Quotev
I miss quotev, it was such a prominent part of my childhood
I understand that there was a lot of shit going on via the messaging and groups and stuff, but it was a platform I knew well, could easily navigate and truly felt like myself on. I had so many friends on it, and those who didn't like me stayed deleted with the private messaging, but like......I miss being able to dm someone about a story they wrote, give genuine advice and roleplay. Discord and Tumblr, while delightful in their own rights, don't carry that magic that quotev once did...
I dunno, I just kinda miss it
Maybe it's love, in a cruel way
hi all, this is my first ever "proper" fic, implies spicey obv, uh donald duck x donald trump crack fic, 6.1k words. ENJOY
An explosion—that’s how it all started. The sound tore through the air, shattering windows and shaking the ground beneath the White House. Within seconds, Secret Service agents swarmed the corridors, shouting orders as alarms wailed through the chaos. Sirens screamed, echoing off marble walls—a horrid, endless sound that Donald Trump would rather forget.
He was rushed out through a secure tunnel, the flash of emergency lights painting his face red and blue. No time to look back. No time to ask questions. Within minutes, he was airborne, bound for safety far from the capital—the destination: a naval vessel somewhere off the Atlantic coast.
That’s where our story begins—adrift at sea, with the world above uncertain, and the former president caught between crisis and consequence.
It’s noon—a lazy kind of day at sea. The waves roll in slow, rhythmic swells, the kind that make the world feel half-asleep. Donald Duck is sprawled out on deck, a sunhat tipped over his beak, feathers fluffed, humming to himself. It’s his favorite kind of afternoon: quiet, warm, and absolutely responsibility-free.
The sun hangs high above, a golden coin tossed into a spotless blue sky. Not a cloud in sight. A perfect day—until the hatch creaks open and another Donald emerges.
Donald Trump steps out from the Racks, the cramped, metallic quarters below deck. The air is thick with oil, salt, and the unmistakable tang of too many sailors packed too close together. He squints against the sunlight, straightens his tie—a tie he insisted on bringing, even out here—and mutters something about ventilation and “the worst accommodations in history.”
Donald Duck lifts his hat, blinking at the newcomer. Two Donalds, one duck, and far too much ego between them.
Donald Duck is the first to notice him. The moment Trump’s polished shoes hit the deck, the duck’s eyes narrow, a sly, mischievous smirk curling over his bill. He rises slowly, stretching his wings with exaggerated leisure, the picture of smug confidence under the midday sun.
Without a word, Donald Duck saunters over, his webbed feet slapping against the planks. His gaze flicks to Trump’s bright red tie—the same one that’s somehow survived every gust of wind and splash of salt water. With a quick, practiced motion, Duck snatches it right from Trump’s chest.
Trump freezes, caught off guard, a mix of outrage and disbelief twisting across his face.
Donald Duck doesn’t run. Instead, he loops the tie over his head, tilting it like a crown. The wind catches it, fluttering dramatically as he strikes a mock-regal pose.
“Very funny,” Trump mutters, brushing off his jacket. “Really mature. You think that’s presidential?”
Donald just quacks—a sharp, taunting laugh that echoes over the deck.
The two stand there, eye to eye (or rather, eye to beak), the sea around them shimmering like a stage set for a duel. One smirks with cartoonish arrogance; the other fumes with barely contained indignation.
Enemies, born of coincidence and pride, squaring off beneath an indifferent sun.
A few days pass, each one blurring into the next beneath the endless blue of the sea. Donald Duck has made it his personal mission to torment Donald Trump—small things at first: a misplaced comb, a mysteriously vanishing hairbrush, the occasional squawked insult just loud enough to be heard over the wind. Trump takes the bait every time, red in the face, sputtering threats about “respect,” “leadership,” and “how things used to be run.”
The sailors, of course, find it hilarious. To them, it’s free entertainment—something to break up the monotony of waves and watch rotations. A cartoon bird and a former president locked in a petty cold war across the deck. It becomes shipwide folklore by the third day.
Now it’s evening—around eight. The mess hall glows with the dim, yellow light of the overhead bulbs. Tin plates clatter. Someone laughs too loud at a story that isn’t that funny. The sea hums faintly outside, steady and endless.
Donald Duck sits among his shipmates, leaning back in his chair, looking far too pleased with himself. His uniform is wrinkled, his feathers slightly ruffled, but his grin—sharp and knowing—hasn’t faded all day.
Donald Trump, on the other hand, has already retreated to his bunk. He’d skipped dinner entirely, muttering something about “unprofessional conduct” and “terrible hospitality.” Irritated, exhausted, and oddly unsettled, he’s chosen solitude over another evening of ridicule.
About an hour into dinner, a young sailor named John, barely old enough to shave, breaks the rhythm of conversation. He glances across the table, eyes glinting with curiosity.
“So,” he begins carefully, “what’s with you and Mr. Trump?”
A few heads turn. Forks pause midair. The question lingers, heavy and teasing.
Donald Duck doesn’t answer at first. He just smirks, staring at the candlelight flickering against his glass of water. When he finally speaks, his tone is light—almost musical—but there’s something underneath it, something strange.
“Oh, him?” he says. “He’s… entertaining.”
John chuckles, but Donald doesn’t. His expression shifts, just for a second—something unreadable flickers in his eyes before it’s gone, replaced by that same cold amusement.
“He talks too much. Complains too much. Walks around like he owns the ocean,” Donald adds, swirling his drink. “But when he’s quiet—when he forgets to be himself—he’s almost… tolerable.”
The table goes quiet for a moment, the air thick with implication. Then Donald laughs—a sharp, brittle sound that breaks the tension like glass.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, his grin returning. “It’s just fun. Nothing else.”
But John, watching him closely, isn’t sure he believes that. And when Donald Duck finally looks away, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the mess hall window—out into the dark sea where the moonlight drifts—there’s a flicker of something softer, something fleeting and unwanted.
Something that even he won’t admit to himself.
Two more days pass, and Donald Duck is uncharacteristically quiet. The ship creaks beneath the weight of the sea, the days rolling together in slow, heavy rhythm. He doesn’t joke, doesn’t tease; he just watches. Watches Trump pace the deck, hands clasped behind his back, his reflection trailing in the water like a ghost.
Why is he feeling like this? What exactly is this? He isn’t sure. It isn’t amusement anymore, and it isn’t anger either. It’s something in between — something that curls in his chest and won’t let go.
That evening, the wind is gentler than usual. The sky burns orange, fading to rose, and the sea mirrors it back like glass. Donald Duck finds Trump leaning against the railing, staring out into the horizon. For once, there’s no entourage, no audience, no noise. Just the two of them, adrift in a silence that feels heavier than words.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Duck says, his voice softer than he means it to be.
Trump glances over, guarded. “You mean the sunset, or your latest scheme?”
Duck smirks, but it’s half-hearted. “Maybe both.”
Trump shakes his head, but there’s no real irritation there. “You’ve been quiet lately. What, ran out of jokes?”
Duck shrugs, looking down at the rippling water. “Just thinking.”
“About what?”
He doesn’t answer right away. The sea fills the pause, slow and infinite. Finally, he says, “About people. How strange they are.”
Trump snorts. “You’re one to talk.”
That earns the faintest laugh from the duck — small, genuine, almost human. For a moment, they just stand there, side by side, both pretending they’re not aware of the stillness between them. The air feels charged, confusing, alive.
Trump adjusts his tie — an old habit, something to keep his hands busy. “You know,” he says after a beat, “you’re not as funny when you’re serious.”
“And you’re not as annoying when you’re quiet,” Duck replies.
A sharp look passes between them, something almost challenging — but neither looks away. The sea hums below, the last light dying over the horizon.
Then Donald Duck turns, heading back toward the cabins. “Good night,” he says, voice unreadable.
Trump watches him go, a frown tugging at his mouth, though he can’t quite explain why. He stays there long after the duck has vanished below deck, the wind tugging gently at his tie, wondering when the air between them had started to feel so strange.
A day passes. Then another. The rhythm of the ocean takes on a strange gravity—waves heaving and falling in their slow, eternal breath. The crew settles into the lull, conversations becoming whispers, movements deliberate. Even laughter sounds muted, as if the sea itself is listening.
Donald Duck hasn’t spoken much. He’s been working—oddly diligent for once—scrubbing deck rails, checking lines, doing anything that keeps his hands moving and his mind elsewhere. The sailors notice, but no one says a word.
Trump, for his part, has stopped complaining. He’s quieter now, pacing less, watching more. He’s begun to recognize the duck’s silence as something deliberate, something not entirely hostile. There’s a strange comfort in it—an unspoken truce born from exhaustion and too much shared air.
By evening, the light fades into a bruised blue. Dinner is subdued, the mood almost tender in its stillness. Trump sits alone near the porthole, nursing a cup of coffee that’s long gone cold. He doesn’t look up when Donald Duck walks in, but he feels it—the subtle shift in the room, the murmurs that fade just slightly.
Duck hesitates, then sits across from him. For a long moment, neither says anything.
Finally, Trump sighs. “You ever think about how small it all looks from out here?”
Duck tilts his head. “The world?”
“Yeah.” Trump gestures vaguely toward the window, where the last sliver of sun cuts across the water. “Everything that used to matter. Cities. Towers. Crowds. Cameras. All of it. Feels… smaller.”
Donald studies him. There’s a glint of sincerity beneath the bluster—a rare, quiet note in Trump’s usual symphony of noise.
“You miss it,” Duck says.
Trump doesn’t answer. He just watches the horizon.
“I don’t miss anything,” he finally mutters, though it sounds more like a question than an answer.
Duck leans back, eyes half-lidded. “Liar.”
That earns him a look—sharp, but not angry. The corner of Trump’s mouth almost softens.
“You think you know people?” Trump says.
“I watch,” Duck replies simply.
It isn’t friendship. It isn’t warmth. It’s something stranger—two lonely creatures circling each other out of habit, each pretending not to need what the other offers.
The next day dawns heavy and gray. The sea has changed—darker, restless, the kind that hums with distant thunder. The sailors move faster now, tightening ropes, checking the radar.
By midafternoon, the wind begins to rise. Rain spits against the metal deck, and the horizon dissolves into haze.
Trump stands near the bridge, gripping the railing as waves slap the hull. “How bad?” he calls over the wind.
The captain shouts something back, but it’s lost in the roar.
Donald Duck appears beside him, feathers whipped by the wind, eyes narrowed. “Below deck, now!”
Trump shakes his head. “I’m fine here.”
Duck grabs his arm—firm, no hesitation. “You’re not a sailor. Go.”
For once, Trump doesn’t argue. Something in the duck’s voice—low, sharp, unflinching—cuts through his pride. He nods, reluctantly, and turns toward the hatch.
But the storm isn’t merciful.
A wave, massive and sudden, slams against the starboard side. The ship lurches violently, metal shrieking under strain. Trump loses his footing, thrown hard against the railing. His hand slips—gone in an instant over the slick steel edge.
Donald doesn’t think. He just moves.
One leap—then another—and he’s over the rail, diving into the black water.
The sea swallows everything. Cold. Salt. Sound.
Trump thrashes, gasping, disoriented. The current pulls, brutal and relentless, dragging him under. For a flash, he sees the ship’s lights high above—then nothing but darkness.
Something grabs his jacket—strong, insistent. A blur of white feathers and motion. Donald Duck, wings slicing through the water, kicking hard against the current.
Trump’s mind stutters between disbelief and instinct. “You—you’re insane—”
“Shut up and swim!” Duck snarls, his voice nearly lost to the surf.
They break the surface together, gasping for air as another wave crashes over them. Lightning splits the sky, painting everything in white fire. The ship looms close, ropes tossed down by frantic sailors.
“Grab it!” Duck shouts.
Trump reaches, fingers slipping once, twice—and then he’s caught, hauled upward. Duck follows, coughing seawater, feathers plastered to his body. They collapse onto the deck, the storm still raging around them.
For a moment, neither moves. Just the sound of rain hammering steel, the echo of the sea still roaring in their ears.
Then Trump turns, still shaking, and looks at him. “You jumped. You actually—”
Duck glares. “What, you wanted me to let you drown?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You’re welcome, then.”
Trump opens his mouth to retort, but the words die there. He just nods once, quiet, unsure of what to say.
The sailors swarm around them, checking for injuries, shouting orders, but it all fades into the background. For a few seconds, it’s just them—two drenched silhouettes caught in the stormlight, the air between them electric with something neither can name.
That night, the storm finally breaks. The sea goes still again, eerily calm. The ship rocks gently, as if exhausted by its own fury.
Trump can’t sleep. He sits on the lower bunk, hair still damp, staring at the small window where the moon drifts in and out of view. Across the cabin, Donald Duck sleeps, or pretends to.
Finally, Trump says, “Why’d you do it?”
A beat of silence. Then a soft voice from the dark: “Because someone had to.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Duck rolls over, eyes catching the faint light. “Maybe I don’t have one.”
Trump studies him—the way the shadows fall over his face, the steady rise and fall of his chest. There’s a rawness in his tone that unsettles him, something vulnerable under all that sarcasm.
“You’re a strange one,” Trump murmurs.
Duck smirks faintly. “Takes one to know one.”
The room goes quiet again. Outside, the waves tap gently against the hull, a softer rhythm now.
Something fragile hangs in the air—mutual, unspoken. Gratitude, maybe. Or something that comes close to it. By morning, the crew is back to its routines, though the story of the rescue spreads fast. Some say they saw the duck dive before the wave even hit; others swear they heard Trump call out for him after they were pulled aboard. No one knows what’s true. The ship keeps its secrets, the sea even more so.
On deck, the air is clean, the sky scrubbed pale by the storm. Trump leans on the railing again, staring out into the horizon.
Donald Duck joins him wordlessly, feathers still a little disheveled but his posture easy. They stand in silence for a long while, listening to the soft slap of waves.
“About yesterday,” Trump begins, awkwardly. “I didn’t… say thanks.”
“You just did,” Duck replies.
“That’s not what I meant.”
Duck glances at him, expression unreadable. “Then what did you mean?”
Trump looks out over the water, squinting into the distance. “You ever get tired of being the villain?”
Duck blinks. “What?”
“You play the fool, the prankster, the troublemaker. Always causing chaos. But when things go bad, you’re the one that jumps.”
Donald’s jaw tightens. “Maybe I just like being underestimated.”
Trump huffs a small laugh. “Yeah. I know the feeling.”
The exchange lingers—neither tender nor hostile, just honest. Two men (or something like men) standing at the edge of the world, trying to understand what the other mirrors back.
After a while, Duck says quietly, “You’re not so bad when you stop talking.”
“And you’re not so unbearable when you stop pretending,” Trump answers.
That earns him a small, fleeting smile.
The sun climbs higher. The sea glitters again, calm and indifferent, as if nothing had ever happened. But the air between them feels changed—less brittle, more alive.
Neither will admit it out loud, but something has shifted. Maybe respect. Maybe trust. Or maybe just the strange recognition that even enemies can find themselves bound by the same loneliness.
For now, that’s enough.
The day drifts on. The ship hums forward, slicing through calm waters. Somewhere deep below, the memory of the storm still moves unseen, heavy and endless.
Above deck, two figures stand side by side, shadows stretching long against the steel. Not friends, not rivals, not anything that fits into words—just two lost souls afloat in the same uncertain sea.
And in the quiet that follows, that feels almost like peace.
The night air was thick with salt and silence. The ship had gone still, its engines humming low beneath the deck like a steady pulse. Most of the crew were asleep; the corridors were empty except for the faint echoes of laughter fading from the mess hall.
Donald Trump wasn’t asleep.
He sat at one of the small metal tables near the galley, a half-empty bottle beside him, a glass glinting dully in the weak light. The storm’s memory still lingered in his bones—the rush of water, the sudden helplessness, the flash of feathers in the dark. He drank to quiet it.
Footsteps sounded behind him, slow and dragging.
Donald Duck stepped into the light, eyes half-lidded, feathers still faintly damp. He didn’t say anything at first, just eyed the bottle and the two glasses.
“You startin’ a party without me?” he asked, his voice rough but low.
Trump looked up, smirked faintly. “Figured you’d had enough excitement for one week.”
Duck shrugged and sat opposite him. “Maybe. But sleep’s not cooperating.”
He reached for the bottle, poured himself a modest amount, and raised the glass in a lazy salute. “To surviving.”
Trump clinked his glass against it. “Barely.”
They drank. The sound of the ocean filled the spaces between words, a rhythm both soothing and unsettling.
For a long time, neither spoke. Then Trump said quietly, “You ever think about how fast it changes? One second it’s calm, the next…”
“Everything’s gone,” Duck finished, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “Yeah. Happens all the time.”
Trump leaned back, studying him. “You don’t seem scared of it.”
“I am,” Duck said, almost too softly. “I just don’t show it.”
Something in his tone caught Trump off guard—too honest, too close. He wasn’t used to honesty from him, or maybe from anyone. The air between them grew thick again, not with hostility this time, but with something slower, heavier, difficult to name.
Duck stood and walked to the small porthole, looking out at the black water below. “You can’t tell what it’s thinking,” he murmured. “The sea. One minute it loves you, the next it swallows you whole.”
Trump chuckled dryly. “Sounds like half the people I used to know.”
“That so?”
“Yeah,” Trump said. “You learn to read the signs. When to stand your ground, when to duck.”
Duck turned, raising an eyebrow. “Pun intended?”
Trump smirked. “Unavoidable.”
The faintest smile ghosted over the duck’s beak. He crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. “You’re not as bad as you pretend to be.”
“And you’re not as fearless as you act.”
A pause. The kind that stretches until it feels like sound might shatter it. Outside, a gust of wind rattled the frame; the ship groaned softly in reply.
Duck stepped closer, close enough for Trump to smell the faint scent of saltwater and metal. For a moment, neither moved.
Then Duck looked away, his voice lower now. “You should get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”
Trump nodded, slow. “You too.”
Duck hesitated at the doorway, glanced back once. “Don’t drown next time.”
“Only if you promise not to jump after me,” Trump replied.
That earned a quiet huff of laughter, barely audible.
When he was gone, Trump sat there for a long time, the bottle still between them, the room still holding the warmth of another presence. The ocean outside whispered against the hull, steady and endless, like the echo of something they hadn’t quite said.
He poured one last drink, raised it toward the empty seat.
“To strange company,” he muttered.
And somewhere down the corridor, Donald Duck’s footsteps faded into the dark.
The morning sun was nothing more than a pale smear on the horizon when Trump finally roused himself from the mess of blankets he’d left strewn across the galley table. The ship was quiet in a different way now—cleaner, warmer, like a house after a long night of revelry. He rubbed his eyes, feeling the lingering stiffness in his back and the dull ache in his skull that only came from too much drink and too little sleep.
A note of movement outside caught his attention. He squinted through the porthole and saw the ocean stretching endlessly, the water glinting silver under the morning light. It reminded him of last night—the storm, the dark corridors, the unexpected warmth of Donald Duck’s company.
He shook his head and muttered, “Focus, Trump. Big day. Meetings, deals… maybe don’t think about ducks who talk like they’ve read Nietzsche.”
The day passed in a blur of routine: briefings, phone calls, minor confrontations with the crew over maintenance schedules, and a lot of staring out at the ocean when he thought no one was looking. The memory of Duck lingered like an odd perfume—sharp, salty, impossible to ignore.
By evening, the ship had settled into that familiar rhythm. The sun had dipped low, leaving a gradient of pinks and oranges behind it. The mess hall was empty again, the smell of fried eggs and coffee long gone, replaced with the faint metallic tang of the ship itself. Trump wandered in, rubbing the back of his neck, and saw a familiar silhouette lounging against the galley wall.
“Duck,” he said cautiously.
Duck looked up, eyes half-lidded, a crooked grin on his beak. “Back for another round?”
Trump froze. His mind raced. “Uh… well… I was—maybe… I mean, yes, perhaps?” He shook his head like trying to wake from a bad dream. “I mean—no, I wasn’t planning on—well…”
Duck raised an eyebrow, amused by the obvious panic radiating off him. “Relax. I’m not going to bite.”
Trump laughed nervously, a sound somewhere between a snort and a chuckle. “I… okay. Yeah, relax. Right.” He moved toward the table, hesitated, then sat across from him, the tension in his shoulders tightening like a coiled spring.
Duck reached for the bottle he’d left on the shelf, uncorked it with a practiced twist, and poured himself a modest drink. “To surviving,” he said again, echoing last week’s ritual.
Trump clinked his glass against Duck’s, trying to match the calm but failing spectacularly. His eyes flicked to the empty seat across from him and back at Duck, who was now leaning casually, watching him like he could read his mind.
“I… uh… you know,” Trump began, voice trembling slightly. “Funny thing happened. Woke up this morning, and… well, I found—”
He froze, realizing how absurd it sounded. Duck tilted his head. “Found what?”
Trump’s heart skipped. “Nothing. I mean… it’s… uh…” He could feel his hands shaking on the glass. “It’s… a… test.”
Duck’s eyes widened slightly, the grin fading into something sharper, more calculating. “A… test?”
Trump gulped. “Yeah. A test. It… it wasn’t what I expected. You know. Complications. Warnings. Very complicated. You wouldn’t understand—”
Duck leaned forward, curious now, voice low. “Try me.”
Trump fumbled in his pocket, producing a small white strip. The bright pink lines mocked him under the dim light of the galley. “This,” he said, holding it as if it were a ticking bomb, “this is… very alarming.”
Duck blinked, then chuckled softly, the sound almost musical. “Oh… that kind of test.”
Trump’s face went crimson. “Yes! That kind! How—how did you know?”
“You’re… very transparent,” Duck said simply. “Even when you think you’re hiding.”
Trump ran a hand through his hair. “Well, it’s not something you deal with every day. It’s… very serious. It’s… it’s life-altering.” He lowered his voice, leaning across the table in an attempt to look serious. “And I—well—I—”
Duck’s wings folded, resting on the table. “And you what?”
Trump’s panic was palpable. He set the test down, leaning back, eyes wide. “I’m… I’m… scared,” he admitted, whispering. “I don’t know what to do. It’s… it’s overwhelming. One minute you’re fine, the next…”
Duck’s expression softened, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his beak. “Relax,” he said. “It’s just a possibility. Not a verdict. Not yet.”
Trump exhaled sharply, the tension leaving him in a single, trembling wave. “Right. Right. I… appreciate that. Calm words. Sensible advice. You’re… very good at that.”
Duck shrugged, still smiling. “Been around storms. Learned a thing or two.”
For a long while, they sat there in silence, the only sound the gentle hum of the engines beneath them and the faint slap of waves against the hull. Trump kept glancing at the test, then at Duck, as if trying to reconcile the absurdity of the moment with the weight of the panic he still felt.
Finally, Duck pushed off from the table and leaned closer. “You’re overthinking it,” he said, voice low, almost a whisper. “Whatever happens, happens. You can’t control it all.”
Trump nodded, heart still racing. “I… yes. Control… important. Very important. But… sometimes… things slip through, you know?”
Duck tilted his head, the dim light catching in his wet feathers. “You don’t have to do this alone,” he murmured, almost shyly.
Trump’s chest tightened. He stared at Duck, then down at the test, and then back. “I… uh… yeah. That… I think… maybe I… could…” He stumbled over his words, but Duck didn’t laugh, didn’t tease—he just waited, patient, the calm center in the storm of Trump’s own nerves.
Then, almost on impulse, Trump grabbed the bottle again. “Another drink?” he asked.
Duck laughed softly, the sound like a gentle ripple over still water. “If it helps.”
They poured. Clinked. Sipped. The warmth spread through Trump slowly, melting some of the tension, but not all. Not quite. Duck leaned back, wings crossed, watching him with an expression that was equal parts curiosity and amusement.
Trump’s mind raced, the absurdity of the situation gnawing at him even as the alcohol dulled it. “You… know,” he began cautiously, “this could be… catastrophic. I mean, life-altering. Tremendous consequences. I have to… think things through.”
Duck tilted his head, a teasing glint in his eye. “Sounds serious.”
“It is!” Trump said, voice rising, then immediately lowering again. “Very. Serious. Tremendous. Not to be underestimated. Huge.”
Duck smirked, shaking his head. “You get flustered easily, don’t you?”
Trump waved a hand dismissively. “Not easily. Only when… when things are… unexpected. And this—this is… beyond unexpected.”
Duck laughed, a soft, watery chuckle that made Trump’s chest tighten in a strange way. “Well, at least you’re honest about it.”
Trump nodded slowly, still staring at the test, still imagining the whirlwind of possibilities. “Honest. Yes. Very honest. Too honest sometimes. Maybe that’s the problem.”
Duck reached out, tapping the test lightly with a wing. “Hey. It’s okay. Really. You’ll handle it. You always do.”
Trump swallowed, unsure if he was relieved or more panicked, or perhaps both at once. He stared at Duck, really stared, the dim light catching in his hair and his sharp features. For a long moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them, the faint clink of glass and the hum of the engines below.
Then Duck leaned back, wings folded, a sly smirk returning. “But maybe, just maybe… you don’t have to handle it alone.”
Trump’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “You mean—”
Duck only smiled, enigmatic, leaving the rest unsaid.
Trump let out a nervous laugh, louder than intended. “I… uh… well… yes. Perhaps… perhaps that’s… possible. Maybe. Could be… a strategy. Very… effective. Tremendous.”
Duck tilted his head, the faintest glint of mischief in his eyes. “I think you mean… a partnership.”
Trump blinked. Then laughed again, quieter this time, the sound mingling with the gentle creak of the ship. “Yes… yes. A partnership. That’s… very good. I like that. Tremendous.”
The night stretched before them, endless and uncertain, the ocean whispering against the hull, carrying with it the scent of salt and the faint promise of chaos. And in that small, dimly lit galley, two strange, stubborn, intoxicated figures sat side by side, caught somewhere between panic and possibility, laughter and tension, reality and… something else.
Trump took one last sip, set the glass down, and raised it in a shaky, defiant salute.
“To… partnerships,” he muttered.
Duck clinked his glass against it, the faintest smirk curling over his beak.
“To… surviving,” he replied.
And somewhere in the shadows of the ship, the night waited, patient, endless, full of storms yet to come.
The air in the White House was crisp, official, and sterile compared to the salt-tinged corridors of the ship. Donald Trump stood near the window of the Oval Office, arms folded, gaze drifting over the meticulously manicured lawns that stretched into the early morning fog. The building was finally secure. No lingering chaos, no unauthorized visitors, no leaks—every corner monitored, every hallway under watch. It was calm, orderly, exactly the way he liked it.
And yet, the calm couldn’t touch the storm inside him.
He walked over to the small, custom-built incubator he’d arranged in a private wing of the White House. Inside, the eggs rested, gently rotating under a soft, warm light. He hovered there, watching them as if they were fragile pieces of glass. The lines of anxiety around his eyes deepened as he whispered to them:
“Don’t worry. I’ve got you. Everything’s going to be okay. Nobody’s touching you, I swear.”
Six weeks ago, a single moment of chaos had changed everything. The test. The panic. And now, here they were. He had never imagined, in all his years, that he’d care for something so delicate, so… vulnerable. The White House was fortified, the eggs were safe, but Trump’s mind refused to relax.
A soft knock at the door broke his reverie.
“Come in,” he called, straightening instantly.
The door opened slowly, and in stepped Donald Duck, feathers perfectly groomed, eyes sharp, yet softened by the faintest hint of amusement. He carried nothing but himself, but somehow, that was enough.
“Morning,” Duck said casually, voice low, carrying just enough weariness to hint he’d been traveling.
Trump’s heart leapt, chest tightening. “Duck… you’re… you’re here,” he said, trying to keep the relief from sounding like panic. “Finally. Right on time.”
Duck walked closer, pausing by the edge of the incubator. He tilted his head, studying the eggs. “You’ve… really gone all in,” he said quietly.
Trump followed his gaze, almost defensive. “Of course I have. They’re… very important. Critical. Tremendous responsibility. I… I’ve never taken anything so seriously in my life.”
Duck’s eyes softened, almost imperceptibly. “I can tell.”
Trump stepped closer to the incubator, gently adjusting the temperature dial. “Everything’s just right. Nobody can touch them. I’ve… made arrangements. Security is tight. I’ve… I’ve learned a lot these past six weeks.”
Duck leaned against the counter, wings crossed. “I can see that. You’re… different.”
Trump frowned slightly, unsure whether to take that as praise or criticism. “Different is good. Tremendous. Better than before. Stronger. Focused.”
Duck smirked faintly, amusement curling over his beak. “Focused… yeah, you’re focused. On the eggs.”
Trump’s ears (and, by extension, hair) flared with pride. “Exactly! They’re… very important! The most important thing right now. The stakes couldn’t be higher. I’ve never cared like this before. Never. Nobody else would have the… the…” He waved a hand helplessly. “The vision! The commitment!”
Duck chuckled softly, stepping closer. “I’m not doubting you, you know.”
Trump exhaled, a mix of relief and tension. “Good. Very good. Because… I need someone to understand. To—well—” He stopped, realizing how ridiculous it sounded.
Duck raised an eyebrow. “To what?”
“To… to be here. To check on them. To… help,” Trump admitted finally, the words awkward but earnest.
Duck nodded slowly, as if accepting some unspoken invitation. “Then I’ll help.”
Trump turned back to the incubator, adjusting the humidity slightly, smoothing the soft padding around the eggs. “They… they need constant attention. Perfect temperature. Gentle handling. Security protocols. I’ve… I’ve been reading, studying… You wouldn’t believe how complex this is.”
Duck smiled faintly, still watching him. “I believe it. I’ve seen you in crisis mode before, but this… this is different.”
Trump glanced over his shoulder. “Different? Tremendous. Unprecedented. Historic. Probably the most important thing I’ve ever done. And I’ve done a lot. People say I haven’t done enough, but—”
Duck waved a wing. “I know. Don’t sell yourself short. This… this is bigger than anything else.”
Trump nodded, smiling despite himself. He gestured toward the incubator. “Would you… like to… check them? Make sure everything’s… stable?”
Duck leaned closer, inspecting the eggs. “Careful,” he said, his voice softer now. “They’re fragile. Don’t let your panic show. You’re already… worrying enough for both of us.”
Trump exhaled, realizing how tense he’d been. “Yes. Panic. Tremendous panic. But… it’s good panic. Protective. Responsible. I’m… very good at being responsible.”
Duck’s eyes softened further, and he placed a gentle wing on Trump’s shoulder. “I know. I can see it.”
Trump froze, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. “You… you see it?”
Duck shrugged, smiling faintly. “I see everything, if I pay attention.”
Trump swallowed, looking back at the incubator, then at Duck. “I… appreciate that. Tremendous, really. I… haven’t had someone… someone who… cares like this.”
Duck leaned closer, voice low. “Maybe… you don’t have to do this alone.”
Trump’s chest tightened in a strange mix of panic and hope. “Alone… yes. That’s… exactly it. I don’t want to be alone. It’s too risky. Too serious. Tremendous stakes.”
Duck smirked faintly, leaning back. “Good. Because you won’t be.”
Trump exhaled, still staring at the eggs, the weight of responsibility and the faint warmth of Duck’s presence pressing on him. He’d been terrified of this—six weeks of careful planning, sleepless nights, constant vigilance—and yet here he was, a little steadier, a little more confident, because someone else had shown up.
They spent the next hour in quiet vigilance, checking temperature, humidity, rotating the eggs with meticulous care, making small notes, and occasionally exchanging words. Duck watched him with fascination, occasionally offering advice or gentle teasing, but mostly just being there.
Trump found himself talking about everything—security measures, potential contingencies, cleaning protocols, even the absurdity of having to explain to the world why there were eggs in the White House. Duck listened patiently, sometimes laughing softly, sometimes nodding.
Finally, Trump leaned back, wiping sweat from his brow. “This… this is good. Very productive. We’re… we’re making history. Tremendous. Never done anything like this before.”
Duck smiled faintly. “You’re doing great. Really.”
Trump’s chest swelled with pride and relief. “I… I think… maybe… we can do this. Keep them safe. Keep everything… controlled. Tremendous control.”
Duck stepped closer, wings folded, a teasing sparkle returning to his eyes. “You know… you could relax a little.”
Trump blinked. “Relax?”
Duck leaned in, just enough that Trump could smell the faint scent of feathers and something salty and warm. “Yeah. It’s okay. We’ve got this. Together.”
Trump exhaled, heart pounding, unsure if it was fear, excitement, or something else entirely. “Together… yes. Tremendous. I… yes. I like that.”
Duck’s smile widened, soft and knowing. “I thought you might.”
The room seemed to shrink around them, the hum of the White House blending with the faint sound of the incubator, the constant presence of the eggs—a symbol of their shared secret, their shared responsibility, and, perhaps, something more.
Trump leaned slightly closer to the incubator, as if drawing strength from both the eggs and Duck’s presence. “We… we’ll make it. Tremendous. Historic. Nobody else could… nobody else would… handle it like this.”
Duck nodded, eyes glinting. “We will. Together.”
For the first time in weeks, Trump felt a flicker of something he hadn’t felt in a long while—calm. Confidence. And maybe… hope.
They stayed there, side by side, silent but connected, the White House safe, the eggs protected, the future uncertain—but somehow manageable.
Outside, the sun rose fully, spilling light over the lawns, the fountains, the walls of power. Inside, two improbable figures watched over the fragile promise of new life, finding in each other the strange comfort of shared responsibility, quiet devotion, and perhaps, just perhaps, something like love.
I love music. It's a safe noise I can reconize in my own home. It's a noise that isn't aggressive and threatening. It's safe. A safe noise. So quiet and calm. I love it. It's something I don't have to share with anybody. Something only I can use by myself. I feel safe when I listen to the sounds behind it. I wish everyone could feel how I feel when I listen to music.
if i were a drink i’d be cherry vanilla coke
if you were a drink what would you be
Bleach
Cough syrup
summer fruit!! : )
Mayonnaise
no
just
no
mayo is a fucking beverage and im the only person brave enough to admit it
It’s not though???? I… i’m concerned friend…
B E V E R R A N G E
It doesn’t even have the consistency of a liquid it’s like half solid
Also I would be water cuz I’m bland and boring and depending on my environment I can be quite bitter
I’m a Shurly Temple.
Because everyone thinks I’m a red coke but really I’m a fruit!!! XD
id probs be smth like a vanilla milkshake or sprite