Bleak meter: Sticky cartoony fluff, bleak levels at all-time low
Timeline: After Season 10/MotO
Context: "Duchess" is the baby Energy dragon from the Christmas fic "Wild and Sweet." Muzzle is her favorite babysitter. Also, Muzzle's growling speech is written in all italics to indicate translation; in the First Realm only Daddy No-Legs can fully understand him, although many of the others are learning bits and pieces.
The Hunters were building a new equipment shed to store vehicles and larger devices. Everyone who had time to spare was expected to help.
Muzzle was trying to stitch up a hole in one of his cowls when he heard the pounding of scaled talons, and a small bright-green dragon youngling came bounding around a hut, heading straight for him.
"Morning Duchess!" chirped Muzzle, holding out his arms for her to jump into. He laughed as she started gnawing vigorously on his mask. "Oh, is that all you wanted?"
Over the scraping of Duchess's teeth he heard his name being called from the worksite.
"I have to go," he said. With some difficulty he detached Duchess from his face and set her down. The dragon youngling was growing in her second set of teeth, and she now had a compulsion to constantly chew things. She made short work of sticks or wooden toys she was offered; instead she preferred to crunch her way through bones as thick as a Hunter's forearm, or straight-up sink her teeth into metal. The bars of Muzzle's mask were one of her favorite targets. He'd already had to replace several.
"I'm here!" said Muzzle, trotting over to the group.
"Good," said Faith. "If you could just dig us a—" She paused, giving Muzzle a bemused look. "Why are you all wet?"
Muzzle looked down at his cowl, the front of which was nearly soaked through.
"Oh. Duchess's drool," he said sheepishly, then glanced to No-Legs for translation.
"Oh, I thought that was yours," said No-Legs. Muzzle blew an unamused raspberry, which only served to dislodge some of the leftover saliva on the bars of his mask.
"Eugh." No-Legs backed away. "Well, anyway, Chief, his dragon's been slobbering on him again."
"Not my dragon," corrected Muzzle irritably.
"Is she still teething on everything?" Faith sighed. "Someday that's going to come back to bite us . . . "
"Pretty sure it's biting us right now, Chief," said No-Legs wryly. Faith waved him off and turned to start checking the ropes that would hoist the support pillars into place.
The equipment shed was coming along at a fine pace. Muzzle was helping with the crosspieces higher up. He swung down from his perch and darted between other Hunters working busily away, hoping to fetch a new pouch of nails.
"Oi, you little nuisance," called No-Legs, sounding irritated.
"Not now, I'm busy!" retorted Muzzle, sidestepping a woman with a wheelbarrow.
"Muzzle." No-Legs hoisted up one mech leg, which had Duchess attached and still gnawing. "Remove her."
Muzzle laughed, earning a glare.
"So help me—" said No-Legs ominously, twitching the leg up and down a little to indicate he might start waving the dragon youngling around any minute. "Get your nasty little whelp off of me, this instant."
"Fine, fine, keep your pants on," said Muzzle, rolling his eyes as he crouched next to Duchess. With some cooing and gentle prying at Duchess's jaws, he worked them off from the mech leg, leaving a patch of metal scarred with gnaw marks and tooth holes. He scooped the youngling into his arms with some effort—she was getting to be quite heavy.
"The way you carry on, I'd almost be ready to believe you didn't like her," he snarked over his shoulder.
"I can take her or leave her, let's put it that way," said No-Legs. "She's your whelp, I would thank you to leave me out of this entirely."
"She's not my whelp," sighed Muzzle, as Duchess squirmed out of his arms again. "She's Firstbourne's baby. I just babysit."
No-Legs muttered in distaste as Duchess scampered in reckless loops around his legs, forcing him to march in place awkwardly.
"Ill-behaved little brat. Mark my words, she's going to make you suffer."
"Duchess, listen," said Muzzle wearily. "Look at me. See this? Not. For. Chewing. No. Do you understand?"
No-Legs had been right, they were indeed getting bitten already. Or more accurately, their vehicles were. Duchess had been caught in the act of chewing an exhaust pipe right off a speeder, and Muzzle had been put behind the eight-ball to prevent further such incidents.
"You can chew things we give you," said Muzzle. "But if it's big like this? No chewing."
Duchess, meanwhile, had flopped over onto her back and was paddling her legs in the air happily. She tilted her head back to see if Muzzle was watching, her eyes bright. Muzzle groaned, slumping. Seeing that he didn't seem to be in a playful mood today, Duchess rolled to her feet and bounded over to No-Legs, who was tinkering with the village's helicopter nearby. She bounced in place, huffing for attention. When No-Legs looked down she reared up on her hind legs, flailing her front claws in an invitation to play.
"Don't come to me, rugrat," said No-Legs gruffly. "Just because I'm around Muzzle a lot doesn't mean I'm part of the whelp-minding racket."
Duchess tilted her head forlornly, but finally scampered off, resigned. Muzzle came along in her stead, his head hanging at his failure to educate.
"Your whelp is really going to snap a link for us someday," said No-Legs, unsympathetic. Muzzle sighed, too dejected to correct No-Legs on whelp ownership.
"That's what you get for hanging around with these little brats," said No-Legs. "Their brat adventures start to become your problem."
"What have you got against her?" said Muzzle wearily.
"Nothing whatsoever," said No-Legs. "Just that you'd never catch me going soft for a little menace like her. Being around whelps in general is decidedly unpleasant, and she's a prime specimen. She takes you in with her large eyes and flopping around, and then she drags you into her disasters. Take my word for it, you let a whelp get their claws into you—literally—and all you have coming is suffering."
"I like spending time with her," said Muzzle.
"Suit yourself," said No-Legs, tightening a final bolt and flicking the helicopter's rotors on to test. As the blades slowly began to whoosh around in a circle, there was a startled warble from overhead. The two Hunters looked up to find Duchess had somehow clambered up on top of the helicopter's rotors and was now straddling the center, spinning around and around as they turned. She looked around and made an "oooooooh!" noise, apparently not too discomfited, but Muzzle gave an alarmed screech and shot off to find a ladder.
"Dear sands," groaned No-Legs, hastily shutting the helicopter off before it could fling Duchess off somewhere. "What a little nightmare."
Maybe No-Legs should have replaced Chew Toy as village fortune-teller; Duchess did in fact snap a link. She came bounding in one day shimmering and reeking of diesel fuel, and an investigation revealed that she had been spending her morning chewing multiple holes in the undercarriage of the Dieselnaught. It was near-gutted.
"Faith's going to kill you," said Jet Jack, examining a carburetor torn raggedly in half. Muzzle grabbed fistfuls of his cowl.
"Don't tell her!"
"She's going to have to know eventually," said No-Legs, cocking his head reproachfully.
"I know, I know, I know . . . " Muzzle pulled his cowl further down over his eyes. "Just . . . let me fix it first. At least part of it. So she doesn't have to see the damage."
"You work hard for your Chief's pet position," said Jet Jack, and chuckled when Muzzle gave her an irritated woof. "Hey. Get to work, I'll make sure Faith leaves this part of town for last today. Just make it quick, because I'm not going to lie, 'kay?"
She winked, spread her wings, and was gone. Muzzle stuck a hand under his cowl to rake through his hair, tallying the extent of repairs he'd have to do.
"How did she even get through this much?" he lamented. "Firstbourne just dropped her off a few hours ago!"
"I thought I hadn't seen her in a while," said No-Legs, folding his arms. "Uhh . . . come to think. Where is she now?"
A few minutes' panicked searching turned up Duchess, ripping an aileron off a speeder jet. Muzzle yelped and dove to haul her off her prey, but had to put up quite the struggle before he got her to relinquish her grip.
"Duchess!" he groaned.
"Unbelievable," said No-Legs. "Send her home."
"I can't," said Muzzle despairingly. "I promised to watch her today until Firstbourne gets back from hunting."
"Well, you can't very well look after her and fix the Dieselnaught at the same time," said No-Legs.
"I know that!" Muzzle let Duchess drop to all fours and bounce off. "I need to find somebody else to watch her, and fast!"
He was already walking away when he suddenly turned back. For a second he seemed about to say something, then he thought better of it and turned away again. No-Legs guessed the question, though.
"What, me look after your whelp? Of all the miserable ways to spend the day—"
"Oh, give it a rest!" growled Muzzle over his shoulder. "I know, I know. Whelps are good for nothing but suffering."
"And was I wrong?" said No-Legs, keeping pace at Muzzle's heels as he stormed along. "Look where she's gotten you now."
"Look, if you're not going to watch her, fine, but you could at least help me find someone else," snapped Muzzle.
"Look, at no point did I say I wasn't going to! I just said I don't like it," retorted No-Legs.
Muzzle turned around and looked at him wordlessly. No-Legs came up short, also out of words. They stood and stared at each other for a minute, Muzzle growing increasingly smug and No-Legs increasingly bemused.
"What?" he finally said.
Muzzle was more or less trying to redo the entire insides of the Dieselnaught. This involved a lot of hunting for new parts. As he came back from fetching a new carburetor, he came across Duchess, pelting wildly among a stack of crates and barrels. He came up short, worried that she had gotten away from No-Legs, but before he could intervene Duchess threw herself at a metal rod lying on the ground. Snatching it in her teeth, she pivoted in a flourish of her tail and went bounding back the way she'd come. Heartened (and somewhat surprised) to see that she was only playing fetch, Muzzle poked his head over a stack of crates to see where she went. He was just in time to see Duchess spit out the rod and instead fling herself bodily up at No-Legs' mech. She actually managed to achieve the flat part of the cupola, earning an indignant cry from No-Legs.
"Get off, you, that's not for you."
There was a brief scuffle during which No-Legs tried to hoist the dragon youngling off the mech, while she slithered all around him and scrabbled for purchase. In the end Duchess ended up with her foreclaws draped firmly over No-Legs' shoulders, her chin resting atop his head; she began to lick enthusiastically at his ponytail, which he always kept slicked with grease.
"You absolute menace," said No-Legs, but he was audibly amused. "Ouch!"
Trying to pry one of the dragon's foreclaws from his face as she continued going after his hair, he caught sight of Muzzle. He looked startled for a moment.
"Are you suffering?" said Muzzle.
"Absolutely," deadpanned No-Legs, prying at Duchess as she worked her way around and started trying to lick his face.
"Good. Suffer," said Muzzle sternly, and went on his way.
Prompt was "Misery." (I am perverse and I WILL write all the ominous prompts as cute fluffy fics, just watch me)