long time.

Then he sets the broken flower crown beside you.

“If that happens,” he says, “then I’ll love enough for both of us.”

You don’t respond.

But your throat tightens in a way that has nothing to do with your lungs.

—

The coughs come more often now.

You time them with the wind. With dragon roars. With Tuffnut’s loudest tangents. You’re strategic.

You’re careful.

But not even the best timing hides the pain in your chest when you take too deep a breath. Or the way your hands shake when you try to hold a quill for more than a few minutes.

Your hearing fades in and out, just for seconds at a time.

Sometimes you don’t notice right away — until someone’s lips are moving and you can’t hear the words.

You don’t say anything. Not even to Tuffnut.

Because you already told him enough.

And you’re not going to make him carry more than that.

⸻

You still smile. Still train. Still spar.

But you’re conserving now.

Not living.

Just… preserving.

A few more days. A few more laughs. A few more moments before you make your choice.

And when you look across the training ground and catch Snotlout watching you, eyes narrowed in that almost-worried way…

You offer a wave.

A smile.

Something easy to believe.

And then you turn away.

Because you can’t be the one to hold out hope anymore.

⸻

Snotlout

You should’ve stopped lying to yourself weeks ago.

You know something’s wrong now — you feel it in your gut.

It’s not just the coughing. It’s not just the fall. It’s not even Tuffnut standing too close anymore.

It’s the way you move. Like you’re bracing. Like your body’s not quite yours anymore.

And it’s the way you look at him now.

Like you’re trying to memorize him.

Like you’re getting ready to leave.

⸻

He watches you from across the courtyard as you help Astrid adjust her shield harness. You laugh at something. The same sharp laugh he used to hear up close.

Now he hears it from across rooms.

Why didn’t I notice sooner?

He doesn’t know if you’re mad at him.

He doesn’t know if you’re hurting because of him.

But he knows something’s slipping through his fingers.

And for the first time, he starts to feel something that tastes a little like fear.

—

You’re at the forge again.

Not working. Not crafting. Just… sitting.

Your tools are clean, untouched. The fire’s out. You’re just letting the warmth of the stones soak into your bones, trying to forget the cold that’s been creeping in underneath your skin for days now.

You cough once. Soft.

No blood this time.

Just tightness.

Still there. Always there.

Still unloved.

⸻

The door creaks behind you.

You don’t look up.

You already know it’s him.

“Hey.”

His voice is quieter than usual. Not the cocky bark you’re used to. Not full of jokes or arrogance.

Just… soft.

Worried.

“You’ve been off lately.”

You give him a look, one brow raised. “Since when do you notice things like that?”

He smiles faintly. Shrugs. Steps closer.

“Since it started to feel wrong when you stopped talking to me first.”

That hurts more than it should.

Because it means he only noticed when it affected him.

You chuckle softly. “Didn’t think you’d miss my commentary that much.”

“I do,” he says.

You look at him then.

Really look.

And his eyes… they’re not teasing.

They’re not flirty.

They’re concerned.

But not because he knows what this is.

Just because he doesn’t know anything anymore.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Like, really okay?”

Your heart stutters.

And your body answers before your mouth can:

Your ribs ache.

Your lungs throb.

You taste iron at the back of your throat.

Still here.

Still sick.

Still unloved.

You smile.

Gentle. Convincing.

“Yeah. I’m okay.”

He stares at you. Searching.

Like he wants to believe it.

And he will. Because you made it easy.

“If you ever—” he starts.

You cut him off with a soft laugh.

“Snotlout, I’m not dying.”

Not out loud, at least.

He relaxes just a little.

“Okay… good.”

You don’t miss the way his voice catches.

And you hate how much that almost feels like enough.

But it’s not.

Because if he loved you—

If he really did—

This pain would be gone by now.

⸻

You walk past him, back straight, breath tight, and toss over your shoulder:

“See you at dinner?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

—-

He’s heading toward the stables when you stop him.

“Snotlout.”

He turns, blinking. “Yeah?”

You nod once toward the bench outside the forge.

“Sit.”

He tilts his head. “What’d I do now?”

“Nothing,” you reply. “Just sit.”

He does. A little confused. A little curious. The wind messes his hair as he flops down, arms crossed over his chest.

You walk up behind him without another word, fingers already reaching into your pocket.

He doesn’t flinch when you touch his hair. Doesn’t move.

He just… sits there.

Lets you gather the strands near the back. They’re still warm from the sun. Coarse and familiar.

You braid.

Small. Simple. Precise.

The way you always did your own.

“You’re not going to do something embarrassing, are you?” he mutters.

You roll your eyes — the smile in your voice masking everything you’re holding down.

“Your hair doesn’t look as messy like this,” you say, using the same flat, unimpressed tone you’ve always used when teasing him.

And then—without fanfare, without pause—you untie one of the thinner braids woven along the underside of your own hair.

You slip the strand loose. Tie it gently beside the one you just made for him. Not tight, but secure.

He doesn’t notice.

He doesn’t feel what you’ve just given him.

You give the braid a firm tug.

“There. Less of a disaster now.”

He snorts, rubbing the back of his head. “Didn’t know I signed up for a makeover.”

“You didn’t,” you say, stepping back. “Consider it a gift.”

He stands, brushing off his legs.

“Should I be worried about the next one being flowers and glitter?”

You raise an eyebrow. “I’d make it work.”

He grins.

You smile.

And when he walks away — laughing to himself, braid swinging gently with each step — you let the wind tangle your fingers.

He doesn’t know.

He’ll never know.

But now?

He carries a piece of you.

Even after you let the rest go.

.

.

.

|Part lll soon|

Author note:

You didn’t fall in love.

You slipped into it—quietly, like dusk becoming night.

No warning. Just bloom, then thorn.

He smiled elsewhere.

You bled in silence.

This isn’t a love story

It’s what happens when love grows where it shouldn’t—

and you love it anyway.

If you choose to keep reading,

just know:

This story won’t spare you.

But maybe—

it’ll understand you.

- With love, Kai💕

——

Part l Part ll Part lll

Title: The Bloom Beneath The Silence

Part l

It hits you the moment he calls her “babe.”

Not Astrid. That was the old routine—predictable and harmless, a part of the background noise on the Edge like crashing waves and dragon snores. But when he drops the pet name on Ruffnut—loudly, unashamed, and in front of everyone—you blink.

You don’t flinch. You don’t react.

Instead, you smirk around the fish you’re eating and jab your fork in his direction.

“Babe? Really? You trying to start a fight with Tuffnut or do you want to get pushed off the Edge?”

Snotlout just grins, all teeth and smugness. “Hey, if I survive dragons on the daily, I can handle Tuffnut.”

He winks at Ruffnut, who snorts, amused but unbothered. She flicks a piece of bread at his face. He catches it in his mouth like a trained Terrible Terror.

You laugh. Loud. Real.

Because it’s funny. Because this is fine.

Because you don’t care.

You don’t.

⸻

He stops bothering with Astrid. You start noticing.

Noticing how his jokes bend toward Ruffnut now, how he volunteers to train with her, how he offers her the last meatball even though you’re sitting right there.

It doesn’t sting. Not yet.

It’s just odd. Like seeing the tide roll in a little earlier than usual. Unsettling if you stare too long, but not dangerous. Not something to worry about.

So you don’t.

Later that week, you’re sharpening your blade by the fire when he plops down beside you. No warning. No greeting. Just Snotlout, dropping into your space like he belongs there—which, frustratingly, he kind of does.

You don’t look up.

“You bored or just stalking me?”

He nudges your arm with his shoulder. “Neither. I just know you enjoy my company.”

You scoff. “Enjoy is a strong word. Tolerate, maybe. Mildly.”

But he’s smiling. Relaxed. And—for the first time in a long time—not looking toward Astrid’s shadow for approval. He’s just here. With you.

You let him stay.

The next morning, you catch him giving Ruffnut a flower.

A flower, of all things. Hand-picked, probably from the bluff behind the armory where wild violets grow. It’s not much, but it’s more than he’s ever given anyone.

He shoves it at her with a goofy grin and a loud, “For you, milady Ruffnut. In case Tuffnut forgets you’re royalty.”

You wait for the twist. The joke. The usual punchline.

It doesn’t come.

Ruffnut punches him in the arm anyway. But she keeps the flower.

You watch them walk off. You tell yourself you’re smiling because it’s sweet. Unexpected. Maybe even good for him. Ruffnut can handle him in a way Astrid never bothered to.

You convince yourself of that all day.

⸻

That night, you can’t sleep.

Not because of Snotlout. No.

Definitely not.

——

It’s not jealousy.

You tell yourself that as you watch him trip over his own feet trying to impress Ruffnut during drills.

You’re sitting on a barrel near the edge of the training ground, arms crossed, your dragon napping behind you, the morning sun painting gold across the rocks. Everything feels quiet—except for him.

Snotlout’s doing that loud, obnoxious laugh. The one that means he’s trying. Trying to be noticed. Trying to be liked.

He flexes. Ruffnut smirks and pretends to yawn. Tuffnut looks two seconds away from setting his pants on fire just for peace and quiet.

You take a bite of your apple and look away.

It’s not like you’re bothered. Not really.

⸻

You even start rooting for them.

Kind of.

Sort of.

Maybe if he does like Ruffnut, maybe if he finally stops trying so hard for everyone else, he’ll… settle. Stop pretending. Stop searching.

And maybe, maybe, that means he’ll finally leave you alone.

Not that he bothers you. You’re just tired of always being second to someone’s first choice. Of watching him chase ghosts and legends and girls who barely glance his way.

Ruffnut, at least, fights back. Maybe they’d be good for each other. Loud. Messy. Explosive.

You tell him that one afternoon by the fire, tossing a stick into the flames.

“You and Ruffnut make a good team,” you say casually.

He looks up from where he’s polishing his axe. “You think?”

You shrug. “Yeah. She doesn’t put up with your crap.”

He laughs, like you meant it as a joke. But you didn’t.

⸻

And then… something shifts.

It’s not big. Not obvious.

Just a moment.

Ruffnut’s flying solo. Snotlout’s grounded with Hookfang. You end up paired with him for a supply run to the outpost. Just the two of you.

He talks the entire flight.

About nothing. About everything. How long it took to catch the fish. How Hookfang’s been molting weird. How Ruffnut said something “kind of funny” the other day but he forgot how it went.

You nod. Respond where you have to. Laugh once or twice because it’s easier than staying silent.

Then he says, “You’re not like her, y’know.”

You glance over. “Who?”

“Ruffnut. Or Astrid. Or… I dunno. The other girls.”

You raise a brow. “Thanks, I guess?”

He shrugs, voice dropping a little softer. “You never make me feel like I have to prove anything.”

That one… that hits you somewhere you don’t want to admit.

You look away. Say nothing. Let the wind swallow it.

⸻

By the time you land, you’re too in your head to notice who’s waiting at the dock.

A new face.

A girl.

Tall. Pretty. Smiling like she’s known him forever.

Snotlout jumps off Hookfang and greets her like he’s forgotten you were even on the same saddle.

“Minden?! What are you doing here?”

She laughs. “Got reassigned from the Northern outpost! I’m stationed here now.”

He grins so wide it hurts you.

“That’s amazing!”

She punches his arm—his arm—and he lets her. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him let someone do that unless he liked it.

You step back. Just a little. Just enough not to be in the picture anymore.

Minden throws you a glance, smiles politely. You nod.

You feel like air.

⸻

It’s not jealousy.

But later that night, you train harder than usual.

You don’t say a word during dinner.

And when Snotlout sits next to Minden instead of beside you, you suddenly can’t remember the taste of your food.

—-

It starts with a sword.

Not because anyone asked you to make one.

You’re just… there. At the forge. Long after the sun dips below the cliffs, long after the others have wandered off to sleep or whisper or laugh.

The heat doesn’t bother you. It never has.

There’s something about the weight of metal and fire that keeps your thoughts from spilling over. Something about hammering steel that makes you feel in control again.

You tell yourself it’s not because of Snotlout.

Even though your chest still tightens remembering the way he smiled at her. Minden. Like she was a surprise gift he never expected to get back.

Like he missed her. A lot.

You hit the steel a little harder than necessary.

⸻

You don’t hear him laugh anymore.

Or if you do, it’s always followed by hers now.

She fits in like she’s always been here. Always belonged.

You wonder if that’s how you ever looked—standing beside them. Part of the team. Part of him.

You quench the blade. Sparks hiss, water sputters. The hiss almost drowns out your thoughts.

Almost.

⸻

You move onto another piece. Then another. A dagger. A shield rivet. Reinforcements for a saddle that no one asked for.

You’re not making things people need.

You’re making things so you don’t fall apart.

Your hands move on their own—muscle memory and stubborn pride.

Because what else are you going to do? Talk about it?

With who?

Hiccup’s too busy. Astrid would brush it off. Ruffnut… maybe. But then you’d have to admit that it does bother you. That you do care.

That maybe, just maybe, you were lying to yourself when you said you didn’t mind him flirting with Ruffnut.

Because that was safe. That was just Snotlout being Snotlout.

Minden isn’t a joke.

Minden makes him look serious.

And that’s the part you can’t seem to forge your way out of.

⸻

You stay until your arms ache.

Until your palms blister beneath your gloves.

Until your muscles scream louder than your thoughts.

You’re not sure what you’ve made by the end of it.

But at least you didn’t break.

Not yet.

—-

Minden’s nice.

Too nice, actually.

She offers to help you with your tools one afternoon while you’re doing maintenance outside the forge. She doesn’t talk much, just hums under her breath while handing you bolts and tightening harness screws.

You don’t dislike her. That’s the worst part.

She’s quick. Smart. Has decent instincts. She keeps up in training and doesn’t act like she’s here to steal anyone’s spotlight.

Even when Snotlout’s looking at her like she’s the only dragonfire in the room.

⸻

He joins the two of you halfway through the task, dropping into place beside her like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You don’t even blink. You keep your hands steady, eyes on the gears.

“Helping (Y/N)?” he asks, nudging Minden’s shoulder with a grin. “Better be careful. She’s got high standards. Mess up her torque alignment and she’ll personally sharpen your kneecaps.”

You smile. It’s clean. Controlled.

“Funny, I don’t remember you knowing what torque is.”

Minden laughs. “You two always like this?”

“Only when I’m right,” you reply smoothly, tightening the last bolt.

Snotlout just smirks, but he glances at you a beat too long before looking back to her.

⸻

You all talk after that.

Training. Missions. Who’ll take the next scouting route to the north.

You chime in. Joke. Match their energy. You never once sound bitter.

You’re not bitter.

You’re supportive.

Warm. Composed.

Friendly.

Because if you show anything less than that, the mask will slip—and you refuse to let anyone see what’s cracking beneath.

⸻

Later, while brushing down your dragon, Minden passes by with Snotlout trailing just behind her. She pauses when she spots you.

“Hey,” she says. “You up for sparring tomorrow? Hiccup said you’re the one to beat if I want to improve.”

You wipe your hands, glance over, and smile—because that’s what you’re good at.

“Sure,” you say. “Hope you’re ready for bruises.”

She grins. “I like a challenge.”

Snotlout raises a brow, clearly surprised. “Wow. Didn’t expect you two to team up.”

You shrug like it means nothing. Like your heart isn’t screaming.

“I can be friendly. It’s not that hard.”

He gives you that look. The curious one. The one that almost—almost—asks something deeper.

But he doesn’t.

And you don’t let him.

⸻

That night, you skip dinner.

Not because of them.

Just because you’re tired.

Really.

Just tired.

—-

The forge is quieter now.

You don’t go there to build anymore.

You go to escape.

It’s the only place no one follows you. Not even your dragon. Not even Hiccup. Not even Snotlout.

Especially not Snotlout.

Which is fine. Better, even.

It gives you time to work on things that don’t look like coping. Fixing blades. Reinforcing saddles. Busywork with a purpose — just enough to keep your hands occupied while your thoughts dissolve into molten steel and heat.

You’re getting good at silence. Scarily good.

⸻

But Snotlout notices.

In little ways.

Like how you don’t sit next to him during meals anymore.

Or how you stopped throwing sarcastic comments across the training ring.

Or how you used to always have some joke loaded when he messed up a maneuver, but now you just… nod. Quiet. Flat.

And yet, you still smile. Still talk. Still spar with Minden and compliment her form. Still help Fishlegs repair dragon armor. Still show up.

Just not for him.

And maybe that’s what’s bothering him.

⸻

One afternoon, he finds you alone, hammering away at a broken stirrup in the forge. You’re sweaty, your hands are covered in grease, and your face is set in that unreadable expression that’s become your default lately.

He leans against the doorframe. Doesn’t speak for a while.

Just watches.

You don’t acknowledge him right away. Not until the silence becomes too loud to ignore.

“…Need something?” you ask without looking up.

“No,” he says. Then, “You’ve been in here a lot.”

You pause. Just briefly.

“There’s work to be done.”

He nods. Glances around at the cluttered workbenches, the perfectly organized tools, the pile of metal that definitely doesn’t need fixing.

“Right,” he says. “Of course.”

You wipe your hands on a rag. Your voice is steady. Too steady.

“If you’re waiting for Minden, she’s training with Astrid.”

A beat of silence.

“I wasn’t.”

You look at him then. Really look. He’s not smiling. Not joking. Just standing there like he doesn’t know what to say — and isn’t sure he wants to ask.

But you don’t give him the chance.

“Good,” you say lightly, stepping past him. “Then you can help me test the flight gear.”

He blinks, surprised. But he follows you.

Because that’s the thing about Snotlout.

He notices.

He just doesn’t ask.

Not when it matters.

From the journal

I told Ruffnut she could have him.

I even meant it.

Back then, anyway.

He was loud. And stupid. And needy.

And he never looked at me the way he looked at Astrid.

And I figured if he needed someone to chase, it may as well be someone who bites back.

Not someone who waits. Not someone who hopes.

Not someone like me.

I didn’t expect him to stay with Ruffnut.

And I definitely didn’t expect Minden.

She’s… nice.

She laughs at his jokes, listens when he talks.

And she looks at him like he’s more than a punchline.

I think that’s what scares me.

Because I’ve only ever looked at him when he wasn’t watching.

Only ever spoken when I knew he wouldn’t hear what I meant.

And now… he doesn’t look at me at all.

⸻

I don’t want to be jealous.

Jealousy is petty. Ugly.

I’d rather be proud. Or indifferent. Or unbothered.

I used to be.

But it’s hard to keep pretending I don’t notice when he forgets to sit next to me.

Hard not to feel it when he walks past me like I’m just another rider.

Hard not to hate the way Minden fits into the spaces I used to fill.

⸻

I don’t blame her.

I don’t blame him either.

I just wish it didn’t hurt so much to be this easy to replace.

⸻

Anyway. It’s fine.

I’m fine.

I always am.

That’s the role I play.

The one who doesn’t fall apart.

The one who never asks to be chosen.

And he doesn’t owe me anything.

I just wish he’d stop smiling at her like he’s already forgotten I was ever there.

—-

The morning fog clings to the Edge like it knows something’s coming.

You drag yourself from bed slower than usual. It’s not exhaustion. Not entirely. Just… heavy. Like you’re wearing a weight no one can see.

You arrive at the stables early. You always do. You like the quiet before the others filter in — the slow breath of the dragons, the creak of wood, the kind of silence that doesn’t ask you to smile.

You’re halfway through adjusting your dragon’s saddle when you hear footsteps behind you.

You don’t turn.

You already know it’s him.

Snotlout’s voice is surprisingly soft. “Hey.”

You tighten the strap a little too forcefully. “Hey.”

A pause.

Then: “You weren’t at dinner last night.”

You smile without looking. “Didn’t feel like talking.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” he mutters. He almost sounds… disappointed?

You finally turn to him. He’s close, leaning against a post, arms crossed. Watching you.

“I’m fine,” you say. Too fast. Too smooth. The automatic kind of lie.

He studies you. Like maybe he knows it is a lie. But—like always—he doesn’t call you out.

Instead, he shrugs and says, “Good. That’s good.”

Then, with a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes:

“You’re not dying on me, right? Who else am I gonna spar with that can actually keep up?”

You smirk. “You’d miss me that much?”

“Obviously,” he says. “Who else would pretend to laugh at my jokes?”

The words settle between you like ash.

You pretend it’s just banter. Pretend the twist in your gut is nothing. Pretend your heart doesn’t thud every time he notices you — but not enough.

⸻

Later, on the training field, he spars with Minden.

They move well together. Coordinated. In sync. He laughs at something she says. She pushes him. He lets her.

You sit on the sidelines, wrapping bandages from earlier skirmishes. Watching. Silent.

He glances at you once.

Just once.

Like he’s thinking of something.

Like maybe he wants to say it.

But he doesn’t.

He never does.

⸻

That night, you don’t go to the forge.

You just sit on the edge of the cliff, knees pulled to your chest, staring out at the water.

You imagine throwing every feeling you’ve buried into the ocean.

But you know it would just float back.

——

You hadn’t meant to overhear it.

You were coming back from the armory, carrying replacement buckles and a half-finished clasp you’d promised to fix before tomorrow’s mission.

The others were gathered near the stables, voices low, laughter threading through the air. It was late — the kind of hour where secrets feel safer.

You weren’t trying to eavesdrop.

But then you heard your name.

“I thought she was gonna punch me,” Snotlout was saying, laughing. “Classic (Y/N). All storm, no warning.”

Ruffnut snorted. “Yeah, but she’s got that whole ‘don’t mess with me or I’ll end you with a forge tool’ thing going on. Honestly kind of hot.”

You rolled your eyes as you hovered behind the corner. Typical.

Then Minden’s voice joined in, teasing: “What about me, then? Do I give off terrifying or tame?”

And then Snotlout, without hesitation—without a second of hesitation—said:

“You? You’re different. You make things easier. It’s like… I don’t have to prove anything around you.”

You froze.

That line. That exact line.

He’d said that to you once. Quietly. Offhandedly. Weeks ago.

But this time, the way he said it sounded more… real. Like he meant it now.

Like he didn’t mean it then.

⸻

You stood there, outside their laughter, clutching the clasp so tightly it left an imprint in your skin.

You don’t barge in. You don’t make a scene.

You wait until their voices fade.

Then you turn, walk back to the forge, and light the fire.

Even though there’s nothing left to fix.

⸻

You don’t cry.

You don’t even let your hands shake.

But when you sit down and start carving designs into a scrap piece of metal—something to pass the time—you find yourself etching the same line over and over again into the edge of the steel:

“You make things easier.”

—

You’re not sulking.

You’re just… adapting.

If Snotlout wants to flirt with Minden until his tongue falls off, fine. Let him.

You’re done waiting on the sidelines, done swallowing every word you wish he’d say.

So you do the unthinkable.

You start laughing at Tuffnut’s jokes.

Worse: you start encouraging them.

⸻

It starts during a routine supply mission. You’re paired with Tuffnut and Fishlegs because, apparently, fate thinks you’re not emotionally exhausted enough.

And Tuffnut? He’s in rare form today.

Going on about naming sheep after Viking gods. Conspiracy theories about dragon saliva. Something about training chickens to pilot boats.

You laugh. You actually laugh.

Not forced. Not fake. It even surprises you.

It feels good. Too good.

So you lean into it.

“Honestly, Tuffnut, I think you’re the only one here who truly understands the laws of nature.”

“RIGHT? I’ve been saying this for YEARS!”

Fishlegs nearly walks into a tree.

⸻

The next day, you sit next to Tuffnut at lunch.

You don’t ignore Snotlout — that would be obvious. But you don’t acknowledge him first, either.

Tuffnut’s telling some story about getting his braid stuck in a saddle buckle and you’re cackling, like he’s the most entertaining human on the island.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Snotlout glance over.

Once.

Twice.

Lingering.

⸻

Later that evening, you pass him by the training ring.

“New best friend now?” he asks, offhand, like he’s joking.

You tilt your head. “Tuffnut’s a riot. And honestly? Surprisingly charming.

You don’t say it to be cruel.

But you watch his jaw tighten anyway.

⸻

That night, you lie awake staring at the ceiling, the sound of your own laugh echoing hollow in your chest.

You made it through the whole day without thinking about how his eyes used to linger on you.

That must count for something.

Right?

—-

You’re not even sure when the trying stopped.

Maybe it was after lunch — when he sat next to Minden again, laughing about some inside joke you weren’t part of.

Or maybe it was earlier, when you caught him tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. Gentle. Familiar.

Too familiar.

⸻

The worst part is, he still talks to you.

Still jokes, still throws you those lazy grins in passing. As if nothing’s changed. As if he hasn’t taken every glance he used to give you and handed them off to someone else.

And you? You smile back. Because it’s easier that way.

Because what else are you supposed to do?

Scream?

Beg?

Ask why her and not me?

⸻

Later, you’re alone by the cliff with your dragon, repairing a torn saddle strap. The wind bites harder than usual.

You think of the forge — the place that used to feel safe.

Now, even the metal feels too soft in your hands.

⸻

You hear footsteps behind you.

You don’t look.

You don’t have to.

“Hey,” Snotlout says, voice casual.

You keep working. “Hey.”

He sits beside you in the grass like it means nothing. Like he still belongs here.

He watches your hands. “You’ve been quiet lately.”

You shrug. “Not much to say.”

Another pause.

Then, “You and Tuffnut, huh?”

You don’t even glance at him.

“Tuffnut’s funny. Honest.”

He huffs a laugh. “Guess that’s your type now?”

You finally look up at him — just enough for your voice to soften into something that almost sounds kind.

“Honestly? I don’t think I have a type anymore.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t give him time to find the words. You stand, dust off your hands, and walk away.

You don’t see the look on his face.

You don’t want to.

Because whatever it is — it’s not enough.

The days blur.

There’s nothing dramatic about it. No shouting, no confrontations, no grand declarations of heartbreak.

Just small things.

You speak less. Move more.

You take the earlier patrols — the ones that start before the sun rises and end in silence. No one volunteers to join. You don’t ask.

You eat alone more often. Not because you’re angry. Just because it’s quieter.

And Snotlout?

He doesn’t seem to notice.

⸻

He still flirts with Minden.

Still laughs with her after missions. Still calls her “his secret weapon” during training.

He still looks at her.

And somehow, that hurts more than anything he’s ever said to you.

Because it’s not just interest anymore.

It’s attachment.

And that… that you can’t compete with.

So you stop trying.

⸻

When people speak to you, you smile.

You answer. You help.

You are kind. Capable. Present.

But no one asks if you’re okay.

And you wouldn’t tell them if they did.

⸻

One night, while everyone else is gathered around the fire, you find yourself at the edge of the dock.

Your boots dangle above the water. The moon paints silver on the waves. You sit still. Breathe deep.

You’re not crying.

You’re just… letting the silence hold you for a while.

You think about how easy it would be to slip beneath the water. Not to disappear — just to float. To be somewhere no one can see you. Where your chest doesn’t hurt every time he laughs in someone else’s direction.

But you stay seated.

Because leaving would look like weakness.

And you’ve spent too long pretending to be strong.

⸻

Somewhere behind you, the others laugh again. Snotlout’s voice is the loudest.

You don’t turn to look.

You don’t need to.

You already know he’s not looking for you.

—

It’s late afternoon when you find them.

You weren’t looking for him — of course not. You were cutting through the western path near the stables, taking the long way to avoid the crowd gathering at the training ring.

You weren’t avoiding him. You just didn’t feel like watching him chase someone who isn’t you.

But fate is cruel.

And timing is crueler.

Because you round the corner just in time to see her — Minden — lean up and kiss him on the cheek.

Soft. Light. Familiar.

It’s nothing. Barely even romantic.

But he smiles after.

Worse — he looks surprised, like he wasn’t expecting it, but welcomes it.

And then he says something you can’t hear, something quiet and smiling, and she laughs like he just said the nicest thing in the world.

And it hits you like a punch to the ribs.

⸻

You don’t gasp. You don’t flinch. You don’t make a sound.

You just stand there for one moment too long.

Then you turn and walk away.

⸻

You don’t run. You don’t run.

You walk back to the forge, where no one is, where you can be nothing but busy. Productive. Useful.

You drop your tools once — just once — when your hands won’t stop shaking.

You sit on the bench, chest tight, air refusing to move in your lungs.

Still no tears. You won’t give the world that.

But you press a hand to your chest.

Because something hurts. Something deep.

Like something has started to root there.

⸻

That night, you sleep facing the wall.

You hear laughter outside. Distant. Faint.

And your throat is sore when you wake.

Just sore.

Probably the forge smoke.

Probably nothing.

—-

The forge is hotter than usual.

Or maybe that’s just you.

You’ve been there for hours, working through a new batch of saddle reinforcements no one asked for. You’re tired, but movement is easier than stillness. The hammer keeps your hands busy. The fire drowns out your thoughts.

Until the coughing starts.

It’s sudden — sharp, dry. You choke once, hand to your mouth, startled.

It passes.

You swallow. Breathe. Shake it off.

Probably just the smoke.

You go back to work.

⸻

It happens again later. Stronger. Enough to bend you over the bench, knuckles white as you brace yourself.

The heat presses into your skin, into your lungs, and this time… something drips.

You wipe at your nose. Blood.

Not much. Just enough to stain your glove.

You freeze.

Just for a moment.

Then you sigh. Soft. Disappointed, maybe — not in your body, but in yourself.

You crumple the cloth. Toss it in the fire.

“It’s just the heat,” you say aloud.

“Just the forge. Just stress. That’s all.”

The echo in the room doesn’t argue.

⸻

You don’t mention it.

To anyone.

When Minden waves at you that evening, you wave back.

When Snotlout smiles at her like she’s gravity, you keep your face blank.

You still sit at dinner. Still talk. Still function.

But your throat is sore again.

And your hands are trembling.

Only a little.

⸻

That night, you stare at the ceiling, thinking:

If love can grow unnoticed…

maybe it can die the same way.

But deep down, you already know that’s not true.

—

The morning is quiet.

No drills. No patrols. No missions. Just blue skies, calm waves, and the soft hum of dragons sunbathing on warm rocks.

It’s a rare day off.

You take it.

You even let yourself breathe.

You sit near the cliffs, legs stretched, back against a smooth patch of stone, your dragon curled beside you, radiating heat like a living fireplace. The breeze ruffles your hair. Somewhere down the ridge, you hear Ruffnut yelling something about fish theft and Tuffnut yelling louder about “defending his honor.”

You smile. Genuinely.

For a moment, it almost feels like nothing’s changed.

⸻

Snotlout and Minden are sparring down below, blades clashing softly, laughing between dodges. You glance once. Only once.

Then you look away.

You’re not doing this to yourself today.

Today is for peace.

⸻

You decide to walk to the northern bluff. There’s a flower patch up there that blooms this time of year — soft, quiet things, wild and small. You always liked them. Not because of their beauty, but because no one else really notices them.

The climb is easy. Familiar. You’ve done it a dozen times.

But halfway up, your lungs tighten. A dry scratch burns at the back of your throat.

You stop.

Cough once. Then again, harsher.

You steady yourself on a rock ledge. Your vision pulses for a second—white at the edges.

Then you feel it.

A warm trickle from your nose.

You bring your fingers up.

Red.

⸻

You stay like that for a while — crouched, alone, head tilted back, sleeve pressed to your face, breathing slow and quiet like you’re afraid of being heard.

You don’t panic.

You don’t move.

You just wait for it to pass.

Because if you move, if you stumble, someone might notice.

And you can’t let that happen.

⸻

Eventually, it stops.

You wipe your hands clean. Breathe out.

You keep walking.

You reach the flower patch.

You sit down beside it like everything’s fine.

And when you get back to camp, you smile like nothing happened.

Because technically, it didn’t.

—

The bleeding stopped. The coughing faded. The tightness in your chest… it lingers, but quietly. Manageable. Like a secret you’ve made peace with.

And you?

You’re back.

Or at least, you look it.

You’re talking more again. Sparring with energy. Eating with the others. Laughing. Flashing sarcastic smiles like they mean something.

Snotlout watches you from across the training field and sees what he wants to see.

You’re okay.

You got over it.

You moved on.

And you let him believe it.

⸻

“Tuffnut!” you call out, tossing a training spear his way.

He catches it upside down, grinning. “Are we fighting or dancing?”

You grin back. “Depends — are you finally gonna keep up this time?”

“Ha!” he yells. “Don’t tempt me, fair warrior! You’ll fall in love with me mid-duel.”

“Guess I better aim for the throat, then.”

Your blade rings against his. He yelps dramatically. You laugh, full and bright.

From the side, you catch Snotlout watching. Curious. Maybe even a little puzzled.

You don’t give him time to look deeper.

⸻

Later, during lunch, you sit between Fishlegs and Tuffnut. You steal a bite off Tuffnut’s plate. He pretends to swoon.

“You’re basically married now,” Fishlegs mutters.

You wink. “I like a man who lets me steal.”

Snotlout chuckles faintly from across the fire. “Didn’t know you were into chaos gremlins.”

You glance over your shoulder, meet his gaze — all ease, all light.

“Guess I’m expanding my horizons.”

He laughs. He smiles. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay.

Because why would he?

You’re laughing again.

You’re fine.

⸻

That night, alone in your hut, you wipe blood from your nose again.

Soft. Quiet. Routine.

You don’t even blink anymore.

You just tip your head back, breathe through your mouth, and whisper to the ceiling:

“Just keep smiling.”

Because if he never truly saw you when you were hurting…

Maybe he’ll never notice you disappear either.

—

It happens during evening chores.

You’re helping Tuffnut rewrap the harness on Barf and Belch — or more accurately, you’re doing it, while Tuffnut makes dramatic commentary and “supervises” from the top of a barrel.

You’re laughing at something stupid he says — really laughing — head tilted back, cheeks flushed, no trace of exhaustion or distance.

It’s the most alive you’ve looked in weeks.

And Snotlout notices.

⸻

He’s supposed to be checking Hookfang’s tail fins.

He’s not.

He’s watching you.

⸻

You swat Tuffnut’s arm with a length of strap. He pretends to faint dramatically, arms flopping backward off the barrel.

You nudge his leg with your boot. “If you die up there, I’m not hauling your body to the medic again.”

Tuffnut peeks open one eye. “You’d cry if I died.”

You grin. “Only because I’d lose my favorite lunch thief.”

Snotlout looks away.

⸻

Later, around the fire, you sit close to Tuffnut again. Not clingy. Not obvious.

Just… close.

When Snotlout tosses a joke your way, you laugh politely — not cold, but not like before.

Something about it makes him pause.

He watches the way you lean into Tuffnut’s side during a story. Watches the way Tuffnut throws an arm around your shoulders without hesitation — and the way you let him.

Snotlout forces a laugh at Ruffnut’s joke. Misses the punchline completely.

⸻

He catches you alone by the water barrels later, refilling your canteen.

He leans on the post next to you, casual.

Oh Thor, how it hurts having him this near.

“You and Tuffnut’ve been hanging out a lot.”

You shrug. “He’s fun. And uncomplicated.”

He laughs, a little awkward. “Uncomplicated? That’s one word for him.”

You glance at him. Smile, slow and easy.

“It’s kind of nice. Not feeling like you have to prove anything.”

He goes still. Just for a second.

Because those are his words.

Words he once said to you.

And now you’re saying them back — but not to him.

He doesn’t say anything else.

He just watches you walk away.

⸻

He tells himself it’s nothing.

That it’s fine.

That you’re happy.

But that night, he can’t fall asleep.

And he doesn’t know why.

—-

You become known for laughing now.

You wonder if they notice how new that is.

Tuffnut calls you “his chaos twin” and throws himself dramatically in front of dragon poop to “protect your honor.” You almost trip over yourself laughing.

You toss a flower crown onto his head during lunch. He bows like you knighted him.

The others cheer. You smile.

It looks like joy.

So it must be, right?

⸻

Snotlout watches sometimes. You feel it.

But he never says anything.

Not “You okay?”

Not “You seem different.”

Not “I miss the way you used to look at me.”

And maybe he never will.

So you fill the silence with Tuffnut.

He’s easy. Loud. Safe.

He doesn’t see through you — and that’s exactly what you need.

⸻

The forge becomes your escape again, but in a new way.

Not for isolation.

For distraction.

You make things for Tuffnut now — ridiculous things. A dagger shaped like a chicken leg. A helmet with antlers. A bracelet with his dragon’s teeth woven into it (he cried).

You don’t forge to keep your hands busy anymore.

You forge to pretend you’re not grieving someone who isn’t even gone.

⸻

There are moments, though.

Quiet ones.

When you’re alone, and the laughter’s gone, and your reflection catches you in the still water or the edge of a polished blade…

And for just a second, you don’t recognize yourself.

Not because you’re faking.

But because you’ve forgotten what you really feel like underneath it all.

⸻

The coughs return.

Soft. Dry. Easily hidden.

You rub your chest once after a long flight, press your knuckles against your sternum until the ache passes.

It always passes.

For now.

⸻

When Tuffnut asks if you’re okay, you ruffle his hair and grin.

“Always. Why wouldn’t I be?”

And he believes you.

Everyone does.

Even Snotlout.

Especially Snotlout.

Stay tuned!

This time snotlout x blacksmith!reader and also mermaid!reader. There will be different arc for this piece.

The prequel arc will set during the event of HTTYD:DOB, snotlout and you weren’t friends. Not quite rivals either. But something unspoken lived between both of you—hidden in the way you both fought, the way you watched each other when no one else was looking.

You forged blades that spoke louder than words.

He wore them like a promise he’d never admit to making.

And then—

A mission. A choice.

A moment that changed everything.

Some bonds are formed too late.

And some goodbyes don’t stay buried forever.

——

There will be the aftermath arc, the main event, which will take place in HTTYD 3. You returned, new face, new body.

Snotlout still wears the braid—frayed, faded, but never untied.

Then she arrives.

New face. New name.

But her voice strikes like a half-remembered song.

And something in him stirs—

not recognition…

just the ache of a ghost brushing past old scars.

A Snotlout x reader fic | Enemies-to-Lovers| Bantering|

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

——

Chapter 3: Sharper Than Steel

You don’t avoid him. But you don’t look forward to seeing him either. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

When his voice cuts through the crisp morning air—louder than it needs to be, just like always—it sends a jolt through your spine. You don’t flinch. You don’t have the luxury.

“You’re late, Forge Face,” Snotlout calls, loud enough for the twins to laugh and for Astrid to sigh in long-suffering exasperation.

You raise a brow, unbothered. “And yet I’ll still outfly you.”

That earns a low whistle from Tuffnut. “Yeesh. Burned and branded.”

Snotlout smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Not like it used to.

You toss your bag to the ground and mount your dragon without another word. The morning sun glares off the cliffs, sharp and blinding. It matches the way your thoughts keep cutting you from the inside.

The sky’s clear. The wind perfect. But none of it feels right.

Not with the way he hovers too close behind you on the flight path. Not with the way his dragon mirrors yours too precisely, like Hookfang is watching you just as carefully.

Like maybe he’s been told to.

⸻

You land with a hard thud on the training cliff, dust rising around your boots.

Snotlout lands a beat after you—closer than he needs to.

“You been practicing?” he asks, casually leaning against Hookfang like you haven’t been avoiding the weight of his voice for days.

“I train,” you reply dryly. “Unlike some people.”

He grins, cocky and deflecting. “Please. You miss me when I’m gone.”

You snort. “I miss the silence.”

But your words don’t hit the way they used to. His smirk twitches—just for a second—and for a heartbeat, the air stills between you.

You hate how easy it is to remember what he said by the cliff. How real he sounded. How your hands curled into fists long after he walked away.

He looks like he wants to say something more. Maybe you do too.

Instead, you both look away.

⸻

That night, by the forge, your hands are steady. The metal glows, the heat bites—comforting in its simplicity. Here, there’s no confusion. No words to misinterpret.

You hear footsteps behind you and already know who it is.

“Should’ve guessed you’d be here,” he says, voice softer than usual. A little uncertain. “Brooding over your latest blade?”

You don’t turn around. “No. Just needed something I could hit with a hammer.”

“Want me to stand in for it?”

You finally glance at him. “Tempting.”

There’s a pause. Not tense. Not awkward. Just full of things you’re not ready to say.

He nods toward the half-shaped dagger on your workbench. “It’s crooked,” he offers unhelpfully.

You narrow your eyes. “And your jaw won’t be if you keep talking.”

That earns the first real grin of the day from him. Still boyish. Still infuriating. Still—

“I meant what I said, you know,” he murmurs, and it’s too quiet. “By the cliff.”

You freeze.

Your heartbeat hammers like it wants to echo the strikes you’ve just silenced. You glance down at the blade. Crooked, he said. Maybe so.

You don’t look at him. “Which part?”

He hesitates. “The part where I said I didn’t know how to talk to you.”

You wipe your hands on a cloth, still not facing him. “Try not talking at all. It suits you.”

He laughs, but it’s hollow. “There she is.”

When you finally meet his eyes, there’s something unspoken hanging between you. Fragile. Trembling. Real.

“You don’t get to say things like that and walk away, Snotlout,” you say quietly. “Not unless you mean to leave them behind.”

“I wasn’t walking away,” he says. “I was giving you space.”

“Well, I didn’t ask for it.”

“You didn’t ask for me either,” he says. “But here I am.”

That’s the problem, isn’t it?

You don’t answer him.

Not really.

Not with words.

You just stare down at the blade again, pretending to check the edge. But it’s dull—on purpose. You made it that way. Like you couldn’t trust yourself to make anything sharp when your thoughts were already doing the cutting.

He shifts behind you. You feel it more than you see it. The way his weight moves from one foot to the other. Like he wants to stay. Like he doesn’t know how to say that without sounding like he cares.

“I should go,” he says finally, but doesn’t move.

“Then go.”

You don’t look up, but you hear the pause. The hesitation. The scrape of his boot against stone.

When he finally walks out, it’s quieter than usual.

You hate that you notice.

You hate that it feels like something’s missing the moment he’s gone.

⸻

Later, you hear Astrid’s voice drift across the training grounds, low and sharp as always.

“Whatever’s going on with you two,” she says when she catches you alone, “figure it out. Before someone gets hurt.”

You blink. “We’re not—”

“I didn’t say you were,” she cuts in. “But it doesn’t take a seer to see you’ve been off.”

You look away. “We’re always off.”

She crosses her arms. “Not like this.”

⸻

The next morning, you find yourself at the cliffs again. Same place. Same sea. Same damn wind.

You tell yourself it’s because the view clears your head.

But when you see him there—already leaning against a rock, tossing pebbles over the edge like he’s been waiting—you curse yourself for coming.

He doesn’t look surprised to see you. That’s what makes it worse.

“You’re getting predictable,” he says, tossing another stone. “Or maybe I’m psychic.”

You glare at him. “If you were psychic, you’d know how close you are to getting pushed off that cliff.”

He smirks. “Still worth it.”

You walk past him, settling a few feet away, just far enough to breathe. Just close enough to feel the tension simmer between you again.

A few silent beats pass. The waves crash. A gull shrieks overhead. Hookfang snorts from behind the rocks.

“You never asked what I came here for,” he says suddenly.

You glance over. He’s not looking at you.

“Didn’t care,” you reply.

“Liar.”

You scoff.

But you don’t argue.

Because maybe you did care. Maybe too much.

He finally turns to face you. Eyes sharp, unreadable.

“You really think I’m always just messing around?”

You tilt your head at him. “Aren’t you?”

His jaw ticks.

“Not with you.”

Your chest tightens. Not because of the words—but because of how much effort it must’ve taken for him to say them and still pretend he doesn’t care.

You look away first.

“Then maybe stop pretending you don’t care at all.”

His silence is a wall. So is yours.

Neither of you move. Neither of you explain.

But the silence isn’t empty.

It’s loud.

It’s screaming.

The wind tugs at your hair.

He still hasn’t moved.

You don’t know if he’s waiting for you to speak or if he just doesn’t want to be the one to leave first.

You cross your arms, pretending the breeze is what makes you cold.

“You always sit out here like a lovesick seal?”

His head tilts, just a little. “Only when I’m waiting for someone whose bark’s worse than her bite.”

“Oh, so you admit you’re scared of me.”

He smirks. “I didn’t say scared. I said smart.”

You shake your head, lips twitching in spite of yourself. “Right. Smart. That why you got your axe stuck in a stump during last week’s sparring match?”

“It was tactical. You wouldn’t get it. Advanced technique.”

You scoff. “You tripped over your own foot.”

“It was Hookfang’s fault.”

“He wasn’t even there.”

“Exactly. See? You’re getting it now.”

The air settles into something almost like normal again. Almost.

And that’s what makes it worse.

Because this used to be easy.

You used to know exactly how to tease him, exactly how to land the jab and walk away before it stuck.

But now you’re not sure if you’re fighting or dancing around something else entirely.

⸻

After a while, he leans back on his elbows, eyes on the clouds.

“You know,” he says casually, “for someone who claims not to care, you show up in all the places I happen to be.”

You raise a brow. “Bold talk for someone who clearly followed me here first.”

“I got here before you.”

“And that proves what? You’re clingy and persistent?”

He looks at you sidelong. “Do you want me to be?”

You hate how your breath hitches. He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does. It’s getting harder to tell.

So you roll your eyes instead. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late.”

He grins.

And you hate how it still makes your stomach twist.

⸻

The sun sinks lower on the horizon. A warm orange cuts across his cheekbone. You glance at him again, more carefully this time.

He’s watching the sky.

Not you.

But his fingers tap against the rock beside him—an anxious, restless little rhythm. You know it because you’ve seen it before. When he’s waiting to be picked for a mission. When he’s pretending he’s not scared. When he’s trying not to speak.

“You okay?” you ask, too quietly.

He glances at you. “You’re asking me that now?”

“I’m allowed to ask questions.”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Just surprised you asked something real.”

You look away again, heat crawling up your neck. “Forget I said anything.”

A beat.

Then: “No. Don’t.”

The silence that follows is like a line drawn in the dirt between you. One step too far and you’ll cross into something you’re not ready for.

So neither of you move.

“You’re cold today,” he says, suddenly. Not teasing.

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs, eyes flicking out toward the ocean again. “Usually you’re fire. Sparks. Today it’s…” He trails off, squinting at the sky like it holds the word he’s looking for.

You scoff. “If you’re trying to psychoanalyze me, save your breath. You’d need more than one brain cell for that.”

He smirks, but not fully. “There she is.”

You don’t answer.

And the quiet that follows isn’t biting or smug like it used to be. It’s tired. Weighted.

You rise first, brushing off your legs.

“I’ve got better things to do than listen to you struggle with basic emotions,” you say, and even you hear the bite soften at the end.

You expect him to shoot something back. Some low-blow flirtation, some cheap jab. But he just looks up at you from where he sits—lips parted like the words are stuck in his mouth.

You don’t wait.

You walk away.

But his voice catches you before you’re too far.

“Hey.”

You pause.

“Same time tomorrow?”

You hesitate.

Then—because you hate how much you want to say yes—you shrug.

“Depends if I get bored enough.”

He grins at that. It’s crooked. Tired. A little too real.

“Then I’ll take that as a maybe.”

⸻

The next day – training field

The moment you show up, the others all stop what they’re doing like something’s about to explode.

Tuffnut nudges Ruffnut. Ruffnut nudges him back, equally dramatic.

Astrid raises an eyebrow.

Fishlegs looks worried, as always.

You’re used to walking into a room and feeling eyes on you. But this?

This is… different.

Snotlout’s already there, arms crossed, talking to Hiccup. But the second he spots you, he straightens. Not dramatically. Just… subtly. Like his spine remembers you before his mouth does.

You bite down your instinct to comment. But Tuffnut doesn’t.

“Oh, look who’s here,” he grins. “Our favorite enemies. Back for round forty?”

“More like eighty-three,” Ruffnut chimes. “But who’s counting?”

You narrow your eyes at them. “Don’t you two have explosives to misplace?”

“Not today,” Tuffnut sings. “Today’s a front-row seat to whatever weird thing you two are doing.”

Astrid snorts. “It’s getting harder to tell if you’re flirting or planning each other’s funerals.”

Snotlout grins without missing a beat. “Why not both?”

You shoot him a glare. “I’d pick the second option. Easier cleanup.”

“Oof,” Fishlegs murmurs.

But Astrid’s gaze lingers. Sharper than the rest. Less amused. More… observant.

Later, when she catches you away from the others, she speaks low, arms crossed.

“You okay?”

You frown. “Yeah. Why?”

“You and Snotlout. You’re not acting like you usually do.”

You shrug. “We’re always like this.”

Astrid looks at you, long and quiet. “No. You’re not.”

Before you can answer, Snotlout’s voice breaks in from across the field.

“Hey, Forge Face! You coming, or scared you’ll lose?”

You turn, narrowing your eyes. “Keep talking and I’ll melt that axe down to a spoon.”

He winks. “Then you’d finally be feeding me. About time.”

You roll your eyes. But your heart stutters.

Because suddenly, you don’t know what this is anymore.

You just know it’s starting to hurt.

And neither of you are ready to admit why.

You don’t realize you’re doing it until you’ve already spent hours at the forge.

The clang of metal. The bite of sparks. The familiar heat against your face—it calms you in ways words never could. Especially not with him.

Especially not lately.

Your hands move faster when you think of that smirk of his. When you remember the way he lingered yesterday. The way his voice dropped just enough to sound like it meant something.

He’s not supposed to mean anything.

You hate that you feel it anyway.

So you take that confusion—the knot twisting low in your stomach—and you hammer it out of steel.

Daggers.

Two of them.

You don’t plan the design. It just comes. Smooth grip, balanced weight, Jorgensen-styled etching along the sides. Something he’d actually use, not just show off.

By the time you’re done, the sun has dipped and the forge smells like sweat, smoke, and something dangerously close to regret.

You stare at what you’ve made.

And for a second—just a second—you almost throw them into the sea.

Instead, you wrap them in leather, tie them with a strip of cloth, and slip into the shadows.

⸻

You leave them in his stable.

Right by Hookfang’s feed crate, where only he would find them.

No note.

No name.

Nothing.

It’s not a gift.

It’s not.

You’re just… practicing.

That’s what you tell yourself.

And when the others find out the next morning, and the twins are loud about it, and Snotlout’s holding the daggers like they’re made of gold, you keep your face still.

“Who made these?” he asks, grinning like a kid at Snoggletog.

Everyone shrugs. Even Hiccup seems stumped.

Fishlegs leans in. “That etching… that’s custom. That’s not from the armory.”

Ruffnut grins. “Oooh, secret admirer? Come on, that’s romantic.”

“I bet it’s that redhead from the lower village,” Tuffnut says. “She did say Snotlout’s arms were ‘weapons in their own right’ yesterday.”

You roll your eyes. “Please. If she had taste, she wouldn’t be flirting with walking arrogance.”

Snotlout raises a brow, amused. “Jealous?”

“In your dreams.”

You turn away before he can see the heat creeping up your neck.

⸻

You think you’ve gotten away with it.

Until Astrid corners you later.

“You made those daggers.”

You don’t respond.

She crosses her arms. “Why lie?”

You shrug. “They’re just weapons.”

“Right,” she says dryly. “You always spend seven hours at the forge making ‘just weapons’ for people you allegedly can’t stand.”

You glare at her. “Drop it.”

She studies you, quiet now.

“You’re allowed to care, you know.”

Your chest tightens. “I don’t.”

Astrid’s lips twitch, but she doesn’t push further. She just nods once and walks away.

You hate how shaky your hands feel afterward.

The sky burns orange when you reach the cliff.

You didn’t mean to go there. Not really. Your feet just… brought you. Like they always do.

And of course, he’s already there.

Snotlout, lounging like the world owes him a favor. One leg stretched out, the other bent, a dagger in his hand—the dagger. The one you made.

You freeze for half a second.

He doesn’t notice.

He’s too busy testing the blade against his palm, light glinting off the edge.

“Thing’s wicked sharp,” he says, not looking at you. “Balanced like crazy. Must’ve been made by someone who actually knows what they’re doing.”

You settle beside him, careful to keep the space between you impassable. “Must be nice. Someone out there actually wasting talent on you.”

He grins. “That’s what I said.”

He flips the blade, catches it by the hilt. “No note, no name. Just left it for me like I’m some war hero or something.”

You snort. “Maybe it was an accident. Maybe someone meant to throw it at you.”

“Ouch,” he says, mock wounded. “That’s cold—even for you.”

You shrug, gaze fixed on the horizon. “I’m not known for being warm.”

He hums, tapping the blade against his knee. “Still. Weird, right? Someone sneaking into my stable? Leaving gifts?”

“Creepy, actually.”

He chuckles. “You’re jealous.”

You look at him, deadpan. “Of what? Your stalker?”

He smirks. “Of whoever made these. You probably wish you thought of it first.”

Your heartbeat skips. Just a little.

“I wouldn’t waste the effort,” you lie, voice cool. “Not on someone who thinks axe-throwing is a flirting technique.”

He laughs, head tipping back. “It worked once!”

“It hit me.”

He points at you. “And you’re still here. Coincidence? I think not.”

You shake your head, trying to hide the twitch of your lips. But the ache in your chest returns before the smile can land. Because he’s holding something you made. For him. With your hands. With every bit of silent, tangled feeling you’ve refused to name.

And he doesn’t know.

He can’t know.

So you lean back on your elbows and stare at the sea, pretending none of it means anything.

He stretches beside you, the dagger still in hand.

Neither of you speak again for a long while.

But somehow, it says everything anyway.

The sun hangs low, bleeding over the sea in streaks of gold and red. Neither of you says much now—just the occasional breath, the rustle of wind, the soft click of the dagger in his hand as he spins it.

Then, as if it’s nothing, he says:

“Bet it was that new girl from the docks. The way she looked at me last week? Definitely dagger-worthy.”

You blink once.

Slowly.

He doesn’t notice. Of course he doesn’t.

“She’s all quiet, mysterious. Probably the type to go all-out with some secret gift,” he continues, amused with his own logic. “Bet she’s got a crush and just doesn’t know how to say it.”

Your jaw tightens.

You keep your face still. Your voice even.

“Cute theory.”

He glances at you. “You disagree?”

You force a shrug. “I just think it’s pathetic.”

“What, secret admirers?”

“No. Wasting time on someone who’ll never notice.”

He raises an eyebrow, but you don’t look at him. You can’t. Not when your own words cut deeper than his ever could.

You push yourself to your feet.

“I’ve got patrol tomorrow. Try not to trip over your own ego before sunrise.”

He gives a lazy salute, still lounging in the grass. “No promises.”

You walk away before he can say anything else. Before your face betrays you. Before the ache blooms too loud to ignore.

Behind you, the sea roars.

And Snotlout stares at the dagger in his hand like it suddenly means more than he thought.

——

Author note :

—-

Part l Part ll Part lll Part lV

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Title: Ashes And Roses

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:· ﾟ:*·:*¨

“Snot… lout…”